The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  At the far end of the basin were the Atreides brothers, Agamemnon and Menelaus, seated on high-backed wooden chairs. Unlike the rest of the council, they watched the newcomers in stony silence. Agamemnon, to Eperitus’s surprise, looked as if he had not slept for days: there were dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot and heavy-lidded, and his usually meticulous hair was unkempt. More shocking was the way his rich clothes seemed to hang about him. Agamemnon had always boasted a well-fed, athletic physique, similar to the other warriors gathered about the arena, but in the time they had been away on the mission to Troy the Mycenaean king had become drawn and thin.

  Standing at Agamemnon’s shoulder was an old man wearing a purple cloak and a golden belt that glittered in the warm evening light. King Nestor of Pylos wore his grey hair short and kept his beard neatly trimmed; though not a tall man, he boasted a powerful physique and the hard-bitten aspect of a seasoned warrior. His nose had been broken in some battle or boxing match of the past, and the top of one of his large, disc-like ears had been sliced off many years before by an opponent’s sword. Like the Atreides brothers, he had his eyes fixed on the newcomers as they stood in the centre of the arena.

  Though not one member of the council had been allowed to bring their weapons – a wise precaution in view of the arguments that often occurred between nobility – a dozen heavily armed soldiers stood behind the Atreides brothers, with one more by each of the standing stones, guarding the entrance to the meeting. They were clearly an elite, probably from Agamemnon’s personal guard, who were dressed in ceremonial armour of an antiquated style unfamiliar to Odysseus and Eperitus. Their highly polished bronze breastplates were supplemented by further bands around the stomach and waist, as well as shoulder-pieces and neckguards that rose above the chin. On their heads they wore domed leather helmets with cheekpieces tied beneath the chin. Horsehair plumes sprouted from the top and fell across the back of the neck, while rows of boars’ tusks covered the helmet to give both ornamentation and protection. They wore inlaid greaves over their shins and carried tall, ox-hide shields with an outer layer of polished bronze that gleamed fiercely in the light of the setting sun. Their spears, swords, axes and daggers stood as a reminder to the gathered kings that, though this was a council of equals, Agamemnon still held the greatest wealth and power.

  Agamemnon nodded to Talthybius, who beat his stave three times on the ground.

  ‘My lords,’ the herald announced in a strong, clear voice that commanded silence from everyone gathered, ‘I present King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes, and King Diomedes of Argos, son of Tydeus.’

  ‘Please take your seats,’ said Agamemnon, pointing to an empty bench by one of the standing stones. ‘Talthybius – the wine, please.’

  The herald nodded to a steward, who clapped his hands twice. Immediately a swarm of slaves appeared from the line of trees that topped the lip of the amphitheatre, bringing kraters of diluted wine to the members of the council. As soon as each man had been served, Agamemnon stood and raised his cup in both hands, tipping a small amount into the dirt at his feet.

  ‘Most glorious and mighty Zeus, Lord of High Heaven, father of the gods, grant us clear minds as we debate the future of Troy, and if this mighty fleet is to sail with vengeance to the shores of Ilium, give us the wisdom to choose a single leader, one who will unite the Greeks against our common enemy and lead them to certain and uncompromising victory. Now is the time for men to act, for better or worse, and I call upon you to witness the oaths that we take today and see that they are kept.’

  Agamemnon drained the rest of the wine and handed the krater to his steward. The other members of the council stood as one and poured their own libations, offering silent prayers to whichever of the gods they honoured most. Eperitus, like Odysseus and Diomedes next to him, prayed to Athena, and after his few words asking the goddess to ensure there would be war against Troy sat back down.

  He adjusted the thick cushion that had been handed to him by a slave and turned to look at Agamemnon. The king sat back in his chair and rested his chin on a fist, his golden breastplate reflecting the purple skies above and his red cloak turning scarlet in the dimming twilight. His tired blue eyes surveyed the faces of the men crowded on the rows of benches, dispassionately assessing whether they were for the war or against it. Agamemnon’s cold demeanour had not thawed in the ten years since Eperitus had first met him, and the shadow of exhaustion resting on him did not seem to have reduced his ability to disguise his feelings beneath a remote exterior.

