‘Did they know we were coming?’ I asked.
‘We didn’t warn them,’ replied Menelaus, ‘but they were certainly expecting it. What Paris did was no less than an act of war.’
I summoned the heralds. The first was one of my men from Ithaca; his name was Euribates and he was the son of a nobleman from Same. The other, who accompanied Menelaus, spoke the language of the Trojans. He turned to the warrior whose stance and insignia identified him as their probable commander, and announced: ‘This vessel is a royal ship and carries two sovereigns from the land of Achaia.’ The commander stared at me and Menelaus, while the herald continued. ‘Wanax Odysseus, son of Laertes and king of Ithaca, and wanax Menelaus, Atreides, king of Sparta. The man they seek is King Priam, lord of this powerful city. We wish to speak to your sovereign and request, on their behalf, an audience with him. The two kings will wait on board this ship for his response.’
The commander spoke to two of his men in a low voice. They accommodated our heralds on a chariot and raced off towards the city and the citadel. Menelaus and I waited in silence; we had no desire to talk. The solemn words which the herald had used to introduce us only roused my fear, for the moment. I looked towards the citadel and I realized I was already exploring its weak spots; I was looking at the fields and beaches and thinking of where I would land a fleet, from which direction an attack could be launched. In my heart I was already acting like a man who no longer thinks peace is possible. Menelaus was certainly doing the same. I suspected that our mission had been compromised from the start, and yet I had no intention of surrendering. I just wanted to leave no stone unturned.
I watched the gates, the people, the mists, the dust. The life of a peaceful city flowed before my eyes: trading, traffic, ships entering and leaving the harbour. A storyteller roaming the docks and looking for listeners. No one stopped. Time never passed. I felt neither hunger nor thirst, only a hard knot in my throat. The sun had begun to sink at our backs. As the light changed, colours became more saturated and tinged the world around us with beauty. The heat broke, clearing the air for the swallows, and the sea turned wine dark. Fish darted under the surface of the water while low-flying seagulls shrieked, disagreeable and ravenous.
‘They’re coming,’ I announced.
I had just spotted our heralds: they were heading to the port from the crooked Skaian Gate. The two of them were on a chariot being driven by a charioteer. Two more chariots followed, without passengers. For us.
‘They’re coming to get us,’ I answered.
We got ready. ‘Make no show of arms, Menelaus,’ I warned him, ‘except for self-defence. Breastplate, greaves, helmet under your arm. Nothing else.’
He nodded and we descended from the ship, escorted by our guard, as the chariots arrived and the heralds descended. My eyes were desperately searching for my goddess, for any sign of her presence. Where are you?
‘Here,’ said a voice inside me and my eyes raced upwards, swiftly. Racing like young impetuous warriors, beyond the Skaian Gate, beyond the bastions, beyond the ramp, beyond the second circle of walls and up to the sanctuary. A figure arose over the citadel, aflutter in the wind, a shield reflecting the small, scarlet, setting sun.
‘Help me, I beg of you,’ implored my heart, beating fast, my breathing slow. The tang of the sea and the shrieking of birds. The time had come.
The heralds approached: ‘Wanax Menelaus, wanax Odysseus, King Priam has consented to receive you and hear your words. For as long as you remain in our city, you will be the guests of Antenor, one of the most eminent noblemen of the city, adviser to the king, father of many sons.’
We departed. The drivers turned the chariots towards the city and urged on the horses. We left the warriors of our guard to watch over the ship. Our chariots went through the gates, the wheels easing over the misaligned surface on movable wooden tracks, and then started up the ramp, which was so steep that the horses had to arch their necks as the bronze rims thundered over the stones. Menelaus’ chariot was first, mine second. Once we had arrived at the palace, we descended and the Trojan warriors escorted us inside, twelve on each side. The corridors echoed with their pounding steps, with the loud clanking of their weapons. They accompanied us all the way to the great hall and up to the king’s big ivory throne. Priam was sitting there, awaiting us. His hair was white but his neatly trimmed beard was grey, streaked with black. A golden circle crowned his head and he held a silver sceptre in his right hand.
