Dear All,
Thank you so much for your support for THE ARROW OF APOLLO. The book is now 20 per cent funded, and I am immensely grateful for all the kind pledges that you have given.
The book, as you know, features the children of Aeneas (leader of the Trojans) and Orestes (the son of Agamemnon). If you have read the extract on the Unbound website, you will have met Silvius, son of Aeneas. Now I'd like to introduce you to Orestes' eldest son: Tisamenos, in an extract taken from CHAPTER TWO.
From THE ARROW OF APOLLO by Philip Womack
A thousand miles away from Lavinium, beyond harsh mountains and across the seas, the ancient royal city of Mykenai rose high, brooding between two hills overlooking the wide plains of Argos. The vast stone blocks of the city wall, so big they might have been made by giants, encircled the whole, and a pair of giant stone lions stood guard, set into the lintel over the way into the citadel.
Right in the centre of the citadel was the kinghouse, built in a time beyond living memory.
Here, in a corner of the entrance hall, obscured in shadows, the boy Tisamenos lurked.
His father Orestes was leading his new bride across the threshold. Leaning against the damp, crumbling stone wall, Tisamenos clenched his fist, though he was careful to stay out of the torchlight spilling from the many brackets lining the walls.
Orestes, already stumbling a little, his garland askew on his greying blond hair, cheeks flushed, whilst his slender young wife Erigone, moving slowly, beamed, her hands proudly clasped on her heavily pregnant belly, fingers glinting with jewelled rings.
Finely-dressed guests were thronging the bridal pair, throwing nuts and flowers at them, quaffing from golden goblets of wine, belching and singing. Somebody slipped on a grape and almost fell, and was righted by a giggling flute-player.
A lyre-player, strolling about, sang of the wedding of a sea-goddess. Kinghouse servants flitted everywhere, carrying silver plates of dates and finely-worked jugs brimming with the sweetest wine from the well-stocked cellars. The spits had been working overtime, and the delicious scents of roasting cattle drifted through the corridors.
Tisamenos bit his fingernail, and tugged on a length of his blond hair, which fell down to his shoulders.
The bride, Erigone, was tall, with bony limbs and long brown hair. She must have sensed Tisamenos’ gaze, as she paused, looked over her shoulder, and saw him.
‘Why do you skulk, my son? I can call you that, now, can’t I?’ She spoke politely, and smiled, the thin insipid smile that Tisamenos hated so much. He turned away, and Erigone made a little moue of disappointment.
‘Now now, we’ll have no more of that my boy,’ shouted Orestes, raising his goblet. He limped towards his son, wincing at an old injury. Tall, the King of Mykenai’s chiselled features were beginning to soften into flabbiness. ‘Come now, and rejoice with your new mother!’
Tisamenos couldn’t help himself. The rage was burning within him fiercely, and it blazed out. ‘No. I won’t rejoice with her, or you, or anyone.’ His voice, unnaturally loud, cut above the joyous bustle, and the procession of guests, laughing, paused to observe what was happening. ‘Isn’t that Orestes’s pup?’ scoffed someone, causing a roar of anticipation to billow through the crowd.
The flame of rebellion coursed deeper inside Tisamenos. ‘I won’t!’ He stepped into the centre of the pillared hall, facing up to Orestes, ignoring the guests. He pointed at Erigone. ‘She is not my mother.’
‘Tisamenos, please…’ said Orestes, quietly.
‘My mother was Hermione, daughter of Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world.’
‘Your mother is dead, my dear,’ said Erigone, gently. ‘She has been dead for a year, and it is time for your father to find a new wife.’ It was the wrong thing to say, but Erigone was never known for her tact.
‘A year! She was barely in her tomb when you jumped into his bed!’
Erigone covered her hands with her mouth, exaggerating her shock. ‘Have him beaten!’ she said, sharply. ‘And this happens on my wedding day!’ She began to weep, a hand to her forehead, and her attendants fussed around her.
Two servants moved tentatively towards Tisamenos, but he eluded them, and, blindly, ran at Orestes. He tussled with his father for a moment or two, then beat his fists against the soft wedding robe. Orestes, holding him by the shoulder, simply gazed at him, while Tisamenos pounded as hard as he could. His father did not react, and, almost sobbing, Tisamenos stood back, letting his arms drop uselessly.
‘Go now,’ said Orestes, quietly. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’
‘Don’t think you can just get rid of me! It’s not finished!’ Tisamenos was shouting through tears.
‘I tell you, go.’ Orestes spoke more urgently.
Tisamenos, ignoring him, addressed the whole lot of them, holding his arms up as he had seen the rhetors do in the agora. ‘Hermione was murdered. I know it! And I’ll prove it!’