by Laura Gill
Myrinos swore, too, for he would be leading his sons and the steersman. Pylades watched with approval from the rear entryway. One ewe remained, one more oath must be exacted, but that was a private thing, between kinsmen.
Two days felt like two months, confined to that house and waiting. I tried to distract my thoughts by playing knucklebones with the captain’s sons, trading stories with the steersman, and whetting my dagger and sword. I even trimmed my beard, using a pair of old sewing shears and a bit of polished bronze. After the noon sleep, I went up to sit under an awning with the old grandmother of the house and watch the harvesters working in the distance. All that did little to soothe my nerves. How I envied the men under Kleitos and Arkados, who whiled away the hot day in ignorance; they would have no time to ponder everything that could go wrong, and become afraid.
At nightfall, I exercised in the courtyard, where the stones had been washed down after the sacrifice; a tinge of charred thigh meat and blood still lingered in the motionless air. I ate from the roast carcass, went up again to observe the people moving about the street in front of the house, and, at midnight, lay down on the woven mat the old grandmother had given me.
I found the following day harder to bear. Although the harvesters were still laboring in the fields, scything and binding the last sheaves, and gleaning the stubble, the revelry had already begun in the town. Girls in the streets sang, and wove garlands for the evening’s procession to the citadel, to present the sacred sheaves to the queen—Mother, dressed as the goddess-on-earth, standing still as a cult statue under her fringed awning. By this time tomorrow, she would be dead, and those joyful songs turned into funereal lamentations.
I would not think about it, not now, when it was too late to turn back. Going downstairs, into the cramped main room where the grandmother was stirring the contents of a cauldron, I sought to banish all thoughts of dead mothers and slain goddesses and barren fields, to rub them out as surely as my pacing was wearing at the earthen floor.
At Delphi, the Pythia had breathed in the drugged vapors and prophesized that I would murder my mother, that afterward I would wander in madness and torment. No! It would not come to pass, for I would not allow it. Even now, Arkados and Kleitos were preparing to lead their men into the citadel and overpower the guards. All I needed do was kill Aegisthus and his bastard son, and shut Mother in a room with a knife and noose, and let her choose her own end.
Under their civilized exterior, rational men concealed their primal instincts and terrors; they deluded themselves with their clothing and architecture and customs. Prometheus had brought agriculture to mankind, but women ruled the harvest, turned it into a paradox of life and death. By day, they gleaned the abundance of the earth, yet by night they sacrificed the year-king and plowed him into the dark soil, making their libations to Hekate and black Persephone. Old rites, old blood. Of course, there were no more year-kings in Argolis, had not been since the time of Perseus, but the impulses were still there. Murder still lurked in women’s hearts.
Father had been Mother’s year-king, for was she not the goddess, with the sacred labrys in her charge? And had Elektra not anointed me with the blood of the king bull, before I left Phocis? It was the women who knew, who always knew, who decided everything. Now it was my turn to become the year-king, to have my throat slashed with a sickle, my limbs quartered with the labrys, and the parts plowed into the fallow earth by night.
Alarmed, I shook my head. I could not let my thoughts run away from me, not at this crucial hour.
Pylades grasped my arm. “All is well.” His dark eyes bored knowingly into me.
I knew he must be speaking the truth, for had the attempt to breach the citadel failed, the alarm would have been raised. Perhaps not, though. Arkados and Kleitos might have been captured, and were now being tortured to make them reveal the identities and locations of the other conspirators. Sometime in the night, Aegisthus might send men to encircle the house, to take us through cunning as well as brute force. “Pylades, you should go. Find another house, somewhere safer.”
Instead, he gave me a hard pinch. I absorbed the pain, even welcomed it. Then he rose, pulled me to him, and bent to my ear. “Stop speaking nonsense, Orestes. Go outside and exercise again. Empty your mind. A warrior is useless when he thinks too hard.”
I did not go up onto the roof that night. At dusk, Nikos and Machaereus went up with woven mats, and alternated watches, to monitor anyone approaching the house; the revels continued outside, with wild music and laughter. I dozed lightly, agitated by the noise, and alert for any warning, which never came. I watched the shadows in the courtyard, waiting for them to lighten, counting down the hours until it was time.
