Beware of Greeks

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘That’s what all this secrecy and deceit is about is it?’ hissed the rhapsode’s widow, unconvinced, ‘finding out who’s responsible for my husband’s death? How ironic, when we know precisely who is responsible!’

  ‘And who might that be?’ demanded Peleus, and suddenly his voice was no longer so reasonable. It was the voice of a man who had led an army through the scattered remains of a queen he’d just chopped to pieces. The rhapsode’s widow might well be risking her liberty if she persisted with this, perhaps even her life.

  ‘Whoever gave him the fatal message in the first place!’ she spat nevertheless.

  ‘Or,’ suggested Hypatios immediately, ‘whoever caused the circumstances which made the secret messages so necessary.’

  ‘You mean to blame Agamemnon for this?’ her tone was incredulous. ‘My Dion was simply the first casualty in the war he plans against Troy? Is that what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘No, Evadne,’ said the king, his tone placatory once again. ‘The responsibility for the murder as well as for the lies is mine and mine alone. You go back to bed now and rest assured that I will discover who did this and why. Then I will make them regret it until their dying day; which may in fact arrive sooner than they think.’ There was a whisper of footsteps as the woman obeyed her king’s direct order. Odysseus tensed, ready to pull us back out of sight, but he was far too late. Providentially, however, the woman turned back in the doorway to address the king once more. ‘You swear this, Majesty? That whoever did this will pay?’

  The question gave us time to hide ourselves in the last store-room before the one containing the corpse. We watched the distraught woman retrace her steps. King Peleus and Lord Hypatios waited in silence until the last glimmer of her lamp had faded. ‘But you did give Dion a message, Majesty,’ said Hypatios. ‘One that will not now be delivered. Was it vital?’

  ‘I thought so,’ answered the king but his tone was distant, like his mind, evidently, because he suddenly changed the subject. ‘I gave him more than a message. I gave him the ring that bears my seal – and Lycomedes’ ring as well. They are both gone.’ There was a heartbeat of silence. Then the king continued, his voice thick with suspicion. ‘Does the murderer have them, or does Poseidon—or does Odysseus?’

  ‘If Odysseus has them then he also knows you lied, Majesty. And he may have shared that knowledge with King Nestor.’

  ‘And if they know that, they may carry the information back to Agamemnon, might they not? Unless we can think of a way to stop them.’

  ‘A dangerous thought, Majesty. Neither one will be easy to silence, if your plans were to run that way.’

  ‘Perhaps they do; perhaps they do not. We will invite them to stay for at least one more day, while we consider the best way forward. First thing in the morning I want you and General Argeiphontes to parade the force from my army that we were thinking of sending to Agamemnon.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  ‘And send a message to Generals Menesthos and Eudorus. I want the Myrmidons up and out on parade as well.’

  ***

  ‘That’s a bit worrying,’ said Odysseus—though he didn’t actually sound particularly worried. ‘I know Nestor and I have a bit of a reputation—but two full armies to come against us. And one of them made up of Myrmidons! I think even the old man and I would have our hands full there!’ He stepped out of the little room and looked up the black throat of the corridor just as the brightness of Hypatios’ torch was snuffed out because the king and he had turned a distant corner. We ourselves set out to return, conducting our conversation in whispers as we went.

  ‘But King Peleus said he wanted you to stay for one more day, not for the rest of eternity!’ As I followed my captain, my voice shook with the worry he so obviously did not feel. I was beginning to regret my song about the underworld and how easy it was even for god-like heroes to find themselves on the far bank of the River Styx.

  ‘Don’t worry, lad. If we can’t outfight him, I’m sure we can find a way to outfox him! Besides, I think I want to talk with General Eudorus. Everybody has been very careful not to talk about him, but there’s been another envoy from Agamemnon visiting here ahead of us. Even something as simple as the preparation of these rooms suggests it. But if he was here, Eudorus will tell me, soldier to solder.’

  ‘Another envoy, Captain?’ I asked. Agamemnon really did not trust Odysseus, I thought.