Everything around him spoke of his power. He was surrounded by immense riches, beautiful women, wives and concubines, certainly capable of generating strong, handsome princes. I knew what Menelaus was thinking: Helen was nearby, maybe watching him unseen, perhaps begging Prince Paris to prevent him taking her back to Achaia.
Surrounding the king were the elders and advisers who would also listen to our words. Menelaus spoke first: ‘Priam, king of this great, glorious city, hearken to my words. I have come beseeching justice. I hosted your son in my home; he ate my bread. And he, while I was far from my home visiting my sister Anaxibia, abducted my wife Helen, my legitimate bride who had herself chosen me as her husband. He has offended my hospitality and mortally wounded my honour. I ask that my wife be returned to me so that I may bring her home, back to the daughter born of our union that she has not seen since the moment of her abduction.’
The king replied immediately: ‘Noble sovereigns, I recognize your claim, but here in this city it is customary for the assembly to decide such matters. You will speak to the people yourselves and attempt to convince them. The people will decide. We pray that the gods will inspire in you and in my people the fairest words and thoughts. For as long as you remain here, in the sacred city of Troy, you will be considered sacred as well, your persons inviolable. Noble Antenor, a man very close to me and very dear to me for his great wisdom, will host you in his home. There you will receive an announcement when it is time for you to address the assembly.’
Thus our first meeting with one of the most powerful kings of Asia had already ended. I couldn’t understand why he had not offered to convince his people himself. His great prestige, his imposing presence, his authority as father over his son Paris would certainly be sufficient to loosen the knot that threatened to tighten like a noose around his magnificent city. I couldn’t help but feel that there were invincible powers all around us that would not be bent to our will; an obscure fate was gathering, milling around us like a storm at sea.
I tried to fill my mind with thoughts of Penelope, of her gown embroidered with a hundred little ducks, of Telemachus speaking a language that only Argus could understand, the language of the innocents. They had never felt so far away.
We were taken to Antenor’s house, a palace with many windows that stood at a short distance from the top of the ramp. We’d been told that he had many sons; there must have been a window for each of their bedrooms.
Our host was an impressive-looking man, very tall, with a thick dark beard despite his years. He dressed in the luxurious style typical of the East, earrings dangling at the sides of his face and rings on his fingers. Bronze, gold and silver filled his house; who knew where all those riches had come from? I couldn’t separate that vision of luxury from other visions of plunder and pillage. It was thus that my father’s ship would return from his armed forays: loaded with objects taken as booty in distant lands, where conquering unknown peoples and taking their treasures were somehow always justified.
Antenor welcomed us surrounded by his numerous sons, and treated us as befitted our standing. It was clear that he’d been alerted to the king’s decision to house us there, because the servants were scurrying here and there preparing dinner, and the scent of roasting meat from the fireplace soon spread through the whole house. A separate bath was readied for each of us, with maids sent to serve us. We even found fresh clothing to wear, suited to our different sizes. Menelaus was taller and more muscular than I was. I’d always asked myself what had made Helen flee from such
a man. We felt her presence wherever we went; it was hovering everywhere in the city. A sensation that weighed heavily on my heart. It was me who had made everyone swear to the pact of the princes: how far would the repercussions of that act ripple out? It was difficult to understand how beauty can unleash violence and lead to such terrible consequences. I couldn’t stop thinking about the moments I had spent with Helen, how close I’d been to her, how she’d surprised me the night of her wedding, after I’d tried to run away with Penelope. How would I feel if I saw her again?
The dinner took place with all due ceremony. The guests must have been the cream of the Trojan nobility, to judge from the way they were dressed, their arms and their ornaments. I watched them walk in one by one to take their places at the table. Last of all came an old man, carried in by four servants and accompanied by a young warrior.
