I walked towards my ships and my tent, and when I was a short distance away I noticed a dark shadow on his feet in front of the entrance: Calchas was waiting up for me.
‘I heard your words even though you did not see me.’
‘And you’re not content with what you heard?’
‘The person you met in the sanctuary is Cassandra, Priam’s daughter. She too has the gift.’
‘All I could see was a lonely, sad, frightened woman.’
‘Anyone who has the gift is lonely. The gift is also a curse. They say that when Paris was born, she was only a child, but she ran into the room of the queen who had just given birth. Hecuba and her handmaidens smiled to see that the little one was already so eager to meet her little brother. But Cassandra regarded the child with an icy glare and said: ‘Kill him.’
‘The queen burst into tears at those dreadful words, even more terrible coming from the lips of an innocent child. No one understood. They imagined that the little girl, who had been her parents’ favourite, feared that the new arrival would rob her of their affection and caresses. Little Paris was sent to the house of his wet nurse, a shepherd’s wife who lived on Mount Ida, because of their fear that Cassandra would try to harm him. Even today, King Priam and his wife refuse to understand the message, even while they see their other sons falling under Achilles’ blows.’
‘So what is the message?’
‘You’ve understood it well: Paris would bring about the ruin of his homeland and thus it was necessary to eliminate him.’
‘So Troy will fall.’
‘Thus it is written. But not now.’
‘Yes, I think that’s true: not now.’
‘Don’t make fun of me: you saw the reason with your own eyes. It’s not just love of their homeland, not only that: it’s that stone statue covered with sparkling stars. As long as it remains where it is, the city will not fall.’
I didn’t want to ask anything else. The image of the goddess with the mother-of-pearl eyes still haunted me, and Helen’s kiss had poisoned my blood. I said only: ‘I wish you a good night, Calchas, without nightmares.’ And I left him.
MUCH TIME PASSED and much blood was drunk by the earth, and still Zeus’ scale would not tip in favour of one side or the other. It sometimes happened that some of our strongest champions were wounded and could not take their places in the battle line; other times, even when our forces were superior in number, the invincible walls of Troy became a safe refuge for our enemy, and all we could do was batter ourselves against the bloodied jambs of the Skaian Gate. We tried more than once to line Achilles up against Hector, but the Trojan always succeeded in escaping the challenge by flying off on his chariot in another direction, where another part of his formation was yielding to the pressure of Agamemnon, Menelaus and Diomedes.
There was never a decisive moment. Hector was a sagacious commander: he wouldn’t put his life at risk and thus deprive the army of his leadership. The lives of his people and his city came before his personal glory as a warrior.
It seemed that nothing would ever change, that the gods had used bronze nails to pin our destiny to that horrible field of agony and despair, until one day something happened that changed our fate.
That year the summer was scorching, suffocating. The heat was so unbearable that even the war was melting. Neither the Greeks nor the Trojans could fight any longer from inside armour baked in the sun, their strength fading before they had even begun. It took no time before we were all completely exhausted. But in the middle of those dog days, a sickness spread through our camp which cut down scores of victims every day and night and threw us all into the utmost consternation. A warrior can bear up under thirst, hunger, wounds, death in battle, but cannot rot away in the stink of his own sweat and vomit, cannot die such a senseless death.
The plague was almost certainly willed upon us by an irate god. It was necessary to understand which of the gods was offended, what we had done to warrant his anger and how it could be placated, with sacrifices and rites of expiation. Achilles himself demanded that the council of all the kings and princes of Achaia be called so we could consult the seer Calchas.
We assembled one evening near the seashore, standing within a circle traced in the sand surrounded by twelve lit torches. Agamemnon was vexed because the meeting had been called by Achilles and not by himself. And it was Achilles who spoke first: ‘Speak up, o diviner, which god has been so greatly irritated that they send us this scourge? What is the cause of their wrath?’
Calchas seemed reluctant to answer.
‘Speak up, I said! Why are you holding back?’ demanded Achilles.
‘What I have to say will not please our high commander.’
