Penelope's Web

by Christopher Rush

  Eurymachus stood up to calm her down.

  ‘Penelope, believe me, not one of us has any intention of harming your son. People come out with all sorts of rubbish at meetings, where they get carried away in the heat of the argument. They say things they don’t really mean, just for the fun of it.’

  ‘And do they also go to the trouble of sending ships into the straits between Ithaca and Samos and waiting there night after night to intercept a ship from Pylos – just for the fun of it?’

  ‘That’s another thing, and a bad thing, I agree. But I was never on that death-ship myself, and I’m not on any death-squad now, and never will be. Telemachus is my best friend. I’m proposing to marry his mother, for god’s sake. He’ll be my son. I’d kill the man who tried to harm him. My god, I can still remember how his father used to treat me as if I were his own son, as if Telemachus and I were brothers! No, when Telemachus dies it will be by the will of the gods and will have nothing to do with me, or with any of us. You have my word on that.’

  So spoke Eurymachus to placate Penelope. But like the accomplished hypocrite he was, he spoke smoothly with murder in his heart.

  Penelope was taken in by none of it. And with fears for her son weighing heavy on her heart, she retired to her own apartments on the upper floor, and lay in bed alone, as always, a statue of fidelity, carved out of patience. Only the moonbeam shafts slid coldly between her breasts. Only the shadow of the poplar stole slowly up the bed between her gently parted legs. Only the hot wet tears on her cold marble cheeks revealed that she was not an emblem but a real woman, a queen of flesh and blood. Otherwise she existed only in her art.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Sometimes I think it’s fruitless to ask what’s true and untrue in this existence of ours, where art and life, dreams and reality, jostle for the laurels and the memory plays tricks. It’s one of those imponderables. How do you know what’s going on in other people’s heads? Half the time, you can’t even trust your own head to tell you what’s true, let alone whether truth exists. I look back on past events and ask myself if they really happened like that, the way I remember them. I ask myself if they ever happened at all. Troy itself seems unreal at times – except in the nightmares that tear the blanket of the dark and leave you bleeding out your fears, a helpless wreck on the bed. You know they’ll never let you go, the monsters, not until you die. So every man’s Troy lives on, sharing his life with him, while real life – whatever that may be – slips off into the shadows, a daily blur, and only the dreams are real.

  I wasn’t dreaming when I watched Telemachus leave the farm. He ordered Eumaeus to take me to the city and let me beg my bread at the palace, as we’d agreed. But what happened when he got there himself? Did Eurycleia weep tears of relief? Did Penelope emerge like Artemis, or like golden Aphrodite, and stun the suitors with her beauty? And did the spearman Peiraeus appear with Theoclymenus the fugitive in tow, his head buzzing with divination?

  ‘Believe me, madam,’ Theoclymenus said, ‘I swear by almighty Zeus, Odysseus is in Ithaca even as we speak.’

  They were still laughing about that when I arrived. I cut a contemptible figure, hobbling along after the swineherd, a bundle of black tatters with an arm protruding, clutching a stick.

  We followed the rocky road down from the farmlands and stopped at the public watering-place to refresh ourselves with the clear spring water that tumbled down from the high rock and gurgled into a stone basin. An altar had been erected overhead, sacred to the nymphs, and alders encircled the place, enjoying the coolness, the moisture. It was a restorative spot for travellers. So it was into this lovely setting that there appeared the epitome of an arsehole – Melanthius. Though to say that he was the working part of one would be unkind to arseholes. He was driving down some goats – my goats – for the bellies of the greedy bastards he sucked up to, and I could see that the beasts he’d selected were the best of the herd. As soon as he spotted us, he let loose.

  ‘Will you look at that, everybody? There’s a sight for you now – one useless fucker leading another! A pig-licker with a pot-licker in tow! What the fuck do you think you’re at, Eumaeus, bringing this pile of plague pus down to the palace? That’s where you’re headed, isn’t it? He’s on the scrounge, isn’t he? Yes, it’s you I’m referring to, shitebag! I know your sort. You’re going to worm your way into the palace and polish the doorposts with your shoulders and your stinking arse. Am I right or am I right?’

