The Return From Troy

by Lindsay Clarke

  Quietly he said, ‘We don’t need the shepherds. We can do this together.’

  ‘Just the two of us? Alone? That isn’t possible.’

  ‘We won’t be alone,’ Odysseus answered. ‘I’ve already talked it over with Eumaeus. He’ll be there and Philoetius will come. There may be others.’

  ‘Even so — there are so many of them … from all over the islands.’

  ‘I know,’ Odysseus said. ‘Which is why we have to use our heads. Is my bow in the armoury still?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s in good condition. I’ve been taking care of it.’ Odysseus smiled at his son. ‘Have you managed to draw it yet?’

  ‘I haven’t tried. I’ve just kept it oiled and made sure that the string is sound.’

  ‘Good. Now listen to me carefully. This is what we’re going to do.’

  At the time I knew nothing of this encounter. I didn’t even know that Peiraeus had put into port that evening and was already spreading the word among the townsfolk that there had been news of Odysseus. I was kept far too busy at the palace, entertaining the sots who had been left behind when Antinous and a few of the more hard-bitten suitors put to sea two days earlier with the intention of lying in wait for Telemachus and making sure that he did not get back alive.

  Having learned about the planned ambush from some loose gossip in my hearing, I was close to despair. Never in my life have I found it harder to sing. The mood of the suitors had deteriorated since Telemachus had defied them at the assembly and then disappeared. With their patience already running out, they were more truculent now; and though it was true that the worst of them had gone with Antinous, the rest were even rowdier than before, drinking too much and making free with the serving-women, one or two of whom had grown shameless in their behaviour. I knew that if I shared my knowledge of the ambush with Penelope and Lord Mentor it was too late for them to do anything about it, and both would worry themselves to distraction. Still worse, if Penelope openly accused the suitors of treachery, as I feared that she might, anything could happen to her. So, rightly or wrongly, I decided to consign Telemachus to the care of the gods and keep the bad news to myself.

  When it became clear to me that Amphinomus was also ignorant of what Antinous planned to do, I wondered whether I should confide in him; but Telemachus’ suspicions had begun to colour my own views, and I wasn’t sure whether I could trust Amphinomus not to have me silenced. After all, he too might profit from the death of Telemachus. So again I kept silent. Such, I regret to confess, was the confused state of my feelings at that time.

  During this time, Penelope was, of course, in great distress. Her one thought throughout the years of her husband’s absence was that she must protect the interests of her son, and it was for that reason, as much as out of her loyalty to the memory of Odysseus, that she had refused to commit herself to any other man. But now Telemachus was gone and she had no idea what had become of him; and though she did all she could to maintain an outward air of calm control, inwardly she was frantic with anxiety.

  To add to her worries, the date of Apollo’s summer feast was almost upon her and she knew she would be unable to keep the suitors at bay beyond that point. She knew too that, though their collective behaviour was a public disgrace, the suitors had a point: Ithaca could not be left to drift this way for ever. Somewhere, I suspect, she must have been making up her mind to marry Amphinomus, when Eumaeus came to her the next day and asked if he might have a private word. He tried to allay her anxiety by saying that Telemachus was at his hut and quite safe, but her insistent questioning forced him to reveal the plot against her son’s life. Obeying strict instructions, however, he said nothing of her husband’s return.

  By now, word had got about the town that Peiraeus’ ship was in port. His course had brought him by a roundabout route in order to drop off Telemachus, so his ship had passed unseen by Antinous. But someone must have reported its arrival to the ambush-party the next morning because Antinous beached his ship on the strand before noon and immediately led his angry followers up to the palace.

  The other suitors were in the courtyard throwing javelins and playing quoits. When they learned that Telemachus had slipped the net, they grew uneasy. Not all of them can have had much enthusiasm for the plan in the first place. Now that it had gone wrong they were fearful of the consequences. They were arguing amongst themselves when Medon the herald appeared in the courtyard, saying that their presence was required in the great hall by the Lady Penelope.

