Glyn Iliffe - The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘Why Helen?’ Eperitus asked, glancing back over his shoulder at where the women stood. ‘I saw her with the others as I came up from the ships, but she can hardly be thought of as a prisoner .’

‘Agamemnon insisted, much to his brother’s distaste. I think he’s always known she left Sparta willingly, and this is his way of punishing her for that – by parading her like a common captive and letting her know what he really thinks of her. But she didn’t play along with him. If Agamemnon was expecting humility, he got nothing but defiance. You saw she was still wearing a Trojan dress – despite the fact Menelaus has kept a chest of her old clothes on his galley for the past ten years – and that her hair was plaited in the Trojan style? She even had the nerve to address the Council in the Trojan tongue, as if to say she thought of herself as a Trojan and never wanted to be rescued in the first place.’

Agamemnon seemed to be concluding his conversation with Nestor and had taken his golden staff in both hands. Guessing the debate would resume again soon, Eperitus took a final swallow of his wine and handed the empty krater to a slave.

‘What did Menelaus think to that?’ he asked in a hushed voice as the other conversations began to die down

‘I think he enjoyed seeing Agamemnon embarrassed,’ Odysseus whispered. ‘After all, whatever his brother does to Helen now, he does to Menelaus also. And I don’t know what has passed between Helen and Menelaus since last night, but I think they’ve come to an understanding with each other about the past. They know their marriage has to work, if only because of the price that has been paid to win Helen back again. So if she wants to play games and put Agamemnon in his place, then Menelaus seems happy to go along with it. He knows she’ll still be going back to Sparta with him.’

‘Now I almost wish I’d been here to witness it – at least, to see Agamemnon’s face.’

Agamemnon rose from his seat, his golden staff in his hand, and walked out to the centre of the Council. The last few conversations trailed away and all eyes now focussed on the King of Men.

‘I’ve received the full tally of all items retrieved from Troy,’ he announced, ‘classed by type – gold, silver, copper, bronze, wood, wool, silk and so on – and measured by weight. The total weight of each item will be divided by the number of ships in the fleet, of which there are one thousand, one hundred and eighty-seven. Each –’

‘My lord!’

The shout rang out from the Scaean Gate, from where a Mycenaean soldier was running towards the Council. He was not one of Agamemnon’s bodyguard, though the quality of his armour indicated he was a lesser noble.

‘My lord Agamemnon,’ he panted.

‘What is it?’ Agamemnon replied coldly.

‘We’ve found the boy you were looking for. Hector’s son.’

‘ Astyanax ?’ the king asked. ‘You’re certain? Then bring him here at once.’

The guard signalled to a group of soldiers by the gate. They parted and a single man came forward carrying an infant boy in his arms. A scream pierced the hush that had spread across the Council and Andromache ran out from beneath the canopy where the Trojan women stood, followed closely by Helen.

‘Keep them back!’ Agamemnon ordered.

Two guardsmen threw down their spears and caught hold of the women, pinning their arms to their sides and pushing them back towards the canopy. Menelaus stepped forward angrily, but Nestor restrained him with a hand on his shoulder. In the same moment, the circle of kings parted and the soldier carrying Astyanax entered. He placed the boy down in the middle and left again, following his officer back to the gates. Astyanax, barely old enough to sit up, looked around at the faces of the Greek commanders, showing no signs of fear. He even produced a smile at the familiar sight of armed men.

‘So,’ Agamemnon announced, ‘Hector’s son has been found. Behold, men of Greece, the last king of Troy sits before you!’ There was a ripple of uncertain laughter as Agamemnon stooped to lift the child onto his arm, the sceptre still balanced in his other hand. ‘Your mother swore by all the gods that you were dead, boy, though I knew she was lying – women have no sense of honour, after all. And now we’ve found you, we have to decide what to do with you, don’t we? Or, more to the point, who will do it.’

‘Leave him alone!’ Helen screamed.

Agamemnon ignored her, bouncing the boy playfully on his arm while looking about at the members of the Council. Eperitus glanced across at Andromache, who was on her knees with her face in her hands, being comforted by Helen. He knew how she felt, having watched helplessly as the King of Men had murdered his own daughter. For he already knew what Agamemnon intended to do with Astyanax, and the thought of it as he looked at Hector’s son – so similar in looks to his valiant father – filled him with horror. And a sudden determination to stop it.

‘It’s obvious what should happen to the boy,’ crowed a familiar, but unexpected voice.

A stooped figure cloaked in black with the hood pulled over his face rose from the outer ring of chairs and pushed his way into the centre circle. Agamemnon offered him the staff, and as he took it the man flicked back his hood to reveal his bald head and thin, pale face. His dark eyes stared about at the Greeks and there was madness in them.

‘He has to die,’ Calchas finished his statement. ‘If he lives he will grow up to rebuild Troy and avenge the death of his father.’

‘But who will kill the child, Calchas?’ Diomedes called out. ‘Will you?’

Calchas scowled at the Argive king.

‘Thus speaks the man whose father failed to defeat Thebes, leaving his son to finish the task. Do you want your children to endure another war like this one, Diomedes, just because you don’t have the ruthless courage to expunge your enemies? Scorn my words if you wish, but unless you want a new Troy to rise from the ashes then Astyanax must die!’

Calchas thrust the staff back into Agamemnon’s hand and returned to his seat, letting his doom-filled words settle on the Council.

‘I say kill the boy,’ Little Ajax grunted.

His words were met by a smattering of nods and murmurs of agreement.

‘Too many Greeks have died because of Troy, my own son among them,’ said Nestor. ‘Astyanax must die. We have no choice.’

Neoptolemus stood up and pointed with a snarl at the child in Agamemnon’s arms.

‘Kill him and be done with it!’

Others stood now, angrily voicing their support in an attempt to drown out the wailing of the Trojan women. Eperitus saw the smile on Agamemnon’s face, and before he knew what he was doing he stood up.

‘No. He’s just a child. Give him to me and I’ll bring him up as my own son.’

Silence fell on the assembly and every eye turned on Eperitus. In an instant, Odysseus was standing beside him with his hand on his arm.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he hissed.

‘Trying to save the boy,’ Eperitus replied, his voice low but filled with determination. ‘And if you allow this murder to go ahead, Odysseus, you’re just as bad as they are.’

Odysseus looked into his eyes and bit on his lip, unable to reply. Then Agamemnon put the child back down in the dry grass and stared at Eperitus with an icy gaze.

‘You heard the Council,’ he said. ‘The boy has to die. There’s no debate on the matter, Eperitus; it’s already decided.’

‘I’ll not stand by and watch you murder this child in cold blood, just like you did Iphigenia!’

He saw the shocked reaction on the faces of the Council, who seemed to collectively sit up and suck in breath. But his only thought now was for Astyanax: if he could at least fight for the boy, he might make up in some small way for his failure to save his own daughter. He fixed his stare on the Mycenaean king, whose usually aloof façade had given way to a look of intense hatred.