by Laura Gill
I ate little, and took care not to drink overmuch. Eteokles informed me that the lower town was alive with celebration, and that bonfires were burning in the surrounding countryside. Prominent nobles offered multiple toasts, each more drunken than the last. Eurybatos swayed on his feet, Nearchos passed out in his cups after the twentieth such libation, whilst a blustering Menon took credit for being the first nobleman to support me, a boast which, naturally, drew loud criticism.
“Sit down!” Kleitos shouted.
Menon instead grew belligerent. “I prefer to stand, boy.”
“Stand there all night, then,” Eurybatos flung at him, “but everyone knows Kleitos was the first of us to swear his sword to the king, and you were the last.”
A fight in the megaron on the first night of my reign would be ill-omened. Pylades started to intervene. “Gentlemen...”
I slammed a fist down on the table, then bellowed for silence and stood up when the shouting continued. All conversation abruptly ceased, all eyes turned toward me. “Is this how you conduct yourselves in the presence of your king?” I demanded. Mutters of assent from the onlookers. “We appreciate that you enjoy the wine, but remember that you are guests here, and guests do not violate the sanctity of the hearth. We will not have our noblemen quarrel any further over this matter. Sit down, all of you. Send for Kretheus and his lyre. It has been a long time since we have had the pleasure of hearing him sing.”
Menon grudgingly took his seat; his naysayers did likewise. I waited for the tension to ebb before turning to Pylades, seated in the place of honor on my right. “We haven’t seen the children all evening.” At most, I had had a brief glimpse of the two boys and their eldest sister on the aithousa before the anointing. “Is it too late to bring them into the hall to let them hear Kretheus sing?”
Pylades mulled it over, stealing an occasional glance at his wife, seated on my left hand. “Perhaps this one night,” he mused, “the boys might be allowed to attend.”
Young Strophius and Medon, too excited to sleep, eagerly ran into the megaron and threw themselves into my outstretched arms just as Kretheus started tuning his lyre. “How big you’ve grown!” I exclaimed. I had missed them so. “Tonight, you will be our special guests, and sit beside us to hear the bard sing.”
I took six-year-old Medon on my knee, whilst his seven-year-old brother nestled in his father’s arms nearby. An anticipatory silence fell over the megaron. Kretheus ran his plectrum across the strings, and began reciting the opening chords of the Song of Jason, my old favorite. Although they, too, loved the tale, the boys were asleep by the time Kretheus finished the first episode. Medon dozed with his head on my shoulder. Strophius yawned and stirred a little when the audience applauded the bard, but did not wake.
“They hardly slept at all last night, knowing you were coming home today,” Elektra confided, “and they were too excited for the afternoon sleep.”
“Then they’re not alone,” I murmured back.
She leaned closer, so no one would overhear. “Then dismiss everyone, and go to bed. There will be six more nights of feasting.”
After the royal nurse and her assistant had taken the boys upstairs again, I signaled to the guests that they might leave. The megaron began to empty. Servants cleared away the trestle tables and other debris, while others brought fleeces and blankets to make up guest beds on the aithousa. Tomorrow there would be athletic games, followed by short audiences with the most important ambassadors, more rituals, and another feast; Pylades had already shown me the itinerary. Seven days of celebration. My brother-in-law meant well, of course, and it was important that the people be allowed to celebrate, but I had no stomach for all this feasting and playing when there was work to be done.
I retired to the king’s apartment, where Hermes awaited me on a sheepskin rug; he wagged his tail and wobbled to his feet in greeting. “Ah, there you are!” I scratched his ears before allowing Eteokles to undress me.
The valet slept on a pallet in the outer room, the dog on the floor beside the great bed. It took me a while to wind down and fall asleep, in spite of my exhaustion. Mycenae bred grim reminiscences, especially at night. Ghosts haunted this room. In this very room, as a young child, I used to curl up among Father’s coverlets and fleeces, and, inhaling his scent, imagine he was close. Iphigenia was still alive then, and the household had been quiet and calm. Then the unthinkable had happened. Mother had taken an axe to the frescoes, shattered and smashed whatever she could, and burned the rest. I remembered sifting through the rubble years later, crawling on hands and knees through the windblown dust and bird droppings, and gathering up bits of decorated pottery.
