by Laura Gill
I knew the difference between an owned holding and a leased one; most of Mycenae’s noble families held their estates in exchange for their fealty and military service. I had not considered the matter of my upkeep, taking it for granted that my Phocian kinsmen would provide for me, but upon reflection it made perfect sense that I should have to contribute something now that I was old enough. Oh, but that did not matter! Strophius had granted me, a thirteen-year-old youth, land to hold and farm. My own estate, with animals and groves and vines! Father had never given me anything so marvelous, though surely he would have had he survived to see this day.
Pylades caught me on the way down to the venue where we would spend the morning watching athletic contests. “I’ve been to that estate. It’s good land. Have you ever been fishing?” I nodded. “There’s a stream nearby.”
We observed the footraces from under a green linen awning. Strophius explained how Apollo’s annual festival meant safe passage for athletes, bards, and pilgrims traveling to and from Krisa. “All the neighboring kings have agreed to cease hostilities for the month. Some victors even go on to Delphi to pay their respects to Apollo by dedicating their laurels.”
Calling a truce to bury the dead or celebrate funeral games during wartime was an accepted custom, but halting all raids and other hostilities across several realms to observe a religious festival was something else entirely. “Aren’t the Dorians and Thessalians at war?” I had overheard Pylades discussing the matter with some of the young man in the palaestra.
“Yes,” Strophius admitted, “but the fighting is concentrated in the north around Iolkos, too far away to have anything to do with us. The Dorians leave our pilgrims alone, anyway. They dwell on the far side of Parnassus and revere the ancient spirits. Sometimes you’ll see them down in the agora trading their fleeces and cheese for grain or wine.”
A horn sounded, calling the athletes to line up for the first race. More than a dozen young men took their positions on the sandy course. “I was told they had iron weapons,” I stated.
“If they do, then that,” Strophius replied, “is a secret only they know, and obviously guard very closely.” Down on the field, the editor gave the signal, and off the contestants went. I watched with envy, while my uncle nodded his approval. “Some years ago, King Creon of Thebes captured several Dorians and tried to torture the secret from them. All he managed to learn was that the Dorians guard their smiths and keep them well away from any fighting. He did not, however, discover whether those smiths were working with iron.”
Around me, spectators called encouragement down to the athletes. I had no favorites among the runners, not knowing anyone well enough yet to cheer them on. “Have you ever seen an iron weapon?”
“I have heard that iron is a very scarce, hard metal to work,” Strophius said. A shout went up as the runners approached the finish line. “King Askalaphos of Orchomenos owned an iron sword which he took to Troy, and apparently lost there when he was killed. I held it once. It was stronger and heavier than bronze, and held an edge much better. But he never told anyone where he got it from.”
Below us, Pylades had stepped down to award the laurel crown to the winner. The victorious youth bent his head to receive his prize, then faced Parnassus and saluted Apollo. I did not understand the Phocian mentality when it came to the worship of Apollo. No Argive would have accepted a chaplet of leaves in lieu of the tripods, cauldrons, and other valuable items typically given as prizes during athletic contests, yet nevertheless, a stab of envy pierced me to mark the young winner’s beardless face and to realize that he could not have been much older than me. That would never be me down there. Before my injury, I had been fast and strong. My newfound lameness meant that I would again compete in footraces, and that was hard to swallow.
Pylades assured me, though, that other contests were still open. “You’re going to be a big man when you’re fully grown, Orestes, and from what I’ve seen of your skills in the palaestra, you have the makings of an excellent boxer and wrestler.”
“Do you mean that?” My cousin was not particularly effusive with either his smiles or his praise.
His black brows drew together. “I’m not a flatterer, and never say anything I don’t mean.”
After watching several more races, we retired upstairs to rest in the heat of the early afternoon. Savory smells from the kitchen and roasting pits permeated the air. A hundred thoughts dashed through my head: the Dorians and their iron weapons, the bath girl’s skillful hands, even the estate my uncle had granted me. Father would have celebrated my name day, too. There would have been athletic games and a splendid feast, as there had been at my birth, and he would have asked me to sit beside him in the seat of honor.
