by Hannah Lynn
When they reached the tall stone pillars, the guard stopped.
“I will tell the Queen of your arrival. Wait here.”
There was no offer of a seat, nor even a cup of water and he wondered if his mother knew how her men treated messengers. It was not the way he had seen her act towards them in the past. But, as Pylades kept reminding him, the past was long ago. Maybe things had changed more than he had wanted to believe.
“Where will she be?” Pylades hissed in his ear, breaking his train of thought.
“Why? He told us to wait here for her.”
“We are here to kill her, Orestes, not take wine and reminisce. If she comes to meet you, this will all be far bloodier than either of us wants. Now, quickly, think. Where would she be?”
It did not take much thought to figure out her probable location. He doubted anything would have changed her routine. He opened his mouth to say as much, when a flurry of footsteps drew his attention. Turning his head, he gasped.
“Laodamia.”
He would have sworn that he had only said the name in his head, but the old woman’s eyes instantly turned to him. He blinked, for a moment second guessing himself but no, he was right. His old nursemaid was standing just a few feet away from him. Had she always been so frail? he wondered. No, of course she hadn’t. She had merely aged, like they all had. But the fearless woman of his memory, who had tended his every cut and bruise, who had helped them flee the palace and escape that awful night eight years ago, was a far cry from the old lady in front of him. The one who was now staring directly at him.
“Orestes,” Pylades demanded. “Where will she be?”
He could not move, his eyes still fixed on Laodamia. She would scream out, he was certain, to alert the guards. But instead she pressed her hand to her heart and disappeared back into the palace.
With her apparent blessing came a strange feeling of peace. As if someone else were speaking through him, he turned to Pylades and calmly said, “She will be out on the veranda.”
Chapter 33
Long shadows were plentiful among the open colonnades of the palace, and they stuck to them as best they could. Slipping past the kitchen and the stairs down to the storeroom where, so very long ago, he had hidden from Electra, they crossed the wide space of the interior, avoiding the columned porches and keeping low. Orestes’ head swam. This was surreal. Surely someone would intervene, something would happen to stop them. Maybe the test was simply to come this far. Perhaps showing he was willing to obey Apollo’s command would be enough. Please, he prayed over and over, please let there be another way. When he stepped out onto the veranda and saw her silhouette, he knew there was none.
She was facing away from them, staring out at the setting sun, as she liked to do. He did not need to see her face to know that this was the woman who had birthed him.
“That is her?” Pylades whispered.
He did not even have the strength to nod. He could not take his eyes from her—the familiar slant of her shoulders and the way her back arched ever so slightly, as she stood in silence. There was no one else it could be. Her hair was now streaked with grey, although in the fading light it could have been strands of pure silver woven there.
Pylades pushed the knife into his hand.
“Now,” he mouthed. “Do it now.”
He remained rooted to the spot. How could he do this to her here? This was her peaceful place, her sanctuary. If only it could be somewhere else. Yet, perhaps this was a blessing. She would depart this life gazing out at her kingdom, at the view she loved so much.
His hand was trembling so badly, he feared he might drop the dagger. A feeling of nausea was rising fast and threatening to overwhelm him. Whatever his mother was watching, she was so focused that he knew she had no inkling he was there.
He was only a footstep away, when the sudden smell of her perfume on the night air almost unmanned him and filled his eyes with tears. Closing them, he lifted the knife and reached forward, in a movement so automatic his body needed no instruction. In one motion, his left hand clamped over her mouth and pulled her to him, exposing her neck, and his right hand dragged the dagger sharply across her throat.
It was blood, the likes of which he had never seen before. Deeper in colour than the darkest poppy, it sprayed upwards and outwards, covering his arms. His mother’s head barely turned, yet it was enough for him to glimpse the horror in her eyes.
Then the screaming began.
As her body slumped to the floor, a small figure appeared beyond her. Little higher than Orestes’ waist, he had been standing right in front of her, his back to the balustrade. That was why she had been so absorbed, so focused. She had been watching the boy.
“Oh gods!” He stepped back in horror as the child, his face splattered with his mother’s blood and his eyes wide in terror, screamed again and again and again.
“Pylades! Pylades!” The shock had hijacked his entire body. “What do we do now? What do we do? They will hear. You said they were not meant to know we were in the palace, until we reached the throne room.”
“Give me that,” Pylades yelled, racing forwards and snatching the dagger from his limp hand.
“No!” he screamed, realising what his lover intended. He lunged, but his body was too weak and shaken to reach his brother in time, and the knife struck home, deep in his heart.
The boy’s screams turned to a gurgle, as lungs filled and he toppled forwards, his blood now mingling with his mother’s on the tiled floor.
“No! No!” Orestes knelt, torn between the body of the mother who had lived to protect him, and the brother he should have saved. “Why? Why?”
“It was the only way, Orestes.”
“What have we done? This was not meant to be! This was not supposed to happen!”
“Orestes, please.” Pylades tugged at his robe, attempting to drag him away, but the Prince would not be moved. “The guards will be on their way. You must stake your claim immediately. You must announce yourself the true King of Mycenae, before Aegisthus has time to discover what has happened here.”
