The Song of Troy (9 page)

‘Philoktetes?’

‘Yes, a brilliant man, destined for great things, they say. However, he is a king in Thessalia, which means he owes Peleus homage as well as Agamemnon. I’m thinking more of Diomedes, just back from the Thebes campaign and covered in wealth as well as glory. I like the idea of Argos, it’s just down the road. If Peleus had been a younger man he would have been my automatic choice, but it is said he refuses to marry again.’

‘No use dwelling on those who are unavailable,’ my mother said briskly. ‘There’s always Menelaos.’

‘I haven’t forgotten
him.
Who could?’

‘Send invitations to everyone, Tyndareus. There are heirs to thrones as well as kings. Odysseus of Ithaka is King there now that old Laertes is senile. And Menestheus is a far more stable High King of Attika than Theseus was – thank all the Gods that we do not have to deal with Theseus!’

I jumped. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, skin prickling. In my heart I had been hoping that Theseus would come for me, claim me as his bride. Since my return from Athens I had heard no mention of his name.

My mother took my hands in hers and held them firmly. ‘Well, best you find out from us, Helen. Theseus is dead, exiled and killed on Skyros.’

I wrenched away from her and ran from the room, my dreams in ashes. Dead? Theseus was
dead?
Theseus was dead and a part of me was forever cold.

Two moons later my brother-in-law Agamemnon arrived with his own brother, Menelaos, in his train. When they walked into the Throne Room I was present – a novelty for me, but an exhilarating one; suddenly I was the pivot upon which all discussion turned. Messengers had come from the palace gate to warn us, so the High King of Mykenai and all Greece entered to the blare of horns, a cloth of gold spread for his imperial feet.

I could never make up my mind whether I liked him or not, yet I did understand the awe he inspired. Very tall and as straight and disciplined as a professional soldier, he walked as if he owned the world. His jet black hair was faintly sprinkled with grey, his snapping black eyes could become menacing, his nose was beaked haughtily, his thin lips curled at the corners in permanent contempt.

Men so dark were unusual in Greece, a land of big, fair men, but instead of being ashamed of his darkness, Agamemnon flaunted it. Though the fashion was for a cleanshaven chin, he sported a long, curling black beard forced into regular screws by ribbons of gold, and he did his hair in the same way. He was dressed in a full-length robe of purple wool embroidered all over in a complicated design of gold thread, and in his right hand he carried the imperial sceptre of solid gold, swinging it as easily as if it were made of chalk.

My father came down from his throne and knelt to kiss his hand, doing him the homage which all the Greek Kings owed to the High King of Mykenai. My mother moved forward to join them. For the moment I was ignored, which gave me time to turn my attention to Menelaos, my prospective suitor. Oh, oh! Eager anticipation gave way to shocked disappointment. I had become quite used to the idea of marrying a replica of Agamemnon, but this man was no Agamemnon. Was he truly a full brother to the High King of Mykenai, son by Atreus out of the same womb? It did not seem possible. Short. Stocky. Legs so thick and shapeless they appeared ridiculous in the tight breeches he affected. Round stooped shoulders. A mild and apologetic man. Ordinary features. Hair the same flaming red as my sister’s. I might have been more taken with him if his hair had been a different colour.

My father beckoned. I stumbled forward and gave my hand into his. The imperial visitor transferred his gaze to me, a hot and admiring look. For the first time I experienced a phenomenon which would become very familiar in the days to come: I was no more and no less than a prize animal put up for auction to the highest bidder.

‘She’s perfect,’ said Agamemnon to my father. ‘How do you manage to produce such beautiful children, Tyndareus?’

My father laughed, his arm about my mother’s waist. ‘I am only half of it, sire,’ he said.

They turned then and left me to converse with Menelaos, but not before I heard the High King’s final question.

‘What is the truth behind the Theseus interlude?’ he asked.

And my mother breaking in quickly to say, ‘He kidnapped her, Agamemnon. Luckily the Athenians deemed it the feather which tipped the load. They drove him out before he could deflower her. Kastor and Polydeukes brought her away untouched.’

Liar, liar!

Menelaos was staring at me; I preened.

‘You have never been to Amyklai before,’ I said.

He mumbled something, hung his head.

‘What was that?’ I asked.

