King of Ithaca (27 page)

‘She must be wonderful,’ Odysseus said, ‘if she can make bards out of the toughest warriors.’

‘She is, my friend, and she does. I’m no man of words – my spear talks well enough for me – but even the simplest soldier has to spend hours and days trying to dress her up in words. All of us fail, of course, and our princes and kings fare no better; but if we don’t try to comprehend her in some way – to contain her within words if you like – then we’d lose our minds.’

Eperitus thought of Athena in her full immortal brilliance as he had seen her by the moon-silvered spring, and wondered if Helen had a similar effect on mortal eyes. Although he had not thought of Athena as beautiful, this was only because he did not consider the physical aspect of her being. As a goddess she was but one thing and one thing only: glorious. He had hardly been able to look at her, because in her was the immeasurable, unattainable, incomprehensible essence of perfection. She had lacked only the one shade of absolute supremacy, which belonged to Zeus himself, whom no mortal can witness in his true form and live.

‘You might be fortunate enough to see her this evening,’ Peisandros added, ‘and then you can judge for yourselves. I’ve discussed her with others in my troop and we all see something different. For me she has something of the moon in her: a hard, cold, ageless beauty, aloof and alone in a world of darkness.
You
might see the brilliance of the sun, the source of the rest of your life. Or she may remind you of the sea – she does others – with a beauty that goes on for ever and is too deep to fathom. She’s all of these things, I can tell you, and much more beyond your understanding. But I warn you, too: to see her is also a curse. I’ll never forget her, not even when my tortured soul is sent to the halls of Hades, where they say everything is forgotten. It makes me sad to know the world I once loved will never hold the same wonder as it did before, because
she
’s taken its place in my heart. There’s some kind of witchcraft in her to do that in a man.’

He fell silent and looked out over the valley again. Could Helen really have that effect on men? Eperitus wondered. Part of him did not want to find out – would rather he walk out of that palace of the damned before it was too late. But the stronger part was intrigued by Peisandros’s words.

‘Come now,’ Odysseus said. ‘Surely you don’t mean the girl practises the dark arts.’

Peisandros cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t,’ he said, ‘but there’s no doubt it runs in the family.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Eperitus, leaning forward.

Peisandros turned to the two men and gave them a dark stare. ‘I mean there are a lot of rumours about Leda, Helen’s mother, and even more about Clytaemnestra. I’ve heard it said all Leda’s children were born from eggs, and that’s strange enough, but few question that Clytaemnestra is a follower of the old gods. She and Helen are as different as night and day, of course, but it doesn’t mean Helen doesn’t have something strange in her blood. It would explain the way she can bend any man to her will.’

Eperitus looked at Odysseus, who returned his gaze but revealed nothing of what was in his mind.

‘Then let’s talk no more of women, Peisandros,’ the prince said. ‘Tell us about the other suitors – who they are and where they’ve come from.’

‘There’s already too many to remember,’ Peisandros laughed, ‘and more arrive every day. But I’ll name the most famous – all powerful and from good stock. First to come was Agamemnon, son of Atreus and king of Mycenae. You’ve met Clytaemnestra, so you already know he hasn’t come as a suitor: he’s here to support his brother’s claim.’

‘Menelaus? I already know about him,’ Odysseus murmured.

‘And a fine man he is, too. Rumour says he’s already been chosen as Helen’s husband. But that’s just gossip between the men, of course,’ Peisandros added, remembering Odysseus was a suitor. ‘What would we know of politics, after all?

‘Then there’s Nauplius’s son, Palamedes. He has a face like a rat, but Helen couldn’t wish for a more intelligent and inventive husband. Then there’s Idomeneus, king of Crete and son of Deucalion. He has all the attributes a woman could want: strength, courage, wealth and power. Good looks, too. Next comes Menestheus, son of Peteos. His father made him king of Athens at a young age and now he’s come here to find a wife worthy of his position. Athens is an ambitious state, and he’s confident Helen will be his.

‘The most recent arrival, other than yourselves, is King Diomedes of Argos, Tydeus’s son. He arrived this morning, refusing refreshment or rest so that he could join the boar hunt. When I saw him walk through the gates, I thought a god had come to preside over the festivities. I tell you now, if he isn’t chosen as Helen’s husband – if you’ll forgive me saying so, Odysseus – then Tyndareus has already made up his mind and this whole gathering is a charade.’

At that point they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in the streets below, accompanied by the shouts and laughter of a multitude of men. The hunters were returning in good spirits.

‘Roast boar tonight then,’ Peisandros said, leaning over the balcony and trying to catch a glimpse of the returning warriors.

‘I’d expect no less,’ Eperitus commented, joining him. ‘If the best warriors in Greece can’t spear a couple of boars, then who can?’

The Myrmidon laughed. ‘Just as long as they aren’t trying to spear each other, that’s all I care about.’

The great hall of the palace at Sparta dwarfed Laertes’s throne room back on Ithaca, easily accommodating the hundreds of guests and slaves who were busy with the night’s feast. At its centre were four painted columns of wide girth, supporting a ceiling so high that it was almost lost in shadow. A great pall of smoke gathered there from the central fire, curling about the rafters like a serpent upon the branches of a tree.

