The Song of Troy (18 page)

This time Deidamia shuddered. ‘It is not a laughing matter,’ she said.

10

NARRATED BY

Odysseus

The winds and currents were always more favourable than the long, tortuous land route, so we sailed to Iolkos, hugging the coast. As we drew into harbour I stood on the deck with Ajax; this was my first visit to the home of the Myrmidons, and I thought Iolkos beautiful, a crystal city shimmering in the wintry sun. No walls. At the back of the palace Mount Pelion towered, wreathed in pure white snow. Wrapping my furs closer about my shoulders, I blew on my hands and looked sideways at Ajax.

‘Will you go over the side first, my colossus?’ I asked.

He nodded tranquilly; verbal play was lost on him. One massive leg went over the rail, found the top rung of the rope ladder, and the rest of him rapidly disappeared. He was wearing no more than when I had seen him in the halls of Mykenai: a kilt. Nor did his fine skin betray a sign of cold. I let him descend to the beach, then called down to him to locate a conveyance of some kind. Well known in Iolkos, he would have his choice of whatever was available.

Nestor was busy packing his personal belongings in the shelter built on the afterdeck.

‘Ajax has gone to find us a car. Do you feel well enough to descend to the beach, or would you rather wait here?’ I asked him, tongue in cheek. I enjoyed making Nestor bristle.

‘And what makes you think I’m in my dotage?’ he snapped, leaping to his feet. ‘I’ll wait on the beach, of course.’

Still muttering to himself, he went out onto the deck briskly; impatiently slapping at a sailor’s helping hand, he shinnied down the ladder as nimbly as a boy. Old horror.

Peleus bowed us into his home personally. When I had been a youth and he a man in his prime I had met him often, but not since. An elderly man now, he was still erect and proud, kingly. A handsome man, and a wise one. A pity he had only the one son to follow him; owning Peleus as sire, the young Achilles had a reputation to live up to.

Seated comfortably before the big tripod of fire, mulled wine at our elbows, I broached the reason for our coming. Despite Nestor’s seniority I had been elected spokesman; if there were any mistakes he could bow out nicely, the reprobate.

‘We’re sent by Agamemnon at Mykenai to beg a favour, sire.’

His shrewd eyes surveyed me. ‘Helen,’ he said.

‘News travels swiftly.’

‘I expected an imperial courier, but none came. My shipwrights have never seen such business flow into their yards.’

‘As you didn’t swear the Oath of the Quartered Horse, Peleus, Agamemnon could send no courier. Nothing obliges you to aid the cause of Menelaos.’

‘Just as well. I’m too old to go to war, Odysseus.’

Nestor decided I was being too convoluted. ‘Actually, my dear Peleus, it isn’t you we seek,’ he said. ‘We’ve come to see if we can enlist the services of your son.’

Thessalia’s High King seemed to shrivel. ‘Achilles… Well, I hoped against it, but I expected it. I’ve no doubt that he’ll accept Agamemnon’s offer with alacrity.’

‘We’re free to ask him, then?’ from Nestor.

‘Of course,’ said Peleus.

I smiled, relaxed. ‘Agamemnon thanks you, Peleus. And I personally thank you. From my heart.’

He looked at me long and steadily.
‘Have
you a heart, Odysseus? I fancied it’s only mind you possess.’

Something stung momentarily at the back of my eyes: I thought, Penelope, and then her image faded. I gave him back his stare. ‘No, I have no heart. Why should a man need one? A heart is a severe liability.’

‘Then what men say of you is true.’ He picked up his goblet from the tripod table, a very fine piece of Egyptian workmanship. ‘If Achilles elects to go to Troy,’ he said then, ‘he’ll lead the Myrmidons. They’ve been spoiling for a hard campaign these twenty years and more.’

Someone entered; Peleus smiled and held out his hand. ‘Ah, Phoinix! Gentlemen, this is Phoinix, my friend and comrade of many years. We have very prestigious guests, Phoinix – this is King Nestor of Pylos and this King Odysseus of Ithaka.’

‘I saw Ajax outside,’ said Phoinix, bowing low. In years he was somewhere between Peleus and Nestor, a very erect and soldierly fellow with a Myrmidon look – fair, big, fit.

‘You’ll go with Achilles to Troy, Phoinix,’ Peleus said. ‘Look after him for me, protect him from his fate.’

‘At the price of my life, sire.’

Which was all very well and good, I thought, growing a trifle impatient. ‘May we see Achilles for ourselves?’ I asked.

