The Etruscan by Mika Waltari

Posted by admin_akashic on Mar 10th, 2022 in Stories

The following day Dorieus organized the men of Phocaea for a refreshing march, as he put it, to help them recover from the trials of the sea. The men had spread his fame throughout the city and when he made his offering before their departure, the market place grew still and the people of Panormos stared at him in awe. He was a head taller than humans, they said to one another, invulnerable and godlike.

“Let us be on our way,” he said, and without a backward glance headed out of the city dressed in full armor despite the heat. We three hundred, as he called us, followed him, Dionysius at the rear with a length of rope in his hand. We had unloaded the treasure from the trireme and piled it on the backs of the animals without much difficulty since a goodly part of it had gone down with our penteconters.

Having reached the plain we looked behind and to our amazement saw that many of the men of Panormos were following us. By the time we had begun ascending the slope of the mountain at dusk our rearguard had been joined by hundreds of shepherds and plowmen, each armed to the best of his ability. When we made camp for the night the entire mountain slope was dotted with small fires. It seemed as though all of the backwoods people were eager to rise in revolt against Segesta.

On the third day of our exhausting march the men of Phocaea, unaccustomed to land travel, began to grumble and show their blisters. Then Dorieus spoke to them. “I myself march ahead of you and enjoy marching despite my full armor. As you can see, I am not even sweating. And you have only your weapons to carry.”

“It is easy for you to talk,” they retorted, “for you are not like us.” At the first spring they threw themselves on the ground, doused their heads in the water and wept in misery. Dorieus’ words did not help the situation, but they had to believe Dionysius’ rope and continue the journey.

Dorieus then spoke to Dionysius. “You are not stupid,” he admitted, “and apparently are beginning to understand a commander’s responsibilities on land. We are approaching Segesta and before a battle a responsible commander must march his men to such exhaustion that they no longer have the strength to flee. The distance from Panormos to Segesta is precisely right, as though measured by the gods for our purpose. We will go directly to Segesta and spread ourselves in battle formation before it.”

Dionysius replied somberly, “You know best what you are saying, but we are sailors and not soldiers. For that reason we will most certainly not spread out in a battle line but will remain supporting one another in a body, side to side and back to back. But if you go ahead, we will follow.”

But Dorieus bristled in anger and said that he would wage the battle in accordance with the rules of war so that future generations might learn from it. In the midst of the argument a group of Siccanians crept from the woods with their slings, bows and spears. They wore animal skins and had stained their faces and bodies red, black and yellow. Their chief, who had a fearsome wooden mask over his head, danced before Dorieus, after which the Siccanians placed at Dorieus’ feet the decayed and foul-smelling heads of several Segestan nobles.

They explained that seers had sought them out in the forests and mountains, had given them salt and presaged the coming of a new king. Encouraged by the predictions, they had begun to raid Segestan fields, and when the nobles had pursued them with horses and dogs they had led them into an ambush and killed them.

Now, however, they were afraid of revenge and so placed themselves under Dorieus’ protection. For as long as they could remember, they said, a tale had passed from father to son of a powerful stranger who had once come to their land, vanquished the king in a duel and given the land to the natives, promising some day to claim his inheritance. They called Dorieus “Erkle” and expressed the wish that he would banish the Elymi and restore the land to the Siccani.

Dorieus accepted their homage as his due. He attempted to teach them to say “Herakles” but when their mouths could not shape it he shook his head. Little joy would he have of such barbarians.

Barbarians they were, indeed. The only metallic weapons they had were a few spears, knives and the chief’s sword, for the Segestans stringently forbade itinerant merchants to sell them weapons. Instead, they had other skills. Never did they fell a tree wherein dwelled a nymph, or drink from the spring of a malevolent deity. Their priest, they explained, had swallowed a divining potion the previous night and had seen the coming of Dorieus while in a trance.

When Dorieus asked them to join in open battle against the Segestans they refused. They were too afraid of the horses and angry dogs to venture beyond the woods, but they would be happy to encourage Dorieus by beating on drums made of hollow logs.

