Amy Myers should need no introduction to devotees of historical mysteries. Her novels about the Victorian cordon bleu chef and solver of mysteries, Auguste Didier, which began with Murder in Pug’s Parlour (1986), are immensely popular. But her presence in a volume of classical mysteries may seem a little surprising. Amy, however, was keen to bring her special skills to the ancient world, particularly the time when history became legend. She takes us back to the dawn of the ancient Greek world, to the time when men were heroes and heroes were gods (or was it the other way round?) – to the time of the Trojan War. And though our sleuth is none other than the goddess Aphrodite, don’t imagine Amy pulls any supernatural punches. She abides by the rules. Though her tongue remains firmly in her cheek throughout.
‘Murder? Me? You accuse me falsely, O Cow-Faced Lady of the Golden Throne.’ (Goodness knows why Hera always considers this appellation such a compliment.)
I burst into tears with one of my splendid hyacinth-blue orbs carefully on Father – sorry, Great Zeus the Thunderer, ruler of the heavens. You can never be sure which way Father is going to rumble; he is terrified of Cow-Faced Lady, otherwise known as his wife.
I had been rudely summoned to a full council of the gods in the Hall of the Golden Floor just when I was anointing my golden body with a most delightful oil of violets. There they all were, the happy family: Pallas Athene, Ares, Apollo, Artemis, Hephaestus, Hermes, Dionysus, even Uncle Poseidon had turned up for the occasion, not to mention every nymph and naiad who could scramble into her gauze knick-knacks in time. And I, Aphrodite, goddess of laughter and love, was promptly not only accused but apparently convicted. Father cleared his throat, his sable brows twitching, and decided to thunder a little. Coward. ‘Hera has justification, daughter. A dead body had been found and one of my thunderbolts is missing.’
‘Hera’s always been jealous of me, just because I’m Dione’s daughter, not hers.’ My mother, the goddess of moisture, was a bête noire of Hera’s, just like Thetis, Europa, Leda and all the other thousands of ladies whom Zeus had favoured with his own private thunderbolt.
‘Is that why you’re always weeping, O laughter-loving Aphrodite?’ enquired the Poisoned Dart of the Flashing Helmet, otherwise known as Pallas Athene. Like Hera, she thought those dull long-haired Greeks were the sacrificial sheep’s whiskers, just because when she, Hera and I paraded our charms for Paris of Troy on Mount Ida, he awarded the Golden Apple Prize for beauty to me. Well, naturally. How was I to know when I told him he could have of Helen, the fairest woman in all the world, in exchange, that it would start the Trojan War, which after nearly ten years was still raging? We may be immortal, up here on Olympus, but we’re not omniscient, nor omnipotent, not even the Thunderer himself, though he likes to pretend he is. He may be sovereign administrator for Destiny, but he can’t decide it, and he does tend to nod off from time to time.
I ignored her. Just wait till she pleaded for my kestos next time, my magic girdle in which my immortal aphrodisiac powers reside. She needed it. These Amazonian types couldn’t seduce a centaur without it. It all comes of her having leapt out of Zeus’ head fully armed instead of being conceived in the usual far more interesting manner which is my domain.
‘But why me?’ I wailed.
The Mighty Son of Cronos lost patience with me; his nectar must have been off this morning. ‘Because the blasted body belongs to Prince Anchises,’ Zeus thundered. ‘What else can we think?’
I put my hands over my shell-like ears. I was truly shocked. ‘But I wouldn’t kill Anchises.’ (Give me half a chance!) ‘He is the father of my beloved son.’
‘Which one?’ enquired my husband Hephaestus, with a rare flash of what passed for wit with him. We have no children, the god of the forge being too hot to handle. I ignored him too. I usually do.
‘Aphrodite,’ Father said more kindly. ‘You’ve been threatening to punish Anchises ever since you heard he’d been boasting about his relationship with you. Now his body has been found on Mount Ida. Near my shrine,’ he added crossly.
Mount Ida! The very place where Anchises and I had consecrated our love – he had looked so sweet lying there asleep with that natty little leather apron awry exposing a truly princelike appendage. He was serving the usual shepherd’s apprenticeship obligatory for Trojan princes (even the junior line to which he belonged), a year out to see how other folks lived. I just had to swoop on him there and then. Darling pious Aeneas was the result, and Anchises never let anyone forget it.
‘But, Mighty Zeus, I didn’t touch your thunderbolt.’
‘The thunderbolt store in the Chamber of the Golden Bed was rifled.’
‘But there is no proof I did it.’
‘There is.’ The sable brows looked even blacker, and my peerless knees began to tremble. ‘All the gods with keys, save you, have sworn that they were all occupied in” – Zeus paused – “amorous nocturnal occupations. I’ve already decided only you could have stolen the thunderbolt.’
I pleaded with him, but this time all my beauty and winning ways failed to move him. It was just my bad luck that this was the one day in a thousand when he didn’t need the help of my girdle to carry out his busy agenda.
Then he delivered his verdict: ‘I sentence you to be expelled from Olympus, and thrown down to my brother Hades in the Underworld.’
‘You can’t do that.’ I was horrorstricken. ‘They only eat pomegranate seeds down there, and they wear the most dull clothes. Who’s going to do my hair?’ I’d only just got the Graces trained to curl my tresses properly over the shoulders – Thalia, I think (otherwise known as Good Cheer. She’s always giggling anyway).
It was then I had my first bright idea. There’s always been a rumour flying around that just because I’m beautiful, and loving, and kind, I haven’t a brain in my head. What happened now was to disprove all that for ever.
‘I claim the right to see the body. I wish to gaze once more upon the body of my love before it is swallowed by the funeral pyre,’ I intoned as dolorously as I could. Even now I can’t imagine why this brainwave struck me, but it was to save me from a fate of immortal death.
Zeus coughed, and ostentatiously looked round his ‘council’, though he takes all the decisions. ‘I see no reason why not,’ he ventured. There’s courage for you!
‘She must be guarded,’ snapped Hera.
‘I’ll send Paean with her. A medical man might be useful.’
‘He’s a fatuous old fool. She’ll twist him round her slippery body,’ quoth the Queen of the Sour Grapes, Pallas Athene, of the gods’ physician. Who’d have sisters – well, half-sisters?
