The Songs of the Kings (8 page)

4.

The departure of Calchas and Poimenos was witnessed by one of Chasimenos's people and reported back to him at once. Little went unnoticed now in this camp, where rumors were rife and spies multiplied by the hour. It was impossible to meet and talk without this becoming known to the chiefs, especially the more powerful among them. However, it was one of the several advantages of association with Chasimenos—and all were well known to the wily Odysseus—that the scribe enjoyed Agamemnon's trust, was in fact Agamemnon's chief informer, the one on whom the King most relied. It was Chasimenos who had told him of that intimate talk between Calchas and Ajax of Salamis before the meeting. In this Chasimenos did no more than continue one of his main duties at Mycenae, which was to keep tabs on everything that went on in the palace. Thus, whatever he did now, and wherever he went, it was assumed to be in the King's interest; and indeed it was in this light that the scribe himself regarded it. No one reported on Chasimenos—not to Agamemnon at least. The suspicions of others did not matter. The camp was a hive of suspicions anyway, as Odysseus pointed out later that day, when the two were discussing Calchas and the reasons he might have for going across the water.

“No need to worry about Calchas,” Odysseus said. The other
was
worried, he knew that. “Calchas is a damp squib.”

“But he must have some purpose, some plan, in going over there. Otherwise, he wouldn't absent himself at such a crucial time.” Chasimenos was a dedicated planner himself, and long years in the palace bureaucracy had refined this talent.

“He doesn't think like that.” Odysseus glanced at the other's face, which was unpleasing with its indoor pallor and unsteady eyes—he was tracking insect flight paths again. Chasimenos saw everything in his own terms, he had no insight into honest minds. It was a limitation. “He doesn't think politically. He's an intellectual, he spends his time trying to establish what things mean, whereas you and I know that meaning jumps this way and that according to circumstances. Calchas is one who will always be surprised by events.” It was neat, it was pleasurable, to be prophesying the doom of a prophet. “First surprised, then overwhelmed,” he said.

Chasimenos shook his head slightly, as if the fly had come too close. “I have been making inquiries,” he said. “There is a cave shrine to the Mountain Mother there, on the other side. She whom we know as Artemis. They say it has always been there. The boatman was sent back, so it seems likely Calchas intends to stay overnight.”

“He will have gone to consult the goddess. Let's hope she will have words for him.”

Chasimenos stared. “Why should that be a thing to hope for?”

“My dear Chasimenos, because it will confuse him further. And the more confused he is, the more he will complicate the matter, and the more he complicates the matter, the less dangerous he will be as counselor. Agamemnon is in deep trouble, he will need simple words, he will not welcome subtleties.”

“Calchas is close to the King, he has established himself as an authority, his words are believed.”

“That is true of course, he has had some lucky hits. That is why he constitutes a threat. Normally, what should we do in such a case? We would try to discredit him, sow doubts about him in the King's mind, reduce his influence, kill his voice, deaden his tongue, what's the word I'm looking for?”

“Delegitimize.”

“Delegitimize him, brilliant. You have a first-rate vocabulary, Chasimenos, you are seldom at a loss for a word. But you should spend more time on the study of character. You don't mind me saying that, do you? We are both past our first youth and we can speak frankly together, pooling our experience in a spirit of friendship and trust. We don't need to delegitimize Calchas, because Calchas will delegitimize himself.”

“How?”

“Imagine his situation. He is a foreigner, an outsider, totally dependent on the King's favor. He is not very brave. I saw his face when that madman was gulping out the stuff about the young of the hare. He took it seriously, in some sense he believed it. Now he goes to the shrine of Artemis. His god as worshiped in the lands of the Hatti is a hermaphrodite god. Did you know that?”

“Yes, the slaves we buy in the markets of Miletus sometimes have knowledge of this god.” Chasimenos's mouth, normally thin enough, had drawn even thinner. “We have called him Apollo,” he said.

