by Laura Gill
All I could do then was try to persuade Pylades to remain behind with his wife and children, to spare them the grim fate that his father warned against. Yet he refused to hear of staying in Phocis while I went on to Mycenae. “If I abandoned you,” he argued, “men would brand me a coward and false friend. Strophius and Medon will revere their father’s name, not turn their heads in shame. And, gods, Elektra would never let me hear the end of it if I abandoned you now.”
There was no keeping knowledge of Strophius’s pronouncement or the Pythia’s answer from Elektra. She took it hard. At last, she grasped my dilemma, the noose which had been looped around my neck from the very beginning, and was now starting to tighten. She was anguished, torn between extremes. “Mother must die,” she murmured, over and over, then, turning to me, she shook her head disbelievingly. “But you, Orestes...”
I folded her in my arms to try to console her. “Do not think about it. You will only torture yourself, as I have.”
“There must be some way,” she whimpered into my shoulder. “The gods must have mercy on you.”
Elektra turned inward, on her cult idols and offering tables. I had no faith in her devotions.
*~*~*~*
Spring brought winds and rain, and high seas. In order to sate Poseidon’s anger, Strophius sacrificed bulls and horses in addition to those he had offered at the festival of Plowistos.
As the gloomy weather broke, an Argive messenger arrived at court bearing a message. “From Queen Clytaemnestra.”
Strophius no longer required me to receive messengers in his presence, freeing me to retire to my chamber to break the seal and read the letter. What could Mother want with me now?
Hardening my heart, I unfolded the papyrus and skipped over the salutations. “My dearest child, greetings. I know you might well slash this letter to ribbons, or burn it to ashes upon your health, as I used to do with Agamemnon’s letters from Troy. I do not blame you for doing so, Orestes, yet in Mother Dia’s sacred name I beg you to hear me out before you pass judgment.”
Why not? I thought, snorting. At this point, nothing Mother said or did could change anything.
“A Phocian messenger has informed me that Elektra has borne another daughter. Tell me, are she and the child well? Elektra will not accept my gifts or messages, and continues to torment me by withholding news of her children. Surely she knows they are my only grandchildren.”
Nauseating. She had only herself to blame for the rift between her, Elektra, and her grandchildren.
“I have heard you are asserting your manly authority. It has not escaped my attention that certain disaffected noblemen have sought you out, and that they speak well of you. Aegisthus paces the royal apartments in his frustration, refusing to hear any more about the matter. As though ignoring the situation will make it any better.” At last! There was the scheming queen I remembered! “Your father’s death was a terrible mistake, an accident of passion. There is no need for these hostilities to go on. Aegisthus lashes out at you with his hired killers and spies because he is weak and afraid—a thing I have realized far too late—but remember that I have never harmed you.”
Anger gnawed at me. Did she truly expect me to believe her lies and to spare her life? Did she not understand, even now, that she had harmed me in the worst possible way, by taking from me the father I had barely known? Mother was like the brigand women we killed on raids—too vicious and untrustworthy to take captive. I could not read the rest, whatever she wrote.
Elektra knew she had sent me a letter, for the servants always pressed messengers for news, and word traveled quickly upstairs from the lower quarters. “What does Mother want now?”
Answering her was a tricky matter where her female frailties were concerned. Being unable to nurse Charis meant she had conceived again within four months of the birth, and she now alternated between spells of agitation and calm. Not wishing to provoke her, I remained nonchalant. “She wants what she always wants.”
“Then I have nothing to say to her.” Elektra added more wool to her spindle. “Are you going to burn the letter?”
“Of course.”
That evening, with the papyrus smoldering upon the brazier, I sat down to compose a reply.
“To the Lady Clytaemnestra, daughter of Tyndareus: greetings.” I kept the salutation impersonal, omitting her titles as queen of Mycenae and mother, so as not to deceive her with false sentiments. “We have received your message and done with it exactly as you suspect.” I used the royal plural—the very first time I had done so—to make my intentions as the rightful heir known. “Let this be the last time you write to us. We will not accept any further gifts or letters, and nor will our sister.
