Odysseus: The Oath

  He lowered his hood and smiled.

  ‘Eumelus!’

  ‘I held out for two years in Eurystheus’ palace, you don’t think I can spend a night in here? You can’t imagine that I’m afraid of the dark.’

  Epeius spoke up: ‘I can’t open the hatch up and then close it again; it might become damaged in a visible way.’

  I had to surrender. I sighed: ‘And your horses? Who will care for them?’ I asked Eumelus.

  ‘They’re hidden in a safe place. I’ll see them again soon.’

  We spent the first part of the night speaking in whispers. About the expedition, about friendly and hostile gods, about our fears, about the friends we’d lost and those remaining.

  ‘What if they realize we’re in here? What will we do then?’ asked Thoas.

  ‘I’ll think about that when it happens,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think it will.’

  ‘If we succeed,’ asked Diomedes, ‘what will we do? Who will we spare and who will we kill? Who will be sold as a slave or liberated? Who will decide how to distribute the spoils?’

  I did not answer and a long silence ensued. Each of us remained alone with his own thoughts until the dawn.

  THE LIGHT OF morning filtered through the gaps between one board and another and striped our faces black and grey. We were tense and restless. Some of us had fallen asleep during the night, in particular Pyrrhus – boys are such heavy sleepers.

  ‘Listen!’ hissed Ajax Oileus. ‘There’s someone out there.’

  ‘This is it!’ I answered. ‘From this moment on, silent and completely still. One mistake and we’re all dead.’

  We could hear people running, scampering, all around us. Shouts, and then cries of joy. ‘They’ve gone! We’ve won! We’ve won!’ And then again: ‘The king! King Priam is on his way here!’

  Epeius caught my eye and gestured towards several slits in the wall that were wide enough to see out of. They were invisible from the outside because they were too high from the ground and embedded in the horse’s rough outer surface. I could see a stream of people pouring out of the Skaian Gate and from the other gate in the lower part of the city: men, women, the old and the young as well, children who had known nothing but war. They were looking around them as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. They examined the deep furrows left by the ships’ keels as they had been pushed into the water, the traces of the hastily disassembled tents, the hearths where so many years of blazing fires had blackened and hardened the ground until it seemed made of stone. And the forges where our swords and the cruel heads of bitter darts and spears had been fashioned. Many of them were weeping with joy and my heart shuddered, because I was plotting the last night of their life on earth, their last day of freedom.

  Then the crowd parted and Priam’s chariot passed. I hadn’t seen him since that time so long before when I’d gone with Menelaus to Troy to ask him to return Helen. He looked haggard: a wrinkle as deep as a wound crossed his forehead and his cheeks were gaunt. How many sons, born of wife or concubines, had he lost on the battlefield? But among those sons, and above all the rest, it was the loss of his greatly beloved Hector, bulwark of his kingdom and his city, that had broken his heart.

  He got out of the chariot and walked all the way under the horse’s belly. I moved to the centre, at the cavity’s lowest point, without making the slightest noise. I could see his white hair, the amber brooch pinned to his left shoulder. It felt like I would be able to touch him if I held out my hand.

  Then, a confused murmur of voices started to sound all around, a question, floating in the air: ‘What is that?’ No one answered. I was trembling. If Sinon wasn’t found, our adventure would end up in the most humiliating and ignominious way. A shout: ‘One of the enemy! They’ve captured him!’

  The buzz of voices became much louder.

  ‘Sinon,’ I whispered to my comrades. ‘They found him.’ Another step towards completing my plan.

  I could finally see him myself. Bound, his clothes in tatters, his hair tangled, clots of blood on his left arm. He threw himself at the king’s feet, imploring his mercy. I couldn’t hear his words but I could see the expressions on their faces, the gestures of his king and the attitude of his men, which were all just as I had expected. I was heartened and I nodded to my men so they would be encouraged as well. They were accustomed to moving freely on an open field and facing off against the enemy, and this had to be a deeply uneasy moment for them: they were impotent prisoners, surrounded by a great crowd of people, including many armed men.

