‘I had to see you and let you know you’re not alone. We are gathering an army and when we are ready we shall lay siege to the city.’
‘You’ll never succeed,’ said Electra. ‘The city is invincible. The Phocian forces have no chance against the squadrons of war chariots that Aegisthus can send into the field.’
‘Uncle Menelaus is back. Haven’t you heard?’
‘Yes, but I had heard that he was very ill, close to death.’
‘He’s fine. But don’t let the word out; no one must know. Nestor will send his fleet to sea to stop the Cretans if they should attack us; he’ll send us one thousand men, commanded by Pisistratus, and one hundred chariots. Many others will join us from Argos, Tiryns, Nemea and from Mycenae as well.’ He took a fleeting look at the slab covering the cistern. ‘Our father will be avenged and he will finally have peace in Hades.’
Electra couldn’t take her eyes away from him, and he stroked him gently as he spoke. When he had finished she dropped her head for a while as if gathering her thoughts: ‘Do you know what all this means?’
‘I do,’ said the youth. ‘It means the death of our mother. By my hand. If we win. If we are defeated, it means my death, and yours, and the death of all of our dreams.’
‘You’ve never killed anyone. How could you kill your mother? Have you thought of how you will feel afterwards? Of the nightmares that will torment you for your whole life? Her spirit will give you no peace, neither by day or night.’ She kissed his eyes, his forehead, his hair. ‘You’re just a boy. . you would have the right to different thoughts. Oh gods. . why? Why us, we’ve done nothing!’
‘Do not ask, sister. There is no answer to your questions. Destiny is blind and has cast all this misfortune upon us. In this very moment someone else, in some other place, far away, is enjoying every happiness. . even ours, the happiness that would be ours. But one day, who knows, perhaps more serene days will dawn for us as well. Perhaps we’ll be able to live, and to forget.’ Orestes rose to his feet. ‘But now we will do what must be done. Don’t cry as I leave you.’
He covered his head and turned, soon disappearing into the darkness that had descended to cover the land.
The chirping of the birds had ceased; they were sleeping in their nests under their mother’s wing. The dark valley now sounded with the hoots of the birds of prey and the howls of the jackals which roamed the darkness to rob the dead of the offerings left by the pious living. Electra pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders and started her walk back. As she was leaving the valley, her gaze flew to the citadel and the high walls of the palace. She thought she saw, for just an instant, a solitary figure dressed in black on the tower of the chasm. Then the wind carried the echo of a wail coming from a house near the road. A babe crying for fear of the dark, consoled by his mother’s singing.
Electra listened to that lullaby and it called up lost images, forgotten long ago. A knot tightened her throat and an aching nostalgia filled her soul.
Then the baby’s crying stopped, and the mother’s song as well. Electra began walking.
11
Anchialus journeyed at length amid steep mountains and thick forests, living on what he could find. When he came upon a village, he would remain and work there for some time, in exchange for food and shelter. He pushed on this way until one day, having decided that it was time to move on, he realized that the choice was no longer his to make. The people whom he lived with had come to consider him their property and intended to keep him as a slave. His sword was taken from him, and an iron collar was put round his neck, with a ring they used to chain him up at night. He remained in that state for a long time, without understanding where he was or who the people who held him prisoner were, until one night the village was stormed and sacked by a people coming from the north. The Dor.
He was spared because he was a slave and that day he traded one master for another. He saw that the Dor community was divided very rigidly: there were the warriors, those who did manual labour, and the slaves, nearly all plunder of war, like himself. The slaves had to attend to the animals and take the flocks to pasture.
He had never managed to learn the language of the people who had first kept him slave, but he realized that it was much easier for him to understand the language of the Dor, which sounded strangely familiar to him, similar somehow to his own.
He could not fathom the reason for this, and he tried to remember the traditions and stories that the elders of his people would tell when he was just a boy in search of an explanation, but he found none. At night when he dropped on to his mat of dried grass, he could not sleep, exhausted as he was. He thought of the comrades whom he had let die at sea, he thought of the others who had stayed with Diomedes; he thought of his king, to whom he had made a promise it would be very difficult to keep.