“Do not hang upon us seeking our pity or understanding. Do not try to excuse your actions by invoking Iphigenia’s name, for she was not your only child. Do not attempt to dissociate yourself from the man you have married. You knew what he was when you invited him into Father’s house, and into your marriage bed. You made your choice. Now you must lie down with him and suffer the consequences.”
I reread the signs scrawled into the wax, and was satisfied. Those reproving words sounded formal and correct, the language of a grown man and king.
“And above all, do not sully our ears with falsehoods that our father’s death was a misfortunate accident of passion. You and Aegisthus planned it all too well. A pity, then, that you failed to glance behind the privy curtain to see who might be watching. We were there in the bath that day.” Let her stew on that knowledge, if she did not already know. “We saw you cast the net over a naked, unarmed man, and strike him with the sacred labrys. We saw Aegisthus take the sacrificial knife from the altar and stab our father with it. We bear witness to your treachery. We heard our father’s last gasping words after you left him to die, and you know as well as we do what those words were.
“Do not write to us again. You cast us aside as your child the moment you struck the first blow. We are finished as mother and son. We are, Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae.”
There it was. I had signed with my patronymic and rightful title. As I set aside the document to let the ink dry, I removed the lion-and-goat seal from around my neck and reached for the wax.
No. This needed the royal seal, the double lions of the House of Atreus, and for that I had to approach my uncle.
After hearing me out regarding Mother’s letter, Strophius perused my answer with satisfaction. “Yes, you are firm and correct, showing thoughtfulness and dignity, without resorting to childish threats.” Handing back the letter, he rose from his chair and retrieved the casket sitting beside his private altar; from it, he withdrew a gold ring, which he gave to me. “You have earned this.”
I sealed the letter twice, once for myself, and again for my father. Mother would understand the gesture; she would read in it her coming doom. Let her acknowledge the grief she had caused her children, and now do what was right. Let her express the appropriate remorse, and take her own life. But she would not, because deep down she had no shame; my heart told me so. She would be standing there defiant when I came for her.
*~*~*~*
Messengers soon arrived bearing news from farther abroad. Menelaus, having spent eight years at war in Anatolia, and another seven detained by the Egyptian king, had at last returned home to Sparta. With him, he brought his wayward wife, who, shockingly enough, faced no recriminations for all the chaos she had wrought. Helen resumed her station as queen and high priestess. People grumbled about the affair, shaking their heads despite the political necessity of it all.
Iphidamas arrived at court shortly thereafter with lavish gifts and messages for both Strophius and me. Strophius received him in the megaron. As was proper, the ambassador addressed my uncle first, conveying the usual bland courtesies, before turning to me. “Prince Orestes, King Menelaus also has words for you. Would you hear them?”
Suspecting nothing amiss, and afire with curiosity, I indicated he should unseal my Atreid uncle’
s letter and read it aloud.
“‘To Prince Orestes Agamemnonides, from Menelaus Atreides, king of Sparta. Dearest nephew: greetings. We hope our message finds you in good health and spirits. Lord Iphidamas regularly fills our ears with reports of your excellent breeding and manners, so it is with much regret that our traveling days are done, and we are unable to travel to Krisa to behold you with our own eyes. We do believe, however, that your late father would be greatly pleased with you.’”
Pausing, Iphidamas looked at me, inquiring with a look whether or not he should continue. “Go on,” I said.
Iphidamas cleared his throat. “‘Therefore, it is also with much regret and a heavy heart that we must end your betrothal to my daughter Hermione. Rest assured—’”
“What?” My heart lurched in my chest. I leaned forward, gripping the armrests of my chair. “What did you say?”
Iphidamas looked abashed. “Forgive me, Prince Orestes, but King Menelaus has ended your betrothal to Princess Hermione.”