At first light, Myrinos sent his younger son out to glean what information he could; Lykas soon returned bearing good news. “I stumbled around below the walls.” He demonstrated a very convincing drunken reel. “Took a piss in the chariot ruts, looked up to see who was watching. Kleitos was atop the bastion, wearing a good boar tusk helmet and coat of scales, and looking very official, but there’s no mistaking that scrawny face.”
So Kleitos had done it, eliminated Philaretos and secured the Lion Gate; there would be no resistance from the lower citadel. I sucked in a deep breath to steady my nerves. It was almost time. Time for the gates to swing open, time to admit laborers and petitioners and carts bearing produce. Time to go forth and meet my destiny.
Chapter Five
I tried hard to empty my head during the short trek to the Lion Gate. Shuffling behind Myrinos’s fish cart, I kept my eyes downcast, and concentrated on looking and acting the part of the lowborn laborer.
So Kleitos was on the wall. I would have liked to glance up, just before we passed under the great lintel, to take reassurance from the sight of him in his helmet and armor, yet dared not. I am not Orestes, not the avenging son, the rightful king. I am Phemius, the hired hand. Phemius, a dimwitted, bearded laborer in threadbare clothes, dust caking his feet, rags covering his head. Move along, Phemius! Put your back into it, lazy fool!
Myrinos deposited his fish along with a little clay wafer to the scribe who oversaw all deliveries. A sudden lump stopped my throat. I had not anticipated the servants and craftsmen, only the guards, the men who might actually stop me. Gods, Wedaneus might recognize me! I slunk behind the wagon, hoping to convey the attitude of a peasant shirking his work.
I thought frantically, felt the sweat slicking the back of my neck. A chill passed through me, despite the heat of the morning. Pylades stared at me. Calm down, his eyes seemed to say. He has never seen you grown, never seen you with a beard. And your hair is covered.
On his way around the cart to remove the canvas covering, Myrinos jostled me and barked, “Get on with you, you useless fool! Take these and get out of the way.” He shoved a bundle at Pylades, then made a shooing motion with both hands, driving us toward the great ramp. “Dumb as oxen, you are.”
As we stumbled away, Wedaneus began complaining about the fish. “What does the king want with pickled tunny, when he ordered fresh three days ago?”
At the top of the ramp, Pylades and I found a ledge on which to sit and loiter while we ostensibly waited for our master to finish his business. Aegisthus would have to pass this way, either coming down on his usual rounds, or returning from the workshops to the citadel. At least, that had been his routine seven years ago. Had it changed since then? Suppose he had drunk too much the day before, and never came down at all. How long was long enough before I had to muster my men and, dropping the charade altogether, go searching for him?
A petitioner paused to catch his breath after climbing the ramp. I recognized him at once, despite his herdsman’s disguise. Boukolos bobbed his head at us, mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and started to climb the broad steps.
Slowly but surely, everyone was gathering, and everything falling into place. Pylades leaned toward me. “Arisbas just entered with a ewe. Machaereus is on the terrace right above.�
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Arisbas. Machaereus. Kleitos. Boukolos. I made a mental catalogue of the men I knew for certain were inside the citadel, ready to act when the signal was given. My confidence swelled, alleviating some of the uncertainty. It had begun, it was almost time. An hour from now, maybe two, and we would...
“What in Hades is going on over there?”
There it was—the voice I had waited so long and patiently to hear—down by the gate where we had left Myrinos and Wedaneus arguing over the fish. My heart jumped. I stifled a grunt of surprise. Yes, that was him, and yet, it was not quite. Aegisthus sounded gravelly, like an irritable old man; he was not quite so old, as I recalled, only forty-three. Anxious again, I drew a hard breath. Should I give the signal and confront him now, or wait until he ascended the ramp? Wait, wait a while longer. This is the high ground. Do not give up the advantage. I needed to breathe, to relax, and think more clearly.
Hurry up! Instead, Aegisthus was dithering below, berating Myrinos. “Three days ago, you stupid ass, and fresh! I won’t pay for what I didn’t order.”
Myrinos ran after him, crunching gravel under his feet. “Please, my lord, my master will—”
“Piss off with you.” Aegisthus or someone else with him kicked the cart. “And take this stinking heap with you.”
