by Anna Harvey
“You’re back early,” commented Electra as Thea retrieved her room key. “Did you not enjoy the gathering?”
“I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” replied Thea, repeating her lame excuse.
“What a shame!” exclaimed Electra. “You’re not having much luck! I understood the big man himself, Dimitri Kampitsis was going to be there. He’s quite the looker and all the women round here swoon over him!” His name grated on her ears and Thea took her key with a brief nod.
Alone in her room, it took Thea some time to regain her composure. The possessions scattered around gave some sense of security. She needed time to think. To process this development. To work out a plan as to how she was going to handle the situation. She knew Dimitri was on the island, but he didn’t necessarily know that she was. He wouldn’t recognise her married name of Sefton. So she had time. All she needed to do was to keep a low profile. It wouldn’t be too surprising if she was buried in the local library archives for days on end. That was after all ostensibly why she was here. That would provide a perfect excuse and she could “politely” decline any invitations to meet him. She suddenly realised that Stelios might be a complication. She needed to take extra care to ensure nothing got back to Dimitri. He could not be alerted to her presence or know that she was here.
Her thoughts were disturbed by a soft knock on the door. Now feeling irritated, Thea flung it open to find Rob filling the doorway.
“I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he said, concern written on his face, “and especially after you fainted yesterday. I wasn’t completely comfortable with you walking back on your own.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” Thea said, fastening a convincing smile on her face. “I’ll be fine with rest. Probably just overdone things over the last few weeks in the push to get here.”
He moved towards her and but then hesitated, as if wrestling inside with something. “I just wanted to say Thea,” Rob finally said, swallowing hard, “I really enjoyed your company today. Sleep well.” And with that he was gone.
Thea hurriedly closed the door. For a moment she had glimpsed something in Rob’s expression but dismissed the thought. There were enough complications already. After changing into her night clothes, she reached for her well-thumbed edition of the Odyssey beside her bed, drawing comfort from the familiarity of the words.
Chapter 5
The Quarrel
It had been as he Odysseus had feared. The offer of peace and recompense had been dismissed out of hand. Nothing less than the return of Helen to her husband would satisfy the honour and restore the reputation of the house of Atreus. And so the army had laid siege to Troy, expecting the city to fall quickly in the face of the overwhelming might and pride of the Greek forces.
In those first lunar months, the young fresh troops had been optimistic that soon they would return to their homes, once more to pull their ploughshares and take up the trappings of Peace. There had been raids into the hinterland and the lands beyond the city, below the wooded slopes of Mount Ida, taking from the land the well fed flocks of animals and other natural plunder for the army to feed upon. Then there had been raiding parties to some of the smaller cities, allies of Troy, but vulnerable to attack without the same impenetrable walls to protect them. From those devastated burning cities, they had carried off grain, oil, wine, treasure, precious metals and of course women. The air had been filled with the cries of screaming women, clutching wailing children to their breasts, begging for their homes to be spared and mercy for the men folk about to be put to the sword. It was not a pleasant sight to behold. But by this process of strangulation, tightening the grip on the land around that Trojan fortress, it was hoped that slowly but surely life would be squeezed out of that great city with its mild mannered king and stubbornly resistant people.
Only gradually did the horror of Strife unleashed make its presence known amongst the troops. In those first grim encounters, the young men of the troop started to learn the truth of warfare. Men didn’t die swiftly and cleanly as the bards sang, giving up their spirit easily to the shades of Hades. There was no single blow and a quick dropping to the ground, headlong, spent. Instead there was gore and mess, the bloody stench of which seemed to cling to the body and blood spattered garments despite repeated washing and cleansing. There were groans of men, calling out in their agony for their mothers or to their comrades for a quick dispatch. There were those who endured slow agonising death throes, sometimes lingering days as wounds grew infested and blackened, despite the ministrations of the best skilled Greek healers.
