The Songs of the Kings (11 page)

Poimenos had cast his eyes down in awareness of being rebuked, but he made no answer. Calchas felt nothing now but weariness and the premonition of loss. “Will you leave me to myself for a while?” he said. “Go about the camp a little, try to learn the feelings of the people.”

The boy obeyed, still in silence. Alone in the tent, Calchas strove to close his mind against the bitterness of defeat and the fear he felt for the future. He prayed in whispers to Pollein, god of blended natures, to act as peacemaker in this quarrel, reconcile the goddess and the god and restore the King's favor to his diviner. For answer there was only the beat of his heart and the grieving of the wind as it searched among the scrub of the hillsides. And he was visited with an anguish worse than all his fear. In that voice of the wind there was no urgent will, no intention, no message of god or goddess, only a desolation as old as the hills themselves.

7.

This would be the moment,” Odysseus said. “Croton has done his stuff and come out with a whole skin—only just. Agamemnon has had time to absorb the shock and start thinking about the consequences of refusing. The consequences to him personally I mean.” He paused here, smiling a little. “That's always the first thought, isn't it?”

“A great man like Agamemnon cannot think only in personal terms,” Chasimenos said. “He has to consider the people who depend on him.”

“The people who depend on him, brilliant. Be sure to bring that in when we go over there.”

The daylight was waning now, it would soon be dark. They were in Odysseus's tent and kept their voices low in case of eavesdroppers. “People like you and me,” Odysseus said, still smiling. He was looking forward to the visit, it should offer a good field to his talents. “Strike while the bronze is hot. He won't have had time to hit on an alternative, not with any firmness anyway. I know Agamemnon. He wants to decide for others but he needs advice on how to decide for himself.”

“Timing is important, certainly,” Chasimenos said stiffly. He had sometimes noticed before a lack of due respect for Agamemnon in the other man's words; and now that they were associates in this enterprise, Odysseus took less trouble to conceal it. This distressed him, but he tried not to show it, knowing that Odysseus, whose cruelty he had early recognized, enjoyed his distress and found it laughable in someone busily engaged in exploiting Agamemnon's weaknesses. But to Chasimenos this was a cynical view, it was not what he was doing at all: he was working to bring out all that was best in Agamemnon, that quality of lordship which he lacked himself and knew to be there in his master, and which, with him aiding, could conquer the world. He had been in the palace service since the age of twelve, when he had been taken on as a page boy; he had worked his way up to a position of power and trust and he was devoted to the King's person and his interests. With this great campaign, there was an opportunity for Mycenae, already the strongest kingdom in Greece, to control the approaches to the Euxine Sea, to found not just a string of trading posts but a vast maritime empire. He was stirred by this thought even now; and when he was stirred his speech became elevated. He said: “In view of the importance of the matters under consideration, it is hardly surprising that the King should take time to review all his options on the information currently available.”

“Quite so, well said, this is a difficult moment for him, that's what makes it a good time for us to go to work. For the common good, of course, always for the common good.” His smile came again, an engaging smile, slightly lopsided as it grew broader, wreathing his face in lines of good humor, though the eyes remained the same, at once watchful and calm. I'll know the eyes of a twister from now on, Chasimenos thought. He knew he was on higher moral ground than the other, he was acting out of loyalty. Anyone who looked into his eyes would see the eyes of a faithful public servant.

“Well, I am glad we see eye to eye in this business,” Odysseus said. He still could not quite believe his luck in having found such an ally, a man besotted with military power who had never worn a sword in his life, whose highest aim was to live in the light of another's glory, who saw in this rabble of hostile factions and predatory chiefs the makings of a nation, the founders of an empire. Chasimenos would play his part, probably without fully knowing it, in the two-pronged assault Odysseus had in mind; he would soften the King's defenses by defending him. Really neat. “We must take Nestor with us,” he said.

Chasimenos frowned. “Is that really necessary? Nestor lost his marbles long ago. He'll only keep interrupting us with this interminable saga of his exploits as a rustler.”

