King of Ithaca by Glyn Iliffe Read Free Book Online Page A

stalked each other about the high walls, whilst the sputtering of the flames echoed in the emptiness of the vast space. Around the large circular hearth four pillars stood sentinel, as thick as tree trunks, their heads lost in the gloom of the high ceiling.
    On ornate chairs between two of the columns sat three richly clad men. Before them stood an old priest with a long, white beard and beside him knelt a scribe, taking notes as one of the seated men spoke.
    ‘A bad summer usually means a bad winter, in my experience,’ he said in a deep voice, looking down at the scribe.
    The slave glanced up from his clay tablet and nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’
    His master was Tyndareus, co-king of Sparta, a fierce-looking man with wild hair and a thick beard, not yet touched by grey despite his respectable age. His large bulk seemed to embody the power he held, though disuse was turning his muscles to fat and excessive feasting had swollen the proportions of his stomach.
    ‘We’ll need to demand more grain from the farmers for the winter provision,’ Tyndareus continued. ‘They won’t be happy about it, of course, but I’ll not risk the people starving. It also means the potters will have to make more storage jars, and quickly.’
    ‘At least the extra work will make them happy, brother,’ commented the man to his right.
    ‘But with this year’s poor harvest, my lord, we could hardly take any more grain from the farmers without starving them to death.’ The scribe held up one of the baked tablets at his side as if the dashed figures were all the proof he required.
    Tyndareus passed his golden cup behind his head, where it was hurriedly refilled by one of the attending wine stewards. He took a swallow and nodded at the priest, who was fidgeting for attention.
    ‘Speak, priest. What do the gods say I should do?’
    ‘The signs are that the winter will be mild, my lord.’
    Tyndareus’s brother spoke up again. ‘So does that mean we won’t have to store extra grain?’
    ‘Not quite, Lord Icarius,’ the priest said. ‘There will be more than the winter to provision against.’
    ‘And what does that mean?’ Tyndareus growled.
    ‘The gods have sent me a dream that, as joint rulers of the city, you should both be wary of.’ Tyndareus scowled; he did not like to be reminded that he and his younger brother were officially co-kings, when in reality Icarius had little say in state affairs. The priest continued undeterred, waving his hands about in a fussy manner. ‘Seven nights ago I was asleep in the temple when I dreamed the palace was filled with great men. There were warriors from all over Greece, men of wonderful renown accompanied by their squires and soldiers. I saw this very hall filled with banqueting: men emptying your best golden wine cups as quickly as the slaves could refill them; the women hardly able to do their work for the attentions of so many men; voices calling for more meat, and yet the courtyard outside already swimming with the blood of sacrificed oxen.’
    ‘Perhaps the dream refers to King Agamemnon’s visit?’ Icarius suggested, nodding towards the other seated man.
    Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and son-in-law to Tyndareus, had arrived in Sparta the day before. He was a full score of years younger than his hosts, and yet had a more authoritative bearing than either of them. Tall, athletically built and handsome, his hair was long and brown with a hint of red and his beard was cropped neatly to his jawline. He wore a tunic of purest white beneath a blood-red cloak which was clasped together at his left shoulder by a golden brooch. This depicted a lion tearing apart a fallen deer, and captured with great skill the majesty, power and ruthlessness of the man. Yet his cold expression revealed nothing of his emotions. He ignored Icarius and focused his icy blue eyes on the priest.
    ‘Well, damn it?’ thundered Tyndareus. ‘What does the dream mean? Are we going to be invaded? Will our halls be filled