Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy) (25 page)

Anchialus shuddered: in that boy was the awesome power of the son of Peleus, but not a crumb of his father’s piety, nor his hospitable manners. He had not offered him a seat, had not had his feet washed and had not brought him food or drink. And now he was threatening him with death.

‘If I tell you the truth, do you promise you will bring my message to the kings of the Achaeans?’

‘I promise to take you with me; you can tell them yourself. I have no reason to believe you and I do not know who you are. They’ll believe you if they want to. If someone recognizes you. Now speak, for my patience is at an end.’

Anchialus spoke: ‘Andromache told me, of her own free accord. Do not hurt her; she did not wish to harm you.’

‘Andromache . . .’ repeated the young king.

‘Oh
wanax
,’ Anchialus spoke again, unable to hold back his feelings, ‘if the blood of Achilles truly flows in your veins, be generous with her, give her her freedom, respect her pain. She has been spared no suffering.’

Pyrrhus returned to his stool and started to pet his dog, as if he had heard nothing. He held his head low, as if he were listening to a dim, distant song; his men were singing to themselves as they struggled to stay awake on guard.

When he raised his head, his dark gaze was streaked with folly: ‘My mother was a silly, fearful girl who didn’t even want to give birth to me, afraid as she was of the pain. I need a real mother. That’s why I took away Andromache’s son, that little bastard, understand? Because I wanted her all for myself. When I saw her I knew she was the mother I wanted . . . and you think that I would leave her after all I’ve done to have her? You must be mad, foreigner, if you think I would give her up.’

Anchialus looked at him, bewildered: he had journeyed so far, overcoming such danger, to meet up with a foolish boy whom the gods had deprived of the light of reason. And yet the blood of Thetis and Peleus ran in that boy’s veins, the blood of Achilles! The race of the Achaeans, in keeping with some obscure destiny, had been corrupted and poisoned, and perhaps all of his troubles had been for naught. He thought of returning whence he had come, of seeking a crossing towards the land of Hesperia where he would find his king, the one man who would never disappoint or betray him; not even the mysterious lights that pulsed in the sky could touch him.

But Pyrrhus came to his senses; his voice changed suddenly and his look, now, was inexplicably firm and direct. ‘You will come with me,’ he said, ‘son of Iasus. We will go as far as the Isthmus and lay siege to Mycenae from the north. From the south and west will come Pisistratus son of Nestor, Orestes son of Agamemnon, and Menelaus as well, and perhaps even Ulysses, that bastard son of a bitch. If he has come back. Menelaus has promised me his daughter Hermione as my bride; she is the loveliest girl in the world, the very picture of her mother Helen, they say. Then we will turn against Argos and then Crete. They will all fall.’

‘But
wanax
!’ protested Anchialus. ‘You are all running a mortal risk. A threat is gathering over the land of the Achaeans, from the north. They will come, sooner or later, and will find you weakened by these fratricidal wars. They will annihilate you; you will suffer the same fate as the Trojans did with us. All of you must unite and face this danger together! Promise me that you will warn the other kings, and then allow me to return to the Land of the Dying Sun, where my lord awaits me.’

Pyrrhus smiled, revealing a row of fierce white teeth: ‘The Achaean kings have been away from their own lands for too long and many things have changed. We must engage in more combat so that things may return the way they were. When this war is over, we will certainly be united, that I can promise you. And no enemy who comes from outside will defeat us because I will govern this land . . . There is no metal in the world that can threaten the sword of Achilles!’ he shouted out, unsheathing the sword and striking hard at the shield hanging from the tent’s central pole. The great bronze sword clanged out loudly and Anchialus saw, as if in a dream, the faded images of Ilium: Patroclus wounded, holding out that shield as Hector’s blows rained down inexorably, one after another. He saw all the agony of that night, Ajax Telamon returning to camp with the corpse of Patroclus on his shoulders, the savage howl of pain of Achilles, son of Peleus, reverberating like thunder over the silent plain.

The heart of the fierce boy standing before him harboured none of those feelings: neither devotion to friends nor desire for honour; there was no compassion for the vanquished, no respect for elders and women, no tenderness towards children. Anchialus realized in that moment that the son of Achilles wanted to reign alone over the land of the Achaeans, and that nothing would stop him.