He implored the gods to free him, to remove the yoke weighing on his shoulders, to restore his shield and his spear. But much time passed before anything happened.
The Dor settled for nearly three years on a plain near the shore of a lake encircled by tall mountains, and he with them.
One day they gave him a woman, a slave like he was, so they could generate more slaves, but when he lay with her he spilled his seed on the ground so that he would not be bound to that life, so that he would have no wife and no children. Every day, at the break of dawn and at the setting of the sun, he repeated to himself: ‘You are Anchialus, son of Iasus, and you fought with the son of Tydeus, Diomedes, under the walls of Troy. No one can keep you in their thrall.’
He feigned docility and cowardice, he pretended to tremble in the sight of his master, he grovelled and whimpered when they threatened punishment and soon no one had any more regard for him than for the sheep and goats they raised in their pens.
And so one night he strangled his master in his sleep, took his weapons and his horse, and escaped. He descended the banks of a river, leaving no traces, and he continued on day and night without ever pausing, never eating and never sleeping. When he was certain that he had put enough distance between himself and his enemies, he stopped to look for a little food so he could gain the strength to go on. He set traps, as he had learned from his first masters, and caught some game. He dug in the ground for tubers and roots with his sword, and he gathered wild fruit from the trees as he had done after surviving the pirates’ attack.
When he felt strong enough, he took up his journey once again, keeping well clear of villages this time. Nearly two months passed in this way, although he could not say how much ground he had covered. He knew only that he was walking southward, leaving the darkness and night behind him.
One morning, just as day was breaking, he finally reached a rocky peak from which he saw an expanse of waves that shone like polished bronze. A strong salty odour was carried on the breeze and his heart swelled in his chest. ‘The sea,’ he murmured aloud.
Along the coast he found a village of fishermen who spoke his language. He asked them what land he found himself in, and they told him it was Epirus, ruled over by Pyrrhus, a youth just seventeen years of age. The fishermen told him that their young king had come by ship after fighting at length in Asia. It was said that he was the son of a fearful warrior who had died far from his native land. ‘The son of Achilles!’ thought Anchialus. ‘Achilles’s son, here. . how could that be?’ He was more convinced than ever that the accursed war had ruined them all, overturning kingdoms and dynasties, procuring no less trouble for the victors than for the vanquished. So the son of Achilles did not reign in Phthia and over the plains of Thessaly as would have been his right, but over a poor, primitive place at the edge of the land of the Achaeans!
He asked the fishermen where he could find the king’s house, and they answered that he must continue along the coast, never losing sight of the sea, proceeding south until he reached a place called Buthrotum. There lived the young king, surrounded by his warriors, with a foreign bride, older than he, beautiful but very sad. No one had ever seen her smile, but
neither had anyone ever seen her weep. Those who had known her said she looked like a statue, with skin pale as marble and lovely, lightless eyes.
Anchialus thought and thought of who that woman might be, but he could not remember anyone who fitted that description. He was pleased nonetheless; he thought that he would finally meet one of the kings who had fought under the walls of Ilium, and that he could report to him as Diomedes had ordered. He would ask for a ship, and he would set sail west once again. Sooner or later he would find Diomedes and the comrades he had left, and he would join them in their new kingdom, in their new homeland.
He walked for two days before he found a fisherman who was going by boat to the city to sell his catch of fish; he asked if he could go there together with him. They talked at length while the boat slipped calmly over the clear waves, under a brilliant sun. He felt as though he had never left those lands. They could see islands rising from the sea on one side and, on the other, the steep, rocky coastline with its low sandy stretches bordered by lush trees and thick bushes of fragrant juniper and myrtle.
Buthrotum appeared towards evening, walls reddish in the twilight, standing out against the deep green of the surrounding woods. Dogs were barking; gulls screeching over the jutting cliffs. Epirus seemed an untamed land.
Anchialus reached the palace and entered the courtyard to announce himself to the guard at the gate.
