The Outcast

by Laura Gill

  After his customary salutation, Pylades succinctly explained why there was no gift. “I am told it is forbidden to send you anything.” Then Hermione’s cloak must have been an unusual exception. “But it is not forbidden to send offerings to the sanctuary on your behalf.”

  Once he tallied the jars of oil, wine, and grain, he enclosed a terse note in my sister’s childish hand. “Zeus and Dia give you a good name day, Orestes. We want you home. Elektra.” Ink smudges and blots marred the papyrus. Elektra had never mastered her signs, despite our tutor’s best efforts to bring her to heel. She must have labored long over those two sentences.

  Oh, Elektra! Her effort left me both touched and ashamed, for I had neither written to her, nor acknowledged her beyond the usual formulaic sentences, conveyed through her husband. I must take time to write to her directly, as brother to sister, before it was too late.

  Strophius sent a short note urging me to be well and give thanks to Apollo for his blessings. Could he not have sent healing wishes earlier? Menelaus expressed similar sentiments, while informing me that Chrysothemis was in good health and spirits, and had sent her love.

  Strange, that in all of this there was no word from Hermione; nor did her father refer to her or her impending nuptials. Perhaps Menelaus wished to spare my feelings as to the latter, yet he nevertheless ought to have mentioned her, even in passing. Something was amiss, I could sense it. She must be ill, or possibly my last letter had offended her so greatly that she refused to reply. Didymus had, after all, cautioned me to amend my sentiments, said what I wrote would make her blush. I struggled to recall exactly what my words to her were.

  When he returned with the wine and cakes, I asked him. “Hermione didn’t write at all. Do you think she’s angry with me?”

  “I urged you to wait.” As expected, his tone conveyed I-told-you-so, and only agitated a deeper need to know.

  “If it was so terrible, then why in the world did you send it?” I croaked.

  “I never said it was terrible, just unwise.” Didymus crooked an infuriatingly wry smile. “You were completely honest with her. You told her you were sick, broken in pieces, and couldn’t find yourself again. You said Aegisthus’s lies made you snap inside when you killed him, and that your world was nothing but deceit and betrayal.”

  The blood rushed from my extremities, leaving me ice-cold despite the day’s warmth. Gods, what had I done? Aegisthus! Had I done the unthinkable and insulted my beloved’s honor by mentioning him? “Did I slander her?”

  At this, the priest looked genuinely surprised. “I assure you, had you slandered the princess of Sparta, those words would have gone up in smoke the minute I left this room. If I had to judge, I would say you probably embarrassed her, with all your lovesick talk about consenting to the sacrifice and urging her not to weep if she heard you were dead.”

  Nausea crept over me, accompanied by intense shame. I would rather have faced a hundred rampaging Trojans at that moment, to avoid having to return her reproachful gaze. I let my head sink into both hands. “What have I done?”

  The straw mattress rustled as he sat down alongside me. “It’ll be all right, Orestes.” He gave my back a hearty thump. “You would hardly be the first young man to fumble in courting his beloved.”

  I rubbed my face, then, glancing up, stared at the curtain slung across the doorway. Sunset was deepening the light, preparing to whisk it away. “She’s not mine to court anymore.” A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Perhaps she didn’t write because she’s married, and her new husband wouldn’t allow it.” Peisistratus must be a boor, then.

  “That might be,” Didymus admitted, and quickly added, “Don’t allow your heartache to mar the occasion.” He urged me toward the wine and honey cakes lying on bedside table. “Ah, where is the day going? I’ll bring a lamp, and then we will eat and drink together. You should have told me before. I would have arranged for you to watch the festivities.”

  “Is that even allowed?” I studied the violet shadow creeping across the wall; just a quarter-hour ago, it had been soft and blue, and golden sunlight had still been visible through the window.

  Again, the mattress shifted. “Officially, no, but between you and me, the god doesn’t mind if a pious supplicant observes the celebrations from, say, a certain hidden vantage point, and doesn’t let anyone else know about it.” Turning from the curtain, Didymus winked. “I’ll see what I can do about tomorrow.”

