Читать книгу Electra (Mycenaean Greek Trilogy) - Henry Treece - Страница 11

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But I did not think of these things every moment of the day. There were other things in life as well. One morning a man galloped into the city, half-dead with riding, and yelled out that the prince of Troy himself was coming to Mycenae.

All the dark folk ran out and began shouting at once, some saying that High Town would fall, some that we should hack off his head and set it on the Lion Gate, others that the war was now over and we should all feast with wine and bring back Hyacinth.

None of these was true. Prince Paris came up to Mycenae about midday, dressed like any gentleman riding to consult the oracle at Delphi, without armour, and with only a dozen horsemen behind him. He was only half the size of my father, and quite thin. But I liked his yellow hair and the tinkling gold and silver ornaments that hung at his neck and his wrists. He laughed a great deal and spoke our Achaean language with a lisp that interested all the girls. Some of us stood very close to him, so that we could finger the gold fringe on his tunic. He noticed this, and turned his smile upon us, showing his even white teeth. He even leaned towards us so that we could reach the fringe.

His face was shaven smooth, in the old Cretan manner, and his hands were well-kept and their nails trimmed. One of our barons made a comment on this, and on the musky scent that Paris used. But the prince took it all in good part and joined in the laughter of the rough soldiers, so that they had nothing to laugh about then.

Aunt Helen was presented to him and almost fainted when he touched her breast in homage after the Trojan fashion. I saw a shudder run through her. Her eyes went wide open and her lips fell apart as she gasped.

My mother, the queen, whispered to me, ‘She’d go to him here, in full view of the people! It’s a good thing that your Uncle Menelaus is away in Crete!’

I did not answer, because I had seen my uncle only two days before, dressed in thick country clothes, supping in one of the villages. He was not in Crete, whatever my mother said. He was not more than an hour’s ride away.

Hermione, my cousin, the daughter of Helen, muttered to me, ‘I would like the barons to kill this Trojan, then all would be happy again.’

I couldn’t understand it, either: that my father and all his warriors should have been getting ready to make war on Troy for so long, and now, when the very prince of Troy stood in their midst, no one put a spear into him.

I learned, years later, that Paris had come to Mycenae at the invitation of the Achaean League. He had come as the ambassador of his father, King Priam, who thought that this might be one way of preventing war between the peoples. Yet I understood well enough, later, that he had been fetched to Mycenae so that he would see, and desire, Aunt Helen. His visit would start the very war which Troy had hoped to avoid. That was what all our kings wanted, in their hearts.

But, out there on the tall steps of our palace, in full sight of the folk, it was all laughter and courtesy that day. Agamemnon conducted the prince from one noble family to another, explaining who everyone was. The women all kneeled before him and let him raise them again. I heard him whisper to at least three of the girls, and saw them blush. But when he came to me, he only smiled and ran his fingers lightly through my hair, behind the ears. His touch was like little mice and a strange shiver ran tight down me into the deepest part. He said, ‘Amber Princess! Yes, you are rightly called. How I wish you were old enough to come back with me to Troy. You would love the High Town there, and the people would love such a princess. Well, well, so be it. We cannot have everything.’

Then he passed on down the line, and made pleasantries with the girls of other great families. I was trembling as my mother gripped my wrist. She said, ‘Behave yourself, Electra. This young man does not mean what he says. It is their custom to make much of little. They are not like our folk, who make little of much.’

She spoke out of a still face, painted almost as white as marble, with her hair all stiffened with horse-hoof glue, so that it looked as though carved from wood. She always made up so on great occasions, the clay-powder on her face often so thick that she could scarcely move her lips to talk. My father, the king, used to laugh at her preparations: he had only to strap on the thin beaten gold mask which had always been in his family since the dawn-times. And whereas my mother was required by custom to mould her hair into the forms of many snakes, setting these locks with glue, his hair was just brushed out, to flare about the edges of the mask like the sun’s morning rays.

My father was always careless of custom, though. After the first greeting with Paris, he dragged the mask off and flung it to one of the barons to hold for him. Then he scratched in his thick beard just like any peasant troubled by lice, for everyone to see.

But my mother stood as motionless as a statue, always staring above the heads of the people, as a queen should. I recall, that day, that a little breeze lifted her light linen skirts and showed the tattooing on her thighs, but she affected not to notice this, though all the boys on the lower steps were pointing and laughing. It was said that Clytemnestra could walk naked through the market-place without showing loss of dignity, and I am sure that this was true.

Aunt Helen, on the other hand, could be fully covered with all her silks and worsteds—and yet look as though she was undressed. It was her way of shifting about, opening her bodice, or raising her skirt, with little twitches of the hand, as though she didn’t know she was doing it. She seemed always to be on fire under her clothes, and wanting to let air to her body. But my mother was just the opposite. I did not understand this, then; but I do now. It was what destroyed Hellas and let the barbarians in.

