Along the way I have a dozen watchtowers. It would not matter how much tin sits in a Trojan storeroom across the sea. Invaders would have no hope. Indeed,” said the king of Sparta, “I look forward to showing a prince of Troy that I too cannot be beaten.”
Quickly he threw wine into the sea to placate any listening god, for it not good for a man to utter such a boast.
All men can be beaten.
A ND SO WE LANDED in Gythion, where wharves stretched into the blue cauldron of a vast bay and the slate roofs of storehouses and workshops were strewn for a mile.
Upon the sand, seagoing craft of all sizes were beached. Men were blackening hulls with pitch, making rope for rigging, and carving oars. Women were sewing together the many patches of linen required to make a sail, for no loom can weave so wide a cloth. Shipbuilders were hewing beams. Open-fronted potteries held thousands of bowls in towering stacks. Immense enclosures for sheep and cattle soon to be sold or slaughtered filled the air with the rich scent of manure and hide.
All these lay abandoned as the people sprang forward to welcome their king and tell him the good news that the plague was over.
It was a day of terrible heat. The sun leaned down to burn the skin and blind the eye. Menelaus had been oiled by his slaves so his skin would gleam, for the face of a god shines, and a king is arm to the gods. On his red hair sat a helmet cut through with holy shapes. From his shoulders hung an ivory-hilted sword, useless in battle, breathtaking in parade. His cape was embroidered with hundreds of arrows flying in all directions, the back panel woven with stallionschasing the wind while apple green oceans lay under bloodred skies. Queen Helen had made it, the captain Kinados told me.
Men waiting on shore gave Menelaus the right hand of friendship and clasped his shoulder. Women knelt to embrace his knees. They all came: salt merchants and elegant ladies, little boys and sagging grandmothers and potters with clay-stained hands.
We waded through crowds as deep as the water we had just left.
Every citizen needed to touch him or his garments. I knew that kings were holy, but I had not seen a people worship their king. How proud Helen must be of such a husband. How eager to see him after so long a separation. How excited his four children, who would soon embrace a father returned in honor. A king whose prayers end plague is held in the cup of the gods' love.
Gythion was
unwalled.
How strange to be inside a town and yet be able to look out. Gythion did not have the tight huddled anxiety of Siphnos. It was noisy and relaxed. Its central square was not square at all, but just an openness, called an agora, with a stone floor and stone benches. Trellises gave shade, black poplars stood behind a splashing fountain, and red flowers bloomed in great clay jugs.
The priests had already begun the roasting of the gods' portion from the many sacrifices, and slaves carried forth the feast. There were fat twisted loaves of bread and bowls of black olives and stiff cool celery. There were casseroles of barley, cheese and onions, into which people dipped fingers or bread. There were poppy seed cakes and honey cakes with currants.
And there was shopping.
On Siphnos, we traded. Villagers brought cheese from their sheep or yogurt from their goats; fishermen came with their catch; traders landed with wheat and rope and furniture. These were laid out on canvas or dropped on the sand. Now and then a vendor might erect an awning to keep the sun off fresh berries.
But Gythion had buildings for no purpose except the exchange of goods. These were arranged row upon row, their fronts open to the air, but their roofs permanent. Hundreds of people gawked and traded, arguing furiously about a fair exchange.
There were perfumes and rouge, eye color and lip balm. Rings of gold and anklets inlaid with carnelian. Razors and combs, an ostrich egg and the ivory tusks of some great creature. Swords and
Quickly he threw wine into the sea to placate any listening god, for it not good for a man to utter such a boast.
All men can be beaten.
A ND SO WE LANDED in Gythion, where wharves stretched into the blue cauldron of a vast bay and the slate roofs of storehouses and workshops were strewn for a mile.
Upon the sand, seagoing craft of all sizes were beached. Men were blackening hulls with pitch, making rope for rigging, and carving oars. Women were sewing together the many patches of linen required to make a sail, for no loom can weave so wide a cloth. Shipbuilders were hewing beams. Open-fronted potteries held thousands of bowls in towering stacks. Immense enclosures for sheep and cattle soon to be sold or slaughtered filled the air with the rich scent of manure and hide.
All these lay abandoned as the people sprang forward to welcome their king and tell him the good news that the plague was over.
It was a day of terrible heat. The sun leaned down to burn the skin and blind the eye. Menelaus had been oiled by his slaves so his skin would gleam, for the face of a god shines, and a king is arm to the gods. On his red hair sat a helmet cut through with holy shapes. From his shoulders hung an ivory-hilted sword, useless in battle, breathtaking in parade. His cape was embroidered with hundreds of arrows flying in all directions, the back panel woven with stallionschasing the wind while apple green oceans lay under bloodred skies. Queen Helen had made it, the captain Kinados told me.
Men waiting on shore gave Menelaus the right hand of friendship and clasped his shoulder. Women knelt to embrace his knees. They all came: salt merchants and elegant ladies, little boys and sagging grandmothers and potters with clay-stained hands.
We waded through crowds as deep as the water we had just left.
Every citizen needed to touch him or his garments. I knew that kings were holy, but I had not seen a people worship their king. How proud Helen must be of such a husband. How eager to see him after so long a separation. How excited his four children, who would soon embrace a father returned in honor. A king whose prayers end plague is held in the cup of the gods' love.
Gythion was
unwalled.
How strange to be inside a town and yet be able to look out. Gythion did not have the tight huddled anxiety of Siphnos. It was noisy and relaxed. Its central square was not square at all, but just an openness, called an agora, with a stone floor and stone benches. Trellises gave shade, black poplars stood behind a splashing fountain, and red flowers bloomed in great clay jugs.
The priests had already begun the roasting of the gods' portion from the many sacrifices, and slaves carried forth the feast. There were fat twisted loaves of bread and bowls of black olives and stiff cool celery. There were casseroles of barley, cheese and onions, into which people dipped fingers or bread. There were poppy seed cakes and honey cakes with currants.
And there was shopping.
On Siphnos, we traded. Villagers brought cheese from their sheep or yogurt from their goats; fishermen came with their catch; traders landed with wheat and rope and furniture. These were laid out on canvas or dropped on the sand. Now and then a vendor might erect an awning to keep the sun off fresh berries.
But Gythion had buildings for no purpose except the exchange of goods. These were arranged row upon row, their fronts open to the air, but their roofs permanent. Hundreds of people gawked and traded, arguing furiously about a fair exchange.
There were perfumes and rouge, eye color and lip balm. Rings of gold and anklets inlaid with carnelian. Razors and combs, an ostrich egg and the ivory tusks of some great creature. Swords and
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