Chapter One

 

 

 

“Hermione!” Elektra burst into the sitting room in an air of agitation, dragging her older sister behind her. “Come with us to the great gallery.”

Chrysothemis shot me a desperate look, warning me that whatever my cousin intended to see or do in the megaron’s great gallery meant trouble.

I laid aside my shuttle of bright blue wool. “What’s going on?”

“Father’s on his way home right now,” Elektra said.

“She thinks she saw his chariot,” Chrysothemis added quietly.

“Shut up!” Elektra’s snub nose crinkled, and she bared her large horse teeth. A tall, strapping young woman with shocking red hair, she should have been born a man; even her husky voice sounded mannish. “I know what I saw.”

I knew better. As always, she knew only what she wanted to see. Elektra was impatient to see her father return in triumph, and to denounce her mother as a whore, as though my uncle did not already know he was a cuckold. “I don’t think you should go,” I told her.

Chrysothemis seized upon my advice. “Listen to her, Elektra.”

But Elektra disregarded her. “So you won’t come?” she asked me.

“I want no trouble,” I said, “and you’re bent on causing it.” I retrieved the shuttle.

Seizing her sister’s arm, Elektra hustled her from the room. I watched them go, Chrysothemis dragging her heels and complaining. Elektra had been restless all through the autumn and winter, ever since the beacons announced the Hellene victory at Troy. We had endured six months confined with her, suffering her moods and interminable pacing back and forth; we might as well have been caged with a brooding lioness.

Let her wait a little longer. Agamemnon would arrive home tomorrow, and that was soon enough.

But when he did come, he would expect a hero’s welcome. Harried scrub maids, laundresses, and cooks had been laboring hard ever since word arrived two days ago that the High King’s ships had landed at Tiryns.

My cousin was mistaken. Had Agamemnon intended to come home today, Aunt Clytaemnestra would have been overseeing our toilette, scrutinizing our jewelry, hair, and dresses before herding us downstairs to line up in the megaron like so many painted cult votaries.

Clytaemnestra must have granite nerves to remain as calm as she was. She had had six months to contemplate how she was going to get back into her husband’s good graces after cuckolding him with his rival kinsman, yet she had not even sent her lover away.

I wanted to be a hundred miles from here, away from my aunt and uncle, and their bitter quarrel. Since the beacons had blazed, I prayed for Hermes to speed my father home so he might send for me, but there was no word except that he had quarreled with my uncle and left Troy while the spoils were still being divided. Poseidon’s wrath struck the fleet hard, sending many ships with their crews and Trojan riches to the bottom of the Aegean, but I knew deep in my heart that Menelaus was still alive. Perhaps he had wanted to raid elsewhere before going home, and was even now stepping ashore on a Spartan beach.

Clear yellow sunshine slanted through the narrow window, flooding the sitting room with warmth and light but scant comfort. Dwelling on my father’s whereabouts inevitably conjured unwelcome thoughts of my mother. Clytaemnestra’s messenger, bringing further news about the sacking of Troy, told us that Menelaus had not killed Helen, but took her back as his wife and queen without recriminations. I burned with shame, unable to believe it. My mother had abandoned her home and family, sparked a ruinous war, and my father was just going to let her live after all the horrible things he vowed to do to her?

Speculation buzzed among the nobles and court ladies. Maybe he was saving her for a special execution, or maybe she had beguiled him with her naked breasts just as the messenger said. I could not bear to listen to their talk.

Elektra’s agitation pierced me like a dart, banishing my earlier calm, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate. And weaving on the small loom left my mind free to wander, to spin webs of the mind. Had Chrysothemis stayed behind, we could have worked together, talked of inconsequential things, and forgotten our troubles. Alone, I grew anxious.

At last, I hung the shuttle on a wooden peg beside the loom and ventured outside.

I found myself heading down the service stairs, and through a rear corridor which led toward the megaron. An oil lamp burned at the end of the dim passage, near the door leading into the vestibule. A crack in the door would let me observe anyone entering the megaron, and slip away again unnoticed should there be trouble.

Orestes might be there, too, spying on the messengers who were arriving with the king’s baggage. My youngest cousin was curious about the father who had left him so many years ago, but also very anxious.

“What are you doing here?” Clytaemnestra’s authoritative voice echoed back along the passage. I froze. “Didn’t I order you to stay out of the way?”

“Father’s on his way home. I saw his chariot coming up the road.” My heart sank. “He’s going to kill you!” I winced at Elektra’s recklessness, taunting her mother like that.

Then I heard the sharp slap, my cousin’s outraged yelp, and my aunt’s reprimand. “Insolent child! Go back to the women’s quarters and stay there!”

Someone’s hand suddenly clamped down on my shoulder. I stifled a startled cry. A servant would not dare surprise me like that.

