by Peter Tonkin
Father amongst them, I hope, I thought. ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘the Queen would never have brought the Princess here without being told to by the High King. Especially as she’s expecting there to be a wedding!’
The servant shrugged. ‘Perhaps the High King sent her a message then changed his mind and sent another message telling her not to come…’
‘And then for some reason,’ I said, ‘the second message never got through!’
ii
I was still wrestling with the ramifications of that thought when the servant and I arrived at the High King’s tent. The whole place seemed to be the centre of a great whirl of activity. Chief Steward Oikonomos and his assistants had just returned from the market in Aulis, pulling carts laden with the skinned carcases of lambs and kids. Anything larger, the size of the stag, for example, would never be cooked in time for tonight’s festivities. Even a modest boar or a sizeable ram would have taken most of the day and there was no time for anything bigger than the animals they had brought and the fish in the cart behind them. Slaves and servants were dashing in and out of the front entrance with the focused energy of men bailing a sinking ship. But that was only the half of it. To the rear of the tent, the engineers of Agamemnon’s Mycenaean army were extending the domestic sections, fighting to add rooms, ablutions and whatever else was needed, as Queen Clytemnestra’s attendants came and went as busily as the High King’s cooks and stewards.
I followed the messenger into Oikonomos’ areas like a soldier plunging onto a battlefield. The chief steward was at the centre of the activity in the megaron, deciding which carcases should go where around the fire-pit, carefully committing the flesh before the fish. At the same time, he had one eye on the preparation of the tables for the High King the Queen and their royal guests. The scale and mood were very different from last time – as was the atmosphere of near panic which, I hoped, would be replaced by the calm of a placid mountain lake by the time my song was called for. My companion approached the chief steward and waited to be noticed. I did likewise, standing immediately behind him. ‘Well?’ snapped the beleaguered Oikonomos at last.
‘Prince Achilles and Prince Patroclus will not be attending. They have taken the Myrmidons…’
‘Taken the Myrmidons? Taken them where in Ares’ name?’ snarled the harassed steward.
‘Taken them on a forced march to Marathon,’ I said as the messenger gaped silently, looking even more like a frog, rendered wordless by his superior’s anger. ‘General Eudorus told me as they left – just before your messenger arrived.’
‘And who…’ began Oikonomos. But then he recognised me. ‘Ah, Odysseus’ rhapsode. I hope King Odysseus at least will be gracing us…’
‘He will,’ I answered. ‘But he told me the High King wished to discuss which song I should sing tonight as Sophus can no longer perform.’
‘Yes. Poor Sophus. A tragedy and a terrible crime. Perhaps King Odysseus can look into that as well as into the matter of the sacred stag now he has returned. Prince Palamedes doesn’t seem to have made much progress. But Prince Achilles has gone to Marathon, you say? Perhaps you had better not break that news to the High King. He seems to be under quite enough pressure today what with one thing and another. Leave the news about Achilles to me. He said I should send you straight to him as soon as you arrived, and I pray to the muses that your song meets with his approval! You!’ he pointed at the servant who was still waiting open-mouthed to be dismissed. ‘Take the rhapsode to the High King. He is in the propylon beside the temple talking with his brother.’
I followed the servant through the bustling megaron and out at the back into the private areas. Here there was a small open courtyard leading straight ahead into the High King’s personal chambers – now being swiftly augmented to contain the queen with her baby son, Princess Iphigenia and their retunes. These extended right up to the main structure of the megaron on my left but opening off the courtyard on my right there was a temple, fronted, as was traditional by a propylon entrance area where those about to enter the sacred space could pause, arrange their thoughts and remove their footwear if necessary. The High King and his brother were in this area, face to face, so close that their beards were almost touching, engaged in a conversation which seemed as passionate as it was low-pitched. It appeared to me that Agamemnon was not the only one under pressure here. The already nervous servant turned and very sensibly vanished, leaving me in the modest courtyard, unobserved by the two men, alone and hesitant as to what to do.
***
‘What do you mean you blame me! It was your idea!’ snarled Menelaus.
‘Born out of desperation! Once I’d thought it through I saw how impossible it was!’ spat Agamemnon.
‘That’s easy to say now!’ his brother sneered.
‘None of this has been easy! Not then, not now!’ raged the High King.
‘You’re the same as all the others!’ said Menelaus. ‘When you’re trying to win the votes then nothing will be too much trouble! You’re as reliable as the sunrise and you promise to shine on everyone all day! But when you actually get the position you want and find you have to make some hard decisions and sacrifices to hold onto it then it’s one excuse after another! I saw your face when you managed to get all these men with their thousand ships here to agree that you should be in over-all command! But it’s changed now, hasn’t it? Now that we’re all stuck with no prospect of getting to Troy and rescuing my Helen! Not now that there’s talk of whole armies turning around and heading for home, leaving you to stew in your own juice. Now that reliable sunrise has become as inconsistent as the moon. Which, aptly enough, has been waning for the last seven nights!’
