I watched her for as long as I could as the ship drew away. Her slender figure seemed the shadow of a goddess and I could almost hear the song that acquainted me with her voice before I had even seen her face, in a garden of Sparta: ‘Fly, fly away . . .’
They didn’t set Argus free until the ship had pulled away from the shore, and I watched him running back and forth along the wharf. He tried to jump into the water but he was too afraid. I could hear his long, desperate howling for ages.
When evening fell I felt a sharp pang of desire for my wife; I already missed her so terribly. The swelling sea, the still sky mirrored within it, made my solitude even more bitter. Why hadn’t my father offered to come with me, at least as far as Gythium? He could have sailed back on this same ship. Where were Castor and Pollux, the invincible twins? Where was Hercules, how far away could his despair have driven him? Why were the Argonauts slipping one after another into the shadows? How had Tyndareus, king of Sparta, died? Why was I venturing far from home to petition one of the great kings of Asia, to try to win a war without fighting it?
My friends governing the helm and manning the sails were taciturn, as the approaching night flooded us with darkness and fear. Ithaca was at our backs and had sunk into the water; only the coast of the mainland could be seen, a dark bastion at our left. A light twinkled faintly, tremulously, in the distance between the folds of the mountains.
‘Athena!’ my heart called out. ‘Daughter of Zeus, powerful virgin, ne’er defeated! Come to me!’
And Athena did come. She heard my voice and inspired different thoughts in my head, the same ones that had given me courage on my very first voyage at sea. More than courage, even . . . desire, for what I had never seen, never known; desire to pursue fleeing horizons . . . To the point of no return? To where the water covered everything and no land dared to raise its head above the waves. To beyond the sea, to the shores of another continent. To magical, mysterious, fantastic lands where anything can happen. Damastes came to mind, my master of arms: he had decided to return to his mountains . . . to meet life’s end in the dawns and twilights there, to roam among those ancient oaks, to catch a glimpse of centaurs as they descended to the valley, to spy on the chimeras at dusk as they crossed an impossible sky and delved into the confines of the night. To listen for their shrieks echoing in the remote valleys.
Weariness at last prevailed over my thoughts. Perhaps it was the goddess who closed my eyes, to give me rest and inspire me for what I would have to do the next day.
Rocked by the waves and the lapping of the water against the side of the ship, I slept deeply as my comrades kept watch at the sails and helm. The day was slow at breaking: the shadow of the mountains lengthened over the sea like a dark curtain, protecting me from the light and prolonging my rest. When I opened my eyes and looked up I saw Nestor’s palace, white and ochre on the hillside, looming over the sandy beach and the wide bay. The shadows of the mountains on the sea shortened little by little as the sun rose, and when it crested over the sharp peaks they disappeared completely. The sea turned silver and the ship seemed to slip more swiftly over the waves. The wind pushed us towards the shore and was most welcome. The first face I saw as I got to my feet was Eurylochus’.
‘I thought you’d never wake up, wanax,’ he said to me, ‘and while you were still sleeping I ordered the sails to be taken in. We’re approaching the coast of Pylos.’
‘Good,’ I replied, ‘but don’t call me that. You’re my cousin and my friend. You are all my friends. Call me by my name. What makes a man a king is being capable of selecting the right decisions and of surrounding himself with men who can do the same thing while he’s sleeping.’
The others heard as well and gathered around me. ‘We’re proud that you consider us your friends and that you ask us to call you by name even though you are our king,’ said Perimedes. ‘We consider it a great privilege. We want you to know that your destiny will be our own. We will face the same dangers as you do, but you will always be in command and will enjoy all your rightful privileges at the table and in claiming the spoils after an attack or a victory on the field. If, upon returning from this mission, you choose to depart once again to plunder crops or wine or women or slaves in distant lands, you already know that – in the big chest at the bow and the other at the prow – we will always have our weapons ready.’
‘Don’t worry about all that for now, friends. This ship has set sail on a crucial mission. If it goes well, we’ll all live tranquil lives. If it goes badly, then we will need our weapons, and I’ll have to rely on your loyalty and your valour for a very long time.’
