The warrior, p.7
The Warrior, page 7
part #3 of Orestes Series
Unless he could swim like Triton, he would be going home empty-handed. “You’re a faithful son,” I assured him. Certainly he was no leader, as he lacked the ruthlessness and cunning needed to rule. “I understand you have grievous troubles at home.”
Peisistratus, meanwhile, had accepted a place on Hermione’s right hand; whichever servant had arranged his chair there would receive a sound thrashing tomorrow morning. I signaled to Thestalos and Iobates to watch him, lest he attempt any familiarities.
Food arrived, with wine from the communal krater. Menelaus had sent roast sirloin, a slab worthy of the hero’s portion, which neither man merited. I served Telemachus, and kept him engaged in conversation. Peisistratus could see to his own supper.
When Telemachus seized the opportunity to catalogue his woes, what he said confirmed the rumors. He had complained to the Ithacan elders, demanding that the suitors leave, yet when no one, not even his own mother, listened to him, he had threatened the two most prominent suitors, who harassed the servant girls, and mocked and bullied him.
Telemachus would not have lasted twelve hours under the same roof with Aegisthus.
“Don’t waste time trying to negotiate with them,” I said. “You must either kill them, or drive them out.” As far as I was concerned, it was as simple as that, and Telemachus ought to know better. “Start with the two ringleaders.”
“I would have killed those louts long ago, believe me.” Telemachus attacked his sirloin with gusto. “Cut their throats and cleansed my father’s house of their lawlessness, but...”
Gods, did he ever know how to dither! For every common sense suggestion, Telemachus had twenty excuses as to why it would not work. No wonder no one took him seriously.
To my right, Peisistratus spoke in low tones with Hermione. Whatever he said, she remained guarded and quiet.
A loud shuffle to the left, then silence claimed the megaron. Menelaus rose to make an announcement. He was florid and coherent, but had clearly imbibed more than he should have, and after urging me to exercise temperance! “The sun has set. It’s time for love play.” At last! “Ladies, attend to the brides. Their young husbands are getting impatient listening to the old men talk.”
Inebriated guests started banging on the tables. Hermione looked startled, as though she had not marked the passing of time, then her mother and maidservants, jostling me and the other men at the high table, surrounded her. Just before she stood to go with them, she dropped a last admonishing word in my ear, “Telemachus will be here in the morning, love.”
Telemachus looked abashed. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your bride.”
Peisistratus took advantage of Hermione’s departure to intrude on our conversation. “You’re a very fortunate man, Orestes.” His suggestive tone rankled. How could Hermione have ever liked him enough to consider marrying him? I struggled to repress a surge of jealousy. She would have had nothing to say about that betrothal, and whatever she might have thought about Nestor’s youngest son a year ago, she obviously did not care for him now.
Answering with a grunt, I glanced aside to contemplate the megaron in its post-feast state. Garlands hung loose, the fire burned low, and debris littered the tables and rush-strewn floor. Without the ladies to add their sparkling laughter and conversation, the place seemed smaller, darker, and burnt-out.
How long would I have to wait before I could retire with my bride? Hermione needed sufficient time to undress and sponge away her cosmetics, and her attendants would gossip and engage in the little rituals they delighted in. Megapenthes did not appear to share my impatience; he drank and laughed with his half-brother and companions as though it were any ordinary night.
Menelaus leaned in to address the newly-arrived guests. “Telemachus, you and Peisistratus must join me afterward. It isn’t so late that we can’t reminisce about your dear father.”
A matron came downstairs to collect Megapenthes. What was taking Hermione so long, that Menelaus’s bastard should go ahead of me? Did I not have the right of precedence over that puffed-up boy? Nikostratos and the young men of the court gathered up lamps and their cups for the groom’s procession, and, singing a raucous ballad, hustled Megapenthes away.
Aethiolas and his companions remained behind with the older gentlemen. Menelaus chuckled knowingly, thumping my shoulder.
