The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  ‘It won’t be a quick death if I catch the swine,’ Eperitus said. His anger had grown as each layer of Galatea’s story had been unfolded, and he was silently praying to Athena that she would let him find the men who had committed such a violation.

  Polites stood and went to his pony, returning a few moments later with a leather bag in his fist, which he pressed into Galatea’s hand.

  ‘I’ll not see you forced into prostitution yet. It’s only some dried meat and a bit of bread, but it’ll keep you for a few days, if you’re careful.’

  The girl smiled at him, but returned the bag to his huge hand.

  ‘Thank you, friend, but you might as well keep it. My mother and I will starve sooner or later, unless some man takes pity on us. But who’d take a pair of destitute women under their roof? Few men around here can afford to keep themselves, let alone a violated priestess and her mother.’

  ‘Keep Polites’s food,’ Odysseus commanded, dipping into the pouch that hung from his belt and producing two bangles of pure gold (he always carried items of value for bartering with). They flashed in the morning sunlight and drew all eyes to them. ‘A man will accept a dowry for a wife, regardless of her misfortunes. These should satisfy most men.’

  He held Galatea’s hand and placed the bangles in her open palm. Then he took Polites’s leather bag and hung it from her wrist by its strap. The priestess looked at the gifts for a long time.

  ‘Here,’ said Eperitus, handing her his own food bag.

  Talthybius and Antiphus followed with handfuls of bread and dried meat, which spilled from the girl’s hands, forcing her to kneel and pick them up. Arceisius also gave what little he had, and finally even Eurylochus parted with a half-eaten leg of mutton; Eperitus, who had always known Eurylochus to be closely attached to his food, was surprised, but nonetheless gave him a look that forced him to part with some cakes of bread, too, before withdrawing from sight behind his pony.

  ‘We must go,’ Odysseus announced, checking the position of the sun then turning to his pony and taking the reins.

  Galatea placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘But how can I thank you?’

  Odysseus smiled at her. ‘Just return to your mother and bring some joy back to her heart.’

  The men returned to their ponies. Eperitus was last, taking his cloak from the rock and throwing it over his shoulders before mounting. Galatea started to unfasten Polites’s cloak, but he told her to keep it as he had a spare. Then he turned his pony and spurred it forward with a jab of his heel to its ribs.

  ‘Wait!’ Galatea suddenly cried. ‘There is something I can do for you. I can place your weapons on Artemis’s altar and ask her to bless them. I know I can’t serve her in the role of priestess any more, but she’ll remember the years I dedicated to her and answer my prayers, I’m certain of it. And maybe she will return your kindness to me by giving special qualities to your weapons. All I need is one item from each of you, just to show my gratitude. I remember a hunter who asked for his bow to be dedicated at the altar, and he later claimed he never missed a shot.’

  The men halted and looked at her in silence as they pondered her words. It was difficult for any warrior to part with his arms, but somehow the prospect of having them blessed seemed appealing. Then Antiphus lifted his treasured bow from his back and handed it to her.

  ‘You’ll be quick?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied with a smile, kissing his maimed hand where the fore and middle fingers had been docked.

  Talthybius and Eurylochus were next, handing her their swords in their scabbards, which she threw over her shoulder with the bow. Polites placed his oversized helmet on her head and was followed by Arceisius, who handed her his spear.

  ‘You’re overloaded as it is,’ said Odysseus, passing her his dagger.

  ‘But I’m tall and strong,’ Galatea replied.

  Finally, she turned to Eperitus.

  ‘And you, sir? What about that dagger in your belt – I can ask Artemis to make the blade sharp enough to cut through bronze.’

  Eperitus laid a protective hand on the hilt of his cherished dagger. It had been given to him by Odysseus when they had first met, and he treasured it above all else, with the exception of his grandfather’s shield. But Galatea came close to him and placed a long-fingered hand on his arm.

  ‘Please, sir, let me repay your kindness.’

  ‘Give her the dagger, Eperitus,’ Talthybius urged him.

