by Laura Gill
Timon spoke, “We bear a message for Queen Anaxibia.”
“Do you?” he commented. A scribe handed him a diptych, which he scanned without raising his eyes to acknowledge us.
“From the High King Agamemnon to his sister, Queen Anaxibia.” Timon thrust the tablet under his nose. “Steward, I suggest you look this way and pay attention to what I am telling you.”
Now, the steward fixed his baleful glare on us. “The High King is dead, and no longer sending messages to anyone.” Irritably, he thrust the diptych back at the scribe, seized the tablet from Timon’s hand, and perused it before reading the pertinent section aloud. “‘It is your brother’s wish that you take the young man bearing this message under your protection.’ Oh, is that so?” He regarded me with contempt. “And what is so special about you that the queen should take an interest?”
I had had enough. “Mind your tongue!” Venturing a step forward, and ignoring the fact that the ring was loose on my forefinger, I shoved it under his nose. “I assume you recognize this?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that seal stone?”
“I do not answer to servants such as you.” I kept my voice lowered to avoid attracting too much attention, yet the steward’s assistants and several guards posted along the aithousa had started to take notice of the scene; some were even chuckling to see their pompous superior getting his comeuppance from an adolescent boy.
The steward’s nostrils flared. “Now see here, boy...”
I felt an overwhelming urge to grasp his collar and shake him till his teeth rattled. “You will address me with greater respect. Now, I suggest you go to the queen and tell her that her nephew Prince Orestes of Mycenae is here to see her.”
I withdrew my clenched fist, and stepped back, letting the steward know the next move was his. For a moment, he stood there, raking me up and down with his gaze, his lips moving soundlessly.
Still skeptical, he sent a scribe to fetch the queen. He hustled me and Timon to one side to wait for her, and make room for those petitioners who, in his lofty opinion, had more legitimate business with the royal family. His manners would improve very shortly, I told myself, once he fully realized his mistake.
Nevertheless, I did not like the way the guards and other officials were looking at me. Had I gone too far? Or was it something else? Aegisthus might have agents stationed in the great court waiting to kill me, to prevent me from meeting my kinsmen and being taken under their protection.
They would not dare before so many witnesses, within the Phocian king’s own court. I forced myself to breathe, to relax. The guards and scribes had just seen a threadbare, hobbled adolescent stand up to the steward of the door and claim to be the prince of Mycenae. I would have stared, too.
Presently, a noble lady appeared with her handmaidens. I knew at once that she was my aunt. Anaxibia was above forty, but Atreid women aged slower than others. She had graying chestnut hair which she wore twined with blue ribbons and twisting down her back. Gold embroidery banded her scarlet and blue dress, and gold and silver bangles chimed on her white wrists.
She stood before me like a cult figure, cool and impassive. “Young man,” she finally said. “We understand that you claim to be our nephew, the prince of Mycenae. We sincerely hope for your sake that this is not some cruel jest.”
“My lady, I am Orestes.” So saying, I slipped the oversized ring from my finger and extended it to her.
Anaxibia took the ring, turning it over in her hand. As she did so, her coolness evaporated into bewilderment. “Where did you get this?”
“I took it from my father’s hand, my lady.” With some difficulty because of my lameness, I went down on both knees before her. “I humbly beg you in his name and in the name of Zeus Xenios for your protection. Aegisthus’s men have pursued me all the way from Mycenae. I have nowhere else to go.”
“Prince Orestes is not a cripple who walks on a crutch, young man” Anaxibia pointed out.
Should I grasp her ankles and kiss her feet like a supplicant, or would my presumption offend her? “No, my lady, but I was injured.” The pavement was hard on my exposed knees, and the ache traveled up my thigh. “A tracker attacked us near Chalkion. I killed him, but he wounded me first. I would have died out there in the open but for Timon and a kindly shepherd.”
“Timon?” Anaxibia’s voice caressed the name, which came as a complete shock. She must have been looking at him, for it was he whom she now addressed. “We remember you, Scribe. Your father was a tutor in the palace, was he not?”
