A Thousand Ships

by Natalie Haynes

  ‘I know him only by his great reputation,’ Polymestor said. ‘I suppose there is a temptation to fill in the gaps in one’s knowledge by imagining what sort of man behaves in such a way.’

  ‘In what sort of way?’ Odysseus asked.

  ‘Refusing all offers of help so generously. Never wanting to impose on another man’s good nature.’

  ‘Ah, I thought you were being modest, but I see you have spoken nothing less than the truth.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ The black pupils of Polymestor’s eyes were the only thing that conveyed his unease.

  ‘You really don’t know him,’ Odysseus replied. He laughed, and clapped the Thracian king on the shoulder. And Polymestor broke out into a great bark of laughter himself, relieved to find he had not spoken amiss.

  ‘I bring more than just my own men to your fine shores today,’ Odysseus continued.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, I have brought an old friend to see you. We could not resist the chance for you to be reacquainted.’

  ‘Who can you mean?’ Polymestor asked. He turned this way and that, trying to pick out the unexpected visitor from the motley mass of sailors.

  ‘Ah, you will not find your friend out here on the shore,’ Odysseus said. ‘She awaits you in that tent.’ He pointed to the grey cloth which had been stretched over a few poles to create a makeshift shelter.

  ‘She?’ Polymestor asked, his expression acquiring a lascivious tinge.

  ‘Hecabe, queen of Troy,’ Odysseus said. His eyes were fixed firmly on the Greek king, who looked only slightly disconcerted.

  ‘It was not a crime to have friends in my own region.’ Polymestor’s tone was quiet and measured.

  ‘Of course not. Hecabe said you had been a friend to her husband long before the war broke out.’

  Relief suffused the Thracian king’s face. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘It is just as she told you. We were trading partners and more, bound by ancient ties of guest-friendship.’

  ‘As I hope you and I will be,’ Odysseus said, patting him on the back once more. ‘Before the sun sets on our ships today.’

  Polymestor nodded in delight. ‘We shall be, Odysseus. We shall be firm friends.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Odysseus said. ‘Hecabe has confessed something to me, on the voyage from Troy.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘She sent away her young son to your safe-keeping.’

  Cassandra watched as Polymestor wrestled against his nature, to talk when he was nervous.

  ‘I . . .’ He paused and looked out across the bay. Even for those bound by the vows of guest-friendship, harbouring a young man from an enemy city might be a step too close to treachery for the Greeks.

  ‘Ah, I see I’ve made you uncomfortable,’ Odysseus said. One more pat on the shoulder and the Thracian king would be nursing bruises. ‘I understand that you gave the young man shelter. It was your obligation to Priam.’

  ‘You do understand,’ Polymestor said. ‘I did not choose for the boy to be sent here, but once he arrived . . .’

  ‘What could you do?’ Odysseus asked.

  ‘What could I do?’ he echoed.

  ‘You could give the boy every comfort and bring him up as your own,’ Odysseus said.

  ‘Yes,’ Polymestor agreed. ‘I did just as you say.’

  ‘You have sons of your own?’

  ‘I do. Two boys. Younger than Priam’s son,’ he said. ‘They are just eight and ten years old. And already the older one stands so high.’ He placed his hand at the height of his heart. ‘The younger one is shorter by barely three fingers’ width.’

  ‘Ah, send one of your men to bring them here,’ Odysseus said. ‘I have left my own son at home. I would be happy to see your two fine boys.’

  ‘Of course.’ Polymestor beckoned one of his servants, and muttered instructions. The slave nodded and hurried away.

  ‘You might bring Polydorus as well,’ Odysseus called after him. The slave froze and turned, gazing wordlessly at his king.

  ‘What?’ Polymestor’s smile no longer hid anything.

  ‘That is his name, is it not? Polydorus? Ah, I can see from your confusion that I’ve made a mistake. What is Priam’s boy called?’

  The smell of fear was unmistakeable now.

  ‘No, you are quite right, quite right,’ Polymestor said. ‘But I cannot send for him.’