‘You’re a fine one to talk! Look around you!’ hissed Agamemnon. ‘Take a good look at all these men assembled here ready to fight and die! And for what? Because you couldn’t hold on to your Helen!’ The way he said her name was a sneer. ‘And now that she’s left you for someone younger, better-looking and more entertaining in bed, you suddenly want her back! It’s pathetic. And look what I have to weigh in the balance!’
‘Don’t flatter yourself!’ growled Menelaus. ‘Most of the Kings have brought their armies here because Odysseus had the brilliant idea of making everyone who wanted to marry Helen swear to protect her and the man she finally chose. She chose me and they’re here for me! Just because they allowed you to worm your way into the High King’s chair doesn’t mean you’re in charge. You have to earn that right and keep doing so, day in and day out! It’s called leadership! And all this time-wasting, prevaricating and double-dealing just isn’t enough! You’ve got to grasp the nettle or give up all your pretentions to overall command! And just because you’ve got Clytemnestra here to hide behind isn’t going to make you look any stronger! Any more decisive!’
‘You know I sent a message to her telling her to stay in Mycenae until she heard further…’ Some of the fire had gone out of Agamemnon now.
‘But the message didn’t get through, did it?’ Menelaus sensed victory.
‘No! It didn’t! And I wonder how that happened!’ Agamemnon demanded suspiciously.
‘You know how it happened! You saw how it happened!’ Spat Menelaus.
‘I don’t mean how a dead man didn’t deliver it. I know a dead man couldn’t deliver it. I just want to know who it was that stopped the dead man from delivering it; stopped him living into the bargain!’
‘Hello,’ said a new voice from immediately behind me. ‘Who are you?’
I turned, and there, less than an arm’s length away from me, was the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen. Her eyes were huge and hazel, her hair a tumble of gilded copper, her nose was as straight as an arrow and the delicate barb of her nostrils pointed down to a full, red-lipped mouth which at the moment was smiling quizzically, showing a dimple at each corner that matched the cleft in her determined chin.
‘Rhapsode…’ I managed. Which I though was pretty accomplished considering I could neither breathe nor s
wallow.
‘Oh!’ said the young woman. ‘Are you to sing for us tonight? May I hear some of the song you have prepared?’
‘I must ask the High King first,’ I managed, the words feeling like a lumpy foreign language in my mouth.
‘Well, let’s ask him now! Father!’ She called.
Agamemnon turned. All the anger and frustration which has been so clear in his tone and on his face, melting away at once.
‘Yes my darling Iphigenia,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
iii
‘Aphrodite, subtle of soul and deathless daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I pray thee do not slay my dreams, neither with care, dread Mistress, nor with anguish. But in pity hasten, come now from afar when my voice implores thee. Leave your father’s Olympian house. Come flying to my aid.’ Thus sang the love-stuck Orpheus as he plucked the strings of his lyre and sang to lovely Eurydice, daughter of Apollo, in the golden days when first he became enchanted and she went dancing through the hills and fields her feet lent wings by his words…’ I sang, keeping my eyes closed, not as an aid to concentration but because if I opened them I would be unable to look away from the princess – and I was certain that her father would not be too pleased at having lowly rhapsodes staring at his favourite daughter.
‘That’s enough,’ he said as I reached the end of the opening stanza. ‘I’m not at all sure that a song about a poet who according to the legend has to venture into the kingdom of Hades in a futile attempt to retrieve lost love is at all suitable! Especially not given what happened to Orpheus in the end!’
‘Oh father!’ said the princess chidingly. ‘You weren’t listening! It is about how young Orpheus first falls in love with Euridice when she was little more than a girl – hardly any older than me! The song describes how she dances through the fields as he plays and sings his love for her and even the trees bend down to hear; long before she trod on one of Artemis’ vipers and all the sadness began! It is one of the greatest loves of all! It’s so beautiful it made me cry! Oh please let him sing it! Such a lovely song and such a clever idea: a poet singing a song about a poet singing a song...’
‘Oh! Very well! But if your mother thinks as I do it will be up to you to explain its suitability to her and I warn you, young lady, you won’t find her so easy to persuade. Now off you go. And rhapsode, you may report to Oikonomos after you have bathed, changed into a clean tunic and found a himation better suited to the occasion!’
The princess vanished into the women’s quarters and I bagged my harp then ran down the hill to Thalassa where, by the grace of the gods, I did indeed have a clean tunic and a formal himation, both of which I had worn at the feast where Artemis’ sacred stag had been eaten. At the High King’s special and specific order, apparently. Another tit-bit of information I stored away at the back of my mind to discuss with Odysseus when the time was right.
I had bathed in the blessedly cool sea, changed into the clothing suggested by the High King and was making my way back up the hill from Thalassa when, not quite by accident, I fell in with Odysseus who was also on his way to the feast with the massive oarsman Elpenor in attendance. The evening was hot and humid, the sky high and sultry despite the stars scattered across it and the promise of a rising moon, little more than a fingernail of waning light now. ‘So, Captain,’ I said, ‘do you know who the princess has come here to marry?’
‘I do. But before you ask your next question, I must warn you that I have sworn not to reveal his identity. The queen and the princess wish to go about matters in their own way and the queen particularly wishes to speak to the prospective bridegroom before anything else is announced.’
