Read Online A Darker God by Barbara Cleverly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Cleverly
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suggestion that since she had a pleasing combination of artistic sensitivity, historical knowledge, and a capable hand, and seemed to have nothing betterto do that afternoon, she might be just the right person to transform this waxen ephebe into the dead Agamemnon.
He’d judged rightly. Letty was eager to please and delighted to be asked to make a contribution, however insignificant, to the amateur effort. She’d used all her imagination and energy. A thick black wig bought from the same obliging tailor had been stuck in place, a coat of the suntan brown appropriate for an ancient fighting man applied to the stiff limbs, and gouts of stage blood dribbled down the arms. After much argument, it had been agreed that the body should appear without a mask so that Letty could retain the glass eyes of an unnatural green, leaving them in place and open wide to glare back in the torchlight at the audience.
Moments ago in the ancient Theatre of Dionysus, open to the late afternoon sky, Agamemnon, fresh from his conquest, had come sailing in, after an absence—they said—of ten years.
Caked still with the blood, sweat, and soot of battle, the king was returning to the bosom of his family, to the House of Atreus, to his palace in Mycaenae, rich in gold. And his loving wife, Clytemnestra, warned in advance of his arrival, had produced the traditional comforts for the home-coming victor: a bath and a feast. In front of the palace, reaching for his hand, she offered a most royal welcome:
“‘Come now, my darling. Step down from your chariot but—wait a moment! The feet that stamped the city of Troy to dust shall not be allowed to tread on the common earth again.’”
And, clapping her hands to summon the servants:
“‘Where are the staff? Ladies—do as you were instructed. Bring out the red carpet! Line the king’s path with tapestries!’”
Agamemnon attempted a rejection of the notion.
“‘What on earth do you take me for, wife? Some vain foreigner, peacocking about? It’s the gods who deserve stuffs dyed with Tyrian purple, not mortal kings,’”
he’d protested. He made a token show of unwillingnessto commit the act of hubris but, in the face of Clytemnestra’s blithe encouragement and flattery, he conceded.
“‘Oh, well, go on, then … but at least let me take my boots off first!’”
he grumbled.
The women spread embroidered cloths, flowing in a bloodred stream beneath his feet towards the palace. The air was scented with Syrian myrrh, roasts were on the spit, wine was being poured. The stage was set.
But all was not well in the House of Atreus. Loving the queen might be, but no Greek audience would be deceived by her soft words. They knew the story. They’d heard it countless times since they were infants. The queen’s affection was all for her husband’s cousin, Aegisthus, who had ignored the call to war and stayed behind in the palace working his mischief. The pair of lovers had determined that this bath of Agamemnon’s would be his last, and Clytemnestra, bursting with long-suppressed hatred and resentment of her husband, had insisted on delivering the death blow herself. What better moment? The servants dismissed, his armour set aside, the battle-ready watchfulness of ten years washing away, the king lolled offstage in the scented water, exposed. His dutiful wife, clucking sympathy, had gently rubbed oil into the silver tracery of scars etching his naked body.
And now, his bath over, she approached, offering up a robe she had woven, like a good Greek wife, with her own hands. As Agamemnon stepped, one foot out of his bath, towards her, Clytemnestra threw the diaphanous yet strong fabric over his head, wrapped it netlike behind his body, trapping his arms by his sides, and plunged her two-edged bronze sword into his unprotected flesh. And plunged again. And a third time.
It was over.
Letty stretched her spine and eased her bottom from theunrelenting marble. The ghastly old story had lost none
He’d judged rightly. Letty was eager to please and delighted to be asked to make a contribution, however insignificant, to the amateur effort. She’d used all her imagination and energy. A thick black wig bought from the same obliging tailor had been stuck in place, a coat of the suntan brown appropriate for an ancient fighting man applied to the stiff limbs, and gouts of stage blood dribbled down the arms. After much argument, it had been agreed that the body should appear without a mask so that Letty could retain the glass eyes of an unnatural green, leaving them in place and open wide to glare back in the torchlight at the audience.
Moments ago in the ancient Theatre of Dionysus, open to the late afternoon sky, Agamemnon, fresh from his conquest, had come sailing in, after an absence—they said—of ten years.
Caked still with the blood, sweat, and soot of battle, the king was returning to the bosom of his family, to the House of Atreus, to his palace in Mycaenae, rich in gold. And his loving wife, Clytemnestra, warned in advance of his arrival, had produced the traditional comforts for the home-coming victor: a bath and a feast. In front of the palace, reaching for his hand, she offered a most royal welcome:
“‘Come now, my darling. Step down from your chariot but—wait a moment! The feet that stamped the city of Troy to dust shall not be allowed to tread on the common earth again.’”
And, clapping her hands to summon the servants:
“‘Where are the staff? Ladies—do as you were instructed. Bring out the red carpet! Line the king’s path with tapestries!’”
Agamemnon attempted a rejection of the notion.
“‘What on earth do you take me for, wife? Some vain foreigner, peacocking about? It’s the gods who deserve stuffs dyed with Tyrian purple, not mortal kings,’”
he’d protested. He made a token show of unwillingnessto commit the act of hubris but, in the face of Clytemnestra’s blithe encouragement and flattery, he conceded.
“‘Oh, well, go on, then … but at least let me take my boots off first!’”
he grumbled.
The women spread embroidered cloths, flowing in a bloodred stream beneath his feet towards the palace. The air was scented with Syrian myrrh, roasts were on the spit, wine was being poured. The stage was set.
But all was not well in the House of Atreus. Loving the queen might be, but no Greek audience would be deceived by her soft words. They knew the story. They’d heard it countless times since they were infants. The queen’s affection was all for her husband’s cousin, Aegisthus, who had ignored the call to war and stayed behind in the palace working his mischief. The pair of lovers had determined that this bath of Agamemnon’s would be his last, and Clytemnestra, bursting with long-suppressed hatred and resentment of her husband, had insisted on delivering the death blow herself. What better moment? The servants dismissed, his armour set aside, the battle-ready watchfulness of ten years washing away, the king lolled offstage in the scented water, exposed. His dutiful wife, clucking sympathy, had gently rubbed oil into the silver tracery of scars etching his naked body.
And now, his bath over, she approached, offering up a robe she had woven, like a good Greek wife, with her own hands. As Agamemnon stepped, one foot out of his bath, towards her, Clytemnestra threw the diaphanous yet strong fabric over his head, wrapped it netlike behind his body, trapping his arms by his sides, and plunged her two-edged bronze sword into his unprotected flesh. And plunged again. And a third time.
It was over.
Letty stretched her spine and eased her bottom from theunrelenting marble. The ghastly old story had lost none
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