Mother had ordered the debris cleared, and the apartment refurbished on the eve of Father’s homecoming. Having helped select them, I recognized the frescoes depicting resting lions and boar hunts, chariots and warriors. I thought Father would like them, never dreaming he would not live to see them. Turning onto my side, I curled into a fetal position. The linens did not carry his distinctive scent of saffron and oiled leather and horseflesh; it was not even the same bed. Aegisthus had slept there. He had breathed this air, sweated into this mattress, and polluted everything with his essence. It made me ill just to think about it.
When Pylades came with Eteokles and the servants to wake me at dawn, I took him aside to explain. Stroking his beard, he listened calmly, nodding once or twice. Only when I finished did he answer, “I understand, yes. I can assure you, though, that the mattress and linens are all brand-new. Elektra saw to everything.”
But he did not know the deeper history, the ruins, the frescoes I had chosen that were usurped. I invited him to sit down with me, even though he had already eaten, and told him over a breakfast of soft cheese, mashed apples, and hot barley bread. “I can’t bear to look at these scenes.” I indicated the lions flanking the doorway. “Everything must be changed.”
“I’ll give you my room, then, and bed down with Elektra until the matter is attended to.” A flicker of displeasure told me how little he liked that. “Had I known, I would have hired painters and plasterers, and it would have been done already. Elektra never mentioned the frescoes.”
“It isn’t her fault.” I bit into an apple, chewed. “I chose them for Father, so she must have thought...” I swallowed. “After the festivities are over, and the guests have gone home, I want everything redone.”
“Of course.”
“I mean the entire palace.”
“It will be expensive.” A note of hesitancy crept into his voice. “Are you certain everything needs redoing?”
“The royal apartments and megaron, yes. Men were murdered in that megaron. Aegisthus slept in this room, and Mother...” I sliced into the cheese. “Have you seen the queen’s apartment? I won’t have my future wife sleeping in a room where the walls are as red as blood.” I savored the cheese with its creamy aftertaste.
“No one has entered the queen’s apartment since...” Pylades leaned forward. “All this talk of memories and blood. Orestes, are you—?”
“I’m not mad.” A quick glance at Eteokles told me the valet had not overheard, or at least was discreet enough to ignore the comment. But was it madness to dwell on frescoes and furniture, when others did not seem to notice anything amiss? “Tell me, do the boys sleep in my old room?”
“Yes. Elektra told them you used to sleep there, so naturally they were delighted to have the room. Do you object?”
“Not at all.” I set aside the paring knife. “But have they witnessed anything odd? There are three little ghost boys, you see, the murdered sons of Thyestes, who sometimes play and run up and down the corridor very late at night. I used to hear them outside my door.”
“Orestes...”
“I’m not mad, Pylades.” Doubt was writ large on his face. “Others have heard them, too. Ask my old nurse, and the women who serve in that part of the palace.” Then I remembered something else. “By the way, where is Kilissa? I didn’t see her among the servan
ts yesterday.”
“She’s not here.” Pylades glanced aside, warning me with that single gesture that the news was not good. “She vanished not long after you escaped. Her kin petitioned me to find her.” He paused, drew a deep breath. “A number of servants and guards disappeared along with her. Chrysothemis told me they were taken away very suddenly after your father’s death.”
Had Timon remained behind, he, too, would have vanished. “And what did you discover?”
Pylades started stroking his beard again. “A ditch near the Chavos ravine where several bodies had been dumped years earlier. We counted twelve, but who they were, or whether they were male or female, it was impossible to say. All we could do was sacrifice a black ewe, rebury them with food and other offerings, and compensate the families.”
