Sandy Pylos stood at the foot of a hill and Nestor’s palace was similar to our own, although it was much bigger, because it had no walls or fortifications. From such a vantage point, they’d seen our ship and its standards at a great distance. We donned our best clothes. When we berthed we were met by a squad of warriors commanded by Prince Antilochus, who was a little younger than me; they had been waiting to welcome us and escort us to the palace. We followed them and climbed the steep path, the bay opening beneath us, bordered by a long wooded island.
It was my first visit to a king.
7
WE WERE RECEIVED IN THE GREAT HALL by the king and queen of Pylos. They were standing, and came towards us as one does with friends, expressing great joy at our arrival.
The king embraced my father and the queen nodded graciously when I put our gift at her feet: a coral necklace belonging to my grandmother Chalcomedusa, whom I had never seen, although according to my mother she had held me in her arms when I was very small. We’d also brought a woollen stole expertly embroidered by the women of Same, who were very skilful weavers. It depicted the divinities of the four seasons crowned with flowers, with golden ears of wheat, with fruit and grapes and finally with reeds tipped with white frost.
Queen Eurydice was much younger than Nestor and she asked one of her handmaids to bring her a mirror so she could try on the necklace at once. She seemed very pleased and she thanked us.
That evening an enormous banquet was laid, even more abundant than the one that my grandfather Autolykos had prepared when I went boar-hunting with him. All of the princes of the royal house participated as well, including Antilochus, who had greeted us at the bay, and Pisistratus, who was just taking his first steps. My father was seated on Nestor’s right side and I could see them leaning close together as if they had many confidences to share. The servants came by continuously with spits of roasted ox and kept pouring wine, but my father ate and drank in moderation as I had always seen him do. He’d visited and explored many a wild, faraway place and had always taught me how important it was to stay alert.
I wondered what the two kings were speaking about. About their past adventures? Or about the family affairs of the other kings and their consorts? Nestor had been an Argonaut and had taken part in countless great exploits with my father despite the difference in their ages. The weapons won and plundered hung everywhere on the walls of the room: shields, spears, axes and swords; belts adorned with silver ornaments and shining bronze buckles. Outside the palace gate I could already hear the clamouring of the beggars who had gathered, waiting for the leftovers of our banquet. They knew they would have to fight the dogs for their rightful share.
I spent the evening speaking with Antilochus, who sat next to me, and asked him whether he had ever journeyed away from the palace, by land or by sea.
‘By land,’ he told me, ‘I’ve been to Sparta and Argus. They are beautiful cities with great palaces but I like it better here because we have this bay full of fish where so many ships can moor. They come here from everywhere, you know: from Asia and the lands of the second sea, and from Crete, which is ruled by King Idomeneus, a friend of my father’s. One day I’ll go to Crete and even further than that. What about you?’
‘I went to the mainland to hunt boar with my grandfather, and I was wounded here, on my thigh, see?’
‘Your grandfather? Isn’t he that old plunderer and livestock thief?’
‘If you weren’t such a child,’ I replied, ‘I’d make you swallow that insult.’
Antilochus apologized: ‘I didn’t want to offend you. You are my guest and I must honour you. But if Autolykos has such a terrible reputation, it’s no fault of mine.’
‘My grandfather is not a plunderer, he’s a predator, and if he lives as he does he must have his reasons. I was very happy with him and I’m going back as soon as I can.’ Having done my duty in defending the family honour I tried to turn the conversation to less controversial subjects: ‘This is my second journey away from home and I’m proud to be visiting the house of wanax Nestor. Our fathers are bound by a great friendship and we must follow their example.’ My thinking was that Antilochus might well be king one day and that we should become allies. I had yet to learn that the future is ruled by fate.
WE SPENT three days in Pylos, then left for Sparta. The king gave us chariots and horses and we left our ships in his care, with part of the crew. I was amazed by the horses, animals of great mettle, accustomed to the battlefield, with twitchy tails and shiny coats. It was Antilochus who brought them to us, and I understood that this was an honour reserved for the most illustrious guests.
I mounted the chariot next to my father and held on to the rail. Mentor followed behind us with the commander of our ship. Three more chariots followed with six of our men, armed with spears, who would act as our escort. The final chariot had a lone driver, to allow room for the gifts we were taking to all the other kings. To reach Sparta we had to travel a very steep road that crossed a mountain range and then descended into the valley on the other side. At times the passage was very narrow and cut into the mountainside, so that the chariots were forced to proceed carefully, one at a time. When we got to the summit a marvellous sight met our eyes: a vast plain with thousands of olive trees, fruit orchards, meadows and pastures with flocks of sheep and herds of horses. I’d never seen anything so wondrous in my life; so many horses all at once!
‘This is the kingdom of Tyndareus,’ explained my father, ‘the lord of Sparta. His queen, Leda, is renowned for her beauty. They have four children, two boys and two girls. Even though Leda has given birth to twins twice, her body is as perfect as a goddess’s. And her daughters, young as they are, promise to outdo their mother! When we are in their presence, pay your respects to the queen first, and then to Tyndareus. I will do the same.’
