by Hannah Lynn
“What did you think you were doing, ordering us back to our room? You had no right. Now that Father is here, I shall see to it that we are not hidden away any more like children.”
“You are my children, Electra, and you are behaving like a badly behaved one right now.” She did not have the capacity to think of a more diplomatic reply, with all that was going through her mind. “Orestes, when you enter the throne room, you will sit on the left-hand side of your father, as I have shown you. You remember?”
He nodded quickly, his Adam’s apple bouncing as he swallowed.
“There is no need to worry. He will have plenty to talk about. It will likely be a long night. Do not interrupt him and try not to look tired. Avoid the food and do not touch the wine. It will be far easier to stay awake if your stomach is empty.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And stay away from the breads and sweets too. They may help for a short while, but exhaustion will strike even more fiercely later.”
“I understand.”
“What about us, Mother?” Chrysothemis asked, having removed the braids from her hair, so that it fell in curls down to her waist. “Where do we sit?”
Clytemnestra wiped her palms on the skirt of her robe, trying to stem the sweat that flowed from them.
“I will sit on the right of the King, that is the Queen’s place. You will sit on the steps beside my throne. You next to me, Chrysothemis, then Electra. And remember what I have just told your brother, the same applies to you, stay alert and look your best.”
While Electra checked her sheathed dagger, Chrysothemis adjusted the front of her robe, so that it fell just a fraction lower. Clytemnestra swiftly pulled it back up.
“There will be time for that later,” she said.
For many years, the throne room had been a peaceful place, one of discourse and the sharing of knowledge. There were plenty of other areas in the palace where people could be entertained, and merry making had been reserved for the courtyards or down in the citadel. Yet what she stepped into that evening, resembled a bawdy tavern scene. The voices and laughter were so raucous she wondered if the war had turned half these men deaf, or whether they had simply forgotten how they were supposed to behave in such surroundings. Bread and wine spilled onto the floor, as men slapped each other on the back with scant regard for manners. And the way in which some of them lounged on the steps, had her wondering if they were intending to turn her throne room into a sleeping chamber.
Only when they became aware of her presence, did the laughter abate. Voices quietened, as she weaved her way down the steps between them. She assumed all eyes were on Orestes, their future King, but soon realised their attention was on her. And it did not take long to realise why. There, sitting to Agamemnon’s right, still dressed in the saffron robe of the Goddess Artemis, was Cassandra.
Clytemnestra looked straight ahead and lengthened her stride. The seat to Agamemnon’s left was still empty, and Orestes took his place there. The urge to glance down at Cassandra’s belly grew more overwhelming by the second. She must be with child. Why else would he offer a whore the Queen’s seat if it were not his plan to replace his family with another?
Wordlessly, she took a place on the cold, hard steps, a chill and a fire rising simultaneously within her—a cold fury and a burning rage. The quiet unease that had fallen on the room the moment she had entered remained, although many men were starting to clear their throats and shuffle in their seats.
“Patience, we have a very special guest about to join us for the festivities,” Agamemnon announced.
With a mummer of expectation, heads turned towards the doorway, then there was silence. Across the sea of heads, Clytemnestra’s view of the figure who entered was blocked. But as the crowds parted to make room for the new arrival the air in her lungs turned to ice.
“Aegisthus!”
Chapter 23
Her jaw dropped and a pain like a thousand needles seared through her chest, but she could not draw her eyes away. Aegisthus, her lover and partner, was walking towards them, now just feet away from the king she had betrayed. He was meant to have gone. He was meant to be far away from the palace, searching for a mythical flower of her own creation, safe until she had rid the world of the monster that had plagued them both.
Her reaction did not go unnoticed.
“Yes, Clytemnestra, I invited Aegisthus to join us for this little celebration. You do not mind, do you? I assumed that given you two are so well acquainted, it would not be an issue. You can join him over there, if you wish, sitting with the other metics.”
Just when she had thought that the height of her humiliation had been reached, more was being heaped on. Metic. It was not a term used in Mycenae. It was an Athenian word, reserved for those who didn’t come from their great city and were considered menial by comparison. A few of the guests looked uncomfortable, but most realised the insult was not aimed at them. The words had been meant to degrade her alone. But she refused to accept them. Straightening her back, she turned to the King.
“There seems to be some misunderstanding about who has run this kingdom for the last ten years,” she said, throwing a glance at Cassandra. The girl’s eyes were half closed, as though she were totally at ease.
“No, there has been no mistake here,” Agamemnon replied. “Now tell me, Aegisthus, how did you find my wife's performance in the bedroom? I had always been told that Spartan women were supposed to have a certain fire. I think I might have seen the tiniest spark, when she was younger. But it did not last long. I guess I should thank you for doing a job I would rather not be bothered with myself. I am not saying it is a suitable punishment for your crime. I have not yet had time to think about what that will be. You are lucky that I have arrived home in such a good mood, otherwise I would be offering her your head on a spike.”
