The Song of Troy

I was the King. Troy and the Troad were mine. I was the guardian of the Hellespont and the keeper of the Euxine.

When I struck the floor again with my staff, the noise fell away at once. What a difference, to be King!

‘Until the day I die,’ I said, ‘I pledge you that I will never forget what the Greeks have done to Troy. Every year on this day we will go into mourning and the priests will chant the sins of Greek mercenaries throughout the city. Nor will I tire in my search for appropriate ways to make the Greeks rue this deed!

‘Antenor, I appoint you my Chancellor. Prepare a public proclamation: henceforth not one Greek ship will be allowed to pass through the Hellespont into the Euxine. Copper can be obtained in other places, but tin comes from Skythia. And copper and tin combined make bronze! No nation can survive without bronze. In future the Greeks will have to buy it at exorbitant cost from the nations of Asia Minor, as they will have the tin monopoly. The nations of Greece will decay.’

They cheered me deafeningly. Only Antenor frowned; yes, I would have to take him aside and tell him the truth. In the meantime I handed him my staff and hurried back to my palace, where, I suddenly remembered, Hekabe lay at death’s door.

A midwife waited for me at the top of the stairs, her face dripping tears.

‘Is she dead, woman?’

The old hag gri

They had returned Hekabe from the childing stool to her big bed, where she lay, white and weary, with a swaddled bundle in the crook of her left arm. No one had told her the news, and I would not until she was stronger. I bent to kiss her, then looked at the babe as her fingers spread the linen about his face apart. This fourth son she had given me lay quiet and still, not writhing or screwing up his features as newborn babes usually did. He was quite strikingly beautiful, skin smooth and ivory instead of red and wrinkled. Black, curly hair covered his scalp in masses, his lashes were long and black, his black brows finely arched above eyes so dark I could not tell their colour, blue or brown.

Hekabe tickled him beneath his perfect chin. ‘What will you call him, my lord?’

‘Paris,’ I said instantly.

She flinched. ‘Paris? “Married to death”? It is an ominous name, my lord. Why not Alexandros, as we had pla

‘His name will be Paris,’ I said, turning away. She would learn soon enough that this child was married to death on the day of his birth.

I left her higher on her pillows, the bundle cradled feebly against her swollen breasts. ‘Paris, my wee man! You are so beautiful! Oh, the hearts you will break! All women will love you. Paris, Paris, Paris…’

2

NARRATED BY

Peleus

When my new kingdom of Thessalia was in order and I could trust those I left behind me in Iolkos to deal properly with my affairs, I went to the isle of Skyros. Weary, I craved the company of a friend, and as yet I had no friend in Iolkos who could rival King Lykomedes of Skyros. He had been lucky: he had never been banished from his father’s realm, as I had; nor fought tooth and nail to carve another kingdom for himself, as I had; nor gone to war to defend it, as I had. His forefathers had ruled his rocky island since the begi

Old Religion or New, Lykomedes could look forward to the same kind of death, whereas my chances were not so assured. I envied him his tranquil existence, but as I walked with him in his gardens I realised that he had entirely missed a great many of life’s pleasures. His kingdom and his kingship meant less to him than mine did to me; he carried out his work thoroughly and conscientiously, being both a softhearted man and an able ruler, but he lacked utter determination to hang onto what was his because no one had ever threatened to take anything off him.

I knew in full the meanings of loss, of hunger, of desperation. And loved my hard-won new kingdom of Thessalia as he could never love Skyros. Thessalia, my Thessalia! I, Peleus, was High King in Thessalia! Kings owed me allegiance, I, Peleus, who had not set foot north of Attika until a few years ago. I ruled the Myrmidons, the Ant People of Iolkos.

Lykomedes intruded. ‘You think of Thessalia,’ he said.

‘How can I keep my thoughts away?’

He waved a white, languid hand. ‘My dear Peleus, I am not endowed with your powerful enthusiasms. Whereas I smoulder sluggishly, you burn bright and clear. Though I am content to have it so. Were you in my shoes, you would not have stopped until you owned every isle between Crete and Samothrake.’

I leaned against a nut tree and sighed. ‘Yet I’m very tired, old friend. I’m not as young as I once was.’

‘A truth so obvious it doesn’t bear mentioning.’ His pale eyes surveyed me pensively. ‘Do you know, Peleus, that you have the reputation of being the best man in Greece? Even Mykenai has to notice you.’

I straightened and walked on. ‘I am no more and no less than any other man.’

‘Deny it if you must, but it is true all the same. You have everything, Peleus! A fine big body, a shrewd and subtle mind, a genius for leadership, a talent for inspiring love in your people – why, you even have a handsome face!’

‘Continue praising me like this, Lykomedes, and I will have to pack up and go home.’

‘Be still, I’m done. Actually I have something I want to discuss with you. The paean of praise was leading up to it.’

I looked at him curiously. ‘Oh?’

He licked his lips, frowned, decided to plunge into troubled waters without further ado. ‘Peleus, you are thirty-five years old. You are one of the four High Kings in Greece, and therefore a great power in the land. Yet you have no wife. No queen. And, ah – given that you subscribe absolutely to the New Religion, that you have elected monogamy, how are you going to ensure the succession in Thessalia unless you take a wife?’

I could not control my grin. ‘Lykomedes, you fraud! You have a wife picked out for me.’

He looked cagy. ‘I might. Unless you have other ideas.’

‘I think of marriage often. Unfortunately I don’t fancy any of the candidates.’

‘I know a woman who might appeal to you strongly. She would certainly make a splendid consort.’

‘Go on, man! I’m listening avidly.’

‘And with your tongue in your cheek. However, I do mean to go on. The woman is high priestess to Poseidon on Skyros. She was instructed by the God to marry, but she has not. I ca

By this time I was staring at him in astonishment. ‘Lykomedes! I am an expedient!’

‘No, no!’ he exclaimed, face wretched. ‘Hear me out, Peleus!’

‘Poseidon has ordered her to marry?’

‘Yes. The oracles say that if she does not marry, the Lord of the Seas will break the earth of Skyros open and take my isle down into the depths as his own.’

‘Oracles in the plural. So you’ve consulted many?’

‘Even the Pythoness at Delphi and the oak grove at Dodona. The answer is always the same – marry her off, or perish.’

‘Why is she so important?’ I asked, fascinated.

His face became awed. ‘Because she is the daughter of Nereus, the Old Man of the Sea. As such she is half divine by blood – and divided in her loyalties. Her blood heritage belongs to the Old Religion, yet she serves the New Religion. You know what a state of flux our Greek world has endured since Crete and Thera toppled, Peleus. Take Skyros! We were never as dominated by the Mother as Crete or Thera or the kingdoms of the Isle of Pelops – men have always ruled by right here – but the Old Religion is strong. Yet Poseidon is of the New Religion, and we lie under his thumb – he is not only Lord of the Seas which surround us, he is also the Earth Shaker.’