  I was neither hungry nor thirsty, a fact he remarked upon when he returned with the oil lamp. “Apollo doesn’t want to see you mope about during his festival.” He mixed the wine and water, and brought me a cup. “I loved a girl once, you know.”

  “I thought you priests of Apollo were all unmarried, up here.” Although I took the wine, I did not drink.

  “It’s the priestesses who remain chaste, not us priests.” He laughed, arranged himself on the mattress across from me. “And besides, I never said I married the girl, only loved her, as the god himself has loved many women.” Smiling, he toasted the air with his cup. “To Lord Apollo—Healer, Far-seer, and Enlightener—on his feast day.”

  He drank the god’s health, then continued. “Her name was Oresthea, as many girls around here are so named. And she was a splendid creature: long-limbed and brown like a colt, wild and laughing as the young folk on the mountain are. I was eighteen that summer, which was the most magical summer I’ve ever known. Whenever I could escape my duties, Oresthea and I dallied in the meadows like a shepherd and his nymph. Sometimes I was gone for days at a time, and the priests were furious when I returned, but to me it seemed that only a few hours had passed. Oresthea knew where to make love, where to find the clearest springs, and where to gather herbs and berries and other fruits of the mountain. It was like a dream, those long golden afternoons and short starry nights, for when the summer ended, so did our love.”

  Didymus savored a deep draught of wine; the act allowed a short, contemplative silence. When he finished, he smacked his lips, nodded to my cup. “You’re not thirsty?”

  “I will drink later,” I murmured.

  “So long as you don’t waste the gift while you are moping, for that jar came from the Athenian king’s own stores. Dionysus truly walks on Mount Kithairon, for the sweetness of the grapes that grow there!”

  Even by lamplight, his cheeks wore a telltale flush. “You’re getting drunk,” I observed.

  He simply snorted, exhaling a strong odor of wine on his breath. “You’ve no idea how much wine and retsina I can put away.”

  And I had no desire to find out, either, as I sensed it would offend the god and his priests to have the matricide and his caretaker drunk within the sacred temenos. “Is there more to your story, old man?”

  There certainly was, and prefaced with mock indignation. “You’re cruel, young Orestes, to make me relive that, but since you insist.” I let him have his little drama, as it was the only entertainment available. “One late summer day, my lady love quite suddenly told me to leave, to return to the god’s service, and have nothing more to do with wild girls like her or the high meadows. In fact, she was most adamant about it. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done wrong. One never knows with women, they’re so capricious and merciless.” I nodded my agreement. “I had this crazy dream, you know, that she would marry me, and become civilized. What a deceitful bitch!”

  His vehemence took me aback. “So she toyed with you?”

  “Oh, yes! And I knew better than to take up with such a creature, but you never saw the like. She was a maenad,” he explained. “A priestess of Dionysus, meddling with a novice priest of Apollo. How low and cunning are the ways of women!” Yet his tone carried as much self-deprecation and regret as bitterness toward his first love. “After she cast me off, she went to dwell in a sacred cave. She might even be dead now. Maenads often die young, living as they do.”

  Then he grimaced, took another draught of the wine, while with his free hand urged me to do the same. “You’re wasti
ng an excellent vintage, and when I’ve gone to such trouble.”

  If I did not sample the wine, no doubt he would. “I thought the maenads murdered any man they came across.”

  Didymus wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand. “Only at reaping, when they need a year-king to plow into the earth, and at the wine harvest. That was why she sent me away, you know. To save me from becoming the offering. Had she only told me outright, and not resorted to barbs and cold gestures. But no maenad ever divulges the secret of their women’s rites.” He did not seem quite so drunk now, as he shook his head and stared into space.

  *~*~*~*

  Another message arrived a week later from Sparta. Didymus handed me the clay tablet, told me who the sender was, yet, strangely, did not appear to share my enthusiasm that Hermione had at last written.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “I haven’t read the message, if that is what you mean.”

  His noncommittal reply troubled me, too. There would be time enough to ask later, after I devoured my beloved’s every word.

