Thyestes Paul Murgatroyd

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: PAUL MURGATROYD

After a long career as a professor of Classics Paul retired 5 years ago and started writing novels and short stories. 29 of the latter have been published, along with 3 poems in English, over 50 of his Latin poems and performance versions of 2 Roman tragedies.

THYESTES

2b So in the first two generations of this house infanticide, impiety and cannibalism were succeeded by bribery, perjury and murder; but there is still more cruelty and horror in this grim saga. That sinister family curse started to operate in the next generation in connection with two of the sons – Atreus and Thyestes. They disputed the kingship of Mycenae. Initially Thyestes secured it by seducing Atreus’ wife (Aerope), so that with her help he could steal a marvellous lamb with a golden fleece which was the city’s ancient symbol of power. But Atreus recovered the throne by responding with an even greater marvel – making the sun reverse its course. He then banished Thyestes.

Years later Atreus found out about his wife’s adultery with Thyestes. Enraged, he expelled her and recalled his brother, pretending to be reconciled to him and ready to share the royal power with him. When Thyestes arrived, accompanied by his sons (usually three in number, but in some accounts two, or even twelve), Atreus secretly murdered the children, cooked the bodies and served them up to Thyestes as a meal, producing their heads (and in some versions also their hands) at the end to show his brother what he had just eaten. Atreus then exiled him again.

Thyestes heard later from an oracle that he would get vengeance if he had a son by his own daughter. Either not knowing who she was, or (according to a late Latin source) in full knowledge of her identity, he raped the young woman (Pelopia). She gave birth to a boy, named Aegisthus, and when he reached manhood, he went to Mycenae, assassinated Atreus and re-established Thyestes on the throne.

2c This segment of the mythical cycle was handled variously by Greek and Roman writers. The fullest treatment that has survived is a Latin tragedy by Seneca. His Thyestes is a bleak revenge-drama which portrays the dire consequences of anger and shows, in the figure of Atreus, the pleasure that some people derive from cruelty. It presents a dark vision of a universe without comfort, in which the gods do not care for humans, and reason and order are frail. It also raises issues which are still relevant today, such as the misuse of power by people in high places, the savagery and madness at the heart of ‘civilization’ and the triumph of evil in the world.

ATREUS’ ROLLERCOASTER RIDE in his own personal Game of Thrones

King Atreus, 23, the off-again on-again monarch of Mycenae has finally secured the throne for good and all the fame and fortune that goes with it estimated to be huge and in the gazillions.

Amid huge controversy over which of them should have the throne one of the battling brothers Thyestes, 22, suggested they give it to who ever had a lamb with a golden fleece!

Like a lamb to theslaughter Atreus agreed because he was sure he had the creature in question.

Imagine his surprize when hey presto sly Thy produced the creepy sheep, claimed the throne and told Atreus to go p*ss up a rope.

Atreus freeked out and fumed: “My life has been torn apart, this is a sickening crime, this is utter bullsh*t, the guy must have literally stolen it from me.’

An insider, claimed stunningly: Thyestes had a hot affair with atreus’ super glamorous wife Aerope, 24, and got his fling to hand over the bizarre baa-lamb, but don’t quote me on that.’

Atreus was not going to take that lying down (even if his wife was).

He dared his little brother: “hey how about handing over the throne if I can do the impossible and make the sun go backwards’

Thy fell for it. He’s like: What the hell bro? Bring it on.’

Atreus obviously has friends in high places becuase after a quick prayer by him the sun went into reverse and it was All Change!

One stunned subject gushed, “Omigod it was like awesome. I couldn’t believe it until I visually saw it. It was awesome, just awesome.”

Punny man Atrues said jokingly: ‘I’ve won my place in the sun. But the black sheep of the family is finished, caput, the loser, and he can get the f**k out of my kingdom he’s fired, banished.

Heartbroken ex-king ex-celeb Thyestes declined to comment as he headed off into exile, saying “Ugh, this has been a tough year for me, winning the crown entirely fairly and then having it stolen from me through a trick by that a**hole.”

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Homer’s Iliad not written by Homer but by another poet of that name.

Illustrious Hieron, some words for the wise:

Smith your tongue on the anvil of truth,

And pilot your subjects with a righteous rudder.

King Croesus’ smiling goodness does not die.

But hostile, hate-filled censure entombs

Atreus, the slave of rage, the father of falsehood,

Who with child-slaying, child-slicing hands

Served up horror to his brother – a banquet of boyflesh

That made the air go mad, the high heavens howl

And the Sun turn his chariot back, weeping tears of molten gold.

