Ithaca

by Patrick Dillon

  “I don’t know. It’s just . . .” I think of the young men sprawled around tables in our great hall. Speech slurred, knives sharp, fingers drumming on the tables as they wait for the insult that will bring someone to his feet. Bored, vicious, carrying their honor inside them as if it were a precious glass they mustn’t allow to break. “I know what they’re like,” I go on quietly. “I don’t want to be like them.”

  “What else is there for a man to do?” I hear the crackle of leaves as Polycaste rolls over to look at me. “I’d give anything to be a fighter. It’s the only way to be safe. Be stronger than anyone else.”

  After a moment I go on, “Just before I came to Pylos, I met a girl in the town. I mean, I knew her before, but I’d never talked to her. She came up to me. She was holding a charm, exactly like the one my father left at the goddess’s shrine before he sailed to Troy. She said, ‘Bring him back.’” I pause, seeing the girl’s pleading face all over again. “I still don’t know what it means.”

  Polycaste snorts. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” I know what she’s going to say, but I don’t want to hear it. I suppose I’ve been refusing to admit it ever since the girl walked away, leaving the little owl in my hand.

  “Your father kept a woman in the town.” Polycaste shrugs. “She’s his daughter. He wouldn’t be the only one. My father was the same.” She laughs with something almost like affection. “Not anymore, obviously. He’s too old.”

  “Don’t you mind?”

  “You can’t mind about everything.” She reaches out, suddenly, and squeezes my hand. “Can you?”

  Next morning we start at dawn, aiming to travel as far as we can before the day becomes too hot. In the higher mountains the trees are short and stunted. We don’t see anyone except two copper miners, father and son, who are making charcoal next to a hollow in the rock. Smoke seeps from a mound of black earth, which they douse with water whenever a flame breaks through it. One of the men thrusts a wooden dipper into his bucket for us to drink from. From the top of the pass we can see the sea as a distant line of blue both ahead and behind. There’s a little temple to Apollo, the sun god, and we stop to light candles in the dusty, dark interior. Someone, perhaps the miners, is looking after it. The floor is swept, and two twig brooms stand neatly in one corner.

  “Do you believe in this?” Polycaste asks without looking at me.

  “In the gods? Of course.”

  “Really believe.” She glances quickly at me. “Between you and me.”

  I look at the statue of Apollo on the altar. It’s wooden, worm-eaten, with one glass eye missing. Someone has hung mountain flowers around its neck. A tiny silver chain, a bracelet, has been crumpled up and thrust between its wooden feet as an offering.

  “My grandfather told me Odysseus speaks to the goddess. She meets him and they talk, just like you and me talking now.” I pause, remembering what Nestor said about my father, the teller of tales. “I don’t believe that.”

  “If you’d spoken to her, maybe the goddess could have told you where your father is.”

  I shrug. “Perhaps Menelaus will.”

  “He will.” Polycaste sounds certain.

  “How do you know?”

  “Menelaus is the most powerful king there is. He knows everything. Servants everywhere. Messengers coming and going. It’s not like Pylos. He’ll know.”

  “Do you remember Sparta?”

  “I only went there once, six years ago. I remember the palace, most of all. It’s huge, bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. It’s what everyone must dream of, to be a king like that, in a palace like that. My bed was so big I cried, because I thought I’d get lost. Then my father was angry that I might wake up Helen.”

  “What’s Helen like?”

  “Beautiful.” She shrugs. “That’s all I remember. Just beautiful. You look at her and you can’t imagine taking your eyes away. You don’t think . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “What?”

  “That this was the woman who started the war. About all the men who died because of her. At least I didn’t, then.”

  There’s a moment’s silence, then Polycaste reaches forward, suddenly, and touches my arm. “Menelaus will help you. You’ve got to believe that.”

  Beyond the pass, the trees change to pine, filling the overheating air with the smell of resin and dust. Cicadas shriek in the trees around us. When it’s time to rest, Polycaste pulls her scarf over her head and shakes out hair dark with sweat. The mules switch their tails angrily at flies. We hear falling water ahead of us. Dismounting, we lead our mules through an overgrown track that leads off the path. It twists around a rock and suddenly we’re standing by a wide, black pool with a little waterfall tumbling over rocks at one end.

