The Warrior, page 11
part #3 of Orestes Series
Her eyes softened, although her answer was not what I hoped for. “Let Father escort me,” she said. “I think he would like that.”
An image played in my mind: Menelaus conveying his daughter to the palace, from his household to mine, handing her to me as though it were our wedding day all over again. A second wedding ritual, this time for Mycenae. I found it an intriguing idea.
In the morning, I donned my wedding clothes, and had Hermione wear costly purple, so that no one should mistake her for anything less than a highborn woman and queen; the color suited her well, complimenting her ivory skin, and bringing out the copper gleam of the serpentine ringlets falling down her back. She wore the golden daisies in lieu of a diadem, and had had her handmaidens twist additional flowers of wafer-fine gold in her hair, so that she emerged from her chamber like Koré returning from Hades in spring.
Menelaus awaited us in the outer court with his best chariot, a vehicle painted scarlet and gold drawn by matching bays. “Can you believe it, but finding a sunshade was easier,” he confided, indicating the fringed canopy attached to the car, “than a queen’s litter.” Before I could answer, the women filed into the courtyard. “Ah, there she is!” Menelaus took Hermione’s hand, and helped her onto the chariot’s platform. “Since you insist,” he informed her, “I’m taking over the reins and driving you myself.”
Cylarabes had opted not to join our procession, which relieved me to no end, though no doubt it meant he would scurry straightaway to Argos to report the latest news to his king and the Argive assembly. Let him, then. I still controlled two crucial elements: I had not confirmed the exact day on which I intended to visit, and had let Cylarabes believe that Menelaus meant to do nothing more official during his stay than see his daughter installed as queen of Mycenae, and perform a memorial sacrifice at the tombs of Atreus and Agamemnon.
Pylades had accomplished what he could in the scant time allotted, and I found the results more than satisfactory. Word of my marriage and the king of Sparta’s visit had gone out among the townsfolk of Mycenae, who cheered for Menelaus and Hermione, and tossed flower petals into the chariots. Menelaus grew sentimental at the ceremonial drumming of spear-butts from the garrison at the Lion Gate, and from the ramp saluted the men, most of whom were too young to remember him.
Garlands of hyacinth and crocus twined the pillars along the aithousa where Pylades and Elektra welcomed us home. I watched Elektra’s eyes grow large with childlike awe when she saw Menelaus; her gaze followed him everywhere. As for him, he appeared delighted with what he saw. “Young lady,” he said, taking her thick, be-ringed hands and kissing them, “it seems you’ve grown quite a bit since we last met.”
Elektra sniffled, holding back tears.
Menelaus said a few courteous words to Pylades, who responded in kind. I caught a glimpse of my nephews and eldest niece standing with their tutor and nurse, and winked at them. Strophius clapped a hand over his mouth to smother his sudden laughter, while Medon and Antiklea smiled shyly.
They did not know the richly dressed, barrel-chested man with the graying red hair, and were somewhat disconcerted by his enthusiastic greeting. “What’s this?” Menelaus boomed cheerfully. “Are there children once more in the House of Atreus?” He swung young Strophius shrieking into the air, then his brother, and lifted Antiklea in his arms to kiss her rosy cheek. She looked like a miniature Hermione, with little gold flowers in her copper-colored ringlets, and, as a proper young princess, she knew her manners. “It’s as though the years have stood still,” he commented.
Then Antiklea, frightened by the boisterous, hairy stranger, started crying. Elektra took her, kissed her, and handed her to her old nurse.
“Our two youngest are in the nursery,” Pylades told Menelaus.
“Come, King Menelaus,” I said formally. “Let us make you welcome at our hearth.”
Neither he nor Hermione would recognize the megaron now. Would it be splendid enough for them, or would Menelaus take umbrage at the changes? As we entered, I experienced the megaron with eyes made fresh through absence. Fresh garlands twined the four central pillars, and resinous pine logs burned on the hearth. Daylight streamed down through the high clerestory windows, reflecting the sheen of gold and silver adornments, brightening what was often a dark and oppressive space. Amid the festive decorations and gay atmosphere, the old ghosts had no foothold. Father’s shade was quiet.
