Electra (16 page)

Then they came, the recent dead: Agamemnon slaughtered by his wife; Argive and Trojan from the siege and the fall, clustering, gathering, mournful and lost.

'Achilles!' I cried, sighting a shade clad in shadowy armour. I had his original golden war gear. I hoped he did not know that I had stolen it. 'It must be wonderful to be Lord of the Dead amongst all these heroes!'

'I would trade it all,' said the ghost, 'to be the meanest slave, yet smell turned earth again, taste wine and bread, look at the ever-changing sky, feel loving fingers or cold water on my skin.'

We steered for Thrinacie, hoping not to join the illustrious dead.

We landed in the little port and tumbled ashore with relief. I did not go so far as to kiss the landing stage, as Diomenes did, but I was shaken and glad of land that stayed where it belonged and did not shift underfoot. We hauled the bundles of Eumides' bargain ashore and made Electra sit on them while we managed the other things which needed to be done. After an hour's frantic activity, most of which was occupied with convincing reluctant horses to put hoof to land, and arguing with tavern keepers who saw in us a great opportunity to make an indecent profit, we found ourselves in a small, smoky inn, supplied with good wine.

Arion Dolphin-Rider was old. His beautiful voice was that of a man in his prime, but he moved as though his back hurt; and his hair was almost white. His nose was as beaked as a hawk's bill, his bones were strong and rugged and the hands that lay on his knees were brown and weathered and knob-knuckled. He looked more like a soldier than a poet. His apprentice, a silent boy called Menon, cared for him jealously, finding him the warmest place to sit and hanging a blanket over the door to exclude drafts.

Electra and her brother had vanished into the women's quarters. Eumides came in after a refreshing argument with his old friend Laodamos about the division of the pirate's cargo, and put a golden wreath on my head.

'What's this?' I asked, lifting it down. It was fine Mycenean work, oak leaves and acorns in gold as thin as gauze, lighter than real leaves.

'Your share,' he said. 'You shot him, Amazon. A perfect shot.'

'The Gods did it,' I objected. 'Didn't you see the triton's tail, halting my target in reach of the arrow?'

'That was a whale,' he said. 'But the timing might easily have been divine. And here is your share, brother.' He gave Diomenes a wreath of silver-gilt myrtle flowers. He placed another on his own head, a confection of bay leaves through which his live hair curled. He was beautiful. He sat down between us and we kissed him. 'Your share, Master Arion, is all bundled up in your ship. They seem to have robbed a cargo vessel trading from Thrace with pretty things for Argos. I have not made any bargains with your share.'

'It is never wise to cheat a bard,' agreed Chryse, beaming his rare smile. 'Arion, Master-Singer, what brings you here? I left you in Troy.'

'That's where I thought I left you, and this Trojan scoundrel. And you, Lady Cassandra,' he took my hand and kissed it. 'I saw you over the walls, talking to this asclepid, then later I saw your brother Eleni. I knew you at once - especially by your archery. How come you here? I thought you were Agamemnon's concubine. I expected you to be in Mycenae. I wrote a touching threnody for your untimely death.'

I winced.

'Agamemnon is dead,' said Chryse hurriedly.

'Dead indeed. And if I asked who your other companions were, Chryse Diomenes, the small veiled woman and the boy, would you tell me?'

'No,' said Chryse affectionately.

'I have kept worse secrets than the location of a runaway prince and princess.' The bright black eyes sparkled, and Chryse, unexpectedly, blushed. 'But I know that the Great King has been murdered by his wife. In fact, she is boasting of it.'

'We were told that she would proclaim it,' I said.

'Proclaimed and asserted, proved and done, and the badly hacked and undeniably deceased Agamemnon exhibited before the citizens. And not one voice raised in Mycenae of the Golden Walls in mourning for its king. I have a song - would you like to hear it? Menon, my lyre.'

'Of course we will be honoured to hear the song, but first you must have some food and some rest, old friend,' said Chryse.

Menon placed a platter of grilled fish in front of the old man and broke his bread into four pieces. Then he stood next to him, exuding determination. Clearly Arion was not going to get his lyre until all that fish was consumed. We were hungry, too, and ate in silence for a while.

