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Klaitemestra clenches her teeth as she attempts to work on the loom where she is attempting to weave. While she has never been an expert on the loom like her cousin Penelope, she believed she was highly decent at it. It is, after all, the only trait reminding her that she is a woman, and not the man her father has usually highly praised. However, the baby inside of her was disturbing her peace and being occupied with her work. Her fingers on the loom turn to her stomach, as she takes a deep breath and swallows down the pain.
“You are being quite fussy lately, have you, my child?” She talks to her unborn baby in a soft voice, as if coaxing him to stop making her feel pain is the best answer. As if he could hear her from her womb. “Your mother and father cannot wait to see you. You will be a wonderful son, a prince to the most powerful nation in the world.”
Klaitemestra did not care about the gender of her children; after all, she’d always yearned to mimic the large family of her parents and uncle. Her mother had six children, four daughters, and two sons, and while their parentage is attested with the Sky Father, her father offers patronage to all who were birthed by his wife. Her uncle Icarius had seven children from a naiad mother. Agamemnon did not mind her wish to have a large family, but it had been seventeen years since they had wed, and yet, not a son came from her womb. While her dream of replicating her family’s large brood has come true, there is still widespread discontent among her subjects.
It is because the goddess of fertility has yet to give her a son, an heir to the Mykenaian throne they despairingly vied for. Indeed, many of her new subjects have become tired, or even disgruntled that her womb is so ripe for girls, but a single boy it could not create. She additionally hears rumors against her— that she is a sorceress, a witch who manipulated her womb to only create girls and bring the kingdom to the brink of civil war again. They seem to be ignoring the fact that her mother, Queen Leda, has only bore two sons from a brood of mostly daughters.
Whilst Agamemnon has made countless efforts to dispel such rumors and threaten those who would have the courage to utter a suggestion that he may have to marry a second wife, when she announces that she may be pregnant — and then the eventual swelling of her belly solidifying her announcement — he looks on with bated breath. She notices the way his look lingers on her belly rather than her eyes, at times; it frustrates her greatly, and yet, she could understand the need to have a male heir.
Although I do not mind only having one male heir, Agamemnon had told her on their wedding night, his hands, rough and callused, playing softly with her hair. Too many heirs can divide the kingdom.
She does glare at him from time to time, perhaps even clearing her throat when she believes that he is being distracted by the sex of their child rather than her wellbeing, and he gives her an apologetic expression. He is courteous enough for that.
Well, may as well bear it and pray to the goddess of childbirth to not only grant her a safe childbirth but for her child to be a son. That way, she can gain favor back from her people, and she and Agamemnon can lounge in the eternal love they have for each other forever.
Another contraction diverts her attention from the loom once more, and she takes another deep breath. It is almost her due date, meaning that such contractions will become more aggravating and painful to bear, according to her healer. No matter, she has become accustomed to pregnancies and childbirths— four live children have been born from her womb, and she will not lose her child.
Her least favorite thing when she gives life to her children is the pain she must go through to deliver them the life they must live.
Through the cloud of pain and her pained gasps, her body weak and delicate from the labor that has overtaken her the entire night, she hears the sounds of a babe crying. Her eyes, teary-eyed with an aching sensation, grow wide as if she has heard the sounds of the boat of Charon rowing towards her, grow wide with lucidity. She should not be visualizing the personification of death coming for her, for she wishes to see her daughters marry, and her son become the great king of Mykenai after his father.
“It is a boy, my lady,” says Kymodoke, the old trusted nursemaid of Agamemnon and Menelaos, who has been breastfeeding Mykenaian heirs for decades. She feels the urge to be covetous against the elderly woman, for she is close to her king, to the man she is married to. “A healthy, live baby boy.”
Klaitemestra lets out a breath that develops into a cry of relief and joy— now, her king will be satisfied with her once more, and he will not be eyeing the noble ladies who come to their court to be her ladies-in-waiting. Now their family is complete, for Agamemnon will be teaching their son how to rule the most powerful kingdom in the Aegean. Finally, she shall be exalted as a proper Queen of Mykenai.
