King in Splendour

by George Shipway

  Winning support from men like these was a long and laborious task. As Nestor had foretold, Troy to them was almost a mythical city, Krymeia and the Hellespont obscure travellers’ tales. Fortunately for us the corn dearth hit them hard, a scarcity aggravated since Thebes’ immolation and the diversion, under my orders, of grain to southern realms. They lived on starvation’s verge and were scarcely aware of the cause.

  During bitter winter days in draughty council chambers I patiently explained the economic facts, swore that plenteousness would follow Troy’s destruction, besought their help in men and ships, and set a target date for readiness in spring a year ahead.

  I distributed opulent gifts, offered subsidies--a more respectable term than bribes--promised enormous booty when Priam’s city fell and, for reluctant rulers, threatened to cut the trickle of corn that came from Copais. Occasionally I met uncomprehending refusals: an overseas invasion was a conception too enormous for limited brains to grasp. At other times I wondered why I bothered: some of these petty kinglets could muster barely ten score spears and a handful of leaky ships. Menelaus, goading me on, swore every man and galley vital to the cause.

  It is never wise for kings to leave their realms for long: absence nourishes intrigue, and affairs of state accumulate. When journeys took us south we interrupted our labours and went home. Moreover Menelaus became melancholy when separated from Helen, mooching like a callow youth suffering calf love’s keenest pangs. He told me contentedly of Helen’s delight at his homecomings, her tantrums and tears when he left, and extolled Paris’ sympathetic tenderness in comforting the desolated queen. A thoroughly nice fellow, my brother averred: he put himself out to entertain Helen and make her forget her sorrows.

  I kept a straight face, and agreed.

  Mycenae’s tributary kingdoms--Boeotia, Phocis and Locris--passively yielded eight score galleys and four thousand well-armed warriors. (Some of the ships were little more than hoys with ten or twelve oars a side.) Next we visited Aulis. Menelaus surveyed long sandy beaches alongside a sheltered harbour, and agreed on the port as a suitable place for mustering the fleets. Aulis broods above cliffs that beetle over the shore, a grimly forbidding city built from the cliffsides’ grey-black stone and blanketed by woodlands like murmurous dark-green palls. The salt-tanged sea winds that scour Aulis seem never to cleanse a miasma of evil and dread.

  After extracting from Euboia’s king a pledge of forty galleys we journeyed north to Phthia, the realm King Peleus ruled--a man with a chequered history. Exiled from Aegina for murdering his brother, Peleus fled to Phthia whose king gave him a daughter in marriage and a promised share with a son in the kingdom’s rule. Peleus, disliking rivals, promptly slew the son, which earned him a second exile. He sailed in ‘Argo’ with Jason, and after returning from Colchis bided his time and recruited the notorious Myrmidons: a gang of roughs and outlaws no decent king would employ--men resembling the ruffians who gathered once round Hercules. When the King of Phthia died Peleus swept in triumphantly at the head of his vagabond band and forcibly seized the throne.

  He had reigned for twenty years, a redoubtable old man, short in stature and shorter in speech, so crippled by some bone disease he hobbled on a staff. He feasted us in a draughty, smoke-wreathed Hall where I met Queen Thetis, a languidly affected lady in whose desiccated features the vestiges of youthful beauty lingered. ‘Saved her from drowning,’ Peleus confided. ‘Pulled her out and married her.’ (No one knows exactly what became of Peleus’ original wife but, judging from his record, one can make an intelligent guess.)

  Later on, in Council, I described the Trojan enterprise. His Councillors clamorously supported the plan: any suggestion of fighting and loot immediately won a Myrmidon’s approval. Peleus offered fifty ships.

  ‘Can’t go myself,’ he declared, and touched his crippled legs. ‘My son will lead the Host.’

  I glanced inquiringly round the chamber. ‘Your son?’

  ‘Achilles. Away in Scyros. You’ll have to go and ask him.’

  You didn’t argue with Peleus--especially when the stake was fifty galleys. The king provided a penteconter; Menelaus and I braved winds that chased out winter, and after a day’s tempestuous sailing landed at Scyros. The island’s principal city was a simple fishing village, the citadel a rough stone fort, the palace a warren of mudbrick houses connected by low-roofed corridors. Scyros’ king, Lycomedes, was a hard-bitten, whiskered mariner smelling of fish. Weary and wet from a stormy voyage I wasted no time in formalities and brusquely demanded to see Achilles.