  The wind changed direction and I could hear Priam’s and Sinon’s voices. ‘Why did they make it of such enormous dimensions?’ the king was asking.

  ‘So it cannot be taken up to the citadel. It is written that, if that were to happen, one day all of Asia would rise up in vengeance over these many years of slaughter and their vast armies would tear down the walls of Mycenae and Argus.’

  A sudden shout that all of us heard distinctly: ‘Burn it! That’s no votive gift; it’s certainly a threat. Anything that comes from our enemies is a danger to us and must be destroyed!’ The head of a spear suddenly came up through the horse’s belly, penetrating a full hand’s width into our midst. The loud thud of impact and the prolonged vibration of the shaft invaded our dark cavern.

  Thoas grabbed hold of the bolt on the hatch, growling: ‘I don’t want to die in this damned trap!’

  Menelaus and I stopped him and held him still until he had calmed down. I moved back to my observation point: there was complete silence outside and everyone seemed to be looking straight up at me . . . then I heard Priam say: ‘If this is a gift to Poseidon, only a god can tell us what we must do. Laocoön, you will immolate a sacrifice on the sea to the blue god who built our city. He will surely give us a response.’

  So the man who had thrust his spear into the horse was a priest. A bull was dragged into the sea and this Laocoön, assisted by two adolescents, his sons I suppose, lowered an axe onto the neck of the animal, which was felled on the first stroke. A wide pool of blood formed on the surface of the sea. From my high vantage point, I could see the blue waters being stained vermilion red. Then, all at once, the surface of the sea started to boil. Two tails sprang out of the water and high fins slashed through the waves. In an instant, the priest and the two boys were dragged down under the water and devoured, their blood mixing with that of the sacrificed bull.

  As a sailor, I’ve always known that blood can attract predators from the depths. But given those circumstances, the response had to be read as favourable to us: the blue god was obviously not pleased that a votive gift meant to win his protection be profaned by the thrust of a spear, or threatened with destruction by fire. He had sent two of his creatures from the abyss to punish the priest’s sacrilege.

  Priam gave orders that the horse be towed all the way up to the citadel, so due honours could be paid to the votive offering, which would be dedicated, in a solemn ceremony, to Poseidon. It was necessary to demolish the lintel at the top of the lower gate, in order to let the horse pass through.

  My comrades regarded me with an admiration that I’d never seen in their eyes before. Everything I had predicted was coming true. Eumelus approached me and said in a whisper: ‘Do you still think I should have stayed with my horses?’

  ‘It’s not over yet, Eumelus. You’re already thinking of the moment of victory and glory. The triumphant cry of war and Troy in flames. But the worst is yet to come. I can promise you, if everything does go according to my plan, what you will see and do tonight will leave a deep wound in your heart, an unhealable wound, because every time that you kill – defenceless people fleeing from you or adversaries that are already scattered, defeated, humiliated – a part of you will die as well.’

  I don’t know whether Eumelus understood what I was trying to tell him and I was never able to ask him what he felt. I lost sight of him that terrible night and I never saw him again.

  As we were being pulled into the city, we coul
d hear the cries of exultation outside, sounds of feasting and celebration, rivers of wine being poured. We were cramped inside, the muscles in our limbs painfully contracted, our stomachs knotted with anxiety. Only one last act stood between us and completion of the endeavour, and yet so many dangers still lay in wait. Even if the gods had turned their gaze from the city, they emanated a dreadful energy that I could feel all around us.

  When silence finally fell over the city and the revellers had all moved on, I heard a light step outside, near the horse. I asked the others in a whisper: ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Yes, a footstep,’ replied Diomedes.

  ‘A footstep,’ confirmed Menelaus.

  ‘I heard it too, a footstep,’ said Sthenelus.

  ‘A footstep,’ I murmured to myself. Who could be out there, roaming around so late at night, ready to expose our scheme?

  ‘It’s me, Penelope!’ said a voice.