“It's not for the sake of anything he says, only to have him there. He's an accustomed figure at all councils. Haven't you noticed how he is brought out whenever there is an assembly of any kind? He puts a sort of stamp on the proceedings, an official endorsement. The Atreid brothers never change their view of things once it is formed, they are quite impervious to physical realities. Surely you must have seen that? Look at Menelaus, who goes on asserting that Helen was taken from him by force, as if only by force she could have been made to leave his side, when he is fat and short-legged and short-winded and Paris is like a god in looks and moreover Helen was what you might call easily led even before Paris came along. But Menelaus sticks to his story. It's useful of course, it provides a pretext for the war. But he didn't persuade himself to believe it, he believed it from the beginning. Questions of how Paris, alone and unaided, got an able-bodied woman— and Helen has an able body, we all know that—out of the palace and onto a ship against her will simply don't come into it. And Agamemnon is just the same. Nestor is wise in council, he has to be present, the fact that he is in his second childhood is neither here nor there.”

Odysseus paused and his smile faded. He had felt the touch of caution, like cold fingers laid on his mouth. He was talking too much and too fast and taking too much pleasure in it. His own fluency betrayed him sometimes, when he felt the sort of excitement that possessed him now, the prospect, through words alone, of prevailing over another mind, using the fears and desires of that mind to disarm and control it. “It's peculiar, all the same,” he said, “that we should depend for legality on a doddering old cattle raider.”

“And Nestor's sons? They accompany him everywhere.”

“No reason why they shouldn't be present. Pylos is a close ally of Mycenae, they have the same need for cheap metals, the same need to expand their markets. They are strongly in favor of the war. Besides, we will need witnesses when the King, you know, undertakes to do what we urge on him, agrees to embark on the required course of action, what's the word I'm looking for?”

“Commits himself.”

“Commits himself, brilliant. Menelaus should be there too, I think. He is stupid but he has some influence with his brother. Can you see that these people are sent for?”

So it was decided. In the gathering darkness of the summer night, by the light of torches guarded from the wind, these several people began to make their way towards Agamemnon's tent; while Calchas prayed for reconciliation and heard only sorrow; while Croton and his acolytes went about the camp with the standard of the Armed God, proclaiming Iphigeneia a witch; while Poimenos sat by a different fire, close to the Singer, listening to the second episode of Perseus and the Gorgon repeated by popular request.

He had missed it in the morning, much to his disappointment, getting back too late from the island. As soon as his master had gone into the meeting, he had hurried across to the outcrop of rock where the Singer was almost always to be found, but by then the morning stories were over, there was only a news item to the effect that Zeus was now believed to be the sender of the wind and that according to informed sources Agamemnon was in some way involved. This evening, however, left to his own devices at an ideal moment, just the time people were gathering to listen, he had been able to get in at the beginning. He had listened spellbound to the story of the bronze giant Talus, guardian of Crete, who was kept alive by a single vein closed at the ankle by a bronze nail. And now he was absorbed in the continuing adventures of Perseus, who was on his way to do battle with the hideous Medusa. In his usual place, just behind the Singer, facing the audience, he was close to the heart of the Songs.

The Singer, unusually, had permitted this closeness from the start. He was glad now that the boy was back. For one thing, he was obviously a good forager, though this time he had brought nothing with him; and such listening as his gave power to the Song, though this one, of course, was a winner anyway. The Singer felt in full command of his material, both form and content, as he related the visit of Athena to Perseus and how she told him of certain weapons he would need for the encounter with the Gorgon. There were those who held that the goddess actually described these weapons and told the hero where they were. There were others who believed that Athena did not possess this information. Both views were equally mistaken. She knew but she did not tell him. Why not? The answer was simple: a hero cannot take shortcuts. All Athena told him was where he could go to find out.

