The Songs of the Kings: A Novel

by Barry Unsworth

  He was drawing near now to the place where the Singer was generally to be found, where there was an outcrop of rock to provide some shelter from the wind, in the open space between the Cretan, Locrian and Achaian encampments. That he so regularly chose this place had led all three of these to claim him as a fellow countryman; but there were others who said he came from Lydia or from Ephesus or from the island of Chios. It was not possible to find certain proof in his accent; and when asked where he came from, he merely gestured, sometimes towards the mountains, sometimes towards the sea.

  As Odysseus approached, he heard the high clear voice with its usual note of lament, and the sound of the lyre, at the same time swooning and vibrant. However, he was annoyed to find that the Singer, far from following instructions and promulgating the message of an offended Zeus as the sender of the wind, was singing about the early life of the hero Perseus, how he had been born in a brazen cell where his mother Danae was imprisoned, and where she became mysteriously pregnant, the very thing she had been imprisoned to prevent.

  None of this had anything to do with the wind, though it had much to do with Zeus; but there was a considerable crowd there, people were listening, he could not simply barge in and interrupt. All the same, it was infuriating. Early evening, when people were gathering, when it was cooler and more comfortable and minds were receptive. Prime time, in other words, and it was being wasted.

  His rank precluded sitting among the others. He waited standing, at some distance apart. Despite his annoyance—and the fact that, in common with many people there, he had heard the story before—he soon found himself drawn in. It was one of the greats, and the Singer was telling it well. She had been locked up there by her own father, Acristius, king of Argos, who had been told by an oracle that a son of Danae would one day kill him. She claimed that Zeus was the father of the child, that he had visited her in a shower of gold, but Acristius preferred to believe that some lecherous and burglarious human had picked the lock. “Where is the gold then?” he asked. “Why is there none on the floor? Why is not even the slightest trace left?” Questions to which there was no answer. “A likely story,” Acristius said, and he set both mother and child adrift in a chest. However, with his own hands Zeus guided the chest across the sea to the island of Seriphos, where it was beached up and found by Dictys, younger brother of the king of the island, whose name was Polydectes. The kindly Dictys looked after the castaways and it was here the Perseus grew to manhood. But then one day Polydectes happened to see Danae and he was smitten immediately and wanted to possess her, but she didn’t fancy him at all, she refused and Perseus backed her up. “My mother’s decision must be respected,” Perseus said.

  There were exclamations of approval at this from various parts of the audience, and the Singer observed a pause here, the customary pause for dangerous situations. He resumed with a rhetorical question. How did Polydectes react?

  By a cunning falsehood. He announced that he intended to ask for the hand of Hippodameia, daughter of the Pisan king, Oenomaus, and he asked for a gift of horses as part of the bride price. Knowing all the while that Perseus possessed no horses.

  This Polydectes was a shrewd fellow, Odysseus reflected. Part of the bride price, brilliant. The lustful king had always been his favorite character in the story, even though things had ended badly for him. He knew what he wanted and he worked things round. He had calculated on the hero’s pride and rashness; rather than lose face, Perseus would make any sort of wild vow. And so it had happened. He had undertaken to bring anything that the king might ask, even to the head of the Gorgon Medusa, who had snakes for hair, a glimpse of whose hideous face turned men instantly to stone. No one had ever survived an encounter with the Gorgon. Naturally, the king at once accepted the offer. “Well, since you mention it,” he said, “the head of the Medusa is just what I would like.”

  The Singer proceeded now to describe the appalling difficulty of this self-imposed task. The Medusa had two sisters and all three Gorgons were equipped with wings of gold. On foot, how could he get near her? And then, how could he kill her and cut off her head without once glimpsing her face? Even if by some miracle he brought it off, how could he escape the sisters’ vengeful pursuit? But Perseus had one trump card, unknown to everyone, even to himself: he had the support of Athena, who hated Medusa for reasons that belonged in another story, one that the Singer, digressing a little, professed himself well able to relate if there was popular demand for it. Athena appeared to the hero in all her splendor and told him how he could get the better of the Gorgon. She gave him exact instructions . . .

