Return to Mycenae E-Book

Wolf Kunert

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 173

Beschreibung

Once again, I traverse through time. I Return to Mycenae. Questions lingered unanswered. I seek answers for them. Here and now, I will not find them. I must embark on the journey once again, to where the past remains unchanged, untouched by knowledge and fashion. There, I want to see and hear the people whose fate I can only imagine at best. Names come to mind: Clytemnestra - murderer of her husband, adulteress! Other names follow: Iphigenia, Electra, Orestes, and Agamemnon as well. We have heard their stories, and fragments are readily available, eager to be dismissed. These stories are old. They are often and repeatedly told in the same way: the axe murderer, her lover, and the daughter in inconsolable grief. Why is it so? Why do we not know them differently? Here and now, I want to tell their stories, perhaps more faithfully to reality. I cannot be certain. I must hope. Excerpt Klytaimnestra: "But what remained for me but to act in such a way? What was left for me but to decide for my children, for myself, and for Mycenae? I acted not without contemplation and not without weighing the consequences. What Iphigenia stirred in me and what he threatened me with forced me to make a decision. What I fought for myself, not without resistance, had to be protected. I took away the children's father, that is true. But what kind of father was he? What kind of man was Agamemnon, and what kind of husband was he to me? No one asks anymore. No one wants to know what and how he truly was. They turned him into my sacrifice, and even if it's true, it remains only a part of the truth. It seems that no one wants to know how he ruled over us and Mycenae. Later, blind rage and groundless hatred were attributed to me. Time conceals his part. At best, they allow me to be a grieving mother who avenged her child. Half-truths are also half-lies. One should not speak ill of the dead. Don't gossip about those who can no longer respond. Those who journeyed to the realm of shadows should be safe from slander forever. But what about me? When did I lose this right? How would he respond if I asked him questions? Would he still lie now, as he often did in his lifetime? I am sure of it. He had no choice back then in Aulis. No choice? Were it not his decisions that ultimately led us here? That forced us, no, me, to take these steps? Would he rebuke me again, as his obedient wife, as he often did? Even if he knew he was in the wrong, he contradicted me or forbade me to speak. Surely he would do that again. He always did. He was protected by his older brother Menelaus, but always only second to him. That had undoubtedly corrupted his character over the years. Growing up in the shadow of his brother, he often adorned himself with deeds accomplished by others. Like declaring himself the victor over Troy, as a great military leader, even though everyone knew it was Odysseus's cunning that ultimately brought victory. After all the unsuccessful battles and wars in the years before, he lost esteem among the Greeks. Battles that brought death to countless men. Great heroes were lost on both sides because of him. Led into battle senselessly by the greed for power, gold, and fame. Victory came just in time for him, saving his reputation at the last moment. He had to content himself with the place his brother assigned him and follow him in everything. In return, his brother protected him against all doubts. Although he could call himself a commander, his brother was also his king even before Troy. This affected the man who would gladly be first at any cost and any lie. It spoiled him over the years, made him forget good manners, and increased his fear that he would not be seen as manly."

Leseprobe

Wolf Kunert

Return to Mycenae

A Clytaimnestra Saga

Return to Mycenae

A Clytaimnestra Saga

Dedicated, as always,

And always to the same

© 2023 Wolf Kunert

Grafiken: © 2023 G-JL

Druck und Distribution im Auftrag des Autors:

tredition GmbH, Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5, 22926 Ahrensburg, Germany

Das Werk, einschließlich seiner Teile, ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Für die Inhalte ist der Autor verantwortlich. Jede Verwertung ist ohne seine Zustimmung unzulässig. Die Publikation und Verbreitung erfolgen im Auftrag des Autors, zu erreichen unter: tredition GmbH, Abteilung "Impressumservice", Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5, 22926 Ahrensburg, Deutschland

Contents

Cover

Half Title

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

Return to Mycenae

Clytaimnestra

Chrysothemis

Clytaimnestra

Electra

Clytaimnestra

Electra

Clytaimnestra

Chrysothemis

Clytaimnestra

Electra

Oresthes

Clytaimnestra

Oresthes

Clytaimnestra

Oresthes

Chrysothemis

Return to Mycenae

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

Return to Mycenae

Chrysothemis

Return to Mycenae

Cover

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Return to Mycenae

Once again, I traverse through time. I return to Mycenae. Questions lingered unanswered. I seek answers for them. Here and now, I will not find them. I must embark on the journey once again, to where the past remains unchanged, untouched by knowledge and fashion.

