Orestes: The Warrior

By Laura Gill

Orestes, son of Agamemnon, now rules as king of Mycenae. Claiming his beloved Hermione as his queen, he sets out to reclaim the vassal states once held by Agamemnon. However, his ambitions stir conflict with the neighboring Argives, whose cunning and unscrupulous king, Cylarabes, is determined to discredit and defeat his Mycenaean rival at all costs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Gill
• Release date: Oct 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301711185

Laura Gill

Laura Gill has a passion for Minoan and Mycenaean culture. She has a Master's Degree in English Literature, and enjoys painting, gardening, cooking, and jewelry making in addition to writing. She has worked as a secondary school teacher and florist, and lives with her cats in Southern California.

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Orestes

The Warrior

Laura Gill

Copyright © 2012, 2014 Laura Gill

All rights reserved worldwide

Smashwords Edition

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Other Books by Laura Gill

Helen’s Daughter

ORESTES

The Young Lion

The Outcast

I.

Hermione

Chapter One

Get below, my lord! Seawater streamed from the captain’s beard as he hollered at me.

A harsh, stinging wind blew in from the south right into my face. The grayish mass of Cape Maleas with its infamous ship-breaking rocks loomed toward starboard. Heaving waves sloshed over the side, soaking the oarsmen’s benches and drenching the deck-boards of Sea Nymph. I clung with sodden fingers to the ropes stretching from bow to stern to keep from being flung overboard like the unfortunate sailor who had lost his grip taking down the mast.

I had lost my breakfast hours ago. Gods knew, I was no sailor to tempt Poseidon’s wrath, and never would have set sail this early in the season had it not been for my uncle’s invitation. Menelaus’s bastard son’s wedding was an insignificant affair—certainly not worth this effort or risk—but the king’s ambassador had intimated that Menelaus might be amenable to offering me his daughter’s hand. To think, my beloved Hermione, from whom I had been separated these nine years, could soon be mine!

Provided Poseidon did not send me and my four pentekonters filled with bride gifts to the bottom of the Aegean. Although I had taken pains to offer him many excellent bulls and horses before setting out from Tiryns, and had just thrown all our goats overboard as an additional sacrifice, it obviously had not appeased his wrath. Poseidon wanted the horses, my precious chariot team, or, worse, a human offering. Was the sailor he had hurled into the waves not sufficient to slake his anger? What capricious beings the immortals were, able to demand what they would whenever they would!

Captain Nephos had lowered the sail, relying on Sea Nymph’s stout rudder and strong oars to steer us clear of the rocks, but the men’s strength was failing, our measures were not enough, and we both knew it. Many a good mariner had been hurled and broken against Cape Maleas, giving his bones to the deep, but I was the king of Mycenae, and this would not be tolerated! It has to be the boy! I shouted across to him. Poseidon demands the sacrifice!

Nephos’s scowl only deepened. You’re the king! You do it!

He was fond of the youth, I knew, but when the god raged and there was no animal available, the ship’s boy was always the first to go over the side. Then bring him!

Turning aside, Nephos called out three names and made an abrupt gesture. Through the driving rain, I saw them seize the youth among them. I heard a cry, saw a scuffle. Nephos maneuvered his way to the stern. I followed him, maintaining a death-grip on the ropes and placing my feet carefully on the pitching deck.

I forgot what the boy was called, but he was comely despite his bedraggled appearance, and white-faced, wide-eyed terror. He burned with the need to live. Struggling between his captors, he pleaded with the captain. Nephos remained stone-faced.

What a shame. I reached out, placed a wet hand upon the youth’s head to consecrate him, and called out, Poseidon, Wave Gatherer, Father of the Storms, accept this sacrifice—

No!

—accept this offering, this boy—

"No!"

It was a bad omen when the sacrifice did not consent. Someone should have clubbed the youth over the head before he could refuse; it would have been kinder that way. Either you go, I hollered at him, or we’ll all drown! I tightened my fingers in his hair, and resumed the rite. Poseidon, calm your anger. Grant us fair sailing to Sparta!

I gave the signal. Now!

The sailors swung him over the side; he tried to kick his way free, but the men were stronger. With a horrified, outraged shriek, the captain’s boy went over the stern, a dark shape dropping into the heaving whitecaps, and was gone. Poseidon had swallowed his victim.

