Odysseus: The Oath

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  After our initial enthusiasm, the banquets, the invitations from the other kings and the celebrations of the warriors, the days that followed began to weigh on us all like stones. The sun would rise without a dawn to announce itself, already blazing. An unbearable heat suffocated the land, and the water of the bay was still and stagnant in the swelter of noon. It seemed that the chariot of the sun had stopped in the centre of the sky and that nothing could move it from that position. Sweat flowed copiously on men’s brows and thousands of Achaians sought relief in the water. The ships were as motionless as the cliffs and rocks, the standards drooped from their yards. Sails were furled and shrouds loosened. Not a breath of wind, not a ripple on the sea. It seemed like a curse, and this was the rumour that started to snake its way among the men. Someone had surely provoked the wrath of the gods, but no one knew why or how. Who had offended them and how could the wrong be righted?

  We met: Achilles, Diomedes, Ajax Oileus and Ajax of Salamis, Nestor, Menelaus, Agamemnon, myself. King Idomeneus of Crete was also very uneasy: there was the real risk that the men would become convinced that our endeavour offended the gods. Too grand, too haughty, too arrogant? My own worry grew so great that it sometimes made me forget my family, my parents, my island, in my efforts to find a solution.

  But there could be no solution, unless it came from the supreme head of the glorious expedition himself: Agamemnon, the king of kings.

  Those were my words as I left the council of kings and returned to my tent on the mainland. I climbed up to the promontory and looked out over the bay teeming with ships and the moon rising over the sea. I remembered what I had said to Penelope before I left her. I thought of her so intensely that I could feel her skin under my fingers, her lips on mine. I could hear the sound of her voice. I turned and saw Mentor, making his way slowly down the path towards me.

  He looked older. I noticed a few white hairs at his temples and even in the beard that framed his face.

  ‘I bring you news of your family,’ he told me.

  ‘Thank you, my friend. Tell me then: how are they?’

  ‘Penelope . . . you broke her heart but she is playing the part of a true queen. Your father is performing your duties as he promised you but he shows your wife great respect and always asks for her advice. Telemachus is walking faster and faster now; I made him a little wooden spear and a sword and we practise fighting together . . .’

  I smiled, trying hard to keep back my tears. ‘I know what a good instructor you are, although I would have put more faith in Damastes for the swordplay. Who knows where that cranky old bear is now.’

  ‘At home. He goes hunting, lights a fire for himself and cooks what he has killed, in the forest, where he has built himself a little wooden cottage, his home.’

  I looked deep into his eyes as they flickered green and then I spoke without holding back: ‘Why this dead calm? What must we do? We are at war, and if we remain in this stagnant pond we’ll be defeated before we ever set out. Help me!’

  I heard a voice inside my mind, clear and sharp: ‘Stay out of this. Yours is not the supreme power. A prophet will make a suggestion. Then the wind will begin to blow again. From the land towards the sea.’ Then my friend was gone before I could bid him farewell.

  Soon enough, a seer was consulted and the truth was told. An offended divinity was keeping the wind prisoner in the distant caverns of Haemos and would not release it unless the commander-in-chief of the army agreed to perform the supreme sacrifice: immolating his own daughter at the altar. The daughter he loved most: Iphigenia, who had already been promised to Achilles when she became of age.

  None of us saw, but Pheme of one thousand mouths spoke to us all.

  It was said that at the moment in which the blade descended on Iphigenia’s tender neck, the offended goddess was placated. She whisked the maiden away to a sanctuary in snowy Taurus and replaced her with a deer. No one would ever see Iphigenia again. Her own mother, Clytaemnestra, never saw her again. The hatred which bloomed in her heart was implacable, and it grew, like a monster, with time.

  Then, one silent morning, the wind blew. The shrouds vibrated, the wood creaked, the water rippled with a myriad of shiny shivers. Then the long, long blare of a horn, a standard flapped in the wind, followed by many others, fluttering with stupendous colours and fantastic figures. The sails swelled. One ship moved and then put out to sea, another followed suit, then ten, then one hundred, oars flashing, picking up speed, sails as white as butterfly wings which instead were intent on bringing death beyond the foam-tipped waves. I set sail behind Menelaus’ squadron. I could hear his loud shouting, see the red cloud of his hair as he raged at the helm. My other ships flocked around me, like when a flight of wild ducks soars up to migrate far away, a single force behind one leader. A thousand, in the end. One thousand ships.