Following her instructions, Perseus made his way to the Libyan mountains. Here, in the depths of a cave, he found the Graeae. These were two hags who had been born with gray hair and had only a single eye and a single tooth between them. Naturally, they quarreled all the time over these. Perseus acted casual, waited for the right moment, then, quick as a flash, he snatched the eye as one of the crones was passing it to the other. They went groping round the cave to get at him with their nails, but he avoided them easily. “Now,” he said, “enough of this fooling around. If you want your eye back, you'd better tell me what I want to know, otherwise I'll throw it into Lake Tritonis. Don't think I'm joking. I mean what I say.” So they were obliged to tell him where the nymphs were who kept the weapons Athena had spoken of. These were river nymphs, they lived in the waters of the Styx, so Perseus had to make a trip into the Underworld in order to visit them, but they readily gave him the things he asked for.

And what were these? Most people in the audience could have answered this question, but there would have been general outrage at any attempt to take this knowledge for granted and cut the story short. It was familiarity that cast the spell, everything was savored in advance. The Singer knew this well, knew he couldn't take shortcuts any more than Perseus. A pouch to sling over the shoulder; a pair of sandals fitted with wings which enabled him to fly; the cap of darkness which rendered him totally invisible as soon as he put it on his head. Then Hermes appeared and gave him the assault weapon, a sickle made of adamant, razor-edged, unbreakable. He kept his own shield, which was of bronze and highly polished. Fitted out from head to foot, he flew off to find the Gorgons.

There in his privileged position, at the source of the words, Poimenos felt his soul expand with wonder. Often it was the lesser details that absorbed him, filling his mind long after the song was over, things that the Singer did not mention or passed over quickly. Those two gray-haired babies, lying side by side, who had been the guardian of the eye and tooth? What was adamant? Why did Hermes give Perseus a sickle rather than a sword? What was the pouch for?

Now, as the Singer observed the customary dramatic pause, striking slow notes on his lyre, Poimenos observed the angle of the head, the set of the shoulders. Slowly, almost stealthily, he adjusted his own body to an exact imitation. And it was in this posture, carefully maintained, that he listened to the rest of the wonderful story. The lair of the Gorgons was set in a strange forest of petrified forms, men and animals turned to stone by the glances of the terrible sisters. Perseus avoided this fate by keeping his eyes on the polished surface of his shield, which reflected the scene like a mirror. No one had told him to do this, it was his own idea. Wearing the cap of darkness, he soon tracked down the hideous sisterhood, with their hands of brass and wings of gold, their huge lolling tongues between swine's tusks, their heads permanently writhing with snakes. He waited till they were asleep, then crept up on Medusa. The other two were immortal, so he didn't bother with them. He had to move fast. Keeping her in view by means of the shield, he severed her head with a single stroke of the sickle, stuffed it into his pouch and took off. The other two rose up, but how could they pursue an enemy they couldn't see? All they could do was return to the corpse and fly screaming round it.

Poimenos sat on, still in the same posture, while the Singer fell silent and the wind raised its voice again, echoing the lamentation of the Gorgons. His mind was flooded by the story. So that was what the pouch was for. And the sickle, perfect for close quarters, it would almost encircle the neck, one sweep, bam. Everything had been thought of. It hadn't been a contest at all really. She would never have known what hit her. Careful planning, backed up by the most advanced equipment available, a tale of triumph. However, it was not the homeward-speeding hero that engaged the boy's mind, but the two grieving monsters, flapping round the headless corpse and screaming, screaming. The more deadly and ugly they were, the more he felt their sorrow.

And so, that evening, without fully realizing it, Poimenos joined the addicts, passed for the first time into the true, un-governed realm of story, where the imagination is paramount, taking us to places not intended, often not foreseen, by the framers of the words and the makers of the music.

8.

Menelaus was already there when the self-appointed delegation arrived. Nestor, accompanied by his two sons, came in soon afterwards. Agamemnon had left his chair of state and was half reclining on a couch of cushions, an oil lamp with a fretwork guard close beside him on a low stand, as if he wanted to keep near to the source of light. There were no soldiers inside the tent, only two attendants, neither of them armed; a good sign, Odysseus immediately thought: if Agamemnon did not feel in danger of human harm, it must be because he believed himself to be in the hands of Zeus.

