by Glyn Iliffe
Agamemnon looked at the other kings and nodded. Immediately they began pulling apart the contents of the tent, turning over tables and chairs, tearing open Palamedes’s mattress and throwing his clothing into the air. Water skins were slashed open with daggers and boxes were opened and their contents poured on to the ground and searched. Eperitus, still standing guard at the entrance, had by now worked out Odysseus’s plan to convict Palamedes and watched with mixed feelings as the traitor’s belongings were ripped apart. Then the inevitable happened, as Eperitus knew it would. Odysseus kicked aside the remains of the fire and began to pull up the furs and fleeces that lined the floor of the tent. It was then that Menelaus gave a shout of triumph and pointed to the place where Odysseus had just thrown aside a large oxhide. Every eye in the room fell on the patch of ground where the soil had recently been dug up and replaced. Although smoothed again by the hide that had been placed above it, the surface had gained a slight bulge and was darker than the earth around it. Menelaus grabbed Palamedes’s sword from where it hung on the wall of the tent and began to scrape away at the soil. It was not long before he was able to reach down and pull up a heavy leather bag, which he upended to release a cascade of golden ingots.
Nestor knelt down beside the gleaming pile and examined it closely. ‘These weren’t cast in any Greek smithy, my lord,’ he told Agamemnon. ‘They’re Trojan. I think we have all the proof we need.’
‘But they’re not mine, I tell you,’ Palamedes insisted, looking in wide-eyed shock at the blocks of gold spread across the floor of his tent. ‘Someone else put them there . . .’
‘Silence!’ Agamemnon snapped, glaring at the Nauplian prince. ‘I’ve seen enough. You will remain under guard here, Palamedes, while the council decides your fate. I shall send for you shortly.’
The sun was midway in its passage to the Aegean by the time the council sent Eperitus, Arceisius and Polites to fetch Palamedes. The Mycenaean guards who ringed his tent stepped aside at their approach and inside they found Palamedes kneeling before a crude altar, his head bowed before the clay figures of his household gods. Two were missing heads, irreverently broken off during the ransacking of his possessions earlier.
‘What’s to happen to me?’ he asked as the men entered, his eyes still fixed on the painted figurines.
‘You’re to be stoned to death,’ Eperitus answered.
Palamedes looked at him in horror.
‘Stoning! Was that Odysseus’s influence?’
‘No. The manner of your death does not concern him, just so long as you are dead.’
‘But it was Odysseus who buried the gold in my tent, wasn’t it? And Odysseus who planted the letter on the body. Did he have to kill the man in cold blood too?’
‘Odysseus did what he had to,’ Eperitus replied. ‘And what is the death of one man if it exposes a traitor and shortens the war, saving the lives of thousands?’
‘But you don’t approve of his methods, do you? I know you better than that, Eperitus.’
Eperitus took a deep breath. ‘My opinion counts for nothing; I’m just a soldier, whereas Odysseus is a king. And what about you? Do you deny you’re a traitor, Palamedes?’
Palamedes turned away.
‘Odysseus thought it was you the moment we realized someone had told the Trojans of our plans to attack Lyrnessus,’ Eperitus said. ‘Then he fed you false information about the raid on Dardanus, and that night he and I followed you to the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. We saw you meet with Apheidas.’
Palamedes looked at him in surprise, then his shoulders slumped as if a great weight had been placed upon them.
‘Then what’s the point of denying it any longer? For years I’ve lived a dual existence, and now I’m glad it’s over. My betrayal has stretched this war to an unnatural length and perhaps I deserve death, but in the end I’m just a puppet of the gods, a plaything that no longer amuses them. But is anyone else any better? Do any of us command our own destinies? Does Achilles? Or Hector? Or Odysseus? Or even you, Eperitus?’
‘What I don’t understand,’ Eperitus said, ‘is why you did it. You’re a Greek; why would you betray your country to foreigners?’
Palamedes stood and picked his robe up from a chair, throwing it across his shoulders.