“I very much doubt whether Calchas does. Now, in the schools of Karkemish or Hattusas no doubt he could debate the matter brilliantly, the blending of the male and the female natures, balance and harmony, but this is not a debating chamber, it is a military camp with a leader at a crisis in his fortunes. Calchas will be driven to complicate things, and at the same time he will be afraid of losing his privileged position. As I say, he is an intellectual, and the fate of the intellectual awaits him, powerless to act, unable to make himself understood, lost in useless speculation, what's the word I'm looking for?”

“Paralysis.”

“Paralysis, brilliant.”

Chasimenos's face, relieved for the moment from anxiety, was smooth, with only the faintest of lines in it, the face of a worn child who had never known childhood. “Good thing we have Croton on our side,” he said. “No danger of paralysis there.”

5.

Later, when Chasimenos had left, it occurred to Odysseus to go and check up on the Singer, in whom he had small trust. His way led him past the Ajaxes, Larger and Lesser, who were standing side by side shouting at a small group of men that had gathered and at each other.

Odysseus paused—to watch rather than to listen. He did not expect to hear much of interest but the pair made an amazing spectacle standing there together, the one red-faced and gigantic, always on the brink of violent wrath, the other dwarflike, bowlegged, sad-looking and more or less permanently randy—there was generally a tumescent bulge discernible below the stuff of his kilt.

“Suppose you are the winner of the footrace,” Ajax the Larger was bellowing. “That is to say, one of the footraces . . .” He floundered here, staring furiously before him, confounded by the bothersome intrusion of detail.

Ajax the Lesser came to the rescue. “There are three footraces of different distances. The hundred paces, the five hundred paces and the thousand paces. My friend here is asking you to imagine that you have won one of them.”

“No, first there are the heats.” Ajax the Larger glared at his partner. “Good grief,” he shouted, “you are forgetting the heats. Each of these three footraces will have a certain number of heats, and each heat . . . The winner of each heat goes on to the next heat . . .”

“No he fucking doesn't. Everyone is in just one heat and the winners of the heats—”

“I've told him before about this bad language. The winners of the heats get five points for winning the heat and the winner of the final will get a total of fifteen points, no, wait a minute . . .”

“You are getting it all fucked up again.” Ajax the Lesser stamped a small foot in exasperation. “The overall winner will get twenty points. Ten for getting to the final and ten for winning it.”

“That's what I was going to say,” shouted Ajax the Larger at the top of his voice. “Step forward, anyone who is interested in training for these events. There will also be wrestling, jumping, throwing the javelin, weight lifting. Any of you men listening now could be a winner. Think of the credit you will bring to your town, returning after the war is over with twenty points notched up.”

“Or thirty, or fifty. Think of the success you will have with the ladies. Your fame will go before you. They will line the streets to give you a hero's welcome.”

Here the little man, thinking to liven up the audience a bit, did some steps of a jig and made obscene thrusting motions with his pelvis. He was quick on his feet and though lacking in stature very strong in the arms—he always received mention in the Songs when the list of notable rapists was recited. “The man with the fifty-point power pack,” he shouted.

Ajax the Larger had gone a deeper shade of red. “I've told him I don't like that dirty talk,” he yelled. “I was brought up to respect women. Step forward, men, don't be shy.”

No one in the audience made any move in the forward direction, though several, seeing that the entertainment was drawing to a close and some contribution from them expected, began to drift away. Odysseus was about to move on too when he saw a staring fixity descend on Ajax the Larger's face, and knew that the huge fellow was in the painful grip of an idea.

“Wait! Don't go away! Ye gods, I've got it!”

He held up a mighty arm. “Prizes!” he shouted. “Not points, prizes. Points
and
prizes. I and my small friend here will offer prizes to the winners, handsome prizes.”

Before turning away, Odysseus had time to notice from the little man's expression that this joint offer had not been welcome to him. Dissimilar as the two were in every other way, they were alike in their extreme stinginess. All the same, as he proceeded on his way, he wondered what the prizes might be. Both the Ajaxes had come back from raiding in Mysia loaded with booty. He was chronically hard up himself and the crew of his one ship were in arrears of pay. In fact, they had not been paid at all. This poverty was galling to him, aware as he was of outstanding abilities. Few could match him in fluency of speech and readiness of wit, in the subtle stratagems of deceit. He loved falsehood for its own sake, saw beauty in it. But these gifts had not resulted so far in the amassing of wealth or the acquisition of power. And he was approaching middle age, with a wife and son at home.

