‘Then and there, their knees were weakened, and their hearts were bewitched with lustful desire, and all of them prayed that they could lie down with her in her bed.’
—Homer, The Odyssey
None of the candidates want to go first, lest their rivals simply add more to their own presents, in order to outdo them. But someone has to start things off. It’s a dilemma, and it has all the kings and princes of Achaea stumped.
Inside the great hall, Tyndareus waits with his two sons, and a hoard of assessors with weights and measures, ready to apply a value to it all. The megaron is packed with priests, all declaring omens and signs about this or that. Servants and courtiers are everywhere, and so many strangers that the guards are having palpitations.
Here outside the doors, everyone’s got handcarts laden down with golden bowls and two-handed cups, elaborately-woven carpets and wall-hangings and embroidered gowns, Eastern spices, ostrich egg goblets mounted in silver, plumes from Egypt, ivory and ebony from Kush, finely-wrought bronze weapons forged by the greatest smiths, and silks and fine linen of surpassing beauty. The men guarding each cart are doing their best to cover them over, to hide the full extent of the riches within from other suitors’ eyes.
The suitors themselves are gathered in a knot, bickering over order of precedence – not who will go first, this time, but who will come last. They all want to make the final, most triumphal appearance.
It’s the sort of thing that can start a fight, and the sort of fight that can start any number of wars.
On a more mundane note, it means no one wants to enter the hall ahead of the others. We’re at an impasse, possibly an insoluble one.
‘Mine is a lineage unsurpassed on the mainland,’ Prince Idomeneus declares. A haughty, haunted man in his early thirties and already widowed, with crinkled hair and oily skin, he claims descent from the great King Minos, whose hands were said to only ever handle gold. But Crete, his island kingdom, hasn’t been a power in the region for many decades.
‘I think the word “main-land” answers that claim,’ Menestheus of Athens sneers. ‘What Sparta would want with a backwater king I have no idea.’
‘My palace surpasses Mycenae itself,’ Idomeneus shouts. ‘It’s thrice the size of Agamemnon’s stronghold.’
‘But threadbare,’ King Agapenor of Arcadia puts in dismissively.
‘Gentlemen, I’ll go first,’ a voice says crisply, cutting like a knife across the chatter.
It’s my voice.
‘You?’ they all sneer, then the smarter ones shoot me suspicious glances. ‘Why?’ they demand.
I give them a confident, knowing look, and flick my hair. ‘Better to catch the eye of the princess early, while she’s attentive. Youth and good looks, you know. These young women have a short attention span.’
‘It’s wealth that’ll decide this, not looks,’ Agapenor sniffs. ‘Not that you’re overly blessed with either, Prince… umm…?’ His voice trails off into a question, even though he knows exactly who I am.
‘Oh no, this will be all about Helen and what she wants,’ I tell them. ‘I’m close to the family – I grew up with them, here in Sparta. I had quite a soft spot for Helen when she was a little child – sweet, wee thing she was – and I’m sure she remembers how kind I was to her.’ In fact we had very little contact – she was in the nursery and I was off mucking about with Menelaus… ‘Polydeuces is the one really running this, and he’s devoted to his twin sister. He’ll make sure she’s happy first. All other considerations are secondary.’
They look at me with burning eyes, trying to work out whether I’m showing them the secret road to glory, or merely leading them up the garden path. The rest of the courtyard has fallen silent to listen, while the suitors around me suddenly decide it’s vital to be among the early candidates. The whole process has reversed.
‘I’ll go first,’ King Idomeneus announces, pushing me aside, and then they’re all jostling for position instead of holding back, an undignified throng outside the vestibule, the giant entrance way to the throne room, kings and princes and their servants elbowing each other in a rush to get to the front of the queue.
But at least we’ve made progress. Tyndareus’s keryx, Nassius, an older man I have known since I came here to live, has been waiting – the whole kingdom’s been waiting – for half an hour for this wrangle to be resolved. Nassius throws me a look of pure gratitude, before returning to the megaron door, ready to announce us in turn.
I had no desire to be first anyway, so I seek out the best viewpoint instead, to assess the opening moves. Many other suitors decide to do the same, but I have a home advantage – I know all the tricks of sneaking around Sparta’s palace, so I slip through a side door and onto the servant’s stairs, which lead me up to the balcony which rings the megaron – a perfect lookout.
Menelaus is there ahead of me, and we share a grin, before settling down to watch the show unfurl. Just below us, Tyndareus sits, tensed, on the main throne, already drawn and tired. He’s flanked by his sons Castor and Polydeuces on his left side – those two mountains of brash, youthful muscle – and Agamemnon and one empty throne on his right. It seems we’re all still waiting on Helen, so this show can’t begin after all…
Then my eye catches another familiar figure: amidst a knot of priests and priestesses of every god, lurking behind the thrones in advisory positions, is my grandmother – Amphithea, the high priestess of Pytho. I shrink back before she sees me – she’s just as likely to point me out to Castor and Polydeuces.
