The Outcast Read online

  Orestes

  The Outcast

  Laura Gill

  Copyright © 2012 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.

  I.

  Matricide

  Chapter One

  Mycenae.

  Her distant walls gleaming gold in the hot summer sun, the citadel of my forefathers hunched brooding upon a low hill overlooking the plain of Argos. She was my birthright and the source of my nightmares. My father had been murdered there, stabbed half a hundred times in his bath, and left to drown in his own blood. I had held his hand as the god of death claimed him.

  I left the road and the stand of olive trees under which my companions sat down to rest, and climbed a knoll to gaze out over the plain of Argos. Orestes. A woman’s voice caressed my ears through the warm breeze which stirred the parched grass. Mother. Orestes, come home. In my mind, I saw her as she had been that fateful day seven years ago: drenched in my father’s blood, clutching in her hands the sacred labrys she had used to dispatch him to the netherworld. Come home!

  You do not want to see me again, Mother. I was no longer the frightened adolescent who had fled in the night. I was twenty years old, determined to return on my own terms. And when that day came, there would be blood. Mother and her treacherous paramour would regret their crimes. Justice would be done.

  I reached down to finger the golden seal ring my sister Elektra had sewn into my clothing. Father’s legacy to me, the ring I had taken from his finger moments after he died. I took a deep breath. I did not relish the thought of confronting my mother, and for a moment regretted that that cutthroat Aegisthus had not murdered her long ago.

  It did not matter that both my personal honor and the oracle of Delphi demanded that I avenge my father by killing the mother who had killed him. I had grown weary of the labyrinthine knots of vengeance and counter-vengeance that ran through the generations of my family. I was as sickened as anyone by the horrors they had engendered, but could not speak of my misgivings to anyone except my closest companion and kinsman Pylades lest others stall my carefully laid plans and ruin them with their pious apprehensions. No one would follow a matricide, no one.

  I heard the dry grasses rustle, a dead sound. The air smelled like dust and wild herbs. Pylades called my name from below. I turned aside and threaded my way back down the hill to rejoin my companions.

  Chapter Two

  “It’ll be all right,” Boukolos had said it twice already, yet my pensive silence compelled him to say it again. “The Corinthian spies say Eurybatos is trustworthy.”

  Sighing, I absently scanned the small courtyard where our five Phocian guards lounged about scratching themselves in the heat and playing dice. “I know.”

  From Phocis, it had taken us a month to reach Lerna, a prominent coastal town a few miles south of Argos. Aegisthus exercised no authority this far south, meaning Lerna was an ideal refuge for dispossessed noblemen and dissenters still loyal to my father. Men like Eurybatos. Through the spies, I had learned that his uncle had been among the royal companions slain with my father; he, too, sought vengeance.

  Nonetheless, I was anxious, having grown too comfortable playing the pilgrim during our travels. Aegisthus might not rule here, but his own network of spies would have followed me from Phocis south across the gulf, and through Corinthia and Argolis to this safe house.

  “Tonight, then,” Boukolos said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  I nodded. Let Pylades stay back with the guards. If this was somehow a trap, and harm befell us, Elektra would never forgive me. Boukolos would serve just as well. He was a close friend, and already acting as my intermediary.

  Argive twilight was long and lingering in the summer. From the roof of our lodging, I watched the blue shadows deepen to the east, across the harbor, until sea and sky were one in the darkness. In the cooler mornings, I often looked out toward Tiryns and Nauplia, and nursed my myriad thoughts. Father had left most of his men behind with the ships when he returned to Mycenae. Had they scattered to the four winds after his murder? Surely some still dwelt nearby. Had they remained loyal enough to call upon should the need arise? The Corinthian spies had not been able to provide details, other than to inform me that most Argives hated Aegisthus’s blatant disregard for law and order, and loathed the ruffians who were his cronies.

  One by one, the stars appeared, first the Lady with her brilliant white lamp, then others. Soon, the moon would rise over the mountains, and it would be time to leave the house. I took a steadying breath to calm my nerves. Patience had never been one of my virtues; this passive waiting went against my natural instincts.