  ‘Brother,’ Agamemnon said, turning to Menelaus. His voice was soft but clear, and the few conversations that continued quickly died away at the sound of it, leaving the amphitheatre hushed and expectant. ‘Brother, for the sake of those who don’t yet know, take the floor and recount for us what happened in Troy.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Menelaus growled, walking out to the middle of the arena and facing the gathered Greeks with his fists firmly on his hips. ‘Palamedes, Odysseus and I have just returned from Troy. Against my better judgement, I allowed Odysseus to persuade me into seeking the return of my wife and son through diplomacy, even though I’ve been itching to wash my spear in Trojan blood ever since Paris stole my family from me.’ The Spartan king held his shaking fists out before him and received a murmur of approval from the benches. ‘But despite our peaceful intentions, they treated us like a pack of curs. Priam – this fornicating old lecher the Trojans call their king – made us wait a whole day before he’d see us. Us – kings and princes of Greece! We slept the night outside the walls of the citadel, in the home of a Trojan elder, and when Priam finally allowed us into his presence, he didn’t even ask our names or our business in Troy. I had to tell him the purpose of our mission myself, and then they nearly killed us!’

  ‘Foreign dogs!’ Ajax boomed, giving rise to a chorus of angry shouts from the other kings and nobles.

  ‘If I’d known how these Trojans treated their guests,’ Menelaus continued, raising his voice above the others, ‘I wouldn’t have listened to all this talk of diplomatic solutions. As far as I can see, the only diplomacy the Trojans understand is at the end of a bronze-tipped spear!’

  There was a great roar of approval from the audience, a sound that brought a smile to Eperitus’s lips and made the blood pound through his veins. Powerful voices were shouting for the fleet to sail immediately and for Troy to be crushed, though as the Ithacan captain looked around at the many faces he saw some that were silent and thoughtful. Then Odysseus rose from the bench beside him and walked out to stand beside Menelaus, who, after revelling in the tumult for a few moments longer, eventually returned to his seat.

  Odysseus waited patiently for the last cheer to die away, then held his hands up.

  ‘Well, friends,’ he began, ‘I think we can put any ideas of a peaceful solution behind us. I may have been the one who suggested a tactful approach, but let me say this – there are none among you keener for war than I am now!’

  Eperitus looked at his king with surprise, wondering at his sudden and suspicious change of mind. All around him the benches erupted once more with belligerent glee, as great-voiced kings vied to outdo each other in their anti-Trojan fervour. Again Odysseus waited for silence to return before holding out the palms of his hands.

  ‘And why should a man of peace suddenly want war? Well, a peace mission can have more than a single purpose. Menelaus – our great friend who beat us all to the hand of Helen – may think I was wasting my time with all this talk of diplomacy, but can he deny that we now know the strength of Troy’s army? Or the number of her warships waiting in the great bay before the city walls? Or the size of that bay and its openness to attack? What about the breadth of the surrounding plain, and its capacity to support an invading army? Not to mention the ability of the walls, towers and gates of Troy to withstand a siege? Who of you would know the strengths and weaknesses of that city, and how best to attack it if we hadn’t been there already and sized the place up f
or you?’

  Odysseus paused as the men before him murmured among themselves, some nodding in quiet approval of the Ithacan’s great foresight. Eperitus, of course, knew differently, and could only admire his king’s ability to turn a situation to his advantage.

  ‘And let me make it clear to you, Troy will not fall in a day, or a week, or maybe even a year. The city’s walls are strong, tall and in good repair – they won’t fall to anything less than the most determined of attacks. Those of you who think we’ll storm in like Heracles with his six ships are going to be disappointed. And the armies of Priam and his allies haven’t allowed their swords to rust or their bellies to expand as we have. While we Greeks have been enjoying the fruits of peace, the Trojans have been mustering their forces to attack us!’

  Odysseus paused for a third time, waiting for the shock of his news to die away before continuing.