At last, the queen sent a matron to fetch me. High time, too. Aethiolas took charge, marshaling the men, and instructing them to leave their cups; there would be no drunkenness in his sister’s bridal chamber. Neither Peisistratus nor Telemachus made any attempt to join the procession. Telemachus stammered that he had arrived too late, and brought no wedding gift. Peisistratus gave no excuse. I did not care whether he retired or stayed and drank himself into oblivion, as long as he kept his distance from Hermione.
It was a dignified procession, as befit a king. Aethiolas led the way into Hermione’s apartment. Female silhouettes moved through the linen curtain separating the room from the bedchamber. Grasping my arm, my brother-in-law signaled for me to wait. “We have to be invited.”
Gods! Hermione was my lawful bride, and this was our wedding night. What additional invitation did the occasion require?
At length, Helen herself fetched me into the bedchamber, where the dozen or more women attending the bride divested me of my clothes. Apparently, the queen of Sparta had to have her fingers in everything. Did she mean to spend the night in the bridal chamber, too? It certainly seemed that way, to judge from the nagging admonishments of the matrons.
“Don’t be a brute.”
“Take your time and be considerate.”
What nonsense had Helen stuffed these women’s heads with? I could just imagine her describing to them what brutes Mycenaean men were. It took all my self-control not to push away their hands and order them out.
Hermione sat upright in the bed, a sheet drawn up to her chin; her arms and shoulders were bare, glowing in the lamplight, and her face had been scrubbed clean. She appeared more anxious than a woman in love ought to be. Was she afraid that I would harm her?
With a final, cautionary glare, Helen ushered the women out. I heard her in the next room, shooing her son, his companions and mine toward the door as though they were mice to be swept aside with a broom. So much for the good wishes of my friends and kinsmen. Shrugging, I waited for the door to close, then removed my loincloth, which was the one garment the women had left me.
“You were having a marvelous time with Telemachus.” Hermione’s attempt at levity could not disguise the tremor in her voice. “I wasn’t sure you would ever come to bed.”
“Your mother wouldn’t let me forget.” I slid into bed beside her, so our thighs touched, turned to caress her cheek, and thumbed the soft contours of her lower lip. Hermione closed her eyes to accept my kiss, even reciprocated my embrace. I felt her relaxing, and my desire rising. She was so soft, so yielding. She had no need to be anxious.
Then, to my surprise, she broke the kiss. Her eyes were large, and her body trembled, not from desire but fear. “Orestes...”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Am I hurting you?”
“It’s not your fault.” Moisture gleamed in her eyes. Surely she was not going to cry on our wedding night. Women wept for the most ridiculous reasons, at the most inopportune times! “I’m ashamed.”
Shame over what? Hermione was as glorious as a goddess, and she wanted this marriage. I wanted to shake the nonsense from her. “There’s nothing to forgive.” I ran my fingers against her lips to silence any further protests.
“I’m sorry.” And then, she turned her head away from me—me, her wedded husband! “A man wouldn’t understand.”
“Are you afraid you won’t be able to please me?” Gods, all she had to do was lie there, and I would see to the rest. Hermione shook her head. I gritted my teeth, struggling to maintain my patience. “Then what is it?” What, what, and what? Why could she just not come out and tell me?
But she seemed stuck for words, and shrank in my embrace as though... Did she think I would hit her? Then I realized that the problem might not be me at all, but the men who had had her before. Menelaus had warned me she was not a virgin, that... I sighed. “Is this about your first husband? Did he mistreat you?”
After hearing how Neoptolemus had abducted her, I fully expected her to say yes, but to my utter surprise, she demurred. “This is not about him, but something that happened before, after your father’s death.” Hermione swallowed hard. “I did not want it, it was forced on me, but—”
She halted when I slid my hand under her chin. “Hermione, look at me.” I understood her fear at last, and cursed those who should have told her that it was no secret. “I told you there was nothing to forgive,” I said gently. “I’ve known about Aegisthus for years.”
