The Outcast

by Laura Gill

  Chapter Fifteen

  Strophius was distracted, even as he dismissed his servants and advisors to welcome me into the megaron. “Orestes!” he exclaimed, ushering me into the place of honor with one hand, while pinching the bridge of his nose with the fingers of the other. “Forgive me for sending for you at such a troubled time, but you should be among people again, taking part in the affairs of the world.” Without elaborating, he mixed wine and water in a silver bowl, and performed the customary libation at the hearth. Only afterward did he add, “I don’t have to tell you what a headache this Epirote debacle has caused me.”

  Neoptolemus’s unsuccessful raid and his subsequent death were among the very last subjects I wished to discuss this evening. “I wasn’t there,” I said. “The incident occurred during my ordeal.”

  Strophius did not press me, either about the riot or my ordeal; as a priest-king, he understood the latter was a mystery not to be discussed. “High Priest Eurymakos said as much when he wrote to me.” He drank again, and selected a pickled olive from the platter between us. “Don’t concern yourself with the matter, or with anything else, while you’re here. Enjoy the warm weather. Exercise. Rest. You’ll be burdened with cares soon enough.”

  “Pylades will send word,” I said, noting how my uncle’s expression tightened at mention of his son’s name. So there was still tension between father and son. “Haven’t you reconciled with him?”

  “We write to each other,” Strophius replied. However often that was. “I hear he’s done great things in Mycenae. I would have expected no less from him. It’s what he was bred for.”

  I contemplated the dregs in my cup; the wine had come from Cretan grapes, and was going straight to my head. “Send for him. You’ve no reason not to.” My words were slurring. “He’s your son and heir.”

  “I won’t discuss it further.” Strophius held up his hand to discourage argument. “It’s not what I want or think that’s important, but what the Phocian assembly will accept. When you deal with the Argive assembly, you’ll understand that soon enough.”

  The Argive assembly! I had almost entirely forgotten about that gaggle of useless old men and their ineffective king, who had tried to inveigle concessions from me without committing to my cause when it mattered. According to the tradition which had begun six generations ago with Perseus, the assembly had to ratify my kingship. Let them refuse me. If they would not do the sensible thing and acknowledge my birthright to be king, then I would simply take the throne.

  Strophius reached across to grasp my hand in an avuncular manner. He must have noticed my scars, but did not inquire about them; it would not have surprised me to learn that the high priest had sent him a report. “Go to bed before you become roaring drunk,” he said. “I have a man waiting outside to light your way upstairs.”

  Aunt Anaxibia had arranged for me to occupy the finest guest chamber in the palace, but I did not sleep well. The chamber and its furnishings were far too rich. The air smelled different, no longer like the high alpine valley of Delphi, but like freshly winnowed grain and ripening grapevines and the rich dark earth of the coastal plain.

  And my absolution left me uncertain. Up to this point, I had lived my entire life under the shadow of a double curse. Who was to say that my newfound freedom and cleanliness might not be snatched away by some divine whim, and the madness flood back in? I must be exceedingly cautious, speak no blasphemy, and do nothing to incite immortal wrath. My ancestors had been far too careless.

  I woke late, having no obligations the following day. Anaxibia informed me that my uncle was closeted with his advisors and the Epirote ambassador, engaged in strenuous negotiations regarding reparations for the defilement of Apollo’s sanctuary. As this was not a Mycenaean matter, Strophius did not invite me to partake in the deliberations. Had I been there, I could have asked the Epirote delegation about Hermione’s situation.

  Anaxibia took pains to assure me my beloved was in no danger; she must have spoken to my uncle, who invited me in the afternoon to visit with him. “The Epirote regents have the queen under their protection,” he said. “Whether she remains in Epirus or returns to Sparta depends on whether she is with child.”

  I had not considered the possibility that Hermione might be pregnant; imagining her lying under another man, and growing heavy with his seed filled me with repugnance. “She can’t be.”