A cautious glance toward my bride and her father indicated no outward sign of displeasure. In fact, it was I who had a quibble with my brother-in-law’s decision to furnish the hearth for the drink offering with a silver rhyton rather than the golden heirloom of our royal house. I could not very well substitute it now, with my guests and the entire court hanging upon the libation.
I accepted the rhyton from Pylades, then turned to the king of Sparta. “King Menelaus, as our elder and father-in-law, as a royal son of Mycenae, and our most distinguished guest, you take precedence over us. Honor the gods of Argos for us.”
If Menelaus noticed the rhyton was not Agamemnon’s customary golden vessel, he gave no sign; his attention was absorbed by the court’s merry anticipation and the ritual to be performed. He splashed the hearthstones, and spoke the invocation, “Poseidon, Father of the Sea, Artemis, Mistress of the Winds, and Zeus Thunderer, receive this libation of rich dark wine in gratitude for a safe voyage and a peaceful homecoming.
I performed a separate thanksgiving libation, and then, in the name of Zeus Xenios, welcomed Menelaus and his retainers to my hall. But I did not honor the goddesses of Argos, for that privilege belonged to another, and the time had come to address her presence.
“King Menelaus,” I asked, “who is this woman adorned with gold whom you bring into our house?”
Menelaus led Hermione over to me. “King Orestes,” he answered, “this is Hermione, our only daughter and the most precious jewel of our household. Will you accept her as your wife and queen?”
Hermione’s hand felt cool and soft in mine. I flashed her a smile, reassuring her that I would wed her as many times as the gods and the people required. “We shall accept this woman with your blessing,” I told Menelaus, “and make her our wife and queen in this house.”
Elektra brought forth the queen’s hammered gold diadem, an heirloom of our royal house, as I had ordered, and I fastened it around my wife’s head; it suited her as though it had been especially made for her, and not for our great-grandmother Hippodamia. To see Hermione’s lovely oval face under the diadem’s radiating spokes chased away lingering memories of my mother, who had been the last to wear it. “Behold Queen Hermione, the daughter of King Menelaus and Queen Helen of Sparta, and our beloved wife!” I announced. “Revere her as high priestess. Obey her as the mistress of the house!”
I handed Hermione the rhyton, and with it the most sacred duty of keeping Mycenae’s altars, household, and hearth. At once, she proved that she was fit for the task, invoking Mother Dia in her aspects as Hestia, the Mistress of the Hearth, and as Hera and Athena, the Two Ladies of Argos.
We sat down together as king and queen, with Menelaus occupying the seat of honor upon my right hand, and let the courtiers pay their respects. Hermione was gracious with both those she remembered from her years as Mother’s ward, and with those newcomers who presented themselves to her. Menelaus observed her with a paternal pride from which only the appearance of old and familiar acquaintances distracted him. I foresaw him spending many happy hours reminiscing with boyhood friends and veterans from the war.
Afterward, I closed the megaron for the afternoon and sent Hermione upstairs with Elektra to view her new apartment and rest if she so desired. What a coward I was, leaving this duty to my sister! But having chosen the apartment’s frescoes and decorations especially for her, I could not have borne Hermione’s disappointment if she did not like what she saw.
On the other hand, Menelaus was easy to gratify, hyperbolically declaring his chambers the finest he had ever set eyes upon. “I approve of your additions to the megaron, Orestes,” he said. “That tired old fresco of the walled town and siege you replaced was from your grandfather’s time. As I recall, it covered up some exploit of Perseus.” He nodded, indicating the eastern wall. “Ah, look at that lion hunt! Agamemnon would have liked those colors, and the look of the men wrestling with that lion.” Menelaus’s gaze suddenly took on a far away aspect, as though he had remembered something. “I noticed his tomb along the way,” he mentioned quietly, soberly.
“Tomorrow,” I answered. “The sacrificial beasts and vessels have already been prepared.”
“That’s good.” Menelaus looked away, took in the inlaid furnishings and hangings. “It feels good to be home.” His nostrils flared, and his chest swelled as he sucked in a deep lungful of air. “I tell you, this is like no place else in the world.” A crack in his voice presaged tears.