A light of comprehension shone in her damp eyes, then came the release; she flung herself sobbing into my arms. “I never meant to spoil the occasion like this.” Her tears and saliva dampened my skin. “But when the moment came...”
Poor Hermione. I had not realized it haunted her so. Yet there was no reason why it should continue to do so. Aegisthus was dead, the outrage avenged. “Let’s not talk about it again.” I kissed the top of her head, tightened my arms around her. “I’m your husband now, and I say there’ll be no more tears on our wedding night.”
How easy it was for the king of Mycenae to command, and how futile! I would have had a smoother time killing Aegisthus all over again. Yet at last, I was able to soothe my bride’s nerves enough to kiss her again, then to run my hands over her body, and finally, to get her to accept me inside her. I felt her wetness, but was not deceived; she held me, stroking my back, and kissing my temple to encourage me, but she uttered no gasps or groans of passion, nor did she tighten her body to signal her climax. My bride had resorted to a woman’s trick, rubbing oil into her female parts to ease the way.
I was too far gone to stop, no matter how the knowledge stung. Our cleaving together should have been mutual. Was I not passionate and considerate enough to arouse her desire?
Then I collapsed upon her, spent, and it was done. We were man and wife. I rested a space, then withdrew, and left the bed to find a towel. Hermione studied my movements. “Do you want some wine?” she asked.
Her expression was blank. “Will you share it with me?” I asked. There was a towel on the bedside table, near the wine jug and two cups. I blotted the sweat from the back of my neck, then my face.
“Yes,” she answered.
I mixed the wine and water the women had left, and returned to the bed with a single cup to share with her, along with an apology that I would not be able to manage a second round that night. That was not necessarily true, as sometimes I could perform thrice in a night, but I wanted to see what my wife’s response would be, whether she would be disappointed, or relieved.
Hermione thoughtfully sipped at the wine after I took a draught. “It’s all right. All this—” She gestured to the bed, to us drinking wine together and resting. “This is new to me.”
“Did your first husband not enjoy your company afterward?” I did not utter his name, and was not even certain I wanted to broach the subject of that marriage; it would be too easy to obsess over small details, comparisons, preferences. Did it matter what sort of lover the son of Achilles had been, as long as Hermione had not conceived by him? Yes, it did. Perhaps she had secretly liked something he had done, some touch of his hand or mouth that—
No. A man could go insane, brooding on such a thing. Neoptolemus was dead. Hermione was mine now, and in my bed she would learn to forget him.
Hermione kept her expression closed, but her eyes betrayed her dismay. “He liked to sleep.”
“Ah!” I sighed, then lay back and tucked my arms behind my head. “He was a typical man, then.” I chuckled, and in the sudden, mischievous twinkle of her eyes I grasped that she could see the humor in the situation. Excellent. I liked a woman who could laugh in bed. “Well, I have to warn you that I sometimes do the same.”
“I don’t mind.” A ceramic clink as she set the cup down on the bedside table. “As long as it’s with you, and no one else.” A rustle of sheets, then I felt the warm, suppleness of her body nestling against mine, and her fragrant hair spilling across my chest.
We fell asleep.
Chapter Six
Peisistratus stayed on at the Spartan court with Telemachus after the wedding, and worse, he competed in the wedding games. He was a skilled horseman, the captain of a chariot corps, and showed his prowess by entering the chariot race. Menelaus awarded him the winner’s crown and prize for that event, but he excelled nowhere else, and for that I thanked the gods.
I made certain he never had another opportunity to speak with Hermione. I hovered protectively beside her whenever he appeared, set my hand on my dagger hilt, which was technically bad manners, and with a threatening look warned him not to attempt any contact other than the customary courtesies due a lady of the royal house. Hermione found my measures overbearing, pointing out that Peisistratus was in no position to challenge me, even had he wanted to do so.
“And he is a guest,” she said. “What are you going to do, run him through if he nods at me a second too long?”
I did not answer.
Hermione heaved an exasperated sigh. “Orestes, he’s betrothed to a lady of Kyparissos.”
“That is, unless some other man abducts her before the wedding.”
