Electra (9 page)

'Artemision will never forget this,' I said, when she returned. Orestes was eager to watch his friend eat his first full meal and hall followed the women back to their houses.

'True. They will feel strengthened in future misfortune by my fraudulent presence. They will treat all strangers well, in case I sent them. Their barley will surely grow and they will boast of this visitation for generations,' she said.

'Also, their women are saved and they will recover faster because they believe,' she said to Diomenes. 'Or does that not accord with your philosophy, my Lord?

I could not get used to the way she spoke to men - mockingly, like another man.

'They will certainly heal faster because they believe,' said Diomenes. 'Every Asclepid knows that. Will you come with me, Lady? I want to search for plants. They'll need some tonics and some purifying herbs. I've already told them that they can only eat gruel today, and a little bread and oil tonight. Luckily some of the goats are still in milk.'

She laughed. 'Yes, I shall spread some divine radiance on the hillsides, and Eumides shall have a lesson in herbalism. Will you come, Maiden?' she asked me.

No one had ever asked me before to make a choice if I came or stayed. I had been doing exactly as I was told for my whole life, and I did not know what to say. I was comfortable in the square and I liked watching the people, so I ventured, 'I think that I would like to stay here.' It was easy. And Cassandra simply smiled.

Tearing off his dirty tunic, Eumides flung himself down into the rich spring green and complained, 'I tire of land.'

'How can you tire of it when it's so beautiful?' asked Chryse, doing the same and lying down beside him. 'Sniff, Trojan! That's a mountain bouquet out of Achaea that a Princess might gather.'

'A Princess has gathered it,' he grinned as I dropped flowers onto his naked chest.

'Orchis for male potency, primroses for sweetness, daisies for the sun, fieldfares for wealth, cyclamen for hidden loves,' I chanted, scattering them. Eumides took a deep breath. The rings in his ears glinted, and the purple Orchis was netted in his hair.

'It's beautiful,' he conceded. 'But I belong to Ocean, the salt river that encircles the world.'

'We shall have sea enough soon,' said Chryse. 'We must reach the Isthmus of Corinth and then take a boat for Khirra, thence inland to Delphi. The Gods only know what the roads are like.'

'And the Corinthian Gulf will be swarming with pirates,' commented Eumides. He did not seem unduly disturbed by this prospect.

'Do you think it was improper of me to impersonate a Goddess, Chryse?' I asked. Eumides pulled me down to lie between them and I smelt mint and flowers, crushed by our weight. 'You are the Goddess,' he said, kissing me. He exuded a sleepy heat. Eumides would never engage in deep philosophical debates, he would never worry about an ethical problem, and questions of honesty would never keep him awake at night. It was part of his disreputable charm.

'The women of Artemision would have died tonight,' said Chryse judiciously, his tone oddly unsuited to someone lying half-naked in spring pasture. 'And you didn't present yourselves to them as a Goddess; they made that assumption themselves. So I believe that you did right.

'Their women live, the village will survive, and they will consider themselves blessed. Unless they are so boastful about their divine visitors that their neighbours rise up and massacre them out of sheer envy, they will be fat and insufferable in a year's time. I think you did well.'

His opinion mattered to me. 'Lord, I thank you. Now, if my status as a Divine Virgin is not to be blasphemously imperilled, we must get up and pick herbs. What are you looking for, Chryse?'

Their arms released me reluctantly. I was equally reluctant, but I did not want to risk the wrath of vengeful Artemis if she noticed that her avatar was playing spring games on a flowery hillside.

'Aha, borage,' he pounced on a plant with small dark-blue flowers and greying furry leaves. 'What do you call this, Lady?'

'Rabbit's ears, blood purifier. Now if we can find some all-heal-'

'Valerian?' he hazarded. We strayed down the mountain and I found a large stand of it. I dug carefully with my knife and broke off a piece of root no longer than my hand.

'That will be enough for the whole village. You want to calm them, don't you? Perhaps we should give some to our friend?'

