The Song of Troy Read online

  Some of the men who had sworn the Oath of the Quartered Horse arrived in Mykenai before Menelaos returned from Pylos with King Nestor. It was a long way from Mykenai to Pylos, there were kingdoms much closer at hand. Palamedes the son of Nauplios came quickly, and I was glad to see him. Only Odysseus and Nestor exceeded him in wisdom.

  I was speaking to Palamedes in the Throne Room when a stir erupted among the small cluster of lesser Kings on the floor of the hall. Palamedes stifled a laugh.

  ‘By Herakles, what a colossus! It must be Ajax the son of Telamon. What does he come for? He was a child when the Oath was taken, and his father never swore it.’

  He plodded over to us, the biggest man in all Greece, head and shoulders above everyone else in the room. Because he belonged to a group of youths who adhered to a strictly athletic regimen, he scorned the customary blouse; at all times of the year and in all weathers he went shoeless and shirtless. I could not take my eyes from the massive barrel of his chest, the bulging muscles owning not one speck of fat. Each time he planted one huge foot on my marble flags I fancied the walls shook.

  ‘They say his cousin Achilles is almost as big,’ said Palamedes.

  I grunted. ‘That need not concern us. The lords of the north never come to pay their respect to Mykenai. Thessalia is, they think, strong enough to be independent.’

  ‘Welcome, son of Telamon,’ I said. ‘What brings you here?’

  His childish grey eyes surveyed me placidly. ‘I come to offer the services of Salamis, sire, in lieu of my father, who is ill. He said it would be good experience for me.’

  I was well pleased. A pity the other Aiakid, Peleus, was so arrogant. Telamon knew his duty to his High King, whereas I would look in vain for Peleus, Achilles and the Myrmidons.

  ‘We thank you, son of Telamon.’

  Smiling, Ajax lumbered off in the direction of some of his friends, signalling to him frantically. Suddenly he stopped and swung back to me. ‘I forgot, sire. My brother Teukros is with me. He swore the Oath.’

  Palamedes was still laughing behind his hand. ‘Are we about to open a school for babes, sire?’

  ‘Yes, a pity he’s such a lubber, Ajax. But the troops of Salamis are not to be despised.’

  By dinner, late that afternoon, I had Palamedes, Ajax, Teukros, the other Ajax from Lokris usually called Little Ajax, Menestheus the High King of Attika, Diomedes of Argos, Thoas of Aitolia, Eurypylos of Ormenion, and several others; much to my surprise, more than one who came had not sworn the Oath. I told them that I intended to invade the Trojan peninsula, take the city of Troy itself and free up the Hellespont. For the sake of my absent brother I dwelled a trifle too long on Paris’s perfidies, perhaps, but that didn’t delude any of them; they knew the real reasons for this war.

  ‘All of us have merchants screaming in our ears to reopen the Hellespont. We have to obtain more tin and copper. The cannibal barbarians of the north and west are casting eyes our way. Some of us are ruling states grown too populous, with all the concomitants of that – poverty, trouble, riots and plots.’ I looked at them sternly. ‘Make no mistake, I am not going to war merely to get Helen back. This expedition against Troy and the states of coastal Asia Minor has the potential to do far more than accumulate wealth and give us unlimited cheap bronze. This expedition offers us the chance to colonise our surplus citizens in rich and underpopulated territories not too far away. The world around the Aegaean already speaks Greek of one form or another. But think now of the world around the Aegaean as absolutely Greek. Think of it as the Greek Empire.’

  Ah, how they liked that! Every last one of them took the bait greedily; in the end I had no need to invoke the Oath, and was glad of it. Avarice was a better taskmaster than fear. Of course Athens was with me all the way; I had never doubted that Menestheus would back me. So, when he came, would Idomeneus of Crete, the third High King. But the fourth – Peleus – would not. The best I could hope for were some of his subject kings.

  Several days later Menelaos came back with Nestor. I had the old man brought to me at once. We sat in my private parlour with Palamedes, though I dismissed Menelaos; prudence dictated that he should go on believing Helen was the sole reason for war. The inevitable outcome of her recapture had not yet occurred to him, a good thing. Once she was back in our hands, she would have to part with her head.