Such were the closing words of the poet’s victory-ode to celebrate Hieron’s triumph in the Pythian Games. A deeply suspicious man by nature, Hieron saw there a reference to his envy and hatred of Gelon, his much more famous brother. When the poem was performed at the victory celebrations in Syracuse, the tyrant pretended to be pleased with it. Publicly he praised the poet and presented him with a silver laurel wreath as a reward for his composition; but privately he ordered him to be ambushed and killed when he left Syracuse to return home. And this was done.

This is an authenticated translation of the above fragment of ancient Greek. The fragment, from the History of Diodorus Siculus, was stored for centuries in a French monastery and overlooked until the Nazis looted it in 1943. At the end of World War II it was seized by Major Andrei Cheogodaev in a trophy brigade set up by the Committee of Arts of the Council of the People’s Commissars of the USSR. Subsequently it was formally awarded to him in recognition of his sterling services to the state, and was eventually put on the market by his grandson in 2016. It was purchased by Zofffos International at a price of $10.3 million and thus rescued from obscurity. It has been put on display in this reception loggia for the edification of our valued clients as part of our ongoing campaign promoting the various cultures of the world and facilitating access to outstanding instances of our common artistic heritage.

THYESTSHES REVIEW: Feminae, the all-female dance troupe, present liberating subversion of phallocentric myth.

By way of an aptly dark prelude the audience pass through an unlit warehouse to get to the stage, where macho antipathy rules, as two ‘heroes’ in breastplates and velvet briefs posture and prance. Atreus (all in pink) and Thyestes (all in lilac) screech insults at each other, one in Greek, the other in Latin, until Aerope (Atreus’ first wife) enters and points a single finger at the two males to silence them. She is then joined by Naias (Thyestes’ wife) and Pelopia (Thyestes’ daughter, raped by him, and later married by Atreus). Encircling and ensorcelling their prey in a sensuous scarlet luminance, they dance silk-stepping seduction before a back-projection of some lines of Sappho (Daedal-throned, deathless Aphrodite, wile-weaving child of Zeus). Unmanned, the men are chained to a back wall and left there unlit and marginalized in their turn.

The three heroines fly free, jumping in explosions of sculptured energy to the soaring sound of the Ode to Joy. Soon they are joined by local women, and their acrobatic effervescence morphs into the mystical mountain-dancing of the Bacchantes (Bacchus’ fiercely independent female devotees), complete with Bacchic miracles, as they handle snakes and strike the ground to create

fountains of wine. Amid kaleidoscopic light-bursts they run riot in leaps of power and barrel turns, transported by Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, chaotic guitars and synth-based electronica. The marvels culminate in parthenogenesis, when the heroines lovingly couple and give birth to three identical daughters.

In the arresting finale the two ‘heroes’ are unchained for ritual sparagmos and omophagia, as the women and girls tear them apart and eat them raw – a digitally enhanced gorefest in which female audience members enthusiastically participated.

With its lyrical lighting, intensely expressive choreography and the indelible spirited performance by consummate danseurs, this is a powerful and provocative inversion of masculine dominance and virile violence.

SCENE SIX: THYESTES IN EXILE.

FADE IN:

1 EXT. DESOLATE WASTE WITH HUT – DAY.

2 EXT. THE HUT – ENTRANCE – DAY.

THYESTES stands frowning and staring at the stony grey waste, as a lone oboe plays the melancholy Thyestes Theme.

Close-up on his face – we see tears on his cheeks.

Extreme close-up on one tear – we see in it an image of the glittering palace at Mycenae, with Lion Gate, battlements, turrets and purple pennants rippling in the breeze.

We hear distant sounds of chatter, female laughter, clinking bottles and glasses, and flutes, pipes and lyres playing a lively tune.

The tear falls, the image disappears with it and the sounds are cut off, leaving silence.

FADE OUT.

Are you fucking kidding?? People won’t pay good money to see this arty farty SHIT!! Show them the orgy back in Mycenae – thighs, tits, fucking, with lots of close-ups and panting and moaning. Give me a hard on, son, a great big fucking boner!!!

Her robe slashed, her pale back speckled and streaked with blood, Queen Aerope was driven at spear-point away from her home, away from the daughter and sons who she loved so much, into a desolate wilderness. There the three burly soldiers beat her and left her, growling a warning never to return to Mycenae.