  Lycomedes’ eyes slid sideways. ‘He’s somewhere in the palace. I’ll send a squire--’

  ‘Take me to him,’ I said impatiently.

  Lycomedes hesitated. I pointed to the door. Unwillingly he conducted us along narrow passages, through windowless, poky rooms and halted at a bronze-strapped elmwood door that muted the sounds of feminine voices and girlish trills beyond. ‘The women’s quarters,’ Lycomedes muttered.

  ‘My lord, we seek Peleus’ son. Why have you--'

  ‘Achilles is within,’

  He thrust the door wide. We entered a large square room lighted by niggardly windows. Tables and chairs were pushed in corners, a loom trailed coloured skeins. Half a dozen women clad in gauzy linen robes tossed a ball from hand to hand. Flushed faces turned towards us.

  I scanned the company. ‘Your guest appears to have gone.’

  ‘He is here,’ Lycomedes said unhappily; and beckoned one of the women. ‘My lord Achilles, the kings of Mycenae and Sparta have voyaged to Scyros to greet you.’

  An individual taller than the others sauntered across the room. I stared incredulously. Shoulder-length hair, cheekbones sharp above hollow cheeks, loose thin-lipped mouth, dimpled beardless chin. A pasty complexion pallid as milk--rare among our swarthy sunburned Heroes. Eyebrows almost white bridged bulging eyes the colour of sea-washed amber--eyes that were never still, meeting your look and flicking away, sliding over faces like a snake.

  ‘What do you want, my lords?’ A low-pitched booming voice, a startling emanation from one in feminine garb.

  I recovered my composure, and shortly stated our purpose. Achilles listened, restless-eyed, tossing and catching the ball. ‘If my father is agreeable I’ll certainly lead the Myrmidons to Troy. Let us discuss the matter.’ He lobbed the ball to one of the women. ‘Here, Persephone, catch!’ Deftly he unfastened brooch and girdle, dropped skirts to the floor and revealed a smooth-skinned body, wide shouldered, slim in the waist, a runner’s thighs and calves. ‘I shall bathe and meet you afterwards in the Hall.’

  I met Menelaus’ dumbfounded look, and shrugged. Lycomedes seated us in his grubby torchlit Hall and ordered wine. I sipped the brew--surprisingly mellow: you don’t expect ten-year vintage in a pig-pen palace like Scyros--and said in empty tones, ‘Surely a trifle unusual for a Hero to dress as a woman?’

  The king looked highly embarrassed. ‘Such is Achilles’ bent, which he comes to Scyros to indulge. In Phthia his behaviour would not be well received; so Peleus sends me his son when the urge assails him,’

  ‘And you are happy to permit this--ah--peculiarity in your house?’

  ‘King Peleus has done me favours in the past. He can also do me disfavours should I refuse. Achilles’--er--frailty is harmless, and he never touches the women save in play. He is far from unmanly, my lords,’ Lycomedes went on earnestly. ‘An unerring archer, a swift runner, invincible with spear and sword. They say he killed a boar before he was six.’

  ‘How old is he now?’

  ‘Rising eighteen.’

  ‘So.’ Far too young and green to command a Host in war, particularly unruly men like the Myrmidons. But I had no choice; Peleus had so decreed; and it was natural for a royal heir to lead in his father’s place.

  Clad in deerskin kilt, linen tunic and woollen cloak Achilles entered the Hall. Silver wire fillets bound flowing corn-gold hair. A strongly masculine figure--except for a curious sway of the hips and a hesitant lisp i
n his speech. He draped an arm round the shoulders of a strapping, thickset Hero whose weather-battered features were scarred by a spear gash from temple to jawbone. The man was introduced as Achilles’ cousin Patroclus. (A typical Myrmidon: he had fled to Peleus’ court after killing some unfortunate noble over a quarrel at dice.) His attitude towards Achilles was fondly protective, his reward a succession of simpering smiles that plainly disclosed the disease polluting them both.

  Achilles seated himself without permission and questioned me brusquely, his manner scant in courtesy, deferring not at all to the rank and age of the kings he questioned. I reined my temper and said, ‘Your Myrmidons strike an outsider as difficult men to control. They are mostly experienced veterans hitherto led by Peleus, himself a famous warrior. Will they accord you a like respect?’

