A Spartan's Sorrow: The epic tale of ancient Greece's most formidable Queen (The Grecian Women Series)

by Hannah Lynn

  “You are not abdicating to anyone,” Pylades said, pulling back the sheets. “And certainly not to me.”

  “Then make other arrangements. Say I am sick.”

  He waited for the usual sound of Pylades’ retreating footsteps but, instead, there came a heavy sigh. “If that is the case and you will not meet with my father then, when he leaves, I shall go with him. I will return to Phocis. For good.”

  It took a few moments for the fog to clear and Pylades’ words to hit home.

  “Fine,” he said, at last. “If that is what you want, then go. I will not stop you.”

  “That is not what I want! You know it is not!” Pylades shouted at him. “What do I have to say to get through to you? I want to be by your side. To help you. But how do I do that, Orestes? How do I help you?”

  Even this outburst didn’t work. He simply reached down for the sheets and pulled them back around his shoulders. Maybe he was ill, he thought, for he felt as cold as if winter had arrived early.

  “I do not deserve your help,” he whispered.

  “Yes, you do, Orestes! I love you with all my heart, but I cannot just stand by and see you like this. I do not know how to reach you, how to pull you back. And I am a coward, I know that, but I cannot spend my days watching you fade away before my very eyes. I have taken all I can.”

  A lump had formed in Orestes’ throat at this heartfelt statement. He turned over, still unable to look at Pylades as he spoke.

  “I am so—”

  “No! Not another word! I won’t hear any more, Orestes. If you are that sorry for the pain you have caused, then make changes. Help people. Help those in your kingdom who come to your palace each day seeking your counsel.”

  “I do not know how to counsel.”

  “Then learn!”

  Pylades was raging in a way he had never known his lover to do before. And it frightened him.

  “I would have stayed by your side for anything, Orestes,” he continued. “I would have stayed by your side if you had committed a thousand murders. But not for this. I will not watch this any longer.” He stopped and dropped his head into his hands. When he looked back up, there was nothing but despair in his eyes. “I do not think it is wise that I am here anymore. In fact, I think I make matters worse. I think you do actually blame me.”

  “What? Why would you say that?” For the first time in days, Orestes scrambled up. “That is not true. You know it is not.”

  “Really? Somewhere, deep in the recesses of your mind, I think you do. The gods know, I blame myself enough. If I had not killed the child. If I had just covered his mouth, to stifle his cries, then you would not have been forced to kill Aegisthus.”

  With his eyes now filled with tears, Orestes shook his head.

  “That is not true, Pylades. You were helping me, I know that. I know you have only ever tried to help me.”

  “But I failed. And I cannot stand it any longer.”

  Orestes was unsure whether he had walked into a trap or been backed into a corner, perhaps it was both, or neither. But he knew that were Pylades to leave on that ship with his father, then the darkness that threatened to consume him would quickly complete its work.

  “I will come. I will come with you to see your father,” he whispered.

  Pylades’ posture shifted. “And you will sit in the throne room and listen to your subjects? You will accept their homage, as their King?”

  Just the thought of this and his chest tightened. He swallowed hard and replied, “If you will stay.”

  “I will stay, as long as you are trying to live your life as the gods intended,” he replied.

  The gods. The very sound of the word caused bile to rise in his throat. But he knew he had no choice.

  “Then someone had better run me a bath,” he said. “For I am in no fit state to greet anyone.”

  From the layer of grime that floated on the surface, he dreaded to think how long it had been since he had last washed himself. His body felt angular, his ribs more prominent, as he lay there. He could see that there was not a scrap of spare flesh left on him. Drawing in the heat of the water, he closed his eyes momentarily, and let the aroma of the sweet oils relax him. This was helping, he thought.

  “Murderer!”

  His eyes pinged open and water rushed from his body, as he sprang up.

  “Who is there?” he demanded, his eyes scanning the room. This bathroom was the one he had used as a child, large and open, with nowhere for a person to hide. No screens or recesses. But the voice had been so clear, as if it had been only an arm’s length away from him. His heart pounded.

  “There is no one there,” he said out loud, as if to reassure himself. Picking up the soap, he sat down again and began to work at the dirt on his knees.

  “You murdered her!”

  This time he leapt from the tub, leaving a trail of water as he darted to the window. There was a sheer drop there―nowhere a person could hide, unless risking life and limb balancing on one of the ledges. Just how far would someone go, to taunt him?

  “Who is it? Who is there?” he yelled. “I heard you. There are guards here. Guards everywhere. Who is it?”

  His questions were lost on the breeze.

  “Your Highness, are you quite well?”

  The naked King spun around and found himself facing his aged nursemaid. Still dripping wet, he rushed to take her hand.

  “Laodamia, did you hear that?”

  “Hear what, My King?”

  “Someone talking. Someone accusing me.”

  “Come now, King Strophius is here. Do not worry, we have still got plenty of time to get you ready.”

  “He was here? Outside this room?”

