I settle my gear and wash the travel grit from my face, then shave with a bronze razor while Menelaus chats about the doings of Mycenae. Then we follow the sound of clashing metal and rippling applause to a balcony overlooking a small training arena.
Two men are pummelling each other with heavy practice blades and shields, clad only in kilts and helms. One is tall and broad-shouldered, with thick, light-brown hair whom I recognise immediately as Agamemnon; the other is a thickset, bullish man – a stranger – blonde-haired but swarthy-skinned, with a face battered about from battle or the boxing ring, or both.
It’s the High King who’s barking orders, taking them both through a punishing series of combinations. I glance questioningly at Menelaus.
‘Agamemnon’s been flogging himself in training of late,’ he says. ‘He fears being shamed in battle.’
I can understand that. The theioi are a guarded secret; those who know, know: mostly kings and priests; but ordinary people just believe that some men are naturally far better than others. The advantages are slim, in truth; an extra few yards of speed, an extra few minutes of stamina, enhanced reflexes. But we still have to train. And the bridge can be sometimes be closed by those ordinary men who have the determination to drive themselves hard.
Agamemnon knows that the divine blood of Zeus never reached his generation. He can’t undo that, but he can make himself almost as formidable, with dedication. And being Agamemnon, he’s willing to pay the price in sweat and blood.
‘He’s getting good,’ I comment. ‘Who’s he training with?’
‘That’s Elephenor,’ Menelaus says in a noncommittal voice, confirming what I’d already guessed. It takes a lot for Menelaus to actively dislike someone; he’s the most fair-minded man I know. Then he points out a tall, lordly-looking man standing nearby, also blonde-haired, with a fur-lined cloak and a face like a demigod. ‘And that’s his friend Patroclus, another northern barbarian.’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘Makes my skin crawl, that one. He looks at men like they’re women.’
Menelaus is sensitive about such things – he was once jeered by his elder brother for his close friendship to me. I didn’t care, but I remember it upset him greatly, especially since he couldn’t answer back.
‘Where’s he from?’
‘Locris. They say he’s the best swordsman in the north.’
The bout finishes with Agamemnon hammering away at Elephenor’s guard, until the younger man slams the High King’s sword aside and lashes out with a boot, tripping Agamemnon and leaving him on his back, with a blunt xiphos tip tickling his throat. ‘Never over-commit,’ the Abantes prince pronounces, while everyone watching sucks in their breath. I do too; Agamemnon hates to look foolish.
To my surprise, when he’s climbed to his feet, he clasps Elephenor’s hand briefly before stamping away with a brooding expression on his face. By Agamemnon’s standards, that’s losing with grace. I’ve seen him flog men that dared to show him up, in the courtroom or the arena. ‘He’s mellowing,’ I remark.
‘A little,’ Menelaus says wryly. ‘Elephenor and Patroclus are the only ones who can get away with beating him; everyone else, even Diomedes, still has to take a tumble.’
‘Then maybe they’re a good influence?’
‘No, just a little better at reading my brother’s moods.’
Better than you, I think sympathetically. Menelaus has no guile and is totally loyal. Nevertheless, everything he does is scrutinised by his elder brother for the smallest hint of treachery. Given their father’s relationship with their uncle, Agamemnon’s behaviour can – perhaps – be excused. But it forces my dear friend to walk a tightrope.
‘And Agamemnon still shows no signs of marrying?’ I ask, though it’s more of a statement than a question.
Menelaus frowns. ‘It’s complicated. Tyndareus wants him to marry Helen, obviously. But in Agamemnon’s eyes, she’s tainted goods; and despite everything Tyndareus has done for us – or perhaps because of it – Agamemnon fears that he’s setting himself up to be controlled by Sparta, like a puppet. The fact that she’s such a gifted theia does nothing to reassure him. But he’s hard to please – any other girl would need a huge dowry and impeccable lineage.’
I think about Helen; she’ll be fifteen now. Two years ago, I witnessed the start of her awakening as a theia; a glorious, god-touched girl. Zeus intended her to be a prize bride for a Trojan prince, but the disastrous kidnapping by Theseus prevented that, though not in the manner Athena intended. Theseus raped her and got her with child, and that crime and its resulting progeny has meant marrying Helen off to anyone else out of the question in the short-term, even though her pregnancy was kept secret.
