by Laura Gill
“I’ve never blamed her, Orestes. Gods know,” he answered sadly, “I’ve tried to tell her that, but right away she twists it around in her fevered brain, and throws it in my face that I abandoned you.”
A servant set steaming onion soup and hot bread on the table. I waited till he withdrew to continue the conversation. “I’ve told her you’re not to blame, either.”
Pylades lifted his cup, shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll need a mallet to pound that into her skull.”
“Let’s resolve this matter, and have no more quarreling.” There was no more to be said on the subject. Interfering in my sister’s marriage left me feeling awkward, never mind that it was, as I had told her, my right as king and lord of the household to keep the peace. I sensed I had not accomplished much in speaking out, except to alert Pylades and Elektra that their discord did not go unnoticed.
I spent a troubled night which even the faithful Hermes could not assuage. Night’s ominous silences and ambient shadows left me with such dread. Afraid to be alone in a room where the very frescoes seemed to reproach me, Chione became my regular bedmate. I did not confide in her my innermost secrets, for that would have been improper, and she did not attempt to pry into my business, but she must have guessed early on that I wanted her for more than her eagerness in bed. Sex with her was good. Holding her close afterward was even better. On occasion, I allowed her to talk about her life—where she had lived before she was taken captive, what her family was like, what she did in the weaving house—just to hear the sound of another human voice. And she understood from the first that she was to keep her mouth shut about our time together.
One night, as an icy wind rattled the shutters, and the brazier was burning low, I decided to reward her. A small gift, perhaps a ribbon or string of beads; she could name what she liked, within reason.
“There’s only one thing, my lord.” Placing her hand on my naked chest, she hesitated. “Please don’t sell me or give me away when you tire of me.”
Of all the things a fifteen-year-old concubine might have asked for, that request astonished me. “Why would you say such a thing? I’m not tired of you.”
“But one day you might, my lord.” The brazier’s weak light made it difficult to gauge her expression, but there was no mistaking her tone. “I make no trouble, ask the princess. And I earn my keep in the weaving house.”
I ran my fingers through her tousled hair. Did women such as she truly worry about changing hands? I dismissed no servant without cause. “And as long as you continue to earn your keep and give no trouble, then you have my word that you won’t be sold or given to another man.”
*~*~*~*
I wore black. Ixion had affixed cypress boughs to the chariot rail, and bound the horses’ manes with black ribbons. All the noblemen of the court followed suit. Priestesses and noblewomen draped black veils over their elaborate coiffures, and carried cypress and pine wreaths.
Elektra had wanted more than a memorial; she wanted to restage our father’s funeral, which neither of us had attended. “Mother stinted him the treasures due a High King,” she said, “and stupid Chrysothemis was too shaken after Mother died to do anything but bleat a few prayers and throw down a wreath. Who else will honor him, if not us?”
“I won’t open the tomb again.” I remained firm, even pushed her hands away when she seized my arm. “Have you forgotten who else is buried there? Would you have me disturb her vengeful shade?”
“Orestes...”
I did not want to raise my voice with her, but her stubborn insistence was wearing at my patience. “Father shall have all the libations due him, but the tomb remains closed, and that’s the end of the discussion.”
The Mycenaean assembly weighed in with its opinion and advice. “It’s unfortunate that you arrived too late in the season to celebrate the yearly rites honoring King Atreus,” Atymnios said. “The people have expressed a desire to see you commemorate him in some way.”
“It’s been almost twenty years since a king last made offerings at his tomb,” Nearchos added. “You’ve stressed your ties to the late High King Agamemnon. Let those ambassadors and others who come to attend this memorial see that you’re also the scion of Atreus and Pelops, and the inheritor of a mighty dynasty.”
“Ambassadors! Hah! If you’re referring to that half-blind Argive ass-licker,” Menon snorted, “then let’s hope he falls out the back of his chariot and breaks his skull. Thrice in two months! I’m getting tired of looking at him.”
Although I had not voiced my ambitions to eventually overthrow the weak Argive ruling dynasty, my astute councilors, who had themselves been frustrated by Argos’s ineffective king and his cronies, had marked my disdain toward the Argive heir.