But more than that it had been a chaotic business. In the heat of the battle, warriors had fought over the spoils of the bodies, each trying to strip and carry off the precious metal armour of the dead or dying. It was in the recklessness to win these coveted prizes, that men would be vulnerable and take risks exposing themselves to death from a well-judged spear. There had been no discipline amongst the troops, each fighting for personal glory or his own contingent. Brother had fought alongside brother, often dying together in a single attack spelling disaster and an uncertain future to their families and kinsfolk far away. Young sons, husbands and lovers in the fullness of youth had been cut down, their lives ended when they had just begun. Then the reality of war and Strife’s full measure had hit them.
In the winter a cold wind swept over the plain blowing from the straits of the Hellespont sometimes with whirling flurries of snow. Then they had shivered, miserably huddled in their coarse tents or around the campfires trying to warm frozen fingers, hands or toes. In the heat of the hot season, that same open plain turned into scorched land, where the dust infiltrated everything: the men’s tents, their clothes and their dry mouths. Then the stench of the cesspits, the filth of countless men, fouled and polluted the air itself. They had idly passed this time of stand-off as best they could. In the tedium of their waking time, someone had invented a new game etching markings on a stone, which they had called “dice”. At first, it had been not too uncomfortable for Odysseus and the proud hearted Kephallenian warriors to spend the time idly chatting, practising their combat skills or singing songs from their island home. There were always duties to be done: the washing, the endless cooking, securing the provisions for the day’s meal, gathering brushwood for the campfire and sharpening spears and weapons. But mostly it had been boredom.
Each morning Odysseus had looked out from his tent across that flat plain to that great city Troy, with those impenetrable walls. Each morning he hoped that the day would break the stalemate. Each morning he hoped that the gods would grant them Victory and finally they could return home. But the years had dragged on with no end in sight, an interminable waiting game. Only he had watched himself and those troops around him slowly grow older together, past the prime of youth. He was still a fit and vital man, now approaching his thirtieth summer, but it was the time spent away from home that troubled him most. As the years passed by, his thoughts had turned increasingly to Ithaka, anxious for news of his family, his wife Penelope but most of all Telemachos, his young son. Would his parents, his dear mother, still be alive to welcome him by the time he returned, which was long in the coming, or was his fate to die here in this strange land?
When had those doubts about their leader and overlord, the Anax, first appeared? He could not be sure. Perhaps it had been at that first war council when he had glimpsed the signs of Agamemnon’s weakness and indecision. Sitting on his lofty wooden chair, padded with deer and fox skin, the look of arrogance and self-belief had slipped from that dark fine-looking face as he surveyed those thick city walls. Perhaps it had been in the madness of battle, when Agamemnon had accused him of cowardice for not plunging his brave-hearted Kephallenians headlong into the chaos. Or perhaps it had been in the ninth year of siege warfare, when Agamemnon had recklessly tested the resolve of the troops, suggesting they give up the fight and return to their homelands. The man Agamemnon was a headstrong imperious fool! He had sent the Greek warrior
s bolting for the hollow ships in disarray. There would have been a mass exodus on the spot had he, Odysseus and the other Greek leaders not cajoled, commanded and exhorted the fleeing men, stamping order on the troop once more. And he confessed there had been times when gladly he could have done the same, had he not been determined to stay and see this bloody business out to the end. But it had been during the famous quarrel, with Achilles who was destined to die young, that things had come to a head, in that tenth year of the war.
It had started simply enough after Agamemnon had sent away a priest, Chryses, his name. The pitiful man, his face pinched with grief, had come in supplication to beg for the return of his beloved daughter, a war spoil now warming the Anax’ bed. In his haughty manner, Agamemnon had disrespected the old priest with harsh words, threatening to beat him to death with cudgels if he ever clapped eyes on him again. That was when the real trouble had begun. It must have been Apollo, outraged by the contempt displayed towards his priest, who sent a pestilence as punishment amongst the troops. At first it had started with one man here or there taking sick to his bed, unable to be aroused in the morning, refusing all food and sustenance. Then more and more fit healthy troops had succumbed to the sickness, labouring to catch their breath and complaining of an intense internal fire, the tell-tale signs of plague. It was only on the tenth day of the sickness, when the sickly smell of death hung over the Greek camp and they had started to bury bodies heaped in pits, that Achilles, the leader of the Myrmidons, had summoned an assembly and stood up amongst them all.
