The Songs of the Kings (10 page)

“There, there, father, that raid is a classic, it is in all the Songs.”

“Father, your exploits will astonish future generations, but now we must be quiet, we must listen . . .”

As the old man trailed off into querulous mutterings, Agamemnon spoke for the first time since opening the council. And he spoke with a face of anguish, addressing all those present. “Who sends the wind against us?
How have I offended?
”

It was the question Calchas had most dreaded; but it was one he knew he had to be the first to answer or be thrust aside and silenced, his influence with the King lost beyond recovery. He said, “It is Artemis who speaks to us through the wind. She is offended by the slaughter of the hare's young, the innocent young of Troy. She is Mother, mistress of animals, goddess of childbirth. The offense is threefold.”

Agamemnon leaned forward in his chair, turning so as to look full at the diviner—a bad sign. “Speak more clearly, priest,” he said. “Are you saying the wind is sent for an offense not yet committed?”

With this half-incredulous question, Calchas knew he was finally in the open, driven out of hiding, with no comfort but knowing where the hunters' darts would come from. Fear always made the same approaches, catching at his breath, constricting his chest, as if bands were being drawn and tightened. He opened his mouth a little, so as to breathe more freely. Never in his life had he chosen truth before safety. He said, “We are between male and female, sky and earth, the justice of Zeus and the compassion of Artemis.”

As he again hesitated, the people his eye fell on seemed more intensely and completely themselves. Chasimenos peering round as if casting for a scent, Odysseus bearing a look of cruel and serene relish, Phylakos staring before him with wooden fixity, Menelaus sun-blistered, fuming with his wrongs. There was no one in this tent that wished him well. He saw Achilles flick with his fingers at some speck on his beautiful tunic, in a gesture like that of a preening bird. He noticed now that Croton, standing in his usual place on the King's left, was in the grip of some strong emotion; his face, his whole body, rigid with tension. It looked like fear, but why should the priest of Zeus be afraid?

“A balance must be found,” he said. “If the conflict has been created for us in order to tell us something, the reconciliation must be contained in it. The wind must be within the god's will, as it is within the will of the goddess. So it must be within the scope of their joint will that the young of the hare are restored to her womb.”

He checked on this, but it was too late. He had gone too far, he knew it as he finished speaking, knew it as he waited and saw the darkness gather on the King's face. But Agamemnon made no immediate reply. Instead it was Diomedes the Argive who spoke, a man who was sung about often for the part he had played in the wars with Thebes, a strong ally of Mycenae, he had come with eight ships. “The gods have their provinces whether of earth or sky,” he said, “no one will deny that. And they have to collaborate, otherwise we would end in fire or flood. But we don't know the arrangements they make and no one can tell us. This priest of Apollo talks about reconciliation and so on, but it's obvious that he hasn't a clue how this can be achieved. And if he thinks you can fight a war without collateral damage, he's totally mistaken. There will always be accidents. You can try to keep them to the minimum but you'll never avoid them altogether. Reconciliation is a long-term project anyway. It may suit priests, basically all they need to do is show their hearts are in the right place, they don't need to deliver the goods. But we are here in this camp and the wind is killing our hopes from day to day.”

Now Croton raised his peeled staff with its blue ribbons of the Sky God. His arm was unsteady and the staff shook a little and the currents of wind that moved through the tent sported with the ribbons and made them flutter. “Lord Zeus sends the wind,” he said, and he looked fiercely round him. “It is Zeus who keeps us here. We have killed two goats and scanned the entrails, we have cast the stones, the message is always the same. Artemis, the subordinate one, how could she question his will, who has already blessed our expedition? How could she go against the eagles? She is the female, the daughter, how could she have the power?”

His voice had risen and there were flecks of foam on his lips. He was working himself into a passion—perhaps, Calchas thought, his way of overcoming fear. But the impression of fear remained. It was nonsense, of course, this claim that Zeus was the goddess's father, though it was one his priests now commonly made. He was briefly tempted to intervene, to point out that she they called Artemis had been worshiped in his homeland by generations of people who had no knowledge of Zeus. But such words would not be received well. His stock was low enough already . . .

