by Glyn Iliffe
‘I’ve travelled for many days to come here, have fought two battles and lost three men. If you don’t wish to earn your master’s wrath, then I suggest you ask him to come here so he can tell me himself to leave. As I told you, I’ve come to see the daughter of Tyndareus, and see her I will.’
‘Then you’ve found her,’ said a voice from behind them. They turned to see a tall woman dressed all in black, escorted by four slave girls and two guards. She was tall, handsome and elegant, and had a commanding femininity about her, but Eperitus could not help but feel disappointed. He sensed the same reaction from Odysseus, whose eyes lingered briefly on the woman’s harsh and reproving mouth and the ears that stuck out like the handles on an amphora.
Recovering from his surprise, the prince stepped up to her and bowed. ‘Your reputation does not do you justice, Helen of Sparta.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘And your reputation does not exist, Odysseus of Ithaca. But let’s not get muddled about identities. For one thing, I am Clytaemnestra, daughter of Tyndareus and wife of Agamemnon. Helen – my sister – is within the palace, so if you’re here to join the general rabble you’d better follow me.’
At her command the massive gates were swung inward by invisible hands to reveal a spacious yet crowded courtyard within. They followed Clytaemnestra into the compound, which was surrounded by the magnificent stonework, high walls and countless windows and doorways of the palace. There were stables filled with scores of splendid horses, a dozen or more ornate chariots propped up against the palace walls, a host of richly armoured guards, and countless slaves rushing to and fro on untold errands. They had entered a city within a city, a place that teemed with people and yet was perfectly ordered.
‘Things are usually busier,’ Clytaemnestra commented. ‘Especially since the other suitors have been arriving. But today the mighty warriors are all out hunting boar. Things have been getting a little . . . shall we say strained? . . . in the palace of late, with all those former enemies living together under one roof. I’m sure that, as men, you’ll understand. So Tyndareus has taken them out into the hills for the day.’
She turned about and placed her hands on her hips, staring at them one after the other and assessing the state of their shabby clothes and battered armaments.
‘I apologize for the guard,’ she said, a hint of genuine kindness entering her voice for a brief moment. ‘He probably thought you were brigands. He does have orders to keep out the more general riff-raff, but he isn’t very bright in distinguishing between a commoner and a well-travelled nobleman. But the invitation was a general one and, if you truly are a prince, Odysseus of Ithaca, then you are welcome here. I’m also sorry you have to endure the welcome of a mere woman in my father’s absence, but you can rest assured that both he and my husband will want an audience with you this evening. There’ll be a banquet, of course, to feast on the boars they kill today, and you will all be guests of honour. But until then I’ll do what I can to see you are well housed.
‘The chief steward will take your guest-gifts, or you can wait to give them to Tyndareus in person if you prefer. Most do, though it makes little difference to him. He has so many swords, spears, daggers, tripods and the like that he doesn’t know what to do with them any more. And nobody ever brings anything for Helen herself, poor sister. I suppose you’re the same?’
‘I regret to say we haven’t brought any gifts at all,’ Odysseus answered, his tone even and pleasant.
‘Not even for the king?’ Clytaemnestra asked, momentarily shocked. Then her growing look of impertinent boredom was swept away and she stared at Odysseus with a new-found interest. ‘Well, that’s certainly different. What strange customs you must have in your part of Greece.’
Odysseus shrugged complacently. ‘We had many adventures on our journey here and, regrettably, our gifts were lost on the way. So we come empty-handed in the hope that your father will accept, in place of gifts, our services and lasting friendship.’
‘We’ll see,’ she replied. ‘But you interest me, at least, and I think Helen might find some of your qualities more than interesting.’ Her eyes shot a glance at one of the windows that overlooked the courtyard, but an instant later she looked back at Odysseus as if her gaze had never left him. ‘I wouldn’t call you handsome, but what’s one more fine figure amongst a host of fine figures? Now, I’ll arrange for you and your men to receive baths and new clothes, as well as something to eat. Then you’ll be taken to your rooms.’
‘You still have rooms left?’ Eperitus asked.
