At dawn they sighted the islands of Ulysses: Zacynthus first, then Dulichium and Same, and then Ithaca itself. The first were illuminated by the sun, but the last was still shrouded by the night, cloaked by the shadow of the Thesprotian mountains.
Diomedes planned to berth at Ithaca after hiding the other ships behind the little isle of Asteris. He wanted to know what had become of Ulysses, whether he had reached his homeland or was still afar, but he dared not reveal himself to queen Penelope without knowing what she had in her mind. If he found Ulysses, he would ask his advice for the journey he was embarking upon, because no one knew the perils of the sea as he did, no one could counsel him as Ulysses could.
He went ashore without weapons, dressed as a simple merchant, and he walked to the palace.
There was a boy of about ten playing in the courtyard with a dog. The boy asked him: ‘Who are you, foreign guest? From where do you come?’
‘I am a sailor,’ he answered. ‘I left Pylus last night and I wish to see the king. Take me to him, if you can.’
The boy lowered his head. ‘The king’s not here,’ he said. ‘They told me that he was coming back, that he would be here any day. But the days go by and he has not returned.’
Diomedes looked at the boy and he recognized him. He clearly saw Ulysses’s features: his dark eyes which flashed with ever-changing light, his wide cheekbones, his thin lips. He felt moved; he remembered when he was a little boy himself, sitting on the palace steps waiting for his father who was fighting far away. And he remembered when glorious Tydeus finally returned. He was stretched out on a ox-drawn cart, suited in his armour, covered by a blood-red cloak. His ashen face was wrapped in a bandage that held his jaw shut. His body jolted whenever the wheels hit a hole or a stone, and his head banged against the wooden cart. Women dressed in black raised piercing screams. .
He laid a hand on the boy’s head. ‘Telemachus,’ he said. ‘You are Telemachus.’
The boy looked up in surprise: ‘How do you know my name? I’ve never seen you.’
Diomedes answered: ‘I knew your father, king Ulysses. I was a friend of his. I recognized you because anyone could see that you are his son.’
‘Do you think my father will come back?’ asked the boy again.
‘I do,’ replied Diomedes. ‘He will return with the swallows and bring you beautiful gifts.’
‘Do you want to see my mother?’
‘No, my son, I do not want to disturb the queen and distract her from her pursuits. She must have much to do in the palace.’
The young prince insisted: ‘Please come, it will make my mother happy to speak with a friend of my father’s.’ He took him by the hand and led him into the house.
Diomedes followed. Penelope had never seen him, after all, and he thought he could keep his identity a secret.
The queen received him in the grand hall. Her nurse set out a stool for him and put bread and wine before him. Penelope was small, but very beautiful. Her hair was dark and her eyes light, her hands were tiny but strong, her hips were round and her breasts were high and firm like all the women of Sparta.
‘Did you fight the war?’ she asked him.
‘Yes. I was with Diomedes.’
‘Why did you abandon your king? Is he dead?’
‘It is as if he were. But why, queen, do you ask me of Diomedes? Why don’t you ask about Ulysses, your husband?’
‘Ulysses. .’ The queen dropped her head and the two curls adorning her temples shadowed her cheeks. ‘We’re waiting for him. He should be back soon. . don’t you think?’
‘Ulysses did not come with us. He returned to Troy, where Agamemnon had lingered to sacrifice one hundred oxen to the gods in expiation for the war. We knew nothing more of him. . but I am sure that you will see him again. Perhaps he tarries in order to plunder the coasts and augment his spoils. Or perhaps the bad weather has delayed him, and he waits in a sheltered place for better conditions. Ulysses is prudent; he always calculates the risks he must face.’
‘He didn’t want this war. He did not want to leave, to leave me, our son. .’
‘But he is the one who won the war. The city fell thanks to his stratagem.’
‘My cousin, Queen Helen. . has she returned?’
‘No. She was with Menelaus but they disappeared one night before we rounded Cape Sunion. Perhaps the wind carried them astray, to Cyprus or to Egypt. Who knows?’
‘Why, when I asked you about Diomedes, did you say to me: ‘It’s as if he were dead?’ Tell me the truth. Has he been killed? Imprisoned upon his return?’
Her voice betrayed a touch of trepidation, as if she feared the worst. It seemed that somehow, she knew something.
‘Queen Aigialeia laid a trap for us. I barely managed to save myself, with some of my comrades. We know nothing of our king. That is why I said: ‘It’s as if he were dead.’ He loved his wife. It was easy to take him by surprise. The bitch betrayed him after he had escaped so many perils on the fields of Ilium.’
Penelope shivered. ‘Do not say that. War is much harder on women than on men. What do you men know of what passes through the mind of a woman living alone for years, for thousands of days and nights, in expectation? In continuous illusion and continuous delusion? Love can be transformed into hate. . or into madness. And madness can strike indiscriminately, like an illness. Queen Clytemnestra. . she too. .’
‘Has betrayed her husband?’ asked Diomedes.
‘No. She too. . pursues an ancient destiny. Long ago the queens reigned over this land, and a great goddess, the mother of all living things, reigned in the heavens. The race of the queens lives on. While men destroy themselves through war, the queens are preparing for a return to the time when the ancient order had not been disrupted, when the wolf grazed alongside the lamb, when Persephone had not yet been carried off into Hades, when eternal spring reigned always.’
‘The conspiracy of the queens. .’ whispered Diomedes. ‘They say it has gone on for centuries. Medea against Jason, Deianeira against Hercules, Phaedra against Theseus, the fifty daughters of Danaus who slaughtered their husbands. Are you among them? Are you preparing to murder Ulysses? You will never succeed. No one can surprise him through deceit. I know him.’
A ray of light lit Penelope’s forehead: ‘You know him? Give me proof, if you want me to believe you.’
‘He has a scar on his left leg and a birthmark over his knee. He has a wide face and thin lips. Broad shoulders and chest, long legs for his stature. And a strange smile. . he always smiles as he is about to deal the death blow. . Why do you want to kill him,
‘No,’ said Penelope. ‘I will not kill him, though I have been asked to do so. And do you know why? Because it is not he who chose me, but I who chose him. My father Icarius was against it, but I covered my face as soon as I saw him because I knew he would be the only man of my life. I covered my face with a veil so he would understand I wanted to be his bride. He or no other. I chose him: he was the poorest of the kings, sovereign of dry, rocky islands, but his voice was resonant and persuasive. When he spoke everyone listened, enchanted.
‘He did not want this war. The blood of the ancient race lives in him as well. He opposed force with astuteness. . in vain. When Agamemnon’s messenger came to ask him to depart for the war, he found Ulysses ploughing the beach with an ass and a bull at the yoke. They took Telemachus from his cradle and laid him down before the beasts. Ulysses rushed to gather the little one to his chest, proving that he could not be mad. They gave him no choice but to leave. . He made a wedding bed for me amidst the boughs of a tree, the arms of an olive tree, like a bird’s nest. What other man would have done the same? The kings of the Achaeans built nests of stone for their brides, gelid walls that ooze blood.’
‘How do you know about Clytemnestra? And about. . Aigialeia. . you knew about her too, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. All of the kings will be driven away: Idomeneus from Crete, Diomedes from Argos, Menelaus from Sparta. . or killed. Clytemnestra will kill. If she hasn’t already.’
Diomedes hid his face in his cloak. ‘Oh great Atreid!’ he murmured to himself. ‘Watch your back! We are no longer beside you, we are no longer. . we are no longer.’ He wept. The tears fell copiously from his eyes, they dripped from the golden curls of his beard.
‘Who are you?’ asked Penelope.