Strophius invited Damastor to sing for me that night, but I could not choose a song; it seemed like an insult to command such a master singer. “I ask only that you not sing about the war,” I told him, “or my father’s death, or the ghosts of Mycenae.” Too late, I wondered whether that sounded like a subtle reprimand for last night’s performance when I did not intend it as such.
Fortunately, Damastor took no offense. He settled his lyre upon his lap, and stared straight ahead, focused on nothing. “Then let blessed Lord Apollo inspire me to give you something lighthearted for your name day.” He launched into the tale of Dionysus and the pirates. Everyone laughed when the mischievous young god, captured by sea raiders, turned them all into wild beasts, and changed them back only when they vowed to abandon their piratical ways.
The bath girl awaited me upstairs in my chamber to undress me with her deft hands. I still did not know her name, and was too tongue-tied to ask, especially when she climbed onto the bed beside me. “It’s still your name day,” she whispered, sliding a hot tongue in my ear. I had not realized how that simple act could be so arousing. What else did she know? As if reading my thoughts, she then proceeded to demonstrate certain talents she had not displayed that morning.
It was a very memorable day, indeed.
Chapter Twenty-three
Three days after the last victors were crowned and the final sacrifices offered, Pylades left Krisa with twenty men, saying only that he had urgent business to attend to, and that he would return in a few weeks.
I resumed my lessons with Timon. It was good to see him rested and wearing new clothes. My uncle had given him a servant to do his laundry and keep his cubicle in order, although he no longer had a collection of tablets or personal items with which to clutter the space. Nonetheless, he had befriended a handsome young tabby tomcat who delivered regular gifts of birds and mice.
With the assistance of the other palace scribes, Timon prepared lessons for me on the geography, economics, and politics of the north, with which he was not as familiar. My lackluster efforts did not do his efforts credit. Too many matters crowded my mind, a fact he brought home time and again by scolding me. “You spend too much time loitering about with that saucy bath girl,” he chided.
Just thinking about Aktaia elicited a reaction. “I can’t help it.”
Timon remained unmoved. “Yes, you can.”
Trust an old man to say such a thing. “No, I can’t.” A blush crept into my cheeks. “She’s always there to rub me down, and then all she has to do is look at me, and...” I cut my explanation short before it got too explicit. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to do the same. I saw the way you looked at that laundress back home.”
Taken aback, he cleared his throat. “Young man, when you get to be my age, you will find those appetites have quite cooled. I liked Panope for her kind nature and good manners, and—”
“And not for her big breasts?” I finished.
“Certainly not!” Timon insisted. “I admit, they were soft and ample, and...” I started laughing, until he screwed up his face and relented. “Never mind that, Orestes. I understand sex is good, but you have to know when enough is enough. A man who lets his appetites rule him does not make a very good king.”
I stared at
the clay tablet before me. “Why do I need to learn about the geography and customs of the north?”
“Because this is your home now.” Timon’s tone chastised me for asking a question with such an obvious answer. “And it is important for you to know as much about the world as you can.”
“Yes, I mean, I know where Epirus and Thessaly and Magnesia are, but...” With Father dead, such information no longer seemed quite so important.
Timon hummed his disapproval. “Important men will approach you as you get older. They will offer you their assistance in reclaiming your throne in exchange for certain favors or concessions. If you wish to be king of Mycenae, you will have to know as much as possible about them, their territories, their alliances, and their motives.”
King Orestes. A repulsive, alien concept. In my mind, it had always been High King Agamemnon and Prince Orestes. Maybe a day would come when I accepted the change, even craved it as my birthright, but right now I felt inadequate to take my father’s place.
*~*~*~*
During and after our exercises, the young men of the palaestra often asked questions about Mycenae.
“Is it true that Aegisthus was suckled by a goat?” Boukolos asked.
