A long speech. A short silence.
‘And if you did?’
‘Won’t you give up? If I did see him again I’d die happy, that’s all. Sometimes I do see him, you know.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes, and then I wake up. Every fucking time.’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘you’re not dreaming now, are you? And nor was I when I heard news of him. I totally agree with you about the tramps and their tales, but I’m not like that, and I hate the guts of those lying bastards who’d wring a widow’s heart to earn a crust. I may be poor, but I’ve got more self-respect than that. All the same, I’ll claim a reward from you if I may – call it a bet – when Odysseus returns. As return he will. A new rig-out would suit me best, as you can see. What do you think? Is there any chance of it?’
Eumaeus laughed out loud.
‘You’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you? More bugger than beggar if you ask me. But let’s hear you out. I’m sure it’ll make for good listening. As to the rig-out, if I had the means, I’d see to it right now, though it’s one reward I know I’ll never have to pay.’
So I spun the swineherd a long and tangled tale of my adventures. They included a seven-year sojourn in Egypt, and they were so detailed I almost believed all of it myself. That wasn’t so difficult. Like all good lies, they had a basis in truth. I said I was a Cretan (false) who’d fought at Troy (true) and that after various other exploits I’d been shipwrecked on the coast of Thesprotia (true and false), where I’d learned that Odysseus was still alive (false and true). The Thesprotian king had assured me on his own authority that Odysseus, whom he’d met, had gone to Dodona and was thinking about how to approach Ithaca, possibly in some sort of disguise. In the end I was betrayed by some sailor scum who’d been ordered to take me to Dulichium but fleeced me instead, the bastards, and would have done for me if I hadn’t escaped. I swam to safety, hid in a thicket and finally made my way to the hut of an extremely decent swineherd. Now what was it they called him?’
Eumaeus laughed even louder.
‘I think you’re destined to be a survivor, my friend.’
‘Then so is Odysseus, I would say.’
‘And so you reached Ithaca just before him, eh? Well, it’s quite a story, and I believe it too. Not every word, mind you – it’s the bits about Odysseus that don’t ring true, but I don’t think you’re doing it to curry favour with me. On the contrary I think you genuinely want to please me out of the goodness of your heart, and that’s why you embroider your exploits so attractively. You’d like to give me hope. It’s not necessary, though, believe me. I learned to live without hope a long time ago. Same with lady luck – we got a divorce. I told you already, if Odysseus had been killed in action, the whole nation would have built him a mound by now, and a splendid one too, for all the world to see. No, he’s an unknown soldier in an unmarked grave. Or he’s beach debris, sea-drift. The storm-fiends have spirited him away. Wherever he is, he’s not on Ithaca.’
I decided to persist a little longer.
‘You’ve been bloody good to me, sir, and if it turns out that I’m lying, I want you to have me thrown from the cliffs as a warning to other cheats and liars. In fact, I insist on it.’
That made the swineherd chuckle.
‘No way to treat a guest, especially one who tells such sweet lies, and so well meant. But come on, let’s eat up again. The men are coming back with the beasts.’
The air was soon full of the cursing of herdsmen and the grunting of swine. Eumaeus shouted to them to quieten down and bring in the fattest boar in my honour.
‘We don’t usually allow ourselves such luxuries. The choicest cuts go down the gullets of those fucking gallivanters at the palace. But tonight is different, you’re my guest. And I reckon we’ll do the scumbags out of one fine meal at least.’
At the dinner he did the carving himself and personally saw to it that I was awarded a special slice from the whole length of the chine. It was a great spread and a good mood settled over the hut, the workers tired but well fed, a little sleepy with wine and pleasantly relaxed in the crackling firelight. The night closed in black and stormy and a wet west wind sprang up. I heard ghosts in the rain – it was that sort of weather. They were the ghosts of old friends, all those comrades who’d fallen at the gates of Troy, on her beaches, and on the windy ringing plains. And those others who’d vanished into the ocean’s endless belly.
