by Glyn Iliffe
‘Then step forward, all of you, and refresh yourselves after your travels.’ Tyndareus walked down to meet them, while a flurry of slaves brought food, wine and chairs to the dais for the latest of Helen’s suitors. But the men remained where they stood.
‘Where is Helen?’ demanded the greater of the Ajaxes.
‘Sleeping,’ Tyndareus answered. ‘There will be time to see her tomorrow, but for now you should eat and drink and tell us the tale of your journey here.’
But Ajax was impatient, as if he expected the girl to marry him before the night was out. ‘Then wake her. Should I be kept waiting for the sake of a woman’s sleep?’
‘Her beauty will not diminish overnight, Ajax,’ Agamemnon said, leaving the crowd to join the newcomers. ‘Take your seats and join the feast.’
Little Ajax’s snake flicked out its tongue and hissed as he approached, but the king of Mycenae had a commanding presence that seemed to silence even the irrepressible Ajax. The three men allowed him to shepherd them to the places set out by the slaves.
But if Agamemnon was pleased to receive the latest suitor, happy that his planned council of war could now go ahead, there were others among the noble guests who were not so pleased at the giant’s words or the insolent presence of his lesser namesake. Palamedes and King Menestheus stood as the trio stepped up to the dais and walked to the opposite side. Patroclus, who sat on a chair at the foot of the dais, also stood and walked away. Seeing this, Little Ajax draped his pet snake over the twitching Teucer and followed the Myrmidon.
‘You!’ he said.
Patroclus turned and sneered down at the Locrian prince, who now stood threateningly before him.
‘You’ve no royal blood in you. Who are you and what are you doing here?’
Patroclus wrinkled his pinched nose at the stench of the man’s breath. ‘My name is Patroclus, representative of Achilles.’
‘Achilles?’ Little Ajax scoffed. ‘Do you hear that, lads? He says he’s here to represent Achilles! But everybody knows Achilles is just a boy. He is just a boy isn’t he?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Patroclus replied, testily.
They were the two most disliked, arrogant and mean-looking men in all of Sparta, and it surprised nobody to see them already at loggerheads.
‘Then he must be,’ Little Ajax persisted, like a boarhound on a scent, ‘because I’m sure you’d know if he had hair on his balls yet.’
Suddenly Patroclus dropped his natural reserve and seized him by the throat. He was not a well-built man but his sinewy muscles were deceptively strong. He also had the reactions of a cobra – Peisandros had boasted that his captain was the most accomplished fighter amongst the Myrmidons – and Little Ajax could do little more than try to pull the strong, long-fingered hands from his neck.
An instant later Ajax himself leapt down from the dais and with one blow from his massive fist knocked Patroclus halfway across the hall, where he landed at the feet of his own men. They took one look at their leader, unconscious and bleeding, and with a great shout of anger rushed as one towards the giant.
Peisandros was the first to reach him. He slipped inside Ajax’s guard and punched him in the stomach. It was as hard a blow as he could give, but his fist rebounded as if he had slammed it into an ox-hide shield. Ajax roared with joy and hurled Peisandros into the crowd of onlookers. An instant later he threw himself into the rest of the Myrmidons, tossing them about the great hall like dolls. He was joined by Little Ajax, who was always looking for the opportunity to fight. But unlike his companion, who simply enjoyed beating his opponents, the smaller man was driven by a constantly simmering hatred for all mankind. He went for the tallest warrior he could see and jumped up to hit him full on the jaw. The man fell back and took no further part in the fight.
Despite being knocked this way and that, the Myrmidons were proud fighting men and would not give up the fight until the last man was beaten. They launched themselves in numbers at Ajax, though with no more effect than the sea crashing against a great rock. But the more badly mauled amongst them now saw an opportunity for revenge against Little Ajax, and Peisandros and two of his comrades crowded about him and began to give him a severe beating.