But seeing all these priests here makes me wonder – what is Zeus’s purpose in all this? Does he still intend Helen for the Trojans, or has that plan been abandoned, now that Tantalus, the Trojan’s chief ally in Achaea, is dead? What other purposes intersect here?
But then Helen makes her entrance, without fanfare, from a rear door behind the thrones, catching Tyndareus’s keryx unaware, so that she’s already standing before her throne before he sees her. ‘Her highness, the Princess Helen,’ he hurriedly calls, his face going red.
Everyone goes wide-eyed at this first glimpse of the greatest prize in Achaea, the sacred bride to be.
She’s slender but shapely, clad in a silk bodice and flounced skirt of dazzling peacock blue, with a gauzy veil hemmed in gold cast over her golden hair, which streams down her back and upper arms in a river of radiant curls. Her ivory-pale arms are bedecked in gold bangles and a wide belt embroidered in gold thread enhances her breathtakingly slender waist and full, curved hips and bosom. She pauses a moment, fully aware of every eye, milking their appreciation, and their desire to see her face, then slowly removes the veil and gazes out over the court, taking the weight of scrutiny with effortless ease, a playful smile creasing her perfect, slightly-parted lips.
Every man and woman present forgets to breathe, forgets that anything else exists but this one being. Their future queen, the woman who’ll fulfil their dreams. A child of Zeus himself, the prize bride, a fantasy made flesh. Seemingly so vulnerable, just a slip of a girl, but she is silk draped over marble, with a presence that seems timeless. Her presence fills the throne hall, and suddenly all these kings, princes and warriors are mere shadows.
It’s as if an avatar of Aphrodite and Artemis called both goddesses to their body at once. There is youthful expectation balanced with absolute poise, sensual promise wrapped in innocence. Her divine heritage glows within her like an unseen fire.
‘A tongue of flame that consumes, burning all that it touches’… The last unexplained phrase from the Dodona prophecy leaps to my mind, and my mouth goes dry. Is she the one who that’s about – the flame we all want to hold, even though it burns?
I’m less affected than almost anyone else present. For one thing, I’ve seen her before so her appearance isn’t such a surprise. There’s another thing: Helen once tried to kill me, during that damned Theseus affair – and when someone looks at you along the shaft of an arrow, mockingly recalls your shared past and then tries to put that arrow through your chest, a certain amount of empathy dies.
And of course, my heart has already been given, torn asunder and handed back to me in pieces, only too recently.
Even so, I still wonder a little how those lips would taste…
Menelaus, poor fool, is gazing as if he’s never truly seen her before. Poor fool.
Everyone else seems stupefied by her beauty, her poise, and the promise of all she brings – divine favour, wealth and power. And for the men, there’s the added allure of knowing that her gorgeous face could be the one he sees as he snuffs out the candles at night, and her perfect body the one he rides into the realm of Aphrodite.
As if all the world is merely a play for her amusement, Helen signals to Nassius, waiting at the doors, and sits down on her throne, ramrod straight. It’s almost with disappointment that those present pull their eyes from her – if they can – to watch the suitors present themselves, and wonder if any mere mortal can be worthy of her.
‘Prince Idomeneus of Crete,’ Nassius booms, and the first of the candidates advances down the aisle, his face grim and lordly, like a man leading his warriors into battle. Idomeneus walks erect and proud, his waist-long hair oiled, bearing an ancient trident as a rod of office; though his true allegiance is to Hera, he retains some of the traditional emblems of Poseidon. His slaves are weighed down with bolts of finely-woven wool, the strands dyed in a startling array of colours, for Crete is famous for its flocks and the quality of its handwork.
Under the cloth lie chests overflowing with golden necklaces and finely-carved ivory, and signet stones of beautiful, translucent agate, etched with tiny but exquisite figures and sacred images. He must have emptied his coffers to put together such a hoard, I’m thinking, which will have his nerves on edge. He comes before the thrones, makes his salutations first to Tyndareus, then to High King Agamemnon, and finally dropping to one knee before Helen, his arms outstretched beseechingly.
‘I, Idomeneus of the line of the great Minos, extend my hand to thee, and offer marriage,’ he recites formally. ‘I bring you these gifts freely, and pray you will bless my suit with favour. Crete once ruled the Aegean and will do so again, with thy divine presence at my side, to bring us the favour of the gods.’
Ambitious, I think wryly. And not the sort of thing to say in front of Agamemnon. ‘Nice of him to eliminate himself so soon,’ I whisper in Menelaus’s ear. I don’t think he hears – he’s still staring slack-jawed at Helen.
Idomeneus’s servants busy themselves unloading the cart and arraying his gifts at Helen’s feet. He stays looking up at her, and I can see him desperately looking for some sign of favour. Her eyes are shining, and after a moment of graceful pause, she extends her hand, palm down, and he shuffles onto both knees and kisses it, reverently.