‘Ares, you go too,’ Zeus barked.
I tried not to look too overjoyed. I’d always fancied the god of war. At least he is a real man, not a Hephaestus, roaring around like an ox in a nectar-cup shop, or mooning over nymphs like sneaky Sun God Apollo.
Ares stepped to my side with alacrity, I was pleased to see.
‘Do you wish to chain me?’ I asked in a low seductive voice.
He turned red. ‘I don’t usually, not the first time,’ he stuttered.
One-track minds these gods! Really, what could he have thought I meant? I arched my body towards him, aware that my wondrous breasts were shimmering sensuously through my diaphanous gown.
‘Can we take the golden chariot, Mighty Zeus?’ I asked winningly. No one seems to credit that we goddesses can get tired winging through the air, on our own two feet as it were, and Olympus is some way from Ida.
Zeus hesitated, obviously noticing Queen Hera’s glare. Surely it wasn’t her day for visiting Grandma Rhea? ‘In the interests of speed, yes.’
Splendid. I’d pick up darling Aeneas on the way, and hope Zeus was safely tucked up in bed with Cow-Faced Lady so that he didn’t spot this diversion from his orders.
I do dislike dead bodies, particularly of my former lovers. Today, however, my future was at stake. Odd that the body was on Mount Ida, almost exactly in the place where Anchises and I had made love. And ever afterwards he’d had the nerve to boast about bedding a goddess! I summoned up my courage and approached the body where it lay on the ground under an olive tree, blackened to the point of unrecognizability, but indisputably wearing the remains of clothes of the royal house of Sacred Troy. The emblem of the crane was quite unmistakable; what’s more, there was only one crane, and King Priam’s brood had two. That meant it was Aeneas or Anchises. And as my beloved son was at my side . . .
Aeneas promptly burst into tears. ‘Father,’ he wailed.
To tell you the truth, I find Aeneas rather dull. I get quite worried about him; he’s plumpish, shortish, not much of a fighter, a little pompous, and he seems to have no interest in women whatsoever, and that includes his wife, Creusa. Why can’t he be more like his half-brother, Eros? I have lectured him on it many times, but he talks nothing but politics and the need to found nations. I blame his father. He’d always borne a grudge because he was from the junior branch of the family. I even offered Aeneas the most beautiful – sorry, second most beautiful after Helen – woman in the world, but no.
I felt I had better make a show of sorrow, so I flung myself over Anchises’ body and wept in a most convincing manner, while Aeneas sobbed on at my side.
‘Darling Paean,’ I said tremulously, as soon as I dared recover from my grief, ‘are you sure that’s a thunderbolt strike? Couldn’t he have burned himself some other way?’
Paean rather reluctantly took a closer look at the body. He’s past it, but what can you do? He’s got a job for immortality.
I averted my eyes from the blackened face and arms – I’m always a leg lady anyway – so I concentrated on the way they peeped out from under the ducky little short apron, and tried to recall the desire I had once felt for him. Instead I recalled my own, very present, plight.
‘He’s under a tree,’ I observed hopefully to Paean. ‘Perhaps he was accidentally struck by lightning.’
‘Zeus rules all thunder and lightning.’
I glared at him. Silly old fool. Perhaps I’d have to sleep with him. Fortunately I was to be spared this ordeal. A new lease of immortality now seemed to overcome Paean as he developed a morbid interest in the blackened corpse. He took various nasty instruments out of his golden leather case, and carried out investigations which I preferred not to watch. At last, he staggered to his feet: ‘There’s no evidence of thunderbolt blackening to his air passages, and there are no signs of hyperaemia.’
I didn’t want a long lecture – Zeus made me sit through one by Aesculapius once in an attempt to educate me – so I asked hastily: ‘And what does that mean?’
‘It means Anchises could well have been dead before the thunderbolt struck. Did you notice?’ he asked me brightly.
I think I would have done, I was tempted to reply, but refrained. It does not do to be too laughter-loving at the older gods.
At that moment, due no doubt to Paean’s investigations, the leather apron, partly burned away, slipped a little further, and the belly I had once admired so intimately was in view. Then I let out a shriek.
‘This isn’t Anchises!’
‘Not now. His soul has left us, Mother.’ Aeneas heaved again.
‘It isn’t his body,’ I insisted. ‘You can rejoice, my son.’ (Even if I had mixed feelings. I could cheerfully have wished Anchises in Hades, but I wasn’t going to share this with Aeneas.) ‘I remember Anchises’ body quite distinctly. It was flawless. Look at that.’
Gods and man stared down at a huge strawberry-shaped birthmark on the side of the belly which the thunderbolt had not affected.
‘Aeneas, you must know he has no birthmark. You bathe with him, don’t you?’
‘Then my father lives,’ Aeneas exclaimed joyfully.
‘Apparently without his clothes,’ I pointed out brightly. ‘How typical.’
‘My father lives.’ So dull, Aeneas. It takes time for things to sink in. ‘Thanks be to Zeus.’
‘And thanks be to your mother,’ I added pointedly.
Then Paean suddenly got the professional bit between his teeth. ‘Who is it, if not Anchises?’ He seemed to be addressing me.
‘Paean, I have seen many mortals in the nude, not to mention gods, in the course of my profession, but even I am unable to identify a man by a birthmark.’
Ares decided to weigh in. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ he pointed out reprovingly. ‘I’ve been running it. Of course there are dead bodies lying around. Someone wanted us to think they’d killed Anchises.’
‘But why should the Greeks bring the body here if they wished to pretend it was my father?’ Aeneas asked, having got over his awe at having three gods to chat with.
‘To frame me,’ I cried indignantly. I don’t mind being framed by the likes of Botticelli, but I draw the line at Pallas Athene playing tricks like this.
‘With Anchises’ assistance?’ Paean asked doubtfully. ‘How did they get his clothes?’
‘You are clever, Paean,’ Ares said approvingly. (You could have fooled me.) ‘Unless they’ve killed him too.’
‘Ay, me, alack,’ was all my son could offer.
No one took any notice, so he said it again somewhat louder. ‘When you told me, Gracious Mother, the body of my father had been found, I feared the Greeks had captured and slaughtered him.’