‘You’re not in Ithaca now.’ She smiled at him. ‘This is Sparta, and you’re in the palace of its king. Tyndareus could house an army of suitors before he worried about having enough rooms, as you will see.’
And so, like a pack of obedient hounds, they followed the princess across the busy courtyard. The servants and soldiers barely noticed them as they entered the stream of activity, a mere ripple in the already choppy waters of palace life. But, despite their indifference, Eperitus felt that he and his comrades had crossed the threshold of a world much wider and deeper than anything any of them had experienced before, and from which none of them would emerge the same again.
Chapter Sixteen
THE GREAT HALL
Odysseus did not tell the others that he was fated to fail in his mission. Athena’s words were not for their ears, he told Eperitus, and it would only demoralize them to know that Menelaus had already been chosen as Helen’s husband. What would they care for alliances with other princes and kings, when they believed that Ithaca’s only salvation lay in his marrying Tynda-reus’s daughter?
They were walking the clean, well-built corridors of the uppermost level of the palace, where the Ithacans had been assigned two rooms between them and a thick straw mattress for each man. People were everywhere, even on the upper floors – mostly household slaves or soldiers from various Greek states. The former went about their duties with vigour and concentration, owing to the large number of duties that had been imposed on them with the coming of the suitors. The latter idled about singly or in pairs, admiring the palace, stopping the overworked servants with requests for food or drink, or trying to find female slaves with time on their hands and a mind for some private relaxation. Nobody carried weapons. It was a rule of the king that all arms were to be handed in at the armoury and stored there whilst their owners remained in the palace. The chief armourer, a man of many words, told them of the near-fatal arguments this had caused, so attached were the many warriors to their weapons. But compared with the bloodshed that would have occurred in the palace had Tyndareus not ordered this precaution, the price was a small one.
Eperitus sat with Odysseus on the wall of one of the third-floor balconies and looked down at the city of Sparta. They were joined by a warrior who introduced himself as Peisandros, son of Maimalos of Trachis. He was a spearman in the army of the Myrmidons, a name which he explained meant ants and was given to them for their hard-working nature. His captain was Patroclus, who had come to Sparta as the representative of Achilles.
‘Why doesn’t Achilles come himself?’ Eperitus asked.
Peisandros laughed heartily at his question. He was a barrel-chested man with a huge beard and a roaring guffaw that shook the air.
‘Why doesn’t he come? Because he’s still a child, that’s why.’
‘A child!’ Odysseus exclaimed. ‘But I’ve heard he has the respect of kings and fame that extends throughout Greece. How can a child exceed his elders in glory?’
‘He has a great lineage,’ Peisandros explained. ‘His father is Pelops, whom these lands are named after, and his mother is Thetis, a sea-nymph. It’s said she took him as an infant to the river Styx that flows from Hades itself, and dipped him in its waters to make him immortal. No arrow’s point or sword’s blade can harm him, no spear pierce him or axe slice his flesh. His tutors were Phoenix, the wise king of the Dolopes, and Chiron the centaur, so he has education beyond his years. They also taught him to figh
t and, my friends, if you could see him wield a spear and shield, child though he is, you would never again scoff at his age.’
‘But how can a child expect to marry Helen? Why would the most beautiful woman in Greece choose him over grown men?’ Eperitus asked.
Peisandros slapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Since when has marriage between royalty been for anything other than power? Achilles could still be in his mother’s womb for all they care; it’s his parentage and his prospects that count for them. And there are all sorts of prophecies about his future greatness. At least when we lesser nobles marry there’s something more than alliances and wealth involved. Take my wife for example.’ Here he paused and ordered a girl carrying a basket of barley cakes to come over. He helped himself to a handful, gave Odysseus and Eperitus a few, then sent the slave on her way with a pat on the backside. Peisandros stuffed one of the wafers into his mouth and continued. ‘Now, my wife can cook, which is the most important thing, but she’s a handsome lass too. She isn’t a Helen, of course, but . . .’
‘Tell us about Helen,’ Odysseus interrupted, biting into one of the cakes. ‘You must have seen her by now. Is she as beautiful as they say?’
