‘I’m not your friend.’
The smile began to fade. ‘You’re not?’
‘No.’
He glanced at the spear in the corner.
‘I’m not your enemy, either. I’m more than friend or foe to you. It’s bigger than that. I’m your father.’
The smile went out.
Should I leave? Then come back in, and try it again? This is one for the web, isn’t it? Easy on the web. On cue, Athene enters, an Immortal with flashing eyes, a goddess tall and stately, standing there in pigshit outside the swineherd’s hovel, come at an awkward moment, come to break the ice, to sort it out.
Does she get her feet dirty? Goddesses don’t get dirty feet – they don’t even have feet, not in the fleshly sense of the word. A goddess is a presence, an immanence. And immanences don’t need feet to sort things out. Pigshit doesn’t worry them.
So Athene appeared outside the hut, visible to me but not, of course, to my son, since it’s not to everybody that the gods reveal themselves, and they may materialise before one person in a room but not another in the same room as they so choose and see fit, or as circumstances dictate. There was a dictating circumstance right now in the swineherd’s hut. A goddess needed to speak to me.
Believable? In a world where goddesses rub shoulders with men and even from time to time spread their legs for them, anything can happen. You’d better believe it. Such are the ways of gods. This one frowned at me through the doorway, and I asked my son to excuse me for a moment. Even heroes of Troy need to take a piss occasionally, and old soldiers certainly do. I said I’d be back in a flash.
‘The hour has come,’ said Athene. ‘Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus of the many wiles, the time has come to confide in your son, reveal yourself for who you are, and bring him into the loop that will enmesh them all, these mutual enemies of yours. The two of you need to put your heads together and plan their destruction. And panic not – you are not alone. I’m here and I’m ready for the fray. They’re dead men. I’ll see to it that you drink their blood. But first, your son must know who you are. And he’s got to believe in you.’
What the touch of a wand can do if it’s wielded by a goddess! Shining clothes, increased stature, a bronze complexion, grey hairs removed, lantern jaws filled out, teeth whitened, stoop straightened, bruises healed, beard trimmed, hair styled, rheumy eyes turned to iron. The ultimate Olympian makeover. No wonder Telemachus got a shock when I stepped back inside, almost unrecognisable from the derelict who had gone out to pee.
Almost. But he could see I was somehow the same man. Or god.
‘No, I’m not a god. But I am your father.’
‘My father.’
‘And you’re my boy.’
His frown melted.
Time for tears? Dripping from the web, stitched there in silver, mine as I reached out and threw my arms around him – his eventually, unwilling at first as he struggled to accept it, afraid to believe but knowing it to be true, father and son resolved into one, one ultimate recognition of one another after twenty years.
‘Be sure of one thing: you’ll see no other Odysseus returning to you, no second coming. This is it. I’m it.’
He fell on my neck and we each gave ourselves up to the tears wholly – huge, scalding, sweet, bitter, desperate sobs, shaking us uncontrollably. We stood there for a very long time holding each other, both of us unable to speak a word.
Touching, don’t you think?
‘You’re it?’
‘That’s right, I’m it. I’m your father, and I’m your support. And god knows you seem to fucking need it, right?’
Right.
Better draw the veil then, screen off the reality of the moment, that moment when the web is preferable – immeasurably so – to the awkwardness, the incredulity, the anti-climax, the acrimony and affront to expectation, the disappointment and head-shaking and hysterical fucking laughter. You’re it?
I’m it. He’s it. You’re my father, he’s my son. What kind of father? What kind of son?
‘I don’t believe it!’
Neither of us could.
‘How could you take all this lying down? I mean, these fucking wasters! How could a son of mine . . .?’
‘Don’t call me a son of yours! I don’t know who the hell you are, you stinking tramp! I don’t know that I even want to know!’
‘Tramp? You were fucking courteous enough five minutes ago when you met me! When I was no man. When I was nobody!’
