The Atreus-Thyestes feud over the High Kingship – two warring, murderous brothers fighting over a glittering crown – is yet another of those family quarrels that we Achaeans seem to specialise in. It’s into its second generation and very much alive, with Agamemnon Atreiades ruling in Mycenae and Tantalus Thyestiades lurking in western Arcadia. I’m not surprised the problem is raising its ugly head again.
‘And the Stallion is Troy, obviously,’ I mutter, thinking of Kyshanda and dying a little inside. ‘So when Troy demands it, Tantalus and Hyllus will rise to its aid. It seems that the prophecies haven’t changed, despite the fall of Thebes.’ I’m disappointed – what looked to us like a crushing defeat for Troy was just a setback – the Trojans have other allies to turn to.
Since it became accepted wisdom that Achaea is doomed, Achaeans have reacted as Achaeans do – by scattering in all directions. Some deny the prophesies, others are paralysed by fear, or merely pray their little kingdom can somehow survive the storm alone. But others have sought accommodation with our enemy, and why not, when Zeus himself is doing the same? ‘Zeus-Tarhum’ is how he likes to be known now, as he merges his identity with Tarhum, the Skyfather of Troy, so that no matter the result of any war, he wins.
We fall silent, until Bria mutters, ‘Tantalus, slavering over his mate. He kidnapped Clytemnestra, Tyndareus of Sparta’s daughter, and forced her into marriage.’
‘Indeed – perhaps we can use that to motivate Agamemnon,’ Bria suggests.
‘Perhaps,’ Athena replies, looking doubtful. ‘Tyndareus has been trying and failing to do just that for years. What about the second question?’ she asks me.
‘“What do the divine allies of Troy purpose next?”’ I reply. ‘The oracle responded: “The Sky caresses the Earth with light, planting dreams. The stones listen, the soil awakens, gazing at the blood-red dawn with new hope.”’
‘And your interpretation?’
‘The sky is generally Zeus and the Earth is usually Hera,’ I reply. ‘“Caresses”, “dreams” – I would suggest that Zeus is trying to woo Hera back to his side, telling her she can do as he is, and align herself with the Earth Mother deity of Troy. Dawn is always toward the east.’
‘That’s how I see it too,’ Bria puts in. ‘And the word “dreams” hints that he’s lying.’
Athena accepts that, with a grimace upwards at the ceiling, as if chiding her mythic ‘father’ for his treachery. ‘And my third question: “What hope is there for Achaea?”’
‘“Swift comes the storm,”’ I recite, ‘“striking the forest. Branches break, lightning sunders the trunks and they fall. Withered the vines that bound them, gone the leaves that caught the wind, scattered the branches, broken the Crown.” I interpret that as meaning that the attack will be soon, and deadly.’
It’s clear from the silence that we all do. Even Athena – timeless goddess – looks ashen, her eyes hollow.
‘You know, it may not be quite that bad,’ Bria puts in. ‘The thing about the spirits is that they communicate in a stream of consciousness, with little regard to past or future tenses. The grammar of their tongue differs from ours. So when you think about the last phrase, “Withered the vines that bound them, gone the leaves that caught the wind, scattered the branches, broken the crown”, it might be the result of the storm, or a comment on the preconditions that make the storm so devastating.’
‘So if the “vines that bound them” weren’t withered, or could be rejuvenated, the trees might survive the storm?’ I ask, to clarify. ‘If the crown wasn’t broken, if the leaves hadn’t been swept away?’
‘Exactly,’ Bria says.
‘In other words, the hope you dangle is based on the very slight possibility they’re using bad grammar?’
I’m not feeling at my most optimistic, right now.
‘Don’t forget that the prophecies at Dodona are coming from the spirits through an extra layer, which can garble them.’
‘So we have the excuse to garble them even further?’ I snap back.
But Athena is nodding slowly. ‘Union,’ she murmurs. ‘The vines signify uniting factors. Troy and its kingdom, the Troad, stand united; Achaea is a mess of feuding kings – personified by their ruling house: the High Kingship is held by Agamemnon and the House of Atreus, but the House of Thyestes contests their rule. In the same way, the sons of Oedipus all but destroyed each other, and almost ruined Achaea with them.’