‘Thank you, my son.’ I was surprised and grateful that at least he had not blamed me.
‘Now I suspect it is a dastardly plan by the House of Priam.’
I was startled. Old King Priam of Troy is waging the war so incompetently, he appears to have no plans at all, dastardly or not.
‘Mother, Great King Priam dreads a rising against him in Troy, because there is still no end to this war in sight; he believes any such rising would unite under my father Anchises. My father and I, loyal as we are, have feared for our lives. Now I know my father lives, I am happy again.’ He cried to prove it.
‘Oh, my beloved son.’ All my few maternal instincts came to the fore. ‘Do you not see? The House of Priam would not dare kill Anchises; they would incur Zeus’ wrath.’ I was in no doubt of this. Father thinks this war is his own private chessboard and gets very upset if a pawn is removed without his say-so. Ares, god of war, is merely around to roar a little, in Father’s view.
‘And my wrath also,’ Ares put in indignantly. ‘It might affect my war.’
‘True.’ I fluttered my eyelashes at him, but for once my mind was elsewhere. ‘But do you not see, if they buried this stranger as Anchises, they would achieve the same object without offending the mighty gods?’ Apart from me, I thought crossly.
‘Let’s bury the body here,’ Ares rumbled eagerly. ‘Then they’ll be thwarted.’
‘Hold on, I’ve been thinking,’ I said quickly, as Paean appeared about to agree. ‘Zeus will throw me to Hades if I don’t come back with some evidence of who this man was.’ Blood drained from my rosy-hued cheeks. ‘I need that body.’
‘I can’t take it to Olympus,’ Paean decreed, pompous idiot. ‘It’s dead. It would be against all the rules. I’d have to get a special dispensation from Hades.’
I made an immediate decision. ‘Then I shall take the body to Troy myself and demand to know who did this terrible deed.’
‘If you’re right,’ Aeneas said slowly, ‘then it must be King Priam himself or more likely one of his sons. Great Hector of the Flashing Armour is the most likely. Or sly Helenus, Seer of the Second Sight. Or, of course, Paris.’
I bristled. ‘Paris?’ I asked dangerously.
Belatedly my son remembered I was a goddess, fell to his knees, and paid a few overdue obeisances. ‘He is a good and honest prince,’ he conceded hastily, ‘but much under the influence of Hector, Helenus and Helen.’
I forgave him. I’ve always been ambivalent about Helen. ‘Very well. I will come to Troy, demand to know which of them is responsible, and then make full report to Olympus.’
‘You will terrify them into silence with your goddess aura.’
‘That’s true.’ I thought for a moment. Just as I did so, I thought I saw a girl watching us from the shelter of some trees; it was a face that rang a bell with me, but I couldn’t place it. Then she was gone. But it put an idea in my mind. ‘I’ll come in disguise.’ One power we immortals do have is the ability to take on any disguise we like, provided it’s mortal. ‘I’ll come as a sixteen-year-old vestal virgin.’
Ares shouted with laughter, and I began to change my mind about his desirability. ‘In Troy?’
‘Why not come as Hecuba?’ my son suggested.
‘That old hag?’ Priam’s consort was as ancient as he was.
‘She is the queen as well as wife and mother.’
Reluctantly I saw some sense in this. If anyone could strike fear into my Trojan heroes, it was her.
I left Aeneas to struggle back across the plain with the body slung across his horse’s saddle. Ares had obligingly magicked one up from a local farm, since I thought Father might notice if his chariot came back minus one horse. It was a night’s journey to Troy from Mount Ida, and apart from ensuring that Aeneas wasn’t slaughtered by the Greek army en route, it gave me time to make my report to Zeus. I found him in the Ambrosia Room, it being about time for supper. The sounds of Apollo strumming on that awful lyre drifted in from the Room of the Marble Columns. Only Hebe, the Bearer of the Mighty Cup, was flitting around in the dining chamber pouring nectar and she doesn’t count, so I told Zeus my news immediately.
‘Not Anchises? Then where the devil is he? I’ve seen nothing of him.’
‘That, Father, is what I propose to find out.’
He gave me a suspicious look. ‘Not going to bump him off, are you? I still haven’t found that thunderbolt.’
‘Of course not. How could I? I loved him once,’ I said virtuously. Several times, actually.
‘Two days, and then I want a full statement of what happened. And proof. I must say, Aphrodite, you’re quite a girl,’ he added approvingly. ‘I never thought you had it in you. Of course, you’re my daughter.’
‘I have both your brains and beauty, Father,’ I oozed.
Ten minutes later I was on my way, having snatched only the merest mouthful of ambrosia from the kitchens en route.
‘Great Queen, Wise Hecuba, welcome!’
‘Mighty King Priam, honoured husband, greetings.’ What a bore, I thought. Suppose he kissed me? I hadn’t thought to investigate their marital relations before I shot in.
I had materialized inside the door of his council chamber just in time. Trumpets were sounding in the audience chamber to announce Aeneas’ arrival. Hecuba herself, I had observed, was over having a woman’s chat with her daughter Cassandra at the temple. She’d be hours; Cassandra is not only a bore when she pontificates about the future, she’s a very slow bore.
I swept out in Priam’s waddling wake (longing to kick his chiton-clad bottom), having already sent slaves to fetch Hector, Helenus and – if he could be prised out of Helen’s bed – Paris. Aeneas was right, those were the three of Mighty Priam’s mighty large brood who were the obvious suspects. Fortunately they didn’t have far to come. Priam had adapted his palace into about fifty rather tasteful apartments for his children, their families, and the lesser royals. The only clever thing he’d ever thought of, keeping everyone under his ageing eye.
We lined ourselves up in the royal pecking order down the raised steps of the chamber; Priam at the front, me slightly behind him, winking at Aeneas, then Mighty Hector of the Solid Muscle Body, Helenus of the Slim Sexy one, and Paris, once my darling boy, now rather going to seed. One of them, I told myself, was a murderer, and I was going to find out who.
‘I demand justice, O King.’ Aeneas draped the body tastefully at his feet.
Priam did a good imitation of a startled monarch. ‘The Prince Anchises!’
‘His clothes only. A stranger lies within them.’