This Trojan campaign would change everything of course. From lordship of a few barren acres to an empire in the lands of gold, the fertile East. For the moment his only possession of value was the great bow that his friend Iphitus of Oechalia had given him when he was only eighteen. It had belonged to Iphitus's father, the famous archer Eurytus, and Odysseus valued it so highly that he had not wanted to risk its loss by bringing it with him, but had left it at home in a safe place. While still a very young man and eager to get the best product available on the market, he had traveled all the way to the mountains of Thesprotia, braving many dangers, to get arrow poison from Ilus, grandson of the noted poison maker Medea, heir to all her expertise. Anyone who was anyone got his arrow poison from Ilus, it was quite simply the best. It came in elegant bags with silk strings at the neck and Ilus's trademark woven on the side, instantly recognizable everywhere. But by the time he got there Ilus had gone mad and spent his days muttering in a corner, possessed by dread of the gods' disapproval. He had refused to sell any poison, on the grounds that the gods might disapprove. Odysseus had had to be content with an inferior poison from the nearby island of Taphos. Yet another failure, he thought, remembering how he had minded at the time. But Troy would change all that. Troy would make up for everything . . . He thought he could probably win the wrestling, if they were planning to have that as one of the events. He was broad at the shoulder and well knit, a good build for wrestling. It suited his temperament too. There were stronger men in the camp, but he knew how to use the strength and weight of an opponent to defeat and disable him. And a man well oiled, who knew the holds, could slip out of any grasp.

He was drawing near now to the place where the Singer was generally to be found, where there was an outcrop of rock to provide some shelter from the wind, in the open space between the Cretan, Locrian and Achaian encampments. That he so regularly chose this place had led all three of these to claim him as a fellow countryman; but there were others who said he came from Lydia or from Ephesus or from the island of Chios. It was not possible to find certain proof in his accent; and when asked where he came from, he merely gestured, sometimes towards the mountains, sometimes towards the sea.

As Odysseus approached, he heard the high clear voice with its usual note of lament, and the sound of the lyre, at the same time swooning and vibrant. However, he was annoyed to find that the Singer, far from following instructions and promulgating the message of an offended Zeus as the sender of the wind, was singing about the early life of the hero Perseus, how he had been born in a brazen cell where his mother Danae was imprisoned, and where she became mysteriously pregnant, the very thing she had been imprisoned to prevent.

None of this had anything to do with the wind, though it had much to do with Zeus; but there was a considerable crowd there, people were listening, he could not simply barge in and interrupt. All the same, it was infuriating. Early evening, when people were gathering, when it was cooler and more comfortable and minds were receptive. Prime time, in other words, and it was being wasted.

His rank precluded sitting among the others. He waited standing, at some distance apart. Despite his annoyance—and the fact that, in common with many people there, he had heard the story before—he soon found himself drawn in. It was one of the greats, and the Singer was telling it well. She had been locked up there by her own father, Acristius, king of Argos, who had been told by an oracle that a son of Danae would one day kill him. She claimed that Zeus was the father of the child, that he had visited her in a shower of gold, but Acristius preferred to believe that some lecherous and burglarious human had picked the lock. “Where is the gold then?” he asked. “Why is there none on the floor? Why is not even the slightest trace left?” Questions to which there was no answer. “A likely story,” Acristius said, and he set both mother and child adrift in a chest. However, with his own hands Zeus guided the chest across the sea to the island of Seriphos, where it was beached up and found by Dictys, younger brother of the king of the island, whose name was Polydectes. The kindly Dictys looked after the castaways and it was here the Perseus grew to manhood. But then one day Polydectes happened to see Danae and he was smitten immediately and wanted to possess her, but she didn't fancy him at all, she refused and Perseus backed her up. “My mother's decision must be respected,” Perseus said.

There were exclamations of approval at this from various parts of the audience, and the Singer observed a pause here, the customary pause for dangerous situations. He resumed with a rhetorical question. How did Polydectes react?

