The Song of Troy

by Colleen McCullough

The city, we learned, was endowed with many wells of sweet water, and contained a large number of granaries and warehouses in which nonperishable food was stored.

  No one contemplated a pitched battle outside; what soldiers we saw lolled or wenched, had left their arms and armour at home. Agamemnon and his grand army were openly laughed at.

  Diomedes and I started work in the spy colony the moment we returned to the camp, and we laboured. There were those who showed great aptitude and enthusiasm, but there were others who flagged, who walked about with long faces. I had a quiet word with Thersites and Sinon, who agreed that the misfits should vanish. Of the three hundred original recruits I ended up keeping two hundred and fifty-four, and thought myself lucky.

  15

  NARRATED BY

  Diomedes

  A remarkable man, Odysseus. Even to watch him dealing with a slave was an education. At the end of a single moon he had those two hundred and fifty-four men exactly where he wanted them, though they were not yet ready for action. I spent almost as much time with him as I did with my men of Argos, but what I learned from him enabled me to control and direct my troops better in only half the time it used to take. There were no more signs of discontent in my contingent when I was away, no more quarrels among the officers; I used Odysseus’s methods to good effect. Of course I overheard a few jests, caught the sly looks which passed between my Argive officer barons whenever they saw me with Odysseus; even the other Kings were beginning to question the nature of our friendship. I wasn’t upset at all. If there had been truth in what they thought, I would not have minded, nor – to give everyone his due – was there malice or disapproval in it. All men were at liberty to assuage their sexual itches with whichever sex they preferred. Usually women, but a long foreign campaign meant women were less available. Foreign women could never take the place of wives and sweethearts, the women of one’s own land. Better under such circumstances to seek the softer side of love with a friend who fought alongside you in battle, held the enemy off with his sword while you picked up your own.

  When autumn was full blown Odysseus told me to go and pay my respects to Agamemnon. I went, curious as to what was in the wind; Odysseus had been doing a lot of huddling with old Nestor of late, but hadn’t told me what was discussed during their huddles.

  For five moons we had not seen a sign of a Trojan army, and the mood within our camp was gloomy. Food hadn’t turned out to be a difficult problem, as the coast well to the north of the Troad and the far shore of the Hellespont provided excellent forage. The tribes living thereabouts took one look at our scavenging parties and made themselves scarce. Which could not alter the fact that we were so far from home that we couldn’t contemplate returning on furlough. No orders had come from the High King to disband, or attack, or do anything.

  When I came into Agamemnon’s tent I found Odysseus already there, looking casual.

  ‘I might have known you’d not be far away when Odysseus turned up,’ Agamemnon commented.

  I smiled, but did not speak.

  ‘What do you want, Odysseus?’

  ‘A council, sire. There’s much overdue for discussion.’

  ‘I agree entirely! For instance: what’s going on down in a certain hollow, and why can I never find you or Diomedes after dark? I intended calling a council last night.’

  Odysseus extricated himself from imperial disfavour with all his usual grace. A smile began it; the smile which could win over implacable enemies, the smile which could charm a far colder man than Agamemnon.

  ‘Sire, I’ll tell all – but in council.’

  ‘Very well. Stay here until the others come. If I let you go, you mightn’t come back.’

  Menelaos came in first, hangdog as ever. Nodding to us shyly, he hunched himself on a seat in the darkest, furthest corner of the room. Poor, downtrodden Menelaos. Perhaps he was beginning to realise that Helen was a very secondary component in the schemes of his more masterful brother, or perhaps he was beginning to despair of ever getting her back again. The thought of her stirred memories almost nine years old; what a little baggage she had turned out to be! Purely concerned with her own satisfaction, indifferent to what a man wanted. So beautiful! And so selfish. Oh, the dance she must have led Menelaos! I could never hate him; he was too small a man, more to be pitied than despised. And he loved her as I could never love any woman.

  Achilles strolled in with Patrokles, Phoinix trailing them the way Odysseus’s hound Argos trailed him whenever he was in Ithaka. As faithful as he was vigilant. They made their obeisances, Achilles stiffly and with obvious reluctance. He was an odd one. Odysseus, I had noticed, didn’t really care for him. My own emotions about him, however, were sufficiently indifferent for me to make a private resolution to warn him to be nicer to Agamemnon. Even if the lad did lead the Myrmidons, he ought not to make his dislike so manifest. To find oneself abandoned out on a wing in battle is easily done – and very hard to pin down to anything more than routine bad generalship. When I saw the expression in Patrokles’s eyes I had to smile – now there was a tender friendship! At least on one side. Achilles took him for granted. He also burned far more for battle than bodily pleasure.

