Odysseus: The Oath

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  We made our way uphill along a road flanked by majestic stone tombs until we reached the gate, a lofty construction made of two jambs topped by a gigantic lintel that not even one hundred men could have moved. Only a god, had he so wished. On the architrave were carved the figures of two lions rearing up to face each other; their bodies were painted a tawny colour and their heads were glittery gold.

  ‘This is Mycenae,’ said my father. ‘Do you agree that no man should die without having seen it at least once?’

  He knocked three times at the gate with the shaft of his spear. It opened for us.

  Twenty warriors, ten on the right and ten on the left, saluted us and escorted us to the palace. My father pointed out, to our right, the funerary enclosure that held the tombs of the Perseids, the first sovereigns of the city, and then the palace, up on high, illuminated by torches. Every step that took us closer to the grand royal dwelling made me feel more anxious and uneasy. I walked close alongside my father but I dared not say a word, so as not to be heard by the men escorting us. I also didn’t want him to think I was afraid. No one crossed our path save a few rare passers-by; all we could hear, now and then, were doors opening and closing on creaky hinges, and I asked myself why the inhabitants of such a dismal place didn’t just leave. Who wouldn’t rather live on a hillside planted with olive trees or a meadow crossed by flocks and herds? Or was it just the gloom of the night that made me feel that way?

  I was sure that any small village of farmers or shepherds would have seemed more inviting, but perhaps my father had brought me here so I could understand something that words could not explain. At the heart of the most powerful kingdom of Achaia everything was inverted: evil standing for good, defiance and insult taking the place of justice, perhaps even darkness replacing the light. I started thinking that while night descended on the walls of Mycenae, the sun was still shining on Ithaca and sandy Pylos, and I feared that day would never break over the mute roads of this city.

  I would have done anything to avoid meeting Eurystheus because I knew deep down that he was evil and sensed we would also be in danger if we ate his bread and spent the night under his roof. But we’d already reached the entrance to the palace.

  He received us, alone, in the armoury. I had never seen so many spears and swords, so many shields, so many helmets with their crests. They completely covered the walls. Scores of full suits of armour, lit up by oil lamps, seemed the ghosts of fallen warriors. He sat down with a sigh on a bench and gestured for us to take seats as well. He offered us no wine, no bread, no salt.

  ‘What brings you here, king of Ithaca?’ he asked my father.

  ‘My son and I are directed to Argus and, if time permits, to Salamis, to meet with the kings of those cities and to exchange tokens of friendship with them. To pass by your splendid citadel without stopping to pay our respects would have been a failing that, were you to hear about it, you might very well have held against us.’

  My father was lying, concealing his true motives. At the same time, I was learning how to feign telling the truth and how to deceive those more powerful than me while avoiding damage and offence.

  ‘I’m grateful to you,’ replied Eurystheus without looking at me. It was as if I didn’t exist.

  There was not a sound to be heard in any of the surrounding rooms or those above us; and yet it was dinner time, the hour of the day at the palace in Ithaca when the lamps were lit, the women set the tables, the servants set the spits into the fire so the meats could be roasted and the handmaids took golden loaves of bread from the ovens. Was this power? Standing watch alone over deserted rooms? That’s the way it seemed. I was certain that Eurystheus would be wakeful and alone until dawn, too wary to fall asleep, afraid of being killed or of being visited by nightmares or by the divinities of the Night and the Underworld. He would not close his eyes until first light, but even then he would not sleep, nor carry out the tasks that daylight imposed.

  My father spoke again: ‘Perhaps we’ve come at an inopportune time, Eurystheus, a time when you would have preferred to be alone. No king can afford to shirk the duties of governing his kingdom to entertain visitors.’

  ‘Let it not be said,’ replied the king of Mycenae, ‘that such an illustrious guest did not receive a fitting welcome. I have not had a banquet laid for you and your son, but the reason is another. I am tormented by an affliction that gives me no respite: a shooting pain in my head, as if a fiery arrow were burning my temples. But I will have you served every sort of food and strong red wine, the kind that warms the heart, in a large, richly decorated room, and tomorrow you shall leave with the customary gifts.’

