The Outcast

by Laura Gill

  It was early yet, but hot enough that the ground baked against my bare feet. Panting, I wiped the sweat and dust from my brow with a towel, and started indoors to wash and change my clothing.

  “You have no time.” Didymus caught my arm to steer away from the bathroom, and toward the passage leading to the inner sanctum. “It’s the cleanliness of your spirit which matters, not your body.” He gave me a little shove. “Go. You can’t keep them waiting.”

  I found it odd that he did not accompany me; he left it to the temple servant to escort me to the inner sanctum, where at least a dozen priests awaited me in full regalia. Bluish smoke wreathed the kouros and the space before the altar where the high priest directed me to kneel; a heavy cloud of frankincense assaulted my nostrils.

  Eurymakos invoked the god. “Apollo, you who are Healer and Far-seer, behold the supplicant, Orestes Agamemnonides, who has committed matricide. He has undertaken and survived the ordeal you have decreed for him. He has submitted to the Erinyes, those dread Daughters of Night, who have devoured his sin and left him alive with his wits intact.” I kept my gaze fixed on the floor; the high priest beside me was but a strident voice and fringed hem above shoes of scarlet kid leather. “Through his ordeal, Orestes is absolved, and through his absolution, the double curse on the House of Atreus is thus canceled.”

  I clenched my teeth to hold back a gasp of surprise. So I was free. After having survived the ordeal, that came as no surprise. Yet the lifting of the generations-old curse went far beyond my expectations. I had not known Apollo could affect that change.

  Stunned, I bent double to touch my brow to the floor. Bodies shuffled around me, closed in, and multiple fringed hems and oiled leather shoes crowded my limited visions. A dozen pairs of hands laid hold of me; the priests raised me to my feet and led me toward the sanctuary’s great doors, freely touching me when not so very long ago they would have nothing to do with me.

  Outside on the aithousa, a great swell went up from the pilgrims crowding the ascent to the sanctuary. Shouts rang out: “Matricide!” and “Murderer!” and “Anathema!” A priest strode out to the first landing, and called out, “Absolution!” but his voice seemed small against the crowd. Fear tinged my elation. I heard the ring of bronze, and the creak of leather, and the voices of the temple guards ordering the most aggressive pilgrims down. Why had the high priest decided to bring me this way, when he surely knew how the crowd would react?

  Armed men rushed ahead of us to clear the path to the Castalia spring. More pilgrims accosted us, pressing in with their unwashed bodies, and shouting insults. It set me on edge. Eurymakos might have had the route cleared beforehand. He was allowing the crowd to scourge me with curses and hateful gestures because he wished it so.

  Like that first chaotic day, when the priests had shoved me into the lustral basin, tore at my garments, and pulled me this way and that, they now hustled me into a sunken space near the spring. And then, stripping me naked before the multitude, they dumped icy water over my head, vessel after vessel of the sacred waters of Parnassus. The cold shocked me to my very marrow. I flung up my arms to shield my head, and instinctively crouched down, crying out at the freezing deluge pouring down on my shaven head and bare back.

  Eurymakos had followed us down to the adyton; I heard his voice above the splashing water and jeering crowd. “Behold the supplicant, Orestes Agamemnonides. He has undertaken his ordeal and been absolved. Let him be washed clean of his crimes and the blood-taint of his house in the holy waters of the Castalia!”

  Several priests grabbed my arms to haul me to my feet. “Receive the gift of the god!”

  The mood of the crowd began to shift, scattered cheers replacing the insults and jeers. I was too rattled to take heart from the increasing number of well-wishers, or from the priests, who were now more gentle, rubbing me down with fine white linen and wrapping a fresh linen around my waist. The violence of the purification rite had dashed whatever joy I might have felt; it left me dazed and burnt-out.

  The priests did not return me to my familiar cubicle, but steered me instead to a spacious chamber rich with decoration. Scarlet and blue trim colored the walls, silken fleeces covered the bed, and fine linen and woolen garments laid been laid out upon a chair inlaid with ebony and ivory plaques. A servant brought food and wine, and later, scented oils and new leather sandals.

