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

by Hannah Lynn

  There was nothing more he could say. His legs buckled and he fell.

  Chapter 42

  The hard rock stung his knees as he landed in the dust. The crowd murmured and whispered. What a pathetic display, he thought. What a king he must look to them, unable to defend even himself. He hung his head, weeping. Then a hand gently slipped into the crook of his arm and pulled him to his feet.

  “I have you, brother,” Electra said, wrapping the arm around her shoulder. “I have you.”

  “I … I am sorry. I am sorry.”

  “We have you.” Pylades took his other arm.

  What a memory to leave his loved ones, he thought, as they helped him away from the jury. And he would be leaving them for, if he could not justify his actions, how could anyone excuse them?

  As they lowered him onto his stool, he prepared for the Erinyes to inflict their final damning words, this time to an audience. But it was Apollo who now stood in front of the jury again.

  With his head tilted to the side, and the smallest of smiles on his lips, the God looked just as at ease as one might expect him to be at a play or musical performance. He looked around, before settling his gaze on the twelve men and women.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, forgive me. As you can see, Orestes is suffering greatly, and has done so for some time now. I hope you will permit me to speak for him?”

  Whispers passed through the crowd. Worried glances and hurried words were exchanged among the jurors, but not one of them, whether through fear or confusion, responded. In the end, it was Athena who addressed her brother.

  “You may,” she said. “But remember—only the facts.”

  “Of course,” he grinned. “Those are all that I have at my disposal.”

  He paused a moment and then, after a final smile, took on a far more sober countenance. Closing his eyes, he lifted his chin, before stalling further with a deep breath and then sigh. Only then, with his eyes once again open, did he begin.

  “A father—a king, no less—was murdered.” He paused.

  The crowd was silent. Every person was enthralled by the God in front of them. If nothing else, attention had been diverted from himself, Orestes thought.

  “A father was murdered and that requires vengeance. This is the way it is. This is the way it has always been. Such a task may not be an easy one to carry out, as Orestes—King Orestes—has demonstrated. But he did what had to be done, what he was commanded to do by me, a god. This boy should not be tormented but celebrated, for his ability to act beyond such mortal deficiencies as maternal devotion and sentimentality. He should be rewarded for the strength he has shown. That we are even here today, discussing this at all, is absurd. And anyone who agrees with the vile lies, these… these things, put forward, violates the sacred word of Zeus, just as much as the monsters do themselves.”

  The speech came to such an abrupt end, it was only when Apollo sat back next to him, that Orestes realised it was over.

  “See, you will be fine,” he said, brimming with a confidence Orestes found hard to share. Surely, if it was purely a matter of the gods’ will, they would be past all this by now. But they were not, and the Erinyes still had their turn before the jury.

  “There, you have had a god speak for you,” Electra said, squeezing his hand. “This will be over soon. The worst is already behind you.”

  And yet, in the pit of his stomach he could only feel that the worst was yet to come.

  “Tisiphone,” Athena remained seated as she spoke. “You are to speak for the Erinyes?”

  Tisiphone. So they did have names, he thought, as the tallest of the creatures stood up. Her mouth was closed, fangs and forked tongue hidden, yet it did little to improve her appearance. She stepped slowly to the centre, the ripped fabric of her robe trailing in the dust behind her.

  “No, My Goddess,” she hissed. “I am not here to speak for us. I speak for the murdered. I speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. I speak for Queen Clytemnestra.”

  Orestes shuddered. Several of the jurors had averted their gaze but unlike before, this offered him little solace. They only needed to consider the words she spoke, not the way she looked. In long strides, that would have put a horse to shame, she moved across the Areopagus and came to a stop in front of them. Whether they wanted to or not, they couldn’t avoid looking at her now and her eyes were on them. They shrank back on their seats.

  “I see my current embodiment makes you ill at ease,” she said. “I would hate for it to be a distraction from what I have to say to you. Here, let me rectify that.”

  In an instant the revolting creature was gone, and in its place stood an elderly woman. She wore the same robes, but they were now worn rather than ragged and that was where the similarity ended. There were no fangs. No talons. Nothing fearful at all. Rather than scales, her olive skin showed liver spots and was creased in laughter lines around her eyes, while her silver hair, oiled and braided, flowed down below her waist. Now shorter than Orestes, her shoulders were slightly hunched and her stomach was prominent, as if she had in her lifetime birthed many children, and her fingers were curled, as though they’d seen decades of hard work.

  “Hopefully this is better,” she said, with a voice now as fluid as milk. “Where were we? Ah, yes. We were hearing how a father’s murder must be avenged. I must admit, I see how convenient it must be, to look on life from such an uncomplicated viewpoint as dear Apollo. Never to have to worry yourself with details. To assume that, because of the position you were born to, you need do no more than make a sweeping statement, and people will assume you are right. Because he has that advantage over me, does he not? His smooth skin. The boyish glint in his eyes. His effortless articulation. That smile. But a smile can be deceptive. It can be used as a mask, as each person here today is well aware. It can hide one’s true nature and intentions.

