by Laura Gill
When I was not engaged with the palace renovations or the business of the citadel, I spent time with my nieces and nephews. Eventually, I must marry and have sons and daughters of my own, but for now young Strophius and Medon were my heirs. I showed them the places which had been my favorite boyhood haunts, and took them to the megaron to see the renovations in progress. I explained everything to them, as I had learned it from the carpenters and plasterers and painters years ago when Father’s apartment was refurbished.
“You see how they lay out the grid?” I indicated a section of whitewashed wall where an artisan had made his lines with weighted strings coated in with charcoal dust. “When he’s done sketching, his assistants will apply another coat of plaster and start painting, right there on the wet surface. Once it dries, it’s finished.”
The boys liked watching the men sitting on the aithousa grinding the pigments. “Why do you always use the same colors?” Strophius asked one old assistant. “There’s never any green or purple.”
“It’s not the pigment we make, young sir, but what it does with the wet plaster.” The old man kept working the mortar and pestle with his gnarled and ocher-stained hands. “Green won’t fix, and purple from the murex won’t, either.
Strophius and Medon liked the scenes I had chosen: a lion hunt, a citadel under attack with women watching from the walls as the men fought below, and splendid griffins and lions flanking the throne, which was covered with a heavy cloth to protect it from the dust, paint, and other debris. The hunting scene was finished, and the paintings nearest the throne. I decided to quiz the boys. “Do you know why kings always have griffins nearest the throne?”
“It’s for the goddess!” Medon blurted out.
“That’s right.” I ruffled his hair, which he only minded when his mother or nurse did it. “Mother Dia protects the throne and the king who sits upon it. And you see the lions there, with the griffons? Lions are sacred to Father Zeus, and represent the House of Atreus.”
My nieces expressed no curiosity about the work going on below except to complain about the noise. On rainy days, Hermes wreaked havoc in the nursery; he was so accustomed to working as a shepherd’s dog that he could not distinguish between sheep and children, and tried to herd my nieces and nephews. He also stole toys, wooden soldiers and horses from the boys, and dolls from the girls. Charis wailed when he carried away her rag doll, and chased him all over the women’s quarters to get it back. Antiklea turned up her face at his sloppy kisses. But he also slept on the floor near Anaxo’s cradle, or with the boys in their room, and they all loved him.
Mycenae was always grim and brooding during the winter, but would have been far more so without my nieces and nephews. Henceforth, I decided, there must always be children in the citadel. Living children, not ghosts, to laugh and play and explore. Next year would be a year to think about marriage, possible brides, and starting a family.
I did not touch the royal bathroom, but had it boarded up and the opening plastered and painted over, sealing it up forever like a tomb. I could not use it, given its tainted history, and did not know what else to do with it.
Once the megaron was finished, the workers moved on to my apartment upstairs. I slept in a guest room while the men demolished the frescoes my father had never seen, and moved out the furniture. Elektra made a hundred suggestions for the decorations—the usual lion and boar hunts, men racing in chariots, red and yellow rosettes to frame the doorways—without realizing that I had already discussed the designs with the master artisan, and approved the sketches. My sister meant well. She knew how I used to love lying on Father’s great bed, taking comfort from his things, and still remembered how the apartment was decorated all those years ago, but she did not quite grasp my need to set Agamemnon and Atreus at a distance, and proclaim the name Orestes to the world.
“Mother Dia is an odd choice,” she said, referring to the woman seated upon a throne on the wall of the outer room. Her arms were wreathed in serpents, and a row of supplicants bearing vessels and sacrificial animals stretched out before her. White and yellow wavy bands denoted mountains in the old Cretan fashion. “I’d expect to see that in a queen’s room, or a priestess’s.”
I did not tell my sister that she was mistaken, that the woman was the Pythia, to honor Apollo, and keep the old demons distant.