  Polycaste drops her mule’s reins, and it wades eagerly forward to drink. She follows it. “It’s cold. Freezing. Meltwater. We can camp under the cliff.”

  We eat the last of our bread and some figs we find growing wild among the rocks, and we drink the frigid water from the pool. Close to the shore, stones shine under the surface; beyond them the water plunges into icy blackness.

  “What are you worrying about?” We’ve eaten and are lying in the shade of the trees that fringe the pool.

  “I’m not,” I lie.

  “Yes, you are. You haven’t said a word.”

  I guess I’m finding it hard to break a lifetime’s habit of secrecy. I haven’t gotten used to the idea there’s someone I can tell things to. Other people have friends. I never did.

  “Fighting, I suppose.”

  “Fighting?” Polycaste sounds amused.

  “Because I’m going to have to. Sometime. And I don’t know how.”

  “Come on, then.” Polycaste scrambles to her feet and holds out her hands. “I’ll teach you.”

  “You?”

  “Why not? You’ve got to learn from somebody. We’ll start with wrestling. That’s how Elatreus started with me.” She drops to a crouch. “It’s all about balance. Once you’ve learned balance, you can fight with anything. Sword, spear, whatever. Look, stand like this.”

  She tenses on the balls of her feet, arms out and ready. I do my best to copy her, and she doubles over laughing. “You don’t have to look so fierce. I mean, not with me. Try again. Grab me by the arms and throw me.”

  She drops to a crouch again, and we circle. Each time I move forward, Polycaste sways back out of my reach. I make a sudden lunge, then feel my leg slip from under me, and suddenly I’m lying on my back looking up at branches.

  Polycaste’s face appears. She’s trying not to laugh. “You lost your balance when you reached too far. Stand up.” When I’m standing, she takes me by the waist and pulls me forward abruptly. “See? When you’re off balance, it’s easy for me to throw you. I can use your own weight. One leg to kick your foot away . . .” Her bare foot kicks me expertly on the ankle. “And you’re over. Now try again.”

  We try again. And again. Each time I lunge forward, she dances away from me. Once, Polycaste feints, and when I stumble back she uses my own weight to trip me. I’m a bit stronger than her, I soon figure. Using that, I grip her around the waist and feel her rib cage crush against me, then I’m suddenly rolling backward, feet off the ground, to land, stunned, against a tree.

  She laughs. “You’re not bad, actually. At least you might be all right one day. Come on.”

  She reaches out a hand and pulls me up. We circle again. I feel sweat in my eyes and wipe it away. Polycaste uses the distraction to spring forward, but this time I’m quick enough to seize her waist as she closes in and roll backward, just like she showed me. It nearly works. Polycaste jams her foot between my legs as we turn, and we land heavily on the ground together, with her on top, weight crushing me, laughing.

  “Nearly. Well done.”

  Her hair tickles my face. She’s lying on me, panting, and suddenly I feel embarrassed. I’m aware of her closeness, of the smell of figs on her breath, of the bro
ad pressure of her chest. Polycaste looks down at me. She knows what I’m thinking; suddenly her expression’s sardonic. I stare past her small ear, fixing my eyes on the leaves, dreading what she’s going to say. But to my surprise, she gives a short laugh.

  “You’re sweet,” she says softly.

  She leans down and kisses me gently on the cheek, then rolls off, walking down toward the stream. As she walks, she pulls her gown over her head and strides into the stream with her back to me.

  “It’s freezing,” she says in a normal voice. “Icy.” Then she’s gone, splashing out into the deeper water.

  She turns, swimming back toward the bank with her chin high out of the water.

  “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “I’m all right here.”

  “Coward. It is cold, though. I’m getting out. Don’t look.”

  I don’t look, but sit with my head turned away, listening to Polycaste cough out water and dry herself.

  “You can turn around now.”

  She’s sitting wrapped in a white sheet, hugging her knees. “Look at you,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Solemn.” She pulls a long face. “You ought to swim, you know. It makes you feel alive.” She gives a short laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t look either.”

