Eperitus glanced inquisitively at Castor, or Odysseus if that was his true name, but the prince did not look up as Thrasios interpreted his fate. Instead he fixed his eyes on the chasm and said nothing.
‘And you, Eperitus of Alybas?’ the Pythoness asked, pointing at the tall young warrior. ‘What is your question?’
Chapter Four
HELEN OF SPARTA
The great hall of the palace at Sparta was dark but for the glow of a fire at its centre. Colossal shadows stalked each other about the high walls, whilst the sputtering of the flames echoed in the emptiness of the vast space. Around the large circular hearth four pillars stood sentinel, as thick as tree trunks, their heads lost in the gloom of the high ceiling.
On ornate chairs between two of the columns sat three richly clad men. Before them stood an old priest with a long, white beard and beside him knelt a scribe, taking notes as one of the seated men spoke.
‘A bad summer usually means a bad winter, in my experience,’ he said in a deep voice, looking down at the scribe.
The slave glanced up from his clay tablet and nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’
His master was Tyndareus, co-king of Sparta, a fierce-looking man with wild hair and a thick beard, not yet touched by grey despite his respectable age. His large bulk seemed to embody the power he held, though disuse was turning his muscles to fat and excessive feasting had swollen the proportions of his stomach.
‘We’ll need to demand more grain from the farmers for the winter provision,’ Tyndareus continued. ‘They won’t be happy about it, of course, but I’ll not risk the people starving. It also means the potters will have to make more storage jars, and quickly.’
‘At least the extra work will make them happy, brother,’ commented the man to his right.
‘But with this year’s poor harvest, my lord, we could hardly take any more grain from the farmers without starving them to death.’ The scribe held up one of the baked tablets at his side as if the dashed figures were all the proof he required.
Tyndareus passed his golden cup behind his head, where it was hurriedly refilled by one of the attending wine stewards. He took a swallow and nodded at the priest, who was fidgeting for attention.
‘Speak, priest. What do the gods say I should do?’
‘The signs are that the winter will be mild, my lord.’
Tyndareus’s brother spoke up again. ‘So does that mean we won’t have to store extra grain?’
‘Not quite, Lord Icarius,’ the priest said. ‘There will be more than the winter to provision against.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Tyndareus growled.
‘The gods have sent me a dream that, as joint rulers of the city, you should both be wary of.’ Tyndareus scowled; he did not like to be reminded that he and his younger brother were officially co-kings, when in reality Icarius had little say in state affairs. The priest continued undeterred, waving his hands about in a fussy manner. ‘Seven nights ago I was asleep in the temple when I dreamed the palace was filled with great men. There were warriors from all over Greece, men of wonderful renown accompanied by their squires and soldiers. I saw this very hall filled with banqueting: men emptying your best golden wine cups as quickly as the slaves could refill them; the women hardly able to do their work for the attentions of so many men; voices calling for more meat, and yet the courtyard outside already swimming with the blood of sacrificed oxen.’
‘Perhaps the dream refers to King Agamemnon’s visit?’ Icarius suggested, nodding towards the other seated man.
Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and son-in-law to Tyndareus, had arrived in Sparta the day before. He was a full score of years younger than his hosts, and yet had a more authoritative bearing than either of them. Tall, athletically built and handsome, his hair was long and brown with a hint of red and his beard was cropped neatly to his jawline. He wore a tunic of purest white beneath a blood-red cloak which was clasped together at his left shoulder by a golden brooch. This depicted a lion tearing apart a fallen deer, and captured with great skill the majesty, power and ruthlessness of the man. Yet his cold expression revealed nothing of his emotions. He ignored Icarius and focused his icy blue eyes on the priest.
‘Well, damn it?’ thundered Tyndareus. ‘What does the dream mean? Are we going to be invaded? Will our halls be filled with enemies?’
‘No,’ declared Agamemnon, quietly. ‘The Greeks are at peace with each other for the first time in years, and I’ll see that maintained. Even if the old man’s dream was sent by the gods, it won’t mean that.’
‘Then what does it mean?’ Tyndareus demanded.
‘This isn’t the only time I’ve had the dream, my lord,’ said the priest, stroking his long beard thoughtfully. ‘For six consecutive nights I suffered the same images, until the gods released me from them last night. I interpret this to mean the men will be guests at the palace. What’s more, they will be here one month for each night I had the dreams.’
‘Six months!’ Icarius exclaimed. ‘How in Zeus’s name are we to feed an army of Greece’s finest warriors until next summer? We can barely even feed our own people.’
Tyndareus waved over his chief steward and ordered more fruit to be brought. ‘I assume, priest, you’ve sent an envoy to consult one of the oracles.’
‘Oh yes, my lord. Naturally.’
‘Then we shall wait on the advice of the gods. Not that I can see any reason for inviting a horde of kings here for winter residence. Can you imagine the fights? No, I think you’ve made a mistake this time; your dreams mean something else, or nothing at all.’
Tyndareus turned from the priest to focus on the Mycenaean king.
‘I’m intrigued by these fantasies of yours, though, Agamemnon. Do you really expect to preserve peace between the Greek nations?
The fruit arrived and Agamemnon selected a slice of melon. He took a bite without spilling a drop of juice.
‘Yes, I do. Greece is tired of civil war. I used to go to the marketplaces and hear the women bemoan the loss of sons and husbands in distant battles, whilst the merchants grumbled about the trade they’d lost because of one war or another. But I’ve seen how happy the people have become during this lull. They’re hungry for peace, and I intend to give them what they want.’
Tyndareus scoffed. ‘How? The merchants and women can pine for peace, Agamemnon, but there are too many fighting men in Greece now. The wars have bred a new class of professional soldier. Each state has a standing army, just waiting for the next call to war – and they’re getting restless. For every shepherd, farmer, potter and bronze-smith in Sparta there’s a warrior. Do you think they’ll be willing – or able – to trade their swords for pottery and ivory trinkets? Maybe you think they can sail to Crete in their upturned shields and sell unwanted helmets to farmers and fishermen? And already your so-called “peace” is falling apart again: what about Diomedes and the Epigoni, laying siege to Thebes?’
Agamemnon gave a pained smile. ‘Diomedes desires peace more than anything else. I’ve spoken about this with him and he’s given me his word that he only makes war to avenge the death of his father. That’s all. He doesn’t fight the Thebans for slaves or plunder.’
‘He may not,’ said Icarius. ‘But his men do. Why else would they fight?’
‘I said peace will continue in Greece, and it will,’ Agamemnon insisted. ‘When the nations realize the benefits of commerce over war, attitudes will change. The people want peace with their neighbours and their rulers are prospering already from the free flow of goods. That’s where peace starts. But commerce alone won’t unite us, nor will even the most solemn oaths. And there’s your question about our restless armies, Tyndareus, always itching to be heroes.’