Valerio Mafredi - The Oath

I remember how deeply his words struck me. Words like many others, but coming from a mariner they spoke of sheer pain.

The banquet was a display of how immensely powerful the king of Sparta was, with its abundance of roast meats, of fragrant bread, of wine poured into embossed golden cups. There were many guests wearing fine linen gowns interwoven with purple threads, precious belts, buckles of gold, ivory and amber. The queen herself donned a stunning necklace and a wealth of bracelets. How poor our little island kingdom seemed to me then! My Ithaca, rocky and covered by forests, grazed by goats and pigs.

At the end of the banquet, one of the queen’s handmaids brought out her two daughters, Helen and Clytaemnestra, to introduce them to the guests. They were thirteen or fourteen years old and were very different from one another. Helen seemed like a supernatural creature, with her perfect face, the violet reflections in her eyes and hair that shone like orichalch, rippling and reflecting the light. When she moved her head, her hair swung in a wave over her body, which flexed languidly like a flower in the breeze. Her lips looked like the buds of mountain poppies when they are about to open, and when they parted revealed white teeth joined in a smile without love, but all the more thrilling for that very reason. I yearned to have the inspiration of a great singer like Phemius in order to express what I felt and saw; how beauty, absolute beauty, held me in its sway. She was slim and much taller than other girls her age. A bud not yet open: what would the rose be like?

My father the king read my thoughts: ‘Don’t even think about it, my boy, she’s not for you. She’s made of gold, but you are. .’

‘Made of wood, atta. The wood of our oaks on Mount Neritus that only one of Zeus’ thunderbolts can shatter. Wood always stays afloat while gold sinks to the bottom.’

My father smiled.

Clytaemnestra was very different from Helen, although they were twins, with a haughty, icy beauty that was disconcerting in someone so young.

I met Helen the next day, towards evening. I was sitting on a stone near the horses’ pen, admiring those magnificent animals that we could not breed on Ithaca. I was fascinated by their imposing frames, the powerful curve of their necks, the harmony of their movements, their proud gait and big damp eyes, the way their manes swayed in the wind. I realized all at once that she was approaching and I tried not to look at her. I had begun to think that anyone who looked at her would remain her prisoner, or perhaps unhappy all his life.

‘You are Prince Odysseus of Ithaca, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said without turning. ‘And you are Helen of Sparta.’

‘Did you know that King Theseus of Athens has asked me to marry him? He’s that warrior down there on the black steed.’

‘I see him.’

‘But he’s too old for me.’

‘He who challenged and defeated the man-bull in the labyrinth will never be old. What have you done in your life? Nothing. You’re just a pretty girl and that’s certainly not your doing.’

She smiled without showing anger. ‘My doing? What does that matter? Isn’t being pretty enough?’

‘Well, yes, of course, but. .’

‘Would you ask me to marry you if you could?’

‘No.’

She planted herself directly in front of me then and stared at me intently: ‘Why do you hate me? Do you have to, because of your name?’

I jumped to my feet and flushed deep red: ‘I don’t have to do anything because of my name, and I don’t hate you. . I wouldn’t ask you to marry me because. .’

‘Why?’ she insisted.

‘Because, when the gods have finished moulding you, you will be too beautiful to love anyone but yourself. And that’s why I think you will be the ruin of many men.’

Helen’s eyes seemed to turn the colour of amaranth as the rays of the sun descended behind the peak of Mount Taygetus. A hint of melancholy veiled her expression.

‘These things depend only upon the will of the gods,’ she replied. ‘We are mortals and we have no power. I’m not a bad person, Odysseus. If you could stay here with me I’d talk to you every day.’

‘About what?’

‘The sun and the night, hate and love, life and death. There’s a light in your eyes that I’ve never seen before, not even in my brothers, handsome as they are. I envy the bride you will take to your chamber, whom you will bend to your bed with the force of your love, prince of Ithaca. Farewell.’

She dissolved in the light of the sunset.

We left two days later bearing many precious gifts on our chariots. Thoughts of Helen came back to confuse me now and then but I’d look over at my father and think of how happy I was to be on this journey with him; to be learning so many things, hosted by powerful kings and splendid queens. Seeing places that I had never seen: rugged mountains and plains, rivers and forests, flocks at pasture, herds of horses at a gallop, flaming sunsets and silent dawns.

We crossed another mountain chain.

‘Where are we going, atta ?’ I asked him. ‘Are we beginning our return?’

‘You’re already eager to get home? Our journey has just begun! No, we’re going to Mycenae.’

I couldn’t help but shudder when I heard that name: ‘That’s a cursed place, atta. Why there?’

My father continued to look straight ahead as we proceeded along the dusty white path that led to the mountain pass from which we would descend towards the plain of Argus. He replied some time later: ‘Because I have heard from both Nestor of Pylos and Tyndareus of Sparta that the king of Mycenae, the biggest and most powerful city of Achaia, is a despicable man, a monster. And so I’ve asked him to receive me.’

‘Why, atta ?’

‘Do you remember that night the messenger came to the palace with that terrible news?’

‘I remember it well. I didn’t sleep all night.’

‘It happened at Mycenae. I’m thinking that only by entering the palace where the massacre took place can we understand what went on that night.’

‘You don’t think he did it, do you?’

‘Hercules? No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.’

‘Would it change something if you discovered the truth?’

‘Greatly, even if the dead cannot be brought back to life.’

I asked no more questions and for many hours we made our way down the road, crossing an immense plain where herds of horses were grazing. At times we came so close I could almost touch them. When we stopped in the evenings I was the one who took care of our steeds. I would free them from their yokes, give them the hay I gathered in the fields and cover them with woollen blankets to protect them from the damp night air.

When we reached Mycenae night was falling. The city was not visible from the road we were travelling on, which led to the port instead. Mycenae was hidden at the end of a narrow valley that had to be crossed, heading north, until we came within sight of two hills: the first one was tall and quite massive, while the second was lower but much rockier; it was on this second hill that the city stood. The palace itself was built on a sheer cliff wall, overhanging a chasm. It towered above all the other buildings, the valley and the distant plain.

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?’