The Gates Of Troy (41 page)

Eperitus pulled himself lightly onto Melite’s back, and as he turned her about saw Polites standing by his pony, looking wistfully at the wood.

‘That old helmet of yours is long gone by now, Polites,’ he said.

‘I don’t mind,’ he replied, his voice deep and slow. ‘She can barter it for some food. At least she won’t have to offer her body. I couldn’t abide the thought of that.’

‘But she was . . .’ Eperitus began, then thought better of it and spurred Melite forward with a jab of his heel.

Chapter Twenty-one

G
OLDEN
M
YCENAE

E
peritus had not seen Clytaemnestra for ten years, ever since they had made love in the hills overlooking Sparta. She had given herself to him out of her spite for Agamemnon, and though there had never been any love between the young warrior and the Mycenaean queen, Eperitus had always remembered their brief time together with affection. Yet, as they came ever nearer to Mycenae, he began to feel nervous at the thought of meeting her again. He was also concerned about what else he would find within the walls of golden Mycenae. At first he had been keen to find the person who Calchas had said knew the first of the compelling secrets that had the potential to change his life, but as they crept closer to Agamemnon’s city a sense of caution grew in him – perhaps inspired by the disquiet he felt concerning their mission – and soured his enthusiasm.

‘See those watchtowers?’ Talthybius called back over his shoulder, pointing up at the high peaks on either side of the road where two wooden structures kept a silent vigil. ‘They mark the northern border of Mycenae. A richer and happier land you’ll never see, even if you live to be as old as King Nestor.’

Talthybius’s pride seemed justified. It was late afternoon as they crossed the border, but while the sun remained in the sky their eyes were able to feast on a fat and bountiful country. Their tired ponies trudged through valleys covered with crops of wheat, rye and barley, in the midst of which lay numerous stone farm-steads, their white walls gleaming in the sunshine. Children chased each other through the fields, enjoying the relative freedom of life before the coming harvest, when they would be busy gleaning the fields in the wake of the reapers and sheaf-binders. At one point they passed a herd of straight-horned cattle, standing up to their hocks in a gabbling stream and feeding among the rushes that nodded and swayed on either bank. Each fertile valley they passed through was flanked with hillsides where great numbers of sheep and goats seemed to cascade down the scree-covered slopes, searching for patches of vegetation whilst their shepherds looked on, talking peacefully between themselves as they leaned on staffs or spears.

The broad, winding road also took them through numerous villages, where grubby children and their mothers would gather in packs to wave or stare at the party of warriors as they passed. Many offered food or drink at inflated prices, which Odysseus occasionally felt obliged to purchase for his men with the last of his trinkets. He explained to Eperitus that he felt guilty for letting them give the last of their own food to Galatea, when he should have realized they were being tricked.

Soon the road took them closer to the low mountains. A fiery sunset left a brief legacy of purple skies, promising another warm day to follow, but as Talthybius assured them his home city was close they gave no thought to stopping for the night. For some time now the road had been paved – another sign of the wealth of Mycenae – and the hooves of their ponies sounded sharp and hollow in the evening air as the stars opened out above them. Occasionally they crossed bridges over deep ravines, where far below, lost in the twilight, they could hear mountain streams that had been dried to a trickle by the summer sun. Eventually they saw the lights of a city emerge from the darkness to the southeast. They had reached Mycenae.

The road angled down a little towards the plain, where it intersected another that ran from east to west. At the crossroads, they turned left and headed eastward up the slope towards the city. As the moon sailed out above the black hills, its light painted the wide circuit of the walls and the high-sided buildings beyond them a ghostly white. Nestled on the rocky hill at the centre of the city was the royal palace, where dozens of lights gleamed from its many windows and lines of blue-grey smoke trailed up from vents in its rooftops. Behind the city were two cone-shaped peaks, one to the north-west and another to the southeast. The northernmost peak supported another watchtower, the top of which was framed by the underbelly of the moon. The armour of its occupants glinted in the silvery light as they stared out over the plain. Beside the watchtower was a mound of stacked wood, ready to act as a beacon in times of need.

Not that Agamemnon’s city would ever find itself in desperate need of help. As their ponies approached the citadel, plodding slowly between the spread of shanties that surrounded it, Eperitus looked up in awe at the colossal walls ahead of them. Even though Troy’s imposing defences were built by Poseidon and Apollo, with well-fitted stone and a much wider circuit than Mycenae’s, the walls here surpassed them for brute strength and invulnerability. The blocks were crude but massive – surely beyond the capacity of men alone to lift and fit into place – and in places they were easily as tall as three or four men. Even the handful of bronze-clad troops that peered down at them from the ramparts would be able to hold the city against a besieging army for a very long time; Heracles and Achilles together could not have sacked such a place.

Soon they were under the shadow of the city wall, where the high battlements eclipsed the moon and left them in darkness. Despite this, Eperitus’s sharp eyes noted a gateway up ahead, lost in the deeper gloom between the city wall on the left and another, shorter rampart to the right. The overlapping wall at first seemed pointless to Eperitus. Then, as it loomed up beside him and he instinctively imagined what it would be like to be in a press of attackers storming the gate, he realized that defenders on the shorter wall would be able to fire or throw missiles at him from his unshielded right side. Clever, he thought, and deadly.

Talthybius dismounted and signalled for the Ithacans to do the same. They led their ponies up to the tall oak doors of the gateway to the city and stopped. The gates were over twice the height of a man and flanked by two stone pillars of immense size, which had been built into the walls for added strength. Resting above them was a stone lintel, on top of which was the magnificent relief Eperitus had seen in his dream, depicting a pair of lions standing either side of a short column. Their forepaws were planted firmly on its low plinth and their snarling faces looked out over the approach to the gate, a fearsome and majestic reminder that Mycenae was the greatest city in Greece, and its ruler, Agamemnon, was the greatest king. Though the lions were only faintly visible in the darkness, Eperitus could see the dull gleam of gold in their eyes, a final reminder of the wealth of the city they protected.

