‘HESIOD: And what, above all, is the most excellent thing to pray to the gods for?
HOMER: To be ever at peace with oneself and with everything around one.’
—Lives of Homer: The Contest of Homer and Hesiod
This business isn’t finished though. There’s something we must do, to try and seal the fragile unity we so badly need, in order to make it real. It’s not prophecy or divine knowledge that tells me so, but instinct. We’re flesh and blood and we need tangible symbols to remind us of the intangible. I wrack my brain… and an answer begins to form.
Penelope goes to return my cloak just as Bria joins us, only to realise for the first time what state she’s in underneath the heavy folds. She hurriedly covers her blood-smeared body and ruined tunic again, struggling to keep her discomposure hidden and failing dismally. ‘Oh Gods, did I…’
‘I’m afraid so, honey,’ Bria says cheerily. ‘Nice tits, by the way. I’m sure Ithaca thinks so, too.’
Penelope collects herself enough to raise her eyes skywards, before huddling deeper than ever into the cloak.
‘We need to have a nice long chat about the Moirae,’ Bria adds.
‘I have to go back to Delos. My place is with the cult of Artemis—’
‘No way,’ Bria drawls. ‘You’re your own cult now. You don’t belong on that bloody rock, and after what you just did, you’re not safe there anymore.’ Then she gives Penelope a mischievous look. ‘On the bright side,’ she adds, ‘I don’t think all the Fates are virgins.’
Penelope gives her a steadier look than I would have been capable of. ‘You must understand, I’ve never wanted to be anything other than a priestess of Artemis, before…’
Before… My heart thuds at the implications of that word.
Her eyes flicker to the knot of Artemis priestesses and huntresses, staring at us with hard eyes. ‘But I fear you’re right,’ she adds, her voice cracking as she contemplates a life in which all past certainties are gone.
‘We’ll protect you,’ Bria tells her, in a voice that is for once devoid of irony or sarcasm.
‘Yes, we most certainly will,’ I put in. ‘But there’s something I must do, right now.’
The two women look at me quizzically, but I turn away, as my plan takes shape. I think it’s a good one. Brilliant, even. Right now everyone is standing around, in a mostly stunned silence, but I can already see a few disgruntled faces. This harmony isn’t going to last long.
Light the torch, Man of Fire…
I go to the near end of the colonnaded garden, and climb onto a handy bench so everyone can see me, and pitch my voice for all to hear. ‘You are witnesses to the fate of Achaea,’ I shout, stretching my arms out as everyone turns to hear. ‘You heard the seeress speak: of a land whose very soil will be scoured, if we do not provide the nails to hold it together. A land that would give away those very things it needs to keep us safe, its chalice and its blade. A land which almost lost its builder and its shepherdess.’
The listening men nod anxiously, as I confirm their own interpretations.
‘The seeress spoke of hope,’ Eumelus calls – Penelope’s friend.
I give him a nod of thanks. ‘I believe the spirits gave us a warning, not of what is and will be, but of what will become of us if we do nothing. They showed us what we need, to save ourselves. And, as soon as they spoke, our needs began to be met. Great Zeus vowed to be our builder, the unifier who will keep us together and strong. Great Hera promised to be our shepherdess, and drive away the wolves that divide us.’
‘Aye,’ a few men reply, the mood of the gathering lifting.
‘So let us bind ourselves to that promise of hope,’ I tell them, pointing to Helen and Menelaus. ‘We have all contended for the hand of Helen of Sparta, sometimes rancorously. Aye, we have fought, some of us like dogs. We’ve made enemies, I’m sure.’
Too bloody right we have.
‘But the matter is settled now, and we need to put it behind us,’ I tell them. ‘No more contention! The decision is made and must be respected, if we are to go on in fellow feeling. Such friendship is the bond that will keep Achaea whole. The Moirae have spoken – telling us we need to be united. From Thessaly in the north down through Attica and Euboea, from the Peloponnese to the islands of Crete and Rhodes and beyond – we must all find a common bond. I offer you this one: that we will unite to preserve the marriage we have declared today. That any enemy of Menelaus and Helen, any man that drives them apart, is the enemy of us all.’
I leap down off the bench and stride into the middle of the shrine, where Tyndareus’s poor dead stallion lies in bloody pieces. I don’t admire the cheap posturing most orators use, but I sense that these men will be more easily swayed by some dramatic gesture. ‘This is a sacred place, a holy place. The gods and the spirits are listening.’ I place my right foot on the butchered horse’s shoulder and cry out, ‘Hear, O Gods. Hear me, Tyndareus, in whose name I invoke these words, hear me Lord Poseidon, master of horses, whose puissant power fills the bloodied pieces at my feet. I, Odysseus of Ithaca, pledge to preserve the union of Menelaus and Helen. He who comes between them is our enemy, and I will unite with you, my brothers to strike any and all of them down!’
