The Oresteia: Agamemnon, the Libation-Bearers & the Furies (16 page)

 

CHORUS:

Ten years gone, ten to the day
our great avenger went for Priam -
Menelaus and lord Agamemnon,
two kings with the power of Zeus,
the twin throne, twin sceptre,
Atreus’ sturdy yoke of sons
launched Greece in a thousand ships, so
armadas cutting loose from the land,
armies massed for the cause, the rescue -

 

the heart within them screamed for all-out war I
Like vultures robbed of their young,
the agony sends them frenzied,
soaring high from the nest, round and
round they wheel, they row their wings,
stroke upon churning thrashing stroke,
but all the labour, the bed of pain,
the young are lost forever.
Yet someone hears on high - Apollo,
Pan or Zeus - the piercing wail
these guests of heaven raise,
and drives at the outlaws, late
but true to revenge, a stabbing Fury!

So towering Zeus the god of guests
drives Atreus’ sons at Paris,
all for a woman manned by many
the generations wrestle, knees
grinding the dust, the manhood drains,
the spear snaps in the first blood rites
that marry Greece and Troy.
And now it goes as it goes
and where it ends is Fate.
And neither by singeing flesh
nor tipping cups of wine
nor shedding burning tears can you
enchant away the rigid Fury.

We arc the old, dishonoured ones,
the broken husks of men.
Even then they cast us off,
the rescue mission left us here
to prop a child’s strength upon a stick.
What if the new sap rises in his chest?
He has no soldiery in him,
no more than we,
and we are aged past ageing,
gloss of the leaf shrivelled,
three legs at a time we falter on.
Old men are children once again,
a dream that sways and wavers
into the hard light of day.
But you,
daughter of Leda, queen Clytaemnestra,
what now, what news, what message
drives you through the citadel
burning victims? Look,
the city gods, the gods of Olympus,
gods of the earth and public markets -
all the altars blazing with your gifts!
Argos blazes! Torches
race the sunrise up her skies -
drugged by the lulling holy oils,
unadulterated,
run from the dark vaults of kings.
Tell us the news !
What you can, what is right -
Heal us, soothe our fears!
Now the darkness comes to the fore,
now the hope glows through your victims,
beating back this raw, relentless anguish
gnawing at the heart.

O but I still have power to sound the god’s command at the
roads
that launched the kings. The gods breathe power through
my song,
my fighting strength, Persuasion grows with the years -
I sing how the flight of fury hurled the twin command,
one will that hurled young Greece
and winged the spear of vengeance straight for Troy!
The kings of birds to kings of the beaking prows, one black,
one with a blaze of silver
skimmed the palace spearhand right
and swooping lower, all could see,
plunged their claws in a hare, a mother
bursting with unborn young - the babies spilling,
quick spurts of blood - cut off the race just dashing into life!
Cry, cry for death, but good win out in glory in the end.
But the loyal seer of the armies studied Atreus’ sons,
two sons with warring hearts - he saw two eagle-kings
devour the hare and spoke the things to come,
‘Years pass, and the long hunt nets the city of Priam,
the flocks beyond the walls,
a kingdom’s life and soul - Fate stamps them out.
Just let no curse of the gods lour on us first,
shatter our giant armour
forged to strangle Troy. I see
pure Artemis bristle in pity-
yes, the flying hounds of the Father
slaughter for armies . . . their own victim . . a woman
trembling young, all born to die- She loathes the eagles’ feast !’
Cry, cry for death, but good win out in glory in the end.
‘Artemis, lovely Artemis, so kind
to the ravening lion’s tender, helpless cubs,
the suckling young of beasts that stalk the wilds -
bring this sign for all its fortune,
all its brutal torment home to birth!
I beg you, Healing Apollo, soothe her before
her crosswinds hold us down and moor the ships too long,
pressing us on to another victim . . .
nothing sacred, no
no feast to be eaten
the architect of vengeance

growing strong in the house
with no fear of the husband
here she waits
the terror raging back and back in the future
the stealth, the law of the hearth, the mother -
Memory womb of Fury child-avenging Fury!‘
So as the eagles wheeled at the crossroads,
Calchas clashed out the great good blessings mixed with doom
for the halls of kings, and singing with our fate
we cry, cry for death, but good win out in glory in the end.