Menelaus’s one great fault, in my opinion, was his sentimentality, so mismatched against the Atreidai’s more commonplace ruthlessness. Father had not softened with advancing age or absence—no doubt he would have executed Mother—and both Atreus and Pelops were said to have been bitter, miserly men until the very end. I was not a cruel or vindictive man, but all the same, I had no intention of spending my old age pining for the days of my youth.
“Tonight, we will feast,” I said, changing the subject, “and you will be my guest of honor. In the morning, we will pay our respects to our forefathers, and conduct business. I want you to spend time with Pylades. He has a cunning and capable mind.”
It brightened his spirits to talk about Argive politics. Some weeks ago, I had outlined my grievance with Cyanippus and the Argive assembly, but now, having returned to the place of his birth, where he and Agamemnon had spent their youth advancing Atreus’s schemes, Menelaus tackled the problem with relish.
“You did not give Cylarabes a definitive answer, except to say that you would visit Argos some time within the month, so I doubt he or anyone else will be expecting you before I leave. And as I am your most honored guest,” he pointed out, “they certainly will not expect you to bring me along.”
As he spoke, my gaze roamed the chamber, lingering longest on the hanging separating the bedchamber from the outer room. Discussing sensitive topics such as this was not something I preferred to do indoors, where spies might lurk. My most productive conversations with Pylades or Kleitos always took place outside, and well away from the palace, under the pretext of exercising or chariot racing. “I have a good idea what we ought to do,” I answered softly “but let’s wait and consult with Pylades. His support is crucial.”
We feasted that evening in the megaron, and drank to my marriage and Menelaus’s visit. On several separate occasions, I noticed my father-in-law’s attention straying to the hanging concealing the place where I had ordered the entrance to the lustral bath sealed and plastered over. Only he would have sought that relic of Agamemnon’s death, and only he would have grown thoughtful and pensive, over its erasure. But he said nothing on the subject, displaying only good cheer as Lords Atymnios and Lykeus, the senior-most members of the Mycenaean assembly, reminisced with him about mutual friends and misadventures five decades old.
Seated on my left, Hermione wore the blue and white bodice and flounced skirt she had worn for our Spartan wedding, but the daisies in her hair remained the same. “Are your chambers to your liking?” I asked. She had no idea how anxious I was, hanging upon her answer, but, gods, let her say yes!
Hermione’s eyes sparkled, reflecting the smile on her lips. “They are lovely.” I expelled a relieved sigh.
After the third libation, I stood to make the evening’s grand announcement. “Queen Hermione bears the blessings of Eleuthia and Artemis.” There was a sharp, collective intake of breath. Hermione’s eyes were downcast, her cheeks flushed scarlet; she had a peculiar aversion to being the center of attention. “She has conceived our child,” I continued, “and will deliver at midwinter.”
Pylades extended the first toast, albeit a slightly bawdy one in the spirit of this second, Mycenaean wedding night. “Then the fertile soil of Laconia has done its work, and made your bride fruitful!” Male laughter attended his remark, and calls of “Here, here!”
Then Elektra stood, raising her cup to Hermione. “Praise Mother Dia in her sacred aspect as Eleuthia. Praise her in her sacred aspect as Artemis.” A reverent hush fell over the court as my sister the high priestess invoked the goddess. “For our great Mother has caused a seed to take root in the womb of her daughter, Queen Hermione, wife of King Orestes of Mycenae.”
Commanding reverence came naturally to my sister, and for that I thanked her. One might make jests when a new bride was about to lose her virginity to a virile husband—that was a playful ritual—but all pious men knew that when a woman conceived, one did not trifle with the goddesses controlling her fertility.
Hermione relaxed enough to eat, satisfying my concerns about her health, and spent much of the evening socializing with Elektra and several court ladies who approached her, yet as the night wore on, her calm turned increasingly toward apprehension. Although the hearth’s firelight painted her in glorious hues of ivory, amber, and bronze, the accompanying darkness smeared deep shadows around her eyes. I alone noticed this, and understood the uneasiness eating at her; the Mycenaean night was the haunt of ghosts.