  “So, let us get back to the great God’s words. What did he actually tell you? There was the trite line about vengeance and sons that has been spewed for centuries, without question. Without refutation. His words were vague, as he brushed over the pain Orestes caused by his actions. But I will tell you the truth of the matter. Because the truth, as the Goddess said, is what we are here to establish today. Truth and then justice.”

  Now that she looked no more alarming than an old nursemaid, the jurors stared at her with rapt attention. Even Orestes, who knew what lay beneath, could not help but feel himself drawn in by her words.

  “When these gods tell us a father should be avenged, what do they mean exactly? Every father? Every murder? What about the father who beats his child constantly for the slightest mistakes? Should that father be avenged, when he finally gets the knife to the throat he so rightly deserves? What about the one who drinks and gambles away all the family’s money and then forces himself on his wife, when he comes home angry and drunk? Should his murder, too, be avenged? Or those who have slain other men or who lie and cheat? Those who send their young children to work in the fields until their feet bleed and their hands are raw?” She tutted as she turned to Apollo. “All fathers? Have you even considered what that means?”

  With a sweep of her robe, she continued.

  “So, let us get to the truth of the matter here. High-ranking gentlemen, that is who he is talking about. Kings. Noblemen. Those whose wealth puts them above us mere minions. Should money be able to do that—absolve you of even the blackest deeds? I would like to think that is not the case. That there is something left that even gold cannot buy.

  “Some fathers do deserve to die. That is the simple truth of the matter. And if they should be avenged, ought not to be determined by whether they are kings or slaves. It should be by their living deeds that their right to retribution in death is judged.

  “Agamemnon was a man who had murdered his wife’s first husband and child, so he could take her for himself. He bludgeoned a tiny baby to death and why? Because it stood in the way of what he wanted. But this was not the end of his barbarity. />
  “Clytemnestra. Remember that name, when you think about why we are here today. She is not some shadowy, distant figure. She was a real woman. A mother. And Agamemnon abused her, year after year. It was not just the beatings and cruel words, although there were plenty of those. He stole yet another child from her, murdered his own daughter, and tore Clytemnestra’s heart from her chest once more, in a way that only a mother would understand. And yet, she remained strong and determined. She did not give in, take her own life perhaps, the way many would have. How did she manage this? Why, because she had to, to protect her remaining children: the warrior princess, Electra, the compassionate, maternal Chrysothemis, and Orestes, her beloved son. The future king. Her murderer.

  “I am here for Clytemnestra. A mother who gave everything for her children. Who wept and bled for them. Yes, and killed for them too. She killed to save them. If you had lost two children at the hands of the same man, would you not fear for those who remained? Would you not do everything you could to keep them safe? When she was betrayed and most in need, who came to her aid? No one. And the gallant Orestes’ showed his gratitude by slitting her throat, from behind, too cowardly to even look her in the eye as he cut her life short. And yet, by the gods’ rules, she is not deserving of vengeance. She deserved her death. After all she had done, all she had been through, that is what the gods think of her.”

  Orestes sensed a mood shift. Every word the old woman had said was true. Apollo had assumed that the people would listen to him, that they would pay no heed to the Erinyes’ side of the story, because of who he was and what they were. But he had been wrong. They were listening, to a truth he could not deny, and he was afraid.

  “We are standing outside the temple of a goddess,” Tisiphone continued, still in human form. “It was not to a god that mighty Apollo came, for a solution to this problem, just as it would not have been to his father that Orestes would have gone with his troubles as a child. The goddesses, the mothers, they are the ones we turn to. And yet it is a god’s word that we have to obey, one that tells us that a man must be avenged, but not a woman.”

  She took a step back and lifted her arms to the crowd.

  “One is not worth more than the other. Men are not more worthy. Fathers are not more worthy. Do you think a god would be here defending a girl who had killed her father? Of course not. She would be hanged, or worse. Do not be swayed by his golden curls and easy manner. Be guided by your own moral compass. Your own mortal, moral compass. That is why you are here today, to see right from wrong. To repudiate this repugnant, patriarchal society. You can dress it up with fine words and talk of prophecy if you want, but the fact remains: Orestes murdered his mother. He murdered Clytemnestra, who raised him and loved him and would have willingly given her own life for him if needed. If she were here, she would tell you this herself just as she told me. Instead, he took hers. And that woman deserves her justice. She deserves so much more than she was given in her lifetime. Do not make her suffer in the afterlife, too.”

  Silent tears streamed down Orestes’ cheeks. Beside him, even Electra had now lost all hope. He could feel the energy draining from her. Was it true, what Tisiphone had said? Had she conversed with his mother in the Underworld? Had she herself brought this upon him? With every fibre of his being, he wished it to be a lie and yet, in the depth of his soul, he knew she spoke the truth. Clytemnestra had sent them. She wanted Orestes to pay.

  “I will leave you now, to make your decision.” Tisiphone, still in human form, stepped back. “This is not a matter of the narrow-minded rules of the gods. This is a matter of justice for the deserving. There is nothing more that I can say to you.”