As we continued the march, more and more Siccanians appeared to stare at us and to shout, “Erkle! Erkle!” The peasants of Panormos were amazed at the sight of these usually shy natives who did not reveal themselves even when trading, but placed their goods on display in certain locations and accepted whatever was left in return.

Now the fertile fields of Segesta with their altars and monuments lay before us. But we saw no people, for they had all withdrawn into the city. At the memorial to the spurious Philip of Croton, Dorieus halted and said, “Here we will fight, so that my father’s spirit may be appeased for the humiliation it suffered.”

We could see people moving restlessly on the city wall, and Dorieus ordered the men of Phocaea to beat their shields as proof that he had no intention of taking the city by surprise. Then he sent a herald to proclaim to the Segestans his hereditary right to the throne and to challenge the king to a duel. Thereafter we made camp around the memorial and ate, drank and rested. Despite Dorieus’ warning not to trample the grain we could not avoid doing so, for there must have been several thousand of us if one includes the Siccanians at our rear.

I believe the trampling of the grain annoyed the Segestans even more than Dorieus’ demands. Having noticed that the grain would in any case be ruined and that a battle was inescapable, their ruler assembled his athletes and noble youths and hitched his horses to the war chariots which for decades had been used only in races. Although the king had no more power than the sacrificial king in Ionian cities, the dog crown imposed certain obligations. Afterward we heard that he was not especially anxious to retain it and while harnessing the horses had taken the crown from his head and offered it to those around him. But at that moment no one else was anxious to wear the crown either.

They summoned up one another’s courage by retelling tales of the battles that their forefathers had waged against invaders and recalling the bones which fertilized their fields. Meanwhile the king’s heralds went from door to door to summon able-bodied men to arms, but the citizens said openly that a political controversy over the dog crown was no concern of theirs. And so the nobles and landowners drank wine and made their offering to the gods of the underworld to gain courage to die honorably if that was ordained. They also spent much time in oiling and combing their hair.

Having fetched the holy dog and led it to its place among the pack, the Segestans, finally ready for battle, flung open the gates and sent the chariots thundering toward us. The chariots were an imposing sight, the like of which had hardly been seen in battle for a generation. We counted twenty-eight spread out in a phalanx to protect the gates. The horses were magnificent with their plumed heads and their harnesses gilded with silver.

Behind the chariots were spread the armored warriors, the nobles, the mercenaries and the athletes. Dorieus forbade us to count the shields lest we grow alarmed. The warriors were followed by the dogs and their trainers and they in turn by the stone-throwers and the archers.

We could hear the charioteers urge on the horses. Seeing the flaring nostrils and the flashing hoofs approach, the men of Phocaea began to tremble so that their shields rattled against one another. Calmly Dorieus stood before them and urged them to aim their spears manfully at the horses’ bellies. But as the chariots rumbled toward them, flattening the grain field, the men of Phocaea withdrew behind the memorial and the altars and declared that, for their part, Dorieus could handle the problem of the chariots alone since they were unaccustomed to such matters. Whereupon the remaining forces likewise withdrew beyond the wide irrigation ditch.

Dorieus threw two spears, wounding one of a quadriga’s four horses and killing the charioteer whose body was dragged along the ground. I wasted one of my spears but, as a horse before me reared, I hurled a second with all my might at his belly. Whatever happened I was determined not to leave Dorieus’ side but to prove myself at least as brave as he, even though I was not his equal in strength or use of weapons.

Seeing me advance those few steps toward the horses, Dorieus became infuriated and flung himself, sword in hand, at the nearest team, bringing it sprawling to the ground. An archer’s arrow struck the eye of another horse. The wounded animal reared and fell backward, overturning the chariot and disrupting the entire front.

When the king of Segesta saw that a number of his peerless horses were wounded or killed, he lost his courage and shouted for the chariots to return. The unharmed chariots circled back and the charioteer who had been overturned forgot the battle. Clasping the dying animals to him, he kissed their muzzles and eyes and tried to call them back to life with endearing words.

