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There was some talking, and a stir of movement among the audience – his eyes were always strong enough to detect that. They were waiting for him to begin again. For a moment or two more he kept silent, passing his hand over the curve of the turtle shell that formed the belly of the lyre – a gesture of love. He raised his left hand to mute the two strings immediately below the yoke and struck the lower three with the bone thimble attached to his forefinger, allowing the strings to vibrate all through their length in a long, shuddering chord. When this died away he took up the story at the precise point where he had left it at the approach of Odysseus. On its homeward journey the Argo came to the beautiful island of Anthemoessa, home of the Sirens, three winged women with bird feet, whose singing had such allure that mariners who heard it forgot everything, went crazy, plunged into the sea and tried to swim to the source of that glorious sound, only to be drowned in the treacherous swirls of the current. Captains would wreck their ships on the jagged rocks that fringed the island, in a frenzied attempt to land. That island was a death trap, its reefs and currents specially designed to destroy any who approached. All round there were bodies floating, and the wreckage of ships. Yet once you heard that amazing music, you couldn't resist, you lost all reasoning power.
The Singer paused, remained silent for some moments before plucking again at the strings. Pauses did not break the Song, they strengthened it, he knew this well, just as he knew he was singing the truth. Any song could be a siren song, any island could be Anthemoessa. Songs could make people believe anything, do anything, go from loving to killing and back again, to weep over the corpse.
The Argonauts too would have been destroyed, as so many before them, their bodies picked by the fish, their bones bleaching on the rocky shores of the island, had not quick-witted Orpheus seized his lyre, struck up a tune and burst into song, thus confusing the men's ears with conflicting sounds until they were safely past.
The Singer smiled as he sang, a thing very rare with him. It was one of his favourite episodes. Orpheus, the Great Singer, father of all singers, son of Oeagrus and the Muse Calliope, had saved them all, the music of life had prevailed over the music of death, it was a triumph.
But a greater danger still awaited them. Before long they were approaching the zone of the Wandering Rocks. On their left was the promontory where lives Scylla, she of the six ravenous heads on necks so long that she can stretch them out over the water and snatch sailors from the decks of passing vessels. On their right was the whirlpool in which lurks the monster Charybdis, of insatiable appetite, capable of swallowing ships whole. Imagine the sight, the fearsome sight, the stretching necks and slavering mouths on one side, the menace of the vortex on the other. The smallest misjudgement on the pilot's part in that narrow strait, and you can guess what would happen: one of two things, neither of them very pleasant. They knew the odds were against them, they weren't stupid, but this was a crew of heroes, they sailed bravely ahead.
At this moment, just as they entered the strait, the white-armed sea-nymphs appeared, swimming alongside, guiding the ship. The men were almost distracted from the danger, seeing these beautiful naked girls sporting below them. The nymphs were led by the goddess Thetis, silvery-footed daughter of the Old One of the Sea, and this was because her mortal lover Peleus was on board. As we all know, the fruit of this union was the incomparable Achilles, Sacker of Cities, who is here with us on this glorious expedition to restore the honour of Greece.
So the fair-browed nymphs stayed alongside the Argo, as it now began to be tossed about in the turbulent waters that churn round the Wandering Rocks, in the shadow of smoke-crowned Aetna, where the god of smiths, Hephaestus, stokes his fires. As instructed by Thetis, they bore up the ship on either side, so that it skimmed over the crests of the waves, avoiding the treacherous currents that would have dashed it against the rocks. And so, in a short while, the heroes were safely past and the nymphs, their mission completed, dived below the waves and disappeared from sight, though you can be sure that the Argonauts were sorry to see them go, having hoped they would come on board for a while and have a drink, now that the Argo was sailing in calm waters...
The Singer played a run of quiet notes to reinforce the notion of calm after storm. It was always a good idea to dilute a happy ending with a dollop of nostalgia. Restored to safety after danger has passed, the heart has leisure for regrets and desires; and those nymphs must have been quite something. The adventures of the Argonauts were always popular, a series of mortal perils surmounted in the nick of time, ideally suited to serial treatment.
His throat felt tired and he was hungry. A few gifts had been deposited on the square of felt before him, a wheat cake covered with sesame seeds, some figs, a small stoppered jar which might contain honey, a handful of terracotta beads painted in different colours and pierced to make a necklace. He needed a short song of praise to round things off, then he would rest for a while. The Ajaxes would do. Big Ajax had never given him the silver clip he had been promised, but the pair had come with two bronze arrowheads – one from each – and explained their new idea of a wreath of leaves worn on the head to honour wi
3.
One man had remained to keep the dogs off. The corpse was lying with face to the sky, or what was left of the face – the eyes had gone, and the nose and most of the right cheek had been gnawed away. It seemed to Calchas, as he looked down, that these eyeless sockets had the same staring look of possession as when the living voice had spoken and the throat laboured to bring out the goddess's words, tell of the devouring of the hare's young and warn the assembled chiefs. The dried blood was caked on his neck, where the vein had been severed. This was no savaging of the dogs; his killers had slashed the throat that had betrayed them; he had been killed for speaking out of turn, for saying something that was not in the story, not part of the plan. But it was in the spaces between human plans that the gods conveyed their messages; he had been a vehicle for the goddess and in stopping his mouth they had tried to stop hers. The dogs were at the bidding of the Mistress, at her bidding they had brought this poor murdered creature up to the light again. For what purpose? Calchas felt again the ache of uncertainty, like a physical pain somewhere unlocalized in his body. 'We must get back,' he said. 'I must talk again with the King.'
At this moment, looking towards the sea, he saw a man ru