She sits up, ignoring her midwives’ advice to rest and recuperate from having gone into labor and delivered the long-awaited heir. Her lavender eyes find Kymodoke, holding a clothed bundle in her arms. She extends her own hands, eyes flaring. “Let me see him.”
Kymodoke looks at her with concern, an expression she has always detested seeing from other women. She is perfectly capable, and she can do better than what is expected of women from her time. “You must rest, your highness, you have—”
“I will rest when I see my son,” she declares, narrowing her eyes at the old nursemaid. "Give him to me; I wish to see if what you are saying is true, that he is as healthy as can be."
Kymodoke does not argue any further— like a minx, she gives the infant bundled in clothes to her mistress, and Klaitemestra takes him from her arms. Parting the bundle lightly, she gasps at the sight of her child, sleeping soundly, wisps of dark hair around his head. Instinctively, as if she is a lioness caring for her cub, she cradles him, rocking her beloved, long-awaited son back and forth, completely hypnotized by the innocence and preciousness emanating from the child.
He may not be her most darling, most favorite Iphigenia, but she loves all of her children— she always has. And having a son, knowing he will be scooped from her arms and given to her lord, will not hinder the excitement she feels to see him grow up with his sisters and future friends. She thinks that Iphigenia will love to hold him— she has become more maternal and loving with each passing day, Klaitemestra fears for the day she will see her from behind a veil awaiting her husband.
(Someone, perhaps an evil spirit making her doubt her faith in the gods, whispers to her that her wedding veil shall be shrouded by a rich, crimson blood.)
Her king enters her room as soon as all the midwives have gone, leaving her breastfeeding her new child. She is weak, but she will regain her strength soon enough— the mere issue of childbirth does not hinder the women of Sparta, and she wishes to be present once her king presents her newborn son to the people. Now they will know she is a woman worthy of her position, of being the queen to the most powerful king of the Hellenes. Her ambitious mind works to weave the future; their son shall be king of kings and will be marrying a princess from a rich and powerful nation with a grand dowry.
It is a shame King Diomedes of Argos did not have any children with his wife— and she already hears the rumors of an impending marriage with Princess Hermione of Sparta, daughter of her sister Helen, with her infant son. She blanches at the thought; they should not be thinking about weddings and marriages yet. Then again, was she not thinking of what her son’s future may be whilst also wondering whom he will marry in the future?
She feels a weight on her bed; a notable sign her king has sat down beside her. Her husband is not much taller than she is (she can, perhaps, even take note that he is shorter than her), but that doesn’t mean anything when he is king of kings; the husband of her heart.
“A boy,” he breathes, his eyes looking at the baby feeding on her bosom. “After all these years, my wife… you have given me what the people have demanded.”
Klaitemestra hums, feeling a twinge of irritation at the mention of the people, but also quite vindicated at finally accomplishing her role. Her eyes do not look towards her king; instead, they look elsewhere, teasing him. “Yes, you do not need to find comfort in the arms of a slave girl to give you your long-awaited son, my king.”
He has the decency to look ashamed or perhaps exasperated that his wife would comment on his base desires. It is normal for men would invite slave girls to their bed, as they satisfy him with things he has never thought to receive from his wife. No matter— he will not be looking for them any time soon. Not unless he seeks for a spare, but she knows he is wary of many heirs to his throne, after all the wars he has fought. “My queen… I could never find it in myself to let another woman who is not you charm me. You are a jewel all princes will never obtain. I swear to you, you are the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
She feels her heart soften at that, and she finally lets a smile form on her lips, flattered by her husband’s charm. “What shall you name him?” She asks, her voice soft. Agamemnon has let her name all her four daughters, and so, she believes that he should be naming his heir.
The infant is still not done feeding, but she can see in her eyes that he wants to pull him to his arms and cradle him, the same way he had once done to Iphigenia, Iphianassa, Elektra, and Khrysothemis. He has a gentle soul, and Klaitemestra will not object to seeing such delicate features on his face.
It did not take Agamemnon long to decide a name for him. “In my days of traveling across the lands of Greece, I had a different name than the one I have now. To hide myself and Menelaos from the forces of my uncle, we have to give ourselves different names. I had chosen Orestis; a name that has lingered within me even when I was crowned king of Mykenai. I wish for my son to have one of the names I created whilst I traveled.”
