Throwing his cloak over his shoulder, the King of Men commanded Menelaus to follow him and strode from the throne-room with an angry din of dissension breaking at his back.
The Strength of Poseidon
Menelaus, meanwhile, was also in trouble with his conscience. Always aware that his brother’s ambitions had extended as far as Troy even before Paris came to Sparta, he still cherished the belief that the war was fought principally on his own behalf. Hadn’t all Argos rallied to help him regain his lost honour? Yet here, at the end, when the city had finally fallen to the cunning of Odysseus and the onslaught of the Argive host, he had played almost no part in the triumph.
True, he had been among the band who risked those dangerous hours riding inside the wooden horse. True, he had personally killed Deiphobus who was the leader of the Trojan forces in all but name. But since that convulsion of fury in the bedroom of Helen’s mansion, he had done nothing. Least of all had he been able to bring himself to kill his faithless wife, for where Helen was concerned, his spirit had succumbed to a stultifying lethargy so debilitating that he believed some god must be present between them in that chamber, forbidding her to flee and him to act. But how to convince anyone else of this, particularly his own brother, who sat scowling across from him now in the state-room where Priam had kept his father’s charred throne as a reminder of the disaster that had once befallen Troy?
‘You see what has begun to happen?’ Agamemnon said, throwing his weight down on that throne. ‘No sooner have they triumphed over the common enemy than they begin to fight amongst themselves. And Odysseus openly insults me. I tell you it’s going to be harder asserting my authority now than it was before the walls were breached.’ Then he raised his voice in a menacing growl. ‘And what kind of example does my own brother set? Where were you during all those hours when I could have used you at my side? And why in the name of all the gods does that faithless Spartan bitch still live?’
‘Need I remind you,’ Menelaus said quietly, ‘that my wife is your wife’s sister?’
‘You still think of her as your wife, do you, after she’s dragged the good name of the House of Atreus through all the dirt from Epirus to Egypt? Have you forgotten how she cuckolded you with that Trojan peacock Paris? Or how she had no more shame than to let Deiphobus paddle his fingers in her pool as soon as Paris was dead?’ Agamemnon brought his fist down on the table. ‘The whore is not fit to be spoken of in the same breath as her sister. But, believe me, if Clytaemnestra had done to me what Helen has done to you, she wouldn’t have lived a minute to tattle of it in the women’s quarters. Have you no pride, man? Don’t you care that you’ve become a laughing-stock out there, or that they’re already laying bets on which of them will be the next to take his pleasure in Helen’s bed if you’re fool enough to let her live?’
During the years of the war Menelaus had lost much of the flowing head of red hair that had been his most striking feature. Flushed now under this withering assault from his brother’s tongue, he passed a hand over his bald crown and down through the curls that remained above the nape of his neck. His eyes shifted around the painted chamber which still smelled of the pungent incense that King Priam had recently burned. He saw the Hours and Graces dancing there among the asphodels and the world seemed to sway around him like a sickly dream. He was biting his bottom lip hard enough to make it bleed.
And things were never meant to be like this. He had always imagined that once he was inside Troy he would swoop to his vengeance like an angry god. Yet he had brought the largest army that men had ever seen half-way across the world to seize his faithless wife, and thousands of men had died in the struggle, and still he dithered.
He was filled, in those moments, with a violent hatred for his brother. Yet he knew that Agamemnon spoke the truth. After Helen had so egregiously betrayed him, he could not take her back into his bed without making himself ridiculous before the hard-bitten men who had risked everything to help him to his vengeance. The humiliation he was suffering now would be multiplied a thousand fold when others, unconstrained by brotherly pride, began to smirk and jest behind their hands.
‘The only question,’ he conceded gruffly, ‘is whether she dies here in Troy or at home in Sparta where her shame will be greater.’
Agamemnon shook his head. ‘The only question is why she isn’t dead already. Can’t you see it? The longer she lives the more dissension her beauty will cause. We already know it has the power to make men mad.’
And here again, Menelaus saw it at once, his brother was in the right of it.