Leather sandals slapped and scraped against the cobbles, approaching the base of the ramp. My entire body tensed. A man was climbing up, muttering obscenities under his breath. I dared a glance askance. Aegisthus. Lank black hair streaked with gray, a scowling face, browned from the sun, with cruel lines etched around the mouth and eyes; he was no longer the sensual, catlike creature who had seduced my mother fifteen years ago, but an aging despot.
Someone nudged me on the right. Pylades. I felt him press a metal object into my hand; it took me a moment to realize it was a sword from the bundle Myrinos had shoved at him. I took the weapon, adjusted my grip on the hilt, and stilled my nerves. There was no longer any need to fear; my hour had come.
Standing, I swiftly moved to the head of the ramp, to block access to the terraces and palace above. One last breath, a deep gathering of oxygen in my lungs, and then the roar, echoing around the lower citadel, “Aegisthus!”
With a visible start, Aegisthus halted. There he stood, four feet below me, shielding his eyes against the morning sun as he gazed at the one who had called him out. Perhaps he felt a moment’s apprehension, but banished it with a contemptuous snort. “What nonsense is this?”
So he did not recognize me, did not realize the gravity of the challenge; it took me a second to realize why. All he saw, silhouetted against the early light, was a bearded peasant pointing a sword at him. “No nonsense, this!” I dragged away my head cloth with my left hand to reveal my red hair. “I am Orestes Agamemnonides.” I stared down the blade to meet his squinting gaze. “I have come to send you—seducer, murderer, usurper, misbegotten spawn of incest—to Tartarus!”
Aegisthus turned ashen, yet to his credit he maintained his poise. “Hah!” he laughed harshly. “You’re a fool to come here alone. My men will cut you down before you take another step.”
“Is that what you think?” Still grasping my sword, without taking my eyes from him, I spread my arms wide. “Followers of Aegisthus, here I am, the son of the High King. Do your worst!”
“Kill him!” Aegisthus shouted.
Derisive laughter rained down from the walls, then came the drumming of spears upon shields and flagstones, and shouts of allegiance. “Orestes! Orestes!”
Aegisthus turned wildly, scanning the terraces, the citadel walls, the ramp up which he had come, but there was no escape; enemies hemmed him around at every turn. “Philaretos!” Panic thickened his voice.
I heard women scream from the direction of the weaving house, and the palace above, then people running, doors shutting; they knew what was coming. I waited for the noise to subside before speaking again, in a low voice now. “Philaretos is dead, Aegisthus. They’re all dead, except for you, and your bastard, and my mother.”
Aegisthus blinked at me once, twice, seemingly unable to reconcile the giant before him with the boy he remembered. “Orestes...” He hesitated, his chest heaving, knowing he was gazing upon his killer, and that his time on earth was done. But then, a disingenuous smile curved his lips, and he started again. “How you have grown!” His voice quavered, betraying his fear; he remained pale and wary. “Why have you come like this in secret, when we’ve invited you countless times to return?”
So he thought to try his old tricks with me, did he? “Spare me your loathsome words and games, old goat.” I moved forward, toward him, just enough to slash his cheek with my sword. “See? I have drawn the first blood. Shall I stand here and cut you to ribbons a stroke at a time, or will you face me like a man?”
Aegisthus unsheathed the sword hanging from the strap at his side. He still had it in him, the wretched villain, to fight, but not with the clean and sacred silence champions observed when they dueled. After all, his best weapon had always been his slippery tongue. As we clashed, he continued to play with me, to taunt and attempt to disarm me.
“What will your poor mother think when she looks out and sees her darling boy fighting with his dear stepfather?” He lunged for my unshielded left. I turned, letting his blade slash the empty air. Aegisthus laughed, as though he had meant to miss all along. “You can have my head, if you can take it,” he jeered, “and the throne. Even your lovely Spartan bride.” His yellow teeth flashed. “But all those things, I had first.”
I did not hear him at first; in preparing me for this moment, Pylades had given me a thorough schooling in ignoring such jibes. Yet slowly, his meaning pierced my armor. A taunting letter and bloodstained sheet sent to me two years ago. Hermione. It was true, then. He had taken her, forced her, and now he flung it in my face.
