by Peter Tonkin
Further, never having visited the place, I was keen to see whether the rumours I had heard about it were true and that the self-indulgent old king had fallen almost completely under the influence of the Asian ways of cities such as Troy. That instead of a single wife, he had a harem like King Priam’s; that he had fathered almost as many daughters as Priam had fathered sons, who he kept secreted with his wives, concubines, female servants and slaves in women’s quarters which it was death for a man to enter uninvited. That on the rare occasions his women were allowed into masculine society, their beauty was hidden behind veils in the eastern fashion. And, perhaps most temptingly of all, that when the women did come out of their inviolable quarters, it was usually to perform the most exquisite dances dedicated to Eros, the god of passion and procreation. But even given all this motivation, I believe I would never have completed my vertiginous journey had not some kindly townspeople taken pity on me and helped me up the final steep-sloping path leading to my destination. And in so doing, they drove the unsettling impression I had gained further down the hill out of my mind altogether.
King Lycomedes’ citadel was an impressive place. Some trick of its positioning made it seem circumscribed and limited by the hilltop plateau on which it sat but nothing could have been further from the truth. True, the finely made walls that towered above the topmost houses of the city limited it on one elevation, though even here the great gate, with a tall, square tower on either side of it, opened to a courtyard so large that anyone who did not know the place would be as astonished by it as I was. The gate towers were duplicated half way round the curve of each wall, giving the inner courtyard a reassuring air of being constantly watched and guarded. Though I was aware that the tall walls, with their stones so massive they must surely be the work of giants or legendary gods, served a more warlike defensive role. Like the valley below, Lycomedes’ citadel had been attacked on more than one occasion by Lykian brigands and assorted marauders from Lesbos and the pirate islands east of it. If the citadel of Skyros wasn’t on a constant war-footing, then it was on something very like it.
ii
As I entered the huge gates, however, all such thoughts were driven from my mind. The palace within this great wall arched round, making the courtyard into a circle. The main building, with its rear extending the hilltop on which it had been constructed, towered immediately opposite the gates—two wings reached out on either side, deep buildings near the palace coming as far as the towers mid-way to the gates, after which the massive walls were plain and sheer on both sides with a walkway along the top. But although the walls and towers were imposing, they were nothing compared with the palace itself. The whole front of the place was faced with marble so white that it must have come from the quarries on Thasos, and I would hardly have been surprised if Zeus and Hera had come out of it to welcome me.
The heat of that torrid afternoon lingered up here and, together with the breathlessness resulting from my climb, I found myself reeling, dangerously close to fainting as I entered the overwhelming fortification. My disorientation was deepened by the sudden appearance of a guard captain in full bronze armour backed up by a unit of four leather-clad gate keepers. The dazzling captain demanded to know my name and reason for being here. No sooner had I identified myself, however, than his attitude softened. ‘Ah, the rhapsode. We’ve been expecting you,’ he said and dismissed his little cohort back to gate duty. ‘Follow me please. And if I may say, from the look of you I think it is as well King Lycomedes’ own rhapsode will be playing at this evening’s feast. Perhaps a night off will allow you to catch your breath. But as I say, the king has been expecting a rhapsode from Phthia, and he will certainly wish to listen to one of your songs in due course. In the mean-time I believe you have been assigned to King Odysseus’ immediate entourage and will be housed with them within the palace itself.’
The officer led me through a side entrance into the main building and a blessedly cool shade closed over us at once. As with Peleus’ palace in Phthia, this palace was a maze of corridors but, perhaps because I was exhausted and light-headed, I could make no sense of them. I simply followed the polished bronze cuirass as its owner led me deeper and deeper into the place with no idea where I was going or how I would find my way out again. But fortunately there were three familiar faces in the four bed chamber to which he finally delivered me. ‘Ah, there you are, lad,’ said the broad-shouldered oarsman Elpenor. ‘The captain told Perimedes, Eurylocus and me to keep an eye out for you.’ He gestured at his two companions as he named them, then continued. ‘You look all-in. This is your bed, you’d better sit on it.’ I did, gratefully. ‘Here,’ he continued, ‘a drink of water will cheer you up.’ He gestured to one of the others and suddenly I was holding a cup of cool water, surprised to discover I had put down my lyre and modest bag of possessions without even realising it. ‘You can wash and relieve yourself in the common parts at the end of the corridor,’ he continued. ‘And we’ll get someone to brush that peplos down for you. I don’t suppose you have a more respectable himation with you? King Lycomedes likes things formal, especially when he’s entertaining kings, princes and assorted lords.’
