The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  Before arriving in Mycenae he had forgotten what it was like to be a child. He had regarded them as nothing more than ill-disciplined nuisances living beyond the fringes of society – irresponsible, loud and driven by impish desires. The four days he had spent with Iphigenia had proved him right. And yet he had enjoyed their time together more than any other since he and Odysseus had fought the bandits on Samos. He had seen life through her eyes, and it was a thing of excitement and adventure. Mycenae and the surrounding country were her entire world, but it was a world full of new experiences. At first he had been cautious, his nature hardened by years of military discipline and the need to preserve the veneer of respectability that his position required. But by the third day he was climbing trees with Iphigenia and joining forces with her as they fought mock battles against Tecton and Thoosa, laughing and shouting as freely as the rest of them. They had roamed the hills and roads of Mycenae together, seeking adventure and swapping stories about outwitting adults or meeting goddesses in disguise. Then, as they sat under the arch of a stone bridge earlier that afternoon, avoiding another squall of rain, Iphigenia had told the others about Eperitus’s visit to the Pythoness at Mount Parnassus. All his life he had hungered after glory, and yet had never gained a sense of what he had achieved; here, in the light and cheerful voice of Iphigenia, he began to see himself from another’s perspective. Her world began and ended in Mycenae, but in him she saw a world beyond that, where fear and danger were met with courage, sweat and hard bronze. In this nine-year-old girl’s eyes he meant something.

  Later, as they had returned to the city along roads that smoked with evaporating rain, they were accosted by a young boy with auburn hair and a handsome but serious face. He stepped out from behind the wall of a sheep enclosure and puffed his chest up at them, resting his fists importantly on his hips.

  ‘Are you Eperitus?’ he demanded.

  ‘I am,’ Eperitus responded.

  ‘He’s not so big,’ the boy said, looking at Iphigenia. ‘But you always exaggerate things, anyway.’

  ‘Go away, Orestes,’ Iphigenia responded, eyeing her younger brother with disdain. ‘Find another corner to cry in until Pa comes home.’

  ‘You’d better shut up, Jenny, or I’ll give you a thump,’ he snapped back.

  ‘Calm yourself, lad,’ Eperitus warned, ‘or I’ll tan that backside of yours and take you back to your mother over my shoulder.’

  Thoosa giggled into her hand, but a sharp look from Orestes silenced her.

  ‘Iphigenia may think you’re someone special,’ he sneered, giving Eperitus a dark look. ‘But my father could kill you easily.’

  There was a menace in the boy’s tone that echoed Agamemnon’s self-confidence and power. Eperitus looked at him and shook his head.

  ‘Nobody can kill me easily, boy, including King Agamemnon. Now, get out of my sight before I strangle you and throw your body down a ravine.’

  He took two steps towards the boy, who turned and ran back to the city, not stopping until he had passed from their sight. Eperitus felt Iphigenia’s eyes on him and knew his reputation had risen higher still.

  ‘I hope Jenny hasn’t bored you these past few days,’ said a voice, waking Eperitus from his thoughts.

  He turned to see Clytaemnestra standing behind him, her white face given a blue tinge by the moonlight. She had tied her hair up behind her head again, leaving a spiralling strand to fall down by each ear.

  ‘No,’ he replied, containing his surprise. ‘I’ve enjoyed our time together – I couldn’t have wanted a better guide to the city.’

  Clytaemnestra’s sad face was lifted by a smile. ‘I’m glad you like her. She adores you.’

  ‘Thanks to you. You must have told her everything I’ve ever done.’

  ‘Only what you shared with me that night . . .’

  Clytaemnestra turned away in embarrassment, looking across at the guards and then up at the moon.

  ‘You’ve changed a lot since then,’ she continued. ‘You’re more experienced, more sure of who you are. I don’t sense so much of that urgency to prove yourself any more, though you still lack fulfilment. You’re still chasing after something.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’ Eperitus said, squinting across at the Plain of Argos. ‘It seems to me the only people who stand a chance of happiness are children. They have some freedom, at least, until they grow up.’

  ‘Have you ever wanted children of your own, Eperitus? Perhaps that’s what you’re looking for, a child to leave your mark in this world.’