I sat there, stunned beyond belief. Strophius indicated the ambassador should resume reading. “‘Rest assured, our decision has nothing to do with any animosity toward you, or any personal failing of yours. Indeed, you would have made a splendid son-in-law.” Then it came, the inevitable excuse. “We regret that the burdens filial duty have placed upon you make this marriage an impossible prospect. Please accept our most sincere apologies, and these gifts, as a sign that there is no ill will between us.’”
The burdens filial duty have placed upon you. Menelaus had all but called me a matricide. I swallowed hard. My mother was still breathing! I had not done anything yet!
Servants carried in the Spartan king’s gifts: gold and silver vessels, bolts of purple and scarlet cloth, a ceremonial dagger inlaid with gold and electrum, bronze cauldrons and tripods, leather and perfumed oil, and the most magnificent boar tusk helmet I had ever seen. I had always wanted such a helmet, and had been collecting the tusks to make one, but this present, marvelous as it was, brought me no pleasure. None of it did. It was cold glitter, lavish desolation, and no consolation for the loss of the flesh-and-blood woman I had spent my entire life yearning for.
Strophius thanked the ambassador on my behalf. Iphidamas bowed, while casting me a sympathetic look. I did not want his pity.
Upstairs, my sister inquired about the helmet, which the ambassador had placed in my hands, and I now carried under my arm. When she saw my dumbstruck expression, Elektra steered me into her sitting room, where I sat numbly watching Antiklea playing with her cloth doll.
“Orestes,” Elektra said sharply. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Menelaus,” I mumbled. “He broke the betrothal.”
She sucked in a hissing breath. “Why should he do such a thing?”
“You know why.”
“Damn him!” she cried, with such vehemence that Antiklea looked up, startled by the outburst. “He should be helping you, standing beside you to avenge Father’s death, and yet he sits there like a coward, just like all the rest of them.”
I lacked the energy to argue with her, and soon left her chamber. Pylades found me sometime later, lying on my bed with the helmet on my chest. “I heard what happened,” he said, shifting a chair over to sit beside me. “Let’s go out to the countryside tomorrow, you, me, and Boukolos. No court, no training in the yard or the palaestra. Just a carefree day doing whatever we like.”
Not even that offer could console me. I had no heart for leisure, now that my beloved had been torn away.
Pylades accepted my refusal with aplomb, and some practical advice. “Menelaus may change his mind later, once you’ve been purified of your sin and are sitting on your father’s throne. There will be no better marriage prospect for his daughter than an Atreid king of Mycenae, and he knows it.”
Perhaps. I could not cast my thoughts or hopes that far ahead, though.
Losing Hermione was a sign from the gods telling me that it was time. I settled my affairs, returning the estate’s deed to Strophius, and gathering portable wealth to recruit followers while arranging for the storage and upkeep of my other goods. Pylades, too, made preparations, selecting with care the guards who would accompany us; caution dictated that we could take no more than five men. Boukolos alone among our companions chose to come, though I made him swear to turn his face away from me once I became impure. “I won’t have your father disinherit you on account of my pollution.”
Boukolos embraced me. “I would do anything for you, Orestes.” I did not think he realized yet how grim this business would be.
Iphidamas stayed long enough at court for me to compose a last letter to Hermione. More appropriately, I should have written to her father, to thank him for his consideration and gifts, to graciously accept my lot, to say something about Father’s death, anything but this frustrating silence which inhibited my efforts to address him. I turned to Hermione instead. Perhaps it was no longer proper to approach her, but we were still first cousins, and for all I knew it might be my final chance to speak to her.
“To Hermione, daughter of Menelaus and Helen, princess of Sparta, from her kinsman Orestes Agamemnonides, prince of Mycenae: greetings. I received your father’s letter some days ago. It has taken me this long to recover from my shock at losing you. Strophius warned me years ago that it might come to this, so the blow was not unexpected, yet it stings the heart.”