Achilles, without even looking at Agamemnon, replied: ‘Fear nothing and no one! You are under my protection.’ This was an outright challenge to the most powerful sovereign of Achaia, pronounced in front of us all.
Calchas raised his cane, shaking the bells that adorned its tip, and silence fell over the assembled kings and princes; I could hear the waves lapping at the shore and the groans of the dying. The smoke from the pyres had enveloped the setting sun in black soot. Against that atmosphere of death, the words of the seer rang out: ‘Apollo is incensed at us because his priest Chryses came to our camp, as many of us saw with our own eyes, bearing riches to pay the ransom for his daughter, whom Agamemnon has taken as his war prize, but Agamemnon refused to return her. In his dismay, the priest called upon Apollo to avenge his humiliation and the god heeded his prayer, flinging his deadly arrows our way. The only way to put an end to this scourge is for Agamemnon to return Chryses’ daughter to him and sacrifice a great number of victims on the altar of Apollo, in the hopes that the god will accept this act of expiation.’
Never in all those years of war had the high chief of the Achaians been humiliated in public or forced to swallow such an arrogant challenge. The Achaian king of kings reacted harshly to Calchas’ words. ‘You visionary of hell! Never have I had fair play in your prophecies! You have never brought me a happy portent, only trouble and misfortune fall from your lips. I don’t want to deprive myself of my slave. Why should I? Chryseis, the priest’s daughter, belongs to me. She is beautiful: her face, her body, her mind, and I want her here with me. It was my right to take her and my right to decide whether to accept the ransom or refuse it. The same would have been true for any one of you! But if what you say is true, Calchas, I won’t have anyone thinking that I do not have the destiny of my men at heart. My only concern is the warriors who are fighting under the walls of Troy.
‘I will return her to her father if this will placate the ire of Apollo, but it is not fair that I alone must do without the most precious part of my war winnings. And so you kings and princes present here will have to give me another prize of equal value and beauty. It is not just that I, your supreme commander, be deprived of my rightful due!’
I could foresee what was about to happen. Achilles was the mightiest warrior of the whole army, Agamemnon was the high chief and most powerful sovereign; their words could only become harsher and more aggressive. I could not, however, foresee the consequences of a clash, if words spilled over into actions. The end of our great enterprise, perhaps. The shame and disgrace of defeat. Although I desired to return to Ithaca more than any other thing on earth, I would rather have died than accept such a dishonourable end.
Achilles answered: ‘O great – and greatly covetous – Atreides, there are no further war prizes to be split up to satisfy your demand, but if we succeed in conquering Troy, you will be the first to choose from among the most precious objects and the most beautiful women.’ I felt that I could breathe again: the prince of Phthia, lord of the Myrmidons, had managed at least in part to maintain control of himself. I waited in trepidation for Agamemnon’s response.
‘No,’ shot back the king of Mycenae. ‘I want my prize now, and if you don’t give it to me I will take it. From you, Achilles, or from Ajax or Odysseus.’
> I had to smile at hearing my own name: he would find nothing on my ship to compare to his splendid slave and he knew that well. He also knew how hard I had worked, first to ensure peace and later to make war. He was behaving like a man of no worth. Now anything could happen. And of course, it did. Achilles insulted him ferociously, reproaching him for his greed and self-indulgence, calling him shameless and contemptible. But those words didn’t really make much of an impression on me; it was what he said afterwards that broke my heart.
‘I’ve always fought with all my strength, conquered villages and cities, flocks and herds of thousands of animals, and I always saved the richest part for you, out of respect. A respect you never deserved, Agamemnon. It’s on my shoulders that the weight of the war lies. The only reason I’m here with my men is because your brother’s wife was abducted: to keep faith with a promise,’ and here Achilles shot me a piercing look. ‘The Trojans never did me any harm; they never robbed me or invaded the kingdom of my father, and so I’m leaving. I’m going back home. I have no desire to stay here to accumulate riches for you, to fight your war!’