Every room in the palace complex was clean, roomy and magnificently decorated. The walls abounded with an endless variety of animals, birds, fishes and plants, skilfully depicted in vibrant colours that made the creatures seem alive as they stalked each other between bushes and trees, lakes and rivers. But these were only the commonplace designs, used to enrich the hundreds of functional rooms that filled the palace. The more important rooms such as the great hall and the royal quarters were decorated with scenes from legendary battles or stories concerning the gods. Some pictured mythical creatures, whilst others showed human figures at work or play: there were naked boys running foot races; others wrestling or boxing; yet more competing with javelin or discus. It was a place of such wealth and luxury that the halls of Olympus itself would have struggled to surpass it.

The hunters’ return had filled the palace with the hubbub of many people. Odysseus kept his men confined to their rooms on the upper floor, but outside they could hear the many kings and princes disperse to their separate quarters to bathe and put on fresh clothing. Only when Clytaemnestra, still dressed in black, came to bid them join the feast at her father’s request did the Ithacans leave and descend the broad steps to the floors below.

Filing out across the central courtyard towards the entrance to the great hall, they passed the carcasses of scores of bullocks, sacrificed to bring the blessings of the gods and feed the many revellers whom the four or five roasted boar would not. The blood ran down in thick rivulets across the muddy floor and gathered in pools of deep red. The smoke from the burned thigh-bones and fat which the priests had offered up to the gods choked the air and put a pall over the face of the early evening moon.

Before Odysseus and his men had even left their rooms the sound of the feasting had been like the hum of ten thousand bees in their ears, but as they stepped into the great hall the full force of it burst upon them like a roaring sea. Wine-lubricated tongues fought to gain ascendancy over each other as well-fed, big-voiced men shouted to be heard by their neighbours amongst the drunken cacophony. Laughter, music, excited voices, arguments and shouts from one side of the room to the other filled the air, and the babble of sound was matched by the chaos of movement. For each guest there must have been two slaves, rushing here and there with kraters of wine, baskets of bread, platters of meat and small tables on which to set them; unarmed warriors leaned across each other in vociferous debate or lolled about arm in arm, seeking either wine or women amongst the busy slaves; there were stewards and squires chasing the servants or running after their noble masters, and the whole chaotic scene moved with an instinctive, flowing rhythm that sucked the Ithacans in and dragged them inevitably towards its natural vortex.

Suddenly a man appeared from the milling crowds. ‘Lord Odysseus? Tyndareus and Icarius, kings of Sparta, invite you to join them.’ He pointed across the low flames of the hearth to a group of men seated together at the far end of the hall. They were locked in conversation, and paid no heed to the new arrivals. ‘Food and wine is being prepared for your men, if you will follow me.’

While the others were taken to a cluster of vacant chairs guarded by three slaves, Odysseus skirted the fire and walked up to the group of kings and princes that the chief steward had indicated. As his party sat and drinking bowls full of wine were pressed into their hands, Eperitus could not help but watch his leader as he stepped proudly up to the most powerful men in Greece and stood before them until, one by one, they stopped talking and looked at the newcomer. Never in all their trials together had Eperitus felt so anxious for him.

‘I am Odysseus,’ he began, his voice even but audible amidst the din. ‘My father is Laertes, king of Ithaca. I have heard that King Tyndareus is inviting suitors for his daughter, Helen, and I have faced many hardships to come here and name myself amongst them.’

For a while they looked at him, silently observing his ungainly bulk, poised awkwardly on his short legs, and noting his drab clothes and plain looks. But whatever his outward appearance they, more than any others in that vast room, were able to distinguish the noble look in his eyes and sense, as if they could smell it, the royal blood in his veins. The oldest and largest amongst them stood, a man whose strong presence was not due merely to his solid gut and wild black beard.

‘I’m King Tyndareus,’ he said. Despite the noise he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. ‘You wear the signs of your travels, though any man can see you aren’t of low birth – only a fool would judge a man’s character by the quality of his clothing. You are welcome here, Odysseus, son of Laertes, and I don’t need to remind you that you are amongst exalted company.’ The king briefly named the dozen or so men who sat on either side of him, whose reputations and lineage were for the most part well known by all Greeks. ‘Now, sit between Agamemnon and me and give us the story of your journey. It’ll interest us to set your tale against our own adventures on the hillsides this day.’

A slave brought a high-backed chair and placed it between Tyndareus and Agamemnon, who scraped his own chair reluctantly to one side. Odysseus took his seat under the cold, appraising stares of the dozen or so high nobles from states infinitely more powerful than his own. These were the men who, if anybody could, would help him save Ithaca from Eupeithes’s clutches. It was for their power and not the beauty of a girl that he had marched across the Peloponnese. Unless he was at his most persuasive now, his home, his family, his position and his renown would all be lost. So he gripped the arms of his chair and looked at the stone floor for the space of a breath, before raising his eyes to the faces of the company he had been invited to share.

Tyndareus returned his gaze in a friendly enough manner, but beside him Agamemnon remained reserved and neutral, allowing nothing of his true self to show in his eyes. His outward appearance suggested a man obsessed with detail: his white tunic was immaculate; his blood-red cloak perfect; his few adornments opulent but not excessive; his auburn hair and beard long but neatly trimmed. Power and majesty resonated from him, and yet in his practised reserve there was a deliberate, well-trained masking of the passions that burned within. Agamemnon was not a man to expose his strengths, weaknesses, thoughts or ambitions to anyone without need. But when he chose to draw away the screen, the man beneath was driven, quick and uncompromising. He had not become the most powerful man in Greece by birthright alone.