The Wine of Agamemnon

By John McKiernan

The Tale of Troy was not Homer's alone. Even before he sang of the Wrath of Achilles and the Return of Odysseus, many other poets had recounted the acts of gods and men at Troy. Over many years the tale was reworked and grew and changed, until the truth of the real war was almost lost. But through those long years the voice of one man was silent. And that man knew the tale complete and unadorned, for he was there.

In his palace on Ithaka, many years after the fall of Troy, Odysseus is old and near death. But he has one last task to perform: to tell his story of the Trojan War. In order to counter the romances and distortions of the harpers, Odysseus wants his story to be written down, that it may be remembered as it truly was. He chooses a scribe of his household, and over the weeks the young slave listens, a friendship grows between Lord and servant and the great tale unfolds.

The tale Odysseus tells is familiar, yet strange. In his telling the gods do not walk among heroes, nor do they fight alongside them.
But he does explain many things which the poets did not:
Why it was so important to Agamemnon that there be a war against Troy.
The true cause of the ill feeling between Achilles and Agamemnon.
How Troy was finally taken and what the Horse really was.
Why the Greeks' Grand Alliance was broken at the moment of their triumph over Troy.
Why Agamemnon died by his wife's hand, and why, in her eyes, it was not murder.
And perhaps most important of all.
Who the monsters that Odysseus met really were.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John McKiernan
• Release date: Apr 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476430041

John McKiernan

John McKiernan is an illustrator and art teacher living in Tucson Arizona. A native of Los Angeles, he has also lived in Hawaii and England. The Wine of Agamemnon is based on Homer (obviously), many other works, ancient and modern, and several years working on archaeological sites in England.

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The Wine of Agamemnon

John McKiernan

Copyright 2012 John McKiernan

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AEGEAN

ARCHAEOLOGICAL

RESEARCH

GROUP

Some damn date, I’ve lost track...

Okay, call off the red alert. The panic is over. The accommodation hassle is finally sorted out, and the camera arrived last night. So all is well. I looked over the site last night and I think we were right. We’ll open up trenches to the south at first and see how it goes. Time permitting we might move east as well. Found some sherds right away. Drawings enclosed. Show them to Evans if you get the chance.

We look to be all right on the labor front as well. We have some workers from the village who worked on the site a few years ago, so they know what to do. We also have some American volunteers so we can probably look forward to some interesting soap operas.

I’ll write soon. Janeandherlaptop promises she can get an email link up and running. We shall see...

Love, G.

p.s. Like the letterhead? Rob’s idea. I think he likes to be able to answer the phone, AAARRRGGGHHH!

Chapter I

THE TALE

-Ah my lord, what a labor it would be to recount the whole story-

Odyssey Book 7

A young man hurried across the courtyard clutching a leather bag and holding his cloak closed against a bitter wind. It was very late to be summoned to attend his master, but the messenger had been definite.

The Master requires your presence. With your writing tools.

Now.

As he approached the porch he could hear snoring from the guest place. There had been no feast tonight. The great hearth was cold, as it had been for many months. It must be some traveler invoking the guest right, he thought as he hurried past.

Rather than disturb the sleeper he turned through the side door to the left of the porch, grateful to be out of the wind. He crossed the short hall and climbed the stairs. He knew his way well, but even so he was grateful for the single torch in a wall bracket which was still lit, flickering on the wall paintings. They glowed in the shifting light, rosettes and knots, bulls and griffins, all done in the old style, delicate, almost feminine in their faded blues and dusty rose tints. Graceful women were there, animals of forest and field, scenes of domestic labor and scenes of harvest. And butterflies. He had always especially liked the butterflies. All the paintings showed beauty and grace and a sense of peace.

Which was slightly odd when you thought of the master... No warriors strode along the walls, as in some of the great houses. No battle scenes raged, none of the master’s famed adventures were depicted, and that had always struck him as curious. They would have made good subjects for a skilled painter... If I knew how to paint, he thought to himself...

They looked rich and fresh in the flickering light, but he knew that by day they were faded, some were even peeling from the walls. They need repainting he thought, as he hurried by. Many parts of the great house seemed to be falling into disrepair, but there was no time for any more of those familiar thoughts. He had reached his goal, his master’s door. He took a deep breath, brushed himself off, and knocked.

Come in. The voice was quiet, but still there was strength there.

The old man looked up as he entered and motioned to a stool.

Sit down.

The young man took off his damp cloak and sat arranging his bag before him. The old man sat back and waited patiently for the young man to complete his preparations.

He wasn’t a tall man, but even in age he was powerfully built. His hair was mostly gone, the remainder grey, but his hands were steady and his eyes bright. They missed nothing, as an idle slave or careless manager would quickly learn. He was also very wealthy. As his chief scribe the young man knew every detail of that wealth, from the least goat kid in pasture, to the newest jar of oil in the stores. But the old man showed none of it. Certainly the room did not. Apart from some very simple wall paintings, (graceful flowers here) the room was plain, almost severe. The young man remembered his surprise when he had first come to that room to discuss some detail of the records. He had expected a much more luxurious chamber. There was one window with a wooden shutter, closed now against the night air. The floor was wood, well planed, clean swept and unpatterned. A simple bed, a chest, a table and two stools were the only furniture, and they were unornamented. The only detail which was slightly incongruous was a small statue on a shelf. It was a woman wearing a tiered skirt. Her bodice was open exposing her breasts and around her arms coiled serpents. Her eyes stared straight ahead with a fierce gaze. The little statue had always made him uneasy and he avoided looking at her. It was, he knew, an image of a priestess of the Goddess, and so, by extension, the Goddess herself. It was slightly unusual for a man to keep such an object. It would be more likely found in the women’s quarters in a shrine. It was finely made though, and the old man might have prized it solely as an art object. But somehow the boy didn’t think that was the whole explanation.

