by Laura Gill
“Aegisthus is not my stepfather!” I shouted. How dare he even suggest such an abomination!
“And you’re a petulant boy throwing a tantrum.” Strophius raised his voice, plowing right over mine. “How do you expect anyone to follow you, when you can’t even master your own moods?”
Flustered by the thought, I found it hard to meet his gaze. “Aegisthus is not my stepfather,” I stubbornly repeated, though this time I lowered my voice. “He and Mother must pay.”
“Yes, the laws of filial piety and blood feud demand it,” he agreed, “but there’s a right and a wrong way to carry out your vengeance. You must learn the difference if you mean to reclaim your birthright and become king.”
Vengeance was vengeance. What did it matter how Mother and Aegisthus were punished, as long as justice was done, and Father’s shade appeased? I wrestled with my dilemma throughout supper, but those grim thoughts blunted my appetite as surely as the midsummer heat.
I knew that I could not undertake certain actions, that Mother’s life was sacrosanct. Whoever killed her, it could not be me, or even someone acting under my command. And I could not expect an easy victory. My father’s enemies would not one day realize their mistake, surrender Aegisthus, and hurl themselves on my mercy. It was just that I, emerging from boyhood, resented the complexity of the adult world into which I had been thrust, and wanted things to be that simple.
Timon joined us later for sweet melons and cheese. He had with him his stylus and a wax-covered diptych to take dictation. “You can ignore this letter,” Strophius told me, “but more will come.”
“What do you expect me to say to them, then?” I asked. I’m going to avenge my father and kill you both. There should be arguments, reason, and rhetoric, but apart from that single phrase, my mind drew a blank.
Strophius speared a melon slice on his dagger. “Timon tells us that you’re astute in working out problems, so let’s tackle that question together.” He bit into the succulent fruit, chewing, and spitting out the melon seeds. “Thank your mother for her thoughtful gifts, but inform her that you won’t be coming home because it was your father’s wish that you remain here to learn about the wider world.” I noticed Timon was not writing anything down. What was he waiting for? “Now go ahead, Orestes, and dictate the letter.”
Timon inscribed the proper salutations, giving me precious time to collect my thoughts, and phrase my sentiments properly. “Thank you for your recent letter and your gifts,” I began. “I know you wish me to return home, but...” You’re a madwoman to expect me to return to that viper’s nest. “It was Father’s wish that I remain here in Phocis, to learn something about the world.” I sighed, knowing it was not sufficient, but unable to get my head around any more phrases. “There!”
“Keep going,” Strophius said.
“I know there should be more,” I admitted, “but I have absolutely nothing else to say to her.”
“Oh, but you have plenty to say.” If that was so, then he would have to enlighten me. “Tell her you’re learning to play the lyre and continuing your martial training,” my uncle suggested. “Now, don’t tell her about your injury, or reveal any details about your journey. Keep her and Aegisthus guessing about your innermost thoughts, your health, and what you intend to do next.”
I wrestled back my rebellious impulses in order to concentrate. “I am continuing my lessons and training, and am learning to play the lyre. I do not have much talent— Timon, scratch that out.” Mother did not need or deserve to know even that much. “I am your son, Orestes Agamemnonides.” Adding the patronymic would leave no doubt as to where my sympathies lay. “May I use my father’s seal?” No doubt Mother and Aegisthus would be wondering what had happened to the ring.
“You have not yet earned that privilege,” Strophius replied. “For now, all that you do and say will fall under my insignia.”
*~*~*~*
It was a blistering hot morning, where the evening’s cool temperatures evaporated with the dawn, and the palaestra saw very little activity. The young men loitered naked in the bathroom, among the cool tiles with jugs of spring water, melons, and wheat cakes, and traded stories.
An older man visited around noon. Sthenelus had a face like a mule’s, and liked to ogle the youths and flex his muscles where they could all see him; he was a harmless nuisance, a veteran of the Theban wars.
Nineteen-year-old Periphos, the eldest, called to him, “Did your wife throw you out again?”