  23

  THE SIGHT OF THAT IMMENSE FLEET, of the hundreds of ships and thousands of oars beating the surface of the sea seething with foam, filled me with wonder. This was truly an enterprise that dimmed any other human adventure. The world of Hercules, of Jason, of the seven kings against Thebes, of Theseus of Athens who had defeated the man-bull in his labyrinth, faded away in the mist that the wind lifted from the cresting waves. A world had been lost forever and was dissolving in the haze of an early summer morning as the sun which rose over Asia lit up a vast sweep of vessels, a forest of standards, a myriad of flashing shields. The rumble of drums beating time for the oarsmen, the trumpets raising bronze blasts towards a clear sky in which white clouds galloped. This was the voice of the greatest army that the world had ever seen. Thousands and thousands of men were setting out to traverse the sea and their crossing that day would be forever impressed in the hearts of each one of them, and would be passed down to their sons and the sons of their sons for centuries and centuries to come, for thousands of years.

  They were leaving their brides and young children, babies even, behind them, abandoning their parents weakened by age and by an anxiety which would never again leave their sides for as long as they lived. But now they felt part of the multitude, of the shouts and the blasts, of the incessant pounding of the drums, of the crashing of waves against the prows, of the spumy sea, of the shrieking birds. They denied it now, but the time would come. The cruel toil of battle, the bitter, bloody brawl. Nights without sleep, eyes staring in the dark. The time would come for wounds and death and, far worse than death, fear!

  Many of them, too many of them, would never make it back, but descend inexorably into Hades instead. The vision that now filled my eyes and my heart would be the last vision of greatness and glory, I could feel it. Nothing else would be this luminous. Destiny had been set free to take its course. The route was carved out, the wind blew strong and steady. Its enormous force pushed one thousand ships in a single go, pushed tens of thousands of bronze-clad men. Where was my goddess? Was she sitting on her throne of ivory on high Olympus contemplating the spectacle as well? Were the other immortals seated beside her: Zeus and Hera, Apollo, Ares who could already pick up the smell of blood, and Aphrodite, naturally, Aphrodite who protected the woman, sublime Helen, for whom this war was being fought? O, Athena! Is your blue-green gaze searching for me even now, perhaps, in the sea froth, among the swaying sails? Here I am, standing straight at the prow, gripping the spear that wanax Autolykos, lord of Acarnania gifted me. I’m searching for you. Can you see the flashing tip of my spear?

  The wind continued to fill the sails with no change in direction for two days and two nights. Oh, how many days, how many nights, would be needed to cover the same ground on the way back! The men at the oars added speed and the helmsmen held the prows unwaveringly, heading west. It was as if a god had suddenly opened the gates of the great cave on Mount Haemos where the wind had been kept locked up so long, and the prisoner, released, had rushed out in an unbridled gallop like an eager steed, aching for infinite spaces.

  Each of the royal ships was at the head of its own squadron. Some were fast
er, others lagged behind. I could see them all, the sovereigns of Achaia, resplendent at their prows. Sometimes our ships would nearly touch and we’d greet each other, shouting over the hiss of the wind. At my left I saw coppery-haired Menelaus and it felt like that day when Helen had chosen him, unlocking her eyes from mine at the last moment.

  Achilles’ ship drew up alongside mine and we spoke. He had a favour to ask of me: he wanted to go ashore at Scyros to see the young son he’d had with a princess, daughter of King Lycomedes, when Achilles had lived as a page at his palace. The child was called Neoptolemus but Achilles preferred to call him Pyrrhus because his hair was the colour of fire. He had advised Agamemnon, and suggested that the fleet wait at anchor in the shelter of a promontory, and take the opportunity to stock up on water and provisions.