Now he must move aside, his face alight with worship, while everyone else tries to outbid him.
‘King Menetheus of Athens!’
Athena’s favoured king stalks forward and doubles his rival’s gift hoard, adding in a string of beautiful slave girls skilled in fine needlework and the promise of his fastest race horses. His coolly-calculating eyes glaze over as he too kneels before Helen and stumbles over his speech, all eloquence dissolving before her melting gaze. But she lets him kiss her hand nonetheless, which renders Menestheus speechless with adoration.
‘King Polyxenus of Elis!’ Nassius announces.
Like Idomeneus, he’s widowed and in his mid-thirties, and with a reputation as a seasoned warrior. Elis is in the western Peloponnese, and they’re traditional allies of Sparta. But it’s not a strong kingdom, its wealth and strength dissipated by vicious feuds, with successive kings struggling to centralise authority. His gifts are nowhere near as generous as the preceding two kings’, and everyone reads the dismissive looks on Castor’s and Polydeuces’s faces as a sign that he’s already behind his rivals, though Helen still permits him to kiss her hand.
‘King Agapenor of Arcadia,’ Nassius calls out.
Agapenor is Hera’s man, and something in Helen’s shift of gaze tells me that in her eyes, he’s far more to her liking than the older kings who have preceded him. I can already sense that, to her, the gifts are nothing, even though her brothers are drooling at the wealth piling up at her feet. Her eyes glint as she receives the man’s booming declarations of love, and takes in his ruggedly handsome looks, deep chest and strong arms. He’s a warrior-king, a fine theios too, and looks the part. As well as a staggering amount of richly embroidered cloth, a large casket of golden jewellery, and a string of slave girls even more beautiful than Menestheus’s, he has brought more martial gifts – gilded blades and helms, and a decorative bow, ‘because I know the Lady loves to shoot’.
Mmm, you’ll have to watch that, I think wryly, remembering Helen’s potshot at me, back in Erebus.
I lean in to Menelaus. ‘Let’s get down there,’ I murmur. Eventually he hears.
We’re about to leave the balcony when Philoctetes strides forward, clutching Heracles’s Great Bow, the only bow in Achaea that can match my own. I want to see what he intends, so we wait, leaning over the rail to watch. Philoctetes is a prince of Methone, a northern region of Thessaly, with a highly strung, pricklish air. To my amazement, he has the cheek to pledge the Great Bow if and only if his suite is successful. His other gifts reflect a wild, poor region. But Castor and Polydeuces are eying up his bow greedily.
‘Our terms are that all gifts must be given, verdict unknown, and will not be returned,’ the young Polydeuces says loftily. ‘Either you are a suitor, or you are not.’
Philoctetes flushes. ‘The Great Bow is an heirloom from the greatest warrior ever known, given to me because I am alone in matching his ancient skill. It is mine in trust, only to be passed on to one who is worthy.’ Meaning a son by Helen, presumably… He indicates the small jewellery casket he’s also brought. ‘These are my wooing gifts.’ He bends and kisses Helen’s hand, murmuring something that makes her colour slightly, then smile, which makes the whole room murmur. Perhaps he has skill with verbal arrows too.
Elephenor has already presented himself while Menelaus and I were hurrying downstairs; we join the queue at the great door into the hall as Patroclus steps forward, looking quite extraordinarily handsome in a gold-embroidered kilt and deep purple cloak that sets off his blazing blue eyes. He’s armed with a load of rich furs, including a snow-white pelt from lands far to the north, in addition to looted weapons and jewellery. Once he reaches the thrones, I can’t see him for the throng of heads in the way, but I hear him proudly reciting the names of the men he killed in battle to gain them, as if their shades are part of the gift hoard.
Then Aias of Salamis, a man as immense as his island kingdom is small, carries in a huge stag over his shoulder to lay at Helen’s feet. Good venison, I don’t doubt, but it looks very dead. His booming voice echoes round the megaron as he also promises an unlikely number of beef cattle. There’s no sign of them here in Sparta however; the rumour is that he intends to steal them off his neighbours, who can’t be very impressed.
I’m getting a bit frustrated now; my height – or lack of it – means I can’t see a damn thing. So I deposit my rather modest jewellery cask on a table beside Nassius at the door and explain to him in a whisper that I’m not trying to jump the queue. He nods agreement and I elbow my way forward in time to see Helen making a show of touching Aias’s huge biceps, and letting him kiss both her hands. Both hands… He has made an impression… Aias strides to his place beside a pillar looking like he’s won already.
I cross my fingers for Diomedes, who cuts a fine figure as he strides forward and gives his lineage. As prince of Tiryns he’s a decent catch, and his looks outshine everyone else, with the exception of Patroclus, enough to draw an appreciative sideways look from Helen to her brothers, though my young friend is clearly nervous of her.