  “This is the foremost guest chamber,” said the priest who remained behind to attend me, “where kings stay when they come to pay homage to the god.”

  “Where is Didymus?” I asked. Although this new deference to my royal status was nothing less than my rightful due, it offered no comfort. These priests had let their true sentiments be known during the long months of my confinement; to them, I was and always would be a matricide, an anathema, something less than human.

  The priest answered with a polished little bow, “Didymus must fast and receive purification.” His name was Alexias, and he was a sallow, two-faced creature, concealing behind his obsequiousness the disdain he had shown me during my travail. I would not forget that insult, or others.

  “Have him come straightaway, once he is able. I will have him attend me.”

  “As you wish, Prince Orestes.” Alexias gave me a disingenuous smile, along with another insincere bow. “If there’s anything else you require...”

  I dismissed him with a curt gesture, and lay down upon the bed. Sleep refused to come. The bedding was far too soft, the afternoon heat too stifling, and my thoughts too scattered. I would rather have returned to my plain and isolated cubicle.

  Didymus did not appear that evening or the next morning. I did not see him until the evening, when he entered wearing the everyday robes of his office: white banded with fringed hems of blue and scarlet, and his polished amulet around his neck. “You look well, Prince Orestes.”

  I embraced him, noticing at once the stiffness of his posture. A change had come over him; he was no longer my most intimate caretaker. I withdrew, invited him to sit. “Have you received purification?”

  He inclined his head. “You requested my service?”

  I went to a side table to mix the water and wine Alexias had earlier set out, and returned with two cups. “You’re the only one here that I can trust.” Didymus accepted the proffered cup. “The others...” I shook my head, unable to articulate my complaint without possibly being overheard. Alexias or some other priest or temple servant was probably eavesdropping on the other side of the door. “They weren’t gentle with me during the purification rites.”

  “That wasn’t intentional.” Didymus set the cup aside without drinking from it. “It was to drive the last of the demons from you.”

  Either he did not know the full extent of what had happened, or he was being diplomatic about it. Eurymakos had absolved me in the inner sanctum, before the priests scourged me with the ice-cold water; there would have no demons left to drive out.

  “I’ve been keeping something from you.” Didymus wore a perturbed look to match the gravity of his tone. “I gather no one else has told you, either.”

  I felt a sharp twinge of apprehension. “Has this something to do with the deliberations or verdict, or is it bad news from the outside?”

  He took a moment to consider his words, then said, “King Neoptolemus of Epirus is dead.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eager to learn how this particular miracle had come about, I listened to the priest’s story, even more intently when it became clear that the circumstances had been somewhat less than miraculous.

  On the very day of my ordeal, within hours of my being left under the earth, Neoptolemus had led his Myrmidons on a raid to despoil and defile Delphi. “It was agreed you shouldn’t be told until after you went through the rites of purification,” Didymus said. “We didn’t wish you to be tainted with the knowledge, as it would have affected your recovery.”

  Achilles’ son must have been possessed by a demon to have even contemplated attacking holy Delphi. “What da
mage did he and his Myrmidons do?”

  “He defiled an altar and smashed the kouros there. His men killed sixteen pilgrims who tried to stop him, but then the other pilgrims, and several guards, and even your own men rushed forward to overwhelm them. It was an outrage, an outrage. I feared for you, down in that cave.” Didymus’s fingers convulsively gripped his armrests; his gaze was fixed. I had never seen him so shaken. “We sacrificed ten bulls, sixteen rams, fourteen ewes to the god, did all we could to cleanse the sanctuary. We pray that he accepts the offerings, and doesn’t send a plague to devastate us all.”

  Beyond the shock of the sacrilege, my one prevailing thought was that I had not been there to help stop it. Had my ordeal only been delayed a day or two, I could have seized a spear, run out, and fought for the god! “So who killed the Epirote king?”

