The warrior, p.5
The Warrior, page 5
part #3 of Orestes Series
Aethiolas took a strangely self-effacing stance for one who, in any other realm, would have been the heir. He could not have failed to overhear my comment about giving the Spartans a deputy from their own royal family—he knew it could only be him—but thus far he had not troubled to ask about it. He would bear watching, this kinsman of mine, for what king’s son in his right mind did not want to rule? Either he possessed some unique Spartan outlook which I did not grasp, or he was playing at some subtle intrigue.
Hermione had heard about the rumblings in the assembly, and naturally was troubled. Menelaus comforted her in his straightforward manner. “No tears, young lady. You and Orestes will wed in two days, and that’s that.”
For my part, I tried to lighten the tension with a bit of humor. “Though I may have to abduct you to do it. Would you mind, my dear?”
Her eyes went large, and she swallowed. “Will you be gentle?”
I regretted the quip; she had been abducted and forced into marriage with Neoptolemus, and not so very long ago. So I caught her hand in mine and kissed it. “I shall dote upon you the whole way.”
“Nonsense!” Menelaus huffed. “I have chosen the best man and given my consent before witnesses. The Spartan assembly will come to heel, whether they like it or not.”
Indeed, they would. When the time came, and Hermione as heiress and queen placed the royal scepter in my hands, Paios and his cronies could choke on their disappointment.
I offered Hermione my arm to escort her downstairs to supper. Just before we entered the megaron, I leaned murmured, “Forgive me my crass remark. I meant it only in jest.”
She kept her gaze forward, her manner cool. “But you would have done it, regardless.”
Hermione had always known how to read me. “I would not have mistreated you in doing so, though,” I replied. “And it will not come to that. I’m not about to turn tail and run from those old fools.”
That night’s feast proceeded on a quieter note; it was the lull before the seven days of celebration to come. I had some leisure with which to converse with my betrothed and soothe her ruffled nerves, but it was not such an easy thing; the thought that she would be mine in only two more days was almost too much to bear. “You may notice that I always say the wrong things around you,” I blurted out. Was I making a mistake now, too, in mentioning it? “I assure you, I’m not always so foolish or tongue-tied.”
“Orestes, you’ve no reason to be so anxious.” Hermione’s tone was easier now; she did not appear to hold a grudge for my earlier slip of the tongue, or the dozens of others I had made over the years. “We’re not strangers.”
“In a way, we are.” Thank the gods for the firelight and shadows which concealed my flushing embarrassment. “I was a boy when we last met.”
“I have not changed so very much,” she said.
She had only grown more beautiful; the compliment stuck in my throat, along with many others, all equally trite. Then I noticed the gold gleaming in her copper-colored hair. “I’m glad you’re wearing the daisies.”
Hermione touched her fingers to a hammered gold flower nestled among her ringlets, and, smiling, turned her face toward mine. “I owe you a gift. I would have chosen something for you today, but I have no idea what would please you.”
I had a ready answer: her body naked against mine, and my mouth on hers. Patience. “Not gold or silver, or cloth. What I want—” I considered my words carefully. “I would like three or four days alone with you, away from court, from everything. My life has been nothing but business since I became king. Hearing petitions, attending meetings, reviewing tallies. I’ve not even had time to ride out on the hunt.”
She uttered a soft laugh. “You needn’t worry about that. Father and Aethiolas will make certain you have your fill of game.” Then I felt her hand lightly cover mine. “As for the rest, there’s never an end to it.”
I would have answered, said something about the burdens of kingship, but Chrysothemis chose that very moment to appear beside my chair and fling her arms around my neck. “Orestes, where have you been?” I smelled the wine on her breath. “I wanted to visit.”
“Chrysothemis,” Hermione asked quietly, “do you want us to make a place for you?”
“Please! Aethiolas hasn’t said two words to me all night. Erigone’s not here to talk to, and Helen’s being frightful about my leaving the high table to mingle with the other ladies.”
Several moments and some inconvenient shifting were needed to accommodate her, and then she insisted on squeezing in between us. I clamped down on my irritation, reminding myself that this was just her way, but it took a supreme effort not to throttle her.