  Chapter 43

  The spectators began to whisper, their voices quickly rising in volume, until they were soon so loud, they could have drowned out even the Erinyes’ wails. The people were on her side. Orestes could feel it. They wanted his blood as much as his mother did, possibly more, for the sport it would offer them.

  Athena rose from her seat and silenced them.

  “The jury must now decide,” she said, turning to face the twelve chosen men and women. “This will not be a debate and you are not to be swayed by emotion. Your decision must be driven by the facts and the evidence that you have heard here today. You will each rise and tell me whether you find Orestes, son of Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, guilty or not guilty of the murder of his mother, Clytemnestra. If found guilty, he will be left in the hands of the Erinyes, to do with as they see fit. If not guilty, they will leave him and cease their torment immediately.”

  She stepped towards Orestes, her robe billowing out behind her, then turned to the assembly.

  “In the case of an even vote, I will cast mine to decide the matter. And let it be known that this will be final. My decision has already been made. So now it is in your hands, my jurors, to bring us the justice which is deserved. This is a case like no other. You are the first of your kind. Do not take this responsibility lightly.”

  With sweat streaming down his back, Orestes stood to face his fate. The Goddess was partially blocking his view of the jurors, and it was only when he heard her speak, that he realised the first had stood to give her verdict.

  “Guilty.” The woman’s clear voice was like a blade in his gut. Behind him, Pylades gasped.

  “It is only one,” Apollo whispered. “There are eleven more to go.”

  The second juror got to his feet, this time in Orestes’ line of sight. He looked at the King.

  “Guilty.”

  It was as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even hear anymore. Across the stone slabs, the Erinyes rubbed their hands together, as the third juror stood.

  “Not guilty.”

  A whisper of air, but enough. The fourth rose, and then the fifth.

  “Guilty.”

  “Not guilty.”

  By the time they were halfway through and the sixth juror had offered a ‘not guilty’ response, the clouds had covered the sun, cooling them all. Yet Orestes felt as if he were burning up.

  “Not guilty.”

  “Not guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Not guilty.”

  All the jurors were standing now.

  “What does that mean? What did they say? Which way did it go?” He couldn’t think straight. Was he guilty? Or was he innocent? Which had the last one said? He had not heard clearly.

  “It is hung,” Electra whispered, her voice quivering. “The Goddess will now decide.”

  “She has already decided,” he reminded her.

  Now he would learn how much longer he would have in this body of his, which had already been through so much. If the Erinyes got their way, this would be his last day in the mortal realm. And surely Athena would side with the women. Then again, would she wish to go against her brother, Apollo?

  He caught sight of a small creature in a nearby tree. A little owl, with eyes so big, they seemed to leave no room for other features. It ruffled its feathers and stared back at him.

  “I told you that I had already made my decision, but I feel I should explain it to you. Our choices are shaped by our experiences, and our experiences by those who surround us from our birth. I was not birthed. I sprang from the head of Zeus, fully formed, clothed and with a spear in my hand. I had no maternal guidance. I was raised among gods. Trained to fight with them. I cannot imagine the pain of Clytemnestra. It is not possible to say we truly understand someone if we have never walked that person’s path. While I cannot truly empathise, I can at least sympathise.

  “We have come here today for justice. Murder, matricide—these are bleak words and true ones. But there are other truths, too, such as the loyalty that a man would show to a god. The suffering he would endure for him. For eight years, Orestes ignored the will of the gods, to try and protect his mother from a fate that he had not decided, that he did not want.

 
“In our darkest moments, we should recognise not just what has been lost, but who continues to stand beside us. Orestes arrived here in the company of a god, a sister and a friend, and their devotion is unquestionable. Love like that does not come from fear or coercion. He is not an evil man. His deeds were not entirely of his own volition. And, despite everything, I believe his love for his mother remained true to the end. Which is why, in my final ruling on the matter, I find him … not guilty.”

  The words echoed around them, and yet he could not believe what he had heard.

  “Did she … did she?”

  “Not guilty,” Apollo confirmed. “You see, I said you had nothing to fear.”

  Not guilty. Freed from torment, at last. Could it really be? he wondered, as arms were flung around his neck.

  “We can go home now,” Electra said, tears in her eyes. “We can go home to Mycenae, and you can rule.”

  “Is it really true?” He looked to Pylades for confirmation, as if the word of the God Apollo was not enough.

  “It is. Just look.”

  On the other side of the Areopagus the Erinyes, all in their true form with talons out and teeth bared, were squabbling amongst themselves. The Goddess approached them and Orestes could not help but strain to listen to what was said.

  “You chose wrongly!” one spat at her.

  “On this occasion, I do not think so. Although there have been times in my life when I have acted irrationally. When the fire of anger has seen me lose my patience too quickly, and I have acted or reacted in a manner that I later came to regret. But this was not one of them.”

  “So, you have come to gloat!” another sneered.

  “No. I have not. I realise that I could make use of your perception, your sense of morality and code of ethics.”