King of Ithaca (37 page)

There was a loud shuffling and scraping of chairs as the assembly rose to its feet. In the same moment the massive portals of the hall swung open, revealing the stars in the black sky above the courtyard. The night air came rushing in, filling their nostrils with its smell and prickling the skin on their arms and legs. The flames of the hearth leapt momentarily, then subsided again.

Two priests entered, leading a horse behind them. It was a beautiful beast, as tall as Ajax and blacker than Hades. Its coat shone blue as it stood in the doorway, washed clean by the light of the moon, but changed quickly to a fiery orange as it was walked into the great hall and up to the central hearth. Like a shadow plucked from the deepest hollow of the night, there was not a blemish of any other colour upon the animal. It stopped and tossed its head, snorting at the crowd of great men and confident of its own noble presence amongst them.

‘Lord Zeus,’ Tyndareus thundered, breaking the spell the magnificent beast had cast over them. ‘Father of the gods, great ruler of the heavens and the earth, bear solemn witness to the oath we now take.’

He nodded to the priests. One of them eased the animal’s head back, careful not to startle it, whilst the other slashed open its throat. The strong smell of horse was suddenly blotted out by the stench of fresh blood. Bright gore pumped from the open wound and onto the stone floor, splashing back up onto the watching suitors. An instant later the animal’s lifeless body collapsed into the pool of its own blood.

The priests knelt to joint the corpse with deft movements, tossing parts of the body to each of the surrounding warriors and ordering them to place a foot upon the joints. Soon there was little left of the horse but its head and hide. This looked curiously shrunken and matt-coloured as it lay between the priests. Finally they rose from their labours and raised their arms to the heavens in prayer. Eperitus placed his left foot on the broken rib bone that they had thrown towards him and watched Tyndareus come to the front of the dais again. This time he was accompanied by Agamemnon.

Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus. The spectacle of the bloody sacrifice had awed the young warrior and the muscles of his face were strained with tension, but Odysseus simply grinned back at him and winked. Eperitus was taken aback by his cool, slightly amused indifference, but before he could react further Tyndareus spoke.

As he held the staff before him, he asked them whether they promised to protect the husband of Helen against anybody who should wish Helen for himself. The words were not elaborate or extensive, as a Greek warrior will always obey the spirit of an oath, even those like Odysseus who could twist words like blades of grass. Every voice answered in agreement and thus the fateful oath was sworn.

A moment later one of the priests clapped his hands and a host of servants rushed in, carrying vessels of water to wash clean the floor of the hall. More servants brought bowls for the oath-takers to cleanse the blood from their skin, and soon they were seated again with food and drink set before them. Then Agamemnon stood and received the staff once more from Tyndareus.

The council of war had begun.

Chapter Twenty-one

O
DYSSEUS AND
P
ENELOPE

Fearing her cousin was already overripe for marriage – and would remain as little more than a maid to her demanding father if she did not force her hand – Clytaemnestra agreed to Damastor’s plan and immediately made an ointment for the purpose. She gave it to Neaera with instructions to rub it on the clothing of both Odysseus and Penelope and arrange for them to meet shortly afterwards. As long as they were together when the ointment began to take effect, she assured her, they would be unable to resist each other.

When Neaera asked how she was to apply the ointment to the princess’s clothing, Clytaemnestra handed her a vial filled with a pleasant-smelling liquid.

‘Give this to Penelope’s body slave, Actoris,’ she instructed. ‘It’s a mild poison. Put it into her drink and she’ll be paralysed with illness for a few days. Then you can volunteer to take her place, and after that you’ll have every opportunity to rub the ointment into Penelope’s clothing before dressing her.’