  The next morning, an hour or so after leaving, the path breaks through trees to a hillside, where we look out over a flat plain divided into neat, square fields. A stone blockhouse bars the road. We can see a haze of smoke above a town in the distance.

  Polycaste turns in her saddle and grins at me.

  “Sparta,” she says.

  The soldiers from the blockhouse spend more than an hour searching our saddlebags. Neither of us is quite sure what they’re looking for. The men are polite but thorough. They nod respectfully when we tell them our names, but they go on searching anyway.

  More soldiers throng the villages we pass as we ride down to the plain, led by a mounted escort commanded by a young officer with a sandy beard. To me, it feels quite different from the gentle hills of Nestor’s territory. Faces watch us curiously from the cottages we pass, but no children run out into the streets to greet us. At each village our escort stops to exchange passwords with the garrisons who man the village gatehouses. A soldier keeps a firm grip on the bridle of my mule.

  When it reaches the plain, the road runs straight and dull, chalk white, through fields of wheat. There are men and women harvesting the crops. They move in straight lines through the fields, backs bare and shining with sweat, slashing at the wheat stems while overseers watch from high stools. Sparta itself is a main street of taverns and workshops, prosperous but dull, with six dusty plane trees shading the square. Everything is dominated by the palace that rises beyond it in tiers of columns and terraces.

  A broad flight of marble steps leads up from the square. Menelaus is waiting for us on the first landing.

  I recognize him from his red hair. He’s famous for it—“redhead Menelaus,” the storytellers call him. It falls over his shoulders in luxuriant waves, while his beard, flowing softly over his chest, is streaked with silver hairs that somehow make him look even more distinguished. A gold medallion hangs in the red curls that show thickly through his silk robe. Soldiers line the step behind him.

  “Friends.” His voice is a low purr. Menelaus comes down the steps and puts an arm around each of our shoulders. He smells of some expensive perfume. “My friends’ children—that makes you my friends.” He squeezes us both tighter. “Look—my palace.” He spins us around suddenly to look up at the steps, the soldiers, and the columns that flank the entrance beyond. Statues line the terrace, beyond which we can see the leaves of a garden. “You like it?” Menelaus says. “Yes? Later, I’ll show you around. You had a good journey? Yes? Were the soldiers rude to you? They’ll be punished. Look . . .” Gripping our shoulders before we can answer, he turns us to look across the dusty square. A man is leading a cart piled with wheat. Menelaus watches it approvingly. “My town. Let me tell you something—you know why my town means so much to me?” His voice drops a note. “It’s because of the people in it. My people. Come. You’re tired. You need to wash. Come into my palace.”

  Still grasping our shoulders, he leads us up the steps to a broad, paved forecourt. Soldiers guard the gate that leads into the palace. The two columns that flank the gate are carved with the faces of lions, symbol of the Atreids.

  But Menelaus stops us again.

  “I want you to be my guests,” he says, and smiles, perfect white teeth showing through his beard. “I want you to be happy here. I want this to be your home. Telemachus.” He says my name clumsily, like he hasn’t learned it properly, and kisses me formally on each cheek. “Polycaste.” He kisses Polycaste the same way. I can feel her wince. “My guests matter to me. Welcome.”

  There isn’t a moment to ask about my father. Menelaus sweeps us with him up the massive flight of steps. The palace is spectacular. The corridor beyond the gate is lined with servants holding torches, and decorated with statues in niches. At the far end it opens onto a courtyard twice the size of the ones at Ithaca or Pylos. There’s a pool of water reflecting rows of columns, and an upper story painted red and black. At one end stands an overblown marble altar, and at the other, a life-size statue of Menelaus.

  “This is my courtyard,” Menelaus tells us. “My altar to Hera, my favorite goddess.”

  He turns us toward the other end, where the statue of him stands on a fat block of granite.

  “Me,” he says, as if we hadn’t noticed. “I had marble for the statue brought from Attica. Fifteen shiploads. Any flaw in the stone, we threw it overboard. I said, ‘I only want the best for my statue.’ Helen, my wife, agreed. The sculptor? I only wanted the best in Greece. He was working in a town in Thrace, so I went to the town. I sacked it. I said, ‘You only work for me.’ He made the statue, he died. A tragedy. He was my friend. I said to him, ‘At least now you’re dying, you can say you’ve made a masterpiece.’ I’ll never forget the tears in his eyes. Gratitude. That’s the staircase leading to my guest rooms. This is my great hall.”