After him comes a surprise contender, who wasn’t on Bria’s list yesterday: Prince Alcmaeon of Argos. He commanded the Argive conquest of Thebes last year, and he’s a surly, malevolent figure. Last I saw him, he swore to hang me – yes, someone else that wants me dead – because we disagreed over what to do with the two Theban seers, Tiresias and his daughter Manto. He wanted to torture the former and rape the latter: I prevented both outcomes, and Alcmaeon is not the sort of man you thwart. He presents himself before the throne in all his glowering anger, and stalks out afterwards, his eyes meeting mine as he leaves.
He draws a finger across his throat. Looks like I’m not yet forgiven.
Then it’s Menelaus’s turn. As I watch, I’m joined by another suitor who sidles up beside me. A quick glance shows me a young man with a shifty face and dull-blond hair. As Menelaus goes on one knee before the girl he knew as a child, I wonder if he’s thinking how little chance he has, even though he’s Agamemnon’s brother. Knowing him, he’ll see her as a young woman who has suffered, and needs to be cared for, after the ordeal with Theseus and her resulting pregnancy. His noble heart burns to ‘rescue’ her, though I don’t see a woman that needs rescuing – quite the opposite.
His gifts are generous enough to befit a man who represents Mycenae, and he’s Agamemnon’s heir, in the event the High King dies before fathering a son. But what he lays before Helen is noticeably less than Agapenor’s gifts, and there’s a reason – Agapenor is Agamemnon’s first preference and the High King has been adding greatly to the Arcadian king’s offerings.
‘That one’s weak,’ the man beside me growls. ‘No threat to anyone.’
‘Mind your words,’ I snap, looking the stranger up and down. He’s another northerner, judging by his accent, with a burly but not overly tall build. He stinks of sweat and women – common pornes, judging by the smell, a mixture of cheap perfume and unwashed crotches. But it’s his whole manner that sets my teeth on edge. ‘I know Menelaus well,’ I add. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Aias, Prince of Locris,’ he replies, without looking at me. His eyes are full of Helen, drinking her in with naked lust writ large on his face. ‘Wouldn’t you like to skewer that sweet piece of meat?’ he drools.
‘I’d keep such sentiments to myself, were I you,’ I tell him, icily.
‘Why? Isn’t that why we’re here?’ Aias says, in a low, crafty voice. ‘No doubt some rich pig will yoke her in the end – but meantime, we get to sniff around her fanny.’
I face him fully. ‘You’ll shut your face, or I’ll shut it for you.’
‘You? I don’t think so.’ His eyes flicker over me, then he looks back at Helen. ‘Anyway, you’re just like me –a chancer trying his luck, so you can tell your bastard grandchildren that you were here. And I bet that little wanton sleeps with her window open – she’s no virgin, I’ll tell you that for free. Women don’t bat their eyelashes like that unless they’ve had a cock in them.’
Right, you dirty piece of shit…
I go to grasp his collar – and Nassius announces, ‘Prince Odysseus of Ithaca.’
Reluctantly, I let my hand drop, at which Aias of Locris snickers, ‘Any time, Islander.’
‘There will be a time,’ I assure him, then stride, still seething, through the megaron.
About halfway across, I realise that in my fury at that Locrian pig, I’ve left my paltry gift box on the table outside, and that the whole court is looking at me like I’m an idiot.
Which I am.
I have a choice – to stand like a fool and ask someone to bring my little cask; or turn around and fetch it myself. Either way, the entire hall will have a laugh at my expense, and I’ll have probably messed up any chance I have of influencing this event.
Or…
Bugger it, why not? I mutter, as my idea takes form. Because this whole process isn’t going Menestheus’s way – he’s been outbid several times. Nor is Diomedes likely to shine – despite Helen’s sideways glances. He’s been noticeably overshadowed by Patroclus’s dazzling good looks and Aias’s brawn. Either this whole gift-giving larceny gets sidelined, or we, Athena’s champions, have lost already.
So I stride forward, salute Tyndareus and Agamemnon and Helen, ignore the two princes because they loathe me anyway, and announce myself in a loud, proud voice. ‘I am indeed Odysseus Laertiades, Prince of Ithaca, and my gift to you, Princess Helen, is my true heart, and my dedicated service, in the name of Achaea. I pray that you accept my offer.’
‘No gift?’ sneers Polydeuces. ‘That’s outrageous! Where’s your honour?’
‘None at all?’ Castor echoes, angrily. ‘How dare you mock our sister—’
‘Peace,’ Tyndareus wheezes, and despite his weak voice, his sons go quiet. He sits up – he still looks deathly, and he’s been all but asleep for the last few suitors – but now he’s interested again. ‘Please, Odysseus, my ward and son of my great friend Laertes, explain yourself.’
‘My King, you are as much a father to me as Laertes,’ I reply, addressing him directly but burningly conscious that Helen is looking at me with piercing eyes, trying to discern what game I’m playing. ‘You know me as only a father knows his son, and so you know how deeply I honour your daughter and all your family. But if my offer of love, companionship and respect is to be judged solely by the quality of my material gifts, then my honour and yours are diminished. These noble virtues cannot be purchased. And to avoid hubris and absurdity, I must tailor my worldly gifts to my prospects, which apparently are none.’