Now I could go below. I made my way along the ropes to the pentekonter’s tiny cabin, which offered shelter from the rain, but not much else. Dark and cold within, it smelled like wet straw, goat hair, and stale vomit. I would much rather have been on deck, despite the peril, because the enclosed space amplified the ship’s every pitch and swell, and churned my empty gut.

My teeth were chattering. I should have stripped away my wet clothes and huddled under the fleeces heaped haphazardly in the corner, but those, too, were damp and rancid. Let Poseidon find favor with the sacrifice, I reflected, and bring an end to this storm, so that we might make landfall before I caught a chill.

*~*~*~*

A weak sun broke from behind straggling cirrus clouds to scatter intermittent patches of light upon a calmer sea. Poseidon had accepted the offering, and we rounded Maleas without further incident. It was mid-afternoon now, to judge from the sun’s position. Nephos ordered the mast raised and the sail tacked to catch the prevailing tailwind.

Mistress of Battles and Amphitrite were still with us, but Pipituna had veered astray during the storm. An hour later, though, she reappeared, having lost only two sailors and a five-foot length of her railing.

We grounded the ships on a bleak Laconian beach, where we would spend a chilly night huddled around three bonfires. My valet, Eteokles, brought dry clothing from the ship’s hold. The sailors combed the shore for driftwood and dry brush; they would not accept my assistance, except in thanking the god with a splash of good wine upon the pebbled strand for his mercy.

Just before sunset, my charioteer exercised my team by running them up and down the beach. I went over to him, and stroked the horses’ muzzles; their hot breath misted my palms through my woolen hand coverings. Horses did not like sea travel. Ixion had had to blindfold my pair to coax them aboard, and had stayed with them throughout. He was sixteen, too young to be a king’s charioteer, but his Thracian blood had blessed him with a remarkable gift for working with horses.

Make sure you eat something and get some rest, I told him. Otherwise, Ixion would tend the horses all night.

Phaidon, Sparta’s Lord Ambassador to Mycenae, awaited me by the nearer bonfire. He had weathered the squall aboard Mistress of Battles, and now hunkered under a double layer of furs, his pockmarked face gray with cold despite the fire’s crackling glow. I fear I am no sailor, King Orestes, he admitted soberly, but we should reach Helas soon.

Another half a day’s sailing brought us to the port of Sparta in the Eurotas estuary. The governor of Helas clearly expected our arrival, for he sent a dozen sailors down to the beach to help the crew heave and chock the pentekonters above the tide mark. Ixion led my horses down the gangplank, followed by my companions with their weapons. Spartan porters unloaded dismantled chariots, four more teams of horses, chests of clothing, and the gifts I had chosen for Menelaus and his family.

Echemus, the governor of Helas, was elderly and nearsighted, but had kept his wits, and knew how to entertain royal visitors. Two splendid chariots came clattering down the pebbled beach, their drivers the governor’s own grandsons, with orders to convey Phaidon and me to the citadel overlooking the harbor. A hot bath and clean clothing awaited us, while the governor’s kinsmen made certain that my horses were stabled, my retainers lodged, and my possessions loaded into covered mule carts for the trip north to Therapne. From the bathhouse where we enjoyed a vigorous massage, Phaidon sent a messenger to inform Menelaus that we had arrived.

It takes a messenger eight or nine hours to go from Helas to Therapne at this time of year, he said, pillowing his head on his arms. We have good roads here in Sparta, where they have been laid out, but not quite as many as in Argolis. So we will rest tomorrow, and give the king time to prepare his house. A comely woman drizzled warm oil onto his hirsute back and started kneading his flesh. I closed my eyes to better enjoy the ministrations of the woman working my shoulders.

That evening, I dined with Phaidon and Echemus, who commiserated with my troubles at sea. I recall a season when Poseidon dashed more than two dozen ships against the rocks of Maleas, he reminisced. There was nothing but wreckage for leagues about when the squalls ended. Corpses washed ashore as far west as Cape Tainaron a month later.

That was the sailing season right after the war at Troy ended, the governor’s eldest son added.

Of course, it was! Echemus retorted. Did you think I meant otherwise? Nursing his mulled wine, the old governor turned to me. There were all manner of ships, King Orestes, from various lands, and their treasures. Poseidon took his share of Trojan gold. In summer, a few fishermen and spongers dare to dive those depths, but what gold and other treasures they have found carries a curse. Eight men have died horrible deaths at sea just from touching the plunder. He shook a gnarled finger at his progeny. Remember that: never cheat or dishonor the gods, especially in their own realm!

