Arcadian Nights Page 3

  But how could little cooked and partly-eaten Pelops have become anybody’s ancestor? Father Zeus took pity on him and Hermes, the god who escorts the souls of the dead to the underworld, boiled the gobbets in a cauldron with magic herbs and restored the boy to life just as he had been, except for the shoulder Tantalos had chewed. That was replaced with a piece of ivory, perfectly carved and fitted by the artificer-god Hephaistos.

  As for Tantalos, he was taken down to Tartaros, the lowest level of the underworld reserved for the gods’ worst enemies. There he stood in water up to his chest with a tree bearing every kind of ripe fruit – figs, apples, pears, grapes, apricots, peaches – hanging down over his head. But every time he tried to drink, the water receded and every time he reached for the fruit, a breeze blew the tree’s branches aside. His was a life-sentence, and since no one in Tartaros ever dies that meant till the end of time – a fate worth remembering if you’re ever tempted to serve up your son to the gods for dinner.

  To return to little Pelops and the first curse on the House of Atreus: his restoration by Hermes had made him not just as he had been, but almost god-like in appearance, the most beautiful boy anyone had ever seen, his living skin as ivory-white as his artificial shoulder, his black eyes and black hair shining with the reflected light of heaven, his body and limbs strong and supple, his manner graceful and amiable. His first lover was Poseidon, brother of Zeus and god of the sea, a temperamental and vindictive god if you crossed him, but Pelops, being less vain and more intelligent than his father, never did. He only once, when he had grown up and fallen in love with a princess, invoked Poseidon’s intervention in his favour.

  Pelops had come to Elis, a kingdom on the western shore of the Peloponnese (then known as Apia), whose king had a beautiful daughter called Hippodameia. Many other likely youths besides Pelops wanted to marry this girl, partly because she was so beautiful and partly because she was her father’s only heir to the kingdom. The problem was that her father, King Oinomaos, was himself in love with her and hated the idea of her marrying anybody, and, since he was a fanatical horse-breeder and chariot-racer, had devised a way of getting rid of the most pressing suitors and discouraging others. Whoever offered to marry Hippodameia had to take part in a chariot-race against her father. The course was a long one, about thirty miles, all the way from Elis to the temple of Zeus at Olympia.

  The suitor, with Hippodameia beside him, was given a good start, while Oinomaos sacrificed to the gods. Then he set out in pursuit and, since he had the swiftest horses and a charioteer of genius (a man called Myrtilos), always caught up with the chariot carrying his daughter. As soon as he was in close range he took the spear from its sheath at the side of his chariot and threw it at the suitor’s back. He was an expert spear-thrower and never missed, and Hippodameia was equally expert at seizing the reins from her dying companion and bringing her chariot to a gentle stop. Father and daughter then returned to Elis, unloaded and burnt the corpse, put the ashes in an urn, and added it to the growing row of identical urns outside the small temple where the race always started.

  Pelops went to Elis simply to have a look at Hippodameia, as many others did because of her beauty and her reputation as a woman it was unwise to fall in love with her. There was always a large crowd, mostly of foreigners, waiting to get a glimpse of her whenever she left her father’s palace, usually on horseback or in her chariot for an excursion in the country, sometimes on foot in a procession to the temple for some religious ceremony. She was always well guarded, but she seemed to enjoy being admired, as she did not hold her head high and stare into the distance as so many aristocrats do in public, but looked around the faces in the crowd as if seeking somebody she knew. However, the friend with whom Pelops was staying in Elis warned him not to catch her eye.

  ‘You might as well look at Medusa,’ he said, ‘the Gorgon who turns people to stone when they look at her. Hippodameia, of course, is the exact opposite, not ugly and terrifying, but irresistibly seductive. People who catch her eye either try to marry her and end up in one of the urns outside the temple, or, not being well-born, rich or rash enough to present themselves as suitors, are overwhelmed with longing and frustration, dragged down by such melancholy that they often die of it, most frequently by hanging themselves.’

