The Last Night of Clytemnestra
I woke with a scream.
Cold sweat drenched every single part of my body; the cold seeped back under the skin, into the very marrow of my bones.
Aegisthus stirred beside me.
“What is the matter? Have you suffered from another bad dream again?”
“Yes, a horrible one.” I replied, my eyes still staring at the empty space beyond the end of our gigantic bed: a bed we had shared for the last seventeen years.
And before that… I shuddered.
“What did you dream, my Queen?” Aegisthus had sat up in bed now and put an arm around my bared shoulder, for my chiton had slipped from it during my fright, exposing one of my breasts. His hands were gentle, unlike the one before him, much too gentle. They were hands of a lover, not a warrior, or murderer.
“I saw him, in blood.”
I heard my lover made a hard swallow.
“But he is dead. He has been dead for seven years, my love. If he is to return and avenge as a ghost, he would have done that long time ago. Ease your mind and sleep.”
I let him pulled me back upon the pillow which nested my head. To soothe me of my terror, he began to caress me over the breasts which had milked for so many suckling mouths. In a way, I was blessed, that despite my age and frequent motherhood, I was able to retain a body form many years my junior. Aegisthus circled his fingers around the aurora and on other nights, he would carry on his love making till I begged for mercy. But he was spent tonight and before long, I could hear his gentle snoring, his palms still cupping one of my breasts.
I lifted his arm and returned it to his side, freeing its weight from my still trembling heart.
I rose, pulled my chiton back in place and threw a flowing robe over my shoulders before I tiptoed out of the room. The two guards outside the huge bronze door stood at attention, separating their long spears for their queen to pass. I stole a glance at them: strong young men at the prime of their lives, arms that could fight lions bare-handed. It should be reassuring to have such sentinel for protection. I did not feel safe, however. May be it was that strange look in their eyes. I did not know if it was just my imagination. I smelled treason in the air and coldness down my spine. I tried my best to maintain my royal composure, holding my chin high and glided across the marble tiles as I made for a colonnade to the right. I stopped once I turned the corner, bracing myself against a wall to catch back my breadth.
What am I? Their Queen? Or an adulteress, usurper, murderer of the late King in his very house, a woman wielding power as if a man? I knew the price to be paid for any of these roles. Death! Merciless brutal death! They knew. They did not do it because regicide, even against a usurper queen, would bring wrath from the gods.
They were waiting, for one who had the right to do this, to avenge spilled blood…
Orestes!
“You should have let me kill him. “ Aegisthus had told me repeatedly.
:No.”
“You will regret for this one day.” He said.
“May be. But I will not have the blood of my own son on my hands. Even beasts would not harm their own young.”
But I knew better of course. Not all parents were benevolent.
Iphigenia!
I could still remember that angelic face of her: beautiful, happy, a contented bride-to-be, being tricked by her own father to the altar where her throat was cut.
“Mother! Save me! Mother!” I heard her last cry for help. And I was powerless to stop her being slaughtered, like a fowl, just to fulfill his ambition to lead the Greek force across the sea and his glory in Troy!
Why my daughter!? It was Menelaus whose wife was abducted. Why not sacrifice one of his women to appease the goddess for fair wind? Why me?
Iphigenia!
Through tales told me by stranger’s tongue, I could see her being stripped of her bridal garments, her young virgin beauty laid bare to all present eyes. I could see the despair in her eyes as her neck was angled, the bow made by her head with its golden fleece of hair and the torso making a perfect resemblance of Artemis’s tool of hunt.
And he came forward, Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, High King of the Greek states, my husband, her father, knife in hand, cold-hearted, cold-blooded, placing the blade across that slender neck of my daughter!
I could see the blood rush out, spill; I could smell it, salty as the water of the raging sea; I could feel her pain, her disappointment at my failure to rescue her, her despair to be forced to give up her young life for a cause that sent men on a thousand ships to ten years of slaughter, with so few to return!
Iphigenia!
“Revenge! “ I heard her shriek, in silence; her voice only audible for my ears.
I saw her fall, naked, unpitied, next to that pile of stones dyed red with my daughter’s blood.
In revenge, I took in Aegisthus, his cousin, as my lover during his absence.
I cursed him to fall on the plains of Troy, his body tramped a thousand times to shreds by Trojan chariots, his naked torso fed to carrions!
But he survived.
And returned with a mistress: Cassandra, princess of Troy.
Aegisthus panicked and urged me to flee with him.
I did what I had to do.
A robe and an axe.
I avenged my daughter when her slayer-father was in the bath.
The water ran red.
The Trojan woman came in, saw the slain king. She did not scream, nor tried to flee, but just knelt, open wide her arms and lowered her neck.
The axe rose and fell a second time.
Justice was done!
Another round of seeking justice had begun.
I walked along the corridor that lined the tall walls Mycenae. From here, despite it was night, I could see the fair hills with the aid of a full moon. How fair a land this was! And ruled by a woman for seventeen years, ten in the absence of her husband, and seven in the name of her lover. Aegisthus was no king-material. Perhaps it was better this way.
May be I should have killed Orestes! And her sister Electra too. I knew that girl hated me, though she was of my own flesh and blood. But how could I? No, I refused to be another beast to devour my own broodings. One in a family was more than enough.
I turned and looked to the east. There, hidden around the corner of the griffin gates was his tomb: the tomb of Agamemnon, commander of the Greek expeditionary force, conqueror of Troy and his captive, Cassandra. For seven years they had lain there in their death-slumber. They must have been waiting for justice: justice for them.
I could feel it. It would not be long.
A shadow.
This time, I did not shriek, not even feeling afraid.
He looked so much like his father: tall, handsome in a cruel way, and eyes unforgiving, without pity.
“So, Orestes! You have finally come for me.” I said.
“No, mother, not only for you. For him, too.” He said, and raised his left hand; the head of Aegisthus was still dripping blood. His eyes were wide open, in disbelief, in shock, his tongue sticking out of a mouth which had engulfed my breasts in ecstasy so many nights. It was as if he was still pleading for mercy and the whole thing was so comical that I could not suppress a laugh.
“I am going to kill you, mother.”
I nodded, let my robe slipped onto the ground and slowly pulled down one side of my chiton, exposing a breast.
“So, you are going to push your sword into the breast that had once fed you? A breast that had once sheltered you and warmed you?”
“I am his son. I have to do what I have to do.”
I nodded again. “Yes, Justice must be done. I pity you, though. For killing your mother, you will become the object of justice sought. Do you understand what it means?”
He was breathing quicker now, his hand griping the hilt of that bloodied sword tightening.
“So be it then. Come, and give me a quick end.” I
Having let my robe drop off my shoulders onto the tiles, I open my arms to embrace him. He backed away a step but I would not let him lose courage. What the gods decide, will be done. Are we not their humble toys? Insignificant pieces in their games in the names of justice?
I took one more step forward and this time he did not back away.
His yell shock the night air as he rushed at me. I could see him closing the distance; I could see his eyes, so red, so sad…
“Argh…” The blade entered my body through my exposed breast, made a clean penetration and came out my naked back.
I collapsed into the arms of my son, my lips touching the strong chest as I had once touched his father’s.
I could hear his dead father laughing now.
I could hear the gods laugh.
I could hear the silent weeping of Orestes, my son, my only love in this life.
I sank to my knees, body sliding backwards to free of the blade.
The marble felt so cold.
The night was so beautiful….
(End)