“Does she know how you spend your afternoons, you decrepit old pederast?” Boukolos added.
Phalaikos snorted, laughing, “Let him be. She probably sent him to get him out of her way.”
While the youths took turns jibing him, Sthenelus clutched his breast in mock despair. “Do your mothers know how cruel you lovely boys are?” Then he bellowed with laughter. “Never fear, boys. I didn’t come to admire your shapely backsides, but to tell you Prince Pylades has just returned.”
I sat up straighter on the bench where I had been loitering with Periphos and his eromenos. “Where’s he been?”
Sthenelus winked at me, as he did with all the unattached youths. “That I don’t know, but he had a woman with him.”
Hearing that provoked fresh debate among the youths, who had spent almost a month speculating over my cousin’s mysterious errand.
“Is she pretty?” asked one youth.
“She has big tits and bright red hair, and was riding in the prince’s chariot.” Sthenelus shrugged. “She’s not my type.” I had seen his wife, and that woman was as flat-chested as a boy.
I left the palaestra, heading upstairs. A passing servant told me Pylades had ordered a bath and given orders not to be disturbed. Maybe he wanted to tumble the redheaded woman who had returned with him. I would see him later, or tomorrow, and could ask him about his errand then.
Strophius sent for me to join him for supper. “No doubt you’ve heard the news that Pylades has returned. He has chosen not to join us this evening.”
I took my seat. A servant brought mixed wine from a krater cooling in a tub of water, while another washed and dried my hands. Warm air pervaded the chamber despite the two servants fanning the air. “Where was he?”
“Mycenae.” Strophius wiped his hands on another towel. “He went to fetch Princess Elektra.”
The redheaded woman. She has big tits and red hair. I flushed with embarrassment. Sthenelus had unwittingly insulted my sister. “Where is she?”
“With your aunt.” A servant set the first course of oysters and fried bread before us. “You’ll have to wait to see her, though. I hear she’s exhausted from the trip and somewhat unwell.”
Elektra had a constitution like granite, but her sickness persisted all week. Anaxibia forbade me to visit her while she was bedridden, and evaded my queries about her mysterious ailment.
Pylades appeared in the palaestra the very next morning. “I have brought back the princess of Mycenae,” he said quietly. That was all the answer he would give to those who inquired about his errand.
Only when we were alone together did he share his thoughts. “I had no idea Elektra would be so...difficult. She tried to claw my eyes out when I refused to take her back to Mycenae so she could murder her mother.” Pylades shook his head disapprovingly. “Is she always like that?”
Hearing that, I did not know what to say, except, “She has a temper.”
He inhaled a sharp breath. “I see.”
Pylades said nothing more about the matter, and like my aunt, rebuffed all my other queries. It fell to Strophius to explain the situation. “Once your sister recovers from her ailment,” he said, “she and Pylades will wed.”
Rescuing Elektra had had nothing to do with her, then, and everything to do with securing a Mycenaean royal bride. All those questions about my sisters made sense now. “He doesn’t seem excited,” I observed.
“Pylades has accepted the situation,” Strophius said grimly. “Elektra will do the same, once she comes to
her senses.”
*~*~*~*
Eight days after her arrival, my guardians let me see Elektra. Anaxibia explained beforehand that my sister was sick with worry and exhaustion. “She has taken your father’s death very badly,” my aunt cautioned, “and will be in no mood to answer any superfluous questions.”
If that was all, then why was there so much secrecy about her ailment? I suspected something more, though I could not say quite what that something else might be, especially when no one would enlighten me.
In a darkened chamber, my sister occupied a cushioned bench near the open window. Her knees were drawn up to her chest in a brooding pose, and her head leaned against the wooden embrasure.
Hesitant, I cleared my throat to get her attention. “Elektra?”
Elektra’s head lolled toward me, revealing a blank expression. For a moment, I feared she might be drugged, but then her eyes bulged, and a huge grin split her face. The spirit awakened in her all in an instant as she sprang from the bench, spreading her arms wide to collect me in a fierce embrace.