“What’s this?” Apprehension knotted my belly at the man’s low voice brushing against my ear. Strong arms turned me about. “Hermione, my dear, should you be here?”

Aegisthus savored my name with a leer that choked me with revulsion. I kept my eyes on the wall to avoid his lascivious gaze. “I heard someone might be coming today.”

“And who told you that, little bird?” Aegisthus’s long fingers inched down my exposed throat. I swallowed hard. Would he venture even lower and brush against my breasts under the pretense of admiring an embroidered band or straightening my dress? “Whoever it was, they are mistaken.” His hand left my throat to cup my cheek. “Go back to your loom.”

“Of course.” I would seize any excuse just to get away from him.

Aegisthus leaned in close enough to kiss me. He exuded sexual hunger like a foul odor. “Of course, what?” he pressed.

I choked out the hated word he forced me to use. “Yes, Uncle.”

His thumb grazed my lips. “Such a good girl, Hermione.”

When he released me, I sidled away with his ravenous gaze crawling up my spine, suppressing the urge to run. How could my aunt, who saw and heard everything else, not know about her lover’s advances toward me?

I crept back up the side stairs, taking a different route which led past the empty gallery. Clytaemnestra made swift work of banishing my cousins, but she might yet be nearby. Hoping to avoid her, I quickened my pace.

Then I heard the megaron’s heavy oak doors swing inward on their oiled hinges, and a man’s thunderous bellow carrying to the rafters. “Where is that whore who calls herself my wife?”

Agamemnon was here! Elektra had been right. It could not be anyone else. Shocked, I retraced my steps, ducked through the curtain into the gallery, and peered down to get a better look at my father’s brother.

Built like a bull, the king of Mycenae towered over the servant he had shoved aside. Gray streaked his black beard, and bitter lines twisted his mouth and scored his brow. Several armed companions and a pregnant woman in a threadbare gown accompanied him into the megaron.

And down in the megaron, fragrant pinewood burned upon the great central hearth, and green garlands twined its four supporting pillars. Purple cushions and a tawny lion skin graced the throne upon the dais against the far wall. A royal welcome for a king who was not supposed to arrive until tomorrow.

“My lord, you wound me!” Clytaemnestra swept into view with arms outstretched. She wore her finest raiment, her dark hair swept up in oiled ringlets, and gold roundels sparkled on her flounced skirts. “I am overjoyed to see you safely home. All Mycenae rejoices.”

“Then why has Mycenae not turned out to greet me?” Agamemnon grumbled sourly. He wanted his hero’s welcome, with cheering crowds and fanfare. “People seem surprised by my arrival.”

“We thought you were returning tomorrow.” Clytaemnestra managed to sound genuinely contrite. “Forgive me. It seems your messenger made a mistake.”

Bronze rasped against leather as Agamemnon drew his sword. As he advanced toward her, I held my breath. “But I see garlands hanging and fine cushions upon the throne, and you all dressed for company. So who are you expecting, wife? Is it that snake Aegisthus? Hoping for one last indiscretion before I cut your throat?”

I would have thrown myself on my knees to plead for mercy, but Clytaemnestra never flinched. With the sword tip wavering mere inches from her throat, she fearlessly reached out and grasped the blade, stilling its macabre dance over her collarbone. “Have your spies not told you, my lord? I threw that lecher out months ago. You were right about him.”

But Aegisthus was still here! He had accosted me not a quarter of an hour ago. Elektra would have shouted it out and denounced her mother as the liar she was, yet my voice refused to work.

Agamemnon leaned closer. “It took you seven years to realize that?” he spat. “I thought you had more sense for a woman.”

“I am at your mercy, my lord. Forgive me. Hekate and the Daughters of Night blinded me with anguish for our daughter. I was so angry with you, and that beast took advantage of my weakness.” Clytaemnestra’s voice quavered on the verge of tears. Agamemnon could not possibly be taken in by her outrageous performance. “It took me this long to see him for the snake he was, using me to get revenge against you.”

An audible sob escaped her as she kept going, “When we heard the news from Troy, he took me to bed and whispered his plan in my ear. He planned to murder you and Orestes, and make himself king. That abomination fouling the throne of Mycenae? How could I possibly let him sit where better men like you and Atreus have sat? How could the mother of your son have gone along with his schemes?”

She was so good she almost had me believing her.

“Forgive me for lying, my lord,” Clytaemnestra said. “I withheld the news for fear of your anger. I did not want our children to see their father kill their mother the way you and Menelaus saw your father murder your mother.”

Slowly, Agamemnon lowered the blade. A knot formed in my throat, rendering me mute.

