by Henry Treece
There was no believing anything after a while. Young boys grew into men and rigged up boats to follow their fathers, always vowing to send back news of what was happening; but the news never came, and the young ones went no one knew where. Not a house in Hellas but had some share in this uncertainty and loss. All able-bodied free men had gone; and after the first five years, even slaves began to put on airs and itch to go, too. And many of them did. Men are like that; they make great show of despising war, and saying that all differences can be settled by talk about the hearth-fire. Yet, deep down in them is a love of war; not of the fighting itself, perhaps, but of the freedom war gives them, to see other places and lie with other women. This is a fact, and is as old as man himself. Man is a great liar; he pretends to love his wife and his home, but in his heart he wants to wander a way, to fall in love again and again. With women it has always been different, for they need the warmth and the comfort of a settled place, where they can conceive and carry and bear their children. They need shelter, where they can suckle their babies; but men have no part in this. In the world, there are two races—men and women. If the gods would only undo the chains that bind us all, this would be seen clearly enough; one race would stay in one place and bear children, the other would roam and sing about the world. In my lifetime only one folk have ever dared to put this thought to the test, the Amazons. Knowing that men are as they are, these women sent them packing and led their own lives. This meant defending themselves, of course, and so they learned to ride and to fight, as well as they needed to. This is not difficult for a healthy young woman; it is only natural, in fact. Most women could ride and fight as well as most men, if the men would allow it. But men are so full of vanity and pride, they bring the women up to think that their place is away from swords and saddles, until, as the generations pass by, women come to take this part in life, being passive and lazy creatures by inclination.
I think that if the Hellene men had been away much longer in Troy, our women would all have become like the Amazons. As it was, they went half-way towards it. They began to pray entirely to the Mother, and neglected Zeus and Poseidon; they began to dress, as men would say, immodestly, and didn’t care who saw their secret bodies; they put on rags, like any careless warrior; they washed if they wished, but otherwise went dirty.
Few women I remember in those times but carried the scars of sword-play on their bodies; on thigh or chest or forearm. Many of the younger ones took up the fashion of tattooing their faces again, a custom which only the old savage folk of the hills had used; and it became a mark of womanhood to display a broken nose, or a hand with the forefinger gone, as often happened when one used the long slashing sword, which needed the finger across the guard to manage it. So that small member took the worst of the fight, and often got lost in the heat of the moment, without the loser knowing this till later, when the hand began to howl.
In all, the men were away from Hellas for ten years, a season less or more, and I think the women had got used to being without them. Women can do without men, but not men without women. That is strange, doctor, don’t you think? I see, by your shaking of the head, that you don’t follow me. Well, look at it this way—man is all the while itching, by day or by night, in winter and in summer. His body never gives him peace, and he will satisfy its hunger one way or the other, at any time. But women move at a different pace, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, in accordance with certain seasons of the blood. They are closer to nature. They are like their goddess, the moon, who begins as a curved bow of silver in the sky, and at last grows full and round, like a coin or a cheese. Then back she goes to a thin bow of silver in the sky; and so on, through most of her days. Only when she is full and round does she need that furious hunger of the blood to be satisfied; and then she takes what comes, until the quiet time when she shrinks back into the sky, closed and modest. It might be a slave, or the caresses of another woman like herself. I see, by your frowns, that I am disturbing you, doctor, but you must not feel like that. I am an old thing, worn out and beyond blushing. Have no thought for me; it is but a matter of words with me now, not feelings.. I speak of the world like a goddess, you know; as though I am looking down at it, but am no longer of it. So do not flush and turn away to gaze at things which are not there. Ha, I have caught you, my friend! I can see it! So, you can smile again, and I can go on with my tale.
17
in a way, Hellas had brought itself to the edge of madness by attacking Troy. No land can afford to send all its strong men away and still hope to stay sane, its rule left in the hands of old men, women, children, and slaves. Even though I was hardly more than sixteen years old, I could see that. Riding about the countryside with Rarus, as my mother allowed me to do, to keep me occupied, I saw many things happening in the villages that the lords and barons would never have permitted had they been back at home.
