All who had heard the dialogue laughed, but Talthyvios did not trouble himself trying to understand the reason. He dug his knife into the eye of the first head that was passed before him.
Cinyras, who for some time now had not looked him in the eyes, turned and smiled at him:
“Our beloved Talthyvios, without showing it, is an expert at removing eyes…” he said.
This time more of them, nearly all of them, relaxed and laughed, and Talthyvios at last understood the reason. Which meant that he had not yet become completely intoxicated, not as much as he wished…
Cinyras, flattered by the effortless laughter which his witticism had provoked, continued:
“In any case. I should like to make a small correction to what, with enviable eloquence, our honored guest related. You spoke earlier, dear Talthyvios, of an agreement which was signed, as you said, after the Paphos-Amathus war… While, as everyone certainly remembers, since most of those present took part in drawing it up, the agreement was signed before the assistance was provided in quelling the insurrection…”
The banquet continued until dawn. And when Talthyvios, with the assistance of two servants, returned to his chamber he no longer remembered that he ought to remain vigilant with his sword in his hand… Nor, of course, the promise of Cinyras that he would send one of the young priestesses to refine him.
Since, however, the wine of Paphos intoxicates foreigners more than locals, Cinyras had not forgotten. Returning to the royal apartments he found Amalthea - that was the pet name he had given to his favorite priestess - waiting, anointing her pubis with myrrh of Lebanon. He explained what he wanted from her, but Amalthea begged him to send another. She had worked hard, mentally and physically all afternoon preparing her altar for the Arch-Priest.
Cinyras, although he was flattered, was far too tired to break his word. He reminded her that hospitality took precedence over personal convenience and preferences, and he encouraged her by adding that the adventure might be well worth the effort since the Argive had not been with a woman for years ‘and as they say, deprivation, embarrassment and the violent desire they provoke, sometimes create as much pleasure as divine art!’
After this, Amalthea slipped into the arcade. Cinyras took off his tunic, let down his hair, which was fastened in a braid by a gold clasp, and lying down clapped his hands. A second priestess, Aphro, entered the chamber. She was half-asleep and had difficulty in standing upright.
“Were you sleeping?”
“No, I was waiting”.
‘The cunning devil! It was not her turn and she was sound asleep,’ thought the Arch-Priest. And he added:
“Anyway… Think of something yourself. I’m a little tired tonight.”
Aphro knelt between the bare legs of the Arch-Priest, covered a yawn with an invocation to the Goddess and bent down, covering his belly with her thick, flame-red hair.
When Amalthea returned smiling a short while later, Cinyras made a sign for her to wait. She sat on the rug beside them and watched them, sometimes laughing and sometimes panting in rhythm with them, and sometimes caressing her breasts and her altar with her cold, long fingers.
“Why did you return?” asked Cinyras as soon as he sat up, removing from his body almost violently the mouth of the priestess, who was continuing to suck it.
“He was sleeping in his armour,” said Amalthea. “I shook him to wake him up. He murmured that all that was forbidden when he was on duty… and turned his back on me!…”
Then she turned to Aphro, who curled up on the bare legs of the Arch-Priest was ruminating on her pleasure.
“Go now,” she ordered.
II
Two facts kept the Greek encampment in a state of ferment: the information that the Trojans were about to undertake a general attack by land and sea, in a decisive effort to end the war in their favour, and the reassurance of Talthyvios that the assistance of Cyprus was indisputably secured and the arrival of the small fleet was a matter of days.
Agamemnon was at first reluctant to believe that his envoy had achieved the full implementation of the agreement. The optimism and the certainty of his ambassador did not convince him. Talthyvios was then obliged to admit that in order to overcome the hesitations of Cinyras’ courtiers he had resorted to an initiative that, although it had proved to be the salvation of his mission, could cost him dearly: he had invented a promise of Agamemnon that in exchange for the fleet he would grant the Paphian King monopoly privileges in the new colonies.
Agamemnon regarded his envoy, with a playful disposition and told him that ‘certainly, a military defeat is always preferable to commercial ruination, particularly of one’s own volition but what could be done? Since you have bound us so foolishly.’
