“He must think a lot of you.”
“It would be nice to think so, though I suspect his gift was to ensure I look the part, when I travel around the mainland, representing the most powerful king this side of the great ocean.”
He tied the breast band around the mare and swatted a fly from her ears. I was burning to ask him more.
“What about on the other side of the great ocean? There’s Troy and, and … ” I tried to think of the strange countries I’d heard about. “There’s Egypt with the desert and their tall pyramids. Then there’s the other kingdom they’re always fighting with.”
Phoebus ran the leather reins through the central loop and back to the chariot. “You mean the Hittites?”
“I think that’s them. They’re good horsemen and archers.”
“Yes, that’ll be the Hittites. Agamemnon’s no match for either the Egyptians or the Hittites. They’ve wealth, land and huge armies that make us look feeble. But we’re not important enough for them to take any interest in our skirmishes. It’s just Troy and her allies we have to deal with.”
I climbed into the chariot and Phoebus flicked the reins lightly against the horses’ backs. The pair of dun horses trotted along the beach and then onto the cart track. The wheels clattered against the sun-baked soil as we rode through land that was indeed full of wheat. Eventually we reached meadows where I saw cattle and sheep, some resting in the shade of oak or elm trees, others grazing in the lush grass. Occasionally we’d hear the sound of a shepherd’s pipe. Three horses looked up from their grazing and trotted alongside us for a short way.
“Perhaps they like the look of the mares,” Phoebus laughed.
As the morning wore on, the landscape changed. At first it was hilly, but as grass gave way to stones, the hills became mountains. Phoebus drove his horses along the rocky track, telling me the names of the mountains as we wound around the valley at the base of the range.
“Men travel from Sparta and Mycenae to hunt for mountain lions,” he said, “King Agamemnon enjoys a hunt and killed a lion last year, on that very mountain. Now he wears the skin on ceremonial occasions, to show he’s the king of the Lion’s Palace.”
“Oh, the symbol of his father Atreus. I saw it on the sail and Odysseus told me about the two stone lions at the city gates.”
Phoebus smiled. “Everyone makes the mistake of calling them lions. But strangely enough, they’re lionesses. See for yourself when we get to Mycenae, then you can correct your brother.”
Eventually we left the mountain range and joined a track leading through a forest. We rode alongside a river until we reached open land again. With trees no longer blocking the view, I noticed a large town in the distance. It looked ten times bigger than our town in Ithaca and had huge stone walls as a fortress.
“Wonder if the walls around Troy are as tall as those,” I said.
“Troy’s walls are much higher, I’m afraid, and the Trojans have watchtowers at the gates.”
No one had mentioned watchtowers and high walls before. “You’ve seen them?” I asked.
Phoebus nodded. “I visited the city with King Atreus, Agamemnon’s father, many, many years ago, to exchange gifts and make a trade agreement. The Trojans insisted on showing us around the walls.”
“So you think it might be difficult to break through?”
“Well, I’m not a soldier. My impression doesn’t count.”
“But King Atreus must have said something. What did he think?”
He shook his head and I assumed he’d not heard me.
“What did King Atreus think?” I repeated.
“It’s over twenty years ago, I’m not sure I remember exactly,” Phoebus said. He paused for a moment and then noticed I was still waiting, unconvinced by his sudden memory loss. “Possibly something about walls being impossible to breach.”
“Impossible?” I gasped. “But Heracles did it. He invaded Troy!”
“That was several years before we visited. King Atreus and I saw how they’d rebuilt the northwest wall and added the watchtowers since then.” Phoebus shook his head. “Atreus was a foolish and cruel man in many ways. He tended to be reckless rather than cautious, always afraid of being thought a coward. Yet after the Trojans had given us the tour of the new walls, he said it’d be madness to attack them.”
The ground seemed to fall away under my feet. Feeling sick, I fixed my eyes on the two black tails in front of me. It had never occurred to me the Greeks might fail. “Phoebus, you have told Agamemnon this, haven’t you?”