Elektra liked the decorations in the bedchamber: the boar hunt splashed across the left-hand wall, and the bands of blue rosettes framing the doorways and window embrasures. I had ordered the starry ceiling removed, and replaced with black and white checks. And Chione had told me about the new bed covering stretched across the great loom in the weaving house; she was proud to be working the soft blue and scarlet wools with eight other women.
A new tub had been ordered, as Aegisthus had used the old one. It gave me immense pleasure to have the terracotta basin taken to the great court and smashed with mallets. I even took a few blows myself, likening the experience to clubbing him to death, bludgeoning his shade in his bath. Ironic justice.
*~*~*~*
Eteokles announced the visitor just as the midwinter sun was setting. “Lord Phaidon of Praisai, son of Polymaxos, Sparta’s ambassador to Mycenae.”
At first, I was not certain I had heard him right. Winter was no time to travel. Rough seas made an ocean passage hazardous, and rain and snow along the mountainous passes left the roads impassable. Even on the plain of Argos, those stretches of road which were not paved had turned to mud. Last night, the wind had had teeth, and sunrise had revealed hoarfrost in the great court, and a dusting of snow on the summit of Mount Charvati.
Why would Menelaus send an envoy, much less a highborn ambassador, in such inclement weather? What did he deem so important that it could not wait until spring? Mentally I tallied the possibilities. Sparta was under attack. Menelaus was ailing—no, it was Hermione, and she was dying.
I contained my curiosity and growing apprehension long enough for Phaidon to receive the courtesies befitting his status as a nobleman and royal ambassador. We dined that night in the newly renovated megaron, drinking mulled wine, with the fire blazing high and hot on the hearth. Phaidon was a short, spare man with thinning hair and pockmarked cheeks which did not do justice to his very regal, correct manner. Menelaus had sent me a man of quality and discretion, that much was certain.
Phaidon said nothing about his mission, which he surely would have done had the situation been dire. Instead, he ate and drank at leisure, observing the customary libations, and answering my queries about his journey. “King Menelaus regrets he was not able to attend your crowning,” he said, “but he has sent gifts and messages of goodwill, which we are honored to present.”
I had been the recipient of my uncle’s goodwill before; it had not amounted to much beyond a few trinkets. On the other hand, Menelaus had not sent a high-ranking nobleman in the middle of winter just to hand me a bronze tripod and some gold jewelry. “That is kind of him, but we did not expect to hear from Sparta until spring at the earliest. Why such haste?”
“Spring would have been too late to deliver the message I have been charged to give you, King Orestes.” Yes, yes. So what was it? Phaidon dragged out the moment, pausing to wipe his mouth with his napkin. “At the equinox, King Menelaus will celebrate the nuptials of his son Megapenthes to the daughter of the lord of Asopos. He invites his kinsman the king of Mycenae to attend as his most honored guest.”
But Megapenthes was a bastard, his wedding hardly worth my time. Was this invitation so important that Menelaus would risk a valuable ambassador just to deliver the message, or was there something more? “This is most sudden,” I said.
Phaidon nodded acknowledgement. “King Menelaus has also instructed me to tell you that your sister, Princess Chrysothemis, and her new husband, Prince Aethiolas, will be there, as will his own daughter, Princess Hermione, who is no longer in mourning. Ah.” He reached into his clothing. “I have for you a letter from the lady.”
I broke the seal,
unfolded the papyrus, all under his scrutinizing gaze. Ignoring him, and doing my utmost to conceal my excitement, I tilted the sheet toward the hearth light in order to make out Hermione’s handwriting.
“To Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae: greetings. Thank you for your letter and good wishes. I am relieved to hear that you have been acquitted and reclaimed your rightful station. Thank you also for dispelling any rumors surrounding the death of my late husband.” Had I not recognized her script, I might have thought someone else had written those stiff and formal words. “No such tales have yet reached Sparta, but hearing them from you first softens the blow. It never occurred to me that you might have been involved.”