‘Go!’ shouted Agamemnon. ‘I won’t try to hold you back. Others no less valiant than you will stay to fight at my side and I’ll have the support of the king of the gods, who protects the king of men. I won’t miss you, you quarrel-seeking, hot-tempered, rebellious villain! Go, I’m happy to see the end of you, you have my permission. But since I’m the one who has to pay by sending my slave back to her father, I’ll come by and take your own Briseis. Yes, I’ll take her to my own tent.’
This was too much, Achilles would never allow such a thing to happen. He threw his sceptre to the ground, heaped insult upon insult on Agamemnon, and put his hand to his sword. It was the end.
But suddenly, all at once, I felt her presence: Athena. It wasn’t that I saw her, no. But who else could have abruptly stayed the murderous wrath of the strongest and most impetuous warrior the world had ever seen? Induced him to sheathe his sword?
I saw Achilles speaking without a word coming out of his mouth. He was close to me, I could see him well. He turned and his eyes seemed to lock on to something just behind him, and then he lowered his gaze.
Nestor saw his chance to plead for peace, but I said nothing. He went on and on as he usually did, recalling the endeavours of his youth and the prestige he had accumulated in so many long years of experience. He tried to soothe their quarrel and remind them of their duties. Too late. Agamemnon sent his men to Achilles’ tent to carry off his woman: Briseis, a radiant beauty whom he had fallen in love with, and she with him, although Achilles had killed her husband. Then Agamemnon had his mightiest warship readied, along with the biggest of his cargo ships, which would carry the animals destined to be sacrificed. He had me summoned, and I walked at his side as, pensive and downcast, he made his way back to his tent.
‘I need you, Odysseus. I want you to command the ships on this journey and to sustain me when we meet the girl’s father. We can’t make any more mistakes; too many terrible things have already happened. I have great faith in you.’
I accepted, although he’d done nothing to deserve my help, and the next day I woke up early and had the cargo ship pushed out empty into the water; only then were the sacrificial animals put aboard, using a wooden ramp. When the ship was fully loaded, and even Chryseis, with her statuesque figure and deep, moist eyes, had come aboard my vessel, I gave the order to hoist sail and sent the men to their oars. Before we put out to sea, Agamemnon came to say goodbye.
‘Why did you provoke the savage warrior?’ I asked him. ‘Without Achilles, we have no hope. And we cannot count on the support of the gods. They don’t help fools.’
Agamemnon did not answer and I fell silent as well, my heart heavy. The sun’s first rays were lighting up the towers of Troy and I boarded the ship.
27
ONCE MORE I HAD THE DESTINY of Achaia in my hands. And once again it was a woman who had set off everything. But we could no longer count on the might of Achilles: our pure, raw, implacable thunderbolt. Gone. All that was left was my heart and my mind. Could that suffice to guide the powerful brawn of Great Ajax, the fury of Diomedes, the noble prowess of Idomeneus and Menelaus? But first of all, the plague had to be stopped. If Makahon, our warrior surgeon, son of Asclepius, who overcame death, hadn’t succeeded, I needed to come to terms with men and gods and redress the offence. My time had come.
I spoke with the girl during the voyage and discovered that her name was Astynome, even if everyone referred to her using her father’s name: Chryseis, daughter of Chryses.
‘What kind of a welcome can we expect from your father?’ I asked her. ‘I’ve decided to come without an armed guard, and have left my own weapons behind, so I can offer sacrifice to the god pure-heartedly.’
Astynome hesitated – she was accustomed to being the property of another man, and she had never spoken with him as she did with her equals and friends – but then decided to answer me. Her voice sounded very young, but was intense and slightly husky, which made her all the more intriguing. ‘He’ll be very happy to see me again. I am his only daughter and he was willing to pay my ransom with all the wealth in his possession. He’ll want to give it to you, since you are the one returning me.’
‘I’m relieved to hear that he won’t receive me in anger. How were you treated by Agamemnon, our supreme leader?’
‘Like a slave,’ she answered.
There were no words to be said after such an answer, but I decided to continue nonetheless. ‘Even slaves can be treated in different ways. Did he treat you well or badly?’