The Trojans spoke a language that was very similar to ours, although the accent was quite different. Antenor made himself understood perfectly and when something was not intelligible he used the aid of an interpreter. In this way, it was possible for us to carry on a conversation. About hunting, dogs, horses, weapons, game and archery. Is this what we’d come to Troy for? We realized instantly that this was not the case when the guests had retired for the evening and only four of us remained. King Menelaus and I, our host, and the young Trojan prince who assisted the old man with such filial devotion. A young man with a dark complexion, wavy brown hair and shiny black eyes. His name was as rich and fluid-sounding as a cry of war or the song of a woman, depending on how it was pronounced: Aeneas.
Antenor spoke first: ‘Prince Paris is Priam’s son. Out of respect for the king, I will not say openly what I truly think of him. Let it suffice to say that were he my son I would have punished him harshly and returned King Menelaus’ bride to him immediately, with a recompense proportionate to the offence.’
Menelaus and I exchanged a look, taken by surprise at such an affirmation. I began once again to hope that I might be able to return to my island and take my wife into my arms among the branches of the olive tree, raise my son, nurture respect for my parents, take my dog out hunting.
‘Noble Antenor,’ I said then, ‘your words encourage me, for we have come in peace, merely asking for what is King Menelaus’ right. May I ask you now if you intend to repeat in front of the assembly of the people what you have said to us now between these four walls?’
Aeneas gave a brief nod, as if to say that he approved and expected our host to act accordingly.
‘It is exactly what I plan to say,’ said Antenor. ‘Furthermore, I’m happy to have this opportunity to offer you my hospitality. The last thing I want is for our sons to fight you in battle and end up losing their lives or taking yours. But let us put aside such sad thoughts now. We should retire; you must be tired after such a long journey. Consider this house your own.’
We spent three days in Antenor’s house and I continued to hope that the dispute might be settled peaceably. I dedicated much of my time to Menelaus, to instruct him in how to address the assembly before it was my turn to speak.
‘This is a proud city,’ I warned him. ‘Do not challenge that pride. Even if the people and the warriors of the city realize that you have been wronged, they may give in to the temptation of demonstrating that when there is force there’s reason. We’d do the same, in their place. Remember this: deciding to go to war is easy, for each side is sure of emerging the victor. Waging war is another thing.’
On the day of the assembly, I convinced Menelaus not to wear his armour. He donned a simple robe, without ornaments or jewels. He had to look like a man offended to the quick, pleading in the name of justice for what was rightfully his. A large crowd had gathered in the square and King Priam had already arrived and was seated on his throne next to Queen Hecuba. One of the elders, accompanied by a herald, led Menelaus to the centre of the throng and called for attention. The buzzing ceased and silence fell over the assembly.
Everyone I had met during our stay inside the walls of Troy was present, including all of the king’s sons except Paris. The most powerful and valiant was Hector, the heir to Priam’s throne; he stood alongside his cousin and ally, Aeneas the Dardanian prince, both in full armour. Aeneas’ old father, Anchises, was also there, along with Antenor and many of the other noblemen I had met in his home. It was Antenor who invited Menelaus, with a sweeping gesture of his arm, to take the floor.
The king of Sparta advanced to the centre of the square. He wore a long green robe hemmed in gold and his deerskin sandals had silver laces. The sun made his flaming red hair shine. His gaze was like that of a lion warily regarding its surroundings before pouncing; his gait was like that of a bull preparing to charge. Just looking at him aroused one’s admiration. I thought that only the gods could have muddled Helen’s mind and convinced her to leave such a husband for a feckless, spoiled young boy. It couldn’t have been the same Helen that I met when she was little more than a girl at the horses’ pen one evening at dusk. Or maybe it was precisely that Helen, whose devastating beauty even at that young age had struck me as a cause for the ruin of many men.
Menelaus began to speak: ‘King Priam, Queen Hecuba, men and women of the great city of Troy, heed my words!