And so Neaera was able to prepare one of the plain woollen dresses that Penelope favoured and spread it out over the princess’s bed while she bathed in an antechamber. Satisfied that the first part of her task was done, she picked up a soft brush and went to scrub her mistress, who lay stretched out in the heated water with only a few wisps of steam to cover her nakedness. Her breasts and stomach had retained their natural pink hue, but the rest of her flesh was burned almost to the colour of a common slave’s, causing Neaera to frown disapprovingly. Helen, by whose standards Neaera measured everybody, kept out of the sun to preserve her pure white complexion; her cousin hardly seemed to care.

‘Not so rough with that brush,’ Penelope chided her. She stepped from the bath to drip on the stone floor, where Neaera at once began to dry her off. ‘Are you this brutal with Helen? She told me you had a delicate touch.’

The truth was that Neaera was nervous. First Clytaemnestra, then Damastor, had instilled in her the vital importance of getting Penelope to the feast at the same time as Odysseus. Damastor would apply the charmed ointment to his master’s tunic and ensure he was by the double doors of the great hall just before the food was brought in to the guests; Neaera was to do the same with Penelope, or risk Odysseus reacting to the first female he saw. But unless she could persuade Penelope to be a little quicker, they were going to be woefully late.

‘Give me that, you clumsy girl,’ Penelope said, taking the towel and drying herself. ‘Bring me my best robe – the purple one. I feel like a change tonight.’

‘But my lady . . .’ Neaera stuttered.

‘Stop flapping, Neaera. It’s in the basket by the wall. Hurry up and fetch it for me.’

Why tonight, of all nights, did she have to be fussy about what she wore? The slave girl ran past the dress she had prepared and began looking through the large woven basket by the wall, all the time thinking about what she should do. There was not enough ointment left and no time to apply it anyway. Then, as she found the neatly folded dress in the basket, she heard Penelope pad barefoot into the room behind her.

‘Come on, then. I’m dry,’ she said, holding out her arms for Neaera to slip the dress over her naked body.

Neaera stood up, clutching the dress to her chest, but as she did so she felt it snag on the weave of the basket and tear.

‘Oh, my lady! I’m so sorry,’ she said, tears rimming her eyes. She was too shocked to realize that her clumsiness had solved her dilemma.

Penelope sighed at the sight of the rip.

‘Never mind, Neaera. Don’t cry, now: I can mend it after the feast. I suppose I’ll have to wear this old thing you’ve laid out on the bed for me instead.’

Suddenly, as if Penelope might change her mind, Neaera ran over to the bed and held the large oblong of cloth before her. ‘This is just fine,’ she said, turning the simple garment this way and that as if it were an item of great beauty. ‘You’ll look wonderful in it, my lady.’

‘Of course I won’t, and you know it. And just for once I wanted to look attractive.’

Neaera sensed something in Penelope’s tone and enquired whether she wanted to catch the eye of anyone in particular.

‘Perhaps,’ Penelope answered. ‘But it doesn’t matter. Like most men here, he’s much too besotted with Helen to look at any other woman. Now, put that dress on me before I catch cold, and then you can put my hair up. Assuming you can do that without mishap?’

Neaera was embarrassed but managed to return the princess’s well-meant smile. She took the dress, folded it once and wrapped it about Penelope’s body. With the deft skill of one who had dressed women all her life, she pinched the upper corners of the cloth over her mistress’s left shoulder and fastened them together with a golden brooch. She then used a second clasp to secure the garment over the other shoulder. This left the left side of Penelope’s body exposed, but the slave girl quickly fastened the two open halves of the dress with a cord about the waist. Then, remembering the ointment, she drew the woven material closer together so that it rubbed against Penelope’s skin, ensuring that Clytaemnestra’s potion was brought into contact with it. The adjustment also left less flesh exposed so, keen for Penelope to look as alluring as possible for Odysseus, Neaera arranged the material to fall open about one of her long, smooth legs, exposing it almost to the buttock.