‘Like a slave . . . a beautiful one.’
I was struck by her clarity of thought and sincere words.
‘I possess slaves as well, in the palace and fields of my island. They all love me, and I them, as part of my family.’
‘Do you have children, wanax?’ It was the first time she’d asked me a question. I was gaining her confidence.
‘Just one. Telemachus is his name, born of my wife, Penelope. When I left he hadn’t even started speaking yet, although sometimes I thought I heard him say “atta”.’
She smiled. ‘That’s what all children say before they learn to talk.’
I don’t know what she thought of me, but I tried to help her understand that I was a person, with a mind and heart, thoughts and hopes. Above all, hopes. I think she understood.
By the time we reached Chrysa, her city, she would speak with me easily without waiting for me to start the conversation, and that was a good thing. I put my warship and the cargo ship ashore, had Astynome disembark and started unloading the animals to be sacrificed.
I walked with the girl until we reached the sanctuary and the altar. Her father had just begun to celebrate rites in honour of Apollo and when he saw us his face lit up; joy shone in his eyes. I put her hand into his and said: ‘The lord of all our peoples, Agamemnon, has sent me to you so that I may return your daughter who is so dear to you, and offer sacrifice to placate the god, if you will appeal to him on our behalf.’ I heard Astynome speaking to him in their language. There was only one word I understood: my own name.
The priest invoked the god with a prayer: ‘God of the silver bow who reigns sovereign over our city, you have heeded my words and you made the Achaians pay dearly for their affront. You have done me justice. Now that the wrong has been righted, a sacrifice will be offered to you and a choir will sing your glory. Turn your ire from the camp of the Achaians, I beg of you.’
When we had offered the animals we’d brought with us in sacrifice, the meat was distributed among the people, who ate it happily and celebrated with wine. My men and I spent the night sleeping on the rowing benches or on the beach. I prayed devoutly to my goddess to intercede on our behalf with Apollo, to convince him to accept the prayer of his priest. When dawn awoke us, we unfurled the sails and raised anchors. Only then did I notice the girl walking on the beach, barefooted on the fine sand. She had begun to live again.
I still think of her. Does she still exist? What happened in her life? She incarnated, for us, the hope of salvation or the threat of catastrophe, at least for that brief time in which I knew her. Did she have children? A husband? Was someone willing to take her after she had been in the bed of the king of Achaian kings? Or did she decide to dedicate herself, still a virgin in her heart, to the cult of her father? In my mind she still lives the way I saw her that last time . . .
The ire of Apollo was not soon placated. Perhaps he wanted to finish the arrows still remaining in his quiver, perhaps he was as slow in abandoning his wrath as he had been swift at kindling it. It’s difficult to understand the mind and intentions of the gods. In the end, the plague ceased but the fighting began again. Achilles would not take part, although he hadn’t set sail as he had threatened to do. He’d stayed put, and he was seething at not taking his place in the action. Keeping out of the war was a punishment he’d inflicted on himself, not on Agamemnon. It wasn’t long before the enemy became aware of his absence. That hit us even harder. Achilles inspired terror and he was unstoppable. Every day, the number of dead that we carried back from the battlefield increased, and the men were becoming greatly discouraged. My mission had served no purpose. That didn’t mean I was giving up.
I met Patroclus one day as he was returning from the hunt with a roebuck on his shoulders. He realized that I’d been waiting for him and he stopped in the shelter of a tree, where Achilles, who had left his tent, could not see us. As we spoke he began to flay the animal and gut it.
‘He respects you,’ Patroclus told me, ‘and he can’t understand how a man like you can still recognize the authority of Agamemnon. But what’s really killing him is that his woman is in that tent, perhaps even in that bed. He has proved that he’s much more judicious than anyone would have imagined. He could have killed Agamemnon, and he didn’t.’
‘Perhaps a god stayed his hand. Anyway, I haven’t given up hope. He hasn’t left; he’s still here. Unless he’s told you he has other intentions. I know he has no secrets from you.’