But to Orestes’ ears the words seemed muffled, as though he were under water, drowning.
“Please Orestes, we cannot be found like this!”
His mind gradually started to clear, and he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He would follow their plan and head to the throne room, to declare himself King. But, as the two men moved towards the doorway through which they had arrived, they saw that the route was no longer clear. A single person stood in their way.
“Aegisthus.”
Chapter 34
He looked every bit a king, stately and proud and better dressed than Orestes had ever seen him before in purple robes, embroidered with gold stitching. His eyes widened at the sight of the Prince, a smile starting to form on his lips, only for his face to twist in disbelief, as his gaze took in his stepson’s blood-soaked hands.
“No, you did not. You could not have.”
Orestes, stepped back.
“I did not have a choice, Aegisthus. The gods made me,”
“No, she promised me she would be safe. That you could never harm her.”
“Please Aegisthus. I need you to understand…”
The old man snarled, as he stepped towards him.
“It was the will of the gods,” Pylades said, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Orestes avenged his father, as they demand. You must serve him now as your rightful king, or leave. The choice is up to you.”
But Orestes could see that Aegisthus was not listening. His eyes had moved beyond the two men, further even than the body of his dead wife.
“Nooo!” His scream was so terrible that it seemed to shake the very marble they stood on. “No! Not Aletes! No, no, no!”
Pushing past them, he dropped to the ground and scooped up his son. The child’s small body flopped in his arms like a dead lamb.
“Aletes,” Aegisthus whispered, pressing his lips against the boy’s forehead. “A
letes. Aletes. My darling son.” Pulling out the blade and flinging it away in disgust, he crushed the child to his chest.
“Come away,” Pylades whispered in Orestes’ ear. “Leave them be.”
But he could not go. This was his wrongdoing, his mistake that needed to be put right.
“I … I am sorry,” he stammered.
Aegisthus’ head swivelled towards him, the pain in his eyes replaced by fury.
“You killed him,” he said, gently lowering his son back to the ground before standing. “You killed my son.”
“I did not mean to. I did not intend this. I did not want to kill anyone, Aegisthus. You know this of me.”
“It was me,” Pylades said, stepping between them. “I did not know who the child was. Please, it was me. This was not Orestes’ doing.”
But Aegisthus paid him no heed.
“My boy. My darling boy.” His eyes fixed on Orestes. “This is your doing!”
“I know it is. Please, please forgive me.”
Aegisthus’ eyes glinted; no trace of humanity left in them. All that remained was pure hatred.
“Forgive you?” he spat.
“I did not want to come here.”
“Then why did you?” he demanded.
“The gods … it was the gods …”
“You think a god’s punishment is worse than this? You think that you will ever find peace now?”
“No … no … I …”
“Your mother trusted you. I trusted you.” Aegisthus was moving towards him and he could see no way out. “He was a child, Orestes. A little boy. Your brother. I told him about you. I told him of all the time we had spent together, studying birds and animals. He knew your name and he wanted to be just like you. He wanted you to be a real brother to him.”
Tears blurred his vision. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
“Please, take vengeance on me. It is I who killed your son.” Pylades touched Aegisthus’ arm, but the old man flicked him away, like an annoying insect. Never before had Orestes seen him raise a hand, not even to an animal, but at that moment he was reminded that this was a man who had slain a king. There was a warrior within him. One that now wanted his own retribution.
“You are no different from your father. You are no better than Agamemnon.”
These words cut more deeply than any knife could have.
“I did not mean for this to happen. I only wanted peace.”
“Peace? Through death? All you have brought is pain. Only pain.”
“Aegisthus …”
“Stop speaking to me as if you know me. I have never seen you before in my life.”
Orestes struggled to keep his body upright as the old man’s breath blew hot in his face.
“I have never pretended to be King here in Mycenae, but, as the gods are my witness, I will not let a ruthless child-killer take the throne I was protecting for a righteous man. A man that no longer exists.”
“I am sorry. I am sorry.” Orestes dropped to his knees.
“Get up! Get up so I can kill you like the murderer you are.”
“Please!” He didn’t really know what he was begging for—for Aegisthus to spare his life, or to end it. Both and neither. Orestes only knew that he could not live like this, with a pain that felt like claws ripping out his ribs, one by one.
Aegisthus hoisted him up by the neck of his robe and slammed him against the wall.
“She trusted you,” he said, landing a blow square on his jaw. Blood filled the younger man’s mouth. “I trusted you.” Aegisthus hit him again, and then again, Orestes not even lifting an arm to block the attack.
Pylades was back on his feet, trying to pull the older man off his friend. Dropping Orestes to the floor, Aegisthus turned and grabbed the Prince and flung him into the wall. Pylades struck it hard and crumpled to the ground, just like his cousin. Aegisthus turned his attention back to the source of his anger. The blood that had filled Orestes’ mouth was now dripping from his chin.
“Orestes! Orestes!”