‘You still are! You still are nobody! And I was nobody to you – till you came out with this father crap. Father? You broken-down old bum, look at you!’
‘Yes, why don’t you do that? Look at me. You don’t know a hundredth of it, what I’ve been through, where I’ve been, what I am. Who I am.’
‘Who you are. Who are you? And you don’t know what I’ve been through either, while you were off strutting the world’s stage.’
‘Oh yes? Well I’m glad you call it that, because that’s what war is, boy, it’s the theatre. It’s the part we have to play, and I fucking played mine.’
‘And that makes you a hero, does it? The hero who buggered off and never came back, leaving his son in the shit.’
‘I’m back now, and I’m going to do something about this shit. I’d have done it long ago if I’d been here.’
‘You mean if you’d been me?’
‘That’s not what I meant. But while we’re about it, are the people against you? Is your mother incapable? Are you really telling me that all of you put together can’t handle a bunch of rakes? A handful of high-class hooligans? From what I hear, they’re empty vessels, loud mouths. The biggest problem they’re likely to cause is to their mothers, who probably sit up wondering why their bastard little brats aren’t tucked up in their beds by suppertime!’
A moment’s pause in the slanging match. And the little smile returned to his face. I liked that smile.
‘A bunch of brats, you say? A handful of hooligans? Where did you get your information from, I wonder? From what I’ve heard of my father, I think his first move might have been to check out the size of the opposition. You don’t know, do you? What’s a handful, would you say – five men, maybe six? What’s two handfuls – ten, a dozen at most? What would you say to two dozen? Would that suit you? Think you could take them on? Let me tell you then, there are two dozen, but that’s from Same alone. Do you want to hear about the others? I haven’t even started. Zacynthus sent twenty, Dulichium fifty-two, the pick of their best, with four – no, six – flunkeys in tow, and all with weapons. Add that to another dozen from Ithaca itself, plus the herald and the minstrel, and other servants, who may not be professional fighters but are handy enough at the carving, if you take my meaning, and well acquainted with the knife. Take Antinous and Eurymachus – neither is a dunce with the sword or the spear. How’s your arithmetic, by the way? Are you counting? I’ll do it for you. We could be looking at a hundred and twenty men, a hundred and twenty against us . . .’
‘Wait! You said we. You said us.’
‘I know. A hundred and twenty against us, against two.’
‘But what a twosome, eh? Father and son.’
‘Father and son.’
‘Better get used to it.’
‘Looks like I’ll have to. But what about these odds? Enough for you? I know you like a challenge, but do you really think we’d come out of it alive? I mean, you don’t happen to have come back with a hundred men, by any chance, who could fight on our side? You don’t happen to have any allies standing by?’
‘Ah, right. I was going to ask the same question.’
‘Ah, right.’
Silence.
I could have said that I had two allies, each worth a million men – Athene and Zeus. But his question was a serious one and didn’t concern the kind of allies who inhabit the clouds and are notoriously invisible when push comes to shove.
‘But I have another question to ask you,’ I said.
‘Yes?�
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‘I saw you come in with a spear and a bow. The spear struck me as a little lightweight, but everything looked to be in good trim. I like a man who likes his weapons and takes good care of them. I’m assuming they’re not just for show. So the question is, how good are you?’
‘Follow me,’ he said.
We went outside and he asked me to pick a target for him. A little old olive tree stood outside the wall, close to the gate. The sap had long gone out of it.
‘Try that.’
‘How many paces?’
‘How many paces is the palace hall?’ I asked.
He looked at me.
‘If you see what I’m getting at.’
He looked at me again. No sign of fear.
‘I know exactly how many paces,’ he said. ‘I played there when I was a boy, remember?’
‘I remember too,’ I said. ‘I built it.’
‘Thirty paces then.’
‘Thirty-five.’
We paced out the length of the hall and turned.
‘Now prove you’re my son.’
The first javelin went straight to the mark and the old tree groaned.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think I can feel safe enough standing next to the tree.’
