Beware of Greeks Read online

  BEWARE OF GREEKS

  A Trojan Murders Mystery

  Peter Tonkin

  © Peter Tonkin 2020

  Peter Tonkin has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.

  For:

  Cham, Guy, Mark and Lana as always.

  Table of Contents

  1 - Captain Odysseus

  2 – Phthia

  3 – Skopelos

  4 – Skyros

  5 - The Women’s Quarters

  6 - The Seventh Son

  SOURCES

  The Trojan War & Homeric Warfare

  The Trojan War - Myth or Fact

  The Truth about TROY

  Great Battles: Was there a Trojan War? Recent Excavations at Troy

  ‘Then Helen, offspring of Zeus, answered him, “This is the son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, who was bred in the land of Ithaca, rugged country though it is, and is master of all kinds of trickery and clever plans.”’

  Homer The Iliad tr Martin Hammond.

  1 - Captain Odysseus

  i

  I was born in Aulis, seaport to the great city of Thebes, youngest son to a family of merchants. Indulged by my elders without exception or limit, I grew into a capricious and demanding youth who insisted on going everywhere and seeing everything our traders had to show me. By the time I approached manhood, therefore, I had voyaged to the most distant outposts of our trading empire which reached as far to the east as the slave markets of Miletus and Phoenician Tyre, and even farther to the west: beyond the Berber Sea and as far as the Gates of Gades which some call the Pillars of Hercules.

  My favourite of the many ports and cities I visited was Troy. I returned to Troy as often as I could and grew to know every street and alley from the docks to the royal palace; from the teeming wharves to the walls of the citadel which were still being repaired after a massive quaking of the earth—the work of the god Poseidon, according to local legend. Strong though they had been, they were further damaged during a pirate raid by several famous heroes led by Hercules, which had resulted in the death of King Laomedon and the succession of his son King Priam more than two generations earlier.

  In those days, Troy was a rich and important city, famous as an entrepot for a range of goods from well-bred horses to jewels, scents, exotic fabrics and spices – and, most importantly, metals. It was the centre for much of the trade in copper and tin from which our metalsmiths made bronze. The cunning Trojan traders and their Greek counterparts like my father, changed copper and tin not only into bronze—but into gold; which they kept locked in their coffers or invested in ever-richer enterprises. As the murderous attack by Hercules and his pirates proved, however, Troy was a tempting target for men whose designs were less than honest, despite the height of its walls and the massive size of its gates.

  In fact the place had three names, which reflected the various peoples which packed its teeming streets, temples and squares. To the local Mysian Anatolians who ruled the thin coastal strip on which the city stood, it was Ilium. To the Hittites whose great empire stretched away to the east, but pressed ever westward, threatening to squeeze the last Anatolians into the Aegean Sea, it was Wilusa. And to us Greeks—many of whom called ourselves Achaeans in those days—it was Troy. Whatever its name, it was a place of almost magical attraction, of mystery and fascination. Sometimes it seemed like an outpost of Achaean influence with so many Greeks bustling there. But it also heaved with the Anatolians, their language as strange as their clothing and their accents—even when they attempted Greek—impenetrable. But it seemed like an outpost of the Hittite empire as well, with its veiled women, its strange rites and practices which had begun to spread ever further westward, into some of the islands in the middle of the Aegean. Exotic beliefs made more alien still through the influences of the Phoenician, Egyptian and Assyrian traders who came and went amongst all the others.

  But for the most part, those rulers who answered to High King Agamemnon in Mycenae kept to ancient Achaean traditions. At that time our king Thersander in Thebes, followed the western practice of having only one wife. Even Agamemnon only had one wife, the beautiful Clytemnestra. King Priam, on the other hand, ruled over a harem in the eastern fashion. Queen Hecuba was only the senior of his spouses and, below his official wives, he had numerous concubines. Agamemnon had four children but only one son—Orestes. Priam had at least fifty—the eldest was Hector and the youngest was Paris. In a city with such a ruler, there was an air of license. Anything was possible. Anything could be purchased if the price was right; anything at all. It was like a cesspool into which the dregs of the Aegean drained. Such men naturally tended to congregate in the less wholesome areas of the lower city and the docks.

