The Gates Of Troy Part 19

But Eperitus merely shook his head.

'No, my lord, I'd still be able to hear its feet beating the ground now. And I can smell fresh blood.'

Odysseus, who had continued following the course of the deer, suddenly called for them to join him. He stood near to the edge of the wood, where the trees filtered out into open fields and the light was almost unbearable to look at. As they ran to join him they saw the carca.s.s of the white hart at his feet, s.h.i.+ning like silver through the screen of ferns. Agamemnon's arrow still protruded from its neck.

Eperitus knelt and ran his hands over the soft, warm fur, feeling the ridges of the ribcage beneath his fingertips. This close, the animal was as magnificent in death as it had been when he had seen it in the small clearing, bathed in golden sunlight. He looked up and saw Agamemnon standing above him. The face of the sun glittered in the intertwined branches behind his head, and with the richly decorated breastplate he wore he looked like a G.o.d.

'A magnificent shot, my lord,' Eperitus said, reaching to stroke the still-warm flank of the hart.

Agamemnon laughed, a triumphant look gleaming in his sunken eyes as he smiled down at his prey. 'Artemis herself could not have done better!'

And as the words left his lips the sunlight about them seemed to flare out brightly for a moment, then shrink back again. Though they could not yet see it, grey clouds were ma.s.sing rapidly on the eastern horizon. Before long they were rolling across the skies like a conquering army, swirling and twisting in their tortured agony as they crossed the blue expanse. By the time the men emerged from the wood with the dead hart over Agamemnon's shoulders, the first grey outriders of the approaching storm had blotted out the sun altogether. The hunters looked up in fear and the hills echoed with a boom of thunder.

book THREE.

Chapter Nineteen.

THE STORM.

The rain lashed furiously against the forest of tents, drenching the flaxen sheets until they hung heavily upon the wooden poles beneath. Inside, men s.h.i.+vered against the unseasonable cold and pulled their woollen cloaks tighter about their shoulders, longing for the day when the unending storm would lift and allow them to sail for Troy. But if any man opened the flap of his tent, all he could see was grey clouds from horizon to horizon, pressing down on the camp like the belly of a great monster as the rain fell and the wind howled.

It had been this way for three weeks. Night flowed into day and day back into night, so that the only change was from Stygian blackness into melancholy gloom and back again. The only real light any man saw was the glitter of lightning inside the ever-s.h.i.+fting mantle of cloud, or the occasional bolt stalking across distant horizons. And all the time their ears were a.s.sailed by the monotonous groaning of the wind as it pa.s.sed between the avenues of tents, tearing at pennants and tugging at guy ropes, a constant worry to the men inside. Many a shelter was blown away in the storm, and most others were made unbearable by the wind that whistled through the gaps in the walls. Once inside, it would drive out any warmth until the flesh of every soldier was chilled to the bone and each man was ready to give up the expedition and return home. But with their s.h.i.+ps wind-bound in the straits below, they had no choice but to sit tight and pa.s.s the time grumbling against the G.o.ds and, above all, their leaders.

There were few who did not blame the slaying of the white hart for their present troubles. Agamemnon had shot a creature precious to one of the immortals, and now this unidentified G.o.d was making all their lives a misery because of their leader's sacrilege. The King of Men, keen to set sail, was the most frustrated of them all. He had offered repeated sacrifices to all the G.o.ds, but to no avail. On every occasion, as he had stared up into the rain with fresh blood streaming down the dagger in his right hand, his desperate prayers were met with deep rumbles of displeasure from the skies above. And as the fleet remained holed up between the mainland and Euboea, the pressure on its leader grew.

He sat on a heavy wooden chair with a high back. It was covered in a thin layer of tin and had been draped over with furs, which were soft beneath the naked skin of his thighs and calves. His new breastplate felt stiff and awkward, pressing into the flesh beneath his armpits and at the tops of his legs, but he refused to remove it because of his constant fear of a.s.sa.s.sination. The double cloak over his shoulders was warm and light.

