by Glyn Iliffe
‘I’m sorry I didn’t look at you or speak to you before,’ she said as he led her by the hand to the prow. ‘But I didn’t dare with Talthybius looking on, or with Agamemnon in sight on the beach.’
‘Gods, but I’ve missed you,’ he said, dismissing her apology. ‘After you were taken I wondered whether I would see you again.’
‘But here I am. The gods are merciful.’
‘Not to the hundreds who were killed by the plague.’
‘All the better for Troy,’ Astynome replied. ‘Though I prayed that you would survive, my lord.’
‘And I prayed for you, too. The thought of you with Agamemnon . . .’
Astynome touched his cheek, seemingly oblivious to the eyes of the crew who had stowed their oars and were busy keeping the cattle quiet or simply sitting idle on the benches. ‘Don’t worry, my love. He came to me the first night as eager as a bull, but when I told him it was the time of my monthly flux and I was unclean, he didn’t touch me. Then, after the plague struck, he was afraid. Despite his rebuttal of my father, I think he knew he had offended Apollo and didn’t dare touch me.’
Eperitus smiled and held her close.
By late afternoon they had reached Chryse, a small, wooded island that was low in the sea off Cape Lectum to the south. The sail was furled and the mast stowed as they rowed into the deep waters of the island’s only anchorage, a small basin surrounded by white sand, trees and a few stone huts. None of the islanders were visible as the anchor stones were tossed into the shallow water and the gangplank was run out.
‘They’re afraid to see a Greek galley,’ Astynome explained as she, Eperitus and Odysseus walked down to the beach, followed by the crew with the sacrificial cattle. ‘It’s understandable. But I know where my father will be.’
She led them through the treeline to the foot of a small hillock, where sycamores grew and where they could hear the gurgle of a brook or natural spring nearby. A neatly dressed altar of white stone was visible through the boles of a grove of trees at the top of the slope, where worshippers had left garlands of flowers and items of food. On the opposite side of the slope was a simple wooden hut. Astynome led them towards it, but before they could reach the darkened entrance – whether drawn by instinct or the distant sound of cattle – her father stepped out and, with tears in his old eyes, ran to embrace his daughter.
‘Greetings Chryses, priest of Apollo,’ Odysseus said with a bow of his head. ‘I am King Odysseus, son of Laertes, and by the order of Agamemnon I return Astynome into your care. I also bring ceremonial offerings to the archer-god, who has struck our army countless deadly blows since your ransom was refused. In return for your daughter I ask only that you make sacrifices to Apollo and appease his wrath.’
Though reluctant to release Astynome, Chryses reached across and took Odysseus by the hand.
‘Welcome, Lord Odysseus, and thank you for returning my daughter to me, even though she can only be with me a short while. Bring the animals here and I will sacrifice them without delay. As for you, my dear Astynome, go to the town and send my attendants to me with grain, bundles of wood, water and wine. Wait for me there and later we will make our own sacrifices together, in thanks for your safe return.’
‘Yes, Father,’ she said obediently, and with a final, wistful glance at Eperitus, she walked down the slope and into the trees.
The attendants arrived shortly afterwards – half a dozen lads, too young yet to fight in Troy’s army. While two stacked the wood and made a fire, the others poured the water into large wooden bowls and washed their hands before scattering the sacrificial grain around the altar. Chryses washed his own hands, then, turning to the west where the sun was setting through the foliage of the trees, held up his arms in prayer.
‘Gracious Apollo Smintheus, Lord of the Silver Bow, when the stiff-necked Greeks refused to return my daughter to me I asked you to punish them. You answered my petitions and sent many to the halls of Hades, forcing Agamemnon to relent. Now I ask you to end their suffering and save your arrows, and in return we offer you these animals in sacrifice.’
One by one the six cattle were brought to the altar, where two of the attendants pulled back their heads by the horns while Chryses slit their throats. Still twitching out their life, they were pulled away by the other lads to be skinned and carved up while the next animal was led to its death. As the thigh bones of each victim were brought to Chryses, covered by a layer of fat with raw meat on top, he placed them on to the burning faggots and sprinkled wine over them, muttering constant prayers as he did so. The attendants waited for the thighs and fat to burn, then removed the half-cooked meat and gave them to the Ithacans, who carried them down to the beach to be cut into small pieces and roasted on spits.
When the last animal had been slain, Odysseus, Eperitus and Chryses joined the ship’s crew on the beach to feast on the sacrificial meat. Here, finally, they were joined by the male islanders. Most men of fighting age had long since been called to Troy, and ever since Achilles had sacked Chryse early in the war the surviving occupants had treated the Greeks with caution and fear. But tonight they joined the Ithacans at Chryses’s behest and ate and drank until the stars came out and the moon rose above the hills of the mainland. Then Chryses bid Odysseus and Eperitus farewell in his slow but clear Greek and went to be reunited with his daughter.