  Two warriors escorted us to our quarters. We walked down a long corridor lined by bare walls made of big blocks of stone. Our footsteps rang out in the silence and the palace seemed deserted, and yet several times I had the feeling we were being followed. We were finally shown into a large hall adorned with paintings. Wooden chairs were placed against the walls. A window opened like a flaming red square in the middle of the grey surface of the longest wall, still reflecting the sun which had already set. In front of two of the chairs were tables with bread, roasted meats and pigeons’ eggs. On the side, grapes and figs.

  ‘Father,’ I said as soon as the steps of the two warriors had faded away down the long corridor, ‘didn’t you hear someone behind us? Following us, or maybe spying on us?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I had other things on my mind. Why did Eurystheus have us taken to this room? Why is there no member of the royal family here to keep us company?’

  ‘Perhaps he trusts no one. If he can’t – or doesn’t want to be – present, he won’t let anyone else be with us either. Perhaps he senses that we’ve come here looking for something.’

  A servant entered with a jug of wine and he poured some into our cups. Both were finely crafted in gold embossed with images of birds in flight. My father put the cup to his lips.

  ‘It’s strong and undiluted,’ he said. ‘Don’t drink more than a cup.’ As the servant turned his back to him in order to fill my cup, father let his bronze ring fall to the ground.

  The servant did not turn.

  ‘Mistrust abounds in this house,’ observed my father. ‘He’s deaf, and probably dumb.’

  I nodded.

  The servant lit an oil lamp that he was carrying. Along with the others hanging from the walls, it cast a warm light, making the place less gloomy. But dining alone with my father in the house, perhaps in the very room, where Hercules had slaughtered his family made me feel terribly uneasy and even made my flesh creep. I had felt a thousand times more comfortable in my grandfather’s house in Acarnania, despite his dreadful reputation. Even after he had loosed a boar against me.

  ‘The walls can speak, though,’ said my father in a low voice. ‘And hear, as well.’

  I understood what he meant: I wasn’t to say another word about the reason behind our visit. There was no need. We spoke of other things: about Argus, where I had never been, and about Salamis, the island kingdom of Telamon, another Argonaut and a friend and comrade of my father.

  ‘He has a son who is just a little older than you: he’s gigantic, as strong as a bull. His name is Ajax. And another younger boy called Teucer, who is good with a bow and arrow, like you are,’ he told me. ‘I’m sure you’ll be friends. You know, one day it will be you lot ruling over our kingdoms, when we’ve died or become too old. That’s why we are making this journey: so you can meet and perhaps even befriend the other princes. This will prevent wars.’

  Even as we spoke, I could feel that his mind was on other things. He stood abruptly, walked towards the door and opened it briefly, then continued: ‘I don’t like this place. I don’t like the welcome we got from Eurystheus and I don’t like this isolation. At the end of the corridor one of his warriors is standing guard. And there are two at the other end. We won’t be allowed to speak with anyone, nor will anyone be able to speak with us under these circumstances. Staying here makes
no sense. Tomorrow we’ll leave, at dawn.’

  ‘Father, how did Eurystheus come to rule over this city?’

  My father was silent at first, then walked over to the window and looked out at the dark night. I could almost read his thoughts: he had come certain to find some sign, some clue that would allow him to absolve Hercules of such a monstrous crime, at least in his own heart. Leaving without achieving this would mean defeat. A mute city, a sullen king, a segregated room, a still, stifled atmosphere, were all that we had seen and heard.

  ‘Eurystheus and Hercules are cousins . . . Many, many years ago, an oracle had decreed that the last descendant of the Perseids would reign over Mycenae and Tiryns. Now, that should have been Hercules, but a priestess of Hera stepped up and swore that Eurystheus had been born first. She claimed that the goddess Hera herself, who is present at all births, had revealed this fact to her. Eurystheus became the lord of the two cities; Hercules was forced to leave and to begin a life of wandering.’