Agamemnon drummed the fingers of his right hand repeatedly on the table before him, trying to drown out the constant pattering of the rain on the high roof of his tent. The thumb and forefinger of his other hand were busily ma.s.saging his aching temples as he studied the map Odysseus had placed on the table. It depicted a rough representation of Ilium and its surrounding islands.

'If this distance is correct,' said King Nestor, leaning across and tapping the point between the walls of Troy and the line of beach between the Scamander and Simoeis, 'then it's too risky to make the landing so close to the city.'

'Nonsense,' Menelaus said. 'If we land the s.h.i.+ps here we can cross the plain in no time. The Trojans will be taken completely by surprise, and before they know it our army will be streaming through the city.'

The two men were among a handful that had joined Agamemnon in his tent after the nightly feast, a time when the leaders of the expedition would sacrifice to the G.o.ds and share food together. Tonight, though, the atmosphere was more affected than usual by the sombre weather. Achilles had departed with the Ajaxes and Teucer, all of them intent on brightening their mood with wine. Many others had returned to the familiarity of their own camps, hoping to wake the next morning and find clear skies. Only Idomeneus, Diomedes and Odysseus had joined Nestor and the Atreides brothers to discuss a strategy for the attack on Troy, and were now poring over the rough map that the Ithacan king had made from memory.

'Your eagerness to rescue your wife is blinding you to the realities of war, Menelaus,' Nestor countered. 'If the Trojans are prepared for us, they can meet us on the beaches and ma.s.sacre us as we leap down from our s.h.i.+ps. If they are not prepared but are able to meet us in force on the plain, they could check our advance and throw us back into the sea before we have time to organize a proper defence. And if we don't take the city in the first attack and have to lay siege to it, any determined attack they make could reach our camp with ease.'

'Do you doubt our army's ability to beat the Trojans?' Agamemnon asked, c.o.c.king an eyebrow towards his trusted adviser.

'No, but just as many battles are decided by the G.o.ds as they are by feats of arms. If the prophecy of the snake and the sparrows was interpreted correctly, then we can be sure the G.o.ds won't give us Troy in the first attack. And I've seen too many battles on open ground to want to risk our s.h.i.+ps on that beach. If it's my advice you want, Agamemnon and that was the reason you asked me to join this expedition then you won't gamble everything we have in such a place.'

'Nestor's right,' Odysseus agreed. 'The plain is too exposed. If we attack there the war won't last ten days, let alone ten years.'

'Then where do we attack?' asked Idomeneus.

'Right here,' Nestor answered, tapping a point on the mainland north of Tenedos. It was one of the large bays Odysseus's s.h.i.+p had pa.s.sed on its mission to Troy. 'It's wide and sandy, ideal for beaching a large number of s.h.i.+ps, and it can't be seen from Troy because of the distance and this ridge. That means we can land unopposed and form up our armies before marching on Troy. Then, if the G.o.ds are against us and we are forced back, we can use the ridge as a line of defence.'

'That places the Scamander between us and Troy,' said Diomedes, running his finger over the line of the river. 'Even if there's a ford, it'll be easier for the Trojans to defend it against . . .'

He left the sentence unfinished as all seven men turned to look at the soldier who had just entered. His cloak was soaked through and his polished armour streamed with rivulets of rain that dripped onto the furs beneath his sandals.

'Sorry, my lords, but it's the Trojan priest. He wants to see the King of Men says it can't wait.'

'Another one of his wine-induced dreams, no doubt,' Menelaus sniffed. 'Send him away, Ixion.'

'No,' said Agamemnon, shooting a glance at his brother. 'Bring him in. It might be important.'

The soldier disappeared and a moment later Calchas came hurtling in through the same elaborately embroidered flap of cotton, to land in a damp heap on the piled furs and fleeces. His customary hooded cloak was absent, and his white priest's robes were soaked through, revealing his nakedness beneath. He raised himself up on his hands and looked at the gathering of kings, swaying slightly and reeking of wine. His staring eyes were red-rimmed and filled with fear.

