‘Move on,’ my father urged him. ‘There’s no need for you to tell me what I already know. I want to know what has happened in Pherai these two years.’
The king had spoken sharply as if to reprimand Mentor for over-stepping his rank; it was not his place to speak of Laertes’ fellow king using such a familiar tone.
Mentor humbly began again:
‘One day wanax Admetus fell sick, with an ill-defined ailment that seemed to pass from one part of his body to another without pause. So it wouldn’t be recognized, I imagine. And, in fact, the healers could find nothing. They said that only Asclepius would be capable of suggesting a remedy, but no one could say where he could be found just then. Some claimed that he had died. What an absurdity! Healers do not succumb to death or illness, of course.
‘Days passed, and long nights, and more days, and the king continued to waste away. He was cared for by his sweet bride, Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, king of Iolcus. Tears fell unbidden from her eyes. Many a time I saw her weeping as I passed in front of their bedchamber with Eumelus. Once I stopped, so the boy could observe them and understand that what he was seeing was a great love: the greatest love, the same love that had brought him to life. Eumelus paused thoughtfully, and then, light-footed, he approached the bed. He hesitated a moment, but then took his father’s hand between his own, in silence.
‘I understood that he was becoming reconciled with his parents and thought that I would soon be able to return to Ithaca, but I instantly realized that my reasoning was, in fact, nonsense. Wouldn’t it be even more dreadful for the boy to lose his father after he had made his peace with him?
‘What happened after that is not entirely clear to me. What I’m about to tell you comes mostly from what I have heard, and only partly from what I directly experienced. I can’t be sure of the truth of it, and I myself hesitate to believe it.
‘With each passing day, Admetus felt closer to death. He said he could see the Moira approaching his bed and feel the chill of her creeping into his limbs. The news spread through the city and the whole kingdom. Laments could be heard issuing from the forests and the mountain peaks. I swear to you, the shadow of death seemed to be descending on the whole city, the entire kingdom. The light of the sun was veiled by a dark mist.
‘Finally, the visit of the king’s parents was announced. Alcestis, exhausted, had gone off to rest and was not present when they entered Admetus’ room. The poor woman was depleted of energy, depleted of tears. But there was a servant in the bedroom with them and it was he who told the story I am about to tell you.
‘Perhaps the king was delirious, or perhaps he was lucid and in his right mind; there’s no way we can know. His voice was hoarse but the words he pronounced were perfectly clear. Admetus told his parents that a god had once worked for him as a servant, attending to his herd. Since the king had treated him well, this god, upon leaving, had given Admetus a gift, a rather terrible one: if, when his last moment was upon him, the king found someone willing to die in his place, he could escape the Moira who had spun out the thread of his death.
‘The king implored his father first, and then his mother: “You have already lived almost your whole lives! I have a wife who adores me, a young daughter, a son who has finally been returned to me after so long. I don’t want to leave them. I beg of you. You, my father, or you, my mother: take my place at the gates of Hades! It will not matter to the Moira whether she is offered the life of an old person or of a vigorous man still in the fullness of his life.”
‘But Admetus’ father was unshakeable: “We gave you life once, we cannot give it to you a second time. How dare you even ask for such a thing! Act like a man, instead, and face your destiny with courage.”
‘At that very moment Queen Alcestis appeared at the door to the bedchamber and heard the father’s cruel response. “I’ll go,” she said. “I shall go to the gates of Hades and save my dear love.”
‘The maidservants following her burst into tears. They knew that their lady never spoke in vain and never made a promise she couldn’t keep. Admetus was struck by those words, at the thought of the immense gift his wife was ready to give him. The news flew around the palace in a flash and from there spread throughout the town. Alcestis was going to her death to save the life of the husband she adored. A chorus of laments echoed along the roads and in the squares of Pherai.’