The baby itself must have been born by now. It seems to have disappeared, possibly it was killed, which if so is tragic but not surprising in the circumstances. I don’t even know whether it was a girl or a boy.
And, by all accounts, Helen has grown into a precocious bitch. Which, given what she’s been subjected to, isn’t so surprising either.
Nevertheless, a few of the prophecies concerning the fate of Achaea are starting to refer to her. Marry the daughter of Zeus and you will rule Achaea, some have been interpreted to mean. As indeed our Dodona prophecy seems to have done, with the added complication of Clytemnestra. Possess the Twain and rule…
So Helen’s not short of suitors, but so far, there are none she or her father will accept.
Perhaps the prophecies I gained from Dodona might change that?
* * *
Six hours later, the city of Mycenae is settling into sleep, but her ruler is wide awake.
After a solitary meal, Bria and I have been summoned to a small council chamber, high up in the palace. Those men Menelaus told me of are there already, standing around in twos and threes; Menelaus himself, with Tyndareus, Castor, Polydeuces, Laas, Meges and Diomedes, plus Elephenor and Patroclus, the two northerners. There’s a long table in the centre of the room but no one may sit until Agamemnon arrives and takes his seat.
Predictably, Polydeuces – a giant of a youth who’s bigger than most full-grown men – tries to smash my face in, the moment I walk into the room. He would have, too, except his blow is so clearly signalled that I duck with ease, and propel him over a bench face first, before enough people interpose to restrain him.
‘I will not listen to a word this lying bastard says!’ he rails, red-faced and furious, while his older but slightly smaller brother tries to get at me too. Polydeuces, like his twin Helen, is a theios; Castor isn’t, but the brothers are bonded as though they too shared a womb.
‘You will listen, my sons, or you will depart,’ Tyndareus barks. ‘Odysseus is my house guest, and I trust his version of events. So should you.’
That would be so much more heartwarming if my version of events about Theseus and Helen wasn’t fabricated. Lying to those I care about brings me no pleasure. But what matters now is that Tyndareus believes me.
‘Thank you,’ I say to him. ‘I swear, I’m here with nothing but goodwill.’
I look round the room. Laas looks no more welcoming than the brothers – but then, he was with me during the pursuit of Theseus, and the final denouement in front of Hades. He gives me a cool, appraising look, but acknowledges his king’s words. ‘Greetings, Ithacan,’ he growls. ‘This will be entertaining, no doubt.’
Then Diomedes comes forward, the tall Argive prince, already commander of the fortress of Tiryns, though he’s not yet twenty. He looks like Adonis’s more handsome brother, with his finely chiselled face and lustrous black curls. He embraces me – we’re fellow champions of Athena. ‘This man was the true victor at Thebes,’ he proclaims. ‘Any that question his loyalty to Achaea will face my wrath.’
It’s a very Diomedes thing to say, and I see some eyes rolling, but I’m grateful nonetheless.
I’m very conscious of the scrutiny of the two barbarian warriors from the north; bullish, battered-faced Elephenor and blond, handsome Patroclus. I hear the former smirk
something about ‘runtish islanders’ that does nothing to make me warm to him.
I already know Meges – an ordinary-looking young man with deceptive wit. The introductions are completed as Agamemnon strides in with a bald, grey-bearded man tottering behind him, wearing a garland of laurels. The old man is somewhat primitive in appearance: he has a long, straggling beard that makes him look as though he’s emerged from some mountain wilderness, and his bright eyes dart around the room in a very uncourtly fashion. His robes, reaching down to his feet, are, ragged and travel-stained, and he walks with an awkward gait, as if his legs have been broken when younger, and set poorly. He’s introduced as Telmius; I know the name – he’s an itinerant wise-man, by all accounts, a follower of Hermes.
That immediately makes me wary: Hermes follows Zeus in the divine struggle.
‘Lord King,’ I say, only just managing to keep my voice level, ‘I must question this man’s presence here.’
Agamemnon’s dark eyes glitter at my presumption to question whom he invites. ‘Telmius is renowned as a counsellor to kings, and his loyalty to the House of Atreus is beyond doubt.’