‘Princes?’ I asked, my head beginning to clear.
‘Oh yes. I thought you’d have worked it out from the fact that his ship is tied up next to ours—the captain says you’re pretty sharp-witted. Odysseus and Nestor, of course. And also Ajax, son of King Telamon, Prince of Salamis. Best fighter in Achaea, except for his cousin Prince Achilles, wherever he may be.’
My head was clearing more rapidly now, and the import of the earlier section of our conversation hit me. ‘Himation,’ I said. ‘You asked if I had a himation—which I do not. Does that mean I’m expected to attend the feast of welcome?’
‘Of course you are,’ chuckled Elpenor. ‘I really don’t think you understand yet just how important King Odysseus’ rhapsode actually is, especially as he’s never bothered to employ one before. You’re stuck with it, just as you were in King Peleus’ court.’
‘The guard who brought me here said King Lycomedes was expecting a rhapsode to arrive from Phthia,’ I said. ‘He must have meant Dion and didn’t know he’s dead. I think he supposed it was me the King’s expecting.’ It was, perhaps, a mark of my continued disorientation that I did not see the sinister implications of my words, despite what Captain Odysseus had said earlier about any rhapsode being next on the murderer’s list. After King Peleus’ new message-bearer Hypatios, that is.
‘There you are then,’ said Elpenor. ‘You’d better get your best song polished up because you’ll be singing it sooner or later.’
‘King Lycomedes has his own rhapsode,’ I said. ‘So apparently I won’t have to sing tonight.’
‘Just as well,’ said Elpenor with a shake of his head. ‘You don’t look as though you could sit up straight for any length of time—let alone sit up and sing!’
***
Like King Peleus, King Lycomedes held his feast of welcome in the great chamber of his megaron. The tables were erected around the edges of the big square room, all equidistant from the circular fire pit in the centre of the ornate, multicoloured floor, much as they had been in Phthia. They were not, however, equidistant from the seat of power. King Lycomedes sat on his throne, raised higher than the places for his honoured guests to right and left, for the senior guests down to common people who stood marginally above the servants but who were ordered to attend because of some skill—such as myself and Lycomedes’ stone-blind ancient rhapsode who sat with his lyre lying ready on the table beside him. Once again there was not the slightest sight or sound of any women either here nor—now I thought of it—anywhere in those sections of the palace I had visited so far.
I had no time to consider this, though it was hardly unexpected, as I was guided to my seat. This was at the far side of the room from the kings, but it allowed me to examine the impressive scale and dazzling decoration of the chamber I was seated in. Four painted wooden columns stood aroun
d the central fire pit, each one at a corner of the square opening in the ceiling above it. The ceiling itself was, if anything, more highly decorated than the floor, though the beautifully painted walls outdid them both—and far outdid King Peleus’ great hall in Phthia. On and around the massive fire pit, a range of carcases were being roasted—a bull, two boars, sheep and goats. This was particularly impressive, for none of the animals being prepared at the fire pit was actually native to the island. Anything larger than a wild pony had to be imported from the mainland.