“Orestes!” Elektra’s heaving sobs trembled through my body. “Orestes!” She kept saying my name over and over, like a prayer that somehow made my existence more tangible. Releasing me, she smothered my cheeks, my forehead, and my mouth with kisses. “I thought you were dead.”
She was suffocating me with affection. “I would’ve come earlier,” I assured her, “but they wouldn’t let me visit, said you were too sick to receive visitors. What was wrong with you?”
Elektra did not enlighten me, either. Drawing away, she sat down once more. I moved forward to join her when she suddenly shot out her arm and stopped me. “Why are you limping?”
Leaving my crutch behind had not been enough to fool her. Elektra had keen eyes. “I was injured.” Anticipating a dozen additional questions, I tried to offset her concerns. “It’s getting better, though.”
“Did you break your leg?” I raised my kilt’s hem just enough to let her see the scar disfiguring my outer thigh. Elektra drew a harsh, hissing breath. “Did he do that?” she demanded.
The lioness was waking. “No, it was one of his trackers.” I lowered my kilt and sat down beside her. “It’s all right, though,” I assured her. “I killed the man. The wound looks much worse than it is.”
“Tell me everything.”
Rehashing every detail with her was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. “I escaped, wandered several weeks through the wilderness, crossed the Gulf of Corinth, and arrived here. That’s all there is.”
Elektra nudged my arm sharply. “No, that’s not all there is, and you know it. Pylades said Timon was with you. A boy and an old man, alone in the wilderness! What were you thinking? I’m your sister, and you left me behind with that bitch and that snake, and that disgusting goatherd!”
Remembering the madwoman groaning in her chamber the night of the murder, I knew why I had not turned to her. We never would have escaped the citadel. “Well, you’re here now.”
Crossing her arms over her ample bosom, Elektra spat an obscenity while making a sour face.
“You’re going to be married,” I added cautiously. She turned her head away from me, toward the wall. “Pylades might seem cold and cruel, but he’s all right once you get to know him.”
“He should have gone back.”
Pylades had said she had tried to claw his eyes out when he would not take her to Mycenae. “He was there to rescue you,” I said, “nothing more. And you might have gotten killed if he’d done as you asked.”
“I can look after myself.” Elektra’s profile was visible, teeth clenched and nostrils flaring. Her fists bunched in her lap. “He should have taken me. He should have helped me. They deserve to die!”
Strophius and Anaxibia both had warned me to be careful dealing with her, but nothing they said could have prepared me for a wrath which outmatched mine; we were entering treacherous terrain in touching upon the topic of Father’s murder. I dared not confide in her about what I had seen and not done, and my grief over not doing so, lest the truth trigger a cataclysmic outburst from her. Let her believe I had fled the second word got out about the killing. “And one day they will!” I assured her.
“What’s that? Oh, yes!” To my astonishment, Elektra turned and fell upon me once more, but now with a feral exultation. “I will look after you, just like Father told me to, and you’ll grow up and kill them!”
Vengeance was not women’s business. But Elektra, like our mother, was no ordinary woman. She was the tearing wind, and the white-hot lightning. She was an Atreid, and a lioness. For in the wild, it was the lionesses that did the killing.
*~*~*~*
Elektra’s wedding day coincided with the summer grain harvest. She went out to the fields with the palace women to chant the traditional songs and braid the sacred sheaves, and came back a bride in a garlanded cart. She wore blue and yellow, with golden bangles on her wrists. Tinkling bells were sewn to her flounced skirts.
The royal bride and groom, however, made such a dour couple we might as well have been attending a funeral. Pylades carried my sister across the megaron threshold as the custom dictated, looking as though he would have rather dropped her. A priestess of Hera bound the couple’s hands with a scarlet ribbon, whereupon they made three circuits of the hearth to the joyous sound of clapping hands, stomping feet, and the women’s voices chanting the bridal paean.
Elektra’s face was florid and scrunched. I knew that expression; she was hiding tears under her fierce scowl. Anaxibia bent down, whispered something in her ear, but Elektra pretended not to hear. Had my aunt known my sister better, she would not have bothered admonishing her.