  Achilles and I alone, followed by two Lapiths from his guard, made our way up to the palace. He didn’t want to meet the little boy; perhaps he was afraid to upset him. He merely looked on, from behind a parted curtain, as young Pyrrhus slept peacefully, nestled in his mother’s arms. Achilles watched his son for a long time in silence.

  Instead, I met the little boy myself and gave him a small suit of armour I’d had one of my shipwrights craft using the copper from an urn. I told him: ‘This is a gift from your father, who is leaving to go to war. Start getting ready, one day you will join him and fight at his side.’ The boy gave a shrill laugh, grabbed the sword and started making slashing movements like a tiny warrior. His eyes looked like a wolf cub’s, cold and expressionless.

  ‘He’ll grow up to be like you!’ I said to Achilles later. ‘But he’ll need someone to instruct and train him. We’ll have to leave your Lapiths here.’ Achilles nodded but didn’t say a word.

  I went to pay my respects to King Lycomedes. ‘Wanax, thank you for your warm reception. We can’t stay any longer because we have the sea still to cross, but we’ll be back. We’re leaving these two warriors who can begin at once to train young Neoptolemus in the art of weaponry. They are ready to repay you for your hospitality.’

  I don’t really know how I came up with such a plan or what made me say those words: it was as if I were obeying the voice of a stranger whispering in my ear. Even today, I can’t resign myself to what I did.

  ‘He’s my grandson,’ responded the king harshly. ‘I’ll decide how he should grow up.’

  ‘It’s the will of his father Achilles,’ I replied.

  The name alone was enough to intimidate even a king into obeying, without protest. I said nothing else to him, but spoke in secret to the two Lapiths: ‘Listen well to what I’m telling you. The outcome of this war is completely uncertain. The boy will become our weapon of last resort, when all else has failed. You must bring him up to be an implacable warrior, a slayer of men. Use no pity, no affection. See that he is separated from his mother tomorrow.’

  The next day Achilles and I rejoined the rest of the fleet. The crews heaved out the sails and they were soon bellying in the wind as the rowers urged each other on, bending their backs in a race to see who could make the sea boil under their oars, who would reach the shore first. Troy was already visible in the distance on top of the hill.

  It felt like a contest, like the day we traditionally celebrated Poseidon, the blue god and lord of the abyss, by stripping our ships of their masts and sails and launching forth by dint of our oars alone. Their hulls furrowed the waves and the prows fought over the space that separated them from the finish line.

  As we neared land, Agamemnon had his heralds proclaim the order in which the ships would put to shore, arranged by kingdom and point of origin. I was to draw up at the centre, equidistant from Ajax at one end and Achilles at the other. We began to prepare our tents, along with everything else we would need to set up camp. Meanwhile the walls of Troy were filling up with warriors but also with townspeople: old men, women, youths, even children. After the unhappy outcome of our first visit no one could have imagined we would accept the abduction of the queen of Sparta without a fight. Priam surely had his ways of getting information and knowing exactly how many men and ships were on their way.

  I could see, even before we set ashore, that reinforcements had been built up on either side of the Skaian Gate. But I was mostly struck by the fact that the Trojan fleet had not advanced against us on the open sea. Why hadn’t they thought of attacking us as we were landing, when they would have had stood a good chance of succeeding? Could a city so powerful that it controlled the straits not have a huge fleet? How was that possible?

  The first to touch ground was the ship of Protesilaus, who commanded the Thessalians; he ran onto the beach, followed by his men. Achilles was next, then Menelaus with his Lacedaemonians. Next it was my turn to touch shore, with my comrades. Then came Agamemnon with his Mycenaens, Diomedes with the Argives, Ajax Oileus with his Locrians and Ajax the Great with the warriors of Salamis alongside the Athenians commanded by Menestheus, and then all the others. I ran straight to Agamemnon, to warn him to call back Protesilaus, who was too exposed, but it was too late. An arrow had already pierced the king of the Thessalians in the middle of his chest. A formation of Trojan warriors, who had been laying in wait behind the defensive palisade at the second city gate, surged out right and left to surround Protesilaus’ army. His men had gathered around the body of their fallen king to protect him, but they were open to attack from every side, and the Trojans were charging forward on chariots!