The two Thessalians looked blank.

‘Achilles isn’t in Iolkos,’ said Peleus.

‘Then where is he?’ asked Nestor.

‘In Skyros. He spends the six cold moons there every year – he’s married to Deidamia, daughter of Lykomedes.’

I slapped my thigh in vexation. ‘So we have yet another winter voyage to make.’

‘Not at all,’ said Peleus warmly. ‘I’ll send for him.’

But somehow I knew that unless we saw to it ourselves, we would never see Achilles draw up Iolkan ships on the sands at Aulis. I shook my head.

‘No, sire. Agamemnon would deem it more fitting that we ask Achilles in person.’

And so we came once more into harbour and made our way from town to palace; the difference was that this second palace was little more than a large house. Skyros was not rich. Lykomedes made us welcome, but as we sat down to eat and drink a minor repast, I found myself prickling. Something was wrong, and not merely with Lykomedes himself. A peculiar tension hung over the place. Servants – all male – slid and skipped without looking at us, Lykomedes wore the mien of one labouring under a heavy burden of fear, his heir Patrokles came in and went out so quickly I almost thought him a figment of my imagination, and – most disquieting of all – I heard not one feminine sound. No woman, even in the distance, laughed, or whined, or screeched, or howled in tears. How alien! Women did not participate in the affairs of men, no, but they were fully aware of their importance in the scheme of things, and they enjoyed liberties no man would dare to deny them. They had, after all, ruled under the Old Religion.

My prickling skin had turned into pins and needles, my nose twitched at the old, familiar smell of danger; I caught Nestor’s eye. Yes, he had sensed it too. His brows lifted at me, and I sighed. I was not mistaken, then. We had a problem.

The handsome young man Patrokles returned. I looked him over more thoroughly, wondering what his significance might be in this strange situation. A tender and gentle fellow, not lacking in fight or courage, but possibly very one-sided in his affections – affections which did not, I decided, extend to women. Well, that was his right. No one would think ill of him because he preferred men. This time he actually sat down, looking unhappy.

I cleared my throat. ‘King Lykomedes, our mission is very urgent. We seek your son-in-law, Achilles.’

There was a queer, intangible pause; Lykomedes almost dropped his goblet, then got up awkwardly. ‘Achilles isn’t in Skyros, royal gentlemen.’

‘Not here?’ asked Ajax, dismayed.

‘No.’ Lykomedes seemed embarrassed. ‘He – he quarrelled violently with his wife – my daughter – and left for the mainland vowing never to return.’

‘He’s not in Iolkos,’ I prompted gently.

‘I confess I didn’t think he would be, Odysseus. He was talking about Thrake.’

Nestor sighed. ‘Dear, dear! It seems as if we are fated never to meet this young man, doesn’t it?’

The question was directed at me, but I didn’t reply at once, too conscious of a sudden curious lightness, a vast relief. All my instincts were right. Something was seriously amiss, and Achilles was the centre of it. I got up. ‘Since Achilles is not here, I think we must leave at once, Nestor.’

I waited, knowing that Lykomedes had to extend the proper courtesies or sin in the eyes of Hospitable Zeus. And while I waited, I turned so that only Nestor could see my face, then shot him a venomous glare of warning.

Lykomedes made the obligatory offer. ‘Stay with us overnight at least, Odysseus. King Nestor should rest a while.’

As well I glared at him; instead of snapping that he was quite capable of declaring war on Olympos, he subsided into a pathetic, huddled heap of ancient misery. Old villain.

‘Thank you, King Lykomedes!’ I cried, looking relieved. ‘Only this morning Nestor was saying how tired he is. The winter gales at sea make him ache all over.’ I dropped my eyes. ‘I do hope our presence won’t inconvenience you.’

It did inconvenience him. He had not dreamed that I would accept his formal invitation when our mission was a failure, when we had to get back to Mykenai and break the news to Agamemnon. He put a good face on his disappointment, however. So did Patrokles.

Later I sought Nestor in his chamber and sat on the arm of a chair while he reposed in a steaming bath as an elderly servant – male, how extraordinary! – scraped the salt and grime from his withered hide. The moment Nestor was standing on the floor all swaddled in linen towels, the man departed.

‘What do you think?’ I asked Nestor then.

‘This is a house under a shadow,’ he said positively. ‘I suppose if Achilles had quarrelled with his wife and taken himself off to Thrake it might provoke a reaction like this, yet I do not think so. Whatever is wrong, it is not that.’