Not that old story again! “You’ll have to ask him.”
“I heard his mother was also his sister,” another said. Hippomachos was a year younger than me, and an absolute nuisance with his stupid comments. “He must be hideous and deformed.”
“No,” I growled.
Hippomachos kept going. “So what does your mother see in him that she didn’t see in the almighty High King?”
“Maybe the goat has a bigger cock,” snorted another.
Pylades would have shut them up, had he been there. I could have silenced them, too, with my fists, except there were far too many boys to take on all at once; it was also foolish to start a fight every time someone said something about Aegisthus or my mother, or even my father. The High King of Mycenae did not garner the awe and respect this side of the Isthmus that he did in the Peloponnese, and from my cousin’s comments that that attitude seemed to derive from the Phocian antipathy toward the Trojan war. “Must we talk about it?”
Boukolos slung a friendly arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t be sore, Orestes.”
I restrained an urge to knock his arm away. “Go to Mycenae yourself if you want to know about Aegisthus, but let me alone.” I sat up straighter on the bench, challenging the other boys with my fierce gaze.
After a moment’s silence, Hippomachos piped up again, “Is it true that you’re betrothed?” He really did not know when to stop. “I heard she’s a Spartan princess.”
Talking about girls was something we could all do. I said little about Hermione, except that she was very beautiful and kind, and took pains to steer the conversation away from her being faithless Helen’s daughter to other things, like Aktaia’s supple hands and mouth.
“You’re a fortunate bastard.” Grinning, Boukolos offered me the oil jar. “Will you do my back? I must have landed wrong when Oios threw me, and Pyrkoros is busy rubbing Phalaikos down.”
For a seventeen-year-old with a bruised back, he did not seem to be in much pain, and had not even landed that hard. I knew what he was about, though. It was a dance Phocian youths and men apparently liked to engage in, winking at and courting each other. Argives discouraged that sort of thing and referred to it as the Theban vice. Two months in Phocis sufficed to enlighten me about such matters, and to confirm my preferences. Youths did not attract me, but I liked Boukolos as a friend, and knew it was considered rude according to custom to rebuff him outright. “Of course,” I replied, “but you needn’t do mine.”
“Are you absolutely certain I can’t do anything for you?” he asked, suggestively twitching his heavy brows.
“And take away my excuse to have Aktaia massage me?” Sharing a laugh, we fell to discussing other matters. He would not have tried to seduce me then even if I had consented to let him rub my back. The courtship between a youth and older man was, I had learned, delineated by strict rules. Boukolos would have had to obtain my uncle’s consent to carry his intentions any further.
At midday, I went upstairs for the afternoon sleep. Aktaia sometimes brought cool wine or melons, but today it was too hot and I was too exhausted from the morning’s exertions to romp with her. And I wanted to be alone for a bit, to clear my head before the afternoon’s lessons.
I had two hours with Timon, who had prepared tablets regarding Boeotian customs and history. I learned more about Thebes, whose power had diminished since the Epigoni sacked the city a generation ago, and also about the massive earthworks the kings of Orchomenos had erected to drain the great lake at Copaïs. More arable land under cultivation meant less reliance on grain shipments from overseas.
My mind worked to apply these lessons to my circumstances, as Timon intended. If I ever became king of Mycenae and exercised Father’s level of influence in Argos, then perhaps the marshlands around Tiryns and Nauplia could, like Copaïs, be drained and cultivated to alleviate the occasional grain shortages in Argolis. “I would like to see how the Boeotians did it,” I said.
“Then you will have to ask your cousin to take you.” Timon raised a hand to forestall any suggestion of his accompanying me. “My adventuring days are done.”
“One day you will come back with me to Mycenae,” I said lightly. “But you will travel in a litter. I will give you a grand apartment with five servants, and it will be large enough for your scrolls and tablets, and you can keep a dozen cats.”
Though he smiled, he shook his head. “You and I both know I will return home in a larnax.”