“Son of Atreus,” he had begun giving due honour to Agamemnon, “I think that we will be driven back to the ships and forced to flee these shores unless we can ascertain the reason for this sickness that the gods have unleashed. Is it possible that we have neglected the temples or not offered adequate sacrifices of oxen, lambs or goats? We need to find some priest or diviner who can explain what has angered the gods to send this pestilence amongst us.” Achilles had voiced the fears of each man present, that of an ignoble death without kleos, drawing their last breath covered in the filth of their own vomit and excrement.
It was then that Kalchas, that accursed priest, had stood up. He wore the simple light robes of his position, but his eyes set within the narrow bony face were hard. This was the very same man who had advised that terrible sacrifice of the lovely and innocent Iphigeneia at the outset of the expedition, all those years ago. Since the death of his daughter, Agamemnon had little time for the man, perhaps seeing his own guilt reflected in the man’s face. However the priest now had the courage to stand up and speak out.
“Most god-like and shining Achilles,” the man began a slight quiver in his voice. “I think I can give you the answer, but first you must promise to protect me from harm, if my words unwittingly anger someone, even the great Anax himself.” His face was pale and beads of sweat had broken across his brow.
“With my mother, an immortal goddess, as my witness, you have my promise,” replied Achilles without hesitation. “Come, speak your mind priest!”
“Noble Achilles,” proclaimed Kalchas taking confidence from Achilles’ protection, “it is not because of any missed offering or promise that this affliction has been sent. Rather it is because of the priest Chryses, whom Agamemnon dishonoured and sent away empty-handed. To make reparation, the daughter Chryseis, without delay or ransom, must be returned to her father and the appropriate offerings made. Only this action will appease the anger of the god Apollo.”
“That is impossible.” Agamemnon had jumped up, his cheeks reddened with anger at the priest’s words. “Chryseis shares my bed. I am quite taken by her and even prefer her to my own wife Klytaimnestra. Indeed she is her equal in all ways, being clever, of pleasing looks and accomplished in the skills of the home.” Odysseus remembered shuddering at the sound of these words, praying silently to the gods they never reached the ears of the wife now dishonoured before all.
“Priest!” Nestor had intervened sharply. “You should remember to choose your words more carefully when you speak of these matters concerning our overlord, Anax. He is a great man and you must in future accord him due deference and respect as befits our leader.” The priest was visibly trembling with fear, expecting to be run through with a sword by the old man. But Nestor instead had turned his attention to Agamemnon, speaking now with smooth flattering words. “My lord, if you will allow me to speak so boldly. If it is as the insolent priest says, then you must be the great leader that you are and think of the troops. Surely it is more important to consider the men dying and the success of this mission, than hold out over a woman. For a woman, even though she may excel in the beauty and loveliness of Aphrodite herself, is not the equal and match of a single warrior.”
Agamemnon sat silently for several minutes, his fingers lightly stroking his chin, his olive eyes dark and gleaming. Finally he replied.
“Very well, Nestor. I am persuaded to give the daughter Chryseis back if that is for the best. However I expect appropriate recompense to be made to me, as is befitting my position as the overlord and leader of the Greeks. It is not right that I should be deprived my share of the prizes, when others keep their own rewards.”
“But that is impossible.” Achilles, always hot-headed and impetuous, had responded without tact or diplomacy. “Lord Agamemnon, you know that all the spoils have been shared out already and there is nothing that can be offered now to recompense you.” His eyes had widened and his cheeks flushed. “Each warrior was assigned a reward according to how he performed in battle. We cannot now reapportion those prizes. Surely you must know that. To do this would only be seen as personal greed which is unbecoming in a leader. You will be recompensed three or fourfold once we take the city and sack Troy.”
“So what would you have me do?” snapped Agamemnon. “Carry off your prize, or that of the Ajaxes, or perhaps my good fellow Odysseus here. Is that what you are proposing?” A menacing tone had crept into the exchange and anyone else might have heeded the warning in front of the assembled troops.
