The Outcast

by Laura Gill

  I sighed, letting my eyes rest on the double lions of the House of Atreus engraved on the gold seal ring, a massive oval which covered my middle and forefingers to the first joint, and which I wore tonight to emphasize my bloodline. Let there be no doubt that I was the trueborn son of Agamemnon the High King. “So you knew my father and grandfather well?”

  Atymnios bobbed his head on his wiry neck, and picked at his bread with spotted and bony fingers. “I was a councilor back in the day, before the war changed things,” he replied. “My brother Mekisteus, you might remember him, he was appointed regent while your father was away.”

  A dim recollection of a white-bearded man entered my mind. “I do, yes.” Mekisteus had always been kind to me. Mother had ousted and driven him out after my sister Iphigenia’s death. “Is he doing well?”

  Atymnios shook his head. I had not seen him put anything in his mouth. “Alas, no. He died within a month of your father. His heart couldn’t bear the strain. I took in his widow and daughters when the troubles began, but his youngest son refused to leave the estate. It cost him his life, brave lad.”

  Such killings and seizures were becoming a too-familiar refrain. I let my gaze roam the megaron. “Have all these men lost kin to the usurpers?”

  Atymnios made a phlegmatic noise in his throat. “Lykeus there—” He nodded toward a sanguine man with bristly white whiskers who wore too many rings on his fingers. “He had a daughter outraged by those ruffians. Menon’s son lost an eye in a scuffle with them last year. We’ve all lost land. Our family tombs have been plundered, our servants harassed. It’s not decent. There has to be an end to it.”

  “And Cyanippus and the Argive assembly offer you no assistance?” I knew well the answer to that question. These men would not have come tonight had the elderly Argive king and his ineffectual ministers not failed them.

  “Cyanippus,” Atymnios croaked disdainfully. “Pah! Diomedes never would have stood for these abuses. I believe he once held you on his knee, and said what a fine young prince you were.”

  Probably a great many kings and princes had dandled me on their knees when they came to confer with my father when the war first began. “I must have been very young,” I said, “not to recall him.”

  The second course arrived with grilled fish, seasoned lentils, and vegetables. I ate and drank sparingly. Atymnios picked at his fish and asparagus, leaving most of it on his plate. “Aren’t you hungry?” I asked.

  “I need little sustenance these days,” he admitted.

  After the third libation, Eurybatos called upon his guests to attend his announcement. “Tonight we are honored to welcome the grandsons of King Atreus, Prince Orestes, son of Agamemnon the High King, and Prince Pylades, son of Strophius, king of Phocis. Through them, gods willing, we will soon see an end to our troubles.” Then he saluted me. “Prince Orestes, will you address us?”

  I had spent the better part of the afternoon rehearsing my speech, and stood up knowing exactly what to say, yet was anxious nevertheless. I took a fortifying breath. “Gentlemen, I thank you for coming tonight. Although I have spent these last seven years in exile, I have not forgotten my duty to my noble sire or to my people. I know that you have lost your ancestral lands, that you have seen relatives killed or maimed. I know that you and your families have been harassed, and that the Argive assembly does nothing to help you.” My confidence and conviction grew with each word. Gazing around the megaron, I discerned that I had everyone’s attention.

  “I have come to you because it is time to deal with the usurpers and undo the injustices they have forced upon you. That you are here tonight demonstrates your willingness to fight for your rightful king and to regain what is yours.” Of course, that was a stretch, particularly after Kleitos’s warning. Nevertheless, I raised my cup to them. “Now it is your turn to speak, to tell me your grievances, and to pledge yourselves to this cause, for it is your own.”

  Coughing and anxious shuffling followed; no one seemed to want to speak first. Then, at last, the barrel-chested nobleman named Menon stood. “Do you intend to restore all our estates and goods?”

  His tone marked him as one who would attempt to swindle a young man whom he assumed to be naïve and gullible. Let him try! He would not find me such easy prey. “Contingent upon your support, you will have your ancestral estate restored to you, and all the livestock, goods, and slaves upon it,” I answered sternly. “Those who seized your property and injured you will be executed.”