  “She most certainly can, young man, whether you like it or not.” Strophius cleared his throat meaningfully. “And even if she isn’t, a royal widow ought to wait a respectable time before taking another husband. Do we understand each other?”

  He did everything but wag his finger at me, when we were both grown men and kings. “Then you’ll have to excuse me for praying for a different outcome.”

  “As you wish,” he said sharply, “as long as you don’t make a lovesick spectacle of yourself. High Priest Eurymakos has already advised me with regard to your outlandish sentiments about the young lady, to ensure there are no more unfortunate incidents.”

  “High Priest Eurymakos,” I retorted, “should keep his mouth shut.”

  “He’s Apollo’s preeminent priest, and, considering the circumstances under which this situation has come about, he has a right to voice his opinion. Had I listened to him, you would still be at Delphi.” The muscles in Strophius’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I know about the scene you caused when you heard about your cousin’s abduction and marriage. I won’t have you accosting the Epirote emissaries to demand news, or otherwise upset these negotiations through your recklessness.”

  Had he not been my elder kinsman as well as my host, I would never have tolerated his nerve in lecturing me so. “Have I said anything about interfering in your negotiations, or abducting the lady? I was under the influence of a demon when I received the news about her capture and forced marriage, as the high priest well knows. I have recovered my senses, and can be trusted to keep my distance and hold my peace, as long as she remains safe.”

  Even after he extracted a solemn promise to honor that word, Strophius appointed me a chaperone, as though I were an unruly child requiring guidance.

  Boukolos delighted in this responsibility, while denying he had orders to keep me in line. “You need more stimulating company than you’ve been keeping. I mean, Machaereus and Nikos are loyal enough, but dear gods, when they open their mouths! Sawdust is more interesting.” Knowing the two men were within earshot, he gave them a friendly wave. Machaereus’s mouth twitched at the corners, while Nikos pretended not to hear. “And you’ve been here two days, and all you do is sit alone and brood. It’s not healthy, when half the men of the court want to ride out on the hunt with you, and the ladies...” Boukolos winked, laughing salaciously.

  As much as I had missed his conversation, the endless stream of banter irked me somewhat. I endured it without complaint only because the world was full of noise; the restful silence of the holy places belonged to the gods. I had grown up among the comings and goings of others, had been enmeshed in their speech and movement from morning till night, and would have to learn to make those things part of my world once more.

  It did not take me long to realize that my companion was struggling to please me as much as I was straining to accommodate him. Thus, to simplify matters, I brought it to his attention. “Please, Boukolos. I already know there was an excellent harvest, that the grapes are heavy and juicy on the vine, and that there were six new foals, eleven piglets, and twenty-two lambs calved this spring on your father’s estate. And I also know the stable boy is handsome, has the most delightful buttocks in Krisa, and is just coming into his first beard, but I’d really rather not hear any more about him.”

  “Then what would you have me say?” Boukolos threw me a frustrated look. “The king ordered me to entertain you, but you haven’t been very obliging.”

  “I’m not used to having people chatter in my ear after...” I glanced aside, recognized to my dismay a trio of brightly dressed court ladies strolling in
the shade of some fig trees, heading in our direction. Aphrodite forbid I should have to suffer their cooing and fluttering. Sighing, I slapped my thighs, and got to my feet. “Let’s visit the goldsmith. I have work for him.”

  On the way down to the workshops of the lower citadel, Boukolos told me he had traveled since we last saw each other. “Have I told you that I visited Elis and Achaea in the spring, and went to Mycenae last autumn.”

  He had not mentioned it earlier. Had Strophius explicitly ordered him to bore me with talk of the stable boy’s supple limbs and downy cheeks, and Lady Ogygia splitting her too-tight bodice during the Serpent Dance, or was something amiss? Boukolos knew better than to withhold information like that. I drew an aggravated breath, exhaled it slowly. “What was your business there?”

  Boukolos appeared not to notice my irritation. “The king assigned me to your sister’s escort when she and her children joined Prince Pylades.”