  Machaon came in alone and sat down quietly. He and his brother, Podalieros, were the finest medical men in Greece, worth more to our army than a cavalry wing. Podalieros was a recluse, preferring his surgery to councils of war, but Machaon was a restless and energetic man who had the gift of command and could fight like ten Myrmidons. Idomeneus drifted gracefully through the door with Meriones in tow, using the importance of his Cretan crown and his position as co-commander to bow to Agamemnon rather than bend the knee. Agamemnon’s eyes flashed at the slight; I wondered if he thought that Crete was getting too big for his boots, but the High King’s face didn’t say. Idomeneus was a fop, but strongly built and a fine leader of men. Meriones, his cousin and heir, was possibly the better man of the two – I never minded feasting or fighting with him. Both of them had the same openhanded Cretan air.

  Nestor trod briskly to his special seat, nodding in passing to Agamemnon, who took no offence at all. He had dandled all of us on his knee when we were babes. If he had a fault, it was that he tended to reminisce excessively about ‘the old days’, and regarded the present generation of Kings as cissies. However, one couldn’t help but love him. Odysseus adored him, I thought. With him he brought his eldest son.

  Ajax arrived with his boon companions, his half-brother Teukros and his cousin from Lokris, Little Ajax the son of Oileus. They sat mumchance by the far wall, looking uncomfortable. I longed for the day when I would see Ajax on a battlefield (he had not been near me at Sigios), see with my own eyes those bulging arms wield his famous axe.

  Menestheus followed closely on their heels, a good High King of Attika, but with more sense than to set himself up as another Theseus. He was not a tenth the man Theseus had been – but then, nor was anyone else. Palamedes was the last. He sat between me and Odysseus. It was impolitic for me to dare to like him when Odysseus hated him. Why, I didn’t know, though I gathered that Palamedes had injured him in some way when he and Agamemnon went to Ithaka to fetch him to the war. Odysseus was patient enough to bide his time, but he would have his revenge, of that I was certain. Not a hot and bloody revenge. Odysseus ate cold. The priest Kalchas was not present, a curious omission.

  Agamemnon began stiffly. ‘This is the first proper council I’ve called since we landed at Troy. As you’re all aware of the situation, I see no point in belabouring it. Odysseus will put the case to you, not I. Though I am your suzerain, you gave me your troops gladly, and I respect your right to withdraw that support if you think fit, the Oath of the Quartered Horse notwithstanding. Patrokles, keep the Staff, but give it to Odysseus.’

  He stood in the middle of the floor (Agamemnon had succumbed to the increasing cold and built himself a stone house, even if its presence suggested permanence), red mane flowing back from his fine face in a mass of waves, his great grey eyes stripping
us to the marrow, to our true stature: Kings, but men for all that. We Greeks have always honoured foreknowledge, and Odysseus had it in full measure.

  ‘Patrokles, pour the wine’ was all he said to begin, then waited while the young man went the rounds of everyone. ‘It is five moons since we landed. Nothing has happened during that time outside the confines of a hollow near my ships.’

  This statement was followed by a brisk explanation that he had taken it upon himself to imprison the army’s worst soldiers in a place where they could do no harm. I knew why he would not divulge the real purpose of that hollow: he didn’t trust Kalchas or some of the tongues, even if bound by oath.

  ‘Though we’ve held no official council,’ he continued in his smooth and pleasant voice, ‘it hasn’t been difficult to ascertain the main sentiments among you. For instance, no one wants to besiege Troy. I respect your views, for the same reasons Machaon might offer – that siege brings plague and other disease in its wake – that in conquering by such means, we too might perish. So I don’t intend to discuss siege.’

  He paused to quiz us with his eyes. ‘Diomedes and I have made many nocturnal visits to the interior of Troy, where we’ve learned that if we’re still here next spring, the situation will change radically. Priam has sent to all his allies along the coast of Asia Minor, and they’ve all promised him armies. By the time the snow is off the mountains, Priam will have two hundred thousand troops at his disposal. And we will be ejected.’

