The Song of Troy

by Colleen McCullough

  The doors swung open, she stood on the threshold a moment before she commenced to walk towards the throne. Her skirt chimed with a delicate tinkling as she moved, turned her into a living melody. I found I was holding my breath, had to force myself to exhale. She truly was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Even Antenor was gaping.

  Shoulders back and head imperiously level, she walked with dignity and grace, neither shamed nor shy. Tall for a woman, she had the most superb body Aphrodite had ever lavished on any female creature. Tiny waist, graciously swelling hips, long legs thrusting at her skirt. No, there was nothing about her did not please. Her breasts! Bare in the immodest Greek way, high and full, they owed nothing to artifice save that their nipples were painted gold. Time elapsed before any of us got as far as that swanlike neck, her face above it. Superlatives, too many superlatives! As I remember her on that day, she was just… beautiful. Masses of pale gold hair, dark brows and lashes, eyes the colour of springtime grass rimmed with kohl drawn outward in the manner of Cretans and Egyptians.

  But how much of it was actual, how much of it a spell? That I will never know. Helen is the greatest work of art the Gods have ever put upon Mother Earth.

  For my father she was Fate. Not so far gone in old age that he had forgotten the pleasures to be had in the arms of a woman, he looked at her and fell in love with her. Or in lust. But because he was too old to steal her from his son, he chose instead to take it as a compliment to himself that a son of his could lure her from her husband, her children, her own lands. Swelling with pride, he turned his wondering eyes upon Paris. They were certainly a striking pair: he as dark as Ganymede, she as fair as Artemis of the forest. Without doing more than take a little stroll, Helen won the silent room completely over. No man there could continue to blame Paris for his foolishness.

  The moment the King dismissed the assembly I went to his side, deliberately mounting the dais at its far end and approaching the throne slowly, three steps higher up than the elopers and taller by far than my father’s gold and ivory chair. I did not usually parade my pre-eminence, but Helen set my teeth on edge; I wanted her to know exactly whereabouts Paris stood – and where I stood. As she watched me she raised her strange, fathomless green eyes to my face.

  ‘My dear child, this is Hektor, my Heir,’ said Father.

  She inclined her head gravely and regally. ‘It is a great pleasure, Hektor.’ Her eyes grew coquettishly round. ‘My, what a big man you are!’

  It was said to provoke, but not to provoke want in me; her taste obviously ran to pretty milksops like Paris, not to massive warriors like me. Just as well. I wasn’t sure I could resist her.

  ‘The biggest in Troy, lady,’ I said stiffly.

  She laughed. ‘I do not doubt it.’

  ‘Sire,’ I said to my father, ‘will you excuse me?’

  He cackled. ‘Aren’t my sons magnificent, Queen Helen? This one is the pride of my heart – a great man! One day he will be a great king.’

  Eyeing me thoughtfully, she said nothing; but behind her lustrous gaze the mind clearly wondered whether it might not be possible to unseat me as Heir, put Paris in my place. I let her wonder. Time would teach her that Paris wanted no part of any responsibility.

  I was already at the door when the King called after me, ‘Wait, wait! Hektor, send Kalchas to me.’

  A puzzling command. Why did the King want that repulsive man, if he did not also want Lakoon and Theano? There were many Gods in our city, but our own special deity was Apollo. His cult was peculiarly Trojan, which made his special priests – Kalchas, Lakoon and Theano – the most powerful prelates in Troy.

  I found Kalchas walking sedately in the shadow of the altar dedicated to Zeus of the Courtyard. Nor did I question why he was there; he was the kind of man no one presumed to question. For a few moments I watched him unobserved, trying to divine his true nature. He wore long, flowing black robes embroidered with strange symbols and signs in silver, and the sickly white skin of his completely bald head shone dully in the last light of day. Once I discovered a nest of pure white snakes far underground in the palace crypt, when I had been a boy and up to all kinds of mischief. But after encountering those blinded, attenuated creatures of Kore I never ventured into the crypt again. Kalchas aroused exactly the same feelings in me.

  It was said that he had travelled the length and breadth of the world, from the Hyperboreans to the River of Ocean, to lands far east of Babylon and lands far south of Aithiopai. His mode of dress came from Ur and Sumer, and in Egypt he had witnessed the rituals which had been handed down the ranks of those illustrious priests since the beginning of Gods and men. Other things were whispered of him: that he could preserve a body so well it looked as fresh a hundred years later as it did the day it was interred; that he had participated in the awful rites of black Set; even that he had kissed the phallus of Osiris, and so gained supreme insight. I could never like him.

