by Henry Treece
Then he passed on down the Hue, and made pleasantries with the girls of other great families. I was trembling as my mother gripped my wrist. She said, ‘Behave yourself, Electra. This young man does not mean what he says. It is their custom to make much of little. They are not like our folk, who make little of much.’
She spoke out of a still face, painted almost as white as marble, with her hair all stiffened with horse-hoof glue, so that it looked as though carved from wood. She always made up so on great occasions, the clay-powder on her face often so thick that she could scarcely move her lips to talk. My father, the king, used to laugh at her preparations: he had only to strap on the thin beaten gold mask which had always been in his family since the dawn-times. And whereas my mother was required by custom to mould her hair into the forms of many snakes, setting these locks with glue, his hair was just brushed out, to flare about the edges of the mask like the sun’s morning rays.
My father was always careless of custom, though. After the first greeting with Paris, he dragged the mask off and flung it to one of the barons to hold for him. Then he scratched in his thick beard just like any peasant troubled by lice, for everyone to see.
But my mother stood as motionless as a statue, always staring above the heads of the people, as a queen should. I recall, that day, that a little breeze lifted her light linen skirts and showed the tattooing on her thighs, but she affected not to notice this, though all the boys on the lower steps were pointing and laughing. It was said that Clytemnestra could walk naked through the market-place without showing loss of dignity, and I am sure that this was true.
Aunt Helen, on the other hand, could be fully covered with all her silks and worsteds—and yet look as though she was undressed. It was her way of shifting about, opening her bodice, or raising her skirt, with little twitches of the hand, as though she didn’t know she was doing it. She seemed always to be on fire under her clothes, and wanting to let air to her body. But my mother was just the opposite. I did not understand this, then; but I do now. It was what destroyed Hellas and let the barbarians in.
After the greetings, Agamemnon took Paris away to a council a chamber below the floor of our house, where no women were ever allowed. They were together until sunset, and no one ever knew what they spoke of. I remember that the barons were angry and that many of them got drunk, not watering their wine three-fold as was the rule, and began to boast that they would take the head off the shoulders of Paris before ever he got as far as the coast.
That strange day comes very clearly to my mind, even now, after all those years. There were two great warriors who caused more fuss than anyone else: Dioxides of Argos, who was as handsome as a god, and never made any secret of his love for Aunt Helen; and a strange little hunchbacked king with crow-black hair. This was Idomeneus of Crete. He had a great shield emblazoned with a cock partridge, and a helmet set all about with boars’ tusks. Some said he was not a true Cretan, but an Egyptian. Whatever the case, he claimed direct descent from the first King Minos, and had brought a hundred ships to Aulis. Openly he bragged that without his ships, Agamemnon could not make the attack on Troy. And, when he was drunk, which was often, he used to say that he and Agamemnon were the joint generals of the army and would share the glory of destroying Troy.
I had always admired Dioxides for his fine looks, but King Idomeneus disturbed me. I could not forget that on his first evening at our house he had said something to me while my father was out of the feast-hall; and though it had been done with a comforting smile and a caressing hand, I could never see black hair and a brown skin afterwards without recalling this occasion with disgust.
But I am straying from the story. These two, Dioxides and Idomeneus, seemed to make up their minds early on that Paris should die. At the time of his arrival there was a feast in the palace. My mother and Helen were not present, since the first night was for men alone, and the women would be at the tables on later evenings; but all the young girls of noble birth were there, to stand beside the lords and see that their wine-cups were full, this being an occasion too great for mere slaves or serving-men.
Iphigenia and I stood on either side of my father at the board’s head, so we saw and heard all that happened. So did Helens daughter, Hermione, who stood at the right hand of Paris in the place of honour.
