The Outcast

by Laura Gill

  Hermes stretched out, yawned, and closed his eyes, content. Eteokles, the young nobleman Kleitos had appointed as my valet, came in to remove my garments and jewelry, and turn down the bed with its soft fleeces. “Find me papyrus, ink, and sealing wax” I said. “I wish to write a letter.”

  “My lord?”

  Eteokles had heard me the first time. “Go, and be quick about it.”

  I was not yet ready to sleep, not with my thoughts racing and nerves on edge. By now, Pylades would have received Kleitos’s message, and would be preparing a suitable welcome. In a few days, I would be king in truth as well as name; the scepter would be mine, and the myriad burdens that went with it. No man in good conscience could rest easy when such responsibilities awaited him.

  Eteokles returned with the requested items. I dismissed him for the evening.

  I turned the lamp to shed more light on the papyrus, then dipped the stylus into the ink and started to write. A letter to Hermione meant one to Menelaus, to request his permission to address his widowed daughter. No matter my resentment toward the man, every propriety must be observed, lest tongues wag further. I saluted my uncle with his titles, told him I had been exonerated at Delphi, and was now, at the behest of the Argive assembly, on my way home to claim the Mycenaean throne and set the House of Atreus to rights—references to Agamemnon and Mycenae that should appeal to his familial pride. Only then did I broach my true intent.

  “We wish to offer your lady daughter our condolences upon her recent loss. Certain slanders about the incident have begun to spread, and it pains us to have to repeat them here. There are those who say Hermione wrote to us at Delphi, begging us to kill her husband, and that we slew him before the altar of Apollo. Although it is true that she wrote to us, it was as a blameless lady to her stricken kinsman, and she never once mentioned her husband or her marriage.” Again, I regretted having destroyed evidence of her irreproachable conduct. “Moreover, Neoptolemus and his Myrmidons attacked the sanctuary on the very day we went to face our ordeal. We had no knowledge of the riot, nor did we hear about it for several days afterward, until after we received purification. The priests themselves told us that Neoptolemus met his end at the hands of Apollo’s own pilgrims and temple guards. We should like to assure our kinswoman that, when she should come to hear of it, this poisonous talk asserting otherwise is groundless, and to commiserate with her loss.”

  I signed the letter, blotted the ink dry with sand, and set my new seal into the melted wax. Menelaus could believe whatever he liked, as long as he complied and passed my words on to my beloved.

  I assumed a less formal tone with her. “Dearest Hermione. Please accept my condolences on your recent bereavement.” Thank the gods that hotheaded fool is dead, and you’re not stuffed full of his seed. “How strange it is, writing to console you, when it has always been you lending me your comfort! I would have left you alone, to mourn and find consolation among your family and friends, but I did not wish you to be troubled by any lingering concerns about my trial, or any scabrous rumors you might hear.”

  Reaching for more ink, I continued, “I will spare you the details about the trial, except to say it was a difficult ordeal, and that the double curses on our houses are now broken. We are all free.” Hermione would not want to know about the fasting and purging, the darkness and cold terror, and I did not want to commit those things to writing. “I left Delphi a month ago. Since then, I have discovered that some rather vicious rumors have been circulating with regard to your late husband’s last hours there.”

  A creeping uncertainty compelled me to lay down the stylus and lean back in my chair. Menelaus had all the details; he could give them to his daughter. There was no need to write this second letter, except as an excuse to address Hermione, to woo her, and gloat over her childless widowhood.

  No! She would expect a message, and misunderstand her father receiving one while she got nothing. I owed her this courtesy.

  “You may hear talk that Neoptolemus and I encountered each other at the god’s altar, that we quarreled over you, and that I killed him because he stole you from me.” I fought the urge to lie and say yes. Yes, I killed him because he abducted you and carried you away from that fool Peisistratus, and I hated him for being able to take you where I could not!

  “I assure you, the rumor is quite false.” At the time, I was a weakling, a coward, bound under the earth, and shivering and terrified and weeping like a child. “Neoptolemus and his Myrmidons arrived the very day of my trial, so I did not hear about the altercation until several days after. I cannot say quite how the rumor originated, but believe it may have started with the fact that my Phocian guards left their posts and joined the mob in bludgeoning the intruders.”

