The Songs of the Kings: A Novel Page 14

  She had been helped by the presence of the dealer. In the course of trade he had picked up some Lydian; he had been able to make her understand the questions. She had seen the pleasure on the princess’s face, she had known at once that she was acceptable as a gift; but the questions she remembered as terrible, because she had not answered them well, and because of the laughter of the men that stood round.

  “What is your name?” This was the first thing the princess had asked her, and she had replied—when she understood— with the name that belonged to her then and which she had kept in memory since, as a sort of possession, like her memory of the sea: Amandralettes.

  But it was too difficult. Iphigeneia had a hesitation in her speech at that time, a slight lisp, since overcome. She could not get beyond the cluster of consonants. And at her efforts the laughter came, like a wave lapping round their two serious faces that were so exactly level.

  “Where have you come from?”

  She needed time to answer this, never having had to consider the matter before. But Iphigeneia gave her no time, repeating the question immediately to the people around her.

  “She comes from the country below Mount Sipylus in Lydia,” the dealer said.

  “I will call you by the name of that mountain,” the princess said gravely. In her determination to get the name right she stumbled and began again, so it came out with the first syllable doubled: “Sisipyla.” And this, to general mirth—in which neither child shared—was hailed as the new name.

  “I will give you one of my dresses,” Iphigeneia had said. “I will dress your hair and give you a ribbon for it, a red ribbon. How old are you?”

  She couldn’t answer this, she didn’t know. And now at last Iphigeneia smiled, the tension of excitement dissolving in joy. “You are exactly the same age as me,” she said. “This is our seventh spring, this is our birthday. That makes it perfect.”

  Thus she was given a name and an age and a promise of clothing. The words about perfection she did not understand, having no clear idea at the time of what she looked like. She had a mirror of her own now, an oval of polished bronze with a rim of ivory, a gift from her mistress; but until coming to live at the palace she had never seen a clear reflection of her face. So it was only later that she understood: Iphigeneia had been excited by the resemblance between them. Not only in height and figure and coloring but in feature too, both having the same shape of face and arch of brow, the same fullness of mouth, the same softly rounded molding of cheekbone and chin.

  She thought of this likeness again now. It was her fortune, the reason she had found favor in the princess’s eyes. She had wanted to keep it, to stay within it, like a shelter. As a child, she had watched Iphigeneia’s every slightest movement and tried to copy it exactly, the way of sitting and walking, the expressions of the face, the gestures of the hands. The passage of time and the differences in character and station had lessened the resemblance, though it was still noticeable to the most casual glance. That childish softness of feature was no more; both faces were sharper now, more clearly drawn. There were differences in the cheekbones and setting of the eyes. The expressions were different too. The habit of authority, the expectation of being deferred to, had given a quality of deliberateness to Iphigeneia’s regard, as it had to her manner. She was certain of things. And this Sisipyla felt to be the greatest difference between them. The certainty made her seem calm; but it had something tightly coiled inside it, something Sisipyla recognized but could not name, showing fiercely in the eyes and voice when she was disturbed in her view of things. Sisipyla herself was quicker in her glances, she smiled more than her mistress and noticed more. She had a way of looking round with an air of slight anxiety, as if there might be something she hadn’t quite taken into account.

  What she felt for her mistress she had always called by the name of love. She had been jolted that morning by a fear or a presentiment; and the reaction to it now brought back pictures from the past in a way that had become rare with her. She saw herself as she must have looked on that day of her new name and her new life, mute and bewildered. She saw the bearded, laughing faces and the serious, radiant one level with her own. The questions she couldn’t answer, the pleasure of ownership in the other face, the red dress with its tassels, and the gold at the waist, at the wrists, in the net that lay on the dark hair.

  It had been early spring when she and her mother were taken. They and some other women had been outside the stockade of the village, at the streamside, washing clothes. Talking and laughing together, beating the wet clothes on flat stones, they had heard no sound of an approach. In the flooded plain there were white wading birds with plumed crests. She remembered them with sudden distinctness, their movements, awkward and delicate, the way they thrust their heads forward as they walked. All this in the moment before the raiding party sprang upon them, before their cries were stifled and they were dragged away. Or perhaps not that day, she thought. The plain was always flooded at that time of the year. Memories or inventions, the eagles in the sky, the loud sound of bees? Elsewhere in the standing water great masses of white flowers with yellow throats and a scent of sweetness. And the whole expanse stirring with bees. No, it was another day, the scent belonged to summer, those were flowers of the marshland . . . On that note of decision she got to her feet. It was time she returned to the palace. She gave a final glance down the hillside and at that moment she saw the riders come into view, riding single file on the road below. They were half-obscured in the sun-shot dust cloud of their own making. But she thought she saw the lion standard of Mycenae held aloft in a clearer light for some moments before being again shrouded in the gilded haze. Whoever they were, one of them at least must be familiar with the ground; they had taken the rougher, shorter road, hardly more than a track, that led directly up to the citadel.

  3.

