The Song of Troy

by Colleen McCullough

  My father beckoned. I stumbled forward and gave my hand into his. The imperial visitor transferred his gaze to me, a hot and admiring look. For the first time I experienced a phenomenon which would become very familiar in the days to come: I was no more and no less than a prize animal put up for auction to the highest bidder.

  ‘She’s perfect,’ said Agamemnon to my father. ‘How do you manage to produce such beautiful children, Tyndareus?’

  My father laughed, his arm about my mother’s waist. ‘I am only half of it, sire,’ he said.

  They turned then and left me to converse with Menelaos, but not before I heard the High King’s final question.

  ‘What is the truth behind the Theseus interlude?’ he asked.

  And my mother breaking in quickly to say, ‘He kidnapped her, Agamemnon. Luckily the Athenians deemed it the feather which tipped the load. They drove him out before he could deflower her. Kastor and Polydeukes brought her away untouched.’

  Liar, liar!

  Menelaos was staring at me; I preened.

  ‘You have never been to Amyklai before,’ I said.

  He mumbled something, hung his head.

  ‘What was that?’ I asked.

  ‘Nuh-nuh-nuh-no,’ he managed audibly.

  He stammered!

  The suitors assembled. Menelaos was the only one permitted to reside within the palace itself, thanks to his relationship with our family – and his brother’s clout. The rest were accommodated among the house barons and in the guest house. One hundred of them. The most cheering discovery I made was that none was as boring or as unattractive as the red-haired, stammering Menelaos.

  Philoktetes and Idomeneus arrived together, big and golden Philoktetes bursting with energy, haughty Idomeneus stalking in with the conscious arrogance of one born into the House of Minos and destined to rule as High King of Crete after Katreus.

  When Diomedes strode in, I saw the best of them. A true king and warrior. He wore the same air of worldly experience Theseus had owned, though he was as dark as Theseus had been fair; as dark as Agamemnon. Handsome! Tall and lithe, a black panther. His eyes flashed with impudent humour, his mouth seemed always to be laughing. And I knew in that first instant that I would choose him. When he spoke to me his glance ravished me; a quick thrust of want forked through me, my sex ached. Yes, I would choose King Diomedes from Argos-down-the-road.

  As soon as the last of them had come my father held a great feast. I sat on the dais like a queen, pretending not to notice the glances continually flung up at me from a hundred pairs of ardent eyes, my own flickering whenever they dared to Diomedes. Who suddenly turned his attention from me to a man threading his way through the benches, a man whose advent was greeted by cheers from some and scowls from others. Diomedes sprang up and swung the stranger round in a hard embrace. Some quick talk passed between them, then the stranger clapped Diomedes on the back and continued to the dais to greet my father and Agamemnon, both of whom had risen to their feet. Agamemnon rising? The High King of Mykenai did not rise for any man!

  He was different, the newcomer. A tall man, he would have been considerably taller if his legs had been in proportion to the rest of him. But they were not. They were abnormally short and inclined to be bandy; his muscular frame seemed too large by far to be perched atop such stunted supports. In face he was a truly beautiful man, fine featured and owning a very large pair of luminous grey eyes, brilliant and speaking. His hair was red, the brightest and most aggressive red I had ever seen; Klytemnestra and Menelaos paled to nothing beside it.

  When his eyes rested upon me I felt his power. Shiver stuff. Who was he?

  My father gestured impatiently to a servant, who placed a kingly chair between him and Agamemnon. Who was he, to be so honoured? And to be so unimpressed by the honour?

  ‘This is Helen,’ my father said.

  ‘No wonder I see most of Greece here, Tyndareus,’ he said cheerily, picking up a leg of fowl and sinking his white teeth deeply into it. ‘I now believe what the gossip says – she is the most beautiful woman in the world. You’ll have trouble with this pack of hotheads, to please only one and disappoint so many.’

  Agamemnon looked ruefully at my father; they both laughed.

  ‘Trust you to state the problem in a nutshell within one instant of your arrival, Odysseus,’ said the High King.

