A Thousand Ships(31)

Every morning, he watched Laodamia walk to her tree. And every afternoon, when he had finished his work for the day, he began to make something else. He was not usually a rich man, but he had sold a great number of weapons to the Greeks who were now waging their war on Troy. And he had a large chunk of bronze which was not spoken for, having arrived after the men had set sail. His wife did not complain when he came home a little later, nor did she ask what kept him at the smithy for the extra time. Instead she rubbed olive oil into the red weals under his arms and beneath his belt, where the salt deposits from his sweat had abraded his skin.

Two months after the king had sailed into the Pagasean Gulf, the blacksmith found himself waiting for the little queen to arrive as he was hammering a pair of greaves into shape. He had done this so many times before that he did not need to look down. The greaves would fit their owner perfectly around the calves when he came to collect them tomorrow.

When Laodamia arrived at her perch beneath the tree, the smith thought one last time about whether he was doing the best thing. But her birdlike frame had become so gaunt that he could not ignore it. He walked over to her slowly, because he was aware of his size and he did not want to scare her.

‘Potnia,’ he said, bowing his head slightly. He felt foolish, hoped it was early enough that his neighbours were busy with their own work and wouldn’t see him. She showed no sign of having heard. He crouched down on his haunches in front of her. ‘My lady?’ he said again. She dragged her eyes from the middle distance to see what huge boulder had rolled in front of her. She was astonished to discover that it was a man.

‘I cannot help you,’ she said. Whatever he was asking for – food, water – she had none. Nor did she have the mental resources to find them. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I cannot help.’ Their eyes met and he saw the depths of his first wife’s misery once again. He had not been able to save Philonome, but he would save this girl.

‘I do not need your help, Potnia,’ he said. She almost smiled to hear the word. Protesilaus had called her that, in the bedroom which belonged to them.

‘Come with me,’ he said, and she looked at him in confusion. He held out a meaty hand and she placed her own into it, as though he were her father and she were a child. He led her across the dirt track, steering her around the furrows made by carts laden with marble and stone.

‘Now this way.’ He took her into his forge: only low walls separated it from the street and she followed him past a set of hanging bellows made of calfskin, which had been polished to a hard shine with the blacksmith’s sweat. Behind the battered anvil and the collection of small, sharp spearheads he had made with leftover metal shards as he worked on larger pieces, was a doorway which led into a storage room. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the relative darkness, and she saw dented pots and split cauldrons, waiting to be reheated and hammered or spliced back together.

Behind all these, in the furthest corner, was a huge pile of cloth. No, not a pile, she realized. Just one piece of cloth covering something large. Something taller than her.

‘Will you accept a gift from a stranger?’ the smith asked, and he whisked away the cloth with a deft tug. She felt the air leave her lungs, squeezed like the bellows outside. Because there, standing in front of her, was Protesilaus. She was not conscious of moving her feet, only following her hand which reached out to touch her husband’s perfect face. The bronze was warm to the touch, as though his blood flowed beneath it. She opened her mouth, but could not find the sounds.

‘I am truly sorry for what you have lost,’ said the smith. ‘If your ladyship would like it, I will wheel it up to the palace whenever you wish.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Yes.’

The smith looked at her, and shook out the cloth so he could cover his work once again.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Please don’t.’ She threw her arms around the statue and grasped it tight. The smith smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘My boys will be here shortly. You can stay with it and accompany them home with it, if you like.’

‘With him,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I will.’

Over the days and months which followed, Laodamia did not let her bronze husband out of her sight. She refused to eat or drink unless the statue was present, and she could not be prevailed upon to leave her chamber. Her parents grew worried that their daughter could not continue in such a fashion. The slaves used to talk of her as a tragic figure, but as time passed, they grew scornful of a girl who could not accept her husband’s death and marry again. She was young enough to bear any man children.

Her parents tried to reason with her, and when that had no effect, they decided to act in her best interests. They waited for her to fall asleep one night, and had slaves remove the statue from her room. She awoke to find it on a funeral pyre, burning in place of the body which had never been returned to Greece. She issued a cracked howl, and hurled herself at the flames.

The gods saw this and, unusually, took pity upon her. As she was grabbed by her father and bundled back to her room, locked in for her own safety, the gods sent Hermes to negotiate with the lord of the Underworld. For the first and last time, Hades agreed to their request. As Laodamia wept her hopeless tears into a sodden pillow, she felt a warm hand on her upper back.

‘Hush, little queen, don’t cry,’ said her husband. And at last she wept no more.