by Hannah Lynn
“You have been waiting here all evening?” she asked, as she reached the stables and realised who it was.
He rose as she approached. “I was hoping you might find the time to take a stroll down this way.”
“Or perhaps you thought you could summon me and I would come?”
Bending at the knee, Aegisthus bowed awkwardly. “No, that is not the case. I apologise if that is the impression I have given you. It was not my intention. The palace … I … For me …” He stopped and regathered himself. “The palace is not a place where I would feel comfortable,” he said, eventually. “I apologise if my request came across as inappropriate.”
Stopping a short way off, she observed him. How was it possible that this was the man who had slain Atreus and had been raised as a brother to Agamemnon? In this brief exchange alone, he had offered more apologies than her husband had in their entire marriage. And he had plenty to apologise for.
“I did not want to take up your time, Queen Clytemnestra. I merely wished to thank you for listening to me the other day. I will confess, I had not planned on unburdening myself quite so freely. In fact, I had intended never to reveal to anyone what I told you.”
“But you did.” She still kept her distance.
“I felt you might understand, on some level. You know what it is to be betrayed by your family.” Seeing the pain in her eyes, he bowed his head. “I have already said too much. I am sorry. I heard the rumours of what your husband did.”
“So that is why you came. To flaunt the fact that the great Agamemnon is despicable?”
“No, never. I told you. I came here to seek his forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness from a man who is himself a monster?”
He locked eyes with her. “I am a monster too, My Queen. I did an appalling thing to the man who raised me. But that does not mean that I am incapable of forgiving those who have wronged me. Of forgiving my mother for what she did to me, for example.”
There seemed nothing false in what he said, no hidden layers of meaning that she could discern. And yet she was angered by his words.
“Your mother was a child when you were born. She did what she thought was best. To protect you both.”
“My mother could not look at me when I was born, that was why she abandoned me. There is no point in pretending otherwise. I heard it from her own lips, when she thought she was only my sister. When she spoke to me, her younger brother, in confidence about that terrible experience, she told me how she had despised the child she had borne, from the instant of its birth. Please, My Queen, I do not wish us to part on bad terms. I came only to say goodbye, that is all. I leave in the morning.”
“You are going?”
“I have done all I can here. You will pass on my message to Agamemnon, when he returns?”
The abrupt end to their conversation surprised her. Blinking, she considered what he had said. “I will do so but tell me, where will you go from here?”
“Wherever fate will take me. That is the beauty of belonging nowhere, bound to no one. Of course, it also means that I will never be missed by anyone.”
In the quiet of the night, she thought that perhaps he wanted her to remark on this but, having spoken to the man properly only twice before, she felt there was very little more she could say. Whatever situation he found himself in, he was a man of stature and eloquence. He would be able to find his way in any city. Perhaps that was his game, to try to best Agamemnon, by bedding his wife.
“I have made you uncomfortable,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “That was not my intention. But, as I have you here, I might as well speak the truth. You amaze me.”
Clytemnestra scoffed at this remark. As far as compliments went, she had received far more embellished ones in her time.
“Well, I thank you for your kind words.”
As she moved to leave, he reached out his hand to her, only to recall her previous threat and quickly withdraw it.
“The way you cherish your children. The way you protect them. You are like a lioness with her cubs.”
“It is a mother’s job.”
“That may be so, but that does not mean all do it as well as you.”
She scoffed again. “Trust me, my children would not agree with you. Especially those who no longer live.”
He stared into her eyes. “Tell me. Do you blame yourself for what happened to Iphigenia?” he asked.
The warm air turned suddenly icy and her lips curled in a snarl.
“You have no right to even speak her name.”
“No, of course I do not. But I just want you to know, to understand, that you are no more to blame for what happened to your daughter than I am for what happened to my mother.”
A horse whinnied in the distance. She held his gaze.
“I do not blame myself,” she said. “I blame her father. And I blame the gods.”
Tension smouldered between them and she found herself torn. The palace and her duties beckoned, the same that would be there tomorrow and the day after, and the one after that. Nothing new. Squabbling farm women and lazy politicians. She could see the next six years stretching out in front of her, until Agamemnon’s predicted return. More and more of the same thing. But here was something unexpected, unknown. Someone to whom she was unfamiliar. Biting down on her lip, she looked at the son of Thyestes.
“Aegisthus, what are you like with a sword?”
Chapter 13
One month rolled into two and then three and soon Aegisthus had been a presence in her life for almost a year. They met in private. He was still adamant that he would not set foot inside the palace without permission from Agamemnon. Her husband’s name grew more distasteful to Clytemnestra with every day that passed.
News had drifted in from supply ships returning to their shores of the progress of the war in Troy. The siege was still firmly in place, the current idea being to starve the Trojans out. It felt like the type of plan her husband would adopt. One that caused the most death and despair, without him having to lift a sword or get his hands dirty. There was always the chance of sickness, though. Maybe a disease carried by sand flies would strike him down. Or perhaps his death would come at the hands of one of his own men. With every messenger that arrived, there was the possibility of the tidings that he, rather than Troy, had fallen. But until that day came, she had the children and her role as queen … and she had Aegisthus.