The hall is now silent, as they all try to work out what I’m saying – I’ve been deliberately obtuse, but hey, I’m thinking on my feet here.
Castor and Polydeuces are turning Helen’s wooing into little more than a cattle auction, lowering the honour of Sparta. But do I dare say this out loud?
Tyndareus gives me an approving nod. Perhaps he’s come to the same conclusion?
‘We were invited to Helen’s wedding games,’ I add, emboldened now to speak for all the suitors here who are no richer than I. ‘We ask no more than for a fair chance to compete for the hand of a beautiful young woman, as your invitation promised.’
Castor and Polydeuces are glaring at me furiously – in their minds they’ve already spent the gifts – and Helen is frowning. Agamemnon looks interested, though; who knows what labyrinthine thoughts are passing through his paranoid mind?
Then Tyndareus darts a look at Helen, whose face is now a mask. Hiding what? ‘Your suit is of course welcomed, Prince Odysseus, and my daughter is honoured,’ he wheezes. ‘And be assured, the gifts offered are not the only measure of any suitor, in my eyes or those of my daughter. And I value the sentiments you have offered, from the nobleness of your heart.’ He gestures me forward, towards Helen, while the hall mutters at his words.
Those suitors that have already pledged gifts are now looking at me as though I’ve tricked them, as I kneel before Helen, who gazes down at me with suspicious eyes. ‘I haven’t forgotten a thing, Ithacan,’ she murmurs, her voice like ice. ‘Theseus said you aided in abducting me, until you dirty thieves fell out.’
‘He lied,’ I say, in a low whisper for her ears alone – barefaced cheek on my part, given that I’m the one lying. Up close she’s flawless, her skin perfect, but she exudes – for my benefit – a glacial coldness.
‘I will never marry you, you stinking fisherman,’ she whispers back, while smiling for her father’s sake.
‘Then who will you marry?’ I ask, mirroring her smile.
Her face turns sly. ‘The man I want. Not some old fart my family try to foist on me.’
‘Then choose well,’ I exhort her, quite seriously. ‘The fate of Achaea rests on your decision.’
‘Whoever I choose will be victorious, won’t they,’ she murmurs smugly. ‘So regardless, I win – and I really don’t care who loses.’ Her smile widens, showing her pearl-like teeth. ‘Now piss off, before I change my mind about allowing you here.’
She offers her hand and I kiss it, though I’d rather kiss a cobra.
The rest of the gift-giving is more muted, as Tyndareus’s words sink in, and people begin to think hard about the games to come. Most weddings are predestined – the guests arrive knowing who the groom will be. This openly competitive situation is very rare, and when it occurs, major gift-giving is only expected from the winning contender. And when games are used to determine who will become the husband, no marriage gifts from the groom are required at all. The only wealth handed over is the bride’s dowry.
Castor and Polydeuces have broken that rule… and now their father has overridden them.
I can sense the consternation of some – the rich, non-martial kings like Menestheus – as it sinks in that their wealth may not buy them the prize. But others, like Diomedes, Philoctetes, and Aias of Salamis, will now fancy their chances.
The remainder of the suitors present their gifts – fifty-odd men in total are offering themselves today, most of them looking both angry and bitter, as they behold the greedy farce that has drained their treasuries – but few stand out as real contenders. My hackles rise as I watch the vile Aias of Locris swagger forward, and murmur something that makes Helen’s cheeks go pink; and I’m still fuming as Palamedes, son of Nauplius, presents himself. He’s a rakish man, a charmer with a glib tongue. When he sees me watching him, his face hardens. But he’s an Aphrodite man – he won’t come at me head on.
If he gets Helen alone, though, he’ll use the same tricks he tried on a young priestess in Delos, a girl I helped to rescue from him. I resolve that, so far as it’s in my power, that won’t happen.
Eventually, though, I lose track of the contenders, studying Helen instead, trying to read her mood. So I don’t really notice the slender, robed figure that arrives at my side until she plucks my sleeve.
‘Hello Odysseus,’ she whispers.
I turn to see the very same young Delian woman who had filled my thoughts not long before. She’s wearing a pale green dress and a green veil with a pendant of a leaping deer hung round her neck. Her thick brown hair is tightly bound back, and there’s a half-smile on her sharp, clever face.
‘Arnacia!’ I exclaim involuntarily, grinning with pleasure. ‘I was just thinking of you—’
She puts a finger to my lips to remind me to keep my voice down. ‘I’m called Penelope now,’ she murmurs. ‘Remember? Perhaps you’re not thinking hard enough?’
Her words are chiding, but her smile widens as her intelligent eyes measure me. She must be here with the Artemis priestesses, a sworn virgin and a theia to boot, a seeress whose prophecies are widely sought. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, pledging your heart to Helen. I thought another woman had won your love.’