The charioteers who had circled back, right and left, jumped to the ground and began calming their trembling and sweating horses while spitting curses and shaking their fists at us. The men of Phocaea ventured out from behind the memorial and the altars and gathered around Dorieus, shield touching shield, the rear forces physically supporting those in front. The mud-stained rebels of Eryx likewise recrossed the irrigation ditch, bravely brandishing their clubs and axes, and emitting fierce battle cries.

Now the heavily armed warriors of Segesta made way for the dogs and their trainers who set the animals on us. Hugging the ground, they sped toward us with bared fangs. I wore my cuirass and leg guards as did Dorieus, and the men of Phocaea succeeded in warding off the dogs with their shields. Indeed Dorieus did not even trouble to kill the animals but as they leaped for his throat struck their muzzles a blow that dropped them whining to the ground. Over the growls and the din we heard the Siccanians’ squeals of terror as they fled into the safety of the woods. The Siccanians’ flight so amused Dorieus that he burst into laughter and that heartened the men of Phocaea perhaps more than anything else.

The bloodthirsty pack now were by us, and made for the rebels of Eryx. They tore open unprotected throats, mutilated thighs and crushed bare arms between their jaws. But the peasants staunchly withstood the attacks of the hated dogs and shouted in triumph upon discovering that they could club them to death. The killing of pedigreed dogs was a serious offense in the land of Eryx and the peasants and their wives had many times helplessly felt their fangs and seen them mangle sheep and frighten children.

I doubt whether the releasing of the Segestans’ holy dog Krimisos was deliberate. Probably it had broken its leash, or the trainer had accidentally loosened his hold on it. At any rate, that gray-muzzled, gentle animal which had lived peacefully in its pen for years trotted stiffly behind the other dogs. Fat and gigantic in size, it looked around in bewilderment, not realizing what was happening. The barking and growling of its own kind annoyed it, and its sensitive muzzle was offended by the stench of blood rising from the ground.

Dorieus called the dog to him and it came, sniffed amiably at his knees and raised its head to look at Dorieus’ face while he patted its head and spoke to it softly, promising it an even fairer maiden as its wife each year once he wore the dog crown. Slowly the holy dog, panting from its short trot, stretched itself out at his feet. From there it glowered at the shining front of heavy-armored warriors, wrinkled its muzzle and bared its yellow fangs in a growl.

Cries of amazement arose from the Segestan ranks and the king himself, seeing his power slip from his fingers with the loss of the holy dog, condescended to whistle to it, but in vain. The dog only looked lovingly at Dorieus and licked his iron shoe.

Dorieus spoke to the holy dog, asking it to guard his father’s memorial. Actually it was a memorial to Philip of Croton, but Dorieus probably did not remember that. The dog dropped its gray muzzle between its paws and remained lying on the ground.

Dorieus then glanced at the men of Phocaea, struck his shield with his sword and set forth to meet the wavering row of heavily armed Segestan warriors. I marched beside him, and when Dionysius realized that the moment of decision was at hand he thrust the length of rope under his belt, seized his shield and sword and took his place at Dorieus’ right.

Dorieus did not glance back, nor did Dionysius. As we marched abreast our steps necessarily quickened since none of us was willing to let any other gain the lead—Dorieus for reasons of rank, Dionysius because of honor and I from sheer vanity. In this manner our march soon quickened to a trot. Behind us we heard the battle cries of the men of Phocaea and the thud of their feet as they sought to overtake us. At the same moment the lowly rebels of Eryx stirred in the rear, while from the distance we heard the throb of hollow logs and guessed that the Siccanians were returning from the woods.

