under that immense vault, wrapped in white linen, his face covered by a golden mask that would perpetuate his features through eternity. . if it was the will of the gods to grant him a dignified death and the honour of solemn funeral rights, at the end of his existence.
But no one stood along the street, the sounds of the horses’ hoofs and the chariot’s wheels rang against dark walls and closed doors. The hinges of the gate groaned behind him and it swung shut suddenly with a loud clang. Many of his comrades put their hands to the hilts of their swords. The eyes of Cassandra, who stood beside him on the chariot, were as empty as the circle of the new moon. But as he was about to descend in front of his home, she touched his arm. He turned towards her and she whispered something into his ear. Agamemnon’s face turned white with the pallor of death: only then did he realize that he had been tricked. He realized that the Achaeans had fought for ten long years in vain and he understood that the princess was giving him the chance to save his life. But his was a life worth nothing now.
He entered the palace and the maidservants knelt and kissed his hands as though he had been away just a few days, off hunting boars. Then they led him to the bath chamber to ready him for meeting the queen. Cassandra and his comrades were taken to the throne room.
Agamemnon allowed them to remove his armour, to undress him and bathe him. The girls’ hands lingered on his hard body, furrowed with scars, they squeezed hot water on his shoulders from big sea sponges, they poured scented oil on his head.
He died that night.
They say that the queen’s lover, Aegisthus, smote him down during the banquet, as he ate. He lowered the axe on his neck and Agamemnon fell to the ground like a bull slaughtered at the manger. But he did not die then. He dragged himself across the floor, bellowing and spurting blood from the wound. He tried to defend Cassandra as the queen murdered her with a dagger. He died at her feet as the palace rang with the cries of his comrades who were falling one after another under the blows of their assailants. They fought to the very end, bare-handed, even with arms maimed and legs crippled, because they were the best of the Achaeans, chosen by Agamemnon to depart with him for Troy.
The floor was slick with their blood and the commander of the guards could barely stand upright as he passed from one to the other to cut the throats of those who were still alive. Their bodies were all buried together in a large empty cistern, before the sun rose and the people of the city could discover what had happened. Then the maidservants washed the throne room floor and purified it with fire and sulphur.
On that same night, other armed men left on war chariots, directed towards Nauplia, where the fleet was anchored. Queen Clytemnestra had ordered them to seize the king’s ship but her designs were not to be fulfilled. Before entering the city, Agamemnon had ordered his shield-bearer Antimachus to climb up on to the hill that overlooked the city. He had told him: ‘I fear that some sort of misfortune may befall me. I do not know if the queen’s heart is still true to me. Go all the way up to the top of the hill; you’ll be able to see the palace perfectly. When the banquet is finished and the lights are extinguished in the rooms, I shall go up to the tower that stands over the chasm with a lit torch in hand. When you see me, you may enter the palace yourself, you may eat and drink and take your rest. But if you do not see me, this will mean I have been betrayed. Light a fire on the top of the hill. The wind will lick up the flames and make them visible from the sea. The men will know what to do.’
Thus had said the king, and Antimachus had obeyed him. When he heard the cries of the wounded, when he saw his comrades’ corpses being carried out of the palace, he understood what had happened. He lit a fire and the flames rose high, driven by the wind that blows all night on the hilltop, and his signal was seen from afar by the sentries standing watch on the deck of the king’s ship. They knew what Agamemnon wanted and they set fire to the ship, burning it with all its treasures. The other ships weighed anchor and sailed off into the night.
No one was ever to know what became of his men. Perhaps some of them sought a new land to settle, perhaps others became pirates and brought ruin to the coast dwellers. Perhaps others still found a hidden landing place and secretly reached their homes and re-embraced their wives and children.
One day later, a messenger from Queen Aigialeia arrived at Mycenae bearing news of what had happened at Argos.