The port was resounding with the news that the pirate was dead. I heard someone with a very loud voice declaring the news, and the hurrying of many feet. This was going to attract attention. I did not want any fame. I was supposed to be dead.

I sidled over to the shipmaster Laodamos and said quietly, 'That was a great shot of yours, Laodamos.'

'But Lady, it was you-'

'No, on the contrary, it was you.'

He summed me up in a quick glance. Eumides' friends were usually intelligent. He cast a look around the room, where his crew were attempting to become absolutely sodden in the shortest possible time.

'It will have to be young Agenor,' he said. 'He has some skill with the bow. Very well, Lady, Agenor killed Metrodorus. With some careful publicity, Corinth might even give us a reward.'

'Will you be able to convince Agenor of his valiant deed?'

'He isn't very bright,' said Laodamos confidently. 'A few more jugs of wine and he'll believe that Thetis is his mother. The rest of the crew will believe what I want them to believe, especially with a half-share of the loot as a persuader.'

I gave him a silver coin of Corinth to assist in the process and went back to the fire, where Arion had prevailed on his apprentice to give him his lyre and was tuning it. The inn grew quiet, even as Agenor began to boast of his archery. The strings thrummed, a gentle, insistent note, then the voice began, quietly, but heard through all the room.

'I can smell blood, said the Princess,

Disgraced Cassandra, captive of the Argives.

'Blood, a shambles, a slaughterhouse,

The red tide laps at the bath's rim.

Apollo. I go to the death prepared for me,

Cruel Apollo, my death-cry your reproach.'

Tears came to my eyes. My lovers pressed close, holding my hands. It could have been like that. I had prophesied my own murder, heard my own scream. It would have been my death, if they had not come for me. Now prophecy was gone and I was alive, breathing, flanked by my rescuers.

Myrrh, they said, splendour and wealth,

A feast prepared for the great king.

Then a cry, a sacrifice, a great cry,

Then silence.

 

The queen speaks, 'I cast the net and wound him close,

My husband, murderer, monster!

I struck once.

Fountaining, his blood soaked my garment;

again, and it spilled into my mouth.

 

I drank it in, as a fertile field

Rejoices in the fall of spring rain.

I flourish, I burgeon, I am filled,

I glory in his wounds, the black blood drying,

The water dyed red.

Mine was the deed,

Mine, mine.

His concubine too, Dead.

 

My heart is bronze. Judge me like no weak woman.

Praise or blame,

I care not. The King is slaughtered.

I killed him.

By Ruin, by Fury, the Gods he mocked

When he sent my child to death on the mountain,

I have justice.'

The hardened hands dragged a chord from the strings, desolate and plangent, and there was complete silence in the tavern.

I heard a shriek upstairs, and sent two house-slaves to attend to the Princess Electra, who had evidently been listening.

One reaches the sanctuary of Apollo by following the sacred way. To prepare, Orestes and I had gone to bed early in the port of Delphi, leaving the others to exclaim over their survival.

Apparently the travellers and the bard were old friends. I was sure that he had recognised me, and my brother too, though he had not seen me since I was a child and I had clung to my veil.

The talking and singing had gone on until late. I was annoyed that they would not be quiet when I asked them to and found myself in tears at some song the bard had sung. However, tomorrow I would lose the company of the Trojan woman, the sailor, and Diomenes, Asclepius-Priest. I would be glad to be rid of the first two, though I almost liked the third.

'Zeus the Father sent an eagle from each end of the earth,' said the rich voice of the bard behind us. 'They met here in a wild flurry of feathers. Here is the centre of the world, children. Here is
omphalos
, the navel of the universe.'

It was as though an earthquake had cloven the mountains in two. The plain of Chrysson was ordinary and flat, green with spring growth. We had skirted an equally ordinary mountain called Cirphis. On the opposite side, where the river Pleistos flows to Ocean, were two cliffs, very tall, silver and shimmering with old olive trees.

'
Phaedriades
,' said the bard. 'The Shining Ones. We stop here.'

He dismounted and the others got down. A stream of bright water leapt down the face of the cliff, splashing into a low basin. The horses dipped their heads and drank.

