The Young Lion

by Laura Gill

  “Whose side are you on?” she asked sharply.

  Why did everything always have to be sides with her? “Father will kill Aegisthus,” I said.

  Elektra fixed me with her intense stare. “And?”

  I should not have gone to her, but left her alone with her violent fantasies. “She’s our mother.”

  “She’s nothing!” Elektra spat. “She never nursed us at her breast, never cared anything about us. Father’s a great man, High King of Mycenae, Argos, and Achaea, but she cuckolds him with that snake, that abomination! She should be punished. She should be flogged and cut to pieces and thrown to the dogs like she deserves!” Hate distorted her sixteen-year-old face, and her eyes gleamed with feral glee. “I’m going to denounce her when he comes, and tell him all about her crimes.”

  Her anticipation was so monstrous, it sickened me; clearly she wanted to hold the knife herself. She wanted to cut into the womb that bore her, a mortal sin for which she would have been hounded by the Erinyes, the dreadful Daughters of Night. “Father already knows what she’s done.”

  Elektra moved then, grasped my arm to hold me there. “You have to help me.” Her fingers dug hard into my flesh. “You’re his only son. He’ll listen to you.” She had not heard a word I said.

  I wrenched free. “Leave me alone!”

  As I started to retreat, she lashed me with a stinging taunt. “Coward!”

  I flinched, but did not rise to the bait. She was delusional, feeding on her hate, slowly losing her mind up there waiting for Father.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Afterward, I remembered that day in bits and pieces.

  There were no drills that morning, as Philaretos was needed elsewhere to prepare for tomorrow’s procession. I went straight to my other lessons, but found it impossible to focus on geography or economics.

  Timon sighed over my restlessness. “Your mother gave strict instructions for me to keep you occupied, but obviously you are not going to accomplish anything like this. Go exercise. Get some rest, and then perhaps you can come back and we will try again.”

  Pangs of guilt warred with my relief. “Will you get in trouble?” I asked.

  He closed the folding tablet to set it aside. “As long as you stay within the palaestra or keep to your room, and do not go wandering around, I suppose it should be all right.” He winked, and gave me a mischievous smile. “Go ahead.”

  No one was on the sand. I could stretch and jog and air box to my heart’s content. Tomorrow at this time, I would be dressed in my finest clothes and waiting with my sisters in the great court for Father’s arrival. He would be wearing his gleaming armor, and a boar tusk helmet with a splendid crest, and his cloak of royal purple. His gilded chariot would pass under the Lion Gate to thunderous applause, and then he would climb out, ascend the stairs to the great court, and then...

  What would he think when he saw me? I was tall for a twelve-year-old, well-built, and intelligent, but perhaps he would find some fault with me. Perhaps I would fumble and forget my words when it came time to address him. Timon urged me not to worry. “You are his son,” he said reassuringly. “He wrote to you even when he was busy with other matters, and more than once demonstrated his approval. Why should he not like you?”

  But Hermione had told me that Agamemnon could be cold and harsh with those who did not meet his exacting standards, even the young children of his own house. “He had no patience at all for me and my brother when he visited Sparta,” she said, “and told our grandmother to take us away.” Elektra had never mentioned anything like that. For her, everything our father did was golden.

  So the feeling remained, dogging me like an ill omen. Father would expect perfection from his only son and heir. Perhaps I would not measure up.

  I exercised for an hour, then, winded and sweating, decided to go upstairs to wash before returning to my lessons; staying there was unwise. Timon would get in trouble, no matter what he me. Therefore, I moved quickly and quietly through the palace, hoping not to encounter my mother or her women.

  A strident but harsh female voice sent me scurrying into the shadows to hide. Elektra. “Stop dawdling and come on!” she barked.

  I sucked in a breath and concentrated on staying invisible. Elektra appeared in the corridor, dragging a reluctant Chrysothemis with her. “Let me go,” Chrysothemis whined. “I want to finish my hem.”

  “Shut up.” Elektra was red-faced and determined, as she had been yesterday evening. “We’re going to see what’s going on.”

  Chrysothemis kept protesting. “You heard what Hermione said. It can’t be Father. Not until tomorrow.”

