by Laura Gill
Gathering up the cloth and letter, I dashed downstairs to find Pylades, who had left Elektra the moment she calmed down. Ares bellowed through my every nerve. I saw red. I quaked with the need to slam Aegisthus against a wall and demand the truth. How dare he lay his hands upon my woman! How dare he taunt me with it! I would make him bleed until the blood drained from him, then I would stomp on his corpse until his bones were ground to powder, and throw the scraps to the vultures!
I found Pylades in the great court, whiling away the hour in conversation with several courtiers. When he saw me coming, and saw the thunderous look on my face, he rose to intercept me. “What is it?”
“Read it!” I shoved the letter into his chest.
Right there, he perused the message. His jaw clenched when he reached the pivotal part, the base slander. “Come with me,” he hissed, leading me away from the noblemen into the deserted megaron. Once we were alone with the doors shut behind us, he wrenched the sheet from my hands, shook it out, and studied the bloodstains. “You believe him?”
“He insults her, and me!” With a great roar, I slammed my fist into the vestibule’s doorjamb; the impact concussed all the way through my arm into my chest. “I’ll tear his head from his shoulders!”
Pylades seized me, and dragged me with all his might away from the door. “Orestes!” Two, three times more he barked at me, shouting me down. “Enough!” As I struggled against him, he held me fast, pinning me against him until my rage abated somewhat. “Orestes, you fool! He’s doing it to make you lose your head and rush into his trap. Can’t you see that?”
I cared nothing for subtleties at that moment. Primal bloodlust raged through me. I wrenched away from him, grabbed the sheet where it had fallen, and thrust it into his face. “Look!”
Calmly, Pylades brushed the cloth aside. “How do you know whose blood it is?” He seized my shoulder to give me a good shake. “Think, Orestes! Is Hermione truly such a whore to spread her legs for that man? I thought she was nothing like her mother.”
That was true, true. I struggled to regain my reason, to think, but it was too painful, because the possibility existed. “You don’t understand. Aegisthus used to ogle her like he wanted to devour her whole.” If it really was Hermione’s blood, if he had forced her as he claimed, then he would die the most horrific death I could devise. Even Atreus would blanch at the horrors I would wreak upon Aegisthus. I would tie his limbs to four horses and tear him apart shrieking. I would shove hot pokers into his every orifice, and make him choke on burning coals. “He was born an abomination.”
An image of Hermione leapt into my thoughts, naked and frightened, and pinned under his heaving body. “I should have...”
“You’re acting like an idiot,” Pylades snapped. “Aegisthus knows his attempts to kill you have failed. All he has left are his lies.” Then he reached out, gave me a sharp jerk. “Swallow your anger and be a man, Orestes! Do you want Elektra to see you like this?”
I shoved his hand away. Elektra would repeat the story wherever she could to blacken Aegisthus’s name, no matter who else she might wound. Hermione would not have her reputation dragged through the dirt, least of all by my own sister! “She must never know.”
We fed both the letter and linen to the hearth, stirring the cinders till they were obliterated.
I ate alone that night, without tasting the food, and thought about what to do. Pylades was right. I could not lose my head and fall into Aegisthus’s trap, yet still... After a time, I found myself taking out writing materials and lighting a lamp.
“Dearest Hermione...” I had to hear her voice again, to know that she was all right. My gaze fell upon the trampled flowers clustered on the table beside inkwell. Flowers had always made her feel better when she was ill at Mycenae. Perhaps the same held true now. “Pylades and I have just returned from exploring several caves high up on Parnassus.” Yes, she liked hearing about my adventures. “Pylades has a fascination with caves and long-ago things, whereas I prefer the open heights. We went looking for deserted caves where Phocian ancestors might have lived once.
“Three of the four caves we explored were empty but for animal droppings and some old nests, but in the fourth we found signs that men had been there before, and that it was a sacred cave. The arrowheads we found there were made of stone, not bronze, and the god relics were very strange.” My hand trembled. Would it show in my handwriting? “That cave must have been used by people before Prometheus taught them how to build houses. Do not worry about our committing sacrilege. We did not disturb anything, except to pour out a libation before we left.
