Seated comfortably before the big tripod of fire, mulled wine at our elbows, I broached the reason for our coming. Despite Nestor’s seniority I had been elected spokesman; if there were any mistakes he could bow out nicely, the reprobate.
‘We’re sent by Agamemnon at Mykenai to beg a favour, sire.’
His shrewd eyes surveyed me. ‘Helen,’ he said.
‘News travels swiftly.’
‘I expected an imperial courier, but none came. My shipwrights have never seen such business flow into their yards.’
‘As you didn’t swear the Oath of the Quartered Horse, Peleus, Agamemnon could send no courier. Nothing obliges you to aid the cause of Menelaos.’
‘Just as well. I’m too old to go to war, Odysseus.’
Nestor decided I was being too convoluted. ‘Actually, my dear Peleus, it isn’t you we seek,’ he said. ‘We’ve come to see if we can enlist the services of your son.’
Thessalia’s High King seemed to shrivel. ‘Achilles… Well, I hoped against it, but I expected it. I’ve no doubt that he’ll accept Agamemnon’s offer with alacrity.’
‘We’re free to ask him, then?’ from Nestor.
‘Of course,’ said Peleus.
I smiled, relaxed. ‘Agamemnon thanks you, Peleus. And I personally thank you. From my heart.’
He looked at me long and steadily. ‘Have you a heart, Odysseus? I fancied it’s only mind you possess.’
Something stung momentarily at the back of my eyes: I thought, Penelope, and then her image faded. I gave him back his stare. ‘No, I have no heart. Why should a man need one? A heart is a severe liability.’
‘Then what men say of you is true.’ He picked up his goblet from the tripod table, a very fine piece of Egyptian workmanship. ‘If Achilles elects to go to Troy,’ he said then, ‘he’ll lead the Myrmidons. They’ve been spoiling for a hard campaign these twenty years and more.’
Someone entered; Peleus smiled and held out his hand. ‘Ah, Phoinix! Gentlemen, this is Phoinix, my friend and comrade of many years. We have very prestigious guests, Phoinix – this is King Nestor of Pylos and this King Odysseus of Ithaka.’
‘I saw Ajax outside,’ said Phoinix, bowing low. In years he was somewhere between Peleus and Nestor, a very erect and soldierly fellow with a Myrmidon look – fair, big, fit.
‘You’ll go with Achilles to Troy, Phoinix,’ Peleus said. ‘Look after him for me, protect him from his fate.’
‘At the price of my life, sire.’
Which was all very well and good, I thought, growing a trifle impatient. ‘May we see Achilles for ourselves?’ I asked.
The two Thessalians looked blank.
‘Achilles isn’t in Iolkos,’ said Peleus.
‘Then where is he?’ asked Nestor.
‘In Skyros. He spends the six cold moons there every year – he’s married to Deidamia, daughter of Lykomedes.’
I slapped my thigh in vexation. ‘So we have yet another winter voyage to make.’
‘Not at all,’ said Peleus warmly. ‘I’ll send for him.’
But somehow I knew that unless we saw to it ourselves, we would never see Achilles draw up Iolkan ships on the sands at Aulis. I shook my head.
‘No, sire. Agamemnon would deem it more fitting that we ask Achilles in person.’
And so we came once more into harbour and made our way from town to palace; the difference was that this second palace was little more than a large house. Skyros was not rich. Lykomedes made us welcome, but as we sat down to eat and drink a minor repast, I found myself prickling. Something was wrong, and not merely with Lykomedes himself. A peculiar tension hung over the place. Servants – all male – slid and skipped without looking at us, Lykomedes wore the mien of one labouring under a heavy burden of fear, his heir Patrokles came in and went out so quickly I almost thought him a figment of my imagination, and – most disquieting of all – I heard not one feminine sound. No woman, even in the distance, laughed, or whined, or screeched, or howled in tears. How alien! Women did not participate in the affairs of men, no, but they were fully aware of their importance in the scheme of things, and they enjoyed liberties no man would dare to deny them. They had, after all, ruled under the Old Religion.
