Deucalion caught the briskly disguised flicker of anxiety in his guest’s face as Menelaus apologized and got up from his seat. Watching from the corner of his eye, he saw him tilt his head impatiently to catch the whispered message and was astounded to see how the colours changed in the King of Sparta’s face.
The dense frown drained to a pallid white, then turned a fierce red as blood rushed back to his cheeks. Menelaus released an involuntary gasp, raised a clenched hand from his side and for a moment Deucalion thought he was about to strike the messenger. But the fist halted against the man’s glistening shoulder, the fingers opened, and Menelaus was leaning his weight against the Spartan for support. Taking a few moments to gather himself, he shook his head, pushed back his ruddy locks of hair and glanced uneasily at the people near him. Then he uttered a single, sickly, incredulous laugh, and hissed something at the messenger, who took a step backwards, opening his hands in a helpless gesture of self-exculpation. Menelaus dragged the man further aside. There came a further clipped exchange of questions and answers before the uneasy runner pressed a fist to his brow as he bowed and backed quickly away.
Gathering his wits, unseeing, Menelaus seemed at last to remember where he was. Slowly he walked back to Deucalion. Around them the crowd was applauding the arrival of a new team in the bullring, so Menelaus had to wait for the din to die down a little before his voice could be heard.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘you must give me leave.’
Deucalion summoned a solicitous frown. ‘Not bad news, I hope?’
‘A matter that requires my urgent attention.’ Hearing how hoarse his voice was, Menelaus turned abruptly away. ‘Forgive me,’ he muttered again, and left the stadium through the excited crowd, angrily demanding that his bewildered attendants let him be. The ground felt unstable beneath his feet. He might have been treading the seas greasy swell. Alone in the dusty street, Menelaus, King of Sparta, stopped, leaning one hand against a tavern wall where someone had written in a wavering scrawl: Clio is a whore. He had to fight the need to vomit.
Two hours later, the sons of Atreus sat together in a private room of the mansion that had been put at their disposal while they sojourned in Knossos. The dark blue walls were painted with a procession of bare-breasted libation-bearers in flounced skirts, whose upraised arms were wreathed with snakes. During the quake that had wrecked much of the city, a crack had torn through their stately progress like a thunderbolt striking the field of irises through which they walked. Some jobbing builder must have been employed to stitch the masonry together again, but the repair had been painted over with a less costly blue. The chamber still stank of some cloying incense that had been burning there when they first arrived in Knossos. Outside, the sky was gravid with a storm that would not break and the light lent a lurid glow to the yellow blossoms dangling at the casement.
A big man, whose coarsely-haired chest was exposed under the loose gown he had slipped on to cover his nakedness, Agamemnon waited for the slave to set down the wine and leave the room before he spoke again. When he did so, it was in a low, throaty growl.
‘The runner was sure about this?’
‘He had it from Eteoneus. The words were exact. There can be no doubt.’
Agamemnon nodded. Preferring not to consider the raw evidence around the rims of his brother’s eyes, he shifted his gaze about this unsavoury room with a casual indolence that belied the speed of his thoughts.
‘Perhaps Eteoneus has got it wrong,’ he said.’ The Trojan could have made off with her against her will. He might be holding her hostage for Hesione. I’m surprised Priam hasn’t tried it before. It’s what I would have done in his place.’
‘Do you think I haven’t considered that?’ Menelaus snapped. ‘It was my first thought -- once I could begin to believe that this thing had happened at all. But there was no sign of struggle, no disarray in her chamber. Her favourite clothes and jewels are gone. And so is Aethra, and a body-servant she’s particularly fond of. And if they had been mere brigands, out for what they could get, they could have forced my whole damned treasury! As it is, Eteoneus thinks she’s taken only what she regards as her own.’
‘How much would that be?’
Menelaus scowled across at his brother in disbelief. ‘Do you think I give a fig for the money when all the light of my life has been put out?’ He got up from his couch and crossed to the window where he looked down into the courtyard of the neighbouring mansion. A crate of quails had fallen from the tail of a wagon there and a number of giggling women were chasing the birds about the yard as they panicked on clipped wings.