  My surprise and wonder vanished, I felt a fool. Odysseus, of course. Who else would dare to speak to Agamemnon as to an equal? Who else would warrant a special chair on the dais?

  I had heard much of him. His name cropped up whenever there was talk of laws, of decisions, of new taxes, of war. My father had once undertaken the dreary journey to Ithaka just to consult him. He was held the most intelligent man in the world, more intelligent even than Nestor and Palamedes. And not only was he intelligent; he was also wise. Little wonder then that in my imagination Odysseus had been a venerable old greybeard, all bent with the cares of a century of living, as ancient as King Nestor of Pylos. When Agamemnon had important matters to discuss he sent for Palamedes, Nestor and Odysseus, but it was usually Odysseus who decided the thing.

  So much had been whispered about the Ithakan Fox, as men called him. His kingdom consisted of four rocky, barren little islands off the west coast, a poor and pitiful domain as kingdoms went. His palace was modest, he was a farmer because his barons could not contribute enough taxes to support him; yet his name had made Ithaka, Leukas, Zakynthos and Kephallenai famous.

  At the time he came to Amyklai and I first saw him he was not much more than twenty-five years old – and may have been younger than that, if wisdom has the power to age a man’s face.

  They continued to talk, perhaps forgetting that I was on my father’s left hand and able to eavesdrop without appearing to do so. As I had Menelaos on my other side, no conversation occurred to divert me.

  ‘Do you intend to ask for Helen, my wily friend?’

  Odysseus looked mischievous. ‘You perceive me, Tyndareus.’

  ‘Indeed I do, but why? I had not thought you angling for a raving beauty, though she does have a dowry.’

  He pulled a face. ‘My curiosity – think of my curiosity! Could you see my missing a show like this?’

  Agamemnon grinned, but my father laughed aloud.

  ‘Show is right! What am I to do, Odysseus? Look at them! One hundred and one Kings and Princes all snarling at each other and wondering who is going to be the lucky one – and determined to dispute the choice, no matter how logical or politic.’

  This time Agamemnon spoke. ‘It has developed into a kind of contest. Who is most favoured by the High King of Mykenai and his father-in-law Tyndareus of Lakedaimon? They know Tyndareus must take my advice! All I can see emerging from this situation is enduring enmity.’

  ‘Absolutely. Look at Philoktetes, arching his proud neck and snorting. Not to mention Diomedes and Idomeneus. Menestheus. Eurypylos. And so on.’

  ‘What should we do?’ the High King asked.

  ‘Is that a formal request for advice, sire?’

  ‘It is.’

  I stiffened, beginning to realise how insignificant my part was in all this. Suddenly I wanted to weep. I choose? No! They would choose, Agamemnon and my father. Though, I understood now, it was Odysseus who held my fate in the palm of his hand. And did he care? At which moment he winked at me. My heart sank. No, he didn’t care. There was not one scrap of desire in those beautiful grey eyes. He hadn’t come to sue for my hand; he had come knowing his advice would be sought. He had come only to enhance his own standing.

  ‘As always, I’m pleased to be able to help,’ he said smoothly, his gaze going to my father. ‘However, Tyndareus, before we tackle the problem of getting Helen safely and politically married, I have a small favour to ask.’

  Agamemnon seemed offended; out of my depth, I wondered what subtle bargaining was going on.

  ‘Do you want Helen for yourself?’ Father asked baldly.

  Odysseus flung back his head an
d laughed so uproariously that for a moment the hall stilled. ‘No, no! I wouldn’t dare ask for her when my fortune is negligible and my kingdom penurious! Poor Helen! My mind boggles at the vision of such beauty cooped up upon a rock in the Ionian sea! No, I do not want Helen for my bride. I want another.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Agamemnon, mollified. ‘Who?’

  Odysseus preferred to address his reply to my father. ‘The daughter of your brother Ikarios, Tyndareus. Penelope.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be difficult,’ said my father, surprised.

  ‘Ikarios dislikes me, and there have been much better offers for Penelope’s hand.’

  ‘I will see to it’ from my father.

  And from Agamemnon, ‘Consider it done.’