“Who is the weather god?” Croton said, and he shuddered with the effort to control the passion of conviction which threatened to distort his voice. “Is it Artemis who gathers the clouds? Is it Artemis who cages the winds?”

“Why should Zeus contradict his own messages?” It was a despairing attempt at logic and Calchas knew it for useless even as he spoke. The feeling was against him, they preferred this madness of Croton's.

“There is no contradiction in the messages. The eagles were sent to bring us here, the wind is sent to keep us here. This is the place Lord Zeus has chosen.”

“For what purpose?” The question came from Agamemnon, who spoke in his usual tone but had braced himself back in his chair.

“As the place of choice,” Croton said. “We are away from our homes here.” He was calmer now, having arrived at the authority his soul aspired to. There was no doubt that everyone there was hanging on his words. Even Achilles looked interested—he had forgotten to put on the supercilious, preoccupied look he generally wore at these meetings, as if his mind was elsewhere.

Croton remained silent for some moments, staring before him with eyes that seemed too wide open, unnaturally prominent in his face. He had grounded his staff now and held to it with both hands, as if otherwise he might be dislodged, swept away. “Zeus has me in his care,” he said. “Who does hurt to me incurs the anger of the god. It is because of Agamemnon that we are kept here. His eldest daughter Iphigeneia is a priestess of Artemis, this duty was handed down to her by her mother, Clytemnestra, when the girl reached the age of fourteen.”

“This is common knowledge,” Chasimenos said. “It is customary, there is no blame in it.”

“Not so commonly known is that the cult of Artemis is exalted above that of Zeus in Mycenae, the daughter is raised above the father, as Calchas tries to do here.”

“How do you know this? You are not of Mycenae.”

It was again Chasimenos who spoke, and again apparently in defense of his master. The question had followed quickly, immediately, giving Calchas no time to respond to the reflection on himself; but he saw now that the intention was not to defend Agamemnon at all. Croton was being encouraged, given the stage, possible objections were being anticipated. With this realization came the sickening knowledge of conspiracy: this was a scene that had been rehearsed.

“We have had reports,” Croton said. “There are plenty here in the camp that know of it. She makes offerings to Artemis as universal mother and as moon goddess, aspects of her cult displeasing to Zeus. Moreover, we know for a fact that the image of the male god, who holds the scepter of power, is relegated to a lower platform in the palace shrine at Mycenae. The image of the goddess they call Potnia, the Lady, rises higher by a head. And the King knew of this and did nothing, thus offending Lord Zeus. And the wind will not be lifted until the King makes amends.”

“What amends?” Chasimenos said, still playing his part as questioner. “What steps should the King take to recover the god's favor?”

The question hung in the air for some moments, heavily, oppressively. The King's face was expressionless; but his left hand was pressed against the ribs on that side, as if to contain the violence of his heart. “I have neglected nothing,” he said. “I have always honored the god.”

“Amends must be made through the two persons who have offended. When was a bull last sacrificed on the altar of Zeus at Mycenae? It is only the goat whose blood they offer, the animal sacred to Artemis. The girl has offended by her practices and the father by permitting them.”

A sudden, fearful intimation came to Calchas of where this might be tending. If they had rehearsed the questions they must have rehearsed the answers . . . “It has no sense, it is madness,” he said. “Are we to judge on doubtful reports and unreliable memories, idle talk about the position of the images on one shelf or another? The wind is something that touches us all. How can the fault lie only in one when the wind affects a thousand? Where is the justice of Zeus in that?”

But no murmur came to support him. They had found the offense that was needed. Croton's strength lay in the narrowness of his vision, the simplicity of his message. Simplicity, when it was passionate, would always win, something Calchas had known and forgotten a thousand times and would forget again, helpless to avoid the anguish of doubt, forever adrift among divided counsels. It was no comfort to him to know that the simplicity came from darkness, that Croton confused the justice of Zeus with the power of the priesthood, and his own personal need to suppress the fecund female divinities, worshiped of old, who disgusted and frightened him as did women uncontrolled by men. Knowledge which another enemy might have known how to turn to account. Useless to him now, in any case, as he stood there and saw the King's face turned away from him.