The Pelian breastplate that covered him seemed the scaly skin of a dragon or a serpent. But Anchialus knew that his mission was not yet finished and that he must follow him. Much time would pass before he would be able to return west in search of Diomedes.

He said: ‘I will come with you,
wanax
, if you so wish, and I will serve you as I served my king, lord Diomedes, shepherd of heroes.’ His voice trembled as he said those words, for he was thinking of his comrades, who wandered through a distant, unknown land. He was thinking of the solitary, weedy mound on the mountains of Buthrotum. And he was thinking of the woman who had found him at his most desperate; she who had taken him home with her and sheltered him from harsh cold and solitude.

The king made sure he was given some hides and a blanket and Anchialus stretched out on the ground at the edge of camp. He was exhausted but could not find sleep because of the emotions that troubled his soul. In his restless tossing, he saw the son of Achilles leave his tent and ascend a hill that overlooked the camp. The young king contemplated his army, with his dog curled up at his feet. But these were not the Myrmidons of his father sleeping under the tents; these were savage Epirotes whom he had convinced to follow him with the promise of pillage and rape. Anchialus finally drifted off, won over by weariness, into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

*

The guard leaned over the bastions, extending his torch to illuminate the clearing before the bolted city gate, and he distinctly saw a chariot with the insignia of the Spartan Atreides. Next to the driver stood a woman wrapped in dusty dark robes. The woman let them fall to her feet, baring a proud head of blonde hair with coppery reflections, circled by a golden diadem.

‘The queen of Sparta asks to see her sister, Queen Clytemnestra,’ shouted out the charioteer. The sentry scurried down the battlement steps to speak to his commander. Another man was sent running to the palace while the commander himself opened the gate and strode towards the chariot with a torch in his hand. When the light illuminated the woman standing alongside the charioteer, the commander was struck dumb: before him was the awesome beauty that had unleashed the bloodiest war that had ever been fought, the destruction of the greatest city in the world. In all of his life, never before had reality so amply exceeded his expectations.

Helen descended from the chariot and walked towards the gate. Although she wore humble travelling attire, the queen’s body was the epitome of divine perfection. The folds of the gown, rippled by the evening breeze that whistled round the enormous door jambs, fluttered over her flat stomach and clung to her marmoreal breasts, slipping between her long, agile legs. Her walk was supple and bold at once, like a lioness’s, her feet seemed to barely touch the ground and her golden hair rippled around her shoulders like ripe wheat ruffled by the wind in the summer fields.

The commander of the guards understood why the greatest army of all time had been assembled to bring her back to her homeland; why a nation had preferred to suffer annihilation rather than turn her over. Just to catch a glimpse of her as she walked down the road, or when she appeared on the temple steps or in the palace halls. He knew that any man would agree to have his throat slit from side to side, for the mere chance of holding her naked in his arms a single time.

A ceremonial chariot drew up just then, sent by the royal house; Helen entered and sat on its seat.

Queen Clytemnestra did not receive her in the great audience chamber, but had her accompanied to one of the private rooms that faced the plains. The little room was well lit by two candelabra, each of which burned with six lamps, but the last glimmer of dusk still entered a little from the windows, prolonging the spring day against the advance of night. Hesperus, the evening star, twinkled alone in the infinite sky, hovering over the shadowy chasm.

The walls of the room were completely frescoed by scenes of a procession of women offering gifts to the
Potinja
. They all wore the ancient gown that bared their breasts and swirled in big flowery flounces down to their bare ankles.

Helen was moved to see those figures; that was the gown she had worn the day the Achaean chiefs had come from far and wide to ask for her hand in marriage, and her breasts, high and white as the snows of Mount Olympus, had blinded their minds and unsettled their hearts. Only a solemn pact prevented them from murdering each other in duels to the death, to win her.

On an ebony table stood a precious Cretan vase decorated with fish, medusas and cuttlefish, filled with sharply scented yellow mountain flowers. There was a chest in the corner and two stools in the middle of the room, nothing else.