Sitting in the small room, one small lamp flickering, remains of a simple dinner put to one side, the Master might have been a moderately comfortable merchant or craftsman. Or perhaps a sailor, he had that air about him. But a great lord? Hardly that. He had never made a show of wealth, though he could be very generous. Riches simply had no hold over him. He wore a simple cloak against the night air. It was a good cloth, though patched, dark blue with a single band its only adornment.

I’m worried about him, the young man thought, with surprise. He seems even more withdrawn of late. It can’t be the estate, that’s all going well. He’s been so since the Queen died, of course. That’s probably it. But he shook the thoughts away. His master was waiting. Time to work...

You wished to see me, sir?

The old man finished wiping his hands on a cloth and dropped it beside the plate.

Yes, thank you for coming out this evening. I have need of you.

The old man gazed at him for a moment. The boy tried not to fidget under his gaze. Finally the old man spoke again quietly, half to himself.

I always forget how young you are... but you are the best of my scribes. Your advancement was deserved. Under your management and recording our lands have prospered.

The young man murmured thanks.

I have a writing task for you.

The younger man opened his bag and spread out his pens, papyrus and a small bottle of ink, unspilled despite his hurry, thank the gods. When he was ready he looked up, pen in hand.

I thought we were caught up with our records. I just copied the last...

No, the records are complete. As far as I can judge of course, he added with a smile. No, it is somewhat different from your usual tasks...I want you to write ... let’s see...

He looked around the room. Write for me, ‘This is a table’

The young man held his face steady, trying not to betray his surprise. A sudden fear seized him.

Has he lost his wits? He has called me out urgently in the night to write table? Should I tell someone? Who?

But as he was wondering, his practiced hand was moving. He made a few strokes with his reed pen, and passed the papyrus across the table.

The old man took it up and frowned.

So few? What does it say?

"As you wished sir, ‘ table’.

No. He tossed the scrap aside and took a deep breath. Then he said very deliberately, tapping the table surface, Write ‘This is MY table.’

Ah, said the young man, as he understood. He took the piece back and wrote again. When he had finished he handed it across again to the old man who took it.

And this says...?

The young man wiped the reed and pointed out each syllable-character,

The table of...

NO!!! The old man slammed his hand down, lunged across the table and seized the young man by his tunic. He pulled him halfway across the table, and raised the other hand to strike. The young man froze, his eyes squeezed shut.

He could feel the blood drain from his face as he waited for the blow.

And waited.

The blow didn’t come. There was a long drawn moment of silence and then the old man released his grip and fell back onto the stool, breathing hard. He put one hand over his face.The young man had stiffened in shock at the sudden attack, and now he immediately fell to his knees, picking up the scattered pens and papyrus sheets and gasping apologies. Fortunately the oil lamp hadn’t gone over as well.

But his thoughts were racing...Oh, merciful Gods he’s mad what shall I do...who can I tell...? What shall I...?

When the old man spoke his voice was tired.

No, the fault is not yours. I’m sorry.

More and more unthinkable. The young man was, of course, a slave. His skill with letters did not change that. He knew he was useful to his master, but a slave never forgot that basic reality of his existence. And a Master had the right, of course, to beat a slave for any reason, or no reason...The very life of a slave was in his master’s hand...

But The Master never mistreated the least of his slaves. For him to assault one was unheard of.

But to apologize to one...?

No, leave those...Please sit, said the old man.

And more unbelievably the young man felt himself being helped back to his seat, saw his master kneel, pick up the pens and loose sheets, and rescue the ink bottle from falling. Then the old man returned to his seat and leaned his head on his hand. When he spoke his voice was tired.

I may be asking the impossible. It might be better if you could teach me your craft, but I fear there isn’t time for that.

He half smiled.

That’s what they used to call me you know, ‘Master of many Crafts’. But I never mastered that one. There never seemed to be time for that...

There was silence again, and finally he seemed to come to a decision. His voice was stronger.

Come, we’ll work this out together. But first I’ll try to explain why this is so important.

After a pause the old man spoke again.

I’ll have to go back a long way to explain...You’ve heard the tales and songs in hall haven’t you?

Yes sir, the young man managed to gasp.

Do you like them?

Oh yes sir, very much.

Do you have any favorites?

The young man began to speak, but the old man raised his hand and said with a smile,

It’s an unfair question, you needn’t give the answer you think will please me. I’ll ask you another though. Do you believe them?

Sir?

The tales. Are they true?

Well... He tried to think through his confusion. What was his master asking...?

The harpers invoke the muse when they begin..., he said hesitantly.

So they do, so they do..., the old man agreed, nodding. But some singers are better than others, yes? More exciting?

The boy nodded.

And sometimes the songs change don’t they? Different episodes, different order of events, different characters even?

Well...yes...

So, the muse seems to give different answers to her poets.

He repeated the question. Are the tales true?

I think so...mostly...aren’t they? The boy stammered to a stop.

The old man smiled and stood. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

When I was your age I had no doubt of it. And yet...Let me tell you a tale. In my youth I went on a hunt with my Uncles. You’ve probably heard of it.

The boy nodded.

