ever forget the shame and dishonour that keep me awake at night?’
He sat down in the dust and lowered his head like a suppliant.
The old man neither moved nor opened his mouth.
‘I will not go from here,’ said Menelaus, ‘until I’ve had an answer. I will starve to death if you do not answer me.’ And he too fell into silence.
Nothing happened, for some time. But then all at once, the ray of sun spilling down from the ceiling of the cavern touched the surface of the water, and the spring shone with myriad reflections, lightening even the walls of the cave with a pale glow. The old man shook out of his torpor and pointed his finger to a point at the centre of the pool. Menelaus stood and stared at that point, as his soul was invaded by a strange, untried trepidation. He heard the voice that had already greeted him in the guise of the dragon, the bat and the serpent; it was different now, with a deep harmonious sound like that of a song whose words he could not understand. But that melody roused images from the surface of the water, as if it were a mirror. Menelaus saw and heard as if he were present in the events that flowed beneath his eyes, but unable to speak or react.
He saw an impostor seated on the throne of Mycenae along-side queen Clytemnestra, grasping the sceptre of the Atreides. He saw the funeral mask of his brother Agamemnon rising like a golden moon from behind the palace and weeping tears of blood. He saw a maiden escaping from a hidden doorway, dragging behind her a blond boy with terror-stricken eyes. They ran through the windy night, stopping often behind a tree or a rock in the fear they were being followed. And then they ran again, until they found a man awaiting them with a chariot to which two fiery black steeds had been harnessed.
The maiden clasped the boy to her breast in a long embrace, kissing his face and forehead. Her lips moved as if she were imparting warnings, advice, encouragement. And the light which flickered in her eyes blazed with passionate love and with fierce hate. She hugged her brother again and spoke more hurried words, turning often to check behind her. Then the young prince got into the chariot next to the driver who held the reins still; the wind filled his great dark cloak like a sail in a storm. The maiden turned over her charge to him and she cried as they left. The man whipped the horses and the chariot departed swiftly in a white cloud. They were Agamemnon’s children and his own niece and nephew: princess Electra and prince Orestes, forced to hide and to flee, orphaned and persecuted.
He shouted and wept with rage, shame and grief, as he never had before, so loudly that the surface of the water trembled and darkened. His cry shook the walls of the cavern, stirring up hosts of squeaking bats who flitted away and halting the strange melody that had accompanied his visions.
The black-skinned man sitting on his stone throne in the shadows now was roused: ‘Why did you set off the war?’ said his voice. But his lips were sealed and his face was still, like that of a statue carved in wood or sculpted in stone.
‘To divert a river of blood. To ward off the destruction and the end of my people.’
‘What destruction?’
‘It was written that the sons of Hercules driven away by Euristheus would return. . that they would return to annihilate Mycenae and Argos and all of the cities of the Achaeans. There was only one single thing on the entire earth that could save us: the talisman of the Trojans. But how to win it? It was hidden away in Ilium, protected by layer upon layer of inviolable secrets. Our only hope was for someone, one of us, to gain entry to the innermost parts of the city and the citadel by living there for years and years. Only thus could we hope to learn their secrets and penetrate their defences. . we needed someone who could win over the minds and the souls of the princes and the trust of the king.
‘Only Helen could succeed! All women and all goddesses live within her; love and perfidy, purity and deceit. Only she dares wield the infinite weapons that make her more fearsome than a phalanx drawn up on an open battlefield.
‘The responsibility for saving our people fell to the Atreides and solely to us: we bore more grief than any of the other Achaeans, more than Achilles and Ajax, who died under the walls of Ilium. Agamemnon sacrificed his beloved daughter. . and I was asked to sacrifice my bride, the only love of my life, and my honour. We made war to hide our true intent, and we knew that the final attack would not be launched until the last secret had fallen. Until Ulysses and Diomedes had entered the city by stealth and discovered where the talisman of the Trojans was hidden.