  I had no idea how old the King of Pylos was. Even when I was a boy he was ancient and white-haired. His wisdom was legion, his grasp of a situation no less acute today than it had been then; there was no sign of senility in his keen, bright blue eyes, no tremor in his beringed fingers.

  ‘Now what is this all about, Agamemnon?’ he demanded. ‘Your brother grows sillier, not saner! All I learned from him was some wild tale about Helen’s being abducted – hah! First time I ever knew that young woman needed force! And never tell me you’ve been gulled into indulging his whims!’ He snorted. ‘War over a woman? Really, Agamemnon!’

  ‘We go to war for tin, copper, trade extensions, free passage through the Hellespont and Greek colonies along the Aegaean shore of Asia Minor, sire. Helen’s absconding with the contents of my brother’s treasury is the perfect excuse, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I’m glad to hear you say that. How many men do you hope for?’

  ‘Present indications say about eighty thousand soldiers, with sufficient noncombatant helpers to bring the total up to more than one hundred thousand. We should launch a thousand ships next spring.’

  ‘An enormous campaign. I hope you’re planning it well.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I said haughtily. ‘However, it will be a very short business – so many men will overrun Troy within days.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Do you think so? Agamemnon, are you sure? Have you ever been to Troy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must have heard tales about the Trojan walls.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I have! However, sire, no walls in existence can keep out a hundred thousand men.’

  ‘Perhaps… But my counsel is that you wait until your ships are beached at Troy, when you can better judge the situation. Troy, they tell me, is no Athens, with a walled citadel and a single wall running down to the sea. Troy is completely enclosed by bastions. I believe you can win your campaign. But I also believe it will be a long one.’

  ‘We will have to agree to differ, sire,’ I said firmly.

  He sighed. ‘Be that as it may, neither I nor any of my sons swore the Oath, but you can have us. If we do not break the power of Troy and the Asia Minor states, Agamemnon, we – and Greece! – will fade away.’ He examined his rings. ‘Where is Odysseus?’

  ‘I’ve sent a messenger to Ithaka.’

  He clicked his tongue. ‘Tch! Odysseus won’t come to that.’

  ‘He must! He swore the Oath too.’

  ‘What do oaths mean to Odysseus, of all men? Not that any of us can accuse him of sacrilege – but he devised the scheme! He probably swore it backwards under his breath. At heart he is a peaceful man, and I gather he’s settled into a contented rut of domestic bliss. He has quite lost his old zest for intrigue, I am informed. Happy marriage does that to some men. No, Agamemnon, he will not want to go. But you must have him.’

  ‘I realise that, sire.’

  ‘Then go and get him yourself,’ said Nestor. ‘Take Palamedes with you.’ He chuckled. ‘A thief to catch a thief.’

  ‘Should I take Menelaos too?’

  His bright eyes twinkled. ‘Definitely. That will prevent his hearing too much about economics and too little about sex.’

  We journeyed overland and took ship in a little village on the west coast of the Isle of Pelops to sail the windy strait to Ithaka. As we beached I surveyed the island dourly – small, rocky, a trifle barren – hardly a fitting kingdom for the greatest mind in all the world. Picking my way up the bridle path to the single town, I cursed the fact that Odysseus had not even thought to furnish his only suitable beach with transportation. In th
e town, however, we managed to find a few fleabitten donkeys; profoundly glad that none of my courtiers was present to witness his High King perched sideways on an ass, I rode to the palace.

  Though it was small, the palace came as a surprise; it was rich looking, with lofty pillars and the best paints indicating that its interior would be sumptuous. Of course his wife had come dowered with huge lands, chests of gold and a king’s ransom in jewels – how her father, Ikarios, had protested at giving her to a man who couldn’t win a footrace without using trickery!

  I expected to see Odysseus waiting in the portico to greet us; word of our advent would have flown from the town. But when we slid gratefully off our ignoble steeds we found the place silent, deserted. Not even a servant appeared. I led the way inside – Zeus, what frescoes! – magnificent! – feeling more puzzled than offended, to discover that from one end to the other the place was devoid of life. Not even that cursed hound, Argos, which Odysseus took everywhere, bayed at us.