  Though we had not quite reached the industrial quarter of the lower citadel, I could hear the distant clink and hammering of the forge, and the clacking of shuttles in the weaving house; an image of Mycenae’s workshops and great ramp leapt to mind. All I knew about the situation back home was what Pylades or his father had told me. Was it the truth, that my brother-in-law had managed to sort through the tangle of disputes and shortages and achieve a measure of prosperity, or was it a well-intentioned lie he had crafted to placate my worries during my exile? “Did you stay long?”

  “Only a few days, but that was long enough to see that all was well,” Boukolos answered. “Pylades is obsessive about checking the accounts, making that certain everything is clean and orderly, and that the servants know their places. I overheard someone jest that he’s both master and mistress of the household.”

  I slowed my stride. Surely that would have changed once Elektra arrived. “Were there many petitioners?”

  “On the day I saw Pylades dispensing judgments, yes.” Boukolos nodded, sidestepped a young servant hastening past with a load of kindling on his back. “He conducts all the business of the court from the seat of honor beside the throne, and when a ruling is made or a guest is welcomed, it’s always in the name of King Orestes. He doesn’t let anyone forget who the real authority is.”

  The goldsmith’s workshop appeared, an open doorway set in a squat building beside the weaving house. “And what is the mood at court?”

  “At the time, there was an underlying air of uncertainty.” An ox-cart lumbered toward the gate, its wheels jolting over a rut in the paving stones; the driver hissed and cursed. Boukolos waited until it was safe to cross. “But that was almost a year ago. I’m certain everything is more settled now.”

  He did not sound certain, though, and had spoken too quickly. I grasped his arm to keep him from walking ahead. “You’re holding back. I know the Mycenaeans are all whispering about my madness, and shaking their heads, and questioning my ability to rule—because that’s what the Phocians here are doing—but I’m not a madman, and I want you to speak freely.”

  My addressing the matter so suddenly and openly left him fumbling for an adequate response, but to his credit he did answer. “The king ordered me not to trouble you with talk of politics or anything else that might disturb you,” he admitted quietly. “I can see you’re not mad—and I’ve seen you at your worst—but...” He moistened his lips with his tongue. “They say you’ve been to the underworld, and seen the Erinyes. I’ve never known a man who did that and lived without losing his mind.”

  “I’m utterly sane, as you can see,” I told him. “You’re not to treat me like a delicate child, no matter what my uncle the king says.”

  He flushed with embarrassment. “You said so little on the way from Delphi, I didn’t know what to think.” Then he sighed, and squared his shoulders. “All was well at Mycenae, and that is the truth. Pylades was delighted to see his children, especially the newborn princess. Elektra was very quiet, very distracted. I know she was worried about you.”

  In the evenings, my uncle dismissed my companion and invited me to dine privately with him and my aunt. He shared whatever inconsequential news he thought might interest or concern me, yet other times challenged me with questions. “When the throne and scepter are yours,” he asked, “what will be your first act as king?”

  I knew why he started there, with that particular question; it offered a glimpse into the mind of a man who would be king. Strophius was taking my measure, assessing my fitness to rule. “A king’s very first duty?” I decided to toy with him a little, to let him see that his ploy was not so subtle as he thought. “Do you mean, on the day I take the throne, or on the day I actually begin the work of kingship?”

  Strophius raised an eyebrow at my sauciness. “I wasn’t aware there was any difference.”

  “Oh yes, there is.” I was serious now. “Had fate not intervened, then it would have been me, and not Aegisthus, who performed the final rites at my father’s tomb. A new king always honors his predecessor and the gods before he takes the scepter.” I lifted my cup, took a shallow draught, and wiped my mouth. “Let’s speak plainly, Uncle. What you want to know is how I intend to manage my kingdom. All right, then. I intend to examine the accounts, the contents of the storehouses, the citadel’s defenses, the local workshops, the fields and groves and meadows, and the surrounding estates. I can’t spend resources I don’t have.”

  “And what do you intend to spend those resources on?”