‘Settle the Atreus-Thyestes mess finally,’ I conclude, ‘and perhaps we can unite Achaea, and become too strong for Troy to push around?’
‘Could I just point out that Tantalus has an army every bit as powerful as Agamemnon’s,’ Bria says in a joy-killing monotone. ‘And it’s winter. No sane man will launch war until spring, and by then, we might be too late. What if all Hyllus, Tantalus and the Trojans are waiting for is for the winter storms to blow over?’
‘You may be right,’ Athena sighs, making to stand up. It’s clear she assumes I’ve given them all I have.
‘Those were the scripted questions,’ I say, ‘but I did ask one more.’
‘What was that?’ Athena asks sharply, sitting down again.
‘“How may the crown be made whole?”’ I tell them, and Athena nods in approval. ‘The oracle replied: “Golden eggs of the cuckold, caged birds born to sing together. Possess the twain and rule. But beware the tongue of flame that consumes, burning all that it touches.”’
Neither Bria nor Athena says anything. I hear the street noise outside, and from upstairs, a loud snoring – the lady of the house. Athena finally stirs. ‘Tyndareus, the Spartan King – he’s the cuckold. His daughter Clytemnestra is one of the eggs, and her sister Helen the other.’
Leda and the Swan.
‘“Caged birds born to sing together,”’ Bria repeats, as soon as Athena pauses. ‘At the moment, Tantalus has Clytemnestra and Helen is in Sparta – they aren’t together, and there’s hatred between Tantalus and Tyndareus.’
‘Tantalus has made overtures to Tyndareus, Nestra’s father, many times,’ I tell them. ‘He insists the girl wasn’t abducted – that she eloped. He’s constantly sending heralds claiming they’re wonderfully happy, and that he and Tyndareus should be allies, as father and son-in-law.’
‘And Tyndareus is, after Agamemnon and Tantalus, the most powerful king in the Peloponnese,’ Athena notes. ‘If Tantalus wins Tyndareus’s allegiance, they would triumph even over Mycenae’s great walls.’
‘And if Hyllus and his Heraclids join with them…’ Bria adds.
‘They’ll bring down the High Kingship, at the precise moment we need to be united,’ I growl. ‘And then squabble over whatever scraps the Trojans leave them. But Tyndareus sheltered Agamemnon and Menelaus when they were young. He overthrew Thyestes to put Agamemnon on the throne. He’ll never change sides.’
Though when I think about that, I wonder. Agamemnon is very difficult to like – he’s cold, paranoid and utterly calculating, which I guess is inevitable when you’ve grown up fearing the assassin’s blade every day of your life. Not only that, he’s very difficult to trust. We all know of men he’s ruined for fear they’ll eclipse him. Gold, silver, bronze and power – those matter to him, and little else. Menelaus, his brother, is a good soul and I love him dearly, but he’s not wily enough to be a king yet, and maybe never will be. But Agamemnon Atreiades is a king we all fear, rather than love.
Tantalus, though, has charisma and charm to match his fearsome reputation on the battlefield. Unlike Agamemnon and Menelaus, in whom the theioi blood has petered out, Tantalus is god-touched, known as a favourite of Ares.
Could he be the unifying figure Achaea needs?
I reject that instantly – Ares is in Zeus’s camp: he and Aphrodite are aligning their cults with that of Ishtar, the Love and War Goddess of the Hittites. And the enmity Tyndareus bears him is surely irreconcilable. If Tantalus is to be High King, he’ll do it by conquest alone – and for the benefit of the Trojans.
‘Don�
�t forget the “tongue of flame that consumes, burning all it touches”, O Man of Fire,’ Bria says, in a snarky voice. ‘Perhaps it’s best you stay out of this one.’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘If they meant “Man of Fire” they would have said so. “Tongue of flame” is different, I’m sure of it.’
In truth though, I’m not sure at all. But I’m not going to allow myself to be excluded. I spent my teenage years in the house of Tyndareus, and Menelaus is like a brother to me. I’m not going to leave their fate to Bria’s untender mercies.
‘Best you keep it quiet then,’ Bria warns. ‘I’m not the only one who’ll read it that way.’
‘Withholding it might prevent us solving it,’ Athena says, her voice uncharacteristically vague.
I clear my throat. ‘There was one final telling, and it didn’t come as a result of any question from me.’