Talthybius took his herald’s staff and beat it three times against the doors. The wood was so thick, the sound of each knock boomed as if it came from the ground beneath their feet.

‘Who’s on the door tonight?’ he called. ‘Is it you, Ochesios? Open up quickly and let us in.’

A voice called down to them from the ramparts above. ‘Talthybius? What are you doing back here? Is something wrong?’

‘Open this damned door, Ochesios, will you? I’m tired, hungry and saddle sore from riding this beast for four days.’

There was a brief delay and then the doors swung slowly inwards, revealing the moonlit innards of the city beyond. They walked through quickly, the sounds of the ponies’ hooves echoing beneath the solid walls, and soon stood on a raised roadway overlooking the lowest level of the city. A group of guards nodded to Talthybius, but eyed his companions with caution. To the left was another high wall, perhaps a form of inner defence, and ahead of them a ramp climbed up to the next level. Of more immediate interest to the Ithacans, though, was the large circular arena slightly to their right, where a collection of upright slabs cast long shadows across the floor. It was cordoned off by an outer circuit of slabs, each standing to the height of a man’s chest, and was entered through a single gate. Talthybius smiled as he saw his companions’ undisguised interest.

‘The royal burial ground,’ he explained. ‘Atreus is entombed there with his queen, Aerope. And one day King Agamemnon will be interred there, too, alongside his forebears. If we had arrived before sunset it would’ve been proper to make a sacrifice here before going up to the palace, but perhaps we can show our respects tomorrow.’

Beyond the arena was a collection of well-built houses that filled the remainder of the lower level. They reminded Eperitus of the buildings that skirted the walls of Pergamos in Troy, which housed the numerous officials who served Priam’s household. Their Mycenaean counterparts were less elaborate in their architecture, but that was not a reflection of Troy’s superior wealth – it merely highlighted the different mindsets of the two opposing cultures. Though he had been impressed by the grandeur of Troy, Eperitus felt much more at home with the functional, honest architecture of Mycenae.

After his rustic guests had spent long enough gazing down at the royal cemetery, Talthybius led them up the ramp to the next level of the city. Here they could see the palace buildings looming ahead of them, their layered walls faced with silver by the moonlight. These were built on the third and highest level of the city and before long Talthybius had led them around to the left and up some steps to a double portico. In the narrow courtyard beyond they found more guards, chatting quietly among themselves as they drank wine and played dice on the flagstones. They rose at the sound of the ponies’ hooves and the clank of bronze armour, and immediately levelled their spear-points at the approach of the newcomers.

‘Talthybius,’ said one of the guards, the surprise evident in his voice. ‘The watchtowers sent word we would have visitors before long, but we weren’t expecting you. Shouldn’t you be in Troy by now?’

‘I wish we were, Perithous,’ Talthybius replied. ‘But we’re storm-bound at Aulis.’

‘In the height of summer?’ Perithous exclaimed. ‘It can only be the will of the gods. But if Helen truly is the daughter of Zeus, he won’t allow the fleet to be held up for too long. The good news for you is that the queen made preparations for your arrival as soon as she heard a group of warriors were approaching – a hot bath for every man, followed by a feast in the great hall. Who shall I tell her to expect?’

‘King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,’ Odysseus answered, ‘with five of his men.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Perithous, though he appeared unimpressed by the name or rank of the stocky warrior before him, gave a low bow before departing through a tall and richly decorated doorway. Shortly afterwards a dozen slaves appeared and took the ponies away to be fed and rested. As he stripped the last of his belongings from Melite’s back, Eperitus looked out across the Argive plain stretching away towards the Gulf of Argos. The moonlight revealed a network of paved roads spreading out across the hilly plateau for as far as his sharp eyes could see. Farmsteads and villages were strung along the roads like beads on a webbed necklace; the hardworking populace would be up long before dawn, so not a single light could be seen burning anywhere on the landscape of silver and blue.

As soon as the tired travellers had gathered their effects, Talthybius led them into the palace. They entered a short, echoing corridor that opened onto a square courtyard, brightly lit by the moon now soaring in the sable skies above. Opposite was the pillared threshold of the great hall, overshadowed by the conical hump of one of the peaks flanking the city. In contrast to Priam’s great home, the seat of Agamemnon’s power appeared modest and almost homely to Eperitus. It had the disadvantage of being built on a steep hill and hence the architect had been forced to constrain his designs, but even the decorative reliefs on the walls – of rosettes or spirals set between fanned palm leaves – were simple and constrained in comparison with Troy. Four warriors in expensive armour stood guard at the entrance to the throne room, eyeing the newcomers with curiosity and suspicion.

An elderly slave emerged from a doorway to their right. He stretched out his arm, indicating that they should enter. From the open door a wisp of steam curled out and the smell of hot water and perfumed oil greeted their nostrils.

‘After you,’ said Talthybius, bowing to Odysseus.

‘Mycenaean manners are justifiably famous,’ the king replied with a smile, before leading the way to the waiting baths. He was already stripping the heavy armour from his shoulders as he disappeared through the door.

After being bathed and rubbed down with oil by slaves, the men put on the fresh clothes that had been laid out for them and stepped out into the courtyard. The four guards stood aside at Talthybius’s command, allowing the warriors to pass between the twin pillars of the threshold and into the antechamber beyond. Here they found a single soldier, who took a torch from the wall behind him and – after satisfying himself that they were unarmed – opened the twin doors and allowed the men through.