  Such a shock for me! If they understood what Odysseus saw in Penelope, I certainly did not. I knew her well; she was my first cousin. Not ill looking and a great heiress into the bargain, but boring. Once she had caught me allowing a house baron to kiss my breasts – I definitely would not have let him do more! – and served me a homily to the effect that desires of the flesh were unintellectual and demeaning. I would do better, she had pronounced in that measured, unemotional voice of hers, to fix my attention upon the real feminine skills like weaving. I had stared at her as if she were mad. Weaving!

  Odysseus began to speak; I abandoned my thoughts about Cousin Penelope and listened intently.

  ‘I have a fair idea whereabouts you intend to bestow your daughter, Tyndareus, and I understand your reasons. However, who you choose is irrelevant. What is relevant is that you safeguard your own and Agamemnon’s interests – safeguard your relations with the unlucky one hundred after you announce your choice. I can achieve that. Provided that you do exactly as I say.’

  Agamemnon answered. ‘We will.’

  ‘Then the first step is to return all the gifts the suitors have tendered, accompanied by graceful thanks for the intention. No man must call you greedy, Tyndareus.’

  My father looked chagrined. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘Not necessary – imperative!’

  ‘The gifts will be returned,’ said Agamemnon.

  ‘Good.’ Odysseus leaned forward in his chair, the two Kings following him. ‘You will announce your choice at night, in the Throne Room. I want the place dim and holy, so night helps. Have all the priests present. Burn incense copiously. My aim is to oppress the suitors’ spirits, and that can only be done through ritual. You cannot afford the name of your choice greeted by flaring warrior tempers.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Father sighed. He disliked minutiae.

  ‘That, Tyndareus, is merely the beginning. When you speak, you will inform the suitors how much you adore your precious jewel of a daughter, and how hard you have prayed to the Gods for guidance. Your choice, you will tell them, has been approved in Olympos. The omens are auspicious and the oracles clear. But almighty Zeus has demanded a condition. Namely, that before any man – save you – knows the name of the lucky winner, every man must swear an oath to uphold your choice. But more than that. Every man must also swear to give Helen’s husband wholehearted aid and co-operation. Every man must swear that Helen’s husband’s welfare is as dear to him as the Gods are. That, if needs be, every man will go to war to defend the rights and entitlements of Helen’s husband.’

  Agamemnon sat silent, staring into space, chewing his lips and visibly burning with some inner fire. My father just looked stunned. Odysseus sat back picking at his fowl, obviously pleased with himself. Suddenly Agamemnon turned to grasp him by both shoulders, knuckles pale under the fierce pressure of his hold, his face ominous. But Odysseus, unafraid, looked back tranquilly.

  ‘By Mother Kubaba, Odysseus, you are a genius!’ The High King twisted to stare at my father. ‘Tyndareus, do you realize what this means? Whoever marries Helen is assured of permanent, irrevocable alliances with almost every nation in Greece! His future is certain, his position raised a thousandfold!’

  My father, though immensely relieved, frowned. ‘What oath can I administer?’ he asked. ‘What oath is so awful that it will bind them to something they will abominate?’

  ‘There is only one,’ said Agamemnon slowly. ‘The Oath of the Quartered Horse. By Zeus the Thunderer, by Poseidon Earth Shaker, by the Daughters of Kore, by the River and the Dead.’

  The words fell like drops of blood from the head of Medusa; Father shuddered, dropped his face into his hands.

  Apparently unmoved, Odysseus changed the subject abruptly. ‘What will happen in the Hellespont?’ he asked Agamemnon chattily.

  The High King scowled. ‘I don’t know. Oh, what ails King Priam of Troy? Why is he blind to the advantages of Greek traders in the Euxine Sea?’

  ‘I think,’ said Odysseus, choosing a honey cake, ‘that it suits Priam very well to exclude traders. He gets fat on the Hellespont tolls anyway. He also has treaties with his fellow kings of Asia Minor, and no doubt he takes a share of the exorbitant prices we Greeks are charged for tin and copper if – as we have to – we buy from Asia Minor. The exclusion of Greeks from the Euxine means more money for Troy, not less.’