“I doubt we’ll be so fortunate!” Kleitos exclaimed.
Nearchos proposed a simple change in itinerary that would allow for a splendid procession to and a fitting blood sacrifice and libations at the tomb of Atreus; he had the scribe jot down and calculate figures, and held up the wax tablet when it was done. “These adjustments will allow you to proceed with only a slight increase in expenditure.”
“We don’t possess bottomless quantities of oil and wine, or a limitless number of acceptable animals.” I held out my hand. Eteokles retrieved the tablet and brought it to me. “Let’s see exactly how ‘slight’ this increase is.” I took several moments to peruse the tallies. “You propose we take away 16.8 liters of oil and 12.4 liters of wine away from the High King’s allotted offerings, as well as one bull and two rams, and add one more bull from our herds for King Atreus?”
Nearchos clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes, my lord.”
“Are you aware that some already criticize us for not opening my father’s tomb to refurnish it?”
“And that’s a wise decision, my lord,” Eurybatos said quickly. “For a king’s memorial, the allotments are suitable, unless you intend to make additional offerings and libations.” I caught his hesitation at once. “Under the present, erm, circumstances, that wouldn’t be advisable, my lord.”
“You object to any mention of Queen Clytaemnestra, is that what you mean?” Reluctant acknowledgment flickered across his face, and others. “Then you should come out with it, and not dance around the issue. We are not going to fall down foaming at the mouth because of it.”
My rebuke elicited a collective mumble of agreement and an exchange of worrisome glances. Eurybatos anxiously cleared his throat, but it was Kleitos who spoke next. “There is one more thing, my lord. The families of the slain companions request permission to honor them.”
His father had died with mine, and rested near him in the same tomb; it did not surprise me that he would ask. I nodded. “The families of the dead companions may pour libations and make offerings at their own expense, as long as they understand that they must keep the peace. This is a memorial, not a funeral, and there will be no wailing or tearing of the cheeks, no cursing the murderers. All debts have been settled.”
So the date was chosen, ten days before the winter solstice.
An hour after sunrise, a somber procession of nobles, priests, and sacrificial animals wound its way through the lower town to the tomb of Atreus. A huge crowd had gathered around the enormous tholos, thousands who maintained a respectful silence as two spotted bulls and a black ram went to the altar, and the libations of wine, milk, and steaming blood flowed into the ritual channel at the head of the dromos passage. Mine was a solitary voice in the frigid morning air, dedicating the offerings, and uttering the customary prayers.
Gray smoke carried the scent of burning meat and fat from the first altar as the procession traversed the lower town once more, and came to the tomb of Agamemnon. This time, I was less certain, even somewhat fearful. Behind the tomb’s massive oak and bronze doors, my father lay moldering in eternal darkness. Was he restless, angered that his unfaithful and murderous wife lay nearby? Could he scent the sacrificial meat burning upon Atreus’s altar, or the blood about to be
spilled in his own name? I imagined him, gaunt and shrouded in moth-eaten grave clothes, pressed against the doors in his hunger. And my mother, too, exhaling clouds of dust, sighing my name—Orestes, Orestes—as a sibilant hiss.
I swallowed, and watched the way my breath puffed out in the frosty air. There were no phantoms save those in my mind; it was only my imagination that gave sinister shape to the wind. Again, I washed my hands, took up the knife. “Father Zeus, here is a black bull, the finest animal in my herd.” I held high the blade. The priests seized the bull’s horns, dragged his great head back. “Receive this sacrifice for the shade of Agamemnon Atreides, the High King. Receive it in the name of Orestes Agamemnonides the king.”
Now! A swift slice to the carotid artery. Blood splashed the stones, hot and steaming in the frigid air; it began to pool, to collect in the crevices between the cobbles, a violent splash of color. The bull lowed, gurgled, swayed on wobbling legs, and dropped with a thud. Acolytes gathered the blood in bronze vessels, and began quartering the carcass to remove the thigh meat and succulent fat while the priests led the other bull and the ram to the altar. All were drugged and complacent, else they would have balked at the stench of blood.
