by Hannah Lynn
What, in the early morning, had started out as a speck on the horizon was, by midday, as big as a thumb nail as the fleet finally took shape.
Later, the sound of laughter and happy voices had risen from the citadel below her, singing and cheering filling the air, as people praised the gods for the return of their men-folk. But she had not joined them. She had waited in silence as the children had chattered excitedly next to her and the sun had made its journey all the way to the top of the sky and back down again. She would have stayed there through the night, too, had Chrysothemis not reappeared at the top of the steps.
“Mother, the palace needs instructions. What should they prepare for the feast?”
“The feast?”
“For Father’s return. We will feast, will we not? Celebrate that he has come safely back to us?”
“We … We …”
Her daughter stepped forwards and took her hands.
“Mother, this is a good thing. I know how hard it has been for you. And I know there are … complications to consider, but Father will be here soon. Your true husband is almost home.”
She made no attempt to nod or agree. She could do nothing, other than hold onto her daughter.
“They will be in port soon. It will just be a matter of hours. Electra and Orestes want to meet them, but it is up to you what we do, Mother. You must return to the palace. They need you to arrange things. You are expected.”
Clytemnestra knew that she was right. She must act like a dutiful wife, start playing the part again. She had done it for so many years before. She could do it again. After all, it would not be for long.
The palace was a flurry of activity, unlike anything she had ever seen, even on feast days. Flowers were being arranged, garlands hung and coloured silks wrapped around the pillars. Candles had been placed on every surface, in preparation for nightfall, and the smell of roasting meat was so strong, it caught in her throat and almost made her gag. She had barely started to think of all the other things that needed to be done, when Laodamia appeared at her side.
“My Queen, others can prepare the palace. We should get you ready. You must look your best.”
Look your best and play your part just one last time, Clytemnestra thought. Silently, she led the way to her chamber and allowed the servants to get to work. By the time the women had finished with her, she looked as beautiful as a bride. Oiled to a lustrous sheen, her hair was in delicate braids, interlaced with leaves and then knotted at the base of her neck. A gown of deep green had been chosen to complement the foliage. The final touch of flowers in her hair was being completed when there was a knock on the door behind them.
“Excuse me, My Queen.”
“Aegisthus.” She rose from her seat. “Away, all of you! Go now!”
Hurriedly, without even bothering to gather up their things, the servants scampered from the room. When the door had closed behind them, she rushed to her lover’s side.
“Where have you been? I have needed you.”
“I have been making arrangements, my darling. Securing myself a new place to stay.”
“What? Why? You will stay here, with me. We will do the deed tonight. The moment he sets foot in the palace.”
“Clytemnestra, you are smarter than that. Things have to be considered. We need to think through what we are to do.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “You know what that is.”
“My love, there has to be another way. Let us get through tonight, at least. See how he behaves towards you.”
“Why? What in the gods’ names could he do that would change my mind? My children deserve vengeance. You said so yourself. A mother should be able to avenge her child, just like a son can his father.”
“And what of your children that still live? What of Orestes? How will he feel?”
Her previous confidence in him was fading. Trembling, she stepped away.
“You do not wish to do this with me. You do not support me.”
“I do not wish you to get yourself killed,” he replied. “If you must do it, then I will not stand in your way. But, please, let the King be at peace in his palace tonight. You do not know what state of mind, or body, he has returned in. From what I have heard, many men are injured. And many are afraid that the gods will punish them for the sacking of Troy. Let him dine with you and the children and make him feel as though he is safe. Think about it. You do not know for sure what rumours he has heard.”
She was just about to reply when Orestes came racing into the room.
“They are nearly here! The horses are coming through the Lion Gate now!” Twelve years old, yet as excited as a small child.
Clytemnestra hesitated, her eyes once more on Aegisthus.
“Go,” he said, turning and speaking to Orestes. “Fix your chiton. Your mother will be close behind.”
Orestes’ eyes lingered on her.
“Go,” Aegisthus repeated.
This time, he dashed away. When the boy was out of earshot, Aegisthus took her hand. “Think about this, my love. Let us find another way to make the children safe. I am certain if you go through with this you will be punished by the gods.”
“No, I do not believe that. The gods will be merciful, Aegisthus. I feel it in my heart. I have earned it.”
“I am not denying that my love, but I worry for you.”
“Why? You do not understand, do you? You will never understand.”
She felt a pang of guilt. How was it possible to explain to someone who did not have children of their own? Who had never felt that burning love, so raw, so overwhelming, that everything else faded by comparison?
“Then let me do it,” he said finally. “Let me kill him. Our families have generations of bad blood between us. Let it look as if that was my reason for returning to Mycenae. It is what most people believe, anyway.”
She shook her head. “If you kill Agamemnon, it will only serve to maintain the endless bloodletting. My love, do you not see that if you were to do it, Orestes would be forced to seek vengeance? To kill you? The man who has raised him? You cannot do that to him. He is a good child, a pure child. Do not put that burden on his shoulders, or mine.”