Having looked about the room, I glanced around the tables and established that my own seat appeared to be the lowest position available. It was certainly furthest from King Lycomedes, tucked away in a draughty corner by the door. But even with the damage to my eyes I had no trouble in examining the king. He appeared to be quite tall, though his elevated throne was designed to add to his consequence, as was the dazzling wall hanging suspended behind it. His actual frame was almost impossible to judge for it was hidden in formal robes that widened his shoulders and broadened his chest while hiding the girth—or lack of it—of his belly. The wrists and hands protruding from the gorgeous sleeves, however, were plump, which led me to speculate that the king was full-figured as well. This impression was confirmed by his face which looked like the face of a plump child, rubicund and cheery. He wore no crown and his well-trimmed hair was whiter and thinner than Nestor’s. He had no beard, clearly preferring to leave his ruddy cheeks, jowls and chins clean-shaven. However, although his face and body suggested a cheerfully self-indulgent, wine-bibbing character, it was clear that the force of his intelligence was nevertheless powerful. Beneath the sweep of white eyebrows, two light brown eyes surveyed the room like those of a roosting eagle. This impression was compounded by the broad, beak-like hook of his nose—so different to the straight Achaean noses with which he was surrounded. However, I could see quite clearly perched on that elevated throne the kindly old king who had unhesitatingly welcomed Theseus to Skyros when the great hero and exiled king of Athens came here to retire from public life and farm some fields he happened to own on the island.
On Lycomedes’ right sat Nestor and on his left sat Odysseus. Next to Odysseus sat Hypatios and next to Nestor sat the largest, most powerful man I had ever seen in my life. I knew who he was, of course. This was Ajax, son of Peleus’ brother King Telemon of Salamis and Achilles’ cousin. True, I had never seen the long-dead Hercules but I could hardly imagine he would have been any more massive and prepossessing than Ajax. I could certainly understand how one glance at that enormous seat in Peleus’ grandstand overlooking his military display told Odysseus that Ajax had been there before him. The young giant towered not only over Nestor but even over Lycomedes on his elevated throne. His shoulders were far wider than Lycomedes’ even without the formal robes, and the barrel of his chest would have held sufficient water for a voyage to Troy and back. His arms were larger than Elpenor’s legs and I could only imagine what the legs beneath the table must resemble: ships’ masts or tree-trunks, I supposed. On top of those herculean [IW3]shoulders sat a short neck as thick as the columns beside the fire pit and on top of that a great, square head. A low brow was squashed between a thick brown hairline and heavy brown brows. Piercing brown eyes sat astride a short, straight nose ending in broad bull-like nostrils. Then a great cascade of hair, moustache becoming beard apparently without a break for a mouth. The beard, however, jutted forward, betraying the presence of a strong chin beneath it. The continuous cascade of moustache and beard became of interest almost at once, for, alone at the top table, Ajax was neither eating nor drinking. And as I realised that fact, so I saw that what flesh was visible between eyebrows and hairline, along cheekbones almost as circumscribed as his forehead, was pallid and disturbingly sickly-looking.
The feast proceeded in a highly formal manner. After an introductory pile of fat olives, tiny cucumbers and cheeses accompanied by various wines had been consumed, the palace cooks went seriously to work. The tenderest, most succulent joints of the king’s preferred roast animals were placed in front of him and he indicated which particular morsels he wanted with all the obvious enjoyment of a child choosing honey cakes. These were carved for him and added to his serving. When King Lycomedes was satisfied, the massive portions he had selected were moved right and left as first kings, then princes, then lords indicated their preference and were served. So it went, on and on. There was a kind of inevitability to the fact that I ended up with a stringy pink piece of goat. I didn’t need to demonstrate my preference—it was all that was left. I suspected I was lucky to get that and had only done so because Ajax refused everything which was offered to him.