There, I want to see and hear the people whose fate I can only imagine at best. Names come to mind: Clytemnestra - murderer of her husband, adulteress! Other names follow: Iphigenia, Electra, Orestes, and Agamemnon as well. We have heard their stories, and fragments are readily available, eager to be dismissed. These stories are old. They are often and repeatedly told in the same way: the axe murderer, her lover, and the daughter in inconsolable grief.

Why is it so? Why do we not know them differently? Here and now, I want to tell their stories, perhaps more faithfully to reality. I cannot be certain. I must hope.

Clytaimnestra

He is back, the pain in my body. And there's nothing I can do about it. The Furies do not allow me to defend myself against them. Since Aegisthus visits my bed less often, they visit me more frequently. It is always agonizingly the same, and even though I know it's a dream, it is of terrifying reality.

I lie motionless and rigid in my sweat-drenched sheets. I know, from past experiences, that I cannot call the servants, but I still try again this time. A reflex I cannot resist. As always, my mouth remains silent tonight, and once again, I cannot escape from what the Furies have made me endure many times before.

He visits me on the nights when I am alone, in my chamber. He cannot rest in his grave. He refuses to grant me the peace I killed for, for the sake of my own peace. The Furies awaken him to punish me. Not for his death. Because I cannot feel remorse. Because I feel no guilt towards him. I relive the same dream, the same pain, and the same helplessness over and over again. He still feeds on me and refuses to let me go. Even now, many years later.

But what remained for me but to act in such a way? What remained for me but to decide for my children, for myself, and for Mycenae. I did not act without consideration, nor without weighing. What Iphigenia awakened in me and what he threatened me with forced me to make a decision. What I fought for myself, not without resistance, had to be protected. I took the father away from the children, that is true. But what kind of father was he? What kind of man was Agamemnon, and what kind of husband was he to me?

No one asks anymore. Not one wants to know anymore what and how he truly was. They have turned my sacrifice into him, and even if it is true, it remains only a part of the truth. It seems that no one wants to know anymore how he ruled over us and over Mycenae. Blind rage and groundless hatred were later attributed to me. Time conceals its part. At best, it allows me to be a grieving mother, who avenged her child. Half-truths are also half-lies.

One should not speak ill of the dead. Do not speak ill of those who can no longer respond. Those who journeyed to the realm of shadows should be safe from slander forever. But what about me? When did I lose this right? How would he respond if I asked him questions? Would he still lie now, as he often did in life? I am sure of it.

He had no choice back then in Aulis. No choice? Were not his decisions the ones that ultimately led us here? That forced us, no me, to take these steps? Would he reprimand me again, as his rightful wife, as he often did? Even if he knew he was wrong, he contradicted me or forbade me to speak. Surely he would do that again. He always did. He was protected by his older brother Menelaus, but always second to him. That had surely spoiled his character over the years.

Growing up in the shadow of his brother, he often adorned himself with deeds that others accomplished. Like declaring himself the conqueror of Troy, as a great military leader, even though everyone knew it was Odysseus' cunning that ultimately brought victory. After all the unsuccessful battles and wars in the years before, he lost prestige among the Greeks. Battles that brought death to countless men. Great heroes were lost on both sides because of him. Led into battle senselessly by the greed for power, gold, and glory.

The victory came just in time for him, saving his reputation at the last moment. He had to be satisfied with the place his brother assigned to him and follow him in everything. For that, his brother protected him against all doubts. Although he could call himself a military leader, his brother was also his king before Troy. This did something to this man who would gladly be first at any cost and any lie.

This corrupted him over the years and made him forget the good manners and made his fear grow that he would not be seen as manly. Even Helena, my sister, chose his older brother. He would have been at best second choice for her, I'm sure of that. He only got me through murder and gold.

His daughter Iphigenia was sacrificed to the gods at Aulis because of his sacrilege. Not Hermione, his brother's daughter. He would not have lost control in this situation, or he would have restrained the priestly pronouncement of Calchas in time, I am certain of that.

Agamemnon only knew how to lure me to Aulis with a lie. Otherwise, I would never have followed his request, and my refusal would have exposed him before the others. He knew that, and he feared that more than the wrath of the gods.

