There had been, too, a quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon – over a girl, a Trojan, my husband had taken from Achilles. Achilles, on whom all were relying for victory, who had already, years before, captured Miletus, then Tenedos single-handed with his savage Thessalians, had retired from the war, refusing to fight. Agamemnon, furious at this rebellion by a subordinate, kept the girl – Achilles continued to refuse battle.
‘Let him stay in his camp forever. Let the army strip the land,’ I told Aegisthus. ‘Let them take all we’ve got. Let us spend all we have buying supplies from elsewhere. Let Agamemnon at all costs stay in Troy.’ He did not argue, for once Agamemnon had gone I had made him Regent. We were lovers. We were building up our own forces to resist Agamemnon if he returned alive from Troy.
Aegisthus’ father had been king in Mycenae forty years earlier. He had been overthrown by his brother. All his children but one – Aegisthus – had been killed in the cruellest possible way by their own uncle, father of Agamemnon and Menelaus. He had then made himself king. Aegisthus, only remaining child of the deposed king, had lived in exile and bitterness, never forgetting that his cousin Agamemnon occupied a throne which should be his. After the sacrifice of Iphegenia and the departure of the fleet, he came to me. The commander of the small troupe of men left to guard the palace and keep peace in the realm died – I made sure of it. I then appointed Aegisthus in his place, sending word to my husband that his cousin had offered me help while he was away, pledged loyalty to the nation in its hour of need in return for a large concession of Trojan land when the war was won. I pointed out that the commander of the troops was dead. I, a woman, could not take on the burden of acting as an army commander and was terrified of attacks from inside Mycenae, or from outside, during his absence. There was also the prospect of slaves getting out of hand while their masters were away. I needed the backing of a male relative of his own, and was confident his cousin meant him no harm.
I had no word back, yes or no, although Agamemnon must have disliked the situation. Of course he mistrusted his cousin, but so far had no positive reason to do so – Aegisthus had so far lived quietly on his stricken farm. He had associated with no potential allies, sought no proud marriage with their families. Nevertheless, we both knew that at any moment my husband might decide to put an end to the Regency, perhaps in the easiest way, by making sure Aegisthus died, poisoned by a bribed servant, or stabbed one night by a returning soldier promised a price for doing the deed.
Meanwhile in secrecy Aegisthus and I coupled like beasts, our pleasure heightened immeasurably by what other things the act meant to us. Through it I was able, a little, to forget Iphegenia’s death. The knowledge that this infidelity was the beginning of revenge that would end in Agamemnon’s death was intoxicating. On his side, Aegisthus knew our union was part of his campaign to become king, a revenge for his father’s disgrace and death, and for his own years of deprivation. Seeds sown so many years before were germinating. The harvest would not be long. We were no girl and boy, gladly melting warm flesh with warm flesh – our union was cold, full of pain and woundings, for we were both carrying years of grief and bitterness to our bed. Each act of love was an affirmation of hatred, ambition and revenge. We scratched and bit and made love in unnatural ways. Publicly we kept up appearances. I played the faithful wife, Aegisthus the loyal kinsman. A few who were close to us knew the truth – they must have – and some others may have guessed, those who had sufficient understanding to read the signs.
I knew my daughter, Electra, was spying on us. At fourteen years old she pretended to be sweet and innocent. Underneath she loved her father with no natural passion and therefore hated me immoderately. If she could find evidence to betray me to Agamemnon she would do so. But Agamemnon must have had more spies in the palace. He might already know his wife was unfaithful to him, and was biding his time. Or he might soon find out.
Two weeks after the last messenger, another ship landed at Pylos. The new messenger informed me that the Hittite Great King had sent a letter to the Greek camp telling Agamemnon that out of courtesy to him and his brothers – whom he named ‘Great Kings’, although they were not, that title was for the rulers of great empires like Assyria and Egypt – he would not be supplying troops to assist the Trojans in their war. The truth was probably that Suppiluliumas was so troubled with his own enemies, he needed all his warriors for himself. Nevertheless, Agamemnon said, this news meant that there would be no skilled reinforcements for Troy. In fact, it was possible that the Great King, believing Troy would fall to the Greeks anyway, was prepared to withhold support from the Trojans as a friendly gesture to the future rulers. At all events, my husband said, this letter had settled the question of whether or not to stay on in Troy and finish the war. With Hittite reinforcements of trained troops the Trojans might have driven him out. Now, he said, what the Greek troops could not accomplish, the siege would. My first consignment of supplies had arrived, he added. The rest must come soon before winter storms held up or even wrecked the ships carrying them. He needed also gifts – iron axes, gold rings and silver vessels – to give his fellow captains. I opened the treasury and took out what he wanted and sent Pandion off straight away to the port to purchase what was necessary from incoming traders. ‘Let Agamemnon have everything he wants,’ I again said to Aegisthus.