iii
After the eating, there was formal drinking and cups were raised to Lycomedes as our cheerfully welcoming host, to the kings who were present, to the kings absent but represented by men such as Lord Hypatios, to the absent kings’ representatives themselves, starting with Prince Ajax then Hypatios and so forth. I noted that Lycomedes’ rhapsode was raising and draining his cup with the best of them so I was careful only to wet my lips as each salutation was called. After this ceremonial, the gifts were brought in. King Nestor’s men came first as he was the senior guest. They brought in an enormous inlaid box which turned out to be full of extremely expensive gold- and silver-mounted jewellery: finger-rings, toe-rings and necklaces made of pearls imported from beyond the Hittite Empire, pendants and breast-pieces in all sorts of designs, hair-bands and head-bands both plain and adorned with strings of precious stones and jewels; bracelets, armlets and ankle bands studded with rare blue and green jasper from Egypt, and bloodstones, which some call heliotrope. And, most cunningly of all, perhaps, silver mirrors even more polished than the guard captain’s armour. The king was apparently more than satisfied and put these aside when he had sorted through them, with many lengthy expressions of gratitude supported by yet more toasts. Nestor’s servants were replaced by Elpenor, Perimedes and Euylocus. Odysseus’ gifts could not have been more different. The massive oarsmen presented the king with a range of swords in ornate scabbards, fine bronze blades secured to grips of metal, bone, horn and wood by silver pins. Matching daggers were presented beside them. Bronze shields inlaid with jewels to match the ornate scabbards appeared, engraved with scenes from legend guaranteed to terrify any opponent. Helmets of all sorts, designs and materials from gilded bronze to boars’ tusks sewn on leather. Tall spears made of ash wood, with vicious-looking points fashioned from rare dark iron and end-pieces made of bronze. Reticulated bows from the warlike East with arrows whose heads were smaller versions of the lay-out of his city. And, finally, a cuirass with matching greaves, all in bronze faced with gold and a high-crested golden helm to match. Again, the kindly old king was overwhelmed with gratitude, though he observed with great regret that he was far too old and fat to make use of any of the gorgeous weaponry these days—even if he had to face the fearsome pirates of Lesbos. After all this, the final presents of brightly coloured wool and linen cloths, some of which also came from Egypt and the East, seemed all the poorer by comparison and Lord Hypatios seemed almost embarrassed to be bringing such meagre gifts from King Peleus, despite Lycomedes’ courteous reception of everything put before him. But then it occurred to me that Peleus’ original gifts—no doubt far more impressive than these—were still on the vessel commissioned with bringing Dion, his apprentice and Phthia’s formal embassy to Lycomedes’ court. Wherever that ship, and all those still alive aboard it, had vanished to.
These thoughts were interrupted by King Lycomedes himself, who had finished his examination of King Peleus’ cloth. ‘Rhapsode!’ he called in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘It is time for a song!’
The Skyronian rhapsode got rather unsteadily to his feet, felt around on the table until he found his lyre, then allowed himself to be led towards the fire-pit. As he searched blindly for his lyre I got a closer look at his face and was shocked to see a deep burn scar across the bridge of his nose and two mor
e on the outer edges of his eye sockets. His eyelids were strangely thick and he had no lashes. It struck me with unsettling force that the man had been blinded on purpose long ago by someone pressing the blade of a red-hot dagger across his face. A stool had been placed by the fire-pit, at the base of the pillar closest to the king and his royal guests. The rhapsode sat on this, leaned back against the column, adjusted the formal himation he was wearing, placed his lyre on his thigh, struck a resonant chord and began his song:
Sing, muse, of the sweet whisper of the pine tree that makes her music by springs where naiads sport. And no less sweet is the melody of the pipe of Pan which awakes the lonely shepherd Endymion who calls to lovely Echo, nymph of the mountains...’
I felt relief wash over me. Not only was the king’s rhapsode able to perform after all but it seemed he preferred pastoral songs. With a little luck, my epics would make a welcome change. I stopped listening as the rhapsode warbled on about nymphs and shepherds frolicking on the slopes of Mount Olympus, seduced by the piping of Pan, much to the amusement of the watching gods, and began to go through my own repertoire of more heroic refrains.
My thoughts were interrupted, however—as was the rhapsode’s song—by the abrupt departure of Ajax. The gigantic prince suddenly lurched to his feet and pushed past the guests seated next to him, nearly overturning the table in the process. He staggered drunkenly past the rhapsode, nearly knocking him into the fire pit and all-but ran out through the arch that I was sitting beside. He plunged blindly down the corridor beyond it, but slowed as he reached the far end, apparently uncertain of his way. Then he fell to his knees and pitched forward onto his face with a crash that seemed to make the whole place shake.
***
I was nearest, most sober and consequently the quickest thinking. Therefore I got to him first despite my limping legs. That was it, though. I could no more have turned him over than lift one of the gigantic blocks the citadel walls were made of. I was relieved but hardly surprised to discover that Odysseus was first after me. He had brought Elpenor and Euylocus with him and together they managed to turn Ajax onto his back. ‘This looks bad,’ said the captain. ‘It’s a long time since Chiron tutored me in the art of healing as well as that of fighting…’