  A pair of wondrous bronze doors told us where the Throne Room was; Menelaos pushed them open. We stood on the threshold amazed, taking in the quality of the art, the perfect poise of the colours, and the sight of a woman crouched weeping on the bottom step of the throne dais. Her head was muffled in her cloak, but when she raised it we knew well enough who she was, for her face was tattooed in a web of blue with a crimson spider on her left cheek: the insignia of a woman dedicated to Pallas Athene in her guise of Loom Mistress. Penelope spun.

  She leaped to her feet, then dropped to her knees to kiss the hem of my kilt. ‘Sire! We did not expect you! To greet you with such an exhibition – oh, sire!’ Whereupon she burst into a fresh flood of tears.

  I stood looking and feeling ridiculous, an hysterical woman wound about my ankles. Then I caught the eye of Palamedes, and had to smile. Why expect the usual when one dealt with Odysseus and his own?

  Palamedes leaned over her to whisper in my ear. ‘Sire, I may find out more if I scout a little. May I?’

  I nodded, then lifted Penelope to her feet. ‘Come, cousin, calm yourself. What is the matter?’

  ‘The King, sire! The King has gone mad! Absolutely mad! He doesn’t even recognise me! He’s down there now in the sacred orchard, gibbering like a lunatic!’

  Palamedes had returned in time to hear.

  ‘We must see him, Penelope,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sire,’ she said, hiccoughing, and led the way.

  We emerged from the back of the palace to look down on farm lands spreading away in all directions; the centre of Ithaka was more fertile than its rim. As we were about to descend the steps an old woman appeared from nowhere, holding a babe.

  ‘Lady, the Prince is crying. It is past his feeding time.’

  Penelope took him instantly, cradling him in her arms.

  ‘This is Odysseus’s son?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, this is Telemachos.’

  I brushed his fat cheek with my finger, then moved onward; the fate of his father was of far greater moment. We walked through a grove of olive trees so old their tortured trunks were thicker than a bull, and found ourselves in a walled area containing more bare soil than it did fruit trees. At which moment we saw Odysseus. Menelaos muttered something in a choked voice, but I could only gape. He was furrowing the ground with the oddest team I have ever seen hitched to a plough – an ox and a mule. They hauled and jerked in opposite directions, the plough heaved and went sideways, the furrow was as crooked as Sisyphos. On his red head Odysseus wore a peasant’s felt cap, and threw something haphazardly over his left shoulder.

  ‘What is he doing?’ asked Menelaos.

  ‘Sowing salt,’ said Penelope stonily.

  Babbling senselessly to himself, laughing insanely, Odysseus ploughed and sowed his salt. Though he must have seen us, no light of recognition came into his eyes; they shone instead with the unmistakable glare of madness. The one man we needed above all others was beyond our reach.

  I couldn’t bear to watch. ‘Come, let us leave him,’ I said.

  The plough was close to us now, its team growing angrier, harder to control. And without warning Palamedes leaped. While Menelaos and I stood paralysed, Palamedes snatched the child from Penelope’s arms and set him down almost under the ox’s hooves. Screaming shrilly, she tried to go to the babe, but Palamedes held her back. Then the team came to a halt; Odysseus ran in front of the ox and picked up his son.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Menelaos. ‘Is he sane after all?’

  ‘As sane as a man can be,’ said Palamedes, smiling.

  ‘He feigned madness?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course, sire. How else could he avoid honouring the Oath he swore?’

  ‘But how did you know?’ from Menelaos, bewildered.

  ‘I found a talkative servant just outside the Throne Room. He told me that Odysseus was given a house oracle yesterday. It appears that if he goes to Troy, he must remain away from Ithaka for twenty years,’ said Palamedes, enjoying his little triumph.

  Odysseus gave the child to Penelope, who wept in earnest now. Everyone knew Odysseus was a great actor, but Penelope could act too. Fitting mates, that pair. His arm was about her and his grey eyes were fixed upon Palamedes. Their expression was not pleasant. Palamedes had incurred the hatred of one who could wait a lifetime for the perfect opportunity to be revenged.

  ‘I am found out,’ said Odysseus impenitently. ‘I take it you need my services, sire?’

  ‘I do. Why so reluctant, Odysseus?’