Athena stares at me. ‘You mean, a spontaneous prophecy?’ she breathes.
We all know that such prophecies can be the most important ones of all.
‘I suppose so,’ I reply. ‘“The storm comes. Caught in its path, the animals twist and turn, dart hither and thither, but the wind will find them, Man of Fire. There is no hiding from the Sky! Fast comes the temptress; far is the island of solace. Flame for passion, cloth for comfort. Be the vine, forge the crown.”’
There’s a long silence, which Bria finally breaks. ‘The first part is just as bad as the rest,’ she says. ‘But—’
‘But then comes the first promise of hope that we’ve had,’ says Athena. ‘And it seems to involve you, Odysseus. “Be the vine, forge the crown…” You have to be involved.’
I slump in my chair with relief – though of course it’s my back the knives will go in, if I fail.
‘So,’ Athena goes on. ‘We have a plan. Go to Mycenae in secret, and rouse Agamemnon against Tantalus. Ensure your discussions with him are kept from the priests and priestesses of Hera, Mycenae’s patron goddess, now we know she’s being wooed by Zeus. Strike against the Wolf, bring him down and strengthen the House of Atreus. Unite Achaea behind her High King, and perhaps the omens will begin to read differently.’
By all that’s fair and lovely, I hope so.
Part Two: Tantalus & Clytemnestra
6 – The High King
‘Would it not be a fine thing, if wisdom was of such a nature that it could flow from one who was full of it to one who was empty, if only by touching one another, even as water in these cups flows through wool from the fuller one to the emptier one? For if wisdom too could travel in this way, I would be greatly honoured to settle down beside you.’
—Plato, Symposium
Mycenae
Bria and I enter Mycenae quietly, and not through the mighty Lion Gate; it’s too open and obvious, when we’re here in secret. We take the lesser Postern Gate, and a narrow path through the clustered buildings that cling to the hillside below the palace. Eventually this leads us to a small courtyard with an altar to an early incarnation of Hera, where Agamemnon’s messenger awaits us – just one man, sitting on a bench with a wide-brimmed hat, the shadows concealing his face.
He spots us immediately. Thankfully Bria’s back in a woman’s body, that of a girl she’s co-opted – or corrupted. And slightly embarrassingly, I’ve met the girl before, though I haven’t had a chance to find out if she remembers me – Bria tells me she’s blocked the girl’s awareness while she’s inside her. Her name’s Meliboea, or ‘Meli’ for short. She’s a honey-blonde maenad – a Dionysus worshipper – and I met her on Delos last year, but this is the first I know that Bria has since recruited her as a host. Damastor is still suffering the effects of concussion, and she departed him, only to show up next morning in Meli’s body.
The man waiting for us sweeps off his hat, revealing a mane of golden hair, and envelops me in a huge embrace. ‘My friend, how are you?’ he cries. ‘It’s been too long!’ We pound each other’s backs and burst into spontaneous laughter, just from the sheer pleasure of seeing each other.
‘Menelaus, you look the picture of princeliness,’ I tell him. He does indeed – six foot tall, strongly built, a face that’s gently handsome and always ready to smile. My best friend, the companion of my teenage years in Sparta. There’s not a tree near the city we didn’t climb, a river pool we didn’t swim in, or an orchard we didn’t raid. ‘How are things here?’
‘Well. Always well,’ he replies, turning to Bria. ‘Lady?’
He has no idea that it’s Bria, and I’m not going to tell him. Her eyes are brimming with secret humour as she clasps his extended hand: she slept with him while she was in Genia’s Hamazan body, the night before the battle at Glisas that broke the Theban army. This body is lushly feminine and entirely un-martial.
‘Meli,’ she names herself. ‘I’m a servant of the Goddess.’ She doesn’t bother to say which one.
And Menelaus is too much the gentleman to ask. ‘Her blessings be upon you,’ he replies politely, then turns back to me. ‘So, here you are, still creeping round on secret missions.’
‘It was all those escapades in Sparta,’ I laugh. ‘The ideal training.’
‘Indeed it was!’ he laughs. ‘Come then,’ he says, replacing his hat. ‘Where are your men?’
‘I left them in Corinth, with Eurybates. I’ll send for them if they’re needed. Who’s coming to our meeting?’