  But Odysseus didn’t answer my question. Instead he asked another of his own. ‘I wonder, have Peleus and Hypatios drawn the other more worrying conclusion from Dion’s death now that they have registered and admitted it?’

  ‘What is that Captain?’ I asked.

  ‘Yet another sequence dictated by logic,’ he answered. ‘We brushed against it earlier, but now, I think, it is time to consider it more fully. The rhapsode Dion was given a message to carry from Peleus to Lycomedes. It was the first time he had done so, perhaps, as he carried the royal seals to prove his function; or at least to ease his passage through the royal court of Skyros. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘A message almost certainly to do with Agamemnon’s summons to arms; presumably arising from the visit of the first emissary. Almost certainly to convince Lycomedes that Phthia and Skyros should co-operate in some manner to thwart the High King—or at least to adapt his orders to their own convenience. As, to be fair, they must already do—Lycomedes is king of the Dolopians and would need to lead them into battle alongside troops from Skyros if he joins Agamemnon.’

  ‘I see…’ I said.

  Odysseus disregarded my less than certain tone and continued down his path of logic.

  ‘The Dolopians, however do not live on Skyros—not many of them at any rate. Although they accept Lycomedes as their king, they actually live here in Phthia. Dion the messenger, therefore, was put aboard one of Peleus’ ships, bearing a very lengthy and complex message to do with Phthians and Myrmidons as well as Dolopions and soldiers from Skyros!’

  ‘I see,’ I said again, with more certainty this time.

  ‘But—and this is the heart of the matter, I think—someone stabbed Dion in the back and pushed him overboard.’

  ‘We know that! We’ve known for more than a day…’

  ‘Someone from the crew who must have been ordered to protect the messenger carefully. Someone he trusted himself—to have allowed to come that close to him. A dagger’s length away or less. Don’t you see where the logic leads? There is someone in Peleus’ court—someone on the mission to Skyros—who is secretly working against him. Someone employed by Agamemnon, perhaps, or even Priam of Troy.’

  ‘A kataskopos!’ I whispered. ‘There’s a spy!’

  ‘More than that, lad,’ he answered. ‘There’s a dolofonos; an assassin.’

  iv

  We woke early next day and, having completed our ablutions, we went to the king’s great megaron hall where Peleus himself was overseeing a breakfast of barley bread and olives with wine and water. Even Nestor was content to sit and eat, without discussing the many breakfasts he had enjoyed with Jason and the heroic crew aboard Argo. Instead there was the sort of conversation that one might hear round any table early on a summer’s morning.

  The informality did not last long. Lord Hypatios arrived with two men I guessed to be Generals Argeiphontes and either Menesthos or Eudorus. One decisive and commanding man dressed in dazzling bronze, the other, equally commanding, armed in black. One from the Phthian army, therefore, and the other from the Myrmidons.

  ‘Your majesties, my lords,’ said Hypatios, ‘It is the wish of King Peleus that you be invited to witness a display of military manoeuvres. Generals Argeiphontes and Eudorus will each lead their men in a martial exhibition and then, later, in a mock battle which the three kings are invited to judge as to which would be the victor in actual combat.’

  There was a moment of silence, then Nestor said, ‘Of course I once witnessed just such a battle between Hercules’ heroes and the Amazons. Th
ough I have to say the outcome fell under the aegis of Eros and Aphrodite rather than Ares and Athene. What happened was this…’

  ‘We would be honoured!’ Odysseus cut him off. ‘To witness the Myrmidons in action, even in the absence of Prince Achilles their commander. For an experience such as that we would be happy to delay our mission by, let us say… A day?’

  ‘I wonder what he’s up to,’ said Odysseus as we all dutifully followed our host and his generals out of the palace some time later.

  ‘Do you think it could be some kind of a trap, Captain?’ I wondered nervously.

  ‘Possible but unlikely. If he does decide to move against us he’s probably too wise to do it here. If I was him and I wanted to get rid of us I’d do something to the ship so that we sank and drowned somewhere between here and Skyros.’

  ‘But the fact that Dion didn’t drown and we found him afloat shows that such a plan is not guaranteed of success.’