  Eperitus reluctantly removed the prized gift from his belt and handed it to her. She tucked it into the sash about her waist, alongside Odysseus’s blade.

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to wait here for me, as men aren’t permitted in the temple,’ she said, bowing to them as she backed away. ‘It’s just on the other side of the wood, so I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring my mother, too, if she has regained her strength yet. She’ll want to thank you herself.’

  The warriors dismounted again and watched the priestess disappear into the wood, Polites’s dark green cloak blending easily with the undergrowth and quickly disguising her even from Eperitus’s sharp eyes. He sat on the rock from which Galatea had told her story and took a swallow from his water skin. Already he could feel the absence of the dagger, the handle of which normally pressed against the hard muscles of his stomach. He watched Odysseus haul a sack of grain down from the back of the baggage pony and order Arceisius to feed the animals, before walking over and sitting on the rock beside him.

  ‘Unless Troy falls quickly,’ the king said, ‘I’m beginning to worry that we won’t have any homes to come back to. The rule of law is already crumbling and we haven’t even set sail yet.’

  ‘Ithaca’s safe,’ Eperitus replied, taking a mouthful of water and handing the skin to his friend. ‘Mentor and Halitherses will take good care of the place, and they’ve enough good soldiers under their charge to fight off any raiders.’

  Odysseus wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted up at the sun. ‘It may be safe for now, whilst Mentor is seen to be acting under my authority. But the longer I’m away, the weaker my authority will become and the less people will listen to Mentor’s commands. Penelope is a good queen and the people love her, but she can’t impose her will at the point of a spear. And Telemachus is only a baby.’

  ‘And perhaps all the oracles and prophecies are wrong and we’ll be back on Ithaca within a year, glorious conquerors of Troy, our names to be sung forever in the tales of the bards.’

  ‘That would make me happy,’ Odysseus nodded, looking at the others sitting under the shade of their ponies with the warm blue of the Saronic Sea behind them. ‘And perhaps it would slake your thirst for adventure and renown, at least for a few more years.’

  Perhaps, Eperitus thought, and with an unexpected pang of homesickness he found himself thinking of how nice it would be to be back on Ithaca with Odysseus and Penelope, safe from the threat of war and busy playing his own role in the upbringing of Telemachus. It occurred to him then that he was more like Odysseus than he had ever thought, or at least that his friend’s love of home had rubbed off on him over their years together. But as pleasing as these thoughts might be, he also realized that happiness of that kind could not be attained until he had first answered his own questions about himself. He had always thought of it as a personal quest for glory, a name that would endure beyond his own death, but in truth it was simply a desire to find out who he really was. Odysseus, he felt sure, had no such need – though Troy might yet reveal parts of his character that he did not know about – and Eperitus envied him his contentment.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the woods where Galatea had taken their weapons, but there was no sign yet of her returning through the trees. When he looked back it was to find Eurylochus’s small eyes boring into him. He was quick to turn his head away, but the look served to remind him that Eurylochus’s animosity had not gone away, and he had not forgotten their argument on Samos.

  ‘Shouldn’t she be back by now?’ asked Talthybius
after a while, craning his neck towards the wood. ‘I know prayers can be a complicated business, but all the same . . .’

  He trailed off as if reluctant to follow his question to its natural conclusion. Odysseus, however, sucked on his teeth for a moment then rose to his feet.

  ‘I’m starting to believe that a mere girl may have tricked us out of our goods and weapons,’ he began. There was a chorus of protest, which he stilled with raised palms. ‘It’s true: where a band of armed brigands would have failed, it seems a pair of plump white tits with some audacity behind them have succeeded.’

  The looks on the faces of the others revealed their growing anxiety about the whereabouts of the priestess, but they were unwilling – or too embarrassed – to accept Odysseus’s deduction. Polites, in particular, was adamant that Galatea had been telling the truth, and in the end it was agreed that Antiphus and Eurylochus should be sent to the temple to find her.