I mean any and all of these suitors – but perhaps they think I mean Parassi and Skaya-Mandu and their arrogant claiming of Helen. Regardless, after some sideways glances, they begin to come forward, and for no reason other than my example, they decide that placing a foot on that poor horse’s remains makes the oath more solemn and binding.
Perhaps it does, because whatever Amphithea did to that horse’s blood, I can sense the spirits that fuel the oracles straining to listen. They see everything we do, it’s said, but some moments are more significant than others.
The web is woven and cast over us all. I step away, wondering what it is I’ve really done. Bria’s frowning, but she gives me a nod of approval – and Penelope is gazing at me, and I can see that she too approves.
That’s all the acclaim I need.
Two days later, as evening gathers, I’m sitting on a bench, watching musicians play and supping ale. All round the campsites, men are feasting, drinking, gaming, wrestling – for fun and or to prove a point – and generally forming the sorts of bonds that are easy in peace time but can be the glue that keeps an army together in war. We’re even mingling – islanders and mainlanders, north and south, men from every corner coming together to boast, laugh, and just perhaps become a nation.
The Oath of Tyndareus, as the promise I encouraged them to take is being called – named for the man we all swore it to – is binding us together in common cause. Achaea, perhaps more than in any previous time, is one nation, under one High King.
I did that.
A few hours ago, Amphithea married my best friend, Prince Menelaus, to Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world. She looked radiant and utterly composed – or was that resigned? I don’t trust her, I still believe she’s a menace to our entire nation, but if love has any power, perhaps Menelaus’s might change her heart, and bring her to love her people?
As for Menelaus, he looked delirious with joy. I wish them every happiness, clinging onto that vision of hope the Fates have held out to us. This has to work.
At this moment, up in Tyndareus’s palace, they’re alone together, working through the beginnings of what it means to be married, and to be the symbol of Achaean unity – with our gods and with each other. It’s a behemoth of a burden, not one I’d want.
‘Hey, Ithaca,’ Bria drawls, swaggering up and throwing one leg over the bench. She drains my ale, then loudly calls for more. ‘Thought you’d be off somewhere with the priestess of the Moirae,’ she teases.
‘Penelope and Actoris set out this morning,’ I tell her.
‘For where? Not that bloody rock in the Aegean?’
‘No, not for Delos. She’s left the cult of Artemis, but she’s still on hostile terms with her father. She’s going to stay with an aunt, somewhere on the other side of Mount Taygetus.’
Bria pokes my arm. ‘Thought you’d have something to say about that?’
‘I will have something to say,’ I admit, ‘when she’s ready. But she says she has to relearn who and what she is. She expected to serve Artemis all her life, and now she has to find a new path. She has to think it through.’
‘I always think better after a nice long fuck,’ Bria comments, in her usual charming way. ‘Anyway, won’t her prick of a father – Icarius, yes? – just peddle her off again to the highest bidder, like some dromas.’
‘She says no,’ I say, though I’m not so sure of that.
Bria grins wickedly. ‘Did you give her something to remember you by?’
‘A bracelet,’ I tell her.
‘A bracelet!’ She rolls her eyes, then jabs her thumb in an easterly direction. ‘So what about Her Royal Nibs – Kyshanda? Are you seeing her off?’
I sigh. ‘No. It’s better we don’t—’
‘Bullshit,’ Bria guffaws. Two fresh mugs of ale arrive, care of Eurybates, and she scoops one up. ‘Come on,’ she says, handing me the other. ‘You owe it to her. Or are you a gutless slug that’s scared to say goodbye?’
Put like that…
The ale downed, we wind through the town, to the house of a rich man whose home has been commandeered – with compensatory payments – by Agamemnon to house his ‘guests’. As the sole woman in the Trojan party, Kyshanda has been kept isolated, and to Agamemnon’s credit, well-guarded.
Bria and I are shown into a small room downstairs, where Kyshanda mopes by a window. Her lovely, lively and sensuous face is downcast and miserable – but when she sees me it comes alive with hope.
‘Odysseus!’ She leaps to her feet and hurries toward me.
Bria steps between us. ‘Uh-uh, sweet-cakes. We’re here to talk business. Do you know who I am?’
‘You’re Bria,’ Kyshanda says warily, looking past her at me. ‘Odysseus? We have to talk.’