‘You remember the first time we came to Troy, on the peace embassy? You were surprised to learn I could speak the language of the Trojans and I told you it was because my nursemaid was a Trojan. I lied. It was my mother who taught me. She was a Trojan slave captured in a raid by my father and taken as a concubine, but when I was eight she escaped and gained passage back to Troy on a merchant ship. I came here more with the intention of finding her again than any notion of honouring my oath to protect Helen. Then, in the first year of the war, I received a message from Apheidas saying Clymene, my mother, was a servant in his household and demanding I meet him in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. How he discovered her or found out she was my mother he has never said, but he told me that unless I gave him regular information about Agamemnon’s plans and strategies then Clymene would die.’
‘So you betrayed your country for the sake of your mother?’ Arceisius sneered. ‘You’d have done better to have let her die and kept your honour.’
Palamedes laughed derisively. ‘Why should I have allowed my own mother to die for the sake of a meaningless oath, taken under circumstances that should never have led to a ten-year war in a distant land? And as for betraying my country, I think you’re missing the point. If my mother was Trojan, then what does that make me? I’m as Trojan as I am Greek, and I can pick my loyalties as I please.’
Eperitus looked at him in silence for a moment, his disapproval of Palamedes’s treachery undercut by the revelation that he, too, bore the burden of a divided heritage. But Palamedes had chosen Troy, whether rightly or wrongly, and now he had to pay the price for that decision.
‘We’re wasting time,’ he announced, pointing to the entrance.
‘Promise me something, Eperitus,’ Palamedes said, his eyes wide and his face suddenly pale as he realized death had taken a step closer. ‘Promise me that you will save my mother’s life when Troy falls.’
‘And why should I promise you anything?’ Eperitus returned.
Palamedes drew nearer and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Because, for all our differences, you and I have something in common. Apheidas told me you’re his son, and that you’re half Trojan like me.’
‘No, Palamedes, I’m not like you. The difference is that you love Clymene, whereas I hate Apheidas. Do you think I could want to be like the monster who has kept your mother under threat of death for so long? I’m Greek, Palamedes, and as far as I’m concerned, my father’s blood counts for nothing. But if it makes your death easier for you, then I promise to do all I can to save Clymene when Troy falls.’
‘Thank you, Eperitus,’ Palamedes said. ‘You’re a rare thing in these times: a man of honour. But don’t deceive yourself that Greeks are more honourable than Trojans, or Trojans more honourable than Greeks. You’ll understand what I mean as this war draws to an end.’
They did not follow the slope down to the beach, where debates and trials were normally held. Instead, with Polites and Arceisius standing on either side of Palamedes and the Mycenaean guards following, they climbed to the top of the ridge and crossed the ditch to the rocky ground beyond the border of the camp. Here, every king, prince and commander of the Greek army was assembled in a great crescent around a tall wooden post. At their centre was Agamemnon, seated on a heavy wooden chair plated with beaten gold and beset with jewels; his blue eyes were as dispassionate as ever as he watched Eperitus escort the traitor to the wooden post. Menelaus and Nestor stood either side of the King of Men, while flanking them were the very greatest men in the army: Achilles, young, handsome and proud; Patroclus, cold and disapproving; Great Ajax, so confident of his own strength that he snubbed the aid of the gods; Teucer, twitching constantly as he skulked in his half-brother’s shadow; Little A
jax, driven by spite and the joy of violence; Idomeneus, second only to Agamemnon in wealth and power; Menestheus, the handsome and powerful king of Athens; and Diomedes, his hurt at Palamedes’s betrayal clear in his eyes. Other faces were ranked behind them, men of high birth and great honour, their bearded jaws set with hostility, but it was Odysseus who caught Palamedes’s eye. The king of Ithaca stood between Diomedes and Tlepolemos of Rhodes, his clever green eyes regarding the Nauplian impassively.
‘Odysseus!’ Palamedes sneered. ‘You rank coward. I know you planted that gold in my tent. But if you think you’re the victor in our rivalry, think again. The gods see everything, Odysseus, and they remember. Your base tricks won’t go unpunished.’
Eperitus pulled him back against the post. A short cross-spar had been nailed just below shoulder height to the back of the post and Eperitus tucked Palamedes’s elbows behind this before binding his hands together with a piece of thick leather rope, which he then looped several times around Palamedes’s waist until he was held upright and secure.