‘Then why bother us with it?’ Helenus piped up.
I always knew he was the intelligent one of the family.
Aeneas turned wounded eyes towards him, as he trotted out the line I’d suggested to him. ‘The corpse was found on Mount Ida near to the shrine of Mighty Zeus, Son of Cronos. He will rise up in anger against Troy if he is not appeased and grant his favour to the Achaeans.’ (The latter are the Greeks to you and me, but I told you Aeneas was a little pompous.)
Hector began to display more interest. ‘Are you sure it’s not your father?’ he asked rather wistfully.
‘I am,’ my son replied with some dignity. ‘I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.’
Hector drew a dagger from his belt. ‘Meet me in combat, Prince Aeneas. Now.’
‘It’s the Greeks you’re supposed to meet in combat,’ Priam pointed out irritably. You can see why he thinks he’s a great king.
Hector’s reply was drowned by the trumpets blaring out again, a thing they did with monotonous regularity. Could it be Anchises himself, I wondered, come to my aid? For once I’d be glad to see him. Then I realized. All those oohs and aahs in the corridor outside, together with the heady cloud of perfume already discernible advancing between the marble columns could mean only one thing: the face that launched a thousand ships was on her way, Helen of Troy. Or, strictly speaking, of Sparta, once wife of King Menelaus and one of my biggest mistakes.
In she swept, while we all gave the routine gasp at her beauty; golden tresses shimmered, silver diadems glinted, wondrous breasts poked demurely out under her wrap-around silk gown. She opened her limpid blue, blue eyes upon me and made straight for me. ‘Great Mother,’ she began.
I tried to listen patiently, but it was hard. In giving Paris the most beautiful woman in the world I had been extremely self-sacrificing, for I fancied him myself, and since Helen came on the scene he has had eyes for no one else. She is beautiful, I have to admit that, and she is also clever, which tends to make her, among the simpler, pleasure-loving Trojans, very short-tempered. Coy shyness is her retail stock-in-trade, but back there in the warehouse she wholesales in sulkiness spiced with shrew’s blood. Now the years are passing, sullenness is adding little lines that all the bees’ cream in Assyria won’t eradicate. I must remember I am immortal, and try to be tolerant, ho-ho!
‘This is no place for you, darling,’ Paris said solicitously – like an infatuated youth, though he’s been bedding her for ten years.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked idly, seeing the burnt corpse on the ground at Priam’s feet.
‘An unknown stranger, darling.’
‘With a huge strawberry birthmark on his belly,’ I added helpfully, forgetting Hecuba hadn’t had the intimate privileges I had.
There was a scream, and a thud. Helen had fainted.
Why were they all looking at me? Did they think I had suddenly struck her with a thunderbolt? I only wished I had the courage. Then I realized I was not Aphrodite, goddess of love, at the moment; I was Queen Hecuba, the only woman (give or take half a dozen slaves) present. I was therefore in a superb position to learn the truth, and I certainly needed to if I was going to escape having to dress in the dark of the Underworld for ever and ever. I don’t know King Hades well, but I am pretty sure he would not allow me out to have fillets of hyacinths and pearls wound into my hair by Mesdames Aglaia, Euphrosyne and Thalia, better known as the Three Graces. Their names roughly translate as Magnificence, Laughter, and Jolly Good Cheer, none of which is highly rated by Hades, I understand. Nor was I at all certain I could continue to practise my profession there. Hades’ attendants have the reputation of being rather quiet, sombre young men with pale bodies and the ugliest clothes.
I therefore rushed with great concern to my daughter-in-law. ‘Come, my child,’ I crooned, bending my craggy face close to hers, and then throwing a beaker of wine over the latter with great satisfaction. Her eyes opened without any great affection for me. ‘Come with me to my chamber,’ I said invitingly, ‘so that I may tend you.’
I might have known Paris would cause trouble. ‘I’m coming too,’ he announced. ‘Anything that affects Helen affects me.’
I looked for support from Beefy Hector, Handsome Helenus, or my own husband. I might have known Priam wouldn’t support me. He’s a descendant of Zeus too, but the brains and courage were in short supply by the time they reached him. So there was no help for it. I went up very close to Paris and let him sense my aura. Strictly speaking, only Apollo is allowed to do this, but desperate times call for desperate remedies. I grinned with my toothless old woman’s smile, and I thought he was going to faint too.
‘Leave this to me, Paris,’ I cooed.
He was only too happy to do so. For some reason he associates me with trouble, which is most unfair. I didn’t force him to leave Oenone, the nymph who was his first love, for Helen. I merely offered him the most beautiful woman in the world; he didn’t have to take her. We gods can’t take all the blame. Oenone! Now I remembered who that girl was I’d seen on Mount Ida. She still lives there, in a shepherd’s hut, so that she can moon over her lost love, and is continually mixing potions designed to make him fall in love with her again. Silly child. I’m the only one who could achieve that with my magic girdle. She doesn’t stand a chance beside Helen.
Once in the chamber, Helen pretended to faint again by closing her eyes and drooping herself over a leather couch. I stayed right there, digging my fingernails accidentally into her. ‘Tell me sweet child, who he was. I shan’t go away.’
No answer.
‘Who was that man?’ I asked more sharply, digging harder.
She opened her large blue eyes and gazed straight at me, so I knew she was going to lie. ‘He’s a melon-seller in the market. I see him there from the walls when I take my walk.’
‘And can you see his bare belly from the walls, sweet child?’
She decided to faint again, so I decided to come the heavy matriarch.
‘Daughter of Zeus,’ I began (I suppose that makes her a kind of sister to me, ugh!) ‘is it not enough that you have brought this war upon our innocent heads by leaving your husband, Menelaus? Must you now bring shame upon us too?’
This stirring appeal had no effect.
‘I shall find out who the man was,’ I told her conversationally, ‘and then I shall tell Paris. Now Hector, as you know, doesn’t like anyone upsetting Paris, especially mere women. There’s strong support in Troy for making peace with the Greeks, and so if I could think of a good reason for my husband Mighty Priam to throw you out of Troy, it might be very helpful.’
She paled, and I knew I was home and dry.
