Glyn Iliffe - King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

The shepherd held up the bow again and everybody knew that he spoke the truth. It was of such a monstrous size that even Ajax would have difficulty in handling it, and in the boy’s grip it looked comically large.

‘I recognize it,’ the giant warrior said, putting a hand on the weapon. ‘Many times in my youth I saw Heracles using this bow. They say the arrows are charmed and cannot miss their target. It’s a great gift, boy; you must guard it well. What’s your name?’

‘I am called Philoctetes, sir. My father is Poeas of Malia.’

Ajax put a hand on the boy’s head and thumbed his scruffy, badly shorn hair. Then, taken by an overwhelming sadness at the news of Heracles’s death, he lowered his eyes to the flames that jigged happily in the hearth and fell into a deep silence. The rest of them turned to face the royal dais, still shocked to hear that the most renowned hero of their age had died. Most had thought it was not possible, but from that day on nobody ever saw or heard of the great man again, and so Philoctetes’s report became more widely accepted. But for those of them present the bow itself was proof enough, as they knew no man could forcibly take the weapon from such an owner.

Agamemnon handed the staff to Tyndareus and retired to his seat, where he also slumped into contemplative silence. The king of Sparta, however, stood before the assembly with a look of defiance on his face. He rapped the staff once to demand their attention, then declared in a loud voice, ‘Helen is my daughter. Any man who wishes to marry her will first obey me, as his host and as the girl’s father. The time is coming soon – very soon – when I will make my choice. But before I do so I have one demand of all present. This demand is made of suitors first and foremost, but also of those men of power and influence who have come here as advisers, escorts or representatives. Any man who refuses to obey my wish is welcome to do so, and will not earn my enmity, but he must agree to leave Sparta this very day and not return without my permission. He can take with him any gift that he brought and go back to his home with my blessing.

‘To those of you who choose to stay I say this: when my decision is made almost all of you will be disappointed. Some of you may even be angry and might resent the good fortune of the chosen suitor. But know this also, that I will not tolerate argument or bloodshed in Sparta. Therefore my demand is that you take an oath, a sacred promise amongst you all to defend Helen and her husband against any who would threaten their happiness. Only when each one of you has given his word will I be satisfied; only then will I announce my choice.’

Tyndareus left a long pause but nobody spoke. They were proud men who knew the power of an oath, and they considered the king’s words in stern silence.

‘Is there any man here who refuses the oath?’

Again silence.

‘Then if you are sure in your minds and hearts that you will make this promise and honour it, stand up.’

There was a loud shuffling and scraping of chairs as the assembly rose to its feet. In the same moment the massive portals of the hall swung open, revealing the stars in the black sky above the courtyard. The night air came rushing in, filling their nostrils with its smell and prickling the skin on their arms and legs. The flames of the hearth leapt momentarily, then subsided again.

Two priests entered, leading a horse behind them. It was a beautiful beast, as tall as Ajax and blacker than Hades. Its coat shone blue as it stood in the doorway, washed clean by the light of the moon, but changed quickly to a fiery orange as it was walked into the great hall and up to the central hearth. Like a shadow plucked from the deepest hollow of the night, there was not a blemish of any other colour upon the animal. It stopped and tossed its head, snorting at the crowd of great men and confident of its own noble presence amongst them.

‘Lord Zeus,’ Tyndareus thundered, breaking the spell the magnificent beast had cast over them. ‘Father of the gods, great ruler of the heavens and the earth, bear solemn witness to the oath we now take.’

He nodded to the priests. One of them eased the animal’s head back, careful not to startle it, whilst the other slashed open its throat. The strong smell of horse was suddenly blotted out by the stench of fresh blood. Bright gore pumped from the open wound and onto the stone floor, splashing back up onto the watching suitors. An instant later the animal’s lifeless body collapsed into the pool of its own blood.

The priests knelt to joint the corpse with deft movements, tossing parts of the body to each of the surrounding warriors and ordering them to place a foot upon the joints. Soon there was little left of the horse but its head and hide. This looked curiously shrunken and matt-coloured as it lay between the priests. Finally they rose from their labours and raised their arms to the heavens in prayer. Eperitus placed his left foot on the broken rib bone that they had thrown towards him and watched Tyndareus come to the front of the dais again. This time he was accompanied by Agamemnon.

Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus. The spectacle of the bloody sacrifice had awed the young warrior and the muscles of his face were strained with tension, but Odysseus simply grinned back at him and winked. Eperitus was taken aback by his cool, slightly amused indifference, but before he could react further Tyndareus spoke.

As he held the staff before him, he asked them whether they promised to protect the husband of Helen against anybody who should wish Helen for himself. The words were not elaborate or extensive, as a Greek warrior will always obey the spirit of an oath, even those like Odysseus who could twist words like blades of grass. Every voice answered in agreement and thus the fateful oath was sworn.

A moment later one of the priests clapped his hands and a host of servants rushed in, carrying vessels of water to wash clean the floor of the hall. More servants brought bowls for the oath-takers to cleanse the blood from their skin, and soon they were seated again with food and drink set before them. Then Agamemnon stood and received the staff once more from Tyndareus.

The council of war had begun.

Chapter Twenty-one

ODYSSEUS AND PENELOPE

Fearing her cousin was already overripe for marriage – and would remain as little more than a maid to her demanding father if she did not force her hand – Clytaemnestra agreed to Damastor’s plan and immediately made an ointment for the purpose. She gave it to Neaera with instructions to rub it on the clothing of both Odysseus and Penelope and arrange for them to meet shortly afterwards. As long as they were together when the ointment began to take effect, she assured her, they would be unable to resist each other.

When Neaera asked how she was to apply the ointment to the princess’s clothing, Clytaemnestra handed her a vial filled with a pleasant-smelling liquid.

‘Give this to Penelope’s body slave, Actoris,’ she instructed. ‘It’s a mild poison. Put it into her drink and she’ll be paralysed with illness for a few days. Then you can volunteer to take her place, and after that you’ll have every opportunity to rub the ointment into Penelope’s clothing before dressing her.’

And so Neaera was able to prepare one of the plain woollen dresses that Penelope favoured and spread it out over the princess’s bed while she bathed in an antechamber. Satisfied that the first part of her task was done, she picked up a soft brush and went to scrub her mistress, who lay stretched out in the heated water with only a few wisps of steam to cover her nakedness. Her breasts and stomach had retained their natural pink hue, but the rest of her flesh was burned almost to the colour of a common slave’s, causing Neaera to frown disapprovingly. Helen, by whose standards Neaera measured everybody, kept out of the sun to preserve her pure white complexion; her cousin hardly seemed to care.