Читать книгу Jason (Mycenaean Greek Trilogy) - Henry Treece - Страница 13

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High summer in Thessaly. The twin-peaked mountain rising over all, shouldering the cobalt sky like a timeless friend. Only the smallest cap of snow left and that going fast. The lambs now solemn and plumping. Thick in their flocks, keeping together. The tufted-legged eagle high above them, screaming with fury, wanting to frighten them, to make one stray. The smooth brown snakes slipping over the hard ground from one hole to another on their secret business. Carrying the word of the Mother perhaps. The long-tailed green-brown lizards, stiff as statues on rocks, death in the midst of life, with the furnace heat all about them, shrivelling their strange skin; the heat coming back off the flat-faced rocks to hit a man like a blow in the chest or face as he passed. The streams dried to a trickle and the horses pounding over the hill-slope leaving clouds of dust behind them to fill eyes, nostrils, mouths. The pine-trees gaunt, still, almost as though they could not get their breath; only the cypress smiling, content with the dew on her foliage, the damp at her roots. And below, the crackling sage-brush, the ever-growing acanthus with its prickly flowers, the gay mosses, some of them flaring out like a red wound; the stately asphodel, the little dry brown-petalled lilies. And through the day, the cricket rubbing his dry legs together; and at night the cicada in the trees filling the purple air with his never-ending song, his laughter at the folly of men. Under the trees, the shepherds laughing too, filling the air with the mindless humour of their twittering reed-pipes. Shepherds bringing their flocks down to the coast in time for the Feast of Poseidon, to sell them at the markets of Iolcos, Pegasae, Halus. Confident of a good sale and singing.

Or the young men in their shallow single-sailed boats on Lake Bobeïs, naked as babies, diving into the blue water and coming up laughing with a fish in their mouths. Or the bands of Hellene youths, sworn comrades, walking about the hills, arguing and laughing and fighting without any cause—full of sun and air and the dream of freedom.

And lower down the slopes the vines, the olives, the square barley-fields, each enclosed by a dry-stone wall. The women bending over the brown grain, chopping with their toothed bronze sickles, flinging the swathe to one side to be collected in wicker baskets by another, perhaps a young daughter. And the men with their dusty yellow hair sitting at the edge of the field, feeling the hot stones at their bare backs and only a goatskin loin-cloth about them, laughing to each other, pointing at this woman and that, betting on the speed or skill or fertility of their wives. The men who guarded the women and the barley, each one with his javelin in his hand or propped up beside him by the wall, throwing long sharp shadows across the dust.

Men who called out to me as I came down the hill from my own war-practice. ‘Hoi! Hoi! Diomedes, boy! Stay and drink a cup of beer with us, just for luck! Look, Thessa, here is Diomedes, the one who loved you that night. Tell him to stay and drink with us!’

I strode on into the growing dusk, laughing and shaking my head.

‘Diomedes! Diomedes!’ they called after me, all standing at the wall now and waving, ‘Take care tomorrow! Take care at Iolcos, at the Feast of Poseidon! Come back afterwards and love Thessa again. She likes it!’

Always it was the same on the mountain. A man felt wanted there, as though he belonged, almost as though it was his kingdom, and all other men’s kingdoms, too. It was freedom among men, clean and clear under the blue of the sky. Different from that dark earthy Village of the Women where men had to go whether they liked it or not three times each year, to chance their luck.

Then my thoughts changed. Just outside the stockade of Cheiron’s encampment Melanos lay, his head twisted under him, his hands spread wide. His heart was not beating and his lips were drawn back as though he were a wolf trying to make his enemy afraid with bared fangs. There was no mark on his body save a great bruise on the chest, as though a stallion had kicked him in anger. But all the stallions loved Melanos and would even have let him take their favourite mare if he had wanted to.

The camp of Cheiron was very silent though the rush-lights were burning. There should have been the sound of beer-singing now. But there was silence.

I wandered through tent after tent until I came to the long high-propped feast-tent and then I saw the reason for the terrible silence. Men and boys were huddled in a corner on their knees, afraid to move or make a sound. Castor and Polydeuces were sprawled on the sandy floor, holding their shattered faces, the blood coming from between their fingers—beaten men at last. Old Cheiron stood silently by the main tent-pole, one of his arms outstretched as though he was warning them all to be still, though his face was twisted with agony. A short arrow pinned his arm to the thick ash pole, just above the elbow where the joint is.