  When Macris had delivered the message at the palace, he made his way to his quarters and called a servant to bring him water. He washed and combed his hair and changed his tunic, sweated and dusty from the hunt, for a clean one. He wanted to make sure that the main gate and the sally ports were properly manned and the men there decently turned out; and he could not do so looking unkempt himself. Despite the openness and apparent nonchalance of his manner, Macris was a reflective and practical young man, much given to considering his situation and prospects. He took very seriously the duties delegated to him by his father, as he did all duties, not because he saw any inherent virtue in doing so, but because such things were noticed, they gained a man credit. In the same spirit he sought always to follow the precepts of his father that one should strive not just to command but to be living proof of fitness to command. One should always be an example to others, always to the fore whenever there was hardship and danger and the prospect of spoils, just as one should take care to be clean and well turned out, with weapons in good order, when requiring these qualities in inferiors. Not to do so might get you a black mark, it might be remembered against you. However, though Macris loved his father, he knew that these precepts were not enough. His father, in fact, was a living proof that they were not enough. Years of danger and service, and he was left here as Agamemnon’s man of trust while everyone who counted was on the way to Troy to make his fortune. His father was too loyal, a fault which Macris did not intend to let linger on into the next generation. He wanted more than to be a man of trust, much more: he wanted fame, he wanted wealth, he wanted Iphigeneia.

  He began at the main gate and adjoining guardhouse. There was a permanent guard of four men here, relieved every six hours. They took turns, in pairs, to do lookout duty at a roofed post outside the gate, beyond the bastion, from where the western approaches could be surveyed—this western limit of the citadel, though the highest in altitude, was the easiest to approach, the slopes being gentler. The guardroom was built against the wall and open on the side of the gate, but there was still a haze of smoke inside and a smell of frying oil. The men on guard, in company with the three
resident hounds, had just eaten the midday meal of beans and eggs. With considerable severity Macris told them to clear out the dogs and make sure they were wearing helmets and carrying spears when they went to unbar the gate to the visitors. “I’ve told you about these animals before,” he said. “And I’ve told you to keep that lookout post manned at all times. If you fail in it again I’ll put the lot of you on punishment drill. First impressions are extremely important. We don’t yet know who these people are. I don’t want them to see bareheaded guards stumbling about, with dogs underfoot. I don’t mean to say you should wear your helmets at all times, I realize they are hot in this weather. But you must wear them when you are in public view, they are part of your equipment.”

  The men listened to him without expression. They were disgruntled, he knew, because he had come upon them unexpectedly. The duty officer normally inspected them only at the changing of the guard. A ridiculous practice, in Macris’s view; if they always knew when the officer was coming, what kind of inspection was it? The fact that there had been no war fought on Mycenaean territory in living memory was no reason for slackness. He kept such opinions to himself, however—no sense in making oneself unpopular when there was nothing to be gained from it.

  Next he went to take a look at the sally port in the northern wall. It was from the guard post on the ramparts here that the famous eagles had first been seen, haunting the spear side of the palace walls. So his father had told him—at the time he had been at sea with his uncle, somewhere east of the island of Melos. The usual regret came with this thought, the sense of having missed a chance. He knew himself to be brave. He had been trained to arms since his boyhood. He did target practice with the javelin every day and had bouts with sword and buckler whenever he could find a partner. He made a point of doing fifty press-ups every morning and working out with weights to keep in shape. And here he was, checking guard posts, trying to instill some sense of discipline into men who basically couldn’t care less.

  Men without ambition, he thought. The worst fault of all. Men like that would end up on the scrap heap. Troy was where the action was, Troy was the opportunity of a lifetime; her riches were celebrated by singers wherever people were gathered together; she had provided an honorable cause for quarrel, blessed by Zeus through the eagles. A returning hero, laden with booty; it was his only hope of being taken seriously in the marriage stakes. With Iphigeneia as his bride there would come royal rank, large grants of land. After that, the way was open. Agamemnon might not survive the war. Orestes was the only son, and he was already, at the age of ten, showing marked signs of mental instability, talking to himself and seeming to see presences in empty rooms. At that rate he would be off his head altogether by the time he came of age.

  No, the prospects were there for the man who was man enough to seize them. And that man he felt himself to be. Apart from everything else, she was a beautiful girl with a great figure. He thought of her again now, as he had seen her at their meeting near the gate, her face framed by the scarf, the way she had met his eyes and glanced aside, the smile she had given him, teasing, yes, but not only that, there had been kindness for him in it. Thinking of this, spurring his horse forward, he felt capable of anything. It was not too late. Some dream was clouding the mind of his father, or some bad augury. But the old man would come round, there would still be time to join the army. In his heart was the hope, naturally unconfessed, that the adverse wind might last just a little while longer, just until he could get to Aulis.

  The men at the sally port had seen the mounted party pass below them, had seen the red-and-white banners of Mycenae carried by the foremost. The riders had already started the ascent, they would soon be at the gate. Learning this, Macris stayed only moments, just long enough to assure himself that all was in order. He was making his way towards the cluster of stone houses on the south side of the citadel, one of which was used as a mess for the officers of the garrison, when he met on the road a small detachment of his father’s people, clan members from the home region of Dendra. Their leader told him they had been detailed to await the visitors outside the gates, where the road drew level with the bastion.