“So I just sit back and wait? Do nothing?”
There was such pain in his eyes, yet combined with so much trust and loyalty. She should consider herself lucky, she thought. Few women found one man who truly loved them in their lifetime, and she had found two. But she was still right. This cycle of bloodshed should end with her.
“There is a flower,” she said. “I heard the women of Sparta talk about it, only never in the presence of a man. It is the colour of a poppy, but with petals like those of the peony. They said the stalks of this flower, if cut up and simmered in sow’s milk, make the most delicate of concoctions—a liquid with no smell or taste, yet more potent than hemlock, with the ability to stop a man’s heart and make it appear like a natural passing. If I could kill Agamemnon that way, if I could make it look like it was an act of the gods and not man, then his death would be far easier for the children to accept.”
“You wish me to find this flower for you?”
“If you are willing.”
“Of course. But it may take some time. You say it grows in Sparta?”
“They said it grows there, wherever the sea and fresh water meet. That is what I remember.”
“Then I will go. And you must greet your king. He will be here any moment. Just promise me you will do nothing rash while I am gone.”
“I promise you,” she said, then kissed his lips softly, tenderly. She wondered if he could taste the lie that she had just spun him.
With Aegisthus taking a back route out of the palace, Clytemnestra moved to the front, where her children were ready and waiting to greet their father. Stone steps provided an impressive entrance to the portico, where the pillars had been adorned with flowers. Several long, red tapestries had been laid on the ground, providing a rich carpet for the King, and the guards, dressed in th
eir ceremonial uniform, stood on either side awaiting the procession. The cheering was enough to set her ablaze with fury again. The whole of Mycenae had flocked to see the return of their victorious army and she had no choice but to keep her mouth curved upwards in a smile, her cheeks burning with the effort.
“What do you think he has brought us?” Chrysothemis asked excitedly, as the sound of the horses’ hooves grew louder. “Do you think it might be jewellery?”
“Naturally, although I would prefer to see what additions he has for the armoury,” Electra replied.
The only other person in Mycenae who remained silent, besides herself, was Orestes. When Agamemnon had left, he had been little more than a baby and she was doubtful that the boy had any memories of his father at all.
“Will I please him, Mother?” he whispered at her side. “Do you think he will like who I have become?”
She thought back to the days of her husband’s violent outbursts. To his lack of tolerance for anything emotional or sensitive, and wondered what he would make of this son, who loved to sleep with insects in pots beside his bed and feared the noise of a violent storm. Her heart trembled at the thought of the names she knew Agamemnon would call him; the taunts Orestes would have to endure for as long as his father lived. Tears welled in her eyes.
“He would be a fool not to be proud of you,” she replied.
Their conversation was cut short by a loud fanfare that echoed all around, as a bay horse, flanked by two large greys, came into view.
“He is here!” Electra exclaimed, straightening her back, before changing her mind. “Bow. We should be bowing.”
All around Clytemnestra everyone, including her children, dropped to their knees but, even as she bent her own, her eyes remained raised.
The war had not served Agamemnon well. Fatter than ever before, his shoulders seemed pulled down by the size of his belly. His skin was sallow and riddled with thread veins, from years of over-indulgence, no doubt. The horse walked forward regally, its stride long and its head held high, as if unaware of the bulbous mass on its back.
But her attention did not remain on him for long. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the figure riding just behind him and, for a moment, her heart nearly stopped. The torchlight glinted off the saffron of her robe. Her skin was fresh and her hair fair. Was it possible? After all she had endured, had the gods granted her this? Had he brought their daughter back to her? Yet no sooner had the thought entered her mind, than the whispering began.
Chapter 22
“It is the Princess Cassandra. He has claimed the King of Troy’s daughter for his own.”
“Princess? More like crazy Cassandra.”
“Cassandra the witch.”
Realising her error, Clytemnestra’s mind snapped back to the present and her heart, that only moments before had almost stopped, now beat with a force so fierce, it almost made her ribs rattle. Of course it could not be Iphigenia. She cursed herself for even imagining such a thing, for allowing that hope to form. Agamemnon was greeting his subjects, with a whore at his side. What would that mean for her, and more importantly, for her children?
Ignoring the furtive looks that she knew were coming her way, she turned to them.
“Hurry children,” she said, quickly placing her hands on their shoulders and turning them back towards the palace. “We must go inside. Now!”
“Why?” Electra asked, the only one to question her mother.
“Because I said so.”
“No. Father is here. He has seen us. Look.”
There was no denying it. As his horse took its last few strides towards the steps, the King’s eyes were on them. Bile scorched her throat. Even she would not be foolish enough to turn her back on him now, with all his Council and subjects present. Perhaps the girl was with child, she thought. She might even have already given him children, a strong young boy who had not cried throughout the night and tested his father’s patience, as Orestes had. Perhaps his intention was not merely to replace her, but the entire family. A new sense of urgency coursed through her. Aegisthus would be on his way out of the citadel by now. That was something at least. It would be easier to do the deed with him gone. And the sooner, the better.