In the middle of the thick trestle-table, cups scattered and broken about him, stood Heracles straddle-legged, wearing only his torn blue bodice now and holding across one arm a young boy, Peneleos. The boy dangled like a corn-doll, his dark eyes starting with terror. Heracles held a bronze reaping-sickle in his other hand and was making gestures with it at the terrified boy.

When I stepped forward to the table Heracles looked down at me vaguely, his eyes discoloured with blood. But he knew me well enough.

‘Welcome, Bastard of Iolcos,’ he said, smiling at me terribly. ‘Come up on to the table and try your luck. They have all been waiting for this moment. So come up, I beg you!’

Old Cheiron gazed at me in pain and shook his head.

I said to Heracles, ‘Put the boy down and act like a man, you fool.’

Heracles smiled again and made a stupid little waggling motion of the hips. ‘Don’t you think I would make a nice girl?’ he asked. ‘I should have been a girl, they say. What do you think?’

For a second he took his blurred eyes from me and I acted then. I used the heavy butt of one of my javelins, sweeping it against his shins as hard as I could. I thought the wood might crack with the force I put behind that blow, but it held and Heracles came toppling down to the straw-covered floor, the boy with him.

Even as he began to struggle up, to come at me, I took careful aim and still using the heavy butt struck him in the middle of the skull. It was a fearsome clout and almost paralysed my hands. It would have killed most men; but Heracles simply smiled and slowly fell back into the straw like a man in a sweet dream, unconscious.

Suddenly all the men and the boys in that place took to their heels and vanished, getting away while they could.

I went to old Cheiron and cut through the arrow shaft that pinned his arm to the pole. It was not a bad wound but it must have been painful. I tore a strip from his kilt and bound it, letting his arm hang from his neck to support it.

‘The madness came on him suddenly,’ he said nodding towards Heracles. ‘He was drinking barley-beer when suddenly he rose and went outside to fight Melanos. We did what we could but it was not enough.’

I said, ‘He hurt you—of all men. For that he should die.’

Cheiron shook his head. ‘The shaft was meant for someone else. It was my fault. I got in the way. Not even mad Heracles would hurt me.’

I stood over the great body and took out my sword.

‘He shall lie side by side with Melanos in the same grave,’ I said, drawing back my arm.

But Cheiron flung himself on his knees before me.

‘You will offend the Mother, Diomedes,’ he said. ‘He is her ward and we may not touch him. I beg you leave him.’

I said, ‘A man would put an end to a wild wolf, would he not?’

But Cheiron held my sword-hand and said, ‘He is not himself when he does these things. It is the Mother in him. She will punish him enough if he has done wrong. Do not take it upon yourself to fulfil her duties. You have duties of your own at Iolcos tomorrow.’

Suddenly Heracles was sitting up again and smiling at me. His eyes were as clear as water and there was no anger in his features.

‘Help me up, Diomedes,’ he said. ‘That blow of yours has taken some of the strength out of my legs! It was a good blow. One that I would not be ashamed of striking myself.’

Then he looked at Cheiron’s bandaged arm as though puzzled.

‘What have you done to your arm, Father?’ he asked. ‘And where are Melanos and all the boys?’

Cheiron nodded to me severely and I put my sword away. ‘That blow has cured him of his madness for the time being,’ he whispered. ‘Why, Diomedes, you are a pharmacos, a healer! I did not think you had such skill! We must give you another name now. You must be called Jason—the Healer!’

Heracles gazed at me almost proudly. ‘Jason the Healer,’ he said, ‘tomorrow I must lead you to visit Pelias at Iolcos. That is the agreement, is it not?’

Behind Heracles’ back old Cheiron nodded to me and I said, ‘Yes, Heracles, that is the agreement.’

‘Very well, my twin,’ he said, ‘then we must get some rest. You must be up before dawn to carry out our task. It is sleep that we need. Yes, sleep, dear brother!’

He took me by the arm then and led me to the wind-break where we all slept. Then he cleared a space, rolling the other frightened boys to one side or the other so that he and I lay together. He took my weapons from me and laid out the sheepskin pallet for both of us. I fell asleep that night with his great arm about me, under the stars. When I regained my senses in the morning his arm was still round my neck and his hand upon my chest. I tried to rise without waking him but I think he was already awake, waiting for me.

‘Come, Jason,’ he said with a smile, ‘we must eat barley-porridge and drink mare’s milk before we set off. No one knows when our next meal will be—if there is to be another one at all!’