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

by Hannah Lynn

  Her exasperated expression was so similar to that of their mother, that he almost mentioned it. Thankfully, he caught himself in time.

  “Fine, you do this, but if the gods tell you to avenge our father’s death, then you must swear to me you will do it. Do you understand? No more excuses.”

  “I may be young, Electra, but I am not a fool. I have no intention of incurring the wrath of the gods.”

  “Good,” she replied. “Then I am already awaiting your return.”

  It felt like he was at last becoming his own person, almost a man.

  While the initial decision had been to take horses, and make their journey as swift as possible, the two young men changed their minds, just a few minutes before departure. With so little to carry, and Orestes predilection for stopping to look at every creature he came across, they decided instead to go on foot.

  Spring had seen the kingdom come alive with colour. Hummingbird moths, with their delicate wings and elongated features, hovered by lavender bushes, while lizards basked out in the sun, waiting for its rays to energise them. And he did take his time, observing and studying, while Pylades stayed at his side, mainly watching him.

  “Do you think you will head straight back to Mycenae?” the older boy asked, when they stopped after an hour, to feast on fresh peaches. “If The Pythia says your mother is blameless, will you go home immediately?”

  Orestes shook his head. “I thought I might travel a little, first. I know Electra hates to admit it, but from what I have heard, Aegisthus is running the kingdom well in our absence. And I am sure he would be happy to keep doing so, until I am ready to return.”

  “Where will you go?”

  He rolled over on the grass, leaning on his elbows as he spoke. “Do you know that there are some snakes so big, they can swallow a man whole? And spiders whose legs are so large, that they cannot sit on your hand?”

  “They do not sound like things I would go looking for,” Pylades laughed.

  “I wish to bring those creatures back to Mycenae. I want us to have them all.”

  “Perhaps you would be better suited to being the King of Animals, rather than the King of Kings.”

  “Yes, I think I would prefer that,” he agreed.

  When they had finished eating they continued their trek east, on paths that were steep, although well-trodden. A little after midday, the heat caused them to stop again, to bathe in a stream. Orestes had already seen Pylades naked a hundred times or more, yet he found himself unable to draw his eyes away from him. One day, he would pluck up the courage to take his hand, as they walked, or plant his lips against his, when he spoke, or simply brush the wet hair from his eyes, as they bathed. But today was not that day. Today they had a more important task at hand.

  Set in an undulating valley, it was only when they crested the final hill that the city came into view.

  “That is it?” he whispered, his eyes lost in the vista before him. “It is magnificent!”

  As Pylades pointed out the distant temples and stadia that sat within Delphi’s limits, it seemed more like a world of its own than just a city. Buildings were balanced on the edges of the hillsides, and continued down into the basin of the valley, where the vivid green of lush grass was interspersed with the pale yellow of the rock. He could see so many of nature’s treasures down there. Trees, not just those bearing fruit, but also willows and birches, oaks and poplars, flourished everywhere. So many specimens, he could have spent months simply noting them all down and sketching them. Without a word to Pylades, he found his feet moving faster and faster.

  “What is that?” he asked, pausing to point to a structure perched on one of the hills, where three large pillars reached up towards the cloudless sky.

  “That is the Sanctuary of Athena Pronea,” Pylades replied, grinning at his companion’s delight.

  “And that, over there, what is that? A theatre?”

  “No, the theatre is further away. That is the stadium.”

  Orestes continued to race towards the city, for once so distracted that he didn’t even notice the black-winged kites that soared above them. Soon, yet not soon enough for him, they were standing amidst it all.

  “Why have you not brought me here before?” he asked, his mouth now watering from the aroma of the meats that sizzled and spat on open fires.

  “I see that was a mistake,” Pylades laughed. “I promise, we shall return each year, if that is what you wish.”

  “It is,” he sighed.

