When that happened no one was allowed to go into his room, not even my mother. Only Mentor was let in; perhaps he alone knew how to cure him. Mentor knew how to do everything; he surely must know which secret herbs and philtres could restore a gravely wounded man to health. The king was alive but wanted no one to see him in that condition. Once I even knocked on his door: ‘Father, atta, can I come in?’ I got no answer and didn’t dare open the latch. I walked back down the corridor trying to imagine what he was doing, what he was thinking and why he hadn’t answered me. Wasn’t I his only son? Hadn’t we spent long days together talking and dreaming up adventures, leaning against the parapet on the roof as the moon rose from the sea? Why wouldn’t he let me in?
One night strange noises shook me from my sleep and I got out of bed. I climbed the steps leading to the second floor, holding the handrail in the dark, and peered down into the courtyard. A man was speaking excitedly to my father, who looked like he could barely stand; he was using two forked sticks as crutches. What had happened? Had there been an alarm? Was someone stealing our livestock? Was it pirates, perhaps, already pouring out of their ships and scattering through the countryside in search of plunder? How would we defend ourselves if the king could not bear arms and lead his men into battle?
My father returned to the palace, followed by the man who had been speaking to him. He would certainly be invited to stay. I curled up in a corner and remained there listening to the night-time sounds of the forest because I didn’t feel like sleeping any more. Downstairs I could hear the swift steps of the servants preparing a room for our guest. Then I heard the sound of crutches tapping across the floor and up the steps until I finally saw the king’s black shape walking slowly towards the parapet. He leaned his elbows on it and looked like he was weeping. I got up slowly and without making the slightest noise, since I was barefoot, I walked up behind him so that when he turned to go back to his room, he found me standing in front of him. He didn’t speak or make a move but I could feel the deep anguish that seemed to be crushing him. It hadn’t been an attack then: no pirates had landed in our well-sheltered port and no marauders were raiding the countryside. It was something much worse, something terrible.
‘What did the messenger tell you, father?’
He did not answer, but began hobbling back to the steps that led downstairs. Was it that he didn’t want to talk to me or that he couldn’t?
Only when weariness overwhelmed me did I creep back to bed. I lay there listlessly, listening to the north wind that blew hoarsely through the oak branches.
Euriclea woke me.
‘What happened, mai? Who was that man last night?’
‘You have no business wandering around at night. You should have been sleeping. Now get up and get dressed: the sun is already up.’
I put on my clothes and went down to the big hall, where one of the servants had already lit a blazing fire. Euriclea brought me a piece of bread, hot milk and honey from the kitchen. It was a clear, cold day; from the window I could see the peaks on the mainland sprinkled with snow. ‘Mai, when are we going to see grandfather?’
‘When your father decides.’
A man appeared in the hall. It had to be the messenger from the night before. His hair was unkempt and his eyes narrow as slits. The king came in next and sat down opposite him. A pleasant warmth had spread through the room. The carver roasted meat on a spit and served it with bread and fragrant herbs. When would I be allowed to eat meat at breakfast? I hated having to eat sweet stuff, as if I were a baby.
My father’s head was low and he said nothing. The messenger was speaking in a quiet voice: I could only hear a few words here and there: ‘. . . a pool of blood . . . on the floor . . . walls . . . his wife, children . . . I’m sorry . . .’ He stopped, and then: ‘The sea . . . the tide.’ He rose to his feet, bowed deeply and took his leave. Euriclea filled his knapsack with freshly baked bread and added a blood sausage and a small skin of wine.
I came close and sat at my father’s feet. ‘What happened?’ I asked.
He sighed and lifted his head. His eyes were filled with tears. I’d never seen him this way.
‘Hercules: do you remember him?’
‘Of course I do. The giant who used a tree as a club, who was so incredibly strong. Your friend when you went seeking the golden fleece. Has he died?’