  It wasn’t that Hippodameia wanted to cause people’s death or even that she didn’t care, but that she was quite desperate to escape from her father and was always hoping to catch sight of the man who would be handsome and audacious enough to make an offer for her hand, as well as strong and skilful enough to win the chariot-race. So when Pelops joined the crowd round the temple and saw her enter, he did catch her eye and knew immediately that he must compete for her. While she was inside he inspected the dozen or so urns, each neatly inscribed with the name of a loser, and decided he would rather die with her father’s spear in his back than by hanging himself later. At least in the first case, he thought, he would spend some time close to Hippodameia in the chariot and he hoped he might prove the urn-victor – each urn specified how far the ashes inside had driven the chariot before being overtaken by Oinomaos. But when she came out of the temple and this time looked at nobody but Pelops and looked at him with such an expression of encouragement and hope, and even turned her head so as to keep looking at him as the procession went up the road to the palace, then Pelops knew that this was his enticing fate and that he must somehow try to avoid even thinking about ending up in the row of urns.

  He thought instead of Poseidon, who had several times during Pelops’ boyhood appeared to him in the form of a young man, walked with him, slept with him and caressed him. Knowing what had happened to his father and knowing how careful one had to be with gods, leaving the initiative in any relationship always with them, never asking directly for any particular favour, Pelops went down to the shore and walked along the beach. He was entirely alone there, except that his mind kept picturing Hippodameia’s face and the way she walked, so lightly and lithely, like an athlete before a race. The wind had been strong the day before, though it had dropped now, but the sea was still choppy and opaque, with small waves breaking on the sand. As he walked and pictured Hippodameia, Pelops began to shout over the noise of the surf:

  ‘Hippodameia, Hippodameia, I want you, I want you, I want you!’

  After a while he stopped and listened. He thought he heard a voice. He looked all around. There was nobody, he was still alone. He walked on, shouting over the surf as before.

  ‘Hippodameia, I want you!’

  Again he seemed to hear a voice and this time he pinned it down to the sea, the surf. And what the surf seemed to be saying was:

  ‘Silly sop, silly Pelops, she’s yours, yours, yours. Race, by all means, race, race, race! Myrtilos is what matters, Myrtilos is essential, Myrtilos saves you. Fix Myrtilos first!’

  Now, as it happened, Hippodameia had fallen in love with Pelops at first sight just as irrevocably as he with her. After all, there could hardly have been two more beautiful people in the whole of Greece, though it may have been that Poseidon, to reward his former catamite, had already intervened in his behalf and asked Aphrodite, goddess of love, to spike her heart. Hippodameia realised at once, of course, that if this was the man she had hoped for so long, she could not rely on his also being a first-rate charioteer. She was almost that herself, but still not a match for Myrtilos. So she had also immediately decided that the only sure answer was to fix Myrtilos, and this was not so difficult in her case, because Myrtilos, like every other man in Elis, was in love with her. She therefore simply asked him, in the privacy of the stables, that if Pelops should become a suitor, he, Myrtilos, would somehow contrive not to catch up with them. Myrtilos replied that this would be difficult, since her father would as always be in the chariot with him, but he would do or not do what he could. She gave him her hand to kiss.

  Meanwhile Pelops had gone to the palace, proved his credentials as a man of impeccable birth, breeding and wealth – his father had le
ft him all his estates in Arcadia – and asked to marry the princess Hippodameia. King Oinomaos looked at him almost sadly, admiring his good looks and quite certain that they would soon be reduced to ashes, and had him sign the usual contract for the race and its sticky conditions. Pelops asked if he might view the chariots and the horses first and Oinomaos replied:

  ‘Of course you can, dear boy. No trickery there. It’s sheer speed and skill that will win you my darling daughter and nobody could be more delighted than me if you did.’

  He was not being wholly hypocritical. He liked Pelops, as people always did, and thought that if he had to marry his daughter to anyone, Pelops would be a good choice. Also, he believed that his chariot-race offered a perfectly fair chance to the suitor, a better than fair chance, for that matter, since he always gave himself the handicap of sacrificing to the gods before he started. He was not at all the sort of person who would have barbarously nailed the losers’ heads to his palace wall and thrown their corpses on a rubbish-heap, as some accounts have it. He thought of himself as a sporting man, a man who could be respected by everyone as a perennial winner, a champion chariot-racer and javelin-thrower, not as a father in love with his daughter who was prepared to murder any potential rival.