‘I am Anchialus, son of Iasus. I once fought at Troy with my king Diomedes, son of Tydeus, the lord of Argos. Tell your king that I am here and must speak with him as soon as possible. A grave danger threatens these lands, and he must know of it.’
The man studied him carefully and only then did Anchialus realize what he must look like: his hair was long and unkempt, his hands rough and calloused, his fingernails black. ‘I know, I seem a beggar, but you must believe me. I was enslaved and forced to put sheep and swine to pasture for years. I finally succeeded in liberating myself and I resumed my journey so I could keep my promise. I want nothing, although I am tormented by hunger. Just allow me to speak with the king.’
‘The king has departed,’ said the guardian.
‘Departed? Where has he gone?’
‘King Menelaus has asked for his help.’
‘King Menelaus? He is alive then?’
‘Yes. He is asking for help from all his allies to put together a large army and attack Mycenae, which is in the hands of his sister-in-law, Queen Clytemnestra. The queen has killed King Agamemnon, with the aid of her lover.’
Anchialus lowered his head. The Great Atreid had fallen! After having endured such suffering in the war, he had fallen in his own home, between the very walls he had so dearly desired.
‘How long ago did he depart?’ he asked.
‘Two days ago. He is marching south, along the coast.’
‘Can you tell me where he is headed?’
‘I do not know. But I could not tell you if I did. The king’s destination is a secret. No one must know where he is coming from. He will descend like a hawk into a flock of crows.’
Anchialus fell silent for a moment, trying to work out what he should do. If only he had been able to meet the young king, he would have given him Diomedes’s message and his mission would have been over. He would have looked for some ship in a port and sailed westward. He wanted to return to Diomedes. As he was contemplating his course of action, his gaze alighted upon the figure of a woman who was just exiting a side door and heading towards a path that led to the mountainside. For a moment, their eyes met and he was thunderstruck: Priam’s daughter-in-law, Hector’s bride: Andromache!
He followed her without making himself seen and saw her stop in front of an earthen mound topped by a stone. Weeds had completely covered the mound and at its base a few wild thistles had opened their purple flowers. She knelt next to it and bowed her head until it touched the ground; she was weeping, her back shaken by sobs.
Anchialus turned away because he understood that those solitary tears should bear no witness. He knew who that mound had been raised to. Andromache had wanted a place where she could grieve for her lost husband, buried far away in the fields of Asia after Achilles had slit his throat, pierced his heels and dragged him behind his chariot. She was the sad bride that the man who had directed him to Buthrotum was speaking of. Queen of a miserable kingdom of shepherds and fishermen, prey to a violent and irascible boy who had demanded her as his trophy; she, the rightful spoil of his father had the gods not sent the arrows of Paris to fell him at the Scaean Gates.
After some time, Andromache rose to her feet, drying her eyes with the edge of her veil, then walked back down the path that led to the city. Anchialus approached her, bowing like a suppliant.
‘Queen,’ he said, ‘stop and heed my request. I am a man who has nothing left to me, neither home, nor homeland, nor friends, but I think I can offer you something if you will help me.’
Andromache appeared startled, as if she could never have expected to meet anyone in so solitary a place. She looked him over calmly; her skin was pale as marble and her eyes were black as the gates to Hades, but the glitter of tears gave her gaze a mournful intensity.
She did not answer and hurried her step, head bowed.
‘I beseech you, queen,’ said Anchialus, nearly barring her way. ‘Do not deny a moment of your time to a poor suppliant.’
‘I am not who you think I am,’ she said in a soft voice. Anchialus could hear her light eastern accent, the same as the women prisoners whom he would take to Diomedes’s tent when they were dividing the spoils after a victory in Asia. Tears swelled within him as well, as the violence and futility of her pain pierced into his very bones.
‘I beg of you, I must reach your husband Pyrrhus, valiant son of Achilles. I have been told that he has departed.’
‘He is not my husband,’ replied Andromache. ‘He is my master. They have given me to a boy who could be my son. .’