I cooed a little. ‘Tell me the truth, beauteous Helen, and this shall be kept between ourselves. If you refuse, I shall make a convincing story about your unfaithfulness with a marketman and demand my son’s vengeance on you.’
‘Very well,’ she agreed sullenly. ‘But promise by Artemis that you won’t tell.’
I’ve nothing against the goddess of the chase even though, not having caught anyone, she’s still a virgin, so I did so, hoping Artemis was having a nap and couldn’t check on who I was.
‘It’s Marmedes.’ Helen squinted at me to see how I was taking it.
For a moment it didn’t register, but when it did . . .
‘He’s a Greek,’ I shrieked. ‘And isn’t he Chief of Staff to Diomedes?’ The immortal goddess nearly exploded out of Hecuba’s shape to put in a chit for an authorized thunderbolt straight away.
Diomedes, King of Argos, was the villain who had dared to wound a goddess! Me! This is strictly against the rules, but Pallas Athene, bless her welded iron chastity belt, had given him special dispensation. All because I swept into the battle to rescue my darling son Aeneas from death at Diomedes’ hands. What mother would do otherwise? And just for that he wounded me in my hand, so that some of the immortal ichor flowed and it hurt and I had to run weeping to Paean for a pharmaka to cure it.
And here was Helen, who owed me everything, having it off (I was quite sure) with his Chief of Staff. I had to step carefully, however, remembering I was Hecuba.
‘And what is a Greek doing in Troy? You, daughter-in-law, were consorting with a spy?’
‘Oh, no!’
‘He had come to steal you back for Menelaus?’
‘No. He rather fancies me himself. In fact, we are in love,’ she cried recklessly. ‘Or were.’ She cried anew, making her eyes red, so I knew she meant it.
‘Love?’ I said incredulously. ‘Paris is supposed to be your one and only true love – that’s what this whole war is about.’
‘I’ve been here for ten years,’ she pointed out crossly. ‘Surely I can see one of my own countrymen occasionally?’
‘How occasionally?’
‘Only three times a week,’ she told me complacently. ‘He disguised himself as a melon-seller and came in at the Scaean Gate at nine o’sundial when it is opened for the marketmen to enter. At noon I went for my walk along the walls, and we met in one of the tower guardhouses.’
‘Did the guards notice?’ I enquired sarcastically.
‘There is only one guard, for the tower looks out on the open plain, not towards the Greek encampment. We bribed him. I left Marmedes at four, and came back to meet Paris after his councils of war with your honoured husband.’
‘Husband?’ I repeated, thinking for a moment she meant Hephaestus.
‘I’m sorry, Great Queen. Mighty Priam, King of Troy.’ She mistook my bewilderment for disapproval, luckily. ‘Marmedes then returned to the market and left with the other stall-holders at dusk.’
‘And when did you last see this magnificent specimen of manhood?’
‘Two days ago. I left the tower as usual at four, and was expecting to see him at noon today. And now he’s out there, dead.’
‘And in Anchises’ clothes,’ I pointed out. ‘Marmedes was a Greek and a spy. Possibly a murderer, who killed Anchises and was then killed himself.’
‘So it hardly seems worth investigating,’ Helen informed me hopefully.
That’s my daughter-in-law, or rather Hecuba’s. Love flies out the window when her own rosy-hued skin is threatened. She wasn’t getting off so easily. My rosy-hued skin was of far more importance.
‘Daughter, a human life has been taken. And where is Anchises? Marmedes’ murderer may know. We must hunt him down.’
‘Marmedes was a dear. He wouldn’t even kill a scorpion, let alone Anchises.’
‘Who else knew of your trysts besides the guard?’
‘I told no one.’
‘Paris never suspected?’
‘He would never dream I could look at anyone other than him.’ She wriggled complacently.
I let this pass. ‘And if he did?’
‘He would kill him, or ask Hector to do it for him – oh!’ She exclaimed at her own words, but I thought she had seen someone outside. Looking out, I could see, to my horror, the old queen herself staggering back towards the palace after her session with Cassandra at the Temple of Athene. Fat lot of use offering good goats at her shrine. A more dedicated Greek supporter I have yet to see, and if she found out that the corpse on Ida was not a Trojan but Marmedes, she’d be after my ichor.
I quickly withdrew from my chamber on the pretext of an old woman’s call of nature – how fortunate we immortals are not to have to worry about such matters, though I’ve often wondered where all that nectar goes – and whisked my bright blue dress away, just as Hecuba clad in orange swept in. I grinned to myself. Let the ladies sort it out. I had more important ambrosia to fry.
I removed myself quickly to Aeneas’ own house within the palace complex, where his precocious young son Iulus was marching around with a himation wrapped round his shoulders, and Aeneas’ ceremonial large-brimmed hat, pretending to be Priam. I am not fond of my grandson and could not have swept in at a more convenient moment. ‘You mock my husband, Iulus?’
‘Great Queen.’ Aeneas went bright red, clipped Iulus round the ears, and abased himself.
‘Never mind,’ I told him graciously, ‘I need your help, Aeneas.’
I saw his face change, as he realized it was still me.
‘We are going to interview a guard. The corpse was Helen’s lover, a Greek, Chief of Staff to Diomedes. You remember him?’
He flushed; he is always so ridiculously sensitive about being rescued from death in battle by his mother.
‘He was a spy – here?’ he growled.
‘He disguised himself as one of the market-sellers, and was in the habit of meeting Helen from noon to four in one of the guardhouses. I am quite sure Helen was betrayed by the guard to someone. Once he tells us who it was, we have our murderer.’
‘Why don’t you leave this to me, mother? It is my duty as a son to find out what has happened to my honoured father.’
‘Because –’ I broke off. This was confidential Olympus business. Instead I said, ‘It is known that I support Troy in this war. If Troy is not to fall, then this murderer must be found.’
‘Troy fall?’ He smote his chest. ‘Zeus defend us.’
‘It’s no use asking the impossible,’ I replied shortly. ‘Hera is browbeating him all the time to help her support the Greeks. This business must be settled quickly, or it’s curtains for Troy.’
And for Aphrodite, I thought with a shiver of fear as we walked around the walls. I was nevertheless rather enjoying masquerading as a mortal, as a queen anyway. It’s not much fun masquerading as a slave – so difficult to have any choice of lovers.