  Pelops went to the stables, cursorily examined the chariots and horses and sought out Myrtilos, his real purpose.

  ‘What are my chances?’ he asked.

  ‘Nil,’ said Myrtilos, a small man in his thirties with a saurian skin and a face already much lined around the eyes and mouth from his constant speed-driving into wind and sun.

  ‘Do you think the princess is worth taking such a chance for?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  He spoke with so much conviction that Pelops immediately understood that Myrtilos too was in love with Hippodameia.

  ‘Would you take such a chance yourself, then?’

  ‘Yes, if I were not a mere charioteer.’

  ‘But in your case, if you drove Hippodameia’s chariot instead of her father’s, you’d have a good chance of winning.’

  ‘I think so. For that reason, quite apart from my humble status – though I may say that my ancestry is as good as anyone’s – the king would never accept me as a suitor.’

  There was a note of bitterness here, which Pelops observed. This man was not wholly devoted to his master. He probed a little more.

  ‘Suppose that you were ill on the day of the race and couldn’t drive the king’s chariot?’

  ‘The race would be postponed. But it’s never happened.’

  ‘Has none of the suitors ever tried to bribe you?’

  ‘Of course. But I can tell you straightaway that I don’t take bribes. There’s nothing I want. Except …’ His voice trailed away and he laughed, a noise not unlike a horse snorting.

  ‘Except the prize itself?’ said Pelops. ‘A bribe of the bride?’

  Myrtilos laughed, snorted again. Pelops turned away, patted the neck of the nearest horse and said very quietly, almost as if he wasn’t saying it at all or just murmuring to the horse:

  ‘And if I were to offer you that?’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why should you take such a risk with your life just for me to win the prize?’

  ‘Doesn’t the kingdom go with the bride – once the father dies?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Halves, then, on that.’

  ‘Not bad, but not enough in itself.’

  ‘No? But we can hardly halve the bride, can we? What about the first night?’

  ‘The first night?’

  They were almost whispering now, and Myrtilos was staring at Pelops as if he was not sure he was flesh-and-blood, which of course, considering his ivory shoulder, he wasn’t entirely.

  ‘The wedding-night,’ said Pelops. ‘After that she would be mine.’

  Myrtilos said nothing. He was remembering that Hippodameia herself had already asked him to fix the race in Pelops’ favour and beginning to think that it could be done.

  ‘And half the kingdom,’ said Pelops. ‘Think about it! I shall take the chance in any case and if, with your help, I win – well, then you know what you can expect.’

  And smiling politely he returned to the palace, complimented the king on his horses and chariots, thanked him for his kindness in permitting him to enter such a thrilling and imaginative competition, more than worthy of the legendary games which once long ago, he was told, used to be held at Olympia, and returned to his friend’s house in a mood of euphoria.

  The next day he made a costly sacrifice to Poseidon, whose temple he now realised was the very one from which the race started. Poseidon, of course, was the god of horses as well as of the sea. Coming out of the temple he stopped to contemplate the row of bronze urns and even patted one or two of them, but he was careful, unlike his father, not to presume.

  ‘We shall see,’ he said to the urns. ‘Wish me luck!’

  The race took place a week later, bringing huge crowds to the city and, since the news of it had quickly spread, all along the route. The two chariots were drawn up in front of the palace, grooms holding the horses’ heads, Myrtilos already mounted in the king’s. It was still dark, but warm and windless, the cloudless sky beginning to lighten, when Pelops arrived and was instructed to mount the empty chariot. Soldiers held back the crowd, leaving a broad avenue down to the temple.

  Suddenly the sun came up and just as suddenly King Oinomaos and his daughter came running out of the palace and without a pause, sprang into the chariots, Oinomaos beside Myrtilos, Hippodameia beside Pelops. What a moment for him, what a moment for her! Their arms were touching, their faces only inches apart, their eyes searching each other’s. But only for a moment. Myrtilos was already driving the king’s chariot down the avenue of onlookers.