  ‘Achilles!’ I shouted. ‘Achilles!’ But the prince of the Myrmidons had already seen. His warriors had rolled their chariots off the ship and were yoking Balius and Xanthus, Achilles’ splendid steeds, one dappled brown and white, the other blond as wheat, on to the hero’s own chariot. Other comrades were preparing to charge forth in the same way. The Myrmidons, all of them armed with burnished greaves and shields, had mustered rapidly and were running among the chariots in squads of fifty men. I shouted for Diomedes and Menelaus to go to their aid, and their men followed as well, in a second wave of chariots and warriors on foot. I drew up my archers to be ready to cover their return to camp.

  The counter-attack slammed into the Trojan ranks, fragmenting them. They were not unified or numerous enough to withstand Achilles’ furious charge nor the vigour of Diomedes and Menelaus following close on his heels. The king of Sparta certainly hoped that Helen was watching from up high on the walls, and that she would recognize him by the splendour of his weapons and the colours on his chariot.

  Diomedes burst upon the Trojan ranks right after Achilles. He hurled an anchor that he’d grabbed from the ship and hooked the wheel of an enemy chariot, while Sthenelus, his charioteer, pushed the horses forward on an oblique path and ruinously threw their already crippled adversary off balance, toppling him into a shrieking tangle of men, horses, splintered wood and broken limbs, as black blood stained the ground. I was moving forward with my archers when I saw the Skaian Gate open on our left, vomiting forth thousands of fresh warriors onto a field already soaked with blood. How many of them there were! I gave the triple war cry of the king of Ithaca and wheeled to the left. The archers immediately formed up in three rows either side of me. They planted their quivers in the ground, raised their bows, cocked their arrows and waited.

  ‘He – ha – heee!

  ‘He – ha – heee!

  ‘He – ha – heee!’

  My throat burned like fire.

  They were pouring with sweat, their foreheads gleaming. The sun blazed down on us from the right. None of the others, engaged in combat, had noticed the new threat. I was reminded of the boar of Acarnania and the wound on my leg started burning.

  ‘Let fly!’ I shouted, and a cloud of arrows rained down hard as hail on the steps in front of the gate, beating down on the Trojan ranks.

  They buckled.

  ‘Let fly!’

  They shouted.

  ‘Let fly!’

  They turned towards us. We drew our swords, raised our shields. The din was hellish, I couldn’t tell the shouts f
rom the sounds of the clashing metal; the weapons spoke different languages but they all pronounced the same word: death, death, death! I was gasping for air in the fray, my breath was short, broken, painful. But then racing rumbling chariots were cutting the ground between us, their rims carving deep furrows in the earth. Our own! Achilles’ chariot! Diomedes’ chariot! Menelaus’ chariot!

  ‘Skaian Gate!’ roared a Trojan warrior. Powerfully built, helmet glowing in the sun, high crest. Hector!

  The gate opened again with a deafening screech. The city swallowed up her sons so they would not die.

  They closed themselves in.

  Great Ajax advanced. A shower of arrows greeted him; he raised his huge shield, thick with the hides of seven bulls. The other hand brandished a two-headed axe. The earth trembled beneath his feet. He went all the way up to the gate.

  ‘Let fly!’ I shouted again to my men. ‘At the bastions! Protect Ajax! Cover him!’

  He was already under the parapet. He swung the enormous axe and banged it on the gate, one, two, three times. He made the doors shudder, made the bronze hinges groan.

  My heart laughed inside my chest: Ajax was knocking at the door!

  Many of their men were strewn on the ground, fewer of ours. Too many, in any case. The Thessalians carried back their king on their shoulders, singing a funeral dirge. Before evening the Achaians had raised a pyre and laid his body upon it. The days of bitterness had already begun. Protesilaus had only just been married, had spent only one night of love with his young bride, and had lost his life the moment he set foot on Asian soil. This is how he would be remembered: as the one of us, the Achaian, who had first touched ground and been first to die.