She knows about Kyshanda – indeed they worked together to save my life, last year on Delos – but obviously she’s unaware that our relationship has ended. I shake my head, my expression telling her what I cannot put into words. ‘An Ithacan prince must set his sights upon the attainable,’ I tell her.
‘And you think Helen is attainable?’ She laughs, and then touches my arm apologetically. ‘I’m sorry your… er, eastern liaison hasn’t worked out. You seemed a good match, in spirit if not rank.’
I’m reminded how much I like this woman, an admiration born of the adventure we shared in the seas west of Delos, in which Diomedes, Bria and I helped her escape from the rapacious hands of Palamedes and his vile father, Nauplius. I gesture toward that erstwhile prince. ‘Does Palamedes still covet you, Lady Penelope?’
Her face hardens. ‘I received a letter, not long after you returned me to the shrine at Delos, apologising for their ‘misunderstanding’. Nothing since, thankfully.’
‘If he comes near you, I’ll gut him,’ I tell her grimly, meaning every syllable.
‘Thank you kindly, but I’m not short of protectors here.’
I look over her shoulder and see a knot of Artemis priestesses – including some theia huntresses who look like they’d happily put an arrow in my back. Do I recognise any from Pisa? I give them a cheery wave. ‘I’m pleased they’ve let you off that dreary island,’ I tell Penelope. ‘I thought they’d lock you up there, to prophesize for ever more.’
She gives me a slightly sad look. ‘So did I. And this is just a short interlude - we return there as soon as this is over.’
‘Then I hope for your sake that Helen takes her time,’ I joke. ‘How do you spend your days on Delos?’
‘I walk briskly around the island every day, and I swim,’ she tells me, with forced cheeriness. ‘I weave for hours – that’s how my prophecies now come to me. And I have Actoris for company.’ Her eyes twinkle. ‘She remembers you fondly,’ she adds in a teasing voice.
Actoris is her servant and companion, a plucky girl who kissed me in gratitude for helping her mistress, though nothing further happened between us.
‘I hope she too enjoys your island life,’ I say.
Penelope laughs. ‘I urge her to marry, but she insists the local fishermen are all idiots. She says she’ll marry when she’s good and ready.’ She looks at me frankly. ‘I think she has dreams above her station, poor girl.’
‘I know what that’s like,’ I sigh, ignoring the hidden meaning behind her words. ‘Any new prophecies?’
‘Nothing I could possibly share with that dangerous rogue they call the “Man of Fire”.’
‘Him? He’s not so bad as people say,’ I tell her with a wink, making her smile.
‘He’s got a lot of enemies in this room and very few friends,’ she murmurs, her levity fading. ‘Be careful, Odysseus. This place is like a tangled forest, infested with poisonous spiders and snakes. The gods are watching this place, and the stakes are terrifyingly high.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ I tell her. ‘What would Artemis consider a good outcome here?’
‘I’m sure I can’t say,’ she says, a trace of regret in her voice that tells me that she still harbours doubts about her cult’s alliance with Apaliunas-Apollo. Not so long ago, Artemis had no ‘twin brother’, and her mother was Achaean Hera, not eastern Leto. Penelope is a traditionalist, and her heart is with Achaea, not the East.
‘Let’s hope the outcome is conducive to peace and security in Achaea,’ I tell her. ‘Now, you be careful too. People have been watching us talk, and they’ll want to know what we’ve spoken of.’
‘The weather, and the state of the crops,’ she says drily. ‘It’s good to see you, Odysseus. Regardless of our politics and allegiances, you will always be a friend, to me.’
She glides away, while I glow in that little moment of warmth. What an asset she’d be for our cause.
But I believe her vocation to Artemis to be steadfast, so that’s not likely to happen. I turn my mind to more immediate matters – the last of the suitors has been presented, and Tyndareus – now exhausted and deathly pale – staggers to his feet to address the room.
‘Thank you for your gifts,’ he tells the room. ‘The happy couple, whoever the groom will be, will appreciate them greatly. Their donors have been noted, and their generosity. As will the prowess of the men about to contend for her hand. Rest well tonight, my lords, for tomorrow the wedding games begin.’
He looks around the room – and his gaze finds me. ‘Prince Odysseus, could you help an old man up the stairs?’
He’s never needed such aid before, but now he’s sick and weak, and I’m swift to go to him. As I help him leave, I can smell his sour, unhealthy sweat. But I’m pleased – and intrigued – that he’s singled me out.
Get close to Tyndareus, Athena told me. So far, so good.
Castor, Polydeuces and Agamemnon join us in Tyndareus’s private rooms, while Helen, giving me a burnished stare, departs to the women’s quarters. No doubt her mother needs her. Leda has been a drunken wreck ever since Zeus’s sordid seduction years ago.
The moment the door closes, Polydeuces rounds on me – he’s only fifteen but he already towers over me, as tall as a full-grown man, and an exceptional one at that. He’s more than just a theios: he’s prodigiously gifted but he’s still young and blind to all subtlety.