  Sighing, I looked over at Hermes, dozing soundly on the floor. “Friend, you don’t know how fortunate you are not to have such troubles.” Eyes still shut, he stretched his limbs and twitched his tail as if in acknowledgment. “I’m a fool to be writing all this, you know, except that she will eventually hear about it, and it’s best she hear the truth from me.”

  The hour was growing late; it was time to finish the letter and go to bed. “King Strophius has asked about the incident, as have others. Just this very evening, the lord of Nemea showed his tactlessness in asking whether you had prevailed upon me to kill Neoptolemus.” Cross that out! Instead, I kept going. “I can understand why others would slander me—indeed, I have become quite accustomed to their vile accusations and whispers—but there is no excuse for them to do likewise to you. You are blameless. I defended your good name, but the sad truth is that people prefer to believe sordid falsehoods over dull facts.” I closed my eyes for a moment, as much against the strain induced by the weak light as from frustration. Hermione must dread my letters, as I always seemed to say the wrong things.

  “I know the last thing you want is to revisit your husband’s death, and I apologize for upsetting you. That was not my intention. Your words comforted me in the darkness during my trial. I held them against my heart when the Erinyes came to judge me, and it was as though you were there beside me. For that, I shall always be your servant. Yours, as long as life endures. Orestes.”

  I sealed the letter. After undressing, I blew out the lamp and crawled under the fleeces. Hermes snuffled in the dark; his joints creaked as he moved, then I heard his soft foot pads on the stuccoed floor. His muzzle touched the mattress. Hot breath misted my face, then a cold nose touched mine. “Ah, Hermes!” I squirmed an arm out from under the covers to hug his head. He licked my left eyelid. “We shall soon be home.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A hundred knives hemmed me in, although the room was empty except for Eteokles and Hermes. A purple cloak edged with gold bands spilled over the valet’s arms—a rich reddish-purple the color of congealed blood. Father had worn a bronze cuirass under his cloak, little good though it had done him. I clenched my right hand into a fist, my thumb brushing against the seal ring on my forefinger. Perhaps Pylades enjoyed wielding power too much. His men might even now be hiding, waiting to...

  “No!” I hissed.

  “My lord?” Eteokles hesitated as he started pinning the cloak over my left shoulder.

  I waved him on. “Nothing.” Pylades would not dare usurp my throne; it was not in his character. Nor would Elektra countenance his betraying me. I let out a breath. There would be no knives today, no nets or axes, or murder. All that was buried in the past, along with the curse. Nerves and a sleepless night bred fearful thoughts, that was all.

  Kleitos awaited me with his household in the outer courtyard. I had chosen to spend this final night at his estate, where he, respecting my wishes, neither feasted nor made other demands of me. “You will have more than enough feasting tonight in your own house,” he said.

  His courtyard faced east, with a view toward the royal citadel nestled upon the lap of Mount Charvati. I could see the white smoke curling from the palace flues, it was that close, only two miles away.


  The honor guard lifted the Atreid banners as Kleitos called them to attention. Autumn wildflowers bedecked the chariot rails and had been braided into the horses’ manes. Even Hermes sported a garland. I stroked him between the ears, and urged him to obey his handler. Then I climbed into the chariot with Ixion.

  Men went before us with drums and horns, and a herald with a stentorian voice who called out, “Make way for the king! Make way for Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae, overlord of Achaea, Corinth, and Nemea, and protector of the Islands!”

  Word had spread throughout the region that the king was coming. Herdsmen and farmers had camped the night beside the road, waiting with their families and even their flocks to catch a glimpse of their new ruler. Half of Argolis must have been there, waving from ditches and fallow fields, holding their children and grandchildren upon their shoulders. And like the herald, they called out to me, shouting, “Agamemnonides!”and “Wanax!” Sounds to make my heart glad, for last night I had watched their campfires in the darkness with a dull ache in my gut, wondering and worrying what welcome I would receive in the morning. Would they pelt me with stones and dung, call me matricide and anathema? I felt certain they must, and yet here they were, my subjects, greeting me with cheers and whistles.