At night on the same day a second messenger crept through the guards and the dogs and knocked quietly on the door to my apartments. He woke my woman, who woke me and I went out to him. I knew he was a Trojan, but he did not tell me so and he spoke Greek as we do. Nevertheless, I knew what he was and at first suspected he might be planning to kill me. He was very frightened. He handed me a message, written on a scrap of paper such as the Egyptians use and very stained with what looked like water, old, dirty and with some lettering on the back I could not make out. On the other side was a message, written very small in what I recognised as Akkadian lettering. At the top was a name in Greek I recognised and which much alarmed me. I had to get a slave out of bed to read it.
I went downstairs to the great hall, not properly cleared of last night’s feasting with local landowners, which had gone on until late at night as Aegisthus and I flattered them, poured them wine, listened to their stories. Tables and stools lay about, covered with dirty goblets and scraps of food. I stood on the bare floor, a cloak clutched round me in darkness. I dared not make any light for fear of attracting the attention of the household. I dreaded the scrap of letter in my own hand. The messenger sat on a stool, staring into the fireplace and trying to control his fear. Many a messenger has been put to death in sudden rage by a ruler who dislikes the message he brings, or in cold blood by one who wishes the news he brings to remain a secret.
The slave arrived, a bent man of about forty, a diplomat from Calcemish first caught on a Phoenician boat and whose identity we had denied when representations were made for his return. We said he was dead. He looked apprehensive and became more so when I told him if he revealed anything of what the message contained to anyone else he would die, and slowly. In a low voice he read out what the letter said. I watched him scan the message before he began to read. As he did so he paled and began to shake with fear.
‘Read it,’ I ordered, and he began, in a low voice. ‘This is from Helen by the hand of Sinon of Troy, a friend. It says “Sister – our position here is grave and I fear the future. People are beginning to die and we have word there will be no reinforcements from Suppiluliumas. I fear to be widowed in the fighting, but more I fear capture by those who hate me when we are defeated. Will you get word to my husband Menelaus that I will gladly come back to him but first I must know he will take me back without harming me. I depend on you for my life. Get word to me if Menelaus will take me back. Do this in the name of our father, Tyndareus. Help me.”’
I believed the letter to be authentic. Perhaps Priam and Hecuba had been her accomplices, knew of Helen’s plan to leave Troy safely. With Helen gone the war could end. But whether
Helen was truly operating secretly or part of a Trojan plot did not matter to me. What counted was how it would affect my own plans. The slave ceased to read and the messenger stood gaping at me. Well, the Trojan must have reckoned on death from the outset and I suppose the slave knew before he began reading that his chance of seeing dawn that day was small. Neither of them could be allowed to live to tell the tale. I snatched the paper from the slave, pulled my cloak round me and began to scream for the guards. They raced in as I yelled there was a Trojan plot to murder me and the two men were dragged out and quickly butchered outside the palace. I heard the sounds. Next day there would be punishments for those who had allowed the assassins to get into the palace.
Aegisthus came in then, with some of the women and I told my tale of the spy, the bribed slave and the attempt to murder me. I kept the paper in my hand inside my cloak.
Upstairs in my bedchamber I told Aegisthus the real story. He gazed at the paper in amazement, holding it in his hand. We talked in whispers. ‘You think Menelaus would take her back?’ he asked.
‘I think so.’
‘So do I,’ he said. ‘Do you want to help her?’
‘That’s another matter,’ I told him. He nodded.
It was partly, as far as he was concerned, a test of faith for me. If Agamemnon died in the war he could almost certainly marry me, the widow of the king, and take over the kingdom. But he never quite trusted me to kill Agamemnon if he returned and anyway, there was danger in the action – a general returning surrounded by battle-hardened troops can be hard to kill. Even if he dies, after the killing the troops may turn on the murderers.
‘It would be better if he died in war,’ I said.
‘The risk is – that he’ll come back victorious.’
‘That I know.’
‘But your son?’
‘Twelve, sickly and away at the court of King Strophius, Orestes is no threat.’
In darkness we talked over and over the subject. Was the message what it purported to be? If Menelaus took Helen back would the war still continue? I knew I must ignore the message. I could not risk the war ending as long as there was any chance Agamemnon would be killed in Troy. If Agamemnon returned unharmed, the risk of bungling his death existed – and if that happened, Aegisthus and I would both die.
As for Helen, she had made her bed, I thought, and must lie on it. I had no hatred for her, but I could not let her upset my plans. She would have treated me the same.
‘Destroy the message,’ Aegisthus urged.
I agreed. There was no choice. It is a hard and bitter thing for any ruler to do, to refuse a chance to end a war. In fact even then I did not destroy the paper.
‘I’ll hide it,’ I said. ‘We may need to use it later.’
‘Why?’ he asked passionately. ‘What use will it ever be?’
The truth was, it gave me power over him. As long as I had the paper, I had power to end the war, bring my husband home unharmed and reconcile with him. I knew I would not do that, but Aegisthus did not. As long as the paper existed Aegisthus could not be quite sure of me, and that was better.
