King of Ithaca (8 page)

Tyndareus finished another cup of wine and belched loudly. ‘You may have to, son. You can’t dictate terms to Priam on his own territory.’

‘I don’t regard the Aegean as Trojan territory!’ Agamemnon told him coldly. ‘Besides, Mycenaean ships are not the only target, Tyndareus. Your own merchants will soon feel the pinch, as will the rest of the Greek states. Which is why I’m here – to offer a solution that will ensure free trade throughout the Mediterranean, keep the peace here and give our armies their wish for glory. I propose to call the Greek kings to a council of war. We’ll raid Ilium and teach Priam to respect us!’

Agamemnon gripped the arms of his chair and stared at the Spartan kings, the flames reflecting vividly in his eyes. With his son-in-law’s words ringing in his ears, Tyndareus stood and began pacing up and down by the fire, shaking his head.

‘Don’t be a fool. It’s impossible.’

‘Is it?’ asked Icarius, leaning back and tugging thoughtfully at an earlobe.

‘Yes it is,’ Tyndareus snapped. He held out his cup to a slave, who rushed to refill it. ‘Take it away, you idiot! I need a clear head if I’m to avoid being talked into one of my son’s wars. Now listen to me, Agamemnon, you come here talking peace and propose a war. That’s fine by me, but can you really see the Greek kings joining forces for anything – even to sack foreign cities? Can you imagine all those generations of petty hatreds and family feuds simply being pushed aside so that Mycenaean merchants don’t have to pay tribute to Troy? Can you hear all those proud men swearing oaths of fealty to each other?’

Icarius stood. ‘Listen to him, Tyndareus. Of course we could bring them together, even with all their hatred for each other. Most of them only hold grudges because of what their fathers and grandfathers did to one another. The feuds can’t continue for ever. We need an objective that’ll unite the Greek-speaking cities and make us into a people.’

‘A great people,’ Agamemnon added fiercely. ‘Can you even imagine the power of a united Greece?’

‘United under your leadership, Agamemnon?’ Tyndareus said, looking at him suspiciously. ‘Even with your political skills you couldn’t lead the Greeks. If you could ever get them under one roof, they’d only kill each other. Or is that what you want?’

‘Of course not. But ask yourself this: would you rather take a Spartan army to fight Greek-speaking Argives, or Corinthians, or Athenians; or would you rather kill Trojans with their unintelligible bar-bar-barring, their strange dress and the way they insult the gods with their outlandish worship?’

‘You know my answer to that . . .’

‘And wouldn’t you like to see peace at home and all our wars fought abroad? Don’t you want a unified Greece where a man can go about his business in safety, whether it be a journey to Pythia or a visit to a neighbouring city?’

Agamemnon stared hard at his father-in-law, demanding an answer.

‘Son, you have great vision and I don’t doubt Greece has the potential of which you speak,’ Tyndareus sighed. ‘But if you couldn’t convince Diomedes, your closest friend, to forget his family’s feud with Thebes, what chance will you have of making the kings of Greece swear allegiance to each other? We can’t be reined in like a team of horses, you know, and we’re too damned paranoid about each other to join forces against Troy.’

Agamemnon sighed and looked into the flames as a slave placed an armful of fresh logs in the fire. He had come to Sparta to seek the support of the second most powerful king in Greece, after himself, and instead had found wisdom greater than his own. If Tyndareus had supported him, or if Icarius had been king, he would have convened a council of war. But the older man had spoken with authority and truth: decades and even centuries of feuds would not be cast aside lightly. Even the gods themselves could not command the Greek kings to come together under one roof.

He shook his head in resignation.

‘I’m glad you see sense now, Agamemnon,’ Tyndareus said, smiling broadly. ‘Shall I call the bard for a song? Something light, preferably – perhaps a poem in Aphrodite’s honour?’

Agamemnon sat up and snapped his fingers. ‘That could be the answer.’

‘What? A poem?’

‘No – the goddess of love! What man can refuse her?’

The Spartan brothers exchanged puzzled looks. Agamemnon stood and began pacing the floor. ‘Your daughter, Helen, she’s about fifteen or sixteen years, yes?’

‘Thereabouts.’

‘So she’s old enough to marry.’

‘What of it?’

‘She’s the most desired woman in all Greece!’ Agamemnon enthused. ‘You see her with the eyes of a father, Tyndareus, but other men . . . they would kill to marry her.’

Moments of silence slipped by as Agamemnon continued to pace the floor, his leather sandals soft on the flagstones. ‘Have you considered Menelaus as a son-in-law?’ he said after a while.

‘I haven’t given Helen’s marriage any thought at all, if that’s what you mean,’ Tyndareus replied defensively. ‘But your brother’s a good man. I’ve liked him ever since you two were boys, when I threw your uncle – that scoundrel Thyestes – out of Mycenae. Yes, Menelaus would probably be my first consideration.’

‘Good. I wanted to know that before I asked you about inviting suitors for Helen.’

Tyndareus shook his head. ‘Oh, I wish I hadn’t drunk so much wine; a man needs a clear brain whenever you’re around. Why should I want to invite suitors to my palace?’

‘You asked how I would gather the best of the Greeks under one roof,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Well, that’s my answer. What prince or king would ignore an invitation to pay court to the most beautiful woman of our time? And there’s another lure: I would have become heir to your throne when I married Clytaemnestra, had I not already ruled my own kingdom; that means the right to your kingship will now be passed to the man who marries Helen. With her beauty, power and wealth, the suitors will come flocking to Sparta. Don’t you see, Tyndareus? It’s the priest’s dream.’