‘I am here to ask you to redress a wrong. Prince Paris, who had come to pay a hospitable visit to Sparta, was welcomed as a guest in my house, but taking advantage of my absence he carried off my wife, Helen, took her aboard his ship and fled to Troy. Perhaps he is here among you and he doesn’t have the courage to show himself, to face me man to man!’ A loud buzz accompanied his last words and I feared that Menelaus’ impetuous nature would betray him. I shouted in my heart, ‘Careful!’, hoping that his heart would hear me.
He continued: ‘Return my bride to me and make reparation for the injury I have suffered and I will forget what happened. If you do not do so . . .’ he thundered, ignoring my frantic signal to stop, ‘it will mean war!’
There was a long, grievous silence during which the dozens of heralds and interpreters gathered near the king and scattered among the people explained Menelaus’ words. Then a roar erupted from the crowd, with yelling and shouting and scornful taunts, which Menelaus perhaps could not understand but whose tone wounded him nonetheless. Their words were clear to me; I had already managed to understand how their language was different from ours and how it was similar, or perhaps Athena was whispering what they meant into my ear. I watched as Antenor paled, then stood and walked to the centre of the assembled crowd. Silence fell again as he approached the podium. He bowed to the people and to his king and asked for attention: ‘O king, and beloved sons of Troy, lend your ears now to wanax Odysseus, king of Ithaca. He asks for your attention. Let him speak.’
My heart trembled. Now the burden of avoiding a war already unleashed by Menelaus lay squarely on my shoulders alone. I called upon my goddess to assist me, to hasten to my side and inspire my speech. I opened my mouth and I spoke in their language, certain that this would be a sign of respect for them, certain that Athena would make this miracle happen. I said: ‘King Priam, Queen Hecuba and all you noble inhabitants of Troy, great and glorious!’ The assembly hushed all at once.
‘Wanax Menelaus, who reigns over Sparta, has spoken in bitterness and anger. Wouldn’t each of you have done the same if you had suffered such humiliation? If your hospitality and friendship were repaid with insult and betrayal? Wasn’t your prince received as befits the son of a friend and king? Are not our countries joined by bonds of hospitality and even of blood? Is not your king’s sister the wife of one of the kings of Achaia?
‘If all this were not enough, try to imagine for a moment that no other solution remains except going to war: how many ills would we have to face then, both you and us? How many of our sons and your sons would fall in battle? The soil would drink their blood! Their mothers and fathers – you who are listening to me now! – would have to bear the unspeakable horror of watching their sons burning on a funeral pyre! Ho
w many other mothers and fathers would spend their days scanning the distant horizon, sighing and longing for the return of sons who are lost forever?’
I saw Helen. I saw her, in the distance, on the highest tower of the palace. Haughty and beautiful, watching me. I think she heard me. I wanted to shout: Bitch! Other words spilled out instead.
‘If you refuse to give us what we ask for, honour and duty will force us to take up arms. Wouldn’t any man – every last one of you seated here in this assembly – do the same, perhaps, if deprived of his dignity? But consider, I bid you, how long would such a war last? How many families would be plunged into grief and despair? And all of this . . . for a woman?
‘Let us find an agreement, Trojans, there are a thousand ways to avoid war if there is a will to do so. King Priam has many sons and he surely wants to see them grow and thrive, sit in the assembly, find joy in their wedding chambers and perpetuate his race. I hope that your king’s wisdom will provide you with counsel. We will remain in the house of noble Antenor until you have come to a decision.’
We walked out. As we were leaving the assembly, I could hear Antenor exhorting his fellow citizens to return Helen.
‘Will he succeed?’ Menelaus asked me.
‘I hope he will,’ I replied.
We followed the guide, who led us back to Antenor’s house in silence. Antenor himself did not return that night. We dined alone, served by a Phrygian attendant.
As he was clearing the table, I turned to him: ‘Can you understand me?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, my lord,’ he said.
‘Do you know why we are here?’
‘For Princess Helen, my lord.’
‘And what do you think about this story?’
‘I would prefer not to reply, if I may.’
‘You may not,’ I said.
‘She won’t be returned to you.’