We had not heard that any Trojan gold was recovered from the depths, I observed.

Poseidon’s realm is deep and dark, King Orestes, Echemus replied, but sometimes merchants bring news of island shores where the god sometimes blesses the people with a gold ring here, a necklace there. Only, the story always changes, and the name of the island. Set no store in such lies. The gods grant their gifts when they choose, not when mortal men seek them out.

In recent years, my own experiences had shown me how temperamental and callous the immortals could be. Even their mercy was occasionally double-edged; the gods disliked when mortals were too content or prosperous. You speak wisely, I answered.

Echemus could carry his end of the conversation better than some men half his age, but the season’s cold and damp enflamed his arthritic joints, and forced him, with many sincere apologies, to retire early.

A heavy drizzle pattered against the roof tiles overhead and the sill under the closed shutters in my chamber. Eteokles stoked the glowing coals in the brazier before undressing me. For the first night in a week, I would sleep in a bed, and one covered with clean, snowy fleeces; a rough stint at sea made one appreciate small, simple pleasures. Echemus had also sent a lissome young woman to entertain me. Her considerable charms left me deliciously sated, and completely worn out.

The rain abated by morning, although the sun never quite broke through the clouds. I exercised with the governor’s sons and grandsons in the citadel’s palaestra, wrestling and boxing, and then, after a brief respite, sparred with my companions. Or rather, I attempted to spar with them, and failed miserably. Thestalos’s spear broke through my guard, nearly slicing my chin, and Iobates succeeded in slamming his shield’s heavy boss into my shoulder.

I found it impossible to concentrate. Never mind what Phaidon had said about resting the day, and allowing the messenger sufficient time to deliver a message to Menelaus—I should have been on the road already. After coming so far, I did not want to have to wait even an hour longer than necessary to see Hermione again, or to meet Menelaus, my closest living link to Father.

Thestalos put up his spear. Pay attention, my lord.

Perhaps we should rest. I lowered my waisted shield, and gestured the companions away.

The messenger returned in the mid-afternoon with the Spartan king’s terse reply: Come at once, Orestes! We shall celebrate your visit, and my son’s nuptials.

Had it been me alone, I would have hitched my team to the chariot and departed at once, but the porters and carts were not ready, and in his very regal and correct manner, Phaidon informed me that I would not reach Therapne before nightfall. Arrive in a manner befitting the king of Mycenae, he said. The skies should clear by tomorrow. We shall set out in state, and Father Zeus shall smile upon your Spartan enterprise.

A man could read into Phaidon’s words far more than the intended meaning, whatever that was.

I could not afford to overreach by assuming anything about this invitation, but Menelaus had better not be wasting my time. Surely he knew that I cared nothing for nor had the time to waste on his bastard’s wedding. A sudden fit of irritability prompted me to gnash my teeth. Why should Menelaus not give me Hermione? I was not some nobody. We had been betrothed since childhood, and there was no prospective suitor more fit to become her husband than the Atreid king of Mycenae. Yes, I decided. If Menelaus did not broach the matter, then I would, and I would not accept no for an answer.

But Hermione was not a cow or mare to be bartered over! How could any man, even a king, be so blithe about asking for her hand? I had not seen her in nearly nine years, but by all accounts her loveliness had not diminished. She would surely be as beautiful as I remembered, with her alabaster skin, and her hair like burnished copper. Tomorrow, I would be bold, and declare my intentions with eloquent words and rich bride gifts, as befit a king and a worthy suitor.

Chapter Two

Mother Dia had blessed Sparta with bountiful resources. Phaidon extolled the land’s virtues all the way north. As he and I shared a chariot, he lost no time in pointing out every notable sight in the Eurotas river valley. You see that terraced vineyard to your left? Wexamenos cultivates both purple and green grapes, but the sweetest ones come from that westernmost hill above the great house where the sun shines brightest.

Phaidon indicated the dark, arable soil, then a grove whose olives produced excellent virgin oil. Was he this helpful with other noble visitors, or was this a special case? Next, he described how abundant fish and fowl populated the estuaries, and that the mottled green marble so coveted throughout Hellas was quarried nearby. There is also timber in the mountains, and excellent hunting.