We reached the guardhouse Helen had described and tried to enter the tower room. It was locked. Aeneas threw himself valiantly against the door, hurting himself needlessly. Goddesses do have their uses. I whisked us both inside, only to find that the guard wasn’t going to be telling us anything. He was dead, slumped over the table, the remains of a meal strewn around. I have seldom been more frustrated. I even considered a quick trip down to the River Styx to have a word with Charon before the corpse crossed the river. A glance at the corpse, however, told me he had been dead too long. He was already over the river, past Cerberus and safely in Hades. Somebody had thoughtfully placed his boat fare, two coins, in his mouth, and Charon is such a greedy old so-and-so he doesn’t always wait for the body to be buried before he grabs his ill-gotten gains.
‘Poisoned,’ said Aeneas grimly. ‘Henbane or atropine probably. There’s a thriving black market in it.’
‘It’s terrible,’ I said indignantly. ‘I remember this poor guard.’ I did indeed. Only two years ago I decided to requite his love for a young priestess, and Pallas Athene had stomped around in a temper for days.
‘Poor man, indeed. I wonder which of them it was?’
‘Hector, Paris, Helenus or Priam,’ I mused. ‘Marmedes was dressed in Anchises’ clothes. How could that happen, Aeneas?’ I was getting worried, for it was getting on for afternoon nectar time and Zeus would be expecting an interim report from me.
‘Only those with houses within the royal complex could get hold of them. If Father suspected a plan was afoot to kill him, he might well have escaped and be in hiding. I believe they dressed this stranger in his clothes, so that the Trojans should think him dead. As I suggested earlier, Mother,’ he said reproachfully, as if I were a birdbrain.
It was then that I had my second brilliant idea.
‘Hail, Mighty Zeus, Son of –’
‘Where the Hades have you been, Aphrodite? I’ve had both Iris and Hermes out looking for you. Found out whose that body is yet?’ Father was stomping angrily around the Hall of the Marble Columns.
‘Helen, your daughter,’ I said meaningfully, ‘has identified him as Diomedes’ Chief of Staff.’ Father chortled, anger suddenly evaporated. ‘And her lover.’
He stopped chortling and roared again instead. ‘How can the Greeks sack Troy to regain Helen if she’s just taken a Greek lover? This is your doing, Aphrodite.’
‘Me?’
Even he realized he was being unjust and patted me absentmindedly. ‘There, there, just arrange to lead that Egyptian shepherd-girl to me with your girdle and we’ll say no more about it.’
‘Thank you, Great Zeus,’ I muttered savagely.
‘But you’re still going to Hades till you find out exactly what happened.’
‘I have!’ I cried hastily, just as my third brainwave blessed me. ‘The vital question is why Marmedes should be dressed in Anchises’ clothes. He must have been killed by someone who had easy access within the palace complex both to them and to Anchises. To have Anchises thought dead would be very handy for the House of Priam. What, you will ask,’ – I was getting quite carried away – ‘became of the Greek’s clothes? I will tell you. Anchises is wearing them – he’s been despatched by Priam as a spy into the Greek camp.’
Unfortunately I had not reckoned on the effect this would have on Father. The famous sable brows shot up to the Mighty Hairline. ‘But he might learn the Greek plans!’
I hastily backtracked. ‘Not a chance. Aeneas inherited his lack of brains from somebody, you know.’
He seemed about to say something, but changed his mind. ‘Find Anchises –’
‘But you can do that,’ I said indignantly. ‘You’re all-seeing Zeus whenever you want to be.’
‘I promised Hera an evening in the Golden Bed,’ he muttered. ‘I deserve some free time.’
My heart sank. In my view, chasing every mortal woman who hasn’t got a squint and three legs, is not an occupation. ‘Very well, I’ll do it,’ I said bravely.
‘And while you’re about it, find out which of those blasted Trojans decided they could run the war better than me!’
Was it Paris of the once golden skin, Helenus of the slim sexy body, flashing-armoured Hector, or mighty Priam himself? I sank onto my azure silken-sheeted bed and thought about my plan of action. How was I to proceed? I couldn’t keep impersonating Hecuba, and to go as my goddess self would terrify everyone into silence, innocent or guilty. Idly I ran my hand over the sheets – then I knew exactly how to get Helenus’ story out of him – through my own charms. So I could go as myself.
I quickly had the Graces run me up a nice little number in lilac and then dress my hair with hyacinths to match my eyes with darling little irises in between. I perfumed my body with rose oil, stretched sensuously, and peered down to earth. I concentrated all my powers on Helenus to see what he was doing. (This sort of thing takes it out of us, so we can’t do it too often.)
He was in the baths. I had wondered about Helenus’ body for some time – and I was right. Delicious. I promptly magicked his slaves away.
‘Where are you?’ he yelled to them, cross at having to towel his magnificent bronzed body himself.
‘Here I am,’ I called in a low husky voice, gracefully materializing with my aura circulating round him madly. He was so overwhelmed by my beauty he tried to seek the nearest way out. Silly boy. I led him to a couch and laid him down, sat at his side and finished the towelling for him, gently, slowly, tantalizingly. By the time I had finished we were both more than ready for what was to come, and he had quite forgotten his awe of being clasped in a goddess’s arms. He was so good a lover that I almost considered binding him with my girdle so that he would fall in love with me, but decided against it. It might be a hindrance in my investigation. As he lay in my arms afterwards, I cooed gently at him:
‘Where do you spend your afternoons, Helenus?’
‘My lips are sealed,’ he murmured sleepily.
It must be a woman. ‘Then unseal them, dearest, and tell me where you were three afternoons ago.’
‘Oh, great goddess, thou knowest all without my telling.’
‘That is a misconception,’ I replied crossly. ‘We can’t watch everything at once.’
Helenus is an intelligent young man as well as sexy. He raised himself on one elbow, stroked my left breast and grinned. ‘It’s about that lover of Helen’s, isn’t it?’
‘So you knew about him!’ I exclaimed.
‘We all did, Hector, Paris – and Father.’
‘And which one of you killed him and took the body overnight to Mount Ida to incriminate me?’ I asked grimly, having explained Helen and Marmedes’ timetable.
