Trying War

by S. D. Gentill

  “Why is she here?” Lycon asked curiously.

  Nikias shrugged. “She came with her brother. She is not cursed, but she nurses him in his torment. Only she can talk him from the worst of his madness.”

  It was nearly dark now, and the air had begun to grow damp.

  “We must go in,” Demus said gravely. “At night it is only the walls of the temple that keep the Erinyes away. This mountain belongs to them.”

  “You should come in,” Nikias insisted.

  “There are no murderers among us,” Cadmus said again.

  “Even so.” Nikias glanced again at the sky. “The sisters follow the scent of wronged blood to this place and they are resentful of the refuge it gives. I would not be outside the temple walls at night.”

  Cadmus opened his mouth to refuse again, but Hero spoke first. “We shall shelter with you this night,” she said. “Let the Erinyes find no one when they search around the temple.” Her gaze flickered almost imperceptibly to Machaon.

  Lycon agreed with his sister. “Let us not tempt the fates.”

  And so Hero prevailed, and they entered the temple of the Erinyes, into which, those to whom it was dedicated could not go. The inner sanctum was large. Its hewn halls were lit by torches and pits in which burned small fires. Despite the number of men within, there was a hush to the place.

  In the darkness Hero’s eyes failed her, and she did not see the violent, lecherous gazes that followed them. But her brothers did, and they kept her and Oenone between them, almost hidden behind a shield of their own bodies. Intermittently a scuffle would break out. It seemed the inhabitants of the temple had indeed developed a code of vigilance to keep order amongst murderers, and those who could not control their impulse for violence were themselves controlled.

  They found a place against the wall, beside a fire pit that glowed bright and warm. Demus and Nikias stayed with them and introduced a number of the others… all murderers. Their stories were varied—some had killed on impulse and in rage, some had killed by accident or mistake. Still others had taken life with intent, and in pursuit of vengeance. But however they committed their homicide, it seemed they were all imprisoned in the temple by their desperation to get away from the endless torment of the dreaded sisters of retribution. Madness had taken some of them more than others. Demus and Nikias were as lucid as any man but there were many who rocked and drooled, who laughed at nothing, and others who cried like children. Most disturbing were the men who simply watched and waited.

  An ancient figure fumbled his way to their fire. His eyes had no colour, and it was soon apparent that the old man was blind. “I heard the speech of sane men,” he announced, grinning. “And I came to see who had joined our community of the damned.”

  “This is Oedipus, once king of Thebes,” Demus introduced. “He is a dead man, but at least he is not mad.”

  “You speak well for a dead man, my Lord,” Lycon ventured.

  “And yet I am dead and buried,” Oedipus chortled. “Theseus erected quite a fabulous tomb for me, though I have never seen it.”

  “How exactly did you die?” Cadmus asked, intrigued.

  The old man turned towards his voice and answered sadly. “I died saving my daughters.”

  Demus and Nikias rolled their eyes. Apparently they had heard the story many times before.

  “You see, unlike my ungrateful sons, my daughters were devoted to me. When I pierced my eyes with the brooch of my beloved, my youngest girl, Antigone, became my guide.”

  Hero barely stifled her horror. “You pierced your own eyes—but why, my Lord?”

  Oedipus nodded. “I had just learned I was married to my own mother… I was a little distraught.”

  “You married your mother?” Lycon looked at the wizened man in horror. “Did you not realise?”

  Oedipus did not seem offended. “I did wonder about my sons from time to time—they were uncommonly short and dull-witted—but my daughters were beautiful and clever so I did not dwell on it.” He shrugged. “I was adopted, you see, so I had no idea that Jocasta of Thebes had given birth to me… she was a little old but when you are offered the Queen of Thebes…” Oedipus sighed.

  “So you’re blind,” said Lycon. “But why are you dead?”

  Oedipus smiled again. “The same prophecy which had told that I would marry my mother, also decreed that my death would bring victory in war to the country in which I died and was buried.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, you can see how that was problematic. Everybody wanted me to die in their back garden.”