  “They say your man Machaereus delivered the fatal blow,” Didymus answered. “It could have been several men who killed him, there was such madness down there. I heard later that Neoptolemus was dragged down from the altar, and his men fought hard to defend him, but the mob overtook them all.” He swallowed hard, and his nostrils flared. “The temple guards found him later—or what might have been him, to judge from his armor—and we buried the remains under the altar he profaned.”

  Machaereus came straightaway when I sent for him. He wore livid bruises and lacerations from the fight, and moved painfully, but did not seem overly concerned about his injuries or the fact that he might have killed a king. “The man I saw was already bleeding and broken all over, and wasn’t moving anymore. I stuck my spear in him, sure, but maybe he was already dead.” His shoulders heaved a nonchalant shrug. “It had to be done, for the god.”

  I made inquiries strictly to satisfy my own morbid curiosity; it did not matter to me who had killed Neoptolemus, only that he was dead, and my beloved Hermione a widow. What a fool! He had been a young man with a magnificent pedigree, his followers had been the most skilled and loyal fighters ever known, his queen had been the most beautiful woman in the world, his life had been filled with the promise of glory and prosperity, and it had ended like this!

  As to that most beautiful woman in the world, I found myself thinking about Hermione perhaps somewhat more often and in ways that were less than appropriate for a man commiserating with a widowed kinswoman. I wanted her still, and now that we were both free, there was no reason why she should not be mine.

  Patience. I must learn to exercise self-control where my beloved was concerned. Negotiating a royal marriage was not an immediate affair, especially when the bride was a widowed queen; she must observe a proper period of bereavement no matter what she had thought of her dead husband. And I had matters to settle at home. Hermione would marry a king, and a king of Mycenae, too.

  *~*~*~*

  “Prince Orestes, a royal escort awaits you outside.” Didymus extended a missive bearing my uncle’s seal. “I have instructions to see you dressed and delivered outside.”

  I skimmed the message. Strophius had invited me to court, to wait under his roof as a royal guest until a messenger brought official word from Mycenae. “He wishes me to come now?” Honoring the invitation meant leaving the sanctuary, and returning to the outside world. “This is very sudden.”

  Didymus wore a knowing smile, despite his very formal manners. “You’re more than ready.” The door opened, admitting a servant with bright garments spilling from his arms. “I’m told the king has sent your own garments and some suitable goods for the thanksgiving offering.”

  “I would have liked some time to prepare.” An hour would have sufficed. I felt caught at a disadvantage, as if I were being shoved out the door.

  “You can’t stay here forever, Prince Orestes,” he observed.

  I ran a hand over the stubble which passed for hair. People would comment on my near-baldness; it would remind them that I had been a supplicant, and ultimately, a matricide. “I’d hoped this would grow out a bit first.”

  The temple servant clothed me in the blue tunic with its scarlet and purple embroidered bands, buckled on the scarlet leather belt and sandals, and slid on the gold armbands. All I took from the guest chamber were the letters and the blue cloak which were the only items from my old cubicle that had not been burned.

  In full regalia, the high priest and his attendants met me just outside the inner sanctum. “Prince Orestes, you have come.” Eurymakos graciously inclined his head; he was smooth and polite, as slick as Aegisthus, and about as convincing. “The time has come to go before the god and make your thanksgiving offerings.”

  I saw the items sent for the dedication just inside the sanctum. Strophius had selected some of my finest belongings, including several amphorae of wine, and the magnificent lion skin Menelaus had sent as consolation when he ended my engagement to Hermione. I cherished no particular sentiments for my paternal uncle, or for the lion skin itself; I had not slain the beast to claim it as my trophy.

  Eurymakos did not have to instruct me in the rites of thanksgiving. I lighted precious granules of frankincense before the altar, then saluted the kouros. “Apollo is the Healer, the Farsighted One, the Divine Archer, and the Most Just.” My voice carried through the chamber, hesitant at first because it had been so long since I had been allowed to make an offering, then more confident. “I, Orestes Agamemnonides, come before you not as a wretched supplicant, but as the bearer of offerings to give thanks for your mercy and protection.”