‘Not me. I was with a lady friend that afternoon.’
‘By name of –?’
He hesitated. ‘You won’t be jealous. Or tell . . .?’
I could hardly claim, as his hand seemed to be travelling downwards, that I was here primarily in a professional capacity.
‘Never. We gods are above petty mortal emotions.’ It was an old line, but it worked.
‘It was Creusa.’
‘What?’ I sat up indignantly, forgetting for a second all about that delightful hand. ‘But she’s my daughter-in-law. I thought you had your eye on Hector’s Andromache.’
He grinned. ‘I’m saying nothing.’
I tried to shame him by sighing, ‘What will become of my beloved Troy if such shenanigans go on within the royal house?’
‘Ah, that I can tell you. It will fall.’
I had forgotten Helenus’ great gift. Like that little madam, his sister Cassandra, he has second sight. A direct line to Zeus, you might say. Father hadn’t even told us yet.
‘Why? Because of your philandering?’
‘I see only the result, not the reasons or means. Creusa will back up my story.’
‘It hardly matters,’ I said sulkily, ‘if Troy is to fall.’
‘Before it does,’ he offered enticingly, his hand resuming its delightful movements, ‘how about . . .’
My next target was Paris, and once again I decided I didn’t need to disguise myself. I debated whether to strip again to remind him of Mount Ida and how much he owed to me, but in the end I went down in my old early morning ambrosia gown. After all, I’m beautiful whatever I wear and he was growing rather portly. No wonder Helen was going off him.
He at least had the decency to be in awe of me. ‘Good goddess,’ he stuttered, as I swooped through the air into his chamber, just as he was admiring his new calf-length leather boots in the mirror. I made rather too fast a landing and scattered a few jewels from my diadem on the floor. That would give Helen pause for thought.
‘Where were you three afternoons ago,’ I demanded, ‘between four and six?’
‘Why?’
I looked at him, intimating that I was not to be trifled with (except in intimate circumstances of my own choosing).
‘I was at the bowmakers.’
A menial, who would doubtless back up anything Golden Boy Paris said. If he spoke the truth, though, he could not have killed Marmedes. I decided to get tough. It was Helen or me, and I rather favoured being the survivor myself.
‘That corpse was Marmedes of Argos. Did you kill him?’
‘A Greek?’ He reeled. He did it very well.
‘You know he was,’ I replied sweetly. ‘And you also know Helen was having an affair with him.’
Paris looked sulky. ‘Who told you?’
‘We goddesses know all,’ I lied loftily.
‘Then you must know who killed him,’ he answered, reasonably enough I suppose.
‘Nearly all,’ I amended with dignity. ‘You can’t have been at your bowmakers for two hours. Helen left the trysting place at four o’sundial, and there would be two whole hours in which he could have been killed before the Scaean Gate was closed.’
‘I went to the temple to offer a goat to Hera.’
Very suitable, I thought, but mention of the Cow-Faced Lady was not the way to my heart. ‘Try again, Paris.’
He glanced at me and his eyes slid away. ‘As a matter of fact I was at a place where we men go –’
‘A brothel, when you’ve got Helen?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Good Zeus, no. I wouldn’t have the strength. We just sit around and drink, set the world to rights, or go into the gymnasium to practise valiant feats, as Hector is always nagging me to do.’
‘One of these days you might pluck up the courage to go and fight,’ I said tartly.
The cheeky boy had the nerve to laugh. ‘There are ten or more will vouch for me.’
‘And you were there until six?’
‘Quarter past seven,’ he said smugly.
I have always been a little nervous of Hector, so I took Aeneas with me. I do dislike men that roar, and Hector is very good at roaring when he isn’t flashing his armour at the Greeks. It must be about all he does flash; I can’t see how he ever got time to beget a son. I dislike men who claim to be upright, too. They’d sell their own grandmother for the sake of being upright. I had a flash of inspiration, and cunningly disguised myself as Paris for this interview, but I suspected Helenus tipped him the wink for he looked at me very oddly. He needn’t have worried. I was on the warpath, not the lovepath.
I was rather proud of my opening gambit: ‘Mighty brother, blessed is the House of Priam that you rid us of this dishonour to our glorious family and ignoble shame to me, and that you had the happy thought of sending Anchises into the ranks of the Greeks as a spy dressed in Greek clothes.’
‘What?’ He looked completely blank, so I repeated it.
‘Hail, Hector, Glorious Warrior of Troy.’ (He likes this stuff.) ‘You avenged me, and then killed the only witness, the guard in the tower.’
‘And then you thought to rid yourself of Anchises, my beloved father,’ Aeneas decided to roar, ‘so that the House of Priam should not be toppled from the Trojan throne. So you dressed the melon-seller in his clothes and drove my father to certain death in the Greek camp.’
‘What?’
‘Please don’t shout.’ I cupped my hands over my dainty ears, only to remember Paris didn’t have dainty ears but a rather large bronze helmet on at the time.
‘I only wish I’d thought of it, Prince Aeneas,’ Hector said wistfully.
‘Perhaps Helenus did. He’s cleverer than you,’ I said hopefully.
‘Brother, you shall answer for that.’ He drew his sword and I began to see distinct disadvantages in my present disguise.
‘Keep away from me,’ I shrieked, transforming into my own beautiful body only belatedly remembering to transform my clothes as well.
He fell to his knees, and so did Aeneas after a great show of surprise. ‘Forgive me, great goddess.’
‘Only if you tell me where you were three afternoons ago.’
‘I hardly like to confess.’ He moaned and groaned and finally did so. ‘I was in bed with Andromache.’
‘But she’s your wife.’ I was rather disappointed.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ He looked puzzled.
‘It’s unusual for a prince of Troy.’
‘Well, that’s where I was,’ he said obstinately.
Several hours later, by dint of disguising myself in turn as my own grandson, the bowmaker’s wife and a Nubian slave, I traipsed back to the palace, extremely annoyed. I could not fault any of their stories. Now it was Priam’s turn, and I decided I’d enjoy terrifying him out of his royal tunic. I elected to come the heavy goddess, and arrived in all my glory (though clothed) to greet a king – I suppose since he is a grandson of Zeus he is my nephew in a way, the stiff-necked old fool.