It took us nearly a day to descend from the mountain, cross the plain and travel up another small hill opposite the first, where the city of Tyndareus and Leda stood. We reached the gates of Sparta at dusk and I realized that the day ended much sooner there than it did in Ithaca because of the huge mountain looming to its west, whereas in Ithaca I could watch the sun shine until it sank into the sea.
We were welcomed by the royal guard lined up on both sides of the road that led to the main gate. As we made our way, my father began speaking again: ‘Tyndareus reconquered his throne only seven years ago, after his half-brother had tried to banish him from his own city. He never would have succeeded in winning it back without the help of Hercules. His support in the battle was decisive but even his mere presence would have done the trick. Anyone who finds himself up against Hercules knows that he is doomed to defeat – fighting him would be like combat against the gods.’
‘Is that really true, father?’
‘It is indeed. No mortal can stand up to him. He’s like a boulder that rolls down the mountain and tears up pines and hoary olive trees on its way as if they were twigs. His battle cry is like the roar of a lion. I’ve never seen him wear armour: he fights half-naked and yet no one has ever succeeded in piercing his skin . . .’
I didn’t ask my father anything else. But I thought that a man who has massacred his own family has crossed an extreme limit and entered into a territory impossible to return from; he can go nowhere except towards his own destruction. I understood my father’s admiration but I couldn’t understand how Hercules could still be considered a hero after having carried out such an atrocious crime. Or could the horrendous cruelty required for such a deed actually be a part of his nature? I surmised that men like my father, like Hercules, belonged not only to another generation but to another era: to a race of heroes that had the last drops of the blood of the gods in their veins. We would be different. We would only be men.
When we arrived at the palace, the footmen took care of our horses and we were taken to the baths, where we would be washed and scented and then change into fresh clothing before being admitted to the presence of the king and queen.
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Leda had big, luminous eyes and long, wavy hair that fell to her shoulders and hung down her back. I felt my heart miss a beat in my chest. Her look was green and daunting, producing in me a dumbfounded amazement. Was that the gaze of Medusa, who turned anyone who looked upon her to stone? It was a song I heard when I looked at her, a complex song, with many voices combining to form a single melody. The evening breeze entered the palace, carrying upon it the scent of far-off lands, a hint of hay and violets and the distant hooting of the scops owl.
I was shaken from my rapture when my father elbowed me sharply in the side and we stood to pay homage to Tyndareus. The two princes, the youngest of the Argonauts, were shown in; they were about twenty-five years of age and named Castor and Pollux. They were twins and so identical that nothing but the colour of their eyes set them apart: Castor’s were more like his mother’s, Pollux’s more like his father’s. They had earned the fame of being unbeatable athletes, and you could see it in their build. Ignoring protocol, they ran to my father and embraced him, and he hugged them back tightly, overcome by emotion. It made me realize how striving together in a common endeavour created a bond that could never be broken.
The king had us sit at his table for the banquet and I looked around to admire the room. Here, like in Pylos, shining weapons hung from the walls – huge oxhide shields, bronze-tipped spears. Parts of the walls were painted with scenes of hunting and combat. One of them represented Hercules in the act of attacking the usurper who had seized Sparta from Tyndareus. It was amazing how every act Hercules performed became legend, even before the echoes of its telling had died away. My father observed the paintings as well with a look of wonder.
‘Atta,’ I whispered, ‘does he look like that?’
‘No. No artist can depict a hero for what he is, he wouldn’t be capable of it. He paints the things that are recognizable about him.’
‘Like the club . . . his bulging muscles. Will I ever get to meet him?’
‘I don’t think so. His road has taken him far, far away from our world, to a place from which no one has ever returned.’
I remember how deeply his words struck me. Words like many others, but coming from a mariner they spoke of sheer pain.
The banquet was a display of how immensely powerful the king of Sparta was, with its abundance of roast meats, of fragrant bread, of wine poured into embossed golden cups. There were many guests wearing fine linen gowns interwoven with purple threads, precious belts, buckles of gold, ivory and amber. The queen herself donned a stunning necklace and a wealth of bracelets. How poor our little island kingdom seemed to me then! My Ithaca, rocky and covered by forests, grazed by goats and pigs.
At the end of the banquet, one of the queen’s handmaids brought out her two daughters, Helen and Clytaemnestra, to introduce them to the guests. They were thirteen or fourteen years old and were very different from one another. Helen seemed like a supernatural creature, with her perfect face, the violet reflections in her eyes and hair that shone like orichalch, rippling and reflecting the light. When she moved her head, her hair swung in a wave over her body, which flexed languidly like a flower in the breeze. Her lips looked like the buds of mountain poppies when they are about to open, and when they parted revealed white teeth joined in a smile without love, but all the more thrilling for that very reason. I yearned to have the inspiration of a great singer like Phemius in order to express what I felt and saw; how beauty, absolute beauty, held me in its sway. She was slim and much taller than other girls her age. A bud not yet open: what would the rose be like?