Then he exhaled, studied me again, and said, “You’re right, the palace should be refurbished. Once the celebrations are over, we can consult with the scribes and see how much we can afford. Ah, your valet is waiting.” He directed my attention toward the door, where Eteokles held a linen towel over his arm. “Strophius and Medon have been begging to sit with you during the games. They’re also eager to see the dog you brought home for them.”
“And who told them Hermes was for them? He’s my dog. I always wanted one, you know.” I smiled. “They may visit him, of course—I think he’d enjoy the attention—but they must remember that he’s old, and not startle him or play too rough.” Rising from the table, I followed Eteokles into the bedchamber to wash my hands and face in a basin of scented water. Hermes, hearing his name, stirred from his nap on the sheepskin rug, and gazed inquiringly up at me. “Well, here he is, the god’s own messenger.”
Pylades let Hermes sniff his hand while I dried myself with a towel. “So this is the shepherd’s dog that saved your life all those years ago.” Hermes gave him a lick. “A bit thin and scabby, but I can see there’s a very fine animal under all that neglect.”
“He’s worth his weight in gold.” I stood still while Eteokles dressed me in a tunic of dark blue wool, belted in scarlet worked with silver. “Eteokles, instruct the servants to make certain that Hermes has meat for his breakfast, and fresh water, and a walk on the terrace.”
Strophius and Medon were dressed, and eagerly awaiting us in the gallery; their servant ordered them to mind their manners and bend the knee when they would have thrown themselves at me. “Come, boys! This isn’t the megaron.” I held out my arms, gathered them close. “Now tell your Uncle Orestes what you’ve been up to.”
“I’m training to be a warrior,” Strophius announced. “I run faster than Medon, and—”
“No, you don’t!” Medon cried.
Fraternal spat aside, they were intent on showing me their room, with the blue monkeys and boxing youths as fresh upon the walls as they were in my memory. Neither boy mentioned night noises, so perhaps they were not troubled by the ghosts.
“What’s this?” I inspected the round bronze shield fixed to the wall above Medon’s bed. Aegisthus had either destroyed my possessions, or given them to his bastard to spite me, and yet had not touched the shield.
Strophius answered proudly, “Mama says it was yours.”
“Did you fight with it?” Medon asked.
I nudged the shield. Whoever Mother had employed to hang it had done such a thorough job that to budge it would have been to tear away part of the plaster. “I held it on my arm only once, and that was when I was your age, Strophius. Your grandfather Agamemnon captured it from a warrior he slew on Tenedos, and sent it to me as a present.”
Like a typical woman, Elektra kept us all waiting with her toilette. Pylades used the delay to visit his daughters in the nursery. Four-year-old Antiklea was a lovely but very serious young lady who waited until her father swung her into his arms to ask, “Papa, may we dress up and come to the feast?”
“When you’re a little older,” he replied.
Meanwhile, the stolid and mischievous three-year-old Charis was banging my leg with a filthy rag doll. “Play dollies!”
Baby Anaxo slept in the cradle. All three girls took after their mother, with her freckles and red-gold hair. I nodded at the nurse, and took great pains not to disturb the infant while Pylades consoled his middle daughter with a promise to play dolls with her later.
Elektra sent word that she was dressed, but she would not leave until she had given strict orders to the nurses, then to the cooks and scrub maids while her husband grew impatient. “It’ll be noon by the time you scold them all,” he grumbled.
“The games won’t start without the king,” she retorted.
“This king wishes to ride out, and your sons are growing impatient.” Strophius and Medon, frustrated at the notion that they would not get to see anything that day, were shifting from one foot to the other. I felt like doing the same. “Let the stewards manage everything.”
A quarter of an hour later, a procession of chariots left through the Lion Gate. Elektra drove her own chariot, which amused as well as surprised me; she had always wanted to do so, but had never before been allowed. Strophius and Medon shared a car with their father’s charioteer, and Pylades brought up the rear with a guard. People gathered along the route to wave and cheer, and to my relief there was far less crowding than yesterday. Most spectators had already gone down to the training ground, where platforms and awnings had been erected for the nobles and dignitaries, and fresh sand had been laid down, with markers for the footraces that would open the games. More cheers erupted from the crowd. Encouraged, I took the reins from Ixion and drove a full circuit around the course.
