But it is the stories told by the strong, the songs of the kings, that are believed in the end
i'm reading barry unsworth's book, the songs of the kings, right now, and it's quite good. it retells the ancient greek myth of king agamemnon's daughter, who, it is decided, must be sacrificed in order to cease the wind that is holding a large contingent of greek soldiers in the straits of aulis and thus preventing them from waging war on troy. we see much of the story through the eyes of calchas the diviner, an adviser to the king who understands the political and personal rationales and desires for the war.
i was reading the book during lunch, and found parts of the following passages rather striking.
"Poimenos, you will never get the truth of things from Singers. They have interests to serve, their voice is a collective voice. Do you understand what I mean?""I think so, yes. The stories they tell belong to everybody."
"No, I mean their Songs are about what people already believe or what it is wished they should believe. Here at Aulis we have any army that must be kept together or the expedition will fail..."
...
"I would like to hear them," [the boy] said, "these stories belonging to Lemnos."
The diviner made a gesture of impatience. "I want to tell you meanings, not stories." This came out in a tone harsher than he had intended. With a strange feeling of helplessness he knew again that this was not the way, it would not hold the boy to him; Poimenos was outside the cage of meanings altogether, it was he himself who was imprisoned in it.
"Do you think this war is about Helen?" he said. "That's just a story. People intent on war always need a story and the singers always provide one. What it is really about is gold and copper and cinnabar and jade and slaves and timber. Great wealth will fall into the hands of those who conquer Troy and occupy her territories. Imagine what dreams of wealth would fill the mind of Odysseus, sitting on a rock far away on the wrong side of the sea. Agamemnon will want to come back, he is lord of a powerful kingdom. But why should Odysseus think of returning? He has a son, Telemachus, who can rule in Ithaca for him. His heart is set on conquest in the East. On his own, with the small force he has been able to muster, what can he do? But in alliance with Crete, Thebes, Pylos, Mycenae...you see? Then this wind comes, things begin to slip away, he must hold them together, he will do or say anything, it is his only chance. You see, don't you, Poimenos?"
It sounded like an entreaty. He fell silent, looking straight before him, away from the sea, towards the flatlands of the south. There was some different quality in the light, some thickening in the air above the lion-colored plain. After a moment or two he understood what it was. Here and there, across the whole expanse of the land, as far as the distant foothills, they were threshing the wheat, and the chaff was rising in pale gold puffs of cloud, lifted and scattered by the wind. He tried to discern shapes in these, but the blown chaff was too thin, too quickly dispersed. "That is the versatility of Odysseus," he said, "and it is something you will not hear from the Singer." He felt tired, defeated. This was just another story, after all, drabber, less entertaining, than those the boy liked. For some moments longer he studied the faint golden graining in the air above the plain. The he said, "We must go and visit the smith now, to see how work on the knife is proceeding."
"If you will give me leave," Poimenos said, not quite meeting his master's eye, "I will not go with you. I have set snares for quail up on the hillside and I want to see if we have caught anything. The young are grown enough now, they are easier to catch than the older birds. But they flutter in the trap and crows can get them if they are left. I have seen this happen. Crows always start with the eyes, as if they must blind the birds before they eat them. And then, there are plenty here in the camp who would rob the traps if they came upon them."
It was by far the longest speech Calchas had ever heard the boy utter. He hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Very well. We can hope for a brace of quail to roast on the fire when dark comes."
As he made his way towards the compound where the smith had his forge, he thought how strange it was that Poimenos should be so casually aware of animal and human rapine in the matter of quails, and yet take the Songs of the Kings and Heroes with what seemed no smallest degree of question.
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