Peisandros thought for a while in silence, looking across the valley to Mount Taygetus. ‘No, she’s not as beautiful as they say, because they can’t describe her kind of beauty. Helen’s got the best of everything a man could want, of course, and rumour has it that her real father is Zeus himself. But there’s a spirit in the girl that can’t be captured by words. She’s too . . . free, I would say, though that falls short too. Even the poets tear their beards out in frustration when they see her. New words would need to be thought up, and even they would only have any meaning to those who’d actually seen her.’
‘She must be wonderful,’ Odysseus said, ‘if she can make bards out of the toughest warriors.’
‘She is, my friend, and she does. I’m no man of words – my spear talks well enough for me – but even the simplest soldier has to spend hours and days trying to dress her up in words. All of us fail, of course, and our princes and kings fare no better; but if we don’t try to comprehend her in some way – to contain her within words if you like – then we’d lose our minds.’
Eperitus thought of Athena in her full immortal brilliance as he had seen her by the moon-silvered spring, and wondered if Helen had a similar effect on mortal eyes. Although he had not thought of Athena as beautiful, this was only because he did not consider the physical aspect of her being. As a goddess she was but one thing and one thing only: glorious. He had hardly been able to look at her, because in her was the immeasurable, unattainable, incomprehensible essence of perfection. She had lacked only the one shade of absolute supremacy, which belonged to Zeus himself, whom no mortal can witness in his true form and live.
‘You might be fortunate enough to see her this evening,’ Peisandros added, ‘and then you can judge for yourselves. I’ve discussed her with others in my troop and we all see something different. For me she has something of the moon in her: a hard, cold, ageless beauty, aloof and alone in a world of darkness. You might see the brilliance of the sun, the source of the rest of your life. Or she may remind you of the sea – she does others – with a beauty that goes on for ever and is too deep to fathom. She’s all of these things, I can tell you, and much more beyond your understanding. But I warn you, too: to see her is also a curse. I’ll never forget her, not even when my tortured soul is sent to the halls of Hades, where they say everything is forgotten. It makes me sad to know the world I once loved will never hold the same wonder as it did before, because she’s taken its place in my heart. There’s some kind of witchcraft in her to do that in a man.’
He fell silent and looked out over the valley again. Could Helen really have that effect on men? Eperitus wondered. Part of him did not want to find out – would rather he walk out of that palace of the damned before it was too late. But the stronger part was intrigued by Peisandros’s words.
‘Come now,’ Odysseus said. ‘Surely you don’t mean the girl practises the dark arts.’
Peisandros cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t,’ he said, ‘but there’s no doubt it runs in the family.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Eperitus, leaning forward.
Peisandros turned to the two men and gave them a dark stare. ‘I mean there are a lot of rumours about Leda, Helen’s mother, and even more about Clytaemnestra. I’ve heard it said all Leda’s children were born from eggs, and that’s strange enough, but few question that Clytaemnestra is a follower of the old gods. She and Helen are as different as night and day, of course, but it doesn’t mean Helen doesn’t have something strange in her blood. It would explain the way she can bend any man to her will.’
Eperitus looked at Odysseus, who returned his gaze but revealed nothing of what was in his mind.
‘Then let’s talk no more of women, Peisandros,’ the prince said. ‘Tell us about the other suitors – who they are and where they’ve come from.’
‘There’s already too many to remember,’ Peisandros laughed, ‘and more arrive every day. But I’ll name the most famous – all powerful and from good stock. First to come was Agamemnon, son of Atreus and king of Mycenae. You’ve met Clytaemnestra, so you already know he hasn’t come as a suitor: he’s here to support his brother’s claim.’
‘Menelaus? I already know about him,’ Odysseus murmured.
‘And a fine man he is, too. Rumour says he’s already been chosen as Helen’s husband. But that’s just gossip between the men, of course,’ Peisandros added, remembering Odysseus was a suitor. ‘What would we know of politics, after all?