  Eperitus was surprised by Clytaemnestra’s boldness, but kept his eyes fixed on the plain below the city.

  ‘When I saw Telemachus – Odysseus’s child – in Penelope’s arms, I felt envious. I knew the boy would carry on his bloodline and preserve his memory, whereas if I perished I would leave no one behind. Then the jealousy went. After all, I’m a warrior and I can win immortality through glory, whatever you may think on the matter, Clytaemnestra.’

  ‘Sometimes you remind me of Agamemnon,’ she said, suddenly cold. ‘As hard as bronze and desperate to bathe in the blood of your enemies.’

  ‘How can you compare me to him?’ Eperitus responded. ‘Your husband lusts after power, not glory.’

  Clytaemnestra’s gaze fell to the wet flagstones. ‘I’m sorry, you’re nothing like Agamemnon. At least you have a heart.’

  Eperitus reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Besides, the king of Mycenae is losing his sanity.’

  ‘Hush!’ Clytaemnestra whispered, placing a finger to his lips and glancing over at the guards. She caught two of them watching her, but they were quick to look away again. ‘It’s not wise to criticize the king. Even when he’s away he has spies everywhere, reporting everything that goes on. But you’re right. Follow me, I know somewhere more private we can talk.’

  She led him into the palace, passing the exit to the courtyard and on up a steep flight of stairs to the second floor. They continued past a series of closed doors until they reached an arched doorway where a maid slept on a bench outside. Clytaemnestra opened the door and walked through into the room beyond, beckoning Eperitus to join her. Reluctantly, he followed.

  ‘This is my room,’ she said, closing the door. ‘We can talk safely here.’

  ‘Safely?’ he replied. ‘If I’m caught here and Agamemnon hears about it . . .’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself about him. He stopped suspecting me many years ago. As far as he knows, I’ve never slept with anyone other than him and my first husband.’

  Eperitus looked about at the richly decorated bedroom. The muralled walls and painted furniture were visible in the moonlight that poured in through the single window, and in the centre was a low bed covered in thick furs. A heady perfume in the air eased the tension from his muscles and at the same time stirred something deep inside him. He relaxed and slumped into a cushioned chair.

  ‘How can you be sure he isn’t having you watched? You told me long ago that he loved you jealously.’

  ‘Agamemnon doesn’t understand what love is,’ Clytaemnestra answered sternly. She let the heavy black cloak fall from her shoulders and walked over to stand before Eperitus, the folds of her chiton stirring gently in a breeze from the window. ‘When he killed my first husband, he simply wanted to possess me and was driven to distraction by the fact I would not give myself to him. That all changed after the children were born, especially Orestes. Perhaps he thinks he owns part of me through the boy, I don’t know, but he’s long since lost any passion for me.’

  Clytaemnestra kicked off her sandals and sat down on the sheepskin rug at Eperitus’s feet. She folded her arms about her shins and rested her chin on her knees, looking towards the window. After a few moments she began to talk again, almost as if to herself, explaining how Agamemnon had turned Orestes against her. By using their son, the king had repaid her for her coldness towards him over the years. Her only pleasure in life now was Iphigenia, and as she spoke of her daughter her whole being seemed
to lift. She raised her face towards Eperitus and he could see the same happy light he had first glimpsed when they became lovers ten years before. The sadness that made her unreachable fell away and suddenly Eperitus felt the urge to stretch out his hand and touch her. The thought of who she was – the queen of Mycenae and the wife of another man – held him back, but at the same time his eyes were drawn to the pale flesh of her bare arms and feet, and the shape of her long legs and small breasts through the thin dress. His mind was filled with the memory of her naked body from so long ago, and as he stared into her eyes he knew she was no longer thinking of her daughter. He took a deep breath, filling his senses with the heady perfume, and looked away – part of him still trying to resist – but his gaze fell at once on the bed and only strengthened the desires that were coursing through him.

  ‘Even if Agamemnon knew you were here,’ Clytaemnestra said, placing a hand tentatively on his knee, ‘I doubt he would care any more. Ever since Helen was taken, or chose to leave, he has been obsessed with war on the Trojans. And I think you’re right, Eperitus: it has turned his mind. If he was ruthless in seeking power before, he will stop at nothing to achieve it now. He will have this war at any cost.’