  I emerged from the pillars, walked out into the yard. He knew who approached, though he never once looked my way.

  ‘You seek me, Prince Hektor?’

  ‘Yes, holy priest. The King wants you in the Throne Room.’

  ‘To interview the woman out of Greece. I will come.’

  I preceded him – as was my right – for I had heard tell of priests who came to fancy themselves powers behind thrones; I wanted no such hope to enter Kalchas’s mind.

  While Helen regarded him with uneasy revulsion, he kissed my father’s hand and awaited his pleasure.

  ‘Kalchas, my son Paris has brought home a bride. I want you to marry them tomorrow.’

  ‘As you command, sire.’

  Next the King dismissed Paris and Helen. ‘Go now and show Helen her new home,’ he said to my stupid brother.

  They went out hand in hand. I averted my eyes. Kalchas stood unmoving, silent.

  ‘Do you know who she is, priest?’ my father asked.

  ‘Yes, sire. Helen. The woman taken as a prize out of Greece. I have been expecting her.’

  Had he? Or were his spies as efficient as always?

  ‘Kalchas, I have a mission for you.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘I need the advice of the Pythoness at Delphi. Go there after the wedding ceremony and find out what Helen means to us.’

  ‘Yes, sire. I am to obey the Pythoness?’

  ‘Of course. She is the Mouth of Apollo.’

  And what exactly was all that about? I wondered. Who was fooling whom? Back to Greece for the answers. It always seemed to go back to Greece. Was the Delphic Oracle the servant of Trojan Apollo or Grecian Apollo? Were they even the same God?

  The priest gone, I was alone with Father at last.

  ‘You do a sorry thing, sire,’ I said.

  ‘No, Hektor, I do the only thing I can.’ His hands went out. ‘Surely you see that I cannot send her back? The damage is done, Hektor. It was done the moment she left her palace at Amyklai.’

  ‘Then don’t send all of her back, Father. Just her head.’

  ‘It is too late,’ he answered, already drifting away. ‘It is too late. Too late…’

  8

  NARRATED BY

  Agamemnon

  My wife stood at the high window, bathed in sunlight. It touched her hair with the blaze of new copper, as burning and brilliant as she was herself. She did not have Helen’s beauty, no, but for me her attractions were more interesting, her sex stronger. Klytemnestra was a living font of power, not a simple ornament.

  The view always drew her, perhaps because it spoke of the exalted position Mykenai owned. Above all other citadels. It looked down the Lion Mountain to the Vale of Argos, green with crops, then up to the ranges all about us, heavily forested with pine above the olive groves.

  A commotion began outside; I could hear the voices of my guards protesting that the King and Queen did not wish to be disturbed. Frowning, I got up, but had not taken a step before the door burst open and Menelaos stumbled in. He came straight to me, put hi
s head against my thighs and sobbed. My eyes flew to Klytemnestra, staring at him in astonishment.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, pulling him from his knees and settling him in a chair.

  But all he could do was weep. His hair was matted and dirty, his clothing unkempt, and he wore a three days’ beard. Klytemnestra poured a full goblet of unwatered wine and handed it to me. When he had drunk he calmed a little, ceased to sob so wildly.

  ‘Menalaos, what is the matter?’

  ‘Helen is gone!’

  Klytemnestra sprang away from the window. ‘Dead?’

  ‘No, gone! Gone! She has gone, Agamemnon! Left me!’ He sat up, made an effort to compose himself.

  ‘Tell me slowly, Menelaos,’ I said.

  ‘I returned from Crete three days ago. She wasn’t there… She’s run away, brother – gone to Troy with Paris.’

  We gaped at him, mouths open.

  ‘Gone to Troy with Paris,’ I repeated when I was able.

  ‘Yes, yes! She took the contents of the treasury and fled!’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I do! The stupid, lusting harpy!’ Klytemnestra hissed. ‘What more could we expect, when she ran off with Theseus? Slut! Harlot! Amoral bitch!’

  ‘Hold your tongue, woman!’

  She showed me her teeth, but she obeyed.

  ‘When was this, Menelaos? Surely not five moons ago!’