  ‘Shut your gob!’

  Eumaeus squared up to him.

  ‘He’s with me, and that’s all you need to know. In fact, you don’t need to know anything. Nothing’s any of your fucking business.’

  ‘Yes, I can see he’s with you. Shit sticks to shit, as they say, and this fellow shit of yours is going to be honking the place out begging for scraps, but isn’t going to do a stroke for it, is he, the lazy fucker? You’ve no intention of scraping a pot or pan, have you? I know your sort. But you’d fucking well break sweat if you came to work for me, I can tell you. I’d build up your muscles for you, you old scarecrow. But that wouldn’t interest you, would it? You’d rather stuff your gob, you fucking glutton, touting round the town for titbits. You’d steal the very shit from our arses, wouldn’t you, you tosser? Well, turn up at the palace if you fucking dare – and this is what you’ll get!’

  He landed a hard kick on me, catching me right on the hip-bone. I’d never even looked in the bastard’s direction – the insults and the kick were both unsolicited. I wondered whether to smash him dead with my staff or pick him up and spill out his brains on the ground, mouldy wine from a splintered pitcher. But I couldn’t blow my cover, so I controlled myself and examined his nose instead, picturing throwing it to the dogs after I’d sliced it from his face.

  He wouldn’t let it go, though, and gave me a second one in the thigh with his heel.

  I looked at him steadily. ‘What would your old master think of your behaviour, I wonder, treating his guests like this?’

  My question earned me another kick.

  ‘That’s what I think of my master, louse-head! And get this straight, will you? You’re not his fucking guest and you’re not mine either, you’re persona non-fucking grata, you are! For your information, my master’s not even a memory here. He’s as dead as you’ll be if I so much as smell you again. And good riddance, too. He took all our best men off to Troy and for fuck all. I hope his useless brat buggers off too, same as his father did. He’s not in charge here either: the suitors run the show, and one of them will be my new master soon enough.’

  Eumaeus had had enough. ‘Who the fuck asked you for your input? You’ve no authority to open your fat trap. I’ll fucking shut it for you, though, one of these days. You’re the quintessence of shite, that’s all. An utter turd, what’s left over. You’re a bad smell.’

  ‘Oh, you can yap all right,’ snarled the goatherd. ‘But I’ll yap harder!’

  I signalled to Eumaeus to be on our way, but he stood his ground.

  ‘By god, if Odysseus were here you wouldn’t yap at all. He’d put a quick end to it, and to you. You’d drop your dogshite right in the road if he appeared on the scene, the slack-arsed coward you are.’

  ‘Except Odysseus won’t be appearing, will he? Because he’s the one who’s dogshite. He’s food for the fish. And his boy is going to go the same way very soon. Just you keep your little pig-eyes open and see if I’m not right. You don’t have a fucking clue, do you? You and your scumbag pal – you’d better keep him out of the way, I’m telling you, or he’s in for a broken head and smashed ribs if he comes near the palace. Do you hear that, dosser? I’ll see to it myself once the footstools start flying.’

  Pleased with himself, he turned and strutted off, gobbing on me as he passed.

  ‘He’ll go straight in and join them,’ said Eumaeus. ‘He usually sits opposite Eurymachus, his number one, where he knows he can stuff his gut.’

  I pictured the gut too, sliding slowly along my spear while the do
g chewed the nose. The nose would be the appetiser. The genitals would follow as a starter. And then the rest.

  We reached the palace, and Eumaeus thought for a second.

  ‘Listen, it’s best if I go in first and check things out, then you can come in and join me. Don’t wait too long, though. There are lots of slobs that suck up to the suitors. Some of them might take it into their heads to give you a thrashing and beat you away, just to curry favour. It often happens.’

  ‘I’ll not let it happen,’ I said.

  Eumaeus went in. I liked the way he’d stood up for me. He was no softie. I mulled over the idea of confiding in him when the time came and using him as an ally. Then I heard a faint whine.