  ‘But let no man think these Trojans will prove easy opponents. They’ll be ready for us, and what’s more, they’ll be defending their homeland. If we attack too soon, without proper preparations, then we’ll pay the price. My advice is that we should treat them with respect and caution, and build up our forces slowly and professionally over a year or two . . .’

  ‘To Hades with caution!’ thundered Ajax, making Teucer jump beside him. ‘I say we launch at dawn and take bloody revenge to their walls! Look at the army we’ve gathered! Look at the fleet at anchor down there! What reason do we have to be cautious? Let’s slay the men and take their women and gold for ourselves. Nothing else matters!’

  The ranks of warriors, who had fallen silent at the thought of long preparations, now gave a huge shout of enthusiasm, but before Odysseus could respond a man stood on one of the higher rows and wagged his finger accusingly at the gigantic warrior.

  ‘I’d heard you were a buffoon, Ajax, and now I know it’s true.’

  Suddenly the arena fell silent and every face turned to look at the speaker. Last of all, Ajax turned his head and looked up with disbelieving eyes. But instead of finding himself opposed by a powerful king, he was greeted instead by the deformed features of a hunchback. One eye was lost in a tight squint, but the other bulged out in a ferocious stare that roamed from face to face.

  ‘In fact,’ the hunchback croaked, ‘judging by all the oafish cheering, I’d be surprised if there are enough brains in this arena to fill a helmet.’

  ‘Shut up!’ called a voice.

  ‘Sit down, Thersites!’ cried another.

  But the hunchback was not to be deterred. ‘All this talk of war! If Agamemnon and Menelaus want to fight the Trojans, then let them! And they can take that great yob Ajax with them.’

  Ajax stood, his face flushed and his bunched fists shaking with anger, but Agamemnon signalled for him to resume his seat.

  ‘What need do the rest of us have for war?’ Thersites continued, scratching the tufts of hair on his cone-shaped head as if confused. ‘What do we care for Troy? Don’t we have our own homes and families to protect?’ At this there was a rumble of agreement from some of the benches. ‘And what will our reward be if we go? Have you asked yourselves how the plunder will be shared? Then let me tell you – the richest pickings to the Atreides brothers, and the scraps for the rest of us!’

  ‘Silence, you deformed fool!’ Agamemnon shouted, jumping to his feet, his cool facade suddenly and shockingly broken. ‘This is a council of kings, not of commoners, and if you can’t hold your tongue in front of your superiors then I’ll have it cut out and fed to my dogs. Do you understand?’

  Thersites’s whole body quaked before Agamemnon’s unexpected rage, and his vulture-like eye twitched in fear as he shrank back down among his Aetolian countrymen.

  Agamemnon now waved Odysseus back to his chair and walked out into the middle of the arena. He had regained much of his usual composure, but Eperitus felt there was still a darkness about his face that hinted at his ruffled emotions.

  ‘Fellow Greeks!’ he said, his voice calm once more. ‘Have we not already heard from my brother how he was thrown out of Troy like a beggar, and from Odysseus of how the Trojans have been preparing to bring war to our shores – news even to my ears? Are we not here today because a Greek queen has been abducted from her bed by a Trojan prince? These things alone are enough to demand war, and yet there remain voices of dissent. I don’t talk of the protests of one ignorant man, but of the nods and the mumbled agreements that accompanied them. Why, then, should you leave your homes to fight a distant foe, beyond the reasons I have already stated? Let me tell you.

  ‘First, no Greek state has made war on another since the Epigoni laid waste to Thebes ten years ago. As a result, our industries thrive, our merchants sell Greek goods all over the known world, our people are well fed and peace reigns. But such peace brings its own problems, as I said it would when I first proposed a raid against Troy a decade ago. We pay our armies to do nothing, and they in turn are restless. They want war – what warrior doesn’t thirst for the very thing that defines him? And they want plunder, the true wages of a fighting man. So should we return to the old days of fighting each other – brother against brother, father against son?’

  ‘No!’ a chorus of voices shouted.

  ‘No, of course we shouldn’t. And then there’s the problem of resources. Every king here knows the pressures of running a state – the constant calls for more copper to make our bronze, more timber to build our homes and our ships, more wool for textiles, more this, that and everything else. But above all?’

