The Warrior, page 38
part #3 of Orestes Series
“Hah! Listen to us,” I said, laughing harshly. “Planning alliances, dividing territories, when this sudden capitulation from Argos might be nothing more than shadows and smoke!”
*~*~*~*
I did not pounce upon the offer, but bided my time, consulted my councilors, questioned the Argive representatives who arrived almost daily bearing gifts and reassurances of goodwill, and waited to see what the mood was in Argos. Meanwhile, the grapes were harvested in the vineyards and the fields were tilled for the autumn sowing. The women celebrated the rites of Dionysus, and with the first spectacular change in the leaves, the parched heat of summer gradually gave way to a blustery, golden fall.
Imbrasos attended the funeral of Cylarabes as my special envoy; he confirmed that the corpse upon the bier was none other than the late king himself. “A year’s revenue in saffron,” he commented, “still wasn’t sufficient to mask the stench of his rotting flesh.”
“A fat man always stinks worse than a thin one,” Lykeus observed, to the agreement of the assembly.
What the assembly could not comprehend or agree upon was the inexplicable delay in accepting the scepter. “Don’t make the Argives wait too long upon your decision, my lord,” Haimon advised, “lest they grow restive and bitter, and withdraw their offer.”
“My lord, surely you now have all the evidence you need that the offer is genuine,” Eurybatos said. “The longer you wait, the more likely it is that the Argives will decide that they can govern themselves and select a king from among their first families.”
Gesturing for silence, I explained the rationale behind the delay. “We will, indeed, accept the scepter of Argos, but we intend to do so on our terms at the most auspicious hour and here on Mycenaean soil, so that there should be no doubt that Mycenae, not Argos, is the seat of power. Does the assembly object to requiring the Argives to bestow the scepter upon us at the tomb of Atreus during the annual rites of sacrifice to our ancestors?”
My question provoked some discussion among the advisors. “Favoring Mycenaean soil and the memorial rites of your ancestors is all very well and good, my lord,” Imbrasos answered, “but for form’s sake you should also observe the traditional rites of kingship at the Larissa and preside over a meeting of the Argive assembly.”
“Agreed,” I answered, “as long as the Argives submit according to our wishes. They have long regarded the House of Atreus as usurpers and upstarts. That attitude must cease.”
A unanimous vote prompted me to dictate a formal missive to the Argive assembly. As I predicted, they disliked having to bend the knee on Mycenaean soil before a Mycenaean king’s tomb, for it meant that they also had to acknowledge and reverence Atreus, but Imbrasos had given sensible advice, and the Argives looked forward to my conducting the ancient ceremonies of kingship at the Larissa and my meeting with the elders of the assembly and the damos. When the priests of Argos examined the omens, they concurred that the winter solstice was an auspicious day for the new king to assume his throne.
During this time, I received a letter from Sparta. Menelaus congratulated me on the defeat of Akelos, while cautioning me to look after my wound. “Many a good warrior has fallen into the realm of Hades through the fever demons that haunt battlefields.” There was no danger now, for the stitches had recently been removed, leaving only a finger’s length scar.
“Remain vigilant. Just because you have slain Akelos does not mean you have bested Cylarabes. Expect him to continue his schemes to discredit you.” I laughed aloud, reading that. Word of the capture of Tiryns, the sudden death of Cylarabes, and the capitulation of Argos had not yet reached my father-in-law’s court. Give the messenger a few more days to arrive in Sparta with my letter, and Menelaus would be overjoyed.
*~*~*~*
The whitewashed beehive of Atreus’s tomb thrust against the morning’s azure blue sky. Cool air breezed through the lower town, carrying with it the scent of wood smoke, fallen leaves, and horseflesh—the smell of the Mycenaean countryside at the height of autumn.
I stood before the dromos of the tomb, awaiting the Argive delegation with a youth’s sleepless excitement tempered by a grown man’s sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, as well as the innate knowledge that this moment was predestined. The strongest always ruled. That was the will of the gods. How could it have been otherwise?
Lord Ambassador Melandros appeared leading seven noblemen, representatives of the assembly and damos, who had traveled from Argos to make their formal submission to Mycenae and to surrender the scepter and other tokens of kingship. The crowd was silent, showing both wariness and respect, as the delegation approached the tomb.
I honored them by bringing out Princess Myrto. She understood that her grandfather was dead and that the kingship of Argos had now passed to the House of Atreus, and as such played her role with a sober grace. I took the girl’s delicate hand in my large one and presented her to the delegation, saying, “Gentlemen, here is your princess. She has found a safe haven with us, a loving foster mother in our wife, and suitable companions among the maidens of our household.”
Melandros addressed her directly, at our pleasure. “My lady, do we find you in good health and spirits?” He showed, I reflected, more congeniality on this single occasion than he had done during all his other visits combined.
Myrto lowered her dark lashes, as befit a young girl answering her elder. “Yes, my lord. We are well.” And that was all she should have said, yet before I could interrupt and draw the ambassador’s attention toward other matters, she spoke again. “Lord Ambassador, have you brought word from our mother?”