  In our shabby garb, each carrying shepherd’s staves and he toting an empty jug and pouch, Boukolos and I looked like shepherds heading home after a long day. “To look at you,” Pylades said softly, so our host would not overhear, “no one would know you were an Argive king and a Phocian nobleman.”

  Outside, the afternoon’s relentless heat radiated from the cobblestones, and the air remained fuggy. I tasted the salt air mingled with tar and raw fish from the waterfront, and the aroma of frying onions and garlic.

  Eurybatos had a modest house, which he had acquired through his wife’s family after Aegisthus’s agents had forced him to flee his own estate. A lantern burned in the doorway. At our approach, the old porter shuffled forward to squint at us. Bobbing his head, he ushered us through to a small courtyard, where a second lantern illuminated the aithousa at the far end. A man stood before the doors to the megaron; he came down when he saw us, to extend his welcome.

  Eurybatos was thirty years old, but looked much older, with dark bags under his eyes and a receding hairline. Had I been able to recall him, it would have stood me in good stead.

  Inside the megaron, it was hot, owing to the closeness of the chamber and the fire burning on the hearth. Fading frescoes decorated the walls, lilies and palms done in the old Cretan style; he evidently could not afford to have them retouched. Chairs awaited us. An old female servant brought in a basin of water and towels for washing, and another the refreshments.

  Eurybatos mixed the wine in silence, and then offered the libation. “Zeus Xenios, welcome these men who have entered my house.” Dark wine splashed the hearthstones. He drank, then passed the mixing bowl across to me.

  Instead, Boukolos took the bowl, and sampled the wine first, an obvious breach in manners our host found most curious. “It’s nothing to do with you, Lord Eurybatos,” I explained. “Aegisthus has tried to poison me several times already. I can take no chances.” I drank from the bowl. Boukolos sampled the mussels in seasoned olive oil, bread, and olive paste. “Tell me about your grievance with him.”

  And tell me, he did. “Aegisthus drove me and mine from our land—land which we have held since Perseus was king—and gave my vines and fields to some unwashed mercenary from Elis.” Eurybatos snatched a round of flatbread and began shredding it between his fingers “And what do you think the Argive assembly has done about it. Nothing! Cyanippus is a useless old fool. Helike does more than he does.” He jabbed his thumb at the old woman servant waiting in the shadows.

  I sampled a mussel. “So I’ve heard.”

  “I want my land back,” he continued, “and the men who murdered my uncle brought to justice.” Eurybatos popped a piece of bread into his mouth and started chewing. “You might be the rightful heir, but before I lend you my support, I want written and sealed assurances that you will return my estate and execute those criminals.”

 
“Of course.” I had anticipated his request, and knew the other displaced nobles would demand the same. Restoring order as it had existed before Father’s death would cost me nothing, and gain me valuable allies. However, I also knew that Eurybatos and his ilk were afraid, cowed by seven years of poverty and disillusionment. The Corinthian spies had warned me they might try to avoid making any firm commitments, to protect themselves from possible disaster. “Call your scribe to take dictation, and we will set our seals to it tonight.”

  Eurybatos hesitated, which irritated me, given his florid speech of a few moments ago. Athena, protect me from men who are nothing but hot air! “Perhaps we should wait,” he mumbled. “There are others who will wish to talk to you, to hear what you propose, and what you are offering in return.”

  So my contacts were right, at least about this man. “Tell them they will have their vengeance, and their ancestral estates restored to them,” I said.

  We ate sparingly, appetites blunted by the tension and the stifling heat. Eurybatos wished to know about my upbringing in Phocis, and tested me on various subjects from trade to politics. What sports did I excel at? Had I ever competed, and what were my victories? All innocuous questions, until, cleverly inserting his queries among the others, he attempted to probe deeper. How many men had I brought from Phocis? Had I approached any other noblemen? I guarded my tongue, remained noncommittal, and, finding an opening in a rare pause, used his own tactic against him. “Enough about me, Lord Eurybatos. Tell me about your family and what you do here in Lerna. I have been too long away.”

