A Spartan's Sorrow: The epic tale of ancient Greece's most formidable Queen (The Grecian Women Series)

by Hannah Lynn

  “Quite possibly,” she replied, with a glint in her eyes.

  Huffing, the Queen tried to reattach the thread.

  “Well then, I am being kind am I not, giving you extra practice?”

  Whilst she rated weaving as more torturous than childbirth, time with Chrysothemis was always pleasant, just as it was with Orestes and had been with Iphigenia. Her daughter’s relaxed manner and ease of conversation never failed to calm her. The same could most definitely not be said of Electra, whose devotion to Agamemnon blinded her. On more than one occasion, when she had been pushing her mother’s patience to its limit, Clytemnestra had literally bitten her tongue rather than scream the truth at her: Agamemnon has all he has ever wished for in Orestes. He has no need of daughters. He has already disposed of one to his advantage, and would no doubt do the same to you or Chrysothemis, should the occasion arise. But she could never reveal that. It was, after all, her job to protect them. Even from the truth.

  “I was listening to the servants in the kitchen today,” Chrysothemis was saying, working with such dexterity that she did not seem to need to look at what she was doing. “They say that the war will be over in a month. That all this time they have been planning and plotting and now they are ready to make the final attack on Troy and rescue Helen.”

  “Is that what they say?”

  “Yes. That we will see the beacon glowing on Mount Arachneus by the next feast.” She paused, her hands momentarily stopping their work. “I wonder what it must be like,” she said.

  “War? It is something you should be grateful you do not have to experience. Starving in squalid tents or picking maggots out of your food, while the flies buzz around. Tending the injured or not being able to sleep for their screams. And, all the while, waiting for the inevitable.”

  Chrysothemis shook her head. “I did not mean the war,” she said. “I am sure that must be terrible for all the men whom Father commands. I meant to love someone so greatly that you would be willing to die for them. The way our uncle does Helen.”

  “Love?”

  A lump wedged in her throat. Love? Ha! It was the puerile behaviour of two selfish adults, putting their own desires above the wellbeing of thousands of others. Helen was not capable of genuine love, and neither was Menelaus. They were vindictive and malicious. If only someone close to them had slit one of their throats at the start of all this, it would have all been over years ago. Love? What did love ever achieve, anyway?

  “You were right,” she said, standing up and letting the shuttle drop to the floor. “I am terrible at this. You carry on. I told Electra I would see how her training with Orrin has been going. She thinks that she can disarm me now. Apparently, she will prove it when we spar today.”

  “Well, I think I should stop this too, then,” Chrysothemis responded. “For that is one thing I would not want to miss.”

  Electra’s comments about her skill and strength equalling or even surpassing her mother’s had been growing in frequency and confidence with every passing moon. Now thirteen, there was barely an inch in difference in their heights, although she had inherited her father’s bone structure and was thicker set and more muscular than Clytemnestra had ever been. After nagging her for countless evenings, and then invading her morning sanctuary in the courtyards, the Queen had finally agreed―one sparring session with no holds barred.

  Perhaps naively, she had thought it would be an intimate affair, just her and her daughter clashing swords, until Electra made an error or—and she did not actually consider this a possibility—Electra disarmed her. However, when she turned the corner of the corridor, she saw a crowd had gathered outside the throne room.

  “Mother. Good.” Electra was standing there already, waiting. “You are here. We can begin. I hope you do not mind; I invited a few friends along to watch your defeat.”

  Electra did not have friends. She had people she ordered around, although they all looked as excited as she was to be there.

  “Did you know it would be like this?” Chrysothemis whispered in her mother’s ear.

  “I did not. Did you?”

  “No. Electra must definitely think she will win.”

  Men and women parted to make a path for them down the central steps. At the far end was a large throne, with a smaller one on either side—one for herself and one for Orestes. Currently, they were littered with an array of weapons. Without another word to her mother, Electra went over and made her choice.

  “Two kopis?” Clytemnestra asked, noting the two short swords in her daughter’s hands. She personally preferred something with more length, and found it easier to manoeuvre one blade than two.

  “I find the combination suits me well,” she boldly replied.

  “Very well.”

  Stepping forwards, she inspected the selection which remained, one she suspected—judging by the weight of the items—had been especially chosen by Electra. Clytemnestra favoured thin, light weapons. These were all heavy and cumbersome. But it did not matter. Sparring with Aegisthus, she had practised with many different types. Picking the least unwieldy of the bunch, she stepped forward to face her daughter.

  A hushed silence descended on the throne room. Kicking off her sandals, she read the texture of the floor through the balls of her feet. Slick and cold, the tiles offered good traction on her bare skin. She could use that to her advantage. Her daughter was light on her toes, she had seen that often enough, but she was used to practising outside, on the gravel and dust. That kind of surface was quite different. A slight slip and you could easily recover. In here, it would not be the same. She shifted her weight back and forth, sensing what her limits would be. From there her attention moved to the sword, finding its point of balance in one hand and then the other.