Felled, crushed, she couldn’t stop crying for her baby girl and her lovely boys. Finally, when she was empty, she struggled up and wandered away, her body clenched with grief, and wailed: ‘Never see them again.’ The further she wandered, away from her darlings, the greater her agony became. She started to scream, and her screams went on and on, echoed by the boulders, echoed by the crags.

The gold of her hair has dimmed, the rose of her lips has fled, but the beautiful queen is beautiful even in grief. She screams out agony, stumbling over mountain-ridges, staggering through valleys. She doesn’t feel the stones beneath her bare feet, she doesn’t feel the thorns and brambles that tear her tender flesh. All she feels is ferocious longing for the baby girl and the lovely boys she has lost.

Pained by her grief, all nature mourns. In the pastures plaintive laments are piped by shepherds; and nymphs’ silvery tears spatter on streams. Fawns stare at her with woeful eyes, wolves howl dolefully, and there are even sighs by lions. All the flowers hang their heads; all the grass goes pale with sorrow.

Still screaming, Aerope comes to a towering cliff by the sea. She tries to end her agony by hurling herself on to the rocks far below. But as she plunges down, a sea god transforms her. In mid-air her clothes flutter away, her snowy skin becomes white feathers and her arms turn into wings. She is a bird of the ocean, a beautiful gull, that swoops down to the waves and soars up into the sky, screaming.

ever. To this day the seagull screams, in grief for the baby girl and the lovely boys she has lost for

[Enter the CHORUS in black robes and white masks. They occupy centre-stage, forming a crescent in front of the palace and raising their right arms to heaven.]

CHORUS: Who could believe what’s beyond all belief? Atreus forgave his beloved brother

And summoned him here to share his throne.

Some god has smothered the threat of invasion,

The fear of war, which was worse than war.

Martial weapons were clanging just now,

Weeping mothers were clinging to children,

And white-faced girls were afraid for their lovers

On guard on our walls and trembling with terror.

But a god has created calm from that chaos.

Pain and pleasure pass in turn,

And God finds a way for –THE PALACE [voiceover]: Are you kidding. There are no gods. Or, if there are, they’re cruel bastards, with a pitch-black sense of humour. If these walls could speak, they say. Well, these walls can. Not that any of you stupid sods will listen. Look, Atreus doesn’t love his brother – he hates his bloody brother. The herald was just a trick. A servant told him about Thyestes joining giblets with Aerope, so he’s summoned him back for revenge – boil-in-the-bag babies, Kentucky-fried children…Oi, I’m talking to you lot. Oi…Oh I give up. Uh-oh, here comes Thyestes himself, returning to the scene of the crime.

[Enter THYESTES and the children, stage left.]

What have you come back here for, Thyestes? Did you forget your arse or something? What would you do without that? Wouldn’t be able to think at all, now would you? Look, he sends you a herald to say he wants to make it up, you are brothers after all, he’ll share the throne with you and so on – silver-tongued, honey-voiced horseshit. And you fell for it, you gullible, greedy dickhead! It’s a trap. He knows you were slipping his missus a length, and now he wants to get even. Go back, Thyestes. Never darken my door again. For your own sake…No, on he comes, the stupid bloody pillock.

[Enter Atreus, stage right.]

And now out comes Atreus to greet him. It’ll all end in tears, believe me. Blood on the walls, literally. Piss off, Thyestes, sling your hook, and take your brats with you…No, in he goes, arm in

arm with his brother, the murderer, the master-chef…What a frigging family! It’s so demeaning. Palaces have feelings too, you know. It’s terrible, this – being a royal residence and having toe-jam like this for residents. Oh the shame, the shame.

One day Chinky rushed up to the children and said: ‘The wishing-chair is sprouting wings again. Come on, quick, before it flies off without us!’ Peter and Mollie shouted: ‘Hurrah, we’re off on another thrilling adventure,’ and hurried off with the pixie. They all got on the chair, just in time, and it whisked them away.

This time the wishing-chair flew backwards, and a harp played and everything around them went wavy. It flew for ages and ages. At last they could make out a big castle ahead of them.

‘I hope that’s not a giant’s castle,’ murmured Chinky nervously. Mollie said: ‘I hope there aren’t any nasty Grabbit Gnomes there.’ But the chair landed in a big hall where two men were just sitting down to a meal. One of them was talking to the other one in a language the children didn’t know. ‘Oh dear,’ said Peter, ‘I wish I could follow what he’s saying.’ ‘You can,’ said a voice behind him. ‘And you can hear what he’s thinking too. I am the wizard Ho-ho, and I have a spell for that.’ He chanted his spell, and suddenly they could understand what the man was saying, and what he was thinking to himself. This is what they heard.