My father – only he could do so – interrupted Mentor’s narration. ‘How is that possible? I know Admetus. He’s an Argonaut. I’ve seen him risk his life in battle, time and time again, in bitter, harsh combat. He’s no coward.’
Mentor listened respectfully, then answered: ‘Oh, king, if you allow me to say what I think, we are speaking of two very different things. Dying in battle is like being struck by a thunderbolt. There’s no time to think in the thick of the fray, let alone meditate. Imagine, instead, that you learn that you must die. You don’t know when, but soon enough, you don’t know how, but probably in a bed soaked in your own humours. You can only watch as your body wastes away, hour by hour; your limbs shrivel up, your muscles disappear, until you can see your skeleton under your wrinkled skin. Even if we know that we are born mortal, this is unbearable. Even more unbearable if you know that there’s a way you can avoid all this, or at least put if off to an unknown, unknowable time. If this is hard for a man still in the bloom of youth, it is even worse for an old man, because the closer he gets to death, the harder he holds on to life.’
Wise Mentor! He had come up with the only possible answer: not even a god can give you a gift like that without making you pay an exorbitant price for it. My father fell silent and Mentor continued his story:
‘Her maidservants began to prepare the queen to enter the kingdom of shadows, although she was still alive and as beautiful as she had ever been: her perfect lips stood out scarlet against the waxy pallor of her face, her blue eyes, shining with tears, looked like the sky after it rains. She embraced her children and wept; she had wanted just a moment to say one last goodbye but there she lingered, unable to break away. Eumelus, who had finally understood, was crying as well. Not a youth yet, no longer a boy, yet he was forced to witness this terrible event: the woman who had given him his life was going to her death, alive.
‘King Admetus, in the meantime, felt vigour flowing through his veins again as life slowly seized possession of his body. He felt appalled and yet overwhelmed by a shameful joy, by a sense of endless gratitude for his wife’s heroic, sublime gesture. He blurted out ridiculous things, pure folly. “I promise you,” he said, “that I will never touch another woman for my whole life. I will have a perfect likeness sculpted of you by a great artist and I will put it next to me in our bed. No woman will ever take that place.” His daughter looked at him without understanding, his son with disgust.
‘Finally, Alcestis broke away. Accompanied by her usher to the Underworld – dressed all in black, black streaks on his face and black rings around his eyes – and by a host of weeping mourners, she took her place on a chariot drawn by four horses, all black as the wings of a crow. She was taken away.’
‘Away?’ asked my father, once again interrupting the story. ‘Where away?’
Mentor sighed. ‘Many are the mouths of Hades. Many caves echo with the howling of Cerberus and let off fetid sulphurous vapours from deep underground. But I could also say that although there are many ways of ending up in the Underworld, it is also true that one is alive until the instant of dying. And if one is young, he or she is even more alive.’
His voice was tremulous. The words he had offered came from the inspiration of a poet, but also a true witness to the events; he was leaving it up to us to seek their real meaning. Silence reigned over the hall. I saw my mother leaning against the wall in the corner. She was weeping.
‘Continue,’ said the king my father.
‘The procession disappeared at the end of the road that led westward. None of us moved, no one let out as much as a sigh. A profound silence fell over t
he city. All our tears were mute. Even those of Eumelus and his sister, who tenderly held each other’s hands.
‘I don’t even remember how long we stayed that way. Hours? Days? Because, in truth, time had stopped: life was death and death life. I only know that all at once we saw the mourners returning, with the death usher. Where was Alcestis? Where had she been taken? Had she descended underground, while still alive? Had her throat been slashed by a sacrificial blade and her ashes cast to the wind? No one asked. No one said a word.
‘Something passed through the air. Not time, there was no passing of time. It was regret, a sharp nostalgia for simple things, for joys forever lost. Then a voice, I don’t know whose, I don’t know where it was coming from. The voice was saying: “Hercules is here.”