‘Then there’s Nauplius’s son, Palamedes. He has a face like a rat, but Helen couldn’t wish for a more intelligent and inventive husband. Then there’s Idomeneus, king of Crete and son of Deucalion. He has all the attributes a woman could want: strength, courage, wealth and power. Good looks, too. Next comes Menestheus, son of Peteos. His father made him king of Athens at a young age and now he’s come here to find a wife worthy of his position. Athens is an ambitious state, and he’s confident Helen will be his.
‘The most recent arrival, other than yourselves, is King Diomedes of Argos, Tydeus’s son. He arrived this morning, refusing refreshment or rest so that he could join the boar hunt. When I saw him walk through the gates, I thought a god had come to preside over the festivities. I tell you now, if he isn’t chosen as Helen’s husband – if you’ll forgive me saying so, Odysseus – then Tyndareus has already made up his mind and this whole gathering is a charade.’
At that point they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in the streets below, accompanied by the shouts and laughter of a multitude of men. The hunters were returning in good spirits.
‘Roast boar tonight then,’ Peisandros said, leaning over the balcony and trying to catch a glimpse of the returning warriors.
‘I’d expect no less,’ Eperitus commented, joining him. ‘If the best warriors in Greece can’t spear a couple of boars, then who can?’
The Myrmidon laughed. ‘Just as long as they aren’t trying to spear each other, that’s all I care about.’
The great hall of the palace at Sparta dwarfed Laertes’s throne room back on Ithaca, easily accommodating the hundreds of guests and slaves who were busy with the night’s feast. At its centre were four painted columns of wide girth, supporting a ceiling so high that it was almost lost in shadow. A great pall of smoke gathered there from the central fire, curling about the rafters like a serpent upon the branches of a tree.
Every room in the palace complex was clean, roomy and magnificently decorated. The walls abounded with an endless variety of animals, birds, fishes and plants, skilfully depicted in vibrant colours that made the creatures seem alive as they stalked each other between bushes and trees, lakes and rivers. But these were only the commonplace designs, used to enrich the hundreds of functional rooms that filled the palace. The more important rooms such as the gre
at hall and the royal quarters were decorated with scenes from legendary battles or stories concerning the gods. Some pictured mythical creatures, whilst others showed human figures at work or play: there were naked boys running foot races; others wrestling or boxing; yet more competing with javelin or discus. It was a place of such wealth and luxury that the halls of Olympus itself would have struggled to surpass it.
The hunters’ return had filled the palace with the hubbub of many people. Odysseus kept his men confined to their rooms on the upper floor, but outside they could hear the many kings and princes disperse to their separate quarters to bathe and put on fresh clothing. Only when Clytaemnestra, still dressed in black, came to bid them join the feast at her father’s request did the Ithacans leave and descend the broad steps to the floors below.
Filing out across the central courtyard towards the entrance to the great hall, they passed the carcasses of scores of bullocks, sacrificed to bring the blessings of the gods and feed the many revellers whom the four or five roasted boar would not. The blood ran down in thick rivulets across the muddy floor and gathered in pools of deep red. The smoke from the burned thigh-bones and fat which the priests had offered up to the gods choked the air and put a pall over the face of the early evening moon.
Before Odysseus and his men had even left their rooms the sound of the feasting had been like the hum of ten thousand bees in their ears, but as they stepped into the great hall the full force of it burst upon them like a roaring sea. Wine-lubricated tongues fought to gain ascendancy over each other as well-fed, big-voiced men shouted to be heard by their neighbours amongst the drunken cacophony. Laughter, music, excited voices, arguments and shouts from one side of the room to the other filled the air, and the babble of sound was matched by the chaos of movement. For each guest there must have been two slaves, rushing here and there with kraters of wine, baskets of bread, platters of meat and small tables on which to set them; unarmed warriors leaned across each other in vociferous debate or lolled about arm in arm, seeking either wine or women amongst the busy slaves; there were stewards and squires chasing the servants or running after their noble masters, and the whole chaotic scene moved with an instinctive, flowing rhythm that sucked the Ithacans in and dragged them inevitably towards its natural vortex.