  Outside the palace, the dung-heaps were piled up – mounds of mule-and cow-shit, the fresher piles still steaming, waiting to be carted off to the farms for manure. An old dog lay stretched out on one of these mounds, crying softly. He was barely able to lift his head, he was so old and ill, but his ears were pricked up all right, and his tail fluttered. I went closer.

  God almighty! I thought I’d seen everything at Troy. I never thought anything could make me weep, ever again. I’d seen too much. But I was wrong. I wasn’t prepared for this. That old pooch wasn’t just any dog – it was Argus, the hound, my own Argus, my once lovely dog and faithful companion, still alive after all this time, still waiting for me. He’d heard me talking to Eumaeus and had seen through the disguise and the accent. He’d heard his master’s voice. He was the only one who’d recognised me.

  I went closer still.

  He was crawling with lice and half eaten away by flies, but he wagged his tail and dropped his ears. He was straining every nerve to lift himself to me but couldn’t. The tears blinded me, and I had to brush them away quickly. They were spotted, though, by a trembly old beggar who was crouched nearby, watching me.

  ‘Yes, it’s a pitiful sight, isn’t it?’

  He got up and hobbled over, barefoot and bent.

  ‘But I never expected to see somebody as broken down as myself spending a tear on an old dog. You’ve got some pity left in you, pal, and there’s precious little of that around here. But you can’t have known the dog, surely? You’re not from round these parts. I’ve never seen you before.’

  I cleared my throat.

  ‘No, I’m a stranger round here, you’re right. But why isn’t this poor animal being looked after or else put out of his misery? If he were mine, I’d kill him at once as an act of mercy. Even a sick old dog deserves compassion. Whose is it, do you know? Surely his master can’t still be alive?’

  The old indigent shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you something. If his master came back, it wouldn’t be the dog on the dungheap – it would be these bastards in there, and all their bitches.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Don’t you know anything? Where have you been living? I’m talking about Odysseus. The dog was never the same from the day he left for the war. My god, you should have seen this hound when he was a young rascal. Odysseus raised him himself. No dog could come near him for stamina and speed. And he was a top notcher at picking up the scent and finding his way along the trail. I used to go out on the hunts myself. He was like black lightning, that dog, the king’s pride and joy. He gave orders when he left for the dog to be taken care of. And now not one of those palace whores would think of bringing him a bite to eat, let alone clearing the lice. Look at him, he’s eaten alive. Groom him? They’d kick him if they could be bothered. I throw him the odd crust myself when I can, but that’s not often.’

  ‘Do you? Then let me tell you something. You’ll be dining with the king one day soon.’

  Harsh laughter. ‘Well, you’ve lost your looks along the way, but you’ve held onto one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your sense of humour, pal. But look here, he thinks he knows you . . .’

  ‘No, he’s just glad of the attention, that’s all.’

  My hand shook. I wanted to reach out and stroke the dog’s head, but I couldn’t afford to attract attention. His eyes were still on me, almost blind, but seeing what he’d waited for so long. And having seen me, he wagged his tail one last time, laid down his head and died.

  I hurried away, brimming with black anger. I thought my heart would come off the stalk.

  ‘I’ll murder the fuckers! Every single one! And their sluts.’

  I went in and sat down on the threshold, just within the door, and I leaned back against the pillar that I’d watched a crafty old carpenter smooth from an old cypress decades ago, deftly trued and polished to perfection. Telemachus saw me come in and signalled to Eumaeus to bring me over some bread and meat from a basket.

  ‘And tell him to feel free to go round the hall, Telemachus says, and beg scraps from each man in turn. A beggar can’t be shy.’

  I did as I was asked. I wasn’t hungry, but I was curious to pick out the good from the bad among them. Or rather the bad from the worse. Not that this would save a single one of them. After Argus, every man was destined to die. Without exception. I hadn’t gone far, and the food was piling up in my greasy old wallet when one of the suitors asked me where I’d come from. This gave the goatherd a chance to stick his nose up an arse.

  ‘I saw that old bugger less than an hour ago, and I can tell you how he got here – he was wheeled in by the swineherd, brought here to scrounge from us, the free-loading old fucker!’