‘What’s this pornos doing here?’ he demands of his ailing father. Castor steps in behind me, not a theios but still a mountain of muscle. Agamemnon watches with interest, and with a slightly bitter caste to his face: he too lacks theios gifts.
I’m wondering if I’ll end up coming to blows with them, but Tyndareus intervenes. ‘Settle down, my sons,’ he says, in a weary voice. ‘As I’ve already made clear, Odysseus is my ward and remains as a son to me. Theseus may have alleged that Odysseus aided him in taking Helen, but Theseus was a villain, and it was Odysseus who helped you rescue her. He will remain and he’ll be heeded.’
‘Thank you,’ I say gravely, helping him into his seat and turning to face the two brothers. ‘I really do have Sparta’s best interests at heart,’ I tell them, honestly. I glance at Agamemnon, who’s settling into the other armchair. The High King just looks coldly amused by all this.
‘Are you a suitor now, or an advisor?’ Polydeuces grumbles.
‘I’m a suitor, when it suits,’ I tell him.
Tyndareus drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Castor, Polydeuces,’ he says. ‘You must be hosts tonight at the banquet. I’m too tired to attend. Go now, and prepare.’
It’s both a great honour, and a dismissal. Polydeuces is smart enough to recognise both, and they depart, grumbling. Once they’re gone, I’m left alone with the two kings. Time to learn their minds. ‘Did today go as you hoped?’ I ask.
Tyndareus leans against the backrest. ‘More or less,’ he replies, his voice etched with exhaustion.
I shake my head. ‘That gift-giving was a shambles,’ I say, ‘and it’s infuriated a lot of people.’
‘Hosting such a colossal gathering as this is costly,’ Agamemnon retorts, ‘though I suppose that someone coming from such a backward little kingdom as your father’s would have little chance to understand such matters. That wealth will be used to pay the great number of mercenaries King Tyndareus has had to hire, as well as reward all his standard troops for the extra hours they’ll need to work. And I can assure you, the more volatile suitors will see their gifts as an investment, a surety of good behaviour.’
So Polydeuces and Castor haven’t been the only ones pressuring Tyndareus into this. ‘I may choose to return gifts to the unsuccessful suitors later,’ the king mutters, avoiding my eye.
Really? So why not tell them so?
‘And there’s another thing,’ I add. ‘Helen and her brothers seem to expect that she will make the final choice.’
‘You shouldn’t allow the girl even the pretence of a say,’ Agamemnon says. ‘Young women don’t know their own hearts. As for this games nonsense…’
From which I gather he doesn’t hold out much hope for Agapenor’s success…
‘You’ve proclaimed a competition for her hand,’ I remind Tyndareus. ‘If you backtrack on that, there will be a massive amount of trouble. Let this play out: the games might not mean anything in the end, but it’ll allow the suitors to let off steam, instead of killing each other – or you.’ I stare at Agamemnon as well as Tyndareus. ‘I don’t know what reports you’ve had from Cranae, but I firmly believe that Patroclus provoked and murdered Laas, whatever he claims. He saw him as a rival he could eliminate.’
Agamemnon gives me a warning look. ‘Find a witness that says so. It was tragic, but these things happen when a man gets lost in his cups.’
He wants the Thessalians on his side, that’s clear, so he’s not going to turn on Patroclus. But Laas was Tyndareus’s most trusted man. Even so, the Spartan king steers the conversation into more neutral waters, commenting on this or that suitor, and we converse civilly until Tyndareus becomes so tired he can barely sit upright in his chair. I call for Nassius to help the old man to his bed.
‘Use your old room up here in the palace,’ Tyndareus says to me as I prepare to go, an amazing offer in the circumstances. None of the guests bar Agamemnon and Menelaus are sleeping in the palace. ‘I’d be grateful if you can attend the banquet, preferably to the end, and report back to me about anything untoward.’
I leave with Agamemnon, who turns to me as we pause outside the door. ‘Menelaus is constantly pestering me to offer you a role in my council at Mycenae,’ he tells me. ‘Would that interest you?’
I’m taken aback, especially after his dig about my provincial status. Though it’s nothing new for Agamemnon to deliver a blow with one hand and a caress with the other. Especially if he thinks he has something to gain. ‘I didn’t think you, er…’
‘My brother is wet behind the ears, I admit, but you’re clever,’ the High King tells me. ‘I’ve always known that. As for the business over Helen’s baby – I’m grateful. It’s given my wife some peace. You and I are ruled by our heads, Odysseus. But I also know you bring strange loyalties: Athena, Prometheus… I’m not sure what to make of that.’
‘I’m for Achaea,’ I tell him firmly. ‘But I’m also heir to Ithaca, so I can’t move permanently to Mycenae.’
‘I’m not asking you to relinquish your position, though why anyone would cling to that meagre rock of an island escapes me. But perhaps you might become an informal counsellor to me, attending my seasonal high council? I need intelligent people around me, even if I don’t always agree with them.’
