Clytaemnestra shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
‘And what does the great Agamemnon want you to say that he cannot say himself?’
‘The king is busy marshalling the fleet and preparing for the attack.’
‘Nonsense, Odysseus. The king knows the storm will not abate until the gods permit it. He could have come himself.’
‘It isn’t for me to know the mind of Agamemnon,’ Odysseus countered, unfazed by the queen’s shrewd questioning. ‘But here I am, and the news I bring should warm a mother’s heart. Especially one who talks with such pride of the immortality her children will bring her.’
‘That all depends on what a warrior believes will warm a mother’s heart, does it not? Perhaps my husband intends to give command of half the fleet to eight-year-old Orestes, and has asked you to take him back with you to Aulis?’
Odysseus smiled and shook his head.
‘Shame,’ Clytaemnestra sighed. ‘The boy despises living among women, and me most especially. He needs a father’s discipline. So what is it, Odysseus? I know Agamemnon has always valued your powers of persuasion and trickery, so whatever he’s sent you for must be something I won’t be willing to give easily.’
‘We’ve come for Iphigenia,’ Talthybius interposed, staring disdainfully at Clytaemnestra, who he knew did everything in her power to make his master’s life insufferable. ‘She’s to be married to Achilles at Aulis, before the fleet sails for Troy.’
The queen’s eyes narrowed quizzically and she turned to Eperitus.
‘Is this true, Eperitus? At least I know I can trust you.’
Eperitus nodded.
‘But she’s nine,’ Clytaemnestra protested through gritted teeth, turning her dark eyes back to Odysseus. ‘And Achilles is already married with a child of his own.’
The king shrugged sympathetically.
‘Achilles and Deidameia were never married in the official sense, before a priest and with all the appropriate sacrifices. And as for Iphigenia’s age, what can I say? It’ll be a political marriage, of course, so that Agamemnon can be assured of Achilles’s support for the campaign against Troy. Nothing else matters as far as your husband is concerned. But don’t be too hasty to condemn it,’ Odysseus added, holding up his large hands and smiling amicably at the queen. ‘I know it doesn’t sound like the sort of arrangement a loving mother would want for her daughter, but if you see it the way I do then it will be nothing more than a minor inconvenience.’
‘That depends on what you regard as a minor inconvenience?’ Clytaemnestra said, eyeing Odysseus with suspicion.
‘Most importantly, Achilles may be prepared to marry Iphigenia to show political goodwill to Agamemnon, but he won’t have any interest in consummating his marriage to a nine-year-old. The word in the camp is that he and Patroclus share a bed, but I’m certain his sexual tastes don’t extend to little girls. Then, after the wedding ceremony is over the fleet will sail to Troy and Iphigenia will return home to Mycenae, married but with her child’s innocence intact. And while she’s safe with you, Achilles will meet his doom before the walls of Troy – his own mother has predicted that much – so Iphigenia will become a widow and everyone will be happy.’
‘Except Achilles, of course,’ Clytaemnestra replied, wryly. ‘The truth is, Odysseus, I don’t trust Agamemnon where my daughter is concerned – he has never paid her any mind before and it seems strange that he should do so now. Your argument has its merits, though, and if there is nothing beneath what you say then I will give urgent attention to my husband’s request. But it’s late and we’re all tired; I need to think this over and consult the gods. Until then, you and your men are welcome to enjoy Mycenae and all its pleasures.’
As she spoke her eyes touched on Eperitus. Odysseus noticed the glance.
‘How soon will you let us know your decision, Clytaemnestra?’ he asked firmly. ‘You know Agamemnon doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
‘Before the week is out,’ she promised, rising from her chair. ‘And you’re to say nothing to Iphigenia, or anybody else, about this marriage until I say so. Goodnight, my lords.’
The queen turned and crossed the room to a side entrance, her black chiton blending with the shadows as she moved.
Chapter Twenty-two
HELEN OF TROY
A dozen guards stood by the Scaean Gate and a dozen more on the battlements above, their armour gleaming like silver in the moonlight. Helen gripped the chariot’s handrail and put an arm around Pleisthenes’s shoulders as Paris spurred the black horses on towards the city, eager to see his home again after so long. Beside them Apheidas and Aeneas urged their mounts to keep up with the prince.
‘They’ve doubled the guard,’ Apheidas shouted as the wind tore at his hair and threw his cloak out behind him.
Paris laughed and lashed his whip harder across the backs of the horses. ‘It’s a guard of honour for my return. They must have got news that we were on our way.’
‘Then why are they forming a defensive line?’ Aeneas yelled from the opposite side of the chariot. ‘Slow down, Paris. There are archers on the walls and if they don’t recognize us they’ll fire.’
Helen looked in alarm at the line of men by the gates, their tall, rectangular shields planted firmly in the soil and their long spears levelled at the chests of the approaching horses. A dozen more soldiers were rushing out from the gates and making a second line behind them.
‘Paris,’ she hissed, placing her hand on his arm. ‘Slow down, my love. You’ll be home soon enough.’
Paris looked at the concern in her eyes and nodded. ‘Whoaaa!’ he yelled, pulling back the ox-hide reins. ‘Whoaaa, there. Slow down, girls. Slow down.’
The gold-covered chariot slowed to a trundle and the two riders on either side reined in their mounts to fall in beside it. Helen and Pleisthenes relaxed their grip on the handrail and looked at the wall of soldiers, whose spears were still levelled at them. The Spartan queen – or former queen, as she now regarded herself – looked in awe at the high ramparts with the spike-filled ditch below and the imposing guard towers that overlooked the plain all around. Paris had not exaggerated when he had said they would be safe inside his father’s city. Even if Menelaus should be supported by his brother and come after her with the combined armies of Sparta and Mycenae, they would never prise her out of Troy. For the first time in weeks, she began to feel safe in her new life. Soon, she and Paris would be married and would live in the house he had promised to build for them.
‘Is this our new home?’ asked Pleisthenes, his tired eyes wide as he looked at the splendid battlements and the rows of exotically armed warriors. The limestone walls shone white and smoke trails rose from the city into the star-littered sky. ‘Are we really going to live here?’
‘Yes, son,’ Paris answered, scruffing his hair with his large hand. ‘This is Troy, city of the gods, and from now on we must all speak the language of the Trojans. You and your mother have been good pupils, but now’s the time to test your learning. You’ll find very few people who speak Greek here.’
‘Who’s that?’ called a voice from the rank of soldiers. ‘Name yourself and your purpose.’
‘Don’t you know me yet, Deiphobus?’ Paris replied. ‘After all, we share the same father and mother.’
‘Paris? By the gods of Mount Ida, it is you!’
A short youth with long black hair left the line of soldiers he had been commanding and ran towards the chariot, holding his hands towards the team of horses.
‘You’ve been gone an age,’ he said, peering up at Paris from between the heads of the black mares, as if to be sure it really was his older brother. ‘There’ve been all sorts of rumours about you and . . .’