Eperitus, Diomedes and Menelaus had stood by in the crowd, enjoying the spectacle of Ajax fighting off a dozen men whilst his colleague took a much-deserved battering. Agamemnon and Odysseus seemed to be watching the spectacle with equal satisfaction from the royal dais, whilst beside them Tyndareus looked on aghast, imagining similar scenes when he eventually chose a husband for his daughter. But as Eperitus watched Little Ajax reel away from his attackers with a punch to the side of his head, he saw him snatch a knife from one of the meat stewards and immediately go running back into the fray, straight at Peisandros. Instinctively Eperitus stepped forward and called out to the Myrmidon, who turned to see the Locrian running towards him, a sneer of hatred on his battered lips. In the same moment Teucer stood up on the dais and called out frenetically to his half-brother.
Ajax was still fending off the other Myrmidons, but turned as he heard Teucer’s voice and saw the blade glinting in Little Ajax’s hand. In a moment he had bounded across the floor and smashed his fist down upon the head of his companion, crumpling him in a heap. The knife skittered across the flagstones and came to a spinning rest at Peisandros’s feet.
The Myrmidon signalled for his comrades to stop the fight. Immediately he walked up to Ajax and offered his hand in thanks for saving his life. Ajax enclosed it in his own and nodded curtly. The fight was over as quickly as it had begun.
Neaera stood at the entrance to the temple of Aphrodite and glanced shamefacedly at Eperitus as he arrived. The interior was lit by a solitary torch and he could see Helen waiting for him by the whitewashed altar.
She looked even more beautiful than usual tonight. Her hair was worn loose to frame her face and emphasize the features that the warrior had come to know so well during their many meetings here. He had often thought of how he could be happy spending hours just looking at her, absorbing the gentle lines of her face and the full curves of her body. A man could die for that pleasure, he thought, but would he ever be happy? The suitor who finally won Helen would never be able to possess such beauty and would spend his whole life jealously guarding her from the attentions of other men. He felt sorry for her – her delicate femininity and spellbinding looks were as much a curse as a blessing.
As he shook the late winter rain from his cloak, she came up to him and kissed his cheek. Up until that point she had barely touched him in all of their secret liaisons, which was a painful irony in view of the news he had to bring her. And yet the touch of her soft lips on his stubbly cheek, with the faint hint of perfume in her hair, was exquisite.
‘What’s wrong, Eperitus? Are you shocked that I should kiss you? Well, you shouldn’t be. If I wasn’t the plaything of the powerful, who knows that I wouldn’t be happy to spend my life with a handsome warrior like yourself?’
‘You’re kind, my lady,’ he replied despondently. He knew she wanted to repay him for being her one friend during the long weeks of her courtship by so many men, but he could not bring himself to match her cheerfulness, weighed down by the guilt of what he had to reveal to her. ‘But you truly are the plaything of the powerful, to use your own words. I’m afraid you will always be a prisoner of Tyndareus and Agamemnon.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll be free when you convince Odysseus to take me away from here.’
‘You don’t understand me, my lady. Helen. I’m trying to tell you that they know.’
She froze and the playful smile fell from her lips. ‘Know what?’
Eperitus could not bring himself to say it in full, but Helen knew anyway. She closed her eyes and seemed to crumple under the realization. Tears collected beneath her long, dark eyelashes and began to roll down her cheeks to fall in large, fast drops to the floor. He watched her as she stood there, silent and unmoving, the tears shining on her proud face, and he wanted to tou
ch her but could not. She was the loveliest creature he had ever seen and it was like a sword through his heart to see the sadness of despair hurt her so deeply. Then he gathered all his courage and stepped up to her, daring even to hold her and let her fall against his chest, where the warm dampness of her tears seeped into his rough woollen tunic.
She put her arms about him and held him tight. Her face was buried into his neck, hidden beneath her dense black hair, and he looked down at the top of her head. Something told him to kiss her, a sudden, unexpected urge that threatened to take control of him. But the urge became a voice, the mocking voice of Gyrtias, and the beautiful, daring thought was soured and fell away. Then she spoke in a hoarse whisper.
‘How do they know?’