“What amends?” Chasimenos said again, and there was an eagerness in this repeating of the question.

Croton drew himself up with a visible effort. “Iphigeneia must be brought here and sacrificed on the altar of Zeus before the people. Only when that is done will—”

At a bound the King was out of his chair. A hoarse, panting breath came from him, strangely like an echo of the wind, a sound within a sound. He took two steps towards Croton and the knife was in his hand. Then Odysseus and Diomedes were on either side of him, speaking low. He stood still for a moment between them, then raised his face and gave a single cry, deep in his throat. There were some seconds of irresolution as the wind rattled the canvas as if in answer, and the chiefs looked at each other's faces, not knowing what to say or do. Then Odysseus said, “We must all leave, our Commander-in-Chief will want to be alone in order to consider what he has been told.”

As they filed out in silence, too occupied with what had happened to quarrel over precedence, it came to Calchas in the midst of his shock that even at that terrible moment, with the scream of the King still seeming to sound in the tent, Odysseus had made a point of giving Agamemnon his military title.

He found Poimenos waiting for him, but seeing his face, the boy asked no questions, remaining silent with the tact that seemed part of his innocence, while he saw to the fire and cooked the barley porridge and the fish for their evening meal. After they had eaten, Calchas motioned the boy to come and sit beside him. “The chiefs are persuaded that this wind is sent by Zeus because of the King's offense,” he said.

“This is what everyone thinks. It's all over the camp.”

Calchas glanced sideways at the boy's calm face. “Is it so?”

“While you were there, at the meeting, I went round. They talk of nothing else. While we were away on the island, Croton and his people were going among the men with pipe and drum and the banners of Zeus.”

“I see, yes.”

“Even the Singer . . .”

“You have been listening to the Singer?”

Poimenos lowered his eyes, in what seemed some confusion. “I was passing by,” he said.

“They want the King to turn away the wrath of the god by offering his daughter as a sacrifice.”

The boy's eyes widened. “Will he do it?”

Such immediate faith in his judgment would normally have touched and amused Calchas, but now it served only to intensify the pain of his defeat. “No one can know yet,” he said. “Much depends on how it is presented to him. There will be people ready to present it in certain ways.”

“Not you?”

“No, not me. The King will not listen to me now.” He at once regretted this admission of lost ground, which might diminish his importance in the boy's eyes. “He can listen to no one for the moment,” he said.

“Did you tell him about the sign the goddess gave you, the river of metal and all the Greeks and Trojans carried away in it?”

It was clear Poimenos knew the answer to this in advance. “They would have listened,” he said. “They would have listened to a story like that.” His face wore a look that Calchas could not remember seeing there before, hurt and disappointed. “And the river empty in the distance, all silver,” he said.

“How do you know what sign I had from the goddess? We do not speak together about such things.”

The boy looked at him in silence for some moments with a deliberateness of regard unusual with him. “No,” he said, “it is true you do not tell me things. But you said things as you drew back from the fire, before the vomiting came. And then again, during the night.”

“It was not the moment to speak of it.” A lie, as he knew in the cold depths of his heart, a lie to join the many he had told to this boy and others to disguise his faintness of purpose. The moment had been then, he had drawn back from it and it had gone. And he had lost favor even so. Self-contempt brought a wave of anger with it, anger against the boy before him, who showed his disappointment too obviously, too childishly. And with the anger there came again the desire to instruct, which is also the desire to destroy.

“A story,” he said. “Do you think we have been telling stories back there?” He paused on this, however, his anger disappearing as abruptly as it had come. A kind of story it had been, not a contest of priests, nor even of gods, but a struggle for possession of the King's mind. Who had the King's mind would have the conduct of the war.