‘That’s good,’ I said without thinking.
Odysseus chuckled. ‘Worried that the announcement would overshadow your performance, eh? You rhapsodes are all the same!’
‘Did you hear about what happened to Agamemnon’s rhapsode Sophos?’ I asked.
‘I heard something…’
But before the conversation could go any further Prince Palamedes joined us and I naturally fell back to walk beside Elpenor as befitted my station. Palamedes as usual didn’t really register my presence – or, I assumed, that of Elpenor. Whether the massive oarsman was tactful enough to close his ears to the conversation of his betters, I had no idea. I certainly did not, because the conversation was far too interesting.
***
‘So,’ said Palamedes, ‘are you expecting to take over the High King’s investigation into the death of the sacred stag and the girl from the Temple of Artemis once more?’
‘If the High King asks me to.’
‘And the death of Sophos? Agamemnon is far more upset about that of course, especially given the circumstances.’
‘I really haven’t had time to consider the case.’
‘Of course you haven’t. Agamemnon hasn’t asked me to get involved yet either – though it will naturally climb higher on the list of his concerns when the current festivities are over and that pretty little princess of his is brided and bedded in due form by which ever royal stallion has been selected for her.’
Not you then, I thought; though I realised at once that Palamedes was devious enough to be playing a double game here.
‘Especially,’ observed Odysseus as I entertained these thoughts, ‘if the man who killed the stag has not been unmasked by then and the wind has not begun to blow. Perhaps the High King is planning that the drama circulating around these mysterious murders will distract the armies for a few more days. Hold them here, no matter how impatient they become, in the hope that this dead calm will pass.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Palamedes. ‘So the wedding is to distract us, especially I assume, because everyone is bursting to know the bridegroom’s secret identity. And as soon as that distraction ends at the temple and the bridal bed, the murders will immediately present another distraction…’
‘Compounded, once again, by the secret identity of the man at the heart of it. A secret murderer in parallel to the anonymous bridegroom. Then what, I wonder, if the wind still refuses to co-operate.’
‘More murders, perhaps,’ suggested Palamedes.
Palamedes said it seemingly without having thought, certainly without having considered the implications. But the casual suggestion started a new train of thought in my mind that was truly unsettling. What if Agamemnon himself was responsible for the murders – as the two kings had suggested while bandying their ideas about - to distract the restless and impatient army from their increasingly dangerous desire to go home? And, should that truly shocking notion have any basis in reality, then who would be next to die?
It was at this point in my reasoning that I remembered how high I had stood on the list of men the Rat wanted to kill. The Rat, whose corpse had been carried not to King Aias or Palamedes for disposal, but to Menelaus – whose tent stood so close to his brother’s that not even Ikaros would have been able to say which brother the dead murderer was destined for. Not with any certainty. So, suddenly and unexpectedly, it seemed that I was once again in deadly danger. Or, more accurately, perhaps, I thought, I could now see and understand the danger I had always been standing in. Almost unconsciously, I quickened my pace, catching up with my captain and protector. Just as I did so, however, Diomedes fell in at Odysseus’ right shoulder and Aias fell in at Palamedes’ left. Attendants came beside Elpenor and myself, so that as we arrived at Agamemnon’s tent, there was quite a crowd of us.
All the others paused in the reception area immediately outside the megaron, but I went straight on through, more confident of my place and looking for Oikonomos. The chief steward was, inevitably, fussing around the fire pit. His underlings had prepared the seating, again at his direction. He had to be aware of the seating plan because it was part of his duties to conduct the guests to their allotted places. He was also in charge of cooking the meat and fish. Agamemnon habitually demanded perfection and the presence of Clytemnestra would no doubt make those demands even more forceful; a thoroughly com
plicated situation because when the guests actually arrived in the megaron ready to eat, lay entirely at the whim of the High King and his Queen and therefore far beyond the chief steward’s control.
But, I reasoned, things might not be as desperate for Oikonomos as they seemed at first glance. Just as the chief steward wanted to be sure that the food he served was at the peak of perfection, so the High King and his Queen as hosts of the feast, wanted their guests to enjoy their food at the peak of perfection also. So a certain amount of secret scurrying seemed to occur as the chief steward’s acolytes and Agamemnon’s attendants passed messages between the two men designed to warn one of any possible delays and the other of the readiness of the feast.
Everything was proceeding as planned, therefore, until disaster struck. The messenger briefed by the chief steward took off like a hare from his master’s side, heading past the fire pit for the doorway into the reception area while all his colleagues worked with the practised ease of Myrmidons – each man having a task and doing it perfectly. But the messenger slipped. I did not see how it happened but one moment he was hurrying towards the doorway, the next he was rolling around on the expensive flooring trying to beat out the flames consuming his arm and shoulder. Oikonomos took control at once, pouring water on the screaming servant but it was clear that his messenger was no longer in any fit state to approach the High King. The steward’s gaze raked round the megaron. It was obvious that he could spare no-one. Until his eye fell on me. ‘Rhapsode!’ he snapped. ‘Go and inform the High King and Queen Clytemnestra that the feast is ready!’