Icarius lifted his cup in a toast to Agamemnon. ‘And when you have them here you’ll convene your council of war. You’re a clever man, Agamemnon. One day you’ll be leader of all the Greeks, and then you can take us to glory.’

‘Or death,’ Tyndareus added.

A figure watched them from a shadowy alcove above. Her raven-black hair was covered by the hood of her white robe and her face was hidden behind a thin veil. Only the gleam of her dark eyes was visible in the shadows as she listened to the plans of the men below.

Helen’s heart sank. Tyndareus was not even her real father – Zeus had that honour, though Tyndareus did not know it – and yet he had the audacity to put her up for auction like a slave. As for Agamemnon, he was nothing but a butchering megalomaniac. His mind was a maze of political stratagems and his black heart beat only for the glory of the Greeks. If she were a man she would take a sword down to the courtyard and kill all three of them.

But she was not a man. If she was to stop the king of Mycenae weaving his web about her, she would need subtler weapons than swords or spears. But Helen had learned that the weapons she possessed were more powerful than bronze. She smiled bitterly. From an early age she had been forced to veil her beauty because of the effect it had on the men around her. But as she grew older she had learned how to use that effect to her advantage. Power belonged to men, of course, but men could be manipulated.

Helen looked down at the three kings. Why should she give herself meekly to Menelaus, or any other man they could force on her? She was no brood mare to be traded on the whim of kings. She was a daughter of Zeus and had a right to choose her own lover, one who would take her as far away from the confining walls of Sparta as she could get.

Chapter Five

T
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ACRED
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OOL

‘I’ve come to ask the will of the gods,’ Eperitus said. ‘What is their plan for me, and how do I seek out my destiny?’

The Pythoness ran her tongue along her lips and hissed.

‘Ares’s sword has forged a bond that will lead to Olympus. But the hero should beware love, for if she clouds his desires he will fall into the Abyss.’

Those were her last words to them, as with a final hissing laugh she pulled the hood of her robe over her face and lowered her head.

‘The audience is over,’ Thrasios declared. ‘You must leave now.’

‘And the prophecy?’

The priest gave an arrogant sneer.

‘The gods are already moving in your life. A friendship forged in battle may steer you to glory and a name that survives death. But instead love will lead you astray and you will become nothing.’

He announced the last part with satisfaction, as if this was a fitting end for a soldier.

‘That’s a lie!’ Eperitus responded angrily. ‘I’ll never sacrifice glory for love.’

‘Eperitus!’ Odysseus cautioned him, putting his arm about his shoulders and leading him out in the wake of the priest. ‘The oracle only warned you to beware love. That part of your destiny is still in your own hands. I’ve never heard of a man who wasn’t given a choice by the gods. And besides, did you listen to the first part? Glory and a name that will survive death! What more could a warrior ask for?’

The prince was right, Eperitus thought: his destiny was still his own, and what woman could make him surrender his honour? He looked at Odysseus, who was smiling reassuringly at him; surely their new-found friendship was the one spoken of by the Pythoness. If he was permitted to join the small band of warriors, then his promised destiny would hopefully follow, leading inexorably to fame and glory.

Python was nowhere to be seen in the first cave and they were soon outside again, standing beneath a night sky stuck full of stars. It was good to be away from self-important priests, stinking fumes, the snake-priestess and her vile protector. Eperitus breathed the night air deeply and grinned. Life was just beginning.

As they approached the camp, Odysseus took Eperitus to one side.

‘Eperitus, you heard what the Pythoness called me?’

Eperitus frowned, ‘Odysseus of Ithaca, yes.’

Odysseus let the others go on ahead. When they were out of sight he folded his arms and gave the young soldier a searching look.

‘So what are you thinking?’ he asked.

‘That depends on whether you are Castor of Crete, or Odysseus of Ithaca.’

‘My name is Odysseus,’ he answered. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’

Eperitus shrugged and shook his head apologetically.

‘No matter. Like you, my name is yet to become famous in Greece. I apologize that I was forced to deceive you, though.’ He pointed at the dagger tucked into Eperitus’s belt. ‘That’s a fine weapon. It belonged to my father’s grandfather and I can assure you I didn’t give it lightly, nor as part of a trick. I gave it because I meant what I said, and I want you to keep it as a sign of our continuing friendship.’

‘So why were you forced to deceive me? And how do I know you truly are Odysseus of Ithaca? I don’t even know where Ithaca is.’

Odysseus smiled and for the first time since Eperitus had met him his expression was not guarded. A happy light filled his eyes as for a few moments he forgot the trials of his day.

‘Ithaca is a rocky island off the west coast of Acarnania,’ he began. ‘It isn’t particularly beautiful, but we’re happy there and it’s our home. Its people are the most pigheaded, stupid, idle, yet doughty and lovable folk in the whole of Greece; they live at peace amongst themselves and I would freely give up my life to keep them that way. When I’m away from my island I think of it every moment, and when I’m there I think of nowhere else.’ He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, as if to acknowledge he had failed to do his home justice. ‘One day you will come and see for yourself. Then we can sit around a blazing fire with plenty of wine to hand, and I’ll ask you about Alybas and your own people, eh?’

Eperitus smiled lamely, hoping he would never have to reveal the shame that had led to his exile.

‘As for who I really am,’ Odysseus continued, ‘the Pythoness doesn’t lie. You can be assured of that.’

‘And Castor, son of Hylax, prince of Crete?’ Eperitus asked. ‘Who’s he?’