  People, of every complexion and costume, bartered and bantered as they milled around, arms laden with all manner of items from fruit and eggs to incense and silver. Some had scarves over their heads, while others wore their hair loose, down to their waist. Some had ink markings on their skin, woven in thick bands or delicate patterns. Others’ bare skin was unadorned. And, amongst them all, animals roamed. Not just asses and camels, but even a great herd of swans, which extended their necks, demanding bread from anyone they spotted carrying it. Their hisses were muted by the endless trills of musicians who, despite their number and distance apart, seemed to have no difficulty keeping time with one another.

  Mesmerized, Orestes breathed it all in. Of course people would come to the Temple of Apollo and feel inspired, he thought. He was the God of Music and Dance, not just Prophecy. How could anyone fail to feel exhilarated in a place as beautiful and captivating as this?

  “Are all these people here to see The Pythia?” he asked, turning to Pylades, who had been watching his reactions with ever-increasing pleasure. “Are they all seeking her counsel?”

  “Not all. Many are here just to pay tribute to the God. Some hope to find work. Others to sell their goods. We can look more at that later. I sent word ahead to tell the High Priestess we were coming. We should go straight to see her. It would not do well to keep her waiting. The temple is over there.”

  A row of huge, stone pillars marked the entrance to the Temple of Apollo; one far grander that any Orestes had seen in Mycenae. One day, he would travel to all the great temples, he told himself, as they weaved their way through the crowds who queued at the foot of the steps. Athens, Aphaia, he would visit them all and be inspired, just as he was here.

  “Come, follow me,” called Pylades, “I will show you where we need to go.”

  They made their way up into the temple. A delicate scent of citrus and cinnamon filled the cool air, which gave a welcome respite from the heat of the day. Although the light was dim, Orestes had little difficulty in seeing the hundreds of offerings that had already been placed on the altar of the God, including a delicately inlaid lyre that immediately caused him to think of his sister, Chrysothemis.

  “Prince Pylades, it has been some time.” A priestess approached them, dressed in an orange robe.

  “Forgive me, Priestess, you are quite right. Please, accept my offering.” From out of his small bag, he produced a slim bangle of gold, which the priestess took with a nod. “I am sure you are aware that I am not here for myself,” he continued. “This is my cousin, Orestes, Prince of Mycenae. He seeks council with The Pythia. He requires guidance from Apollo himself.”

  “Of course. Please follow me.” She gestured towards the back of the temple and they headed inwards, to where large swathes of fabric billowed from the ceiling, creating rippling shadows on the ground, like snakes constantly moving, yet going nowhere.

  Since his arrival in Phocis, Orestes’ feelings towards Pylades, had grown and grown. Yet he knew he would always be tied to Mycenae. But Electra’s demand for the murder of their own mother would be silenced now, he was sure. Only when his friend cleared his throat, did he realise that the Priestess had spoken again and was ushering him forwards.

  “Are you not coming with me?” he asked.

  “You do not need me for this,” Pylades replied. “Do not worry. You will be fine. And, when you return, we will spend the entire night celebrating.”

  A tentative smile flickered on Orestes’ lips.

  Chapte
r 30

  There was nothing delicate about the aroma in The Pythia’s chamber. Clouds of smoke rose from smouldering incense and heated oils, so thick that they clogged his lungs and stung his eyes. The cool air too had gone, replaced by a muggy heat that scorched his throat with every breath. There were no windows and no way for any light to enter. The few small oil lamps dotted around added their own odour and warmth to the mix. As his eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom, he saw the woman, eyes closed, sitting on a stool beside two large bowls of shimmering liquid. Whereas the priestesses outside had been dressed in a burnt-orange robe, that of The Pythia was a flaming red, the top drawn over her head to form a silken hood, while the bottom pooled like liquid on the ground.

  “High Priestess,” he said, stepping forwards, towards a cushion placed in front of her. “Great Pythia, I come seeking the guidance of Apollo.”