Bria grins. ‘Perhaps – but you and I will speak first.’ She jabs a finger into the middle of Kyshanda’s chest. ‘Lay it on the line, Princess! Were you ever sincere about wanting to prevent war between Achaea and Troy?’
Kyshanda’s narrow face lights up with urgency. ‘Yes, yes, I swear—’
Bria jabs her again, harder this time. ‘I know when people lie, bitch.’
‘I’m not lying, I’m not. I swear it’s true—’
‘Did you screw Ithaca here, because your mother, Queen Hekuba, told you to?’
‘I didn’t… we didn’t—’
Bria opens her palm as if to slap her. ‘I told you, I know when people lie!’
Kyshanda looks past her at me. ‘I swear… I do love Odysseus. My love is true…’
‘Knew it,’ Bria grunts in satisfaction, holding up a hand to prevent me from intervening. ‘But you still want to enslave our people, don’t you, Princess?’
‘No, I want peace. Honestly. I swear.’
Peace? Only on Trojan terms. I heard her say it, the other night at the secret gathering. Which she doesn’t know I overheard. The only place I could find in her love would be at her feet.
Though, maybe, she was playing a role, in the Dionysus priest’s house. If you want to be in the game…
‘So much swearing, but no cussing,’ Bria snickers. ‘Prissy, highborn bitch.’
‘That’s enough,’ I tell Bria. ‘Kyshanda, I loved you too. But our people are enemies.’
Loved… I just said ‘loved’.
She understands the implication instantly, and turns away, clutching at her face. ‘Go away, I don’t want to talk,’ she croaks, looking back at me. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. Just go.’
Bria doesn’t relent. ‘Not yet, Princess,’ she says, grabbing Kyshanda’s shoulders. ‘You say you wish for peace, but what are you prepared to do to make sure that peace is what we have?’
‘Everything!’ Kyshanda screeches, struggling helplessly in Bria’s grip. ‘Anything!’
‘Good,’ Bria rasps. ‘Because your lot have been coming to Achaea, visiting our oracular sites and learning our ways, but we know little or nothing of yours. Our traders can enter your harbour, but foreigners aren’t permitted in Troy itself. And we know nothing of what your mother, the greatest seer in Troy, is told by the spirits.’
‘I would never betray my family,’ Kyshanda says hoarsely.
‘I’m not asking you to betray your family, but preserve them, by undermining the impetus to war,’ Bria says cunningly. ‘Do you know about the Palladium?’ she asks.
I frown – it’s not a word I know. But another name for Athena is ‘Pallas’…
Kyshanda does know it. ‘It’s an idol we keep in the Achaean Shrine, a trophy of war from an older age. There are a few Achaeans living in Troy and they pray there.’
‘Aye – and do you realise that the Palladium is an idol to Athena?’
Kyshanda bits her lip, then nods. ‘Yes. But my mother says it’s powerless.’
‘Hekuba doesn’t know what it can do,’ Bria says smugly. ‘It can open the Serpent’s Path, for example. Learn to use the Palladium, and you’ll gain your very own prophesies, independently of her. And furthermore, you’ll be able to communicate with any other Athena seer walking the Paths at that time. Me, for example, or even Ithaca here – his training is coming along nicely.’
Kyshanda gulps, looking back at me, a shy hope burning again in her face.
And my heart still palpitates. Half of me only sees this wondrous, enchanting Trojan princess. But the other half yearns for a self-composed, calm, brave, resourceful woman who may well be just as impossible to build a life with.
Don’t come to me for advice on matters of love.
‘But to use the Palladium,’ Bria goes on, ‘you’ll have to pledge wholeheartedly to Athena.’
Kyshanda’s eyes widen. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘You’re free to,’ Bria tells her, in a tone I don’t trust. She’s just told her about the Palladium’s hidden powers – if Kyshanda refuses, just how important is that secret? Is it worth killing for?
Kyshanda drags her gaze from Bria’s face to mine. ‘That other woman… it was Arnacia, yes?’
‘Her name’s Penelope now,’ I tell her.
‘Penelope…’ I hate the way her face crumples as she repeats the name. Then she regathers her pride. ‘Then you won’t wait for me? For a time when peace truly reigns between Achaea and Troy?’
Dear gods, my parents have been nagging me to marry, the whole damn world expects men of my kind to do that. But the marriage she proposes is impossible, and the time she speaks of may never come.
And where once she owned my heart, now it is split in two.
‘I can’t,’ I reply, hating myself but knowing it’s the right thing to say.