‘Then let’s assume,’ Agamemnon was saying, ‘that your wife has proved wanton enough to run off with this Trojan friend of yours. What do you propose to do about it?’
Menelaus ran a hand through his hair. It came to rest at the back of his neck, which he gripped fiercely in his palm. ‘I’ve already sent orders back to Sparta. They’re to double the number of ships scouring the Aegean for them.’ His neck and hands were sweating, his eyes closed. ‘But they had a whole night’s start -- and that was three days ago. They could be in Troy long before we have sight of them.’ His voice began to shake again. ‘It’s hopeless!’
Agamemnon snorted impatiently. ‘Are you a son of Atreus or a lovesick swain? Pull yourself together, man, or you’ll be the laughing-stock of all Crete!’ He drew in his breath in a derisive sigh. ‘Didn’t I tell you that no good would come of fraternizing with these swindling Asiatics? They’re about as trustworthy as a pool of crocodiles!’
Menelaus was as consumed by the appalling justice of the remark as he was mortified by it. When he failed to answer, Agamemnon shrugged out another carefully considered, equally disdainful question. ‘In any case, do you really want that Spartan bitch back after she’s put a pair of horns on you bigger than any you saw in the ring today?’
This was too much. Menelaus turned on his brother, furiously red-faced. ’One more insult like that,’ he snarled, ‘and I’ll cut your gizzard open and thrust it back down your throat!’
‘That’s better, that’s better!’ Agamemnon smiled. ’If you’ve been given horns, learn to use them. Rage is what you need. Good, clean, honest, dangerous rage! Enough rage to chase that handsome bastard all the way to Troy if you have to. Enough rage to knot his tripes round his windpipe and throw his balls to the dogs! And if you won’t do it, I will. No one pisses on the House of Atreus and lives long enough to brag of it.’
‘I can take my own vengeance,’ Menelaus hissed.
‘So it’s not hopeless after all,’ Agamemnon nodded, smiling. ‘Telamon will be there for us. And don’t I recall that our wily friend Odysseus got half the princes of Argos to swear some grisly oath before Poseidon that they would fight to defend your right to Helen?’
Agamemnon arched a thick eyebrow at Menelaus, who stood across the room, still trembling a little, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he took a swig from his wine-cup, relaxed back on his couch, and chuckled. ‘The Trojans may think they’ve got themselves a trophy, little brother. What they’ve actually got themselves is war!’
PART TWO: THE BOOK OF ARES
The Gathering
News of Helen’s flight travelled across Argos faster than a pestilence.
Sitting by the fire in their various strongholds, men remembered the dreadful oath they had sworn on the bloody joints of Poseidon’s horse, and pondered what they would do when Agamemnon’s heralds came -- as come they must -- to demand that their pledge be honoured. Menelaus’ own immediate vassals were in no doubt. For them, the loss of Helen festered like a wound. She was their sacred queen, the priestess of their rites, the living heart of Sparta. She was their totem of beauty in an often ugly world, and it was hard for them to believe that such grace had willingly abandoned them. Witchcraft must have been at work, or some malice of the gods. Helen had been abducted by force or spirited away. Menelaus had proved to be a generous and kindly king, and now, in this adversity, he com
manded their loyalty. If it would take a war to force the return of their Queen, then let there be war. Was there ever more noble cause for a man to lay down his life than the rescue of the Lady Helen?
Others beyond the Lacadaemonian hills awaited the call with less enthusiasm. Troy was far away across an unpredictable sea, somewhere east of common sense. They had troubles enough without bothering their heads over a younger brother’s faithless wife. And, yes, they might indeed have sworn an oath before Poseidon’s altar, but that had been to protect Menelaus from their envy, not to go chasing after a wanton who no longer wished to share the pleasures of his bed!
If a man failed to look to his wife, what was that to them? It had been folly to invite the Trojans into his house, madness to leave a beauty like Helen alone with them. Against such stupidity the gods themselves were helpless.