He did not hold back as the guards always did and while he was at first out of practice, skills built up during years of training with Agamemnon and Menelaus did not take long to resurface. Once he knew her limits, he pushed them, tested her, just the way her training would have been carried out in Sparta. The clang of metal, that sonorous ring that accompanied the quiver of the blade in her hand, was like a tonic to her. At Orrin’s instance, she wore armour and, although it was not the Spartan way, the extra protection around her body only served to drive her harder. She started to feel youthful again, as if anything were possible.
When they finished sparring, they would sit and talk, and he would tell her about his travels in his life of exile, although not since that night near the grave circle had he mentioned his father or sister. Yet he was the one person in front of whom she felt free to use the name of Iphigenia. Aegisthus, unlike her children, had been privy to the rumours that had spread around the Aegean and, as such, was well aware of Agamemnon’s role in her death.
“I wonder if he feels remorse,” she pondered. “If he feels it was worth it now. Nearly five years they have remained on the shores of Troy. How important was that wind, really? He wanted it so urgently, and yet what advantage has it really gained them?”
“That is a question only the gods can answer,” he replied. “But, as to whether he feels remorse, I cannot doubt it. No man could kill a child and not feel that, regardless of whether it was kin or not.”
Resisting the urge to tell him more, Clytemnestra broke off a piece of the bread she was holding, before changing her mind an
d throwing it towards a group of sparrows. Orrin stood a short way off, close enough to watch her but not so close as to hear their conversation. This was the unspoken agreement that they had come to. If she had to be accompanied, it would be by him, Orrin, who understood discretion and knew how to hold his tongue; after all, he’d had enough practice with Agamemnon.
‘I should go,” she said, standing up and gathering her weapons from the ground. “I have a meeting with the Polis at midday. But I will see you tomorrow?”
“I shall be here, if that is your wish.”
“It is,” she said. Then, before her eyes could betray her, she mounted her horse. Noting her movement, Orrin did the same and, together, they galloped towards the citadel. With a little bit of luck, she would be back before the children woke.
Some days she and Aegisthus would ride north as far as the gulf, or west into the mountains. On others, they would simply lie in the grass and stare up at the sky while they talked. As a princess, she had been trained to be strong but quiet, curious but never emotional. Her feelings and worries had been subordinate to the egos of the kings in whose palaces she had lived—her opinions trivial, her desires negligible. After all, what more could a queen truly want? Had Helen understood what she had done, fleeing with Paris the way she had? Did she realise that she had exposed the unthinkable: even all the riches of a kingdom could not buy happiness? Not that Helen was the best example. She had been the same as a child, always wanting something she couldn’t have. Always drawing attention to herself in any situation. But Aegisthus’ attention stayed firmly on Clytemnestra, and her sister’s name was never even mentioned, unless by her. He listened to her. He didn’t offer advice, never criticised or pried. Just listened.
One morning, during those few pleasant weeks at the start of summer, when the ground was still lush and green, the two met together at one of the hot springs that littered the land. It had been her suggestion. Soon the days would become too hot to ride out far just for the fun of it, and the pair did not meet close to the citadel, for fear of being noticed. So, while she sat at the water’s edge and dangled her feet in the warm water, Aegisthus lay flat on his back, staring up at the wispy clouds that sped across the sky. Orrin, her chaperone, was on the other side of the water, holding the horses’ reins while they grazed.
She had been pondering a question during the journey there. It had been at the back of her mind for quite a while, for weeks in fact, perhaps even months. But she had never asked it, for fear of what the answer might be, and the repercussions it could have. But, in the quiet of the spring, as birds flitted between the vines that clung to the sandstone rocks, she found herself asking him anyway.
“What are you here for, Aegisthus?”
She lifted her feet out of the water and twisted onto her side, so that she could face him.
“I thought we came to bathe.”
“I do not mean here at the spring. I mean with me. What are you doing here with me?”
Propping himself up onto his elbows, he locked eyes with her and she could see the pain that was always there, just beneath the surface. Maybe that was why she found herself so at ease in his presence. He had known sorrow beyond his control, too.
“Whenever I ask for you, you come,” she said. “We talk and I leave and you disappear and I do not even know where you go.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
He continued to hold her gaze, for what felt like an eternity. When he finally spoke, the words came out as a sigh.
“Why? Are you not happy with things as they are? Is this friendship not enough?”
“This friendship is one of the few things that keeps me sane.”
“Then why question it?”
Why? She had asked herself the same thing many times. Why was she not content? Why was this not sufficient? Perhaps it was because she had so few friends. No genuine ones, at least not in Mycenae. And those in Sparta would have forgotten her by now. Perhaps it was because he was a man. Weren’t all men meant to be constantly lusting after a woman, or women? So what did it say about her, if he was content to spend so much time with her, without a hint of impropriety?