Eumides, perhaps a little elevated by the scented meadows, was dancing along the goat path, singing a very rude Thracian song.

'I'd make a decoction and add this to their barley gruel,' I said.

Chryse beamed. His rare smile was to be treasured. He seemed to radiate joy.

'Healer, I thought that was my own discovery. Though I would add basil for healing and moisture - their stomachs must be shrunken and dry - and, let's see, it's too early for birch sap, we'll have to use young nettles for strength.'

'Basil is an excellent idea, but I haven't seen any nettles.'

From the goat path we heard a thud and a torrent of exceptionally complicated oaths in a variety of languages.

'I think Eumides has found some,' said Chryse calmly.

The avatar of the Goddess Artemis laughed so much that she had to sit down.

Sunlight poured like honey down on Olympus, home of the Gods, but a dark cloud threatened from the east. Zeus, Father of Laws, was concerned.

'The House of Atreus is cursed,' he rumbled.

'Then cleanse the earth of them,' urged Apollo. 'Strike with your lightnings, remove the dreadful Queen and her lover, demonstrate the justice of the Gods.'

'And what is to become of this poor Princess Electra and her brother?' asked Aphrodite, rolling the golden apple along the floor.

'This matter has lasted through many generations,' commented Athena. 'Tantalus, intending to offend the Gods, offered baked child to them and now spends eternity in Hades' kingdom, thirsting, hungering. Then Pelops, his son, restored by your direct orders, Father, killed his father-in-law and married Hippodameia. His sons were Atreus and Thyestes of bitter memory. We helped Atreus' children to reach Troy and the city is obliterated, and many of my heroes are dead. The army that went with him is decimated. Because of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and her own wickedness, Clytemnestra the Queen has murdered her husband. Now a new revenge-child, strangely conceived, is journeying to another death. Finish the House of Atreus, Zeus Father. I weary of their crime.'

'They are my children,' said a scornful voice. They turned and recoiled.

Hecate, Drinker of Dog's Blood, stroked a hissing snake, pushing it back behind her head-dress. 'The House of Atreus is mine. I have helped your Cassandra escape, Aphrodite, because it pleased me and she called on me. She belongs to me, as the sailor is Poseidon's, and the Asclepid is Apollo's. She is a priestess of the Mother, and I am the Dark Mother aspect of Gaia. I will protect her. The House of Atreus must fall, finally and forever. Mycenae shall lie empty to the crows and the snakes. My Erinyes will punish crimes of blood. To a dark ending, to irreparable guilt and grief, are these pitiful Atreidae travelling.'

She bared pointed teeth, flicking her serpent's tongue. 'Oppose me if you dare.'

The next Artemision was a whole day's journey away, the goat-path endlessly winding along the slopes of a mountain and then wearily down to a little stone village in the valley. We were all tired as we rode into the main square and dismounted stiffly.

The elders of the demos met us, old men, prosperous and fat, their skins shining with oil. The village, they said, had been blessed with a bumper olive harvest and was thriving. So much so that they had bought five new slave women, and proposed to house us with them.

I was eager to get inside, away from the gaze of all those eyes. The villagers brought water and ceremonially washed our hands and offered us bread and salt, making us xenoi, guests, under sacred law and not to be molested. The air was full of the comfortable smell of everyone's food cooking.

Children played with a dog in the dust outside our door and I sat down to watch them, after I had groomed my faithful Banthos. It appeared that they were playing Heracles, with the dog cast as the Nemean Lion. It kept forgetting to be fierce and licked them. They were charming. Their laughter, high and innocent, followed me inside as it began to get dark.

I rolled myself in my cloak and lay down on the Artemision's sheepskins, favouring my bruises. I noticed that after only a few days I was becoming stronger, more able to ride for a long time, less sensitive to the strong light and the wind and the rigours of travel. It was a really interesting world. I had never watched it from the outside before.

I woke in the dead of night because someone was crying softly; crying like a child or a slave cried, muffled for shame, trying not to attract attention. I touched Orestes but he was asleep beside me.