  I profited little from the gambit, and by evening’s end knew next to nothing at all about my host. Either Eurybatos led a simple life dealing in the fleece market, which was unlikely, or he was exceedingly secretive. When he invited me to stay the night, I hesitated a second before accepting, but then realized it was safer to remain with him, under his own roof. Had he meant to betray me, he would have had to accost me outside his house, so as not to incur blood-guilt for raising his hand against a guest.

  Boukolos did not stay. He left reluctantly, with instructions to inform Pylades about the evening’s conversation, and return with him tomorrow night.

  Helike, the old woman servant, led me upstairs to a cubicle furnished with a plain cot and table. I found it somewhat ominous that the mistress of the house did not come out to attend me herself, as was the custom. In fact, I had not seen her all evening, or the children whom the spies had told me lived there. Had Eurybatos sent them away because he had accepted an offer of gold from Aegisthus to murder me? No. The Corinthian spies had indicated he refused all dealings with the usurper. More likely, he did not wish to involve them in what was dangerous business for fear they might talk.

  Oblivious to my distraction, the old woman shuffled about the room, intent on arranging the bed linens and having me lie down like a proper guest. She stooped to undo my sandals, batting aside my attempts to help her, and motioned for me to stretch out on the cot. Only then did she withdraw, taking the lamp with her.

  Once she left, I slid my dagger from its sheath and shifted onto my side, facing the door, listening for the slightest sound, and not daring to sleep. It was hot still. Musty herbs scented the linens. Shadows moved across the moonlit wall. Paranoid thoughts clamored in my head; it took all my effort to block them out. It had been too long since I had gotten a good night’s rest, more than a month; the closer the fulfillment of my goals were, the harder it was to relax.

  Something woke me in the small hours. I started awake, stared terrified and disoriented at the unfamiliar surroundings. Eurybatos. Realization slowly pierced my fog. I am a guest in his home. Breathing hard, I loosened my grip on my dagger. I tried to sleep again, to no avail. Instead, I watched the shadows until they began to lighten, and the house started to stir.

  The kitchen was located right below my cubicle. I heard women shuffling about. Presently, Helike came up with a simple breakfast of black bread, cheese, and sour wine. She blinked uncomprehendingly when I asked her to sample the food and drink first; it took several minutes and much patient coaxing to make her comply.

  After breakfast, she showed me to a modest bathroom, and a secluded place where I could watch the comings and goings in the courtyard. As before, I saw neither the mistress nor the children of the house, and Eurybatos neither visited nor sent a single message.

  As the day grew hot, I chafed at my confinement. My youth and natural exuberance craved adventure. I would have liked to explore the nearby marshes, where Herakles was said to have killed the Hydra. No such monsters lurked there now, except for the large eels native to the area. A day’s hunting or fishing would have been just the thing to settle my nerves.

  I flexed my limbs and air boxed in my cubicle until my heart was racing, and the sweat poured from me. I went into the bathroom to sluice myself with a sponge, then returned to my cubicle to lie down for the midday sleep.

  In the late afternoon, Helike brought clothing to replace my threadbare garments. I fingered the linen and lightweight blue and green wool. Like everything else in the house, the clothes were serviceable, but had seen better days. Helike stayed to observe while I changed, bobbing her head and admiring my physique with a toothless grin. Then she grasped my hand in her gnarled fingers to lead me downstairs. I wondered whether she was mute, for she had not uttered a single word all day and last night.

  Eurybatos greeted me outside the megaron. “Guests are coming tonight. Men with common cause.”

  As afternoon turned toward sunset, his guests began arriving. I knew their names from information the spies had given me, though their faces were unfamiliar except for two old men who had visited Mycenae during the war. I said little beyond courteously returning their greetings. Tonight, I would surely gain much more by closing my mouth and opening my ears.