‘Now then, King Thyestes, make yourself comfortable. This is a special meal, in celebration of our joint kingship. [Steal my kingdom, would you, you bastard, steal my wife?] I’ve sacrificed some kids to thank the gods for our reconciliation, and I’ve personally supervised the cooking of the meat, to make sure it’s just right…Here it comes. Smell that aroma! Is your mouth watering? Mine too…Pile his plate high, Chloe…Now, little brother, get that down you. Eat, eat as much as you can, please…[Ha ha, what a fool, falling for the friendly act, and greedy too – cramming great chunks of meat into his mouth, his tomb of a mouth.] Enjoying that? [Enjoying bolting down your boys? God, this is funny.] Good, good. Don’t bother talking, just eat. And don’t worry about me. I’m just enjoying watching you eat. I’ll eat something later. [But not that. I don’t eat roast relative.] Beautifully tender flesh, isn’t it? Soft as a baby’s bottom…Here, have some wine to wash it down, a noble red. [It’s got your sons’ blood in it, to

give it some body.] It’s an amusing little wine, if a bit immature and boyish. [Look at him chewing his children, licking his lads’ fat from his lips – mustn’t laugh.] You should slow down a bit now, masticate each mouthful carefully, really enjoy your food. [Savour the flavour of your brats.]…Had enough? Oh go on, force down a bit more, just to please me…Good…You’re probably wondering about your boys…No, they’re not outside, they’re inside, definitely inside. Actually they’re here, in this room with us. Do you want to see them? [I’ll splinter that satisfied smile of yours, you bastard.] Yes? Chloe, bring that basket over…Open it…Have a good look inside, little brother…In our rather different ways now we’ve both got our own back, tee hee.’ Suddenly Chinky broke in and shouted: ‘Look at the chair. It’s rocking forwards and backwards and making whooping noises. Let’s get on it quick. I think it’s going to fly off.’ They all got on the chair, and Mollie said: ‘Go on, wishing-chair, take us home.’ As the chair flew off at speed, she asked Peter: ‘What was that man on about?’ ‘Beats me,’ said Peter, ‘How would I know? I’m only 5. Or am I 7? Too young anyway. Did you understand, Chinky?’ ‘Of course I fu-…er, NO,’ said Chinky, white-faced.

When they got back home, Peter said: ‘I must say that was a boring adventure, perfectly vapid. Anyway I’m really hungry after seeing and smelling all that yummy food. I wish he’d offered us some. Anyway let’s have some sweeties now. I’m going to gobble down lots and lots of jelly babies.’

Mollie said: ‘I don’t know which I’d rather eat – chocolate fingers or Fry’s Five Boys.’ ‘Oh shit,’ muttered Chinky, who had got some colour back by now – his face had turned quite green.

‘One of the most arresting examples of the revenge drama in antiquity is Seneca’s Thyestes. Some critics feel that the violence goes too far and accuse Seneca of crude sensationalism. But that is to misinterpret the author’s highly moral intentions, which thoroughly justify the extremes of cruelty. By way of illustration the following extract is taken from the messenger speech in that play, specially adapted for radio. Listener discretion is advised.’ ‘Wet-lipped with bloodlust, the king acted as priest himself, intoned the death-prayer, the murder-chant, and prepared his shivering victims for slaughter, their tiny hands tied behind their

backs. The altar heaved, the holy wine turned into frothing blood, and a star streaked darkly through the sky. These portents terrified everybody but Atreus.

He plunged the knife into one of the lads, drove it right in until his hand slammed against the soft throat. When he pulled it out, with a sucking sound, the dead boy stayed upright for several seconds, then swayed, and toppled on to his uncle.

The savage seized another child, hacked off his head and hurled it away, still sobbing and pleading.

Unsated, he thudded the blade into the third body, punched it out the other side. The little lad crumpled on to the altar, with fatal wounds in his chest and back. Spurting blood splashed and doused the sacred flames.

What came next was even worse.

While their hearts are still throbbing, he chops his nephews into chunks, cleaves shoulders, arms, severs sinews, joints, bones. He sets aside the oozing heads; the rest…he cooks. Some of the flesh is stuck on spits, and sits dripping over a slow fire; livers sputter and squeal on skewers; other bits bubble in a boiling cauldron. The flames recoil, and burn grudgingly, emit a stinking, bitter-tasting smoke, that hangs heavy, and smothers.’

three small figures dim down a frowning path

taste morbid cold and black

sheep’s blood in the vestibule towering jaws scaly with decay

Fear Grief Diseases

blurred faces clouds in their mouths

gibbers of silence

dreams cluster beneath leaves dreaming deceit

sudden hiss of Hydra

tortured branches clutch and titter

at the River of Hate

rot of reeds and

a pleading seethe of souls

beyond Charon’s glaring eyes of fire.

