The Songs of the Kings

'Brilliant.' Odysseus felt the customary throb of pleasure at subjecting another's intelligence to purposes of his own. It was hardly necessary in this case, their interests more or less coincided; but deceit was more than an inveterate habit, it was power, it quickened the blood in his veins. 'I never thought of it in quite that way, but it's true,' he said. 'Duels won't do it. Omens won't do it. That is all spectacle, it is all part of the entertainment business. What we need is something more, something definite.' He paused a moment, brow furrowed. 'Something that will reconcile them to waiting.'

'We need an event, a significant future event.'

'A significant future event, bravo, that's it exactly.' He looked with smiling wonder at Chasimenos, who was still tracing the flight paths of the insect. 'Absolutely brilliant,' he said. A delicate moment had arrived. Chasimenos was loyal to Agamemnon, and even loved the King in his way, or at least regarded himself as the King's creature. That could be put to use, but it needed a light touch. 'Of course,' he said, 'whatever this future significant event turns out to be, and I am confident of further ideas from you on that score, we must take care that Agamemnon is kept informed.'

Chasimenos' look of concentration disappeared and he stared at Odysseus with surprise and the begi

'Well, now that you put it like that... Of course, whoever guarantees an end to the waiting will be hailed as leader and, as we know only too well, there are those among us ready to seize any occasion to take over the command. No, I see it now, we daren't allow Agamemnon to be set aside, relegated, what's the word I'm looking for?'

'Marginalized.'

'Marginalized, brilliant. No, we can't allow Agamemnon to be marginalized, whatever happens we can't allow that. But the thing is, if he is not to be marginalized, if he is to act as guarantor, he will have to accept responsibility, wouldn't you agree?'

'Certainly. Responsibility is the essence of command.'

'Essence of command, there you go. But responsibility for what?'

'Why, the conduct of the war, of course.'

'I couldn't agree more, but we are still here at Aulis, still waiting to embark. How to deal with this waiting also belongs to the conduct of the war, wouldn't you say?'

Chasimenos was looking less certain now. 'I suppose so, yes,' he said.

'So Agamemnon, if he is to be responsible for the conduct of the war, must make himself responsible for the waiting, which means that he will also be held responsible for the cause of it, the wind. If he is not to be marginalized, I mean. We can't allow him to be marginalized, can we?'

'Certainly not. But no one knows the cause of the wind.'

'Exactly, you've hit the nail on the head, no one knows the cause, that's why it's so demoralizing. But if they believe they know the cause, if they believe it lies in him, in the King, if they believe he has it in his power to end it, not now, not immediately, but through some significant future event, to use your excellent phrase, something only he can do, what then?'

The two men looked closely at each other for some moments. Then Chasimenos said, 'We could hope to discover the sender and make sacrifices of atonement. In that case, the curse would be lifted before the future significant event needed to take place. Then there would be no problem. But the King will suffer in the meantime.'

'He will, he will,' Odysseus said, infusing his tone with compassion. Agamemnon was already being blamed for the wind, they both knew that. It surprised him slightly that Chasimenos, for all his undoubted intelligence, understood so little of future significant events and relative probabilities and the nature of public promises.

Or perhaps he wished to seem ingenuous. Either way, it didn't matter.

The scribe was nodding slowly. 'I can't see any way round it,' he said. 'No one will believe that Agamemnon can put an end to the wind without also believing that he is the cause of it. It's inescapable.'

'Inescapable, brilliant, that's just–'

At this moment, Phylakos re-entered the tent, the tall and lantern-jawed Croton beside him. Odysseus briefly debated within himself whether the captain should stay. As a general principle, the less the trust, the less the risk, but Phylakos could be useful; he had influence with certain sections of the army, especially those from Mycenae, and his own interest could be expected to keep him faithful.

'I am glad Phylakos found you,' he said to Croton. 'Can I offer you a cup of wine?'

The priest's long hair, which he usually wore piled in the shape of an inverted bowl on top of his head and waxed to keep it in place, had been disordered by the wind and hung round his face in glistening strands. His lips were very pale and sometimes had a writhing motion when he spoke. 'I am under a vow,' he said. 'I take nothing to eat or drink during the hours of the sun.'

'I see. Is there some special reason?'

'Until this unclea

'Let us hope it will be soon, for your health's sake.' Odysseus glanced away from the priest's face, which was disturbing in its contrast between the fixed gaze and the convulsive movements of the mouth. Croton inspired a strong distaste in him, but one could not always choose one's instruments. And the priest would go to any lengths to spread the power of Zeus and his own. 'I am told you have a theory – let us call it that – regarding the sender of this wind and the reason it is sent?'

2.

The Singer was in the place he usually occupied in the middle hours of the day, sheltered from the wind and protected from the sun by an overhang of rock. He had been silent for some time, leaning back against the rock, between sleep and waking, his lyre resting over his knees. The dazzle of reflected sunlight from the white surfaces of granite on the hillside, the shivering of light from the scrub as it was endlessly agitated by the wind, the vague gleams of human forms as they moved before him, these were splinters that could still hurt what was left of his eyes. He kept them closed now as he took up the lyre again, feeling the thin, bitter tears beneath the closed lids.

It had been a day like all the others since they came there, the wind contending with his voice. Earlier, the boy had come again, bringing bread and figs. He had sat close as he always did, not speaking or moving, listening intently – the Singer could sense the intensity of this listening. He did not know the boy's name and had never heard his voice. He came every day, though not at the same time, and generally brought some gift of food. Today he had not stayed long. Then, some time later, there had been the face of Ajax the Larger hovering above him like a reddish, cratered moon. From one of the craters came a request for a song of praise dedicated to Ajax the Unifier and celebrating the brilliant idea of a Games Day. Ajax had asked if Calchas the diviner had already approached him with this, but the Singer never gave information about his sources. He had forgotten, he said, his sight was poor, there were so many requests, so very many. Ajax had promised him a silver hairclip and he had promised in return that he would compose the song in his mind and then, on receiving the hairclip, sing it.

A lie, of course. He never composed verses beforehand. He possessed a vast stock of epithets and phrases inherited from his father, who had also been a singer. For the rest, for what was new in the song, he relied on the prompting of the gods, which came to him more strongly and urgently at some times than at others but never entirely failed him. He sighed as he struck the preliminary run of notes, his usual way of attracting attention. How many dusty roads he had travelled. It was shameful that people should try and take advantage of a blind, old man. He would give his services free when he chose; but not for a skinflint like that one.