About Tegea, the slaves had taken control and had refused with smiles, to get in the harvest for two years. They had taken what they needed for the moment, and had let the corn re-seed itself as it pleased. ‘There, the olive groves had withered, and the vines had straggled, unpruned and wild, even into the windows of the houses. The noblefolk could do nothing about this, for they were all old or crippled, and lived like swine in hovels, while the slaves drank and gorged and fought each other into a condition of ruin.
At Eleusis, the air was heavy with terror, yet for another cause than slave-riot. Here, the women, slave and free, had seen a mass-vision one night, in which Mother Via had told them to leave the town and settle in the sacred groves. When Rarus and I rode through Eleusis, even only three years after the soldiers had left, the houses were already crumbling; roofs were moss-grown, water-conduits flooded streets and floors, woodwork rotted, rats ruled the dairies and the beasts bellowed in the fields, their udders full of agonising milk.
It was like this wherever we rode. But later in the hills it was worse. There, even as close at hand at Thaumasius, and Thomax where the Tanus rises, the folk had gone back a thousand years, ate grass and offals, painted their bodies with woad-juice, and went clad in deerskin or horsehide, whatever the season. No traders, not even the Phoenicians, dared visit them with cloth, for fear of being robbed or even flayed alive. And, as you know, the Phoenicians are usually willing to take a chance on almost anything, if there is profit of any sort to be had.
What troubled me more than all this waste and savagery was that the shrines of Zeus and Poseidon had been defiled. Many of them were used as common stables by villagers, who delighted in throwing mud against the images and in filling the libation cups with dirt. Worship became a mockery, and now the women called for the Feast of Dionysus at all seasons, not only at the grape-treading, which was the lawful time. Every female thing thought herself a Maenad, and the men of whatever age went about like hunted deer, starting at every shout or shadow.
You may wonder that my mother allowed us out in the country at such times. I have often thought of this myself; perhaps she had gone beyond caring; or perhaps, having had us tattooed across the forehead with the fish-sign of Poseidon, she thought we would be well enough guarded by the god. I do not know. Certainly, no harm befell us, and though the folk in the backlands did not respect us, they offered us no violence.
There were houses where we were welcome, of course, for the sake of great Agamemnon; houses in Laconica, and Pylus, and Hermione by the sea-shore. Yet, at Nemea, which is only a day’s walk from Mycenae, where the servants had always come out with milk or wine and honey-cakes, at the command of the lady there, Megara, we met a rude surprise one day. As we passed through the yard-gates, a javelin clattered across the paving-stones at us, its ash-shaft striking my pony on the chest and making him rear suddenly. I was flung down, and kicked in the side by the gelding that Rarus used to ride. In spite of the pain, I sat up and glowered at the red-bearded man who had thrown the thing, and was now sitting on the bottom step of the doorplate, laughing his ugly head off.
I remember saying, ‘Are
you tired of life, then, slave? I will have a word with your mistress, Megara, she will know how to treat a stable boy who has so little respect for Agamemnon’s daughter!’
He only laughed the louder at this, as though it was all a great joke.’ If I’d wanted to kill you,’ he said,’ I should not have cast the way I did, woman!’
This made me so angry that I got to my feet, in spite of my aching ribs, and picked up his javelin. The god was roaring in my blood at the time, and I swear I would have pinned the slave to the post where he sat, if I had been strong enough. But before I could get the clumsy weapon up, another voice called out to me from the top step. I saw that Megara stood there, her robe about her waist, her grey hair hanging unkempt over her chest. ‘Leave well alone, girl,’ she said, ‘and go on your way. There is no wine or honey-cake for you today. All that is over!’
I was shocked to hear her speak so roughly, for she had once been a lady-in-waiting at our palace, and came of good stock. I said,
‘Megara, are you out of your mind? You can see who I am, can’t you?’