Eperitus thought of the frightened young maid confronted by the most powerful men in Greece and could not blame Neaera for her betrayal. ‘Agamemnon didn’t tell me.’
‘Oh, what does it matter any more?’ Helen said bitterly, her wet cheeks shining in the torchlight. ‘They’ll be watching me now. Everywhere I go and everything I do. There’ll even be somebody in the street now, hiding in the shadows and waiting for me to leave. Oh, it’s terrible.’
This pained him even more, knowing he had agreed to be their watcher for them. Surely he could do something for her? Was he so weak that he could not help a girl in need? Then she looked at him again and a new light of desperate determination was in her eyes.
‘I know a secret way out of here, Eperitus. We could leave together without being seen. You could take me away over the mountains to your homeland. I could marry you and we could live a simple life together. If you take me away now, I promise myself to you. Please, Eperitus.’
As she uttered these words to him the feasting hall on top of the hill was filled with warriors from almost every kingdom in Greece. The kings and princes of its nations and islands were gathered together in honour of this girl, the greatest assembly in Greek history. Each man was high-born. They were the sons of heroes, the leaders of their people, and each had the right to believe they could win the hand of Helen. Yet she had offered herself to him.
For a brief, wild moment Eperitus thought his heart would smash itself free of his ribcage, so fast did it beat. Helen had offered him everything he could ever want, and his head was dizzy with the thought of her, of having her for himself. All he needed to do was take her by the hand and slip out of the darkened streets of Sparta into the Eurotas valley. Men would come after them, following every conceivable route of escape, but he felt sure they could evade any pursuit.
But he knew it could not be. The oracle had warned him of the dangers of love, but worse still he would be abandoning Odysseus and Ithaca, whom he had sworn to protect. He had also given Menelaus his hand and obliged himself for the sake of his honour to see that Helen did not escape from Sparta.
The blood began to cool in his veins. Besides, where would they go? Where could they go that news of their arrival would not reach the ears of Tyndareus and Agamemnon? There was nowhere that Helen’s beauty could escape notice. They would remain wanderers, roaming from place to place to escape the far-reaching wrath of Sparta and Mycenae. What sort of life would that give them, and how long before Helen despaired of a nomadic existence and returned to her father? No, he was a fool even to imagine such a thing.
He looked at Helen and she knew his answer.
‘Of course not,’ she said, forcing a smile.
‘They made me swear to watch over you,’ he admitted. ‘They told me to see that you did not escape. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I know you won’t break your word, and one day that will make you into a great man.’ She released herself from his arms and stood tall once again before him. ‘I think better of you for your decision, my friend, not worse. But now I must face up to the destiny the gods have chosen for me.’
It was a destiny about which Eperitus knew more than he could say. But despite Athena’s words he dared to believe there could be a different course, an alternative that might suit Helen and Odysseus both.
‘Maybe there’s another way.’
‘Is there? I don’t think so now,’ she said.
‘You could compromise. Although you hate being a piece in the power games of your father and Agamemnon, perhaps you could consent to marry a man of your own choice. Since we’ve been meeting here, your talk has always been of running away with Odysseus and living a simple life on Ithaca. Well, why not talk to Tyndareus about it? If you marry Odysseus at least you’ll be able to leave Sparta and live out a quiet existence away from all this. And that way, Tyndareus can lend Odysseus all the soldiers he needs to win back his kingdom. Even Agamemnon will have had his council of war, which you say was the whole point of inviting the Greek nobility to Sparta. Everybody will be happy, except for the other suitors, of course. What do you say?’
‘I say you’re an optimistic fool, Eperitus. Don’t you know my future husband will have been carefully selected before the first heralds were sent out to invite all these suitors?’
‘But you’ve such charm, my lady. And I’ve seen the way your father looks at you. He’s not such a puppet of Agamemnon that he can’t have his mind changed by the most beautiful woman in all Greece, is he?’
She smiled warmly and gave Eperitus a look he would never forget. There was a magic about Helen that could drive men insane, and though he liked Menelaus he felt he could happily kill the Mycenaean prince to release her from her divinely decreed fate.