I told him, plausibly, ‘We may need the message from Helen for reasons we can’t anticipate now. It would be foolish to destroy it. What harm can it do, hidden? What harm to you? If Agamemnon’s killed, he’s killed. If he’s victorious, you take his kingdom anyway – and the new kingdom he’s won for us. But,’ I said, ‘we cannot be sure one day it may not suit us to try to end the war, so we’ll keep this paper. What we must be aware of,’ I warned, ‘are Helen’s further efforts to persuade Menelaus to accept her back – once she thinks this message went astray she may find other ways of trying to seduce him.’ This thought at least diverted Aegisthus from his plan to get rid of the message at all costs. ‘The women here are praying for her death,’ he said.
‘They fear for their men. The women of Troy will be praying even harder,’ I said.
‘You’ve no love for your sister.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘Better to destroy the message,’ he urged again. ‘If word gets out you had the means of ending the war and failed to use it you’ll be hated too.’
‘A message no one can read delivered by a dead messenger?’
‘Still dangerous.’
‘You cannot rule without danger,’ I told him. That much at least I had learned from Agamemnon.
The matter was causing a division between us. I turned to him and made him love me. We could not afford to be enemies.
Eighteen
Thessaly
I stared aghast at my visitor, chilled by this dreadful story, delivered by Helen in the deep-timbred, calm, yet terrible voice which must have been her sister’s. I was not only terrified by that voice, which made it seem as if the long-dead queen were in the room with us. Part of my horror was knowing that if Clytemnestra had chosen to intervene in her sister’s case, Troy would not have fallen. History would have changed.
I wondered what these two sisters were – one, for love of a man, began a war. The other, for hatred of a man, let the war continue, a war which otherwise might have ended after six months. To disguise my feelings I bent and put another log on the fire. Yet, as I straightened up and looked at Helen, I think my voice was unsteady as I asked, ‘She had a message from you asking her to construct a reconciliation between yourself and Menelaus and she did nothing? That was in the first summer of the war? She did nothing?’
Helen, oblivious to all I was thinking and feeling, continued, implacably self-centred, ‘I did not want to leave Paris. I loved him with all my heart. But I was afraid when I saw such a mighty army. I could not believe Troy would hold out against Agamemnon and Menelaus. I knew them, remember, all too well –’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I feared them so much. I believed only my sister could have negotiated my return.’
‘When you heard nothing from her, knew she was not speaking to Menelaus on your behalf, couldn’t you have used someone else as intermediary? Why did you not speak to Priam and Hecuba? Or even Achilles might have helped you. He was losing his taste for the war.’
‘I waited,’ Helen told me. ‘I couldn’t believe she would not help me. I took the delay to be the kind of pause which takes place when people are in delicate negotiations with each other – I knew Menelaus could not take me back without loss of face; that the Greek alliance might want to continue the attack on Troy whether I returned or not. A formula had to be found. I would have had to act in a certain way – you know these things, Cassandra,’ she appealed to me. I nodded. ‘Then it was nearly autumn. Then winter. I sent another message, asking her to speed the matter on. That ship sank. The message never arrived, though I did not know it then. And by the end of the year I began to give up hope. By then the war had gone too far. Too many were dead or dying. It would not have been possible to return to Menelaus – he would have been forced to kill me, or exile me on some distant rocky island. I could not have returned,’ she repeated hopelessly, as if recalling what she had felt then. She smiled. ‘Your prophecies always said Troy would fall. You can hardly believe that if my sister had arranged my return to Menelaus the outcome would have been different. We were all agents of fate, slaves obeying cruel orders.’ She paused again. ‘I should never have trusted a woman to help me, still less my sister.’
‘You tried to escape, however –’ I said.
‘I do not want to remember –’ she told me.
There must be many things she did not want to recall, I thought, and asked, ‘How is Troy now?’
‘Rebuilt,’ she said carelessly. ‘I saw it a few years ago. They rebuilt without expense, just took the old stones and used them for new, low buildings. The temple’s still destroyed. They’ve left it there as an example to all who challenge Greek rights.’
‘Rights,’ I said bitterly.
She shrugged the pretty shrug I remembered. ‘I suppose these days you’d call the city a trading post – low buildings, hens and goats in and out of everywhere, few inhabitants
. The harbour’s functioning, of course, that’s where the wealth comes from.’
‘Are there slaves?’ I asked.
‘Slaves – of course there are slaves. Of course they’re all –’ Trojans, she had been about to say. My people. She had spoken on without considering what feelings the words might arouse in me – my city reduced and ruled by the enemy; my people, slaves. She managed to check herself and said hastily, ‘There was no one I recognised, Cassandra, of course not. I would have told you. This is – you are lucky to be alive and well, and have lovely children.’
‘You are rich in Sparta?’ I questioned.
‘Mycenae is richer. They call it the city of gold.’
‘The city of gold,’ I repeated.
Nineteen
Troy, Summer
And so the Phoenician, my Phoenician, left in spring for his summer trading and three weeks later I was standing, as I often did, sleep being difficult, on the ramparts of the city looking to the horizon to see the dawn come. I was thinking, I suppose, that I should have followed my instinct and left with Arvad, not letting the conventions of marriage settlements and preparations deter me.
The women had been at their looms for weeks, weaving my wedding clothes and the gifts I would take with me on my marriage. A great cloak of red and silver was being made for me. It came to me that morning, I would never wear it.
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