‘For a woman, peace lies in marriage and children,’ Agamemnon tells me, as if he knows. ‘They’re not like us.’
‘They only care about breeding,’ Patroclus puts in contemptuously. ‘It’s their nature.’
‘Exactly,’ Elephenor agrees. ‘Plough her furrow a few times, and she’ll be mewling for more,’ His voice is crudely raucous but his eyes deadly cold as he studies me for a reaction. ‘Get her with child and she’ll worship you.’
Dear Gods, separate our High King from these pigs!
But what’s clear is that these men have their hooks into Agamemnon already: if I, a mere companion of his younger brother, argue the point, I’ll lose what little attention I can command. And my new plan is already wrecked by Agamemnon’s announcement that he’ll marry Nestra.
So I change tack, adjusting that plan into a new configuration. ‘As you say, women put great store in their children,’ I say in an agreeable tone. ‘Nestra has just lost one, and her grief could make your marriage bed unpleasant. But,’ and here I barely do more than mouth the words, my lips close to Agamemnon’s ear, ‘there’s another child, an unwanted one, that might give her surcease of her sorrows, if given to her to adopt.’
From his expression, Agamemnon is already guessing where this conversation is heading.
‘You’re shrewd, aren’t you?’ he murmurs. ‘Always had a glib tongue.’ He sits for a moment, mulling it over. Then, abruptly, he turns to the northerners. ‘My friends,’ he announces. ‘I must discuss a personal matter with Prince Odysseus. You are very welcome to rejoin me later.’
Once we’re alone, Agamemnon studies me the way a merchant assesses goods for purchase. ‘Tell me more.’
I share what I’ve just learnt from Bria: ‘As you know, Helen returned from her abduction pregnant to Theseus. She’s birthed a girl, but she doesn’t want it. Theseus raped her, and she sees him in the child, even though it’s a girl. They took the baby from her and fostered it out in secret – it is, after all, Tyndareus’s first grandchild and he couldn’t bring himself to have it killed. Meanwhile, Helen is still consumed by her trauma.’
‘One reason why I won’t marry her,’ Agamemnon states.
That and because she scares you.
‘On the other hand,’ I continue, ‘Clytemnestra has always craved children, from a young age. Give her Helen’s daughter, to replace the son that tradition forced you to execute, and you will go some way to healing her. And a daughter won’t interfere with the succession, when you and she conceive your own children.’
‘It seems a big step, to adopt another man’s child, merely to ameliorate the feelings of a woman,’ Agamemnon says doubtfully. ‘Especially for a High King.’
‘The little girl will be a theia, and she will believe herself yours,’ I point out. ‘And what price can one put on a contented wife? Would you force her every night?’
He winces. For all his tolerance of the barbarians’ bluster, Agamemnon had been raised to exhibit exemplary behaviour, whatever his private thoughts. ‘But everyone knows I slew her only surviving child.’
‘Spread a new story: that two summers ago, during the hunting season when Tantalus was away, you seduced Clytemnestra, and cuckolded the King of Pisa. Tell them the baby girl Nestra bore a year ago is hers and yours, that Nestra faked the baby’s death to keep it safe from Tantalus’s suspicions, falling pregnant again to Tantalus shortly after. Say that, with Tantalus dead, you and she are now able to bring the little girl out of hiding. You’re the High King; your tale will be the one believed.’
Agamemnon frowns, but after a few sips of wine from is flask, he nods in agreement. ‘Your prophecy… “caged birds born to sing together” and “possess the twain and rule.”… Surely that means that I must also see Helen wed?’
‘Absolutely,’ I tell him. ‘Bind yourself to Tyndareus and Sparta through Clytemnestra; and bind another to both yourself and him through Helen. Preferably the third most powerful king in Achaea, whoever that is.’ It’s a matter of some debate. ‘Between the three of you – yourself, Tyndareus and whoever Helen marries – you’ll be able to unite Achaea.’
Against Troy, I add silently, to myself.