Such sentiments were not murmured in the High King’s presence, but his spies caught wind of them, and it wasn’t long before Agamemnon began to suspect that, with only his brother’s interests directly threatened, mounting a force large enough to take on the power of Troy might prove harder than he had guessed.
Some of the difficulties had declared themselves even before the sons of Atreus left Crete. Once apprised of the situation, Deucalion had been fulsome in his sympathies for Menelaus -- so much so that his manner drifted perilously close to gloating -- but when Agamemnon sounded him out for support in their war against Troy, the Lord of the Labyrinth proved less immediately forthcoming. Yes, he felt in his own heart the gross insult that Troy had given to all Argos, but times were hard. He would have to think carefully before committing the already stretched resources of the House of the Axe to a distant campaign in which there might be much to lose. Since Theseus had reduced his country to a mere vassal-state of Athens, there had been little appetite for war among the barons of Crete. They already knew too much about its costs. At the very least, a council would be required, and though Deucalion would do what he could to sway its deliberations, the Atreides brothers must understand that the power of the Minoan throne was not what it had once been. For the moment, alas, he could promise nothing.
Agamemnon came fuming from the meeting. ‘That old bastard is the rat-king of a rotten country,’ he growled. ‘Small wonder Crete fell so easily into Theseus’ lap! But I’ve had my eyes open while we’ve been here! He may be the true heir of a degenerate father and a depraved mother but he’s a lot less needy than he makes out. With Theseus gone, and only Menestheus to answer to in Athens, Crete is on the rise again. Deucalion has ships, and he knows we need them. But he’s also thinking that if Argos and Troy wear each other out in a long war, then Crete might find scope to command the seas once more.’ Agamemnon glared across at his brother. ‘We’ll have to teach him that he may have more to lose by staying out than by coming in.’
Menelaus nodded. ‘But were you watching Idomeneus while we spoke? I’m sure he despises his father. We should talk to him separately.’
‘You think we might set them against one another?’
‘It could do no harm to try. Idomeneus and I are friends. He was among the first who swore to aid me. His father has lived too long, and he’s been restless and ambitious for some time now. I think he might like a war.’
‘I see you’re learning, brother,’ Agamemnon smiled. ‘Hate is a mighty teacher,’
Shortly after his return to Argos, Agamemnon called his principal allies to a council of war in the great hall of the Lion House in Mycenae. Menelaus was there, bitter and gloomy still, having found his empty bedchamber in Sparta too desolate a place to bear. Nestor, king of Pylos, was among the first to arrive, already in his sixties but valiant and eloquent as ever. He was at pains to assure the Atreides brothers that, at this painful hour, they could rely on all he had to give in the way of wise counsel and military support. He was joined in those sympathies by Palamedes, Prince of Euboea, who was authorized to put the resources of his father Nauplius at the High King’s disposal, and by the Argive hero Diomedes, who had always been so infatuated with love for Helen that he took her abduction as a personal slight. Like Menelaus, Diomedes was a devotee of Athena, and after the two men had wept together for a while, he told the bereft King of Sparta that the goddess had assured him in a dream of her special protection for the eighty ships he would commit to the war against Troy.
Others of the High King’s vassals began to arrive through the Lion Gate. Some were openly eager for the venture, others discreetly kept their counsel, preferring to watch which way the wind was blowing. But on the whole, things seemed to be going well when news came of two unexpected setbacks.
Agamemnon had been counting on the warlike temper of Telamon to put fire into any of the princes who might query the wisdom of an assault on Troy. The old warhorse knew the city well. He had sacked it once and grown rich on the pickings. It was a sore blow, therefore, when news came from Salamis that Telamon had collapsed after a rowdy banquet on the night before he was due to cross to the mainland. Though his breathing was heavy and he had lost the power of speech, the old man was still alive. His son Ajax and his stepson Teucer were at his bedside, praying to Apollo the Healer for his full recovery.