My prickling skin had turned into pins and needles, my nose twitched at the old, familiar smell of danger; I caught Nestor’s eye. Yes, he had sensed it too. His brows lifted at me, and I sighed. I was not mistaken, then. We had a problem.
The handsome young man Patrokles returned. I looked him over more thoroughly, wondering what his significance might be in this strange situation. A tender and gentle fellow, not lacking in fight or courage, but possibly very one-sided in his affections – affections which did not, I decided, extend to women. Well, that was his right. No one would think ill of him because he preferred men. This time he actually sat down, looking unhappy.
I cleared my throat. ‘King Lykomedes, our mission is very urgent. We seek your son-in-law, Achilles.’
There was a queer, intangible pause; Lykomedes almost dropped his goblet, then got up awkwardly. ‘Achilles isn’t in Skyros, royal gentlemen.’
‘Not here?’ asked Ajax, dismayed.
‘No.’ Lykomedes seemed embarrassed. ‘He – he quarrelled violently with his wife – my daughter – and left for the mainland vowing never to return.’
‘He’s not in Iolkos,’ I prompted gently.
‘I confess I didn’t think he would be, Odysseus. He was talking about Thrake.’
Nestor sighed. ‘Dear, dear! It seems as if we are fated never to meet this young man, doesn’t it?’
The question was directed at me, but I didn’t reply at once, too conscious of a sudden curious lightness, a vast relief. All my instincts were right. Something was seriously amiss, and Achilles was the centre of it. I got up. ‘Since Achilles is not here, I think we must leave at once, Nestor.’
I waited, knowing that Lykomedes had to extend the proper courtesies or sin in the eyes of Hospitable Zeus. And while I waited, I turned so that only Nestor could see my face, then shot him a venomous glare of warning.
Lykomedes made the obligatory offer. ‘Stay with us overnight at least, Odysseus. King Nestor should rest a while.’
As well I glared at him; instead of snapping that he was quite capable of declaring war on Olympos, he subsided into a pathetic, huddled heap of ancient misery. Old villain.
‘Thank you, King Lykomedes!’ I cried, looking relieved. ‘Only this morning Nestor was saying how tired he is. The winter gales at sea make him ache all over.’ I dropped my eyes. ‘I do hope our presence won’t inconvenience you.’
It did inconvenience him. He had not dreamed that I would accept his formal invitation when our mission was a failure, when we had to get back to Mykenai and break the news to Agamemnon. He put a good face on his disappointment, however. So did Patrokles.
Later I sought Nestor in his chamber and sat on the arm of a chair while he reposed in a steaming bath as an elderly servant – male, how extraordinary! – scraped the salt and grime from his withered hide. The moment Nestor was standing on the floor all swaddled in linen towels, the man departed.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Nestor then.
‘This is a house under a shadow,’ he said positively. ‘I suppose if Achilles had quarrelled with his wife and taken himself off to Thrake it might provoke a reaction like this, yet I do not think so. Whatever is wrong, it is not that.’
‘I think Achilles is here within the palace.’
His eyes widened. ‘No! Hidden, yes, but not here.’
‘Here,’ I insisted. ‘We’ve heard enough of him to know he’s as impulsive as he is warlike. Were he located at any distance from Lykomedes and Patrokles, they’d fail to control him. He’s here in the palace.’
‘But why? He didn’t swear the Oath, nor did Peleus. There’d be no dishonour in refusing to go to Troy.’
‘Oh, he wants to go! Desperately. It’s others who don’t want him to go. And somehow they’v
e bound him.’
‘What should we do, then?’
‘What do you think?’ I countered.
He grimaced. ‘That we have to wander everywhere within this little building. Preferably I during daylight. I can pretend to be senile. When everyone is asleep, you can wander. Do you truly think they’re holding him prisoner?’
But that I could not believe. ‘They wouldn’t dare, Nestor. If Peleus got word of it, he’d tear this island apart better than Poseidon could. No, they’ve bound him with an oath.’
‘Logical.’ He began to dress. ‘How long before dinner?’
‘Some time yet.’
‘Then go and sleep, Odysseus, while I prowl.’