“Indeed, my lady,” he answered courteously. “He gave you and your brothers their lessons. I swear upon the holy name of Zeus Horkios, observer of oaths, that this young man Orestes is my royal charge, truly your eldest brother’s son.”
Then, I felt a woman’s slender hand rest upon my head. “Stand up, young man,” she urged. “Let us have a better look at you.”
I had to lean on the crutch to rise. Anaxibia acknowledged me with a superficial smile, so that the fine lines around her mouth and eyes showed, and turned me this way and that. “Ah. You look rather like a young Menelaus, with that red hair and those blue eyes. There is Agamemnon in the shape of your mouth and your grandfather Atreus in—oh!” Uttering a tremulous cry, she suddenly clapped a bejeweled hand over her mouth. “Orestes, it really is you!”
Once the spell passed, Anaxibia gathered me in both arms to rock me back and forth. She kissed my cheeks, again and again. Her eyes sparkled with tears, but she glowed with happiness. People around the great court were watching, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, and muttered to their companions. The steward of the door went ash white with horror upon realizing he had just insulted the son of the High King of Mycenae.
“Come inside,” my aunt said. A servant stepped forward to help me with the crutch. “You must rest and refresh yourselves.”
In a guest chamber upstairs, Anaxibia ushered us toward footstools laid with fleeces, while she sent servants to fetch food and drink, and to fill the tub in the next room. She could not do enough for me, now that she was satisfied that my arrival was not a hoax. “I will bring your uncle myself when he is finished holding court,” she vowed. “In the meantime, you will both bathe and don clean clothes. Orestes, I will summon our physician to look at your injured leg.”
“Has there been any news from Mycenae?” I asked. “Are my sisters all right?” Then I remembered Hermione, frightened at the prospect of being left with a pair of murderers but determined to wait for her father’s summons. “Is my cousin safe?”
Anaxibia waited until a maid draped a fleece over Timon’s lap to answer. “I hear that Hermione has gone home to Sparta. Her grandfather sent for her, as Menelaus has not yet returned. From what we have heard, a squall blew him and his ships to Egypt, where he must make repairs before setting out again.”
Hermione was safe, though. She had escaped the clutches of Mother and Aegisthus. That was what mattered.
“Now, as to your sisters,” Anaxibia continued. “Chrysothemis remains in the palace. Elektra, on the other hand...”
“She’s not dead, is she?” I recalled the quarrelsome scene Elektra had made on that fateful morning, and all the discord she had sowed over the years. Mother would not have balked at killing her, too.
Anaxibia shook her head, but her expression was grim. “No. Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus married her to a common goatherd, to put her in her—”
“What?” I could scarcely believe my ears. “Elektra is a princess of Mycenae. How could Mother do such a thing?” Killing my sister, that I could believe of Mother, but not humiliating her and shaming the family by giving her to a common herdsman. There must be some mistake.
Servant women entered bearing water for the bath. I heard them filling a tub in the adjacent room. It was time to wash. Despite my aunt’s courtesy and the firm knowledge that this was not Mycenae, I nevertheless hung back on the threshold, staring at the terracotta basin, and unable to venture any farther.
Anaxibia immediately noticed my distress. “Is something wrong, Orestes?”
My throat tightened. “Forgive me, my lady, but I haven’t been in a bathroom like this since...”
“Yes, I understand.” She held out a hand to me. “And you have my word that no one will harm you. Now come, before the water grows cold.”
I swallowed my misgivings and followed Anaxibia into the bathroom so the bath attendants could undress me. A female servant took my crutch and helped me sit down on a footstool in order to oil and scrape me. “I am curious about one thing,” my aunt commented, taking another stool. “How did you manage to witness your father’s murder without being discovered yourself?”