'What is it, my friend?' Agamemnon asked, forcing a smile to his lips. 'Do you have a word for us from the G.o.ds?'

'Yes, King of Men!' Calchas replied, raising himself to his knees and shuffling forwards with his hands clasped together like a suppliant. Then he looked around at the other kings, as if he was seeing them for the first time, and pulled back with an angry look on his face. 'No! I have nothing for these, only you. You must send them away.'

'Show some respect or I'll send you to Hades, you wretch,' Diomedes warned, putting a hand to the hilt of his silver-studded sword.

'Don't be offended, Tydeides,' said Agamemnon, using the familiar form of address for the son of Tydeus. 'He's half out of his mind at most times of the day, but even more so when he's had one of his visions.'

Odysseus looked up.

'Have there been others we haven't heard of?'

'Nothing of importance,' Agamemnon responded, meeting Odysseus's intelligent eyes. 'And nothing that has upset him as much as whatever's on his mind now.'

'In the name of Apollo, send them away!' Calchas implored, tears of anguish and frustration rolling down his cheeks. 'Lord Agamemnon, I must speak to you alone.'

Idomeneus thumped the table in frustration, the annoyance clear on his handsome features.

'Calchas may bring word from the G.o.ds themselves, but what we're discussing could decide the fate of the whole expedition. Send him to the guard tent, Agamemnon, and call him in when we're done.'

Diomedes and Menelaus voiced their agreement with the Cretan king, while Odysseus and Nestor both looked at Agamemnon in a way that left him in no doubt of their feelings on the matter.

Calchas turned on them in disgust. 'What good are your strategies and tactics if the fleet is stuck at Aulis? I'm the only one who knows how to lift the storm, and unless you listen to me your s.h.i.+ps will remain here until their timbers rot and their crews die of old age.'

'Come now, my lad,' said Nestor, leaning down and patting the distressed priest's shoulder. 'If you know how to appease the G.o.d we've offended, then tell us so that we can do whatever we must.'

'Whatever, King Nestor?' Calchas replied with a mocking smile. 'Whatever? Even a brave man like you would pale at what needs to be done. And that's why I can only tell the King of Men. He must decide whether to pay the terrible price that is demanded of him, or abandon his dreams of conquest and go back home.'

'You'd like that wouldn't you, you Trojan dog?'

'Enough, Menelaus,' said Agamemnon, though his eyes did not leave Calchas. 'If this vision is for me alone, and if it'll show me how to send these winds back to where they came from, then I must ask you to return to your tents. We can carry on our discussion at noon tomorrow.'

The kings paused and looked at Agamemnon for a moment, then Odysseus went to the table by the entrance and picked up his purple cloak, throwing it about his shoulders and fastening it together with the golden brooch Penelope had given him. The others followed, gathering up their cloaks and helmets before leaving without a word. Odysseus was the last to go, but before he lowered the embroidered flap of the tent behind him, he looked back to see Calchas with his arms around Agamemnon's knees, crying like a child.

While storms raged over the Euboean straits, the skies above the island of Tenedos were peaceful and clear. Countless stars winked and s.h.i.+vered as if blown by a celestial wind, and a new moon hung low over the black silhouette of the hills. Helen lay on her back in the deep gra.s.s with her hand held above her face, the tip of her forefinger tracing the shapes of the heroes and monsters of old in the myriad lights before her. Her nurse, Myrine, had taught them to her from the window of her bedroom when she was a small child, telling her their names and the stories that had earned them their place in the heavenly firmament.

There's Cepheus, the king of Ethiopia,' she told Paris, who lay beside her. 'And that's Ca.s.siopeia, his wife. Poseidon set their images in the stars after Perseus had turned them to stone with the head of Medusa. Their daughter, Andromeda, is below them. And there's Perseus, reaching for her hand.'