  Hermione had scored the clay with even lines, and applied her neat hand to the stylus. “My dear Orestes, I am so very glad to hear from you again. Please forgive my sending a clay tablet. I had nothing else to write on when I received your letter, but this will last forever.” Her explanation seemed rushed, unsettled, notwithstanding the fact that she had written on a material reserved for the palace clerks and young students. Peisistratus must be a savage, to stint her papyrus or wax.

  “I wish with all my heart that I could sit beside you, and stroke your hair and hold your hand when the nightmares come. All I can do is send you my love and hope that it’s enough to sustain you.” It should have been enough for me that she had written, and was not reproaching me for my earlier foolishness; it was not. For Hermione was always calm and wise, more goddess than flesh-and-blood woman, yet here she was now cloyingly apologetic and overeager to comfort me.

  I wondered for an instant whether she had even written the letter. No, the handwriting was unmistakably hers. As to the seal, however, that was not hers. I read on, hoping to glean an answer from the remaining words. “Forget all this grim talk about curses and sacrifices. All who know and love you know that you are a good and pious man. Should the worst happen, do not go to your death believing in your guilt, or thinking that no one will care. Pythian Apollo and Mother Dia receive my daily prayers for your deliverance. Your dearest and most loving cousin, Hermione.”

  “There’s something wrong with this letter. This isn’t like her at all.” I held it where Didymus could see; his troubled expression said he knew far more than he was telling me. “What’s going on?” I rose, waved the tablet in his face, then shoved it against his chest. “Whose seal is this? Is she dead? Has her good-for-nothing husband got her imprisoned somewhere? Tell me!”

  Didymus met my gaze. “That is Queen Helen’s seal,” he answered calmly. “The lady isn’t dead, but...” His chest swelled with the deep breath he took. “Nor is she wed to Prince Peisistratus. King Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, seized her and took her to Epirus to make her his wife. Queen Helen sent word, along with the tablet, which came to her from Ephyri.”

  His words fell on numb ears; he had taken me completely off-guard. “Menelaus has gone after her?” A blank look told me no. “And Peisistratus?” I spat out the name like a curse. “Has no one tried to recover her?”

  I need not have asked; his expression told me everything. Menelaus sat impotent in his palace, now that he no longer had my father to fight his battles for him. And Peisistratus, that callow youth, that worthless, weakling fortune-seeker, did nothing, either. Where all the blood had drained from my body, now it started to boil anew. My beloved Hermione—abducted! I spun away from the priest, flung the tablet against the wall, then seized the wooden footstool to hurl after it; the impact cracked the plaster, sending white flakes showering to the floor.

  “Stop this!” Behind me, the priest grasped my upper arms, tried to bring me to heel like a wayward dog.

  I forced my way toward the door, dragging him along as a counterweight, and, dislodging my right arm, savagely punched the doorjamb; the blow juddered through bone and sinew all the way to my shoulder. “I’ll kill him!” With a twist, and a mighty heave, I sent him stumbling back into the cot. “Get me a horse and spear, or get out of my way!”

  The commotion must have carried throughout the sanctuary, because the passageway was suddenly thick with priests, acolytes, and temple servants armed with walking staves and household implements. I could not count them for the narrowness of the corridor, or the multiple talismans they rattled at me, whilst grumbling and hissing, and muttering, “Matricide” and “Anathema” under their collective breath.

  I advanced a step, causing them to take a step back en masse—the cowards. A frail but determined graybeard at the front of the crowd shook his staff at me most threateningly. I wrenched it from him, almost taking him along with it, and deftly spun it around to show them how it was done. “Get out of my way!”

  “Orestes!” Didymus was once again behind me.

  “Get this savage under control,” the graybeard snarled.

  I half-turned, prodded my caretaker’s ribs with the staff. “Clear this rabble and get me a chariot and horses.”

  Yet he did not move, just squared his shoulders and met my gaze directly, as if daring me to break his ribs. “And then what will you do?” he asked softly. Gods, he had courage! “Do you intend to go to Epirus and kill Neoptolemus and all his Myrmidons alone? They will kill you outside the gates of Ephyri, with an arrow through the heart. You’ll die like a dog in the dust, for neither gods nor men will aid you.” His nostrils flared out. “You’ll never get close enough to your lady to rescue her.”

