by Hannah Lynn
“Of course. Always.” With his heart almost bursting, he wrapped his arms around Pylades’ neck. The warmth of his skin, the stubble against his cheek, the smell of musk that enveloped him—he realised he had thought he would never experience this again. “How do you know?” he asked, breaking away. “Did The Pythia tell you?”
“Not exactly,” Pylades replied, nervously.
“What is wrong?” The feeling of hope was rapidly fading.
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong at all,” he replied, sitting back and looking up.
Orestes pushed himself onto his knees and followed his friend’s gaze.
“Are you … no ... can you possibly be?”
A figure stood there, one which should have been lost in the shadows, yet shone with a luminosity that seemed to come from within. His head was crowned with a mass of golden curls which, in their turn, were adorned with a simple laurel wreath. Appearing no older than Orestes himself, he looked as magnificent and perfect as in any story ever told of him. More so, if that were possible.
“Apollo,” he whispered.
The young man continued to smile for a fraction longer, before his brow creased in a deep frown.
“I am sorry for the situation you find yourself in, Orestes. I think we will need to find a solution together. Will you have a drink with me and we can discuss your plight?”
Had it not been for Pylades’ look of awe, he would have considered his insanity confirmed. Electra reached over and squeezed his hand.
“He is here for you, brother. He has come to make all this right.”
After being helped to his feet, he followed Apollo, as he glided through into the next chamber, where a feast fit for the God of Light had been laid out. His sister and lover on either side of him, having had longer to adjust to the situation, exchanged a knowing smile.
“He is a god. We are in the presence of a god,” Orestes whispered, to neither of them in particular.”
“We know, brother, we know.”
The table was laid with enough food for a hundred men—meat and fish, and fruit so fresh he could smell its sweetness. Orestes felt his mouth watering at the mere sight of it. For the first time since his mother’s death, he found his appetite returning, although he reached for a cup of water first.
As the others began to fill their plates, Orestes cleared his throat to speak.
“The Erinyes,” he said, addressing Apollo. “Who are these women? Where have they come from?”
“The Erinyes are not women,” he corrected him, as one of the priestesses poured him a cup of wine. “They come from the darkest corner, in the deepest region of the Underworld and are more evil than any they pursue. Vengeance is their only calling. They take up the cause of those they believe have been wronged. Then they torment the apparent wrong-doer, normally to the point of death.”
“So they were serious about wanting to kill me?” Orestes now took a mouthful of bread.
“The Underworld, you say?” Electra had shown enough respect to remove her dagger in the God's presence, however she still saw fit to speak over her brother’s question. “And they have been sent here to inflict vengeance? By whom? By our mother? Is this her doing? Of course it would be,” she answered herself.
Apollo shrugged. “I cannot give you much information. The Erinyes are ancient. Older than my father’s father. How they are summoned, is something even we gods do not know. It could be that they are sent, or that they are simply drawn to acts of wrongdoing, here on earth.”
“Such as matricide,” Orestes whispered. The God lowered his eyes in what he could only assume was agreement.
“But there was no wrongdoing here.” Electra’s voice was rising in volume. “He was only following the instructions of the gods—your own requirement that a son must avenge his father’s death.”
“I am well aware of what you are saying, Princess, but the truth is as I have already stated. They are older than us and they work in ways even we do not understand.”
“Then you are the one who cursed him!”
Gasps echoed around the hall and the priestesses flinched. Orestes felt Pylades stiffen beside him.
“Electra,” he hissed at his sister.
“You are right,” Apollo agreed. “Intentionally or otherwise, I am the one who brought this torment upon you. I, the God of Music and Light, of Art and Healing. This is not what I would have ever intended, for any human.”
“When will they stop? What will make them cease? What do I have to do? Make them an offering?”
“We can give them anything they ask,” Pylades added.
Apollo hung his head. “I do not think there is anything. Nothing that any of us has ever discovered, at least. Vengeance is all they seek.”
A knot tightened in Orestes’ gut. He could not go back to their constant torture. It would be the end of him, he was certain. He would rather die.
“But, surely, you can stop them?” he asked with hope, which was dashed as the God shook his head.
“No, I have no power over the Erinyes.”
“But they have not come into your temple. You said that I am safe here, so you must have some control over them?” His heart was racing.
“I am sorry. I do not. But they are not stupid. To offend a god in his own temple, would not be a wise move, even for them.”
“So can I stay here?” he asked. He could hear the almost childish timbre of his voice, the desperation in it, as this new idea appeared to offer the chance of sanity once more. “Can I stay here in your temple, forever?”
The God tilted his head and a look, like that of a parent concerned about the welfare of his child, crossed his face.
“This is the temple of my oracle, Orestes. Not a shelter or a refuge. I cannot have you living here amongst the women. It would not be proper. Besides, when I leave, they would simply resume their torment of you.”
“So now what? You just cast him aside? Take the blame but not the responsibility?”
Such outbursts from his sister were commonplace, but the words came not from her, but from Pylades, and a fresh fear rose in Orestes.