He glanced across to where his lover lay. Pylades was pointing to the dagger, now barely a foot from Orestes’ hand. It was clear that Aegisthus had forgotten the blade. If he hadn’t, he would surely have already plunged it into Orestes’ heart. Aegisthus aimed a brutal kick at his ribs.
“Please, Orestes,” Pylades wept. “Do this for me. Please! I cannot live without you.”
This time, when Orestes turned towards his lover, it was to say goodbye. To try and tell him with a look that he was sorry for failing him. Sorry for what he had done, bringing him into this. But, when he saw the tears shimmering in Pylades eyes, his heart tore in a new way and he understood. Aegisthus was a broken old man now. He would always be crippled by the loss of his loved ones and consumed with hate. There would be no real life for him anymore. At that same moment, Orestes knew that if he let himself be killed, Pylades would spend the rest of his days hell-bent on revenge. If he even got the chance. Who was to say that once Aegisthus was done with him, he would not move on to Pylades?
And so, with every last ounce of strength he had left, he reached for the blade, and drove it up into Aegisthus’ stomach.
Part III
Chapter 35
He could not recall what happened in those first few days after his mother’s death. He had taken the crown; he knew that much from the way he was guided to the throne room and placed in what had been his father’s seat. Pylades spoke for him and accepted the gifts, blessings and good wishes, which Orestes wanted to hurl back at those who brought them. Their smiling faces made his stomach turn. They knew the truth: he deserved none of it.
Then a ship arrived, and Electra returned to the palace. She greeted him with a warmth he had not experienced from her since before they had fled Mycenae all those years ago. She wrapped her arms around him and told him he was strong and worthy, that she had known all along he would do his duty, and the gods would be so proud of him.
Would they? he wondered. Would they really be proud of a man who had slain the very people who had raised him, all for a title he could have simply asked for, had he desired it so much? If the gods were proud of a person like that, he was not sure he wanted to please them anymore.
He felt like a pariah in his own home. At the same time, he knew how his mother must have felt after Iphigenia had died, unable to even walk the corridors for the memories they held. His childhood chamber, the central courtyard where he and his sisters had played from dawn until dusk, the kitchen, the gardens, were all places he could not visit, for fear of his mother’s face appearing to him. Lifeless. Murdered. Mostly, he hid away in his father’s old chamber, not because he was the King now, but because it was somewhere he had spent no time as a child. There were no ghosts to haunt him there.
While the rest of the inhabitants of the palace went about their duties, he often kept to his bed, although he found no peace in sleep. His dreams were filled with blood and screams, as Aletes begged for his life. Whenever he woke, he’d find Pylades sitting there beside him, ready to offer him water or food, which he rarely accepted.
“I killed them,” were always the first words out of his mouth. Most of the time, Pylades hushed him, gently stroking his hair, until he fell back into another, fitful slumber. But, occasionally, he would argue with him.
“You have done nothing wrong. You only did as the gods instructed.”
“But the boy. The little boy. My own brother.”
“I killed him, Orestes, not you. If anyone is to be punished for his murder, it is me. And Aegisthus was a matter of self-defence.”
“Aegisthus. He raised me as is own.”
“The same way your grandfather raised him as a son, not knowing him to be his nephew. And what did Aegisthus do to repay Atreus? He killed him and took the throne for his father, without a second thought, Orestes. He killed your grandfather and, from the rumours I have heard, he persuaded your mother to kill your father, too.”
He shook his head, causing a thr
obbing to start up behind his temples.
“I do not believe that. You know I do not.”
“You have committed no crime against the gods in carrying out these acts, Orestes, which is the important thing. You do not need to let this weigh on your mind.”
With sweat beading down his spine, he rolled over on the bed and left Pylades standing there in silence, watching him. It wasn’t about the gods, Orestes wanted to say. What did crimes against the gods matter? They had not raised him. They were not here with him now. It was about crimes against his family. The family he had failed.
“Come outside into the citadel,” Electra tried, time and time again. “This is your kingdom now. You need to show your face.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” he would reply, and they both knew it to be a lie. Here, confined to the four walls of his father’s chamber, he could do no more harm. Let Electra run the kingdom. She had always wanted to. Or Pylades. He didn’t care. He had done his part, and they had no right to ask any more of him.
Only when a month had passed, was he finally spurred into action, for fear of yet another loss.
“My father has come to visit,” Pylades said, whipping back the chamber curtains and flooding the room with light. Motes of dust danced in the stale air. “You will need to meet with him, to show your respects. He did house you for eight years, after all.”
Groaning, Orestes shielded his eyes. “Let Electra speak to him,” he replied. “He always liked her much better than me, anyway.”
“Electra is occupied. Besides, she is not the King of Mycenae. You are. And I have told him you will greet him in the throne room.”
“Then I abdicate all my rights to you. You talk to him.”
How someone could sleep so much and yet feel so exhausted they could barely keep their eyes open, was a mystery to him. He had never felt such a heaviness in his body. It resisted any attempt to lift his head from the pillow.