After the greetings, Agamemnon took Paris away to a council chamber below the floor of our house, where no women were ever allowed. They were together until sunset, and no one ever knew what they spoke of. I remember that the barons were angry and that many of them got drunk, not watering their wine three-fold as was the rule, and began to boast that they would take the head off the shoulders of Paris before ever he got as far as the coast.

That strange day comes very clearly to my mind, even now, after all those years. There were two great warriors who caused more fuss than anyone else: Diomedes of Argos, who was as handsome as a god, and never made any secret of his love for Aunt Helen; and a strange little hunchbacked king with crow-black hair. This was Idomeneus of Crete. He had a great shield emblazoned with a cock partridge, and a helmet set all about with boars’ tusks. Some said he was not a true Cretan, but an Egyptian. Whatever the case, he claimed direct descent from the first King Minos, and had brought a hundred ships to Aulis. Openly he bragged that without his ships, Agamemnon could not make the attack on Troy. And, when he was drunk, which was often, he used to say that he and Agamemnon were the joint generals of the army and would share the glory of destroying Troy.

I had always admired Diomedes for his fine looks, but King Idomeneus disturbed me. I could not forget that on his first evening at our house he had said something to me while my father was out of the feast-hall; and though it had been done with a comforting smile and a caressing hand, I could never see black hair and a brown skin afterwards without recalling this occasion with disgust.

But I am straying from the story. These two, Diomedes and Idomeneus, seemed to make up their minds early on that Paris should die. At the time of his arrival there was a feast in the palace. My mother and Helen were not present, since the first night was for men alone, and the women would be at the tables on later evenings; but all the young girls of noble birth were there, to stand beside the lords and see that their wine-cups were full, this being an occasion too great for mere slaves or serving-men.

Iphigenia and I stood on either side of my father at the board’s head, so we saw and heard all that happened. So did Helen’s daughter, Hermione, who stood at the right hand of Paris in the place of honour.

Diomedes and Idomeneus sat across the table from Paris and seemed determined to make a fool of him. At first they contented themselves with pointing at his gold ornaments and whispering to each other. Then as the wine-cups were filled, and filled again, they grew bolder until, at last, as there came a lull in the talking and laughter, Diomedes said in a loud voice to his companion, ‘These Phrygians do not pray to the god as we know him. They have taken up the custom of those cattlemen who live in the little hills behind Jericho. They name him e-o-i! Just like children cooing.’

Paris heard this, but went on talking and laughing with my father. However, Diomedes would not let it pass as easily as that. He reached across the table with his long arm and caught Paris by the sleeve.

‘Is that not true, prince?’ he asked, his lips curled back among his face hair.

Paris looked at him across the rim of his cup and said quietly, ‘We have men of many lands in Troy. They each bring their own ways. We do not question them.’

Once more, he would have turned to my father, but King Idomeneus, his dark face reddened with wine, said harshly, ‘This god of Jericho, they tell me he requires a strange offering from the cattlemen. Is that also true, prince?’

The face of Paris flushed and he set down his cup clumsily, spilling the red wine on the scrubbed white board. Diomedes thumped the table and laughed aloud. ‘There, there!’ he called. ‘That arrow found its mark, Paris! Come, comrade, onto the table with you and let us see how it leaves a man! Come now, never let it be said a Trojan was delicate!’

I glanced at my father; he was glowering down at his meat, as though anxious not to offend anyone—Paris, or his own lords. I saw my sister, Iphigenia, her eyelids lowered, but her dark eyes turned on Paris as though she hoped he might do as Diomedes said. Many of the older girls were looking the same way, for life in our great houses was very strict in those times, and it was not often that our curiosity was satisfied.

But Paris seemed to recollect himself suddenly and held out his cup for Iphigenia to fill it again. As she did this, her hand shook so much that the neck of the flask chattered against the lip of his cup. Paris turned and looked up at her shortly. ‘Do not upset yourself, pretty one,’ he said, ‘there will be no show.’

Diomedes was beside himself at the calmness of Paris. He turned once more to the Cretan and began to urge him to drink faster and more than his head would stand. Soon, Idomeneus was calling for a harpist and bawling out that he had a song to sing. This was his usual custom and no one gave much heed to it: but tonight there was silence as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand, and clambered onto the table. Diomedes, already half-speechless, poured wine over the Cretan’s head and slapped him on the back, too hard, making him cough and splutter. But at last Idomeneus snatched the harp away from the slave who had come running, and began to sing, in his high, nasal voice:

A beardless boy

Who came from Troy

Met Hermes in the hills.

‘Come, come, young sir,’

Cried the messenger,

‘And judge these pretty girls.’

