Polyphemus must have sensed the trepidation in my voice, for he smiled, then, and patted my hand. “Worry not, my young friend. Your king’s name is a by-word for temperance and justice.”
I did not know if that were true or just something he said to allay my fears; regardless, I fell silent and tried not to dwell on the fates of god-cursed Medusa, of snake-haired Scylla or fearsome Charybdis, or of the mournful Sirens. What would become of me? You laugh, child, but fear of the gods’ wrath kept my innards in knots, at least until I heard the chimes.
Oh, the chimes! Dear Eirene, the chimes! Of the things I miss most about the city of my youth, the song of the wind as it played through the Etesian chimes is by far the most profound. You hear them no longer, save for the rare times a breeze can find a chink through the walls and bronze-sheathed gates of the acropolis. And then it is but one or two. But when I was your age, you could hear scores of them, hundreds of them, from all across the city—tubes of hollow bronze and copper, of wood and terracotta, hanging in clusters from the eaves of temples and houses. Even the meanest of hovels had one, at least. And when the wind would pick up the sound was…it was…I have no words, child. What was that? “Like the silver-tongued voice of a goddess”? Oh, my dear Eirene! You have the soul of a poet. Yes, precisely that. A choral ode to Boreas of the North and sky-born Hippotades, keeper of the winds. I heard the heavenly sound made by the chimes, that day, and knew the gods would forgive me.
The beauty of their discordant song struck even Polyphemus mute. His fingers tightened on my shoulder. Though sightless, he looked around—an old habit, surely—as if by will alone he might catch a glimpse of the goddess whose lips gave birth to such divine music.
“I have heard the echo of pipe and sistrum in the temples of my far homeland,” he said at length, as the breeze faded and the symphony of the chimes with it. “I have listened to the chants of the daughters of Isis, danced to the drums of the priests of Sobek, and felt my blood stir from the battle horns of the Medjay. But, son of Lykaon, never have I heard a sound to rival this.”
I wanted to take him by the hand and scurry off to show him the nearest cluster of chimes; let him feel the cool bronze beneath his fingers and hear their flat ringing as he tapped them together. We could then both marvel at how such a dull noise became the divine melody we had heard. I was but a boy, you recall, with all the flightiness and simple-minded aspirations that my age entailed.
As he spoke, though, we gained the acropolis and suddenly all my daydreams of prowling about the city with my new-found friend in tow drained away like water poured from a cup. I had never been to the high city until that moment, and it struck me, then, that I had no idea where to go. The harbor road opened on the broad square we call, now, the Greater Agora. In those days it wasn’t a well-ordered market like you see it today, but a riotous jumble of stalls and awnings, with poor merchants selling their wares from moth-eaten carpets spread upon the ground, or from wicker panniers still hanging from the flanks of their hobbled donkeys, while their more affluent cousins did business from shaded kiosks. I struggled to breathe through the drifting clouds of incense and excrement, sweat and old leather, the sickening stench of fish sauce left in the sun and the too-sweet smell of slowly rotting fruit.
I did not know which way to turn. Where was the king’s palace? Was it through this labyrinth of commerce, or must I skirt off to one side or the other? I could not even hazard a guess. And, as with all things in my youth, it was my father who came to my rescue.
“Make way!” he bellowed. “This man has business with the king!” Others took up the cry, and in short order a path appeared through the bustling square. My father gestured me forward; renewing my grip on Polyphemus’s long-fingered hand, I led him along the route my father’s words had created.
The king’s palace lay beyond the market square, at the foot of a terraced hill overlooking the sea. At the crest of the hill stood the twin temples of Helios and Hippotades—Sun and Wind—whose priests tended the eternal flame that drew our sailors and fishermen home at day’s end. My child’s mind expected the palace of the king to be something…more. Something with walls, and guarded by men in shining corselets whose cornel-wood spear blades caught the light like the eyes of a predator at dusk. Certainly, I did not expect a comfortable villa with a broad shaded portico screened by trellises of flowering jasmine and rich green ivy, where the sons of Aeolus met in congress to discuss…well, surely nothing my young mind could comprehend. Nor did I expect to be greeted by none other than old King Aeolus, himself.
What is that? Well, of course, child, the King Aeolus you know isn’t old. You have lived under the reign of one king named Aeolus; I have lived under the reigns of four men who have carried the name—the one of whom I speak, his son, grandson, and that wretched cousin who usurped the throne just last year. It is tradition for the man who wears the king’s mantle to wear also the name ‘Aeolus’, after the son of divine Hippotades, who founded the city.
The Aeolus of my youth was by far the best of men. In him, you could yet see a spark of their godly ancestor, but tempered with the age-borne wisdom that is the portion of mortal man. What? Oh, child, you have the right of it. Age does not always engender wisdom, which grows rarer in men with each passing year; no, more often than not age provokes nothing more than bitterness and regret. Heed what I say, now, for it is the same advice I gave your mother: always drink deep of the wine of life, but never drink too deep. And be mindful, for no matter how sweet the fruit is on the vine, it takes but a fleck of mold, a hint of vinegar, to ruin the vintage. Do you understand? No, I expect you don’t. But one day you will, and my hope is you will pass my words along to your own daughters, and your sons, too. Now where was I? Ah, yes…good King Aeolus.
Indeed, I thought the old man who ambled out from beneath the portico was nothing more than a door warden, dressed as he was in stuff no more ostentatious than this himation I’m wearing, now. But this man, armed with a quick smile and a ready laugh, seemed no more kingly than I. So I marched up to him straight away and announced myself.
“Good sir,” I said. “I am Glaukos, son of Lykaon, and this man, my guest-friend, who is called Polyphemus, bears a message for the king.”