As the feast reached its conclusion, I reached for her hand, and said softly, “Let me escort you upstairs. You haven’t yet seen the king’s apartment.”
Hermione hid her hesitation behind a sudden and unexpected coquettishness. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
I chuckled, “Ah, but my bedchamber is best seen after dark.”
“I thought you wanted to show me the entire apartment, not just your bedchamber.” Hermione lowered her eyelashes. Gods, how she was teasing me! She must be feeling much better, to initiate such love-play.
Rising alongside her, and twined my arm through hers to escort her from the megaron; our attendants followed at a discreet distance. “You know, I’ve been waiting all these weeks to show you my seven-foot bed.” That was true. Throughout our honeymoon, I had teased her about romping together on the brand-new bed.
Flickering lamps illuminated the open stairwell, and a cool breeze wafted down the shaft; it had been quite warm in the megaron. Hermione continued to play with me all the way upstairs. “Is your seven-foot bed sturdy?”
“Quite!”
“And how do you know for certain, unless you’ve already put it to the test?” she asked sweetly.
Her query, however cheerful, brought me up short, for this was not the appropriate time to discuss Chione. She had not been invited to the feast, of course—Elektra would have kept her well out of sight—but sooner or later Hermione would encounter her about the citadel. I cleared my throat. “Then we shall have to test it ourselves, won’t we?”
As I said this, we reached the third floor, where, once again, Hermione did an about-face and surprised me, stopping short at the threshold of the king’s apartment as though she did not want to enter; the color drained from her face, and the sparkle vanished from her eyes. The teasing nymph of a few moments ago was no more. “Orestes,” she groaned.
“What is wrong?”
She moistened her lips with her tongue, and her brow creased as she strove to choose the right words. Her breathing sounded labored. “He used to sleep there, after you left. Does anything of him remain?”
I caught the emphasis right away. For her, ‘him’ meant Aegisthus, who had usurped Father’s apartment along with his title, and preyed upon her in the absence of any male protector. Had he violated her in there, in the very bedchamber I wished to share with her now? I had never thought to ask for the details of that assault, and she never spoke of it again after our wedding night.
Taking the lamp from Eteokles, I dismissed him along with her maidservants. “Hermione,” I asserted gently, “this apartment is my domain, and mine alone.” I extended my hand to her. “Come, let me show you.”
Twining her fingers tightly with mine, she placed her trust in me and let me escort her into the outer room, where the light from my lamp banished the shadows to reveal the fresco of Delphic supplicants paying homage to the seated Pythia. I shut the door behind us, and released her hand long enough to light a second lamp near the altar.
Our movements stirred an elderly black and white shepherd dog, who rose from the floor, sluggishly wagged his tail, and gave a great yawn; his joints creaked as he padded over to greet me. Hermione studied him with a curious look; she obviously had not expected to find a dog in my chambers.
“This is Hermes,” I said. “I told you about him.” How I had missed him these last several weeks! I bent down, let him lick my face, and scratched him in his favorite spot behind the ears. “Go back to sleep, boy.”
The bedchamber was dominated by the great bed with its rich coverlets and snowy fleeces. I took the lamp from Hermione’s hand, set it down on a table beside mine, and then placed my hands upon her shoulders, for what else was there to do but invite her to lie down with me? “Stay with me tonight,” I murmured.
“Yes.” Her eyes were dark and limpid with desire. As much as she dreaded Mycenae’s midnight hour, we both knew that the terrors of the night were more my enemy than hers.
I undressed her right there, undid her girdle to let her flounced skirts with their many golden appliqués spill around her ankles, and, while kissing her, opened her bodice to bare her breasts; her nipples blossomed in the cool night air. I could have taken her right there, but the soft bed beckoned to us. I hooked an arm behind Hermione’s knees and laid her down on the fleeces, and joined with her in love.
Later, we lay sated and drowsy in the guttering lamplight. As long as she was there, neither the old ghosts nor the memories they elicited tormented me, until she herself roused them. “Orestes,” she mumbled. “You never told me about your trial.”
All I wanted was to sleep, with her beside me. “I did not think you wanted to know the details.”