Pleased with the effect of this, she proceeded to bunch Penelope’s hair above her head with all possible haste, conscious that the feast would already be starting in the great hall below them. Despite this, Neaera risked precious time to make the princess look as attractive as she could. For someone who was used to the obsessive demands of Helen, the task was an easy one to execute. As a final touch, Neaera applied a little fine soot to darken her eyebrows and the transformation was complete. Penelope no longer looked like the plain and simple daughter of Icarius, whom only the most discerning men ever noticed for her natural beauty; now every feature of her femininity had been emphasized for all to see. Penelope asked Neaera how she looked, and was told she could not fail to catch the eye of every man in the hall.

‘Hmmm,’ Penelope purred. ‘I feel good, too. Despite your hasty manner, Neaera, I think you’ve worked wonders with those clumsy fingers of yours. For the first time in ages I actually
feel
attractive. It’s like I’ve had too much wine, but instead of going to my head it’s worked its way under my skin. I’m tingling all over.’ She looked down at herself and ran her hands over her stomach and thighs. ‘You’ve done me up a little tight, though,’ she added, and proceeded to loosen the cord about her waist so that her bare ribs and the swell of her left breast fell open to view. ‘That’s better. Now, let’s go to the feast.’

As usual, the great hall was filled with suitors, warriors and slaves. Some of the guests were seated about a bard who sang a song on a lyre, recalling the feats of ancient heroes. Others were filling themselves with food or sharing wine with the friends they had made during the seemingly endless weeks spent at the palace. But as Penelope arrived their heads began to turn, in ones and twos at first until, eventually, every man was looking at her. She returned their lascivious stares, delighting in the feel of the air fanning across her bared flesh. She felt drunk with her own sensuality, and as her skin crawled with peculiar sensations she looked about the crowds of revellers, seeking one man in particular.

Neaera felt awkward beside her adopted mistress. They were only slightly later than the appointed time, but Damastor and Odysseus were nowhere in sight. This made her nervous, as she did not know what to do if one of the warriors should approach Penelope. Clytaemnestra had warned that Penelope’s intensified affections could easily be directed to any man, and unwanted attention could prove fatal to her lover’s plans. Then her fear became a reality as one of the men left his seat and walked over to them.

‘You look even more magnificent than usual tonight, Penelope,’ Little Ajax said, his small, closely-set eyes roaming up and down her body. He licked his thin lips and the snake about his shoulders did the same. ‘Maybe you’d like to join me for a little wine?’

Neaera looked at the man with distaste, repulsed by his broken nose and pockmarked cheeks. The snake about his shoulders had more charm than its owner, and so the slave girl was terrified to see Penelope look down at the man with something akin to desire in her expression.

‘If this man’s bothering you, mistress, I can fetch your father. He’s only over there.’

The warrior laughed. ‘As if a mere serving girl would dare approach the royal dais. Besides,’ he added, placing a hand on Penelope’s exposed thigh, ‘your mistress doesn’t appear to be complaining.’

‘Yes, Neaera,’ Penelope agreed, ‘there’s no harm in spending time with such a strong, good-looking man, is there? Why don’t you go back to my room and see if you can mend that dress.’ She turned back and ran a hand along the neck of Ajax’s snake. ‘Go on now.’

Everything was falling down around Neaera’s ears. This was not how things were supposed to have happened, but what could she do? She was only a slave, and not a very intelligent one at that. Feeling the panic growing inside her she glanced around the hall again. And there, finally, was Damastor.

‘Here, my lord, put this on. It’s a gift from the lady Helen.’

Damastor handed the tunic to Odysseus as he was about to throw on his usual clothes after bathing.

‘Her maid gave it me. She feels your old clothes are becoming a bit threadbare.’

And so they were, after so long away from home. Odysseus took the proffered gift and tossed his usual faded and repaired garment into a corner of the room. He had been so involved with Agamemnon’s plans during the past few days that he had almost forgotten Helen wanted him as her husband. She must be confident of his acceptance though, he thought, to be sending him gifts before he had confirmed his decision to Tyndareus.