‘Useless, all of it useless. My brother is dead. I have seen an impostor sitting on the throne that belonged to Perseus and Atreus, I have seen the young prince and princess, terrified, fleeing in the night. . All useless. .’
He fell to his knees on the banks of the spring and wept, hiding his face in his cloak.
‘You did not do your part! You did not pay the price that was asked of you!’ thundered the voice of the Old Man. Menelaus started. ‘Isn’t that so? Isn’t that so?’ he shouted, even more loudly.
Menelaus stood and walked towards him, his eyes filled with stupor: ‘How is it possible that you know this? Your oracle is truthful, then. .’
‘Admit your blame!’ said the voice. ‘Or leave now and never come back.’ The Old Man’s eyes were closed but his forehead and face dripped with sweat. The drops that slid over his dry skin were the only signs of life on that ashen face.
Menelaus lowered his head: ‘All of the kings of the Achaeans would have wanted her as their bride. She was given to me. Can’t you understand? Can’t you understand me?’
‘As you journeyed to Delos your brother was butchered like a bull in the manger,’ said the voice. ‘If you had stayed with the others, this would not have happened. You are to blame. The blood of your brother is on your hands.’
It seemed completely, both in timbre and tone, the voice of his dead brother accusing him; he thought of the persecuted prince and princess escaping in the night, swarms of pursuers at their heels. His heart cramped in his chest, as though pierced through by a spear.
He cried out, weeping: ‘Oh Old Man of the Sea, if you speak in truth, tell me whether I will be granted an honourable death. Because I have nothing else left to hope for.’
‘What do you want?’ demanded the voice.
‘To return, to avenge my brother, if he has been murdered. I will ask for help from the other kings, Ulysses, Diomedes. They will not abandon me.’
But as soon as he pronounced those words, he realized that he was in a different place.
He was walking on the deserted beach of a sunny island. The warm air was fragrant with pine and myrtle and he felt a powerful, invisible presence hovering about him. The water of the sea lapped at his ankles, the sand slipped between his toes like a rough caress. A rock jutting out into the sea blocked his way, and he clambered on to it, so as to descend on the other side and continue his walk. But when he was at the top, he looked down and saw a man sitting on a stone, a white cloak wrapped around his bare limbs. He recognized him: it was glorious Ulysses, son of Laertes. He looked out over the horizon, eyes glazed with deep sadness. And a female voice called out: ‘He is mine, for seven years!’
‘Oh lady hidden in the air,’ shouted Menelaus, ‘allow my friend to depart! Allow him to take to the humid paths of the sea. He is needed in the land of the Achaeans; we need his wits, his invincible mind!’
‘He is mine, mine for seven years,’ sang the voice again. And her words hit him like a gust of wind, making him spin like a dead leaf. He fell into the sea, sinking into the cold embrace of the abyss for the longest of times, until he emerged once again from the centre of a dark lagoon, under a sky laden with low clouds. Before him was a miserable camp, with shelters made of reeds and swamp grasses. The men were emaciated, livid with cold and hunger. Among them was Diomedes, son of Tydeus. His beard was long and unkempt, his hands were dirty and his cloak was soiled with mud. Menelaus turned away from that pitiful sight and then found himself immersed in the waters of the spring, under the vault of the immense cavern, standing before the black-skinned man, the Old Man of the Sea.
A noisy laugh exploded under the great vault: ‘Have you seen your companions? Do you still think they can help you?’ asked the voice. Menelaus covered his head with his cloak.
‘Old Man of the Sea,’ he said, ‘I cover my head and deliver myself to the infernal gods. I recognize my guilt and I am ready to suffer my punishment. But one thing you must tell me, and I will do the rest: where is the talisman of the Trojans now? Did Queen Clytemnestra take it from Agamemnon after killing him? Is she hiding it somewhere. . or has she destroyed it? Tell me only this, I beg of you. I alone remain; I alone can stave off the misfortune that weighs upon the Achaeans.’