The distance was but several hundred paces, yet it seemed to be the longest journey of my life. Vanity kept my eyes on our advancing feet and I did not look up until Dorieus’ roar raised my shield in line with his to receive the spears that were angrily thrown at us. My shield arm drooped with the weight of the spears and one spear had penetrated the shield, wounding me, but at the moment I did not notice it. In vain I tried to shake the spears from the shield. Suddenly, as once before, Dorieus’ sword flashed at my side and with a single stroke cut the shafts in time for me to raise the shield as we clashed head on with the column of heavily armed Segestans.

I doubt whether anyone who has been in an actual battle knows much about its progress, so absorbed is he in saving his own life. The first line of Segestans had linked their shields together by means of hooks, and when the shock of our attack downed some of the men, they dragged down the entire line so that it rippled like a wave. We passed over the shields to the next line, and that is when the real fighting began, sword against sword and man against man.

Although the Segestans were effete, their anger over their wounded animals made them formidable opponents. The nobles fought for their property and hereditary power without which life held no meaning. But even more formidable were the athletes whose only function was the development of their strength and skill as wrestlers and boxers for the amusement of their masters. In our hand-to-hand fighting in such close quarters that it was difficult to raise a sword, the athletes abandoned the shields and swords to which they were unaccustomed and began wielding iron fists and breaking necks.

Emaciated from our voyage and exhausted by the long march, we were in no condition to endure a prolonged battle. Our only hope lay in suddenness and speed. For that reason Dorieus had hoped to break through the middle of the Segestan line. But the battle was not so easily won, for both wings of the front began to bend as we pressed ahead. Now the Segestans shouted in elation as they ran to encircle our dwindling forces. Sweat and blood blinded me, my body was numb and my arms so tired that I did not know how I had the strength to strike and thrust over and over again.

Dionysius called out encouraging words: “Men of Phocaea, our forefathers fought in these fields. So let us be at home and fight for our lives.” To the hesitant and exhausted he cried, “Remember that you fight for your treasure! The rabble of Eryx think we are lost and are all ready to pillage it.”

A concerted roar of rage rose from the throats of the weary men. For a moment the Segestans lowered their swords and it was then that Dorieus glanced at the sky.

“Listen!” he cried. “Listen to the wings of the goddess of victory!”

He spoke in one of those breath-long periods of silence that sometimes occur in a battle. I do not know whether it was merely the blood throbbing at my temples, but I seemed to hear clearly the rustle of heavy wings above us. The men of Phocaea also heard it, or so they afterward declared.

At that moment an unnatural exaltation came over Dorieus, multiplying his strength so that no one in his path could withstand him. Beside him charged Dionysius, head down like a bull, clearing the way with his axe. They were followed by the men of Phocaea in a blind rage, and so it was that, with the strength born of desperation, we managed to break through the lines of heavily armed Segestans. Behind them their lightly armed companions fled in chaos.

The violence of the unexpected attack took the king of Segesta by surprise and he had no time for escape. Dorieus killed him so swiftly that he barely could raise his sword in defense. The dog crown rolled on the ground and Dorieus snatched it, holding it up for all to see.

Actually it meant little since the Segestans did not hold the king and the crown in great esteem. In fact, the holy dog’s surrender at Dorieus’ feet shocked them more than the king’s death and the loss of the dog crown. But the men of Phocaea did not know that. They cried out in victory although the Segestans’ line closed behind us and the way to the city was still blocked with horses and warriors.

Suddenly shouts of alarm came from the city gates. The charioteers, who were attempting to drive their valuable horses to safety, swerved back, shouting that all was lost. The people of the city, following the events from atop the wall, had thought the battle over when they saw the chariots turn back to the city and had surprised and disarmed the few guards, locked the gates and taken the power into their own hands.

At the gate we paused to wipe the blood from our wounds and to gasp for air. Dorieus hammered at the gate with his shield, demanding entrance and holding up the dog crown that the people might see it. It was too small for him, since Segestan nobles had narrower heads than the Greeks and even bred their dogs narrow-headed.

To our surprise the gate creaked open and out came Tanakil’s two sons in their capacity as leaders of the people. They greeted Dorieus glumly, admitted us, and quickly closed the gate behind the barely forty survivors of the men of Phocaea. From all sides the people cheered Dorieus and extolled his brilliance in battle.