'Hmm,' Paris replied uncertainly. He pressed his naked flank against hers, enjoying the warmth of her body as they lay beneath his double cloak. 'That's not what we Trojans call them.'

'Then how about that bright star a little further to the west? That's Capella, the she goat who suckled Zeus when he was an infant. Can you see the four bright stars about her? Athena put them there to commemorate Erichthonius, whose lower body was that of a snake. He invented the chariot, so they say, and that's why we call that constellation the Holder of the Reins.'

'The Holder of the Reins,' Paris repeated with mocking slowness. 'Well, I've never heard it called that before. When I was a shepherd on Mount Ida we used to name that the Crooked Stick, though I never knew why. And those two you call Perseus and Andromeda, they're Marduk and Istar in our reckoning.'

'Then Trojans must be stupid,' Helen replied.

Paris rolled on top of her and pinned her wrists to the ground. Helen struggled against him, smiling through the concentration as she wrapped her legs about his waist and tried to throw his heavy bulk to one side. But her efforts were in vain and she quickly lay still beneath him, looking up at his scarred face and into his dark eyes.

'You won't say that when you see my father's city tomorrow. Troy makes Sparta look like a pig farm.'

'I'm looking forward to seeing your home at last,' she replied. 'Though it scares me at the same time.'

'There won't be a person there who won't take you to their heart,' Paris promised her. 'The whole of Troy will love you. And if anyone doesn't, then my father will command them to.'

'You can't command someone to love a person.'

'The king can. In Greece, kings are merely respected and their word obeyed grudgingly; in Ilium, the king is wors.h.i.+pped like a G.o.d. When the king speaks, his wishes are carried out with love and fear. Your life depends on it.'

'Can no one question his authority?'

'Absolutely no one. He has his council of advisers, and a few of his sons can try to sway his decisions, but when Priam has given a command only a reckless man would dare speak against him. I know of only one who has.'

'Who?'

'Apheidas, of course,' Paris said. 'He's Trojan by birth, but he spent too many years in Greece and his foreign breeding has given him a rebellious nature. Fortunately for him, we've learned to tolerate his wilfulness because of his skill as a fighter. You're very similar to him, you know; you have a strong spirit, and perhaps that's why I love you.'

Helen placed a hand on his bearded cheek and smiled up at him.

'And one day your father's power might be yours,' she said, not sure whether the thought excited or terrified her.

'When the king dies Hector will inherit the throne,' Paris corrected, a hint of embarra.s.sment in his voice at having to admit the fact to Helen. 'And then, when he eventually takes time away from war and politics to find himself a wife, he'll have children who will precede me in the royal line. Eventually I will become of no importance and fade away.'

The sound of reed pipes and a lyre floated up to them from the palace at the foot of the hill. Further out, in the bay where their s.h.i.+p was anch.o.r.ed, they could hear the sea was.h.i.+ng over the sh.o.r.eline, back and forth, back and forth, like a nurse shus.h.i.+ng her infant charge to sleep. They had been guests of King Tenes for several days, and as a client king of the Trojan empire he was obliged to offer Trojan royalty the best he could provide. Somewhere in the modest collection of buildings below, where the yellow lights flickered from the windows, Apheidas, Aeneas and the rest of the crew would be enjoying the pleasures of food, wine and music, happy that their prince was in the arms of the woman he loved. Little Pleisthenes had been left in the care of a young nurse from the town, much as he had been left in the care of others ever since the flight from Sparta.

'It doesn't matter,' Paris continued. 'Power is of no interest to me. All I care about now is you. When we get home we'll be married, and then one of my younger brothers can have my s.h.i.+eld and spears. I'll be giving up fighting for good.'

'You promise?' Helen asked, surprised by the unexpected admission.

'Of course! What interest will war hold for me if it keeps me away from you? The northern borders will just have to find a way to exist without me.'

He looked at Helen, whose skin had a ghostly pallor from the faint light of the moon, then lowered his face to hers and kissed her. She responded, folding her slender arms about his neck and pulling him closer.