But Achilles always headstrong and so sure of himself could not let the matter go. “So you would take away a trophy from us who fight here day after day,” he retorted. “You cannot do this! Rewards won by our sweat and blood in battle! It wasn’t on our account we came here to do battle. I have no quarrel with the Trojans. I did not come to be insulted. I am taking my Myrmidons out of the battle. We set sail tomorrow!“
“Go, if you feel like that.” Agamemnon had stood up. “Run away like a coward or dog. We don’t need you. We can win this war without you. And since I am losing Chryseis, then I claim your prize, the woman Briseis. So that you will know how much stronger I am than you.”
It was at that point, Achilles looked as if he might kill Agamemnon on the spot. The blue veins of his temple throbbed as his fingers hovered over the sheath of his sword. Somehow the younger man managed to control his impulse, turning and walking away. But this quarrel set off a disastrous chain of events for the Greek contingent.
It had been he, Odysseus, who had been entrusted to return the girl Chryseis to her father. She had been freshly attired with a finely woven tunic and her hair well-groomed to reflect the magnificence of her captor, Agamemnon. The old priest, stumbling to greet them, had received his precious daughter with eyes swollen by tears. It was a brief touching moment in the whole sad affair as father and daughter fell into each other’s arms weeping. At least here was something good in this bloody conflict, Odysseus had thought to himself. To appease the anger of the god, they had then made sacrifice on the temple altar. An offering to Apollo himself: a herd of beasts brought with them, lowing oxen and whining goats. This seemed to placate the god for soon after the plague lifted and the men had stopped dying.
At first, things had not gone too badly for the Greeks, despite the loss of their most able warrior Achilles and the fierce-hearted Myrmidons. Achilles had not sailed home to Pthie as he had threatened, but had stayed in the camp, licking his wounds but refu
sing to fight. Then suddenly their fortune in battle had turned. The Trojans had grown in confidence, perhaps spurred on by rumours of dissent and division within the Greek camp. Some had even claimed Achilles beseeched his mother Thetis, the sea nymph, to ask Zeus himself to grant the Trojans success on the battlefield so that her son’s honour might be restored.
It had been a hard day of fighting when the Greek army under heavy pressure had been pushed back to the very beachhead itself. In the privacy of Agamemnon’s tent, they had all gathered round to take council, all those heroes whose names the bards now recounted. Agamemnon had sat on his customary wooden chair, his arms folded across his body and his face drained of colour. The mood had been solemn and downcast. But Odysseus had insisted they first all ate. “We troops can’t go into battle on empty stomachs,” he said summoning the servants. After their plates had been piled with meat and the diluted Thracian wine poured, it was Nestor, the diplomat, who began. He had looked nervous, his aged face flushed with wine, and he fiddled with the gold griffin ring he always wore on his right hand.
“Oh Agamemnon, son of Atreus, you are a great king and to you the gods have given wisdom to rule over the peoples you command,” Nestor began. “We all look up to you and acknowledge your rule and authority. But in this matter, I cannot condone your treatment of Achilles, who is a fine warrior, taking his woman and dishonouring him in front of the troops. We must find a way to end this quarrel and bring reconciliation between you both. You must make amends to Achilles for publicly shaming him.”
Agamemnon, perhaps fully aware of the seriousness of the Greek position, was quick to agree. “You are right Nestor and you have given sound advice. I admit I was deluded, overcome by a passion that the gods must have sent me. I am willing to make amends and amply compensate with material things for the injury I have caused. Tell Achilles I am prepared to offer bronze tripods, gold bars, metal cauldrons and horses from my own possessions to make up for the injury that has been caused. But more than this, if I should return safely to my kingdom Mykenai, I will treat Achilles like my own son and marry him to one of my two daughters. He can choose which ever he pleases and is the fairest to him. Let him know that I will settle on him rich lands as the wedding dowry. However, he must bow to my position and acknowledge me as leader.”