  “So you falsified your death?” Hero asked uncomfortably, sure that such a thing was blasphemous.

  “Theseus assisted me. He wished to rally an army and thought a guarantee of victory would help his cause. I informed my daughters that I was about to die but would do so within Athens at a place that only Theseus knew… that way my war-winning bones would not be disturbed by ambitious kings.”

  “But why could you not tell your daughters what you intended?” Hero cried. “Surely they would rejoice that you lived.”

  Oedipus reached for her, exploring her face with his withered hands. “You sound like my girl Antigone,” he said. “I did not tell them because I loved them. I did not wish them to waste their lives following a cursed blind man as he wandered Greece. But they would not leave my side. Dying was the only way I could allow them to live.”

  “And so now you’re here?” Cadmus asked, wondering why anyone not cursed by the Erinyes would choose to live in the temple.

  “Initially I came here hoping to see my sons again.”

  “Your sons? Why would they come here?”

  “I cursed them… brought the Erinyes upon them for their neglect of me.”

  Hero gasped, glaring at the old man in dismay. Of course he couldn’t see that he had offended her and smiled happily at them all.

  “But you wanted to see them again?” Machaon asked, confused.

  “Of course. I am a good father. I thought by the time they got here, they might have learned their lesson and I could relent and forgive them.” He shook his head wearily. “Regrettably, they killed each other before I could do so… as I said—dull-witted.” He shrugged, resigned. “As a parent you do the best you can. If you are too kind your sons are spoiled, and weak, if you are too hard they are homicidal madmen who kill each other.”

  “My brothers are neither,” Hero muttered without thought.

  The sons of Agelaus looked up, surprised. Hero loved them—they knew that—but she was sparing with her praise. The declaration that they were neither weak nor homicidal was, from their sister’s lips, lavish tribute indeed.

  Perhaps their alarm caused Nikias to think that Oedipus had struck some nerve. “You have not said why you have come to this desolate place,” he said, passing around slices of meat cut from a joint which roasted over the fire. It seemed that the men in the temple survived on the beasts that the devout citizens of Athens regularly sacrificed to the Erinyes.

  Lycon moved closer to Hero, noting the cold eyes which were upon her. “We seek the gods.”

  Demus was clearly amused. “There are no gods here, boy.” He laughed. “Nikias and I have been all over the mountain following Orestes—we have seen many things, but no gods.”

  “But this place is sacred to the gods…”

  “Superstitious nonsense! Even the Pantheon shuns the merciless ones.”

  “Are you sure?” Cadmus asked, wondering again if Medea had deceived them.

  Demus nodded. “Only the mad and condemned inhabit this rock.”

  “The gods often take other forms,” Hero said hopefully. “Zeus the Thunderer has been a ram and an eagle; Poseidon the Earthshaker, a horse… perhaps you have simply not known them when you saw them in another guise?”

  “The gods have abandoned us.” Electra, the fair sister of Orestes, walked out of the shadows and approached their fire. Her words were flat and definite. “We are the accursed.”


  “Not you, Electra,” Nikias responded as she sat with them. “You are here only because Orestes is.”

  “My father would have wanted me to remain by my brother’s side,” she said. “And he was right in all things. Orestes committed his deed at my urging, and now his mind is gone. Ah me, how much our mother destroyed when she slew my beloved father!”

  “And who exactly did Orestes kill?” Cadmus asked slowly.

  “He took the life of she who killed my father.”

  “He murdered his mother?” Cadmus found it hard to keep the censure from his voice.

  “Who had slain his king and father!” Electra said angrily. “What wretched world is this where the greatest king of Greece, Lord of Mycenae, can be so murdered and not avenged?”

  “Mycenae?” Machaon gazed upon her with sudden realisation. “Agamemnon? Your father was Agamemnon?”

  The Herdsmen knew of Agamemnon—he had led the kings who had laid siege to Troy. His silk-draped tent had occupied the most sheltered place on the beaches of the Trojan harbour and from there he had waged his war with all the kings of Greece at his beck and call.

