“Here is good news for you, my lord King, about your lost son, Prince Laodamas. I met him last autumn among the Thesprotians of Epeirus, and found him in perfect health, blessed be the Gods! It appears that the Phoenician ship in which he sailed from Drepanum ran aground off rocky Corcyra in a gale; yet he managed to escape black death. Yes, the keel had broken adrift, and kept him afloat, clinging tightly to it, until the whitecapped waves subsided and he could paddle ashore with his hands. The King of Corcyra entertained your son royally, exclaiming that he was clearly a favourite of the Goddess Thetis; and soon discovered that they had an ancestor in common—Zacynthus, an early Trojan king, great-grandfather of the Princess Aegesta. He not only heaped treasures on Laodamas, but gave him a letter of introduction to another distant kinsman, King Pheidon of the Thesprotians, who proved hardly less generous. Your son has, in consequence, amassed a great store of gold and silver, amber, armour, ivory toys, goblets, cauldrons, and tripods: enough, one might say, to enrich his descendants until the tenth generation. When we met, he had just consulted Zeus’s dove oracle at the Oaks of Dodona. I stood him several drinks, and he recommended me to you, my lord, and promised that I should find a ready market for my wares among your discriminating Elyman subjects. He hopes to be back here about the season of the first figs, though not earlier, because the oracle warned him—who can guess why?—against hurrying home. No, my lord, he had failed to save even his clothes from the wreck: he was wearing only a loincloth, and a coral amulet around his neck, when the hospitable people of Corcyra found him half dead on the beach, his long hair crusted with salt.”
You can imagine what relief this news afforded my father, who clapped his hands like a child. Clytoneus buried his head in a wine cup and drank until he was tipsy. I was hastily summoned and charged with carrying the glad news to Ctimene, who by now had almost given up eating and drinking. She spent most of her time in bed, overcome by frequent fits of hysterical sobbing. Seldom have I taken a message more readily or been more rapturously thanked—or had so little confidence in its truth. Nothing seemed too good for the Hyrian merchant: my father summoned an all-Elyman Council and announced that on the following night a feast of homage to our benefactor would be held in the banqueting court. Each of the twelve tribes must send several representatives. A dozen sheep, eight boars, and two bullocks would be sacrificed, there would be no stint of wine and bread, and Demodocus, the most famous poet in Sicily, a blind Son of Blind Homer, had consented to sing of the Trojan War.
At least a hundred men attended the feast, all wearing their ceremonial robes. Glad hymns to Zeus arose while the animals were being slaughtered, flayed and roasted in the court of sacrifice. Demodocus, who is toothless as well as blind, sat in a silver-studded chair, backed against one of the cloister pillars, his seven-stringed oryx-horn lyre hanging from a peg within easy reach. Near by, on an inlaid table, Pontonous the butler had set a cup of wine to refresh him in his pauses between fyttes, and a basket of bread. In a half circle around the old man, at a decent distance, were ranged a score of beechwood trestle tables, waxed and polished, each supporting a great dish of well-scrubbed copper, on which lay steaming joints of mutton, pork and beef. Once again it occurred to me: how disgustingly men eat, hacking off strips of meat with daggers, and cramming them into their mouths until the juice runs down wrists and chins! A few used bread to wipe themselves clean; the remainder did not trouble. Pontonous kept the wine flowing, his sharp eye noting any cup or goblet set down empty. They were our best goblets. We are always afraid that when a banquet is over someone will have thoughtlessly carried off one of them, though all are stamped or engraved with the palace sign (which is a hound rending a fawn) and therefore easy to trace. Some are of silver, some of gold, some carved out of alabaster or liparite, three or four of Egyptian ware.
The Hyrian merchant, who claimed descent from King Minos’s brother Sarpedon, was given the portion of honour, an unbroken length of beef chine, and a draught of our best dark wine in a rock-crystal goblet. Having downed a pint or two of this superlative drink, moderately tempered with water, he beat his breast, rapped his forehead, and exclaimed that he had forgotten to deliver several messages of affection from Laodamas to his wife, parents, and brothers, and to the principal citizens of Drepanum. He delivered these amid a respectful hush, and though the phrases were uncharacteristic of Laodamas, they gave pleasure. He also told us that Laodamas meant to sail home from Sandy Pylus in Elis.
