The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  Chapter Twenty

  GALATEA

  Eperitus was woken the next morning by Arceisius, kneeling beside his straw mattress and shaking him gently by the shoulder.

  ‘Is it time?’ he said, his voice creaking with tiredness. The air beyond his thick woollen blanket was cold and damp, and he could sense the sun had not yet risen.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Arceisius replied, standing and pulling away the blanket. ‘Talthybius is outside with the ponies and King Odysseus is dressing in his tent. The gods have sent a thick mist to cover our departure, but it’ll lift once the sun rises.’

  Eperitus stood and pulled on his tunic. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Still sleeping. I’ll wake Eurylochus and Polites, sir, if you’ll see to Antiphus.’

  Eperitus dressed quickly and followed Arceisius outside, where Talthybius greeted them with a silent nod. Behind him, half hidden in the fog, were the dark shapes of eight ponies – one for each of the party and another for their supplies. Their handlers stood nearby, rubbing their hands against the cold and talking in low voices.

  As Arceisius disappeared into the white mist, Eperitus walked up to one of the ponies and ran a hand over its neck. The animal raised its head, snorted and twitched its tall ears.

  ‘Hello, boy. Ready for a long journey?’

  ‘His name’s Sophanax, sir,’ said one of the handlers, breaking off from his conversation. ‘He might not be quick, but he’ll take you wherever you need to go.’

  Eperitus had spent his youth with horses and knew at a glance that the pony was well fed, well treated and strong. He nodded at the handler.

  ‘Keep this one for Polites. He doesn’t know a horse’s head from its arse and he’ll need something strong to take his weight. Do you have a quicker animal for me?’

  ‘Little Melite’s fast on her feet, but she’s spirited,’ the man said, pointing to a small grey mare whose head was bent to the ground, busily tearing at the coarse grass.

  ‘She’ll do,’ Eperitus replied, then went to wake Antiphus.

  They started slowly. Though Eperitus, Odysseus and Talthybius were good horsemen, the others had lived their entire lives on a small, rocky island – with the exception of Polites – and were not used to anything larger or quicker than a mule. They struggled to control their mounts as they negotiated their way out of the camp, and even before the sun had nudged above the hills of Euboea behind them there were complaints of soreness, most notably from Eurylochus. But as soon as they reached the small town of Aulis they were able to pick up the road that led west towards the Peloponnese, and from there the going became easier.

  Talthybius, who had travelled the route several times before, confidently informed them they would reach Mycenae by the fourth day. Eperitus did not share his faith in the abilities of their travelling companions, but as they crossed the lowlands of Boetia their progress improved and by afternoon they were passing the ruins of Thebes. Diomedes had laid waste to it in his youth, slaying or scattering its population with such ruthlessness that the proud city was still unoccupied over ten years later. Only bands of brigands and other outlaws lived amidst its broken walls and charred houses now, presenting a danger to all who passed by. Eperitus’s sharp eyesight picked out their faces among the shadows, eyeing them greedily as they trotted past, but he knew they would not dare to challenge a party of seven armed warriors.

  By evening they reached a line of low mountains, anchored at its western end by the broad peak of Mount Cytheron. Already the persistent rain and squally winds of Aulis had given way to clear skies and a gentle breeze that came down from the foothills, lifting their spirits as they made camp. Antiphus took his bow and went hunting, and by the time the chariot of the sun had disappeared beneath the peaks to the west they were eating roast goat and exchanging stories around a blazing fire. A ceiling of stars sparkled overhead and the miserable weather of the past few weeks was quickly forgotten.

  It took them the whole of the following day to find their way across the mountains. The road that had made their journey easy up to this point now became a rough and poorly maintained track, often requiring them to dismount and lead their ponies along narrow escarpments or past perilous drops. The sun blazed down from a naked sky, slowing their progress even further as they toiled and sweated over and around the undulating contours of the hills. But Talthybius remained cheerful and undaunted, and eventually they saw the port of Eleusis below them, with the Saronic Sea glittering like gold beyond it. They reached the town by last light, and though it was small and unimpressive they were able to find an inn where they feasted on skewered fish and barley cakes, washed down with kraters of good wine. That night they slept under a solid roof for the first time in many days.