  He knelt, wondering for a moment if he might pass out from the effect of all the fumes. How it was possible to think clearly in such an atmosphere, he didn’t know. He had no fear for his safety though. Pylades would not have brought him anywhere he could be harmed.

  “Sweet Orestes.” The Pythia’s voice was almost childlike and her accent unfamiliar to him—not at all like the locals of Delphi and Mount Parnassus. “Sweet Prince. So young at heart, but weighed down with a man’s burden.”

  “I need the word of the God,” he said. “I need—”

  “I know why you are here, my child. Although, I must be honest, it is not my great wisdom that tells me this. I imagine half of all Greece would know your reason for coming and kneeling at this altar. Your mother included,” she added.

  His cheeks coloured, but he stayed silent. He felt far calmer than he would have expected, no doubt the effect of the oils that burned around him. Noting the steady rhythm of his heart, he awaited The Pythia’s next words.

  “Your mother murdered your father. Fathers must be avenged,” she said, her eyes still closed.

  It was not the words of a god he heard, just the same line Electra spouted almost daily.

  “I know,” he replied. “But not all acts of murder require retribution, surely? My mother killed my father in revenge for the slaughter of her first husband and son. Not to mention my sister, his own daughter.”

  “Your sister was killed for the Goddess. Sacrifice is not the same as murder.”

  While Orestes had a hard time accepting that to be true, he did not wish to invoke the anger of the High Priestess and simply repeated his previous point.

  “Still, her first husband and son. A king and a prince in their own right. Who should have avenged them, if not my mother?”

  “I understand. What your mother did was an act I imagine would be applauded by any woman who has ever lost a child that way, at the hands of another. What could be more deserving of revenge than the spilt blood of an innocent? My heart goes out to all who have suffered such a loss.”

  “So you do understand,” he said, feeling relieved. “The gods realise she has already endured enough—more than anyone should have to. My mother needs no punishment, and it would not be right for me to take her life.”

  The Priestess’ eyes snapped open. Colder than ice, they bored into him. She was, as he had been told, the vessel of a god. A channel for mere mortals to hear his words, and she now conveyed them directly to him.

  “Gods, not goddesses. Men, not women. Zeus, not Hera,” she said. “This is the way Orestes. Agamemnon, not Clytemnestra.”

  Even the heat of the room could not stop the chill that rippled through him.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying, Orestes, that the God Apollo has spoken. It is fathers that must be avenged, whatever the circumstances. Agamemnon was killed by your mother’s hand. Now your mother must die by yours.”

  When he finally stepped back out into the open court of the temple, he could barely stand.

  “Orestes!” Pylades leapt to his side, holding a skin of water, which he placed to his friend’s lips. “What did she say? Did Apollo give his pardon?”

  Orestes could only drink. Drink and weep.

  The Priestess had given him further instructions about the manner in which he must end his mother’s life. Although he had been listening, the only thing he could think of was his mother’s face. Her eyes, so full of life. Her lips, curved upwards in a smile, as she ruffled his hair. How could he do this? He could barely stomach the thought of killing a rat.

  After he had finished with the water, Pylades half led, half carried him outside, where they rested under a small rush canopy. He did not need to enquire further of the gods ruling.

  “When?” Was the only question he finally asked. “When are you to do it?”

  Orestes shook his head. “Not yet. I am not ready. I have to train first. It must be… clean.”

  Pylades nodded slowly. “I will help you. I will prepare with you.”

  “I knew you would. Will you come with me to Mycenae, too?” he asked. “The Pythia said that I should travel there with another man. Will you be the one?”

  “Of course, I will. I will always go with you, wherever you need me. Whatever you want me to do.”

  At any other time, his eyes would have been on Pylades’ hand, which was grasping his, the other one brushing away the tears that Orestes wished he was strong enough to prevent. But he was not strong. He was weak. He was just a boy, but soon he would be a murderer too.