  ‘Why ever not? His mother is here. It is his last chance to see her before she sails off to Ithaca with me. Surely you would not deprive the boy of such a meeting?’

  ‘I would not, of course I would not.’ Polymestor thought quickly. ‘But he is away, hunting in the mountains.’

  ‘The mountains?’

  ‘Yes, further inland. Several days’ ride. He likes nothing more than a hunt.’

  ‘So odd. First I misremember his name, and then I imagine he has no taste for riding a horse. I was sure Hecabe said—’

  ‘No, no, quite right,’ Polymestor replied. ‘He did not have a taste for hunting when he arrived here. But he has grown to enjoy it greatly.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Making up for the years spent penned behind the high walls of Troy, no doubt.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Polymestor said. Cassandra could see the sweat soaking through his thick embroidered robe. The sour stench battled with the sweet cinnamon perfume and Cassandra felt as though her throat was closing up.

  ‘So his mother will not get her hoped-for reunion after all,’ Odysseus said.

  ‘I fear she will not.’

  ‘But perhaps it will be worth it, to know he is living such a healthy outdoor life.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Again the scene slid away. Cassandra blinked and saw the boys running behind the slave, running towards their father. The younger one pointed at the high mast of Odysseus’ ship. He had never seen a vessel so tall and could not stop yammering to his brother, who adopted the expression of a man who has seen every type of ship before. They reached their father, and were suddenly shy in front of all the strangers.

  ‘Papa, are these the heroes of Troy?’ the older one asked. His expectations had not been met by this ragtag crew.

  ‘They are,’ Polymestor replied, lifting the boy up to his waist and then scooping up the other one in his right arm. ‘What do you think Odysseus? Fine heroes of the future, yes?’

  ‘You echo Hecabe’s words about her own son. I shall keep old friends apart no longer.’ He nodded to one of his sailors, who opened the flap of the tent and brought the women outside.

  ‘My dear friend.’ Polymestor turned to Hecabe, dropping his boys gently to the ground and opening his arms. ‘I would not have recognized you.’ He strode forward to greet her, his boys alongside him. All these unknown men on their shore had made them nervous, and they wished to be close to their father.

  ‘I have grown old in the years since you were last in Troy,’ Hecabe agreed.

  ‘No, madam, I did not mean—’

  ‘You did, and I have no vanity left. It died in the war, like my husband and my sons,’ she said. ‘If you could have seen me even a year ago, you would have known me straightaway. It is grief which has left its mark on me, not time.’

  ‘Your losses have been great,’ Polymestor said.

  ‘They have been intolerable,’ she replied.

  ‘It must have seemed so.’

  ‘It was so. It is so. I have long since been unable to bear the burdens which the gods have placed upon me,’ she said. ‘One loss after another. Just in the past year: Hector, then Priam, then Paris, then . . .’

  ‘The gods have treated you most harshly,’ he said. ‘I will make offerings and beg them for mercy on your behalf.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Of course. Madam, no one could see you and not wish to alleviate your suffering. Why, even Odysseus, a long-held enemy of your city and the house of Priam, has brought you here to receive comfort from your old friend.’

  Hecabe shook her head slowly. Her maidser
vants gathered about her, clustering around Polymestor. ‘How can you speak to me after what you have done?’ she asked.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Polymestor. It is beneath me to listen to the words of a murderous, avaricious traitor like you. Did you not have gold enough? Was this territory too small for you? Was your palace too cheaply made? Your shrines too shabby?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Priam sent you a vast sum to look after our boy. Don’t try to deny it and don’t try to trick me, you old fraud. I placed the gold in his pack myself. And if that was not enough for you,’ she spat the words out, saliva landing on his embroidery, ‘I would have given you the same sum again to keep my boy safe. You had only to send word that he was worth so little to you. His worth was beyond gold to me. The Greeks have all the treasure of Troy now anyway. What difference would it have made to me if the gold had come to a Thracian instead of a Spartan, an Argive, an Ithacan?’

  ‘He is safe! What lies have you been told?’ Polymestor cried.

