‘Do you intend to ask for Helen, my wily friend?’

Odysseus looked mischievous. ‘You perceive me, Tyndareus.’

‘Indeed I do, but why? I had not thought you angling for a raving beauty, though she does have a dowry.’

He pulled a face. ‘My curiosity – think of my curiosity! Could you see my missing a show like this?’

Agamemnon grinned, but my father laughed aloud.

‘Show is right! What am I to do, Odysseus? Look at them! One hundred and one Kings and Princes all snarling at each other and wondering who is going to be the lucky one – and determined to dispute the choice, no matter how logical or politic.’

This time Agamemnon spoke. ‘It has developed into a kind of contest. Who is most favoured by the High King of Mykenai and his father-in-law Tyndareus of Lakedaimon? They know Tyndareus must take my advice! All I can see emerging from this situation is enduring enmity.’

‘Absolutely. Look at Philoktetes, arching his proud neck and snorting. Not to mention Diomedes and Idomeneus. Menestheus. Eurypylos. And so on.’

‘What should we do?’ the High King asked.

‘Is that a formal request for advice, sire?’

‘It is.’

I stiffened, beginning to realise how insignificant my part was in all this. Suddenly I wanted to weep. I choose? No! They would choose, Agamemnon and my father. Though, I understood now, it was Odysseus who held my fate in the palm of his hand. And did he care? At which moment he winked at me. My heart sank. No, he didn’t care. There was not one scrap of desire in those beautiful grey eyes. He hadn’t come to sue for my hand; he had come knowing his advice would be sought. He had come only to enhance his own standing.

‘As always, I’m pleased to be able to help,’ he said smoothly, his gaze going to my father. ‘However, Tyndareus, before we tackle the problem of getting Helen safely and politically married, I have a small favour to ask.’

Agamemnon seemed offended; out of my depth, I wondered what subtle bargaining was going on.

‘Do you want Helen for yourself?’ Father asked baldly.

Odysseus flung back his head and laughed so uproariously that for a moment the hall stilled. ‘No, no! I wouldn’t dare ask for her when my fortune is negligible and my kingdom penurious! Poor Helen! My mind boggles at the vision of such beauty cooped up upon a rock in the Ionian sea! No, I do not want Helen for my bride. I want another.’

‘Ah!’ said Agamemnon, mollified. ‘Who?’

Odysseus preferred to address his reply to my father. ‘The daughter of your brother Ikarios, Tyndareus. Penelope.’

‘That shouldn’t be difficult,’ said my father, surprised.

‘Ikarios dislikes me, and there have been much better offers for Penelope’s hand.’

‘I will see to it’ from my father.

And from Agamemnon, ‘Consider it done.’

Such a shock for me! If they understood what Odysseus saw in Penelope, I certainly did not. I knew her well; she was my first cousin. Not ill looking and a great heiress into the bargain, but boring. Once she had caught me allowing a house baron to kiss my breasts – I definitely would not have let him do more! – and served me a homily to the effect that desires of the flesh were unintellectual and demeaning. I would do better, she had pronounced in that measured, unemotional voice of hers, to fix my attention upon the real feminine skills like weaving. I had stared at her as if she were mad. Weaving!

Odysseus began to speak; I abandoned my thoughts about Cousin Penelope and listened intently.

‘I have a fair idea whereabouts you intend to bestow your daughter, Tyndareus, and I understand your reasons. However, who you choose is irrelevant. What is relevant is that you safeguard your own and Agamemnon’s interests – safeguard your relations with the unlucky one hundred after you announce your choice. I can achieve that. Provided that you do exactly as I say.’

Agamemnon answered. ‘We will.’

‘Then the first step is to return all the gifts the suitors have tendered, accompanied by graceful thanks for the intention. No man must call you greedy, Tyndareus.’

My father looked chagrined. ‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Not necessary – imperative!’

‘The gifts will be returned,’ said Agamemnon.

‘Good.’ Odysseus leaned forward in his chair, the two Kings following him. ‘You will announce your choice at night, in the Throne Room. I want the place dim and holy, so night helps. Have all the priests present. Burn incense copiously. My aim is to oppress the suitors’ spirits, and that can only be done through ritual. You cannot afford the name of your choice greeted by flaring warrior tempers.’

‘As you wish,’ Father sighed. He disliked minutiae.

‘That, Tyndareus, is merely the beginning. When you speak, you will inform the suitors how much you adore your precious jewel of a daughter, and how hard you have prayed to the Gods for guidance. Your choice, you will tell them, has been approved in Olympos. The omens are auspicious and the oracles clear. But almighty Zeus has demanded a condition. Namely, that before any man – save you – knows the name of the lucky winner, every man must swear an oath to uphold your choice. But more than that. Every man must also swear to give Helen’s husband wholehearted aid and co-operation. Every man must swear that Helen’s husband’s welfare is as dear to him as the Gods are. That, if needs be, every man will go to war to defend the rights and entitlements of Helen’s husband.’

Agamemnon sat silent, staring into space, chewing his lips and visibly burning with some inner fire. My father just looked stunned. Odysseus sat back picking at his fowl, obviously pleased with himself. Suddenly Agamemnon turned to grasp him by both shoulders, knuckles pale under the fierce pressure of his hold, his face ominous. But Odysseus, unafraid, looked back tranquilly.

‘By Mother Kubaba, Odysseus, you are a genius!’ The High King twisted to stare at my father. ‘Tyndareus, do you realize what this means? Whoever marries Helen is assured of permanent, irrevocable alliances with almost every nation in Greece! His future is certain, his position raised a thousandfold!’

My father, though immensely relieved, frowned. ‘What oath can I administer?’ he asked. ‘What oath is so awful that it will bind them to something they will abominate?’

‘There is only one,’ said Agamemnon slowly. ‘The Oath of the Quartered Horse. By Zeus the Thunderer, by Poseidon Earth Shaker, by the Daughters of Kore, by the River and the Dead.’

The words fell like drops of blood from the head of Medusa; Father shuddered, dropped his face into his hands.

Apparently unmoved, Odysseus changed the subject abruptly. ‘What will happen in the Hellespont?’ he asked Agamemnon chattily.

The High King scowled. ‘I don’t know. Oh, what ails King Priam of Troy? Why is he blind to the advantages of Greek traders in the Euxine Sea?’

‘I think,’ said Odysseus, choosing a honey cake, ‘that it suits Priam very well to exclude traders. He gets fat on the Hellespont tolls anyway. He also has treaties with his fellow kings of Asia Minor, and no doubt he takes a share of the exorbitant prices we Greeks are charged for tin and copper if – as we have to – we buy from Asia Minor. The exclusion of Greeks from the Euxine means more money for Troy, not less.’

‘Telamon did us a bad turn when he abducted Hesione!’ said my father angrily.

Agamemnon shook his head. ‘Telamon was in the right of it. All Herakles asked was rightful payment for a great service. When that miserable old skinflint Laomedon denied him, a mindless idiot could have predicted the outcome.’

‘Herakles has been dead these twenty years and more,’ said Odysseus, watering his wine. ‘Theseus is dead too. Only Telamon still lives. He would never consent to be parted from Hesione, even if she’d be willing to go. Abduction and rape are old tales,’ he went on blandly, apparently having never heard a single whisper about Helen and Theseus, ‘and they do not have much if anything to do with policy. Greece is rising. Asia Minor knows it. Therefore what better policy can Troy and the rest of Asia Minor adopt than to deny Greece what it must have – tin and copper to turn into bronze?’