Soon we saw Tanakil coming along the street clothed in rich robes and wearing a Carthaginian headdress while a female slave held a parasol over her head to indicate her descent from Carthaginian gods. How valid Tanakil’s genealogical table was in Carthage I do not know, but in Segesta the people made way for her with respect.

She bowed her head before Dorieus and raised both hands in greeting. Dorieus extended the dog crown to her in order to free his hands and looked around somewhat stupidly.

To me it seemed that he could have greeted his earthly wife with greater warmth despite his union at sea with the white-limbed Thetis. And so I said quickly, “Tanakil, I greet you with all my heart. At this moment you are fairer in my eyes than the sun, but Arsinoe is still by the memorial together with our goods and we must save her from the Segestan nobles.”

Dionysius also spoke up, “There is a time for everything, and I would not willingly disturb you at such a solmen moment, Dorieus. But our treasure is still at the memorial and I greatly fear that the peasants who accompanied us will steal it.”

Quickly Dorieus recovered himself. “So it is. I was about to forget that,” he admitted. “I have atoned for my father’s bones and brought peace to his spirit. The name of the spurious Philip is to be cut away from the memorial immediately and in its stead must be the words: To Dorieus, father of Segesta’s J^ing Dorieus, Spartan, fairest of his contemporaries and thrice winner in the Olympic games.
In addition, his lineage beginning with Herakles, as well as I can remember it.”

We explained the matter to Tanakil’s sons, who sighed in relief and said that they had nothing against the rectification of an error. On the contrary, they declared themselves to be greatly relieved that Dorieus demanded no more.

Dorieus said then, “I do not need the treasure and Arsinoe is able to take care of herself, for she is surrounded by men. But I left the holy dog Krimisos to await me by my father’s memorial and it should be brought back to the city. Is anyone willing to fetch it? I myself am exhausted from the battle and wouldn’t care to walk that distance.”

No one among the Segestans was willing to go, and the men of Phocaea shook their heads and declared that they themselves were so battered and covered with wounds that they could hardly stand.

Dorieus sighed. “The burden of kingship is heavy. I already feel myself a lonely being among mortals and can trust no one. A king is the servant of his people and as such his own first servant. So I suppose nothing will do but that I myself must fetch the dog. After all, I can’t forsake it when it surrendered to me and licked my foot.”

Tanakil burst into tears and begged him not to go; the men of Phocaea stared at him with round eyes and Dionysius declared that he was insane. But Dorieus had the gate opened and walked alone out of the city, his arms drooping in exhaustion.

We climbed the wall to watch his progress. The Segestan nobles had formed a protective circle around the horses; some distance away the lightly armed troops were arguing among themselves and the rebels of Eryx had withdrawn to safety beyond the irrigation ditch. At the edge of the woods, barely visible, were the Siccanians who now and then sounded their hollow logs inquiringly.

Dorieus strode through the deserted battlefield with its bloody corpses and its wounded crying for water and mother. He greeted by name every fallen man of Phocaea and lauded his heroism. “You are not dead,” he proclaimed loudly to each one. “You are invulnerable and we are still the three hundred, as we will be for eternity.”

As he moved among the fallen, all other voices were silenced. The Segestans watched him incredulously and it did not occur to anyone to attack him. The heavy clouds which always cover the sky during a battle began to break, and the sun shone on Dorieus’ blood-stained figure with dazzling brightness.

The men of Phocaea whispered among themselves. “He’s truly a god and not a human, although we only half believed it.”

To this Dionysius added, “True, he is not a human, at least not a sane human.”

Having reached the memorial, Dorieus called the holy dog by name. It rose immediately, trotted to him with wagging tail and looked at him lovingly.

Dorieus then called to his father’s spirit in a loud voice. “Are you content, my father Dorieus? Will you now rest in peace and not torment me?”