‘May the gods give you a swift death, Palamedes,’ he said in a low voice before turning and walking to where Arceisius and Polites awaited him.
The crowd had not spoken a word since the arrival of the prisoner. As the sun soared high above them, the only sounds were the beating of the waves on the shore below and the sound of birds singing in the trees. Even the vast camp beyond the ditch was silent, still but for the gentle flapping of the tents in the warm breeze from the sea. Then Agamemnon rose from his golden throne and took two paces towards his former friend and adviser. In the king’s hand was a golden sceptre as tall as himself, covered from base to tip with many rich jewels and topped by a silver bird, its wings spread in flight. This was the symbol of his power, made by the smith-god Hephaistos for Zeus himself, before being passed down to Hermes, then Pelops, then Atreus and finally to Agamemnon. Its mere presence in his hand increased the king’s authority many times over, as if the majesty of the father of the gods had lent itself momentarily to the King of Men, raising him to god-like status.
‘Palamedes, son of Nauplius, for your treachery the council has sentenced you to death by stoning,’ he announced. Then he turned to the rest of the grim-faced assembly. ‘May the manner of this traitor’s death serve as a warning to any man who seeks to assist the enemies of Greece.’
Though Eperitus despised traitors, who had no honour and deserved death, the look of disdain in his eyes was not for Palamedes but for Agamemnon as he handed his sceptre to Nestor and bent to pick up the first stone. For ten years he had barely been able to look at the King of Men without a bitter pang of hatred, recalling in vivid detail how he had sacrificed Iphigenia to the gods – even though he believed the child to be his own daughter – all to gain a fair wind for the Greek fleet to sail to Troy. Now those memories were given a fresh acidity by the knowledge he had taken Astynome for himself. Yet again he cursed the oath Clytaemnestra had tricked him into taking, not only not to kill her husband but to protect him from death at the hands of others, all so that she could take her revenge for Iphigenia when Agamemnon returned to Mycenae.
The King of Men weighed the stone in the palm of his hand and the rest of the council moved closer. Some bent to pick fist-sized rocks from the ground; others had already chosen the instruments of their judgment and raised them above their shoulders, waiting for Agamemnon to start the execution. At that moment, Arceisius turned around and looked away in the direction of the sea, but Eperitus placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him back.
‘Watch, Arceisius,’ he said, firmly, ‘so that you know never to do such a thing yourself.’
‘Odysseus!’ Palamedes shouted suddenly as the circle tightened around him. ‘Odysseus! You think yourself a great warrior, but you’re just a thief, a quick-tongued impostor masquerading among his superiors. When this war’s over you’ll go back to Ithaca and be forgotten, a poor king in a poor country once more. After all, what glory will attach to a man like you, Odysseus? Do you think you’ll ever have the fame of Agamemnon, or Ajax, or Achilles? What token or outward show of greatness will you bear? Nothing! May the gods curse you.’
Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus, whose face was pallid and hard. Then Agamemnon stepped forward, bounced the rock once in his hand and hurled it with all his strength at Palamedes. It caught him just above the elbow and a sharp cry of pain followed. Then Little Ajax cast his own stone, a small boulder that required both hands to throw; it thumped into Palamedes’s breastbone and the whole post shook with the impact. Achilles’s rock caught him on the left ear, whipping his head violently to the right and sending up a spray of blood. Another missile hit his right temple, just above the eye, producing a cry of pain that was half strangled by the blood welling up in his throat. More stones followed, pelting the traitor’s torso and head, breaking skin and snapping bone until his head dropped forward in unconsciousness. Then Great Ajax stepped forward with a rock the size of a lamb. He hurled it with his immense strength, sending its uneven shape spinning through the air to land on Palamedes’s lower thigh and snap his leg inwards, forcing even Eperitus to flinch. Palamedes woke and screamed violently until another rock broke his jaw and silenced him again. It was then that Eperitus saw Odysseus let his own stone fall from his fingers to land in the dust, before turning and melting into the crowd. Eperitus also turned his back on the execution and with a feeling of nausea in his stomach returned to his hut, where he stayed until nightfall, thinking of Astynome and wishing she were with him.
book
TWO
Chapter Thirteen
Chryses
Eperitus was woken by a gnawing hunger. Palamedes’s execution the day before had robbed him of his appetite and he had retired without any dinner, but as he dressed and exited his tent to be greeted by the smell of cooking fires he felt as if he could eat a whole goat by himself. He ordered Omeros, who was passing, to fetch him something to eat, then returned to his tent to be alone for as long as possible. But when the flap was pulled aside again, it was not Omeros who entered.