‘I think Achilles is here within the palace.’

His eyes widened. ‘No! Hidden, yes, but not here.’

‘Here,’ I insisted. ‘We’ve heard enough of him to know he’s as impulsive as he is warlike. Were he located at any distance from Lykomedes and Patrokles, they’d fail to control him. He’s here in the palace.’

‘But
why
?
He didn’t swear the Oath, nor did Peleus. There’d be no dishonour in refusing to go to Troy.’

‘Oh, he wants to go! Desperately. It’s others who don’t want him to go. And somehow they’ve bound him.’

‘What should we do, then?’

‘What do you think?’ I countered.

He grimaced. ‘That we have to wander everywhere within this little building. Preferably I during daylight. I can pretend to be senile. When everyone is asleep, you can wander. Do you truly think they’re holding him prisoner?’

But that I could not believe. ‘They wouldn’t dare, Nestor. If Peleus got word of it, he’d tear this island apart better than Poseidon could. No, they’ve bound him with an oath.’

‘Logical.’ He began to dress. ‘How long before dinner?’

‘Some time yet.’

‘Then go and sleep, Odysseus, while I prowl.’

He came to wake me in time for dinner, looking peevish. ‘Plague take them!’ he growled. ‘If they have him hidden here, I can’t find where. I’ve stumbled into every single corner from the roof to the vaults without a sign of him. The only place I couldn’t enter was the women’s quarters. There’s a guard.’

‘Then that’s where he is,’ I said, getting up. ‘Hmmm!’

We went down to dinner together, wondering if Lykomedes had gone so Assyrian that he forbade his women the dining hall. A male servant as bath attendant? No women anywhere? A guard on the door of their quarters? Very fishy. Lykomedes didn’t want us hearing gossip, so he had to keep his women away from us.

But the women were there, admittedly all thrust into the farthest, darkest corner. I had thought Lykomedes would have to produce them for the main meal; the size of his kitchens and his palace would have made it impossible for him to feed them in their quarters without creating culinary chaos for his royal guests.

No Achilles, however. Not one of those indistinct female forms was anything like large enough to be Achilles.

‘Why are the women segregated?’ Nestor asked when the food arrived and we sat at the high table with Lykomedes and Patrokles.

‘They offended Poseidon,’ said Patrokles quickly.

‘And?’ I asked.

‘They’re forbidden congress with men for five years.’

I raised my brows. ‘Even sexually?’

‘That is allowed.’

‘Sounds more like something the Mother would demand than Poseidon,’ Nestor remarked, swigging wine.

Lykomedes shrugged. ‘It came from Poseidon, not the Mother.’

‘Through his priestess Thetis?’ the King of Pylos asked.

‘Thetis is not his priestess,’ said Lykomedes uneasily. ‘The God refused to take her back. She serves Nereus now.’

After the food went out (along with the women), I settled down to talk to Patrokles, leaving Lykomedes at Nestor’s mercy.

‘I’m very sorry to have missed Achilles,’ I said.

‘You would have liked him,’ said Patrokles tonelessly.

‘I imagine he would have jumped at the chance to go to Troy.’

‘Yes. Achilles was born for war.’

‘Well, I have no intention of combing Thrake to find him! He’ll be sorry when he finds out what he’s missed.’

‘Yes, very sorry.’

‘Tell me what he looks like,’ I said invitingly, having learned one thing about Patrokles: it was Achilles to whom he had given his love.

The young face lit up. ‘He’s a little smaller than Ajax… So – so
graceful
when he moves! And he’s very beautiful.’

‘I heard he had no lips. How can he be beautiful?’

‘Because – because –’ Patrokles searched for words. ‘You’d have to see him to understand. His mouth moves one to tears – so much pain! Achilles is beauty personified.’

‘He sounds too good to be true,’ I said.

He nearly fell for it. Nearly told me that I was a fool to doubt him, that he could produce his paragon for my inspection. Then he closed his lips tightly, the hot words unuttered. Though they may as well have been. I had my answer.

Before we retired I held a little council with Nestor and Ajax, then went to bed and slept soundly. Very early the next day I made my way with Ajax down to the town. I had billeted my cousin Sinon there; it was never wise to display all one’s treasures at once, and Sinon is a treasure. He listened impassively as I told him what to do, gave him a bag of gold from the little hoard Agamemnon had given me to defray our expenses. What was mine I hung on to grimly; one day it would be my son’s. Agamemnon was well able to pay for Achilles.