What I saw was that those mountains, which were still blanketed with winter’s snows, girded Sparta to the north, east, and west, forming a natural bulwark against hostile neighbors. Gods grant me fair weather and a long enough stay to climb Mount Taygete! It was said that from Taygete’s summit one could simultaneously view the entire Laconian landscape to the east, Messenia and Pylos all the way to the sea on the west, and mountainous, forested Arcadia to the north. Now that sounded like a sight worth the trouble!

With his precise mannerisms, Phaidon sounded like a scribe reciting the tallies. Moreover, his performance seemed deliberate, as though he meant to enlighten the one who would become Sparta’s next king. I sharply reined in my thoughts. He’s said nothing about my succeeding Menelaus, and made no promises. The ambassador might simply have been instructed to point out landmarks, and boast of Menelaus’s considerable holdings. I would know soon enough what my uncle’s intentions were.

Toward midmorning, we passed Amyklai, a prosperous town with an ancient shrine to Hyakinthos. Phaidon expounded at length about the spring rites, when the young girls wove garlands, loosened their hair, and wept for the divine youth slain too soon.

From his prosaic description, it would have been nothing I had not seen before. Girls wept for the young god in Argolis, too, while in Phocis, Hyakinthos was commemorated as the lover of Apollo.

I scanned the road ahead. More pasture land, more groves and obscuring trees, and the omnipresent river, a greenish-brown torrent flowing toward Helas and the sea.

At last, as the sun climbed toward its zenith, we reached our destination. A walled lower town occupied the east bank of the Eurotas, which wound its sinuous way north toward the Arcadian border. Spread across three hills above the town was the royal citadel Menelaus had built for his Spartan queen. I liked what the architects and laborers had done with the site, appreciating it increasingly more as we ascended to the palace with its expansive views.

In the outer courtyard, a middle-aged man in the striped garments and gold ornaments of a palace official came down the steps. He escorted me upstairs to an apartment where I could enjoy a hot scented bath and change into more appropriate raiment before meeting Menelaus.

As the official escorted me downstairs again, my stomach began fluttering, and my throat suddenly went dry. Beyond the vacant forecourt and the megaron’s brass-studded oak doors, my uncle awaited my arrival. I did not remember Menelaus, or know what to expect, even though others had told me that he was both congenial and astute, and a far easier man to deal with than my late father.

Pine logs burned on the megaron’s great hearth. Additional light streamed in through the flue and the high clerestory windows. As I entered, a man rose from the throne set against the south wall, and, with arms outstretched, advanced toward me. Welcome, King Orestes!

There was no mistaking Menelaus Atreides, king of Sparta. He was sixty now, weathered from the war and his long travels, and his famous red hair was liberally streaked with gray, but his age had not diminished his height or his barrel-chested physique.

We embraced as kinsmen and fellow kings. Menelaus smelled like scented oil, worn leather, and a herbal lineament used for aching joints; his was not an odor to elicit strong memories, like the distinctive blend of horseflesh, saffron and new leather I always associated with my father. It disconcerted me to realize that, despite my nervousness, and my sincere desire to connect with him as the last, best living link to Father, I felt nothing at all.

Perhaps I felt nothing because we were strangers, or perhaps because he had disappointed me, broken my engagement to Hermione, and distanced himself from my feud with Aegisthus.

Then Menelaus withdrew from the embrace, and held me at arm’s length. Ah, look how tall and broad in the shoulders you’ve grown! he exclaimed approvingly. Come to the hearth and let’s have the drink offering.

His valet handed him a gold rhyton, with which we made the thanksgiving libations to Mother Dia, Poseidon, and Zeus Xenios, who watched over guests. Afterward, Menelaus ushered me toward the dais, and the seat of honor.

I know you’ve had a difficult journey. Menelaus indicated the little tripod tables arranged with food and wine. Let us eat and talk. There’s much to discuss. Eteoneus, inform Queen Helen that our special guest has arrived. The official stood at attention while listening to the king’s orders. But let her bathe and make herself beautiful before she comes down. There’s no haste.

Helen was nothing to me except the woman whose adultery had started the war and cost so many lives; she could remain upstairs as far as I was concerned. Not knowing how Menelaus viewed the matter, I dared not voice my sentiments, or express my desire to have Hermione come down with her mother. Patience. Menelaus would allow it when he judged the time appropriate, and not before.

How does my sister fare? I asked. Chrysothemis had come to Sparta a year ago, after Pylades had suggested the move to alleviate tensions between her and Elektra; she had since married Menelaus’s only legitimate son, our first cousin Aethiolas.