  Like the courtyard, the great hall of Sparta dwarfs the halls at Ithaca or Pylos. Columns support thick wooden beams that are carved and painted in the shapes of wild beasts. The walls are decorated with frescoes. Four soldiers stand on guard around the hearth, whose smoldering logs fill the room with a sickly reek of incense. On each of the columns hang huge bronze shields, and more war trophies decorate the walls above the frescoes: a breastplate molded in the form of writhing snakes, helmets, a war chariot’s gilded yoke.

  “My trophies,” Menelaus says, pointing. “From Troy. Later, when you’ve rested, I’ll describe them to you. You can’t wait? You want to hear about them now?” He gives a low, indulgent laugh. “Then I’ll tell you. This is the armor of Hector, greatest of the Trojan fighters. His helmet. Two wheels from his chariot. This is Paris’s armor. The shield of Priam . . . Priam, king of Troy—greatest city in the world—his shield on my wall. The breastplate of Deiphobus, solid gold, I cut it from his body myself. He was still alive. I said, ‘You anger the Atreids, you pay the price.’ His shoes. The shield of Hippodamus, son of Priam, the spear of Chersidamas . . .”

  The recitation seems to go on forever, shield by shield, spear by spear. Just when we’re hoping it’s over, Menelaus claps his hands for a servant, who brings in trays of jewelry, copper bars, temple offerings, each one in a case lined with red silk. Each has a story that Menelaus tells us in detail. Sometimes he pretends to forget a name and claps his hand for the servant, who steps forward and mutters in his ear.

  “Doryclus,” Menelaus says. “Inside the citadel. Third door on the right. His wife is my slave. Do you know, I can see the citadel of Troy today as clearly as if I was still walking through it. And both of your fathers . . .” He comes forward and engulfs us in another hug. “Both of your fathers were right behind me. The loyalest friends I knew. ‘Odysseus,’ I said, ‘You take the
streets on the right. Nestor, the left.’ They obeyed my orders.” He clicks his fingers. “Like that.”

  “My father . . .” I say, thinking I’ll be able to get in a question, but Menelaus is on to the next shield, the next glittering dagger. It’s over at last. A maidservant comes forward at Menelaus’s command and shows us the way upstairs—with a strict order to return when the bell rings—to two luxurious guest rooms whose windows overlook a garden of gravel paths and orange trees. We collapse on chairs in Polycaste’s room.

  “He’s a fool,” she says scornfully.

  “He can’t be that much of a fool.”

  “He behaves like one. ‘My dining table. My chair.’” She stabs a finger at her chair, which is upholstered in crocodile skin dyed a vivid purple. “I can’t believe it. He’s supposed to be the greatest king of all.

  “‘My palace . . . My guests . . . I want this to be your home.’” Polycaste shakes her head. We’re laughing now.

  “I want to meet Helen.”

  “We will.”

  When the bell rings, drinks—delicately spiced wine in silver cups—are served on a garden terrace lined with orange trees. You can smell their sweet fragrance drifting across beds of well-tended plants. We’re so high up we can’t even see the town. A servant stands behind each chair to refill our cups. Both of us are washed and dressed. In each of our rooms we found a deep marble tub filled with water that actually spouted from pipes in the shape of dolphins’ beaks. Next to each stood cedar chests filled with soft silken robes, Polycaste’s blue and mine white, which we’re wearing as we recline on wooden benches, listening to Menelaus talk.

  “So you’ve come to bring respects. I’m glad you’ve come. Polycaste . . . Telemachus . . . I’m glad you’re my friends.”

  But I can’t wait any longer now. “I came for news of my father,” I say.

  There’s a moment’s silence. Menelaus makes a funny, troubled frown, like I haven’t understood the rules. He brushes the frown away as if it were an annoying insect. “Your father,” he says. “Odysseus. Odysseus—my friend.”