The Song of Troy Read online

  ‘Ajax always takes you at your exact word,’ he said in the firm and measured, pleasing voice I already liked to hear. He stretched out a hand to indicate the city far below. ‘Iolkos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then that must be the palace up there on the hill. How small it looks! I always thought it dwarfed Pelion, yet from Pelion it is just another house.’

  ‘All palaces are, if you can get far enough away from them.’

  ‘Yes, I see that.’

  ‘You miss your father already.’

  ‘I thought I might cry, but it has passed.’

  ‘You’ll see him again in the spring, and the time between now and then will fly. There will be no chance to be idle, and it is idleness which breeds discontent, mischief, malice, pranks.’

  He drew a breath. ‘What must I learn, Chiron? What do I need to know to be a great king?’

  ‘Too much to detail, Achilles. A great king is a fountain of knowledge. Any king is the best man, but a great king understands that he is the representative of his people before the God.’

  ‘Then learning cannot come too soon.’

  Ajax came back with the lyre in his hand, holding it off the ground carefully; it was a big instrument more akin to the harps the Egyptians play, formed from a huge tortoise carapace which glowed all browns and ambers, and it had golden pegs. I laid it across my knee and stroked the strings with a feather touch which produced a pretty sound, not a melody.

  ‘You must play the lyre and learn the songs of your people. The greatest sin is to appear uncultured or uncouth. You will commit to heart the history and the geography of the world, all the wonders in nature, all the treasures beneath the lap of Mother Kubaba, who is the Earth. I will teach you to hunt, to kill, to fight with all manner of weapons, to make your own weapons. I will show you the herbs curing sicknesses and wounds, teach you to distil them for medicines, school you in splinting broken limbs. A great king sets more store by life than death.’

  ‘Oratory?’ asked Achilles.

  ‘Yes, of course. After learning from me, your oratory will draw the hearts of your listeners out of their breasts in joy or sorrow. And I will show you how to judge what men are, how to frame laws and execute them. I will teach you what the God expects of you because you are Chosen.’ I smiled. ‘And that is just the beginning!’

  I took up the lyre then and set its base upon the ground, drew my hand across its heartstrings. For a few moments only I played, the notes increasing in power, then, on the climax, as the last chord died away into stillness, I began to sing.

  ‘He was alone, at every turn was enmity.

  Queen Here brooding spread her hands,

  And Olympos shook its golden rafters

  As she turned restless to watch him.

  Implacable her divine rage! King Zeus

  Powerless in all the reaches of his sky

  Because he promised glorious Here this,

  His son into groaning bondage on earth.

  Eurystheus her minion cold and pitiless,

  Smiling as he counted those runnels,

  His sweat that Herakles gave in payment.

  For the children of the Gods must atone

  Because the Gods are above retribution,

  And that is the difference between men

  And the Gods who prey on them as victims.

  Bastard child without that drop of ichor,

  Herakles took up the price of passion.

  In agony and degradation did he pay,

  While Here laughed to see mighty Zeus weep…’

  It was the Lay of Herakles, not dead so many years, and as I sang I watched them both. Ajax listened intently, Achilles with his body tensed, leaning forward with his chin propped on his hands, both elbows on the arm of my chair, his eyes only a thread away from my face. When at last I put the lyre from me he dropped his hands with a sigh, exhausted.

  So it began, and so it went on as the years rolled by. Achilles forged ahead in everything, Ajax plodded doggedly through his assignments. Yet Telamon’s son was not a fool. He had a courage and a determination that any king mighty envy, and he always managed to keep up. But Achilles was my boy, my joy. Every single thing I told him was stored up with jealous care – to be used when he was a great king, he would say with a smile. He loved learning and excelled in all its branches, as good with his hands as he was with his mind. Even now I have some of his clay bowls and little drawings.

  But above all scholarship, Achilles was born to action, to war and to mighty deeds. Even in the physical sense he outstripped his cousin, for he was quicksilver on his feet and took to handling weapons like a greedy woman to a casket of jewels. His aim with a spear was unerring, nor could I see the sword once he drew it. Swish, slash, chop. Oh yes, he was born to command! He understood the art of war without effort, by instinct. A natural hunter, he would come back to my cave dragging a wild boar too heavy to carry, and he could run down a deer. Only once did I see him in trouble, when, after his quarry at full tilt, he came crashing down so hard that it was some time before he recovered his full senses. His right foot, he explained, had given way.