 

Zeus, great nameless all in all,
if that name will gain his favour,
I will call him Zeus.
I have no words to do him justice,
weighing all in the balance,
all I have is Zeus, Zeus -
lift this weight, this torment from my spirit,
cast it once for all.

 

He who was so mighty once,
storming for the wars of heaven,
he has had his day.
And then his son who came to power
met his match in the third fall
and he is gone. Zeus, Zeus -
raise your cries and sing him Zeus the Victor!
You will reach the truth:

 

Zeus has led us on to know,
the Helmsman lays it down as law
that we must suffer, suffer into truth.
We cannot sleep, and drop by drop at the heart
the pain of pain remembered comes again,
and we resist, but ripeness comes as well.
From the gods enthroned on the awesome rowing-bench
there comes a violent love.

 

So it was that day the king,
the steersman at the helm of Greece,
would never blame a word the prophet said -
swept away by the wrenching winds of fortune
he conspired! Weatherbound we could not sail,
our stores exhausted, fighting strength hard-pressed,
and the squadrons rode in the shallows off Chalkis
where the riptide crashes, drags,

 

and winds from the north pinned down our hulls at Aulis,
port of anguish . . . head winds starving,
sheets and the cables snapped
and the men’s minds strayed,
the pride, the bloom of Grcece
was raked as time ground on,
ground down, and then the cure for the storm
and it was harsher - Calchas cried,
‘My captains, Artemis must have blood!’ -
so harsh the sons of Atreus
dashed their sceptres on the rocks,
could not hold back the tears,

 

and I still can hear the older warlord saying,
‘Obey, obey, or a heavy doom will crush me! -
Oh but doom
will
crush me
once I rend my child,
the glory of my house -
a father’s hands are stained,
blood of a young girl streaks the altar.
Pain both ways and what is worse?
Desert the fleets, fail the alliance?
No, but stop the winds with a virgin’s blood,
feed their lust, their fury? - feed their fury! -
Law is law ! -
Let all go well.’

 

And once he slipped his neck in the strap of Fate,
his spirit veering black, impure, unholy,
once he turned he stopped at nothing,
seized with the frenzy
blinding driving to outrage -
wretched frenzy, cause of all our grief!
Yes, he had the heart
to sacrifice his daughter,
to bless the war that avenged a woman’s loss,
a bridal rite that sped the men-of-war.

 

‘My father, father !’ - she might pray to the winds;
no innocence moves her judges mad for war.
Her father called his henchmen on,
on with a prayer,
‘Hoist her over the altar
like a yearling, give it all your strength!
She’s fainting - lift her,
sweep her robes around her,
but slip this strap in her gentle curving lips . . .
here, gag her hard, a sound will curse the house’-

 

and the bridle chokes her voice . . . her saffron robes
pouring over the sand
her glance like arrows showering
wounding every murderer through with pity
clear as a picture, live,
she strains to call their names . . .
I remember often the days with father’s guests
when over the feast her voice unbroken,
pure as the hymn her loving father
bearing third libations, sang to Saving Zeus -
transfixed with joy, Atreus’ offspring
throbbing out their love.

 

What comes next? I cannot see it, cannot say.
The strong techniques of Calchas do their work.
But Justice turns the balance scales,
sees that we suffer
and we suffer and we learn.
And we will know the future when it comes.
Greet it too early, weep too soon.
It all comes clear in the light of day.
Let all go well today, well as she could want,

our midnight watch, our lone defender,
single-minded queen.

 

LEADER:

We’ve come,
Clytaemnestra. We respect your power.
Right it is to honour the warlord’s woman
once he leaves the throne.
But why these fires?
Good news, or more good hopes? We’re loyal,
we want to hear, but never blame your silence.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Let the new day shine — as the proverb says -
glorious from the womb of Mother Night.