“I hope you find joy in your homecoming, and that Elektra has not completely taken over the palace.” There she was! “Chrysothemis and Erigone are both doing well. Chrysothemis longs for a child. Erigone has made a few friends, and sometimes we catch her casting glances at the handsome young men around court. I have become very fond of her.” Aegisthus’s daughter ought to be shut away in a sanctuary, where there was no chance of her spreading her legs and producing a child. Either that, or killed. However, I had no wish to be remembered as a murderer of women, so a sanctuary and consecrated virginity it must be. A message to Menelaus would see it done.
“You must forgive me for curtailing the family gossip,” Hermione continued, “but my heart is not in it, and writing to a king is not like writing to a dear cousin.” But I had not changed so very much where my family was concerned. “I do not wish to burden you with my troubles, not only because you have so many more cares now, but also because you have already endured enough suffering.” What troubled her so? She was home with her family, restored to her place as heiress of Sparta, and free from her useless husband She should rejoice! “I do not think you would understand a woman’s concerns, or worse, it would embarrass you, and you would shake your head at the impropriety.
“Spring cannot come quickly enough for me. I have never liked winter. I feel the cold creeping into my bones, and the gray winter skies reflect what I feel inside. When it rains, it seems the gods are weeping with me.” I held my breath against the thought that Hermione might have loved that boor Neoptolemus, exhaling only when I read her next words. “Do not mistake my tone for a widow’s mourning. I grieve because there are no children, and perhaps never will be. I should have liked at least one child to love, a son or daughter to look after me in my old age, and to remember me after I die.”
Of course. Hermione wanted to be a mother, as the gods had decreed for her sex, and she was no longer a young maiden. I had not considered her age until now. To me, she would always be nineteen, but in truth she must be twenty-seven or twenty-eight now.
A single paragraph remained. “You must forgive me for spilling my thoughts like this. Send me news to brighten my days Let me hear all about your nieces and nephews. I want to hear about the servants we knew, and how they are doing. Always, your loving cousin, Hermione.”
She loved me still; she need not say so outright when her very words were pregnant with meaning. Only I could comfort her. Only I could take her from her house of widowhood to make her a joyful wife and queen.
“Is King Menelaus seeking a husband for his daughter?” I kept my tone neutral, framing my query like a casual afterthought.
“He has spoken of finding her someone worthy.” Phaidon met my gaze, and nodded. “I have heard him say he will give her only to a hero and a king.”
I chuckled, though it sounded forced. Neoptolemus had been a hero, not to mention the son of Achilles, yet he had not been good enough. “Ah, but are there any heroes left in the world?”
“Perhaps,” Phaidon said. “Menelaus will know when he meets the man.”
“Let us hope he does not have to wait too long.” I loathed this dancing around the subject. An invitation to the Spartan court and a letter from Hermione did not necessarily mean her father intended to offer me her hand. After all, she had not mentioned it, and, indeed, did not even seem to know that Menelaus had sent for me to attend her half-brother’s wedding.
Phaidon went no further with his vague hints, and we ended the evening with a final libation. Upstairs, I lit a lamp, brought out wax and a stylus, and listed all the unwed kings Menelaus could give his daughter to. Less than a handful, and all old men save one. Me. Orestes. Menelaus will know when he meets the man. That made perfect sense. He had not seen me since I was an infant; he wanted to take my measure as a man and king. I would have insisting on doing the same with any man who hoped to marry my daughter.
Satisfied, even hopeful, I blew out the light and went to bed. There was no need to send for Chione, with Hermione so close in my thoughts.
I felt confident enough to send for the men who had renovated the megaron and my apartment, and set them to a new task. Hermione must have an apartment suited to her status and tastes, so she would not be tainted by my mother’s shadow. Clytaemnestra had loved red in all its myriad shades: scarlet and crimson and rose, and had surrounded herself with embroidered cushions and draperies and coverlets in those hues. For Hermione, I ordered blues and greens, flowers and birds and waving papyrus stalks in the old Cretan style. The only red I would allow her was the brilliant copper of her hair.