  Laodamia frowned. “No, My King, he awaits your presence in the throne room. Let me dry you.” The old woman threw a towel around his shoulders and started to pat him, as if he were still a child. “Now, we need to find you something to wear,” she said, leading him gently out.

  As he reached the doorway, he glanced behind him, to check that the room was indeed empty, then turned back to follow his servant. One step later and the voice came again, now joined by others.

  “We know who you are!”

  “We know what you did!”

  “And you will pay!”

  Chapter 36

  He did not drink the wine, merely gripped the cup. That was until he saw that the liquid was splashing over onto his hand. They mustn’t see him shaking, he realised, and put it down at his side. Rumours of a show of weakness like that could have them plotting his downfall before the night was over. Not that there weren’t already plenty.

  The throne room was far busier than he had expected. The stone steps were crowded, as men gathered for a view of their King. Electra had greeted Strophius upon his arrival and now moved to take the seat beside her brother’s throne. Her expression was as stony as always. Orestes had expected more of her on this occasion. Most likely, she had been expecting more of him, too. Maybe they all were.

  “We have come to offer you our congratulations,” King Strophius announced. “You have done what many men would have struggled to achieve and you have pleased the gods too.”

  He felt sick, yet forced a smile. “I was guided by the words of Apollo himself,” he said.

  “You think too little of yourself,” Strophius replied. “You always have, since you were that young boy who landed on my shores all those years ago. Be proud of who you have become. And if you do not mind, I would like to claim responsibility for teaching you a few things myself. After all, I think I can consider myself a father figure to you, can I not?”

  “I like to think that too,” Orestes replied, diplomatically.

  “As much as Aegisthus was?” someone called from the back of the room. “You thought of him as a father, did you not? And yet you murdered him!”

  “After you murdered your mother!”

  Orestes leapt to his feet, peering over the sea of heads in front of him. “Who said that?” he
demanded.

  Looks of concern were exchanged.

  “Who said what?” Electra hissed. “Only the King has spoken.”

  “I… I heard.”

  He stared at those assembled there. Every pair of eyes that met his, showed nothing but concern or confusion, he thought. But the voices. Could something so clear have only been in his head?

  “Sorry, I must have been mistaken,” he said, lowering himself back down onto the throne. He plucked the cup of wine from the table beside him, not caring now if his hands shook, as he brought the drink to his lips and downed it in one go. He did not recall the last time he’d drunk even water, let alone taken any food. Perhaps this was the cause of the hallucinations.

  “We were hoping we could discuss the matter of land with you,” Strophius said, somewhat cautiously.

  “Land?”

  “Yes. After the Battle of Troy, your father made many promises to those around him―gifts that he would bestow on his allies and his subjects and their families too, in light of his historic victory. Agamemnon, was a great leader. An inspirational man. And very generous too.”

  Vicious and proud, Orestes thought to himself. Perhaps others found that inspiring. First the comment about him being like a son, now this. It may have been his first time seated on the throne, but he had been in this room often enough to know when a man was making a play for something he probably did not deserve.

  “I know nothing of such things.”

  “They were made, I can assure you. Many can testify to it.”

  “Many who, I assume, would also gain from this supposed generosity?”

  He surprised himself with the way he spoke. Strong and commanding. Pylades had been right. People had seen him as weak and even those who had known him before, who had helped him, would be ready to test him.

  “Just because they stand to benefit, does not make their word unreliable.”

  “No, but less believable. Now, is there anything else you want, or are you simply here to waste my time and test my generosity?”

  A hush fell on the chamber. Orestes shoved his hands down the sides of his chair, to keep them from shaking. Maybe he had misjudged it. Perhaps Agamemnon truly had made such deals, and the men had waited nearly a decade for someone to fulfil the dead King’s promises. As those present looked from one king to the other, a small smile appeared on Strophius’ face.

  “I guess I taught you well Orestes,” he said, breaking the tension. A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the assembly. “And you are not the reluctant leader they said you were.”

  “No, he is a king!” a woman called out.

  Beside him Electra smiled and a flicker of warmth ran through him.

  “He is the King!” came another voice. “And he learned everything he knows from his mother. His mother, whom he murdered, to gain the throne. Is that not right, Orestes? Did you not butcher her, just so you could sit there?”

  The wine table crashed to the floor, as he leapt to his feet again, his eyes trained on the doorway, from where the voice seemed to have come. But, no sooner had he risen than another voice came from the other side of the room, from the top of the steps.

  “Tell me, did the colour red suit her? You remember—as she lay in her own blood.”

  “What are you doing? Why are you saying these things to me?” He collapsed back down onto the throne. “Why? Why?” He could barely breathe, let alone speak.

  “What is wrong?” Pylades was at his side. “Are you hurt? Is it poison?” He looked at the wine jug lying on the floor, but Electra shook her head.

  “I drank it myself.”

  “Then what?’

  Those nearest the throne were edging away, whilst those at the back were craning their necks for a better view. In the turmoil, people were being jostled and started to shout at each other. But, above it all, the voices continued.

  “You are a murderer!”

  “A child killer!”

  “Evil!”