Word now came to us women that our own feast was ready, so we trooped to the dining room downstairs. Men take pride in eating hugely on all occasions; and by way of politeness, at a dinner party, they bolt their food as though dying of hunger. We women make do with only half the food and drink, and are no less robust. Personally, I hate to see a well-born girl, however ravenous she may be, spilling wine or gravy on her dress; and if I catch one of my maids with her snout in the trough, as the saying goes, I send her to grind corn in our heaviest quern when the next mealtime is announced.
After the men had acknowledged themselves defeated by the plenty set before them, slaves went around carrying towels, sponges, and basins of warm water, into which a little vinegar had been poured, to wash the guests’ hands; while others cleared the tables and took out the broken meats to an expectant crowd assembled in the court of sacrifice. Demodocus then struck up, and his song was the Departure of Odysseus for Troy, which he chose by way of honouring the Phocaeans, because Odysseus’s grandfather Autolycus, their ancestor, is said to have lived on Phocian Parnassus, where stands Delphi, Apollo’s prophetic seat. After invoking the Muses, whom Apollo had led down from the cold northern wilderness and entertained in his lofty Delphic halls, Demodocus described the arrival at Sparta of Queen Helen’s suitors.
This was his story, and he had brought along two women tumblers who performed acrobatic feats in time to the music, and illustrated dramatic episodes with wordless mime.
When Helen, Leda’s beautiful daughter, grew to womanhood, all the princes of Greece came with rich gifts to the palace of her foster father King Tyndareus, or sent their kinsmen to represent them. Argive Diomedes, fresh from his victory at Thebes, was there with the Aeacids Ajax and Teucer; Idomeneus, King of Crete; Achilles’s cousin Patroclus; Menestheus the Athenian; and many others. Odysseus of Ithaca, Autolycus’s grandson, came too, but empty-handed, knowing that he had not the least chance of success—for even though Castor and Pollux, Helen’s brothers, wanted her to marry Menestheus of Athens, she would, of course, be given to Prince Menelaus, the richest of the Achaeans, represented here by Tyndareus’s powerful son-in-law Agamemnon.
King Tyndareus sent no suitor away but, on the other hand, accepted none of the proffered gifts; fearing that his partiality for any one prince might set the others at odds. Odysseus asked him one day: “If I tell you how to avoid a quarrel will you, in return, help me to marry your niece Penelope, the daughter of my lord Icarius?” “It is a bargain,” cried Tyndareus.
“Then,” continued Odysseus, “my advice is: insist that all Helen’s suitors swear to defend her chosen husband against whoever resents his good fortune.” Tyndareus agreed that this was a prudent course. After sacrificing a horse, and jointing it, he made the suitors stand on its bloody pieces and repeat the oath which Odysseus had formulated; the joints were then buried at a place still called “The Horse’s Tomb”.
It is not known whether Tyndareus himself chose Helen’s husband, or whether she declared her own preference by crowning him with a wreath. At all events, she married Menelaus, who became King of Sparta after the death of Tyndareus and the deification of the Dioscuri. Yet their marriage was doomed to failure: years before, while sacrificing to the Gods, Tyndareus had stupidly overlooked Aphrodite, who took her revenge by swearing that all three of his daughters—Clytaemnestra, Timandra and Helen—should become notorious for their adulteries.
Why, Demodocus asked, had Zeus and his aunt Themis the Titaness planned the Trojan War? Was it to make Helen famous for h
aving embroiled Europe and Asia? Or to exalt the race of demi-gods, and at the same time to thin out the populous tribes which were oppressing the surface of Mother Earth? Alas, their reason must always remain obscure, but the decision had already been taken when Eris threw down a golden apple inscribed “For the Fairest!” at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. Almighty Zeus refused to arbitrate in the ensuing dispute between Hera, Athene and Aphrodite, each of whom claimed it as her own, and let Hermes lead the Goddesses to Mount Ida, where Priam’s long-lost son Paris would act as arbiter.