That tied their tongues; they had no idea what I was talking about, since I hadn’t revealed the goal of my mission. But Eurylochus promptly set to work, giving orders to the men and taking the helm himself. With the wind in its sails, slicing the smooth skin of the sea in two, the ship entered the mouth of the harbour between the hill of Pylos and the long island that closed off the bay. We docked at the wharf as Nestor’s sons were just arriving from the palace: Antilochus and his brothers, even young Pisistratus. They’d been alerted by the sentinels, who had spotted our ship and standard.
‘King Odysseus,’ Antilochus welcomed me, ‘it seems but yesterday that you were a boy like me, travelling with your father Laertes, and now you reign over Ithaca, Same and the other islands of the west. How long will you be able to stay with us? King Nestor has ordered a fat bull to be slaughtered for you and your men.’
‘I thank you, my friends, but I fear I cannot stay. I will go to the palace to pay my respects to your father and ask him for water to drink and fish just caught, bread and fruit.’
‘Go,’ replied Antilochus. ‘Everything is ready for you. When you return to your ship, you’ll find it full of whatever will make your voyage easier.’
Nestor, knight of Gerene, greeted me like a son. He already knew many things. ‘Menelaus’ ship stopped here on its way to Ithaca and then again on its return,’ he told me. ‘What an unhappy man; you could see his torment in his eyes. To know that the woman who you had never dreamed would be yours, the most beautiful in all the world, is far away, in the hands of another, a young man, capable of seducing her over time . . . And so you will go to Troy with him. That’s what I’ve heard. May I ask you to confide in an old friend of your father’s, young king?’
‘How could I refuse?’ I replied. ‘My father thinks you are the wisest of all men and he is certainly not mistaken. I know that you will keep my words in your heart. We will go to Troy together, Menelaus and I, and ask to be received by Priam. Menelaus has bid me to speak to the old king and ask him to return Helen freely without demanding a ransom. On the contrary, I will ask him to make amends for his son’s offence, for his violation of the sacred law of hospitality. It is I who will speak because it was I who vouched for the oath that the Achaian princes swore in Sparta, at the court of Tyndareus and Leda.’
‘The fame of your multifaceted mind, my son, has reached the opposite shore of the sea and will precede you in Asia,’ said Nestor. ‘Speak honestly with Priam, if I may give you my advice. You have the force of law on your side. Menelaus was offended, wounded, after offering hospitality and a hearty welcome. King Priam is a just man; he will listen to you.’
‘That’s what many think, but reality is often different from our expectations. Thank you for your advice, I shall surely follow it. Thank you for your welcome here and for your friendship, great king. I will stop again at this port and visit this home upon my return, and I pray to the gods that they will allow me the joy of bringing you good news.’
King Nestor embraced me as if I were his son, and said: ‘If you do not succeed in your mission, an age of mourning and carnage awaits us. Young warriors are always spoiling for a fight, they can’t wait to show how strong and powerful and courageous they are, but they don’t know what war is. You are the only one who seems aware of this because you know the value of life. Find a way to come to an agreement with Priam, even
secretly if necessary. Bring Helen back to Achaia and forestall this war.’
I wanted to depart that same day but it was impossible to refuse the king’s hospitality. Not one of my comrades slept on the ship. They were all guests at the palace or in a home close by. We set off again the next morning before dawn, but Nestor was already on his feet and insisted on accompanying us to the port. His straight figure was visible standing on the wharf for a very long time after we sailed off in a southerly direction.
Two days later we rounded Cape Malea and then turned north again, pushed by the southerly wind. Our destination was Gythium, at the end of the Laconian Gulf. Shielded to the east and west by high promontories and by the mountain chains that emerged from the water like the backs of dragons, the ship advanced swiftly. We reached the port of Gythium five days after departing from Ithaca, brandishing our standard. We had obviously been sighted while far from shore, for King Menelaus was waiting for us at the wharf, surrounded by his friends and the warriors of his escort. They had come to render honours to the king of Ithaca.