By a cunning falsehood. He announced that he intended to ask for the hand of Hippodameia, daughter of the Pisan king, Oenomaus, and he asked for a gift of horses as part of the bride price. Knowing all the while that Perseus possessed no horses.

This Polydectes was a shrewd fellow, Odysseus reflected. Part of the bride price, brilliant. The lustful king had always been his favorite character in the story, even though things had ended badly for him. He knew what he wanted and he worked things round. He had calculated on the hero's pride and rashness; rather than lose face, Perseus would make any sort of wild vow. And so it had happened. He had undertaken to bring anything that the king might ask, even to the head of the Gorgon Medusa, who had snakes for hair, a glimpse of whose hideous face turned men instantly to stone. No one had ever survived an encounter with the Gorgon. Naturally, the king at once accepted the offer. “Well, since you mention it,” he said, “the head of the Medusa is just what I would like.”

The Singer proceeded now to describe the appalling difficulty of this self-imposed task. The Medusa had two sisters and all three Gorgons were equipped with wings of gold. On foot, how could he get near her? And then, how could he kill her and cut off her head without once glimpsing her face? Even if by some miracle he brought it off, how could he escape the sisters' vengeful pursuit? But Perseus had one trump card, unknown to everyone, even to himself: he had the support of Athena, who hated Medusa for reasons that belonged in another story, one that the Singer, digressing a little, professed himself well able to relate if there was popular demand for it. Athena appeared to the hero in all her splendor and told him how he could get the better of the Gorgon. She gave him exact instructions . . .

The Singer paused here, at least his silence was at first taken by the audience as simply another dramatic pause. But nothing followed, the silence lengthened and they became aware again of the plucking and clawing of the wind and its voice on the hillside like the shuddering indrawn breath of some creature inconceivably huge. There was a restless stirring among the people, and several called out, demanding that the story should continue. But the Singer laid his lyre aside. He had been reciting for many hours, he was tired, it was time for his meager evening meal. Besides, the appearance of Athena was an excellent point at which to break off, an exciting moment in the story. He would continue next morning. The morning audiences tended to be sparse, they needed beefing up. Having heard the first episode, people were likely to return; and every return increased the possibility of gifts. He heard the rustle of the crowd's disappointment, the faces glimmered before him like soft, very pale flames. He turned his head towards where he knew the sea to lie. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “when the sun is still low enough to make a bar on the water, I will give you the words of Athena, you will have the sequel— there are two episodes in the story of Perseus and the Gorgon.” This evening the boy had not come with his gift of food. He had not come even for the shortest time, to sit close by and listen to the Songs. Perhaps he would not come again.

The crowd began to move away, quietly enough now—they were after all accustomed to sequels and installments and adventures told in series. It was the wind that had made them feel lonely and unprotected, once the voice of the Singer had ceased. Odysseus waited until the last had gone, then went up to the Singer, who was eating bread and small black grapes. “I am Odysseus,” he said, close to the Singer's ear.

The movement of the jaws did not cease at this announcement, nor was there any change in the angle of the cropped and bony head, always tilted upward, as if to catch some distant sound.

Odysseus hesitated for some moments. The Singer was not an easy proposition. He was an entertainer, he had power. The audience had been gripped by the Song, spellbound, for a while they had forgotten the wind. One who could distract the people in this way, turn them from discontent and the breeding of revolt, was a very valuable instrument, especially at a time like this. But instruments had to be controlled.

“I don't want to tell you your job, of course,” he said, speaking close to the whorl of the Singer's left ear, “but it might have been a good idea to insert a reference to the wind that detains us here in that Song you have just been reciting. There was a good occasion when you brought Zeus into it. You know, the god takes his pleasure in a shower of gold, shows his displeasure in this wind that is so bitter to us, sent to punish our offense, an offense, you might have hinted, that involves someone high up in the chain of command.”

The Singer chewed for some moments more on his grapes and bread. He enjoyed the blended taste when he put both into his mouth together. Chewing took time because a number of his teeth had gone. He did not like this voice. “The wind doesn't belong in the Song of Perseus,” he said.