  The Singer paused here, at least his silence was at first taken by the audience as simply another dramatic pause. But nothing followed, the silence lengthened and they became aware again of the plucking and clawing of the wind and its voice on the hillside like the shuddering indrawn breath of some creature inconceivably huge. There was a restless stirring among the people, and several called out, demanding that the story should continue. But the Singer laid his lyre aside. He had been reciting for many hours, he was tired, it was time for his meager evening meal. Besides, the appearance of Athena was an excellent point at which to break off, an exciting moment in the story. He would continue next morning. The morning audiences tended to be sparse, they needed beefing up. Having heard the first episode, people were likely to return; and every return increased the possibility of gifts. He heard the rustle of the crowd’s disappointment, the faces glimmered before him like soft, very pale flames. He turned his head towards where he knew the sea to lie. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “when the sun is still low enough to make a bar on the water, I will give you the words of Athena, you will have the sequel— there are two episodes in the story of Perseus and the Gorgon.” This evening the boy had not come with his gift of food. He had not come even for the shortest time, to sit close by and listen to the Songs. Perhaps he would not come again.

  The crowd began to move away, quietly enough now—they were after all accustomed to sequels and installments and adventures told in series. It was the wind that had made them feel lonely and unprotected, once the voice of the Singer had ceased. Odysseus waited until the last had gone, then went up to the Singer, who was eating bread and small black grapes. “I am Odysseus,” he said, close to the Singer’s ear.

  The movement of the jaws did not cease at this announcement, nor was there any change in the angle of the cropped and bony head, always tilted upward, as if to catch some distant sound.

  Odysseus hesitated for some moments. The Singer was not an easy proposition. He was an entertainer, he had power. The audience had been gripped by the Song, spellbound, for a while they had forgotten the wind. One who could distract the people in this way, turn them from discontent and the breeding of revolt, was a very valuable instrument, especially at a time like this. But instruments had to be controlled.

  “I don’t want to tell you your job, of course,” he said, speaking close to the whorl of the Singer’s left ear, “but it might have been a good idea to insert a reference to the wind that detains us here in that Song you have just been reciting. There was a good occasion when you brought Zeus into it. You know, the god takes his pleasure in a shower of gold, shows his displeasure in this wind that is so bitter to us, sent to punish our offense, an offense, you might have hinted, that involves someone high up in the chain of command.”

  The Singer chewed for some moments more on his grapes and bread. He enjoyed the blended taste when he put both into his mouth together. Chewing took time because a number of his teeth had gone. He did not like this voice. “The wind doesn’t belong in the Song of Perseus,” he said.

  “Doesn’t belong? I am astonished to hear you say that. Have you never heard of flexibility? You of all people should know that anything can go into a Song, it just depends on the way you deliver it.”

  The Singer wanted the rest of his bread and grapes, but he could not eat them while a conversation was going on; and this, combined with his disli
ke and fear of the voice, frayed his temper, took the guard from his tongue. “Do you think a Song is like a political speech or a funny story?” he said. “Do you think you can shovel anything into it to suit the purposes of the moment? A Song has the form that belongs to it and that is also the soul of the Song. Anything that touches the soul of the Song must depend on the Singer and the gods that speak through him.”

  “Is that so? Well, now, I’ll tell you something,” Odysseus said, still aiming at the Singer’s ear. “I didn’t come here to talk about art and soul and all that stuff. As far as that’s concerned, I may be a philistine, but I know what I like. I’m going to have someone in that audience tomorrow morning and he’s going to report back to me. I don’t care whether you wrap it up in something else or tell it as a separate story, but if you know what is good for you, you’d better make sure this message about the wind goes over loud and clear, with briefer repetitions in subsequent sessions to reinforce the point. It must be noised abroad, made common knowledge, disseminated on a large scale, what’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” the Singer said with sudden weariness. “I have enough to do to find my own words.” And with this he lifted a compound wodge of bread and grapes to his mouth.