‘Not too close. We wouldn’t want to halve our numbers.’
I retrieved the spear for him a dozen times. Not every one was a perfect hit and two whistled past. One nearly grazed me. But it would have given the Trojans something to think about.
‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Now the arrows.’
There were nine in the quiver. I marked the trunk of the tree. It was a generous target, but not a gift. Seven out of the nine whistled to the mark.
‘You haven’t wasted your youth,’ I said. ‘Who taught you?’
‘Who d’you think? Grandfather.’
‘Good man. I think we have a fighting force here.’
‘Not quite. And not quite yet. Now you prove you’re my father.’
‘You know I am.’
‘I know you are. But prove it.’
‘Still not convinced, eh? That’s my boy. Quite right. Why should you be? All right then, let me show you what a bundle of rags can do.’
I increased the distance by half as much again and started with the arrows. The bull’s-eye was obliterated by the time I’d done. Then I doubled the distance and hurled the javelin. It was one of the best throws of my life. The spear struck the tree with a sharp splitting sound and a massive crack opened up in the trunk. I walked up to it and prised it open, using all my strength.
‘Now I need a new target,’ I said. ‘Can you suggest one?’
‘About a hundred and twenty.’
He made to clasp me.
‘Not too close,’ I said. ‘Wait till I’ve cleaned off some of this shit. God knows what I’m harbouring.’
He ignored the health warning and hugged me tight, tears in his eyes.
‘Father?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
Father and son stood in silence for a few moments in front of the riven tree. Telemachus broke the silence.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking there’s a difference between a dead tree and men that aren’t rooted to the earth. They can move and return fire, no matter how unfit the bastards may be. We need reinforcements.’
‘And how!’
‘No, I don’t mean big numbers, but some sort of support. We do have one formidable ally – and it’s not Pallas Athene.’
‘I think we can discount her. Who is it then?’
‘It’s every soldier’s best weapon, and his enemy’s worst nightmare: surprise.’
The plan was hatched. First off, I’d spend a day with Telemachus to work on aspects of his archery and spearsmanship. An old salt could teach him a thing or two. At dawn the following day he was to go to the palace as if nothing had happened. Eumaeus would then bring me there, still in beggar mode, which would give me a chance to assess the enemy’s strength and calibre. It would also let them get used to my being around the palace without arousing suspicion. Any abuse I suffered I’d put up with, and Telemachus was under orders not to defend me beyond the bounds of courtesy. We’d both swallow it. Some of these bastards would soon be swallowing bronze – a lot worse than insults – and we were to do nothing that might jeopardise our plan and save them from the fate that was now not far off.
‘Two more things,’ I said. ‘One: when the time comes, I’ll give you a nod. When you see that signal, I want you to collect all the weapons that are lying about and get them out, well away from the hall. Stick them all in the strongroom – every single one. These cunts are going to be left defenceless. If all goes well, you can even get the weapons out of there when they’re not around to notice, and if anybody asks, just say you’ve seen how smoked up they’ve become over the years and you’ve taken them away for cleaning and polishing. In any case, weapons are always a temptation to men in their cups, and fun and games can quickly switch to quarrelling and scuffling, the sort of behaviour that might tarnish their chances as suitors and potential husbands – any shit like that will do, as long as you come out with it casually and don’t make it sound too heavy. But remember to leave two lots of weapons close at hand, one lot for me and the other for you. All clear?’
‘All clear. And the second thing?’
‘The second thing, and the most important point of all, is to tell nobody that I’m back – none of the household staff, not Eumaeus, not even my father, and above all not your mother. Have you got that?’
‘Got it.’
We took a breath for a second. A long second. We were each thinking about what was ahead of us. Then Telemachus spoke.
‘Some of the women –’
‘Are whores. I know, you already told me, remember? That’s why we can trust nobody, especially your mother.’
‘Are you saying –?’
