Agamemnon's Return

              Clytemnestra sat quietly on Agamemnon’s throne lost in thought. She had occupied this throne - and had taken full advantage of all the benefits that came with it - for ten years. Now her time of reign was running short. The smoke signals announcing her husband’s impending return meant that, once again, he would occupy this seat. His frame would more adequately fill the massive golden throne. His footsteps would echo more loudly through the expansive palace. His return would be celebrated with elaborate parties, which would fill this room for hours. Table after table after table would be covered with every delicacy Mycenae had to offer. Revelers would toast the king from gold and silver cups until they were so full of drink they could no longer lift the cups to their lips. Music and laughter would fill the space and Agamemnon would rule over the debauchery with delight.
         Until then, though, this room belonged to her and her alone. She placed her hands on the seat of the throne as she did not have the wingspan to reach the arm rests. The shine from the throne made it feel slick. When she sat back she could see, out of the corner of her eye, the inlaid jewels on the back of the throne - every brightly colored jewel one could think of so as to match the brightness of the rest of the room.
         She stared at the hearth in the center of the room. One of the servants had started a large fire and the smoke billowed upward and through a small opening in the ceiling before escaping to the outside. Through the smoke she could see the wall directly opposite her, which was covered with paintings created painstakingly by hand. They depicted many of Agamemnon’s greatest moments, as well as those of his ancestors, and the smoke from the fire added to the authentic feel of the epic battles depicted on the wall. Intricately drawn battle scenes with Agamemnon as the warrior king, his sword raised to strike down his enemies. Scenes of the Mycenaean people in brightly colored robes, on their knees giving thanks to their king with offers of gold, large jars of oil and their finest livestock. Yet more scenes of Agamemnon making the required sacrifices to the gods, the droplets of blood on his sword looking eerily similar to the rubies of the throne.  No doubt more scenes would be added depicting his most recent adventures in Troy. Clytemnestra was sure there would be no paintings of the sacrifice her husband made before he left to fight. Perhaps she would add his death scene to his wall of fame.
         She slid off the throne and placed her bare feet on the cold stucco floor. As she slowly walked toward the giant hearth the bumps of the stucco turned from cold to warm. She leaned against one of the large wooden columns that held up the tiled ceiling above and followed the circumference of the hearth with her eyes. This was where she had first placed her head on the cold stones of the hearth and wept for her daughter. This was where she had governed the kingdom in Agamemnon’s place. Many a time she had greeted visitors in this room and watched as their eyes took in its magnificence.  From the frescoes on the wall around the room to the red, orange, blue and gold tiles on the rest of the walls and ceiling, which provided their own light for the room from their brightness. They would settle at the hearth, which made its presence felt simply by its sheer size.
         Soon, though, she would become almost like a visitor here herself. Her seat would no longer be the great golden throne, but one of the much smaller replicas created to make guests feel like they were important. It was too much to think about. She had held the power in this country for far too long to simply turn it back over to the man who had so easily served up her daughter to the gods. She could not tolerate it; she would not. Something would have to be done.