  Ajax could flare into violent rage, but I never saw Achilles lose his temper. Neither shy nor withdrawn, he yet possessed an inner quiet and restraint. The thinking warrior. How rare. In only one respect did that gash of a mouth reveal the other side of his nature; when something did not suit his sense of fitness he could be as cold and unbending as the north wind bearing snow.

  I enjoyed those seven years more than all the rest of my life put together, thanks not only to Achilles, but to Ajax too. The contrast between the first cousins was so marked and their excellences so great that welding them into men became a task filled with love. Of all the boys I have taught, I loved Achilles most. When he drove away for the last time I wept, and for many moons afterwards my will to live was a gnat as persistent as the one which tormented Io. It was a long time before I could look out from my chair and see the golden trim on the roof of the palace shining in the sun without a mist hovering before my eyes that made the gilding and the tile dissolve one into the other like ore in a crucible.

  4

  NARRATED BY

  Helen

  Xanthippe gave me a rough tussle; I came from the field panting and exhausted. We had gathered a large audience, and I gave the circle of admiring faces my most radiant smile. No man was interested in congratulating Xanthippe for winning the bout. They were there to see me. Crowding about me, they sang my praises, used any excuse to touch my hand or my shoulder, a few of the bolder ones jokingly offering to wrestle with me anytime. It was no effort to dodge their sallies; crude, unsubtle stuff.

  In years I was still counted a child, but their eyes denied that; their eyes told me things about myself that I already knew, for there were mirrors of polished copper in my rooms, and I too had eyes. Though they were all nobles of the Court, none of them was of great import in the scheme of things. I shook them off like water after a bath, snatched a linen towel from my woman and wrapped it about my bare, sweating limbs amid a chorus of protests.

  Then I saw my father at the back of the crowd. Father had watched? How extraordinary! He never came to see the women play at their parodies of masculine sport! My expression caused some of the barons to turn; in an instant they had all melted away. I went to my father and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Do you always have such an enthusiastic audience, child?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘Yes, Father.’ I preened. ‘I am much admired, you know.’

  ‘So I see. I must be getting old, losing my powers of observation. Luckily your elder brother is neither old nor blind. He told me this morning that it might be prudent for me to drop in on the women’s sports.’

  I bristled. ‘Why should Kastor bother with me?’

  ‘A poor state of affairs if he did not!’

  We reached the door to the Throne Room.

  ‘Wash off your dirt, Helen, dress, and then return to me.’


  His face told me nothing, so I shrugged and ran off.

  Neste waited for me in my rooms, clucking and scolding. I let her unwrap me, looking forward to the warm bath, the tingle of the scraper on my skin. Chattering away, she threw the towel into a corner and undid the strings of my loincloth. But I was not listening. Skipping across the cold flags, I leaped into the bath and splashed merrily. Such a delicious sensation to feel the water lap around me, caress me, cloud enough to permit me to caress myself without Neste’s beady eyes detecting it. And how pleasant afterwards to stand while she rubbed me with a fragrant oil, rub a little of it in myself. There could not be too many moments in one day to caress, to rub, to give myself those shocks and thrills girls like Xanthippe seemed not to care about nearly as much as I did. Perhaps that was because they had not had a Theseus to teach them.

  One of my other women shook my skirt into circles on the floor so that I could step into its middle. They drew it up over my legs and fastened it about my waist. It was heavy, but I was used to the weight by now, for I had been wearing a woman’s skirt for two years, ever since my return from Athens. My mother had deemed it too ridiculous to put me back into a child’s shift after that episode.

  Then came my blouse, laced below my breasts, and the wide belt and apron which could be fastened only while I sucked in my breath. A woman coaxed my curls through the hole in the gold coronet, another looped a pretty pair of crystal earrings through my pierced ears. I held out my bare feet one at a time and let them slip little rings and bells on all my ten toes, held out my arms for dozens of jingling bracelets, fingers for rings.