Paris was herding his cattle on Mount Gargarus, the highest peak of Ida, when Hermes appeared before him, accompanied by Hera, Athene and Aphrodite. Hermes delivered the golden apple of discord and Zeus’s message, which ran: “Paris, since you are as handsome as you are wise in affairs of the heart, Zeus commands you to judge which of these Goddesses is the fairest, and to award her this golden prize.”
Paris accepted the apple doubtfully. “How can a simple cattleman like myself become an arbiter of divine beauty?” he cried. “I shall divide this fruit equally between all three.”
“No, no, you cannot disobey Almighty Zeus!” Hermes exclaimed. “Nor am I authorized to give you advice. Use your native intelligence!”
“So be it,” sighed Paris. “But first I beg the losers not to grow vexed with me. I am only a human being, liable to make the stupidest mistakes.”
The Goddesses all agreed to abide by his verdict.
“Am I to judge them just as they are?” Paris asked Hermes. “Or should they be naked?”
“The rules of the contest are for you to decide,” Hermes answered with a wary smile.
“In that case, will they please disrobe?”
Hermes told the Goddesses to do so, and politely turned his back.
Aphrodite was soon ready, but Athene insisted that she should remove the famous magic girdle, which gave her an unfair advantage by making everyone fall in love with the wearer. “Very well,” said Aphrodite spitefully. “I will, on condition that you remove your helmet—you look hideous without it.”
“If I am permitted,” announced Paris, clapping his hands for order, “I shall judge the competitors one at a time, and thus avoid distractive arguments. Come here, Divine Hera! Will you other two Goddesses be kind enough to leave us for a while?”
“Examine me conscientiously,” said Hera, turning slowly around, and displaying her magnificent figure, “and remember that if you judge me the fairest, I will make you lord of all Asia, and the richest man alive.”
“I am not to be bribed, my lady… Ah yes, thank you. Now I have seen all that I need to see. Come, Divine Athene!”
“Here I am,” said Athene, striding purposefully forward; but, being no less modest than virginal, hid as much of her body as she could behind the Aegis. “Listen, Paris,” she said, “if you are prudent enough to award me the prize, I will make you victorious in all your battles, besides being the handsomest and wisest man in the world.”
“I am a humble herdsman, not a soldier,” said Paris, a little annoyed by the interposition of the Aegis. “You know very well that peace reigns throughout Lydia and Phrygia, and that King Priam’s sovereignty is unchallenged. But I promise to consider fairly your claim to the apple. Now you may put on your clothes and helmet again. Is Aphrodite ready?”
Aphrodite sidled up to Paris, who blushed because she came so close that they were almost touching. She smelt of nard and roses.
“Look carefully, please, pass nothing over… By the way, as soon as I saw you, I said to Hermes: ‘Upon my word, there goes the handsomest man in Phrygia! Why does he waste himself here in the wilderness herding stupid cattle?’ Well, why do you, Paris? Why not move into a city and lead a civilized life? What have you to lose by marrying someone like Helen of Sparta, who is almost as beautiful as I, and no less passionate? I am convinced that, once you two have met, she will abandon her home, her family, everything, to become your mistress. Surely, you have heard of Helen?”
“Never until now, my lady. I should be most grateful if you would describe her.”
“Helen is fair and of a delicate complexion, having been hatched from a swan’s egg. She can claim Zeus for a father, loves hunting and wrestling, caused one war while she was still a child—and when she came of age, all the princes of Greece were her suitors. At present she is wife to Menelaus, brother of the High King Agamemnon; but that makes no odds—you can have her if you like.”
“How is that possible, if she is already married?”
“Heavens! How innocent you are! Have you never heard that it is my divine duty to arrange affairs of this sort? I suggest now that you tour Greece, taking my son Eros as your guide. Once you reach Sparta, he will oblige Helen to fall head over heels in love with you.”
“Would you swear to that?” Paris asked excitedly.
Aphrodite took a solemn oath by the River Styx, and Paris, without a second thought, awarded her the golden apple.