This was greeted with a few coarse chuckles. They knew, as she did, that the words he spoke were entirely true. Although Clytemnestra had steeled herself in preparation for this, her children had not. The blood had drained from Orestes’ face, while tears brimmed in Chrysothemis’ eyes. The Queen’s heart bled for them, but there was nothing she could do. She could not comfort them, could not give them the warmth of her embrace. So, instead, she offered them her most defiant look and prayed to the gods that they would make it through the evening alive. There was only one person in the room who needed to die that night.
“No doubt you will have questions for me,” Agamemnon once again addressed his audience. “I am sure you will want to hear the stories of how I rallied Greece, to create the greatest army the world has ever known. Or, perhaps you would like to hear about how I made Achilles cry like a little girl.” More laughter. “We will have time for all of that, I promise you. But first, I would like to offer you some gifts. Your faith in me brought me strength during those trying years. Your belief, that I alone could be the one to lead my brother and our armies to bring home his captive queen safely, was all I needed to confirm that I had been appointed to this position by Zeus himself.” He lifted a golden sceptre into the air and the room erupted in cheering.
Clytemnestra turned and saw that Aegisthus’ eyes were still on her, his face white with worry.
Agamemnon indicated that the adulation should stop, and continued.
“These past ten years have been difficult times for us all. Of course, it has had its perks.” He cocked his head towards Cassandra and the men stamped their feet and applauded. “But it was not all fun and games. And, as most of you are aware, even the greatest of us is not immune to injury.”
Still gripping the sceptre, he pulled up a sleeve of his robe, to reveal the puckered skin of a scar. That explained his clumsiness when dismounting earlier. That and the obesity. By the looks of the scar, he had been lucky not to lose the arm.
“But enough about me. I said this is about you. Let us see what you greedy bastards want to take from me now.” He snapped his fingers. “Bring me the first chest.”
A
huge wooden trunk was brought forward, placed at his feet, and opened. It contained gold, silk and treasures, the like of which Clytemnestra had never seen before. The Spartan in her winced at the sight. Such greed and unnecessary excess. Copper, gold, garnets. Platters as long as a man’s arm. Tapestries and paintings, so fine the gods themselves could have crafted them. One by one, he handed out the pieces to his subjects. It was a wise move, she considered, as they bowed low and offered unbridled appreciation to their generous king. They would remember this, how he had not hoarded the spoils of war, but shared them amongst his people. She knew that he would have already selected the best pieces for himself on the journey home, as did they, but still their faces gleamed with delight, as they showered him with praise.
The first chest was replaced with another, and yet another. Throughout it all, Clytemnestra found herself drawn to the girl, Cassandra. How she remained seated there in the same, trance-like position was a mystery to her. Was this luxury nothing compared to what she had been used to in Troy? Or was she simply imagining she was somewhere else? If the stories that had come across the Aegean were to be believed, she had once possessed the gift of a true seer, but now her words were no more reliable than the ramblings of a mad woman. She had no smiles for the people gathered before her, who might one day be her subjects. She paid no attention to the gems and treasures which were being displayed. In fact, she didn’t look at all like a woman intent on stealing her crown. Then again, looks could be deceiving.
As the hours passed, the gifts were all handed out and everyone’s greed seemed to be satiated. The chests were dragged out of the way and conversation quickly turned to Troy. There was talk of Odysseus. Of the massive horse that he had built and how the Trojans had opened their gates to it, without even considering that there could be anything hidden within. There was talk too, of Achilles and Patroclus and topics that Clytemnestra would rather her children had not been exposed to. While others would have offered praise, adoration even, for these great heroes, Agamemnon only made crude, derisory remarks, seeking laughter at their expense. He was pathetic, she thought. Surely, they could see what a jealous old man he was.
Soon the subject turned to one on which he was extremely knowledgeable―the women who had been captured after the final battle and what they had done to them. By this point, Chrysothemis was the only one of her children who remained awake, although she was looking increasingly unhappy. Orestes’ head had lolled forwards, while even Electra had succumbed and was resting her head on her sister’s lap. Clytemnestra picked her moment, during a pause in the obscene observations.
“My King,” she said. “I will take the children to bed.”
His eyes narrowed at her. “And what about Aegisthus? Will you take him with you, too?”
Laughter erupted. She bit her tongue and smiled. “I am sure that any man would much rather be in your company than mine,” she said. Then, without waiting for further reply, she moved across to rouse Orestes, while gesturing to Chrysothemis to wake Electra. With both girls on their feet and still no objections, she began the long journey out of the throne room.
She walked slowly, her eyes engaging with as many of the men as she could manage. They knew how well she had run Mycenae in Agamemnon’s absence. They knew her true worth. She would make them all look her in the eye, if she could. They had accepted his gifts, laughed at his jokes at her expense, and they would know that she had seen them for who they truly were. She would remember their disloyalty, when he was gone.