‘Worse. He slaughtered his family at Mycenae, three nights ago. They found him asleep, lying in a pool of their blood. He was snoring like someone who had drunk too much pure wine, while the limbs of his wife and children were splayed all around him, slain by the sword he still held in his hand.’
My father seemed delirious himself, and the images he described came alive in my head. I wasn’t seeing the big hall of our palace with the fire burning, baskets full of fruit and cheeses from the orchards and cattle stables, the dogs curled up half asleep by the hearth, but a dark room, hemmed in by forbidding walls, its floor slick with blood. I trembled at the sight and my teeth chattered like when the north wind comes bringing snow.
‘How could this have happened?’ my father kept saying. Tears welled under his eyelids, rolled down his cheeks.
I was terrified. So a father can kill his own child? Would King Laertes do the same to me if I made him angry? He looked up at me and he must have realized what I was thinking because he touched my cheek. ‘Hercules is quick-tempered and he attacks like a lion in battle but he has a good heart, I know him well. He would never hurt a disarmed man, or anyone who could not defend himself. How could he have raised his sword against his own blood? Perhaps he’s gone mad, understand? Or perhaps someone, envious of his glory, gave him a poison that made him lose his mind . . . the king of Mycenae . . . I’ve never liked that look in his eye, that sinister smirk on his face . . .’
‘What’s going to happen now?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. Whatever the reason for his crime, he will have to atone for it.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He’ll have to pay for what he’s done, even if it was not his fault.’
I fell silent. The words were too heavy for my heart.
‘When are we going to visit grandfather?’ I don’t know why those words came to my mouth. Perhaps I was trying to escape from the fear of something too enormous for me to understand. But it was only natural for a boy to want to visit his grandfather: to receive presents, listen to some good stories, not to have to think about terrible things. I knew very little about my grandfather, apart from the gossip of the servants and my nurse. I’d never seen him. It was only natural for me to be curious, to want to meet the man who was my mother’s father, the king of a barren, mountainous land who lived in a palace of stone on top of a cliff.
‘It’s not time yet. You’ll go next year when you’ve become a man.’
The carver removed the leftovers from the table. Euriclea set fruit, hot milk, bread and honey on a tray and brought it to the queen’s quarters, making her way up the steps carved in the rock.
My father began speaking again: ‘Do you know how your grandfather got his name? Autolykos means “he himself is a wolf”. He’s called that because he’s a ruthless predator who has no consideration for anyone. He is hard and calculating; he cares nothing for rules or for respectable behaviour. He thinks nothing of breaking an oath. He lives in a steep-walled fortress, grey as iron, guarded by murderous cut-throats, on top of a cliff which is second in height only to Mount Parnassus itself, which looms behind it. He strikes fear into the hearts of all those living in a vast territory around him.’
I dropped my eyes, confused. My playmates had wise, loving grandfathers who took them out fishing on a boat or out to pasture with their flocks of sheep and loyal dogs.
‘The only time he came here to visit is when you were born. Your mother placed you on his knee and he gave you your name.’
‘Why him? Why not you, who are my father?’
‘Because he had waited so long for you. Even though we had assure
d him that if a boy were born he would be the first to know, he sent us messengers constantly to ask whether a son had been born in the palace. He seemed satisfied when he saw you. He furrowed his brow and said to us: “Daughter of mine, my son-in-law: give this child the name I will tell you now. I come here today nursing hatred in my heart for many a person, men and women alike. So the boy’s name shall be Odysseus.”’
Tears came to my eyes when I heard that story; the name I’d been given was cursed! My father said nothing. He watched me thoughtfully. But I could tell he was feeling the same dismay that had washed over me.
‘And thus it was. Once a name has crossed the threshold of the teeth, it cannot be taken back if the man pronouncing it has the child’s same blood, in a direct line of descent. And this is what happened.
‘But don’t be afraid. It will be you, by your actions and your deeds, the strength of your arms and your mind, who will give meaning to your name. Greatness can emerge from even the most bitter destiny. If your heart is strong and fearless, if you do not tremble in the face of any challenge, be it from man or god, you will have the life you deserve.’