And when they weren’t together, she found herself thinking of him more and more, anticipating their next meeting―what he would say, how he would act. He was so close to her now on the rocks that she didn’t know if the heat she was feeling was from the spring or from his presence. And, although she hadn’t noticed when her pulse had started to hasten, as she lay there only inches from him, she realised it was drumming so hard it could have marched Agamemnon’s army into battle.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright. “I could be happier,” she said.
Her movements were slow and deliberate and, as she reached up, her eyes stayed fixed on his. Deftly, as if her body knew automatically what her mind desired, her fingers found the knot at her shoulder and her robe slipped down.
“Clytemnestra…”
She saw the apprehension in his eyes and understood the nervousness he must be feeling. Her own pulse was racing now, just as it had been on the night she had wed Tantalus.
“No one need know about us,” she said. “Besides, what does it matter if they do? Agamemnon will be filling his tent with whores, as usual.”
“He is your husband.”
“He is a murderer and a brute who thrust himself upon me.”
She reached to her waist but no sooner had her fingers landed on the metal pin there than Aegisthus’ hand was on top of hers.
“It is not that I do not want to,” he began.
Everything changed in that instant. Whipping away her hand, she pulled up her robe and stood up.
“Forgive me. I do not know what I was thinking. I must have drunk more than I realised.”
“Clytemnestra, do not do this.”
He was on his feet now, too, reaching for her hand. But she turned quickly and hurried away across the rocks. He followed.
“Please. Let me explain.”
“No, no. There is nothing you need to say. Nothing I need to hear.”
“Yes, you do.”
She had reached her horse but as she grabbed its reins he snatched them from her.
“Clytemnestra will you stop? You are not wrong. It is not just you who feels like this. I want this too—more than anything!”
The old guard led his own steed discreetly away from the pair.
“Please, Clytemnestra.”
“So that is why you stopped me? I do not know much, but I am fairly certain that men do not reject the woman they desire.”
“I came to Mycenae seeking forgiveness from your husband. Tell me how he would respond to this, if it were to reach his ears.”
“I do not care about him or what anyone thinks any more. You still do not understand, do you? You do not know the monster he is.”
“Monster or not, he is still the King and he is still your husband.”
“But I do not want him. I never wanted him. He… He…”
The words caught in her throat. She could speak their names to Aegisthus, surely. She could tell him about Tantalus and Alesandro. Maybe then he would understand. Or perhaps he would just pity her even more. That was it, she realised. Their friendship was based on pity. That was why he didn’t desire her. All the time he had spent with her had been merely out of compassion. She had been wrong to see it as anything else.
“Do as you wish,” she said. “I am done with you.”
Chapter 14
Galloping back to the citadel, she thrashed the horse, swallowing down the urge to scream. How could he? How could Aegisthus still show loyalty to Agamemnon, after all that he had done? Loyalty to the man who had murdered her children. Would Aegisthus still feel the same way if he knew the truth about Sparta? About Alesandro and Tantalus? Well, damn him, Clytemnestra thought, as she dug her heels into the horse’s flanks once more and leaned forward against the air whipping past her. Damn Aegisthus and his misguided loyalty. Sh
e did not need him anyway.
At the entrance to the citadel, she dismounted and handed the horse to one of the guards, before striding up to the palace. Even Orrin had the sense to give her a wide berth.
Why string her along in such a manner? After all, he must have known how she felt about him. These last few months they had barely gone a day without seeing each other. Last moon had seen the Festival of Thargelia, a grand feast for the Goddess Artemis that had made her sick to the stomach. To have to pay tribute to the one who had taken her darling daughter had been almost more than she could bear. But she knew better than to risk her displeasure and had sacrificed sheep and offered the first-fruits of the year, as prescribed. Afterwards, she had wept and Aegisthus had cradled her in his arms, as though he truly cared for her.
Much as she would have preferred to continue to vent her anger on her horse—or anyone who crossed her path, for that matter—she decided the best course of action was to distract herself with her children. Thus, she found herself enduring her least-favourite occupation—tapestry. How Chrysothemis found any pleasure in it was beyond her, and yet this was how her daughter chose to spend her time.
Grudgingly, she sat at the loom, tugging so hard on the thread that it snapped clean off. It would only be for an hour or two, she reminded herself every few minutes, then she could unleash her anger with Electra. At least one princess would get the experience with her mother she was hoping for.
“You do not need to do this, Mother,” Chrysothemis said, as the Queen cursed at yet another breakage. “I know you despise any sort of needlework.”
“That is not true.”
“It is true. Besides, you are terrible at it. You know that I am going to have to unpick it all and fix it for you after you leave, just so the others do not see it.”
“Is that what you have been doing?” she asked, looking at her work and realising that, yes, the earlier rows were most definitely more delicate and accurate than the ones she was currently managing.