  When they were done I went across to my biggest mirror and surveyed myself in it critically. The skirt was the nicest one I possessed, all frills and fringes from waist to ankles, weighed down with beads of crystal and amber, amulets of lapis and beaten gold, golden bells and pendants of faience, so that every move I made was accompanied by music. My belt was not laced tightly enough; I made two strong women pull it in.

  ‘Why can’t I paint my nipples gold, Neste?’ I asked.

  ‘No use complaining to me, young princess. Ask your mother. But save such artifice for when you need it – after you’ve borne a child and your nipples have turned dark brown.’

  I decided she might be right. I was one of the lucky ones; my nipples were a good rose in colour and furled in on themselves like buds, my breasts were high and full.

  What had Theseus said? Two plump white puppies with pink noses. My mood changed the moment I thought of him; I flounced away from my image in a tinkle of spangles. Oh, to lie in his arms again! Theseus, my beloved Theseus. His mouth, his hands, the way he tormented my body until it raged to be fulfilled… Then they had come and taken me away, my estimable brothers Kastor and Polydeukes. If only he had been in Athens when they arrived! But he had been far away on Skyros with King Lykomedes, so no one dared to oppose the sons of Tyndareus.

  I allowed my women to trace a line of dissolved black powder around my eyes and paint their lids gold, but refused the carmine for my cheeks and lips. No need of it, Theseus had said. Then I went down to the Throne Room to see my father, who was sitting in an easy chair by one window. He rose at once.

  ‘Come here to the light,’ he said.

  I did as I was told without question; he was my indulgent father, yes, but he was also the King. While I stood in the harsh, unfiltered sun he stepped back a few paces and looked at me as if he had never seen me before.

  ‘Oh yes, Theseus had a more discerning eye than anyone in Lakedaimon! Your mother is right, you are grown up. Therefore we must do something with you before another Theseus comes along.’

  My face burned. I said nothing.

  ‘It is time you were married, Helen.’ He considered for a moment. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen, Father.’ Marriage! How interesting!

  ‘It is not too soon,’ he said.

  My mother came in. I avoided her eyes, feeling peculiar standing in front of my father while he looked at me with the eyes of a man. But she ignored me, went to his side and assessed me too. Then they exchanged a long, purposive look.

  ‘I told you, Tyndareus,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Leda, she needs a husband.’

  My mother laughed the high, musical laugh which (so rumour had it) had so entranced almighty Zeus. She had been about my age when they found her with her naked limbs wrapped about a great swan, moaning and keening in pleasure: she had thought quickly. Zeus, Zeus, the swan is Zeus, he has ravished me! But I, her daughter, knew better. How would those delicious white feathers feel? Her father had married her to Tyndareus three days later, and she had borne two sets of twins to him: Kastor and Klytemnestra first, then, some years after, Polydeukes and me. Though now everyone seemed to think Kastor and Polydeukes were the twins. Or that all four of us were born together, quadruplets. If so, which of us belonged to Zeus, and which to Tyndareus? A mystery.

  ‘The women of my house mature early and suffer greatly,’ Leda my mother said, still laughing.

  My father did not laugh. He just said, rather dourly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘It won’t be hard to find her a husband. You will have to fend them off with clubs, Tyndareus.’

  ‘Well, she’s highborn and richly dowered.’

  ‘Rubbish! She’s so beautiful it wouldn’t matter if she had no dowry at all. The High King of Attika did us one favour – he spread praise of her beauty from Thessalia to Crete. It isn’t every day a man as old and jaded as Theseus becomes so besotted he abducts a twelve-year-old child.’

  My father’s lips tightened. ‘I would prefer that that subject is not mentioned,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘A pity she is more beautiful than Klytemnestra.’

  ‘Klytemnestra suits Agamemnon.’

  ‘A pity then that there are not two High Kings of Mykenai.’

  ‘There are three other High Kings in Greece,’ he said, beginning to look practical and efficient.