She only smiled, and came down the steps and began to fondle the laughing slave so immodestly that I found it hard to bear. She said, ‘Yes, I see who you are—the daughter of a dead king and a palace whore. I see also that you are not better than I am, for we both have a taste for slaves, now that the warriors are away.’
Ranis, who had begun to forget that he too was baseborn, flushed, at this, and wanted to turn away and go without delay. But I held his bridle until I should have said the last word, which was my privilege. I said, ‘What god do you worship here, may I ask?’
This question, coming from one who claimed descent from Zeus, was meant to upset Megara; but she only laughed in her wild, cracked way, and left the answer to the slave man at her feet. He hitched up his garment and gestured. ‘Why, Upright Apollo, lady!’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
We left then, their stupid laughter filling our ears as we rode blindly through the gates again. Outside, I said viciously to Rams, ‘So, they too have dug their grave. When the queen hears this, she will send to them by night. Their days of laughter will end, that I promise you.’
My anger lasted me until we had stabled the horses and I had strode into the feast-chamber. Then it drained from me like water from a broken cask. My mother was lolling at the board, her tilted cup spilling wine down her breast, her hair as matted as a dog’s. She was holding the hand of Aegisthus, who sat in royal robes, in my father’s chair, chuckling and fat.
I must have stood in the doorway aghast, for Aegisthus suddenly shouted out in his hoarse voice, ‘Come, girl, is this the way to greet your new father? Is this the famous courtesy of Mycenae? I thought we might expect better than this, daughter!’
I said, ‘You are not my father. You are not even fit to stand in his shadow. If he were here, Agamemnon would beat you into the yard with the other dogs.’
His face darkened and he struck on the board with the ivory haft of his meat-knife. My mother still smiled with purple-lipped stupor, and said thickly, ‘It is a wise child that knows its own father, Electra! Why are you so sure that Aegisthus is not your begetter? How do you even know I am your mother? Surely you are old enough to know, now, that there are many about Low Town who say Helen was your mother. What of that? If Helen, why not Aegisthus? Does a lamb among a great flock know from which ewe it came?’
Aegisthus began to laugh again at these words, and beckoned for a slave-woman to pour more wine for them both. He drank noisily, like a swine. The sight of his thick red lips all shiny and loose at the cup turned my stomach. He seemed of a different race of men from fearful Agamemnon, in whose every limb and gesture the god spoke clearly for all to hear and see.
I fell on my knees before the queen and said, ‘Do not torment me, mother. Tell me that I come from you, and that Agamemnon was indeed my father. Tell me, I must know!’
In truth, the words that had just been spoken had raised such a strange doubt in my mind that for a while I felt certain of nothing. It was all a great shock to me.
Clytemnestra gazed down at me, as though trying to see me dearly. She had drunk too much of the strong unwatered Samian wine, I could see that, and her habits were usually frugal in such matters. She began to ruffle my hair with her thin hard hand, and then to stroke my cheek. She spilled wine on to my shoulders and neck, without meaning to. Then she saw this and tried to wipe me dry with her robe. She was very clumsy and careless; I had never seen her so before.
At length she said, ‘There, there, my dove. You are weeping when there is no need. It is always painful to pass from the dream of childhood to the dream of the grown world—yet it must be done, at some time or other, and now is as good as any time.’
She stopped then, as I gazed at her waiting, as though she did not know how to go on. But Aegisthus got up clumsily from his stool and came over, limping, to me. He swayed beside me, so close that his sour breath came at me in sickening waves.
‘You must force yourself to tell her the truth, Clytemnestra,’ he said. ‘If she is to live on here in this house, she must know. It is her right—though, the god knows, she has few enough rights, poor little bitch!’
He held out his cup for me to drink from, as though doing me a great favour; but I saw the scum of chewed food at the cup’s edge, where his lips had been, and I turned away.