  6.

  Calchas slept heavily by the dead fire and woke to the warmth of the sun on his face and the sighing sound of the wind. The sea below was covered with low ridges, white along the crests. The hills beyond the camp were half lost in the morning haze. He felt no sensation but hunger. He shared with Poimenos the bread and cheese they had brought, leaving some aside for the keeper. They did not speak much but he felt the boy’s eyes on him; and when he returned this gaze he did not see inquiry or curiosity on the other’s face but an expression brooding and grave, which he could not remember seeing before. It was as if years had been added to the boy in the course of this one night. He had slept badly, he said. Perhaps it was only this. Or perhaps my eyes wither what they look on, the priest thought.

  The keeper held out thin brown arms for the food and bowed in thanks, but she did not eat before them and it was clear that she was waiting for them to be gone. They descended by the same path and waited near the shore, in the thin shade of a pine tree, for the boatman to come for them. Sure enough, as the sun rose overhead, they saw him plying across. As they waded through the surf and climbed into the boat, he made the same gestures of exaggerated toil. And Calchas felt a blankness in his mind, as if some power moved the man’s limbs in exact repetition, so as to cancel all the time that had elapsed since he left them there, the presence of the Mother, the scented fire, the vision of the drained warriors and all the interval of night. In payment he gave the man the bronze belt buckle marked with a wave pattern along the edges which he had brought with him for the purpose; and the man was pleased with this, and even smiled.

  The walk back took longer than the apparent distance seemed to warrant, generally the case by the sea, when there is no obstruction to the view; and Calchas was tired and walked slowly. So there was no time for rest when they returned, and not a great deal for preparation. Poimenos brought water and helped his master to wash away the traces of vomit and the heavy, sweetish smell of hemp that still hung about him, afterwards rubbing oil scented with jasmine into the priest’s shoulders where they felt painful and cramped. Calchas put on his amethyst necklace and the white silk vest that had been the gift of Agamemnon, and a long skirt of dark blue cotton with gold-stitched hems. His long black hair was wetted and combed out and gathered at the nape with a piece of white ribbon. The chalk circles and the tiny crimson sunbursts within them were deftly applied to his cheeks. Then Poimenos was sent to ask when his master might approach and returned to say that the King required him immediately. But after all this haste Agamemnon was alone with his guards when he arrived, the chiefs had not yet begun to assemble.

  “I wanted to speak to you alone,” Agamemnon said. “I sent for you in the night but you were not there.”

  “My lord, I had your leave to be absent for the night, to go to the shrine of Artemis.”

  “Yes, I know that, but I needed you.” He spoke as if the need alone should have brought his diviner back across the water. “I had a dream in the first part of the night and I needed you to tell the meaning.”

  Calchas felt a premonition that restricted his breathing, like the drawing of strings within his chest. He too, by that fire, in the first part of the night, had been dreaming. “Does my lord remember the dream still?”

  “Yes, I remember it perfectly.” Agamemnon’s dark face, with its straight mouth and prominently curved beak of a nose, was suddenly younger, innocent-looking. “It was dark,” he said, “thick darkness, there was no light at all. I was in a forest, I had to feel my way among trees. There was a nightingale singing somewhere not far away. I knew it for a nightingale because I have heard them singing at home, on the slopes below the citadel. This song was beautiful and loud. I moved towards the song through the trees, reaching out with my hands because I could see nothing. As I drew nearer the bird sang more loudly, always more loudly with every step, until the darkness was full of this song and it seemed that the bird was very close, almost within the reach of my hands, but as I reached to take it, the song ceased and I was standing alone in the dark and I woke and heard the wind in the canvas and sent for you, not remembering, in the toils of the dream, that I had given you leave to go.”