  Macris accompanied them and waited there at their head. They heard the horses’ hooves striking on the stone of the road. Then the first riders came into view and Macris at once recognized Phylakos, the commander of Agamemnon’s personal guard. Riding beside him was a man he did not know, some dozen years older than himself, very erect in his bearing, with strongly marked, impassive features. Behind these two came others whose faces he knew, all men under Phylakos’s command. The numbers were less than had been reported—he counted fourteen.

  He waited there as they advanced, two abreast now on the narrow approach between the bastion and the outer wall. His own people waited in a group, slightly to the rear of him. So long as he was there, they would not move without his order. Phylakos raised a hand in greeting but did not immediately slacken his pace, and for some moments it seemed as if he were expecting those before him to give way without further ceremony.

  But Macris, apart from returning the salute, did not move. There was a procedure to be followed with strangers, even when they came accompanied by people known. Macris believed in procedures, and he saw no reason to relax the rule for the sake of a man whom he neither liked nor trusted.

  Phylakos was obliged to rein in his horse and displeasure at this was written on his face. The man beside him eased forward a little in the saddle but made no other move. He was dark-bearded, with a high-bridged prow of a nose and a curving scar on his forehead. The dust of the journey lay on the riding mantle he wore over his shoulders. “We have ridden far today,” Phylakos said in his harsh, dragging voice. “We are in haste to see the Queen. Have them open the gate.”

  Still Macris did not move. The blood had risen to his face at the other’s tone, at the implication that he was not important enough to have the identity of the stranger announced to him. He took care to show nothing of this, however. “I do not know who it is that is with you,” he said.

  “This is Diomedes,” Phylakos said, anger still in his voice. He made a brief gesture towards the youth before him. “Macris, son of Amphidamas.”

  Both men laid hand on heart and slightly bowed their heads. Macris turned away quickly to order the gate opened. He was afraid it would show in his face, which always showed more than he liked despite all his striving, how impressed he was at this illustrious name, announced so brusquely. It must be a matter of first importance to have brought such a man from Aulis. Diomedes, whose father Tydeus had joined the expedition of the Seven against Thebes and been killed before the walls of the city. Diomedes, who at an age hardly greater than his own had marched against Thebes, together with the other sons of the Seven, the Epigoni, and razed it to the ground in vengeance for his father’s death. Diomedes, who had provided eight ships, who headed the combined forces of Argos, Nauplia and Troezen. Macris was relieved to see that the men at the guardhouse moved briskly and were wearing their helmets and that there were no dogs in sight. It would be seen that he knew how to keep a guardhouse. It was not much to set against a record like that, but it was something.

  The party passed through the gate and onto the ramp. Phylakos and Diomedes at once took the road to the palace. The remainder clattered down to the garrison barracks. Macris followed more slowly. He longed to know the purpose of the visit; but it would be a mistake to start questioning inferiors, to show oneself not only more ignorant than they but vulgarly curious into the bargain. These were points a man had to watch if he was in the business of establishing a reputation.

  4.

  The afternoon was almost over when the summons came for Iphigeneia. She and her younger sister, Electra, and Sisipyla and an older woman who had once been nurse to the princess were playing a game of throw and catch in the small open courtyard adjoining the south staircase. For the ball, Sisipyla had been sent to fetch an old cloth doll, a limp survivor of Iphigeneia’s earliest childh
ood that still had a place in the box of old playthings in the princess’s bedroom.

  The nurse was on the heavy side and rather unwieldy, and she had not really wanted to play. They had found her spinning wool in a shady corner of the courtyard and Iphigeneia had coerced her into it. “We need four people,” she had said. “Less than four is no use at all.” And she had narrowed her eyes and looked intently at the nurse, in the way she had when meeting with opposition.

  Sisipyla, watching this briefest of contests—the nurse did not resist long—had known at once why there had to be four players. The yard was square, the game had to be square too. She had long ago, while they were still children, recognized in her mistress an imperative need for things to match up and to be perfect; not only particular things, like her makeup or the combs in her hair, but forms and arrangements too, things you couldn’t touch or really see, a puzzling matter for Sisipyla. She had watched, with the familiar sense of puzzlement, while Iphigeneia stationed the players in positions exactly corresponding to the angles made by the corners of the walls, forming an exact copy of the square.

  The thing that gave the game its edge, however, was the opposite principle of disorder. None of the players could know whether the doll was to be thrown her way or not; it was permitted, it was even required, to make feints and pretended throws and to change direction at the last moment. The game had begun with a great deal of laughter but then deteriorated fairly quickly. Iphigeneia was getting crosser and crosser, first because the nurse dithered and fumbled, and this slowed the game down, then because Electra, in her eagerness to be tricky, would try to change direction at the very moment of throwing, and this made her aim erratic, so that the doll went flying at an impossible angle and could not be caught however quick one was.

  “How could anyone be expected to catch that?” Iphigeneia demanded furiously, after the doll had come flailing at her knee-high. “Why don’t you learn to throw straight?”