  By dawn of the next morning they were mounted again and riding in single file along the coastal road that would take them to Megara and, ultimately, the city of Corinth in the north of Agamemnon’s realm. The island of Salamis, where Great Ajax was king, lay on their left. As Eperitus watched the new sun rising over its low hills, his mind drifted back to the words Calchas had spoken to him in Priam’s throne room. He had thought of little else since he and Odysseus had been summoned before Agamemnon three days before, when the King of Men had ordered them to fetch his eldest daughter from Mycenae to be married to Achilles. The fact she was only nine years old, and the Phthian prince was already married to King Lycomedes’s daughter, Deidameia, should have warned him that all was not as it seemed. But Eperitus could only think that, against all his expectations, he would soon be in Mycenae. Here he would seek out the one Calchas had spoken of, a person who could reveal to him the secret that would make him reject the coming war. What could Calchas have meant? What could make him turn his back on battle and the chance for glory? Who would reveal this mystery to him, and how would he find him? And what was the second secret the priest had mentioned, that would compel him to return to Troy whether there was a war or not?

  The answers were beyond Eperitus’s capacity to think. In his frustration he was tempted again and again to share these things with Odysseus, whose thoughts were much clearer and deeper than his own. But Calchas’s words seemed too private even for their friendship, and so he was forced to wait in lonely silence, anxiously chewing the mystery over and over again in his mind.

  He heard hooves quickening over the stone road behind him and turned to see Odysseus coming alongside. The king gave one of his reassuring smiles.

  ‘You’ve been very quiet since we left the camp, Eperitus,’ he began, keeping his voice low so that the others could not hear him. ‘What’s troubling you?’

  ‘This mission,’ Eperitus lied, after pausing to consider his reply. ‘I don’t understand why Agamemnon has suddenly decided to marry his daughter to Achilles. She won’t have reached puberty yet and he’s already married, so why do we have to trudge halfway across Greece to fetch the poor girl?’

  ‘Eurylochus asks that question with every step his pony takes,’ Odysseus responded, looking back at his cousin’s strained face. ‘But you’re right. There’s something strange about this – something we haven’t been told. And why wasn’t Achilles allowed to know?’

  ‘Would you be pleased if you were told you were going to marry a nine-year-old?’

  ‘No, and I think they’re afraid he would have stopped us from going if he’d known the purpose of our journey. The problem is, he’s under no obligation to accept the marriage anyway and can just as easily say no to the girl when we bring her back as he could have done before we set off. So why would Agamemnon send for his daughter, only to have her sent home again if Achilles refuses to marry her? I can only think the important thing isn’t the marriage: either he’s looking for an excuse to get us out of the way – which wouldn’t make sense – or he wants Iphigenia to be brought to Aulis for some other reason.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  Odysseus threw another glance over his shoulder, this time to ensure they would not be overheard. ‘Insurance. He k
nows Clytaemnestra has no love for him, and I don’t think he trusts her not to try to take the kingdom for herself while he’s away. But she does love Iphigenia, so as long as he holds her he knows Clytaemnestra won’t dare do anything foolish.’

  Eperitus was impressed, though not surprised, by his friend’s analysis of the situation. But he also wondered whether Agamemnon’s sending them to Mycenae had anything to do with the secret Calchas said would be revealed to him there. He had a gut feeling that it did.

  ‘Whatever the reason, though,’ Odysseus continued after they had ridden in silence for a while, ‘I’m glad to be away from Aulis. And it isn’t just those unnatural storms – all that waiting around and doing nothing was slowly robbing me of my sanity.’

  Eperitus nodded. ‘Yes, it is good to be travelling again. The last long journey we took by road was when we went to Sparta, all those years ago. And we didn’t have ponies then.’