Clytemnestra received him alone, towards evening, in a throne room dimmed to hide the signs of her sleepless night, the circles under her eyes and her ashen cheeks. She learned that Diomedes had barely managed to escape death but that his fate would certainly catch up with him on the sea where he had sought refuge; the hostile wind and waves would take care of him. Clytemnestra had the messenger report back to Aigialeia that Agamemnon had died in expiation for his crimes and that Menelaus had not yet made return. And in Crete they had had no further news of Idomeneus. She had even sent a ship to Ithaca, to her cousin Penelope, and was awaiting her answer. As soon as Helen returned, the queens would once again reign over the Achaeans.
The messenger departed as dusk fell and Clytemnestra remained alone next to Agamemnon’s throne. The silent, empty room still echoed with cries and curses, as though the slaughter would never end.
In the meanwhile, Diomedes’s ships were far off at sea and had rounded Cape Taenarum, passing within sight of Abia, the city that Agamemnon had promised to Achilles had he agreed to set aside his ill will and return to combat. A pale sun lit the houses facing the sea, the fishing boats and the ships pulled aground on the beach. The season for navigation was over.
They were entering the kingdom of Nestor and Diomedes pondered whether to stop and ask for hospitality or to continue north, where it was said that the passage to the Land of Evening could be found. Those who had been there spoke of vast plains on which thousands of horses grazed and of tall mountains always covered with snow that only Hercules had ever crossed, when he had set off to reach the Garden of the Hesperides and the house of Atlas, who bears the sky upon his shoulders. It was an incredibly rich land, crossed by the Eridanus river, which was said to be so wide that the sea itself changed colour for a huge expanse at the river’s mouth and became fresh- watered. There lay the Electrides islands, where drops of pure amber fell from the sky at night and were harvested by their inhabitants, who sold them to the merchants that ventured so far.
Diomedes knew that Nestor would ask him the reason for this voyage; why he had abandoned his homeland after years of yearning and endless war. Nestor would offer him his fleet and his army to help him win back his city and his kingdom. But Diomedes would have to refuse, and explain that there was no life left for him in Argos or in his palace.
And so Diomedes preferred to continue on. From the railing of his ship he saw Nestor’s palace brushed by the last glow of the sunset as it stood against the sky already dark. The lamps and torches were just being lit in the palace halls, fires were being kindled in the hearths, maids were taking out the cauldrons and putting meat in them to boil. The king was just coming down from his rooms to share a banquet with his strong sons and their blooming wives. Diomedes thought of how good it would have been to sit down together and hark back to all the misadventures of the war, to drink wine and take pleasure in the songs of the poets until late at night. Lamps were being lit in the houses of the fishermen and craftsmen and he envied them as well; he would have much preferred to be a poor man, a man of no means, but to have a house and a table to sit around with his children and wife, to talk about the changing weather and the labours of the day. Instead he travelled towards an unknown destination on the back of the cold, sterile sea.
The lights of Pylus reflected in the water and accompanied him for a while before they were extinguished by the night which swallowed sky and sea. Not a sound was left in the air, only the swash of water against the ship and the whisper of wind in the sail.
The pilot governed the helm, keeping his eye trained on the star of the Little Bear. The king had ordered him to follow it until he told them to stop. For days and days they would ride the waves towards night and darkness, leaving behind daylight and sun until the water of the sea changed colour and its taste became sweet to the palate. The mouth of the Eridanus.
Exhausted by fatigue and by the emotions that racked his soul, Diomedes finally fell asleep on a bed of pelts, laying his head on a coil of rope, and he dreamed he was in his palace, lying next to Aigialeia, nude and white- skinned. Her hair gave off an intense scent, her lips were half open, her skin made golden by the reflection of the lamp. He drew closer to caress her but his fingers touched cold, slimy scales, as if a serpent or a dragon had slithered into his bed. He suddenly felt its fangs sink into his hand, and his flesh became livid and swollen with poison.
He slept fitfully as his comrades took their turns at the helm and stirred up the flames in the braziers so the ships would not lose sight of one another.
