King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

‘There’s already too many to remember,’ Peisandros laughed, ‘and more arrive every day. But I’ll name the most famous – all powerful and from good stock. First to come was Agamemnon, son of Atreus and king of Mycenae. You’ve met Clytaemnestra, so you already know he hasn’t come as a suitor: he’s here to support his brother’s claim.’

‘Menelaus? I already know about him,’ Odysseus murmured.

‘And a fine man he is, too. Rumour says he’s already been chosen as Helen’s husband. But that’s just gossip between the men, of course,’ Peisandros added, remembering Odysseus was a suitor. ‘What would we know of politics, after all?

‘Then there’s Nauplius’s son, Palamedes. He has a face like a rat, but Helen couldn’t wish for a more intelligent and inventive husband. Then there’s Idomeneus, king of Crete and son of Deucalion. He has all the attributes a woman could want: strength, courage, wealth and power. Good looks, too. Next comes Menestheus, son of Peteos. His father made him king of Athens at a young age and now he’s come here to find a wife worthy of his position. Athens is an ambitious state, and he’s confident Helen will be his.

‘The most recent arrival, other than yourselves, is King Diomedes of Argos, Tydeus’s son. He arrived this morning, refusing refreshment or rest so that he could join the boar hunt. When I saw him walk through the gates, I thought a god had come to preside over the festivities. I tell you now, if he isn’t chosen as Helen’s husband – if you’ll forgive me saying so, Odysseus – then Tyndareus has already made up his mind and this whole gathering is a charade.’

At that point they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in the streets below, accompanied by the shouts and laughter of a multitude of men. The hunters were returning in good spirits.

‘Roast boar tonight then,’ Peisandros said, leaning over the balcony and trying to catch a glimpse of the returning warriors.

‘I’d expect no less,’ Eperitus commented, joining him. ‘If the best warriors in Greece can’t spear a couple of boars, then who can?’

The Myrmidon laughed. ‘Just as long as they aren’t trying to spear each other, that’s all I care about.’

The great hall of the palace at Sparta dwarfed Laertes’s throne room back on Ithaca, easily accommodating the hundreds of guests and slaves who were busy with the night’s feast. At its centre were four painted columns of wide girth, supporting a ceiling so high that it was almost lost in shadow. A great pall of smoke gathered there from the central fire, curling about the rafters like a serpent upon the branches of a tree.

Every room in the palace complex was clean, roomy and magnificently decorated. The walls abounded with an endless variety of animals, birds, fishes and plants, skilfully depicted in vibrant colours that made the creatures seem alive as they stalked each other between bushes and trees, lakes and rivers. But these were only the commonplace designs, used to enrich the hundreds of functional rooms that filled the palace. The more important rooms such as the great hall and the royal quarters were decorated with scenes from legendary battles or stories concerning the gods. Some pictured mythical creatures, whilst others showed human figures at work or play: there were naked boys running foot races; others wrestling or boxing; yet more competing with javelin or discus. It was a place of such wealth and luxury that the halls of Olympus itself would have struggled to surpass it.

The hunters’ return had filled the palace with the hubbub of many people. Odysseus kept his men confined to their rooms on the upper floor, but outside they could hear the many kings and princes disperse to their separate quarters to bathe and put on fresh clothing. Only when Clytaemnestra, still dressed in black, came to bid them join the feast at her father’s request did the Ithacans leave and descend the broad steps to the floors below.

Filing out across the central courtyard towards the entrance to the great hall, they passed the carcasses of scores of bullocks, sacrificed to bring the blessings of the gods and feed the many revellers whom the four or five roasted boar would not. The blood ran down in thick rivulets across the muddy floor and gathered in pools of deep red. The smoke from the burned thigh-bones and fat which the priests had offered up to the gods choked the air and put a pall over the face of the early evening moon.