  “There should be no contingencies,” a dour-faced nobleman grumbled. “We want what is ours.” I observed Kleitos rolling his eyes, but his reduced circumstances left him reluctant to argue.

  “Your lands were granted to you as surety for your continued loyal service.” Atymnios had mentioned the nobleman’s name, though I was now hard-pressed to recall it.

  Menon clenched his fist. “See here—”

  He was not going to lecture me like some wayward youth. “Either you want your estates restored, or those hectares can go to those who honor their oaths and stand beside me.” There, I had thrown out my terms.

  Had it been my father speaking, they would have shut their mouths and accorded him the proper respect. In their eyes, I was a mere stripling, untested, stirring hot air with empty words. They shook their heads, muttered to each other.

  Now, the dour-faced lord challenged me, wagging a reproving finger. “Have a care, young man.” Lykeus. That was his name, yes. “You have no throne without our support.”

  “And without me, you will never regain what you have lost.” A true king and the son of kings did not flinch, did not retreat. “Of course, you can always swallow your pride, crawl on your bellies to Aegisthus, and eat his shit, but he will never honor your long service to Agamemnon or Atreus, and restore your lands. And his son, that slave woman’s bastard, will be worse than him should the day ever come that he sits upon the Lion Throne.” A moment’s silence let that terrible possibility sink in. “Cyanippus and the Argive assembly have done nothing for you, and will continue to do nothing. I am your only hope of redress. Only I can restore your property and your dignity, but you must make certain sacrifices.”

  Menon’s meaty fist banged the table. “We have sacrificed!” he shouted. “How many sons and daughters have we lost? How many hectares have we seen taken away? How many sleepless nights and troubled days have we endured?” As he sat down again, a rising tide of agitated agreement swirled around him. Kleitos alone was silent, tight-lipped.

  To my left, Pylades bade me be still until the furor died down. It took a while, and a sharp reprimand from Eurybatos. “How many years have we prayed for the rightful king to return? And now that the gods have answered our prayers, you want to quibble over livestock and vines? Arguing will accomplish nothing.”

  “We were never rewarded for our kinsmen’s sacrifices at Troy,” Lykeus grumbled. “Again and again, we are called upon to give, but what do we get in return? I haven’t seen a single gift from the palace since before Prince Orestes was born.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I cleared my throat and waited till their clamor subsided. Only then did I address their complaints. “Do you think you’re alone in your suffering and sacrifice? I, too, have been driven from my home. I, too, have lost a father. I was young when he left for Troy, only three years old. My only memory of him is how he looked as he lay hacked to ribbons and dying in his tub. Yes! I watched, terrified, as his murderers butchered him with axe and knife like a king bull brought to the altar. I was twelve years old and unarmed, and could do nothing to save him. All I could do was kiss his hand and swear vengeance. I had to flee for my life, a boy thrust into the wilderness with no food or weapons, pursued by hired killers.”

  I stepped out from behind the table and went over to the hearth where the light was best. There was no air in the megaron. Sweat rolled down my temples and soaked the nape of my neck. “I killed two such villains, and nearly died from the wound the second dealt me before I bashed his
skull in.” I raised my tunic’s hem, turned my thigh outward to display the ugly scar puckering the skin. “I am no soft youth. I cauterized this wound myself with a red-hot blade, and swallowed the pain, and survived the fever which came after.”

  Menon and the others leaned forward to make their appraisal. I gave them a moment to indulge their lurid curiosity, then smoothed my tunic back into place. “You speak of sons and daughters killed and humiliated, your lost dignity and your stolen birthright,” I continued. “I’ve had to swallow my rage for seven years and watch from afar as my mother married my father’s murderer, a misbegotten spawn of incest who dares call himself a king and my loving stepfather. I’ve seen one sister forced to dwell with a goatherd, and another imprisoned in the citadel of Mycenae to live in terror. I’ve had to execute men and women who have tried to murder me. I lie awake at night watching the shadows. My dreams taste like fear and blood and vengeance. So do not talk to me about your sacrifices and your demands.” I challenged each man with my stern gaze. “Either you’re men of action, or all talk.”