Afterwards it was said that a hollow voice from within the memorial responded, “I am content, my son, and will go to my rest.”

I myself did not hear the voice nor do I believe that it spoke, since the Segestans had erected the memorial to Philip of Croton several decades earlier and had buried Dorieus’ father in their fields with the other fallen. On the other hand, Dorieus might well have heard the voice within him. This I admit lest it be thought that I accuse Dorieus of lying.

The beasts of burden had been driven to the irrigation ditch, their owners happy in the belief that they were about to make off with our treasure. But the bridges had fallen and the men dared not drive the animals into the ditch lest they be drowned in the mire. Dorieus called out to them cheerfully, ordering them to return.

Upon hearing his voice, Arsinoe greeted him from the back of a donkey, accusing the wretches of not obeying her but of attempting to steal both her and the treasure. Mikon she had had stuffed into an empty feed basket after he had drunk himself into a stupor at the height of the battle.

A few threatening gestures from Dorieus hastily brought back the drovers and their animals. But as Arsinoe approached with the cat in its cage, the holy dog of Segesta raised its hackles and growled, with the result that Dorieus decided to return to the city well ahead of Arsinoe. This time the Segestan nobles urged one another to fall upon Dorieus and kill him, but the sight of the bare-fanged, growling Krimisos sent them retreating into their fortress of shields.

The shepherds and field workers of Eryx now attempted to enter the city, but the gate was shut relentlessly before them. Dorieus was at first annoyed, but when Tanakil’s sons explained that poor and undisciplined peasants would only create a disturbance in the city, he conceded that he owed the men nothing.

Meanwhile the wounded began to complain. “Why have we brought a learned physician with us? Have we fattened him and paid him a salary only to have him lie in a drunken stupor when we need him the most?”

Because of our friendship I hastily spilled Mikon out of the feed basket and revived him. He managed to stay on his feet although he knew little of what went on around him, but so experienced was he that he performed his duties as well as—and in the opinion of some even better than—when he was sober.

Of myself I shall say only that my knees were skinned, my arm had a spear wound, and my neck just above the collarbone had been pierced by an arrow. Mikon had to cut open my neck to remove the arrowhead. He said, however, that my wounds were merely of a kind to remind me of my body’s mortality. I mention the wounds only because Dorieus began to assemble and count those of his men who still could stand or raise an arm.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” he said, “but the Segestan nobles are still lingering on the plain behind their shields. It may be necessary to go out and continue the battle.”

But that was too much for the men of Phocaea. They shouted in protest and demanded that he be content with the dog crown that now was his.

Dionysius counted his men and cried bitterly, “We were three hundred, but now there are not even enough Phocaeans to man a pente-conter. Spirits cannot move oars and raise sails.”

At length Dorieus consented to take off his helmet. “Perhaps I have completed my task,” he conceded with a sigh.

Tanakil’s sons also declared that enough blood had been shed, and that Segesta needed its heavily armed forces to maintain its power in the land of Eryx. They promised to conduct all necessary negotiations so that Dorieus would be spared the trouble.

“My sons are right,” said Tanakil. “It is time for you to rest. Your most important task at this moment is to lead the holy dog back to its pen, after which we may retire to discuss all that has happened.”

Dorieus’ glance strayed restlessly. He said in a weak voice, “You seem so distant, Tanakil. I feel as though years have elapsed since our meeting in Himera.”

Tanakil tried to smile. “I have grown thin worrying about you. But I will surely regain my strength after we are alone, and you will look at me with different eyes when you have rested.”

Tanakil’s sons hastily declared that, with the grain fields trampled and the land otherwise damaged, it was not a propitious time for erecting a new temple. Besides, omens had to be studied and the years calculated by seers.

At that Dorieus drooped, permitted himself to be divested of his armor and dressed in a Phoenician robe decorated with the moon and the stars, the nymph of Segesta and the holy dog. The people led him in a festive procession to the temple but the holy dog was unwilling to enter its pen. It looked beseechingly at Dorieus, who had to drag it forcibly into the pen. There the dog immediately sat down and began to howl ominously. Nor did it consent to eat or drink anything that the people offered it.