  By contrast, Electra was focusing solely on her opponent. She knew her weapons, had specifically picked them out. Her stance was strong, her gaze so intense that Clytemnestra could almost feel it burning into her. There would be no surprise disarming this time. She would need to work a little harder. No sooner had that thought crossed her mind, than the fight began in earnest.

  Electra dodged one way and then another, before she finally appeared to engage, but it was a feint that Clytemnestra went to block, only having to twist away again, to counter the real attack. Her poise with the two blades was impeccable as she swung time and again at her mother. There was a rhythm to her movement. An ease that the Queen quickly matched.

  “You are taking a long time to disarm me,” Clytemnestra goaded her, in good spirits.

  “Am I? Or am I learning all your weaknesses?”

  “Maybe you are giving me too long to find yours.”

  Electra drew one kopis back and brought it down with all her force, but her mother struck up at the same time. The clang of metal resonated, as she slipped her blade beneath her daughter’s and twisted her wrist, ripping the weapon out of her hand, and sending it flying across the chamber, where it landed just a few inches short of a spectator. A disappointed mummer rose from the crowd. Clearly, they had chosen their favourite.

  “We should stop now,” she said, watching Electra grimace at her bad fortune. “You have put up a good fight.”

  “I am not completely disarmed yet,” she replied. “Or are you too afraid to continue? Maybe all your talk about protecting us is just that. Talk. Perhaps it should be I who is in charge of the family’s security, while Father is away. Maybe I should be in charge, full stop. Clearly you have never been up to the task.”

  It was obviously said to bait her. But it worked far better than Electra could have expected. She was right. Clytemnestra had not been up to the task. She had arrived in Mycenae weak and broken and it had taken losing another child to make her see that. But now, now she was ready.

  Clytemnestra refocused. Her senses heightened. The feel of the sword in her hand. The flow of the air across her skin. The ripple from the impact down her arm, as she struck Electra’s remaining kopis again and again. She had not checked her b
lade for sharpness, assuming it to be a blunt training sword, so she forced her daughter further and further back without a second thought, until she was soon at the edge of the steps, with nowhere left to go. This was what it had felt like in Sparta! Fighting in public, with people watching, judging her talent and skill. So much more exhilarating than just practising in private, even with the man she had wanted to take as her lover. She did not need Aegisthus. She did not need any man. Why would she waste another breath thinking about someone who had rejected her? This was what she had been born to do, to feed off the energy of the crowd. And the crowd was certainly enthralled. Every breath was held in anticipation.

  She could see the whites of Electra’s eyes as they widened in panic, looking back and forth around her, searching for any kind of answer to her mother’s attack. But there was none. The moment she leaned back, Clytemnestra knew it was all over. With another flick of her wrist and a well-positioned leg behind her daughter, she sent Electra and the second blade spinning to the ground.

  A mere heartbeat passed between the disarming of her child and the flood of sounds that rushed to her ears. Cheers filled the air, honouring the Queen. Applause and adulation, the likes of which she had not heard for decades. Turning around to face her subjects, she smiled, offering a small bow, as if entertaining them were part of her royal duties. Only when she turned back did she see the tears in her daughter’s eyes. Thirteen. Only moments ago, she had seemed so close to being an adult, but now she was lying there, a humbled child.

  “You did not need to humiliate me,” she cried.

  Chapter 15

  There was nothing she could say or do. As she reached down her hand to pull her up, Electra shunned the offer, pushing herself up onto her feet unaided. Clytemnestra edged backwards.

  “Electra?”

  The crowd was already dispersing, coins changing hands she noticed, with slaps on the back and laughter, or groans. And then a guard appeared and headed straight towards her.

  “Excuse me, My Queen. There is someone here to see you.”

  She looked to where Electra was picking up her kopis, only to throw them back down again.

  “Tell them I will be there shortly. I am busy.”

  “He told me to say that his name is Aegisthus.”

  She stopped. “He is here? Inside the palace?”

  “Yes, My Queen.”

  Her eyes went to the corridor, then to her child. Having abandoned her weapons Electra was now talking to Orrin, and Orestes was by her side too. Both were comforting her. Both doing what should have been her job. She moved towards her but Electra turned her back. As she prepared herself for yet another battle, a hand appeared on her shoulder.

  “I will talk to Electra, Mother,” Chrysothemis said. “You go and see to this visitor.”

  “I should explain. I should…apologise.”

  “She will not listen to you right now. You know that. Give her a little time.”

  “I am her mother.”

  “Yes, but you know that I am a right.”

  With her gaze still on her youngest daughter, she tried to swallow the guilt that she was feeling. How was it that they clashed so frequently when really they both wanted the same thing? A safe home for them all. If she could only make her see that.

  When a throat cleared behind her, she remembered the guard, and Aegisthus’ presence in the palace.

  “Tell him I will come now,” she said.

  In the privacy of the empty corridor, she allowed herself a moment to catch her breath. She pressed her hands onto the cold stone of the pillars, then wiped the sweat from her skin. So much space, yet why did it so often feel like she was suffocating? Chrysothemis was right, Electra needed time. Perhaps this duel had been a good thing. Maybe now she would wish to train with her mother more often, knowing there were still many things she could learn from her.