  On the right, we passed the training ground where I had learned to sprint and cast the javelin. Boys crowding the top of Atreus’s scaling wall whooped and hollered. Herdsmen rang their brass bells. Country women in their rough-spun dresses paused in their dance to bare their breasts, an ancient blessing upon the land and its king. Drinking in the color and noise, I forgot about nets and knives and palace intrigues. All Mycenae was on holiday, and it was for my sake.

  We entered the lower town through the west gate. Ixion had to slow our vehicle, the crowd was so thick, and the roar was deafening. Men and women reached out their hands to touch the chariot car. Armed guards pressed them back, back, to make room for the king; the din all but swallowed the herald’s call. The smells of roasting meat and onions and garlic, horseflesh and wood smoke, perfume and fresh flowers and lime plaster filled the air. Garlands twined around beams and hung from terraces, and the townswomen were a swirl of colorful flounced skirts.

  Above the heads of the crowd, I saw the gleaming white apex of Father’s tomb, but not much else. Ahead, I registered the bastions of the lower citadel, and the great stone walls gleaming with new plaster, and the predominant thought whirling through my head was that those fortifications were Mycenae, they girded the place called home, and I had at last returned.

  The Lion Gate made it all real. Its shadow swallowed the chariot as Ixion drove under the massive lintel, and expelled us inside the citadel. And then I heard the sound: spear butts drumming the ramparts, naked bronze striking ox-hide shields, and the roar of armed men. This was the Mycenae Father had meant to return to that terrible day eight years ago. I wondered, very briefly, whether his shade begrudged me the triumphant homecoming he had been denied.

  Kleitos came around beside the chariot, and indicated the palace on the summit, a gentle reminder that the court and the rites of kingship still awaited.

  People thronging the terraces tossed flowers onto the stairs. How different all this was from what I had imagined. I could not think, much less savor each moment, or each sound and sight and smell; it felt so rushed.

  An aisle formed along the path leading into the great court. Courtiers murmured and bowed; there must have been at least a hundred jammed into that space. The lords of the council were arranged along the wide aithousa, flanking my sister and brother-in-law, who waited to greet me atop the steps. Pylades stood tall and regal, his scarlet cloak secured over one shoulder. Elektra’s flounces glittered, and she wore a fortune in necklaces and bracelets of gold, silver, and semiprecious stones. Some skilled handmaid had tamed her wild red hair into elegant ringlets. Her hand with its many rings came up to stifle a gasp, and her kohl-rimmed eyes stared.

  Pylades stepped down to the level of the court. “Orestes Agamemnonides, our kinsman and brother.” He saluted me. “Today, with the blessing of the gods and the approval of the Argive assembly, you return to claim the kingdom which we have held in trust for you. That kingdom is Mycenae. Its royal seat is the Lion Court, where your forefathers ruled as High Kings. Mycenae’s fields, groves, vineyards, towns, workshops, stables, markets, and roads—they are now yours, passing into your hands like this ring.”

  Then he held aloft my father’s golden seal ring, the symbol of his authority as regent, and slid it onto my left forefinger. “Orestes has returned!” he announced. “Orestes is king!”

  All those crammed into the great court, the noblemen and ambassadors and their wives, took up the chant. I saw Elektra’s hennaed mouth move, heard her shouts, and then her throaty laugh; her eyes danced and sparkled with glee.

  In contrast with the bright morning, the megaron felt small and dark and oppressive. Garlands twined the central pillars, and resinous pine crackling on the hearth diffused its fragrance throughout the space. Against the south wall, a lion skin draped the back of the throne, and a purple cushion softened the stone seat.

  The high priest in his tall polos headdress and fringed robes greeted me at the dais. “Orestes, son of Agamemnon,” he said. “Have you come to claim the scepter and throne of the king?”

  “We have,” I answered.