The attendant brought cushions and the King motioned his visitors to be seated. There followed a brief period of waiting, the silence of respect, while they listened to the rippling detonations made by the canvas, sounds that would swell and fall as the night wind breathed and paused and breathed again. The flame swayed inside the delicate grid of the guard and bolts of light flickered like lizards over the walls.

Chasimenos began. This had been agreed beforehand; he was the one most trusted. He spoke of the danger of mutiny among the troops, the growing popularity of Palamedes, the Carian, son of Nauplius. “A fellow countryman of Calchas,” he said, infusing his tone with significance—it never came amiss to hint at conspiracy. “I have sent people out through the camp. Whatever the fireside, the talk is always the same. Croton's messages are repeated. You are blamed for the wind because of the malpractices of Iphigeneia. They say that if Palamedes were leader, we would be free of the wind.”

They had chosen Palamedes from among several possible contenders because he was generally liked, and known to be ambitious. Also he was clever. In the Songs he was credited with having while still a youth invented the game of dice, which had become very popular of late years. Odysseus detested him because of a malicious story he had put about, one which still found its way into the Songs, that the Ithacan had tried to dodge the war by feigning madness, yoking a horse to an ox and attempting to plow with them. For this slander, he had sworn to kill Palamedes one day. For the moment, however, he kept these feelings to himself.

“Palamedes,” Agamemnon said. “A slack-wristed fellow if ever I saw one.” His insomniac eyes moved slowly from one face to another. “I could split him down the middle,” he said. “If the people blame me for this misfortune of the wind, that is only natural, I am the leader, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame of a thousand men.” He had become enraged as he spoke. He ground his teeth and his eyes flashed. “Who says I have not shoulders broad enough to bear the blame of a thousand men?”

“No one would dare to say that, my brother, not about either of us,” Menelaus said. “We were born to command, we are the eagle kings.” He was shorter than his brother and inclining to fat and sometimes his words came accompanied by a wheezing sound, as if there were some clogging in his lungs. “Eagle kings,” he said, “swooping down on Troy on strong pinions to revenge the rape of my Helen and teach these snotty-nosed Asians a lesson they'll never forget.”

“My lord,” Chasimenos said, “greatest of men, excuse me, shoulders are not the issue here. Atlas had broad shoulders and look where it got him. It's not so much a question of enduring the blame as atoning for the guilt. You have incurred pollution through Iphigeneia, whereas Palamedes has respected the altars of Zeus. Moreover, his father was one of that band of heroes who sailed with Jason on the
Argo
in the quest for the Golden Fleece. That's the sort of thing that is bound to look impressive on a person's CV.” He stopped short at this; but everyone there knew that Atreus, the father of Agamemnon and Menelaus, had a record far from heroic, having murdered the children of his own brother, even though they had taken refuge in the temple of Zeus, and afterwards served them up in a stew to their unsuspecting father.

“His father lived by wrecking ships and taking off the cargoes,” Agamemnon said. “Everyone knows that. He and his gang lit beacons on the headlands of Caphareus to lure ships onto the rocks. If they found any sailors still alive, they—”

“Palamedes is free of blame, that's the point.” Odysseus spoke brusquely. He saw now that Agamemnon, though fully aware of why they had come, was playing for time, trying to wriggle off the hook by slithering into irrelevancies. Despicable. “He is and you're not,” he said. “It's got nothing to do with anybody's father.”

“I will have him killed.”

“Far from easy. He is well guarded. And then, as we have said, he is popular, the consequences might be dangerous, unpredictable in any case. No, the remedy lies elsewhere, it was pronounced in your hearing not long ago in this very—”

“You can't kill them all.”

