The Songs of the Kings by Barry Unsworth Page B

moments later to admit him. Agamemnon was sitting in the same place, on his chair of state, staring somberly before him. Two dark-skinned male slaves were fanning him with squares of woven rush attached to long canes. The displaced air lapped in warm waves against the priest’s face as he approached to make his obeisance. Bowing low, he smelled again the sweetish odor of hemp that hung about the King’s person.
    Agamemnon kept his face averted as he listened; but Calchas was not discouraged by this, knowing it for the habit of kingship among the Mycenaeans. There was a haggardness, a look of nightmare, in the face thus presented in profile. As he made his request, Calchas felt some sorrow mingling with his fear; and while he waited through the long silence for the answer he tried to conquer the fear with the sorrow. Ruler of the most powerful kingdom in all the Greek lands. A sacral king by virtue of his forefathers in the House of Atreus. By common consent and election of his peers, commander of a great invasion force. Troy waiting over the water, a city famous for her gold and her horses. The eagles of Zeus, blessing his quarrel. The prayers all uttered, the libations all made. And now this raging wind from the north, prolonged in a way never before heard of in this season, implacable, keeping the fleet penned there. And he wonders, Has the god turned against me? What mistake have I made, how have I offended? And no word or sign. And not far away there are those ready to blame him for the wind, for the vicious fault which he cannot discover, ready to proclaim themselves to the army as more fortunate, more favored. People with a following already, Palamedes, Idomeneus . . .
    Agamemnon raised his right hand in the gesture of consent. “By sunset tomorrow you will return. You will tell us the meaning as you have understood it. I will call an assembly of the chiefs. We will also hear Croton and any others who have a mind to speak.”
    Calchas was beginning to back away, but the King spoke again, in a different, sharper tone. “This morning, before the meeting, you were seen talking to Ajax the Larger. The two of you, faces close together, he gripping your arm.”
    â€œYes, we spoke together.”
    â€œWhat was the subject of this talk?”
    â€œLord Ajax spoke to me about his idea for a Day of Games.”
    â€œAnd what may that be?”
    Calchas did his best to explain Ajax’s idea, no easy matter, as he had been so muddled about it himself. There would be competition in various things, running, jumping, weight lifting, throwing the javelin. Those who did well would gain points and these points would also belong to the places they came from. In the end, one person and one place would have more points than any other person or place, but the person with the most points would not necessarily be from the place with the most points . . .
    Agamemnon stirred in his chair with a restless motion. A look of frowning incredulity had appeared on his face. He could not believe, in the midst of the troubles that plagued him, that he should find himself listening to such stuff. Calchas said, “He sees it as a way of bringing the men together in friendly competition, keeping their minds off the wind and putting an end to all this quarreling and bloodshed.”
    â€œWhy did Ajax not come to me himself with this?”
    â€œLord, I do not know.”
    In the silence that followed he felt the King’s eyes upon him and kept his own gaze fixed on the ground. Since this affliction of the wind Agamemnon saw conspiracy everywhere and he was dangerous in his suspicions because any trifle might be taken to confirm them.
    â€œWell,” he said at last, “it sounds a dubious enterprise to me but I don’t see anything against it, it will keep him busy at least.” A sudden contempt lightened the misery of his face, restored for a moment or two its normal expression of tight-lipped, watchful