  Chapter 31

  In Mycenae, Aletes was thriving. He had Aegisthus’ thoughtfulness, his tentativeness. He was inquisitive, like Orestes and Iphigenia, but had the patience of Chrysothemis. In looks, he resembled Iphigenia, from the gentle curl of his hair, to his long slender limbs, that seemed made more for dancing than fighting. Clytemnestra never grew tired of watching him or listening to him. She was making the most of not her second, but third chance of happiness.

  “How did the talks go at the Polis?” she asked Aegisthus, when he returned to the palace one evening after a long day chairing discussions there. She attended now and again, but time with Aletes was too precious for her to squander on petty squabbles. He had just turned six and was already a fount of knowledge. That particular day, they had been discussing the stars. She had told him about the Hyades, who had so deeply grieved the death of their brother that Zeus had placed them together in the night sky, to watch over the world. As night had fallen, they had gone outside to see for themselves.

  “There was word of Orestes again,” he replied, taking some bread from a basket. “Some say he is planning on setting sail before the next moon. That he will return to Mycenae to do the God’s will.”

  “Really? And where did this word come from? Someone in his council at Phocis? Someone who knows him? Or someone who is hoping to gain from spreading rumours of him invading Mycenae?”

  “It does not matter where it came from, Clytemnestra.”

  “Of course it does. Until I see him standing in front of me with a dagger in his hand, I can assure you we are all perfectly safe. This is Orestes. He would sooner stay in exile for all eternity than hurt me. Or you, for that matter.”

  “I only hope you are right, my love,” he replied, with a look of concern on his face.

  Now and then he would do this. Start panicking that Orestes was about to arrive on their shores at any moment, an entirely different child to the one who had departed. But she knew her son, knew his heart, and she had never given this any serious consideration.

  “How long ago did we hear about his trip to The Pythia at Delphi?” she asked.

  “Two years? Three? The gods do not have endless patience. He will know that too.” Aegisthus would not let it rest.

  Sensing his distress would not be eased through talk alone, she walked across the room and combed her fingers through his greying hair. He was an old man now; older than Agamemnon had been when he had met his end, but anyone who looked in his eyes could see the fire still burning bright there. The fire and the love.

  �
��Aegisthus, please, like you said, it has been years. Do you not think that if Apollo had told Orestes to murder me, I would be dead by now? Trust me, we are safe. We are all perfectly safe.”

  The clouds were little more than faint brushstrokes across the cerulean sky as the breeze swept them over the fields and out to sea. The sunrise had been spectacular—burnt ochres blended with vivid magentas and a thousand other colours, so unique that Orestes wondered if they even had names. Would it be possible, he thought, to know the name of every colour the gods had created?

  “What are you thinking?” Pylades asked, intertwining his fingers with Orestes’.

  The young princes lay together on a blanket, with Orestes’ head resting on Pylades’ chest. At this time of day, he smelt fresher than the morning dew. Crisp and new. He drew in a lungful of air and closed his eyes.

  “I wish you would tell me what you are thinking,” Pylades said again. “I feel I never know what is going on in that head of yours.”

  “There is little to tell,” he replied. “Mostly my mind is filled with you.”

  Rolling over, he planted a kiss on the young man’s lips. They had fallen in love so gently, so easily, it was as though it was always meant to be. Now, Orestes couldn’t imagine a life without him.

  “Well, I would like to think that I am at the forefront of your mind,” Pylades said, when the pair broke away, “but I suspect that is not the case today. You know I will never judge you, whatever thoughts you might have.”

  A familiar silence followed. One that most often arose when Orestes was being forced to discuss matters which he had grown exceptionally adept at avoiding.

  “Tell me,” he said finally, sitting up and changing the subject before the tension could take hold. “What shall we do today? Go fishing? It seems like months since we last did that. We could catch our supper and cook it on the beach.”

  “If fishing is what you would like to do, then fishing it shall be,” Pylades replied. “Although supper may have to wait. I promised Father I would be at the palace this afternoon. He has some guests he wishes me to meet.”