I bow my head in reluctant acceptance. ‘No offence was intended.’
‘Your doubt is excused,’ Telmius says, in a merry, lilting voice. ‘You know as well as I do that all men can exercise free will, where the gods are concerned.’ Even theioi, his eyes add. ‘My counsel is gladly given, and my discretion is well-attested.’
It’s a fair response, and unexpectedly, I find I’m liking this Telmius. And though Hermes is known as Zeus’s herald, his worship is confined exclusively to the Peloponnese. He, too, has everything to lose from a Trojan invasion.
Agamemnon’s gaze shifts to ‘Meli’, the only woman in the room. ‘And you are?’
‘Bria, of Everywhere,’ she says, abandoning her false identity. ‘I’m here for Athena.’
The men exchange startled glances: Bria’s name is well known in theioi circles. And of course, Menelaus goes scarlet, remembering that night of pre-battle nerves outside Thebes, and how he and she relieved his tension. Bria moues at him and follows it with an ironic smile.
‘Let us give a toast to the gods,’ Agamemnon says, sweeping up a goblet of wine, pouring a small libation into a bowl placed at his feet for the purpose, and drinking. We follow suit, bar the libation – a messy business indoors which would have had the floor awash. That done, Agamemnon sits down at the head of the table and bids us take our places. Then he turns to me. ‘Speak, Prince Odysseus. It’s at your behest that we’re here.’
I take them through my questions and the answers the Dodona oracle provided, with Bria chipping in with analysis, leading them along the path we want them to take. I hesitate before repeating the very last, unsolicited prophecy – it seems to favour me, which I know will be treated with derision, and perhaps undermine the credibility of the whole. On the other hand, it’s the only part that strikes a note of optimism, and that last sentence: ‘Be the vine, forge the crown’ can be heard as a general call to arms, rather than a personal appeal.
Which is how Bria interprets it to the room. ‘In summary,’ she says, ‘we believe that this is the first true cause of hope that we have been given, and a sign that the fall of Thebes was a crucial development. In unity, we have a chance of resisting Trojan expansionism. Troy seeks new allies, and they’ve found willing ears in the House of Thyestes, and the Sons of Heracles. Deal with those threats, and the unification of Achaea under the House of Atreus will be uncontested.’
This is, of course, music to Agamemnon’s ears. After a childhood spent in exile, and a fraught return to Mycenae propped up by the support of Tyndareus, he’s felt the presence of Tantalus and the House of Thyestes in the west like an axe over his head. His sullen face is lit by hope as he contemplates Bria’s tenuous analysis – but given that the alternative is doom and defeat, that’s not really surprising.
Telmius is more critical, however – he repeatedly asks Bria and me if we’re not wilfully misinterpreting what we’ve heard. I’m struggling to read him – is he here to disrupt or mislead, or truly give wise counsel? He’s particularly concerned about the “Tongue of Flame”, predictably, I suppose.
‘I have been called the “Man of Fire”,’ I admit. ‘And that term, too, is used in the prophecy – but not at this point.’
‘Are you sure?’ he persists. ‘Do you recall the words correctly? You were the only one there.’
‘I’m certain. A man is not a tongue.’
‘Shame,’ Bria murmurs, which is no help whatever. But at least she gets a lusty guffaw out of Telmius.
‘And the other words,’ I emphasise, ‘were “consumes” and “burns”, not “destroys”. You can be consumed by something noble and good, and burn with enthusiasm or courage, inflamed by the rightness of your cause.’
‘I’m satisfied with the Ithacan’s loyalty,’ Agamemnon growls. Despite his reluctance to go to war in the past, he seems more open to a campaign this time – probably because he can see that the benefits will mostly accrue to him.
‘Tantalus, Hyllus.’ Bria gestures as though sweeping them away. ‘Eliminate them and we are one people.’
‘Yes, but how?’ Laas asks, looking doubtful. ‘The former is shielded by the mountains of Arcadia, and the latter by the Corinthian isthmus and the protection offered by the king of Attica. Perhaps we should wait—’
‘If they act in unison, we’ll all be destroyed come the spring, with or without a Trojan invasion,’ I put in firmly. ‘We must strike first, and eliminate one or other of them. And it has to be now, before winter’s end, when they least expect it.’