"We came on a great boar, and I was fortunate enough to make the kill. It was my first hunt with the men and my first kill. And it was a good one, truly it was. He was no piglet, but a great monster, at least to my eyes. He gashed my leg in his death throes, but it wasn’t too serious. That night in hall my grandfather’s harper made a song of it, and I was very proud. It was the first praise song that had ever been made for me, and if the singer made the boar larger, and the wound deeper, and my valor more...valorous, well, that was only to be expected.

I did notice though, that the role of one of my uncles, who had climbed up a small tree to avoid one of the boar’s charges, was, in the song similarly glorious. Almost as glorious, he corrected himself. After all, it was my praisesong. I remember smiling at that part. But when I looked around I noticed that no one else thought that the harper was being amusing at my uncle’s expense. Indeed, I found out later that they recalled and retold the hunt as the harper sang it, rather than the way I remembered it."

The old man poured wine from a bottle beside him into a cup and handed it to the young man. The boy took it nervously. It was a graceful stemmed cup, cream white with a stylized octopus on the side. Never had he drunk from so fine a cup, he thought nervously. He willed his hand not to shake. Please let me not break it...

The old man poured another for himself.

Old men remember the past too much, and talk about it too long, as all young men know too well. I remember Nestor... He paused and smiled to himself. But I’m not rambling. The boy shook his head, trying to understand, not daring in the master’s presence to look bored. And truly he wasn’t.

I wonder if I look scared...

They drank in silence for a few minutes.

That was the first time I began to doubt the songs, to even think that they might possibly not be... He paused then, musing.

Tell me, he asked suddenly, if you were tallying my holdings, would you ever exaggerate, add a few sheep or horses to the number? Just to make me seem richer, you know?

No sir! the young man replied in shock. He forgot his fear and half rose. Has someone accused me of falsifying...?

The old man waved his hand, gesturing the boy back to his seat.

No, no, peace, sit, none has accused you, nor do I. I know you to be perfectly honest. And therefore in no danger of ever becoming a harper! he added with a laugh.

No, you would never think to do such a thing, he went on. A harper would though, they can’t help it, it’s their craft. They don’t mean to lie exactly. It’s just that their idea of Truth is somewhat... different from ours.

He paused again and then, as if to himself, added quietly, Had things been otherwise I might have made a very good harper. One of the crafts of which I once was master was that of lying...

Outside the wind cried, the old man was silent for a minute. Then he continued.

"After that first song I heard many more. Songs of battle and shipwreck, sieges and sackings. Nobility, and betrayal. And beautiful women of course...

I was the subject myself of many, of far too many. And they were beautiful songs, and thrilling, and frightening. Sometimes glorious." He paused and sipped his wine.

Other times ...merely silly... but I think that, without meaning to, the harpers have done us a great damage. In my darker moods I sometimes think that they should all be tied in a sack and sunk in the Ocean Stream.

He looked up at the young man’s face with a smile.

Do I shock you?

The young man shook his head, but his eyes were wide in the lamplight.

No, he continued, but you still think I may have gone mad.

He set the wine cup aside and leaned forward.

Listen, this is what I want of you. I asked you to write ‘This is my table’ because I wanted to know if you could write down my words as I say them. His voice had become intense.

Not as a list or a series of short phrases in your records, but exactly as I say them. Write them so that a man in another land, or many years from now, could read them and it would be as if he were listening to us speaking in this room. Can you do that?

His voice was soft but there was a tension in him. His hand was clenched.

The boy stammered.

I don’t know. I’ve never tried that...I don’t know if anyone has...

Could his old writing master have done it? Could anyone...?

His gaze became unfocused, the inner vision of the craftsman taking over from his fear. How would I do it...?

The old man knew the look, had seen it many times on the faces of craftsmen he had known over the years. The look spoke of a New Idea, an extension of the Craft into unknown waters... He respected the look and kept silent. It was a new and strange idea to the boy, and would have to be considered. Could it really be done...?

But of course the old man knew, if the young boy did not. Once long ago someone had done it...had caught fleeting words and trapped them on a page... Bright as a new wall painting the memory remained. The young man he once had been, walking in the high places of Her island. The day was beautiful and it pleased him. His dark mood was beginning to lift, his poisoned mind beginning to heal... He had started early that morning with no fixed goal. Long hours he had climbed, wandering heedless of the way until a scream startled him. He shielded his eyes and searched the heavens. Overhead in the glare a hawk had stooped on an eagle, trying to steal the larger bird’s prey. There was a burst of feathers as the two birds fought and then a dark shape fell out of the sky and crashed into the bushes. It was on his right, the omen side. But what did it mean, he wondered as he began searching the bushes, his lethargy momentarily gone. A small hawk stoops on the king of the heavens to steal his prey. That must have meaning, surely. But that was the trouble with omens, he had always thought. You needed someone to interpret them, and even then you weren’t really sure until the thing portended actually happened.

Or didn’t.

In which case what was the point of the omen in the first place...?

The eagle swept around, screamed at him and wheeled off. To his right again. After a few moments searching in the brush he found the prize, a wood pigeon. Ah well, he thought, it foretells a good dinner if nothing else. He picked it up, and then he saw something odd about the bird’s leg. A small bronze cylinder had been tied there. As he untied the leather thong the cylinder opened into two, revealing something inside. Carefully he withdrew it and smoothed it out. It seemed to be a small piece of papyrus, the finest he had seen, and on it were several lines of writing.

It looked like the scribe’s work from his home, but very tiny and neat. Who could do such a thing? And why? He looked at the cylinder again and noticed what he had missed before, a pattern of three dots stamped into the bronze, the mark of the Goddess.