That night, we feasted upon the tripes and meats from the altar. Kretheus sang the Song of Orpheus. I cared little for the tale of the Thracian bard who sought to recover his dead wife from Hades only to lose her again; it dampened my spirits. My attention kept wandering, until it at last alighted on a bright wall hanging that seemed out of place. Along that wall there ought to be a door which opened onto the king’s ritual bath. How odd that it had never before occurred to me to search for that entrance, to return to the place where my father had died. It gnawed at me, just when it was impossible to go over and lift the hanging to see whether the doorway was intact, or bricked or plastered over, and shut up like a tomb. If Father’s shade lurked anywhere, it would not be in his tomb, but in the chamber where he had been cruelly betrayed, and breathed his last.
Upon retiring, I found no relief in Chione’s embrace, not while that shrouded doorway haunted my thoughts. Tomorrow could not wait, for there would be others in the megaron, servants and advisors and petitioners; parting the hanging was an act that could not bear scrutiny. I stared up at the starred ceiling, asking whether or not it was wise to reawaken old ghosts by seeking them out.
At last, I slid from the bed, donned a thick woolen robe, and crept from the room. Chione stirred a little, but did not wake. Neither did Eteokles, asleep in the outer room. Only Hermes raised his head, wagged his tail expectantly. I lifted one finger, whispering, “Stay.”
The sentry posted outside the door saluted my appearance with a querulous look. I did not need an escort, only the lamp I found burning in the niche opposite the door; I instructed the man to resume his watch.
Creeping down the narrow servants’ stair brought me into a deserted passageway running adjacent to the megaron. I had come this way eight years ago when escaping my father’s death chamber, and never thought to return along the exact same route. A curtain hanging to the left opened onto the darkened vestibule; a second curtain screened the main room, where the fire on the hearth had died down to glowing embers. Although cold, the air was stale with the smell of the bodies that had crowded the megaron hours ago.
It took me a moment to muster enough courage to approach the hanging, and another to pull it aside. Yes, there was the door, neither boarded shut nor bricked in. A mere turn of the latch, and... I heaved a deep breath. A hot-cold shiver ran along my flesh, raising goose prickles, and a dull ache sat in my belly. There’s nothing to fear but the darkness. I was a man now, no longer a frightened boy, and as king all doors, even this one, were open to me.
The hinges squealed from long disuse. Dust thickened the air, and blanketed the floor. Cobwebs hung in tatters from the rafters. Sputtering and coughing, I cleared gray cobwebs from a niche and set the lamp inside before looking around.
My gaze gravitated toward the ceramic tub. How small and insignificant it looked! In my nightmares, it was been much larger, large enough to swallow a man. Under an inch of dust, some of the scarlet decoration remained, or were those leftover blood smears? It did not matter, because to my eyes it would always be blood.
And the air was freezing, biting through my furred robe and flesh to numb my very bones; it was a cold like death. Father was here, his essence one with the flickering shadows, the stones, and the dust. I knelt down beside the tub; the stuccoed floor scraped my bare knees, just as it had on that day. My mind replayed the scene. Father’s arm had hung over the tub’s edge just so, the flesh slick with blood, and cut through to the bone where he had tried to shield his head. I reached for him again, but my fingers closed around nothing except memories.
Tears stung my eyes. A single teardrop splashed the tub’s dusty rim, leaving a dark splotch. I could not hold back the flood, but broke down, covered my face with one hand, and sobbed great, heaving sobs that left me breathless and aching.
“Orestes?” A woman whispered a query in the darkness; the sound was followed by a lamp whose light pushed the shadows back further.
I knew that voice. “Elektra?” I grated, hoarse.
And then she was on her knees beside me, gathering me in her arms. “What are you doing here?” I smelled the scented oil her maid combed into her hair as she held my head on her shoulder and rocked me back and forth. “There’s nothing to see.”
Elektra did not know what she was saying, she had not been here before, otherwise the room would have shown signs of an earlier visit. Did she not realize where she was? All that which tormented me did not even seem to affect her. “I had to come.” I had no other words with which to explain my compulsion.
