Free The Song of Troy by Colleen McCullough Page B

of all Greece. Though I had never liked her, she used to awe me when I was little, sweeping round the halls in one of her famous tempers, her flame hair stiff with fury, her black eyes blazing. I grinned. What a merry dance she must lead her husband with her tantrums, High King or not! However, Agamemnon looked as if he was capable of controlling her. He was just as domineering as Klytemnestra.
    My parents were debating my marriage.
    ‘I had best send heralds to all the Kings,’ said Father.
    ‘Yes – and the sooner, the better. Though the New Religion frowns on polygamy, many of the Kings have not taken queens. Idomeneus, for instance. Imagine! One daughter on the throne at Mykenai, the other on the throne of Crete. What a triumph!’
    Father demurred. ‘Crete is not the power it used to be. The two positions are not equivalent.’
    ‘Philoktetes?’
    ‘Yes, a brilliant man, destined for great things, they say. However, he is a king in Thessalia, which means he owes Peleus homage as well as Agamemnon. I’m thinking more of Diomedes, just back from the Thebes campaign and covered in wealth as well as glory. I like the idea of Argos, it’s just down the road. If Peleus had been a younger man he would have been my automatic choice, but it is said he refuses to marry again.’
    ‘No use dwelling on those who are unavailable,’ my mother said briskly. ‘There’s always Menelaos.’
    ‘I haven’t forgotten him. Who could?’
    ‘Send invitations to everyone, Tyndareus. There are heirs to thrones as well as kings. Odysseus of Ithaka is King there now that old Laertes is senile. And Menestheus is a far more stable High King of Attika than Theseus was – thank all the Gods that we do not have to deal with Theseus!’
    I jumped. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, skin prickling. In my heart I had been hoping that Theseus would come for me, claim me as his bride. Since my return from Athens I had heard no mention of his name.
    My mother took my hands in hers and held them firmly. ‘Well, best you find out from us, Helen. Theseus is dead, exiled and killed on Skyros.’
    I wrenched away from her and ran from the room, my dreams in ashes. Dead? Theseus was dead? Theseus was dead and a part of me was forever cold.
    Two moons later my brother-in-law Agamemnon arrived with his own brother, Menelaos, in his train. When they walked into the Throne Room I was present – a novelty for me, but an exhilarating one; suddenly I was the pivot upon which all discussion turned. Messengers had come from the palace gate to warn us, so the High King of Mykenai and all Greece entered to the blare of horns, a cloth of gold spread for his imperial feet.
    I could never make up my mind whether I liked him or not, yet I did understand the awe he inspired. Very tall and as straight and disciplined as a professional soldier, he walked as if he owned the world. His jet black hair was faintly sprinkled with grey, his snapping black eyes could become menacing, his nose was beaked haughtily, his thin lips curled at the corners in permanent contempt.
    Men so dark were unusual in Greece, a land of big, fair men, but instead of being ashamed of his darkness, Agamemnon flaunted it. Though the fashion was for a cleanshaven chin, he sported a long, curling black beard forced into regular screws by ribbons of gold, and he did his hair in the same way. He was dressed in a full-length robe of purple wool embroidered all over in a complicated design of gold thread, and in his right hand he carried the imperial sceptre of solid gold, swinging it as easily as if it were made of chalk.
    My father came down from his throne and knelt to kiss his hand, doing him the homage which all the Greek Kings owed to the High King of Mykenai. My mother moved forward to join them. For the moment I was ignored, which gave me time to turn my attention to Menelaos, my prospective suitor. Oh, oh! Eager anticipation gave way to shocked disappointment. I had become quite used to the