“Orestes!” she exclaimed. “You look so splendid tonight. Are you wearing purple for the wedding? You cut such a fine figure last night, you know.” No wonder Aethiolas was silent with her; he probably could not get a word in edgewise. “Oh, Hermione, you’re wearing the daisies! Are you going to wear them under your veil for the wedding? I thought you were wearing a diadem. I have a new dress myself—you haven’t seen it yet—but when you do...”
Hermione threw me a tolerant, long-suffering look behind my sister’s back.
At last, I held up my hand for peace. “Please, one thing at a time! Elektra and Pylades send their love, and I brought gifts—” Chrysothemis started to squeal her delight. I silenced her again with an abrupt gesture. “What is it in the Spartan air that makes you so fluttery and gossipy?”
“Oh, it’s everything!” Chrysothemis twirled a chestnut ringlet around her finger, laughing. “Mycenae was so deathly dull and forbidding! There was nobody to talk to, nothing to see.”
It amazed me that she did not inquire about Delphi or that bloody morning at Mycenae. She had been there, locked into a closet with Mother’s women while... I vaguely remembered Pylades releasing her, and her sobbing and whimpering. Yet she did not mention it, did not even seem cognizant that anything had ever been amiss. However, I did detect a frightened undercurrent to her chatter, an ill-concealed panic. Did she fear me so much that her only recourse was to hide behind such verbal diarrhea?
“Yes,” I conceded. “Mycenae can be a very lonely and oppressive place. But it has been renovated. Has Hermione told you about—?”
“Ah, there you are!” Aethiolas set a proprietary hand on the back of his wife’s chair. “Sharing the court gossip, my dear?” His voice held a skillfully honed, tolerant edge.
“Of course!” Chrysothemis leaned forward, and, chortling, grasped my arm. “Brother, you should hear what the ladies are saying about you.”
Aethiolas cleared his throat. “I doubt he wants you to repeat those salacious remarks, dear.” At that, she frowned; he was spoiling her pleasure. He nodded at me. “I’ll leave her to you, Orestes, but don’t let her wear you out.”
The next morning, Aethiolas escorted me to the palaestra, where the young men were already exercising on the soft sand. As we stripped down to our kilts and oiled ourselves, he explained, “We start at dawn here, with stretching and sprinting, and continue with wrestling and boxing till noon. In the afternoon, after the meal and a short rest, we drill with weapons or race chariots, and every second week of the month, we hold games.”
Although I had always known that Spartans were outstanding athletes and warriors, it suddenly struck me that their prowess might outshine mine in the nuptial games. In fact, I was reluctant to step onto the sand at all, once a throng of admiring ladies started crowding the second-story gallery. I did not see Hermione among them—ah, but there was my sister, waving from the gallery, and surrounded by a dozen likeminded butterflies.
After Aethiolas introduced me to his companions, I stepped onto the sand and began stretching and limbering up for the strenuous exercise to come, though in doing so, I took special care not to overdo my laps around the palaestra, lest the Spartans suspect that the old wound sometimes gave me trouble. A Spartan king must possess both excellent breeding and a superb physique, and while scars were not considered imperfections but badges of honor and bravery, a particularly noticeable one might nevertheless inspire doubts about a candidate’s prowess.
An attendant came around with himantes for boxing. Aethiolas and I sparred during the first round, then he called to his half-brother Nikostratos, who cheerfully tested my mettle for the second round.
“You have excellent form,” Nikostratos commented. “Did you have a Spartan teacher?”
I blocked his jab. “Argive.”
“Then he must have trained under a Spartan. We’re the finest boxers in all Hellas.”
“Philaretos was a traitor.” I repressed the impulse to spit upon the ground and thereby denigrate the man’s shade; it had not escaped my attention that the Spartans considered that particular gesture bad manners. “Mycenae’s Master at Arms. He betrayed my father. I executed him.”