His hesitation betrayed that there was no message, and that it had never even occurred to him that the princess might ask. Yet Melandros was not a prominent ambassador for nothing, and, quickly recovering, replied, “Princess, your lady mother and grandmother have both withdrawn into the service of Mother Dia and are not permitted to send or receive messages.”
I felt a stab of pity for the girl, whose downcast eyes and compressed lips articulated her sense of abandonment. “Inform the lady,” I said tightly, “that her daughter wants for nothing, including a suitable mother.” Thebe came forward then at Hermione’s behest, took the girl by the hand, and led her over to Antiklea, who had become her steadfast friend. Elektra glared daggers at the Argive delegation. Pylades must have spoken at length to his wife about his plans for their sons, to judge from the sudden, proprietary interest she took in her prospective daughter-in-law. Hermione had already made her sentiments known, when she urged me to make certain that the daughter of Cylarabes never emerged from her sanctuary. “Abandoning her own daughter! By blessed Artemis, they would have to tear me limb from limb to pry Tisamenus or Astydamia from my arms.”
An awkward Melandros deftly steered the topic back to the business at hand. “King Orestes, will you perform the traditional rites, and receive from us the scepter of Argos and the tokens of kingship?”
High Priest Nireus in his fringed garments brought out the golden lion’s head rhyton that was the oldest heirloom of the House of Atreus. He presented it first to Melandros, saying, “Let Zeus and the Two Ladies receive their due as the true and immortal powers of Argolis.”
Each ambassador and member of the Mycenaean assembly splashed the earth before the dromos, then it was my turn to honor the gods of Argolis and acknowledge that I owed my current good fortune as much to their favor as to my own determination. Nonetheless, my mind kept straying, fantasizing about the scepter of Argos, the commanding view from the Larissa, the ships I could now build, and the profits I could now collect. How could any mortal man, granted such power, possibly contain the pride swelling in his breast?
The scepter was a magnificent object, a relic of an earlier age when Cretan artisans had flocked to the mainland to labor for Hellene kings. Worn smooth by the hands of the kings who had wielded it, the scepter was a juxtaposition of spirals, yellowed ivory, gold wire, and rock crystal as long as my forearm, a gift from Zeus to King Inachos. Perhaps Father had held this scepter in his time, to admire it and envy Diomedes his ancient birthright, but its authority had not been his to exercise as it was now mine.
I raised the scepter to signal my acceptance. Mycenaeans and Argives alike saluted the gesture, and a cheer went up from the crowd. Melandros called out, “Let Father Zeus and the Two Ladies observe that you, Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae, overlord of Tiryns, Nemea, and the Cyclades, are our lawfully elected ruler. Let them witness our pledge, sealed with libations of wine, milk, and sacrificial blood, and the surrender of the tokens of kingship, as proof that we shall serve you loyally in both peace and in war. And let the gods of Argolis also bear witness that if we should ever transgress upon this oath, our brains should leak from our ears, and from the ears of our wives and children and slaves, our lands and flocks and the contents of our storehouses should be taken from us, and our very bones should be ground into dust.”
I answered in kind, invoking Zeus and the Two Ladies, and promising to rule wisely and well. “And we shall set over you our chosen warden, Pylades Strophides, who is our kinsman, a descendant of Acrisius of Argos, and a prince of the highest lineage.”
I caught the agonized look on Elektra’s face. Torn between her duty to her husband and her desire to remain with me in the place of our fathers, she had earlier confessed that she dreaded the prospect of moving to the Larissa of Argos. “Orestes, their gods are not our gods, and the people will hate me.” She held up a thick finger, warning me not to contradict her. “Oh, I have no doubt that they will come to adore Pylades and the children, but they will fear and loathe me.”
She had no reason to say so, for she had never visited Argos, and never heard rumors that the Argives considered her as anything other than the sister of the king. “Elektra,” I said, “you would say the same thing no matter where you went, so stop grieving and smile. You’re going to be the first lady in Argos, the mistress of the household, and whenever you get homesick all you have to do is look out from the Larissa and you’ll be able to see clear across the plain of Argos to Mycenae. You’ll know that everything you survey belongs to us, just as Father told you long ago, and it will make you glad.”
Elektra stared at her hands, then the floor. She was being absurd, inexplicably timid, when nothing else in this world could frighten her. “You will have to learn to accept your lot,” I said sternly, “as all children do who leave home because one day, should the gods grant it, you and Pylades will leave Argolis altogether and return to Phocis to rule.”
“Gods!” she groaned harshly, burying her face in her hands. “Phocis is so far away and so backward. I almost wish Strophius would live forever, so that Pylades would never become king!”
I did not dignify her outburst with a reply, because she was almost always irrational when upset; she would recover her reason soon enough.
Melandros and the other delegates politely acknowledged Pylades; they had no reason to protest the choice, as they had dealt amicably with him when he served as regent of Mycenae. “Obey his will as you would ours,” I commanded them. “Honor his wife, our sister Elektra, whom we send to you to tend the royal hearth and to keep the gods of Argos placated upon their altars.”
