‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I have only applied the parodying techniques I learned from the story-tellers in Porto when they wanted to trip people up.’
‘No, no,’ he insisted, ‘I know these techniques too, I’ve grown up with them. I’m talking about the underlying paradoxes.’
I looked at him in some embarrassment, then admitted I had not understood the question. ‘Excuse me, professor, what do you mean by underlying paradoxes?’
‘They are the ones taken from ancient historical tradition … do you know Lucian of Samosata?’
‘No, who is he?’
‘An extraordinary poet from the second century, Greek obviously, the satirical author who brought the technique of paradox to its highest perfection. He would take an almost sacred story and toss it around a bit. Achilles, you’re telling me he was a generous-hearted hero? Anything but; he was a hysterical, egocentric, mad criminal! A right bastard who was engaged to Iphigenia, the gentle daughter of Agamemnon, and then when the oracle at Delphi intoned: “Achaeans, if you want to conquer Troy you must slaughter like a goat the virgin beloved of Achilles”, what does Achilles, son of Peleus, do? He takes Iphigenia by the arm and, as though it doesn’t matter a jot to him, escorts her to the sacred tree under which she is to be sacrificed!’
And he went on to tell me about Ulysses betraying his friend Philoctetes who had been bitten in the thigh by a poisonous snake. Poor Philoctetes with his injured leg turning gangrenous was convinced by the honest Ulysses to disembark at Lemnos, a desert island. He then abandons him like a marooned sailor, leaving him to his own devices and telling him to get with it! But, not long afterwards, Ulysses is informed by the oracle that without the infallible bow in the possession of that gangrenous, abandoned soul, the Achaeans will never manage to get the better of the Trojans. Countermand: back to square one. Ulysses returns to the island, dressed as a travelling merchant, tricks Philoctetes into giving up the bow and goes on his way.
In this way, one after the other, the professor drew me portraits of a series of heroes, queens, gods and goddesses whom at school they had given us as role-models, but who, once the commonplaces of rhetoric had been turned on their head, were made to appear, some more than others, like a band of swindlers, hypocrites and opportunists.
I was literally fascinated by Civolla’s conversation. We reached our destination in no time but we were so engrossed by what we were saying, I in asking questions and he in recounting, that we almost missed our stop. As we said good night to each other, we promised to meet again a few days later. It was a Tuesday and promptly on Thursday I presented myself at his home in the Antico Cambio Palace. The professor lived in the attic flat, immediately under the roof, in a large single room which covered the entire area of the palace. There were tables piled high with papers and books, a book case which covered a whole wall, and four glass doors inset in arches which opened onto a big balcony. Without more ado, he let me see one of his most recent discoveries, the reproduction of a kind of map from the fifth century AD which showed the mythical voyage of the Argonauts. I felt myself drowning in a well of ignorance. Who were these Argonauts? What had they got up to, where were they from, where were they going?
The greatest talent of a teacher, according to Pliny the Elder, was never to let his own knowledge overburden the pupil’s less well-stocked brain, and this was beyond all question one of Professor Civolla’s gifts. As he showed me the map, he called my attention to how it was designed without regard for the actual alignment of the coasts and rivers. Everything was highly approximate. ‘Look, the position of Corinth is marked here, which is where the Argonauts are supposed to have set off from some four thousand odd years ago. And here is Pagasae, the port and shipyard where, according to the myth, the ship Argo, which gives us the name Argonaut, was constructed. The bards of this epic predated the tales of the Iliad and the Odyssey by some considerable time. On the expedition, as you will certainly know, there was Jason in the role of captain, and, just to jolly things along, Hercules, who after one or two labours was taking a short vacation, the two Dioscuri, Theseus and a great number of other heroes employed to provide a bit of ballast. There was also Orpheus, the great musician and well-known enchanter of the Sirens.
‘The expedition was, as usual, arranged for purposes of robbery and piracy. The idea was to reach Colchis on the Black Sea, where, under the protection of a dragon, the Golden Fleece was to be found. The Golden Fleece was the woollen coat of a ram which was itself golden, and was endowed with extraordinary powers. Here’s an interesting detaiclass="underline" the ship had been constructed with timber gifted by Athena, so at the launch the heroes noticed that the vessel could speak. A deep voice emanated from the head of an ox on the prow giving indications of the route to be followed or of impending storms and, when the ship was becalmed, it had a repertoire of beguiling tales.
‘The expedition set off towards the Dardanelles, through the Strait of Bosphorus and at last arrived at the Black Sea, obviously after having overcome many problems en route: hostile populations, cliffs and, jutting out of the sea, rocks which could be pushed close together by the winds.
‘When they landed at Colchis, the king ordered Jason to undertake a series of very severe tests, like yoking to the plough two savage, fire-breathing oxen which lashed out ferociously with their brazen hooves. Luckily for Jason, the king’s young daughter, Medea, herself endowed with great intelligence and magic powers, fell in love with him and, even if it meant betraying her father, did all she could to help him in all his trials, including the one requiring him to destroy an army of warriors born from sowing the teeth of a dragon, no less, in the ground. And all this without as much as a coffee break.
‘Second episode: Medea, with the collaboration of Orpheus, puts the dragon to sleep long enough to allow the Argonauts to snatch the Golden Fleece without too much trouble. Medea, now deeply in love with Jason, decides to follow him. The hero promises her that the moment they reach a peaceful, safe place, he will take her as his bride. The king, the father of the young enchantress, goes absolutely wild at the news. Those bastards from Achaea have pilfered his fleece, and now they’re off with the daughter whom he had promised to a neighbouring king. In a rage, he gives chase to the thieves’ ship.
‘So as to foil her father who, with his ships packed with warriors, was catching up on the Argonauts, Medea executes an act of unthinkable ferocity: she slaughters her younger brother whom she had brought along with her. She tears him to pieces and scatters his severed limbs in the fields along the coast. In despair, the king moors at the shore and stops to search, with the help of his men, for the fragments of his son’s body. This horrendous stratagem gives the Achaeans the advantage and allows them to reach the Straits of the Bosphorus, but alas! the opening is blocked by another of the king’s fleets which had gone ahead. Once again they are saved by Medea who shows Jason a different escape route, up the mouth of the Danube which opens right in front of them.’
As he spoke, the professor showed me on the Byzantine map the fugitives’ only possible route. ‘Hercules did not agree: “If we go this way, we will have to proceed to the land of the Germans, then across a great chain of mountains with the ship on our backs.” “You’ve got to choose: either extend the journey or accelerate death!” replies Medea. “The girl’s right,” comments the ox’s skull on the prow, “take it or leave it.”’
‘After a few months, raiding and slaughtering here and there to ensure their own survival, they reach the sources of the Danube. With the ship on their backs and labouring like beasts, they come out on the Rhine, and from there, sailing for several moons against the current, they enter Lake Constance. More moons. They curse their way across the Alps, still with their vessel on their backs. They finally reach Italy and come down into Lake Maggiore.’