  Twilight fell, that soft and languid hour. Cobalt shadows overtook the courtyard, a servant lit lanterns along the aithousa, and a welcome face from my childhood suddenly appeared. Relief and pleasure washed over me at sight of the man whose threadbare garments and careworn features belied his relative youth. “Kleitos! It’s good to see you again.”

  A broad smile creased his mouth, and his eyes sparkled. “You’ve grown a beard.”

  “So I have.” I found the stubbly growth uncomfortable in the summer heat, and unattractive, as it had come in darker than my other hair, but it was an effective disguise which made me look older, different, not so much like an Atreid. “I went looking for you in the hills two weeks ago, but your hut was abandoned.”

  Kleitos’s expression clouded. “Mother died last year.” I nodded my condolences. “I took whatever I could scrape together, and got my sisters into a sanctuary, then found work as a herdsman on Menon’s estate.” Heaving his shoulders in resignation, he indicated a barrel-chested nobleman talking to Eurybatos.

  Kleitos epitomized the plight of many dispossessed young noblemen. Laboring as a herdsman was a far cry from the comforts he had known as the heir to a great estate going back generations. Aegisthus had seized his property after murdering his father, who had been a royal companion, and turned him and his mother and sisters out to eke out a living in the hills above the Inachos river. But humiliating and impoverishing Kleitos had not been enough. Aegisthus had sent men to threaten him, harass his women, and keep him cowed, which might have worked with a lesser man. Not with Kleitos, though.

  He had not been the first disaffected Argive to approach me, only the first honest one. When he told me he was willing to fight, I believed him. I leaned closer, dropped my voice to a mumble. “Is there anything I should know about any of these men?”

  “They’re serious, but don’t expect too much. They’ve become exceedingly cautious and thrifty, and want no risk to themselves.” Kleitos drew back. “Ah, Eurybatos has noticed me. I must pay my respects.”

  Meanwhile, the porter had shut the gate and was shuffling toward the kitchen to get something to eat. Pylades was still absent, which was not at
all like him. I needed him with me, to bolster my cause. Surely he would come any moment now, unless he had encountered some misfortune in the darkened streets. I imagined Aegisthus’s hired men setting upon him, clubbing and dragging him into a dark alley, or common thieves.

  Perhaps he had simply misjudged the time, or Boukolos had bungled my instructions. No, and no. A chill cut through me, despite the hot night. He would come, he must come.

  As we moved into the megaron, my misgivings intensified. At the first of two trestle tables, Eurybatos seated me on his right, in the place of honor. Helike and another servant woman came out with washbasins and towels. I dabbled my fingers in the cool water while continuing to watch the door. Around me, the conversation revolved around business and family; no one mentioned politics. Harvest was two or three weeks away; it would be a good year.

  Male servants carried in the wine krater and mixing bowls. And behind them, a solitary figure wearing a scarlet tunic entered the megaron. Profound relief swept over me. At last.

  Eurybatos, about to make the evening’s first libation, saluted Pylades with the mixing bowl. “Gentlemen,” he announced, cutting through the multiple strands of conversation. “A most distinguished guest has joined us. Prince Pylades Strophides, heir to the throne of Phocis.”

  As Pylades circled the table to take his seat, I reached around to grasp his arm. Eurybatos proceeded with the libation, honoring Zeus, then Hera and Athena, the patron goddesses of Argos. “You’re late,” I whispered.

  “I overslept in this heat,” he murmured back.

  The servants brought out the first course: mussels and sesame paste, olives stuffed with goat cheese, and spelt cakes. I watched the man pouring my wine to make certain it came from the communal krater. Around me, the conversation resumed.

  Atymnios, the elderly nobleman seated on my right, studied me intently. “You wear Agamemnon’s seal.” His poor eyesight meant he had to bend close and squint at my right hand. “You have his hands, too. Strong hands, they run in your bloodline.” Reminiscing, he leaned back in his chair. “Atreus had a fearsome grip. You should have seen him. He could crush a man’s windpipe with one hand.”