The power of that beauty had arrested his own sword-hand in the very moment when he had the chance to extinguish it for ever. Only here, away from her, beyond the reach of her allure, could he see how the glamorous enchantment worked and why he had been unmanned by it. Just to look at her again had been like sipping on a drug that paralysed his will.
But now his head was clear. Everything was clear to him again. Helen must die. She must die in a public place before the entire Argive host. Like a man waking from a bewildering dream he wondered how he could not have seen it sooner. Helen must die. And she must die by his own hand. His manhood depended on her death. The honour of the House of Atreus depended on it.
Helen’s beauty had already dragged the world into a war longer and more terrible than any that mortal men had endured before: it must not be allowed to do so again.
‘Yes,’ he said as if speaking to himself, ‘she has to die.’
Agamemnon’s thoughts were already drifting elsewhere. He was thinking about Cassandra and the peculiar allure she exercised on his own senses. Too much of the day had already been wasted wrangling with words.
Impatiently he looked back at his brother. ‘You will attend to it then?’
Menelaus swallowed, and nodded his head.
‘Today?’
‘Not today.’ Menelaus withstood his brother’s irascible glare. ‘I want them all to witness it … the whole host. But they’re looting the city still. I think she should be executed in a public ceremony … just before we take to the ships.’
Agamemnon considered the proposal for a moment. Such a last vivid memory of Troy would send the host of Argos back home with the knowledge that the honour of his house had not gone unredeemed. It would leave no one in doubt that the sons of Atreus accomplished what they set out to do. ‘Very well!’ he nodded. ‘But you must let the captains know what you intend. Tell them at once and put an end to their fantasies. And make sure that Helen is kept under close guard. I don’t want her wheedling her way round any of them. Now leave me. I have other things on my mind.’
But the Lion of Mycenae was not yet to be allowed the freedom of his desires, for Talthybius was waiting in the doorway as Menelaus went out, and there was a troubled frown on the herald’s face.
‘What is it now?’ Agamemnon growled.
‘Not good news,’ Talthybius said. ‘A ship has just put in from Iolcus. It was sent urgently by Peleus nearly a week ago. There’s been an invasion into Magnesia from the north. A siege was closing round Iolcus when the ship put out. Its captain fears that the city may already have fallen.’
‘Am I to be allowed no peace?’ Agamemnon roared. ‘Let Peleus look to his own troubles. I have problems enough here.’ He got up and crossed to a window where he looked down on a gang of men who were struggling to lift the golden statue of Phrygian Aphrodite they had dropped while loading it into the back of an ox-cart. One arm had snapped off in the fall. The lovely thing was ruined and would have to be melted down.
Talthybius coughed discreetly. ‘Need I remind my lord that Peleus sent almost his entire force of Myrmidons to our aid.’
Agamemnon turned to frown at him. ‘What’s been happening back there?’
‘The situation isn’t entirely clear but there are rumours that the sons of Acastus have joined forces with the Dorians and are out to wrench back Magnesia from Peleus’s control.’
‘Acastus? Who’s he? I don’t remem
ber him.’
‘Old Nestor is the only one left who knew him. He was king in Iolcus once but he’s been dead for many years. He and Peleus were friends when they were young, but then his crazy wife falsely accused Peleus of trying to rape her when he spurned her advances. Acastus tried to have Peleus put to death but failed. Then he was killed himself when Peleus advanced an army out of Thessaly to settle his score. Peleus seized the whole kingdom of Magnesia at that time.’
‘This is all ancient history,’ Agamemnon snapped impatiently. ‘What has any of it to do with me?’
‘Perhaps a great deal,’ Talthybius answered. ‘With the Myrmidons fighting over here for us, Magnesia was left wide open to attack from a well-organized force. No such force was threatening Iolcus when we left, of course, but it seems that while we’ve been busy here in Troy, the Dorians have gathered their strength west of the Axius River and now they’ve moved south. They’re ferocious fighters… and there’s something else.’Talthybius hesitated, worried by what he had to tell. ‘There’s talk that some of them carry weapons made of a magical new metal. One that is much harder than bronze.’