Menelaus waited till the valet poured the wine to give his answer. She’s with child. Due in late summer, I believe. He drank, then wiped his mouth with a linen cloth. Now, I heard you encountered a fierce gale around Cape Maleas. I feared you might be out at sea, facing Poseidon’s wrath, or attempting to come through the high mountain passes, and regretted sending for you in such weather.

Apart from an afternoon’s squall, we had clear sailing from Tiryns to Helas, I assured him.

Menelaus urged upon me a dish of seasoned green olives. I noticed you’ve cut your hair. Do you prefer it so short?

It was cut at Delphi. Surely he had no reason to ask, having had a thorough report from King Strophius of Phocis, my paternal uncle, who had had the details from the high priest of Delphi. My ordeal was a sacred mystery not to be discussed lightly, although as my senior kinsman and prospective father-in-law Menelaus was entitled to ask certain questions.

It was best to get straight to the point, and then forget the whole unpleasant business. I am not insane, I stated firmly. My madness was a temporary illness the Erinyes afflicted me with.

Menelaus responded with a nervous little cough, then, still clearing his throat, said, You wouldn’t be here now were it otherwise, Orestes. He shifted in his seat, glanced over at his wine. Not to mention, the Argive assembly never would have ratified your kingship had they any doubts about your fitness to rule.

I rolled my eyes. Mere mention of the Argive assembly set my teeth on edge. Led by their senile invalid of a king, Cyanippus, that pack of doddering old busybodies had not lifted a finger to curtail or rectify the worst of Aegisthus’s abuses, and had not supported my cause when it mattered. Acknowledging my birthright is about the only useful thing they’ve done in years.

My caustic remark prompted a snort of laughter. You have no use for them, then?

I looked Menelaus straight in the eye. "Argos does not rule in Mycenae. I do."

Ah, Strophius told me you were ambitious. Nodding, he leaned back in his seat. So you liked what you saw, driving through Sparta?

Was he testing me? You are well-situated and prosperous.

As my successor shall be.

Oh, yes, he was measuring me. I did not come to survey your pastures and vines, or petition you to make me the next king of Sparta, I said firmly. I came for Hermione.

I know you did, he answered. Of course, she is a widow now, with certain shortcomings. A twitch of his heavy eyebrows implied exactly what shortcomings he meant; she was no longer young or a maid. I assume you have no problem in overlooking these?

I am not ignorant of Hermione’s situation. Did he know that she had been raped by Aegisthus nine years ago? Menelaus’s grave manner hinted at more than he was willing to articulate, and I did not want to be the one to broach that sensitive topic. Give her to me and I will honor her as my beloved wife and queen. She will be the mistress of my household and the mother of my heirs. You will have my solemn vow that I will never raise a hand against her or flaunt my concubines or any bastards they might give me before her.

Menelaus slowly nodded, reaching for his wine. Your answer will please the Spartan assembly.

We ate a bit after that. Menelaus gave orders for two additional chairs to be brought in, though he did not say who they were intended for. Was he expecting Hermione to join her mother? I had not anticipated seeing her quite so soon. Menelaus did not answer my query, except to jest that ladies always took their time about preparing.

He told me about his travels around the Aegean, and the wonders he had seen: lambs born with sprouting horns in Libya, the massive pyramids in Egypt, and the famous Labyrinth in Crete. A man should see what he can of the world, before he settles down and grows too old, he observed. Now, I’ve heard that you’re quite the explorer yourself.

I had no wondrous tales to compare with his, and said so. I’ve explored Corinthia and parts of Argolis, visited Thebes, and climbed Mounts Parnassus and Helikon, but...

Menelaus laughed, You’re too modest! I should take you around Hellas. We can visit Nestor in sandy Pylos, then your late great-grandfather’s territories in Pisatis, and then cross the sea to see the Labyrinth at Knossos where they still perform the old Bull Dance.

As much as I would have liked to hurl my duties to the four winds and take him up on his tempting proposition, I could not, and with much regret explained why, There’s too much to do. I’m buried up to my ears in petitions, reports, unfinished projects, and I have yet to visit the Midean estate. Not to mention that Cyanippus demanded I visit him in Argos at the equinox. I snorted contemptuously. I have invited him twice to Mycenae, but he keeps demurring and prevaricating, the tiresome fool. His rheumatism isn’t so bad that he can’t manage the short journey. Or is it his hemorrhoids? His excuse always changes.