Dioxides and Idomeneus sat across the table from Paris and seemed determined to make a fool of him. At first they contented themselves with pointing at his gold ornaments and whispering to each other. Then as the wine-cups were filled, and filled again, they grew bolder until, at last, as there came a lull in the talking and laughter, Dioxides said in a loud voice to his companion, ‘These Phrygians do not pray to the god as we know him. They have taken up the custom of those cattlemen who live in the little hills behind Jericho. They name him e-o-i! Just like children cooing.’
Paris heard this, but went on talking and laughing with my father. However, Dioxides would not let it pass as easily as that. He reached across the table with his long arm and caught Paris by the sleeve.
‘Is that not true, prince?’ he asked, his lips curled back among his face hair.
Paris looked at him across the rim of his cup and said quietly, ‘We have men of many lands in Troy. They each bring their own ways. We do not question them.’
Once more, he would have turned to my father, but King Idomeneus, his dark face reddened with wine, said harshly, ‘This god of Jericho, they tell me he requires a strange offering from the cattlemen. Is that also true, prince?’
The face of Paris flushed and he set down his cup clumsily, spilling the red wine on the scrubbed white board. Dioxides thumped the table and laughed aloud. ‘There, there!’ he called. ‘That arrow found its mark, Paris! Come, comrade, onto the table with you and let us see how it leaves a man! Come now, never let it be said a Trojan was delicate!’
I glanced at my father; he was glowering down at his meat, as though anxious not to offend anyone—Paris, or his own lords. I saw my sister, Iphigenia, her eyelids lowered, but her dark eyes turned on Paris as though she hoped he might do as Dioxides said. Many of the older girls were looking the same way, for life in our great houses was very strict in those times, and it was not often that our curiosity was satisfied.
But Paris seemed to recollect himself suddenly and held out his cup for Iphigenia to fill it again. As she did this, her hand shook so much that the neck of the flask chattered against the lip of his cup. Paris turned and looked up at her shortly. ‘Do not upset yourself, pretty one,’ he said, ‘there will be no show.’
Dioxides was beside himself at the calmness of Paris. He turned once more to the Cretan and began to urge him to drink faster and more than his head would stand. Soon, Idomeneus was calling for a harpist and bawling out that he had a song to sing. This was his usual custom and no one gave much heed to it: but tonight there was silence as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand, and clambered onto the table. Dioxides, already half-speechless, poured wine over the Cretan head and slapped him on the back, too hard, making him cough and splutter. But at last Idomeneus snatched the harp away from the slave who had come running, and began to sing, in his high, nasal voice:
A beardless boy Who came from Troy Met Hermes in the hills.
‘Come, come, young sir Cried the messenger,
‘And judge these pretty girls.’
Three girls he set before the boy,
One black, one gold, one red:
‘Come, pick me out,’ called Hermes sly,
‘The one you’d like to bed!’
He took a golden apple And put it in his hand.
‘Take this,’ he said, ‘and make your choice;
Be king of all this land.
For that’s the prize if you choose aright.’
‘But what if I choose all wrong?’
Hermes frowned. ‘Then the best you’ll get Is to hear Idomeneus’ song!’
As the Cretan tongue shambled, slurred with wine, over the crowded syllables,
Dioxides pointed at Paris and laughed wildly, as though a great joke had been made. Many of the rough up-country barons and squires joined him, nudging one another and beating their cups on the table.
Paris, who had sat with lowered eyes while the song was on, now glanced up, his light eyes as keen as dagger-blades. Then he rose and took: the harp from the Cretan and, with one foot on the bench, sang quietly:
What magic lies in wine, sweet wine,
The dark blood of the grape!
It makes fools brave and heroes whine,
Turns gentle love to rape.
Three cups, and dark has changed to light,
Or sea has changed to sky;
Another, and tomorrow’s hope Is last year’s memory!
Oh wine, the Maenads’ only joy At the sad suns decline,
Turns lions of Argos into dogs And Cretan bulls to swine!