This time, their response was noticeably cooler. “Princess Elektra shall be welcome as the high priestess in the Larissa.” Melandros answered my edict with a disingenuous smile which made me wonder what reason my sister had given him to object to her. Had her loyalty and forthrightness somehow been misconstrued? A moment later, the ambassador provided something of an explanation when one of the noblemen in the delegation handed him a golden object. “And for our new queen, that she might bestow Mother Dia’s manifold blessings upon Argos, we have brought the royal diadem.”
Elektra lifted her chin as she met my gaze, and then slowly nodded her understanding, despite the underhanded slight. The sudden determination gleaming in her eyes and the set of her jaw said that the Argives, whether they wanted to or not, would quickly learn to respect her as a royal woman in her own right. So her Atreid nature won out over her silly trepidations. I laughed inside, while pitying the court officials, lords, and ladies of Argos who would inevitably make the mistake of crossing her.
The queen’s diadem was a gold band worked with intricate spirals. Hermione came forward, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth, and bowed her head. I set the ornament across her brow, then stepped behind her to tie the ribbon. “One day,” I whispered hotly against the shell of her ear, “you shall be High Queen.” That ancient gold and the purple linen ribbon looked well set among her gleaming curls. I decided then that she must have earrings to match.
Hermione stared straight ahead to preserve the decorum of the occasion, but murmured, “I have enough.”
But I was not yet done heaping honors upon her, or adding to my own glory. Nemea was only the beginning, the fruit of a promise to my father to restore all the territories that he had ruled over as High King. Kleonai, Corinth, and Sikyon must be returned to the Mycenaean fold. The seas must again be made safe from pirates, and foreign ambassadors flock once more with gifts and treaties to Mycenae. The capitulation of Argos and the seizure of Tiryns had declared to the world that the son would outdo the father and that his name would become immortal. One day, my descendants would proudly declare that they sprang not from the House of Atreus, but from the House of Orestes.
I was still only twenty-five years old.
Author’s Note
After ascending the throne of Mycenae, Orestes married his first cousin, Hermione, daughter of Menelaus and Helen of Sparta. Hermione bore Orestes his firstborn son and heir, Tisamenus. Astydamia is fictitious, but I have found that the Greek legends are not always consistent in preserving the names of female children. Orestes’ illegitimate sons are also the author’s invention. Tradition gives Orestes only one bastard son, who will be introduced in The High King, the final novel of the series. However, given the many peccadilloes of royal males and heroes in Greek myth, it is probable that Orestes had several children.
The secret cistern begun in the novel is an actual feature of the citadel of Mycenae, and can be visited by any tourist brave enough to venture into its claustrophobic, Stygian depths. The cistern belongs to the final phases of Bronze Age construction at Mycenae, so if the Atreidai of legend existed and were the historical rulers of Mycenae, either Orestes or Tisamenus commissioned the cistern. I chose to assign the construction to Orestes’ long reign because the cistern was a sophisticated engineering feat that would have taken several years to complete, and because the legends offer no clue as to how long Tisamenus reigned before the mythic Dorian invasion and return of the Herakleidai resulted in his defeat and death in battle.
Orestes is said to have seized Argos from its king, Cylarabes. How Orestes managed this the existing sources do not explain, but he almost certainly could not have taken Argos by siege, as the Larissa was a formidable stronghold in its own right. Cylarabes as a middle-aged, obese schemer is my own invention, laid out on the blank canvas of negative information. Another possibility, that Cylarabes was a young rival king defeated in battle, is represented through another invented character: Akelos, the so-called illegitimate son of Diomedes.
Tradition states that Pylades was disowned by his father, King Strophius of Phocis, for aiding the matricide Orestes; the legends also state that, after his father’s death, he returned to Phocis to reign as king. Information on the duration of Pylades’ exile and what he did during that time have been lost to us, but through his marriage to Orestes’ sister Elektra, and based on the later tradition that his sons, Strophius and Medon, fought for their Mycenaean uncle, it is possible that Pylades spent those years at Mycenae. Orestes would have needed a deputy in Argos whose loyalty was absolute, the most likely candidate would have been one of his sons or another royal kinsman. So Pylades’ appointment as warden and prince of Argos, while an author’s invention, is quite plausible.
The raids on Nemea and Tiryns are also fictitious, but would have been in keeping with what a Mycenaean king would have done to secure his power. The circumstances surrounding the raid on Nemea—the special training of the shock troops, the night march, the betrayal of the citadel from within, even the mention of Atreus flaying the traitor alive—are a deliberate nod to raid on Midea depicted in George Shipway’s 1977 novel Warrior In Bronze, about Agamemnon.
I would like to thank my dedicated editor, Kev Henley, for his invaluable assistance in getting my manuscripts into shape. I would also like to thank historian Adrienne Mayor for her help in researching ancient Greek dog names. Harpalos would not exist without her. And to my readers and all those who have offered me encouragement and have graciously spread the word about my work, I offer my most heartfelt thanks.
LAURA GILL
October, 2012
Laura Gill, The Warrior