Three girls he set before the boy,

One black, one gold, one red:

‘Come, pick me out,’ called Hermes sly,

‘The one you’d like to bed!’

He took a golden apple

And put it in his hand.

‘Take this,’ he said, ‘and make your choice;

Be king of all this land.

For that’s the prize if you choose aright.’

‘But what if I choose all wrong?’

Hermes frowned. ‘Then the best you’ll get

Is to hear Idomeneus’ song!’

As the Cretan’s tongue shambled, slurred with wine, over the crowded syllables, Diomedes pointed at Paris and laughed wildly, as though a great joke had been made. Many of the rough up-country barons and squires joined him, nudging one another and beating their cups on the table.

Paris, who had sat with lowered eyes while the song was on, now glanced up, his light eyes as keen as dagger-blades. Then he rose and took the harp from the Cretan and, with one foot on the bench, sang quietly:

What magic lies in wine, sweet wine,

The dark blood of the grape!

It makes fools brave and heroes whine,

Turns gentle love to rape.

Three cups, and dark has changed to light,

Or sea has changed to sky;

Another, and tomorrow’s hope

Is last year’s memory!

Oh wine, the Maenads’ only joy

At the sad sun’s decline,

Turns lions of Argos into dogs

And Cretan bulls to swine!

As he sang, the men were silent in the hall, so as to miss none of his words; but as he drew to the finish and flung the harp back to the trembling slave, a hiss sounded everywhere, as though the kings and barons had been drenched with cold water and were catching at their breath.

Diomedes was swaying above the table, his knuckles white on the board, his spittle running into his trimmed beard. King Idomeneus was feeling all round his waist for his dagger, forgetful that he had left it in the vestibule, according to the feast laws in Mycenae.

Only Paris was still smiling. ‘Come, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘a song for a song. Can the Hellenes take a joke no longer?’

Diomedes said thickly, ‘Trojan, I will take more than that—I will take your head.’

Then, as the shouting started, my father the High King, the Lion of Mycenae, rose from his carved chair at the head of the table. I had almost forgotten him, and now, as his great head and shoulders thrust up from among all the folk who clustered round him, he seemed like Poseidon the Bull rising up from the dark waves at midnight. He did not speak words, but a deep roaring came out of his belly and his chest. Men fell away from him, from the benches. I trembled so much that my hands let fall the wine flask. I did not hear it shatter on the stone floor, but I felt the cold liquid splash up my legs.

Then Agamemnon was towering above Diomedes and the Cretan king. They were like little children beside him, and their eyes turned up as though their hearts had left them. My father’s eyes were so huge and empty that, in the flickering torchlight, I thought for an instant his fury had blinded him, or that Zeus had taken his sight for allowing such words at his table.

Then Agamemnon squealed shrill, like a stuck pig, and brought his clenched fists down on Diomedes, thumping his fine head onto the thick oak board. He struck him again many times, until Diomedes slithered away into the straw and lay still.

And all the while, King Idomeneus stood there, shuddering, but making no attempt to retreat. Even when my father took him by the wrist and twisted it so hard that we heard the sinews strain, the Cretan made no effort to defend himself. The sweat streamed down his dark face and he bit his lips until they bled, rather than cry out.

Soon we were glad when Agamemnon punched him at the side of the neck and tumbled him beside Diomedes in the straw, for that meant the end of his suffering for a while.

And when this was done, we stood away, each moving with little steps so as not to be noticed, leaving my father and Paris alone at the table.

It was then that I was most truly afraid of Agamemnon, for he seemed to be seeking another to kill, seeking with his blind, mad eyes, which swung over the huddled company and came to rest at last on the Trojan.

For a while, all wondered what the end would be. The High King mumbled and slavered and then suddenly said, ‘Paris the Phrygian! The Trojan trouble-maker! The horse-thief who picks from the mares and leaves the stallions! But for you, this hall would be a happy place. But for you.’

He made half a pace towards the young man, but Paris stood quite still and smiling. Then I saw that in his right hand he held a narrow-bladed dirk that he had pulled from within his feast robe.

He said in his high clear voice, ‘Come no closer, Lion. I am not from Argos, nor from Crete, so I shall not stand quiet while you beat my brains out.’

It was as though someone had desecrated a shrine, or left ordure on the Mother’s altar. The hall was as silent as death. No one had ever spoken like this to the High King before.

Then all at once Agamemnon laughed, so loud, so hard, that I was almost sick with fear. And suddenly he was holding Paris in his arms, like an old friend who had been lost, and was now found. And Paris was clapping him on the back, as one would clap a worthy horse. His dagger had gone into its sheath again, as quietly as it had come out.

I made my way from that room as soon as I could, and wept alone in my bed, growing more and more aware what it meant to have a god for one’s father, what it was to be daughter of the Lion King of Mycenae. It was a wearisome burden.