  ‘Penelope? Is that you?’ asked my heart and I held my breath. I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Aegialia, my love,’ called out Diomedes, the implacable warrior.

  ‘Tecmessa!’ exclaimed the cavernous voice of Ajax from the otherworld. Teucer wept to hear it.

  ‘Arete!’ shouted Sthenelus and he leaned forward to open the hatch, but I stopped him, putting my hand over his mouth so that I was nearly suffocating him.

  ‘Helen,’ said Menelaus finally. ‘Only Helen.’

  She, I thought, she is all women . . . In her voice each one of us had recognized that of his bride, his beloved, forever longed for, forever desired. Her footsteps faded away into the distance.

  34

  HELEN.

  Had she come to tempt us? Had she come to trick us into revealing ourselves? Or had she, perhaps, come to tell us that she was aware of our deception but would not reveal us?

  That was a night of blood and deceit.

  When it was very late and everything was peaceful and silent around us, I gave Epeius the order to open the hatch and one by one we lowered ourselves down to the ground on the rope ladder. I looked at the constellations in the sky: ‘By this time the fleet will be coming ashore. Go to the towers and launch the signal.’ Each one of us knew what we had to do. Diomedes, Pyrrhus and Ajax Oileus were to eliminate the guards and take their places on the towers on either side of the Skaian Gate. Eumelus would signal using a torch that we had been successful. The others, including me, would provide cover for our comrades and, if necessary, defend our positions until reinforcements arrived.

  Everything had gone perfectly up to that moment. I saw Eumelus’ torch moving to the right and then to the left three times; he stopped and then repeated the signal. What followed was the longest time of our lives. We could still fail: a delay, a misunderstanding, an accident . . . finally another light blinked on and off from the beach. The fleet had landed. At that point I was certain that Troy’s destiny was in our hands. But I refused to exult in the idea of victory until I’d seen our army charging through the Skaian Gate, finally agape.

  The pounding of thousands of heavy footsteps, the clatter of weapons . . .

  ‘It’s them!’ exclaimed Diomedes.

  ‘Open the gate!’ I shouted with all the breath I had in my lungs. The moment that I’d awaited for years.

  The hinges creaked mightily and then the heavy bronze-plated doors swung open. The army poured into the city like a river in flood.

  Troy, from that moment on, was completely at the mercy of the invading forces. The alarm wasn’t sounded until it was too late. Many of the defenders, awakened by the fracas and by the cries of terror of the population, threw on their armour and rushed into the streets, prepared to fight to the last drop of blood. Others took position in front of the doors to their own homes, to defend their wives and children, but were cut down where they stood by a vastly superior force. We were drunk on the slaughter now, furious at the years spent in endless combat, dying to stamp out the persevering, insuperable resistance of proud Troy.

  The entire city was plunged into a vortex of horror. There was no way, nor was there the will, to check the endless violence of our warriors who raged on and on, killing, destroying, raping and sacking. Fights broke out between our own men, turning into bloody brawls as they quarrelled over their prey: precious objects, fabrics, weapons, women. After a short time, fires started to burn in various parts of the city: in the lower quarters first and then, as the hours went by, the flames began to lick at the citadel. The blaze spread swiftly, roaring from one point to another of the high city.

  It was there that the final defence was concentrated. There were the king and the queen, their sons and wives. There were the last valiant defenders of the city and the kingdom: Aeneas and Deiphobus, Hector’s brother. There was Andromache, his widow, with their infant son, Astyanax.

  There was Helen.

  I tried to imagine what she was doing, how she was feeling at the sight of the holocaust of the city that had welcomed her as a daughter. How she felt about the inevitable arrival of Menelaus, her betrayed husband.

  There the frenzy of the fight – the roaring flames and the din of clashing weapons – had reached its apex.

  That was where I was headed, running, because I still had one last task to fulfil. I’d already entered the walls of Troy twice before, once by the light of day and once under the cover of night, and the image of the roads and squares, the monuments and palaces, was still vivid in my mind.