I only did what was commanded upon his return from Troy. That is how I wish to be understood, and I would act the same again. Today, even more so than back then.

After my return from Aulis, I was not the same person who journeyed to the island. I shed my tolerance, which had long dictated my life, and reclaimed what Agamemnon had taken from me — courage and freedom.

My actions were not without consequences, and the price was high in the end. Women always pay when they play the men's game. The gods do not favor us when we learn their rules. Only men, like Agamemnon, it seems, are allowed power without a price. Yet I changed those rules and made him pay for his actions.

I made the men's games my own and redefined them. I seized power, and yes, I had every right to do so. No one stood in my way without consequences. He, Agamemnon, was the cause of all this. He was the true reason for my actions.

In the end, I lost my children because of him. My first son and Iphigenia to death, Electra to hatred, and Chrysothemis to darkness. I even lost Oresthes twice. First to a stranger, and later, like Electra, to anger.

All that was attributed to me later, Agamemnon alone had triggered within me. My years in Mycenae were not without consequences for me, not those when he was present, nor those when he fought before Troy.

Mostly joyless and devoid of any love was my time beside him. My children later gave me purpose and meaning again, but above all, love. I could love them with all my heart. Each one was dear to me. Even Electra, who was difficult to control, received my maternal warmth. It seemed especially to her that my attention was needed. I gave it to her without expecting anything in return.

Giving up, dying, was not an option for me. That thought was not instilled in me in Sparta, and yet there were moments when I longed for Thanatos, death. As a mother later, this thought was no longer allowed to me.

My father taught me to endure when the time called for it and to fight when the opportunity arose. And he taught me that the hardest battle was the time of endurance. For many years, I fought this battle against myself first. I endured and remained silent about this king and this father.

The pain tears me from my thoughts once again. The movements in my body become more intense. It's as if someone is stirring in my entrails. I can hear the maids outside my door gossiping and laughing. They suspect nothing of my dreams. I do not want to become fodder for their gossip. They need not know what I endure on such nights. I only hope that my voice could redeem me from the dream. To wake myself up, that is what I will attempt. I want to call out to them again, but that is denied to me, as it has been before. Only my groaning is audible, and I do not know if it belongs to the dream or to reality. It feels like giving birth, though it is not. I know this, I know that I am asleep. In a cruel and exhausting sleep. Not only pain, but also fear resides within me. However often I endure this dream, there is always the fear that I will not wake up in time, that this time he may complete what the Furies may allow him to.

Electra comes to mind. Her birth was the most difficult. She almost killed me, but I escaped death with difficulty and survived the severe fever afterwards. It seemed to me that the gods had instilled defiance in her even at her birth. Yet, I did not love her any less than my other children.

From the start, Electra was the father's favorite. He spoiled her. He enjoyed her company. With him, she saw that one could mock me with impunity, that one could contradict me without consequence. She was sometimes volatile and difficult to calm down, much like her father himself. She could be described as an angry child. She quickly learned that servants were not equal to her. Her father was also a role model for her in this regard.

If Iphigenia was my pride and Chrysothemis my joy, then Electra was primarily my concern. He saw the other children as mine. I only bore him daughters. Not suitable as successors for a king.

I did not understand what Agamemnon saw in Electra. Was it her unrestrained nature, which resembled his own? Was it her status as the secondborn? Whatever it was that moved him, his influence on her did not seem beneficial in my eyes. He spoiled her character. His capriciousness became hers, and it became increasingly difficult to discipline her over the years. She received no reprimands from her father, and he nullified mine as soon as he heard of them. I was too harsh on the poor child, he would say. What did I have to complain about? After all, she was the king's daughter. It was allowed for her to misbehave a little, he admonished me. After all, she was young and still had to sow her wild oats.

He never spoke of his other daughters like that. If he even spoke of them at all. He expected only obedience and modesty from them. They were, at best, pawns for future alliances.

Once, when Electra angrily stabbed a young servant girl for clumsiness, her father Agamemnon handled the matter in his own way. He gave the girl's parents a golden cup and a piece of land as compensation for the life and ordered them to keep silent about the matter. They had no choice, as they were at his mercy.

In everything, she followed her father. She showed little respect to others, neither to the men of the council nor to the servants. She remained entirely the king's daughter – capricious and unrefined, especially in her early youth. Nothing seemed to teach her, and my occasional strictness was always overlooked by the father. She faced no boundaries, and her disobedience had no consequences.