Clytaemnestra extended a welcoming hand. “Come, my lord. Your daughters have missed you. Orestes wants to hear your stories. It is all he talks about.”

Agamemnon sheathed the sword, though his scowl remained. “Menelaus might be swayed by a pair of tits, but you’re no Helen. I will bathe and make the offering, and then we will see. Meanwhile, attend to my concubine. Cassandra is a woman of royal blood.”

Clytaemnestra acknowledged the pregnant woman with contempt. “Is that what she is?”

“You have nothing to say about it.” Agamemnon began fumbling with the buckles of his bronze cuirass.

“I see,” she hissed between her teeth. I knew that tone, knew she was seething with rage, a heartbeat away from exploding.

“Do I detect a hint of willfulness?” Agamemnon snorted his contempt. “And after all that pretty talk about making amends! I’m beginning to think you don’t really mean it.”

Clytaemnestra played the contrite and loving wife to the hilt. “My lord, you honestly cannot expect me to be happy about the woman.” She ventured a step forward. “Let me get that for you. It must be new leather to be so stiff. Orestes chose the finest lamb from your flocks for the sacrifice, and I have a magnificent purple robe laid out for you to wear once you have been purified.”

Agamemnon’s sour grunt passed for acknowledgement as, still struggling with his buckles, he pushed past her toward the royal ritual bath. Like a dutiful wife, she followed. I heard the door close after them.

As I began to back slowly toward the curtain, armed men filed into the megaron and surrounded the hearth. Three blocked the entryway with their spears and towering ox-hide shields. The companions looked around them, and at each other, apprehension graven on their faces. The pregnant woman, Cassandra, wrapped her arms over her belly; her eyes grew huge with fear.

And then, the storm broke. Muffled shouts and shrieks from the lustral bath jarred the air. My heart lurched to realize the king was being attacked. Clytaemnestra’s wild hollering competed with Agamemnon’s outraged bellows and shouts for help.

Aegisthus was in there, too. I choked back a cry, hearing his voice shouting Agamemnon down. “Die, you dog!”

My brain struggled to work. No wonder Aegisthus had not fled the moment Agamemnon beached his ships at Tiryns. No wonder he intercepted me in the passage. They had planned this all along! I crammed my fist into my mouth, realizing that I had almost walked straight into the slaughter.

At Agamemnon’s first wounded cry, all seven companions surged toward the bathroom door, weapons drawn, but not a single one made it past the great hearth. The guards swarmed them at once. Metal clashed amid savage curses and grunts. Bones cracked as tall shields rammed men down and lethal bronze punched through leather and flesh.

Cassandra shrieked and crouched beside the hearth, arms clasped over her head. Bodies hit the floor all around her. Blood streamed across the painted stucco tiles and pooled around gashed heads, torsos, and severed limbs. It spattered the regal frescoes marching across the wall.

Seeing the carnage, my every instinct screamed at me to escape, but shock rooted me to the spot. I could not make my body move.

When it was done, the attackers seized the woman’s arms, hauled her whimpering and struggling to her feet, and held her fast between them. All the companions lay dead except one man whose twitching fingers clawed at the floor; a spear through the throat brought a gurgling end to his agony.

Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus emerged from the bathroom spattered with blood. She held the sacred labrys, he a knife. Slowly, they advanced toward Cassandra. I doubled over, biting down on my knuckles and pulling ragged breaths to keep from vomiting.

Clytaemnestra said something to the woman. Cassandra was sobbing and pleading in a foreign tongue.

Panic gave me the strength to break away. On my hands and knees, I scrabbled to safety, yet not fast enough to escape the sounds of the woman being murdered behind me.

Once I reached the hallway, I staggered to my feet and stumbled to my room, where I shut the door and huddled whimpering in a corner.

Hours crept by. I dared not stir from my corner. No one sought me out. Elektra and Chrysothemis must be under guard with their maid. I did not know where Orestes was. Clytaemnestra might have been telling the truth when she said Aegisthus meant to kill him, too. I whispered prayers to Athena and Hermes, hoping the gods had shielded my cousin during the carnage, and whisked him far away.

Twilight’s blue-black shadows crept in, banishing the sun. No one came to bring me clean water or food, or to light the lamps. Night closed around me like a shroud, deepening my fears.

I knew I could not face Clytaemnestra or Aegisthus without betraying myself. What they had done was too sickening, too terrible for me to hide behind an ignorant façade. They were practiced liars and murderers, snakes who knew how to taste the air with their forked tongues. They would smell my terror.

In the darkness where my imagination ran riot, I pictured my aunt and her lover slithering along the corridor like a pair of vipers, dripping black blood from their fangs, slipping into each room to dispatch its inhabitant. Serpents devouring their young. Chrysothemis. Elektra. Orestes.

Hermione.