‘Then I’m honoured,’ I reply. It’s true – I am. And also intrigued. Perhaps Agamemnon was impressed by my display today – he’s a calculating man, and devious, as I saw when he confronted Tantalus. Or rather, didn’t confront him…
He gives what passes for a smile on his cold face. ‘Excellent. Speak to my keryx about the dates.’
He wishes me good night and we part, him to the main guest suite and me to check out the small cell of my childhood, before I go downstairs. The upstairs part of the palace is quiet, but I can already hear the first guests arriving for the banquet, downstairs in the megaron.
The tiny, white-washed room is empty, except for a cot bed, already made up with simple covers, a small lamp on a shelf above the bed, and a stool by the window with a full water jug and a copper basin beside it. Under the bed, there’s a pottery pot if I need to piss in the night. Even after five years away, the room still smells the same: linseed oil from the bed frame and the faint drift of lavender.
I’ll have to head down to the feast shortly, but the day has taken more from me than I expected. I sink down on the narrow cot-bed for a moment – just a moment – and rest my head on the pillow, revelling in a sense of nostalgia when a crinkling sound has me sitting up again in a flash.
Someone has slid a folded sheet of parchment under my pillow. I kindle the oil lamp perched on a small shelf above the bed, and read. ‘Odysseus,’ it says. ‘Your life is in danger. Beware of the deepest shadows.’
There’s no name, and I don’t know the hand. The letters are slightly inexpert, as if by someone whose writing skills are poor.
Who left the note? How did they know I would be using this room? How have they learned of this peril, and why won’t they identify themselves? And how imminent is the danger?
My heart begins to beat double time, as all tiredness evaporates. I sit, listening to the growing swell of sound from the banquet below, and wondering what else the babble masks. Is that a stealthy footfall outside in the corridor? Is that really just the breeze that shifts the bushes far below my window? I let the lamp burn on, staring into the flame to steady my mind as my thoughts dart from one possibility to another.
And then my door-handle turns…
I’ve got my dagger out, heart thumping against my ribs, already on my feet even as the door swings open… and a shapely figure slips in and closes it again. It’s a young woman with a lively face and curly black hair, and I recognise her instantly.
‘Shh, it’s just me,’ she whispers – it’s Actoris, Penelope’s maid.
I blink in amazement. How has she found her way to my room? How does she know I’m here?
And then my brain, fuddled by surprise, finds the answers. She’s Spartan, just like her mistress, and she will have visited the palace many times, before she and Penelope left for Delos. And my room? She’ll know the servants well, being one herself, and whoever Tyndareus ordered to prepare my bed could easily have told her I would be staying here tonight.
Did she write the note? Has she come to warn me further?
But as she pulls off her cloak and starts to loosen her bodice, her real purpose becomes obvious.
‘Not the weapon I had in mind,’ she giggles, looking at my dagger with raised eyebrows. ‘Are you all right?’ she adds, hesitantly, when I don’t react. ‘Don’t I please you?’
My mind is racing. Penelope has either organised this visit, to console me over Kyshanda’s loss or, at the least, she’s turning a blind eye to it. Did she not tell me herself that Actoris thinks of me fondly? And the girl is attractive, a little fleshy for my taste but pleasing to the eye. More importantly, I like her, and I was impressed with her on Delos last year for her loyalty and courage.
However, I’ve been raised not to sleep with servants, including other people’s; my mother has drummed that into me many times. And right now, Kyshanda is still an open wound in my breast, and I’m still disgusted with myself over my coupling with the nymph, back in Arcadia.
But Actoris is here of her own accord, her face glowing in the lamplight with excitement and arousal. Am I going to punish myself for Fate’s cruelty over my Trojan love? Am I going to spend the rest of my life looking backwards? Maybe Bria was right, about needing to let go of the past? In my heart and in my head, I know I’ll never hold Kyshanda close to me again.
I go to sheath my dagger and realise I’m still gripping the parchment in my other hand. ‘Did you write this?’ I exclaim, waving it at her.
Actoris pauses, halfway through loosening her waistband. ‘What’s that?’ she says, frowning. ‘A love letter?’
‘No. Quite the opposite,’ I exclaim. I step over to the door, bar it and then close the window shutters as well before showing her the sheet. ‘Is this Penelope’s writing?’ I ask and she shakes her head, puzzling over the symbols before look up at me in astonishment.
‘“Your life is in danger”,’ she repeats. ‘“Beware the deepest shadows…” What does it mean?’
It’s clear she knows nothing of it. More and more strange.
‘Dear Actoris,’ I say, gathering up her cloak and draping it over her shoulders. ‘I’m really very flattered that you came.’ And I am. But I’d rather disappoint her than risk us both being murdered as we roll amorously around on my cot. ‘I think it’s best if you leave now – if my life is really in danger, I’ll not have yours imperilled as well.’