  That’s none of your business. Strophius surely meant well, but I disliked his tone; he sounded like a father whose son was asking to borrow a chariot from the royal stables. I gave him an evasive answer. “I’m afraid I won’t know that until after I consult with my scribes and advisors.”

  “You’ll have much to do,” my aunt added, “but don’t forget that a king needs a queen.” Anaxibia had been quiet throughout the meal, content to let the men discuss men’s affairs. “You’re young yet, but your people won’t feel secure until you marry and give them heirs.” I held my breath, and my uncle’s expression went blank; she did not appear to notice. “There are suitable princesses in the royal houses of Sikyon and Elis, and King Nestor of Pylos has three marriageable daughters who are said to be very beautiful.”

  I could see she also meant well, steering me toward settling down and starting a family, yet surely she must have known better than to broach the subject so soon. I did not bed the women she and Strophius sent me, and she knew the reasons why. Regular human contact still felt strange and uncomfortable, and the notion of sexual intimacy did not appeal to me; my usual appetites were dormant. Nevertheless, I bestowed my most charming smile on my aunt. “There’s time yet.”

  Later, Strophius drew me aside. “Anaxibia gave you sound advice. Don’t set all your hopes on the princess of Sparta when you might make another, more successful alliance.” He held up his hand. “I know, Orestes, but these things are rarely done for love. I understand your feelings better than you might think.” He managed a sympathetic smile. “Don’t discount Nestor because you’d rather have Menelaus for a father-in-law. Nestor is a gracious and astute man, and was your father’s sagest councilor. A young man can do far worse than to marry into the House of Neleus.”

  I would not commit to his advice, and risk giving him the upper hand; it would only encourage him to continue treating me like an errant child. He sought to arrange my marriage, just as he tried to prevent me from accosting the Epirote embassy; his warnings did not keep me from monitoring their movements, or keeping my ears open for news. I spent the late morning hours on a shaded terrace well back from the great court, watching the petitioners and officials, and ambassadors and envoys enter and leave the megaron.

  Boukolos attended me there, and we whiled away the time playing knucklebones, kottabos, or senet, a complicated Egyptian board game which did not capture my interest. That was not to say, however, that my friend enjoyed this routine. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather go out in your chariot?” he asked.
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  I toyed with a cone from the senet board. “Does my uncle want me to go out?”

  “No, I do,” he shot back. “I’ve no idea why you’re so interested in what’s going on down there. We’re too far away to hear anything, and whatever those petitioners and ambassadors have to say is being said in the megaron. You’re wasting your time out here.”

  “I’m playing senet with you.”

  Boukolos snorted, knocked over his pieces. “You keep forgetting the rules.” He gathered his spools, and my fallen cones, and added, “If you want to learn something, then tomorrow morning let’s sit in the gallery.”

  “I don’t wish to attract attention.”

  At that, he threw up his hands. “You’re impossible! You’re sitting here pretending to watch the daily business of the court when you know perfectly well there’s nothing to see. It’s obvious your mind is a thousand miles away.”

  I reached for my cup, took a draught of cool barley water. “You think I’m brooding again?”

  “I know you’re brooding,” he answered. “It makes people nervous.”

  “Even you?”

  “Orestes, I don’t know what’s going through your mind.”

  I studied him. “And that makes you afraid?”

  Boukolos drew a substantial sigh. “I know you’re probably just thinking about all the responsibilities you will face as king, but those who don’t know you are left to wonder about your sudden moods.”

  Charitable people would call me god-touched, while others would revile me as a madman. I drained my cup, and set it down next to the senet board. “Perhaps you’re right, and we should ride out. I won’t have much time later, when I’m king.”

  In the countryside, men and women sang hymns as they labored in the vineyards to bring in the grape harvest; their voices carried across the road like the pale yellow dust my chariot’s wheels spun into the air. I ran my team at a brisk canter. A salty ocean breeze blowing inland from the gulf cooled my skin and ruffled the horses’ manes.