“Needless to say, I was grateful to be out in the open air after the darkness and strangeness of that cave. I am sending you some flowers from the alpine plateau, where they grow in abundance. I regret that they were crushed in my pack on the way down.”
Pausing, I drank wine from the cup beside me, and dipped the stylus into the inkwell. “Dearest cousin, there is something which weighs heavily on my mind, which I must mention. I beg your forgiveness that I even have to trouble you with it.”
Now we came to it. I did not care about Hermione’s maidenhead as a physical object, as a mark of her virginity and fitness to marry, only that that misbegotten rapist might have harmed her.
“Aegisthus sent me a letter, along with a very strange gift, a sheet stained with old blood he says was yours from when he enjoyed you.” No, it was all wrong! This whole letter was a mistake. Sweat broke out along my upper lip. How could I commit such a thing to writing, to give it voice, and thence, the power to sting? “I destroyed the letter and the sheet before anyone could see them.” She did not need to know that Pylades had seen both. “I swear to you by blessed Athena, I will not utter a word about this matter to another soul.
“I do not believe the story, anyway. Aegisthus knows Mother’s gifts and letters will not lure me home. He knows his servants cannot kill me, so now he sinks to base slander to incite me. He wastes his efforts. I know you have always despised him. And I am not going to run back to Mycenae like some hotheaded fool and fall into his trap. This latest insult only strengthens my resolve to see him dead.” Just say the word, my love. Tell me what he did, if he did it, and I will kill him for you! Tell me how you want him to suffer, and I will do as you ask me. I will lay his head at your feet.
I closed the letter, folded the flowers into the crease, and dripped the wax onto the seam, sealing it. A curious satisfaction stole over me. Painful as it was, in the end it was the right thing to do. There should be no secrets between us. Hermione had to know that she was precious to me, that I would avenge her honor if that son of a rapist had laid his filthy hands upon her.
Chapter Thirty-three
I regretted sending the letter the moment it was beyond my recall. Gods, what was I thinking, committing those thoughts to writing and sending them to Sparta? Tyndareus would probably intercept the letter. Hermione would have her shame dragged into the open, and she would despise me for it.
To blunt my anxiety, I sought an outlet in my training. I spent hours on end sparring, firing the bow, wrestling, and boxing. Others learned to fear and respect my prowess, and it gave me a singularly cruel delight to watch them back down. I led raids against brigand dens, and relished the bloodshed, where before I had not been inherently vicious. Aegisthus would regret the day he was ever conceived when he saw the instrument of vengeance looming over him. He would crawl whimpering on his belly and cry for the mercy I did not intend to grant him.
Elektra observed these developments with immense satisfaction. She enjoyed nothing better than watching me train, seeing me land opponents in the dust. “This is what you were born to do,” she said. To kill men. Of course. And when she was satisfied, she became solicitous: selecting for me the choicest meat and drink, making certain the slaves rubbed me down with quality oil and outfitted me in the finest clothing, and choosing what women I bedded. She doted on me almost to the exclusion of her husband, a glaring point which he nat
urally took exception to.
“Are you his mother,” Pylades asked sharply, “or his sister?”
“Both,” she retorted.
Her efforts were in vain. I had little appetite for food or wine, and none for sex. Aegisthus’s taunts had shattered the wall I had erected in the years since Father’s death. Old horrors flooded forth. Ares fueled my waking hours, but the remorseless Erinyes haunted my sleep. Father’s ghost acquired company—women drenched in blood, weeping bitter tears. Iphigenia was there, the wilting poppies in her hair dripping gore down her cheeks. Hermione tried to cover her nakedness with a blood-soaked sheet, only to have Aegisthus wrench it away. And Mother, she was there, too. Black blood dribbled from her mouth, choking her as she tried to utter my name, to curse me.