Before I could assume my place under the royal awning, it fell to me as king and host of the games to make the customary sacrifice. These contests were dedicated to Zeus and the Two Ladies, Hera and Athena, each of whom required a splendid libation of blood and wine. A triton echoed in the morning air. Priests led out the bull and two heifers, and painstakingly removed their garlands and gilt adornments.
After washing my hands, I invoked each deity, and deftly slit each animal’s throat. A pious hush descended over the crowd; the only sounds to be heard were the death rattles and twitches of the animals lying in the dust, the morning breeze toying with rich mantles and fringes, and, at last, the priests quartering the carcasses for the altar.
Fat-rich smoke was still rising from the altar as the first sprinters took their marks. “Are you going to race, Uncle?” Medon asked. With their father’s permission, he and his brother had been granted singular places of honor beside me.
My old thigh wound prevented me from participating in that footrace or any other, but I was not about to reveal that. A king must have no weakness. “Someone must crown the winners.”
Strophius took pride in pointing out all the local champions. “You see Pereus, with the red ribbon? He always takes the inside, but he never, ever wins when he races Melampos. That’s Melampos, with the yellow ribbon.”
I awarded pine crowns to both men that morning, and to an ugly youth with a wine-stain birthmark; the latter glowed with unabashed pride, and kept removing the wreath to gaze upon it. The call went out to participants competing for the javelin throw. I was strongly tempted to step down and enter, an urge which I swiftly smothered. I had lost a year’s training during my time at Delphi, and had not quite recovered my prowess in the weeks since.
It did not help that Strophius and Medon wanted to see me compete. I laughed when they pressed me to enter the boxing matches, and held up the hand weighed down with Father’s seal and mine. “How do you expect me to don himantes wearing the tokens of kingship? It’ll have to wait for another day.”
Pylades did not take the field, either, which was most unusual, as he was an excellent runner and javelin thrower. “I haven’t competed in any games since assuming the regency,” he explained, slipping into Medon’s chair during a lull in the competition when the boys’ servant took them to relieve themselves. “These contests are staged to celebrate Mycenaean prowess.”
>
I read in his tone a longing for home. “I spoke to your father before leaving Phocis.”
“And there was no good news, or you would have told me.”
“He defers to the Phocian assembly,” I said.
“Hah! That’s a convenient excuse.” Pylades waved aside my explanation. “I defied his will, and he’s being stubborn. It would not surprise me in the least if he sent for young Strophius, to foster him as his heir. Well, he won’t see his grandsons again until he restores their father’s birthright.”
I wished I had not broached the subject. “Then let Strophius and Medon be educated here, as princes of Mycenae.”
The princes in question came dashing up the steps again, eager to see the second round of boxing which would be the day’s final event. Morning was giving way to noon, and soon it would be time to withdraw to the palace for the afternoon rest and that evening’s feast. Strophius and Medon were already chafing at having to lie down when, excited by the competition, they wanted to run and wrestle and box in the palaestra.
“Boys,” I chided, “do you remember how yesterday you did not sleep all day, and were too tired to stay awake while Kretheus sang?” Reluctantly, the pair nodded. “Then do as you’re told now, and tonight you can hear Kretheus sing the next episode of the Song of Jason.”
Their faces brightened. I had them. “May we really stay up?” Strophius glanced toward his parents for their approval.
Pylades allowed a slight smile to shine through his mask of paternal authority. “Do as the king commands, and he will reward you.”
Elektra said nothing at all. Since yesterday, she had observed my every move, hung on my every word, but allowed her husband to do all the talking, which was not at all like her. I would have taken her aside, asked what was wrong, except there was neither time nor space for a private moment. While she as mistress of the house had charge of the cooks and scrub maids and stewards, I could not shake the ambassadors expecting to conduct business during the celebrations. Midea and Nemea both wished to renegotiate their tribute due to recent shortages, Troezen had suffered a pirate raid during the summer, and Argos...