  Her feeling of guilt was superseded by nerves, which multiplied as she made her way through the colonnades and finally caught sight of him, head bowed, futilely attempting to dig his toes into the marble floor.

  “I thought you said you would never set foot inside the palace without his permission.”

  Aegisthus’ head sprang up and his eyes darted from side to side. She laughed.

  “You think I am hiding him away here? Believe me, you would know.”

  Still visibly tense, he spoke. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk privately?”

  She cast her eyes back towards the throne room. No doubt it would take a few hours, at least, for Electra’s temper to cool.

  “Not in here,” she said. “The palace walls have ears. We can walk outside.”

  Orrin was still occupied with Electra, and so the pair were entirely alone, as they took the path down to the winery. With the men still away, much of the produce of the previous year’s harvest was waiting in barrels for a ship that would take it to Troy. This would be higher on Agamemnon’s list of necessities than food, but he must have other sources to keep him satiated—probably the villages he plundered where, no doubt, he also found his whores.

  They walked in silence, Clytemnestra adjusting her robes, which had loosened during the duel. Aegisthus held his hands clasped in front of him. They moved past the grave circle, keeping a respectful distance. At this rate, it would be nightfall before either of them said anything.

  “What is it that you want? Why are you here again?” she asked at last.

  “I am not sure.”

  “Then what a fantastic use of our time this is. If you have nothing to say—”

  “Please, I need you to understand.” He went to take her hand, but quickly stopped himself. “Do you imagine I wanted to say no to you this morning? Of course I did not. I think… I am…” He stammered, before stopping and trying again. “I have dreamt that you would feel this way, but you are married, Clytemnestra.”

  “To a man who thinks nothing of me.”

  “I do not know if that is true, but it does not change the fact that he is a king. The King of Kings. You belong to him. Please understand that I am trying to protect you.”

  “Do not flatter yourself. I do not need you or your protection.” There was bitter venom in her voice. “You know nothing of me. Of what I have been through. Of what I can survive. You are worried about Agamemnon’s wrath? That man has killed me three times over now. He has already taken so much from me. And it seems is taking you, too.”

  “I have not gone anywhere, Clytemnestra. I am still by your side.”

  “But we cannot return to what we were now, can we? And that is my fault and I am sorry.”

  “It need not change things.”

  “So you will stay? You will stay here in Mycenae? We can still meet?”

  Her words sounded so pathetic, so needy, she immediately wished she could take them back. But it was how she felt. Young. Heartbroken. Her questions were met with a silence which threatened to undo her.

  “What you want from me—what we both want—cannot happen,” he said at last.

  “I know. I understand that.”

  “If we continue to meet privately so often, rumours will start. They may have already begun.”

  “So what do you suggest?” A flicker of optimism was growing. Could this be the beginning of the one precious thing that would belong entirely to her?

  “I will come to the palace,” he said. “I will make it known publicly that my intention is to seek forgiveness from Agamemnon. We will show everyone that we are just friends. Our presence together, out in the open, will prove we have nothing to hide and this will silence the scandalmongers.”

  “Do you think that will work?”

  “Why would it not, Clytemnestra? We have done nothing untoward and anyone who sees us together will know that.”

  A warmth started to fill her. He would do that for her? Come to the palace, as he had vowed he never would? And she would have him there, beside her, a steady rock in the tempest of her life.

  “You know people here?” she qu
estioned.

  “I do.”

  “That is good. In fact, that is very good. Invite them to come to the palace with you. Everyone will see that our relationship is part of a wider friendship, nothing beyond the ordinary.”

  Without thinking, she took his hands in hers and squeezed them tightly, but the smile she hoped to see in return did not appear on his face. Instead, his brow was knotted with worry.

  “Clytemnestra, you must face facts, though. If Agamemnon gets word that I am here, he will send someone to kill me. You do know that.”

  She shook her head with so much force it sent her braid whipping about her shoulders.

  “It will not happen. No one will hurt you while I am on the throne.”

  The desire to reach up and kiss him surged through her. A kiss of friendship, nothing more, she told herself, although she knew it for the lie that it was. So, instead, she thought better of it and simply squeezed his hands again, then turned and sped away, before the urge overwhelmed her.

  When she arrived back at the palace, her cheeks were flushed, not only with the exertions of the past few hours, but with a new feeling of hope. She would go straight away and speak to Electra, she thought. Today was a day for building bridges.

  Chapter 16

  Although it took several days, Electra eventually accepted her mother’s apology, and became even more determined to beat her, with a sword this time, setting the date for another duel after a three-month interval. Clytemnestra agreed, promising herself that, this time, she would allow her daughter to win, however well or badly she fought.

  The following day, Aegisthus visited, as part of their new arrangement, bringing half a dozen friends with him: a musician, an artist, and a few others, whose talent or vocation she did not catch. The pair, who had been used to long, easy, private conversations, did not speak a word to each other after their initial greeting. But a thousand subtle smiles and glances passed between them, the rest of the group oblivious to it all.