Eventually the food ran out, the islanders returned to their homes and the singing trailed away. The crew laid their blankets in the sand around the fires they had made and went to sleep, their snores filling the night air as moths gathered around the light of the dying embers and bats swooped out from the trees to devour them. Eperitus placed his head on his rolled-up cloak and looked out to where the galley floated at anchor, a black mass edged with silver from the thin moon. He thought of Astynome, as he had not stopped doing since he had watched her disappear into the trees, and his heart felt heavy with longing. Then, as his eyelids began to droop with the inevitable approach of sleep, his sharp senses were suddenly alert to a presence.
Taking his sword in his hand, he sat up and scanned the treeline at the top of the beach. In the shadows was a deeper blackness, and though even his eyes could not define the detail of her face, he knew Astynome had come to bid him farewell. Letting his sword fall on to his blanket and picking up his cloak, he walked silently across the sand to where she stood.
‘Astynome,’ he whispered.
She smiled, her face pale in the moonlight that filtered through the canopy of leaves. Taking his hand, she led him through the trees to the foot of the hillock. They sat on the grass, slightly damp with the night dew, and kissed, holding each other tightly.
‘I had to see you again,’ she whispered.
‘I’m glad you came. We’ve spent so little time together . . .’
She touched his cheek and looked into his eyes, as if wanting to say something but not knowing how.
‘Your father,’ he said. ‘When we arrived he said something I didn’t understand. He said you could only be with him for a short while. What did he mean?’
Astynome pursed her lips and lowered her eyes. ‘He means I’m going to Troy.’
‘Troy? But why?’
‘Look around you, Eperitus. Chryse is a poor island. The wealth my father found to ransom me was everything this island has left, everything they had stored up for the hardest times. Thankfully, Agamemnon did not take it, but even so, if I remain here it will be in poverty. That’s why he is sending me back to Troy.’
Eperitus thought about all he had seen since arriving at Chryse – the ramshackle houses around the bay, the meagre priest’s hut at the top of the hill, the peasants who had shared the Ithacans’ food on the beach, many of whom had hidden meat under their threadbare clothing to take back to their families.
‘What do you mean, “back” to Troy?’ he asked.
‘When you found me at Lyrnessus, I hadn’t gone there from Chryse but from Troy. I am a maid there, in the service of my husband’s form
er commander. My husband was mortally wounded defending him from Greek cavalry, and in return he promised to take me as a servant in his household to save me from the poverty that has befallen so many widows in Troy. I have been his maid ever since.’
‘And you are just a maid?’
‘Nothing more.’ Astynome smiled, lying back in the grass and staring at her lover. ‘He even sends provisions to my father, and for that reason – and the insistence of my father, who believes I will be safer and better kept in Troy – I have agreed to go back in a few days from now. Besides, Chryse is so far away from everything. At least in Troy I can be of some use to the war.’
‘But on Chryse I will be able to see you again. That’ll be impossible if you return to Troy.’
‘Then come with me. There are Greek prisoners from the early years who have decided to fight for Troy, and I’ll vouch for you with my master, he’ll—’
‘You don’t understand, Astynome,’ Eperitus said, lying beside her and stroking the long strands of her hair. ‘I’m sworn to serve Odysseus and, more than that, he’s my friend. But even if I could turn my back on him, there are other, much darker things that will keep me out of Troy, even for your sake.’
She slid her leg over his and sat astride him. Though the night air was cool, she unclasped the brooch on her shoulder and her chiton fell away to reveal her breasts, pale in the moonlight. He placed his hands on her waist, enjoying the touch of her skin beneath the press of his thumbs as he slid them up to her ribs.
‘Come with me, Eperitus. It’s not right that you should fight for the man who murdered your daughter. Odysseus would understand that. And what does any of it matter if you love me and I love you?’
Her admission filled him with joy, and at the same time made the thought of leaving her even more unbearable. He moved his hands round to her buttocks, feeling the gooseflesh beneath his fingertips. The sight and touch of her body called to him, and yet his desire for her was tempered by the thought that he might not see her again. There were other Greeks who had chosen to fight for Troy, a quiet voice reminded him. And wasn’t he half Trojan himself? But it was a weak voice, and even his love for Astynome could not make him fight on the same side as his father, or break his loyalty to Odysseus.
He shook his head.
‘I can’t. It would be impossible for me.’
‘Then I will find a way back to you,’ she said, leaning across him and planting her lips on his. ‘I promise.’
Chapter Fifteen
HELEN AND PARIS
Andromache and Helen sat side by side on a stone bench, their hands on their knees and their eyes fixed on the pillared antechamber to Priam’s throne room. They were seated on the shady side of the courtyard, silently waiting for the meeting between the king and the leaders of his army to end. Hector and Paris were both inside, along with Apheidas, Aeneas, Sarpedon and many other high-ranking nobles. But since the start of the gathering, shortly after sunrise, the great portals of the throne room had only opened once, to admit an exhausted and dust-covered soldier who had ridden in from one of the outposts.