Mother. I could not avoid it any longer. She had to die.
Matricide. I tasted the word on my tongue and found it acerbic. For when she died, I, too, would perish. A matricide could expect no other fate. Even the brigands would turn me away. I would wander alone in the wilderness until some accident or madness took me. My shade would languish forever in the bowels of Tartarus.
But I wanted to live, to take back my father’s throne and rule as king. I wanted a wife and sons, peaceful harvests, and quiet old age. Was it so selfish of me to want the simple pleasures that every other mortal man desired?
Boukolos read my distress. “You’re too young and magnificent to be so bitter.” He might have been wooing me again, but this time there was no seductiveness in his tone, no salacious wink in his eye.
“Would you trade places with me, then?” I scoffed at his silence. “Of course not. You will inherit your father’s estate and titles when the time comes. I have inherited a double curse and a blood feud.”
“What nobleman doesn’t inherit a blood feud?” he argued. That was all he could say, though. Urging me to be cheerful, to forget my filial obligations and the curse on my house, would be encouraging falsehoods. Boukolos had never lied to me, never tried to pretend my woes did not exist, therefore I could forgive him for trying to lessen the burden.
Days later, my uncle sent his herald to order me to attend him in the megaron.
I found him seated upon his throne, attended only by Pylades, his chief advisor, and a scribe. Occupying benches near the hearth were two visitors, middle-aged men my uncle introduced to me as representatives of the Argive assembly. “They wish to speak with you,” he said.
Strophius instructed me to take the place of honor beside him. Once seated, he handed me an object of gleaming gold. Father’s seal stone. I had not gazed upon it in five years. Now it sat in my palm, its slight weight and double lions reminding me that my oath yet awaited fulfillment. Had I been alone, I might have succumbed to the temptation of slipping the ring onto my finger. Mine were a man’s hands now, large enough to carry the seal stone, but something in me warned that it was not yet time, that to do so would be premature and ill-omened.
“Most noble Prince Orestes.” The first ambassador, a grizzled boar of a man, was speaking. “You have grown tall and broad-shouldered, like your father. How he dearly would have relished the sight of you!”
I noted the flattery with which Lord Eteokles coated his words. Surely he had not journeyed all this way just to lavish me with praise.
Lord Melandros, the second ambassador, mimicked his companion’s tone. “We have heard excellent reports about you, my prince.”
Strophius remained silent through all this; he was leaving the interview entirely in my hands. “And what exactly have you heard?” I asked warily.
“That you have grown into a fine athlete, an able administrator, a fair-minded and steadfast man to make your father proud,” Melandros answered.
“And so you wished to see for yourself whether the rumors were true?” My query elicited anxious smiles from them both. I held up my hand when Eteokles tried to explain further. “Please, my lords. I know you did not come all the way from high Argos simply for that.”
Eteokles’ jowls quivered as he nodded. “True, indeed, Prince Orestes. The Argive assembly has been beset by recent troubles, for which you may be able to provide a much-needed remedy.”
Their flattery and diplomatic mincing about tried my patience. “Would these troubles have anything to do with the usurper Aegisthus mismanaging Mycenae and disturbing the peace?”
The ambassadors traded nervous sidelong glances, which told me that that was precisely why they had come. “My lord,” Eteokles explained, “it was not our wish to trouble you with these matters, but unfortunately it is not within King Cyanippus’s authority to interfere in Mycenaean affairs.”
“And why is that?” I kept my tone neutral, for I wanted to hear what else these ambassadors might have to say. “From what we have been told, the usurper’s followers regularly encroach upon Argive lands, stealing Argive cattle and Argive women. Cyanippus would be entirely justified in leading his host against them.” I allowed the ambassadors a moment to absorb my comments and devise a suitable answer, and to convince me that the old Argive king was genuinely unable rather than unwilling to act. Instead, they were silent. “I see,” I said softly, deliberately. “It is not that Cyanippus and the Argive assembly cannot act, merely that they prefer not to.”