  But Hecabe had no desire to talk further. There was a glint of metal, reflecting the rays of the sun, though he must have closed his eyes to spare himself the sight of it. In a flash, Hecabe had dragged her small, sharp blade across the neck of Polymestor’s older boy. The blood spurted out indecently as two of her womenfolk did the same thing to the younger child.

  ‘I buried him with my own hands, Polymestor,’ she screamed. ‘How dare you lie to me?’

  ‘What have you . . .’ The Thracian king roared in horror, but there was more carnage to come. As his boys spilled their dark life blood out onto the sand, Hecabe and her women turned their short knives on him. They did not aim for his throat or his heart. As he tried to gather his sons in his arms, desperately willing life back into them, the women instead plunged their blades into his eyes. His cries of horror mingled with howls of pain, and the blood pouring from his blackened sockets pooled with the blood of his children. His slaves did not attempt to help him, seeing themselves outnumbered by Odysseus’ battle-hardened crew.

  ‘You wiped out my line,’ Hecabe whispered. ‘Now I have wiped out yours. And I leave you alive to remember that had you not been a traitor, a murderer, a breaker of vows and deceiver of friends, your sons would still be delighting you into your old age. You would have seen them grow up as you grew old. Now you know that the last thing you will ever see was their death. I hope the gold was worth it.’

  She stood back from the butchery and nodded to Odysseus. ‘Thank you.’

  Odysseus and his men began to load themselves back onto their ships, ignoring Polymestor – hunched over the bodies of his sons – nearby. The king’s roars subsided into sobs and then into helpless mewling. Odysseus stared at him in contempt. Every one of his men had been elbow-deep in the blood of his comrades more than once in the past ten years of fighting. They had little sympathy for a traitor who took payment from the Trojans and would have brought up a boy from the royal household, who might have grown up determined to avenge his father, his brothers, his city. The Greeks could not afford to leave the Thracian king unpunished for his two-faced dealings. Polymestor had followed his instincts, which were to maximize profit wherever he saw the opportunity, irrespective of the cost to others. That could not be allowed to stand. His punishment would remind any other Greeks who thought to betray their word that such behaviour was not tolerated, at least not by Odysseus.

  As the last of his men boarded, he called Hecabe and her women to accompany him. Polymestor, hearing the name of his enemy, let go of his dead sons and turned towards the sound of the waves.

  ‘You will die before you ever reach Ithaca,’ he shouted. ‘You will drown in the seas and no one will mourn you and no one will mark your grave.’

  Hecabe stopped beside the ruined king. ‘I have been dead since I buried Polydorus,’ she said. ‘It makes no difference where I fall.’

  *

  Cassandra took in jagged breaths, desperate to remain calm. She closed her eyes and then opened them again in the present, to see her mother, her sister, her sister-in-law, all sitting beside her on the rocks, just as they had been before she followed her mother to Thrace. But then the scene began to play out from the beginning once more. It was no less horrifying to see it again. More so, in fact, now she had seen so much of what was to come. But still, one detail was missing, right at the beginning when Hecabe first stepped onto Odysseus’ ship. She, Cassandra, was standing there on the sands of Troy, watching her mother leave. She could sense that Andromache had already gone. She could see other women – cousins and neighbours – heading off with different warriors to disparate kingdoms. She had accounted for all of them. All except one. Where was Polyxena?

  The answer came to her in a rush. And this time she could do nothing to prevent the sickness overwhelming her.

  29

  Penelope

  My husband Odysseus,

  I now know you are in the land of the dead. When the bard first sang of your voyage to the Underworld, I confess I wept. After so many years, I believed I had no more tears left to shed, but I was mistaken. I had made a simple error when I heard his song, of course: I had assumed that only the dead can enter the kingdom of Hades. It doesn’t seem so outlandish to think that, does it? I mean, who else has ever courted the favour of the dread Persephone, without having died first? Orpheus, I suppose. But he had the strongest possible reason for his katabasis: he took on Cerberus, the three-headed hound, to try and earn the restoration of his beloved Eurydice, cut down by the sharp tooth of a serpent on their wedding night. An exceptional and heart-breaking circumstance, as I’m sure you would agree. And, try as I might, I cannot see why you would essay the same perilous journey to consult a dead seer. Would a live one not have sufficed?