No one knew for a while who had spoken, where this clear and deliberate voice could have come from. It was as if the wind had suddenly found human language. Then, from the look of dismay on his sons' faces, they realized it was old Nestor, until then silent except for occasional low mutters and chuckling sounds. “When there is division among the people,” he continued in the same clear tones, “there will never be any shortage of leaders. You put one out of the way, others come forward. It is analogous to the problem encountered by Heracles when he was trying to kill the monster with the hundred heads. But in this present case the monster is not rival leaders but our own discord, the conflicts that divide us. This began, as we all know, with the ill-considered gift of the golden apple by Paris to the goddess of love.”

There were some moments of stunned silence while all regarded the ancient counselor, who now was dribbling a little. His sons wore a look of total consternation, as if their worst fears were being realized. Even Odysseus gulped and swallowed. The old fool had found his voice again—and quite the wrong message. The only one not to seem surprised was Agamemnon, who nodded and said, “Wise words, we thank you for them. What is this story you refer to? Refresh our memories.”

“Story?”

“Yes, this apple that—”

“Apple? They tried to stop us, they couldn't stop us, no one could stop us, we were unstoppable, it wasn't a javelin, it was a sword, we got away with a hundred cows . . .”

“There, there, father, shush, shush,” the sons said, speaking together in visible relief.

“Agamemnon,” Odysseus said, “I won't mince words with you. My kingdom is Ithaca, as you know. You probably haven't been there but I can tell you it's very rocky. I love the place, I wouldn't dream of living anywhere else, but there is no denying that it is rocky. People who grow up there, they come to resemble the rock. A bit on the rigid side perhaps, possibly lacking in finesse, but absolutely incorruptible. You can't corrupt rock, can you? We are people that speak our minds.”

He paused here, savoring the moment. The King was suffering, it was in his face. Odysseus had seen that look before, in his courtroom at home, on the faces of convicted malefactors awaiting his sentence while he deliberately delayed. Agamemnon knew he was being played with, but he could do nothing, he was helpless. Seeing the King's stricken face, Odysseus felt pleasure gather in his mouth, so that his next words came more thickly. “We do not make pretty speeches or go in for poetic figures or false comparisons. The leaves of the trees change color and fall, the flowers of spring deceive us with their promise and sadden us when they wither and die, but the face of the rock endures forever.” He paused briefly to swallow down the excess saliva. “I am the king of these people, I
am
Ithaca, I am rock personified. So do not expect anything from me but plain speaking and the blunt truth.” Slow down, he told himself, take care, you're enjoying this too much.

He had a mannerism, a way of inclining his heavily muscled shoulders forward as he spoke, as though putting his physical weight behind the point he was making, then drawing his head back sharply to look his interlocutor in the eye, with a great effect of openness and sincerity. Chasimenos's style was quite different; pale-faced and peering, still in his narrow-fitting tunic of a palace bureaucrat, he was continuously shifting his behind on the cushion and shuffling his feet, as if the honesty of his thoughts and words were making things too hot for comfort. Together these two, while still remaining seated, performed a sort of dance before the reclining Agamemnon, a pattern of movements that seemed to keep time with the flapping of the canvas, the wavering shadows cast on the wall behind them by the thin bars of the lamp guard.

“If it hurts you, I can't help it, that's the way I'm made,” Odysseus said. “This concerns your daughter, as you know.”

Chasimenos gave him a straight look. “No one will harm my king while I am standing on my own two feet and able to prevent it.”

“My faithful Chasimenos, you will be rewarded,” Agamemnon said, and the words came with just the hint of a sob.

“I ask for no reward but to be there by your side at the conquest of Troy, making a detailed inventory of the booty that falls to Mycenae.”

“This is all very well,” Odysseus said, “but it isn't getting us anywhere. It certainly isn't getting us any nearer to Troy. Agamemnon, you heard the words of the priest of Zeus. We all did. Those words are all over the camp, on everybody's lips. Croton is widely respected for his upright character and he is known to have the favor of the god.”

“He was contradicted by Calchas.”