Two warships were docked at the wharf and were being loaded with water and provisions. They would get us to Troy whether the winds were favourable or unfavourable, fair or foul. I embraced my comrades one by one and watched as they began the manoeuvres to exit the port and point the prow south. They would share my destiny for many years, in good times and bad, through luck or misfortune.
‘Tell my father I will be back soon, and that he should not think ill thoughts. Tell the queen mother, Anticlea, that I will bring magnificent gifts back to her, and to my wife as well.’
They assured me that they would do so and that they would anxiously await my return from Asia. Before the ship had put out to sea, I had already reached Menelaus’ side. Scowling as always, decked out in full armour, he nonetheless gave me a little smile and greeted me with kind words. A month had passed since Helen had forsaken Sparta.
We left two days later. Both of us were on the same ship, so we could speak during the long hours at sea. Menelaus was mainly worried about proving that Helen had been abducted forcefully and had not chosen to flee with another man by her own free will. He told me she had only recently given birth to a girl, Hermione, and she wouldn’t have left the baby for any reason on earth, let alone to run off with a stranger.
‘She was the one who chose me, after all,’ he said, ‘not the contrary.’
‘Is that love I hear speaking,’ I asked, ‘or your wounded pride?’
I couldn’t help but recall that moment when Helen, the most beautiful of all beauties, had seemed to linger in front of me, only to veer away at the last moment when she saw me shake my head, so slightly that no one else noticed.
Menelaus replied: ‘I can’t separate one thing from the other! Helen is mine! Helen has made love with me and given me a daughter. Do you think that any man who has lain with such a woman can turn around and forget her? Can ever be free of her? A woman like her gets into your blood, Odysseus, like a disease. No other woman could ever replace her or even awaken your desire; her absence is an unspeakable torture for me. Every night when I close my eyes, I see her naked in the arms of another man, doing with him what she did with me, and it feels like a wolf is devouring my heart.’
I had asked an inopportune question. I stopped talking about her so as not to aggravate him any further. We did speak of many other things during our long crossing, as we rounded Cape Sounion and sailed along the coast of Euboea. We passed close to the bay of Iolcus and could see the gleaming white city and Pelias’ palace rising on the hillside. I wondered what had happened to the ship, the Argo, that had set sail from Iolcus to retrieve the golden fleece from distant Colchis. Perhaps it lay toppled over on its side like a beached whale, its keel encrusted with mussels, its masts and railings chopped up to burn for heat in the winter. Too big, made for men who were too big. Useless now.
‘I think that ships have a soul, you know?’ I said to Menelaus. ‘They sing in the wind, sigh in a storm, whisper in the night breeze. And when they give up the ghost and are abandoned as sad wrecks, they weep, and their voice mixes with the voice of the waves. Tears fall from the eyes they have painted on their prows and are lost in the sea.’
When we had sailed beyond Thessaly, Menelaus held his arm straight out and pointed to a peak surrounded by storm clouds. ‘Olympus,’ he said. ‘From there the gods can see the whole world.’ A brisk western wind pushed us along the peninsula of the three promontories and then towards Thrace, and in just seven days’ time we had arrived within view of the Asian coast. In my heart I thanked the goddess who was helping me and I begged her to come to my aid when the most difficult moment arrived.
An unfamiliar mountain came into view, rising up massively to dominate that part of the world. I felt the need then to ask Menelaus a question I could have asked him much sooner but I had always put off: ‘If Priam returns Helen, will you be satisfied? You won’t demand more reparations and thereby provoke him into refusing? Will we be able to return home and live in peace?’
‘Are you afraid of fighting?’ asked Menelaus. When a man answers your question with one of his own, I thought, it’s because he doesn’t want to give you an answer you won’t like. I felt a shiver in my heart.