Phaidon heard about the project. “A king is incomplete without a queen,” he remarked. “When she comes, she will appreciate the care which you have taken to prepare the house for her.” He could have been speaking in generalities, about any future bride, but his tone hinted otherwise.
Elektra noticed as well. “First, you receive the Spartan ambassador, then you hire men to redecorate the queen’s apartment. Does one have to do with the other?”
“Perhaps.”
“And I’ve seen you heading to the treasure rooms with Sama, wearing the same ridiculous smile you’re wearing now. Are you choosing bride-gifts, Brother?”
I broadened my grin. “I might be.”
“Stop toying with me!” Elektra exclaimed. “Has Menelaus offered you Hermione’s hand?”
“He’s invited me to his bastard son’s wedding.” I held up a finger as she started to interject. “Hermione will be there, and so will Chrysothemis and her husband. I don’t intend to leave Menelaus’s house without asking for her hand.”
Elektra huffed her satisfaction. “Good! Menelaus will give her to you, he must. You’re the only man worthy enough to rule Sparta after him, and she’s the only princess good enough to be your queen.” She folded her arms across her heavy breasts. “I won’t take orders from some silly, stupid girl-princess from Pylos or Corinth.”
“I’ll be certain to keep your preferences in mind.”
“It must be Hermione, or no one.”
I dropped a fraternal kiss on her cheek. “Yes, sweet sister.”
Two months remained before I could set out for Sparta. Gods, waiting was such torture! Hermione lingered like a sweet scent in my thoughts from morning till night, driving me to distraction. Wait I must, though, until after the festival of Plowistos. Poseidon must have a sacrifice of thirty bulls, no less, to ensure the opening of the sea lanes. I must instruct my overseer of the herds to cull and corral the finest specimens.
Elektra was absolutely right. Mycenae must have a queen to outshine all other queens, and only the daughter of Menelaus was worthy enough to sit beside me and bear my children. Hermione was my flame in the darkness, my sanity in the maelstrom of my madness. I had not undergone such trials to fail now that the time had come.
I’m coming for you, beloved.
Wait for me.
The Story Will Continue In
Orestes: The Warrior
Author’s Note
In his eighth century B.C. epics The Iliad and The Odyssey, Homer was the first to mention Orestes. In The Odyssey, Orestes serves as a dramatic foil for Telemachus, a contemporary role model who successfully avenges his father’s murder and takes back his birthright. Homer’s Aegisthus murders Agamemnon and his companions at a
feast given in his own house, rather than in the bath made infamous in Aeschylus’s Agamemnon. Clytaemnestra’s own death is glossed over, though it is assumed that Orestes killed her also. Homer never mentioned the matricide or its consequences, even though the Spartans observed a cult dedicated to the madness and purification of Orestes.
According to legend, two generations after the Trojan War, the Herakleidai and their Dorian allies invaded the Peloponnese and killed High King Tisamenus, Orestes’ son and the last Mycenaean ruler of the Atreid dynasty; his descendants fled abroad to Asia Minor. As an Ionian, Homer may have performed The Odyssey for an audience which included the descendants of Orestes?
The Orestes tale as we know it comes from The Oresteia, a trilogy of plays written by the fifth century B.C. playwright Aeschylus, who altered certain historical details in order to appeal to his Athenian audience. First, he set the murders of Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra, and Aegisthus at Argos in order to stress the new alliance between Athens and Argos against Sparta, when the actual Atreid stronghold was at Mycenae. Second, he moved the trial of Orestes to the new law court of the Areopagus in Athens, when it would not have existed in the thirteenth century B.C.
In Aeschylus, Orestes consults the oracle of Delphi before returning to Mycenae to avenge his father’s murder; this detail probably comes from a surviving, and possibly older, tradition in which the guilt-driven Orestes hid on Mount Parnassus after murdering his mother. Having spent his exile under his uncle Strophius’s protection at Krisa, Orestes would most likely have sought refuge at Delphi.