As she reached the top of the steps, she found herself standing beside one of the chests. There was still something in the bottom, she noticed. Tarnished and splintered, it had most likely not been deemed gift-worthy. The wooden handle was chipped and rough and the metal flecked with rust. Her eyes lingered for a moment longer on the small, double-headed axe lying there, unwanted and forgotten. This was what she would use, she decided. This was what she was going to kill him with.
Chapter 24
There was no need to select a new chamber. Clytemnestra had already decided that Cassandra would not be there long enough to make that necessary. When Agamemnon was dead, she would set the girl free. Where she went and what she did after that, would be of no concern to her, and judging from the way so many of the men’s eyes had wandered across her body in the throne room she would not be short of offers. Possessing the King of Kings’ whore would be quite the prize for some Mycenaean noble. And so, she made her way to where she had slept for all those years before Aegisthus’ arrival at the palace. The children’s chamber.
“Clytemnestra.”
“What are you doing here, Aegisthus? He will see you.”
“He will not notice. He is too busy lapping up all the attention. I am so sorry. The things he said to you in there. To us—”
“Will all be irrelevant when he is dead and gone.”
Fear shone in his eyes, but that did not worry her.
“Did you see? Did you see how she dressed?”
He lowered his eyes. “I did. I am so sorry, my love.”
“It was his doing. I know it was. Another way to taunt me. To remind me how he had taken Iphigenia and could do the same to the others. I thought it was her at first. The yellow robe. I thought that he had somehow brought her back to me.”
“I cannot imagine the pain.” He took her in his arms.
“I think he wants her on the throne,” she said, fighting back tears she refused to let fall. “And I believe he plans to replace my children with hers. She may even already be with child.”
“Surely not?”
“I will not put them at risk, Aegisthus. As long as he lives, they are in danger. I need to do this as soon as I can.”
He pressed his lips together and she awaited his protests but, this time, none came.
“When?” he asked, instead.
“As soon as I have the chance. And then we will be safe.” She freed herself from his embrace. “I will do whatever it takes.”
He nodded. “I may not be able to get the flower you spoke of in time, but there is an apothecary. A man of great discretion.”
“No. I have changed my mind. He is too paranoid for that to work. I will do it. I will get him on his own and spill his blood just as he has done before.”
He took her hands. “Please do not put yourself at risk. I cannot lose you. The children cannot lose you, either.”
“Do not worry. However little he may think of me, he is too conceited to believe that his own wife could possibly do the deed in his own palace.”
“But will you be able to do it? Taking a life. It is … unimaginable.”
As she considered her reply, a new determination flowed through her. Maybe she wouldn’t succeed. Perhaps Agamemnon had in fact already seen in her eyes what she intended. But if she did not kill him, she would die trying.
“He wants me to grovel, to fall on my knees, begging for his forgiveness,” she said finally. “And that is what he will get. But it will not be me who is laid low for all eternity.”
For three days, the King barely left the throne room, not even to sleep. The stream of guests who came to pay tribute to him was as unending as his desire to hear their sycophantic adulation. He ate more in a day than she could have managed in a week, which demanded the slaughter of more animals than in a month of his absence. And he drank continuously of the best wines in the cellar.
While his daughters had been dismissed, Orestes was forced to sit by his father and listen to the grisly tales he recounted. Whilst some boys of twelve might have revelled in stories of blood and guts, Orestes was not one of those. Instead, he sat in silence, trying to hide his revulsion. Fighting the loathing she felt being in her husband’s presence, Clytemnestra would sit beside her son, offering him all the support she could with her silent presence. Sometimes Cassandra was also there, with that same far-away look in her eyes. Mostly, she was not. The double-headed axe, the spoil of war thought unworthy of gifting, remained forgotten in its chest.
> When she returned to the throne room on the fourth day, she found it almost empty. Agamemnon was slumped in his throne, a line of drool caught in his beard, as he snored like the animal he was. Beside him, Orestes had also fallen asleep, but rigid and somehow still almost upright.
“Orestes, Orestes.” she whispered, as she rocked his shoulders. “Go to bed, my darling. You will do yourself no good here now. Come on. You need your sleep.”
His eyes blinked open.
“Mother?” he said, then quickly sat up straight. “Father?”
“He is asleep, see, as you should be. Come. Let me take you to your chamber, and I will fetch you some proper food, too.”
Now wide awake, he shook his head. “If Father wakes—”
“Do not worry about him. Come.”
After passing him over to the loving hands of Laodamia, she returned to the throne room. One by one, she roused the few remaining guests and told them to leave, before instructing the servants to clear up the detritus that Agamemnon had seemed happy to ignore. They may have lived like animals in their camp in Troy, but it would not happen here, in her palace.
Moving to the man himself, she attempted to brush the crumbs from his robe.
“Are you still here?” He glowered at her from beneath half-closed eyelids. The stale odour of his breath caught in her throat.
“Of course, My King. You are my husband. Where else would I be?”
He snorted in response, but she pretended not to notice, instead brushing the dried food from his beard.
“Why not go to your chamber, my love? You must ache from sleeping here. And from all those years in Troy. Surely your body is yearning for a soft bed?”