Spending time with Nikostratos meant enduring his older, full brother. Megapenthes cast a sullen shadow where his more amicable sibling did not. Dark and haughty, he resented me for upstaging what he considered his occasion; it never once occurred to him that a bastard such as he was not entitled to the privilege of a royal wedding, or that he ought to be more grateful that Tyndareus had raised him and Nikostratos in the palace, and not left them with their mother in the slave quarters where they belonged.
Nonetheless, Megapenthes was Menelaus’s natural son, and I strove to be pleasant. “Your father tells me your bride is a lovely young girl.”
He shrugged his disinterest. “That’s what he tells me.”
“Both Aethiolas and Father have seen her, and say that she’s quite pretty.” Nikostratos was embarrassed by his brother’s sullenness, to judge from his apologetic tone, and the worrisome glances he cast in my direction. “She also comes with a generous dowry.”
Megapenthes deserved neither a lord’s daughter nor her splendid dowry, but a good hard drubbing. Discussing his marriage was a colossal waste of time. “Now,” I asked, “which one of you will arm-wrestle with me?”
Aethiolas and his companions crowded around to watch the competition. Megapenthes knelt down, propped his elbow on the hard stone bench, and locked his fingers with mine. He had a lithe build, like an acrobat’s, but had yet to reach his full breadth and strength. I saw nothing about him that showed his Atreid bloodline; either his deceased slave mother’s lineage ran strong, or she had spread her legs elsewhere while sharing Menelaus’s bed.
If Megapenthes lacked a grown man’s full strength, then he compensated for it with his sheer determination; he might be a true son of Ares, the type of warrior who surrendered to the killing lust on the battlefield.
“Ah, there you are!” a familiar voice boomed. Murmurs of acknowledgement, and considerable shuffling as everyone stood to attention for the king, standing spread-eagled on the opposite portico, and flanked by his companions. Menelaus had stripped down to his kilt, and was in a boisterous mood, sauntering toward us with arms outstretched. “No, no, boys, stand at ease!”
One of his companions began rubbing him down with the oil the palaestra attendant had brought out. “Now, we have heard,” he said, flexing his arms, “that our kinsman of Mycenae is a champion wrestler. We have a mind to see whether those tales are true.”
Was he actually challenging me? Menelaus had clearly been an athlete and warrior in his younger days, but encroaching middle age and soft living had taken their toll on his physique; his barrel chest gave way to an abdomen that had become more potbelly than solid muscle. “King Menelaus,” I said cautiously, “we do not wish to hurt you.”
That was precisely the wrong thing to say. Menelaus let out a roar. “Hurt us! Boy, we were hurling men to the sand before you were so much as a sprout in your mother’s womb.” He set his hands on his hips and snorted, “Do we look like such a dotard to you, then?”
“Not at all,” I answered quickly, “but you are our host, our father’s brother, and soon to be our father-in-law, and as such we dare not set a hand against you.”
Menelaus snorted defiance. Megapenthes snickered, and several of the other young men, taking their cue from him, began nodding. Aethiolas remained sober, doubtful. “Father, King Orestes is a guest. Perhaps you should...”
“What, it’s just a bit of sport.” Laughing and gesticulating, Menelaus was somewhat too demonstrative for a man who sought a friendly bout of wrestling. I could not decide whether he was simply drunk or motivated by a need to prove his fitness against a younger man.
I had no choice in the end but to humor his challenge. As we started grappling, I tried to detect a scent of wine on his breath, yet found none; his was a clear-headed belligerence. He had considerable experience, and for his age was still powerful and knew how to maneuver his great bulk. Snorting, stomping like a bull, he shoved me, smacked my face and shoulder, and did everything he could to provoke me. “Come on, boy!”
His sudden aggression both baffled and irritated me. I got behind him, and grasped him around the middle. It was no easy task, for by this time, we were both breathing hard, gritty with the sand that clung to the sweat and oil coating our flesh, and the young men thronging the portico were egging us on. I braced my legs, flexed my knees, and threw him outside the circle.
Menelaus landed heavily on his side, and rolled over onto his back where he lay gasping like a great hirsute fish. A hush fell over the palaestra. I had knocked the wind from him, but gods forbid I had done anything worse.
I crossed over to him, extended my hand. “King Menelaus...”