I had to do something. Tears started in my own eyes in response. I had cried many nights like that, my face buried in my pillow or my doll, hoping that no one would hear and ask me why. I had to help her.

I crawled to the brazier, which had a glow right at the centre, obtained a coal and lit the oil lamp. A tiny bead of flame illuminated the white-washed walls. Cassandra, Chryse Diomenes and Eumides clasped together under their cloak. Four slave women were asleep in a row, snoring.

One maiden curled up in a ball, weeping as though her heart would break.

I knelt beside her and whispered, 'What is wrong?'

She opened her wet eyes and said miserably, 'It is nothing, Lady.'

'No, it is something,' I said as gently as I could. I noticed that she was hiding her right hand, and touched it. 'Are you hurt?'

'My mistress ordered me to weave an ell of cloth today,' she muttered, allowing me to unfold the injured hand and look at the red mark across the knuckles. She was badly bruised and must have been in considerable pain.

'And you could not do it, and she struck you?' I asked.

'She struck me so that I could not do it. Tomorrow she will flog me for not completing my task. She is an old wife and there is an old master and he favours me,' she said very quietly.

'She will maim me if this goes on, and then the old man will sell me, and what use shall I be to anyone? I might as well be dead. I can't please the mistress by refusing the master or he will beat me.'

'We can at least prevent tomorrow's beating,' I said. Poor maiden, she scraped back her dark hair and stared. How?'

'Where is your loom?'

'There against the wall, Lady, but you can't-'

'Can't I? And we will wake a healer to look at your hand. In the morning I will speak to your mistress. What's your name?'

'Clea, Lady.'

As I stood up, she embraced my knees in gratitude, though it was a small enough favour.

I woke Cassandra from between her lovers and she sat down to compound an ointment for the injury, while I stood to the loom. I examined the rows which had already been woven. It was a simple pattern, a herring-bone weave very common amongst the poorer families in Mycenae. It is very satisfying to weave and I could manage it half-asleep in the dark.

I unpicked a couple of miswoven rows, wound the shuttle to the correct tension, and began to weave. I found myself singing Neptha's work song as the heddle lifted and fell with the correct flat clack against the wall, indicating that the line of wool was absolutely straight.

Until the light fails,

Pallas is weaving.

While the sun lasts,

Pallas is working,

Weaving a fine cloth

For her brother,

A fine red cloth

For a healer's gown.

 

While the light lasts,

Pallas is weaving.

While the rain falls,

Pallas is working,

Weaving a fine cloth

For her little sister,

A thick warm cloth

For a baby's gown.

While the sun shines,

Pallas is weaving.

While the wind blows,

Pallas is working.

Weaving a fine cloth

For her grandfather,

A double woven cloak

To warm his bones.

 

While the sun shines,

Pallas is weaving.

Until the dark comes,

Pallas is working,

Weaving a fine cloth

For her lady mother,

A purple brocade

For mistress's gown.

I heard Cassandra's quiet voice cease. She was listening, although it was just a work song, such as women and slaves sing to while away the weary days and regulate the work of their hands. It is the work of women's hands which clothes and feeds the world. Clea's injury, if it proved permanent, would lower her value to that of a water-carrier, indifferently fed, unsaleable, despised.

The cloth grew under my hands. I stopped to rewind my shuttle - if the wool was of Clea's spinning then she was an excellent spinner - and resumed my song.

Until the light fails,

Pallas is weaving.

When the snow comes,

Pallas is working,

Weaving a fine cloth

For her bridal,

A red gauze veil

For Pallas the bride.

I wove and sang my way through all of Pallas's relatives, refilling the shuttle as the cloth grew. I sang of her brother, the soldier, and her uncle, the potter, and her friend, the maiden; and then the verse describing the making of the ceremonial cloth which we weave every spring for Persephone, Kore, the Maiden, for the festival which celebrates her return from the underworld.

Until the light fails,

Pallas is weaving.

While the wind howls,

Pallas is working.

Weaving a spring cloth,

A cobweb tracery,

A sacred offering