By this judgement he incurred the unappeasable resentment of both Hera and Athene, who went off arm-in-arm to plot the destruction of Troy; while Aphrodite, a naughty smile on her matchless face, stood wondering how best to keep her promise.
“Elymans of Mount Eryx,” cried Demodocus, “no goddess in the universe is so powerful as our Aphrodite!”
I disliked this extremely partial statement. The competition was only for the fairest, not for the wisest or the strongest; and Homer relates that when once Aphrodite presumed to fight on the Trojan plain she had to flee, wounded, from a mere mortal.
Demodocus replaced his lyre on the peg and began mumbling bread and sipping wine. My father coughed consequentially. “A very pretty story,” he said, “and beautifully told, revered Demodocus. The Gods, who deprived you of both your eyes and all thirty-two of your teeth, have given you instead a splendid voice and an inexhaustible memory. But, confess, is this the whole truth? I cannot easily believe that the elopement of Priam’s forty-eighth or forty-ninth son with a Spartan queen occasioned the Trojan War, which involved nearly every city in Greece and Asia Minor, and must have caused at least a hundred thousand casualties, one way or another. It was not even as if Paris attempted to seize the throne of Sparta. Tell me: what value in cattle or metal would you put on a wife who, after nine years of wedlock, had failed to bear Menelaus a son, and belonged to a notoriously adulterous family? His loss of conjugal rights could have been settled for ten or twenty pounds of gold at the outside.”
“I repeat the story as it has come down to us from our ancestor, the divine Homer,” said Demodocus shortly.
“Women, of course,” my father persisted, “can cause serious local feuds, especially when they are heiresses, marriage to whom involves a transfer of property; but I cannot believe, either, that Helen’s suitors would have committed themselves to an overseas war on behalf of Menelaus, whose choice as a bridegroom seemed a foregone conclusion, or that Paris’s father and brothers would have agreed to defend Troy for ten years against them, rather than hand her back.”
“All civil wars are dynastic wars, my lord King; all overseas wars are trade wars,” agreed the portly Hyrian. “And Troy, which had been jointly founded by our Cretan ancestors, certain local Phrygians, and a force of Aeacids from Eastern Greece, was in its time the most important city of Asia. Troy commanded the Hellespont, and therefore controlled the rich trade of the Black Sea and beyond; gold, silver, iron, cinnabar, ship’s timber, linen, hemp, dried fish, oil and Chinese jade. A great annual fair was held on the plain of the Scamander, to which the merchants of the world resorted; they all brought gifts to the King of Troy, who, in return, protected them while the fair was in progress, and supplied food and drinking water. The Trojan kings, however, being of Phrygian stock, would allow neither Greeks nor Cretans to trade directly with the Black Sea nations. A generation previously, Priam’s father Laomedon had tried to prevent the Minyan ship Argo from sailing to fetch the Golden Fleece laid up in a temple at Colchis, but she slipped throug
h; and the Sons of Homer themselves tell how Hercules, who was a member of her crew, afterwards disembarked in Phrygia and, gathering a few allies, took Troy by storm and punished Laomedon for his greed and obstinacy.”
“Exactly,” cried my father. “The story is as plain as the polished knob on that door! Those Cretans and Greek Aeacids as co-builders of Troy, which was designed to safeguard their trading interests in the Black Sea, found the entrance to the Hellespont barred: King Priam had erected strong forts at Sestus and Abydus to control the narrows. After protesting to him without success, they asked their Achaean allies to help them take sanctions, and promised, if the expedition proved successful, to share the spoils of the city with them. Agamemnon, High King of Mycenae, agreed to lead the expedition and persuaded Odysseus to join it, because Odysseus was King of the Ionian Islands, the home of my ancestor Zacynthus, one of the Cretan founders of Troy. So, at a conference held in the temple of the Spartan Goddess Helle, they sacrificed a horse to her and took oaths on the jointed pieces. They swore to free the straits honoured with her name—I refer to the Hellespont—for Greek navigation. I cannot think that any man of experience will challenge my argument. Pray now, Demodocus, continue your song, when you have well rinsed your gums and throat.”
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