“As much as I can, without getting myself killed.” He sighed. “I’ve told you too much. Leave me and your brother to deal with Agamemnon. Your job is to look after his daughter and fortunately, she’s nothing like her father.”
The sun was high and at its most fierce when Phoebus drew up the chariot. He let the horses loose. They shook themselves and trotted to the river bank, dipping their heads to reach the water.
“Mycenae is only an afternoon’s ride away and the oak will give us shade,” Phoebus said, beckoning me to a large tree.
I rested my shoulders against the trunk while we shared a meal of goat’s cheese, nuts, apples and wine. The horses were nearby, chomping at the grass. They snorted occasionally, swishing their tails across their flanks or shaking their heads when too many flies settled on them. I played with an acorn in my hand, waiting for Phoebus to finish eating.
“Do you mind if I ask about Troy? About what it’s like, besides the high walls and towers?”
Phoebus studied me for a moment. “It’s a big question. What do you want to know?”
He was giving me a free rein. I could ask any question I liked. “Tell me about their markets.”
“Ah yes, Troy’s grown very wealthy because of the markets. They are full of luxuries most Greeks have never seen. I think you’d like the jewellery, blue gems from the mines in Egypt, silver in intricate patterns and enough gold to … ” He waved his hands, “ … well, you get the idea. Greeks think Mycenae has fine things, which we do, but Troy overshadows us all.”
Phoebus checked I was still listening. Satisfied, he continued. “The upper city has glorious courtyards and fountains. Most of the wealthy citizens live there, with the palace and shrine to Athena at the highest point. Very beautiful, though as a young man I preferred the excitement of the lower town, with the markets and the music and dancing. Pretty women too.”
There was a lot more to Phoebus than I’d thought. Yesterday he’d seemed a staid court official, now he’d become an amusing travel companion who didn’t mind answering my questions.
“Though you have to be careful with the Egyptian traders,” Phoebus continued. “Some of their medicines are useful, but don’t trust them if they offer you a bright red essence, guaranteed to cure a broken heart. It doesn’t.”
He laughed. “No need to worry! I’ve been cured by other means. The passage of time has healed my love for the beautiful Trojan girl who served me wine at one of King Priam’s banquets. She was slim, with dark hair and a silky soft voice. I expect she’s now enormously fat, toothless, surrounded by thirty screaming grandchildren and has nagged her husband to an early grave.”
We laughed together as we pictured the toothless grandmother with her noisy brood. Phoebus took another drink from the wine skin and then handed it to me.
“The Trojans have adopted ideas from the foreign merchants coming in to trade. So in some ways, they live much as we do, yet a few of their customs seem very strange to us.”
I leaned forward. “What sort of customs?”
“For one thing, the men can take several wives. That’s why their king, King Priam, is reputed to have over fifty sons and about twenty daughters.” He chuckled at my shocked face. “You’ll be relieved to know the fifty sons are not all by the same mother.”
“But fifty sons! It means each one has forty nine brothers to compete with. They’d be fighting all the time, especially over the throne.”
“The Troja
ns believe it’s a good thing. If one prince is killed or even nine or ten, Priam has more to take their place. And there’s a rigid order of importance. The sons of Priam’s chief wife have the highest ranking and her eldest son is the recognised heir.”
“So the prince who stole Helen from Menelaus, is he one of the important ones?”
“Yes, he’s second in line, after his elder brother. We don’t know much else about him, except all the Spartan ladies who met him this summer claim he was the most handsome man they’d ever seen.” Phoebus smiled. “Of course, these things get exaggerated.”
We passed more towns in the afternoon and with the sun racing towards the horizon, Phoebus pointed out a long range of mountains and explained we were near Mycenae. My stomach tightened. What was exciting this morning had become an ordeal, something to be endured as best I could, and hopefully without shaming my mother.
When we rounded the brow of a hill, the city loomed before us, rearing up like a magnificent stallion. The chariot clattered up the road to the Lion Gate and I stared at the huge sculpted lionesses standing guard over the entrance. Odysseus hadn’t mentioned they were beautiful. Perhaps I saw them at their best, for although the bodies were carved from stone, the heads shone with a rosy glow, as the shafts of evening sunlight tinged their metal tops.