  I moved surreptitiously away from the light, not wanting to be noticed and dismissed. The subject – myself – was too interesting. I liked to hear people call me beautiful. Especially when they went on to say I was more beautiful than Klytemnestra, my older sister, who had married Agamemnon, High King of Mykenai and High King of all Greece. Though I had never liked her, she used to awe me when I was little, sweeping round the halls in one of her famous tempers, her flame hair stiff with fury, her black eyes blazing. I grinned. What a merry dance she must lead her husband with her tantrums, High King or not! However, Agamemnon looked as if he was capable of controlling her. He was just as domineering as Klytemnestra.

  My parents were debating my marriage.

  ‘I had best send heralds to all the Kings,’ said Father.

  ‘Yes – and the sooner, the better. Though the New Religion frowns on polygamy, many of the Kings have not taken queens. Idomeneus, for instance. Imagine! One daughter on the throne at Mykenai, the other on the throne of Crete. What a triumph!’

  Father demurred. ‘Crete is not the power it used to be. The two positions are not equivalent.’

  ‘Philoktetes?’

  ‘Yes, a brilliant man, destined for great things, they say. However, he is a king in Thessalia, which means he owes Peleus homage as well as Agamemnon. I’m thinking more of Diomedes, just back from the Thebes campaign and covered in wealth as well as glory. I like the idea of Argos, it’s just down the road. If Peleus had been a younger man he would have been my automatic choice, but it is said he refuses to marry again.’

  ‘No use dwelling on those who are unavailable,’ my mother said briskly. ‘There’s always Menelaos.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten him. Who could?’

  ‘Send invitations to everyone, Tyndareus. There are heirs to thrones as well as kings. Odysseus of Ithaka is King there now that old Laertes is senile. And Menestheus is a far more stable High King of Attika than Theseus was – thank all the Gods that we do not have to deal with Theseus!’

  I ju
mped. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, skin prickling. In my heart I had been hoping that Theseus would come for me, claim me as his bride. Since my return from Athens I had heard no mention of his name.

  My mother took my hands in hers and held them firmly. ‘Well, best you find out from us, Helen. Theseus is dead, exiled and killed on Skyros.’

  I wrenched away from her and ran from the room, my dreams in ashes. Dead? Theseus was dead? Theseus was dead and a part of me was forever cold.

  Two moons later my brother-in-law Agamemnon arrived with his own brother, Menelaos, in his train. When they walked into the Throne Room I was present – a novelty for me, but an exhilarating one; suddenly I was the pivot upon which all discussion turned. Messengers had come from the palace gate to warn us, so the High King of Mykenai and all Greece entered to the blare of horns, a cloth of gold spread for his imperial feet.

  I could never make up my mind whether I liked him or not, yet I did understand the awe he inspired. Very tall and as straight and disciplined as a professional soldier, he walked as if he owned the world. His jet black hair was faintly sprinkled with grey, his snapping black eyes could become menacing, his nose was beaked haughtily, his thin lips curled at the corners in permanent contempt.

  Men so dark were unusual in Greece, a land of big, fair men, but instead of being ashamed of his darkness, Agamemnon flaunted it. Though the fashion was for a cleanshaven chin, he sported a long, curling black beard forced into regular screws by ribbons of gold, and he did his hair in the same way. He was dressed in a full-length robe of purple wool embroidered all over in a complicated design of gold thread, and in his right hand he carried the imperial sceptre of solid gold, swinging it as easily as if it were made of chalk.

  My father came down from his throne and knelt to kiss his hand, doing him the homage which all the Greek Kings owed to the High King of Mykenai. My mother moved forward to join them. For the moment I was ignored, which gave me time to turn my attention to Menelaos, my prospective suitor. Oh, oh! Eager anticipation gave way to shocked disappointment. I had become quite used to the idea of marrying a replica of Agamemnon, but this man was no Agamemnon. Was he truly a full brother to the High King of Mykenai, son by Atreus out of the same womb? It did not seem possible. Short. Stocky. Legs so thick and shapeless they appeared ridiculous in the tight breeches he affected. Round stooped shoulders. A mild and apologetic man. Ordinary features. Hair the same flaming red as my sister’s. I might have been more taken with him if his hair had been a different colour.