  “What does she know?”

  As they vanished around a corner, the echoes remained. It can’t be Father. Not until tomorrow. What was going on? I would have broken my cover and raced after Elektra to ask, but yesterday’s barb still stung deeply. I had not spoken to her since then, and, sensing she was about to make trouble, decided not to follow.

  Nonetheless, the exchange aroused my interest. Elektra was delusional again, thinking Father was on his way home at this very moment. Had he been, we would have been scrubbed, dressed in our finest, and waiting for him in the great court.

  I forgot about returning to Timon, and crept across the deserted great court to the megaron, whose doors stood ajar to admit servants preparing for tomorrow’s homecoming. Entering the vestibule, and peering into the hall beyond, I found the work already done. Garlands of crocus, narcissus, and daisies twined the central pillars. Resinous pinewood crackled upon the hearth. A tawny lion skin and purple cushions covered the throne. A glint of gold revealed Father’s lion’s head rhyton and a mixing bowl sitting on the offering table before the hearth.

  I ventured inside for a closer look, taking care to keep to the left wall directly under the gallery, where my sisters were still arguing with each other.

  “What are you doing here?” Mother’s voice startled me. “Didn’t I order you to stay out of the way?” A quick glance around the megaron told me I was alone. She was reprimanding my sisters.

  Elektra challenged her. “Father’s coming home! Yes, he is! I saw his chariot coming up the road!” No, she had seen what she had wanted to see. Was she so hungry for Mother’s comeuppance that she could not wait another day? “He’s going to kill you!”

  I heard a sharp slap, and a wounded yelp. “Go back to the women’s quarters and stay there!” Mother ordered. Muffled whimpering from Chrysothemis, a muttered curse, then footfalls overhead, the sound of someone storming from the gallery. Let Elektra stew. She deserved it for instigating trouble.

  Someone entered the megaron behind me. I gave another start, fearing it might be Mother, then relaxed upon realizing it was only the bath slaves. Five of them balanced water jars on their shoulders, while a sixth carried unguents and linen towels. I found their appearance mystifying; the bath did not have to be filled until tomorrow. Amazed, I followed them to the lustral bath, and watched from the doorway as they poured steaming water into the tub. A bleat drew my attention to the altar, where the lamb stood tethered and awaiting the sacrifice; the knife sat upon the stone slab.

  This was all wrong. I addressed the bath slaves. “Why are you filling the bath? The High King is coming tomorrow.”

  The girl arranging the towels shook her head. “That’s what the queen ordered, my lord.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Having done their work, the women withdrew, leaving me alone with the lamb and my doubts in the scented and sultry air. There must have been some mistake. Maybe Elektra was right, and Father was coming home today, but where were the crowds, the many guests in their finery, and all the fanfare due a High King? And why had we, the royal children, been ordered to stay out of the way?

  A man’s familiar voice right outside the door alarmed me. “Philaretos is on his way. I’ll be in here.”

  Aegisthus. I froze. There was no escape, and nowhere else to hide except in a little s
torage alcove or the privy. I ducked behind the curtain into the privy just as he entered. Philaretos was coming. Of course, he had to consult with Mother about the disposition of the sentries during Father’s triumphal procession; people would cram the route, and try to get too close to the High King’s chariot.

  Meanwhile, Aegisthus inspected the bath water and altar, and even stroked the lamb behind the ears. “It’ll all be over soon, little one.” Then, he went into the alcove, drew the curtain after him, and did not come out again. What was he doing in there? If Father was coming home, then Aegisthus was the very last person he would want to see. An uneasy shiver raised goose flesh all over my body. And why in the lustral bath, of all places?

  I slid back against the wall, and hugged myself with both arms as I wondered what to do. Should I tiptoe out and try to see what was going on? Aegisthus might be peeking out through his curtain, as he waited for something—but what? He might very well see or hear me move, and catch me, and I knew instinctively that I did not want to be caught.

  A second man’s voice bellowed from the megaron. “Where is that whore who calls herself my wife?”