I started at the beginning, with my apprehensions upon seeing the decorations in the megaron. Scented oil misted the steamy air. “Then I saw the women carrying water into the bathroom, even though the homecoming was supposed to be the next day. I would have left, except that Aegisthus was right outside. Then he came into the bathroom and went into the alcove. There was no chance for me to escape.”
Anaxibia was an avid but polite listener, urging me with her frequent nods to continue. Then the bath slave had me turn on the stool. From my aunt’s abrupt pause, I could tell she had noticed my scar.
She smoothed over the awkward pause by addressing the slave. “That will do, Enyo.” The woman wiped the strigil on a cloth and moved away. “All right, Orestes. It’s time to get into the tub and soak before the water turns cold.”
Nevertheless, it was difficult to be naked and vulnerable, to step into the water without searching the room for a concealed net or labrys.
“Orestes,” Anaxibia said ruefully, “no one is going to harm you here.”
Soothing heat enveloped my calves and callused feet, tempting me to immerse my entire body. “Forgive me, my lady.” With her assistance, I eased myself into the water. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Never mind. Aegisthus is a monster.” She reached for a sea sponge, wetted it, and leaned over to wring it out over my shoulders. “I remember him and his unspeakable father. His kind is not welcome here.” I closed my eyes to let the slave Enyo massage oil into my hair. It felt marvelous to be thoroughly and luxuriously clean again. “Now, tell me how you got that scar.”
It was far easier to relate those events, even when she tsk-tsked me for dragging Timon into the wilderness. “What were you thinking? You realize that that poor man must be over seventy now, don’t you?”
A sobering thought which had tormented me many times during our journey. “I know, but there was no one else I could trust.” I shut my eyes for a second sluicing. Warm water streamed down my face and shoulders. “He never complained once. No one could ask for a more faithful companion.” I opened my eyes again. “You will make sure he’s looked after, won’t you?”
“Timon is an honored guest,” Anaxibia assured me.
When I finished bathing, she had me stand and step out onto the stucco floor, where the slave woman wrapped me in a soft linen towel and began drying me. A second woman brought new clothes: a clean loincloth and blue tunic in lightweight summer wool, and plain leather sandals.
While Timon bathed, Anaxibia invited me eat the food the servants had brought in. “Your uncle should be finishing his business in the megaron about this time,” she said. “Wait here. I will fetch him.”
She returned a short time later with a handsome young man who most certainly was not my uncle. “Orestes,” she said, introducing us. “This is Pylades, my son.”
Pylades offered his hand, and the confident grip that went with it. He was tall, with curling black hair and piercing blue eyes, and could not have been more than twenty years old. “Welcome,” he said in a thick Phocian accent.
He sat down across from me. At any other time, I would have been thrilled to meet my first cousin, this close male kinsman who was not Aegisthus, for my life had thus far been circumscribed by women, but his reserved demeanor and my anxiety did not make for an amiable combination.
At last, though, he broke the silence. “I understand you were injured during your journey.”
Men often asked each other about their scars, as it was an easy way to socialize and exchange war stories. One did not, however, simply expose one’s thighs or buttocks before strangers; one did it in the palaestra or in the bath, where everyone went naked. “The scar is under my clothes,” I answered.
Pylades caught the hint. “Ah, I see. Has a physician looked at it?”
“Not yet.”
Making a satisfied sound, he reached for the mixing bowl. “Are you thirsty?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you.”
Pylades took a little wine. I listened to the water splashing in the bath next door, and wondered what would happen when my uncle arrived. After the care with which my aunt had welcomed me, Strophius would almost certainly receive me into his household, but he was a stranger, and speaking with him would be like a physician’s exam. He would poke and prod me with his questions about my father’s death and my escape, and answering them would be uncomfortable.
Presently, Anaxibia returned with my uncle. Pylades obviously did not get his looks from his father. A golden diadem confined Strophius’s graying brown hair, and his beard was combed to a fashionable point. His eyes were set too close together over a long nose, and his mouth was thin and wide but he wore a tolerant and amiable air, and that gave me hope.