Strophius coughed discreetly, as a warning to curb my bluntness. But I saw no point in dancing around the matter.
Melandros attempted to deflect the truth with a weak smile. “You have a legitimate blood feud with Aegisthus, Prince Orestes.”
“And what is the Argive assembly prepared to offer in return for my...assistance?” I asked.
“Ah, you are such a shrewd negotiator, my lord!” Eteokles exclaimed. “Just like your noble sire.”
More useless flattery, intended to distract me from the topic at hand. “You have not offered terms.”
Eteokles made a magnanimous gesture. “The Argive assembly will recognize you as king of Mycenae.”
Such generosity! I held my tongue against a bitter retort. “And what else?” I asked pleasantly. They had not come prepared to bargain, though, or offer anything but their flattery, and I knew it. Did they think my youth made me a malleable fool? “Ambassadors, I can do nothing with mere words.” I spread my hands upon my knees to underscore my helplessness. “You must grant me something, or accept disappointment.”
“Prince Orestes...”
Strophius interjected, “Thank you, my lords. I believe you have your answer. Prince Orestes can do nothing for you at this time.”
As the ambassadors withdrew, I rose and stepped down from the dais, intending to return to the palaestra, when my uncle abruptly called me back. “Give me the seal, Orestes.”
I had not thought to return Father’s ring. “Is that necessary?”
Strophius tightened his jaw. “You have no need for it,” he snapped, “as you apparently have your own seal. Dresos!” He stretched out his hand. The scribe scurried forward with several documents, which Strophius angrily flung at my feet. “Did I give you leave to correspond with others without my knowledge, or to sign your name to anything without my consent?”
On one upturned document, I saw the lion-and-goat seal. “I am almost eighteen,” I answered stiffly.
“I don’t care how old you are, young man,” he said sharply. “As long as you remain here, you are under my authority!” Pause. “Now, I assume you have the seal with you?”
Slowly, I removed it from around my neck, where I wore it on a silver chain under my tunic. Strophius took it, rose from his throne, and moved to the hearth where he could better examine the workmanship. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it in Amphissa,” I replied, “on a gem cutter’s table.”
He held out his hand, making his expectation clear. I reluctantly surrendered Father’s ring. Only then did he return my seal stone. “You will have your father’s ring when I decide you are ready, not before,” he said. “In the meantime, you will be more circumspect in your dealings. I have no object
ions to you affixing this seal to the tallies, because that is necessary, but you will send no letters without my prior knowledge or consent. Is that fully understood, Orestes?”
I left the megaron with the taste of humiliation and defeat souring my mouth; it did not help that my brother-in-law decided to accompany me. Out in the great court, he stopped me, and asked to see the seal.
Pylades held the rock crystal up to the sunlight. “At least you have good taste.” He handed it back with a reassuring smile. “Don’t be too sore over this. I was eighteen before Father let me have a seal, and even then he refused to let me sign anything he didn’t examine first.”
We started walking again, beyond the great court toward the terraces with their ocean view. “The Argive ambassadors are useless,” I said.
“Then look elsewhere for support.”
“And where do you suggest I look? Mycenae is full of traitors. My father’s supporters are either dead or driven from their land, and therefore have nothing to spare. Who am I to trust?”
“I know some Corinthian merchants with contacts among the Argives.”
We reached the nearest terrace, but decided to move on when we saw several ladies taking the warm spring air. Our conversation was not for their ears. “You mean spies?”
“If you want to call it that.” Pylades offered a crooked smile. “Buying information and then recruiting followers won’t come cheaply, though. Be prepared to part with some of your wealth.”
“And what about your father?” I asked. “You heard him back there, about not corresponding behind his back.”
Pylades clapped my shoulder. “That applies only to you. He said nothing about my sending messages. Let me contact the Corinthian merchants, and then we’ll see what can be done.”