  ‘Almost six – the day after I left for Crete.’

  ‘That’s impossible! I admit I haven’t been to Amyklai in your absence, but I have good friends there – word of it would have been sent to me at once.’

  ‘She put the Evil Eye on them, Agamemnon. She went to the Oracle of Mother Kubaba and induced it to say that I had usurped her right to the throne of Lakedaimon. Then she induced Mother Kubaba to put a curse on my barons. No one dared to tell.’

  I crushed my rage. ‘So they still lie under the thumb of the Mother and the Old Religion in Lakedaimon, do they? I’ll soon fix that! Over five moons gone…’ I shrugged. ‘Well, we won’t get her back now.’

  ‘Not get her back?’ Menelaos leaped to confront me. ‘Not get her back? Agamemnon, you are the High King! You must get her back!’

  ‘Did she take the children?’ Klytemnestra asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just the contents of the treasury.’

  ‘Which shows you whereabouts her priorities lie,’ my wife snarled. ‘Forget her! You’re better off without her, Menelaos.’

  He went down on his knees, weeping again. ‘I want her back! I want her back, Agamemnon! Give me an army! Give me an army and let me sail for Troy!’

  ‘Get up, brother! Take hold of yourself.’

  ‘Give – me – an – army!’ he said through his teeth.

  I sighed. ‘Menelaos, this is a personal thing. I can’t give you an army for the purpose of bringing a whore to justice! I admit every Greek has good reason to hate Troy and Trojans, but none of my subject Kings would deem the voluntary flight of Helen sufficient reason to go to war.’

  ‘All I’m asking for is an army made up of your troops and mine, Agamemnon!’

  ‘Troy would chew them up. Priam’s army is said to number fifty thousand soldiers,’ I said reasonably.

  Klytemnestra’s elbow dug me sharply in the ribs. ‘Husband, have you forgotten the Oath?’ she asked. ‘Raise an army on the Oath of the Quartered Horse! A hundred Kings and Princes swore it.’

  I opened my mouth to inform her that women were fools, then shut it with the words unsaid. The throne room was not far away; I walked to it and sat myself down on the Lion Chair, grasped its pawed arms and thought.

  Only the day before I had received a deputation of kings from all over Greece, wailing to me that continued closure of the Hellespont had brought them to such a pass that they could no longer afford to buy tin and copper from the states of Asia Minor. Our reserves of the metals – particularly tin – had sunk to nothing; ploughshares were being made of wood and knives of bone. If the nations of Greece were to survive, Troy’s policy of deliberate exclusion from the Euxine could not be allowed to continue. To north and west the barbarian tribes were massing, ready to pour down and exterminate us, just as we had once poured down and exterminated the original Greeks. And where would we find the bronze to make the millions more of weapons we would need to fend them off?

  I had listened, then promised to find a solution. Knowing that there was no solution short of war – but knowing too that many among the Kings who had made up that deputation would sheer away from the most desparate of measures. Now today I had the means. Klytemnestra had shown me how. I was a man in my prime and I had seen my fair share of war, been good at it too. I could lead an invasion of Troy! Helen would serve as my excuse. Sly Odysseus had foreseen it seven years ago when he had told dead Tyndareus to demand an oath of Helen’s suitors.

  If my name was to endure after my death, I had to leave great deeds behind me. What greater deed than to invade and conquer Troy? The Oath would yield me close to a hundred thousand soldiers – enough men to do the job in ten days. And with Troy in ruins, what was to stop my turning my attention to the coastal states of Asia Minor, reduce them to satellites in a Greek empire? I thought of the bronze, the gold, the silver, the electrum, the jewels, the lands to be had. Mine for the taking if I invoked the Oath of the Quartered Horse. Yes, it lay in my power to carve out an empire for my people.

  My wife and brother stood regarding me from the floor of the hall; I sat up straight and looked stern.

  ‘Helen was kidnapped,’ I said.

  Menelaos shook his head miserably. ‘I wish she had been, Agamemnon, but she wasn’t. Helen needed no coercion.’

  I suppressed a strong inclination to drub him as I had when we were boys. By the Mother, he was a fool! How had our father, Atreus, sired a fool like Menelaos?

