The Outcast

by Laura Gill

  Argos was a thorn in my side, as was its ambassador, who politely insisted on disrupting the afternoon sleep to corner me in the megaron. Cylarabes was a pasty-faced, portly man who combed his straggling sandy hair over his balding scalp, and affected garish colors and too much jewelry as though such measures would enhance his standing. All he had to recommend him was the fact that he descended from the Argive royal house, and that he could read, write, and calculate figures like a scribe. King Cyanippus, his cousin, had appointed him warden of Tiryns, where he oversaw the ships and customs, and had named him the royal heir, the future king of Argos and Tiryns, meaning that his request must be accommodated.

  But Cylarabes had not come to prate about tariffs or sea trade, his two favorite topics, or to exchange pleasantries; he behaved more like an interrogator than a guest, and wasted no time about his business. “The Argive assembly desires your assurances that you will keep the law within your domain, and prevent the abuses your predecessor and his followers engaged in. We wish nothing but good relations with Mycenae.”

  I gnashed my teeth behind a tolerant smile. The Argive assembly with its doddering busybodies could go straight to Hades, for all I cared. “Have we given you any pressing reason to doubt our good intentions? As to recent actions, we assure you that Prince Pylades and the Mycenaean assembly merely restored all confiscated property to their rightful owners and paid reparations, as we commanded.” I made a dismissive gesture. “There is no need for Cyanippus or his councilors to be concerned.”

  Cylarabes regarded me with a disingenuous look. His clerical habits had left him with a noticeable squint. I had noticed he had to lean forward to see clearly; he must see me as little more than a redheaded blur. “We shall tell the king that you have been a most courteous and generous host. However, he has also instructed us to invite you to accompany us back to Argos once the celebrations are over, so he might meet with you and introduce you to the members of the assembly.”

  The Argive king and his minions could have come to me, for they had been invited, but no, they expected me to go to them like a child answering a father’s summons. I was not Cyanippus’s vassal, but by Zeus, he would be mine if he pushed hard enough. “You must forgive us,” I said, “but your king’s most gracious invitation must wait until we have had time to assess the state of our realm. We know he will understand.”

  Exuding forced courtesy, Cylarabes took his leave. No sooner had he quitted the megaron than I sent a servant to find my sister’s husband.

  Pylades had not yet retired for the afternoon sleep. “I hear you just had your first audience with the warden of Tiryns and heir of Argos. I take it he tried your patience?”

  I rubbed my finger joints where my heavy seal rings pressed into the flesh. “He would have me pass under the Argive yoke and become the assembly’s puppet.”

  “And his own, when the time comes,” Pylades added. “Cylarabes has no legitimate sons, but keeps his son-in-law on a tight leash. I’m told Lord Lysimachus can’t even piss without his father-in-law knowing about it.”

  “He’ll rue the day he tries the same with me.” I removed the ring, and Father’s, and thrust them both into a pocket. “Cyanippus wants me to go to him, as soon as the celebrations end.” The rings had left welts on my index finger and wrist. I would have to have a woman rub soothing aloe into the skin. “What was his excuse for not coming?”

  “Pressing matters at home. Poor health.” Pylades shrugged his shoulders. “He’s not so decrepit that he can’t bear a short chariot ride, as you’ll see when you eventually meet him. Also, he’s not a very convincing liar. I know why he’s stayed away, though. You make him nervous, Orestes. You’re young and strong and ambitious, and you’re an Atreid, where he is old and weak. Moreover, he doesn’t believe the old curses are dead, no matter what the priests tell him. He and his advisors fear you like a rabid mongrel.”

  Then let them fear me. “I don’t intend to go to Argos next week, or next month, but when it suits me.” Diomedes, I would have treated with at once, because he would have had the courtesy to appear when invited. This straw king and his lackeys could, and would, wait upon my pleasure.

  “Next time, send for me at once when Cylarabes tries to corner you,” Pylades said. “He knows you’re strong-willed, but he underestimates you as a leader and arbiter. If Cyanippus can surround himself with cronies, so can you. And now...” He rubbed his hands together. “Go upstairs and close your eyes for an hour. Elektra will see to your bath.”