  Achilles interrupted. ‘You paint a black picture, Odysseus. Is that what we were called from our homes to endure – total ignominy at the hands of an enemy we’ve encountered only once? What you’re saying is that we’ve embarked upon a fruitless crusade, enormously costly and without prospect of being paid for by enemy spoils. Where’s the plunder you promised us, Agamemnon? What has happened to your ten days’ war? What has become of your easy victory? No matter which way we turn, defeat stares at us. And in this cause some of us here today connived at human sacrifice. There are worse defeats than to go down in battle. To be forced to evacuate this beach and return home is the worst defeat of all.’

  Odysseus chuckled. ‘Are the rest of you as cast down as Achilles? I’m sorry for you, then. Yet I can’t deny that the son of Peleus speaks the truth. Added to which, if we’re here through the winter, supplies are going to be hard to get. At the moment we can take what we need from Bithynia, but the winters hereabouts, they say, are cold and snowy.’

  Achilles leaped to his feet, snarling at Agamemnon. ‘This is what I told you at Aulis, long before we sailed! You paid no attention to the problems of feeding a huge army! Choice? Do we have a choice as to whether we stay here or go home? I don’t think so. Our only alternative is to take advantage of the early winter winds and sail to Greece, never to return. You are a fool, King Agamemnon! A conceited fool!’

  Agamemnon sat very still, but held onto his temper.

  ‘Achilles is right,’ growled Idomeneus. ‘It was very badly planned.’ He drew in a breath, glaring at his co-commander. ‘I ask you, Odysseus: can we or can’t we storm the Trojan walls?’

  ‘There’s no way to storm them, Idomeneus.’

  Feeling was rising, sparked by Achilles and fuelled by the fact that Agamemnon chose to say nothing. They were all ready to fly at him, and he knew it. He sat biting his lips, his body tense with the effort of restraining his own anger.

  ‘Why couldn’t you have admitted that you weren’t capable of planning an expedition as big as this?’ Achilles demanded. ‘Were you less than you are – and were you not what you are by the grace of the Gods! – I would strike you down. You led us to Troy with no thought in your head beyond your own glory! You used the Oath to get your grand army together, then proceeded to ignore the wishes and needs of your brother – how much have you really considered Menelaos? Can you say in all honesty that you do this for the sake of your brother? Of course you can’t! You never even pretended that! From the very beginning your aim has been to enrich yourself from the sack of Troy, and carve an empire for yourself in Asia Minor! We’d all grow fat on it, I admit, but none so fat as you!’

  Menelaos cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks, his grief betraying a terrible disillusionment. While he sobbed like a child in pain, Achilles took him by the shoulder and rubbed it. The atmosphere was stormpacked; one more word and they would all be at Agamemnon’s throat. Feeling my sword arm begin to tingle, I looked at Odysseus, standing motionless with the Staff in his hand while Agamemnon locked his hands together in his lap and looked down at them.

  In the end it was Nestor who stepped into the breach. He turned on Achilles savagely. ‘Young man, your lack of respect deserves a flogging! What gives you the right to criticise our High King when men like myself do not? Odysseus levelled no charges – how dare you presume to do so? Hold your tongue!’

  Achilles took this without a murmur. He bent the knee to Agamemnon in apology, and sat down. By nature he was not a hothead, but there had been bad blood between him and Agamemnon ever since Iphigenia had died at Aulis. Understandable. His name had been used to lure the girl away from Klytemnestra, but Agamemnon hadn’t asked for his consent. Achilles couldn’t seem to forgive any of us, least of all Agamemnon, for our parts in it.

  ‘Odysseus,’ said Nestor, ‘it’s clear that you don’t have the seniority to manage this collection of noble autocrats, so give me the Staff and let me speak.’ He glared at us. ‘This meeting is a disgrace! In my young days no one would have dared to say the things I’ve heard this morning! For instance, when I was a youth and Herakles was all over the land, things were different.’

  We sat back and resigned ourselves to one of Nestor’s famous homilies, though when I thought about it afterwards, I was sure the old man started to ramble deliberately; in being forced to listen, we calmed down.