  ‘More slaves!’ Diomedes called out, firmly.

  ‘After all,’ Agamemnon continued, ‘who spins the yarn, or turns the clay, or mines the silver, or tills the field, or mills the grain, or nurses the babies? Slaves, of course, the beating heart of our agriculture, our industry, even our domestic life. Slaves are the one true product of war. We can buy slaves from Asia, but the constant demand and the high cost are crippling. A war would solve that problem, for a few years at least. Mycenaean merchants tell me that Troy is a rich city – filled with gold, bronze, copper, wool, horses, livestock, timber, spices and, above all, people. If you make war with me against Troy, you and your armies can all have your fill of the plunder. And whatever that fool Thersites might say, I won’t deprive an army of their rights.’

  A great cheer rose up from the benches and many stood and applauded the king of Mycenae, or shook their fists triumphantly above their heads as if the hulls of their ships had already been filled with the loot of a ransacked Troy.

  ‘But I said all this before – ten years ago in Sparta – and no one would listen. The riches of Troy were on offer to us then, but only a handful of you were prepared to leave the safety of your palaces for the promise of glory on foreign soil. Even you, Ajax, though your mighty voice calls for war now – even you said it was impossible to unite the Greeks and raid Ilium. So I come to my final reason why you should leave your families, your homes and your kingdoms to fight a bitter war in a distant place. Stand up, Menelaus.’

  The Spartan king, who had been watching the faces of the council as they reacted to the rhetoric of Agamemnon, looked up in surprise. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

  ‘My brother’s wife has been taken from him,’ Agamemnon continued, walking to where Menelaus stood. ‘He trusted a foreign prince with the most beautiful woman in Greece – you’ve all seen her – while he went off to Crete. The kingdom of Sparta was only his because he married the daughter of its former king. Now that she’s been taken from under his very nose, he has allowed his own authority to be brought into question.’

  As the last word left his lips, Agamemnon struck his brother across the face with the back of his hand. Menelaus reeled backwards, as much with shock as with the force of the blow, and stared at Agamemnon with surprise and a burning rage. His nostrils flared and his lips curled back from his teeth, but he said nothing. The crowded kings and nobles, staring down from the tiered benches, fell silent.

  ‘Fortunately for him,’ Agamemnon co
ntinued, turning to face the council, ‘a sacred oath was taken to protect Helen and her husband from any who would try to come between them. You took that oath! That’s why you’ve come here to Aulis, because not one of you would dare to offend the gods before whom you gave your word. So, as I very much doubt the honour of Greece, the threat of Troy and the prospect of plunder are enough to ensure your support for war, I call upon you to honour the oath you swore. Stand, damn it, and put your hands on your hearts if you mean to sail with us. Or if you haven’t the guts to fight but would rather face the persecution of the gods, then leave now – through those ancient stones that mark the sacred nature of this place – so that we can all look upon your shame as you go!’

  The first to stand were Diomedes and Eperitus, followed more slowly by Odysseus. Ajax and his companions were next, and after them the entire assembly. Not one man – not even Thersites – left the spot where they were standing, and only Calchas, the Trojan renegade, remained seated, covering his face with his hood and looking down at his sandalled feet.

  Suddenly, Ajax stepped forward and punched the air.

  ‘Death to Troy!’ he bellowed, and his voice carried out across the harbour so that the few sailors craned their necks towards the hilltops.

  ‘Death to Troy!’ echoed the combined voices of the council.

  They were not exuberant, as if a great victory had been won and they stood over the piled corpses of their foes. Instead, they were hard and determined. As the ringing echoes of their war cry died away over the straits and between the stony hillsides, Nestor stepped forward and indicated for the grim-faced kings, including Agamemnon, to sit.

  ‘We are equals,’ he began, his voice strong and smooth despite his great age. ‘We are kings of Greece, not slaves like the vassals of Asia who stoop down before Priam. We go to war against Troy as free men, honouring our sacred duty. And yet all armies must have leaders.’