The herald saw the creases deepen on the High King’s brow. Agamemnon said, ‘What else do we know about them?’
‘Not much, except that they’re barbarians. Until now they’ve stayed far enough to the north not to bother us. But it seems the world’s been changing in the last ten years. We’d scarcely heard of the Dorians before we left for Troy and now look where they are. I can’t imagine they care much about the sons of Acastus but they’ll be happy enough to use them as figureheads. And once they’ve secured a foothold in Iolcus, they’ll be poised to advance further south.’
‘Unless they’re stopped,’ Agamemnon sighed, beating his fist against the arm of the throne as though hammering a nail into the blackened wood.
‘Yes,’ Talthybius nodded, ‘unless they’re stopped.’
‘And Peleus can’t hold them?’
‘Not without the Myrmidons.’
‘And he’s an old man, long past his best.’ Agamemnon narrowed his eyes. ‘Do Neoptolemus and Phoenix know about this yet?’
‘They’re in council with Philoctetes right now. His citadel at Meliboea is also under threat. I doubt they’ll be with us much longer.’
Agamemnon nodded, thinking quickly. It seemed that enemies were like the fabled dragon’s teeth: you dealt with one only to see others spring up in your face. He said, ‘It could have happened at a worse time, I suppose. Troy is ours now and I’ve no further need of the Myrmidons here. In fact, they’ll be more use to me holding off these Dorians than arguing over plunder with the rest of the host. And I shan’t be sorry to see the back of Neoptolemus. He’s almost as dangerous as his father and less predictable. The sooner we’re rid of him the better.’ He looked up at his herald, frowning. ‘A magical new metal, you say?’
‘Their smiths smelt it from some ore they dig out of the earth. The rumour is that bronze swords break against it.’
Agamemnon shrugged uneasily. ‘Well, a man’s strength and courage count for more than the weapons he wields. And warriors don’t come any tougher than the Myrmidons.’ He gave a little, scoffing laugh. ‘Let them and the Dorians slug it out across Thessaly together while we look to our own interests in the south.’
‘There is still a difficulty,’ Talthybius said, and glanced away when Agamemnon glowered at him. ‘The question of Andromache remains unsettled. Neoptolemus still lays claim to her.’
Agamemnon scowled. Was there no end to the demands on him? His first impatient thought was that he had no personal interest in the woman’s fate. Then a further thought occurred to him. ‘I don’t want that argument opened up again,’ he decided. ‘If we put Andromache to the lots then sooner or later someone will question my right to take Cassandra without doing the same. Let the boy take her — and much pleasure may she give him!’
Talthybius pursed his lips. ‘It will cause trouble. Acamas and Demophon already feel they are being treated unjustly. They are not alone in this.’
‘Then if they want Hector’s wife so badly let them chase Neoptolemus across the Aegean for her. Tell him to stow her below decks and put to sea at once.’
‘But …’
‘I shall deny I knew anything about it when he’s gone, of course.’ Agamemnon smirked at his herald. ‘In any case, they’ll forget about women once they start counting out gold. Now have Cassandra brought to me, and get me some wine.’
Alone among the Trojan women Cassandra was not devastated by grief. On the contrary, a hectic elation had possessed her spirit almost from the moment when she heard the invading army enter Troy. Such further evidence of madness appalled her mother, for Hecuba had no understanding of how the catastrophic events of the night had brought, for this, the strangest, least congenial of her daughters, a final vindication of her long derided powers of prophetic insight.
Even while she had stood clutching the ancient woodwork of the Palladium, with the breath of Aias hot on her neck and his hands tearing at her shift and his gang of spearmen coarsely egging him on, Cassandra knew herself as safe in the possession of the goddess as if she had been surrounded by a ring of astral fire. So it had been no surprise to her when Agamemnon strode into that violated sanctuary, saw the unholy thing that was happening there and immediately put a stop to it. What astonished her, however, was the silent exchange .of sensual energy that took place between herself and the Lion of Mycenae as they stared into each other’s eyes.