  I rose from my throne. “Elektra has been rather subdued.”

  “Then you haven’t been down to the kitchens or storerooms. She rules the cooks and scrub maids with an absolute hand.”

  Nagging doubts continued to attend me on the way upstairs. I knew Elektra had worried during my absence, but all that was at an end. My homecoming should have been an end to her cares.

  But it was she, acting as mistress of the house, who had to organize the cooks and scrub maids and other servants to make certain the feast tables were laden and the guests well accommodated; she would leave nothing to the stewards, as her husband advised. No wonder she was so pensive. She must be exhausted. Once the festivities were over, and once she rested, her spirits would lift.

  I ate, drank, and feigned interest in the obsequious courtiers and persistent ambassadors demanding my attention. During infrequent lulls between visitors, I tried to engage Elektra in conversation, yet she was always busy, even from her seat at the high table, where she directed the stewards and servants to the point where she forgot to eat; after a while, it became obvious that, for whatever reason, she was consciously avoiding me. I could not fathom her behavior. Was she not glad to have me home? More than once, Pylades grumbled at her to sit still and eat, but she ignored him at every turn.

  After the last course, I stood and made the third libation. Kretheus took his place beside the hearth with his lyre. Strophius and Medon had come down with their servant, who must be their pedagogue. They behaved themselves like proper young princes despite their obvious excitement, and after paying their respects to me and their parents, they quietly took their places.

  Kretheus sang the second episode of the Song of Jason, which described the hero’s sojourn with Queen Hypsipyle and her murderous warrior women on Lemnos. I admitted that the episode, which was concerned with the tension between the sexes, and the unnaturalness of women who overthrew their men, was not of much interest to young boys; the only woman in the tale whom I ever found interesting was Medea, and only because she could cast wondrously terrible spells. Strophius and Medon, I could see, would much rather have heard about Jason’s adventures with the Harpies or the Clashing Rocks, even though they listened courteously throughout, and, with the rest of the audience, applauded Kretheus when he finished.

  Rising, I thanked the bard, and bade him keep his seat. “Stay a while, esteemed Kretheus, and strum your lyre. We wish to share a tale of our own with the court.” Strophius and Medon leaned forward, anticipation gleaming in their eyes, but their mother looked stricken, and shook her head most insistently. Pylades sat motionless, wearing an unreadable expression.

  An anticipatory silence fell over the audience. I began, “We have heard the falsehoods that have been told about what we did and where we were when our father was murdered. Those who came here during the usurper’s reign and inquired after us were told we had been sent to Phocis before the coup, to be fostered with our uncle Strophius. That is not true. We were here that day. We saw everything that happened.”

  A disquieting energy darkened the megaron, where a moment ago there had been amusement. Strophius and Medon became visibly anxious. Elektra’s eyes grew large with horror.

  I lifted a reassuring hand. “No, friends. We did not bring our nephews into the hall to give them nightmares about their grandfather’s murder. We promised them an adventure story, and so they shall have one.” Strophius and Medon relaxed a little, even returned my grin, though their mother did not.


  “For those who knew me as a boy, they will remember that I wanted nothing more in those days than to go to Troy, because that was where my father and all the other heroes were.” I found it easier to drop the royal plural while telling my story. “I wanted to see Achilles and Great Ajax in battle, to ride in my father Agamemnon’s chariot, and to hear wily Odysseus tell clever stories.” I heaved a tremendous sigh of boredom, mimicking every boy who had ever been denied an adventure. “Instead, I had to stay home with the women.” Strophius and Medon covered their mouths to stifle their laughter.

  “I was twelve years old when my father was murdered. Yes, I escaped the carnage, but I certainly did not go forth in a splendid chariot with a dozen companions. A hero’s life is, to tell the truth, a very hard one. I fled on foot, armed only with a dagger, and accompanied only by my trusty old tutor. By day, we slept in ditches, and scrounged for food wherever we could find it. We ate wild herbs and hunted small game, which we ate almost raw because we dared not light a fire to cook it. And when we moved, it was in the darkness after sunset, and the small hours before dawn, and we stayed off the roads.