  And it was several such men who set upon me, cudgelled me to the ground, robbed me, and left me for dead one night as I was returning from the upper city to my ship.

  Saved from death and carried aboard by my captain, I awoke at home in Aulis to find that my life had changed. My broken leg healed as well as could be expected but I limped now and could neither run nor climb. My left arm had not fared so well. It was little more than a club, capable of holding firmly but with limited movement except in my hand which could still close to a fist. Most disastrously of all, the damage to my face and head had affected my eyes and my vision was restricted. I could still see, but not well and with occasional flashes—as though a thunderstorm in my head was throwing great bolts of lightning across what little I could perceive. In short, I was no longer any use whatsoever upon a trading vessel and a considerable liability into the bargain. The physicians to whom my grieving parents took me explained that my condition was unlikely to improve—indeed, my sight might deteriorate.

  Determined not to become a helpless burden, I demanded that my father find me some occupation I could follow, even in my current condition. He sent me to his partner in the city of Chalcis, Aulis’ sister port which stood on the Island of Euboea a couple of leagues distant across a narrow strait. Father’s partner put me to work in his warehouses. Here I was tutored by his Cretan record keeper in the art of making marks upon clay tablets. I reluctantly learned to incise the simple characters that recorded what goods went in and out and made a manifest of what remained. The Cretan told me of others trained like him who worked at the major trading houses and even at the court of the High King where the strange symbols could record messages passed from one great monarch to another. The Hittites also had such a system, but the Achaean system and the Hittite one did not match. Such things were unknown amongst the lesser kings in any case, he said, but if I applied myself he could teach me much about this strange process that he called writing. However, I found the work impossibly boring and soon returned home, feeling bitterly helpless and useless.

  ***

  But as the Fates would have it, as I made my halting way across Aulis’ busy agora one afternoon soon after my return from Chalcis, I came across Stasinus the rhapsode. He was seated in a space among the market stalls, at the centre of an admiring crowd who were demonstrating their appreciation of his work by placing money, food and drink in front of him. What I could see of the man was not impressive despite his expensive clothing. He was old, hunched, and thin as a twig. One of his legs was twisted and a crutch lay by his side. I got close enough to perceive that one of his eyes was milk-white and the other had an unsettling squint. However, his importance lay not in what he looked like but in what he sounded like. In a voice as clear and resonant as that of the famous rhapsode Orpheus himself, he was reciting a lyric telling of nymphs and shepherds on the slopes of Mount Olympus. His words seemed to have a strange power as he told of the
puny mortals and the eternal gods and goddesses watching them at play. I found I was entranced and full of an excitement I could hardly find words to express.

  When Stasinus was finished and the crowd was gone, I helped him collect his payment and began the task of talking him into accepting me as his apprentice as I guided him towards a nearby tavern. I had, I maintained, many of the qualifications to be a rhapsode already. I had an excellent memory, which could be further sharpened with practise. I had an arm suited for holding a lyre—if for little else. I limped, though I was not precisely crippled. Most persuasive of all, I was partially sighted, like Stasinus himself, a fact which promised to sharpen my memory even further, the loss of one sense seemingly balanced by the acquisition of other strengths. It took some time to win him over, but my family was wealthy and supportive after the disaster of my employment in the warehouse, and in the face of my sudden overpowering enthusiasm. Some gold changed hands and there was the promise of a new lyre, which eventually overcame any reservations Stasinus might have had.

  As the seasons passed, while my vision settled and my leg strengthened, Stasinus taught me the basic chords I needed to enliven the pastoral lyrics he made me commit, word for word, into my memory. But only one of his songs really interested me—an epic that he in turn had learned at the knee of his own master. This told the tale of Captain Jason, his famous crew, the good ship Argo and their voyage to Colchis. In fact, it was a voyage that I had made myself in these more modern times, following the route that Captain Jason had explored, so I began to add details from my own experience. It was also a voyage that Hercules had undertaken as one of the Argo’s crew before he jumped ship with his companion Hylas and went pirating to Troy instead. As I added detail after detail—much to Stasinus’ disapproval—I began to wonder what an epic that told of Hercules’ raid on Troy might sound like. Something deep within me, it seemed, blamed the city I had once loved for the injuries done to me on the docks there, so planning a song about its destruction seemed to satisfy some profound if unexpected need in me. In my imagination I began to follow Hercules from his ship to the gate of the lower town, up the hill and through the Scaean Gates into the Citadel, then into the Royal Palace itself in the days when old King Priam was younger even than young Prince Paris was now.