  ‘Now take Herakles,’ Nestor went on. ‘Unjustly bound to a king not fit to wear the sacred purple of office, set a series of tasks coldbloodedly chosen to bring him death or humiliation, Herakles didn’t even protest. His word was holy to him. He had nobility of mind as well as might of arm. God-got he might have been, but he was a man! A better man than you can ever hope to be, young Achilles. And you, young Ajax. The King is the King. Herakles never forgot that – not when mired to the knees in ordure, not when slipping on the brink of despair and madness. His very manliness put him above Eurystheus, the man he served. That was what all other men admired in him, honoured in him. He knew what was owed to the Gods and he knew what was owed to the King. To each he rendered scrupulously at all times. Though it did my heart good to treat him like a brother, he never took encouragement from my friendliness – I the Heir of Neleus, he accounted little better than a freak. It was his consciousness of his position as a slave, his deference and his patience won him undying love and the status of a Hero. Ai, ai! The world will never see his like again.’

  Good! He was done, he’d give the Staff back to Odysseus and the council could proceed. But he wasn’t done; instead, he embarked upon a new homily.

  ‘Theseus!’ he cried. ‘Take Theseus as another example! It was madness overtook him, not lack of nobility or forgetfulness of what is owed to the King. High King himself, I never knew him as any other than a man. Or take your father, Diomedes. He was the mightiest warrior of his day, was Tydeus, and he died before the very walls you took a generation later, Diomedes, his life unmarred by dishonour. If I had known what sort of men call themselves Kings and Heirs to Kings here on this beach at Troy, I would never have left sandy Pylos, never sailed the wine-dark sea. Patrokles, pour more wine. I wish to go on speaking, but my throat is parched.’

  Patrokles got up slowly, the most put out of all of us; it visibly hurt him to hear Achilles dressed down. The old King of Pylos guzzled an unwatered draught without blinking, licking his lips and sat down on a vacant chair near Agamemnon’s.

  ‘Odysseus, I intend to steal your thunder. I mean no offence to you in doing so, it is just that apparently it nee
ds an ancient to keep insolent young men in their place,’ he said.

  Odysseus grinned. ‘Go ahead, sire! You’ll put the case as well as I could, if not better.’

  Which was when I began to smell something fishy. The two of them had been huddling together for days – was this cooked up ahead of time?

  ‘I doubt that,’ Nestor said, bright blue eyes twinkling. ‘For one so young, you have a remarkable head on your shoulders. I shall sit here, forget personalities and stick to facts. We must approach this business without emotion, understand it without confusion or mistake. What is done is done, that’s first and foremost. What’s in the past must be kept there, not dragged up to fuel grudges.’

  He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Consider this: we have an army over one hundred thousand strong, combatant and non-combatant, sitting about three leagues from the walls of Troy. Among the noncombatants are cooks, slaves, sailors, armourers, grooms, carpenters, masons and engineers. It seems to me that if the expedition was as badly planned as Prince Achilles tries to make out, then we’d have no skilled tradesmen. Very well. That needs no discussion. We have also to consider the time factor. Our worthy priest Kalchas said ten years, and I for one am inclined to believe him. We aren’t here to defeat one city! We’re here to defeat many nations. Nations stretching from Troy to Kilikia. A task of that magnitude can’t be done in a wink. Even could we throw down Troy’s walls, it couldn’t be done. Are we pirates? Are we brigands? Are we raiders? If we are, then we would assault one city, go home again with the spoils. But I say we’re not pirates. We can’t stop with Troy! We have to go on and defeat Dardania, Mysia, Lydia, Karia, Lykia and Kilikia.’

  Achilles was caught; he was watching Nestor as if he had never seen him before. So, I noted, was Agamemnon watching.

  ‘What would happen,’ said Nestor almost musingly, ‘if we were to split our army down the middle? One half left to sit before Troy and the other half a free agent. The force at Troy would contain Troy, large enough to be at least of equal strength to any army Priam might send against it. The second force would roam up and down the coast of Asia Minor, attacking, pillaging and burning every settlement between Andramyttios and far Kilikia. It would decimate and ravage, take slaves, loot cities, lay waste the land, never appear where expected. Thus it would accomplish two things – keep both halves of our army amply supplied with food and other necessities – perhaps even luxuries – and keep Troy’s allies in Asia Minor in such perpetual fear that they’ll never manage to send Priam aid of any kind. At no point along the coast are there sufficient concentrations of people to resist a large and well-led army. But I very much doubt that any of the Asia Minor Kings will have the foresight to abandon their own lands in order to congregate at Troy.’