  Calchas had felt the blood drain from his face as the King spoke. It was immediately clear to him that Agamemnon had dreamed his own death, a death on the threshold of triumph, when the trumpets were sounding. That music of death came from the battlements of Troy. Dark and light held the same message, and it was the message of Pollein, god that blended two natures, water and the light on water. The silver of the river in the distance, empty of bodies, the darkness when the song ceases. Turning away from the song was the only salvation; but Agamemnon would not turn away from the promise of conquest. And Calchas knew he would kill the one who advised it.

  “You can come closer,” Agamemnon said. “Speak to me closely, the guards need not hear.”

  “My lord and king,” Calchas said, striving to control his voice, “I have made a study of the natures of the different birds. The nightingale is a special case. He is condemned to sing in the dark and yet he feels fear of the dark. The beauty of his song is caused by fear. When he senses a presence, this fear increases and he sings more and more loudly as the danger draws near. The bird felt your power in the darkness, and sang the more loudly till you reached to grasp him and then his heart burst with fear and with the effort of his song. There is also the story of Philomela, which the King will remember, of how she was seduced by Tereus, who was married to her sister, and of how he cut out her tongue to prevent her from speaking of this, and of how, at a moment of extreme fear, she was changed by the gods into a nightingale and given the tongue and throat of marvelous song. But Philomela remembers her fear, and when danger comes close she again becomes tongueless. Beyond any doubt, the bird in your dream represents Priam, king of Troy, who fears your greatness and puffs himself up and boasts the more loudly as the fear grows.”

  He stopped short of saying what he knew the King wanted to hear, must already be assuming, that a burst heart was the fate that awaited Troy. The fewer words, the better; it might be possible yet to leave the bird to its song. “Your power goes before you,” he said.

  “In that case,” Agamemnon said, “why was I left alone in total darkness?”

  The exercise of his profession had taught Calchas that the memory of dreams and portents was generally subject to the embroidery of hope, and always the more so when it concerned the ambitious. “Great king,” he said, “pardon me, but are you certain there was no lessening of the dark after the bird fell silent? Think carefully. Was there not a faint light that grew among the trees?”

  It had worked with others and he saw from the King’s face that it would work now with hi
m. “Well, now I come to think of it,” Agamemnon said after some moments, “I believe there was a change in the light. I seem to remember that I could just begin to make out the shapes of the trees.”

  “The dawn of the new day,” Calchas said. “Extremely auspicious, a fortunate dream indeed.”

  Luckily he was not required to say more, because Menelaus entered at this moment, the first to arrive. “Ye gods, what next?” he said. “It’s all over the camp that Zeus has visited this wind on us because of some offense in the high command. I don’t think it’s me. We all make mistakes of course, but I can’t think of anything I’ve left out, and in any case Zeus is squarely on my side because I’m the one whose hospitality was violated. No, the only thing I can accuse myself of, and even then it’s the result of my generous and trusting nature, is letting that shitty Asian get anywhere near my Helen. I’m pretty certain now that he slipped something into her drink, otherwise how can you explain it? I have it on good authority that all Asian males hang weights on their pricks from early childhood to make them bigger, not that my Helen would have been interested in that. She rises above it.”

  Absorbed as usual in his wrongs, he had not immediately registered the presence of Calchas. “Present company excepted,” he said now, with false joviality. “No evidence of weight-hanging there. Besides, you are an honorary Mycenaean by now.” Calchas was still trying to express his appreciation of this compliment when Odysseus and Chasimenos entered together, followed shortly afterwards by Achilles and his lover Patroclus. Then the aged Nestor came shambling in, flanked by his cooing sons.

  When all were present, the King turned to his diviner. “Let Calchas speak first,” he said. “Calchas will give us his interpretation of the omen of the eagles and the hare and the hare’s young.”