That was the point at which the depressing emptiness opens up, the moment when whatever you’re holding slips from your hand and you ask yourself the oldest question in the world: what’s the fucking point? Nothing matters. It never has mattered, never will. And all those friends you knew died out there for nothing in a war without a cause, their lives as weary and meaningless as the wind. The night rain is filled with their aimless ghosts.
Luckily, one of the workers, a nice young lad, changed the atmosphere for me.
‘You fought at Troy, they say. I wonder, could you give us some idea of what it was like? Any story at all. It would be great to get an eyewitness view, a first-hand account.’
Murmurs of appreciation. It gave me an idea, and I decided to give the lad his story, a good one with a touch of mischief in it. Old soldiers never die.
‘Troy, you say? Old Troy town. Fucking hell, that takes me back. I wish I were as young and fit as I was that night.’
‘What night was that?’
‘Oh, it was the night we led the surprise offensive on the city. That was some night, I don’t mind telling you. Odysseus and Menelaus were leading the attack and I was third in command. You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, would you? But war is like time – it has a way of making you look and feel like shit.
‘Anyway, it was winter, and when we came up to those walls in the dark – fuck me! The way they towered above and frowned down on you, so fucking solid and massive, making you feel so small. You felt Troy could never be taken, would never be taken, not ever. We fell back a bit and lay down in our armour among the marshland reeds. These plains were like soup in winter, and this was some fucking winter. There was a north wind blowing, but it dropped all of a sudden and one of those quiet frosts came down – you know the sort I mean; it’s cruel because it’s so fucking quiet, you know what I’m talking about, I mean a wind you can understand, like a sword coming at you, something you can duck, get out of the way of, but that soundless frost – it’s like a fucking ghost.
‘After that the snow fell. Another soundless attack, the silent fucking enemy again, thick white flakes in their millions, bitterly cold, blizzards of the stuff. An enemy makes himself heard, for fuck’s sake; you get used to the noise of combat. It’s the fucking silence, I tell you, that’s what I can’t stand. Then the ice piled up, thick on our shields. We were using them as shelters, extra protection, except I didn’t even have a cloak, did I? I’d left it back at base, not thinking it would get so cold. That’s what kills you in the field too often.’
‘The cold?’
‘No, not thinking. Anyway, by the third watch I was desperate. The stars had wheeled well round. The Great Bear was arse over tit. Odysseus was stretched out next to me. I gave him a dig in the ribs, and he sat up at once. That’s what I liked about old Odysseus. Ask him about something, anything, any time of the day or night, and he was all ears. He always had his wits about him.
‘“Hey, Odysseus,” I said, “I could use your help. My arse is a slab and my prick’s an icicle. My balls are about to drop off. It’s a stiff you’ll have next to you soon, and a fat lot of use I’ll be to you when we attack.”
‘“And what exactly do you want me to do?”
‘“Anything, only make it quick!”
‘To be honest, I thought he might have lent me his cloak, but not him, not Odysseus. Instead – and this was typical of the old schemer – he turned and whispered to the rest of the company.
‘“Wake up, lads. It’s occurred to me that we’ve come too far from the ships. We’re vulnera
ble, too small a contingent. I need somebody to take a message to the commander and request reinforcements, right away. But he’s got to be a good runner. Any volunteers?”
‘There was a young fellow called Thoas lying close to us. He was one of those death-or-glory types and one hell of a runner, a real action man. He hated doing nothing, and he was probably freezing his balls off like the rest of us and glad of the chance to warm up. Anyway, he accepted the commission and shot off, leaving his cloak behind, of course, for ease and speed.
‘“Will you look at that,” said Odysseus. “Somebody’s left a cloak lying about. As it seems to be going a-begging, you might as well have it and keep warm, don’t you think?”
‘That was Odysseus for you. He would have missed his own cloak so he got somebody else’s for me. He never missed a trick. I was never so glad to get a cloak.’