He came to wake me in time for dinner, looking peevish. ‘Plague take them!’ he growled. ‘If they have him hidden here, I can’t find where. I’ve stumbled into every single corner from the roof to the vaults without a sign of him. The only place I couldn’t enter was the women’s quarters. There’s a guard.’
‘Then that’s where he is,’ I said, getting up. ‘Hmmm!’
We went down to dinner together, wondering if Lykomedes had gone so Assyrian that he forbade his women the dining hall. A male servant as bath attendant? No women anywhere? A guard on the door of their quarters? Very fishy. Lykomedes didn’t want us hearing gossip, so he had to keep his women away from us.
But the women were there, admittedly all thrust into the farthest, darkest corner. I had thought Lykomedes would have to produce them for the main meal; the size of his kitchens and his palace would have made it impossible for him to feed them in their quarters without creating culinary chaos for his royal guests.
No Achilles, however. Not one of those indistinct female forms was anything like large enough to be Achilles.
‘Why are the women segregated?’ Nestor asked when the food arrived and we sat at the high table with Lykomedes and Patrokles.
‘They offended Poseidon,’ said Patrokles quickly.
‘And?’ I asked.
‘They’re forbidden congress with men for five years.’
I raised my brows. ‘Even sexually?’
‘That is allowed.’
‘Sounds more like something the Mother would demand than Poseidon,’ Nestor remarked, swigging wine.
Lykomedes shrugged. ‘It came from Poseidon, not the Mother.’
‘Through his priestess Thetis?’ the King of Pylos asked.
‘Thetis is not his priestess,’ said Lykomedes uneasily. ‘The God refused to take her back. She serves Nereus now.’
After the food went out (along with the women), I settled down to talk to Patrokles, leaving Lykomedes at Nestor’s mercy.
‘I’m very sorry to have missed Achilles,’ I said.
‘You would have liked him,’ said Patrokles tonelessly.
‘I imagine he would have jumped at the chance to go to Troy.’
‘Yes. Achilles was born for war.’
‘Well, I have no intention of combing Thrake to find him! He’ll be sorry when he finds out what he’s missed.’
‘Yes, very sorry.’
‘Tell me what he looks like,’ I said invitingly, having learned one thing about Patrokles: it was Achilles to whom he had given his love.
The young face lit up. ‘He’s a little smaller than Ajax… So – so graceful when he moves! And he’s very beautiful.’
‘I heard he had no lips. How can he be beautiful?’
‘Because – because –’ Patrokles searched for words. ‘You’d have to see him to understand. His mouth moves one to tears – so much pain! Achilles is beauty personified.’
‘He sounds too good to be true,’ I said.
He nearly fell for it. Nearly told me that I was a fool to doubt him, that he could produce his paragon for my inspection. Then he closed his lips tightly, the hot words unuttered. Though they may as well have been. I had my answer.
Before we retired I held a little council with Nestor and Ajax, then went to bed and slept soundly. Very early the next day I made my way with Ajax down to the town. I had billeted my cousin Sinon there; it was never wise to display all one’s treasures at once, and Sinon is a treasure. He listened impassively as I told him what to do, gave him a bag of gold from the little hoard Agamemnon had given me to defray our expenses. What was mine I hung on to grimly; one day it would be my son’s. Agamemnon was well able to pay for Achilles.
The Court was still sleeping when I returned to the palace, though Ajax did not accompany me. He had work to do outside. Nestor was awake and packed; we did not intend to keep Lykomedes in suspense. Of course he made all the proper protests when we announced that we were sailing, egged us to stay longer, but this time I declined politely, to his huge relief.
‘Where is Ajax?’ Patrokles asked.
‘Wandering around the town asking people if they have any idea where Achilles went,’ I said, then turned to Lykomedes. ‘Sire, as a small favour, would you assemble your entire free household here in your Throne Room?’
He looked startled, then very wary. ‘Well…’
‘I’m under orders from Agamemnon, sire, otherwise I wouldn’t ask. I’m bidden – just as I was in Iolkos! – to tender the High King of Mykenai’s thanks to every free person at the Court. His orders stipulate that everyone be present, female as well as male. There may be a ban upon your women, but they still belong to you.’