  ‘War against Troy will be a long and bloody business, sire. I want no part of it.’

  Yet another who insisted it would be a long campaign! But how could Troy possibly withstand a hundred thousand men, no matter how high its walls?

  I returned to Mykenai with Odysseus in my train, having put him in full possession of the facts. No use trying to tell him that Helen had been kidnapped. As usual he was a mine of advice and information. Not once had he turned back to see Ithaka fade across the waters; not once had I seen evidence that he would miss his wife – or she him, for that matter. They were controlled and stuffed with secrets, Odysseus and Penelope of the webbed face.

  When we reached the Lion Palace I found that my cousin Idomeneus of Crete had come. He was very willing to join in any expedition against Troy – for a price, of course. He asked the co-command, and I gave it to him readily. Co-command or not, he would bow to me. He had been very much in love with Helen and took her defection (I had to tell him the truth too) badly.

  The roll call was almost complete, clerks committed this and that and another to memory, every shipwright in Greece was hard at it. Luckily we Greeks built by far the best ships and owned vast forests of tall straight pines and firs to fell, as much pitch from their resin as we needed, sufficient slaves to donate hair to mesh it with, enough cattle for the hide sails. No need to commission ships elsewhere, betray our plans. The total was even better than I had anticipated: twelve hundred ships had been promised, and over a hundred thousand men.

  As soon as the fleet was under construction I called the inner council into session. Nestor, Idomeneus, Palamedes and Odysseus sat with me while we reviewed everything thoroughly. After which I asked Kalchas to conduct an augury.

  ‘Good thinking,’ Nestor approved. He liked to defer to the Gods.

  ‘What does Apollo say, priest?’ I asked Kalchas. ‘Will all be well with our expedition?’

  He did not hesitate. ‘Only, sire, if your expedition contains Achilles, the seventh son of King Peleus.’

  ‘Oh, Achilles, Achilles!’ I cried, grinding my teeth. ‘No matter which way I turn, I hear that name!’

  Odysseus shrugged. ‘It’s a great name, Agamemnon.’

  ‘Pah! He’s not even twenty years old!’

  ‘Even so,’ said Palamedes, ‘I think we ought to hear more about him.’ He turned to Kalchas. ‘On your way out, priest, ask Ajax the son of Telamon to join us.’

  He didn’t like being ordered about by Greeks. But he went, th
e cross-eyed albino. Was he aware that I was having him watched day and night? Just a precaution.

  Ajax appeared shortly after Kalchas departed.

  ‘Tell me about Achilles,’ I said.

  This simple request unleashed a spate of superlatives I for one found hard to sit through. Nor did it tell us anything we did not already know. I thanked the son of Telamon and dismissed him. What a lubber.

  ‘Well?’ I asked my council then.

  ‘Surely what we think doesn’t matter, Agamemnon,’ Odysseus said. ‘The priest says we have to have Achilles.’

  ‘Who will not come in answer to a summons,’ said Nestor.

  ‘Thank you, I know enough to know that!’ I snapped.

  ‘Hold your temper, sire,’ the old man said. ‘Peleus is not young. He didn’t swear the Oath. Nothing compels him to assist us, nor has he offered assistance. Yet think, Agamemnon, think! What could we do if our army contained the Myrmidons?’

  His voice strengthened on that magical name; a heavy silence fell which he broke himself. ‘I would rather have one Myrmidon at my back than half a hundred others,’ he said.

  ‘Then,’ I said, determined that some of them there should suffer, ‘I suggest, Odysseus, that you take Nestor and Ajax to Iolkos and ask King Peleus for the services of Achilles and the Myrmidons.’

  9

  NARRATED BY

  Achilles

  I was close to him now, I could smell his rankness and his rage. Spear steady in my hand, I crept down on him in the thicket. Came his snuffling breath, the ground tearing as he raked it with a foot. Then I saw him. He was as big as a small bull, his bulk rolling on short and powerful legs, his black coat bristling, his long cruel lips drawn back around the curved and yellowed tusks. His eyes were the eyes of one doomed to Tartaros; he saw the phantom Furies already, and he was filled with the terrible wrath of a mindless beast. Old, coarse, a mankiller.