She had expected to be filled with hatred for the man. She had willed all the venom she could muster into her voice when she hissed out her brief answers to his questions. And this show of implacable hostility was the only thing evident to those around them. But for the two of them the deep truth of the encounter was quite different. They were like souls disturbingly familiar to each other from another time, another country — another life even — come together once more in a mutual shock of recognition. Yet where Agamemnon sensed only the tense, erotic charge in that meeting, Cassandra’s deeper gaze flashed on a darker assignation lying in wait for them. She saw it so clearly that it frightened her. But then the goddess had spoken through the silence and the bewildered young woman understood that she alone was now invested with the power to wreak destruction on the House of Atreus. It was only a question of time.
None of the other captive women believed Cassandra when she tried to share her secret, just as no one had believed her when she warned of the doom that Paris must bring on Troy. But she was no longer demoralised by their disbelief. Already parts of the city were in flames. Soon, just as she had long prophesied, the whole of Troy would be reduced to a rubble of stones and smoking ash. And just as certainly Agamemnon would take her into his bed, utterly ignorant that in doing so he was embracing his own death. So Cassandra came to the king that afternoon with the serene docility of an animal consenting to the sacrifice.
For his own part, Agamemnon expected to see her cowering before him, but the moment she entered the royal chamber, he knew himself in the presence of a powerfully composed young woman. Her eyes countered his appraising gaze as though it was he, not she, who had been summoned to this encounter. Smiling, she put her palms together, raised them to the delicate cleft of her chin and said, almost as if it was some conspiratorial joke between them, ‘To think it has taken ten long years of war to bring us together!’
He uttered a gruff little snort of surprise. ‘You think that’s what it was all about? I understood it had something to do with my brother Menelaus and his wife’s lust for your treacherous brother Paris.’
She smiled again. ‘And with your desire for the wealth of Troy, of course.’ She shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘But that is mere mortal fiddle. The gods have always had deeper intentions.’
Dryly he said, ‘And they keep you informed of them?’
‘They do.’
Agamemnon took a swig at his wine. ‘Then you’d better come and sit down and tell me what they ha
ve in mind for us.’
‘Union,’ she said without moving. ‘They mean to consecrate me as your bride.’
He stared at her in shock for a moment, and then, not knowing what else to do, he laughed.
‘They mean for us to live together and die together,’ she declared.
Uneasily he said, ‘I already have a wife.’
Cassandra crossed the floor to stand before him. ‘You have a queen,’ she contradicted him, ‘and your children have a mother. But I am the destined consort of your soul. It was for me you came to Troy.’
She reached out a finger to trace the contours of his face — the broad, bull-like brow, the scar at his temple, the craggy orbit of his eyes and cheekbone. He gasped a little as it came to a halt at his bearded chin. ‘Can you deny,’ she said, ‘that you recognized it when we met in Athena’s temple?’ Agamemnon could deny nothing. So closely was his heart knocking against his tonsils that he was, in fact, having some difficulty speaking at all. There remained a wary recess of his mind which suspected that he might be falling under some form of bewitchment, but the rest was vertiginously attracted to that condition.
In so far as wounds and an excess of wine permitted it, Agamemnon had taken brief pleasure throughout the years of the war with a constantly changing harem of concubines and slave-girls. Most of them he could not remember, and in none had he met much more than an anxiety to please him that was bred only of fear and dread. But there remained, it seemed, an unanswered loneliness at the centre of his soul, and this woman had both divined and answered it. Here at last might be someone who recognized the man he truly was.
That had never been the case with Clytaemnestra. He had long since come to depend on his wife’s shrewd intelligence and the skilful, pragmatic command she exercised over tedious details of finance and the subtler twists of court intrigue. But that was the only good in their marriage now. He had long since accepted that she would never for a moment worship him as he, when he was a shy youth exiled in Sparta, had once worshipped her. He had even learned to fear her severe, autocratic spirit, for though he had sired three children on her, he had never found any warmth in their marriage bed. There had always been too much which Clytaemnestra could never forget. And ever since the day he had put their daughter to death on the altar at Aulis, he had known that, whatever triumphal show the people of Mycenae might mount for him, his true eventual reception in that city would be far colder still.
The Return From Troy Page 7