On the echo of my words some of my sailors entered, bearing great armloads of gifts. Women’s trinkets, these: beads, shifts, flasks of perfume, jars of oil, unguents and essences, fine wools and gauzy linens. I asked for tables to be brought forward so that the men could dump their burdens down in careless heaps. More sailors came in, this time with gifts for the men: good bronze-skinned arms, shields, spears, swords, cuirasses, helmets and greaves. These I had placed on more tables.
Greed warred with caution in the King’s eyes; when Patrokles put a warning hand on his arm he shrugged it off and clapped for his steward.
‘Summon the entire household. Have the women stand far enough away to observe Poseidon’s ban.’
The room filled with men, then the women arrived. Nestor and I searched their ranks fruitlessly. None could be Achilles.
‘Sire,’ I said, stepping forward, ‘King Agamemnon wishes to thank you and yours for your help and hospitality.’ I indicated the heaps of women’s things. ‘Here are gifts for your women.’ I turned to the weapons and armour. ‘And here, gifts for your men.’
Both sexes murmured in delight, but no one moved until the King granted his permission. Then they clustered about the tables to pick the things over happily.
‘This, sire,’ I said, taking an object wrapped in linen from a sailor, ‘is for you.’
Face alight, he stripped the shroud from it until it was revealed as a Cretan axe, its double head bronze, its shaft oak. I held it out for him to take it; beaming with pleasure, he extended his hands.
At that precise moment there came from outside a shrill, high squeal of alarm. Someone sounded a horn, and in the far distance we all heard Ajax bellow a war cry from Salamis. Came the unmistakable clang of armour being strapped on; Ajax yelled again, closer now, as if he retreated. The women shrieked and began to flee, the men broke into confused questions, and King Lykomedes, deathly pale, forgot his axe.
‘Pirates!’ he said, not seeming to know what to do.
Ajax howled once more, louder and much closer, a war cry from the slopes of Pelion that only Chiron taught. In the rooted stillness suddenly gripping us all I changed my hold on the axe, grasped its shaft in both hands and lifted its head.
One other moved also, erupting into the Throne Room with such force that the terrified women, clustered in the doorway, were flung about like spools of yarn. A sort of a woman. Easy to see why Lykomedes had not dared display her! Impatiently stripping off the linen robe swathed about her to reveal a chest so well muscled that I stared in admiration, she strode to the table where the arms were piled. Achilles at last.
&nbs
p; He swept the contents of one table to the floor with a crash, took a shield and spear and towered there at his full height, every fibre of him ready to fight. Axe extended, I walked up to him.
‘Here, lady, use this! It looks more your size.’ I flourished it, my arms creaking under the strain. ‘Do I address Prince Achilles?’
Oh, but he was odd! What should have been beautiful was not, despite the paeans of Patrokles. Though it was not the mouth negated beauty. That actually lent him some much-needed pathos. His lack of beauty, I have always thought, came from within himself. The yellow eyes were full of pride and high intelligence; this was no lubber Ajax.
‘My thanks,’ he cried, laughing back at me.
Ajax came into the room still holding the arms he had used to create the panic outside, saw Achilles standing with me, and roared. The next moment he had Achilles in his grasp, was hugging him with a force that would have crushed my rib cage. Achilles shook him off without seeming to be impaired, and flung an arm across his shoulders.
‘Ajax, Ajax! Your war cry tore through me like a shaft from a longbow! I had to answer, I couldn’t stand idle a moment longer. When you yelled old Chiron’s war cry you were summoning me – how could I resist?’ He spied Patrokles and held out one hand. ‘Here, with me! We go to war against Troy! My dearest wish has been granted, Father Zeus has answered my prayers.’
Lykomedes was beside himself, weeping, wringing his hands. ‘My son, my son, what will happen to us now? You’ve broken the oath you swore to your mother! She’ll rend us limb from limb!’
Silence fell. Achilles sobered in an instant, his face grim. I raised my brows at Nestor; we both sighed. Everything was explained.
‘I can’t see how I broke it, Father,’ Achilles said at last. ‘I answered a reflex, I responded without thinking to a call instilled in me when I was a boy. I heard Ajax and I answered. I broke no oath. Another man’s guile destroyed it.’
The Song of Troy Page 14