And convinced now he began to demand information and details about the arming of the ships, the number of men and the reasons given by Cinyras when he rejected the insistent proposal of Talthyvios that he should return to Troy at the head of the fleet.
“And so you lost the opportunity to become an admiral for a change!” joked Odysseus.
The unassuming Talthyvios assured them that the vessels had all the latest armaments: powerful battering-rams, catapults for hurling projectiles and arrows, arsenals, spare parts, and apart from the oarsmen, some fifty soldiers each. As for the slight delay that had taken place, he said that it was justified, given that certain legal measures had to be taken before the embarkation could be authorized by the senate. In any case, Cinyras had been quite explicit: ‘the vessels will set sail for Troy with the next full moon. And it would be prudent if Talthyvios meanwhile informed the Greek chiefs of staff and plans were drawn up for a coordinated surprise attack by land and sea.’
“And thus he washes his hands of us, and our precious vessels will forsake Ares in order to serve Profit once again,” observed Odysseus ironically. “I know him only too well, that Paphian…”
Menelaus, who also knew Cinyras, agreed:
“I fear Odysseus is right. The news is too good to be true…”
Reacting against whatever Odysseus said, as he was wont to do, even if deep down he agreed, Agamemnon said he shared the hopes of Talthyvios and that he felt guarded optimism…
Now that Talthyvios saw things somewhat more coolly, alone on the windswept coast of Troy, vainly waiting for hours for the Cypriot fleet, he began to share the doubts of Odysseus and the ‘husband of Helen’ and he felt himself gradually invaded by guarded pessimism… The powerful Cinyras, who had risen from poverty and insignificance to create a colossal economic empire and fame unheard-of for the leader of a small country, was not going to put at risk the blind devotion of the aristocratic and merchant classes which supported him in order to satisfy the insatiable appetite of his Greek allies. How was it possible to expect a leader who had based his power on a firm internal front to risk an effective domestic policy for a foreign adventure?
But then again… His ambitions were such that it was not impossible that he had been convinced that the time was ripe to extend his influence to Greece herself and to her colonies. It was known, moreover, that Cinyras often complained that his commercial and cultural exchanges were closer with the enemies and rivals of Greece than with the Motherland herself. But even if all this was unfounded, he had done well to bring up the matter of Cinyras’ oath at the banquet! Because in spite of Cinyras’ efforts to give the impression that his officials were aware of the contents of the agreement and that he had made them participants in his decisions, Talthyvios was convinced that he did not consider it necessary to impart the slightest information to anyone and would never have done so if not compelled by circumstances. Now, though, whether he liked it or not, he had to bear in mind that everyone in Cyprus, where rumours and gossip had been raised to a fine art, knew that the Hierophant, in order to become King, had made a promise which he could have retracted if he had been only the King, but could not because he wished to remain Hierophant too.
This is what Talthyvios was thinking, so
metimes kicking the pebbles and sometimes leaning on the burnt-out hulks of the Greek ships, as he watched the vessel which had come into view a short while ago, in the open sea off the peninsula, and was sailing towards the bay.
From its shape alone he could not identify its nationality. It did not appear to be either Greek or Trojan. It was surely one of the Assyrian merchant vessels that arrived now and then to profiteer by selling food and weapons at outrageous prices or renting youths from Mesopotamia for a gold bar, to the warlords of the Greek encampment.
He watched it for a little longer, trying to fathom what were the projections along the sides and at the prow and stern, but unable to do so, he returned to his dark conjectures.