  An uneasy hush settled over the megaron. I heard the hiss and pop of the coals, and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Menon and two others chewed on their indignation. Atymnios wore an empty look.

  Eyes blazing, Kleitos stood up. “I am with you.”

  Menon snorted, “You have nothing to give him.”

  “I have my sword and my loyalty.” Kleitos glared at his sponsor, despite the risk he took in offending him. “How can you be so shortsighted, so unwilling to cooperate, when you haven’t even heard the prince’s terms?”

  “Kleitos,” Eurybatos gently admonished, “he’s about to tell us.”

  “Yes. Let’s hear it.” Menon shifted in his chair like a man with indigestion.

  I waited for Kleitos to reclaim his seat before addressing the assembled company. “My terms are these. We shall write out and seal a written contract.” I held up my hand to silence the burgeoning protests. “You shall have in exchange for your service your ancestral properties and titles restored. You shall have redress for your injuries. I shall be your king. You shall supply armed men, and such food and supplies as will sustain us while we carry out our mission.”

  More grumbling. What skinflints, when the terms were so reasonable and favorable! “You can’t take Mycenae by siege,” Lykeus argued, “no matter how many men you have.”

  “Of course not,” I agreed. Was this man so shortsighted as to think that was the only option, or did he think me so naïve, so untested in battle? “I spent my childhood there. I know its defenses well.” And I had no intention of divulging my plans, for there was no guarantee that one or more of these men, disillusioned by my relative youth, or secretly loyal to the usurper, would not betray me. “There will be no siege.”

  “We have the right to know what you intend to do with our men,” Menon said.

  No, he did not. Not any more he and his colleague had had the right to know or question what Father had done with his levied men at Troy. Had I stood on firmer footing, I would have told them so. “I can’t tell you that, my lords, except to say we must achieve our goals by stealth.” I lifted my right hand, with Father’s seal gleaming upon it. “I swear by Zeus Horkios, and by Hera and Athena the Two Ladies, that I will safeguard the lives of your men with as much care and respect as my own.”

  “And what is that to us, the assurances of a mere boy who has never led men into battle?” It was not Menon who groused, but the man seated beside him. What was his name? Nereus? Neandros? “You’re asking us to hand over men and resources on blind faith.”

  I faced him. “You’re mistaken about my lack of experience, Nearchos. Six times, I’ve led men into battle against the brigands who infest the glens and highways of Mount Parnassus.” I had rehearsed this speech over many nights and idle afternoons, knowing that my experience as a leader of men would be challenged. “You may think a few thieves are nothing, but you’ve never met these savages. They roam in large bands, hiding in the caves and deep valleys of Parnassus, preying upon the pilgrims who travel to Apollo’s sanctuary at Delphi. Even their women are vicious, like wild beasts, like Amazons. I was fifteen when I first met those ruffians in combat, and sixteen when I first led my uncle’s men—men twice and thrice my age, I might add—into the fray. I never lost a single one.” That was not exactly true, as two warriors had later died from their wounds, but there was no need to sour my tale with such insignificant details.

  “A time came when such cutthroats once tried to raid the estate my uncle had given me. Foolish men, they didn’t survey the area before rushing in to plunder my livestock and storehouse, and take my female servants. They had no idea the son of the High King was boarding there in the farmhouse with five armed men at the time!” Approval marked the expressions of the men listening. This was what they expected from their king, bravery in battle, and the outward show of law and order. “Although they outnumbered us two to one that day, we slew four, mutilated a fifth as a warning to the others, and drove them from the land.”