‘Nuh-nuh-nuh-no,’ he managed audibly.

He stammered!

The suitors assembled. Menelaos was the only one permitted to reside within the palace itself, thanks to his relationship with our family – and his brother’s clout. The rest were accommodated among the house barons and in the guest house. One hundred of them. The most cheering discovery I made was that none was as boring or as unattractive as the red-haired, stammering Menelaos.

Philoktetes and Idomeneus arrived together, big and golden Philoktetes bursting with energy, haughty Idomeneus stalking in with the conscious arrogance of one born into the House of Minos and destined to rule as High King of Crete after Katreus.

When Diomedes strode in, I saw the best of them. A true king and warrior. He wore the same air of worldly experience Theseus had owned, though he was as dark as Theseus had been fair; as dark as Agamemnon.
Handsome!
Tall and lithe, a black panther. His eyes flashed with impudent humour, his mouth seemed always to be laughing. And I knew in that first instant that I would choose him. When he spoke to me his glance ravished me; a quick thrust of want forked through me, my sex ached. Yes, I would choose King Diomedes from Argos-down-the-road.

As soon as the last of them had come my father held a great feast. I sat on the dais like a queen, pretending not to notice the glances continually flung up at me from a hundred pairs of ardent eyes, my own flickering whenever they dared to Diomedes. Who suddenly turned his attention from me to a man threading his way through the benches, a man whose advent was greeted by cheers from some and scowls from others. Diomedes sprang up and swung the stranger round in a hard embrace. Some quick talk passed between them, then the stranger clapped Diomedes on the back and continued to the dais to greet my father and Agamemnon, both of whom had risen to their feet.
Agamemnon
rising? The High King of Mykenai did not rise for any man!

He was different, the newcomer. A tall man, he would have been considerably taller if his legs had been in proportion to the rest of him. But they were not. They were abnormally short and inclined to be bandy; his muscular frame seemed too large by far to be perched atop such stunted supports. In face he was a truly beautiful man, fine featured and owning a very large pair of luminous grey eyes, brilliant and speaking. His hair was red, the brightest and most aggressive red I had ever seen; Klytemnestra and Menelaos paled to nothing beside it.

When his eyes rested upon me I felt his power. Shiver stuff.
Who was he?

My father gestured impatiently to a servant, who placed a kingly chair between him and Agamemnon.
Who was he
,
to be so honoured? And to be so unimpressed by the honour?

‘This is Helen,’ my father said.

‘No wonder I see most of Greece here, Tyndareus,’ he said cheerily, picking up a leg of fowl and sinking his white teeth deeply into it. ‘I now believe what the gossip says – she
is
the most beautiful woman in the world. You’ll have trouble with this pack of hotheads, to please only one and disappoint so many.’

Agamemnon looked ruefully at my father; they both laughed.

‘Trust you to state the problem in a nutshell within one instant of your arrival, Odysseus,’ said the High King.

My surprise and wonder vanished, I felt a fool. Odysseus, of course. Who else would dare to speak to Agamemnon as to an equal? Who else would warrant a special chair on the dais?

I had heard much of him. His name cropped up whenever there was talk of laws, of decisions, of new taxes, of war. My father had once undertaken the dreary journey to Ithaka just to consult him. He was held the most intelligent man in the world, more intelligent even than Nestor and Palamedes. And not only was he intelligent; he was also wise. Little wonder then that in my imagination Odysseus had been a venerable old greybeard, all bent with the cares of a century of living, as ancient as King Nestor of Pylos. When Agamemnon had important matters to discuss he sent for Palamedes, Nestor and Odysseus, but it was usually Odysseus who decided the thing.

So much had been whispered about the Ithakan Fox, as men called him. His kingdom consisted of four rocky, barren little islands off the west coast, a poor and pitiful domain as kingdoms went. His palace was modest, he was a farmer because his barons could not contribute enough taxes to support him; yet his name had made Ithaka, Leukas, Zakynthos and Kephallenai famous.

At the time he came to Amyklai and I first saw him he was not much more than twenty-five years old – and may have been younger than that, if wisdom has the power to age a man’s face.

They continued to talk, perhaps forgetting that I was on my father’s left hand and able to eavesdrop without appearing to do so. As I had Menelaos on my other side, no conversation occurred to divert me.