Menelaus made a long, sympathetic noise in his throat. I can see why your blood’s boiling. He thoughtfully stroked his neatly trimmed beard. However, you must take care not to antagonize the Argive assembly, at least not until you’ve gotten some experience. You must consolidate your power. That means recovering Mycenae’s lost vassals in Corinthia and Achaea.

It will be done.

To my surprise, Menelaus did not ask me to elaborate, either because he trusted that such a conquest would be accomplished, or because he considered it too soon to mount an offensive. Tell me, he said, changing topics, what have you done in Mycenae since taking the throne?

I sensed another test, this one gauging my fitness to rule—and why not? Menelaus would expect his son-in-law and successor to be industrious, intelligent, diplomatic, and, when the occasion called for it, formidable in war. I described my continuing efforts to undo Aegisthus’s abuses and ruinous expenses, the renovations throughout the palace, and the memorial rites I had staged at the tombs of Atreus and Agamemnon.

At that last, Menelaus nodded sadly. It’s a shame I couldn’t be there. Your message came too late in the season for me to travel, and then... He expelled a heavy sigh. You may not know this, but when I last saw him, your father swore an oath forbidding me to ever set foot in Argolis again.

He was right: I had never heard such a thing. Menelaus went on to explain, Agamemnon and I quarreled during the division of the spoils, even as Troy still smoldered. He called me unreasonable and selfish, and I, taking offense, left early. I took the news of his death very hard, knowing our last words to each other had been bitter ones.

I contemplated the seal ring on my left wrist. Two inches across, worked in heavy gold, it depicted the Atreid double lions. I unfastened Father’s seal stone, extending it to my kinsman and host. Accept this gift from me. Let Zeus Xenios and the Two Ladies of Argos witness that I, Orestes Agamemnonides, revoke your banishment from Argolis and Mycenae. Father would not have wanted you to stay away.

Menelaus reluctantly took the seal stone; perhaps he imagined dried blood crusting the graven lions, as I sometimes did. You have no idea what he would have wanted, he answered quietly, just as you have no idea what war does to a man. Conflict creates divisions, and deepens rifts that already exist. When the Trojans stole my wife, when we sacrificed your sister at Aulis—that’s where the quarrel began. He turned the ring over and between his thick fingers, without even once gazing upon it. We did a terrible thing that day, a monstrous thing, and Agamemnon knew it. He demanded that I give Helen’s death to the army, as he had given Iphigenia’s. Menelaus’s large hand swallowed the ring whole. I know you possess but few memories of him. You should treasure those, Orestes, and hoard whatever relics you can.

He opened his hand again, holding out the ring. I cannot accept this. Agamemnon would want you to have it.

But I did not want it back; it held too many memories, and perhaps—just perhaps—I did not deserve it, that one precious memento, symbol of what Father had been as High King. I shook my head. I did nothing to help him. I hid behind the curtain in the privy. The confession spilled forth, despite my best intentions not to discuss the matter, or confide any personal regrets or weakness. I saw the whole thing—I saw Mother with the axe and the fisherman’s net, and Aegisthus with the knife—but I never once tried to stop them, or shout out a warning, or anything. Not once.

Menelaus regarded me with a sad, weary expression. There was nothing you could have done, he said. Agamemnon knew what was happening in his own household. I warned him many times that Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus might try something, as did Nestor and Odysseus, and several others close to us, but by the war’s end your father’s head was too bloated with hubris to grasp the danger. What threat could one woman and her lover pose to him, when he had conquered and devastated mighty Troy? You’re not to blame for Agamemnon’s hubris or shortsightedness, Orestes. Think what you will, but you certainly couldn’t have stopped what happened that day.

Father had walked into the snare. I had always known that, of course, but somehow my mind could not reconcile with my profound grief or guilt to excuse my inaction.

I started to say something when the great outer doors opened with the heavy sound of wood on bronze. Footfalls echoed outside the main chamber, then the curtain screening the vestibule drew aside to admit a woman and her attendant, an adolescent girl—no, she, too, was a woman, but as dainty as the maidens depicted on old Cretan-style frescoes. Despite her small stature, she carried herself like a goddess. She was certainly as lovely as one, with flawless white skin and black hair curling in perfect ringlets. She must be the famous Helen. I had expected a tall and golden woman, someone to bewitch and thwart my uncle, not a ceramic doll that I could have crushed with one fist.