  I dedicated first the lion skin, then the amphorae of wine. Strophius had selected other items as well, including pieces of gold jewelry and garments worked with purple and gold. For some inexplicable reason, my gaze slid from the glittering heap to the modest pile of letters and blue cloak I had deposited on the floor near the altar. Why not? A man should give the gods nothing less than his best. It would not hurt me to lose the rich garments or jewels, but to give up those precious letters, and that cloak that was my beloved’s own handiwork, yes, that was fitting.

  I laid the plain blue cloth atop the heap of rich scarlet and purple. “To you, great god, I dedicate this cloak, woven by the very hands of my beloved Hermione. It kept me comfortable during my long travail. It kept me sane when the nightmares came. Though it may be humble when compared to these other garments, it has great worth to me. Therefore, let it remain here in your sanctuary.”

  I did not set the sheaf of letters upon the altar, but fed them to the brazier one at a time, watching patiently as each papyrus sheet caught fire, and started to curl and blacken and crumble; I smashed the fragments of the broken clay tablet on the sturdy flagstones bordering the painted stucco, and ground them under my heel.

  The high priest waited for me in the vestibule, acknowledged me with a polite nod. “Prince Orestes,” he said smoothly, “we hope you will remember the respite and many kindnesses you have found here.”

  His gall astonished me. “High Priest, I remember those who have shown me kindness.” I honed my voice to a knife’s edge, “And I also remember those who have not.”

  Didymus met me outside the great doors, on the aithousa, where he handed me a letter. “As you can see, it was never sent.”

  I had but to scan the opening salutation to recognize my angry missive to Menelaus. Abashed, I tucked it away; the priest had been absolutely right to check my impulsiveness.

  Time was growing short. Strophius awaited me. Mycenae needed its king. And yet, standing there upon the threshold of freedom, I was reluctant to leave the sanctuary and the priest who had treated me with such tenderness and dignity.

  “Didymus,” I said, “come with me. Apollo’s shrine at Mycenae needs a proper priest.”

  I had spoken on impulse, though not without reason; there were too few priests in the world with his wisdom and vocation. Didymus, on the other hand, took his time about answering. Drawing a deep breath, he gazed out at the cloudless blue sky and mountainside clad in evergreens and summer-blooming shrubs, taking it all in as the moments dragged by. I knew even then, in readi
ng his hesitation, what his reply would be.

  “You speak of going home, yet you would take me from mine,” he said softly. “Parnassus is the god’s sacred mountain. It’s always been my home.”

  “Of course.” I should not have asked, however appropriate it might have seemed at the moment. “The invitation stands, though, should you ever change your mind.”

  His smile was sad, wistful. “If I were as young as you, I might have said yes.” Setting his hand upon my forearm, he gestured down the aithousa. “Look, your escort awaits you.”

  Standing only ten feet away, Boukolos had been politely watching our exchange. Now, with my acknowledgment, and wearing a cheerful expression, he approached. “How well you look!” Eight armed warriors of the Phocian court had come with him.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” I said.

  “I requested the honor of acting as your escort.” Boukolos looked fit and regal, dressed in oiled leather, his boar tusk helmet cradled under one arm, and his azure mantle fastened at the shoulder with massive gold brooches; he also looked hot and uncomfortable from the ride up the mountain. “We all await your pleasure, Prince Orestes.”

  I sensed rather than saw the pilgrims crowding the open area below the sanctuary, and remembered how, only a week ago, they had jeered me. I would rather have faced a hundred fierce brigands than have to pass among that crowd.

  Didymus sent me on my way with a final benediction. “Prince Orestes,” he said, clasping my arm. “May Hermes the Traveler watch over you on your journey, and Father Zeus and all the gods of Olympus look kindly upon you.”

  Before he could release me, I embraced him tightly; he thumped my back, murmured my name like a father preparing to send his son into the world for the first time. When we parted, there were no more words. He became the priest again, formal and distant, taking his leave with a courteous nod. It saddened me to watch him go.