  ‘I don’t care what really happened!’ I snapped. ‘You will say that she was abducted, Menelaos. The slightest hint that her flight was voluntary would ruin everything, surely you can see that? If you obey my orders and follow me without argument, I will undertake to raise an army on the strength of the Oath.’

  One moment extinguished, the next on fire; Menelaos glowed. ‘Yes, Agamemnon, yes!’

  I glanced at Klytemnestra, who smiled sourly. Both of us had fools for siblings, and both of us understood that.

  A servant hovered too far away to eavesdrop; I clapped my hands to bring him closer. ‘Send Kalchas to me,’ I said.

  The priest entered a few moments later to prostrate himself. I stared down at the back of his neck, wondering again what had really brought him to Mykenai. He was a Trojan of the highest nobility, who until a short time ago had been high priest of Apollo at Troy. When he went on a pilgrimage to Delphi, the Pythoness had instructed him to serve Apollo in Mykenai. He had been ordered not to return to Troy, nor to serve Trojan Apollo again. After he presented himself to me I sent to Delphi to check his story; the Pythoness confirmed it unequivocally. Kalchas was to be my man in future because the Lord of Light willed it so. Certainly he had given me no cause to suspect him of treachery. Endowed with the Second Sight, he had told me only a few days ago that my brother would come in great trouble.

  His appearance was unpleasant, for he was that rarity of rarities, a true albino. His head was hairless, his skin white as the belly of a sea-dwelling fish. The eyes were dark pink and very crossed in a large round face which bore a permanent expression of blank stupidity. Misleading; Kalchas was far from stupid.

  As he straightened I tried to plumb his mind, but there was nothing to see in those clouded, blind-looking eyes.

  ‘Kalchas, when exactly did you leave King Priam’s service?’

  ‘Five moons ago, sire.’

  ‘Had Prince Paris returned from Salamis?’

  ‘No, sire.’

  ‘You may go.’

  He stiffened, outraged at being dismissed so summarily; it was plain that he was used to more deference in Troy. B
ut Troy worshipped Apollo as All High, whereas in Mykenai the All High was Zeus. How it must gall him, a Trojan, to be obliged by Apollo to serve where he could not give his heart.

  I clapped my hands again. ‘Send in the chief herald.’

  Menelaos sighed, reminding me that he still stood before me; though I had not forgotten for one instant that Klytemnestra was still standing there.

  ‘Take heart, brother. We’ll get her back. The Oath of the Quartered Horse is unbreakable. You’ll have your army in the spring of next year.’

  The chief herald came.

  ‘Herald, you will send messages to every king and prince in Greece and Crete who swore the Oath of the Quartered Horse to King Tyndareus seven years ago. The clerk of oaths has their names in his memory. Your messengers will recite what I dictate, which is as follows: “King – Prince, lord, whoever – I, your suzerain, Agamemnon King of Kings, command that you come at once to Mykenai to discuss the oath you swore at the betrothal of Queen Helen to King Menelaos.” Have you got that?’

  Proud of his verbatim memory, the chief herald nodded. ‘I have, sire.’

  ‘Then get on with it.’

  Klytemnestra and I got rid of Menelaos by telling him that he needed a bath. Off he went happily; big brother Agamemnon had the situation well in hand, so he could relax.

  ‘High King of Greece is a mighty title,’ said Klytemnestra, ‘but High King of the Greek Empire sounds even mightier.’

  I grinned. ‘So I think, wife.’

  ‘I like the idea of Orestes’s inheriting it,’ she mused.

  And that summed Klytemnestra up. In her savage heart she was a leader, my Queen, a woman who found it galling to have to bow to the will of one even stronger than she was herself. I was quite aware of her ambitions; how much she longed to sit in my place, revive the Old Religion and use the King as nothing more than a living symbol of her fertility. Send him to the Axe when the land groaned under misfortune. The cult of Mother Kubaba was never far from the surface in the Isle of Pelops. Our son, Orestes, was very young, and came after I had despaired of one. His two sisters, Elektra and Chrysothemis, were already in the throes of puberty when he was born. The male child was a blow to Klytemnestra; she had hoped to rule through Elektra, though of late she had transferred her affections to Chrysothemis. Elektra adored her father, not her mother. However, Klytemnestra was extremely resourceful. Now that Orestes, a strong babe, seemed sure to succeed me, his mother hoped that I would die before he came of age. Then she would rule through him. Or through our youngest girl, Iphigenia.