I have a sudden vision of our lands suddenly free of these ruinous feuds and civil wars, a united front that won’t collude with the Trojans, but stand together in the face of their aggression.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Agamemnon muses, smiling now. ‘I shall return at once to Mycenae, formalise my marriage to Clytemnestra, and adopt Helen’s secret daughter. Then I shall prevail upon Tyndareus to put Helen up for marriage.’ He strokes his chin. ‘Let all the kings and princes of Achaea contest for her, and I’ll choose the one that best suits my plans.’
Well enough, I decide, but a suspicion blooms in my mind. ‘Not one of the barbarians,’ I counsel him. ‘You’ve seen and heard them – they aren’t fit for any Achaean princess, nor to be married into our royalty.’
‘Haven’t taken a liking to my new friends, then?’ he smirks. ‘I know what they are, Odysseus: savages – but by Ares, they know how to fight, and there’s a lot of the bastards. Thessaly, Epirus – all the kingdoms in the north – are jammed full of war bands led by men like Elephenor and Patroclus. The man that harnesses those wolves will have no rivals. We could crush Hyllus, and subjugate Attica as well.’
I don’t like the sound of that one bit, but I know better than to say so.
The king’s barbarian friends return, and I take my leave – drinking with that pair will lead to knife-fights. Rejoining Bria, I tell her how Agamemnon received my plan and for once, she congratulates me.
‘Good thinking, Ithaca,’ she murmurs. ‘Clytemnestra’s likely to take her own life the moment we turn our backs, but Helen’s child might be exactly the thing to pull her through. Gives her something to live for.’
Maybe, I think grimly. But will… or can… Clytemnestra ever forgive Agamemnon for what he’s done?
Part Three: The Winning of Helen
12 – All roads lead to Sparta
‘Indeed I would never blame anyone who weeps over the death of a man and the unlucky lot he has drawn. For this, above all things, is the honour due to poor, miserable mankind, to cut off our hair and let a tear run down our cheeks.’
—Homer, The Odyssey
Cranae and Sparta, Lacedaemon
Three months later, my galley rides the surf into a beach sheltered by a small rocky island on the south coast of the Peloponnese, a small port town called Cranae. As usual I’m in the prow, calling the strokes as we ease our way to shore, the white sand glistening in the late afternoon sun. The intervening months at home have refreshed my crew, the late spring winds have filled our sails on the journey and we’re all eager for land again.
We’re not the only ones coming ashore here: there are a dozen other ships beached already and more following. The coastal strip in front of the town is strewn with travellers in makeshift tents and lean-tos, a target for those who make a living fleecing itinerants of their obols in return for overpriced provisions and wine, and other services of a more dubious nature.
I’m somewhat taken aback; the last time I visited Lacedaemon, Cranae was a lazy backwater, overshadowed by the main port of Helos a little further along the coast, which is where I had expected most if not all the suitors to head to. But Laas told me, back in Arcadia, that Tyndareus had given him governorship over this southwestern corner of Lacedaemon, and it seems he’s been using the opportunity to good effect. Many of the houses in the town are new, gleaming with fresh whitewash and aspiration.
Given my unfortunate relationship with Tyndareus’s twins and the uncertain welcome I’m likely to get as a consequence, I had hoped for a rather less conspicuous arrival than I’m now obliged to make. But there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ll just have to watch my back.
For anyone making for Sparta, Lacedaemon’s ruling city, this coast is the end of a long sea journey, but provides the doorway to the easiest land approach – a
gentle amble north over rolling hills to the wide central plain. Entering the kingdom from any other direction is fraught – Taygetus, a great wall of a mountain range guards the routes from the west, while the tangled mass of the Parnon mountains blocks the east. And north, of course, lies Arcadia. This means that most of the suitors for the wedding games will arrive by ship, on their way to Sparta, where Tyndareus is no doubt preparing to receive many royal guests and their retinues.
I gaze around at the crowds. There are men from Crete, and from the Aegean islands, and even a knot of Thessalian warriors, I note with a grimace. Since the word went out two months ago that the king of Sparta’s astoundingly beautiful daughter is to be married to ‘the best man in Achaea’, every single king, prince and champion with an ego has mobilised. I’m already wondering if Tyndareus has underestimated how much interest there will be.