The eldest brother whispers:

‘We’re dead, aren’t we? This is Hades.’ They huddle together and sob.

Hi Hilka, you never saw my best painting, my very best painting, and now you never will, I’m very sad to say. I cant even send you a picture of it, as it was destroyed. Christ. So I’m going to describe it for you so you can at least visualize it. I still can’t quite believe its gone, a bloody fucking tragedy, a devastating loss, but if you can picture it then it will live on. Sort of. In a way.

It was a 16 by 20 feet depiction of the greek hero Thyestes unwittingly feasting on his sons, killed, cooked and sreved up to him by his evil brother Atrues. I entitled it STUFFED, it was a pungent comment on rampant consumerism and its disastrous effect on the environment and posterity. A crowded canvas and a garish palette, a truly apocalyptic vision, I worked onit for 3 years put me heart and soul into it all for bloody nothing. Anyway Atreus dominated hovering over Thyestes and pulling his strings with taloned fingers. In place of a crown I gave the king a pink baseball cap , with CEO ATREUS INTERNATIONAL on it, and a clashing purple halo. I also gave him a manically grinning deaths head for a face with a black eye-patch, a clown’s red nose and smoldering banknotes coming out of his plutocratic earholes. To show complicity Thyestes also had only one eye and a red nose But he had on top of a massively bloated human body a donkey’s head. An oilwell fork in his hand, he was staring at a basket that had been opened too reveal the heads of his sons he’d just eaten, and he was starting to vomit from between tombstone teeth a polychromatic cascade of fingers feet, entrails, credit cards, krugerrands, designer accessories etc. The floor was littered with dead animals and fish and insects and though a skewed window you could see the half submerged houses of parliament and beyond them a great forest on fire. Then I had a brainwave. To accentuate death and destruction I spattered great gouts of blood all over it and tore a jagged rent in the canvas from top to bottom. Effectively violent and violently effective. Loved it, Christ I bloody loved that painting.

I wish you could have seen it. I could say a lot more about t but words can’t really do justice to its power, but at least you have some idea of it now. Bold grotesque, disgusting, food for thought. I painted it in 2015 as a warning not that anybody payed any attention. Anyway I lost it yesterday. A gang broke in and cleaned out the house and then got into my studio. They pissed on some of my paintings and made a bonfire of the rest and my books. Bloody animals. When I called them barbarians they broke my right arm in two places with a crowbar. Having established first that I am right handed. Bastards bloody fucking bastards. I’m typing this letter with my left with difficulty. No doctors around here so no more painting for me. Ever again. Shit shit shit. And the pain. Really bad pain. Then they superglued my forehead to my desk and shoved bits of plastic bags in my ears and were going to light them but saw a rival gang passing and ran off to attack them. I hope they wiped each other out the bloody bastards. I had to rip off skin to get free, and that really hurts too. I can understand them taking the food and drink but not the paintings and my arm. Why in christs name do that. O I know for the most part it was only ever a patina of civilisation but now with the climate catastrophe even thats gone. Just barbarism now animals forces of darkness. Lost all my family and friends apart from you, and now this. On top of cripppling heat, famin, anarchy the government wholed up in the isle of man, corpses everywhere in the streets, with bits hacked of them, poison air and permanent brown smudge on the horizon they say the north sea garbage patch is on fire. Its all so ugly and pepressing I just cant go on I don’t see the point to dragging out a misrable existence dying by inches starve to death in agony. Glad now my poor janet died and spared all this. I’m going to join hre now.

Hilka I’m afraid this will be my last email to you. Please please don’t feel sad for me. I’m going to put on tchaikovskys sixth knock back my my last bottle of Beaujolai, well hidden that was, and slash my wrists. Thanks you for your friendship, hilka, our emails have meant so much to me –intellectual stimulation in a cultural wasteland. Hope things are beter up there in finland wont be so bloody hot all the time. You didn’t answer my last two emails hope your just bust writing an other short story or may be a novel best of luck with that. Try to visualize my painting evry day so it can live on a bit longer until the world ends. All my love, max

Paul Murgatroyd