Every man was snoring by the time I finished – except Eumaeus.
‘A great yarn, friend, and I nearly believed it. I bet you nearly believed it yourself.’
I spread my arms wide.
‘A great bid for a cloak too. I’ll tell you what, we don’t have any spares here, and nobody’s got the wits of Odysseus either, but if you can manage in your rags for the rest of the night, we’ll see what happens in the morning. Odysseus’s son might be back from Sparta.’
‘Telemachus?’
‘Yes, he went off in search of his father, for news of him. His ship’s due back in port any day now, and he’ll see that you’re properly kitted out before he sends you on your way. In the meantime, you won’t go cold.’
He rose and made me a bed of fleeces right next to the fire, and he gave me an especially thick cover which he kept for cold snaps. But he left the fire himself after a while and went out well wrapped up to sleep in the cold night air, close to the herd, javelin in hand.
‘I’ll just keep an eye on them,’ he said. ‘I can sleep with the other eye.’
I smiled to myself to see how attentive he was to his duties, just as if his old master were watching him.
Which he was.
And yet this decent old man thought I was far away and never coming back, a handful of white dust in the black earth or scattered bones at the bottom of the world, under the deep sea.
FORTY-NINE
Telemachus’s trip to Pylos and Sparta had been arranged on high, long before the return to Ithaca. Penelope gave her son the highest profile on the web, paving the way for his dramatic meeting with his father. It started with a conversation among the gods, up on the blue heights. After Pallas Athene had spoken to Zeus, the goddess decreed that the youth was old enough to imitate his father by putting out to sea in search of him, or at least some news of him, and she sped down from Olympus to offer inspiration.
He needed it. She found both him and Ithaca in a bad way, with the suitors swaggering about giving orders, openly groping the maids and stuffing themselves like pigs. The palace tables were awash with wine, and the music and dancing went on non-stop – they were forcing Phemius, the court bard, to play for them. Telemachus was sitting apart from them, a spiritless specimen, and he unburdened himself to the new arrival, Mentes, the Taphian chieftain. At least he thought he did.
Mentes was none other than Pallas Athene in disguise.
‘Just look at them, stranger, with their draughts and their dancing and the obscene amount they’re wolfing down and putting away, slaughtering my father’s fatted cattle and swilling it back with the best wine. What on earth do you think of this place? I’d be interested in your opinion, as a newcomer.’
Mentes agreed that it was distasteful.
‘And immoral,’ said Telemachus. ‘And cowardly – living it up on the back of a man who can do nothing about it because his bones are festering in the rain under the godless skies. Or they’re tumbling in the cold ocean. And if by any remote chance he’s alive and unable to get home, there isn’t a man for miles around who isn’t trying to take his place. From Dulichium they come, from Same, from leafy Zacynthus, and from every crevice in rocky Ithaca, yes, the lice are crawling out of the woodwork. They’re courting my mother and ripping through the finances, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’d go to the people but I’d get no help from them. The rich families among them are actually encouraging their brats to try their luck here, and they control the peasants, who can’t be arsed anyway. Some of them don’t remember Odysseus, and most of them care even less. If he came back now they wouldn’t blink an eye. But he won’t.’
The goddess erupted in indignation, with such a bright blaze of anger she nearly gave the game away.
‘Shame on you! Can’t you confront this gang of thieves? How can you be so sure that your father isn’t coming back either? Have you seen these white bones of his? Have you rolled with them in the ocean? Have you lain with them on the sea-bed? Have you held his ashes in your fist? Have you stood on his grave and planted his oar in the earthen mound? If not, then how can you say for certain that he’s dead? And if he does come back suddenly and gets among that lot, I wouldn’t give much for their chances, whatever their numbers. It would be a quick death and a grim wedding for the whole gang of them. He’d marry them all right, but it’s Persephone they’d be wedded to, not Penelope.’
There was a flicker of a smile from Telemachus. And Athene fanned the little flame.
