{"product_id":"the-songs-of-the-kings-isbn-9780525435242","title":"The Songs of the Kings","description":"A brilliant retelling of an ancient myth, \u003ci\u003eThe Songs of the Kings\u003c\/i\u003e offers up a different narrative of the Trojan War, one devoid of honor, wherein the mission to rescue Helen is a pretext for plundering Troy of its treasures. As the ships of the Greek fleet find themselves stalled in the straits at Aulis, waiting vainly for the gods to deliver more favorable winds, Odysseus cynically advances a call for the sacrifice of Agamemnon’s daughter, Calchas the diviner interprets events for the reader, and a Homer-like figure called the Singer is persuaded to proclaim a tale of a just war to hide the corrupt motivations of those in power. But couched within the Singer’s spin is a message at once timely and timeless: “There is always another story. But it is the stories told by the strong, the songs of kings, that are believed in the end.”“Intricate and gorgeous. . . . Impossible to read without feeling an immediacy both unbearable and profound.” —\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Beautiful storytelling. . . .[A] focused combination of epic drama and smart political satire.” —\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“[Has] an immensely sophisticated grasp of politics, economics and psychology, of how the world works.” —\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Breathtaking. . . . Rich and vivid.” —\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A bold, modern tale with cynical riffs on the themes of duty and power, truth and fiction.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Masterful. . . . Timeless. . . . Funny and sad, poignant and frightening.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Fascinating. . . . A song in its own right.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Remarkable. . . . Unsworth brilliantly conveys the dark feel of Calchas’ spiritual gift as well as the very earth well of vain, thuggish soldiers stuck in camp. . . . A sense of doom fills this novel.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Dallas Morning News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Intellectually agile, thrillingly stylish. . . . The Songs of the Kings effortlessly proves that modern life is the stuff of ancient myth.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A rich novel, sharply plotted and layered with subtle nuances. . . . A beautifully measured entertainment given gravity by how accurately it reflects the present political zeal to control the media. . . . Teas[es] out the politics and intrigue that govern a thousand restless soldiers.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Independent\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Wonder-provoking. . . . Unsworth's writing is unrivaled. . . . His novels are close to perfect in an imperfect literary world.” —Ruth Rendell, author of\u003ci\u003e End in Tears\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Pure gold. . . . One of the best books by this most versatile of writers.” —Penelope Lively, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Photograph \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Gorgeously detailed, astute. . . . The word of Homeric epic and Euripidean tragedy is brought sharply to life.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Beautifully descriptive. . . . Provocative and subversive. . . . An audacious blending of myth with sharp contemporary resonance. . . . Unsworth’s narrative method is as daring as his message.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eBarry Unsworth was born in 1930 and grew up in a mining town in northeast England. Descended from a long line of coal miners, he was the first Unsworth to escape the mines. He attended Manchester University and published his first novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Partnership\u003c\/i\u003e, in 1966. He is the author of seventeen books, including \u003ci\u003eThe Ruby in Her Navel\u003c\/i\u003e, longlisted for the Booker Prize; \u003ci\u003ePascali’s Island\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMorality Play\u003c\/i\u003e, both shortlisted for the Booker; and \u003ci\u003eSacred Hunger\u003c\/i\u003e, co-winner of the Booker Prize. He died in 2012 at the age of eighty-one.1.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This was the sixth night. He had lain awake through most of it, listening to   the wind, the body of the sleeping boy beside him, beset by fear at still not knowing   the sender, fear of other failures that might follow from this. The strands of the   wind he knew by this time; tensed in concentration, he imagined he could hold them   apart, the shrilling high up among the bare rocks, the softer combing in the shrub   lower down, the ripple of loose canvas from the tents. Even the very smallest sounds   he strained to hear, random sobs and whispers, stirring of grasses, the faint scrape   of displaced pebbles along the shore. A wind from the northeast, unheard of at this   season, keeping the fleet trapped in these straits at Aulis, and the army with it,   waking the men every morning to the unhappy knowledge of some god's displeasure.   It came from the direction of Troy, where lay their dreams of conquest. Six days   and six nights with no sign of relenting, though the voices varied. The wind itself   seemed to suffer in all its moods, even in its rages pleading to be quieted, to be   soothed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then, early in the morning of the seventh day, came the summons from Agamemnon.   He noted the time just as in those days of his power he noted all such things. Just   before sunrise, the wind still there but quieter now, as if for the while exhausted   after its riots in the dark. A time disputed between Hecate and Helius, when the   world is between states. He was between states himself, as he also noted: neither   inside the tent nor out of it, but cross-legged on a cushion at the threshold, watching   his acolyte Poimenos, who was still half asleep, fumbling together a fire for the   infusion of mint and honey he had been schooled to prepare. And he was neither clothed   nor naked, being dressed only in a loincloth, with a piece of cotton over his shoulder   as a shawl. These were things important to remember and interpret; not mortals but   gods chose the times.