‘They say he marches to join forces with Menelaus. Tell me the road he is following, if you can, because I absolutely must find him. If you tell me, I will help you to escape. I will take you with me; I promise you, you will not lack sustenance nor a resting place for the night. I will respect you as befits your rank and your sorrow, and I will never raise my eyes to you unless you wish to speak with me. I will find a peaceful, secret place for you. My own nurse will care for you, if she is still alive; she is a good, old woman who lives alone on a little island. If she is dead, I will find another house for you, and another woman to serve you for as long as you desire. More than this I cannot do, but I swear before the gods that I am sincere and will keep faith to what I have promised.’
‘Sincere. .’ said Andromache. ‘Like the vow Ulysses made to Poseidon on the beach of Ilium: an enormous horse, of wood. .’
Anchialus dropped his head, unable to bear the look in Andromache’s eyes.
He drew a knife from his belt and he held it out to her, kneeling before her. ‘I was inside that horse,’ he said. ‘With lord Diomedes, my king. Kill me if you want, because if I cannot fulfil my mission, I prefer to die by your hand, so that at least a little justice may be done in this world, and so that you may be convinced that I am sincere.’
Andromache hesitated a moment, looking at the glittering blade, eyeing the edge slowly all the way up to the hilt. She stretched out her hand until she was nearly touching it with her long white fingers. Anchialus raised his head and saw in her gaze the ferocious tranquillity that he had so often seen in the eyes of warriors in the heat of battle. All their strength gathered in a still gaze and even stiller hand. The quiet that comes the instant before dealing the blow that will take a life.
Anchialus realized that he was ready to accept death without regret, on that dusty trail at the edge of the land of the Achaeans, from that gentle hand that had once caressed the head of a boy and the body of a hero. But all at once, the hand drew back.
‘Pyrrhus has taken the road for Phocis; his aim is to reach King Strophius and Queen Ana
xibia, Menelaus’s sister. From there, he will continue with the Phocians towards the Isthmus to close off Mycenae from the north.’
Anchialus sheathed the blade and rose to his feet: ‘Accept my offer, queen. You will live in peace, sheltered from all violence.’
‘In peace?’ said Andromache. ‘Do you know why I haven’t killed myself yet? After having endured the hands that hurled my son from the wall of Troy on my skin, do you know why I haven’t killed myself?’
She turned her head towards the stone stuck into the pitiful, weed-covered mound, and the tears suddenly began to pour from her eyes again, trembling first on the rim of her eyelids, then trickling to meet the corners of her wan lips. Anchialus felt his heart unsteady in his chest.
‘Because the sweetness of my memories is still greater than the horror of that massacre. And my memories are so dear to me that they give me the strength to live. Death would take even them from me. My Hector, my one and only love, and my beloved child: they would die entirely, and for ever. My life, as miserable and shameful as it is, prolongs theirs. Without me, their memory would be lost for ever.’
They began to walk again towards the little city and Anchialus realized that she would not separate herself from that place for any reason. Might that mound actually cover the bones of Hector, the greatest warrior of all Asia? If that were true, what terms did she have to accept in exchange for keeping those relics there? Was her shame the price she’d paid to live with her memories?
An icy shudder gripped him, although the sun shone high; it seemed to him that the sky had lost its light and the sea its splendour.
When he set off for the mountain, he was burdened by an obscure weariness that he had never felt before.
He reached Pyrrhus’s column five days later, in a valley at the heart of the steep mountains of Acarnania. The only people of Achaean stock who had not taken part in the war of Troy lived in that land. They were so isolated and primitive that they cared nothing about anything. Ten years earlier, Agamemnon had sent Ulysses in vain to convince them to fight at his side; not even the persuasive words of the king of Ithaca had moved them. But what could be expected of a people who had no king nor cities, only wretched villages? Ulysses had spoken to a few old heads of family, who had no authority. They listened impassively as if he were speaking nonsense, and did not even deign to answer him. They neither agreed, nor disagreed; they said nothing. As Ulysses was still speaking, one of them stood and left, then another followed, and yet another, until they were all gone.
Heroes Page 18