As he sang, the men were silent in the hall, so as to miss none of his words; but as he drew to the finish and flung the harp back to the trembling slave, a hiss sounded everywhere, as though the kings and barons had been drenched with cold water and were catching at their breath.
Dioxides was swaying above the table, his knuckles white on the board, his spittle running into his trimmed beard. King Idomeneus was feeling all round his waist for his dagger, forgetful that he had left it in the vestibule, according to the feast laws in Mycenae.
Only Paris was still smiling. ‘Come, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘a song for a song. Can the Hellenes take a joke no longer?’
Dioxides said thickly, ‘Trojan, I will take more than that—I will take your head.’
Then, as the shouting started, my father the High King, the Lion of Mycenae, rose from his carved chair at the head of the table. I had almost forgotten him, and now, as his great head and shoulders thrust up from among all the folk who clustered round him, he seemed like Poseidon the Bull rising up from the dark waves at midnight. He did not speak words, but a deep roaring came out of his belly and his chest. Men fell away from him, from the benches. I trembled so much that my hands let fall the wine flask. I did not hear it shatter on the stone floor, but I felt the cold liquid splash up my legs.
Then Agamemnon was towering above Dioxides and the Cretan king. They were like little children beside him, and their eyes turned up as though their hearts had left them. My father’s eyes were so huge and empty that, in the flickering torchlight, I thought for an instant his fury had blinded him, or that Zeus had taken his sight for allowing such words at his table.
Then Agamemnon squealed shrill, like a stuck pig, and brought his clenched fists down on Dioxides, thumping his fine head onto the thick oak board. He struck him again many times, until Dioxides slithered away into the straw and lay still.
And all the while, King Idomeneus stood there, shuddering, but making no attempt to retreat. Even when my father took him by the wrist and twisted it so hard that we heard the sinews strain, the Cretan made no effort to defend himself. The sweat streamed down his dark face and he bit his lips until they bled, rather than cry out.
Soon we were glad when Agamemnon punched him at the side of the neck and tumbled him beside Dioxides in the straw, for that meant the end of his suffering for a while.
And when this was done, we stood away, each moving with little steps so as not to be noticed, leaving my father and Paris alone at the table.
It was then that I was most truly afraid of Agamemnon, for he seemed to be seeking another to kill, seeking with his blind, mad eyes, which swung over the huddled company and came to rest at last on the Trojan.
For a while, all wondered what the end would be. The High King mumbled and slavered and then suddenly said, ‘Paris the Phrygian! The Trojan trouble-maker! The horse-thief who picks from the mares and leaves the stallions! But for you, this hall would be a happy place. But for you.’
He made half a pace towards the young man, but Paris stood quite still and smiling. Then I saw that in his right hand he held a narrow-bladed dirk that he had pulled from within his feast robe.
He said in his high clear voice, ‘Come no closer, Lion. I am not from Argos, nor from Crete, so I shall not stand quiet while you beat my brains out.’
It was as though someone had desecrated a shrine, or left ordure on the Mother’s altar. The hall was as silent as death. No one had ever spoken like this to the High King before.
Then all at once Agamemnon laughed, so loud, so hard, that I was almost sick with fear. And suddenly he was holding Paris in his arms, like an old friend who had been lost, and was now found. And Paris was clapping him on the back, as one would clap a worthy horse.
His dagger had gone into its sheath again, as quietly as it had come out.
I made my way from that room as soon as I could, and wept alone in my bed, growing more and more aware what it meant to have a god for one’s father, what it was to be daughter of the Lion King of Mycenae. It was a wearisome burden.
9
I am an old woman now, talking to a stranger in the hills. My head is full of half-remembered thoughts that grin like ghosts from behind curtains but vanish when I go to meet them. Days jostle days, and folk push out folk from the memory, like village-dogs fighting for a bone in the famine times. It is hard to make sense of it all. But you must take it as it comes, doctor, for it is the only way I know to tell it.