The superstitious awe touched him and he almost dropped the thing. He remembered Her reassurances about the Goddess, but still...Whatever this was it was not for him. He replaced the papyrus carefully back in the bronze shell and put it in his pouch. She would know what it meant. It was obviously a matter of, and for, the Goddess, and he would faithfully deliver it. But surely the Goddess would not begrudge him a meal for his service. He picked up the bird and retraced his way down the mountain.

He came back from that sunlit day long ago to the lamp lit room.

When he could see the boy was paying attention again he resumed speaking quietly as if to himself.

It’s very important that we work this out. I have a feeling that our world is...changing...fading. A Wise Woman once taught me about Change. It seems to me that all this, he waved his hand at the painted walls, all our world, will soon vanish, maybe very soon, and all that will remain will be the songs. The beautiful, thrilling, lying songs. I have long thought that if I can, I want to tell my story, my true story. But to whom? Certainly not to a harper, who would change it and ‘improve’ it.

He stood and began to pace the room.

"Oh, he might swear to his muse and all the gods to keep it true, but no harper could keep such a promise for long. If he could he probably wouldn’t be a very good harper...

I want to tell it to stone or clay or papyrus. I want people who come after us to know what we really did. And did not. And why." A look of pain crossed the old man’s face.

"I tried to tell my son. Many times I tried to tell him, but...he didn’t want to hear, not the way it really was. He believed the songs completely. He believed in heroes, and the songs have much to say about how to die like a hero. Far too much... Far too little about how to live like a man...

My son died heroically, no doubt. I think he was on a raid stealing pigs..."

He fell silent.

The young man sat as entranced as ever he had been by the harpsong. It was a glorious vision but...could it be done? Could a man’s speech be caught like a butterfly and imprisoned on a page? And if it could be done... should it?

To take a man’s words and cage them... he muttered, might not the gods punish such a deed?

The old man shook himself from his reverie.

Hmmm? Oh, no, I don’t think the gods will take much notice of what we’re doing. I’m not really sure they ever do...or did...but you look confused.

With the old man’s bright eye on him the young man finally stammered,

You said the world would end...I don’t understand, I mean, how can the world vanish? The world is... the world.

The old man sighed.

Oh, the earth and the sky will probably go on through the circling years, the animals will still keep on after the manner of their kind. But our world... He picked up a scrap of papyrus and held it to the lamp flame.

Things burn, he said softly, buildings...people. You’d be surprised how easily a world can burn, can end.

He held the scrap until it burned down to his fingers and then dropped it into the dinner plate and stared at the small flame until it went out. The grassy smell of the burnt papyrus drifted through the room.

He looked up.

You think these just the night fears of an old man?

No, I...

I just got word tonight. Nestor’s Palace at Pylos has been destroyed.

The young man’s body went cold with shock. Nestor’s Palace...?

Could it be true? The young man remembered the graceful buildings on the hill, the kinsmen of his master, celebrations past... The old king was long dead, but the palace was still called by his name. And now, destroyed...?

And then he remembered the sleeping man in the guest porch. Not a random traveler invoking the guest right. A messenger.

Who...

I don’t know. Odysseus waved the question away. It doesn’t really matter. We can’t change it. But it’s happening more often. The great houses are burning... That’s why this is so important. I think there may not be much time left to do this. He looked at his hand which had been gesturing at the writing tools. It was a strong hand, but it was wrinkled and marked with age spots.

There certainly can’t be much more time for me. And that’s why earlier I forgot my manners. The Guest is Sacred, he added with a smile.

So tell me, my master scribe. Do you think it can be done? Or are the harpers our only hope for immortality?

Can it be done? And if it can, can I do it? The boy reached a decision.

I, I think so...

Good, he said moving his stool around to the young man’s side of the table.

Let’s begin.

For several hours they worked with the syllable-characters. The young man could not remember a time in his life when he hadn’t known them, scratched them in clay, inked them onto papyrus, incised them into the shoulder of a pot. Their faces were as familiar to him as those of his friends. But tonight the young man labored, trying to fit them to a task for which they had never been intended. As they worked, the brazier in the corner burned low and the room grew cold. They wrapped blankets around their shoulders rather than take the time to rebuild the fire. The two sat side by side, heads together like two students, all thoughts of master and servant forgotten. The old man quickly grasped some of the system and made suggestions. The young man wrote hesitantly at first, then with greater confidence as he saw how it could be done. His confidence and knowledge in his craft gave him courage, and more than once he found himself lecturing and even correcting his Master. In his turn the old man took no offence but threw out words and phrases. He described the room. Every detail they could think of was attempted. Then the palace. Then the harbor with its ships and piles of trade goods. Then the descriptions of other things...

"There is a way to write ship? How would you write the black ship?

The High King’s fleet? How about chariot? The chariot overturned, throwing its driver in the dust... The high towers? Would this be easier...? No, this one for the ‘ta’ sound in the middle..."

The young man’s hand flew across the page as he wrote, blots and crossings out disregarded as the old man described, ships, soldiers, weather, arms and armor. He wrote and read back and wrote again. They worked together for hours, inventing, correcting, backtracking...

Finally after transcribing and checking scores of words, phrases, and sentences they stopped and looked at the piles of papyrus scraps. The young man sighed, shaking his head.

It’s a good thing my writing master can’t see these. He used to beat me if a single character was wrong. He’d probably feed these to the pigs. And me after...

And very educated swine they would have been after the meal... said the old man.

But they had done it. On the table between them lay a single sheet. It had been fair copied from the scratches and blots and crossing outs of their labors. The letters were not quite the same as he would have used for the estate’s records, but he was confident that any scribe would be able, with a few minutes study, to understand the system, to read the master’s words.