  “You knew my father?” Electra’s face lit up and briefly, she became lovely. “What fortunate blessed men you are to have known Agamemnon!”

  “We know only of him,” Machaon said cautiously.

  Electra nodded emphatically. “Of course… it is unlikely that men of your lowly station would have called my father ‘friend’, but you are fortunate at least to have been his subjects once. Why even Olympus knows of Agamemnon, who united the Greek kingdoms against Troy, who returned Helen to her rightful husband and punished the despicable man who abducted her from Sparta.”

  “Helen wished to be with Paris!” Oenone flared in anger. “He did not take her against her will.”

  Electra turned disdainfully to the nymph. “Aphrodite put some mad passion in my aunt’s heart, she was not in her right mind. Now she can only blush with shame that she was so bewitched by Paris.”

  “Well, she should blush with shame!” Oenone said.

  Cadmus shot Oenone a warning glance. He was grateful that, despite everything, she would defend Paris, but they could not reveal that they were not Greek.

  Electra glowered, seething with royal displeasure. But the insult was not enough to tempt her to leave this gathering where the fame of her father was known. She sat with them for some time as she spoke of Agamemnon, once king of Mycenae and overlord of Greece. She boasted of his greatness, his conquests and his power. The Herdsmen listened quietly. Agamemnon’s greatest victory was the destruction of their home, the death and enslavement of their people.

  Machaon put his arm about Hero, holding her close. They could not admit that they had seen the war which Electra painted with such valour and glory. He could feel the stiffness in his sister’s slight frame and he knew the story hurt her still.

  “For how long have the Erinyes pursued Orestes?” Lycon asked, trying to take the subject from the humiliation of Troy.

  “Four long cycles of the moon have they tormented him… since the night he avenged my father.” Electra glanced back at Orestes who slept fitfully not far away. “My brother was the very best of Achaean manhood, strong and brave and handsome—much like my father. Clytaemnestra’s shade called the Erinyes to avenge her, and they tortured him into the broken creature you see now.”

  Machaon felt the press of Cadmus’ hand on his shoulder, a wordless fraternal oath that this would not be his fate. He smiled faintly in his brother’s direction. The hopelessness of this place was heavy and pervading, but, unlike the men who lived here, Machaon was hidden. He would not despair.

  Electra looked searchingly at Machaon, her sharp eyes lingered on the faded welts on his neck and his arms. Her scrutiny was intense. She chewed her finger thoughtfully. “You are not Athenian,” she said. “Why are you here in this cave of the damned?”

  “We were seeking the gods,” Lycon replied evenly, “when we met your brother.”

  “Why were you looking for the gods?”

  “We’re religious.”

  Electra’s eyes flashed. “What are you hiding? My father taught me to discern the soft-tongued deceiver…” She turned back to Machaon. “You have known the loathsome sisters,” she accused. “I see it in your eyes… how do you hold them back?”

  “I don’t need to hold them back,” Machaon said, aware that desperate men were listening.

  Oenone spoke calmly, condescendingly. “It is natural that in your desire to save your brother, you see hope where there is none.”

  Electra ignored her. “Do you know how to appease the Erinyes?” she demanded of Machaon.

  “I wish I did,” he answered truthfully. “But I do not.”

  “You lie… This man has the secret we all seek,” she shouted, “and he will not share it!”

  Cadmus and Lycon placed their hands on the hilts of their swords as the accusation rippled among the weary murderers.

  “Your brother’s madness is infecting you, Electra,” Nikias said loudly. “What you are suggesting is not possible. You sought help in Delphi before you came here, and Orestes is still mad. Even Apollo cannot deny the Erinyes their prey. There is no escape… for any of us.”

  Demus agreed. “It has been many years since I was able to talk with uncursed men, Electra. Do not disturb my pleasure in it.”

  “Fools!” Electra spat. “You are content to rot in this place… mere shadows of men.”

  Perhaps disturbed by the rise of her voice, Orestes stirred in his slumber and called to his sister. “Electra, where have you gone? My footsteps are bloody, Electra… it is why they follow…”

  Electra rose to return to him, casting a last disgusted glance at the Herdsmen. “I know you hide something.”