‘Tyndareus himself has come,’ Menelaus tells me, ‘all the way up from Lacedaemon with his sons Castor and Polydeuces—’
I groan.
‘Yes, I know what you think of them, and they haven’t improved, from what I’ve seen. They still speak against you, for that misunderstanding over Theseus and Helen, but Tyndareus swears they will respect the xenia of Agamemnon’s house, and restrain their anger. Besides, you’re Tyndareus’s own guest friend.’
By ‘misunderstanding;, Menelaus means he doesn’t really comprehend what happened but he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt. It’s simple enough if you know the inside story, which Menelaus doesn’t: Athena commanded me to help Theseus kidnap the barely-teenage Helen. And so the hero did, but for himself, not the goddess, and I had to help Castor and Polydeuces get her back. We succeeded, but in the process they found out some of my original role in the debacle and now blame me. Theseus is dead now… but he left a child in Helen’s belly. I was once welcomed as family in Sparta but now the brothers don’t trust me in the slightest.
‘I will seek Tyndareus’s forgiveness,’ I mutter.
‘I’m sure there’s nothing to forgive,’ Menelaus says blithely. ‘Laas has travelled up with them – remember him? And your friend Diomedes has come from Argos, with a prince from Elis called Meges who knows Tantalus’s lands well.’
‘I’ve met Meges,’ I tell him. ‘He’s come to Ithaca at various times with his fellow princes. He reminds me a little of myself,’ I add with a wink, ‘and there’s few things that impress me more than that.’
Menelaus barks with laughter, while Bria snorts. ‘You think Ithaca’s joking,’ she says drily, and Menelaus throws her a sharp glance, perhaps reminded of another woman with the same sly tongue.
Being with Bria is always complicated.
‘I look forward to seeing Diomedes again,’ I throw in, to deflect Menelaus from thinking about ‘Meli’.
‘I’ve been watching him practice in the yards,’ Menelaus enthuses. ‘I’ve never seen a man fight like him.’
I nod; Diomedes is damned good. ‘That’s everyone?’
‘Well, Agamemnon has invited two northern princes – Patroclus and Elephenor. They’ve just been negotiating a treaty with Agamemnon, in the face of the Heraclid threat, and they’re backed by a few other northern tribes. Agamemnon likes them, even if they’re barbarians.’
Agamemnon might like Elephenor and Patroclus, but clearly Menelaus doesn’t, I note. I hide my annoyance at Agamemnon’s extended invitation – what we have to discuss is highly secret and sensitive and I don’t know these two at all. But thi
s is Agamemnon’s citadel and he can do what he likes.
‘And you’ve kept this meeting secret from the Hera priests?’ Bria asks.
‘Yes, Lady,’ Menelaus tells her. ‘Exactly as requested.’ He looks troubled by this – Menelaus would rather that all things were done openly. More than this, because Hera is the patron deity of Mycenae – both the city and the kingdom of the same name – the ties between Mycenae and Hera’s oracle at Pytho are centuries old. But the Dodona prophecy was clear that the cults of Hera and Zeus are exploring the possibility of working together again, after their recent estrangement, so Hera can’t be involved. Especially since the prophecy hinted that Hera is being duped.
We ascend the hill as inconspicuously as we can, and into Agamemnon’s palace via a small side door. The fortress itself, enclosing the palace at the top of the hill and the sprawl of workshops, store houses and lesser dwellings spread around it like a splayed-out skirt, has the strongest walls I’ve ever seen. People call them Cyclopean, because the locals like to say that the legendary giants, the Cyclopses, hefted the immense boulders used in their construction, though Menelaus and I both know they were built by men, a monstrous labour for the royal dynasty, over many years.
Given the history of the House of Atreus, they need all the fortifications they can build – but those walls didn’t prevent Tyndareus from driving Thyestes from Mycenae eight years ago, and installing Agamemnon as king. It’s that act, more than anything else, that reassures me yet again that no matter what, Tyndareus will side with Agamemnon over Tantalus.
Menelaus shows us to our rooms himself – Bria in the women’s wing, and myself in a richly-furnished suite below his own, linked by stairs. I’m not surprised by the opulence; I already know from past visits that Agamemnon lives in breathtaking luxury. Not because he’s soft or pampered – with Agamemnon, it’s all about prestige. Look kingly, and men will grovel.
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