This morning I woke early and walked in the garden. I took my lunch there as well. Afterwards...

Any scribe...anywhere...at any time in the future, would hear their words, just as if he had been sitting with them. It was just what the old man had asked for, a way to launch his voice across the years. By themselves the words meant little, or nothing, but the young man shook his head in disbelief. What they said might be totally unimportant, but that they said it...

Ah, that was a great thing indeed...Could his master have done it...?

The old man stood and stretched.

I haven’t done a night’s work like that for a long time. He reached up and gently touched the little goddess figure. He murmured some words which the boy couldn’t understand. Then he slipped the latch on the window and looked out.

It must be very late, or early. It’s cleared up and the moon’s down. I think the owls have even gone to bed. And so should we. Shall we start the tale tomorrow? the old man asked.

No! Now! the young man answered, in a tone he would never dreamed of using to his master only hours earlier.

I mean, please! he added hurriedly. He was too excited and astonished by what they had managed to make the letters do to think of rest. And it had just fully dawned on him that if they did this thing, he would hear the true tale of his Master’s adventures. Maybe he would be the first who ever had.

Oh, all right, replied the old man. Why don’t we sing in the dawn?

He laughed and then he stood in the center of the room, raised one arm, and in a deep voice chanted an invocation,

Come, Muse and sing me the tale of the Great War where many men went down to woeful death... The young man looked up from a clean papyrus sheet, his pen raised. The old man sat down and smiled.

No, don’t write that. No Songs for us. Write the words just as I speak them. He took a breath, and then began,

My name is Odysseus...

Chapter II

THE OATH

-I am famed for guile in peace and war-

Odyssey Book 9

Despite their intentions of that night they hadn’t made much more progress. They were both too tired, and soon admitted defeat. In the days that followed they found that even for the expert scribe the writing was too slow to transcribe the tale as told. He had to ask for pauses to catch up or to decide how a word could be set down. The pauses in turn broke Odysseus’ train of thought and he became impatient. Also it was difficult to tell the tale in strict order. Other facts or thoughts would keep intruding. Finally though they developed a method of working. The boy, as part of his training, had a very good memory, and it proved easier for Odysseus simply to talk. The boy would prompt him or get clarification with occasional questions. Though he was shy to interrupt or question at first, this too became easier as they became more comfortable with each other. Then later he could write down the day’s reminiscences and get Odysseus’ approval. He listened well and tried to record faithfully, reordering episodes as necessary for clarity. Odysseus always approved the writings, and finally made it clear that he trusted his scribe. He didn’t feel it necessary to hear it all read out. As the days went by the boy began to suspect that the really important part for the old man was in the Telling of the Tale.

And the Listening.

It began with a funeral.

* * * * *

The King was dead. Tyndareus who had ruled Lakedaemon for many years was no more, and many came to his funeral rites and the games to follow. It was not wholly love of the old man that brought them, but rather the disposition of his lands. Many of the mourners who followed his body to its resting place in the stone tomb of his fathers hoped soon to win his leaderless kingdom. Had his Queen survived him their enthusiasm might have been somewhat less, for she had been of an age with Tyndareus, but Leda had died some years before. His eldest daughter Klytemnestra had gone before her father’s death to the hearth of Agamemnon at Mycenae, his sons Castor and Pollux were both too young to rule, so now the kingdom would go to the prince who persuaded the beautiful Helen to wed.

Though young, her beauty had already been the matter for songs, and she had riches as well as a kingdom to bestow. Her father had forbidden any suit for her hand until she was at least a year older, but now the king was dead and the land must have a leader. And so they came. From the Peloponnese and the Argolid, from the Cyclades and even far Crete, the rich and landless alike came to mourn a king and win a kingdom.

On the plain beside the river Eurotas below the palace a city had sprung up seemingly overnight as toadstools in a forest glade. There were tents and pavilions, booths and shanties. The encampment had been growing through the previous week and now the grassy meadow was a dusty expanse kicked up by thousands of feet, horses hooves, and the wheels of nobles’ chariots and farmers’ wagons. Fires burned by every tent and hovel. Jugglers, dancers, and singers entertained the common crowds, and the funeral games did the same for the nobles. Impromptu chariot races hurtled through the encampment raising more clouds of choking dust, sending people and animals scattering for safety. The smoke from sacrifices and dinners rose into the evening sky and added to the haze through which the sun’s disk burned blood red.

Two young men sat by their fire trying to cook an evening meal. One quickly threw his cloak over the pot to keep out the dirt as another horse and rider raced by.

I swear I’ve eaten more dust this week than food, he said sourly. Have you ever seen such a gathering, Odysseus?

Never at a funeral. It has more the look of a country market day held at a military camp.

You noticed that too? said the other. He dished the stew into wooden bowls and handed one across. Nearby there were shouts and the sound of a scuffle. Hyllus looked around, though fights were no longer a novelty.

It could get dangerous before much longer. It feels like a hive of bees about to explode. We should perhaps think about leaving. We’ve paid our respects. Anyway you didn’t seriously expect to win the divine Helen, did you?

Odysseus laughed and tossed a lump of bread at him.

And what about you, goat herder? Will she swoon for you? I can stand your smell, but I’m used to it.

Hyllus was the younger son of a minor Ithakan noble, with few prospects of greatly advancing his status and seemingly still fewer ambitions to do so. He was small and fine boned with somewhat sharp features. He was sharp tongued as well, and inclined to see a joke in every situation. Accordingly many people took him less than seriously, but to underestimate Hyllus was unwise. Some who had been targets of his wit actively disliked him. Odysseus, however, had always valued his friendship, even before he became king of Ithaka. That Hyllus’ behavior towards him had not changed since that great event was one more reason Odysseus valued his companionship and advice.