  ‘Then why should this terrible crime have happened at all? What possessed him to return here?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to find out, but Eurystheus has done his best to make that impossible. We’re not free to go anywhere or speak with anyone. But you are certainly right, my son: that is the heart of the matter. Why did the massacre happen here? Perhaps in Argus we’ll learn something more. There are some things that can only be whispered by one king into the ear of another. Not here.’

  We finished eating and I didn’t see the bottom of my cup. We retired into the adjacent room where two beds had been prepared with linen sheets woven through with purple threads. My father laid his sword and sheath on the floor next to him and I kept my dagger under my pillow. I fell asleep, although scenes of the blood-bath kept throbbing under my eyelids.

  Then in the middle of the night I heard a noise in the next room. It was coming from the foot of the door, and it sounded like a dog trying to scratch his way in. I put my ear to the floor and listened. Someone was scraping something hard and rough over the stone, to make a noise that could only be heard at a short distance. Someone who wanted us to hear, but no one else?

  I got up and made my way to the other room, following the dying light of the last oil lamp left burning. I lifted the bolt very slowly, without making the slightest noise, and then swiftly pulled open the door. What I found outside was a boy, his eyes flashing with fear.

  9

  I TOOK HIM BY THE HAND and pulled him in.

  ‘Was it you making that noise? With what?’

  He showed me a nail stuck in a piece of wood.

  ‘Who’s there?’ asked my father from the other room.

  ‘It’s just a little boy . . . What’s your name?’

  ‘Eumelus.’

  My father approached and our little visitor backed up to the door, clearly frightened.

  ‘We don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘We’re friends. Where do you come from, Eumelus? And what are you doing in this place?’

  ‘I’m from Pherai, in Thessaly . . .’

  My father turned towards me: ‘This isn’t just any child; look at his clothing. He’s a young guest of this palace, a prince, most likely. A guest, perhaps, but more likely a hostage . . .’

  Then, turning back to the boy, he said: ‘Why have you come here? Is there something you have to tell us?’

  The boy was struck dumb, and I motioned to my father to step away: his presence was too intimidating. He understood without me saying a word and he went back to the other room. I looked in my knapsack for something the child might like; I found a little wooden horse I’d carved with my knife and showed it to him: ‘Look, I made this myself. It’s pretty, isn’t it? Would you like to have it?’

  Eumelus nodded. I stretched out the open palm of my hand with the little horse. He hesitated for a moment, then snatched it up and put it in his belt.

  ‘This is my gift for you: remember Odysseus of Ithaca whenever you take it out of your belt to play with. Do you know what that means? It means we’re friends. Friends exchange gifts.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to give you in exchange,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Your friendship is the best gift. And then, who knows, maybe some day you’ll receive me in your palace and you’ll give me a gift to remember you by. But now, tell me why you were scraping the floor under the doorway. You wanted me to hear you and open the door, didn’t you?’

  Eumelus nodded again. I came close, took his hands between mine and looked into his eyes: ‘What did you want to tell me?’

  Eumelus started to speak, very quietly, without ever changing the tone of his voice or the expression on his face, and to describe what he’d seen one night some time in the past in the very hall we found ourselves in. He’d been awakened that night by strange noises and then by moaning and gasping. He’d got up and followed the direction that the noises were coming from, opened the door a crack and had then seen something so horrible that he turned and ran back down the corridor as fast as his legs could carry him, desperate to get back to his room and jump into his bed before anyone saw him.

  When he’d finished talking he just stared at me with those eyes: so big, so black, so open, as if he wanted to let me look all the way into his heart.

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?’ I asked him.

  He shook his head: no, he hadn’t been dreaming. Then he showed me what the nail stuck in the piece of wood was for. He scraped between one stone and the next on the floor and gathered the dirt that had collected in the cracks. He poured some into the palm of my hand and then he showed me that the little sack hanging on his belt was full of it.