“Definitely lionesses,” I whispered to Phoebus.
Grim-faced soldiers peered down at us from the high walls above the Gate. Then they recognised Phoebus and waved us through.
Once inside the walls, we rode uphill for a short way. There were two-storey houses and workshops set back from the road, a blacksmith’s forge standing a little way back, the furnace still alight. Phoebus swung the horses into a courtyard and moments later, three stable boys ran out to meet us.
“We walk from here,” Phoebus said, taking my arm and pointing to the stone steps leading to the highest part of the city. I glanced ahead and noticed two figures waiting for us at the very top. The tall, dark haired woman had to be Clytemnestra; no other woman in Mycenae would wear such an array of gold around her neck, arms and fingers. I saw her studying me closely, but if she was disappointed in my appearance, she didn’t show it. Instead she opened her arms and embraced me.
“Welcome, Neomene, sister of Odysseus and friend to my family. I have a room waiting for you tonight, but first I’ve arranged a banquet in your honour and in honour of my daughter, Iphigenia.”
Then she turned to introduce the slim and elegantly dressed man at her shoulder. “This is my husband’s cousin, Aegisthus, son of Thyestes. He’s here to offer advice on matters of state while my husband is away.”
Aegisthus bowed his head and walked behind us as Clytemnestra guided me to the palace doors. Two muscular soldiers swung the heavy doors open and I walked inside, into the mouth of the lion itself.
At first, the brightly patterned floor in the entrance hall took all my attention. Forcing myself to look further, I saw a row of servants waiting to welcome me. I smiled, but they didn’t respond. Behind them were colourful wall paintings of lions and bulls, all bigger and more detailed than any of the frescoes in Ithaca. I glanced across to the opposite wall and saw an elaborate hunting scene running along the whole length.
Clytemnestra walked slowly, giving me time to admire the paintings. “Agamemnon is very proud of his hunting prowess,” she said. “It is something he does a lot of, when he’s not at war.”
She paused beside a stone statue. It was of a bull, with the figures of two men struggling to hold onto its horns.
“And he’s especially proud of this. It was his father’s and shows his family’s connections to the island of Crete. I’m not sure if you know, but the Cretans believe the bull represents prosperity and strength. By holding the horns, the men have conquered the bull, so our household will become strong and prosperous.” Clytemnestra laughed and added, “At least, that’s what the Cretans claim.”
Then she clapped her hands and a small, white-haired servant appeared at our side. “Take our guest through the east corridors and escort her to the main hall. There’s no need to hurry; I want everybody to be ready for her when she arrives. Wait in the hall and afterwards escort her to the women’s quarters.”
The servant led me through shadowy stone passageways, lit by torches fixed along the walls. I caught glimpses of more paintings as we passed by. Most were hunting scenes, showing men with spears chasing stags or wild boar, sometimes on foot and sometimes in chariots. But when we drew closer to the centre of the palace, the paintings changed into processions of women holding flowers and depictions of bulls with boys and young men leaping over them.
I paused to look at one of the bulls. The servant walked on, disappearing round a bend so that his huge, deformed shadow crept along the wall in front of me. I stifled a cry. It was as if the Minotaur, the half bull, half man monster from Crete, stalked me, hunted me, waited to trap and devour me. I hurried after the man, telling myself sternly that the Minotaur had been killed by Theseus many years ago, and was certainly not waiting for me in the palace of Mycenae.
There was a barrage of voices somewhere ahead of us. Many voices. Getting louder with every step we took. The servant led me into a small room that had empty stone benches along the sides and a brightly patterned floor. He paused and pointed to the door. I nodded that I was ready.
He opened the doors very quietly. For one brief moment I gazed unseen into a corner of the hall, seeing two pink and yellow columns and a fresco of marching soldiers. Then the servant led me in. Most guests sat at two long tables. My eyes flickered to the high table where the queen and other important people were sitting. The servant held out his hand, indicating I must walk the impossibly long distance on my own.