The herald they sent in their place promised that the island would fit out six vessels for the venture. But Agamemnon cursed the ill luck that had deprived him of a man whose experience and forceful character was worth far more to him at that moment than a handful of ships.
The news out of Ithaca was still more dispiriting -- so much so that the brothers went into private conference with Nestor before breaking it to the assembled warlords. The message came not with a herald but in a small bronze canister tied about a pigeon’s leg. It came with the excuse that storms were blowing round the coast of Ithaca, and went on to tell how Odysseus and Penelope grieved to hear of their Cousin Helen’s defection. They understood why, in his righteous anger, Menelaus might wish to take violent revenge on Troy, but wasn’t it the case that the treachery had been the fault of a single man, not a whole city? Should any act of retaliation not be proportionate therefore? While their own loyalty to the High King was never in question, it was their considered opinion that the Atreides brothers would be wise to wait upon King Priam’s response to their envoys before harnessing their power to a war that might prove long and arduous. Helen had acted rashly, yes, but that was no reason for her husband, who was always assured of their love and deepest sympathy, to do the same.
Agamemnon smacked the paper with his hand. ‘The villain is looking to his own interests as usual. He got what he wanted when he came to Sparta. Now he thinks he can lie back, counting his blessings, and let the rest of us go hang.’
Still raw from the humiliation of his wound, Menelaus had listened touchily to the unwelcome homily out of Ithaca. ‘Do we need him?’ he frowned now. ‘Ithaca’s far to the west and hardly fit for goats to graze on. If our cousin doesn’t want to come, let him rot at home.’
‘It’s not just Ithaca.’ Agamemnon got up and began to pace the chamber. ‘All the Ionian islands look to him. If the Lords of Same, Dulichium, and Zacynthus get to hear he won’t come, why should they stir their stumps? This could cost us a thousand men. And Odysseus isn’t just some bare-arsed sheep-farmer with more balls than brains. He’s a thinker. A strategist. The best strategist we’ve got -- with the exception of old Nestor here. Of course we need him!’
Nestor had been dandling Agamemnon’s small daughter Iphigeneia on his knee as he waited for the rant to end. Now he took her fingers from his mouth and lifted his silver head. ‘Odysseus doesn’t actually say that he won’t come,’ he offered quietly. ‘He merely suggests we wait to hear what your envoys report.’
‘We know well enough what they’ll say! If Priam’s feeling strong, it’ll be a defiant jibe about not getting much help from us in the matter of his sister. If he’s not, then expect some appeasing diplomatic pribble-prabble. Either way, it’s what I want to hear. There’s never going to be a better time to take on Troy th
an this.’
‘And Odysseus knows you think this way?’ Nestor asked, stroking the small girl’s curls where she nestled against him, sucking her thumb, with large eyes following her father’s strides as he paced the floor.
‘Of course he does. He’s no fool. We’ve always shared intelligence on our raids. He knew what I was thinking a long time ago. But that was before he married and settled down and got lazy. I preferred him as a rogue and pirate! So did most of the princes of Argos, if truth were told. None of them much liked the oath he got them all to swear at the wedding but they admired his cunning!’ Agamemnon sat down again, drumming the fingers of both hands on the table. ‘The man has genius! He’s wasted watching sheep on that barren rock. Somehow we’ve got to prise him out of that great bed he boasts of.’
‘Then let me go and talk to him,’ Menelaus said. ‘After all, it was he who set things up so that I could marry Helen in the first place.’
‘But it’s hardly his fault if it went wrong!’ Agamemnon scowled. Though Helen’s defection had provided him with just the excuse for war that he had needed, he still felt the sting of humiliation that it brought on the House of Atreus. ‘Odysseus didn’t know you were going to let some Trojan stallion have the run of your house -- any more than I did.’
At that point old Nestor looked up from the child whose smiling face had crumpled at the rising voices. He raised a magisterial finger, which silenced both brothers without offending either, then said, ‘Would the sons of Atreus care to hear my thoughts on this matter, or shall Iphigeneia and I leave you to brawl at your leisure?’
The War At Troy Page 20