Then my attention wandered to the woman walking behind her, and my throat closed. I forgot Helen entirely. Hermione stood straight and regal as a queen in her jewels and flounced skirts, but I saw at once how somber and distracted she was. Had she not been told the good news? I longed to call out her name, to rush to her side and take her in my arms while reassuring her that I had come to rescue her from her sorrows and that everything was going to be all right.

Menelaus rose to greet them, arms outstretched. Ladies, we have a most important guest. That was my cue to stand and do honor to my host’s women. He released his daughter from his embrace, and moved aside to give the women a better view. Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae.

Hermione’s face changed. Her shadowed eyes met mine, and widened. Is it you? She stumbled over her words like a sleeper awakening from a long repose. Had her husband’s death affected her so greatly?

I smiled at her. Yes, it is.

We kept staring at each other. A slow blush crept across her cheeks. Menelaus cleared his throat meaningfully, but it was Helen who took charge, saying, Perhaps we should sit.

The valet poured wine, but no one drank. Menelaus showed his wife and daughter Father’s ring. I must have said something—maybe a few courteous remarks about the gift and my host—but my attention roved elsewhere. I was drunk on Hermione’s sweet perfume and blue eyes and her elegant white hands primly folded in her lap.

I focused when the tenor of Menelaus’s voice changed. Orestes, he said gravely, commanding my attention, you are our honored kinsman as well as our guest, and as such you are entitled to the gifts due a king. Foremost among those is my daughter, the chief jewel of my house.

Once more, he stood, urging everyone else to stand with him. He took Hermione’s hand in his, and led her to me. Here it comes. My heart beat with hummingbird’s wings. Then her cool palm joined with my clammy one. I could not speak. I severed your engagement due to conditions which no longer apply, he continued. Was I crushing her fingers? I must be gentle. I see no reason why you should not have my daughter’s hand in marriage, if you wish it and she is willing.

Sweet Hermione, do you want me? I should have asked her myself, and not been such a tongue-tied, lovelorn youth. Will you be my beloved wife and queen, and the mother of my sons? That fraction of a second it took her to nod felt like forever. Menelaus beamed approvingly. Megapenthes celebrates his wedding in three days, he said. Let us celebrate two weddings on that day.

Helen led Hermione away again, much to my dismay, but Menelaus set his reassuring hand upon my shoulder. Give her an hour to recover from the shock, he urged. You will see her tonight at the betrothal feast.

Chapter Three

At dusk, Menelaus and I entered the megaron together.

Hermione waited with her mother before the great central hearth, as befit a mistress of the house. My beloved’s glowing smile turned a beautiful woman into a radiant goddess. Welcome, King Orestes, she murmured. Her eyes sparkled, suggesting a thousand more words she could not utter in public, and her voice was mellifluous.

Menelaus took the golden rhyton from Helen’s hands, and held it high. Lords and ladies of Sparta, assembled guests! An anticipatory hush descended over the megaron. All were curious about the young man who had entered with their king, arrayed in costly purple and glittering with gold. Might I be the new Mycenaean ambassador, the courtiers speculated among themselves, or possibly a royal kinsman from Argos? Several noblewomen made eyes at me. Would I be staying long? What a shapely physique I had! Tonight, we welcome a most royal visitor: Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae.

I held back a breath. Even now, six months after my absolution for matricide, encountering new faces filled me with apprehension, as I could never be sure how I would be received. Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae. Interest faded from certain women’s eyes upon hearing that infamous name. Murderer. Blasphemer. I heard a scattering of disapproving remarks, and saw some courtiers shaking their heads.

To judge from their consternation, I wondered how well the Spartans would appreciate their king’s choice of son-in-law and potential successor. Naturally, they would realize that there was no one better suited to marry their princess and rule over them than me. How could they fail to recognize my superior merits? After all, I had royal Spartan blood through my mother. Except that I murdered her. I clenched my teeth, waiting for someone to shout out an accusation. I killed my own mother, their princess.

In the name of Zeus Xenios, Menelaus was saying, we welcome into our megaron our kinsman and brother-king, and take him under our protection. With a tip of the rhyton, he splashed the hearthstones with wine, before offering me the vessel. King Orestes, will you share with us the first libation?

After we performed the ritual, he signaled for the musicians to play, and the servants to bring in the first course. Menelaus, however, did not take his place right away, but introduced me to the various high-ranking courtiers, priests, and officials comprising the Spartan court. Any probing questions about my business in Sparta he deflected with aplomb, slinging a familiar arm