  ‘True, lad! Well observed. We’ll make something of you yet! To be certain-sure, Peleus would have to send a ship to shadow us until we sank. One whose crew could be counted on to make certain that none of us was ever found afloat. Or of course he might have an assassin of his own who could come aboard and stab a few backs, slit a few throats…’

  ‘And could he do that?’ My voice shook with horror at the thought. ‘Send a ship after us to sink us and slaughter us?’

  ‘He’s a king and a general,’ answered Odysseus. ‘To stand any chance of doing that he’d need to be a king and a captain. And a better captain than I am—not to mention the fact that I have King Nestor who crewed the Argo to help and advise me!’

  That cryptic remark brought our conversation to a close.

  The rear sections of Peleus’ palace did not open onto a courtyard as the forward sections did. Instead, a gate almost as massive as the Scaean Gates of Troy led out onto a roadway which in turn ran inland towards a broad flat space clothed with short-cut grass. Straight ahead, it seemed to stretch for at least a dolichos mile, maybe two, before the lower slopes of a range of hills. These rose, tree-clad, as foothills to the more distant mountains, and eventually to Mount Pelion itself. Side to side it was wider still, or would have been but for the military encampments that had been erected on either hand to house the soldiers of the Phthian army and the Myrmidons. The grass in the centre was bruised and muddied by the soles of countless boots and ridged with wheel-marks. On the near-side of this, standing with its back to the palace there was a tiered grandstand which had clearly been erected so that an audience could observe the manoeuvres and the mock battle due to follow them.

  ‘This didn’t go up overnight,’ said Odysseus.

  ‘No it didn’t’ agreed King Nestor as he joined us. ‘I wonder what his game is.’

  ‘It’s a game he’s played to an earlier audience,’ said Odysseus. ‘Did Agamemnon send anyone out ahead of us to prepare the ground as far as you know, Nestor?’

  ‘I remember when Hercules and I scouted the Isle of Lemnos ahead of Jason and the others before they came ashore…’ said Nestor, seemingly losing focus on present reality once again. Odysseus frowned, but I could not tell whether it was a grimace of irritation, anger, frustration or suspicion.

  But then the time for conversation was past. King Peleus mounted the stand, easing himself into a throne secured in the best position. Nestor and Odysseus were invited to sit on either side of him and the rest of us took our places depending on rank and standing. As I searched for my seat, I noticed that Odysseus’ seat was larger than Peleus’ throne, seemingly made for a man whose stature was even greater than my captain’s; a man of almost gigantic proportions. Frowning with thought, my forehead no doubt as wrinkled as the pensive Odysseus’, I turned back to search for my place. Despite my position as stand-in rhapsode I was lucky not to be sitting on the grass. Not that it would have mattered. The moment the display began I was simply transported.

  ***

  It began with the chariots. Out of the centre of each line of tents came a lone chariot. Each one was pulled by a magnificent pair of horses, chestnuts for the army and black for the Myrmidons. Each chariot moved on spoked wheels whose upper rims might reach a tall man’s waist. From what I could see of the chariot cars they were floored in wood and walled in ox-hide held firm by a wooden frame. In each chariot stood a charioteer who held the reins. Beside him stood his general—Argeiphontes in bronze and Eudorus in black. Each man had a shield hanging outside the car at his hip. Each man carried two tall ash-wood spears tipped in wickedly glittering bronze. You would have expected the chariots to come racing full-tilt at each-other, I certainly did. But no. The horses moved forward slowly, high-stepping, heads held up and nostrils flared, clearly aching to burst into a gallop but held in check by the skill of the charioteers. Then, as the two single chariots paced out onto the field of battle, so, behind them, moving under equally perfect control, came two more lines of chariots; one line on each side. There were too many to count, but they seemed to stretch along the sides of the encampments right down the length of the field. It was a stunning spectacle of absolute control. But then, at a shout from each general, the chariots hurled into motion, charging full-tilt at each-other. My eyes widened. My cheeks ran with tears as my damaged vision strove to take in every detail. There was no doubt in my mind that the chariots were about to crash headlong into each-other. But again, no. The leading chariots passed each other, their wheel hubs separated apparently by fingers’ lengths. And the lines behind them thundered through each-other in the same way, went careering towards the opposing tent-lines; only to turn at the last moment, swing round, re-cross the field avoiding each other seemingly at the whim of the gods and careering back to their own lines.