I leaned on my crutch and stood to acknowledge him. Pylades offered his father his chair. Strophius approached me, set a hand on my shoulder, and studied me head to foot. “Like a young Menelaus,” he commented to his wife, “just as you said.” Then he patted my cheek fondly. “When we heard you were missing, we held out hope that you would eventually turn up in Sparta. We had no idea you would try to reach us instead.”
“I thought it wiser not to do what everyone expected, sir,” I replied.
Strophius caught my meaning, and laughed. “Clever lad!” He gestured for me to sit. “I know you must be very tired.” In his hand, he had the ring Anaxibia had taken from me. “As long as you remain here, I will keep this in trust for you.”
Watching Father’s seal stone vanish into his embroidered tunic disturbed me. “Must you?” I asked.
Strophius answered with a sympathetic nod. “This is a king’s seal, not to be handled lightly. I will return it to you when the time comes.” A smile broadened his face. “You’re fourteen now, yes?”
“Thirteen at midsummer, sir.”
“Then you’re tall for your age.” His amicable manner reassured me that he knew all about adolescent boys. “Tell me about your escape and your journey here.”
A bewildering request, for that was not where the story began. “You don’t want to hear the rest?”
Strophius exchanged glances with Anaxibia, then looked once more at me. “Orestes, we already know Agamemnon was murdered, and how, and by whom,” he replied. “You can give us the details later, when you’ve rested.”
Just at that moment, the curtain parted. Timon emerged from the bathroom, dressed in new clothes. Seeing me sitting with the king and queen, an apologetic look crossed his face. He started to back away.
Strophius took a step forward, arm outstretched in welcome. “You must be the courageous and loyal pedagogue Anaxibia told us about. Join us. Pylades, have the women fetch another chair for our honored guest.”
Chapter Twenty-one
I might have said that everything was all right now, except that it was not.
Spheros had said something about the delayed shock that hit men after battle or some other great trauma. “When you’re caught up in the madness, you feel nothing,” he explained. “It’s only afterward that the gods afflict you.”
I coped well enough that first afternoon. Strophius spent more than an hour listening to the tale of my adventures in the Corinthian wilderness, interjecting with occasional questions, and seemed satisfied with what he heard. “Well, Orestes, it would appe
ar that you’re quite a brave and resourceful young man.”
By then, it was past noon, and the chamber had grown warm and close from the day’s heat. Even though hours remained before sunset, I dreaded the coming night without comprehending why. Am I not safe now? I wondered. Aegisthus and his trackers can’t reach me here.
Had Strophius left the matter alone after hearing my tale, I might not have approached nightfall with such apprehension. Yet as he started to take his leave, my uncle leaned forward and reached for my hand. “I know it is not much, but it might comfort you somewhat to know that your father was laid to rest in his tomb on the third day with his companions and all the customary rites.”
Picturing the funeral twisted my stomach into knots. Mother would have shammed before the people, playing the role of dutiful, mourning wife, while Aegisthus bent Father’s sword and shattered the first cup beside the bier. That should have been me! I should have performed the sacrifices and poured out the libation! And then I should have slashed Aegisthus’s throat and thrown his corpse to the dogs, and walled Mother up alive inside the tomb!
My anger only grew as Strophius gently informed me that my mother had remarried. Aegisthus now sat upon the throne of Mycenae and wielded the scepter as king. Those renovations in the king’s apartment had not been intended for Father at all, but for the usurper, the murderer, the misbegotten hell-beast from Tartarus. Gods, I had even helped choose the furnishings!
Anaxibia, who had stayed throughout, regarded me with a worried look. “You need some fresh air, young man.”
All I wanted was to curl into myself, think about nothing, and be left alone until the hurt went away.
Pylades caught my arm above the crutch as we left the chamber. “Swallow your tears and be a man,” he quietly admonished.
Outside, it was mid-afternoon. Strophius led me down to the great court, now deserted, and into the megaron in order to pour out a libation to Zeus Xenios and welcome his guests in the god’s name.