‘I thought I was dreaming. A wish that turned into a dream and thus seemed real. A hand gripping my arm, a face with bewildered eyes searching for my own, a voice repeating itself: “Hercules is here. He’s in the palace and he’s asking for food.”
‘Only then did I jump and realize what was being said to me. “Where? Here, in the house? Where’s the king?”
‘“The king is there,” replied a servant. “Out there, at the door. He hasn’t been told.”
‘“What about the guest who just arrived? What does he know?”
‘“Nothing. No one has had the courage to tell him what just happened. But the news of his arrival is spreading through the palace and outside as well. He says he is just passing through, heading somewhere else, off to accomplish one of his tasks.”
‘“Take me to him,” I said, “and send someone to take care of the king and keep him away for the time being.”
‘The servant obeyed and took me into the kitchens. Hercules was already there. Sitting at a table, devouring a roast kid. I’d never seen the likes of him before: gigantic, he was clad only in the pelt of a lion, his feet bare, dirty and dusty. He had a cloudy, lost look in his eyes, as if they were searching for distant images, or escaping from them. In a corner, leaning against the wall, was his club. It was covered with branch stubs that had been filed to sharp points and bore visible traces of bloody combat. I couldn’t manage to open my mouth.
‘“Who are you?” he asked me. “I’ve never seen you in this house.”
‘I lied, making up a false name, but I told him the truth when I added that I had been in the king’s service for two years, assisting him in governing the house and educating his son. I approached him and poured some wine into a wooden cup for him. He drank it, then wiped his moustache and beard with the back of his hand.
‘“What are all these dark faces? Why is no one laughing, no one having fun, in this place? What is this deathly silence? Where are my friends, King Admetus and Queen Alcestis? Why haven’t they come to greet me?”
‘All of us in the kitchen looked one another in the eye, including me. No one had the courage to open his mouth.
‘“Where are they?” he shouted. His voice was like thunder. And since still no one dared to speak, he took his club and smashed it on the table made of solid, seasoned oak; the wood went flying in a thousand splinters. I had to answer, or he would have demolished the whole palace in his anger.
‘“The king is outside, in front of the gate. The queen has . . . gone away.”
‘He got up and came so close to me I could smell the feral odour of the lion pelt mixed with his own sweat. I didn’t have much time to search for an answer. I started talking without waiting for him to ask again.
‘“Queen Alcestis has gone to die. To deliver herself, alive, to Thanatos.”
‘The roar that rang out in the kitchen seemed to come from the mouth of the lion. Then he grabbed my throat with his left hand and I realized that he could break my neck like a child snaps a stalk of barley. I promised to tell him everything, without omitting a single detail. It was only then that he loosened his grip and let me free. He had a strange, incomprehensible grimace on his face.
‘“He promised he would never again touch another woman? He swore that?” he asked me after I told him of Admetus’ oath. I hadn’t noticed the colour of his eyes before then: they were amber, with green reflections, and they burned with dark desperation.
‘“That’s right. He swore to it.”
‘As I answered him, trembling, I realized that I hadn’t yet had an instant to let him know that he wasn’t to blame for any crime, that the massacre of his family had been an abomination plotted and executed by his cousin Eurystheus. Hercules was already gone, grabbing, as he ran out, weapons from the walls, from the racks, from the chests. I tried to catch him up, to speak to him, but at that point he had already run down the steps leading out of the palace, jumped onto a quadriga and was driving the four-horse team down the road at a reckless speed.
‘“What did he need those weapons for?” I asked myself, paralysed with shock, overwhelmed by the fury of events. “How can he think to defeat the god of death using human weapons?”’
Mentor paused so that all those present in the great hall could ask themselves the same question. Everyone surely yearned to hear that Hercules had made it back from wherever he had rushed off to . . . an unknown place at the ends of the earth, perhaps? Or perhaps somewhere underground, populated by idle shadows.