  Achilles said flatly. ‘I can out-shoot, out-run, out-drive and out-fight any Hero in Phthia’s Host--and they know it, every man. They’ll follow my lead to the Shades and beyond.’ Patroclus nodded vigorously. A reserved and taciturn character, he listened attentively but seldom spoke.

  ‘Excellent!’ I slapped my knees and rose. ‘By your favour, Lord Lycomedes, I’ll find my bed. It’s been a long and stormy day.’

  In the room we shared I said to Menelaus, ‘Peleus gives us fifty galleys. His tributary cities may produce a hundred more. A sizeable contribution. In return we accept Achilles. What do you think?’

  ‘I think he’s a slippery scoundrel, and queerer in his habits than the most perverted Theban. He’ll give trouble before we’ve finished.’

  With that discomforting asseveration--which proved truer than most oracles’ predictions--my brother pulled the blankets over his head.

  * * *

  From Scyros we sailed for the Cephallenian islands. Menelaus vowed the voyage not worth the trouble, the islands’ farmer-fishermen too impoverished to help us. (In fact they produced twelve galleys.) After cruising from isle to isle we disembarked on Ithaca, commandeered pack animals and marched over broken ground to the city of Laertes, Odysseus’ father and Ithaca’s king. The palace was fairly civilized: a stone-built Hall and portico, an extensive flagstoned Court. I explained our mission to Laertes, a bent and doddery greybeard far beyond fighting age; I do not think he fully understood. Abandoning an unprofitable conversation I inquired after Odysseus.

  ‘A messenger from the harbour told him you had landed,’ Laertes wheezed. ‘Odysseus then departed to the fields.’

  Pondering this discourtesy I procured a guide and tramped with Menelaus across stone-fenced pastures and arable fields, past olive groves and vineyards to a stubble patch slanting crookedly on a hillside. A figure in the distance guided a plough team, mule and ox.

  ‘Lord Odysseus,’ said the guide.

  Deposited on the headland beneath a crumbling wall a three-year-old boy built miniature cairns from pebbles. ‘Telemachus, Odysseus’ son,’ the guide answered my inquiry.

  Cupping hands I called the ploughman’s name. He made no answer, turned his team at the boundary and plodded towards us. Twice more I hailed him. Head bent, hand on drawstring,

  Odysseus seemed intent on keeping a good straight line and showed no signs of awareness. Well before the furrows’ ending he turned the team and retreated.

  Menelaus laughed. ‘Your friend doesn’t want to know you!’ Slightly incensed, I walked to the boy and took his tiny fist. ‘Come, Telemachus. Let’s go to meet your father.’

  Together we crossed the stubble, trod new-furrowed soil and neared the stone-deaf ploughman. At a few paces’ distance I called him. He clucked to his beasts and took no notice. Thoroughly exasperated, I lifted the child and planted him in the path of the plough.

  Odysseus pulled the drawstring, dug heels in earth, slid to a halt, tore off his ferret-skin cap and hurled it on the ground. ‘Blast you, Agamemnon!’ he brayed. ‘I’ve work to do! Go away!’

  ‘You don’t receive me kindly, friend. I have crossed the sea to bring you a proposal after your heart.’

  ‘I know what you want.’ Odysseus hitched up a coarse woollen tunic, squatted cross-legged on the furrows, crooked an arm round Telemachus. ‘Achaea buzzes rumours like swarming bees. Sail to the Troad, land and capture Troy! Easy as swatting a fly! Damned madness!’

  Menelaus sauntered up, heard the tirade and grinned. ‘I am Sparta’s king, Menelaus son of Plisthenes son of Atreus. Greetings, Odysseus. I share my brother’s insanity--it runs in the family--and we’ve come to persuade a celebrated warrior to carry a spear against Priam.’ He seated himself beside the Ithacan and crumbled earth in his fingers. ‘I beseech you at least to hear our cause.’

  I joined them on the ground. ‘You have never had reason, Odysseus, to regret any venture we’ve embarked on together. Why so backward now?’

  ‘It’s all very well,’ he grumbled. Lines of worry trenched the sun-bronzed features. ‘I heard of the Trojan project moons ago, and itched to join you. Then my wife Penelope--a superstitious woman--made me consult an oracle. I went to Dodona.’ Odysseus scratched a wiry beard, and absently watched seagulls picking the furrows for worms.

  ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘What did the Selli disclose?’