‘Hail, Mighty Priam!’ I materialized on the adjoining throne.
‘Goddess!’ He began to lever himself unwillingly on to the floor to bend his knee. I let him, then set about charming him. I oozed my aura all about him, and let honey drip from my lips.
‘What a clever plan of yours, Priam, to pry out the intentions of the Greeks.’
‘What was?’
I had to explain it to him very simply. ‘You and your sons conspired to rid yourself of the Greek spy, Helen’s lover, and rid yourself of Anchises at the same time.’
He positively gawped at me. I had not thought him such a good actor.
‘Where were you between four and six three afternoons ago, or was it one of your sons who did the killing?’
‘What killing?’
Despite my sweet nature, I almost snarled at him. ‘Of Marmedes, Diomedes’ captain. Helen’s lover.’
‘The boys did say something to me about it. I didn’t believe them, of course.’
‘But it must have been your cunning that devised the scheme,’ I cooed.
He grew almost intelligent. ‘Kill a Greek inside Trojan walls? If Achilles of the Fragile Heel found out, it would give him all the excuse he needed to have every damned Achaean out of the camp and attacking our walls.’
He had a point. ‘But where were you?’ I persisted.
‘At the temple of Zeus, great goddess.’
My heart sank. If he was speaking the truth, Father was his alibi.
What was I to do? Time was running out and I was still no nearer a solution. I decided to go to a quiet glade where I could do some thinking. It is here that my handsome Adonis and I consummate our love every spring when that horrible Hades graciously allows him to come back to my arms for a while. (I had to get an Olympus court order to force Hades to surrender my beloved.) Unfortunately it wasn’t spring now, but I still found the grove an inspiration.
My beloved Adonis was thus the means of my fourth brainwave. I suddenly realized there was one person whose word I had taken without question – heaven knows why. Immediately I rushed with winged feet back to Aeneas, hardly bothering to over-awe him at all. Anchises was his father, after all. I was very excited.
‘Come with me, my son, while I confront the murderer of Marmedes!’
‘And my beloved father too?’ he asked doggedly.
‘Yes, yes,’ I said impatiently, whisking him through the air for speed – a thing he hates.
We landed in the chamber just as she was changing her gown. I could see Aeneas’ eyes bulging a bit, so perhaps he isn’t quite so uninterested in women as I thought.
‘Helen,’ I cried, ‘you killed Marmedes. Was he tired of you, beauteous Helen? Was he going to leave you? Who else would he allow so near as to kill him? Who else could so conveniently poison the guard?’
‘Me?’ she shrieked.
‘What have you done with my father, evil Helen? Temptress,’ Aeneas added confusingly, his eyes on her breast which she was still struggling to cover.
‘Does his body lie in some corner of a foreign field?’ I demanded. It was time for my fifth brainwave. I thought of Oenone, Paris’ first love. ‘No. I see it all. You’ve worked on Paris to persuade Oenone to imprison Anchises, haven’t you?’
She lost colour. ‘That snake’s venomed piece of monkshood?’
‘So that’s who you got the poison from!’ I shouted in triumph, just as Helen fainted again.
I returned to the Hall of the Golden Throne in golden glory for a private meeting with Father.
‘And so I have proved it, Mighty Zeus,’ I concluded my exposition triumphantly. ‘Helen was plotting to overthrow the House of Troy from within.’
‘Aphrodite –’
‘I claim acquittal from my terrible sentence.’
‘Aphrodite –’
I swept on. ‘I, the goddess of love and laughter –’
‘Aphrodite!’ he shouted. ‘Have you actually spoken to Anchises?’
‘Aeneas insisted on going to release him from Oenone’s clutches, but you will find –’
‘What is it?’ I broke off, rather hurt he was still looking so grim.
‘It’s Paean’s autopsy report on the body of Marmedes.’
I scanned it quickly. ‘Oh.’ Seldom have I been so immortified.
‘You see, Aphrodite?’
I did. The man had been strangled.
‘Somehow I don’t see Helen doing that, do you?’ Father sounded almost gentle.
‘Aphrodite, how nice to see you again.’
I wished I hadn’t left that thunderbolt I stole behind in my closet on Olympus. I could cheerfully have struck Anchises dead. I hadn’t bargained on his being ensconced at the family table when I shot in to have a word with Aeneas.
‘You boast about my private parts again, Anchises, and you can say goodbye to yours,’ I told him briefly. That shut him up. How could I ever have fancied him? The things we women do. I turned to our son. ‘Had Oenone imprisoned Anchises as we suspected?’
‘She had, Mother.’
‘You can forget all that mother stuff,’ I replied coldly. ‘You’re lying. Anchises was an honoured guest there. I now know Oenone hates Paris, Troy and everyone in it. She was in it with the two of you, wasn’t she? And you, my beloved son, are the murderer of Marmedes.’
For I had had my sixth, and, for the time, last brainwave.
‘It was simple, Mighty Zeus,’ I explained modestly. ‘I was blinded by a mother’s love, until I remembered a conversation in which Aeneas accused Hector of killing the melon-seller. But I had never mentioned melons to him, merely that Marmedes was a trader in the market.
‘Aeneas, I fear, Father, was too concerned with politics and not with his mother’s profession of love. He and Anchises had ambitions. If they could topple the House of Priam they could make peace with the Greeks, and take the throne themselves. So they killed Helen’s Greek lover, for if the Greeks had known of the liaison – unsanctified by me –’ I pointed out crossly – ‘they might have seduced Helen back to them and sailed home, leaving Troy with Priam still in charge. Aeneas wanted to make peace with the Greeks himself at any price, even if it meant Troy falling, and he and Anchises being rewarded as founders of a new city.’
‘Make peace with the Greeks?’ Zeus thundered. ‘How dare Aeneas presume to alter the gods’ will?’
‘Helenus said Destiny had planned that Troy should fall,’ I said miserably. ‘Can’t you think of some other way, Mighty Zeus, rather than through my son’s evil-doing? He’s been very naughty, but I’d like him to live.’
He patted my shoulder absentmindedly. ‘Do you know, Aphrodite, I’ve just had this wonderful idea about a wooden horse.’