No one was ever to know what became of his men. Perhaps some of them sought a new land to settle, perhaps others became pirates and brought ruin to the coast dwellers. Perhaps others still found a hidden landing place and secretly reached their homes and re-embraced their wives and children.

One day later, a messenger from Queen Aigialeia arrived at Mycenae bearing news of what had happened at Argos.

Clytemnestra received him alone, towards evening, in a throne room dimmed to hide the signs of her sleepless night, the circles under her eyes and her ashen cheeks. She learned that Diomedes had barely managed to escape death but that his fate would certainly catch up with him on the sea where he had sought refuge; the hostile wind and waves would take care of him. Clytemnestra had the messenger report back to Aigialeia that Agamemnon had died in expiation for his crimes and that Menelaus had not yet made return. And in Crete they had had no further news of Idomeneus. She had even sent a ship to Ithaca, to her cousin Penelope, and was awaiting her answer. As soon as Helen returned, the queens would once again reign over the Achaeans.

The messenger departed as dusk fell and Clytemnestra remained alone next to Agamemnon’s throne. The silent, empty room still echoed with cries and curses, as though the slaughter would never end.

In the meanwhile, Diomedes’s ships were far off at sea and had rounded Cape Taenarum, passing within sight of Abia, the city that Agamemnon had promised to Achilles had he agreed to set aside his ill will and return to combat. A pale sun lit the houses facing the sea, the fishing boats and the ships pulled aground on the beach. The season for navigation was over.

They were entering the kingdom of Nestor and Diomedes pondered whether to stop and ask for hospitality or to continue north, where it was said that the passage to the Land of Evening could be found. Those who had been there spoke of vast plains on which thousands of horses grazed and of tall mountains always covered with snow that only Hercules had ever crossed, when he had set off to reach the Garden of the Hesperides and the house of Atlas, who bears the sky upon his shoulders. It was an incredibly rich land, crossed by the Eridanus river, which was said to be so wide that the sea itself changed colour for a huge expanse at the river’s mouth and became fresh-watered. There lay the Electrides islands, where drops of pure amber fell from the sky at night and were harvested by their inhabitants, who sold them to the merchants that ventured so far.

Diomedes knew that Nestor would ask him the reason for this voyage; why he had abandoned his homeland after years of yearning and endless war. Nestor would offer him his fleet and his army to help him win back his city and his kingdom. But Diomedes would have to refuse, and explain that there was no life left for him in Argos or in his palace.

And so Diomedes preferred to continue on. From the railing of his ship he saw Nestor’s palace brushed by the last glow of the sunset as it stood against the sky already dark. The lamps and torches were just being lit in the palace halls, fires were being kindled in the hearths, maids were taking out the cauldrons and putting meat in them to boil. The king was just coming down from his rooms to share a banquet with his strong sons and their blooming wives. Diomedes thought of how good it would have been to sit down together and hark back to all the misadventures of the war, to drink wine and take pleasure in the songs of the poets until late at night. Lamps were being lit in the houses of the fishermen and craftsmen and he envied them as well; he would have much preferred to be a poor man, a man of no means, but to have a house and a table to sit around with his children and wife, to talk about the changing weather and the labours of the day. Instead he travelled towards an unknown destination on the back of the cold, sterile sea.

The lights of Pylus reflected in the water and accompanied him for a while before they were extinguished by the night which swallowed sky and sea. Not a sound was left in the air, only the swash of water against the ship and the whisper of wind in the sail.

The pilot governed the helm, keeping his eye trained on the star of the Little Bear. The king had ordered him to follow it until he told them to stop. For days and days they would ride the waves towards night and darkness, leaving behind daylight and sun until the water of the sea changed colour and its taste became sweet to the palate. The mouth of the Eridanus.

Exhausted by fatigue and by the emotions that racked his soul, Diomedes finally fell asleep on a bed of pelts, laying his head on a coil of rope, and he dreamed he was in his palace, lying next to Aigialeia, nude and white-skinned. Her hair gave off an intense scent, her lips were half open, her skin made golden by the reflection of the lamp. He drew closer to caress her but his fingers touched cold, slimy scales, as if a serpent or a dragon had slithered into his bed. He suddenly felt its fangs sink into his hand, and his flesh became livid and swollen with poison.

He slept fitfully as his comrades took their turns at the helm and stirred up the flames in the braziers so the ships would not lose sight of one another.

At dawn they sighted the islands of Ulysses: Zacynthus first, then Dulichium and Same, and then Ithaca itself. The first were illuminated by the sun, but the last was still shrouded by the night, cloaked by the shadow of the Thesprotian mountains.

Diomedes planned to berth at Ithaca after hiding the other ships behind the little isle of Asteris. He wanted to know what had become of Ulysses, whether he had reached his homeland or was still afar, but he dared not reveal himself to queen Penelope without knowing what she had in her mind. If he found Ulysses, he would ask his advice for the journey he was embarking upon, because no one knew the perils of the sea as he did, no one could counsel him as Ulysses could.

He went ashore without weapons, dressed as a simple merchant, and he walked to the palace.

There was a boy of about ten playing in the courtyard with a dog. The boy asked him: ‘Who are you, foreign guest? From where do you come?’

‘I am a sailor,’ he answered. ‘I left Pylus last night and I wish to see the king. Take me to him, if you can.’

The boy lowered his head. ‘The king’s not here,’ he said. ‘They told me that he was coming back, that he would be here any day. But the days go by and he has not returned.’

Diomedes looked at the boy and he recognized him. He clearly saw Ulysses’s features: his dark eyes which flashed with ever-changing light, his wide cheekbones, his thin lips. He felt moved; he remembered when he was a little boy himself, sitting on the palace steps waiting for his father who was fighting far away. And he remembered when glorious Tydeus finally returned. He was stretched out on a ox-drawn cart, suited in his armour, covered by a blood-red cloak. His ashen face was wrapped in a bandage that held his jaw shut. His body jolted whenever the wheels hit a hole or a stone, and his head banged against the wooden cart. Women dressed in black raised piercing screams. .

He laid a hand on the boy’s head. ‘Telemachus,’ he said. ‘You are Telemachus.’

The boy looked up in surprise: ‘How do you know my name? I’ve never seen you.’

Diomedes answered: ‘I knew your father, king Ulysses. I was a friend of his. I recognized you because anyone could see that you are his son.’

‘Do you think my father will come back?’ asked the boy again.

‘I do,’ replied Diomedes. ‘He will return with the swallows and bring you beautiful gifts.’

‘Do you want to see my mother?’

‘No, my son, I do not want to disturb the queen and distract her from her pursuits. She must have much to do in the palace.’