Groaning, he waved me and his companions aside, then shifted unaided onto his hands and knees, and wobbled to his feet. “Well done, young Orestes,” he muttered. I saw how he limped, and how he reluctantly rotated his shoulder; he could pretend as much as he liked, but the truth was that I had injured him.
Gritting through his discomfort, he slung an arm around my shoulder, and chuckled as though his defeat was nothing. “Well done!”
Together, we retired indoors to a private bathing chamber to be scraped and sponged on stone slabs, and rubbed down with fragrant oil.
“Do you always goad your opponents,” I asked, “or have I offended you in some way?”
“Neither,” Menelaus grunted.
“Then what was that all about?”
“The Spartans keep the old ways, the ways of the year-king.” Menelaus winced as the bath attendant kneaded his shoulder; a bruise had begun to blossom through the skin. “They had to see you defeat me in some physical contest. Ah, gods!” He hissed under his breath. “You throw like a Cretan bull!”
Menelaus had sacrificed his pride and taken a deliberate injury to enhance my prestige, the old year-king yielding to the new, and here I had thought he was drunk! “You should have told me. I would—”
“Nonsense! It’s not supposed to be arranged beforehand. Do you take the Spartans for fools?” Another agonized hiss, and he snapped at the attendant, “Watch what you’re doing, Cleon!” A subservient murmur from the old man. “Now, then, what was I saying? Ah, yes. That was nothing, what we did out there. Tyndareus chose boxing for his contest, and, gods, did he pummel me black and blue! A single jab from his fist swelled my right eye shut, so I spent the wedding feast with a slab of raw sirloin over my face. Castor and Polydeukes took after him, with their feats. I daresay you do, too, if what I hear is true about your boxing skill. Are you going to compete during the games?”
“Boxing and wrestling, yes.” I sighed; the attendant working my shoulders possessed a god-given touch, coaxing a pain from my muscles that became an exquisite pleasure. “I haven’t decided about the rest.”
“Hmm, not the footraces?” Menelaus rumbled with content, now that the harassed Cleon had moved on to his lower extremities. “I had a good look at that scar while we were wrestling. It must give you trouble, especially when it’s cold.” His tone implied that he already knew the answer, and I had a good idea who had told him.
“So what else did King Strophius say about me?”
Menelaus chuckled. “That you’re a second-rate archer, but a good spearman. You handle a chariot well, and don’t lack for courage in battle. As for me, I’ve taken much worse than that scratch on your leg, and am none the worse for wear.” Pushing Cleon aside, he rolled over and indicated a plug in his belly, not two inches above his groin. “That was from a Trojan arrow, shot right after Paris ran from the duel. Hah! It would have punched right through and killed me but for my belt buckle!
“I remember hearing about it.” It came back to me, the messenger who had arrived at Mycenae in the autumn of the war’s penultimate year, having left Anatolia before he knew whether Menelaus had died or survived. “Hermione worried about you all that winter.”
“Well, it takes more than a little pinprick like that to kill a lion of Mycenae.” Menelaus rolled back onto his stomach. “Go on, Cleon, and you, too, Eusebios. Tell Asphalion to bring us some wine.”
Bowing, the attendants retreated, and left us alone together in the bath. I heard the muffled laughter and talk of the other men down the corridor, and the shuffle of Menelaus’s companions and mine standing guard outside the door.
“Now,” Menelaus said. “Hermione will spend her last night as a widow with Mother Dia, and Megapenthes will spend the night carousing with his friends, but in Sparta a king is held to a much higher standard. You must remain sober and chaste, so don’t be surprised when Helen sends an old woman to see to your bath.”
I groaned inwardly, having hoped to sate my appetite with the pretty young bath girl so I would be able to get through tomorrow’s rites without wanting to prematurely hustle my bride to bed. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes, there is.” Menelaus suddenly became serious. “A certain young lady will be attending the wedding. Hermione and Chrysothemis have invited Erigone. Now, they’re both very fond of—”
Just hearing the girl’s name agitated me. Aegisthus’s bastard daughter did not belong at my wedding, or in any decent company. “Why did you not send her to a sanctuary as I asked?”