Chasimenos squirmed on his cushion.“My lord king, what is Calchas? He is a foreigner, an outsider, priest of a god unknown to the Greeks. He has no loyalty to our great cause, he has no idea of patriotism or honor or—”

“Worst of all, he is effeminate,” Menelaus said. “I noticed that from the start.”

“The facts are not in dispute,” Odysseus said. “Croton has firsthand testimony, eyewitness accounts. Iphigeneia exalts the mother over the father, she dances with her attendants at the time of full moon, she denies that Artemis is the daughter of Zeus, or any younger than he, she pours libations of milk. In short, she has been possessed by Hecate and has become a witch.”

Chasimenos practiced his straight look again. “Odysseus, take care, a little respect, you are talking about a princess of the royal house of Mycenae, you are talking about a daughter of great Agamemnon.”

“Faithful servant, I will give you five measures of lapis lazuli. Write it down somewhere.”

“I am talking about what the army believes, rightly or wrongly. That's the only thing that matters. The army has accepted this as the explanation for the wind. If you don't do something about it, or promise to do something about it, the command of this great enterprise will slip from your grasp.”

“The promise would be enough,” Chasimenos said softly. “A significant future event. Something dear to your heart, offered up for the common good.”

Odysseus gathered himself. The moment had come. Agamemnon knew, it was written on his face, but the words still needed to be said. “It is not only Croton now. Why should I be the one to bring your anger down upon us only because I am honest and speak as a friend?”

A brief silence followed upon this. The wind had dropped for the moment to little more than a harsh sigh, the sound that a man might make with open mouth in relief from pain, or endurance of it; and this quietness seemed strange, and was remembered, coming at such a moment.

The King rose and his shadow loomed on the canvas behind him, blotting into one dark shape the wavering shadows cast by the lamp guard. Then he moved to his chair and seated himself and raised a haggard face. “Let me hear,” he said.

He had addressed Odysseus, but it was Chasimenos who spoke now, shuffling forward and coming to his knees before the seated figure of his master. He said, “O King, I would give my life for you at any time it was required.” A lump came to his throat at the trueness of this. “Take my life now if you need it, kill me as I kneel here. I have only your good at heart. The conquest of Troy will give Mycenae, as the most powerful member of the alliance, rule over the shores of western Asia and all the Green Water. It will secure for us the trade in amber from the Baltic, in copper and tin from northern Anatolia and in the gold that comes down through Thrace. Control of the straits will fall into our hands, we will be able to levy dues on all the shipping that passes through into the Euxine Sea.”

He kept his eyes to the ground as he spoke, not venturing to look up. He felt the presence of anguish above him, near and far, in the King and beyond the King, an anguish that rose into the night sky, where the wind had again become clamorous. “Iphigeneia must be sent for,” he said. “She must be brought here. You must announce your intention to have her sacrificed on the altar of Zeus before the assembled army. Only in this way can the expedition be saved.”

The voice of Odysseus came from behind him. “An immediate announcement is necessary. They will believe it. Instead of waiting for an end to the wind, which is maddeningly uncertain, they will be waiting for the arrival of Iphigeneia, a definite event. It will do wonders for their morale.”

Raising his eyes at last, Chasimenos could discern no particular change of expression in his master's face. “It will save us,” he said. He got up awkwardly from his kneeling position and bowed and went back to his cushion.

“Why not Menelaus?” the King said. “He has a daughter. It was his wife that was seduced. It was for his sake that I embarked on this expedition, not my own, to redeem the honor of the house of Atreus, to show the people of Troy and the whole world that when a blow is struck against us we will strike back with double force. We have the men, we have the ships, we have the gold. We did not seek this war, but by all the gods . . .” He broke off and a sound like a groan came from him. “Menelaus has a daughter,” he said again.

“I must say, brother, I did not expect this from you,” Menelaus said. “Haven't I got trouble enough? Must I remind you that my Helen is currently in a Trojan dungeon, being violated on an hourly basis? And I've told you before, she wasn't seduced, she was kidnapped.”