  ‘Telamon did us a bad turn when he abducted Hesione!’ said my father angrily.

  Agamemnon shook his head. ‘Telamon was in the right of it. All Herakles asked was rightful payment for a great service. When that miserable old skinflint Laomedon denied him, a mindless idiot could have predicted the outcome.’

  ‘Herakles has been dead these twenty years and more,’ said Odysseus, watering his wine. ‘Theseus is dead too. Only Telamon still lives. He would never consent to be parted from Hesione, even if she’d be willing to go. Abduction and rape are old tales,’ he went on blandly, apparently having never heard a single whisper about Helen and Theseus, ‘and they do not have much if anything to do with policy. Greece is rising. Asia Minor knows it. Therefore what better policy can Troy and the rest of Asia Minor adopt than to deny Greece what it must have – tin and copper to turn into bronze?’

  ‘True,’ said Agamemnon. He pulled on his beard. ‘So what will come of Troy’s trade embargo?’

  ‘War,’ said Odysseus peacefully. ‘Sooner or later there must be war. When we feel the pinch hard enough – when our merchants scream for justice in every throne room between Knossos and Iolkos – when we can no longer scrape up enough tin to bronze our copper and make swords and shields and arrowheads – then there will be war.’

  Their talk grew duller still; well, it no longer concerned me. Besides, I was heartily sick of Menelaos. Wine was beginning to affect the gathering, fewer faces were turned up to me to worship. I slipped my feet out from under the table and stole away through the door behind my father’s chair. Down the passage which paralleled the dining hall, wishing I wore something more silent than my jangling skirt. The stair to the women’s wing was at the far end where the passage branched off to other public rooms; I reached it, ran up it without being called back. Now I had only to get past my mother’s apartments. Head bent, I pulled at the curtain.

  Hands fastened upon my arms halted me, and my cry of alarm was muffled by a hand across my mouth. Diomedes! Heart pounding, I stared at him. Until this moment I had had no opportunity to be alone with him, nor conversed with him beyond salutations.

  The lamplight gleamed upon his skin and polished it to amber, a cord beat very fast in the column of his throat; I let myself meet his dark, hot gaze, and felt his hand fall from my mouth. How beautiful he was! How much I loved beauty! But never in anything as much as I did in a man.

  ‘Meet me outside in the garden,’ he whispered.

  I shook my head violently. ‘You must be mad! Let me go and I will not mention how I encountered you outside my mother’s rooms! Let me go!’

  His teeth flashed white, he laughed silently. ‘I will not move from this spot until you promise to meet me in the garden. They’ll be in the dining hall for a long while yet – no one will miss either of us. Girl, I want you! I care nothing for their decisions or delays, I w
ant you and I mean to have you.’

  My head was still fogged from the heat of the dining hall; I put my hand to it. Then, apparently of its own volition, it nodded. Diomedes let me go at once. I fled to my rooms.

  Neste was waiting to disrobe me.

  ‘Go to bed, old woman! I will undress myself.’

  Used to my moods, she went gladly, leaving me to tug at my laces with trembling fingers, tear off my bodice and my blouse, struggle free from the skirt. I stripped off the bells, bracelets and rings, found my linen bathrobe and wrapped it about me. Then out into the corridor, down the back stairs into the night air. The garden, he had said: I found the rows of cabbages and edible roots, smiling. Who would look for us among the vegetables?

  He was naked beneath a laurel tree. Off came my bathrobe, far enough from him to let him see me in the rain of moonlight. Then he was beside me, spreading it for our bed, holding me against himself flat on Mother Earth, from whom all women gather strength and all men lose it. Such is the way of the Gods.

  ‘Fingers and tongues, Diomedes,’ I whispered. ‘I will go to my marriage couch with hymen intact.’

  He smothered his laughter between my breasts. ‘Did Theseus teach you how to be a virgin?’ he asked.

  ‘No one needed to teach me that,’ I said, stroking his arms and shoulders, sighing. ‘I am not very old, but I know that my head is the price of losing my maidenhead to any save my husband.’