  Eperitus looked at her, sensing something in her tone. ‘What do you mean?’

  Suddenly, Clytaemnestra rose up on her knees and kissed him. Eperitus lifted his hands to the sides of her head, running his fingers into her thick red hair as her tongue forced its way into his mouth. She came closer, forcing his knees apart with her body until he could feel the softness of her breasts against his lower ribs, all the time pressing her mouth against his with a passion that was fierce and needy. Then she pulled away and stood up, taking his hands and pulling him from the chair. Quickly, clumsily, she unfastened his cloak and pulled his tunic over his head, revealing the hard, deeply etched muscles of his body to the moonlight. A moment later her dress lay in a dark pool about her ankles and she was pressing her naked body against his.

  Eperitus’s hands instinctively sought her thin waist, feeling the shape of her smooth flesh as she pressed her lips to his shoulders. He closed his eyes and felt the tip of her tongue moving gently up his neck to his jaw, then her mouth was on his again as she pulled him blindly towards the bed. Her ankles caught against the mattress and she fell backwards into the dense layers of fur, pulling him on top of her. As they lay there, their limbs locked eagerly about each other again, he stared into her smiling face and felt for a moment as if nothing else mattered. Her rich, shining hair spilled back across the bed and her dark eyes gleamed up at him with pleasure, momentarily freed from the concerns of her life. Then she folded her calves across his buttocks and held his body against hers, while he pressed his lips roughly to hers once more, eager to enjoy the welcoming sensation of her body.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  THE SECRET REVEALED

  Eperitus opened his eyes to the dawn light and the sound of birds in the gardens below. It took him a few moments to realize where he was, but Clytaemnestra’s arm across his chest and her hot inner thigh resting on his leg quickly brought back memories of the night before. Her head lay on his upper arm with her face half-hidden by the mess of red hair, making him reluctant to move and wake her, but the sound of slaves moving about beyond the bedroom door made him anxious to find his clothes and be gone before the rest of the palace awoke.

  ‘Don’t go,’ Clytaemnestra said as he tried to slip free of her embrace. Her limbs tightened about him and she lifted her face to look at him. ‘There’s no hurry – the sun hasn’t even risen yet.’

  She must have been awake for some time, Eperitus realized as he brushed the hair from her eyes and kissed her on the cheek. It was hot where it had rested against his arm.

  ‘I can hear slaves in the corridor. If they catch me here and Agamemnon finds out, you could pay for it with your life.’

  ‘As could you,’ Clytaemnestra responded. ‘But my maids are loyal; they won’t dare say anything that could incriminate me.’

  Suddenly the door swung open and a young, heavily proportioned girl rushed in, carrying a folded black dress over her arm.

  ‘My lady! My lady!’ she began, before sensing at once that something was out of place. Her eyes fell on the garments strung out over the floor, then crept over the bed to rest on the man in her mistress’s arms, his nakedness only half covered by the furs. Her round face was transformed with horror as she dropped the dress and clapped her hands to her mouth.

  ‘Damn it, Polymele!’ Clytaemnestra snapped, throwing the furs aside and rising naked from the bed. ‘What do you mean by bursting in like this?’

  ‘My lady,’ the maid stuttered, eyeing Eperitus with a mixture of fear, confusion and desire. ‘It’s . . . It’s your husband. The king is approaching the Lion Gate with an escort of twenty men.’

  ‘Gods!’ Eperitus exclaimed. He leapt from the bed and began gathering up his clothes, heedless of the maid’s eyes.

  ‘The dress, girl, quickly!’ Clytaemnestra ordered, holding her arms wide as Polymele unfolded the garment and began draping it about her mistress. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Then something must be wrong. Leave the dress to me; I want you to fetch a hooded cloak – black, of course – and wait for me by the door. And not a word of what you’ve seen to anyone, do you understand? If Agamemnon finds out, Polymele, I’ll put a curse on your womb so that you give birth to a litter of pigs.’