  “Aegisthus, that foul usurper, sent men to capture us. Of course, most of them went south, thinking we would try to escape to Tiryns or Sparta, but we outwitted them, going north through the Corinthian wilderness instead!” Many in the audience echoed my laughter. Elektra did not, however. She had heard this story before, and did not like it. “But two of those men were very skilled trackers. We buried one under a rock fall in the hills south of Kleonai—clambered up onto a natural ledge and waited, and loosed an avalanche on the man.” I smacked my fist into my palm for emphasis. Kretheus plucked a rippling note on the lyre. “Had the rocks not smashed his skull and killed him instantly, he would have died of shame to learn he had been outwitted by a twelve-year-old boy!” More appreciative laughter. Strophius and Medon were delighted, thoroughly absorbed in the tale.

  I waited for silence before continuing, “Now, the second tracker, he was more cunning and ruthless than the first. By the time he caught up to us, my companion and I had ventured down from the hills and headed out across the lowlands toward the coast. He surprised us in the middle of the day, right near a stream where we had stopped to wash our clothes, hunt, and rest. First, he overpowered my companion with a terrible blow to the stomach that left that brave old man winded and bruised, then he came after me just as I was returning with fresh game.

  “He might have tracked me through the grass, fallen on me from behind, and killed me right then. There was no need to attack Timon, except that the gods had made this man especially cruel. Had I only been armed with a sword, as in the great hero-stories, it would have been a better contest. I had only my knife, but was too fueled with battle-rage to be afraid, and he soon learned I was no weakling to be toyed with. I acquitted myself well, parrying and slashing like a grown warrior, and might have prevailed had he not had a longer reach. He dealt me a grave wound to the thigh. An inch higher, I think, and—whoosh!” Chuckling, I made a slicing motion. All the men roared with laughter, and the ladies tittered, except for Elektra. “Not to fear, though! Athena was watching over me.

  “But his aim was true enough.” I moved closer to the dais, and addressed my nephews directly. “In battle, you see, a man is so filled with the spirit of Ares that he does not feel his injuries. When the god of war possesses him, he will fight with his belly torn open.” Veterans among the listeners nodded their agreement. “I could feel the blood trickling down my leg, and knew he had scored the skin, but had no idea the wound might be worse than that. Ares takes away pain while the battle rages, so I felt nothing.

  “Then he moved in, that villain, knocked the knife from my hand, and dropped me to the dirt. In an instant, he was on me, and his knife pressed against my throat, right here where the artery pulses.” I tapped the side of my neck. “Any other boy would have died right there, but I am the scion of High Kings, and have never been ordinary, stupid, or weak.” Scanning the audience seated along the south wall, I focused on Cylarabes. His poor vision might not have allowed him to appreciate the feral look on my face, but he would certainly be able to hear the relish with which I related what came next. “I wriggled a hand free, felt around in the dirt for a rock, and then, then, that ruffian learned who he was meddling with. I bashed in his skull into a bleeding pulp, until his brains leaked from his ears.”

  The Argive ambassador blanched. No doubt he would scuttle back to his kinsman and master, and spill the tale. So much the better if he embellished the truth. Pylades nodded his approval, while Elektra glowered, jaw tight and nostrils flaring, and the boys with their shining eyes gawked admiringly.

  I continued, “It would have been a proud moment, had I not been so seriously wounded. I was losing blood fast. Now, I knew how to suture a gash, but had neither sinew nor needle, and was too weak to have done it, anyway. So I took my knife—” Drawing my dagger from my belt, I demonstrated. “I thrust it into the fire until it was red-hot, and then—” There were horrified squeals from some of the ladies. “Then, with my faithful companion holding the edges closed, I cauterized the flesh. I did it without flinching, as a king’s son ought, and I did not take the knife away until the entire length of the gash was closed.”

