by Glyn Iliffe
The Pythoness gave her answer without hesitation.
‘Find a daughter of Lacedaemon and she will keep the thieves from your house. As father of your people you will count the harvests on your fingers. But if ever you seek Priam’s city, the wide waters will swallow you. For the time it takes a baby to become a man, you will know no home. Then, when friends and fortune have departed from you, you will rise again from the dead.’
‘Thank you, goddess,’ he said, and sat down beside Antiphus. He placed his head in his hands and was silent.
‘Do you understand the prophecy?’ Thrasios asked.
‘Aren’t you the interpreter?’ Halitherses retorted.
‘I’ve had more difficult riddles to decipher. You must fetch a princess from Sparta, Odysseus, and she will defend your palace from usurpers. You will become king and reign over a prosperous kingdom for ten years. From then you have a choice: to stay at home, or go to the city of Troy far away in the east. But be warned, if you choose Troy you will not see your homeland for twenty years; and when you return you will be alone and destitute.’
Eperitus glanced inquisitively at Castor, or Odysseus if that was his true name, but the prince did not look up as Thrasios interpreted his fate. Instead he fixed his eyes on the chasm and said nothing.
‘And you, Eperitus of Alybas?’ the Pythoness asked, pointing at the tall young warrior. ‘What is your question?’
Chapter Four
HELEN OF SPARTA
The great hall of the palace at Sparta was dark but for the glow of a fire at its centre. Colossal shadows stalked each other about the high walls, whilst the sputtering of the flames echoed in the emptiness of the vast space. Around the large circular hearth four pillars stood sentinel, as thick as tree trunks, their heads lost in the gloom of the high ceiling.
On ornate chairs between two of the columns sat three richly clad men. Before them stood an old priest with a long, white beard and beside him knelt a scribe, taking notes as one of the seated men spoke.
‘A bad summer usually means a bad winter, in my experience,’ he said in a deep voice, looking down at the scribe.
The slave glanced up from his clay tablet and nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’
His master was Tyndareus, co-king of Sparta, a fierce-looking man with wild hair and a thick beard, not yet touched by grey despite his respectable age. His large bulk seemed to embody the power he held, though disuse was turning his muscles to fat and excessive feasting had swollen the proportions of his stomach.
‘We’ll need to demand more grain from the farmers for the winter provision,’ Tyndareus continued. ‘They won’t be happy about it, of course, but I’ll not risk the people starving. It also means the potters will have to make more storage jars, and quickly.’
‘At least the extra work will make them happy, brother,’ commented the man to his right.
‘But with this year’s poor harvest, my lord, we could hardly take any more grain from the farmers without starving them to death.’ The scribe held up one of the baked tablets at his side as if the dashed figures were all the proof he required.
Tyndareus passed his golden cup behind his head, where it was hurriedly refilled by one of the attending wine stewards. He took a swallow and nodded at the priest, who was fidgeting for attention.
‘Speak, priest. What do the gods say I should do?’
‘The signs are that the winter will be mild, my lord.’
Tyndareus’s brother spoke up again. ‘So does that mean we won’t have to store extra grain?’
‘Not quite, Lord Icarius,’ the priest said. ‘There will be more than the winter to provision against.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Tyndareus growled.
‘The gods have sent me a dream that, as joint rulers of the city, you should both be wary of.’ Tyndareus scowled; he did not like to be reminded that he and his younger brother were officially co-kings, when in reality Icarius had little say in state affairs. The priest continued undeterred, waving his hands about in a fussy manner. ‘Seven nights ago I was asleep in the temple when I dreamed the palace was filled with great men. There were warriors from all over Greece, men of wonderful renown accompanied by their squires and soldiers. I saw this very hall filled with banqueting: men emptying your best golden wine cups as quickly as the slaves could refill them; the women hardly able to do their work for the attentions of so many men; voices calling for more meat, and yet the courtyard outside already swimming with the blood of sacrificed oxen.’
‘Perhaps the dream refers to King Agamemnon’s visit?’ Icarius suggested, nodding towards the other seated man.
Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and son-in-law to Tyndareus, had arrived in Sparta the day before. He was a full score of years younger than his hosts, and yet had a more authoritative bearing than either of them. Tall, athletically built and handsome, his hair was long and brown with a hint of red and his beard was cropped neatly to his jawline. He wore a tunic of purest white beneath a blood-red cloak which was clasped together at his left shoulder by a golden brooch. This depicted a lion tearing apart a fallen deer, and captured with great skill the majesty, power and ruthlessness of the man. Yet his cold expression revealed nothing of his emotions. He ignored Icarius and focused his icy blue eyes on the priest.
‘Well, damn it?’ thundered Tyndareus. ‘What does the dream mean? Are we going to be invaded? Will our halls be filled with enemies?’
‘No,’ declared Agamemnon, quietly. ‘The Greeks are at peace with each other for the first time in years, and I’ll see that maintained. Even if the old man’s dream was sent by the gods, it won’t mean that.’
‘Then what does it mean?’ Tyndareus demanded.
‘This isn’t the only time I’ve had the dream, my lord,’ said the priest, stroking his long beard thoughtfully. ‘For six consecutive nights I suffered the same images, until the gods released me from them last night. I interpret this to mean the men will be guests at the palace. What’s more, they will be here one month for each night I had the dreams.’
‘Six months!’ Icarius exclaimed. ‘How in Zeus’s name are we to feed an army of Greece’s finest warriors until next summer? We can barely even feed our own people.’
Tyndareus waved over his chief steward and ordered more fruit to be brought. ‘I assume, priest, you’ve sent an envoy to consult one of the oracles.’
‘Oh yes, my lord. Naturally.’
‘Then we shall wait on the advice of the gods. Not that I can see any reason for inviting a horde of kings here for winter residence. Can you imagine the fights? No, I think you’ve made a mistake this time; your dreams mean something else, or nothing at all.’
Tyndareus turned from the priest to focus on the Mycenaean king.
‘I’m intrigued by these fantasies of yours, though, Agamemnon. Do you really expect to preserve peace between the Greek nations?
The fruit arrived and Agamemnon selected a slice of melon. He took a bite without spilling a drop of juice.
‘Yes, I do. Greece is tired of civil war. I used to go to the marketplaces and hear the women bemoan the loss of sons and husbands in distant battles, whilst the merchants grumbled about the trade they’d lost because of one war or another. But I’ve seen how happy the people have become during this lull. They’re hungry for peace, and I intend to give them what they want.’
Tyndareus scoffed. ‘How? The merchants and women can pine for peace, Agamemnon, but there are too many fighting men in Greece now. The wars have bred a new class of professional soldier. Each state has a standing army, just waiting for the next call to war – and they’re getting restless. For every shepherd, farmer, potter and bronze-smith in Sparta there’s a warrior. Do you think they’ll be willing – or able – to trade their swords for pottery and ivory trinkets? Maybe you think they can sail to Crete in their upturned shields and sell unwanted helmets to farmers and fishermen? And already your so-called “peace” is falling apart again: what about Diomedes and the Epigoni, laying siege
to Thebes?’
Agamemnon gave a pained smile. ‘Diomedes desires peace more than anything else. I’ve spoken about this with him and he’s given me his word that he only makes war to avenge the death of his father. That’s all. He doesn’t fight the Thebans for slaves or plunder.’
‘He may not,’ said Icarius. ‘But his men do. Why else would they fight?’
‘I said peace will continue in Greece, and it will,’ Agamemnon insisted. ‘When the nations realize the benefits of commerce over war, attitudes will change. The people want peace with their neighbours and their rulers are prospering already from the free flow of goods. That’s where peace starts. But commerce alone won’t unite us, nor will even the most solemn oaths. And there’s your question about our restless armies, Tyndareus, always itching to be heroes.’
Tyndareus slurped down the last of his wine and the squire refilled his cup. ‘So what do you propose to do?’
‘If we’re to grow rich through commerce, we need to trade freely outside of Greece.’
‘And we do,’ said Icarius.
‘Not any more,’ Agamemnon corrected. He chose another piece of melon from the platter and took a bite, spitting the seeds one by one into the flames. ‘Have you heard of King Priam?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Tyndareus said. ‘Ruler of Troy, and a powerful man by all accounts.’
‘Too powerful.’ Agamemnon frowned. ‘He’s started imposing a tax on trade passing over the Aegean. He claims the sea for Troy and says all ships must pay him tribute. Something I won’t tolerate.’
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
THE SACRED POOL
‘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.’