“Pylades, please.” He reached over and took his lover’s hand. Angering a god at this point would do nothing to help either of them, although it seemed, from the way the corners of Apollo’s lips twitched, that he was more amused than offended. A brief silence ensued, during which a glint appeared in his eye.
“Did I say I was going to do nothing? We simply need to shed a little light on the situation.” he said. “Tell me, are your belongings still packed? We have a long journey ahead of us.”
Chapter 40
The day brought a strong wind that filled the sails and allowed the crew to rest their oars for a while. With his gaze lost on the foaming waves, Orestes fought to block out the taunts of the Erinyes.
“We will not leave you.”
“You will pay for what you have done.”
“I would keep your eyes open, if I were you. You do not know who might come up behind you and push you overboard.”
“Or slit your throat. You like a good throat slitting, do you not, Orestes?”
The King squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if he had made a mistake standing out in the open. But he barely had time to consider what other alternative he had, when another voice came from beside him.
“Surely there are other people you need to torment,” sighed Apollo waving a hand dismissively towards the hags. “You are disturbing the music. Come back in an hour, when we have eaten. He will let you torment him then, will you not, Orestes?”
“We seek only what he deserves.”
“Yes, yes. You are the harbingers of vengeance. We have heard it all before.”
Orestes was torn between laughing and crying. Just as Apollo had said, the Erinyes had been waiting for him when they left the temple. Angered at the God for stealing away their plaything, they had, for a while, thrown their worst at him. But with Apollo by his side, he felt stronger. He had pulled his shoulders
back as he had returned to the ship and managed, for the most part, to stop himself from weeping at the sight of them. Perhaps it was simply having someone else who could see them—someone who was not afraid of them.
“Do they have names?” Pylades asked, poking at the air, as if he might manage to strike one with his finger.
“Creatures like this do not deserve such consideration. The way they behave is reprehensible. No wonder poor Orestes thought he had gone mad. I think I would go insane if I had to listen to that drivel all day. Why not try a song you ghastly hags? You never know, you might have a talent for it.”
“Can you still taste the blood, Orestes? Can you still see the way the light faded from her eyes?” They glared at him as they spoke, and the familiar churn of fear started in his stomach, but Apollo swept in again.
“Please, think of some new lines. He killed his mother. We know that. And he is devastated. Even a fool could tell. If this is the type of man you seek vengeance from, I fear you have missed the mark by quite a distance. Besides, your vernacular is unimaginative and repetitive. I am the God of Poetry, remember.”
With a hiss, one of the Erinyes twisted around, only inches from his face.
“Perhaps, next time, we will seek vengeance from one of the gods, for their wrongdoings.”
“Good luck with that,” Apollo replied.
The banter helped Orestes, yet he still struggled to see what could be achieved by another god, if the mighty Apollo could not rid him of their presence.
“Do you think I am destined to have them torment me throughout all eternity?” he asked Pylades, that night. The wind had grown even stronger, bringing thick clouds that had darkened the sky long before sunset. Now, as midnight approached, a storm was raging, with waves crashing over the hull and slamming the ship first one way and then the other. They had hidden themselves away below deck, in one of the smallest cabins, where they held each other beneath a thin blanket. Yet the Erinyes still taunted him, their eyes peering through the cracks in the wooden door, their fingernails poking up through the floorboards.
“Apollo will not rest until you are rid of them. He said as much.”
“But if he cannot do anything ...”
“Then I will march up Olympus and demand Zeus himself throws them back down where they belong.”
Orestes attempted a smile, but it faltered. Another question had been playing on his mind for days now, since Electra first brought it up in Delphi. He had not wanted to share it, for fear of what the answer might be. But now he felt another opinion on the matter could not be worse than the voice in his own head, not to mention the other three.
“Do you think what Electra said is true?” he asked. “That my mother sent them? That she wishes me to be punished?” He screwed his eyes closed, awaiting Pylades answer.
“I did not know your mother,” he said at last. “But I know you and I know what has been said about her. Firstly, if the gods themselves cannot control these things, then I find it difficult to believe that your mother could, even if the women in your family—well, if Electra is anything to go by—do consider themselves omnipotent. And we both know that is not the case.”
Orestes offered Pylades the smallest of smiles.
“You have told me so much of her, the way she cared for you and your siblings. You told me of the errors she made, too. She was only human, after all. I cannot imagine her pain at Aletes’ death, but that was my doing, not yours. She will also know the torment you suffered. She has no reason to send these things after you. I am certain of it.”
Whether it was the truth or not, Orestes did not know, but he made the decision to believe what Pylades told him, about his mother and about Apollo, just as he would choose to believe that his future would be free of the Erinyes. To think otherwise was unconscionable.
The next morning, the storm had broken and the wind had lessened. Calmer than it had been the entire journey, the water was, nonetheless, flecked with endless white caps that stretched from the ship to the horizon. Above them, the sky had cleared to the palest of blues and a flock of seabirds drifted in circles, trying to spot fish beneath the surface of the water. Not that Orestes was aware of this. He could see none of it.