Hyllus retorted, Oh, I only came along to see the world, and to keep you out of trouble if possible. But seriously, he added looking around, there are too many lords here who don’t like each other much to begin with, and they’ve all brought far too much weaponry for my peace of mind.

Odysseus chewed the hard bread thoughtfully.

Yes, it has not the air of a funeral. Everybody I talk to is like a bow strung too tight.

More like a pack of dogs following a bitch in heat. Hyllus quietly observed.

Odysseus choked on the bread as it went down the wrong way. When he could speak again he said,

Not too flattering to our Lady hostess, the recently bereaved. But accurate, he added to himself. Hyllus’ words could often wound.

Someday your wit will get you in trouble. he added.

Worse trouble than sitting in the middle of rival camps of drunken lunatics with swords? he grinned.

Odysseus didn’t answer as he thought over the situation, not for the first time. The ill feeling of this gathering was more marked than usual, but only somewhat. The situation of the vacant throne and the desirable Helen was unique, and feelings were running high.

But the lords were always suspicious of their neighbours, jealous of their holdings, covetous of their own, always fearing a raid.

Or planning one.

Was that divisiveness really the only way men could live? It seemed that here and now it might lead to disaster. Again he mulled over the idea he had had. Given that most of the lords were mutually distrustful, if not outright hostile...could the problem not become its solution...?

I need to speak to Agamemnon about it...

Odysseus! Hyllus spoke again.

What?

You’re dreaming. I said there’s going to be trouble if she doesn’t decide soon.

I’m almost more afraid of what happens if she does make a decision.

Hyllus mopped the last of the stew with his bread.

I see what you mean. He looked around again. So many swords, spears, armored warriors... Any decision she makes would be unpopular...

Just so. Or even if she decides not to decide for now. That might set the bees aswarm.

Hyllus threw up his hands.

So that decides it. We’re not needed here! We’ll not be missed! Let’s go see some other part of the world. Someplace quieter!

There’s something I have to do first...

Just then a young boy ran up to them.

Excuse me, Lords, he said breathlessly saluting. Lord Odysseus?

Yes?

I apologize for interrupting your dinner.

That’s all right. He set down the bowl and wiped his hands.

As fine as it was, it’s over. The gods never dined so well.

Next time you cook, great lord! Hyllus muttered.

Odysseus ignored him. What is it?

The boy was nervous but delivered his speech quickly.

Lord Agamemnon has called a council in his pavilion. He has requested the presence of his supporters and kinsmen.

All right, tell him I shall attend him presently

The boy saluted again and ran off through the crowds and dust.

Hyllus raised his eyebrows.

What’s it about do you think?

Probably what we were discussing, I know the situation has been concerning him.

He stood and dusted off his tunic as well as he could. It would have to do.

It looks as if our leave-taking must be postponed.

All right, but go carefully. Some of these lords won’t be that impressed with your great status if they think you’ve looked at them without the proper respect. Oh, there was bit of news I meant to tell you. You remember that boxer we saw beaten at the games today?

Odysseus remembered the match. It had been one of the most brutal matches he had seen, the victor battering the loser with his rawhide bound fists long after the man had been clearly beaten.

It was of a piece with the general mood.

Yes, what about him?

He died.

Odysseus nodded. He understood.

I’ll be careful. Meanwhile you could start packing up our things.

With great pleasure, muttered Hyllus as Odysseus set off.

Odysseus picked his way through the crowds, past tents and campfires. The festival atmosphere was becoming more heated, more edged with tension. There were shouts and cries mixed with the songs. He heard a scream close by but whether of rage or passion he could not tell.

By one fire a girl had attracted quite a crowd. She had taken a sword from one of the warriors and, having balanced it on her head, was performing a dance to the music of drums and cymbals. Her movements were amazing and her flexibility was arousing, but Odysseus had no time to linger. With regret he moved on.

Agamemnon’s pavilion stood higher on the slope apart from the general crowd where the air was somewhat clearer. It was a wide spreading multi-colored tent stretched over poles. The sides could be rolled up in the heat of the day, but now with evening coming, as well as for privacy they were down. Within was a central hearth and around it couches and stools, rugs and fleeces were placed. It was, in fact Agamemnon’s great hall at Mycenae, wrapped in cloth and skins and conveyed to Lakadaemon. Agamemnon, as one of the great kings, could have set up his court in the palace, but the risk of upsetting the other nobles had seemed too great. One of the great kings but he might be, but not the only one.

The pavilion was crowded with Agamemnon’s supporters, lords of Lakadaemon and many nobles Odysseus did not know, as well as serving maids, attendants and slaves. The hearth was not lit yet but the tent was hot and smelled of too many people, too closely confined, masked to some extent by incense. Not enough though.

Odysseus stopped just inside and stopped, unable to move through the crowd. At the far side of the hearth Agamemnon sat on a stool and beside him sat his wife, the lady Klytemnestra. Behind them Odysseus could see Helen with a couple of attendants. An old man was leaning over and talking quietly to her. A woman dressed in brown was at her other side. Odysseus had seen Helen before, even spoken with her briefly, but had never really considered his chances as a suitor. She was as beautiful as rumor said, but Odysseus could also see how very young she was. Queen she might be in name, but at the moment she looked like a frightened child, surrounded by elders who would decide what was best for her. And that is not so very far from the truth he thought.