Electra's nature seemed to bring joy to her father. Everyone else avoided her if possible, as soon as she approached. They felt uncomfortable in her presence. Some complaints about her behavior were brought to me. When I spoke to Agamemnon about it, he brushed aside my words. He did not want to hear such talk in his palace. Only rarely did third parties dare to address him about it. They feared his lack of control even more, as both he and she could fly into a rage at any moment. While the father's outbursts were still subject to royal dignity in public, hers emerged unrestrained and without any control.

It increasingly gave her pleasure to punish maidservants for trivial offenses or to help herself freely at the markets without paying for the goods. She believed that everything in Mycenae belonged to the king, and she was his daughter. No one dared to defy her. Everyone feared her wrath and that of the king too much.

Secretly, I later paid for what she took. The maidservants knew they had to report it to me.

The other two, Iphigenia and Chrysothemis, were just as subjected to the father's character as I was. While Iphigenia, the eldest, was serious and educated in many things, Chrysothemis was often silent and dreamy. She loved weaving fabrics with new patterns and making garlands out of flowers. How she used to glow as a child when she came to adorn me with them. She could laugh heartily and loudly with joy when I accepted her gift with praise. But she fell silent immediately when her father's mocking gaze met hers. Seriously and hastily, she would leave the room on some pretext or other.

She was always running. Rarely was she moving in calm steps. She constantly seemed on the verge without knowing where she wanted to go. If I asked her, she would cheerfully call out as she passed by, "There!" I loved her laughter and her unspoiled happiness. I gladly let myself be infected by it and accompanied her whenever I could, out into the grove beside the city. Only at her loom could she sit quietly, it seemed to me. With preference, she sang or hummed self-devised songs at the loom and dreamed herself into a world that did not exist for her in our palace. She had found her happiness within herself, where no one could reach if she didn't want them to. Away from the rest of us, she dreamed of beauty and silence. She had painted her chamber with trailing flowers, blooming trees, and colorful birds with her own hand. It seemed to me that this was how she protected herself from her father's coarseness and the frequent quarrels among us.

But I also knew that she was probably the loneliest of my children. She concealed her pain and sorrow behind her loud laughter. It hit me hard every time she fled from her father's rough behavior. He had once called the flower wreaths shepherd's crowns and asked her if she had already found her prince in the meadows outside the city. If so, there would surely be a magnificent wedding in the stables. And whether he could come and play music for them on his flute, he continued to mock. He was entirely foreign to any sense of his children.

After such an incident, she often did not leave her chamber for several days. I would sit with her for hours, watching her weave and learning her songs. They were simple and similar in their melody, mostly sounding melancholic. In such moments, I particularly felt how far away she could be, even though she sat right in front of me.

Iphigenia, on the other hand, had been strict and serious from an early age. It seemed as if she had inherited most of my character. She eagerly learned what women should know: the legends of the gods, the ancestral sagas, and above all, the use of remedies, ointments, and herbs. Calm and composed, she knew how to express herself to everyone. Clever and well-read, she conversed with the priests and scholars. They gladly taught her and occasionally granted her access to knowledge not meant for women. She was taught astrology and philosophy. She was also skilled in the art of argumentation. Over the years, she had earned the respect of these men through her questions and her manner of arguing in debates.

Each child developed as the gods allowed, each according to their nature and character. Yet these two suffered, like me, under the behavior of their father.

Years later, I bore Orestes. Agamemnon had little time for him. Before he could educate his son to be a successor, he went off to that fateful war.

Too little time for Orestes to hold his father firmly in memory. Too little time for the father's character to influence him. The war proved to be a fortunate turn for the son. I hoped he could now become a different man, a better one. I wanted to mold him into a better king, wise and proud for Mycenae. But Aegisthus and the gods decided otherwise.

Orestes could not grow up in our palace. Aegisthus feared his vengeance for our deeds, so we sent him to a foreign land to a friendly king. This king was to raise my son alongside his own. Orestes was never to learn who he was or where he came from. Strophius, the King of Phocis, had to swear this to us.

The departure of my son pained me deeply. He was meant to be Agamemnon's successor, a better king if possible. That was my hope. But it seemed prudent to keep him alive in a foreign land rather than in danger from Aegisthus' fear. So my son could live, and no one could know what the gods had planned for him.