If in the end Cinyras did not send the ships the war would be decided. And he, if he was not to suffer the fate of the brothers of Medea - that would be the punishment for his failure, as ordained by Agamemnon - would be obliged to impale himself on the harpoon that would be held ready for him by some sympathetic servant or a young soldier. But even if the war was not lost, what would he gain? One way or the other he was doomed. Agamemnon, under the pressure of political expediency, would sooner or later forgive Cinyras. But him? Who would pardon the lack of foresight he had shown in leaving Paphos alone, despite the fact that he had been given clear and explicit instructions to ‘become the Admiral of the Fleet…’ His credulity would become the gravestone of such a productive career in the court of the Myceneans! If at least they could allow him to live alone and forgotten in the mansion he had built with the spoils of this miserable war!… But he should not even hope for so much. If he lost favour he would lose everything. His land would be confiscated, his possessions would be given to his replacement, and as for his wife, his daughters and his sons, only the oldest and the ugliest would be left to him for company.
A clamour brought him back to the present. Many incoherent incomprehensible cries. He drew his sword and turned abruptly on guard. He was met by Greek laughter and jests. It was not the Trojans… It was the Acheans. They had seen the ships and come at the double, shouting and clinking their gold coins. He sheathed his sword and turned back, feigning indifference, towards the sea.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder. “The little Syrians, hey? It was time they came…”
It was his friend Diomedes.
“Yes, I suppose so”, he replied absently. “I think…”
But Diomedes was not listening. He had turned to the frenzied men who were looking eagerly at the ship.
“If they are boys, the generals have first pick. If they are females, we draw lots”.
“We draw lots! We draw lots!” shouted the soldiers, discontented by the unjust treatment, without taking their eyes off the ship for a moment.
The ship came closer and raised a flag. Talthyvios felt his heart leap. Fluttering on the flag was a countenance that had become known all over the world, printed on stern masts, coins, jewelry, sword-hilts, vessels, goblets, pots. The best-known emblem in the Hellenic world: the countenance of Cinyras, seen as always from the right side, as the left bore a wart and did not do him justice.
The ship sailed gently towards the bight, while its sails were furled and its oars dipped intermittently, sprinkling the waves like the legs of a dying centipede. Astride the huge ram, an ironclad impetuous phallus, rested the wood-sculpted likeness of Adonis, exposed to the wind and the raging waves.
The men watched the vessel come alongside with their hopes swelling. That ram! That beautiful wooden satyr!…
Then Odysseus, who had arrived in the meantime, dressed in his Sunday armour and stood beside Diomedes, was heard to shout:
“Those are not Syrians, idiot, they are Paphians…” And in his voice Talthyvios perceived more disappointment because they were not Syrians, than because there was only one Paphian ship.
All who heard felt betrayed for the same reason. The disappointment stirred up the aroused would-be lovers who began, one by one at first, then all together, to break the silence that had enveloped them for so long, swearing and bawling that it was high time the stupid war ended so that they could return to their homes, and that Menelaus could remain a cuckold and Agamemnon could stay without Barbaria…
Talthyvios, unable to turn his guilty eyes towards Odysseus, who was complaining that it had been a waste of effort perfuming himself and getting covered in bruises wearing his best armour, which happened to be rather tight, concentrated on trying to decipher the heavy Greek-sounding dialect of the sailors who were giving or repeating the final commands. But he could not. His mind would not work except to continually grind out questions: What did it all mean? Why only one ship? Where had the others been shipwrecked? Perhaps he had betrayed them? Perhaps the fat courtiers had exerted pressure on him? But then again, why send even one? Was not that one ship a confirmation of his oath which he would certainly rather not have given? And what sort of ship was it? What was the meaning of those small clay ships, manned by clay sailors, which were arrayed along its side? It was the first time he had seen such a decoration, of one, two, three, six, twelve, twenty-four, forty-eight, forty-nine small vessels of terracotta…
Forty-nine? And one real one…
Neither the interrogations nor the threats, nor even their resolute implementation, persuaded the admiral of the “Adonis” to alter his initial declaration: ‘his name was Amakos, he was forty-nine years old, and he had set sail at the head of forty-nine vessels with instructions to place them at the disposal of Agamemnon. Forty of them were vanquished during a naval battle and sunk with all hands in the open sea off Cyprus by a larger Assyrian fleet. The remainder, badly damaged, headed for Paphos, though it is doubtful if they ever arrived there. In memory of their fellow vessels and their dead companions, the sailors decorated the flagship with models of the ships that were lost. When did the war with Assyria resume? Had they not heard? Just after the envoy of Agamemnon had left. Because of the displacement of Assyria from further large markets and on the pretext of the sinking of an Assyrian merchant ship off the coast of Paphos, which was unjustly blamed on the patrols of Cinyras. What do you mean, where did they find the clay? In the hold of the “Adonis”, of course. Before it had been requisitioned, it had been transporting terracotta from the coast of Kition.’