There’s no way this is going to happen without me, of course. I’ve told my parents that I plan on competing for Helen’s hand and they’re supportive, if a little bemused. They think my intentions are genuine, and that I’m hoping that knowing Helen when she was a child might sway things. I know otherwise. I see my role as ensuring the right outcome for Achaea. Bria is with me, in the body of Meliboea, and she has similar intentions.
I’ve got Eurybates and my usual crew of Ithacans with me, good men if anything turns bloody. They all think it’s going to be one big party, and I hope they’re right. But I doubt it.
We’re met on the beach by none other than Laas. The gruff, weather-beaten warrior is out of armour for a change, though there are plenty of soldiers around, and they’re all doing his bidding. His new stronghold, Laos, is nearby, and he seems to be using it to maintain tight control over his patch.
‘I recognised the northern cut of your sails,’ he says, striding forward and offering his hand, as friendly a greeting as he’s ever given me. Maybe our excursion to Pisa has warmed him to me. ‘Thought it must be you.’ He nods to Bria then walks with me up the beach. ‘With fresh ships landing every day, it’s been chaos here, trying to keep the peace and get the suitors on their way north.’
I nod toward the Thessalians. ‘That’s not you-know-who, is it?’ I ask.
Laas spits. ‘Aye, Patroclus and his clan. He arrived a day ago, and he’s waiting for his mate Elephenor, then they’ll ride north together.’ He drops his voice. ‘I’ll be damned glad to see the back of them – they’ve been nothing but trouble. But I’ll see them again in Sparta, no doubt.’
‘So you’re still hoping to win Helen’s hand?’ I ask, remembering our conversation on the mountain journey through Arcadia.
‘Of course, and you’ve not forgotten your promise, to speak for me to Tyndareus?’
‘Of course I haven’t.’
He gestures about him, beaming with pride. ‘Remember what a hole this place used to be? Since I took over, half the trade comes through here. Tyndareus and I have a good understanding.’
I’m still struggling to imagine Laas and Helen together, but it makes sense on one level at least: He’s a decent man, a little on the rough side, but he would give his life for Tyndareus, and he’s very capable. However, he’s also nearly fifty and Helen’s barely twenty, so I can’t see this as a match she’d ask for – assuming she has any say at all.
‘Of course I’ll speak for you,’ I repeat, hiding my doubts. ‘But you might be overrating my importance.’
Laas smiles wryly. ‘Oh, you’re the talk of Sparta. Ever since you wrote to say you were coming to offer your suit, Castor and Polydeuces have been going round saying they’ll arrest you over the Theseus plot, and string you up without trial.’
Knowing those two, this is probably true.
‘A suitor is protected by the law,’ I remind Laas, with a wink. ‘Legally they can’t touch me.’
‘Legally, they don’t give a shit,’ he drawls. ‘And you’ll need to get to Sparta alive to lodge your suit formally before the law takes effect. Still, it’s your balls on the anvil.’ He claps me on the shoulder. ‘I’ll be keeping a close eye out for you, not that they’d dare piss on my patch.’ He slaps me on the back. ‘See you for a drink tonight – I recommend the big tavern on the far side of town – fewer beach rats, shysters and Thessalians.’
* * *
Bria, Eurybates and I get our lads settled into a snug camp at the end of the beach, close to the ship, then, as evening falls, the three of us head off through the township of Cranae which is squalidly overcrowded right now. Laas’s men are keeping order, but I can tell, despite their apparent calm, that they’re having a struggle. It’s not our problem, but we don’t feel altogether safe. The local lads are being crowded out by the foreigners, and there’s some kind of push going on to reassert control.
Eury and I manage to look just intimidating enough that no one does more than wolf whistle at Bria as we wind our way through an area full of new stores, warehouses and bars and into an older part of the town, where there’s less hassle. We find the tavern Laas recommended and order a meal – a mediocre but generous fish stew, washed down with some overpriced but decent ale.
Laas joins us, and I get the impression he’s been to every tavern in the town on his rounds and been stood a drink in each – he’s red-faced and a little bleary-eyed; we sit him down, and I set about trying to sober him up with what’s left of the stew – and ply him with questions about what’s to come.