‘Do you intend to ask for Helen, my wily friend?’

Odysseus looked mischievous. ‘You perceive me, Tyndareus.’

‘Indeed I do, but why? I had not thought you angling for a raving beauty, though she does have a dowry.’

He pulled a face. ‘My curiosity – think of my curiosity! Could you see my missing a show like this?’

Agamemnon grinned, but my father laughed aloud.

‘Show is right! What am I to do, Odysseus? Look at them! One hundred and one Kings and Princes all snarling at each other and wondering who is going to be the lucky one – and determined to dispute the choice, no matter how logical or politic.’

This time Agamemnon spoke. ‘It has developed into a kind of contest. Who is most favoured by the High King of Mykenai and his father-in-law Tyndareus of Lakedaimon? They know Tyndareus must take my advice! All I can see emerging from this situation is enduring enmity.’

‘Absolutely. Look at Philoktetes, arching his proud neck and snorting. Not to mention Diomedes and Idomeneus. Menestheus. Eurypylos. And so on.’

‘What should we do?’ the High King asked.

‘Is that a formal request for advice, sire?’

‘It is.’

I stiffened, beginning to realise how insignificant my part was in all this. Suddenly I wanted to weep.
I
choose? No!
They
would choose, Agamemnon and my father. Though, I understood now, it was Odysseus who held my fate in the palm of his hand. And did he care? At which moment he winked at me. My heart sank. No, he didn’t care. There was not one scrap of desire in those beautiful grey eyes. He hadn’t come to sue for my hand; he had come knowing his advice would be sought. He had come only to enhance his own standing.

‘As always, I’m pleased to be able to help,’ he said smoothly, his gaze going to my father. ‘However, Tyndareus, before we tackle the problem of getting Helen safely and politically married, I have a small favour to ask.’

Agamemnon seemed offended; out of my depth, I wondered what subtle bargaining was going on.

‘Do you want Helen for yourself?’ Father asked baldly.

Odysseus flung back his head and laughed so uproariously that for a moment the hall stilled. ‘No, no! I wouldn’t dare ask for her when my fortune is negligible and my kingdom penurious! Poor Helen! My mind boggles at the vision of such beauty cooped up upon a rock in the Ionian sea! No, I do not want Helen for my bride. I want another.’

‘Ah!’ said Agamemnon, mollified. ‘Who?’

Odysseus preferred to address his reply to my father. ‘The daughter of your brother Ikarios, Tyndareus. Penelope.’

‘That shouldn’t be difficult,’ said my father, surprised.

‘Ikarios dislikes me, and there have been much better offers for Penelope’s hand.’

‘I will see to it’ from my father.

And from Agamemnon, ‘Consider it done.’

Such a shock for me! If they understood what Odysseus saw in Penelope, I certainly did not. I knew her well; she was my first cousin. Not ill looking and a great heiress into the bargain, but
boring.
Once she had caught me allowing a house baron to kiss my breasts – I definitely would not have let him do more! – and served me a homily to the effect that desires of the flesh were unintellectual and demeaning. I would do better, she had pronounced in that measured, unemotional voice of hers, to fix my attention upon the real feminine skills like
weaving.
I had stared at her as if she were mad.
Weaving!

Odysseus began to speak; I abandoned my thoughts about Cousin Penelope and listened intently.

‘I have a fair idea whereabouts you intend to bestow your daughter, Tyndareus, and I understand your reasons. However, who you choose is irrelevant. What
is
relevant is that you safeguard your own and Agamemnon’s interests – safeguard your relations with the unlucky one hundred after you announce your choice. I can achieve that. Provided that you do exactly as I say.’

Agamemnon answered. ‘We will.’

‘Then the first step is to return all the gifts the suitors have tendered, accompanied by graceful thanks for the intention. No man must call you greedy, Tyndareus.’

My father looked chagrined. ‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Not necessary – imperative!’

‘The gifts will be returned,’ said Agamemnon.

‘Good.’ Odysseus leaned forward in his chair, the two Kings following him. ‘You will announce your choice at night, in the Throne Room. I want the place dim and holy, so night helps. Have all the priests present. Burn incense copiously. My aim is to oppress the suitors’ spirits, and that can only be done through ritual. You cannot afford the name of your choice greeted by flaring warrior tempers.’