Kyshanda shudders, closing her eyes and gathering her hands to her breasts. ‘Then neither can I,’ she croaks. I expect her to refuse Bria’s demands now, and damn the consequences, but instead, with a convulsive sob, she says, ‘Aye, I will swear to Athena.’ She looks up at me. ‘Please, go. I’ll do this with Bria alone.’
I want, urgently, to go to her, then think better of it. What possible good will that do? Numbly, I turn and leave the room, as a future I’d longed for, ever since I first saw her, disintegrates before me.
I know better than to look back.
But I’m also scared to look forward, to an unknown future without her. But that’s the fear I must confront.
‘Come on, you lazy prick – carve it up,’ Bria rasps, from her perch on a rock in a secluded bay some miles north of Ithaca town. It’s far enough from my father’s farm, which occupies a good part of this northern end of the island, to avoid prying eyes, but close enough to borrow the necessary equipment. She’s taken over the body of Hebea – the slender serving girl is off-duty, and probably unaware of what Bria’s doing to her – which is to fill it with more wine than is probably healthy for a teenage girl.
‘Move!’ she shouts again. ‘We need to be done by sunset.’
I have a farmer’s plough – the sort a pair of oxen would be harnessed to, to drag round a field and break up the turf before planting. I have an ox on one side of the yoke, with the other side taken up by an extremely bemused and recalcitrant ass, making the plough very lopsided. I’m steering this strange contraption up and down the beach, just out of reach of the waves. I’m blindfolded, too, just for good measure – that’s apparently to help my concentration.
Why? Because I’m learning how to prophesize. Bria says I have the gift, and what’s now needed is to find the medium for unlocking it. Some oracles use symbols on wax or parchment, to be melted or burned; others use cloud shapes or the flight of birds or pig entrails or wine lees or a hundred other routes to inspiration or madness. But after all kinds of tests and false turns, Bria’s decided that what might work for me is the sand and sea, farming implements and this peculiar combination of animals. ‘It’s because you’re an islander,’ she tells me. ‘And you don’t fit into any conventional mould. Worth a try, anyway.’
I think she just likes humiliating me in bizarre new ways.
‘Repeat the questions,’ her voice reminds me, accompanied by a slurping sound.
I wince and resume my low chanting, repeating over and over as I steer the plough in whatever direction feels right. ‘Will we have peace? Does Troy still plan invasion? Will the Skyfather remain true to Achaea?’ and under my breathe: ‘To which woman should I give my heart?’
It’s the latter question that’s really exercising me, because it’s one thing for my head to know that it’s over between Kyshanda and me, but hearts take longer to give up on love. Part of me still believes, with a faith that defies reason, that our story isn’t over.
There’s an afternoon sea breeze blowing, sending the occasional sharp gust to whip the sand up and sting my shins. After a while, I lose track of time and direction, walking back and forth, the two animals plodding and farting along in front of me and the plough tip catching on buried rocks and bits of driftwood. No answers are coming to me, either from the hissing waves or the whine of the wind around my ears. I’ve pretty much given up when Bria shouts, ‘Right, finish!’
I pull off the blindfold and blink at the sight: in the fading light, I see that I’ve carved line upon line of furrows in the sand and gravel, just above the water line – but the wind is getting stronger, driving the waves further up the beach. As I watch, a larger one rolls in, and the surging water covers the lines closest to the shore.
When they recede, some of the furrows have been smoothed away, while other parts remain in traces that have been distorted by the water.
I catch the shapes of three letters, in syllabic Achaean script. I cry out in astonishment. ‘Look…’ I sound it out: ‘Eirēnē: binding together; unity… peace.’
Bria comes dancing down the beach to meet me. ‘I think we’ve unlocked your prophetic gifts, Ithaca,’ she crows. ‘Ha, ha! I’m the best damned tutor in the whole bloody Aegean! You’re so lucky to have me, boy!’
I’m not sure I feel lucky, especially when she whacks me with the wineskin.
But I do feel somewhat awed, as the next wave creates an image that just might be a bridle – the Stallion restrained? And then I’m sure I see a pair of identical male faces in profile, each facing away from the other. Zeus is torn still… The danger hasn’t passed…
Bria slaps my back, snorting with delight. ‘I knew you had it in you, Ithaca!’
She thinks we’re done and turns away, so she misses the last image, which the seventh waves creates then erases: a loom – for the weavers, for the Moirae… for Penelope. My chest tightens, and I feel a painful sensation, like a needle plunging into my chest, dragging a thread of fire through my torn heart – sewing it back together. It’s not mended, but now my head is clear.