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ Odysseus laughed. ‘But do you remember those pack animals? I’ve seen more flesh on a sparrow.’

  ‘I remember trying to get the damned things across that river,’ Eperitus said. ‘But I remember the fights best. Do you think we’ll have as much fun at Troy?’

  ‘I hope we’ll never get there,’ Odysseus replied, as if to remind his friend he had not yet accepted the inevitability of war. ‘But if a warrior can’t enjoy a good scrap, then what can he enjoy? There are a lot of good men whose spirits will go down to Hades’s halls before it’s all over, though, Achilles among them.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine there’s a man alive who could kill him,’ Eperitus said. ‘You’ve seen his mock fights with the Ajaxes – they’re both excellent warriors, but he’s twice as quick as they are. If they were his enemies rather than his friends he’d have killed them both a hundred times over. And he can wrestle, box and run, too, better than anyone else I’ve seen.’

  ‘And yet his own mother has predicted he’ll die at Troy,’ Odysseus said. He spat contemptuously on the road. ‘There are too many prophecies about this war. Soon a man won’t dare to lift his spear in anger for fear of bringing about his own death – or being doomed not to see his homeland for twenty years.’

  Eperitus sensed his friend’s pain as he thought of his family. If Penelope had been his wife and Telemachus his son, he wondered whether any oath would be able to separate him from them. But he also knew that Odysseus had the courage and endurance to do his duty if the war came, and go to Troy and fight until he was the last man alive if the gods demanded it.

  At that point, Odysseus leaned forward and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘What do you think’s got into Polites?’ he asked.

  He pointed to where the giant warrior – the foremost in their party – had stopped his pony and was staring ahead of himself, also holding up a hand against the bright sunlight. The next instant, he jumped from his pony and ran towards a crumpled shape at the side of the road. Eperitus and Odysseus spurred their own ponies into a gallop, covering the distance in a few moments. They dismounted and ran to where Polites was scooping something large and heavy from among the rocks.

  ‘What is it?’ Odysseus demanded.

  ‘Not it, my lord,’ the Thessalian replied in his deep, slow voice. He stood and turned to face them. ‘She.’

  Draped between his muscular arms was a girl. Her eyes were shut and her head hung limply across the crook of his elbow, a cascade of black hair flowing almost to the ground. Her young cheeks were smeared with blood and dirt, as were her long, suntanned limbs. One of her sandals was missing and her white cotton dress had been torn open to expose her pale breasts.

  Polites’s broad, flat face stared down at her with tender pity, and for a moment Eperitus thought she was dead. Then he saw a faint movement of her ribs and knew there was still breath within her.

  ‘She’s alive!’ he exclaimed, reaching for the skin of water that hung over his shoulder and pulling out the stopper. ‘Bring her here, Polites.’

  He tipped some of the lukewarm liquid into the palm of his hand, then poured it over her forehead and rubbed away the dirt and blood with his thumb. Her skin was warm and soft, which gave him hope she was still far from death. He did the same to each cheek, then lifted the mouth of the water skin to her lips and, after pulling them open to reveal her bottom teeth and her tongue, allowed some of the liquid to flow into her mouth. At once, the girl choked and brought her head forward, coughing until the water ran back out over her chin and neck.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she blinked up at Eperitus. A moment later she flung her arm across her face and turned her head away.

  ‘Why don’t you leave me alone!’ she cried. ‘You’ve taken all I have. What more do you want?’

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Eperitus said. ‘We’re not going to harm you.’

  ‘We found you by the road,’ Polites added. ‘You’ll be safe with us.’

  The girl was no more than twenty years old, and with the dried blood and streaked grime washed from her face her natural beauty was clear to see. She looked up at Polites with her grey eyes and smiled.

  ‘Thank you. Who are you?’

  ‘We’re going to Mycenae,’ Odysseus said, stepping forward and pulling the torn halves of the girl’s dress across her breasts. ‘King Agamemnon has sent us.’