  He placed the scepter in my hands. Of yellowed ivory twisted around with fine gold wire, worn smooth from long handling, the scepter was Cretan work going back over a hundred years to the beginning of Perseus’s reign. “Here is the rod of your office, shepherd of the people,” the high priest said. “It comes to you through the generations of kings which have come before, from Perseus, son of Zeus, to his eldest son Alektryon, from Alektryon to his brother Sthenelus, from Sthenelus to his son Eurystheus. And from Eurystheus, last of his line, to Atreus, son of Pelops, and from Atreus to his brother, the usurper Thyestes. Agamemnon, son of Atreus, took back the scepter, but lost his throne and life to Aegisthus, son of Thyestes, who in turn was slain by Orestes, son of Agamemnon, who now assumes his rightful place upon the Lion Throne. Wanax, great king, will you defend Mycenae from all enemies?”

  “We will.”

  “And as king, do you swear to uphold the laws of gods and men, to act as a just arbiter, and to lead your people in peace and prosperity as in war?”

  “We do.”

  “Then let Father Zeus set his guiding hand upon you, Orestes, son of Agamemnon, and bestow his manifold blessings upon your reign.”

  With a knife, he sliced my finger to collect the droplets of blood in an alabaster cup, then mixed it with wine, and at the hearth offered the libation. “Father Zeus, receive this offering of the king’s blood. Let him receive your might and wisdom, and enjoy a long reign.”

  Next, a middle-aged high priestess spoke for the patron goddesses of Argos. She anointed my brow with leathery brown fingers slick with scented oil, and then, clucking her tongue at what little she had to work with, sheared a lock of hair with a slash of her sickle knife. She gave the lock to the fire, chanting, “Mother Dia, you who are also known as Hera, and as Athena, receive this offering of the king’s hair. Grant him your favor. Let him be fruitful. Let his fields and groves and pastures become abundant. Let his seed be strong.”

  She waited a moment, while the flames swallowed the offering, then turned to the audience, and raised both arms. “There is a new king in Mycenae!”

  “Orestes Agamemnonides,” the high priest intoned. “Wanax.”

  A hundred men and women repeated my name and title in unison; the chant spilled out into the great court, where it was taken up in a resounding echo that was still strong when the high priest and high priestess led me outside to the uppermost terrace to show me to the people. From that height, I could gaze down into the lower citadel where the craftsmen and servants had gathered, over the ramparts where Arkados had his men standing at attention, and out over the lower town and into the countryside whe
re the people feasted and drank in my honor. All were my subjects, in their hundreds and thousands. I thrust the scepter into the air, and shouted out, “Wanax!”

  Such a thunderous roar of acclamation went up that it must have carried as far as Argos on its high hill six miles away. I basked in the glow. No mortal man could experience a greater sense of triumph than to be victorious against his enemies and claim his birthright while thousands cheered and wept and pledged their allegiance; he might even forget he was mortal altogether.

  My euphoria was short-lived, exhausted amid the afternoon’s many rituals. In the cult house, I honored the male and female deities on their separate altars. At the Perseid grave circle, I sacrificed six rams to honor my legitimate predecessors, and three bull calves for the patron god and goddesses of Argos.

  I went up again to the megaron, where the priests brought out the gold rhyton Atreus had inherited from Pelops, the vessel wrought in the shape of a lion’s head Mother had once let me use. Another symbol of Atreid kingship, another link to my predecessors. The high priest dictated the sacred words, as he had done throughout, and I, repeating them, poured the wine out onto the great hearth to thank the gods once again for their blessings. By late afternoon, I was both physically and mentally exhausted, my head thick with prayers and hymns and invocations, the ritual vessels and knives and washing of hands, and through it all dogged by fear that I had forgotten to perform some crucial rite, or honor some deity whose wrath would later come back to haunt me.

  I had no rest that day, no space in which to breathe or reflect. Immediately after the last rite ended, we sat down to a sumptuous feast. Advisors wanted a word, lords and ladies came forward to pay their respects, and ambassadors curried favors for their various masters. Argos and Tiryns had sent an emissary, as had Lerna, Midea, Troezen, and several other Argive dependencies. Ambassadors had also arrived from Nemea, Corinth, and Sikyon, but not Sparta. Menelaus must not have received word in time.