Paris came and went, without more quarrelling; and one day, before Menelaus returned, we found that Aunt Helen had gone as well. Shortly afterwards, Menelaus came back to Mycenae, riding an unblown horse, and made great show of his grief, knocking his shaggy head against the Lion Gate for all the folk to see, and raising his arms to the sky, calling on Zeus Father to give him satisfaction for his loss.
Hermione, his young daughter, clung to his kilt and wept until all her hair was wet. We other children of the palace wept, too. But afterwards, when the townsfolk had gone away, moved and swearing vengeance on Troy, I saw that the lords and ladies seemed to make little of it. Indeed, it was hardly mentioned: the only talk was of the wind that would not set right to drive our ships towards the dawn, of the harvests that must be seen to, when the army had gone, and things like that; common things.
Even Menelaus stopped pretending grief, and once, sitting at our table, he leaned across to my father and said, ‘Did she take the chestnut stallion or the litter, brother?’ My father had been drinking wine, too, and was not mindful of other ears. He smiled and said, ‘I let her have her own way, Menelaus. She went on foot by night as far as Midea. He was waiting in the hills there with his own horses. His boats lay just north of Epidaurus.’
Uncle Menelaus took another pull at his wine-cup and nodded. Then he said, quite reasonably, ‘We must not press too hard, then.
With this wind holding the way it does, he’ll find it just as hard as us to make his way through the islands. Let him get to Naxos before we set forth.’
Agamemnon grinned above a partridge leg and said,’ They will light the beacons on Naxos after he has gone from there, then on Paros, then on Siphnos, and so back to the mainland, to Argolis. So we shall know. It is all arranged.’
All the time I was looking into my milk-bowl with my hair hanging down at each side of my face, like a hood. The men did not even notice me. But my mother, the queen, did: she had sharp eyes for everything. And when the king and his brother had gone to drink in the mess-tent with the barons, she said to me gravely,’ We in palaces hear much that is not heard by others; but we do not talk of it. Just as the priest on the hill or the priestess in the shrine hear much and do not mention it.’
I said, ‘It is understood, mother.’ Then I stroked her cheek and she smiled, and gave me a piece of honey-bread in her fingers. Now she seemed to me dearer and kinder than ever before, since the night when I had seen my father turn into a monster that I did not recognise.
After this, Clytemnestra took more interest in me. She would have me in her bed all night, while the gathering soldiers laughed and sang drunken songs outside, or set fire to
the hovels on the outskirts of Mycenae.
Once, as the glow from such a fire lit up the window-holes of the chamber, she hugged me to her and said, ‘Have you ever watched fish in the river, sweet one?’
I said that I had.
She asked,’ And what colour are they?’
I said sometimes silver, sometimes blue, sometimes black. They changed as you watched them. It all depended on the light or the shade, whether they lay in deep water or shallow, in the open or under the rushes.
My mother stroked my hair gently.’ That is right,’ she said. ‘One thing always depends on many others. All life is like that. The man who says that there is only one truth tells a He, and so his truth is a lie and not worth regarding.’
I remember saying, ‘But if you take a fish from the water, you see that he was silver all the time. Is that not the truth, mother?’ Clytemnestra whispered in my ear, ‘Truly he is silver when he lies on the bank: but then he is dead. That is the dead truth, the sort of thing that is told after a man’s death, and you know what manner of thing that is. You know that, when they are dead, tyrants are called good kings, and cowards brave warriors? That is the silver truth about them, not the blue truth, or the black truth.’
I was very sleepy, but I said, ‘And all life is like the fishes, mother?’ She answered, ‘Yes, my love. You will hear things said about the king, about Helen, about Paris and about me, after we are gone. But it will only be the dead silver truth. So keep your eyes open and watch, as you would watch a fish, while we are alive: then you will know the live truth about us, the changing truth that depends on whether we move in the sunlight or the shadow, in clear and shallow water, or down in the dark deeps.’