  A moment’s silence followed. Eurybatos nodded at me. “We have no doubt about your courage and skill, Prince Orestes,” he said. “Reports have trickled back from Phocis with regard to your exploits. Yet it isn’t simply a matter of men and materiel, or even shortsightedness, as Kleitos calls it.” It had grown very quiet in the megaron. A chill prickled along my arms and neck, raising gooseflesh. I knew what he was going to say. Always, it came down to the same issue. “You may be the rightful king, but we won’t follow you in committing matricide.”

  Sober nods all around. Pylades sat staring straight into the hearth as though his mind was elsewhere; he would not intervene, having warned me beforehand that I would have to stand my own ground as a man and king, or lose face, especially with regard to this matter.

  “My mother will take her own life,” I said cautiously.

  “Hah!” Menon exclaimed. “Then you don’t know her very well, do you?”

  “I know her better than you think.” I felt nothing, neither sorrow nor pity nor revulsion. Good. I could not afford to feel. “I will lock her in her chamber with a noose and a dagger, and give her no choice.”

  “It will be matricide, nevertheless,” Atymnios said.

  To my surprise, Pylades spoke, “A lesser sin, which can be absolved.”

  “Only a king acting as a high priest can take him through the rites of purification.” Atymnios turned his head toward me; he wore a sympathetic expression. “Young man, have you spoken to King Cyanippus about this?”

  As if the Argive king was the only one who exercised such authority! “I have discussed the matter with my uncle, King Strophius of Phocis,” I replied. “He has agreed to purify me.” Sensing further argument, I raised my hand. “I don’t wish to involve the Argive assembly in this matter, for the same reasons you have had no help from them. And the fewer who know about our plans beforehand, the easier it will be to carry them out.”

  “Either way,” Nearchos said, “you will be absent from Mycenae during your period of purification, perhaps for several weeks or months. Who will govern in the interim?”

  “Prince Pylades will act as regent.” I indicated my brother-in-law, who sat up straighter and looked out over the assembled faces as if daring anyone to question his right to rule. “He is a firm and fair administrator, also a grandson of Atreus, and married to my sister Elektra.”

  “A foreigner,” Menon observed derisively.

  Pylades leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Is it my accent you object to, or are you afraid I will fill the Lion Court with Phocian advisors and strange customs? Phocis is a civilized land. We’re Hellenes, as you are. We speak the same tongue, worship the same gods, and observe the same laws.”

  I added, “Mycenae will be ruled by its own. Pylades has come as my Atreid kinsman, not as a representative of his father.” I looked around, gauging the expressions on the men’s faces, which remained closed and contemplative. Behin
d me, the hearth was burning low; the hour was growing late. “We will meet again to discuss the details further, and agree upon terms. But remember this: what rewards you reap from this harvest depends upon the sacrifices you are willing to make. I stand before you ready to risk all. Stand with me and triumph, or retreat and be left behind.”

  Chapter Three

  At midnight, Pylades and I left our host. Kleitos came with us as we slunk through the deserted streets toward our safe house. A half-moon straddled the starry sky, and at last a thin coastal mist had begun cooling the air.

  Boukolos admitted us when Pylades scratched at the gate and gave the password; he had stayed awake, waiting upon our return. He and Kleitos had met once before, two years ago in Phocis, so there was no need for lengthy introductions; he acknowledged the new arrival with a silent nod, then shut the door behind us. Two Phocians had the night watch, whilst the other three slept on the aithousa.

  Upstairs, I handed Kleitos the best fleece from my cot . He stretched out on the floor, with his sword drawn. “No one,” he murmured, showing me the blade, “will harm you without coming through me first.”

  “You don’t have to.” It was never my intention to take a nobleman as my personal guard.

  Kleitos insisted, nonetheless. “I told you before that all I have to give is my sword and my loyalty.”

  A woman’s startled cry roused me from a fitful sleep. Hazy daylight streamed through the narrow window above my cot, illuminating the floor where my visitor was mumbling an apology to Melita, the middle-aged landlady. Seeing me stir, she vented her annoyance upon me. “It’ll cost you for an extra mouth,” she huffed. “Ought to charge you more anyway, with all this skulking about you and your friends do.”