A young noble holding the speaker’s ivory rod was standing before them. His tunic was very fine, his hair long, perfectly dressed and oiled, and Odysseus thought he could smell the man’s perfume. Odysseus didn’t recognize him, but thought he might be from one of the Cretan courts. Their nobles still favored a more effeminate style than those of the mainland. He spoke with a slight lisp and was obviously relishing his importance.

...the only fair way. A contest would not cause the resentment which...

Impossible!

The Lady Klytemnestra’s voice was low, quiet but firm. The young noble paused only a moment and then went on. He clearly was not one who would be easily dislodged from the center of attention.

The suitors must be allowed to win the Lady’s hand, a small bow toward Helen, in open athletic contest...

I said, that is impossible! Klytemnestra repeated louder. My sister is not a bauble to be wagered for or won like a bronze tripod in a footrace! She is a queen!

The young man stiffened and then said,

Madam, I still have the rod and hold the floor.

Then he looked around to his audience and added with a tight smile,

And I do not believe this is a women’s council!

There had been polite silence for the speaker before, but now it was a stunned silence.Odysseus stiffened. This young fool must come from quite far away. He doesn’t know... Agamemnon didn’t mind argument and didn’t demand servility, or even politeness in his councils. Indeed his debates were famous for their disorder and loud disagreements. You could disagree with Agamemnon, argue, shout... he would argue and shout right back.

But...

One DIDN’T speak thus to the Lady Klytemnestra. A dedicated servant of the Goddess, she always wore the tiered skirts and open bodice of a priestess. She was seven years Helen’s senior and her beauty was easily as striking. But different. Where Helen’s was Springtime, Klytemnestra’s was Winter. If Helen’s beauty was that of fine jewelry, ivory and alabaster, Klytemnestra’s was that of a well-made sword. Her nipples were rouged, her eyes were shaded with malachite and kohl. Her gaze was terrible. So Odysseus had always pictured the dread, Dark Queen of the underworld. Very few would stand against her...

I don’t know where that fool is from, thought Odysseus. I wonder if he’ll see his home again?

Klytemnestra stood and walked slowly toward the man. He paled a bit but stood his ground. Agamemnon leaned his chin on his hand and watched with interest. Odysseus thought he saw a half smile.

The Lady was now face to face with the young man, her bare breasts almost touching him. The young man was tall but so was she. She looked at him levelly and coolly for a long moment, and laid her left hand softly on his cheek. Odysseus thought he saw the man flinch slightly. Finally she spoke.

The word ‘women’ sounds like dirt in your mouth. I wonder why that is?

She made a small movement and the young man started and gasped.

Odysseus saw that she had drawn a bronze dagger from under her apron. It was small, a lady’s weapon. It looked very sharp. And she was holding it against the man’s white linen skirt.

At the level of the man’s testicles. Her left hand seized one of his perfumed ringlets as she pressed up slightly with her right. The man whimpered. She brought her lips very close to his ear and said,

Listen, little man, she said quietly. A woman brought you into this world. Shall another send you out of it? Rather less a thing than when you arrived? She pressed upward again.

The man finally found breath to speak.

Please Lady, I meant no offense... He stammered to a halt and there was a long silence. No one in the tent moved.

Finally Agamemnon spoke.

Lady, let him go, I’m sure he’s very sorry. Aren’t you? He raised his eyebrows in query.

The man could only nod, his eyes wide. A tear fell.

Klytemnestra gazed coldly at him for another long moment, then she sheathed the dagger, took the ivory rod from the man, turned and walked to her seat. The young man half fell into the arms of his friends.

There will be no further talk of ‘winning’ the Lady Helen, said Agamemnon with the same half smile.

That option has been...overruled.

There was a general sigh through the crowd as Odysseus, with the others, remembered to breathe again.

After a moment Agamemnon spoke again.

Still the problem remains. How shall we resolve it?

One of the standing lords spoke angrily.

Agamemnon! This is not your country, you hold no sway here. By what authority do you presume to order the affairs of Lakadaemon?

Klytemnestra cast her glance in the man’s direction but made no comment. She continued idly playing with the Ivory rod which denoted the right to speak in council. She remained silent however. And will anyone be so bold as to request it of her, thought Odysseus wryly.

I do not have that authority, agreed Agamemnon mildly, nor do I seek it. I am here as a friend of this House, to offer advice, to aid her if I may. None here wish to see fighting break out.

And what harm if it amuses them? said Klytemnestra scornfully, Shall I weep if these fine lords engage in their favorite sport?

The matter could, if unchecked, lead to general bloodshed Lady. said the old counselor who stood beside Helen. She shrugged. Obviously the prospect didn’t disturb her.

One of the other nobles spoke up, a fat and very comfortable looking one, thought Odysseus.

I think it won’t come to that. The Lady Helen has my full respect, and he made a bow to the pale-faced girl, but I hardly think she will be the cause of a war.

These fools will circle all night, Odysseus thought. There’s only one way, if they’ll take it.

I would have preferred to raise this with Agamemnon privately first, but... He called out,

My lord Agamemnon!

Agamemnon peered through the gloom of the tent.

Who calls? Odysseus! Come here to us, don’t linger there with the rabble!

Odysseus moved through the crowd and made his greeting to Klytemnestra and Helen. Klytemnestra acknowledged him, her eyes half closed. Helen brightened as she recognized a familiar face. He was somewhat surprised and pleased that she remembered him. The brown woman smiled and nodded but said nothing. Agamemnon gave him a stool and a cup of wine.

So cousin, what say you?