Clytemnestra sat directly in front of me at the far end of the room but she’d turned her head to the side, talking to Agamemnon’s cousin standing behind her. The cousin glanced up in my direction, whispered something to Clytemnestra and she looked around. She smiled and rose to her feet. Immediately her guests stopped talking. All was silent except for the sound of my footsteps on the tiled floor. My legs shaking, I concentrated on Clytemnestra and forgot all else. Then she was reaching out and offering me the empty seat between herself and a young girl. I slipped into place as quickly as I could and then glanced at the girl. She was sitting upright and rigid, her eyes slightly downcast. Dressed in an adult’s gown, she seemed like a child playing at dressing up. When she turned towards me, our eyes met.
We both jumped as Agamemnon’s cousin banged his fist on the table and called for silence. My stomach tightened. Iphigenia’s small hands were trembling.
Clytemnestra spoke to the whole chamber, her voice as strong as any man I’d heard. “Our guest from Ithaca has arrived and we will start our great feast. I give thanks to goddess Artemis for allowing our hunters a successful hunt yesterday.” She nodded to the servants and they hurried in with platters, the smell of the cooked meats wafting over us.
“Tomorrow is Princess Iphigenia’s wedding day.” Clytemnestra turned to face her daughter. “Sadly, I am unable to be with her. The king has broken the tradition of our city and decreed she will marry Prince Achilles at the port of Aulis, not here in our own land. I’m sure that all mothers in Mycenae will join me in feeling the pain of this slight.”
There was a smattering of women sitting amongst the mass of men. Most shook their heads in sympathy with their queen’s obvious hurt; a few dared to look at Iphigenia and sigh. Iphigenia kept her eyes fixed on the table in front of her.
“For many years I have dreamt of sharing my daughter’s marriage ceremony with you, my fellow Mycenaeans. You’re the important people of the city. You feed us and fill our storerooms. You build our ships and bring us Macedonian wine and fine jewels from Egypt. You supply the weapons that equip our army. Yet all have been excluded from the celebration. Therefore, as compensation to you and to show my love for my daughter, I offer you this feast.” Clytemnestra raised her goblet. “May the gods prote
ct Princess Iphigenia on her wedding day.”
She took a long drink of the wine. The guests did the same and when Clytemnestra sat down, they started to eat from platters full of meat, bread, herbs and fruit. Everyone seemed to be eating and talking, laughing and drinking, thankfully losing interest in the young princess and the guest from Ithaca.
I wanted to talk to Iphigenia, but Clytemnestra led a battery of questions about Penelope and my family. “I thought Penelope foolish when she agreed to marry an Ithacan,” she said, still drinking the wine. “It wasn’t because Odysseus is poor and not very handsome or tall. It was the place, I mean, rocky, little Ithaca. She’d spent most of her life in the luxury of Sparta, so I didn’t think she’d last one winter with all those goats and pigs.”
I forced a smile and decided it was best not to mention how my father felt more at home on his farm than in the palace and that he’d already taught Penelope all he knew about pig breeding.
“The gods like to play games with our lives,” Clytemnestra said, swirling the wine around her goblet. “It seems Cousin Penelope is happy in Ithaca, whilst I, with a treasury piled high with gold and oil, cannot bear to set eyes on my husband.” She laughed. “This war, the war that Agamemnon has wanted for so long, is not … ”
Agamemnon’s cousin leant over to Clytemnestra and took the goblet from her hand. “The drink loosens your tongue, my lady. You say too much.”
“No, Aegisthus, I do not say enough! Iphigenia is to be snatched away and my husband does it to spite me, to prove he can ruin what little happiness I have. I shall not bear it, do you hear? I shall not bear it.”
“Hush, calm yourself. You attract attention … my lady. Now is not the time.”
Clytemnestra lowered her voice but they continued to argue. I turned to Iphigenia. She looked up and waited for me to speak, her expectant face more that of a child than of a woman nearly married. How could I help her when I knew so little? I chewed at a piece of bread and then coughed as it caught in my throat. A servant startled me by appearing at my shoulder and handing me a cup of water.
The Girl From Ithaca Page 4