  They say that Circe, your witch friend, told you the consultation was necessary. I suppose I should be grateful that she only persuaded you to sail to the end of the world to do her bidding. Some women really will do anything to avoid returning a husband to his wife. But honestly, Odysseus, did you believe this journey was necessary? You were already so far from home (I am not entirely sure where Aeaea, Circe’s island, is situated, but probably not as close to the edge of the earth as I would hope)? And then to sail to the river that circles the world in perpetual darkness? I think it is fair to consider this one of your more unusual choices.

  But I am thinking like a stranger, like one of the bards who sings your story. You have not sailed to the place of perpetual night in spite of the danger, have you? You have done so because of it. I know you, Odysseus. There is little you would enjoy more than the chance to boast that you had taken your ship to the end of the world and back again. What a fantastic story, people would say. And you would demur, no, anyone would have done the same thing in your position. Except, somehow, no one else is ever in your position, are they?

  The other Greeks have all returned, to warm (some less warm) homecomings. But you followed the advice of Circe, an enchantress you knew you could not trust, and found yourself in the darkest region, pouring sacrificial blood into a trench to lure the spirits up from Erebus. The shades of the dead dwell there, always hungering for blood. And you came along to feed them in the hopes of speaking to the dead seer, to Tiresias. But it was one of your men whose ghost appeared first. Elpenor, who died on Aeaea. He had drunk too much wine, climbed onto the roof of Circe’s palace, and thence fallen to his death. It is not the pitiful stupidity of his death which moves the listener, when the bard sings this section (in case you were wondering). It is the triviality of it, of him, a fallen comrade whom none of you even noticed was gone. Imagine that: fighting beside the same band of Ithacans for ten years; sailing home alongside them. And not one of them misses you when you fall. I’m sure you were simply distracted, organizing the provisions for your difficult voyage ahead. But not to have even noticed a man’s broken body on the ground? Let us hope you never have to muster another force, Odysseus. Your reputation may leave you short of vol
unteers.

  Elpenor made you promise to go back to Aeaea and bury his body with due ceremony and – though I’m sure you were desperate to avoid returning to Circe’s island – you, of course, agreed. Always so considerate. And what are a few more weeks at sea after all this time, you probably thought. You might as well take the scenic route.

  You poured a little more blood into the ditch and waited for your prophet. But it was not him who appeared next. Ah, even as I am angry with you, my heart aches to think of you there alone, catching sight of the shade of Anticleia. What a way for a man to find out that his mother has died while he has been away. Still, you held your nerve and forbade her spirit to drink until the seer had given you the benefit of his wisdom. She bared her teeth at you, but she obeyed, and you waited.

  And when Tiresias finally arrived, drawn by the stench of animal blood, what did he tell you? What I have already told you, with none of the inconvenience of a trip to hell and back. You have offended Poseidon by blinding his son. Your journey home is more difficult and more treacherous than that of any other Greek, because you have earned the enmity of a god. And what else did he tell you? Oh yes. That your homecoming would be painful. That you would be welcomed by a palace full of suitors who had been living in your home, determined to woo your wife.

  That is a prophecy for me, too, then. Although I knew men would start gathering as news from Troy dried up. It is one thing to wait for a conquering hero to return, another to wait for a man lost at sea for – do you even know how long you have been gone? We are in the third year now since the war ended. But fear not, Odysseus, I will hold off these suitors who would marry your widow (as they consider me) for as long as I can, of course.

  Then Tiresias fluttered away into the blackness, and your mother Anticleia finally approached you and drank the blood which feeds the dead, feeds what is left of their senses. Her horror when she recognized you must have been quite terrible to witness. For on her deathbed she had been hoping you would return before too many more moons. She died from a broken heart, Odysseus, waiting for her son to come home.