Thank you, I whisper to the spirits. Thank you.
‘Come on, Ithaca, that’s enough for today,’ Bria says cheerily. ‘Is Hebea old enough to get laid? I haven’t had a good pumping in weeks and I’m getting frisky.’
‘No,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Why don’t you sod off to somewhere else, now we’ve got this worked out. I’m sure the goats of Arcadia would welcome your company. Telmius would, anyway.’
She thrusts the wineskin into my hands. ‘Brilliant idea.’
A moment later she’s gone, leaving Hebea staring blankly up at me. ‘Oh, gods… Not again,’ she stammers, clutching her stomach. She’s looking a little sick and the wineskin in my hand feels surprisingly light…
‘It’s all right,’ I reassure her. ‘She’s left us, and we’re heading home. Nothing bad happened.’ I heft the plough and with the ox and the ass trailing behind us, we set off back to the farm.
Hebea’s anxiety subsides – she can trust me, and she knows it. After a few minutes of idle chat, she feels well enough to go skipping ahead, while I lumber after her up the hill, enjoying her giddy delight in life.
Somehow, a sense of well-being steals over me, and I indeed feel at peace.
In part, this is because a fragile truce still holds in my father Laertes’s home, where he and my mother try their best to forget her infidelity and restore the love they once had.
Peace also resides in Achaea: for now. High King Agamemnon reigns unchallenged, and his newly wedded wife Clytemnestra is already with child by him. Hyllus and the Heraclids might still be plotting vengeance, but they are quiescent for now, and every kingdom gives the High King his rightful due, from here in Cephalonia to Attica through Boeotia, Argos, Euboea, Lacedaemon, Elis, Phocis, Locris, Aetolia, Messenia, even Thessaly, and all the larger isles of the Aegean.
That includes Arcadia. Agamemnon, having thrust his new puppet Agapenor forward to gain Helen’s hand, decided he had overreached himself and resorted to the oldest trick in politics – divide and rule. He’s split the kingdom in two to lessen its power, bequeathing the west, ruled from Pisa, to Agapenor and the east to Echemus, one of his most loyal men. Tyndareus helped tie the alliance tighter by proposing the marriage of his third daughter, Timandra, to Echemus – he’s the younger, untested man and Tyndareus’s support will help him resist Agapenor if the latter becomes too feisty.
So, although no Achaean kingdom is more than a tenth the size of mighty Troy, we are many and now we’re united. The Stallion is bridled, for now.
And hopefully, peace reigns in the house of Menelaus, as he learns love with divine, damaged Helen. May they never be parted, and may the oath I made for them – ‘The Oath of Tyndareus’ – never be invoked. May Menelaus’s gentle kindness quell the venom in her veins, the thread of bitter heat she can’t control.
The Wedding of Helen is already being distorted by the storytellers into something I barely recognize. Those tale-spinners weren’t present of course, and in their ignorance of the real issues, are turning events into a predestined love affair between Helen and Menelaus. The presence of the Trojans, the near outbreak of war, even the appearance of the gods, are being glossed over or ignored: it’s turning into a golden-clad romance, and I’m happy with that. But deep down I worry that Helen still dreams of empires and vengeance. Healing her might be a lifetime’s work.
My role in these wedding stories seems to be one of comic-relief: turning up with no gifts and insisting on everyone swearing an oath while standing on a dead horse. I’m not too unhappy over that, though: better funny than dead.
I still don’t believe in Fate either, that some overarching, immutable destiny binds our every act and hope. Are the Moirae, the Fates, anything more than just another set of hungry spirits, preying on mankind’s fears? I don’t know, but they have their own priestess now. I think about Penelope every day, and wonder if she thinks of me.
I still fear for Menelaus – indeed I fear for us all. Parassi and Skaya-Mandu are not, I judge, ones to leave another’s wellbeing alone. Troy still grows fat while strangling the trade routes – grow or die, is the imperial imperative. Despite all that, I pray that peace will also reign in the giant palace of Piri-Yamu, far across the Aegean Sea. Let them grow strong, so long as their eyes no longer turn our way.
And may peace reign in Kyshanda’s heart, as I hope one day it will reign in mine.
My prayers whispered, I glance back at the sea, now far below us, as the sun goes down, setting on the westernmost kingdom of Achaea. The glow of orange and red behind the hills and limestone peaks of my small island is a sight of beauty to lift any heart. In a spirit of optimism, I pray that the gods keep faith with us, as we keep faith in them. Like for like, this for that. May they, one day, be worthy of the reverence we give.
It’s something to hope for.