  ‘You have to leave with us, tomorrow. We’ll take you back to your parents. They can’t have imagined what a situation you would be in.’

  I beckoned for my father to come close, certain now that the child trusted us, and showed him the dirt. ‘He uses the nail to scrape at the cracks in the floor: look, this isn’t dirt, it’s dried blood. The floor was cleaned but not everything was washed away.’

  My father sniffed at the specks in my hand and nodded solemnly. ‘It’s blood, no doubt about it.’

  ‘We have to take him with us,’ I said. ‘We can’t leave him alone in this place with this secret in his heart. It’s too much for him.’

  ‘They won’t let me go,’ said Eumelus, ‘and there’s not enough room on your chariots for you to hide me. If they found me, they’d kill all of us.’

  ‘You are Admetus’ son, aren’t you?’ said my father. ‘I’ll tell him what we’ve seen here and the state you’re in.’

  ‘He can’t do anything either, not even if he wanted to,’ protested the boy. ‘There’s only one man who can free me from this prison.’

  None of us said a word because we were all thinking of the same person: Hercules.

  The next day, at dawn, we went down to the palace courtyard. Eurystheus was already waiting, surrounded by his warriors. Two men bore his gifts for the king of Ithaca: a bearskin and an antique ceremonial sword whose burin-engraved blade was inlaid with gold. It had a gilded hilt as well, its pommel ending in two lion heads. I’d never seen such a wondrous thing. We reciprocated with a bronze and amber staff that my father had taken as booty in Asia.

  As we were leaving I happened to look up and then caught my father’s eye. I said, softly: ‘Up high, third window.’ There was a child leaning out slightly and seemingly waving his hand.

  Eurystheus’ gaze shot to the window and his mouth twisted into a smirk. Perhaps he wanted to make sure that his young guest was staying put.

  My father dropped his head, I think to hide his impotent outrage. Leaving a child in such a place, in the grip of such a ruthless, ferocious man, was against his nature. The heart inside his chest was certainly howling like a dog. We passed under the gate of lions, still shrouded by darkness, then continued down the ramp until we reached the fork in the road. We turned left, towards Argus.

  ‘Go slowly, now,’ I said to my
father. ‘Set the horses to a walk.’

  The time had come for me to tell him everything the child had said.

  ‘There was a great banquet in honour of Hercules. Eurystheus had sent him word that he wanted to make peace and restore good relations. He wanted his cousin to bring his whole family to the palace, and Hercules accepted the invitation. As the evening wore on, his wife Megara and his children retired to their chambers, while Eurystheus insisted that Hercules and the other table companions remain to enjoy the feasting and revelry. Hercules drank and drank, until he lost consciousness. Perhaps his wine contained a drug that caused him to lose his senses. They carried him into his room and left him there.

  ‘The palace sank into silence.

  ‘But late that night, Eumelus, who was sleeping in a room at the end of the corridor, heard screaming and moaning, ominous thuds, objects being overturned. He strained to hear, imagining that cries of alarm would soon be filling the corridors, expecting to hear the pounding tread of the guards on duty rushing by. Instead, nothing. No one moved, no one called out. What was happening could not be interrupted. The child got up from his bed then and made his way, barefoot, down the whole corridor until he found himself in front of the room where all the noise had been coming from. Now he could hear them distinctly: the horrendous sounds of slaughter.

  ‘He pushed the door open a crack and saw what was happening. Hercules lay unconscious on the floor and three armed men were finishing off the members of his family who were still breathing. His wife and his children. Then one of them put a sword in Hercules’ hand. Eumelus fled back to his room, terrified that the three killers would leave the room and discover him. He didn’t close an eye for the rest of the night. At dawn, the shrieks of a woman woke everyone. The palace resounded with cries of horror, groaning and weeping.’

  My father was turned to stone by that story. He asked me: ‘Why do you want me to go so slowly?’ The thread of his thoughts always ran in the direction that he wanted, not in the direction that anyone else would expect.