You will hear a joy beyond your hopes.
Priam’s citadel - the Greeks have taken Troy!

 

LEADER:

No, what do you mean? I can’t believe it.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Troy is ours. Is that clear enough?

 

LEADER:

The joy of it,
stealing over me, calling up my tears -

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Yes, your eyes expose your loyal hearts.

 

LEADER:

And you have proof?

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

I do,
I must. Unless the god is lying.

 

LEADER:

That,
or a phantom spirit sends you into raptures.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

No one takes me in with visions — senseless dreams.

 

LEADER:

Or giddy rumour, you haven’t indulged yourself -

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA :

You treat me like a child, you mock me?

 

LEADER:

Then when did they storm the city?

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Last night, I say, the mother of this morning.

 

LEADER:

And who on earth could run the news so fast?

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

The god of fire - rushing fire from Ida!
And beacon to beacon rushed it on to me,
my couriers riding home the torch.
From Troy
to the bare rock of Lemnos, Hermes’ Spur,
and the Escort winged the great light west
to the Saving Father’s face, Mount Athos hurled it
third in the chain and leaping Ocean’s back
the blaze went dancing on to ecstasy - pitch-pine
streaming gold like a new-born sun - and brought
the word in flame to Mount Makistos’ brow.
No time to waste, straining, fighting sleep,
that lookout heaved a torch glowing over
the murderous straits of Euripos to reach
Messapion’s watchmen craning for the signal.
Fire for word of fire ! tense with the heather
withered gray, they stack it, set it ablaze -
the hot force of the beacon never flags,
it springs the Plain of Asôpos, rears
like a harvest moon to hit Kithairon’s crest
and drives new men to drive the fire on.
That relay pants for the far-flung torch,
they swell its strength outstripping my commands
and the light inflames the marsh, the Gorgon’s Eye,
it strikes the peak where the wild goats range -
my laws, my fire whips that camp !
They spare nothing, eager to build its heat,
and a huge beard of flame overcomes the headland
beetling down the Saronic Gulf, and flaring south
it brings the dawn to the Black Widow’s face -
the watch that looms above your heads - and now
the true son of the burning flanks of Ida
crashes on the roofs of Atreus’ sons I
And I ordained it all.
Torch to torch, running for their lives,
one long succession racing home my fire.
One,
first in the laps and last, wins out in triumph.
There you have my proof,
my
burning sign, I tell you -
the power my lord passed on from Troy to me!

 

LEADER:

We’ll thank the gods, my lady - first this story,
let me lose myself in the wonder of it all !
Tell it start to finish, tell us all.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

The city’s ours - in our hands this very day!
I can hear the cries in crossfire rock the walls.
Pour oil and wine in the same bowl,
what have you, friendship? A struggle to the end.
So with the victors and the victims - outcries,
you can hear them clashing like their fates.

 

They are kneeling by the bodies of the dead,
embracing men and brothers, infants over
the aged loins that gave them life, and sobbing,
as the yoke constricts their last free breath,
for every dear one lost.
And the others,
there, plunging breakneck through the night-
the labour of battle sets them down, ravenous,
to breakfast on the last remains of Troy.
Not by rank but chance, by the lots they draw,
they lodge in the houses captured by the spear,
settling in so soon, released from the open sky,
the frost and dew. Lucky men, off guard at last,
they sleep away their first good night in years.
If only they are revering the city’s gods,
the shrines of the gods who love the conquered land,
no plunderer will be plundered in return.
Just let no lust, no mad desire seize the armies
to ravish what they must not touch -
overwhelmed by all they’ve won!
The run for home
and safety waits, the swerve at the post,
the final lap of the gruelling two-lap race.
And even if the men come back with no offence
to the gods, the avenging dead may never rest -
Oh let no new disaster strike! And here
you have it, what a woman has to say.
Let the best win out, clear to see.
A small desire but all that I could want.