  But these were no longer tent-lines, for, while my attention had been focussed on the chariots, so spearmen had stepped forward, rank upon rank, reaching away into the distance. Each man fully armed, helmet crested with horsehair, cuirass and shield of bull’s hide—brown for the army, black for the Myrmidons. Each man carried two spears, almost a ten-foot akaina in length. File after file marched out. Then, behind them the slingers and the archers, also in armour but with slings and bows instead of shields and spears. Once the bowmen were out, the lines stopped. By which time, the chariots were lined up in front of them again, horses sweating, steaming and stamping. ‘They haven’t organised all this overnight,’ I said to myself, echoing the captain’s observation. ‘They’ve put this display on recently for someone else.’

  This was a thought I held in mind while a small army of slaves and servants brought us lunch and the display was halted while we ate it, the soldiers standing at attention while the chariots wheeled round and vanished back amongst the tents behind them. The state of the muddied grass further emphasised to me that whatever I was watching now and destined to watch later, had been enacted before, perhaps a week ago. Maybe more, maybe less.

  After everyone had eaten, drunk, performed any ablutions necessary, the exhibition resumed. From each army, a single soldier marched out of the tent lines and into the centre of the field. Each was followed by two more soldiers carrying a wooden target carved into the shape of a man. They wheeled round and marched away down the field, side by side until they were incredibly far away from the spearmen. They placed the targets and stood clear. Not clear enough by my calculation—remaining dangerously close. The brown-clad spearman and his black-clad companion moved together like a man and his shadow. Two spears soared away down the field to smash side by side into the breasts of their targets. Again, they moved in unison. Again, the spears pierced the wooden breasts, side by side. The soldiers turned and marched back to their ranks. They were replaced by two more spearmen. These were expert with the spear and shield. Face to face, they fought each other to a standstill, neither able to gain the upper hand. They were replaced by swordsmen, again, equally matched. Then dagger men. Then wrestlers. Then the targets were replaced, their spear-wounds made vivid by the splinters of white wood
surrounding them. The archers sent their arrows unerringly at the targets’ faces. The slingers smashed lumps of wood out of rough-hewn heads and chests.

  v

  After the individual displays came the mock battle. The two generals began it once again, their chariots charging at each-other then swinging to a halt at the last possible moment as the warriors leaped down, grabbing shield and spears. The first spear was thrown, each missing its target by a hair’s breadth. The second was used in hand-to hand combat. And as the two leaders fought, every movement as carefully controlled as the most complicated dance, so the ranks of the chariots reappeared and echoed their mock attack. How the soldiers’ wild combat did not result in mass slaughter seemed simply to rest on the will of the gods. Finally they disengaged, leaped back into their chariots and retired into their encampments, passing as they did so, the ranks of the spear-men in the brown and black armour who came charging out of their tent-lines to put on a display that held the audience entranced. Spears flew and then were used in close combat. After the spears, bronze-bladed swords, then daggers, then fists and arms as the combatants wrestled each other to the ground. Arrows flew in high arcs from side to side of the field, falling harmlessly among the tents. Only the slingers were not deployed, their sling-shots invisible and wasted in what was so carefully calculated to be a martial spectacle.

  By the time it was all over, the sun was setting. The exhausted soldiers lined up once more, their ranks reaching down the field of battle: slingers and archers behind foot-soldiers, behind lines of chariots with the two generals in front.

  ‘Your Majesties,’ called Hypatios. ‘Would you kindly judge which is superior in the skills of war, the king’s army or the prince’s Myrmidons.’

  The three kings put their heads together for a conference that was surprisingly short. Then Odysseus rose from that out-sized seat. ‘It is our judgement,’ he announced in a voice that must have carried to the furthest exhausted combatant, ‘that there is nothing to choose between them. Both armies are equally outstanding in every regard.’