'This is the spring of Castalia,' said Arion. 'Here we wash our hands and feet, to prepare for the ceremony.'

We did as we were told, awed by the mountains and the silence. Eumides lifted Orestes down and dipped him, clothes and all, in the spring. Orestes gasped but did not object.

There was only one gate in the temple wall. It was made of stone, placed carefully and with skill. The gap in it was broad. Over the lintel, as we passed in, I saw letters.

'What do they say?' I asked.

Diomenes read aloud, '
Know Thyself. Nothing in excess
. And there is the letter E.'

'What do they mean?' I asked, and he answered, 'The seven sages alone know what they mean, Lady.'

It was very quiet as we walked along the Sacred Way. Delphi had this quality, that it could hold as many people as a small city and yet no noise disturbs the quiet of the God. The stones are well-cut, polished, and unfigured. The air is cool and clean, as though no creature ever breathed it before.

'It feels like a beginning, said Cassandra, and both Eumides and Diomenes reached out a hand to her.

'It is an ending,' said Arion happily, leaning on Menon's shoulder as he stumped up the path.

It did not feel like anything to me.

There were three temples to pass though before we came to the shrine where Pythia gave her prophecies. The first was made of laurel branches, freshly built every year when Apollo left in autumn for Hyperboreas; and Dionysos the Dancer ruled. It smelt dry, although it was early spring.

We left our outer robes there, and all weapons had to be laid aside. All marks of distinction also had to be abandoned. No soldier comes to the God in armour, bearing a sword. No king can climb the rose-red hill with staff of rank or crown. Cassandra left her cloak, Eumides his knife, Diomenes his healer's bundle of herbs. I put down my veil and walked bare-headed, as the God requires, and Orestes abandoned his dagger.

The next temple was almost circular, made of beeswax plastered over wood and stuck with feathers, long white swan's feathers in patterns around the walls, which smelt of honey and were warm like flesh to the touch. Here we took off our sandals. I walked barefoot for the first time in my life, savouring the pink dust with my soles.

There were people on the holy mountain. The priests of Apollo wear white tunics with no decoration, not even in the weave. They alone veil their faces, they who have looked into the face of the God.

Orestes was interested, walking steadily, though I was tiring.

We came to the sanctum, a stone building with a hearth, sacred to the Goddess Hestia. Here we sprinkled incense into the flame, and it flared, burning blue.

The attendant priest turned and surveyed us with interest. He beckoned, and we followed him to the oikos, the outer chamber. Through the doorway we could see a little way into the adyton, the inner sanctum, where only the priestess could go. There was a gold statue of Bright Apollo. We heard water running, and strange exhalings from the earth. The air smelt of sulphur. Inside, I knew, was the navel-stone laid there by Zeus himself and the fissure from which the vapour came which Pythia would breathe, and be possessed of the spirit.

We sat down on stone benches. We had questions, and we needed to be careful what we asked. They brought us a young goat. Eumides held it by the neck and it trembled. The priest sprinkled the beast with water, nodded and the sailor cut its throat with one skilled stroke. The blood flowed into a stone dish set in the floor, and drained into the adyton.

'
Theopropoi,
' came a man's voice. 'Oracle-seekers, ask.'

'Sibyl, speak - has Apollo forgiven me?' asked Cassandra evenly.

'Sibyl, speak - forgive an old man, and let me rest,' said the bard.

'Sibyl, speak - will I find a home?' asked Eumides, unexpectedly.

'Sibyl, speak - will I find revenge?' asked Orestes.

'Sibyl, speak - will blood wipe out my pain?' I asked, choking on the stench of the sacrifice.

There was a cry from the inner chamber, and a voice began to intone a verse.

'Dear to Asclepius, Diomenes is cleansed and blessed.'

Diomenes sighed and smiled.

'Apollo has released his faithless priestess, loved by Gaia.'

Cassandra gave a sob, then fell into Diomenes' embrace, weeping as though her heart was broken.

'Aphrodite's darling, return to Epidavros, bard grown old in her service. Arion will find peace, and after death an immortal home, singer to the Gods.'

Arion drew a deep breath. Tears trickled down his face, and he hugged Menon to his chest. The boy looked stricken.