Agamemnon, infuriated that ‘a High-Priest had violated his oath so impudently’, gave orders for the admiral and the oldest and least physically attractive of the officers to be executed without delay, and for the vessel to be taken over and to set sail immediately for Rhodes, to seek assistance…
“After first being castrated, of cource,” joked Odysseus, indicating the battering ram-phallus.
Agamemnon glared at him and did not deign to reply.
“Why to Rhodes and not to Argos?” asked Menelaus.
“For the simple reason that it is not just that Argos should be charged with everything for the sake of everyone,” replied Agamemnon haughtily.
“And furthermore, it would be unfortunate if the fate of the vessels that they entrusted to us became known,” remarked Odysseus, who never missed an opportunity to deride Agamemnon and point out his inconsistencies.
Sure that he would not be Agamemnon’s envoy on this new mission, Talthyvios wanted to ascertain the true reason for his misfortune. He owed that much at least to himself. He asked permission to interrogate Amakos. Agamemnon regarded him contemptuously:
“If you harbor the delusion that you can succeed where I have failed, he is all yours!”
And he turned to the men who were preparing to execute the Cypriot admiral:
“Later,” he said.
“I’m sure that Talthyvios, who eloquently proved that he knows the Cypriots, will persuade him to talk,” laughed Odysseus.
Agamemnon gave him a look of reproof and, turning his head majestically and disdainfully, ordered them to bring his chariot. He would go, as was his custom recently, to the perimeter of the encampment, where he could better observe the enemies’ preparations. It was evid
ent that the Trojans were organizing their major offensive and everyone in the Greek encampment was waiting for the creaking open of the heavy city gate, which was now just a matter of hours away, with an edginess that was not entirely free from fear. According to the latest information, along with the feverish movements of the dense forest of enemy spears, which were forming behind the battlements and the turrets, in the bay of Scamander the enemy vessels were being prepared with all haste and armed with landing craft and mechanical bows of long range which would keep the Greeks at a distance and unable to prevent the beaching of the landing parties and the encircling maneuver.
“Only our weakness can save us now,” remarked Odysseus sarcastically. “Perhaps at the last minute Hector will remember that it is cowardly to slaughter defenceless people…”
“I doubt if he realizes our true situation…” said Menelaus, taking Odysseus’ words seriously.
“Should I desert, to explain our plight to them?” joked Teucer of Salamis in his turn, forgetting his mourning for a moment.
“It would be wiser for the Cypriot ship to sail around in the vicinity until the battle is decided. As far as I can see it will be of more use to us than to the Rhodians…” said Odysseus continuing his half-serious, half-joking interjections.
The other generals agreed.
“Perhaps in the end we shall all need to go to Rhodes,” stated Teucer epigrammatically.
Talthyvios watched them depart, lost in discussion, and secretly sighed. That he, who had devoted his life to the service of Agamemnon’s family, who had sacrificed his youth and happiness travelling to the ends of the earth in order to prepare the allies of Greece for the war, should now be interrogating a half-Greek, while Diomedes was sailing to beautiful Rhodes, safe and carefree…
He thought too, with tragic bitterness, that in undertaking this interrogation he was not doing it merely to prove that in something, however insignificant, he was better than Agamemnon. Not merely for that!… But rather to imitate, if only for once in his life, a hero whom he had admired since adolescence: Oedipus - to arrive at the truth even at the expense of his eyes! Yes, he wanted to be further humbled, to be further irritated, to learn how and how much the Paphians had mocked him when he left empty-handed, how they derided him because he slept when Amalthea was in his chamber, so that by hating he could hold on to life and get his revenge…
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