Klaitemestra feels satisfaction crawling within her at the name. She has listened to Agamemnon tell his tale; his exile which seems to have lasted for ages, changing him as a person, the blood that has covered his hands no match for her infatuation with him. His words of his exile before her brothers finding them amid the wilderness, searching for her sister, are not enough to deter her thoughts, so resilient in wanting to marry him.
She smiles, “I think it is a handsome name for our son.”
Orestis seems to have sensed his mother’s contentment— he has stopped sucking on her milk, now satisfied with sleeping by her breast, peaceful and seemingly undisturbed. She turns to look at her husband as she swaddles her baby up in his sheets and covers herself, prideful of the small smile on his face. It is a rare occurrence to have her king sit with her, his face loosened up into fulfillment. All his hard work of restoring the Mykenaian throne to him and his family has led up to this; bliss.
(The chorus shall lament Klaitemestra’s short-lived triumph and happiness, for it shall all go to waste once Agamemnon asks his wife if he could, perhaps, hold his son.)
He stretches his arms, eyes pleading. “May I hold my—”
Someone knocks on the door, interrupting what the king of Mykenai is about to say, and intruding upon their domestic bliss with whatever they are about to say. “Your majesty?”
Klaitemestra feels a twinge of disappointment, and it does not take a seer to know that her husband feels dissatisfied at being interrupted. The two of them exchange glances and Agamemnon calls for them, authoritative but soft enough not to wake his son.
“What can be of importance that you have interrupted my conversation with my wife?” He questions as he exits her bedroom. Klaitemestra does not listen to what is happening outside the door, for she knows that her husband will tell her everything that his advisor has said as soon as he reenters the room once more. Instead, she busies herself with cradling her baby, singing lullabies her mother has sung to her when she, too, had once been the same age as young Orestis. Once Agamemnon is finished visiting, she can summon her daughters to come and meet their new brother.
Agamemnon returns with a rather grief-stricken expression on his face. Her expression follows. “What is wrong?” She asks, placing her son in his cradle, as she takes a few steps forward until she is at eye-level with her husband.
“My grandfather, Katreus of Krete is dead,” Agamemnon replies, as if he is reading from a messenger’s letter. “King Idomeneus has invited me, Menelaos, and Palamedes and his brothers to attend his funeral.”
“I thought Idomeneus hated his uncle,” Klaitemestra drawls, ignoring the anxiety that begins to brew within her mind. Why should she be afraid? Her husband travels all the time, most notably to Sparta to visit his brother and play with Hermione, but this feels… different. It is almost as if the gods tell her that this funeral will be the end of everything the Hellenes have ever known— as if there will not be another dawn if she lets him sail to Krete.
She, however, is a resolute woman who does not believe in superstitions or bad faith; she believes in her husband, having the utmost confidence in his journey to Krete and back. Nothing will come between them.
(Nothing?)
“I am to be leaving tomorrow morning,” Agamemnon holds her hands, warm and crisp around her skin. She misses this feeling, and she is afraid it may be the last time; the last time to feel his love emanate from all around him like a pyre. He presses his lips to her forehead, having to stand taller to reach it. “I shall prepare my things for the journey.”
Klaitemestra’s anxiety about this trip continues to roll within her.
Something will happen— she does not know what, but it will.
She knows she cannot stop her husband from going— it is his duty as a relative to come to his grandfather’s funeral. But she can make him stay for the duration he will be here before he leaves her once more to fend for herself in a palace housed with servants who spread rumor to rumor about her man-mindedness.
The queen of Mykenai seizes her husband’s wrist as soon as he turns away from her. With pleading eyes, she looked at him, her lips trembling, not because of the emotions currently thundering in her chest, but because she could not bear to be apart from the man she loved almost immediately as he came here. “Stay. Stay here for the night, my king. Hold Orestis before your voyage to Krete.”
Agamemnon does not respond, initially. But he relaxes his hands and, in an earnest move, embraces her tightly, big arms wrapping around her so efficiently. It is his way to say yes, as he moves to the bed, and to the cradle where Orestis sleeps.
He still leaves at dawn, and she still feels as if fate will start to thunder down on her.