‘You’re thinking of my charm as a woman. It’s different between daughters and fathers – but perhaps it can be more effective. A few tears, the odd sigh here and there. I’ll see what I can do, and for your sake I won’t give up yet. Even though you only care about soldiers for Ithaca rather than what happens to me.’
Eperitus tutted at her suggestion. ‘All I want is you to be queen of Ithaca, my lady.’
Odysseus and Tyndareus walked through the gardens in the light of the early morning. The discordant clacking of wooden sticks could be heard from the courtyard where the warriors of the different states practised their battle drill.
‘They’re becoming very good soldiers,’ Odysseus commented. ‘All this practice has given my men a new edge, though I wonder how it will translate to swords of bronze instead of wood.’
‘That’s my worry,’ Tyndareus said. He picked a pink flower and crammed it under his nose, inhaling its sweet aroma.
Odysseus guessed his meaning, having thought on the situation much himself. ‘You’re concerned about what will happen when Helen’s husband is announced.’
‘Exactly. You saw them the other day, brawling like commoners,’ Tyndareus said glumly. ‘And with so many warriors here, can you imagine what’ll happen if there’s a dispute about the choice? I must be getting old, Odysseus, because I’m losing sleep about the thought of a battle.’ The Spartan king looked about himself and plucked another flower for Odysseus. ‘Smell this. Wonderful, isn’t it? Only grows here in Sparta.’
Odysseus’s sense of smell had been weak ever since boxing lessons as a boy and he was barely able to appreciate the aroma from the tiny petals.
‘Why don’t you stick it in your belt,’ Tyndareus suggested, ‘and get rid of that dried-up husk you’ve been wearing since you got here.’
Odysseus patted the chelonion gently. ‘I couldn’t do that. My sister gave me this as a memento of Ithaca while I’m away. I keep it to remind myself that my people are suffering under a false king, and I must one day return to free them. All my men wear a sprig as a reminder of home.’
‘You’ve been here for some time now. You must worry constantly about your homeland.’
Odysseus frowned. ‘Constantly, but it’s the burden of nobility, Tyndareus. What about your problem: have you thought of a solution yet?’
The king laughed. ‘Solution? Only one springs to mind, but dividing Helen into thirty pieces would be a waste of a beautiful daughter.’
‘Maybe I can help,’ Odysseu
s offered nonchalantly, trying once more to detect an aroma from the flower.
‘You’ve hinted as much on several occasions, my friend. But for all your cleverness I don’t see how you can prevent them from slaughtering each other. They’re all proud, and with Ajax and his vicious little friend amongst them I fear the worst.’
Odysseus cocked an eyebrow at Tyndareus. ‘What will you offer me if I can give you a practical answer?’
‘What’s the price of peace to an old man?’ Tyndareus replied. ‘I’ll give you anything that it’s in my power to give.’
‘Anything?’
‘Yes: gold; women for you and your men; even land if you want it. But only if I agree to your idea, and it works.’
Odysseus offered him his hand, which Tyndareus took. ‘That’s settled then. I shall take your offer of anything I wish, but first I’ll honour my half of the bargain. Agamemnon’s council of war will take place in two days’ time, when he expects your guests to support his raid against Troy. It won’t work of course, but that’s another matter altogether.
‘When the suitors are gathered together, and before any disagreement can begin, you must demand that they take an oath. As you said, they’re proud men and therefore you can be sure an oath will bind them. And to ensure they consent to the oath, tell them you won’t consider any man as a husband for Helen unless he agrees.’
‘But what oath?’
‘Simple,’ Odysseus smiled. ‘You must make them swear to protect Helen and her husband against anyone who would come between them. That’s the only way you can ensure they don’t fight each other for her, now or in the years to come. And if anyone breaks the oath, the others will be compelled to protect your daughter and the winning suitor. It’ll need to be accompanied by the most compelling sacrifice that your priests can devise, of course, but you shouldn’t have any problems after that.’