She ignored my grumbling. “He’s only here as Telemachus’s escort. Had he known he was about to barge into our wedding feast, he would have asked his father to send one of his brothers in his place.”
Hermione was too gracious, too ready to make excuses for him; the fact that curbed my jealousy was her obvious distaste at having to welcome him during the feast. “Well,” I said, “he will not trouble you at Mycenae.” The sooner that Telemachus concluded his business with Menelaus, the sooner he and the Pylian interloper would leave.
Telemachus was an excellent runner and boxer, although he took no prizes for either event. I found him pleasant company when he was not grousing about his misfortunes at home, which, sadly, happened to be most of the time. Finally, I had to take him aside and deliver some stern words.
“You are not a child anymore.” Telemachus started, and blinked as though no one had ever before reprimanded him thus. “Either find your courage and behave like a man, or tuck your tail between your legs and run away, but make up your mind.”
A furious blush reddened Telemachus’s face. He clenched his trembling jaw, obviously holding back embarrassed tears. “I know,” he croaked. “I gripe too much, but—”
I grabbed his shoulder, gave him a hard shake. “So you don’t have two hundred warriors to help you kill the suitors. What does that matter? I took Mycenae with less than thirty men.”
Telemachus sighed, and turned his head aside—the very image of defeat. “You make it sound so easy. I could get half a dozen swineherds and fishermen inside the palace to cut the suitors’ throats while they slept, of course—” I highly doubted he had the nerve or wit to manage a conspiracy. “But they’re guests, and the moment I kill them, their outraged kinsmen will drive me out.”
Personally, I felt no compunction about killing those who violated their guest-right to such extremes. “Then,” I concluded, “you had better be prepared to welcome your new stepfather.”
*~*~*~*
Telemachus departed the next morning, oddly eager in his determination to be gone. Menelaus had to insist that he remain long enough to take breakfast and receive the gifts due a royal guest. “It’s a shame you won’t stay. Orestes and I will tour the towns of Sparta after the wedding celebrations. It would have done you good to accompany us and see where your ancestors dwelt.”
Telemachus demurred, then described the dream which had visited him while he and Peisistratus had slept last night upon the wide aithousa. “Lady Athena hovered above me. She admonished me to return home to deal with the suitors, and guard against my weak mother, who might choose a husband and take livestock and goods which are rightfully mine to his house.”
I observed, “You never told us that the goddess spoke to you.”
“Of course!” Menelaus exclaimed. “She watches over the son as she did the father.” He acknowledged this truth with a respectful nod toward Telemachus. “In his time, Athena spoke often to Odysseus.”
Telemachus thoughtfully chewed his bread. “Athena also warned me that the suitors intend to ambush me in the straits near Ithaca.”
This sudden, specific detail took me aback, forcing me to reconsider my impious thoughts concerning impressionable young men pretending to hear voices. Had a messenger arrived in the night bearing the information, or had the goddess truly spoken to the youth? I had felt the presence of powerful gods both watching over and hounding me, so why not the son of Odysseus? “What will you do?” I asked.
“Give the islands a wide berth, I should think!”
Menelaus tried again to persuade him to linger, but when Telemachus would not, he attempted to lavish the young man with gifts, foremost among them a chariot and matched team. Telemachus refused that last, most splendid gift, insisting that rocky Ithaca was pasture for goats, and not an ideal country for racing. More likely, he did not know how to drive.
So Telemachus and Peisistratus left after breakfast, with their two-handled drinking cups and silver bowls rimmed with gold, while Menelaus stood on the walls to watch them depart. I followed him, inquiring, “What is it about their departure that troubles you so?”
A breeze from the south stirred his shaggy mane. Daylight was not kind to his weather-beaten features. “I knew their fathers,” he answered quietly. “Nestor, Odysseus, and I fought and feasted together. Now their sons have no use for us old men.” A great sigh heaved through his barrel chest, and he glanced sidelong at me. “Never fear. I will brood all the same when it’s your turn to leave with Hermione.”