Clytemnestra pulled me to her and said in low tones, ‘Yes, it is time for the words to be spoken—but not here. Women need secrecy to speak their minds, Aegisthus. I can tell her more fittingly if we are alone. Stay at the board and drink on at the wine, while I take Electra to her bed and uncover to her the truth of our life.’
I remember little more, until I was lying on my hide-thong couch, with Clytemnestra beside me, soothing my hair and kissing the tears from my burning cheeks. My first despair had worn itself out and I waited, shivering, for what she might tell me.
I think that she was finding it hard to begin, for she plucked at the fringed coverlet, or scratched at her body a while. Then, like a swimmer drawing in his breath before he plunges into the cold spring waters of the river, she said, ‘We five in a time of great change, daughter, when it seems that the world is set to destroy itself, when the few of us who are still alive must admit the truth to themselves, or go down into the darkness with the truth unspoken. We are all at the edge of death, and what we do here on earth is of little account, provided we make clear to one another what meaning lies in life. It is time to reveal what the gods intended for us—and how we, small headstrong men, have twisted the gods’ intentions for our own pride and pleasure.’
Her hoarse and mumbled words flowed over me, without lodging in my mind, like the swarms of birds which migrate in the latter-year, winging past tree-top after tree-top, unable to find a proper nesting-place.
Impatient, I said at last, ‘Mother, why do you treat me like this?’
The queen held me so hard against her that I thought she would hurt herself, or me. She said, ‘I love you, Electra, so much—so much more than any other child that has come from me, save little dead Tantalus. I cannot say to you how much I love you. It is like a sword going through me.’
She did not answer my question; but suddenly that did not seem important to me. I clung to her and wet her shift through with my tears.
18
At last she said, ‘Dry your tears, my own. I swear that you are my daughter. I was only teasing you. I do not know what got into me. Perhaps it was the wine that spoke, not I.’
‘And, mother, is Agamemnon my father?’
Her whole body stiffened. ‘I lay with him before I got you,’ she answered, ‘but I always like to think the god was with me, not him. Either that, or that Tantalus had left seed in me that flourished after his death; but not him, not Agamemnon.’
She spoke so violently now that I drew a little away from her, almost in fear. I did not know whether I hated or loved her at that moment. But I had gone in too far to back away now. I said,
‘Why do you hate the king so, mother? I know that he killed Tantalus and your baby; but that is long past, and you have us, your other children, to comfort you now. Can you not forget your young pride and glory in the older pride of being Agamemnon’s queen?’
Clytemnestra twisted at her lips viciously, as though she would have torn them off in her spite.
‘The women of my kin never forgive a wrong,’ she said. ‘I hated Agamemnon even when he bedded me the most sweetly. My love, you will come to learn that a woman is like those strange Carian flasks, with two divisions in them, so that they can hold both oil and wine. Tip the bottle and oil comes out; twist it a little sideways and then tip it again… now it will pour wine, bitter wine!’
I was impatient at her riddles, and said, ‘Stop, mother, stop! So, you hate Agamemnon; I will believe that, and will hope that one day, when he returns in glory and the world is sane again, I can get you to love him. But first you must turn this fellow, Aegisthus, from our house. Send him away, anywhere you wish, mother. Give him treasure to go away; but let us be rid of him. He is like a horrible dream, leering at me always from behind hangings.’
My mother rose from the bed and began to arrange her hair, carelessly, passing time until she was ready to answer me. And when she was ready, she said,’ What I shall tell you lies at the heart of the matter, Electra. Listen carefully, my daughter, for this will uncover to you all that was secret before. In the long-dead past, there was a great king of all Hellas, whose name was Pelops. He was so sacred that men say the god himself begot him. This son of Zeus had two sons of his own, Thyestes and Atreus.’
I could have laughed, despite my tears, at my mother’s serious face as she spoke these words. I said, ‘But, mother, I know all this. Atreus was my own grandfather. The king has told us of him.’
