narcotics. They undoubtedly had unhinged her.
Odysseus stopped in Dardania several times over the following seven years, but they were overnight rests only. He saw nothing of the king or the boy and had no interest in them until one day on the isle of Lesbos he got into a conversation with a Kretan trader who had recently sailed to the Dardanian coast.
He told Odysseus the king had married again.
“A dull and unpleasant man,” Odysseus said musingly, “yet I suppose even a cold fish like him must have a wife.”
“Yes,” said the Kretan, “and the new queen has given birth to a son and heir.”
“A son?” Odysseus remembered the small black-haired boy on the beach waving as if his arm would fall off. “He has a son: Aeneas. I had not heard he was dead.”
“As good as,” replied the Kretan. “Almost a man and yet frightened of everything, they say. He stays in his room all day. The king has no time for him. As I wouldn’t,” he concluded.
Odysseus had no reason to return to Dardania, but questions about the boy had lodged in his mind from that moment. He could not shake them free and found himself, a month later, walking the steep path again to seek an audience with Anchises. This time his reception at the gates was hostile, and he was left cooling his heels for several hours outside the king’s
megaron.
He was fighting mad by the time Anchises deigned to receive him. Quelling his anger with difficulty, he accepted the wine cup the king offered and inquired after Aeneas.
The king’s stern face darkened. His eyes turned away. “You are here to sell me something, no doubt, and I am in need of a supply of tin.”
After lengthy dickering they reached an agreement. Odysseus returned to the
Penelope
with the intention of leaving at dawn but was surprised to get a late-night request from the king to see him again.
The
megaron
was icy, almost in darkness, illuminated by the light of a single fire, and Anchises was virtually invisible in the shadows of his great carved chair. He gestured Odysseus to a seat and offered him a wine cup. The wine was warmed, but the trader shivered and pulled his woolen robe closer around him.
“His mother killed herself,” Anchises said suddenly. “The boy has not been the same since. The stupid woman told him that she was the goddess Aphrodite and that she was going to fly back to Olympos. Then she leapt from the cliff. He saw her and tried to follow, but I grabbed him. He refused to believe she was insane. So I took him to the body, and he saw the ruins of her beauty, broken bones jutting from her flesh. He has been . . . useless to me since. He is frightened of everything. He speaks to nobody and goes nowhere. He will not ride a horse or dive or swim in the bay. So I have a proposition for you.”
Odysseus raised his eyebrows in question.
“He is fifteen now. Take him with you,” said the king.
“I am in no need of crew. Especially cowards.”
Anchises’ eyes narrowed, but he swallowed his anger. “I will see you are well recompensed.”
“You will pay for his keep and for the extreme inconvenience of having such a milksop aboard my ship?”
“Yes, yes,” Anchises said impatiently. “I will make it worth your while.”
“The Great Green is a dangerous place, King. Your son might not survive the experience.”
Anchises leaned toward him, and Odysseus saw his eyes glitter in the firelight. “That thought is in my mind. I have another son now: Diomedes. He is everything Aeneas will never be. He is fearless and bright and born to be king. Now, should a tragedy occur while you are at sea, I will reward you richly in order that you might organize a suitable funeral. Do we understand each other?”
From a table at his side he took a cloth bundle and thrust it at Odysseus. The trader opened it and found a wondrous belt made of fine leather and gold rings, encrusted with amber and carnelian, and a curved dagger inlaid with ivory. He examined them critically.
Odysseus stopped in Dardania several times over the following seven years, but they were overnight rests only. He saw nothing of the king or the boy and had no interest in them until one day on the isle of Lesbos he got into a conversation with a Kretan trader who had recently sailed to the Dardanian coast.
He told Odysseus the king had married again.
“A dull and unpleasant man,” Odysseus said musingly, “yet I suppose even a cold fish like him must have a wife.”
“Yes,” said the Kretan, “and the new queen has given birth to a son and heir.”
“A son?” Odysseus remembered the small black-haired boy on the beach waving as if his arm would fall off. “He has a son: Aeneas. I had not heard he was dead.”
“As good as,” replied the Kretan. “Almost a man and yet frightened of everything, they say. He stays in his room all day. The king has no time for him. As I wouldn’t,” he concluded.
Odysseus had no reason to return to Dardania, but questions about the boy had lodged in his mind from that moment. He could not shake them free and found himself, a month later, walking the steep path again to seek an audience with Anchises. This time his reception at the gates was hostile, and he was left cooling his heels for several hours outside the king’s
megaron.
He was fighting mad by the time Anchises deigned to receive him. Quelling his anger with difficulty, he accepted the wine cup the king offered and inquired after Aeneas.
The king’s stern face darkened. His eyes turned away. “You are here to sell me something, no doubt, and I am in need of a supply of tin.”
After lengthy dickering they reached an agreement. Odysseus returned to the
Penelope
with the intention of leaving at dawn but was surprised to get a late-night request from the king to see him again.
The
megaron
was icy, almost in darkness, illuminated by the light of a single fire, and Anchises was virtually invisible in the shadows of his great carved chair. He gestured Odysseus to a seat and offered him a wine cup. The wine was warmed, but the trader shivered and pulled his woolen robe closer around him.
“His mother killed herself,” Anchises said suddenly. “The boy has not been the same since. The stupid woman told him that she was the goddess Aphrodite and that she was going to fly back to Olympos. Then she leapt from the cliff. He saw her and tried to follow, but I grabbed him. He refused to believe she was insane. So I took him to the body, and he saw the ruins of her beauty, broken bones jutting from her flesh. He has been . . . useless to me since. He is frightened of everything. He speaks to nobody and goes nowhere. He will not ride a horse or dive or swim in the bay. So I have a proposition for you.”
Odysseus raised his eyebrows in question.
“He is fifteen now. Take him with you,” said the king.
“I am in no need of crew. Especially cowards.”
Anchises’ eyes narrowed, but he swallowed his anger. “I will see you are well recompensed.”
“You will pay for his keep and for the extreme inconvenience of having such a milksop aboard my ship?”
“Yes, yes,” Anchises said impatiently. “I will make it worth your while.”
“The Great Green is a dangerous place, King. Your son might not survive the experience.”
Anchises leaned toward him, and Odysseus saw his eyes glitter in the firelight. “That thought is in my mind. I have another son now: Diomedes. He is everything Aeneas will never be. He is fearless and bright and born to be king. Now, should a tragedy occur while you are at sea, I will reward you richly in order that you might organize a suitable funeral. Do we understand each other?”
From a table at his side he took a cloth bundle and thrust it at Odysseus. The trader opened it and found a wondrous belt made of fine leather and gold rings, encrusted with amber and carnelian, and a curved dagger inlaid with ivory. He examined them critically.
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