A maidservant came in and set two small tables before the stools. Bowing, she invited Helen to follow her to the bathing chamber where the black stone tub was already filled with warm, fragrant water. Helen let the maids wash, dry and dress her and then returned to the little room where dinner had already been served. On her feet before her was Queen Clytemnestra, thin and exceedingly anxious, wearing a white gown that seemed one with the pallor of her face.

She reached out her arms: ‘Finally, I can truly see you, after all those meetings in the dark, those words whispered in fear, in suspicion . . .’

Helen embraced her, holding her close. ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘my sister, how much time has passed . . .’

‘When I was told you were coming here in person I couldn’t believe it . . . you’ve made me suffer so! Why haven’t you told me what I yearn to know?’ She stepped back from her sister’s embrace and gave her a strange look, full of amazement and fear. ‘You haven’t changed at all! That horrible war has not touched the perfection of your face; there’s not a sign on your skin. But you had seemed different to me at the sanctuary of Nemea, you were different . . . What is this? What about Menelaus? You had me told that his end was at hand . . . is this why you are free to come and see me alone?’

Helen stood silently before her while her eyes brimmed with tears.

‘What is this?’ asked Clytemnestra, bewildered. ‘What is happening?’

‘This is the first time I have seen you,’ said Helen, ‘after all these years. I have never seen you before, nor did I send anyone to tell you that the end of Menelaus was at hand. The king . . . is well.’ Clytemnestra staggered backward, seeking support from the wall. Her eyes darted around, confused and frightened, as if she were searching for a way out. Helen continued, her voice firm, just slightly cracking with emotion as her tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

‘I never went to Troy. In all of these years I remained hidden at Delos, among the priestesses of the sanctuary. A plan of marvellous intelligence, devised by Ulysses and helped along by an incredible stroke of luck . . . No one was to know except for Menelaus.’ Now her voice was trembling: ‘I was never able to tell you anything, sister. They never allowed me the time, nor the opportunity, to do so. And now destiny is about to be fulfilled. They will have no pity.’

A
S THESE THINGS WERE
happening in the land of the Achaeans, King Diomedes advanced with his warriors through the heart of the land of Hesperia. The Blue Mountains were an uninterrupted succession of wooded summits and narrow valleys crossed by impetuous torrents that ran between smooth boulders and banks of sand and bright gravel.

They met with vast tracts of oaks and beeches, with huge maple trees and another kind of tree with an enormous, furrowed trunk and fruits as prickly as a porcupine’s back. Inside was a sort of single, flat walnut. The infrequent inhabitants gathered them in the autumn and boiled them in bronze pots or roasted them among the ashes of the hearth, and depended on them for sustenance all winter. They lived in round huts built of stakes and clay-plastered grates, covered by conical roofs held up by tall centrally placed poles. The single room was their assembly chamber, banquet hall and bedroom for the entire family, usually very numerous.

Lamus, son of Onchestus, told them that he had tasted those fruits as a child when a relative of his who traded with the Thracians on the mountains had brought him a sack of them as a gift. Telephus, the Hittite, knew them as well; they grew abundantly in his mountain land where the great Halys river had its source. Certain primitive tribes lived on nothing else. The
Chnan
had never seen them but he said that the world, all things considered, was much the same everywhere. It was the men who inhabited it who made it different.

As they moved on, the men tried to procure women for themselves, either buying them or taking them by force. Some of them had even taken young girls, who could serve them until they were old enough to share their beds with them.

In this way, although many warriors had been lost during the journey, in combat or ambushes, the group making its way through the mountains was no smaller than when they had commenced their upstream voyage on the Eridanus.

They did not march continuously, because the king did not seem to have a precise destination in mind, nor did the passing time seem to affect him. Whenever they chanced upon a place that offered food and shelter, the Achaeans would stop, even at considerable length. They raised tents using the hides of the animals they had seized in town or had trapped in the forest; their time was spent hunting and fishing. They slept on mats of dried leaves that made a great deal of noise whenever they moved, but their slumber was more tranquil. They had left the swamps and the dying lands along the banks of the Eridanus behind them, and the implacable revenge of Nemro was but a memory. Many of them had women and perhaps, soon, some of them might sire children. But there was not a single man among them who imagined that this might be his life. It was not for this that they had followed the son of Tydeus.