‘Of course, all that lies in the lap of the gods, who could be closer to you than you think. But meanwhile, listen to my advice, as a man of experience. Starting tomorrow, when they’re all sobered up, take matters into your own hands. Tell them to quit the palace and tell your mother to go back to her father – remove the temptation from the scene. Very likely she will refuse to go, but it will show everybody you mean business. As for you, take a twenty-oared ship and sail to Pylos to see old Nestor, and then go on to Sparta to red-haired Menelaus. He was the last of the Greeks to make it home, and he may know something. Nestor always knows things. If you discover that your father’s dead, then that’s it – your mother is free to re-marry, and you can rid the place of this scum. In any case, you’re a man now and it’s up to you to seize the day. Be like Orestes, why can’t you? Man, what a name he made for himself when he killed that adulterous traitor who murdered his father. You could be the new Orestes, the Ithacan Avenger, the Suitors’ Nemesis. You’ll be a song of the centuries. Think about it.’
And the goddess left him to do so, flitting like a bird through a slit in the roof, back to Olympus. The young man now knew he’d been with a god and felt the change. He was inspired.
So was Phemius the bard. He was singing about the Greeks coming back from the war and about all their sufferings under the gods. The lyrics drifted up to Penelope in her lofty chamber, and the lyre strings plucked at the old wounds. Down she came, down the steep staircase, flanked by two loyal maids and masking her face from the suitors. But then the sobs shook her and the company witnessed her tear-stained cheeks.
‘Phemius,’ she cried, ‘no more of that! You know it kills my heart when I hear it, for it comes too close to home and cuts me to the bone for my absent husband whose name sounds through the land from Hellas to the heart of Argos.’
Much to everybody’s surprise, Telemachus cut in.
‘A poet, mother, must sing as the spirit moves him, and not at the behest of a bunch of thugs who care more for their bellies than for the arts. You have to accept that a sad song will sear the heart but also open the mind. And it is a shut mind that is the enemy of art. Be brave and keep your mind open, including the possibility that my father may yet return and loosen the bowels of that lot over there. And if he doesn’t – well, he wasn’t the only one to be destroyed by Troy. That war was the end of thousands of men. But if he does come back, you’d better shut your ears and eyes to what will happen. Best go to bed then – it could even happen tonight.’
Surprise shaded into astonishment and anger among the suitors.
‘Who’s lit a fire under this impudent young pup all of a sudden?’
But Penelope went back up to bed as advised and lay weeping for her husband till Pallas Athene closed her weary eyes in sleep. Meanwhile, down among the shadows, the suitors muttered about the change in Telemachus and showed their bravado by boasting that no offspring from Penelope’s belly would keep them out of her bed for much longer.
‘Who’s going to be the one to share it, eh?’
‘Maybe more than one.’
‘Maybe two at a time? Or even three?’
‘Why stop at three?’
‘Who’s for going up there right now and giving her a good seeing to? We’d soon hear her sing to a different tune, and it wouldn’t be Troy!’
The coarse talk continued into the small hours. But eventually the last of the bunch staggered drunkenly home and Telemachus went up to bed, escorted by the torch-bearing Eurycleia, whom his grandfather Laertes had brought home long ago when she was a girl for the price of twenty oxen. He had never slept with her for fear of displeasing his wife, and she had been nurse to Telemachus – and before that Odysseus as a child. Now she secured Telemachus’s door and left him planning out in his mind all night long the journey Pallas Athene had devised for him.
Early next morning he called an Assembly of the Ithacan leaders, in which he was supported by the venerable Aegyptius. The elder statesman didn’t know it yet, but his soldier son, Antiphus, who had sailed with Odysseus, was the last crew member to be eaten by the savage Cyclops in his cave. But he did know already in his heart that his son was dead, and it was with tears in his eyes for that lost son that he now begged from the leaders a hearing for the son of his king.
Telemachus went straight to the point.
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