‘I’m not afraid. I’ve been brought up and trained to be a warrior, like you were. I’m saddened by the thought of leaving Penelope and Telemachus, of not seeing them for a long time, or perhaps never again. I fear that in my absence someone may try to prevail over my house, my wife, my father, who is no longer in the bloom of youth. Invaders, pirates, who knows? My kingdom would be vulnerable, stripped of its best men; the strongest and bravest would be far away, engaged in a war with no certain outcome. Is that so hard for you to understand? Do you remember what my father King Laertes told us when you came to visit our house? I feel exactly the same way he does. Menelaus, you came to Ithaca to ask for my help, knowing full well what my position was, and still is. You said you would be my true friend your whole life.’
‘I did,’ said the king of Sparta.
‘Then answer me using clear words: will you support me in my attempt to get Helen back, and will you return with her to Sparta? If this is really what you want, will you help me convince the Trojans and King Priam? The truth, Menelaus.’
‘I will help you,’ replied Menelaus, and he said nothing else for a very long time.
We came within sight of the island of Tenedos and then of the Rhoetean promontory on the sixth day after leaving Gythium. The gulf that opened before us was wedged between the two bodies of land for about four leagues. The waters at the far end of the gulf lapped at the base of a hill upon which a mighty citadel rose, and a great palace.
Troy.
19
THE CITADEL ROSE ON TOP of a hill that overlooked the bay and was surrounded by ramparts reinforced by mighty buttresses. Somewhat lower down the hill was a second wall, older and less massive, less striking, than the first and connected to it by a ramp. A construction with a wide battlemented terrace and two towers must have been Priam’s palace. Looming before us was one of the two gates, the western one. It appeared to be open.
There was a lively traffic of carts, livestock and pack animals: a lot of donkeys, but also other animals I’d never seen before. I later learned they were called camels. Many were making their way up from the port, others came from the fields. There were warriors posted up on the towers and the walls and alongside the gates, heavily armed with helmets, breastplates, shields, swords and spears. The city and her king made a proud display of power to anyone coming from the sea, whether they were merchants, travellers, pirates . . . or us.
From the very top of the hill, a steady plume of smoke rose, most likely from sacrifices being offered to the gods from the sanctuaries and sacred enclosures. A river that I later learned was called the Simoeis flowed into the bay from the east, and the other, which flowed from the west, I would one day call the Scamander. Their banks were flanked by tall, slender po
plars, lush thanks to an abundance of water.
At the foot of the citadel I could see an extended built-up area filled with one- or two-storey houses, encircled by a massive wall of sun-dried bricks, tilted at an angle and reinforced here and there by stones, especially around the doors. The main road to the city led up to the citadel’s impressive main gate. It was set at an oblique angle and the jambs were on different levels. I had never seen such an extraordinary construction. Its name would one day become a symbol of massacre and slaughter, a bulwark soaked with the blood of so many young heroes: the Skaian Gate. The name itself sounded harsh, perilous; a gate askew, inviting any enemy to stumble.
There were warriors present at the port as well, along the piers, at the fish market and among the stands selling other wares. They seemed unconcerned; leaning on their spears, they chatted amongst themselves and scanned their surroundings every now and then. Everything else faded from my sight at that moment; I saw only them, unreal creatures. I took it as a sign from my goddess. A warning.
All at once, one of them pointed at our ship, shouted something and the docks suddenly sprang to life, teeming with men and voices. Loud cries, a horn blowing . . . in greeting or in alarm? Ours was a warship entering the port. Aboard we had twenty warriors lined up on both sides of the ship with shields, spears and high-crested helmets. Flying at the prow was the standard with the colours of Sparta, red and ochre with two lions facing each other: the symbol of the Atreidae, the same as I had seen hanging from the lintel of the gate of Mycenae.
I gave the order to pull in the oars and prepare to moor the ship. The helmsman threw out a line and two servants secured it to a mooring. A good number of Trojan warriors had, in the meantime, gathered along the wharf. The sky was thickening as well: grey, sullen clouds, damp, suffocating heat. My brow was dripping sweat, my arms were shiny.