Dorieus nervously adjusted the dog crown that was tied to his head. “The howling of that dog hurts my ears and brings dismal thoughts,” he snapped. “Unless you can silence it I shall whip the animal.”

Fortunately, the people did not understand his threat. But the ominous howling depressed me also. Turning to Tanakil I asked, “If I remember correctly, the custom here is to marry the city’s fairest maiden each year to the holy dog. Why isn’t she here to attend to her spouse?”

“It is merely a tradition and no longer involves any responsibilities,” explained Tanakil. “In fact, the maiden merely shares the wedding cake with the dog and then leaves. But in honor of Dorieus we could find another maiden to comfort the dog.”

We could tell by Dorieus’ face that there was no time for delay. Tanakil called out to the people and immediately a little girl ran into the pen, wound her arms around the dog’s neck and began whispering in its ear. The dog looked at her in surprise and tried to free itself, but the little girl was insistent. Finally the dog ceased its howling and submitted to the girl’s caresses. The envious people then declared that a beggar girl was not good enough for the dog, but Tanakil retorted firmly that many another old custom had been violated that day. If the holy dog Krimisos accepted and was satisfied, its decision could not be questioned.

The pen was attached to the king’s residence, in which Tanakil had already prepared food and a bath. The building had been unoccupied and, because of its collection of holy objects, many of them obtained from animals, had a foul odor. The previous king had visited it only in connection with his official duties, but Dorieus was content with it, billeted the men of Phocaea at a nearby house, and asked that the wounded be cared for by Segestan residents.

Tanakil bustled about making Dorieus as comfortable as possible. After he had been bathed, anointed and massaged as thoroughly as his wounds permitted, he was carried by servants to the convivial couch. He tried to eat, but could not hold the food. Sighing he turned to Tanakil and said, “Earthly food apparently does not please my body which Thetis made invulnerable in her undersea chambers.”

“What do you mean, noble husband?” demanded Tanakil, glancing suspiciously at us. “Does your head ache? Undoubtedly it is exhaustion that makes you vomit and rave. Formerly my food was more than good enough for you.”

Dorieus smiled dejectedly and vomited once more. “I don’t understand what is wrong with me,” he said shamefacedly. “Ever since I achieved my goal I have felt weak, for I no longer know what I want.

Take away this accursed dog crown for it smells vile! Everything in this house smells of dog. It must be that which nauseates me.”

“Breathe my fragrance, my husband,” urged Tanakil. “In preparing to receive you, I let my body be anointed and had a scent cup tied to my forehead.”

Dorieus hopefully sniffed her forehead, then drew back, wrinkling his brows. “You also smell of dog, Tanakil.”

He held his stomach and complained, “It is as though I were on the vessel again. I am swaying on the couch just as I swayed in the arms of my beloved. Ah, Thetis, Thetis, I shall always long for you while I am on land!”

Tanakil looked at us glumly. I hastened to explain what had happened during the voyage while Mikon whispered into her other ear in his capacity as physician.

She glanced at Arsinoe suspiciously but nodded. Then, patting Dorieus’ cheeks, she said soothingly, “I understand and do not mind your union with that Thetis since I am not jealous by nature. But it would be best for you to remain indoors for a few days. The more a king remains aloof from trivial matters the more respected he is. I have already provided you with the garment of a maiden so that, like your holy forefather Herakles, you may perform a woman’s tasks in order to placate the gods.”

The men of Phocaea listened with open mouths but no one laughed. Dionysius agreed that Dorieus had shown such incomparable virility that it undoubtedly would be wisest for him to wear woman’s garments for a few days to allay the gods’ envy.

Tanakil’s promise and Dionysius’ understanding calmed Dorieus. His eyes closed and he fell face down onto the couch. We carried him into the bedchamber and left him there, his head at Tanakil’s breast.