‘His return was announced seven days later, after seven days of anguish and trepidation. King Admetus never slept and the nights rang with his cries and shrieks. Eumelus came to my room time after time, holding his little sister by the hand. Sobbing and scared, she couldn’t help repeating: “Where is my mother?”
‘He entered the city through the south gate. The crowd that parted to let him through was mute and staring, with none of the cries of joy and exultation that I would have expected. I soon understood why. The hero moved forward on his chariot, drawn by the four horses at a walk. His body was full of scratches, bruises and wounds, his skin looked burnt, his eyes were fixed straight ahead. At his side, immobile, was a veiled figure. So still that it seemed lifeless, like a statue. Perhaps it was the likeness of Alcestis crafted by a great sculptor that Admetus had wanted to put in his bed? That’s what I thought of when I saw them.
‘The king had been alerted by his guards. He had already exited the main door and had walked down the stairs to receive his friend and embrace him, finally, after so long a time. Hercules had already got out of the chariot to greet the king. I was close and I saw them meet. The hero’s expression had changed; he seemed different now, relieved, and when he greeted his friend, his voice was warm.
‘“I know that you have lost your wife and my dear friend Alcestis, but you cannot spend your life weeping and despairing. Your people need you, as do your children. And so, be it reluctantly, you must start living again, as you always have.” Admetus glanced over at the mysterious veiled figure, still and straight on the chariot. “I’ve had my share of trouble, of pain,” continued Hercules, “but I’ve learned to live again. There’s no alternative. You’re still young, and a man like you can’t live without the pleasure of love. And so I’ve brought a gift for you: this woman. I bought her at the slave market in the last city I crossed. She’s beautiful. Never cleft by delivering a child, high-hipped and firm-breasted. Her eyes are like the morning stars. She’ll cure you of your melancholy. Take her.”
‘But Admetus turned to Hercules with eyes full of tears. “I don’t want her, friend. It was contemptible of me to allow Thanatos to take Alcestis in my place. How could I not have understood that? My life without her is no life at all. There is no joy in me; not even my own children bring me relief or consolation. Please do not be offended, but no woman bought at the market, beautiful as she is, can take the place of my bride. What I had was priceless: the scent of her hair, the light and warmth of her gaze, her love so passionate that she gave her own life to save mine. What folly have I committed, what shame have I brought upon myself! If I didn’t have these children, I swear to you, I would join her where she is now. I can’t promise that I won’t do it, because life t
o me now is nothing but a burden.”
‘Hercules smiled, despite his friend’s harsh words: “I see that you are sincere in what you’re saying and thus you deserve to be pardoned. There’s no need for you to go to join her because . . .”
‘We all waited without taking a breath while the invincible hero removed the veil that covered the woman.
‘It was Alcestis!’
13
ALL THOSE PRESENT IN THE great hall rejoiced over the happy conclusion of the events narrated by Mentor. He finally smiled himself, at seeing the effect that the epilogue of the story had had upon his audience. Phemius, the king’s bard, was also present, but although I observed him carefully I could see no emotion in his expression. I turned then to my father and I saw him signing a personal message for Mentor: two fingers of his right hand making a brief horizontal line in the air: stop. Then a half-circle, in Mentor’s direction: you’ll tell me later.
Neither of these gestures escaped Mentor, who stopped talking, returned to his seat and drank a cup of wine.
‘So?’ clamoured many voices. ‘What happened to Hercules then?’
‘What about Admetus? And Alcestis? Are they living together now as husband and wife?’ asked others.
Mentor excused himself by asking his listeners for a chance to rest and sate his thirst. He would, he promised, continue his story and answer their questions as soon as the opportunity arose. Since the king seemed to be in agreement and, what’s more, had ordered more wine to be mixed, no one dared to make any more requests.
When all our table companions had announced their intention to retire and the voices of the retreating guests had melted away into that summer night, there were just three of us left sitting close to a lamp that hung from the ceiling: my father, Mentor and me.