His assertion of encroaching death cast a pall over the bright summer afternoon. “Don’t talk like that,” I said.
“Now, Orestes,” he said gently, “I doubt Thanatos is going to take me tomorrow, but the truth is that I am old, and it will probably be some years before you go home again.” Timon gave me a moment to digest that, then directed my attention to the tablet. “Finish copying out the list of the fortresses surrounding Copaïs. Start with Gla.”
*~*~*~*
Strophius summoned me to the upstairs chamber where he had first welcomed me. It was stale and close from the afternoon heat, yet the subject he wished to discuss with me was apparently too private and sensitive to take outside. Anaxibia sat beside him, her grave demeanor mirroring his.
“You have a letter from Mycenae.” Strophius handed me a papyrus packet, its seal broken. As my guardian, he had already inspected the contents.
I recoiled from Mother’s seated priestess seal impressed in the red wax; it resembled nothing less than a bloodstain. “What does she want from me?”
“Go ahead and open it,” Strophius said.
Hesitant, I unfolded the letter and, skipping the salutation with its royal titles, began to read aloud. “‘My dearest son, I am both shocked and relieved to find you at your uncle’s court at Krisa. Why did you flee in such haste? Have you no consideration for your poor mother? I spent weeks wringing my hands, unable to sleep at night fearing what might have befallen you, traveling alone in the wilderness with that feeble old man.’” Astonished, I stared at my guardians. “This drivel doesn’t sound like Mother at all.”
Strophius acknowledged my observation with a brief nod. “Perhaps not, but keep reading.”
If the opening paragraph had been cloying, now Mother poured on the pathos. “‘I weep to think how you must despise me.” Mother had never wept over anything but Iphigenia. “Do not hate me! Remember, I wanted to send you away, to keep you safe, but you refused to leave.’” I had to pause, there in the stultifying air, to suck in a deep breath. “‘What happened was a blood feud between your father and me, and had nothing to do with you. Do not judge what you do not understand.’”
Anaxibia marked my distress. “Are you all right, Orestes?”
Strophius cut her off. “He’s thirteen years old. Let him be a man and finish.” He nod
ded at me again. “Go ahead.”
“‘You should be home. Aletes is a lowborn brat, and no substitute for you.’” Just hearing that bastard’s name made me clench my teeth. Knowing Aegisthus, Aletes probably slept in my room, and pawed through my possessions. “‘I am sure your aunt is looking after you, but you should not be without your warm woolens. And I have not forgotten your name day.’”
Anaxibia showed me the clothing piled on the three-legged table beside her. She indicated underclothes and leggings, sandals, a heavy cloak trimmed with fur, and the embroidered tunic and bracelet Mother had ordered for the triumph. I grimaced. Mother not sent the Trojan shield, my personal gods or offering table, the letters from Father, or my other treasures.
“Send it all back,” I said hotly.
“Orestes, listen to me.” Strophius leaned forward in his chair. “I realize you’re angry, but you need to think very hard and carefully about what to do next.”
“I don’t need to think about it,” I retorted. He spoke as if Mother had sent me to be fostered, and was sending me a care-gift from home. “Send it all back. I don’t want anything from her.”
“I was not referring to the clothes and other items.” Strophius allowed me a moment to calm down before he addressed me again. “I knew you would take it very hard, but I had you read the letter aloud to me because I had doubts about its authorship. Now I am absolutely certain. Your mother did not write that.”
“It sounds like Aegisthus pretending to be her, but that’s her handwriting.” Had she written in her own voice to chastise me, it would have been easier to bear. Never mind Aegisthus. The fact that Mother believed me gullible enough to fall for such a trick burned. “Don’t make me write back to her.”
“I understand your hesitation, Orestes, but perhaps you should.” I did not follow him. Why would he suggest such an outrageous thing when he knew that the letter was fraudulent? Strophius explained further, “People are watching you, measuring what you do and say. Even though you are still a youth, they want to see how you intend to handle your mother and stepfather with—”