Die, dog! My sword sliced through his right sleeve and into deep his flesh so the blood welled out. As his blade drooped in his hand, I seized the advantage, lunged in like a rabid dog, and smashed my sword’s pommel into his face once, twice, then again and again till more blood ran. I heard his grunt, heard his nose break.
I was growling, salivating, tossing my weapon aside to bludgeon him with my bare fists. His teeth cut my knuckles, but there was no pain, just blood and adrenaline racing in my veins, and a red-hot rage telling me to kill, kill, kill, KILL! Ares had me by the gut, he possessed me utterly, and it was a glorious thing.
Aegisthus staggered back, blood running from his mouth and nose, his right arm slicked to the wrist with scarlet. I seized him by the hair, and plowed him headfirst into the wall. Maniacal laughter echoed around the lower citadel, a demon’s cry, and it came from my own throat. Aegisthus flailed at first, then went limp. His skull split open like a melon the third time I drove him into the wall; blood and grayish-pink matter smeared the stones, his hair, and my hand. His head was a broken eggshell, and he was dead; it no longer made any difference what I did with him
Disgusted, I released him, let him drop to the pavement. His face, turned to one side, had lost its shape, was obliterated. I kicked him in the ribs, spat at him, cursed his shade, and was overcome with an obscene longing to revive him, to keep killing him over and over again, with a thousand different torments.
I was breathing hard, my heart pounding like an anvil, my lungs working like a bellows. Pylades stood above me, watching with dark eyes. Myrinos and his sons were below, where they had blocked Aegisthus’s retreat. Other men came into focus. All were silent, all awaiting my command.
I retrieved my sword, then knotted my fingers in Aegisthus’s gory hair and dragged him upright to finish the job as a hero should; it took two strokes to sever his head from his trunk, which slumped over. Blood started to flow in runnels from his neck stump down the flagstones. I sent the head tumbling after, bouncing and trailing gore all the way down the ramp, past the captain and his sons, to the Lion Gate.
A ragged cheer went up, but I did not exult in it. Primal rage
pulsed in my ears. I was not satiated, but wanted—needed—more blood, more dying.
A woman’s shriek alerted me to the servant girl racing down the stairs from the terrace to the corpse. Boukolos raced after her, half a step behind, his arm outstretched to stop her. Spewing obscenities, I caught the girl before she reached Aegisthus, and hurled her aside without seeing where she fell.
I listened to her groaning and weeping, remembering then that there was someone else—another woman—who must die. “Mother!” I shouted. If she did not already know I had come, she would now.
Pylades moved first, without waiting for my command; he took Boukolos, Arisbas, and Nikos with him to secure the great court; Myrinos and his sons remained below to help Kleitos and the men on the walls hold the lower citadel.
I followed at my leisure, relishing the terrible wrath surging through my veins, and the sensation of power. This was what it was to be a hero, a conqueror. This was what it was to avenge, to take possession. Oh, Mother might yet live, but she had nowhere to run, no friends left to help her. I could hunt her through the palace at my leisure.
Entering the great court, I saw half a dozen guards sprawled dead on the flagstones and along the aithousa; the petitioners and servants had fled the moment the violence had started. Boukolos stood there, his sword wet and red with blood. Arisbas and Nikos were there, too, and men in armor who must have come from Arkados at the postern gate.
The megaron’s heavy doors stood gaping, beckoning. I passed through into the central hall, where it was dim and close. As my eyes adjusted, I drank in the painted columns, the frescoes, the throne flush against the right-hand wall. Mine. Mycenae was mine. I, Orestes Agamemnonides, was king and conqueror and avenger.
Pylades stood beside the hearth with a drab servant woman. “Orestes,” he said thickly, “remember your vow.”
It took me several heartbeats to realize that the woman, gray-haired and plainly dressed, was not a servant at all, but the queen herself. Clytaemnestra, the woman who had borne me, who had cuckolded my father and murdered him, and she was old. Old! Her face was creased with furrows and wrinkles, and she was deathly pale. Her huge dark eyes betrayed neither fear nor defiance as they drank me in.