  They returned quicker than expected, the hooves of their ponies kicking up a cloud of dust as they sped back across the fields from the wood.

  ‘There isn’t even a wooden hut, let alone a temple!’ Antiphus cried.

  ‘Odysseus is right, she’s fooled us all,’ Eurylochus added, panting as he pulled his pony to a halt.

  ‘And I’ve lost the bow I had since I was a boy. If I ever see that girl, I’ll . . .’

  ‘Silence, Antiphus,’ Odysseus commanded. ‘We have a mission to fulfil, so we might as well forget our losses and move on. Mount up, all of you.’

  Eperitus pulled himself lightly onto Melite’s back, and as he turned her about saw Polites standing by his pony, looking wistfully at the wood.

  ‘That old helmet of yours is long gone by now, Polites,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he replied, his voice deep and slow. ‘She can barter it for some food. At least she won’t have to offer her body. I couldn’t abide the thought of that.’

  ‘But she was . . .’ Eperitus began, then thought better of it and spurred Melite forward with a jab of his heel.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  GOLDEN MYCENAE

  Eperitus had not seen Clytaemnestra for ten years, ever since they had made love in the hills overlooking Sparta. She had given herself to him out of her spite for Agamemnon, and though there had never been any love between the young warrior and the Mycenaean queen, Eperitus had always remembered their brief time together with affection. Yet, as they came ever nearer to Mycenae, he began to feel nervous at the thought of meeting her again. He was also concerned about what else he would find within the walls of golden Mycenae. At first he had been keen to find the person who Calchas had said knew the first of the compelling secrets that had the potential to change his life, but as they crept closer to Agamemnon’s city a sense of caution grew in him – perhaps inspired by the disquiet he felt concerning their mission – and soured his enthusiasm.

  ‘See those watchtowers?’ Talthybius called back over his shoulder, pointing up at the high peaks on either side of the road where two wooden structures kept a silent vigil. ‘They mark the northern border of Mycenae. A richer and happier land you’ll never see, even if you live to be as old as King Nestor.’

  Talthybius’s pride seemed justified. It was late afternoon as they crossed the border, but while the sun remained in the sky their eyes were able to feast on a fat and bountiful country. Their tired ponies trudged through valleys covered with crops of wheat, rye and barley, in the midst of which lay numerous stone farm-steads, their white walls gleaming in the sunshine. Children chased each other through the fields, enjoying the relative freedom of life before the coming harvest, when they would be busy gleaning the fields in the wake of the reapers and sheaf-binders. At one point they passed a herd of straight-horned cattle, standing up to their hocks in a gabbling stream and feeding among the rushes that nodded and swayed on either bank. Each fertile valley they passed through was flanked with hillsides where great numbers of sheep and goats seemed to cascade down the scree-covered slopes, searching for patches of vegetation whilst their shepherds looked on, talking peacefully between themselves as they leaned on staffs or spears.

  The broad, winding road also took them through numerous villages, where grubby children and their mothers would gather in packs to wave or stare at the party of warriors as they passed. Many offered food or drink at inflated prices, which Odysseus occasionally felt obliged to purchase for his men with the last of his trinkets. He explained to Eperitus that he felt guilty for letting them give the last of their own food to Galatea, when he should have realized they were being tricked.

  Soon the road took them closer to the low mountains. A fiery sunset left a brief legacy of purple skies, promising another warm day to follow, but as Talthybius assured them his home city was close they gave no thought to stopping for the night. For some time now the road had been paved – another sign of the wealth of Mycenae – and the hooves of their ponies sounded sharp and hollow in the evening air as the stars opened out above them. Occasionally they crossed bridges over deep ravines, where far below, lost in the twilight, they could hear mountain streams that had been dried to a trickle by the summer sun. Eventually they saw the lights of a city emerge from the darkness to the southeast. They had reached Mycenae.