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was the chief scribe Chasimenos that brought the message,   approaching from the rear, appearing suddenly, flanked by soldiers from the King's   Guard. At midday, after the fight, Agamemnon would require the presence in his tent   of Kalunas, I beg your pardon, Calchas, priest of Apollo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He smiled saying this,   glancing away with eyes so pale as to seem almost colorless in the narrow, bearded   face. Calchas read the usual veiled contempt in voice and smile, the elaborate politeness,   the stress upon the name, not his own, bestowed on him by the Greeks. Contempt too   for his shaven face, his plaited hair, the smudges of kohl that would be still on   his eyelids, the amulets worn as a bracelet, contrary to Greek custom. Asian priest   of an Asian god without even a cult center yet established here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All this was in   the looks and the words--Calchas was practiced in reading such marks. But there was   also the fact that this upstart diviner had been granted a shelter of canvas when   most of the army spent the nights in the open, finding what cover they could; that   he had a boy to share his tent and see to his needs; that he slept on a woolen mat,   thickly woven; that he need not reply promptly to a messenger, even one of high rank.   It was common knowledge that the King would make no decision, take no step, before   Calchas had first scanned the auguries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chasimenos stood there waiting in his long-sleeved   tunic of a palace bureaucrat. His smile had withered at the delay. \"The King requires   the presence of his seer,\" he repeated. The soldiers stood on either side of him,   their long spears grounded, their faces heavy with ill humor at being given escort   duties at such an hour, not much after dawn. It was early for the King to send; he   would have had another bad night. Chasimenos had no need of an escort for such a   small thing as this. But the habit of armed guards had grown in the days they had   been there, waiting on the wind. Agamemnon himself never appeared without at least   six. The diviner said, \"Calchas will be honored beyond honor to kneel at the King's   feet. May he live forever.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As he spoke he heard the small crackle of the fire,   saw the smoke rise straight up in a thin plume. He felt a slight shudder within him,   premonition of ill. These calms were dangerous, always brief, cheating the army with   hope. There was some quality of danger too in this dawn summons to a meeting he had   not been consulted about. Nothing of this showed on his face. He had known how to   wait before answering, just as he knew now how to appear unaffected.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He had expected,   the answer once given, that the other would quit his presence immediately--it was   one he had never shown signs of liking, not even back in Mycenae, before they had   set out. But Chasimenos remained there, and after a moment, in a tone he tried to   make friendlier, said, \"Which of them do you think will win?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now at last Calchas   could permit himself to show some slight surprise. He was being solicited for an   opinion as to who would live and who would die that morning, Stimon the Locrian or   Opilmenos the Boeotian, due to fight a duel later on as champions of their respective   tribes. \"I have no ideas on the matter,\" he said, which was untrue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Opilmenos is   the stronger and has more battle experience, but they say this Locrian is very quick.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Something in the tone of this suggested that the scribe might have a stake in the   outcome. Calchas had heard from Poimenos, who came and went about the camp on various   kinds of foraging expeditions, gathering gossip on the way, that the men were wagering   on the result. Though what they could have to wager it was hard to see, they possessed   nothing but their weapons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chasimenos was lingering still. \"I thought that the god   might have made it known to you,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Calchas shook his head. \"What does Lord   Apollo care for the quarrels of men? Live or die, what concern is it of his? The   gods will view the outcome with complete and serene indifference unless there is   some offense we know nothing of, something done or left undone, said or left unsaid,   which might weigh against the one or the other man when it comes to the meeting.   It is dangerous to neglect a god, even when not knowing. Punishment can arrive before   knowledge.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He spoke carefully, knowing the other for an enemy who would destroy   him if he had the power. He had been given a sign as to who would be the victor,   but it would have been unwise to talk to Chasimenos about this, as it had been of   an unusual kind and he had mentioned it to no one. The outcome of the fight was of   course the only thing Chasimenos couldn't organize. He was a gifted and devoted administrator,   meticulous to the point of obsession, which was why he held his\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e senior position   in the palace hierarchy. He had been busy with this fight from the moment Agamemnon   had given his approval of it, working out in close detail the order of assembly,   the precise positions to be occupied by the allied forces when they lined up for   the spectacle. A real headache that, Calchas thought, to remember all the quarrels,   some of them ancient, keep feuding tribes at a safe distance from one another. But   the outcome he couldn't fix. No one is bribed to lose in a fight to the death . .   . \"This wind that plagues us is an example,\" he said. \"The punishment has come before   the knowledge of the fault.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As if in support of him, the wind rose again now in   a long gust that scattered the smoke and rattled the canvas of the tents throughout   the camp like a fury of drums. One of the guards clutched at his helmet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Disappointed   at not getting the tip he had obviously been hoping for, Chasimenos reverted to his   former aloof and slightly sneering manner. \"Croton wouldn't agree with you. He maintains   that Zeus cares what happens to every single one of us.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, I know Croton says   that, he says we are the children of Zeus.\" Calchas paused, again conscious of the   need for caution. Zeus was the father-god of the Greeks and Croton was the priest   of Zeus, with a large following in the army. He and his two disciples paraded frequently   through the camp proclaiming the power of their god. \"Zeus is lord of all,\" he said.   \"But how can we be children of the gods when we are made of different stuff, when   we are perishable and they are not? It isn't logical. We have one season only but   the gods live forever. Of course, there is shelter in the thought of a father, and   shelter is needed.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was beginning to enlarge on this theme, which he had suddenly   found interesting, the relation between the need and the thing needed, which thing   existed at first only because of that need, but then, because of that need, took   on true existence. \"Perhaps it works the other way too,\" he said. \"Perhaps we humans   only exist because the gods need us.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But Chasimenos said nothing to this and did   not stay to listen to more, turning abruptly on his heel and disappearing round the   side of the tent. However, there was comedy in this that made up for the rudeness;   the guards were taken quite by surprise and had to go lumbering after him, hoisting   their spears awkwardly. Measured movement, a certain stateliness, were necessary   for a person under escort; but Chasimenos, used to scuttling down palace corridors   with no company but his own intriguing mind, had yet to learn this. A mistake in   any case to talk much at all to him. Themes commonly discussed in Apasas, city of   the diviner's birth, and the lands of the Hatti from Kadesh to Sardis, were too abstract   for these gross Mycenaean minds. Even a scribe, he thought, a representative of their   intellectual class. Chasimenos was hostile enough without having claims made on his   intelligence which his intelligence was not able to meet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He stayed where he was   while the light strengthened. After a while Poimenos brought his drink and a wheat   cake to go with it. They were in wheat country there, with fertile land to the south;   and now, at the end of August, the harvest was in, though the troops had to go farther   afield every day in search of full granaries--it was known now that the country people   were hiding their grain. Unpatriotic scum, in the words of Menelaus. Since losing   his beautiful Helen to Paris--that swine of an Asian, as he called him--Menelaus   spoke often of patriotism and solidarity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Calchas ate and drank, the first darts   of the sun struck through the canvas of the tent behind him, warming the odors of   night still caught there in that narrow space, oxhide, crushed grass, the faint scent   of bodies in the folds of the wool. Before his face was the radiant sky, a few bright   curls of cloud low on the horizon, moving slowly, barely perceptibly--this wind did   not change the sky, did not bring storms. He watched the clouds drift together, looked   for a shape in them. A fleece, a swan's neck, the forepart of a chariot. He strove   to empty his mind for the message, but he could read nothing there, they were random   shapes; and he felt a constriction of the heart at this further failure, knowing   that nothing in the world was random. There had been no sign for him in clouds or   embers or the flight of birds, not one, in all these days at Aulis, when signs were   so desperately needed, when Agamemnon waited for his words, when all the camp waited   to know who was sending the wind that kept them huddled there along the shore, a   thousand men, the greatest army ever assembled by the Greeks in alliance, trapped   there while the useless ships rocked at anchor and the waves mocked them and slapped   their hulls. In these sheltered waters, with the hills of Euboea making a barrier,   the wind had a varying breath, sometimes deep-voiced, sometimes screaming, sometimes,   as now, derisively gentle, hardly more than a breeze; but once round the promontories,   when you were facing the open sea, the wind was a flail of terrible power, beating   ships back, smashing them on the rocks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He could see the masts from the rise where   he was sitting. That August sky was so fiercely bright, they glowed as they swayed   as if stirred in their own fire. Smoke was rising everywhere now, swirled by the   wind, shot through with sunshine. There were voices and movements of men lower down   towards the shore, where the main body of the army was encamped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With the warmth,   the pervasive smell of human excrement grew stronger. On the third day, Ajax of Salamis,   called Ajax the Larger, who thought of himself as a practical fellow, had organized   his people to dig a long trench for a latrine--a heavy job in the hard ground of   the hillside. The whole force from Salamis had been employed on this, laboring in   shifts. It kept them busy, an added advantage, as Ajax remarked to his small friend   and namesake, Ajax the Locrian, called Ajax the Lesser. Mischief was bred by idleness;   working together for a common purpose was good for morale. You form them into squads,   appoint a few overseers, tell them you'll tan their hides if there is any slacking,   and there you are. Unfortunately, however, in his enthusiasm for the project, Ajax   had temporarily forgotten why they had all been obliged to wait there in the first   place, and sited the latrine to windward of the camp. Being obstinate in the extreme,   he would not admit his mistake, and now forced all the contingent from Salamis to   continue using the latrine on pain of his severe displeasure--and all knew what that   meant--if found defecating anywhere else. It was generally agreed that the people   of Salamis had not been the luckiest contingent so far. Meanwhile the smell was getting   worse. People grumbled, but in the general apathy that had fallen over the camp no   one was ready yet to face the violent encounter with the enormous Ajax that any direct   protest was certain to bring about.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Thinking of this brought back to Calchas's mind   thoughts of the fight that was soon to take place. He believed he knew who would   win it. He had been given a sign, not because the gods were interested in the outcome,   but because their power pervaded human life, like this fire that glowed on the masts   without consuming them.","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303817400549,"sku":"NP9780525435242","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525435242.jpg?v=1767741590","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-songs-of-the-kings-isbn-9780525435242","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}