  In the face of my master’s disapproval, I spent more time down on the dockside where my father’s ships were moored, and in the taverns frequented by his men—who knew me and would watch out for me should anyone try to take advantage of my situation. It was in one of these taverns that my life changed once again.

  I was seated by the fire, lyre in hand, eyes closed as I struck the strings and sang. I had just finished one of my master’s pastoral lyrics and was beginning a new epic of my own, following Hercules in my memory and with my words on his fatal path toward the Citadel, the Palace and the doomed King Laomedon. ‘Sing, Muses, of the anger of Hercules, black and murderous, costing the Trojans terrible sorrow, casting King Laomedon into Hades’ dark realm leaving his royal corpse for the dogs and the ravens. Begin with the bargain between the old king and Godlike Hercules. Strong promises the old king broke calling forth the rage of the son of Zeus…’

  My song followed Hercules as he prowled through the streets I knew so well, through the lower gates in the outer wall, through the lower city, past the vacant night-time agora with its empty market stalls, up towards the citadel and the palace and the king.

  Until a quiet voice commanded, ‘Stop.’

  ii

  I obeyed, falling silent and opening my eyes to find myself confronted by a man perhaps ten years my senior; a well-built, solid man of middle height whose red curls and short, thick beard seemed to gleam with bronze in the firelight. The fire also revealed a pair of deep-set eyes that were the blue of the sea at the furthest horizon on a calm summer’s afternoon. He wore a cloak and beneath it a richly figured tunic which ended just above his knees. In doing so it revealed a scar which ran up the outside of his left thigh, a pale ridge along the bronzed flesh of his leg. He presented no threat and my father’s crewmen sat well back, observing him with awe.

  ‘You seem to know Troy well,’ he said. ‘Unless you learned the song from some other rhapsode.’ His voice was deep, his tone abrupt – that of someone used to unquestioning obedience.

  ‘The song is mine. I know the place,’ I said.

  ‘I might be able to use a man who knows Troy as well as you seem to,’ he said.

  ‘Even a man who is half blind?’ I asked. My dull gaze met his dazzling one and he nodded as he assessed the damage to my face and my eyes.

  ‘Even a man who, sitting in a tavern in Aulis, nevertheless can guide me through the back streets and dark alleys of Troy up to the palace of Priam himself,’ he said at last.

  ‘Are you Hercules reborn then?’ I asked. ‘Planning to pirate the place?’

  ‘No, lad. I am Captain Odysseus and I mean what I say.’

  ‘Odysseus,’ I said. ‘You share that name with the King of Ithaca. As you share that scar on your left thigh.’

  ‘As I have been told,’ said Captain Odysseus, ‘many times before.’

  ‘The King of Ithaca,’ my father mused when I told him of my new acquaintance later that evening. ‘A man whose cleverness borders on cunning, not to say deviousness by all accounts. What does such a man want with you?’

  ‘He wants someone to sing to his crewmen aboard his ship Thalassa, he says,’ I answered. ‘Lyrics Stasinus taught me of the mountains and fields would be as acceptable as epics of the sea and pirates such as Jason son of Aeson and Hercules who called himself son of Zeus.’

  ‘Someone who knows the back-streets of Troy like the back of his hand, more like,’ mused my father. ‘Someone who could go in there unnoticed and come out again unremarked. Because who would take any notice of a half-blind rhapsode limping here and there and singing the odd song?’ he paused. ‘Who but Odysseus would see the potential you could represent?’