  Looking terrified, the maid fled the room with a squeal and Clytaemnestra closed the door behind her. Finding her sandals, she slipped them on to her feet and began to knot her hair up at the back of her head. Eperitus, now fully dressed, rushed to the window and looked out towards the city gates, where there was a large commotion of people and horses.

  ‘Come away, my dear,’ Clytaemnestra said, putting a hand on his shoulder and drawing him back into the room. ‘You don’t want to be seen peering out of the queen’s bedroom, do you?’

  Eperitus turned to her and placed his hands on her thin hips.

  ‘If Agamemnon’s here, the palace is going to be teeming with life. How am I going to slip out without being noticed?’

  ‘There’s a back stair that leads to the garden. Polymele will take you. But tell me this, Eperitus, and quickly: if I leave with Iphigenia, tonight, will you come with us?’

  ‘Leave?’ Eperitus smiled. ‘Assuming Agamemnon doesn’t find out about us, why would you want to leave? This is your home, Nestra, and Iphigenia isn’t your only child.’

  ‘You don’t know the danger she’s in,’ the queen replied.

  There was a sharp knock at the door and they instinctively pulled apart from their light embrace, looking anxiously across the room.

  ‘Who is it?’ Clytaemnestra asked.

  ‘Polymele, my lady. I have your cloak, and they say the king is on his way up to the palace at this very moment. I was concerned . . .’

  Clytaemnestra pulled the door open and allowed Polymele to fold the cloak about her shoulders. She instructed her to take Eperitus down to the gardens then, without regard to the girl’s presence, put her hand to Eperitus’s cheek and kissed him.

  ‘Think about what I said,’ she whispered, then turned and rushed down the corridor, her cloak billowing out behind her.

  Polymele led Eperitus down a narrow staircase that opened onto the gardens below the palace. She left him there without a word and returned by the same route, though her parting expression was enough to tell him what she thought of his presence in the queen’s quarters.

  The gardens were bright and fresh in the morning light and the pungent aroma of the many flowers reminded Eperitus of Clytaemnestra’s bedroom, but he had no time to enjoy their peaceful beauty. A sudden commotion on the terraces above filled him with a sense of urgency and he ran across the dew-wet lawns to the main staircase, leaping up them three at a time to emerge on the courtyard before the great hall. As he stepped out into the chaos of slaves and gu
ards, all running in different directions to prepare for the arrival of their king, a voice called to him. He turned to see Odysseus waving from the doorway of the guest house. Talthybius was at his side.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Odysseus asked as Eperitus pushed his way through the crowds to join them. ‘I’ve had men looking all over for you. Agamemnon’s here, in person!’

  ‘I’ve been in the gardens since before dawn. I couldn’t sleep. But why’s Agamemnon here?’

  ‘We don’t know, yet,’ said Talthybius, looking worried, ‘but for him to leave the army and come here himself, it must be a serious matter.’

  As he spoke a group of slaves spilled out of the passageway that led from the palace threshold, chased by a pair of soldiers with bronze body armour and plumed helmets – members of Agamemnon’s personal bodyguard. The king emerged in their wake, his armour dusty and his red cloak travel-stained. His beard had grown longer and more unkempt since they had last seen him, but the blood-drained face and sunken eyes were alert and filled with purpose. At his appearance, every slave and soldier bowed their heads before him. Talthybius followed suit, but Odysseus and Eperitus remained upright as the King of Men approached. The stooping form of Calchas was at his shoulder.

  ‘Welcome home, my lord,’ said Talthybius. ‘We weren’t expecting your arrival.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t,’ Agamemnon snapped, the blood rising to his cheeks. ‘You were too busy dithering about here, enjoying the comforts of palace life no doubt.’

  Despite Agamemnon’s accusation of idleness, Odysseus seemed unconcerned and responded with a broad smile and a hand on the Mycenaean king’s shoulder.

  ‘You’ve arrived just in time, Agamemnon,’ he said. ‘Your wife has been busy making preparations for Iphigenia’s marriage to Achilles, and if everything goes to plan we’ll be setting out within two or three days. But how are things with the fleet? Have you come to tell us the storm has lifted?’