Odysseus drank and then said,

I doubt, Agamemnon, if you or many of these here have been down to the lower camp. The mood is very tense there. The Lady Helen’s advisor is right, there could be violence if this drags on.

So I’ve been told by others as well, even if some here doubt it. So what’s to be done?

I’ve thought some on it. Odysseus disregarded the others and spoke to Agamemnon as if they were alone.

At first I thought, could we not honor Tyndareus’ wishes? Announce that the Lady will not marry this year. At least this bee swarm would disperse to their homes. But it can’t be done. A year’s wait would only give them more time to plot Lakadaemon’s rape. Helen’s husband would be the first one to arrive at the head of an army! Some in the audience stirred but no one spoke. The council had become a private conversation. Agamemnon nodded. Apparently he had made this same argument before Odysseus’ arrival.Odysseus continued,

The land cannot be left kingless, and none of the lords would, I think, accept one of their own as a temporary guardian of the land until Helen chooses her consort.

He glanced over at the lord who had challenged Agamemnon.

Or am I wrong? Would you accept Agamemnon in that office?

With respect, no. said the man tightly.

Odysseus stood and faced the man.

All right, how about me, then?

Klytemnestra looked up sharply. Agamemnon raised his eyebrow in surprise. The lord smiled with little humor.

Again, no Lord. You have my respect of course, but such temporary arrangements have a way of becoming... permanent.

Just so. And I’m sure all the rest would feel the same. And then we would have our war regardless.

He was about to continue when Klytemnestra interrupted.

Why this debate about a postponed choice or a temporary guardian? Why need there be a choice? Why should Helen not rule Lakadaemon in her own name? Then she could make her choice in her good time.

Agamemnon replied,

Because it’s never been done that way.

She turned to him, You are wrong my Lord. It was often ‘done that way’ in times past.

It shall not be done now. replied Agamemnon firmly. There was no pretense of ‘advice’ in his statement. Klytemnestra made no further remark, but the matter did not seem to be closed. Odysseus felt that he had just heard part of a long and unsettled dispute between them.

Odysseus nodded and resumed his argument.

So the problem is this. The lady Helen cannot be disposed of against her will. Klytemnestra was looking down again but shook her head.

Nor can she bide long without choosing. There must be a Choice. But no lord here, even you Agamemnon, is strong enough to ensure that all will honor her choice.

Agamemnon spoke,

You have laid out the problem well, Odysseus, but have you any solution?

So far he had just repeated what all here knew, though perhaps in blunter language than some might be comfortable using. Or hearing... But now, he must give them something new...

Yes, I think I have. We must make the lords themselves guardians.

Agamemnon leaned forward and Klytemnestra, though suspicious, looked up with interest.

How shall this be done? Agamemnon asked.

They must agree to bind themselves with a solemn oath. said Odysseus.

There were cries of surprise and scorn at once.

Impossible!

What did he say?

Stupid...

Agamemnon imperiously waved for silence. He might not rule in Lakadaemon but there was no question who commanded in this tent.

It is interesting...but there are problems. They are distrustful of one another.

Odysseus remembered Hyllus’ words as he answered,

So much the better. I had much rather a suspicious dog guarding my treasure than an over friendly one. That at least frames the thing in a more flattering way than did Hyllus, he thought.

One of the lords spoke up. There was little pretence of civility to the young King from a small island.

What shall this great oath be? And to whom shall it be given? To Agamemnon? To you, my young...lord? They will not agree to that! I would not swear it!

He crossed his arms proudly.

No, said Odysseus to the speaker, They swear to the Lady Helen. It should be an oath to support her choice and punish any who should seek to overthrow it.

The lords would never swear such an oath to a woman! said one of Agamemnon’s men.

Klytemnestra glanced at the Lord and her mouth tightened but she kept silent.

You begin to see the problems, Odysseus, said Agamemnon quietly. But keep after them, I think you’ve got something!

All right, let the immortal gods hear the oath as well. Odysseus added impatiently, That at least should not be beneath my lords’ dignity!

And why should these proud nobles bind themselves by any oath, sworn to anyone? asked Klytemnestra. That certainly has never been done before, she added, glancing at her husband.

Because, Lady, said Odysseus turning to her, Helen will choose no man who has not solemnly sworn to sustain and protect her. And any who refuses of course will be suspected by all the others of plotting to take her by force.

There was silence while Agamemnon, his head lightly resting on his steepled fingers, closed his eyes and considered the proposal. None dared to break his reverie. Finally he opened his eyes and spoke to the gathering.

Our cousin Odysseus has made an intriguing proposal. I think it should be tried.

He spoke to Odysseus quietly. You have seen from the objections here that it will be no easy task to convince them. Are you willing to try it?

Well, now it comes. You’ve made your great speech in council. Can you back it up? Odysseus nodded.

Very well. Agamemnon nodded and stood up. In a louder voice he announced,

This council is at an end. I thank all of you for your aid in this matter.

Agamemnon’s supporters and the other nobles filed out. Odysseus could hear them as they filed out discussing his idea and speculating on its likely chances. Agamemnon had a few quiet words with Helen and her counselor and then they left as well. Finally no one remained save Agamemnon, the Lady Klytemnestra, Agamemnon’s brother Menelaus, whom Odysseus hadn’t been able to see in the crowd before, and himself.

Agamemnon spoke to Odysseus, "I don’t honestly know what your chances are in this, but we’ve got to try something. Go with my herald. Take it to as many of the lords as you can this night and try to secure their word to swear the oath. Come back tonight with word of your progress. Don’t worry how late it