The recent images of Donald Trump welcoming Vladimir Putin to Anchorage, Alaska, with a red carpet ceremony, thereby demonstrating special honour to the visiting president, elicited expression from commentators that ranged from surprise to anger. The honorific symbolism was clear; but it may be noted that the now traditional use of the ‘red carpet’ to greet potentates, victorious athletes, Hollywood celebrities and so on is a relatively recent custom, dating back no earlier than the 19th century and not in common use until the early 20th. For a classicist, however, it evokes an ominous precedent from ancient Greek literature: the laying out of precious red tapestry – not in fact a carpet that is made for treading, but delicate crimson garments arranged on the ground to look like a carpet –  to greet the return of King Agamemnon to his home in Mycenae after his conquest and bloody destruction of Troy in the Trojan War.

The Greek tragedian Aeschylus created this memorable scene in his Agamemnon, the first drama in his Oresteia trilogy, staged in Athens in 458 BC. When the great king and leader of the Greek armies returns from Troy, he is met by his wife Clytemnestra, who has been unfaithful during her husband’s 10-year absence and is plotting his imminent death. She greets him with a speech of flattery inviting him to step towards the palace on a tapestry-covered path, and ending with an instruction to the palace servants that is rich in ironic implications about the justice of Agamemnon’s demise:

Now, dearest husband, step out of your carriage.

but don’t set foot, my lord, upon the ground –

the conquering foot that brought ruin to Troy.

Servants, don’t hang around: I ordered you

to spread fine fabrics where his path will be.

Quick, strew his way with crimson tapestries

so Justice grants him his unhoped-for home.

Responding to her suspiciously effusive greeting, Agamemnon demurs:

Don’t strew my path with cloths laden with risk:

such honours are reserved for gods alone –

A mortal should not tread on fineries.

Clytemnestra appeals successfully to her husband’s competitive ego: ‘What do you think Priam would have done’, she asks, ‘had he been similarly victorious?’ Agamemnon admits that his rival would have done as she suggests, and submits to her with reluctance, saying: ‘Since I’ve been overcome by your persuasion, I will head to the halls of my palace treading on purple.’

The audience can only watch with bated breath as Agamemnon proceeds along the path to the doors of the palace, eventually to be joined by his captive Cassandra. The next we hear of Agamemnon are his cries from inside the palace as he is butchered in his bathtub by Clytemnestra, who holds him trapped in a crimson robe as she commits the act. Clytemnestra then appears on stage, sword in hand, standing triumphantly over the corpses of both victims.

Although the moment of Agamemnon’s killing is not witnessed, the horror of the scene is emphasised by the profusion of red: crimson garments and bloodied bodies are commingled. The way that the red path of tapestries is laid out leading to the palace doors is a visual representation of the way Agamemnon has arrived at his final destination by wading through a river of blood. The red path is a concrete manifestation of what he has recently perpetrated – the wholesale slaughter of young and old during his sack of Troy. Moreover, that campaign had been initiated by Agamemnon’s bloody sacrifice of his and Clytemnestra’s daughter Iphigenia, which is the reason Clytemnestra gives to exonerate herself for taking vengeance against Agamemnon. That sacrifice was his first but not last act of hubris – the violence or excess brought about by overweening pride or power; his being persuaded to tread the precious ‘carpet’ is further symbolic of his tendency to engage in such acts of hubris.

Perhaps the parallel between Aeschylus’ dramatic tableau and contemporary political theatre goes beyond visual symbolism. Just as Clytemnestra’s ‘red carpet’ serves as both a welcome and funeral shroud, modern ceremonial displays tend to mask hidden strategic calculations. The honour bestowed through such pageantry can be deceptive in elevating the recipient to a pedestal from which the fall may prove precipitous. In Agamemnon, the king’s fatal flaw lies not merely in his acceptance of divine honours, but in his inability to recognise the web of consequences his past actions have woven around him. His hubris blinds him to Clytemnestra’s grievances and her desire for vengeance.

Leaders who accept grandiose ceremonial treatment may similarly be ensnared by the honours they embrace, and become vulnerable to those who would exploit their pride and ambition. Aeschylus shows how Agamemnon’s moment of greatest apparent triumph, his victorious homecoming, becomes the moment of his destruction. The red tapestries that herald his glory become the literal pathway to his doom. The transformation of celebratory symbol into instrument of fate reflects an ancient Greek understanding of how power operates: those who wield it most ruthlessly are most susceptible to its eventual reversal. The modern red-carpet ceremony lacks the apparent menace of Clytemnestra’s deception. Unlike precious tapestries, red carpets are made to be trodden. But when political figures give or accept theatrical honours, particularly from those with whom relations are complex, they become complicit in a performance whose script they have not written and whose ending they cannot control.

Aeschylus shows that effective traps appeal to their victim’s deepest desires and greatest weaknesses. Agamemnon cannot resist the temptation to display his supremacy, even when his better judgment warns against it. The red carpet becomes a test of character that he fails, revealing the fatal disjunction between his political acumen and his personal vanity. For contemporary observers, the lesson may remain relevant: beware of offering or accepting easy honours, ceremonies that look over-generous, and red carpets that lead toward palace doors. The path paved with crimson often leads not to triumph, but to a reckoning that has been long in the making.

The Aeschylean scene curiously suggests that both participants in such ceremonial exchanges may be equally susceptible to the corrupting influence of hubris, though in different ways. While the host who stages elaborate welcomes risks falling into Agamemnon’s trap of mistaking theatrical display for genuine strength, the guest faces parallel dangers. Putin may find himself cast in a role that appears flattering, but ultimately constrains his flexibility: the pageantry designed to elevate him also creates expectations and obligations that may prove burdensome. In Aeschylus’ moral universe, both the perpetrator and recipient of excessive honour become entangled in webs of consequence. Clytemnestra herself, despite being the instrument of divine justice against Agamemnon, does not escape punishment; she, too, will face retribution in the subsequent plays of the trilogy. The cyclical pattern of hubris and nemesis suggests that no participant remains untouched.

The red carpet ceremony might be seen as a double-edged symbol, that simultaneously honours and ensnares both parties. Donald Trump, by orchestrating an elaborate welcome, risks appearing subservient to Russia. His desire to project strength may backfire, revealing a dangerous naivety about Putin’s real intentions. Meanwhile, Putin binds himself to reciprocal expectations that may limit his options. The red carpet, innocent though it may appear, becomes a vector for hubristic contagion. The medium becomes the message: both participants may find themselves trapped within the spectacle they sought to create, heading toward palace doors that may open onto consequences neither anticipated nor desired.