mountains and, caring nothing
for the crowd of huntsmen hemming him in, he picks
out the man
who wounded him and keeps his furious eyes on him
alone.
“Polydeukes was wearing a light and closely woven cloak, the gift of his Lemnian wife. He laid it aside. The fierce old man threw down his dark double mantle
with its
snake-head clasps. They chose a place — a wide, flat field, and the rest of us then sat down, two separate groups.
“In looks,
no two could have been more opposite, the old man
hunchbacked,
bristled and warted like an ogre’s child, the younger
straight
as a mast, bright down on his cheek. He seemed no more
than a boy,
but in strength and spirit he was hardening up like a
three-year-old bull.
He feinted a little, seeing if his arms were supple after
all that
rowing, the long hot span in the calm. He was satisfied, or if not, he kept it hidden. The old man watched him,
leering,
eager to smash in his chest, draw blood. Then Amykos’
steward,
a man by the name of Lykoreus, brought rawhide gloves, thoroughly dried and toughened, and placed them
between them, at their feet. “
“ ‘We’ll cast no lots,’ old Amykos said. ‘I make you a
present
of whichever pair you like. Bind them on your hands,
and when
I’ve proved myself, tell all your friends — if you’ve still
got a jaw—
how clever I am at cutting hides and … staining them.’ ” With a quiet smile and no answer, Polydeukes took
the pair
at his feet. His brother Kastor and his old friend Talaos
came
and bound the gauntlets on. The old man’s friends
did the same.
“What can I say? It was absurd. They raised their
heavy fists,
and the gibbous old man came leering, all confidence,
drooling in his beard,
his eyes as wild as a wolf’s, and went up on his toes like
someone
felling an ox, and brought down his fist like a club.
Polydeukes
stepped to the right, effortlessly, and landed one
lightning
blow Just over the old king’s ear, smashing the bones inside. The crazy old man looked startled. In a minute
he was dead,
twitching and jerking in the wheat stubble. We stared.
No match
at all! We hadn’t even shouted yet — neither we nor they!
‘The Bebrykes gave a wail, an outraged howl at
something
wider than just Polydeukes. They snatched up their
spears,
their daggers and clubs, and rushed him as if to avenge
themselves
on the whole ridiculous universe. We leaped up, drawing our swords, running in to help. Kastor came down with
his sword
so hard that the head of the man he hit fell down on
the shoulders,
to the right and left. Polydeukes took a running jump at the huge man called Itymoneus, and kicked him in
the wind
and dropped him. The man died, jerking and trembling,
in the dirt.
Then another came at him. Polydeukes struck him with
his right,
above the left eyebrow, and tore the lid off, leaving the
eyeball
bare. A man struck Talaos in the side — a minor wound—
and Talaos turned on him,
sliced off his head like a blossom from a tender stem.
Ankaios,
using the bearskin to shield his left arm, swung left and
right
with his huge bronze axes, and the brothers Telamon
and Peleus,
Leodokos and I behind them, jabbed through backs and
bellies,
limbs and throats with our swords. They scattered like
a swarm of bees
when the keeper smokes them from the hive. The
remnants of the fight fled inward,
bleeding, spreading the news of their troubles. And
that same hour
they found they had new and even worse troubles. The
surrounding tribes,
as soon as they learned that the fierce old man was
dead, gathered up
and flooded in to attack them, no more afraid of them. They swarmed to the vineyards and villages like locusts,
dragged off
cattle and sheep; seized women and children, to make
them slaves;
then set fire to the barns. We stood and watched it all, almost forgetting to snatch a few sheep and cows
ourselves.
The ground was bloodslick, the sky full of smoke from
the burning villages.
We watched in shock. Who’d ever heard of such
maniacs?
We walked here and there among them, rolling them
over on their backs
to pick off buckles, swords with bejewelled hilts, new
arrows,
and, best, the beautifully figured bows that no one can
fashion
as the craftsmen among the Bebrykes could do, in their
day.
A splendid haul.
“But Polydeukes sat staring seaward—
black waves quiet as velvet, under a blood-red sky— brooding. He pounded his right fist into his flat left hand again and again. I touched his shoulder. ‘Stupid,’
he hissed,
never shifting his eyes from the sea. ‘God damned old
clown!’
‘Ah well,’ I said. ‘And all that talk!’ he said. ‘—Free will, survival! I ought to have taken his big black teeth
out one
by one! I ought—’ ‘Ah well,’ I said. His eyes were as
calm,
as ominous green as the sky those days when the air
went dead.
‘If Herakles were here,’ he said, ‘you know what I’d do?’ I shook my head. ‘I’d kill him,’ he said. ‘Or try.’ He
grinned,
but his eyes looked as crazy to me as the eyes of the
man he’d killed.
‘He wouldn’t approve. You’re supposed to be his friend,’
I said.
‘I’d smash in his brains for good. “Defend your head
or die!”
I’d tell him. And no mere joke. Because I am his friend.’ I let it pass. Boxers are all insane, I thought.
Like everyone.
“Late that night, when the Argonauts
were all sitting in a crowd on the beach, gazing at the
fire,
Orpheus sang a song of the wonderful skill and power of Polydeukes’ fists. He sang of the age-old hunger of
the heart
for some cause fit to die for, some war certainly just, some woman certainly virtuous. He sang the unearthly,
unthinkable joy
of Zeus in his battle with the dragons. Then sang of Hylas, gentler than morning, gazing at his father’s
killer
with innocent love and awe. As he sang, the hero of his
song,
Polydeukes, rose, bright tears on his cheeks, and left
our ring
to walk alone in the woods, get back his calm, we
thought.
That was the last we saw of him.”
10
Then Jason told
of Phineus: spoke like a man in a dream. The sea-kings
listened,
leaning on their fists. Not a man in the hall even
coughed. They sat
so still you’d have thought some god had cast his spell
on them.
Old Kreon stared into his wine, blood-red in its jewelled
cup,
and even when Jason’s tale scraped painful wounds—
the fall
of Thebes, the tragedy of Oidipus — the king showed