  The road angled down a little towards the plain, where it intersected another that ran from east to west. At the crossroads, they turned left and headed eastward up the slope towards the city. As the moon sailed out above the black hills, its light painted the wide circuit of the walls and the high-sided buildings beyond them a ghostly white. Nestled on the rocky hill at the centre of the city was the royal palace, where dozens of lights gleamed from its many windows and lines of blue-grey smoke trailed up from vents in its rooftops. Behind the city were two cone-shaped peaks, one to the north-west and another to the southeast. The northernmost peak supported another watchtower, the top of which was framed by the underbelly of the moon. The armour of its occupants glinted in the silvery light as they stared out over the plain. Beside the watchtower was a mound of stacked wood, ready to act as a beacon in times of need.

  Not that Agamemnon’s city would ever find itself in desperate need of help. As their ponies approached the citadel, plodding slowly between the spread of shanties that surrounded it, Eperitus looked up in awe at the colossal walls ahead of them. Even though Troy’s imposing defences were built by Poseidon and Apollo, with well-fitted stone and a much wider circuit than Mycenae’s, the walls here surpassed them for brute strength and invulnerability. The blocks were crude but massive – surely beyond the capacity of men alone to lift and fit into place – and in places they were easily as tall as three or four men. Even the handful of bronze-clad troops that peered down at them from the ramparts would be able to hold the city against a besieging army for a very long time; Heracles and Achilles together could not have sacked such a place.

  Soon they were under the shadow of the city wall, where the high battlements eclipsed the moon and left them in darkness. Despite this, Eperitus’s sharp eyes noted a gateway up ahead, lost in the deeper gloom between the city wall on the left and another, shorter rampart to the right. The overlapping wall at first seemed pointless to Eperitus. Then, as it loomed up beside him and he instinctively imagined what it would be like to be in a press of attackers storming the gate, he realized that defenders on the shorter wall would be able to fire or throw missiles at him from his unshielded right side. Clever, he thought, and deadly.

  Talthybius dismounted and signalled for the Ithacans to do the same. They led their ponies up to the tall oak doors of the gateway to the city and stopped. The gates were over twice the height of a man and flanked by two stone pillars of immense size, which had been built into the walls for added strength. Resting above them was a stone lintel, on top of which was the magnificent relief Eperitus had seen in his dream, depicting a pair of lions standing either side of a short column. Their forepaws were planted firmly on its low plinth and their snarling faces looked out over the
approach to the gate, a fearsome and majestic reminder that Mycenae was the greatest city in Greece, and its ruler, Agamemnon, was the greatest king. Though the lions were only faintly visible in the darkness, Eperitus could see the dull gleam of gold in their eyes, a final reminder of the wealth of the city they protected.

  Talthybius took his herald’s staff and beat it three times against the doors. The wood was so thick, the sound of each knock boomed as if it came from the ground beneath their feet.

  ‘Who’s on the door tonight?’ he called. ‘Is it you, Ochesios? Open up quickly and let us in.’

  A voice called down to them from the ramparts above. ‘Talthybius? What are you doing back here? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Open this damned door, Ochesios, will you? I’m tired, hungry and saddle sore from riding this beast for four days.’

  There was a brief delay and then the doors swung slowly inwards, revealing the moonlit innards of the city beyond. They walked through quickly, the sounds of the ponies’ hooves echoing beneath the solid walls, and soon stood on a raised roadway overlooking the lowest level of the city. A group of guards nodded to Talthybius, but eyed his companions with caution. To the left was another high wall, perhaps a form of inner defence, and ahead of them a ramp climbed up to the next level. Of more immediate interest to the Ithacans, though, was the large circular arena slightly to their right, where a collection of upright slabs cast long shadows across the floor. It was cordoned off by an outer circuit of slabs, each standing to the height of a man’s chest, and was entered through a single gate. Talthybius smiled as he saw his companions’ undisguised interest.

  ‘The royal burial ground,’ he explained. ‘Atreus is entombed there with his queen, Aerope. And one day King Agamemnon will be interred there, too, alongside his forebears. If we had arrived before sunset it would’ve been proper to make a sacrifice here before going up to the palace, but perhaps we can show our respects tomorrow.’