'Never leave me,' she whispered, planting a kiss on his earlobe.

He kissed her again and ran his hand over her ribs, cupping her breast. She crossed her calves over his b.u.t.tocks, kicking the cloak away so that their bodies were cooled by the night air, then pulled him into her.

The relentless, soul-destroying rain had stopped, though the ceiling of turbulent cloud remained. It pressed down on the camp, keeping out the morning light so that the world seemed to be made of ash; the tents were but colourless shadows, their occupants spiritless wraiths. The only thing in this upper-Hades that told Menelaus it was day was the lonely trilling of a blackbird from the branches of a nearby oak, and the sense that, somewhere far above, the sun was creeping through an invisible blue sky.

Instinct had woken him at dawn, and since then he had been busy finding things to do, trying to ignore the urge to visit his brother and extract from him whatever it was Calchas had been so desperate to reveal. Eventually his resistance folded and he walked the short distance to Agamemnon's tent, stepping over the guy ropes and beneath the lines of clothing that had been hung out to dry during the reprieve from the rain. The heavily armoured guards bowed their heads at his approach, before stepping aside and letting him pa.s.s.

He found his brother alone, seated exactly as he had left him the night before his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers laced together in his lap and both sandalled feet planted firmly on the fur-covered floor. His head was bowed and he did not seem to notice Menelaus enter.

'Agamemnon?'

The king remained still. His great chest, encased by its magnificent cuira.s.s, did not stir, and immediately Menelaus felt panic claw at his throat. His flesh p.r.i.c.kled and went cold.

'Agamemnon?'

'I hear you, brother.'

Agamemnon's voice seemed to come from a distance, as if he had indeed died and his soul was speaking from the Underworld.

'Ag . . . Agamemnon, what's wrong?'

The king of Mycenae lifted his head and faced his brother. Menelaus's nostrils flared briefly, the only sign of his shock at the sight before him.

'Brother, what's happened? You look ill.'

If the preceding weeks had seen Agamemnon transformed from a healthy, vigorous and determined ruler into an exhausted shadow of his former self, the man who sat before Menelaus now was changed almost beyond recognition. His once smooth skin was lined with anguish and his dark-rimmed eyes had lost their s.h.i.+ne, leaving only a glimmer of the tormented soul within. The hair above his ears had turned grey overnight.

'Calchas told me how to lift the storm, Menelaus. He told me what we must do if we want to sail against Troy.'

He let his gaze fall to the floor again. Menelaus rushed across to kneel before his brother, taking his hands in his own and looking up into his troubled face. Tears were rolling down Agamemnon's cheeks something even Menelaus had never seen before causing the Spartan king to s.h.i.+ver. He squeezed his brother's hands gently.

'What is it? What must we do? Zeus's beard, man, won't you tell me?'

Agamemnon shut his eyes tightly. When they opened again, the window into his emotions had been closed. Instead, there was a dark, hard glint, like the reflection of light from a piece of obsidian. He turned to Menelaus, his features drawn with a tense determination that made the edges of his nostrils tremble.

'I'll tell you, Menelaus, but first you must answer me this: are you determined to have Helen back?'

He seized his brother's wrists in a fierce grip and looked deeply into his eyes, as if the answer could be seen in the reflection from his eyeb.a.l.l.s. Menelaus yanked his hands free and stood.

'You know I am,' he answered sharply, turning his back on Agamemnon and walking to the centre of the tent. Then something struck him about the way the question had been asked, and he turned and pointed his finger at the man who had been elected to lead the expedition. 'I want Helen as much as you want Troy!'

Agamemnon's shoulders sloped, as if the last taste of hope had left him. 'Then we must send for Iphigenia.'

'Iphigenia?' Menelaus asked, perplexed. 'Your daughter?'

It was then that Agamemnon told him what was to be done.

Menelaus sat on one of the other chairs and stared at his brother in silence. After a while he reached for a silver goblet on the table beside him, only to find it empty.

'And you'll go through with this?'