  ‘You must catch up,’ said Hippodameia, ‘and draw level. That’s how he likes it. What he calls a friendly trot down to the start.’

  So, to cheers for their king and some bitter witticisms at Pelops’ expense – ‘Short but sweet!’ ‘Enjoy your ride, it’s the only one you’ll get!’ ‘Don’t bother to make a will, you won’t have any children!’ – the two chariots proceeded side by side at a gentle trot, while the king waved his hand to his subjects and from time to time smiled genially at his daughter and her suitor. When they reached the temple, Myrtilos stopped his chariot and Pelops drew up beside it.

  Oinomaos jumped down beside the urns and, looking at Pelops with a smile which seemed now more gloating than genial, said:

  ‘Go on, boy! Don’t hang around for me! The finishing post is the temple of Zeus. My daughter will show you when you get to Olympia.’

  And he added over his shoulder as he went inside Poseidon’s temple:

  ‘If you do.’

  Pelops flicked the horses with the loose reins and they were off, to shouts, this time mostly of encouragement, from the crowd, some of whom still persisted, against all reason, in laying bets on the suitor at risible odds. By the time they had crossed the river and were out on the flat, fertile land that lay between the sea and the low hills with their orchards and olive trees, the horses were at full gallop.

  ‘Don’t tire them too soon!’ said Hippodameia, laying her lovely hand on Pelops’ arm, ‘they’ll hardly make the distance as it is.’

  ‘Does that matter?’ asked Pelops. ‘Have they ever gone the full distance?’

  ‘I’m hoping they will today,’ she said.

  ‘I’m hoping not.’

  ‘What do you mean? Do you want to die? Don’t you want to marry me?’

  ‘No and yes,’ said Pelops. ‘But I wouldn’t care to live without you, and besides I have hopes that circumstances will arise …’

  ‘They always hope for that, my poor suitors, that one of Father’s wheels will come off, that his horses will go lame or that a monster will come out of the sea and terrify them …’

  Pelops reflected that he might have asked his lover Pos
eidon for that. Well, I leave it to him, he thought, it’s best not to second-guess the gods and I hope I understood his advice correctly.

  ‘… but it never happens,’ said Hippodameia, ‘and up to now I haven’t really been sorry – sorry at the time for the waste of a person’s life, of course, but not in the longer term sorry on my own account.’

  ‘But today …?’

  ‘You are different. You seem to me to be a favourite of the gods. I hope I’m right.’

  Neither of them liked to mention having approached Myrtilos, but both were relying on it.

  After about ten miles, with as yet no sign of pursuit, the road entered a village and turned abruptly inland, winding a bit now, along the bank of the mighty Alpheios, the river who was once in love with the Nereid Arethousa and whose brown current pursued her across the sea to Sicily, where she turned into a fountain. Pelops remarked on how well-dressed the peasants were, as they lined the road and shouted greetings.

  ‘They are not in their working clothes,’ said Hippodameia, ‘they always wear their festival best for these events and treat it as a holiday, with feasting and dancing in the evening.’

  ‘Macabre,’ said Pelops.

  ‘Not really. They don’t get many days off and they always enjoy a good funeral.’

  The sky was still cloudless and the sun very hot now. The horses were tiring and lathered with sweat, and so were Pelops and Hippodameia. They were glad of the occasional patch of shade from the plane trees, poplars and evergreen oaks growing beside the river.

  ‘Did none of my predecessors try to avoid your father’s spear?’ asked Pelops, looking back and still seeing no other chariot. ‘Did none of them duck or step aside?’

  ‘Not much room to step aside, is there? One of them tried to, but he was a fat man and the spear pierced his belly. That was unpleasant. He took longer to die than usual. This, by the way, is the furthest I’ve ever come.’

  ‘Don’t speak too soon!’ said Pelops, ever fearful after his father’s experience of provoking the gods and glancing back nervously.