  “Do not let Electra’s notions disturb you,” Demus said when she’d gone. “The poor girl is almost as mad as her brother.”

  “Is there no hope for you?” Hero asked looking sadly at Nikias. He was so young—maybe a year older than Lycon, but younger than Cadmus and Machaon.

  “This is our lot,” Demus replied. He lowered his voice. “There are some men here who are best confined. He nodded towards a pillar carved with the fanged faces of the sisters. A man leant casually against it, watching Electra like a buzzard over car r ion. “That is Marcos of Corinth. He butchered every woman in his family. He began with his daughters… finally he cut the throat of his mother. She cursed him as she died and the Erinyes hounded him here. If they hadn’t, many more may have died at his hand.”

  “But what of you… and Nikias?” Hero asked. “Must you spend your lives confined with men like him?”

  Nikias smiled at her. “You have a kind heart, little sister,” he said. “But we too have offended the gods. I fought with my brother and killed him, though I did not intend to do so. My mother cursed me. Demus killed his father with a misaimed arrow… his sister cursed him. Perhaps this is how we must atone… we are needed here. We watch the madmen like Orestes. We protect Electra and other innocents from men like Marcos. There are more good men here than bad. Perhaps in time we shall appease the angry goddesses with our vigilance and walk free of this place.”

  Hero wept now for the fate of these gentle murderers. It did not seem fair.

  The sons of Agelaus, too, were moved and uneasy. But Medea’s power had left with her and there was no solution they could offer.

  Hero sank into Machaon’s strong shoulder, comforted by the quiet, protective presence of him. His body was tense and watchful as he told her to sleep. Lycon sat on the other side of her and Cadmus stayed close to Oenone. Hero closed her eyes. She was resolved to save Machaon. She knew not why the Pantheon had turned from the good men who lived trapped in the temple, but she would make the gods help her brother. This would not be his end.

  And so the children of Agelaus and the nymph, Oenone, passed the night in the company of murderers. In the darkness outside, Alecto held aloft her torch as Megaera cracked her whip
against the temple walls and Tisiphone screamed in frustration.

  It is said there is a spring, on the banks of which Halirrhothios deflowered Alcippe.

  Pausanias, Description of Greece, Book 1

  BOOK XXIII

  HERO HELD TIGHTLY ONTO LYCON’S hand with both of hers as she stumbled down the steps from the temple. It was still dark as Eos had not yet lightened the sky with her glowing touch. If she could have seen them, Hero might have noticed that the stars had begun to fade. But she could see almost nothing and she relied on her brothers to guide her. Still, her step was light and soundless for she was a child of the Herdsmen.

  For the sons of Agelaus the night in the temple had been sleepless. The sharpness of their eyes had made them aware of things that Hero could not see—the greedy, malevolent gazes of evil men. They had been protected as Demus promised, but they were relying on the nobility of strangers in this place of the damned. It was only the ever-present sounds of the Erinyes outside the temple walls that had kept them within. At the first sign that the sisters had departed to torment victims elsewhere, the Herdsmen had roused Hero and they had slipped silently from the shrine.

  Oenone had not slept either. She had sat wakeful and unspeaking since Electra had first mentioned Paris. The Herdsmen had been gentle with her, even Cadmus had softened. They could not undo what Paris had done, and though they did not excuse him with claims of bewitchment, they could not hate him either. They could only be kind to the woman he had wronged, and who so obviously loved him still.

  They had left Demus and Nikias with regret that they could not help them. Machaon glanced back at the temple wondering fleetingly if he would return, if he too would see out his days hiding from the Erinyes in this place. It worried him, for he knew his brothers would not let him come alone and Electra’s fate was not what he would wish for them or for Hero.

  They made their way into the forest, alert for madmen in the trees as well as all other threats, and searched for a path up the great hill.

  As rosy-armed Eos stretched lazily over the horizon, the darkness retreated and they could see the mist into which they had climbed. It was neither cold nor damp, thrown over the hill like a fine gossamer veil.