Her intent was to get me away from that crypt, and in that she succeeded. Linking her arm through mine, she escorted me back along the passage and upstairs, where she roused Chione none too gently, and evicted her from the king’s apartment. Then she tucked me into bed, which was still warm from the girl’s body, and drew the fleeces up to my chin. “How did you know to find me?” I asked.
“I saw you heading down the stairs alone, and followed you, but at a distance so you wouldn’t suspect.” Elektra added fuel to the brazier, which brought light to the room. “Do you want some warm goat’s milk to help you sleep?”
She was mothering me. “Elektra?”
“Yes?”
I wriggled a hand free from the fleeces, reached for her. She gave me her hand, lacing her fingers with mine. “Everything must change. It’ll be expensive and inconvenient, I know, but the palace must be renovated, so there are no more memories, no more ghosts.”
Elektra leaned forward, and planted a soft and sisterly kiss on my forehead. “Orestes, you’ve had a trying day.” She would stay all night if I let her. “Let me send for some warm goat’s milk.”
She was too eager to change the subject. “Did you hang the curtain over the door?” I asked.
“No, it was there when I came.”
Mother had hung it, then, to try to conceal her crime. “I think you never see ghosts because you remember a time before all this,” I said, “when Father was alive, and things were good, and there were no murders or secrets.”
“Oh, Orestes, you’re so wrong.” I felt her squeeze my fingers. “Yes, there was a time before the war, that you were too young to remember, but it wasn’t as bright and happy as you think it was. They always hated each other.”
I closed my eyes, still holding her hand. “You never went in there before tonight, did you?”
“I didn’t need to see it.” Pensive, Elektra let her answer stand for some time, until it seemed she would say no more. Yet then, she added, “I heard the screams and shouts that day. I didn’t need to see it. I didn’t want to see it.” I sensed the latter was the actual truth; she was afraid. And, being afraid, she had ventured through death’s door only for my sake.
Chapter Nineteen
I began with the megaron, enga
ging laborers to knock away the painted plaster and stucco. Frescoes that had been commissioned by Atreus, and retouched over the years, flaked and crumbled with every knock of the workers’ mallets. Elektra hated to see the familiar lions and griffins and ceremonial processions go, and groused about the mess and noise. A little dust and debris did not disturb me at all, for those stripped walls and flagstones represented a new beginning.
During the renovations, I did not receive petitioners as usual, but sent deputies and scribes into the lower town and surrounding countryside to arbitrate and dispense the king’s justice. As for the council, I met my advisors in a smaller chamber directly across the great court from the megaron, and only when absolutely necessary. After the solstice, I gave them leave to visit their estates. I had not yet visited my own vast estate near Midea, although I received regular reports from the steward there; it would have to wait until next year.
I inspected the workshops in the lower citadel and the town, spoke to the craftsmen and merchants, and personally reviewed the tallies. Everywhere I went, I heard the same complaint: that resources and skilled workers were in short supply. Aegisthus, like his father, had been a lazy ruler, but the current crisis was not all his fault. Production had slowed everywhere during the last two decades. In Phocis, too, Strophius had complained about the dearth of copper and tin, skilled slaves, and the occasional poor harvests. The war at Troy had not, as its architects intended, eased economic burdens, but merely added to them.
Mother had retained excellent stewards and scribes, and managed to salvage more wealth than her detractors would have given her credit for. Pylades had done the rest when confiscating the traitors’ ill-gotten gains. As a result, there was sufficient gold and silver in the treasury, as well as vessels of precious unguents, bolts of rich cloth, bronze weapons and cauldrons and tripods, raw and carved ivory, furnishings of exotic woods, and jewels. In a storehouse near the postern gate, Pylades had secured the alabaster and green and red Laconian marble Aegisthus had commissioned for his father’s tomb. I toured the site again, recalling how, years ago, when the tholos was still a rough foundation choked with weeds, I had confided to Timon that I would claim Thyestes’ unfinished tomb and complete the construction. Aegisthus, the fool, had done most of the work for me; his shade would be groaning in his unmarked grave to learn that his father’s intended resting place would henceforth be known as the Lion Tholos, the tomb of Orestes.