  Afraid, and excited, I held my breath; my heart almost forgot to beat. It was Father’s voice, it had to be! Elektra had been right all along. Curse Aegisthus in his alcove! I wanted to run out to him and fly into his arms, to see whether my memories of him matched the reality.

  Surely I could run faster than Aegisthus, who would not be expecting me or anyone else to dash from the bath; it was not fear of him which held me back. Father’s confrontation roar confirmed that he was not in a welcoming mood, and Hermione had told me what he was like when something or someone, even his own relatives, displeased him; he would not want to see me now. It was as Mother had forewarned. I should not have been there.

  Mother was out there with him, trying to soothe his anger, and reason with him. “Forgive me for lying, my lord. I withheld the news for fear of your anger. I did not want our children to see their father kill their mother the way you and Menelaus saw your father murder your mother.”

  Father rumbled something indistinct. Mother grew irritated, apparently about a concubine he had brought home with him, and he challenged her. “Do I detect a hint of willfulness?” he barked. “And all that pretty talk about making amends! I’m beginning to think you don’t really mean it.”

  “My lord, you honestly cannot expect me to be happy about the woman.” Mother’s voice gradually lost its tightness until she was contrite again. “Orestes has chosen the finest lamb from your flocks for the sacrifice, and I have a magnificent purple robe laid out for you to wear once you have been purified.”

  I heard double footfalls, a woman’s bangles clinking together, and creaking leather and bronze. They were coming this way! Aegisthus... Another fierce urge to bolt from my hiding place, dash out and warn Father that his enemy was hiding within was smothered by my lingering fear. My limbs refused to obey. I became impotent, unable to do more than lean against the doorjamb, and peek out through the curtain.

  I saw Father first. He filled the doorway: tall and barrel-chested, with a liberal salting of gray in his black beard. So that was him! My heart sank a little, because he was nothing at all like the glorious, laughing man who inhabited my memory. When he fumbled with his bronze cuirass, he turned enough to reveal the dark circles under his eyes, and the careworn lines furrowing his brow and mouth; he looked exhausted and grumpy, certainly not like a man who would appreciate meeting an adventuresome boy who was not even properly dressed.

  Mother entered behind him. She wore her best flounced skirt and bodice, and her hair was arranged in elaborate ringlets; she had known all along that he was coming, and spent the morning at her dressing table. Now she was smiling, deferring to her husband like a dutiful wife, while her lover was hiding but a few feet away. I had a terrible, sinking feeling that Father should not be removing his cuirass.

  Go away! I thought frantically. Put your armor back on and go back to Tiryns! Something isn’t right here.

  Father let the cuirass drop to the floor beside his sword. When he pulled the scarlet tunic over his head, I saw old scars, and nicks, and plugs seaming his flesh; each one probably had its own story.

  Naked, he nodded toward the lamb and the prepared altar. “It’s a good animal. I see Orestes chose the king’s knife. Good boy.” I’m right here! “I want to see him after the sacrifice.”

  He stepped into the bath, crouched down, and, releasing a long sigh of contentment, he closed his eyes and leaned back in the water. Mother dismissed the two bath slaves who had entered with her. “I will attend the king myself.” She began sorting through the towels.

  “Call them back,” Father mumbled. “Your heart isn’t in this.”

  “You have no idea what is in my heart.” She kept her tone mellow, yet her reply conveyed a darker undertone that kept me on edge. “We should have spoken long ago.”

  “You burned my letters, as I recall.”

  I studied the way he sluiced steaming water onto his hirsute chest and arms and lolled his head. Mother’s actions remained peripheral. I knew they would argue again, because there was too much between them to simply brush aside, but the recriminations would come later, when they were upstairs. Now they were skirting around each other, scenting the air, probing for weaknesses.

  Mother made a swift, sudden movement. A whitish mass blurred into view. Father started up, grunting and sloshing in the water, but he was already tangled in the fisherman’s net, and she was pulling the line tight.

  When she had done so, she reached among the towels for that which she had concealed underneath. The flicker of the oil lamps gleamed off polished bronze. Gripping the labrys in both hands, she stepped to the edge of the tub, and raised it above her head. No!

  “Clytaemnestra!” he bellowed.

  “This is for Iphigenia!” No!