  ‘Nothing good. They said if I went to Troy I wouldn’t come home for years, my followers all would die and I’d land alone in Ithaca, unrecognized and destitute.’

  ‘Oracles,’ I said, ‘can be wrong.’ (But Dodona seldom erred, and I spoke against my judgement.) ‘We’ll be gone a year at most, and spoils from the sack of Troy will make everybody’s fortune.’

  Telemachus toddled away to caress the beasts standing patiently in the yoke. Odysseus’ eyes adoringly followed his son. ‘I’ll be leaving an aged father incapable of ruling, and a beautiful wife I love. I don’t know ...’

  Menelaus said strongly, ‘Listen, Odysseus! Here are the facts.’ He repeated all the arguments, a wagging finger emphasizing points, cogently persuasive as any wily councillor. (Hard to believe my stolid brother could be so fervently eloquent.) A distant surge of waves on rocks, the cries of roving seabirds, a shepherd’s plaintive piping united in a melody to the rise and fall of his voice. ‘There’s riches to be won, and glory; the bards will hymn your deeds in songs of everlasting fame. Do you balance high adventure against the Selli’s croakings?’

  Odysseus stood and brushed soil from his tunic. He gazed around the landscape, scanned fields and stony hills and wooded slopes. ‘So be it. At least the oracle prophesied I’d return. I’ll finish ploughing this field and join you later in the palace.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘Take Telemachus with you, and keep him away from ploughs!’

  * * *

  I had accomplished my principal purpose in visiting Ithaca, acquiring for the Trojan War a man whose guile and seasoned advice I prized above all save Nestor’s. I persuaded Odysseus to join us in our wanderings and return at the end to Mycenae. After leaving instructions for manning and provisioning the ships he intended to take to Troy--three penteconters only, but sound seaworthy ships as became an experienced mariner--we vanished into Thesprotia and the kingdoms of Epiros.

  In early summer the column emerged near Megara and camped on the plain where King Eurystheus fought his fatal battle. Menelaus and I refreshed old memories in walking over the field and expounding to Odysseus the currents of the fight.

  Hyacinths and poppies dappled the ground in drifts of scarlet and blue, and veiled yellowing bones and fragile skulls that scrunched beneath our heels.

  The heat of the sun predicted a scorching summer. Odysseus collapsed on a boulder, mopped his forehead. ‘We’ve walked far enough,’ he grunted, ‘and you two maunder on like gossipy old women. Now, I’ve accompanied your tour through Thesprotia and Epiros, and thought the response half-hearted. The kingdoms promised you men and galleys. What are the pledges worth when it comes to the crunch?’

  Odysseus voiced a nagging doubt that had festered for long in my mind. ‘We can depend for sure on Crete and the kingdoms south of the Isthmus.’ I flicked a pe
bble at a basking lizard, which flashed beneath a bush in a streak of green and gold. ‘Also on Mycenae’s tributary realms. Peleus may keep his word. For the rest...’ I hunched my shoulders.

  Menelaus said baldly, ‘What strength in spears and ships can we certainly rely on?’

  With the aid of Scribes I had done my sums: the figures were scorched on my brain. ‘Four or five hundred galleys, say six thousand spears.’

  There was a heavy silence. A bird sang melodiously from an oak tree’s spring-green branches. Odysseus said softly, ‘Just over half the force you require to overcome Troy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Menelaus stirred a foot in the dust, disinterred a shin bone, balanced it on a finger. ‘And if the others don’t answer your call to Aulis next year?’

  ‘Then Priam stays unmolested.’

  Odysseus spat at a bee that probed in a poppy’s calyx. ‘Why can’t these hidebound kinglets realize the necessity for regaining Krymeia’s cornlands? Surely the stupidest idiot--’

  ‘They rule petty realms--your pardon, Odysseus: I intend no insult--whose living standards are low. The dearth of corn affects them less; always they’ve lived at starvation level; what they’ve never had they never miss.’ I sighed. ‘Nestor, moreover, touched the truth. Economic factors don’t stir Heroic minds. They need a dream to fight for, a vision more romantic than a quarrel over trade. Heroes have always fought their wars in the cause of high ideals. The Seven leaguered Thebes to right a royal Hero’s wrongs. The Twins invaded Attica to rescue Helen from Theseus. The Followers fought to avenge their fathers’ deaths. We know all these wars were waged for political reasons. The average Hero doesn’t--and the bards’ rhapsodic verses encourage his deception.’