Helen cast a sidelong glance at the beautiful but solemn features of her friend. Though she had said nothing, Helen knew Andromache was concerned at the change in Hector. For ten long years her husband had carried the expectations and hopes of Ilium on his shoulders. Troy and its allies did not have the strength to throw the Greeks back into the sea, so Hector had patiently waited for the invaders to expend their superior numbers against the impenetrable walls of the city. But the tenacity of Agamemnon’s army was greater than he had anticipated, and with the slaughter of Andromache’s father and brothers he was no longer prepared to wait for them to leave. Suddenly he was determined that the Greeks should be defeated once and for all. Most worryingly for Andromache, he had also sworn to face Achilles in battle and avenge the death of King Eëtion.
Helen’s concerns were no less than her friend’s. It was enough that every widow in Troy blamed her for their woes, but if Hector were to challenge Achilles and be killed then all would hate her without reserve. Even Andromache and Priam, who loved her like a sister and a father, would demand that Paris return her to Menelaus. Worse still, Paris himself could be killed. He had fought in every battle of the war, earning himself a reputation for courage and skill that was second only to his brother’s. But as the war dragged on, so his sense of guilt at causing it increased and his recklessness in battle along with it. If it were not for his love of Helen – as fresh and consuming now as it had been that first time their eyes had met in the great hall at Sparta – she felt sure he would have thrown his life away, unable to cope any more with the slaughter he had brought on his people. Her only comfort was that Pleisthenes, now of fighting age, had not been called into the army because of the withered hand he had had since childhood. Even then, her son had an indomitable desire to fight the Greeks and had contrived to blame his mother that he was not allowed to take his part in the war, treating her with scorn when she so needed his love.
As if sensing her doubt and concern, Andromache placed a hand on Helen’s and smiled at her. Just then the doors of the throne room opened and Apheidas stepped into the shadowy antechamber. Andromache and Helen rose simultaneously and crossed the courtyard towards him as he swept out into the bright daylight.
‘What news, Apheidas?’ Andromache asked.
Apheidas paused, noticing the women for the first time. He was clearly in a hurry, but after a moment’s consideration he turned and bowed.
‘My ladies,’ he greeted them. ‘The news is good, for those of us who are tired of being penned behind these walls like sheep in a fold. Hector’s anger can no longer be contained: he has persuaded his father that Troy and her allies must now wage all-out war if an end is ever to be reached.’
He bowed again and turned to go, but Helen placed a hand on his arm.
‘Paris spoke to me of new allies coming to help us. Will we not even wait for them?’
‘Paris should not have mentioned such things, even to you, Helen,’ Apheidas continued, reluctantly. ‘But it’s true. Priam has negotiated for the Amazons and Aethiopes to come to our aid, but they will not arrive before the summer and Hector is impatient. Even then I think Priam would have resisted, had Hector not benefited from the support of the fighting men in the assembly. Antenor, Antimachus, Idaeus and the other elders were on the king’s side, but Paris, Aeneas, Sarpedon, Pandarus and many more want war now.’
‘Yourself among them, no doubt,’ Andromache commented, wryly.
‘Yes, my lady,’ Apheidas replied. ‘But now I must go. Word’s arrived that the Greeks are leaving their camp and forming on the plain. Hector wants to march out at once and meet them beyond the fords of the Scamander and he’s sent me to get the army ready.’
Apheidas bowed again and set off across the courtyard.
‘Apheidas!’ Andromache called after him, her face pale and her voice tremulous. ‘Stay close to Hector. Promise me you’ll keep him away from Achilles.’
‘I shall stay as close as I can,’ he answered. ‘But your husband is his own master and will do as he pleases.’
‘Hector doesn’t need looking after,’ Helen said, watching Apheidas disappear down the ramp towards the city. ‘No warrior in the whole of Ilium can match him in battle.’
A lone tear rolled down Andromache’s cheek. ‘Achilles will kill him, Helen. I can feel it in my blood. The end is close for all of us.’
The doors opened again behind them, followed by a gust of conversation as the various leaders began to leave the throne room in twos or threes, hurrying back to their different commands. Their languages were mingled, reflecting the diverse nature of Priam’s alliance of cities and nations. Andromache looked for Hector among the sober faces and when she could not see him, she ran between them into the throne room.
‘Deiphobus,’ Helen called, spotting her brother-in-law among the stream of warriors.
He was walking between Sarpedon and Pandarus,
an archer prince from Zeleia, but at the sight of Helen he left his companions and strolled across to her.
‘Sister,’ he greeted her, placing his hands on her arms and smiling into her blue eyes. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d be—’
‘Deiphobus, where’s my husband?’
The prince moved his hands to her shoulders, fighting the impulse to lift his fingertips to her cheeks or run them through her soft black hair. But he mastered his instincts and stepped back again, dropping his arms to his sides.
‘He’s gone to put on his armour,’ he answered. ‘We’re going to war again, Helen. You shouldn’t distract him . . .’
But Helen was already running across the courtyard to one of the side doors. Entering the cool, gloomy corridor within, she ran as fast as her long dress would allow her, ignoring the greetings or curious glances of the palace slaves until she had found the annex that Paris had built after their marriage. Breathing hard, she pushed open the door of their bedroom to find Paris and his armour bearer, who was fitting the prince’s bronze-scaled cuirass around his chest.