My father the king read my thoughts: ‘Don’t even think about it, my boy, she’s not for you. She’s made of gold, but you are . . .’
‘Made of wood, atta. The wood of our oaks on Mount Neritus that only one of Zeus’ thunderbolts can shatter. Wood always stays afloat while gold sinks to the bottom.’
My father smiled.
Clytaemnestra was very different from Helen, although they were twins, with a haughty, icy beauty that was disconcerting in someone so young.
I met Helen the next day, towards evening. I was sitting on a stone near the horses’ pen, admiring those magnificent animals that we could not breed on Ithaca. I was fascinated by their imposing frames, the powerful curve of their necks, the harmony of their movements, their proud gait and big damp eyes, the way their manes swayed in the wind. I realized all at once that she was approaching and I tried not to look at her. I had begun to think that anyone who looked at her would remain her prisoner, or perhaps unhappy all his life.
‘You are Prince Odysseus of Ithaca, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said without turning. ‘And you are Helen of Sparta.’
‘Did you know that King Theseus of Athens has asked me to marry him? He’s that warrior down there on the black steed.’
‘I see him.’
‘But he’s too old for me.’
‘He who challenged and defeated the man-bull in the labyrinth will never be old. What have you done in your life? Nothing. You’re just a pretty girl and that’s certainly not your doing.’
She smiled without showing anger. ‘My doing? What does that matter? Isn’t being pretty enough?’
‘Well, yes, of course, but. . .’
‘Would you ask me to marry you if you could?’
‘No.’
She planted herself directly in front of me then and stared at me intently: ‘Why do you hate me? Do you have to, because of your name?’
I jumped to my feet and flushed deep red: ‘I don’t have to do anything because of my name, and I don’t hate you . . . I wouldn’t ask you to marry me because . . .’
‘Why?’ she insisted.
‘Because, when the gods have finished moulding you, you will be too beautiful to love anyone but yourself. And that’s why I think you will be the ruin of many men.’
Helen’s eyes seemed to turn the colour of amaranth as the rays of the sun descended behind the peak of Mount Taygetus. A hint of melancholy veiled her expression.
‘These things depend only upon the will of the gods,’ she replied. ‘We are mortals and we have no power. I’m not a bad person, Odysseus. If you could stay here with me I’d talk to you every day.’
‘About what?’
‘The sun and the night, hate and love, life and death. There’s a light in your eyes that I’ve never seen before, not even in my brothers, handsome as they are. I envy the bride you will take to your chamber, whom you will bend to your bed with the force of your love, prince of Ithaca. Farewell.’
She dissolved in the light of the sunset.
8
WE LEFT TWO DAYS LATER bearing many precious gifts on our chariots. Thoughts of Helen came back to confuse me now and then but I’d look over at my father and think of how happy I was to be on this journey with him; to be learning so many things, hosted by powerful kings and splendid queens. Seeing places that I had never seen: rugged mountains and plains, rivers and forests, flocks at pasture, herds of horses at a gallop, flaming sunsets and silent dawns.
We crossed another mountain chain.
‘Where are we going, atta?’ I asked him. ‘Are we beginning our return?’
‘You’re already eager to get home? Our journey has just begun! No, we’re going to Mycenae.’
I couldn’t help but shudder when I heard that name: ‘That’s a cursed place, atta. Why there?’
My father continued to look straight ahead as we proceeded along the dusty white path that led to the mountain pass from which we would descend towards the plain of Argus. He replied some time later: ‘Because I have heard from both Nestor of Pylos and Tyndareus of Sparta that the king of Mycenae, the biggest and most powerful city of Achaia, is a despicable man, a monster. And so I’ve asked him to receive me.’
‘Why, atta?’
‘Do you remember that night the messenger came to the palace with that terrible news?’
‘I remember it well. I didn’t sleep all night.’
‘
It happened at Mycenae. I’m thinking that only by entering the palace where the massacre took place can we understand what went on that night.’
‘You don’t think he did it, do you?’
‘Hercules? No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.’
‘Would it change something if you discovered the truth?’
‘Greatly, even if the dead cannot be brought back to life.’
I asked no more questions and for many hours we made our way down the road, crossing an immense plain where herds of horses were grazing. At times we came so close I could almost touch them. When we stopped in the evenings I was the one who took care of our steeds. I would free them from their yokes, give them the hay I gathered in the fields and cover them with woollen blankets to protect them from the damp night air.
When we reached Mycenae night was falling. The city was not visible from the road we were travelling on, which led to the port instead. Mycenae was hidden at the end of a narrow valley that had to be crossed, heading north, until we came within sight of two hills: the first one was tall and quite massive, while the second was lower but much rockier; it was on this second hill that the city stood. The palace itself was built on a sheer cliff wall, overhanging a chasm. It towered above all the other buildings, the valley and the distant plain.