  The girl watched the other four members of the troop trot up behind him and dismount.

  ‘Then you must have come from the army at Aulis,’ she said, letting her eyes roam over Odysseus’s bearded face and broad chest. ‘And you must be one of the kings, judging by your looks.’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself about me,’ Odysseus said, his hands on his hips. ‘Tell us who you are and what has happened to you.’

  ‘You can put me down now,’ the girl instructed Polites. There was authority in her voice, though her simple dress and her suntanned skin indicated she was no more than a peasant girl or a slave.

  Polites let her slip gently to the ground, and as she stood they could see she was almost as tall as the colossal warrior. She turned to Odysseus. ‘My lord, whoever you are, my name is Galatea. I serve the goddess Artemis in her temple on the other side of that wood, and live with my widowed mother in a house nearby. Until recently I led a simple but happy life, tending to my mistress’s shrine and offering her prayers and pleasing sacrifices. But, ever since the kings left for Aulis and took their armies with them, these lands have become a dangerous place. There are so many brigands roaming the countryside now, no one dares to venture far from their towns or villages. Then, last night . . .’

  A pained look filled her eyes and for a moment the strength left her. Polites caught her as she fell, supporting her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a child.

  ‘Here,’ said Eperitus, handing her his water. ‘Take as much as you need.’

  She thanked him and lifted the skin to her lips, taking several mouthfuls.

  ‘Then last night they came to the temple. There were four of them, standing in the shadows by the entrance, but I could see the torchlight gleaming on their bronze swords. I told them to leave – ordered them to in the name of Artemis – but they just laughed. Then one slapped me across the face and tore my dress. Another stripped me bare – me, a virgin servant of Artemis!’

  ‘They weren’t afraid to violate the sanctity of the gods?’ Odysseus asked, frowning.

  ‘Or the sanctity of their servants,’ Galatea said, tears suddenly filling her eyes. ‘When they were finished they beat me and left me on the temple floor, where I think I just drifted into a sort of dream. Eventually I was woken by the dawn light spreading across the temple floor, gleaming red, warming me as it touched my skin. And then I remembered my mother.’

  She stopped, unable to go on through her broken-hearted sobs.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Eperitus said. He removed his cloak and laid it over a low boulder with a flat top.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, wiping the tears from her face and allowing Polit
es to help her to the seat. Polites, not to be outdone by Eperitus, removed his own cloak and threw it about her shoulders. Galatea continued her story. ‘I returned to our house, where the door lay thrown from its hinges and in splinters, and I began to fear the worst. The brigands were nowhere to be seen, so I stepped through the doorway and looked about at what remained of our home. They had broken every pot we own – no doubt searching for anything of value – and the shards lay all over the floor. Our few bits of furniture had been smashed to smithereens, the floor had been dug up to find buried goods, and they had even shredded our mattresses. It was under one of those I found my mother.’

  ‘Alive?’ asked Odysseus, who was now seated cross-legged on the road to hear Galatea’s tale, leaning across his knees towards her.

  ‘Yes, thanks to the merciful gods. I patched up the mattresses and laid her down on them, with a leg of lamb I’d saved from yesterday’s sacrifice. But it’s the last of our food and we’ve nothing left to cook in or eat out of. They found the few precious things we had.’ She gave an ironic laugh. ‘And now I can’t even bring back the leftovers from the sacrificial offerings.’

  ‘Why not?’ Eurylochus asked.

  ‘Why?’ Galatea repeated, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Because only virgins are allowed to serve the goddess. Now I’ll have to leave the temple and our little hut and wander the countryside, scratching about for scraps of food.’

  ‘But when the winter comes you’ll starve!’ said Polites.

  ‘Life is often hard, especially on unmarried women,’ Galatea replied, struggling to her feet. ‘And I can always turn to prostitution. But I thank you for your help, sirs, and bid you a safe journey to Mycenae. Maybe you’ll see those brigands on the way, and if you do you can teach them not to disrespect the sanctity of the gods.’