‘Make no mish— mistake,’ he says, trying to hold himself straight. ‘It’s going to be a fuckin’ mess. Tyndareus doesn’t rightly know what he wants. And he’s been ill, ever since we pulled little Nestra out of Pisa. Castor and bloody Poly have been riding roughshod over everything, I’m telling you. They’ve cooked up this scheme that every suitor has to pay a whopping great courting gift, just to be considered. No returns, no guarantees.’
Eurybates looks horrified. ‘Surely not?’ he asks.
I’m just as surprised. The traditions that surround wedding arrangements are old as time. The initial courting gifts are usually mere tokens, compared to the lavish gift exchanges that follow – the husband’s marriage gifts and the bride’s dowry – once the lucky man has been selected. These first ones, the dora, are simply to establish any prospective suitor’s serious intent. What follows can occasionally vary, especially with high-class marriages; the husband’s marriage gifts can be waived if some kind of competitive games are brought into play.
In this case, the games have been widely publicised. Now, it seems, the dora, effectively the fee to enter the games, is being vastly inflated. And somehow, Castor and Polydeuces have neglected to tell me that… How strange…
Basically, they’re abusing the whole system, treating it as a get-richquick scheme.
‘True as I’m speakin’ to you,’ Laas insists, lurching drunkenly on his stool. ‘No guaran… tees, no fuckin’ returns. I’m bleeding my lands dry to compete, and only because I know I’ve got some inside running, thanks to me an’ Tyndareus being close.’ He grabs my shoulder. ‘You’re def’nitely going to speak for me, right?’
‘Absolutely,’ I assure him.
‘We’ve had at least forty wooing parties go north, between here and Port Helos, and I hear they may have as many coming again. Any prince with half a shred of ambition’s goin’ up there, rattling their spears an’ trying to get Helen’s eye. Gonna be some fuckin’ disappointed buggers, an’ some of them will be those northern bastards who’ll cut your throat quick as look at you.’
He finishes this just as a large shape looms up behind him. I look up to see Patroclus, and he’s heard every word, judging by the icy stare he’s directing at the back of Laas’s head. He glances at the rest of us with distaste as I stand.
‘Sir,’ I greet him, unsure of his title.
‘My father is King of Opus, Prince Odysseus,’ the Thessalian says coolly. Laas finally notices him and gives him a casual wave, blearily ignorant of the offence he’s caused. ‘Milord Laas,’ Patroclus continues, ‘I was hoping you woul
d give me some guidance about the road north.’ He pauses, for effect as much as any other reason. ‘But you seem otherwise detained.’
‘’S no matter,’ Laas answers. ‘Join us if you like.’
Patroclus looks as if he’d just as soon not but he complies, and accepts a beer, swilling it round his mouth as if he’s tasted far better before pushing it aside, while Laas gives him a rambling description of the road to Sparta. Patroclus is an unusual man for a northerner. It turns out, despite his crassness on campaign a few months ago, that he’s been educated in some of the more cultured courts of the northern mainland. But there’s something almost reptilian about him, an oddness I can’t put my finger on.
For all that, he can be charming when he wants to be, and he seems to be trying to win me over, including me in his little asides and jests. At first I’m surprised and a little distant, but then I start to relax, even warm to him a little.
After a time though, a line of supplicants begins to form behind Laas’s seat and it’s clear he’s needed in his official capacity, so we all rise. The tavern is getting over-full of northerners and the atmosphere is turning rowdy, so I give Patroclus a nod, wish Laas luck in whatever duties he has, and follow Bria and Eury to the door.
‘Keep your back to the wall around that Patroclus, Ithaca,’ Bria says as soon as we’re outside.
‘Really? I thought he was showing some human qualities at long last.’
Bria roars with laughter. ‘Don’t say you didn’t notice. You’re priceless!’
‘Why, you think he’s a backstabber and can’t be trusted?’
Bria laughs even louder, and even Eurybates rolls his eyes. ‘I mean,’ she says, patting my behind, ‘that he’d do something over-friendly behind your back, given half a chance. Nice arse, by the way.’
I go red. ‘You mean he… Oh.’
‘Didn’t you see the way he was trying to give you the eye? Goodness sake, Ithaca! I thought you were a man of the world.’
Sacred Bride Page 17