I sat back, stroking the lion skin draped around my shoulders. Menelaus had sent me a magnificent specimen that he had taken in Egypt, a golden pelt such as once graced my father’s apartment. A lion skin and a boar tusk helmet, the trappings of royal manhood. They filled me with an overwhelming sense of loss.
“Give Menelaus my very best wishes. I would tell him myself, but every time I sit down to try to compose a letter, my mind goes blank. I know what I should tell him, but cannot make the words come. And with this blood oath hanging over my head, he may not even wish to hear from me.
“This may be my last letter to you for a long time.” Not ‘forever.’ I could not bear to admit that in writing, knowing it would cause her grief. “The situation back home has become untenable. I cannot wait much longer.
“Pylades and I traveled to Delphi late last summer to consult the oracle. I had to know for certain what the gods wished me to do. I would prefer to have Mother take her own life rather than kill her myself. It would be a lesser sin. The Pythia returned a troubling answer. I am doomed to murder the womb that bore me, and to be tormented afterward with madness and wandering. I should never have consulted the god! Mortal men were never meant to know the future.”
Had I said too much? No, she needed to hear it from me, to know that, whatever happened, her kinsman was no cold-blooded murderer. “There is no going back. I swore an oath. I must go through with the deed. Aegisthus deserves to die. Mother deserves to die along with him, but I have no illusions that killing her will do anything but placate Father’s restless shade.”
A fire raged in me, which I poured forth in wild sentiments. “Gods, I want this to be over! I want the ghosts to leave and the blood to wash away, but it will only get worse from here. Duty is such a cold, unyielding thing. It sits like a stone in my belly. All I truly want is five minutes alone with you, to see your lovely face again.” My hand was cramping from holding the stylus so tightly, scrawling the signs so furiously. I forgot Timon’s admonitions about proper grammar. “Perhaps it isn’t the correct thing to say now that we’re no longer betrothed, but I don’t care. It’s what I feel.” And it was true. This was between me and her, and the gods, if they were listening. “If you were here with me, you would put a finger to my lips to shush me, the way you used to do, only this time I would kiss that finger and then your sweet lips to tell you that yes, yes it is the right thing to say!”
I had reached too far. Hermione would blush with shame at my lack of decorum. Menelaus would be angry. Yet I had to tell her, or forever regret not saying it. “Forgive me for being so
forward with you. It is not my intention to embarrass you or compromise your honor. It is only that you are so beautiful and precious to me, and for all I know, these may be my very last words to you. I hope not, but please, accept my sentiments for what they are. Your devoted kinsman, Orestes.”
I found a pressed daisy tucked between two sheets of papyrus, the result of my one attempt to follow her recipe, and enclosed it before sealing the letter.
Chapter Thirty-seven
“Do this for me, Brother.”
From the outset, I nursed deep misgivings in allowing myself to participate in this women’s ritual, but Elektra hounded me until the most prudent thing left to do was to let her have her way.
As she directed, I fasted and drank nothing but cold spring water the day before, and avoided sex and exertion in the palaestra. Elektra would not elaborate upon the mysteries to come except to say that they would give me strength for the ordeal ahead. “You must swear upon your manhood that you will never reveal whatever you might see or hear or do in Mother Gaia’s domain.”
Reaching under the hem of my tunic, I grasped my testicles through my loincloth. “I, Orestes Agamemnonides, so swear.”
Night fell. Elektra and her attendants came for me. She wore the regalia of a high priestess of Gaia. Anaxibia had begun grooming her for a queen’s sacred duties. I did not begrudge her this role, yet bare-breasted, painted chalk-white, and bearing the labrys in her hands, she exuded more than a hint of Mother’s proud and dreadful potency. It was enough to waken old fears.
We descended from the palace by torchlight, proceeding through the gloaming blue-violet shadows to the women’s sanctuary. I went barefoot, as a supplicant; the pavement emanated warmth from the day’s sunshine. Aromas of roasting meat and frying onions and garlic aroused the emptiness in my belly; the gods themselves could have heard my stomach growling.