  And then, she brought the labrys down, and she kept doing it, striking through his flailing and shouting, and with each blow she cast blood off onto the walls and ceiling. No! I crammed my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming.

  I was shaking violently. My tears blurred the violent scene, but nothing could muffle the sound of the labrys squelching through flesh and muscle, and cracking bones. Coward! Elektra was right, so right! I could do nothing but watch.

  There was shouting in the megaron, and the sound of men fighting. Father’s retainers must be out there, trying to reach him. Philaretos is on his way. I recalled Aegisthus’s words, and attached to them a sinister undertone; it would take more than one angry woman to bring down the High King. So the Master of Arms had turned traitor, too.

  Aegisthus emerged from the alcove and took the knife from the altar. Oh, no, no! My limbs could no longer support my weight. I slid helplessly to the floor.

  I knuckled the tears from my eyes in order to see better, and then wished I had not. The bath water was dyed red with blood, and the floor stained where the water had sloshed out. Father groaned from underneath the net, still alive despite the savage blows Mother had rained down on him.

  Aegisthus leaned against the edge of the tub. “Do you know who I am?” Father gurgled something unintelligible. “I am Aegisthus, son of Thyestes. And this—” He held up the knife. “This is for my father.” He stabbed through the net. I heard Father moan, then saw the blade emerge, slick and scarlet with blood. “And this is for my mother, whom you mocked.” Stab. “And this is for my brothers.” Again and again. “Die, you dog!”

  Father no longer moved. Mother stood calmly by, letting Aegisthus’s violence run its course, until it burnt out, and he withdrew, sated. “Have you done enough?” she asked quietly.

  “Have you?” he shot back.

  A silence fell between them; it allowed me to listen, and realize that the fight in the megaron had end. All I heard now was a woman’s muffled sobs, and my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

  Aegisthus slowly straightened, filled his lungs with air, exulting in the f
act that he was still breathing, and his enemy was not. He and Mother had become demons, spattered all over with blood and gore. I shrank back. My lips moved in a soundless prayer against evil.

  “What was that?” Aegisthus said.

  Mother glanced around the room; her gaze settled on the curtain. I held my breath. She must be able to see me, shadowed through the linen. No! I’m not ready to die. Please...

  “There must be a mouse in the privy.” Her mouth broadened in a ghastly smile, and she extended her arm to Aegisthus. “Come, my dear. We have other matters to attend to.”

  “A mouse, eh?” Aegisthus uttered a scornful laugh. “Well, then let the mice gnaw his bones.”

  They left, shutting the door behind them. I exhaled a sobbing breath. It took several moments and all my courage for me to able to stick my head out the curtain and see the destruction they had wrought.

  Father was a shapeless mass of netting and naked flesh slumped in the steaming water. One arm dangled over the side; blood ran from a dozen gashes and dripped from his fingertips onto the floor.

  A weak groan issued from the tub; the sound drove a spike into my heart. After all that, how could anyone possibly be alive? But he was. He twitched his fingers, shaking loose droplets of blood; the netting shifted with his slight movement. Then I heard a second groan that sounded like my name.

  I tried to wobble to my feet, yet could not. Elektra would have done it, would have run out there and wrestled the labrys from Mother’s hands, and saved him. Coward! I wept as I crawled on all fours toward the tub; the stucco flooring scoured my hands and knees, and my father’s blood, which was still warm and wet, clung to my skin and clothes. I was shaking so hard I thought I would be sick, right there like a weakling babe when he needed me most.

  A woman’s shriek from a megaron raised the hackles on the back of my neck. Father stirred at the sound, mumbled a name. “Cassandra...”

  After what seemed like forever, I reached the tub. I grasped Father’s wrist. His arm was gashed and gouged and broken in more than a dozen places from where he had tried to shield his head. Through the sodden net, I saw more wounds in his torso and shoulders; only a man with a hundred hands could have applied pressure to them all, and even then it might not have been enough. My heart fell at all the damage. Gore bobbed in the reddened water, blood dribbled from his mouth, and when he breathed, it was with a dreadful sucking sound. I knew that when a man coughed blood, something was torn inside him.