  “What is it? What is wrong?” Pylades asked again, as Orestes covered his ears.

  “Do you not hear them? Stop them!”

  “Stop who?”

  “Oh, do you mean us?” Laughter filled the air.

  As his eyes darted around the room, he suddenly saw her standing there, in the midst of all the mayhem, calm and proud, yet hideous. She was as white as the marble columns, but her eyes were darker than obsidian. It was as though every ray of light that fell on her was absorbed by her scaly skin. She was not human. Her mouth alone, with its rows of pointed teeth, was enough to tell him that, as was the glow of red flames that seemed to engulf her. It was as if the woman herself were part of an eternal fire.

  “Orestes! Orestes! What is going on? You cannot behave like this, brother. What are you doing?” Electra reached for him.

  But he could not respond. He could not take his eyes from the apparition, as her forked tongue flickered in the firelight when she addressed him again.

  “So, you have the crown,” she hissed. “All you have to do now, is stay alive long enough to make use of it.”

  Chapter 37

  Laodamia changed the cold compress on his head.

  “There is no fever. What you are doing is pointless,” Pylades said.

  “If it was poison, the cold may draw it away from his brain,” Laodamia replied.

  “It started the night my father arrived. It must have been administered then,” Pylades suggested.

  “What nonsense,” Electra spoke now. “How could it have been poison, when he hadn’t eaten anything and we drank the same wine? And we have given him every remedy that we know, besides. What poison causes a man to weep like this? Two weeks this has been going on. Two weeks. And he lay in the temple for three whole days. That should have remedied any ailment. This is something else. It has to be.”

  “Then what can be wrong with him?”

  “Please, you both need to be calm. He needs quiet.”

  He knew they were speaking about him, fussing over him like a child, but he kept his hands over his ears, to block them all out. Rocking back and forth helped him concentrate on other things, like types of fish, or species of insect. Talking out loud helped drown the voices, too, if only by a fraction. Water birds. That would keep him focused for a while. Different water fowl. That would stop the malign spirits from making themselves heard.

  “Brant, gadwall, common eider.” He recited the names, louder and louder, although his was not the only voice that increased in volume, for he and his extended family were not the only ones in the room.

  “He doesn’t really believe that he can silence us, does he?” one of the demons asked. She was sitting on the end of his bed, just a few feet away. With darker skin and yellow eyes, she had that same forked tongue as the first one he had seen, the same sharp teeth, that same rabid look. Her legs were outstretched and one foot was only inches from where Electra was wringing her hands. But his sister was oblivious to it.

  “I think he realises by now that he cannot block us out, do you not, Orestes? You know we are not something you can ignore.”

  “We are something you deserve.”

  “You are monsters!” he screamed at them, although his outburst only caused them to laugh even harder.

  “Us, you say? You think we are the monsters?”

  “We did not kill our own mother. We could never do such a thing.”

  “Tell us, Orestes, how did it feel, when the knife sliced through her flesh?”

  “Brant, eider, smew …” His words came out breathy and weak, but he kept going.

  “Was it how you dreamed it would be? To not even look her in the eyes. To not even allow her the chance to say goodbye to her beloved baby boy.”

  “Cormorant, carbo …”

  “But you made sure they were reunited, did you not, Orestes? You made sure the whole, happy, little family would be together again. How does it feel to have so much blood on your hands?”

  “Stop it!” He flung his arms out
, knocking Laodamia and causing the basin to fly from her hand. The old woman gasped in shock.

  “I … I … sorry, sorry.” Orestes scrambled to the floor, attempting to mop up the water with his robe.

  “Oh, he apologises for that, does he? I did not think he apologised for hitting old women.”

  “We thought he killed them.”

  “Especially ones that raised him.”

  “Ones that loved him.”

  “Ones that kept him safe from all the demons that slept beneath his bed at night.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  He slammed his head into the mattress, snatching up the pillow and wrapping it around his ears.

  “We need to take him somewhere. He needs help.” Laodamia’s voice now. “I fear we cannot save him here.”

  “Where can we take him?” Electra asked. “He is raving like a lunatic. We may have been able to pass off the first episode as stress, but this has been going on for almost half a moon. If he does not recover soon, the entire kingdom will know they have a madman at the helm. Where will that leave us then?”

  It was hard to deny his insanity, given that she had found him the day before, cowering behind sacks of flour in the pantry beneath the kitchen. But the fiends knew this hiding place. They knew them all.

  “To be fair, many kingdoms have had mad kings, but that is not the point.” Pylades had taken Laodamia’s position by the bedside and was stroking his hair. “If this torment is not from poison or sickness, then it cannot be of mortal origin.”

  The two women stiffened.

  “Then what do you believe it is?” Electra asked. “And why? Why would the gods wish to hurt Orestes? He did exactly what was asked of him.”

  “I do not know why anyone would curse a man this way. One so good as him. He did Apollo’s bidding, even though it broke his heart.”

  “So, what are you saying?” she asked. “I have no time for riddles and neither, do I fear, has my brother.”

  Pylades nodded, lowering his hand to Orestes’ back.