Agamemnon dismounted with all the elegance that his bloated body and bulging limbs could afford him, which was very little. He dropped to the ground, creating a flurry of dust and visibly wincing in pain. Several men rushed to his aid, but he shooed them away, only accepting an ornate, gold-topped cane that was handed to him. Up close, he looked even worse than he had done on horseback. His swollen legs had the tell-tale purple hue of gout and his face was pitted in a way common to those who drank to excess. But, as grotesque as he was, she kept her eyes firmly on him for fear of what she might say or do if she looked instead at the girl.
Without a word, he shuffled up the carpet towards them and, with each step, she felt her breath grow shallower. He was soon barely an arm’s length away, close enough for an embrace, or a slap. She did not know which she would despise the most.
“Orestes, my son.” Agamemnon bypassed Clytemnestra entirely, turning his attention straight to the boy at her side. “You have grown.” He placed his hand under the boy’s chin and tipped it upwards so roughly that she feared he might snap his neck. She saw the pain register in his eyes, and yet he held his head up, as his father twisted it from side to side. “Yes, you have grown,” he repeated.
“Yes, Father.”
“You have been fighting?”
Orestes nodded quickly. “Yes Sir, with the sword. I have been training hard.”
“As have I, Father. I have been training with Orrin every day, for nearly ten years now.”
Unimpressed by the interruption, Agamemnon peered down his nose at the girl.
“Electra?” He spoke her name with a question mark at the end, as if he was not sure he recognised his own daughter. Clytemnestra tasted the tang of blood in her mouth as she physically bit her tongue. He only had two daughters left now, was it so difficult for him to recall them?
“Yes, Father. As I said, I have been training too. Since you left—”
But his attention had already moved on.
“Come, Cassandra,” he spoke to the girl, who had also dismounted and now stood beside him. “My wife will see you to your room.”
In that instant, her temper snapped. To ignore her in favour of their son was one thing. To treat her as a maid to his conquest was another entirely.
“Is that it?” she demanded, not caring how sharp her tongue sounded. “Is that the only greeting you have for your wife?”
He sniffed. “From what I hear, you are getting enough attention from my cousin. Now, show Cassandra to her chamber. She will have the one with the sea view. The one next to mine.”
Clytemnestra scowled. “That is my room,” she said.
“So it is. I suppose you will need to find somewhere else to sleep.”
It was the end of the discussion. There was no room for further debate. With no words left, she accepted her dismissal. If she had ever been in any doubt about her position in the palace, it had now been made abundantly clear.
Soundlessly, she climbed the steps, her mind almost numb, as he began to bark orders at the men and although she heard the faint patter of feet behind her, she did not turn to see if the girl was following.
“Take those crates into the throne room!” Agamemnon shouted. “And be careful! That one is worth more than you would see in a thousand of your peasant lifetimes!”
Soon she was too far away to hear the insults fly. As she passed Laodamia, whose expression was a mixture of confusion and horror, Clytemnestra was struck by another thought.
“The children,” she said to her maid, “I left them out there, with him!”
“Do not worry, My Queen. I will get them. I will bring them to you.”
“Take them to their room, please, and stay with them. I will escort them to the throne room as soon as I am done here.”
&
nbsp; The slight delay, as she spoke to her maid, had given Cassandra the chance to catch up, and as she moved on again the girl was there by her side. With one glance, Clytemnestra quickened her pace.
How old is she? she wondered. Twenty? Twenty-one? She was certainly no older than Chrysothemis. And it was no surprise that Agamemnon had taken a liking to her. Her delicate curves and slender neck reminded her of herself, many years ago.
“I am sorry,” the girl said, as she hurried along the corridor after her. “I did not ask for this.”
“And yet I did not hear you object,” she replied.
They continued in silence until they reached what was now to be Cassandra’s room.
“I have only a few things,” she said, her eyes on the mosaic floor. “I will not need much space.”
“You will touch nothing in here! I will have my things removed, if necessary. We will see first how long this lasts. Until then, you touch nothing. Do you understand?”
“I do,” she said, dipping her chin.
“I do, My Queen,” Clytemnestra snapped back.
“Of course, My Queen. I understand, My Queen.”
She turned to leave, only to spin back to face the girl.
“When your things arrive, you are to change immediately and give that robe to one of the maids, who will have it burnt.”
A deep line appeared momentarily between the girl’s brows. And, with that, Clytemnestra left.
The palace was teeming with people, most of them unfamiliar to her. There were more servants than she had seen in a decade, and many pretty women too who, she suspected, were more of Agamemnon’s whores. Some old advisors and friends were also present, flocking towards the throne room. Her throne room. She hurried to collect the children, to take them to whatever meeting he was about to call. When she reached their chamber, Electra was waiting, hands on hips, face like a thunder cloud.