  “Move aside!” A man’s loud and angry voice cut through the grumbling, hissing, and muttering. High Priest Eurymakos squeezed and shoved, jostling his subordinates, who hastened to clear an aisle for him, until he stood before me. “This is the house of Apollo,” he growled, his face twisted with disdain and outrage. “You are within the most holy temenos, where no weapon may be brandished. Submit at once, or forfeit the god’s protection.”

  A humiliating choice faced me, and in the end it was no choice at all. I could not press forward through the bodies cramming the passage; it would have been foolish to do so, because what hope awaited me beyond? There were no men with arms and chariots to follow me, only a thousand or more pilgrims who would tear me apart, and an insulted god who would not stop them. I whirled around, let loose a tremendous roar of pent-up rage and frustration, and hurled the staff against the far wall.

  “On your knees!” Eurymakos stabbed his forefinger at the floor. “Submit to the god, and beg his forgiveness for disturbing the peace of this sanctuary!” How he tempted the beast! I could have smashed his face in and thought nothing of it. Made stupid by my anger, I might well have done so had Didymus not clapped a hand on my shoulder.

  “Do as he says,” he whispered urgently.

  I clenched my teeth, bunched my fists, and got down on one knee, then the other, but refused to speak until Eurymakos supplied the words. “Tell the god what a lowly, savage wretch you are,” he said. “Grovel on your belly and weep for his mercy.”

  He was enjoying this far too much. I bent down, touched my brow to the floor. “Apollo, forgive this supplicant’s outburst.” My face was burning, my fingers itching with the need to wrap them around the high priest’s throat and squeeze.

  “Kiss the ground at my feet,” he ordered.

  I stood up instead. “I will grovel before the god, not you.”

  Eurymakos raised his voice, “You will do as you are told!”

  What might have happened next, I did not know, for Didymus interposed himself between us. “High Priest,” he began, “Orestes has submitted and asked the god’s forgiveness as required. No doubt, you are outraged, and rightly so, but Apollo might resent his kissing the ground at
your feet, and take it for a sign of hubris.”

  It took every ounce of persuasion he could muster to get the high priest to withdraw his order. Eurymakos did not retreat easily; he barked a final order, “Take him within and bind him with rawhide thongs. He will fast until tomorrow evening, for his sins.”

  Didymus ushered me back into the cubicle, and drew the curtain against inquisitive eyes before having me sit on the cot. “What were you thinking, Orestes?” He kept his voice low. “The princess of Sparta wasn’t your betrothed, and it isn’t for you to get involved in this matter.”

  I knotted my fingers in my hair to pull at the roots. Of course he did not understand, could not comprehend; the news did not conjure for him memories of Aegisthus leering at my beloved, or unwelcome thoughts of him forcing himself upon her. No doubt, other men applauded Neoptolemus’s initiative, and even I had to admit that under different circumstances I would have done the very same: wrested Hermione from the unworthy Peisistratus and spirited her away.

  Didymus continued as if he had heard those last thoughts. “It seems to me you’re more envious than outraged.”

  Envy did not fully account for the rage churning in my gut, for I had envied Peisistratus, too, without wanting to hasten to Pylos to tear his head from his shoulders. “He laid rough hands on her, carried her off against her will, and no one stopped him. Menelaus did nothing, her brothers did nothing, her betrothed was a weakling, and I wasn’t there!”

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, and nodded gravely. “It may not be as bad as you think. From what I’ve heard, the king of Epirus has taken the lady as his most honorable wife and queen, not his concubine. In any case, it’s done now, she’s a woman wed, and you must accept it.” He paused long enough to let me absorb that notion. “Had I known you would react so violently, I wouldn’t have given you the news. Lie down now.”

  I did as he bade me, but my gaze was on the rawhide strap in his hand. He leaned over me, almost as intimate as a lover, and whispered in my ear, “I will fasten the ties loosely, but you must swear not to incite any further incidents or try to escape. You can’t do anything in your current state. Even if you managed to get inside the palace of Ephyri and steal her back, you wouldn’t be able to touch her, or have her dwell with you, without making her unclean. You understand that, don’t you?”