I nodded to show that I understood even though the brief portrait of my grandfather that my father had sketched out had devastated me. He seemed to realize this: ‘In any event, before Autolykos left, setting sail on his big black ship, he turned back and said: “I’d like to invite my grandson to a hunting party.”
‘“Now, wanax?” I asked him.
‘“When the first hairs shadow his cheeks and his upper lip.”’
‘How old was I when grandfather invited me?’ I asked.
‘Six months old. But that’s how he is.’
I was even more confused. Inviting a six-month-old baby to a hunting party must mean something that I couldn’t fathom. And I couldn’t stop thinking that a troubled fate was written in my name.
My father read the look in my eyes: ‘Even if there is a shadow in the name you bear, no omen could ever darken your path because . . . because I love you, Odysseus, my son.’
That’s what he said and he hugged me tightly. I could feel the heat of the fire blazing in the hearth and the heat and smell of the big body of my father, the hero Laertes, king of Ithaca.
4
I SPENT THAT YEAR in great anticipation. When the first hairs sprouted on my cheeks and upper lip I would be a man and go to visit my grandfather Autolykos on the mainland. Euriclea explained that my grandfather had other sons who were my uncles and that they were formidable warriors as well. I had stopped thinking about the disturbing things I’d heard about my grandfather and was very curious to look him in the eye, and to meet my uncles and my grandmother as well. I dreamed about how I’d soon be entering an impregnable fortress on a rock nearly as high as Mount Parnassus and how I would explore its every corner and learn its every secret.
Mentor had told me that Parnassus was the place most beloved by the god Apollo, who lived there with the Muses. How had my grandfather dared to build his palace on a peak so high it challenged the mountain of the gods? Why had Apollo tolerated it?
As I approached manhood, my father turned me over to an instructor who would train me in the art of hunting and managing the hounds. He was a powerfully built man of about forty, greying at the temples, a native from the plains of Thessaly. His name was Damastes. He had been Jason’s shield-bearer on the Argo expedition and in Colchis. I could barely understand a word he said, but he made his will known well enough by shouting and caning me on the back and shoulders. It took me nearly three months to learn to track deer, boar, hare and wild goats, and to begin to master the bow and the javelin. By the time summer came, there was enough hair on my upper lip and cheek to give my face a hint of a shadow.
The eve of the great day arrived in no time: my father had chosen the summer solstice. That night my mother came to my room and told me a strange story: ‘Tomorrow you’ll be going to see your grandfather. Well, do you remember when you were little, and you asked me how I met your father? You wanted to know more and I told you, “Not yet. I’ll tell you when you are old enough to understand.” Remember? Well. That time has come. There’s something you need to know.’
My mother had a cold light in her eyes when she began speaking again. She said: ‘I was a young girl myself when one night, as I was sleeping soundly, I was woken by strange noises coming from a room that I’d always been forbidden to enter. I’d only been sleeping by myself, in my own bed, for a bit longer than a year, and I was terrified. The noise sounded like a muffled growling or snarling, as if a big animal were trapped inside and trying to escape. I made my way down the corridor without making a sound until I realized that the door to the room was half open and that the moon’s rays were streaming through. Even though I was scared to death, I felt compelled to look inside. I saw something that I’ll never forget. My father was writhing on the floor like a wounded animal. The growling I had heard was coming from his own mouth. His limbs were covered with coarse hair. At that moment – maybe because he’d felt my presence – he leapt outside. I ran to the window and saw a wolf crossing the courtyard and disappearing into the forest.’
I wanted to ask her if she was certain she hadn’t been dreaming but I already knew the answer: if she’d decided to tell me now it was because she thought that what she had seen was real.
‘I wanted you to know. Now you decide whether you want to depart on this journey.’
‘More than ever, mother,’ I answered.
‘Then I have something for you to give my father. There’s a message inside.’ Saying thus, she held out a small clay amphora. It was tiny, fitting in the palm of her hand.