  ‘Troy?’ I asked, bemused, failing to remark that Father, also noted for his deviousness, had seen the potential for spying I seemed to represent as clearly as the cunning King of Ithaca. ‘What about Troy?’

  ‘It’s all over the docks,’ he explained. ‘It has been for some time, though it may have escaped the attention of you and your rhapsodic master. King Agamemnon’s planning a raid.’

  ‘Against Troy?’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘He says it’s to retrieve his brother’s wife Helen, stolen away by Prince Paris. But it’s more likely to extend his own power eastwards onto both shores of the Aegean. Not to mention adding enormously to his already considerable wealth and reputation, as Hercules did all those years ago before I was even born. If he uses Troy as a focal point, he might even manage to sweep the Anatolians off the Aegean’s eastern shore altogether. Put himself hard up against the Hittites. Stop them coming westward—unless they make him an offer he finds irresistible. He’s apparently planning to assemble an enormous army and expects to win a great victory in a matter of months.’

  ‘Months?’ I said, remembering Troy’s stout outer walls and that massive central citadel whose fortifications were made of huge stone blocks which sloped upwards and inwards. They were more than a kalamos, 15 feet, wide at the base and much more than that to the top. Even Hercules could not have got over them had not Poseidon broken them first. ‘It’ll take years more likely!’ I scoffed.

  And, as I had failed to remark my father’s cunning, I failed to hear the Fates laughing.

  ***

  ‘Your crafty new friend appears to agree with you,’ nodded Father. ‘I hear he pretended to be mad rather than obey High King Agamemnon of Mycenae’s call to arms because he feared such a lengthy campaign. Either that or he’s a coward.’

  ‘He’s no coward,’ I said. ‘And he seems fully committed to Agamemnon now.’

  ‘Because he has no choice. Ithaca cannot afford to have Mycenae as an enemy and the High King is not a forgiving man. So Odysseus is on
a recruiting drive,’ said Father. ‘Not after soldiers I’ll wager. He’ll be after kings and princes—generals who come with armies ready-made. And I can see his reasoning: the more great commanders he can persuade to join the High King, the shorter the war will be. Did he say where he’s bound?’

  ‘North to Phthia,’ I said.

  ‘Phthia and King Peleus,’ he said, hooding his eyes, as he tended to do when his own slyness came close to rivalling Odysseus’ famous cunning.

  ‘But I thought King Peleus was old,’ I said. ‘One of the few remaining of the same generation as Hercules and Jason. Completely under the thumb of his wife Queen Thetis.’

  ‘He’s not after poor old Peleus,’ said Father in the tone he reserved for instructing backward children. ‘He’s after the old man’s only son Prince Achilles. Achilles and his army of Myrmidons.’

  ‘But there are hundreds of Myrmidons,’ I gasped. ‘That’s why they’re named for ants—that and their black armour.’

  ‘Precisely. And they’ll be just one element of the army Agamemnon is planning to build. It will be huge. And it will all be camped on a barren beach at the edge of the great plain beneath the city called the Troad. To begin with, at any rate. They’ll set up within striking distance of Troy and take it from there. That’s a seven-day voyage from here, depending on wind and tide.’ A look of calculation entered his eyes. ‘And if you and your friend Odysseus are right, Agamemnon will soon find he has an enormous army stuck on a beach in front of an invulnerable city, locked in a lengthy siege—and crying out for supplies. Especially if the Trojans clear the Troad of everything to eat or drink and the other nearby cities of Lyrnessus, Lukka and Miletus prove unwilling to provide provisions and are hard to sack in turn.’ He pulled at his beard, as he always did while completing some delicate calculation or hatching some devious scheme. Then he continued. ‘And what if the youngest son of a major trading house had the ear of a senior general in the matter of supplies, deadlines and prices? A trading house ready, willing and able to supply anything from spears to sheep, wine to war chariots…’ His eyes shone at the prospect. Wars were a source of immeasurable profit to trading houses such as ours, especially long wars. ‘Pack what you need,’ he said. ‘Your brothers will help you get down to the docks before Captain Odysseus gets impatient and decides to go without you. And don’t forget to kiss your mother goodbye before you go. You may not be back for some time.’