It’s bold, but it’s common sense, so long as they accept that we are now under urgency to nullify these threats. There’s hesitation – Agamemnon is naturally risk-averse, and this is a gamble like none he’s made before. He sat out the war with Thebes, for fear a setback would undermine his rule. But the time for sitting on one’s hands is passing.
The resulting discussion serves to eliminate the Heraclids as our primary target, not so much because they would be harder to conquer, but because we all recognise that Tantalus seems to pose the greatest threat at this point.
‘But what of the second-to-last verse?’ Telmius asks. ‘“Golden eggs of the cuckold, caged birds born to sing together.”’ He turns to Tyndareus, who has gone red. ‘My pardon, great king, but the question must be asked.’
Brave man, this Telmius.
Tyndareus is clearly humiliated – he’s the cuckold, and this shame has lain in his heart for many years. Zeus, like the other gods, can possess a willing human, or even an animal, then using their innate magic to shape-change to a more pleasing form. The whisper is that Tyndareus’s queen, Leda, was found naked and post-coital with a swan, though afterwards she spoke of a devastatingly handsome and powerful man as her divine lover. Hence the references to eggs and birds.
I see the two northerners smirk. Tyndareus has tried to suppress the tale, but it’s been out there for years, sniggered over behind courtly hands in palace corridors, or greeted with guffaws in taverns all over Achaea, where it’s told with ribald humour coupled with a touch of awe. Elephenor and Patroclus are clearly enjoying both Tyndareus’s distress and the bawdier aspects of Zeus’s behaviour, and that lowers them still further in my eyes.
In a society so bound up with honour as ours, Tyndareus must hate this public discussion, even though he was usurped in his marital bed by the King of the Gods himself.
To me the tale is monstrous – a rape by proxy, using a beast. And the most tragic part is that Leda has never recovered – it has driven her to drunkenness and the edge of insanity. For Tyndareus, who still loves the woman she once was, this is the hardest part.
‘Are the golden eggs of this prophecy Clytemnestra and Helen?’ Telmius asks. ‘Or Helen and Polydeuces?’
That’s something I, too, have been troubled by. Nine months after Leda’s seduction by the swan, Polydeuces and Helen were bor
n. But it’s not that straightforward. ‘The priestesses used the feminine forms of the words,’ I tell him. ‘I took especial note of that. So they must mean the two daughters. Even though the girls are not full sisters, they were always close.’
That’s the truth – except Helen outshone poor Nestra, like the sun and the moon, even as infants.
‘My daughter Clytemnestra was abducted by Tantalus,’ Tyndareus says bitterly. ‘He has seeded her belly with children, but she has watched the first two die, as if being forced into his bed were not enough for evil Fate to inflict on her. As you tell it, “The Wolf crouches in his den, slavering over his mate.” Slavering… My darling daughter…’ His voice breaks and it’s a moment before he can regather his composure. ‘Without allied help, my kingdom has never had the military strength to regain her.’ His eyes flash to Agamemnon, who looks away. For years now, the High King has ignored his requests to go to war with him to recover Clytemnestra, always protesting that the time was not right. ‘And Helen is a daughter any man would be proud to marry,’ he concludes meaningfully.
Agamemnon shakes his head. ‘She’s not the bride for me.’ He turns back to Telmius. ‘“Caged birds born to sing together”. What does that mean?’
‘To me, it says that the two girls must be reunited,’ I say quickly, to prevent Telmius disrupting things further. But as I speak the words, I can feel the truth in them. ‘“Possess the twain and rule”. While Tantalus has Clytemnestra, she’s a hostage against you both. Recover her, and the picture changes. Unite the songbirds and we’re free to unite Achaea.’
Tyndareus’s gaze lights up and he gives me a half-smile. ‘They sang together beautifully as children,’ he reminds me, before growing sombre again. ‘Tantalus guards her closely. He also insults me by sending heralds to tell me how happy she is, and forces her to write letters proclaiming her love for him. She’s just borne him another son,’ he concludes bitterly. ‘I’ll never get her back. Unless…’
Sacred Bride Page 8