‘I’ll give it to him from you, mother.’
She gave me a hug and a kiss and turned to go back to her bedroom.
THE NEXT DAY it was my father who woke me and walked me down to the port.
‘You’ll leave alone, like a man,’ he told me. ‘You will journey by sea and then by land, until you reach the palace of Autolykos . . .’
‘He himself is a wolf,’ I repeated in my heart.
‘You will find your way up to the eagle’s nest. You’ll enter the wolfs lair.’
Everyone came to the port to see me off: my parents the king and queen, my nurse Euriclea, who was weeping and wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, Mentor, who was cross because he could not leave with me, Damastes, who gave me three javelins and girded a dagger at my waist. It was sheathed in a bronze scabbard with fine silver decorations, the work of a craftsman from Same who had presented it to the king.
‘Your grandfather will surely take you hunting, which is the only pastime befitting a king or a prince,’ said my father. ‘He likes to hunt boar because it reminds him of a dreadful beast that was brought down by all the greatest kings and heroes of Achaia together: the boar of Calydon. A monster, he was. A gigantic, blood-thirsty specimen with enormous tusks, keen-edged as swords. He will certainly tell you the story even though he himself was not invited to the hunt . . . the only king to be excluded, I believe.’
We were waiting for the wind to turn, favourable to filling the sail and taking the ship out of the port. The sky was clear and cloudless, the sun was mirrored in the gulf as if by a polished silver plate. Oh, Ithaca . . .
‘The boar was killed by Meleager of Aetolia, one of my comrades on the Argo,’ added Damastes. ‘Beware, a boar is one of the most dangerous animals on earth. It is lightning swift and when it charges it can mow down any obstacle, even a horse five times its weight. When the hounds close in, a male can easily disembowel them all with his tusks. If you hear one coming, seek cover and get ready . . . If you see it coming from a distance, use your bow: you may not kill it but you’ll slow it down, and when it comes into range hurl your javelin with all your might.’
‘Take care, my son,’ said my father and he hugged me. I kissed my mother and she held me tight. Euriclea would not stop crying.
‘Stop your weeping, mai, that’s bad luck!’
The h
elmsman nodded to me as the sailors were hoisting the sail and I jumped onto the ship. My mother’s eyes were moist as well but she maintained her dignity. As the ship took off from the shore she said to me: ‘Remember the message I gave you for my father!’
‘Of course I will!’ I answered and waved goodbye to her.
My first journey.
I was leaving Ithaca for the first time. I would see the mainland approaching, feel the sea crashing against the stones on the shore and who knows what else. How small the king and the queen and all the others were becoming as we moved out into the open sea!
The wind remained in our favour and before night fell we dropped anchor in a little natural harbour.
‘That’s your grandfather,’ said the helmsman, pointing to a man on the shore. He was grey-haired but his body was lean and muscular. He wore a raw wool robe with a leather belt and was armed with a sword and spear. Flanking him were two warriors taller than he was, with long black beards, bushy eyebrows and hairy arms. I jumped out and walked over the pebbles and then on the sand towards him.
‘Wanax, you who possess this land,’ I said, ‘I am Odysseus, son of Laertes who rules over Ithaca. I’ve come because fifteen years ago you invited me to go hunting with you.’
‘Where did you learn to talk that way, boy?’ he replied. ‘You sound like an old master of ceremonies. I know who you are and I’ve been expecting you. I’m your grandfather and that’s what I want to be called. These are two of your uncles, brothers of your mother. Come now, dinner is waiting.’
We got into a chariot as the sky was darkening and the sea becoming streaked with purple, and set off on a path that led up the mountainside. A fierce sadness welled up inside me because I was riding off with strangers whom I’d never met before. I couldn’t help but think of the palace where my parents and all the servants lived, of the dinner that my nurse would prepare for me and set on the table. But then my curiosity at meeting these people and seeing places I’d never seen before won out.
Odysseus: The Oath Page 3