  Antinous swore at Eumaeus. ‘You ignorant old bastard, who gave you the right to bring him in here? Haven’t we got enough scroungers in town without you dragging another one in tow, and right into the palace too, polluting the place and stinking us out? Look at him, for fuck’s sake – what the fuck did you bring him here for?’

  Eumaeus started to say something about the laws of hospitality but Telemachus cut him short.

  ‘Don’t get involved with him, Eumaeus, he’s the worst troublemaker of the lot and he’d love the chance to have a go at you. As for you, Antinous, I appreciate your anxiety on behalf of the food – my food, as it happens – but I’d never order a hungry stranger out of the house – again, my house, may I remind you. So as long as you’re in my house and eating my food, you can share it with those less fortunate than yourself. You can start by giving the old man something from your own plate – unless your greed has got the better of you.’

  Antinous jumped up and grabbed the stool that his trim little feet were resting on.

  ‘Give him something, do you say? Too fucking true I’ll give him something – something about his fucking ears if he doesn’t disappear!’

  By this time I’d reached him, and I held out my wallet.

  ‘Surely, sir, you’re not going to grudge me a crust or a crumb, are you? You that look every inch a king yourself? Almost as if you own the place. All the more reason, I’d have thought, to award me the biggest share and put the others to shame. That’s no more than what I used to do when I was one of the lucky ones, back in the old days. Yes, that takes me back – to Crete, actually, where I was once rich and powerful. I had it all, you could say – hundreds of servants, and I never once refused a beggar in the street, and certainly not in my own house. But that was before I was stupid enough to leave it all behind and sail for Egypt – with a pack of pirates. We made the Nile, and I anchored there and sent out scouts onto the heights to spy out the land. And what did they do? Went mad, they did, killed a lot of men and captured their women and children and brought them kicking and screaming back to the ship. I couldn’t believe it, the sheer stupidity. Of course the alarm was raised, and the Egyptian infantry went on the move. It looked as though the entire Egyptian army had been called out. Their chariots came thundering across the plain, and we were cut off. Do you know what? Not a man stood up to them – they didn’t have the balls for it. And it turned out to be a massacre, apart from the handful they spared for slavery. But they accepted I wasn’t to blame, and they let me live and be taken on to Cyprus by one of their allies. I’
ll tell you about him in a minute. Let me see now, his name’s on the tip of my tongue . . .’

  ‘Shut your gob!’

  Antinous was seething.

  ‘You won’t have a tongue much longer if you don’t shut up! Spoiling our dinner like this with your interminable reminiscences, and every one a lie! Who cares? Nobody gives a flying fuck for who you were or what you were. Or what you are now, for that matter, which is an eyesore of a plague-boil!’

  His eyes were blazing, and his hands were trembling with rage. I’d got under his skin. I could see he’d not stay cool in a tight corner.

  ‘Dmetor – yes, that was his name, Dmetor. I’m trying to recall the name of his father. Iasus, that was it, he was the son of Iasus. He was king of the island, undisputed. And that’s where I’ve come from. A long journey it was too. I’ll tell you about it shortly, but I’m just in time, it seems, to beg a morsel from your plate. That’s if you don’t mind my asking again?’

  ‘What the fuck? Is the old bastard deaf or something? Or is he just as thick as the shit he stinks of?’

  Antinous was spitting by this time. He gave me a huge shove, and I let myself stagger backwards, scattering most of the food I’d collected.

  ‘Get the fuck away from me! Just stand out there and don’t fucking come near me again! Egypt? I’ll Egypt you! I’ll fucking Cyprus you! I’ll give you Cyprus and Egypt up your old arse! You’ll wish you were fucking back there by the time I’m done with you!’

  I looked around, my now empty arms spread wide in appeal. There were a few sympathetic looks. I decided to get in one last dig.

  ‘And here was I thinking your heart matched your looks, young man. How wrong I was. You’re the sort who’d grudge a pinch of salt to a servant from your own larder, and yet you’re helping yourself from another man’s table and can’t even pass me a bite of bread that doesn’t belong to you anyway. What about that large loaf at your elbow, for example?’