In the hope of lessening the continuous torment of the Erinyes, Pylades had suggested he wear a scarf around his eyes and ears, to deaden his senses. The idea had not immediately appealed to him. With them vying for his death, being unable to see where they were unnerved him even more. Yet he had been so keen for him to try. And in truth it did help a little, if only because it meant Pylades needed to hold him close to keep him steady.
Noises came through the fabric, muffled at first, then clearer, as his ears adjusted themselves. The squawking of the seagulls, the slapping of the oars, as they hit the water with a regular beat. He controlled his breathing to match their rhythm. Soon, new sounds—the clamour of many voices and the calling of traders—made him imagine he could be standing in the centre of the citadel in Mycenae. Yet he knew exactly where they must be—Athens.
“Are we there?” he asked Pylades, his heart skipping a beat with anticipation, for the first time in months.
“Yes, we have just reached the port,” he replied.
“You can see it from here?”
“Yes, my love. I can see it.”
Even fear of the Erinyes could not persuade him to keep his blindfold on any longer. His eyes pricked with tears as he gazed out at the great city. Whether the Erinyes were there or not, he did not care, his heart was so full.
As the ship docked, the four of them prepared to disembark, the mortals’ few belongings carried in satchels, worn by Pylades and Electra.
“Wow, this makes Delphi look like a market town, no offence,” Electra said, rejecting Pylades hand, as she stepped onto the gangplank.
“Yes, it would seem my half-sister’s followers have been busy building, to bolster her already large ego no doubt. Remember she is the Goddess of Wisdom, not humility,” Apollo responded with a smile. “My followers prefer to spend their time creating art or composing music. Gargantuan buildings, or timeless beauty? I know which I would choose. But each to their own.”
But these were no mere buildings, however easily Apollo dismissed them. There was no denying the artistry in what stood before them. Domes and archways, intricate and ornate, yet so delicate that it seemed music could have flowed through the very stonework. Pillars, carved with such detail, that Orestes struggled to believe that any stone mason could live long enough to achieve such craftsmanship. Yes, this was art. The entire city was a testament to it. This was Athens.
Rumours of the God’s imminent arrival had somehow reached shore ahead of them. As they staggered onto the dockside, their legs not yet used to solid ground, people rushed towards them. Orestes had been used to seeing such displays of tribute, people flocking to his mother or King Strophius, when they had walked through their kingdoms. They would barely acknowledge the homage, as rich and poor, men and women, would all come to seek the favour of their ruler. Their gifts might be simple—fruits, breads, occasionally trinkets from the richer citizens—or more valuable, from those who hoped for something in return. Really large gifts would be reserved for ceremonies in public halls, where their display could be admired by all.
How different it was with Apollo. Showing the same level of courtesy to every person who came to him, whether dressed in rags or silks, he accepted the gifts that they brought with grace. With endless thanks, he took their offerings which, along with more modest items, included pieces of art and small instruments, fine vases and barrels of wine. He ordered everything taken back to the ship, to return with him to Olympus. Whether his gratitude was genuine or not, Orestes found he did not care. His admiration had grown immensely for a god who would act this way, who seemed to really care for mere mortals.
When the crowds gradually started dispersing, he replaced the scarf around his eyes and ears.
“Do not leave my side,” he begged, taking Pylades�
�� hand and squeezing it tightly as they started their journey up to the temple. This would be an ideal time for the Erinyes to make another play for him. And, with such narrow paths and sheer drops to the boulders below, it would be the perfect place for them to achieve their mission.
“You know I will never leave you,” his lover replied, guiding him upwards.
“Yes he will, and when he is gone, we will have you all to ourselves,” one of the Erinyes piped up.
“One quick push is all it would take. We can do that, you know.”
His steps faltered.
“It is still a long way to the temple,” Pylades said, with concern. “Would you like me to carry you? Or shall I fetch a mule?”
“No, I can do this,” he replied, trying to block out the jeers.
“Good,” Apollo said. “My sister respects brave men.”
Finding an even footing on the rocky surface, while ignoring the jibes of creatures of the Underworld, would not have been an easy task even with sight, yet he trusted Pylades and his sister not to let him fall. Step by careful step, they made the ascent. The air was crisp and clean and he wished he could stop and admire the view that must be stretching out below them now. But there would be time enough for that later, he hoped, when they would be free to enjoy it all.
Finally, breathless but not defeated, they stopped.
“We are here,” Electra said. “We have reached the temple.”
The excitement that he had first felt on arrival in Athens returned, although with new trepidation. Hands trembling, he pulled down his blindfold. Even the presence of the Erinyes could not detract from the magnificence of the building in front of him.
The sand-coloured stone gleamed, as though imbued with the ichor of the gods. Light reflected from every angle. A warmth rose up from the earth, causing his skin to tingle. He felt that something more powerful than he had ever encountered was housed in these walls. However much humankind might fail, whatever might fall, this place, this magnificent acropolis, would outlast everything.
“It is… all I ever dreamed it would be.”