  Strophius and Medon sat with their mouths hanging open, no doubt wondering whether they had the mettle to do such a thing themselves. “I took fever that night,” I said. “Though my companion did his utmost to nurse me...” Stealing a glance toward the vestibule, I saw Eteokles awaiting the prearranged signal. “I almost certainly would have died had swift-footed Hermes not sent his messenger.”

  Eteokles entered leading Hermes the dog on a rawhide leash. “And here he is, the god’s own messenger, the shepherd’s dog that saved my life.” People exclaimed, and leaned forward to get a better look at the emaciated old animal that obediently sat at my command. “He, too, is called Hermes. On our way home, we stopped in the shepherd’s village to thank him and his wife for their kindness in taking me in, only to find they had since died. Make no mistake, Poimenos loved and cared for this dog, but those who inherited Hermes after did not. It angered me to see him so starved and neglected. After reproaching the villagers for their carelessness, I took Hermes into my own chariot and brought him home, so he could enjoy the rewards his master and mistress never lived to see.” Eteokles surrendered the leash. Gently, I urged Hermes to his feet again, and led him over to the dais.

  “Is he ours?” Medon laughed and turned his face away from Hermes’ lapping tongue. Strophius petted the dog’s head.

  “He’s the shepherd dog of the king,” I answered, “but you may pet and play with him as long as you’re gentle. Remember, he’s old.”

  After a short time, I sent Hermes away with Eteokles, despite much pleading from my nephews. “You may see him again tomorrow,” I told them. “Now, let’s go to the hearth, and you can help your uncle the king offer the fourth libation.”

  As the feast ended, people milled about the vestibule and aithousa, bidding good-night to each other before seeking their beds. Elektra sent the boys upstairs with their nurse. Pylades waited until they were gone. “I have a gift for you, Orestes,” he said.

  “Does it live and breathe?” I asked. At this late hour, it could be only one thing.

  “As long as you wish it.”

  I was intrigued. “And what is she called, this gift?”

  “Chione. She’s highly skilled in women’s work, both on the loom and...” He let his voice trail away suggestively. “She awaits you upstairs.”

  Chione was fair and willowy, and fifteen years old. I stood staring at her so long that her shy smile turned to trepidation, and she drew the coverlet up over her small breasts. “Are you not pleased, my lord?” she asked, practically whispering.

  How long had it been since I had last lain with a woman? It did not require an exact tally to know it had been well over a year ago. In Lerna, I had been too focused on my mission, then at Delphi
I had been too ill, and there had been no women, only the goddesses of vengeance and other demons of the mind. At Krisa, I had not been ready for intimacy, and there had been no opportunity to take a woman since. Pylades had read me well. Mine was a young man’s body, with a young man’s hungers.

  I took pains to reassure the girl, first with gentle words as I undressed, then, as I slipped under the covers beside her, with kisses and caresses. Her body was tight, hot, and she was willing, content to open her legs and let me ride her. She demanded nothing from our lovemaking, and in my clumsy haste to relieve my need, she received little. I kept her close through the night, taking comfort from her softness and heat, and in the small hours when my desire rose again, drew her into my arms once more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As the celebrations ended, my headache began. Although Pylades had unraveled and settled much of the mess resulting from Aegisthus’s mismanagement and the coup which had unseated him, some matters had not yet been resolved. After Father’s death, several tributaries, including Nemea, Corinth, and Sikyon, had broken away from Mycenaean control, which meant a substantial loss in revenue. Not to mention that the ceramic and weaving workshops in Berbati and Charvati were not meeting their quotas; too few slaves had come from the Trojan conquest. I could not fault vassal states for rejecting a usurper, but Aegisthus was dead now, and those territories could no longer be allowed to take advantage. If they would not willingly submit, then they must be forced under the yoke again, and made to supply resources and slaves.

  Any military action, though, would have to wait until spring or summer, and even then I must proceed cautiously. Failure would cost me respect, and, even more intolerable, encourage other vassals to desert. No, I would do as Father and Atreus had done, and bide my time. Use diplomacy, while gathering intelligence and strength of arms. And then, should words fail, and the gods grant me the right moment, then I would show no mercy.