‘Come on,’ said Odysseus, staring at him with tired eyes that looked as if they had not slept all night. ‘The council is about to meet. We have a visitor – one who might interest you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘You’ll see. Now, come on.’
Eperitus looped his baldric over his shoulder, fastened his cloak around his neck and followed the king back out into the daylight. They nearly collided with Omeros, who was carrying a bowl of porridge.
‘Your breakfast, sir,’ he said, hurriedly passing Eperitus the bowl.
Eperitus lifted a spoonful to his mouth then pushed the bowl back towards the young Ithacan.
‘You have the rest,’ he mumbled, following in the wake of Odysseus.
‘But where are you going?’
‘To the Council of Kings.’
‘Come with us, Omeros,’ Odysseus added, pausing. ‘Only kings and princes are permitted to speak, but there’s always a sizeable crowd from among the ordinary soldiers.’
Omeros nodded eagerly and followed the two veteran warriors, still clutching the bowl to his chest. They joined a great stream of men, leaving their tents and campfires to see what the cause of the impromptu meeting was. Soon they were crossing the soft sand to where the Mycenaean ships lay ashore in double rows, the weathered props beneath their hulls testament to the length of time since they had last been at sea. Gathering before their high black prows was a great crowd of men, all talking at the same time and sounding like a throng of seagulls. Odysseus shouldered his way through, and as men turned and spoke his name the press of bodies began to open up before him, allowing him and his companions access to the heart of the assembly. Soon they were met by a circle of guards, dressed ceremonially in the now defunct armour of an earlier era: banded cuirasses of burnished bronze with high neck-guards that covered the chin and arched plates to protect the shoulders; domed helmets covered with a layer of boars’ tusks, w
ith black plumes that streamed down from sockets at the top; tall leather shields covered in a gleaming layer of bronze; and a fearsome array of deadly weapons that were nothing to do with ceremony and everything to do with keeping the horde of onlookers at bay. These were Agamemnon’s personal bodyguard, hand-picked warriors who were ruthlessly loyal to their king. At the sight of Odysseus and Eperitus they raised their spears and stepped aside, moving quickly back again to bar Omeros’s progress.
‘No commoners,’ ordered one of the guards. ‘You’ll wait here.’
Without a backward glance, Odysseus and Eperitus joined the kings, princes and high-ranking captains who were already seated on benches around an unblemished circle of silver sand. They sat at their usual places next to Achilles, Patroclus and Peisandros. Although there was no defined order of seating other than the gold-covered throne of Agamemnon – which always faced inland with its back to the sea – the council members had decided their own order over the years, any contravention of which had become unthinkable. As Eperitus sat beside Peisandros, he could see that all the great men who had taken part in the stoning of Palamedes were present, even Agamemnon, Menelaus and Nestor, who usually arrived last. Only Palamedes’s place was empty.
Standing alone at the centre of the gathering was an old man. He was cloaked and hooded in black and leaned upon a tall staff, decked with woollen bands that marked him both as a priest of Apollo and a suppliant. Though his back was bent with age, his eyes were fixed firmly on the King of Men. Agamemnon paid him no attention, preferring to lean back into his throne and pull his red cloak around him to keep out the early morning breeze. He was chatting with Menelaus and only looked up briefly as Odysseus arrived, as if to mark his lateness, before resuming his discussion. After a while the chatter among the hundreds of onlookers and the circle of leaders began to ebb, until only the voices and laughter of the Atreides brothers – Agamemnon and Menelaus – could still be heard. Eventually, Agamemnon turned his gaze from Menelaus to the bent figure waiting patiently at the centre of the circular arena formed by the benches. He eyed the old man for a few moments, then stood and held out his hand towards a slave, who hurried to bring him his golden sceptre.