‘No. But these women are too close to her. They can easily winkle things out of her, blow all our plans to the moon. About your mother, by the way. Let me be blunt. Has she . . .?’
He didn’t help me, bit his lip.
‘. . . slept with any of the bastards?’
He turned away, took deep breaths.
‘I don’t know. I can’t say for sure. How do I know what goes on in my mother’s bed? I know she doesn’t respect any of them much. Except Amphinomous.’
‘Amphinomous?’
‘Well, she’s under . . . a lot of pressure.’
‘And so will they be. A lot of fucking pressure. And soon.’
‘They’ll be in for a shock right away,’ said Telemachus, ‘when they find out I’m back from Pylos – alive and kicking.’
They got a shock, all right. The Pylos ship made the port and sent a message to Penelope that Telemachus had disembarked and gone up-country and would see her shortly. As it happened, the messenger and the swineherd carrying the same message converged, but Eumaeus whispered his report into the queen’s ear, whereas the sailor shouted his out as if he were bawling into a fucking hurricane. The suitors were stunned. And at that precise moment, the murder-ship arrived without its murdered man. Antinous came straight up to the palace, and Eurymachus laid into him in the courtyard, where the rest of the gang joined them.
‘Where the fuck were you?’
‘I still don’t know how he did it! We kept our scouts posted, all along the windy heights. We kept replacing them. We never slept on shore. We were afloat all night, ready to trap the bastard. If we’d spotted him, he’d be dead by now, but somehow the little fucker got through and got back here. He’s pulled it off and made us look like arseholes!’
‘Yes, and like arseholes, we’re about to be fucked!’
‘How?’
‘Because, you useless bastard, everybody knows we sent that ship out to get him, and you fucked it up! Now he’ll call an Assembly and denounce us. They could take a hard line and deport us.’
Antinous shouted down the consternation.
‘Then we’ll have to act first, won’t we? Where is he now, up-country? We need to trap him up there and get rid of him once and for all. He’s a thorn in our fucking flesh. Then we can divide everything that’s his among us – income, estate – and whichever one of us marries the mother gets her and the house. Everybody wins, except the sprog.’
Dead silence.
‘Well, what’s the matter?’
The matter was that murder at sea, where anything can happen, was one thing. Murder at home, Agamemnon’s fate, was a different matter.
Amphinomous broke the silence. ‘So we’re going to murder him in his bath, then?’
The silence was heavier.
‘We might do well to remember what happened to Aegisthus.’
Amphinomous was a decent sort, well descended, from the rippling grasslands of sea-green Dulichium. His father was King Nisus. The rest of the bunch respected him. And Penelope was fond of him.
‘Anyway, I’ve heard enough of this,’ he said. ‘I never went along with the murder plan in the first place, and I don’t now. Let’s go to the oracles. If Zeus decrees a death, and if it’s Telemachus to die, I’ll not only approve it, I’ll kill him myself. Will that suit you? But god’s will has to be done, and until that’s clear to us we should do nothing, and above all forget this bloody scheme. Our names are mud as it is. Let’s try to clear them.’
Amphinomous’s speech convinced the meeting, with the exception of the ringleaders, and they all streamed back into the palace and sat down. But Medon had eavesdropped again and heard every word of the courtyard debate. He hurried to warn the queen that Telemachus, though safely back, was far from safe.
‘The vote was to leave Telemachus alone. But Antinous and Eurymachus still have it in for him. They’re stubborn cunts – saving your presence.’
Penelope came down at once and accosted Antinous publicly.
‘Now I know you for the murderer you are,’ she spat. ‘Or would be. You’re all tarred with the same brush, in any case, with one or two exceptions. I know about your civilised intervention, Amphinomous, and I thank you for it. But I also know, Antinous, that you captained the ship that was meant to ambush my son. Do you honestly think you can get away with it, now that it’s out in the open? Why don’t you just go home now, while you have the chance, and leave us in peace?’
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