Because it was also the first fruits celebration, priestesses of Mother Gaia, as Dia was called here in the north, brought out the traditional goddess cakes for the court ladies to taste. Men were not allowed to touch them, lest their manhoods shrivel and their beards fall out. Elektra used to tease me about eating the sacred cakes; now, she brooded under her gold-spangled veil. Anaxibia had to cajole her into tasting her cake.
Timon, seated on the bench beside me, also noticed her recalcitrance. “She is not trying very hard.”
“I hope all weddings aren’t like this,” I observed. Having never attended a wedding before, and with only Elektra’s example to judge from, I could not comprehend why women sighed over and yearned for such things. Pylades was not that cold or unlikeable a person. Elektra was not even giving him a chance.
Servants brought out other cakes, flavored with honey and sesame seeds for the men to enjoy. Timon helped himself to two. “Not at all,” he answered lightly. “I have been to some very lively wedding feasts in my time. Feasts where all the dishes ended up broken and the guests woke up the next morning facedown on the floor from all the drinking and dancing.”
I laughed, picturing my stodgy old pedagogue reeling drunk. “You?”
Timon straightened in his chair. “I was young once,” he answered defensively.
After the goddess cakes were served, we moved outside to a great open area for the athletic games. Pylades competed in the footraces, the javelin throw, and archery; he won second place for the ten-meter run, and third for the javelin. At least he got to participate! I could scarcely contain my envy at the young men displaying their prowess, and claiming the horses, cauldrons, and skilled slave women my uncle doled out as prizes. Provided my leg healed as it should, it would be two more years until I was officially old enough to compete. How unfair! At least I no longer needed a crutch. Anaxibia had given me a cane of decorated ash wood.
Pylades drank throughout the day, draining five cups before the feast even began, and calling for more as the courses were served. Strophius tried to curtail his excess; his efforts availed him little. Pylades was a mean drunk, growing more belligerent with each cup he downed. “Another cup, damn you!” Slurring his words, he banged a fist on the table. “Bride looks better now than when I was sober.”
A scandalize
d hush fell over the megaron. I started in my seat, shocked and angry. Pylades was my first cousin. I had thought he was also my friend, but he had just insulted my sister on her wedding day, and right in front of me! Men slew each other for less. “Shut your mouth. You’ve had too much already.”
Timon set a cautionary hand on my arm. “Orestes...”
Elektra needed no one to defend her. Picking up her cup, she stood, and flung the contents right into her bridegroom’s face. “Drink that!” she hollered.
Strophius barked a command at his son, who, with wine dripping from his crimped hair and pointed beard, was searching for a cup with which to retaliate. “You will apologize at once!”
“To Hades with her, and you!” Pylades shot back. Elektra flashed him an obscene gesture. “Mycenaean hell-bitch!” He bunched his fist to strike her. I rose, thinking to throw myself between them and get in a good blow, but his companions were already swarming over him to restrain him.
Timon seized my arm and tugged me back. “Stay out of it, Orestes,” he whispered urgently.
“Phocian imbecile!” Elektra spat. “You’re nothing to look at, either!”
“That’s enough, both of you!” Strophius marched over to his son, and smacked him hard enough across the face to leave a livid mark; he would have a bruise tomorrow. “Take him away,” he told the companions, “and let him sober up. You, too, young lady.” He wagged a finger at my sister, who, to my horror, bared her teeth and snarled like a wild animal at him.
Anaxibia and her women hustled Elektra away from the megaron, but not before my sister ripped her veil from her head and, with the wreath of poppies and wheat ears the women had crowned her with, hurled it to the floor with a miserable cry.
That evening, there was no torchlight procession to the bridal chamber, no bawdy jokes, and no customary bedding of the bride. Pylades nursed his drunkenness and bruised face. Elektra immured herself in her bedchamber and refused to talk to anyone except my aunt. The feast wound down to a somber conclusion, with most of the guests finding excuses to depart early.