  I was looking for the house of Antenor, the man who had foreseen this ruin and who had come to me in an attempt to avoid it. I had been his guest and was beholden to him. I owed him the only possible gift I could offer him now: his life and that of his family.

  I found the road, and the house, besieged by hundreds of infuriated warriors. They recognized me and I was able to push my way through to the main door. I shouted to the men milling around me, exhorting them to rush immediately to the ramp leading up to the sanctuaries and the citadel, where Aeneas was leading a counter-attack and reinforcements were needed. It was difficult to get them to obey me, but when they had finally gone, I entered, struggling to find my way down the corridors and through the rooms, crossing walls of flames, until I finally found him. He was grasping a spear and he aimed it at me.

  ‘It’s Odysseus!’ I shouted. ‘Follow me, take your family! Show me a way to leave the city from the north.’

  He understood. I returned outside and he immediately joined me, followed by a number of weeping children and women. We ran as fast as we could down dark, twisting roads, through quarters already destroyed by fire, until we got to a side gate.

  He stopped for an instant and gave me a long look of infinite pain. His eyes were full of tears.

  ‘This was our destiny,’ he said. ‘It was written that it would end this way, but may the gods reward you for showing us mercy.’

  ‘Run,’ I answered him. ‘Don’t stop until you get to a place where you can find help, on the sea or in the mountains. No one will follow you.’

  I kept my eyes on them for as long as I could make them out in the reflection of the fires, until they were swallowed up into the night.

  Then I turned back towards the citadel. The end was near: Pyrrhus, flanked by two enormous warriors, was brandishing an axe and pounding it into the palace door, which finally exploded into a thousand splinters. He rushed in, followed by his Myrmidons. He came out again onto the high gallery, not long after he’d entered, letting out a bloodcurdling cry and holding aloft his horrifying trophy: Priam’s head. The most powerful city of Asia, and her king, were decapitated. Weeping and moaning pierced the autumn night, flocks of birds wheeled over Troy in wide circles, like the spirits of the dead, their purple wings reflected in the flames.

  Little by little, as the last pockets of resistance were eliminated, a long line of prisoners began to form: mostly women and children, but even some men, to be sold off as slaves. The Achaian kings and princes gathered to divide up the spoils. Pyrrhus saw Andromache with her crying child
in her arms; perhaps someone had pointed her out to him. He immediately claimed Hector’s widow for himself. He pulled her out of the line, exclaiming: ‘This one is mine!’ But then, irritated by the baby’s frightened bawling, he tore the child from his mother’s arms, strode over to the walls and flung him over the side onto the cliffs below.

  I did nothing to stop him because it was me who had created that monster. He was obeying the law of war: the war isn’t over until the last descendant of the enemy is dead. The crushing of those tiny limbs thus extinguished the bloodline of glorious Hector, tamer of horses, the man who had come to set fire to our ships, who had incessantly defended Troy for ten long years and who, in the end, had succumbed only to Achilles’ spear. Andromache let out a scream that didn’t sound human, the agonized shriek of a wounded eagle. She collapsed to the ground as if dead.

  But Pyrrhus wasn’t finished. He went back to the line of prisoners and yanked out the youngest of Priam’s daughters, lovely Polyxena. He seized her by the hair and proceeded to drag her all the way to the tomb of Achilles, and there he sacrificed her to his father’s angry shade, opening her throat with his sword.

  I hadn’t finished either. I had to reach the sanctuary of the citadel, where the image of Athena was preserved, the one I had seen that night long ago. As I was making my way, I met Diomedes and together we continued to the apex of the high city. We weren’t the first to arrive. As we approached, we saw Ajax Oileus leaving the sanctuary and running off swiftly. We entered and saw Athena’s priestess and protectress, Priam’s daughter Cassandra, the princess I had seen weeping the night I had furtively entered the temple. Cassandra, sad prophet of Troy’s end, was splayed on the ground half naked, and her bruised and bloodied body showed the signs of the rape she’d suffered.