  As I had feared, Penelope had been outraged by the news of this threat to her son’s life and was determined to make the conspirators face her fury; but the men she confronted that afternoon were a less confident bunch than they had been only a day earlier. Their plans had gone awry, they didn’t know where Telemachus was, or what kind of support he might be mustering, and by now some of them had heard the rumour that Odysseus was alive and might be about to return. So most of them stood shifting uncertainly before the proud woman who descended from her apartment when they were all assembled. Accompanied by Eurycleia and the closest of her women, Penelope was dressed in one of her finest gowns and kept her face veiled. She carried in her bearing all the authority of a queen.

  ‘I have born patience with you all for as long as I can, gentlemen,’ she began, ‘and I have done so because you agreed to remain patient with me while I allowed a just amount of time to elapse before accepting that my husband would not return. But as I have waited I have been watching you. I have seen you consume the wealth of this noble house with the appetite of ravening beasts, I have watched you devour its food, drink its wine, and debauch the more stupid women who serve me with your licentious ways. And all of this I have endured because I believed there was some justice in your case that, if Odysseus failed to come home, the islands must be given a strong new king. But now I have learned that there are those among you who have been conspiring against the life of my son, and this I will not endure. Am I to choose a husband from among those who would murder my child? Tell me, is that the heartless kind of woman you think I am? And is such base behaviour what the people of these islands must come to expect of their king? I am waiting to hear what you have to say.’

  When not one of them spoke, she said, ‘What about you, Antinous? Your voice is usually loud in this hall. How do you answer this charge?’

  ‘Madam,’ Antinous replied, ‘I have no idea where your son might be or what has befallen him. The last time I saw Telemachus he was insulting the council by leaving before its deliberations were complete. If harm has come to him since then it has nothing to do with me.’ Defiantly he stared at the men around him, particularly Amphinomus who frowned back at him with intense suspicion.

  Eurymachus spoke up then. Because he was among those whom Antinous had left behind at the palace to keep an eye on things, he may have felt less pressure of guilt, and he was anxious to dispel the tension.

  ‘I can’t imagine who would have made such an accusation, or why they would have made it,’ he said, ‘but I assure you, my lady, there’s not a man among us who would dream of laying hands on your son. Everyone here knows and accepts that Telemachus is his father’s rightful heir. Our only expectation, now that Odysseus has failed to return, is that you will choose a husband strong enough to act as king until your son comes of age. We mean only well by the boy — but if the gods should have seen fit to shorten his life-thread,’ he added, looking around at his cronies, ‘no one here can be held answerable for that.’

  An uncertain murmur of assent rose around the hall.

  Amphinomus stepped forward, ‘I can speak only for myself,’ he said, glowering at the others, ‘but I swear I would die sooner than let anyone harm a hair of your son’s head.’

  Flushed and uncertain, fearful of the future, and grieving for her absent husband, Penelope stared for a time at these men she neither trusted nor cared for. She was about to speak when Antinous reasserted himself.

  ‘As for the rest,’ he said, ‘tomorrow is the
feast day of Apollo. You can put an end to your cares, Lady, simply by making up your mind.’

  Penelope held him for a time in her incinerating stare; then before anyone else could utter a word, she turned on her heel and ascended quickly back to the refuge of her apartment where she was free to release her feelings in her tears.

  A foul-mouthed beggar called Irus had been hanging about the courtyard for several weeks now, keeping the suitors amused by his scurrilous humour. He woke up from his customary doze just as that confrontation was ending and saw another ragged beggar entering the yard. The ancient hunting-dog Argus, who had barely stirred from his place in the shade since Telemachus had left, lifted his grizzled head at the newcomer’s approach and wagged his tail. As the beggar crouched down, the dog tried to get to his feet but lacked the strength. The tail flapped once more; then the dog’s head fell back in the dust. The newcomer stroked its wiry, flea-ridden fur for a time, whispering under his breath; then he rose and looked up towards the door to the hall where some of the suitors were coming out into the hot courtyard muttering together.

  The incident would have meant nothing to Irus except that he had never known the animal do anything but growl at everyone but Telemachus. He took it as a bad omen that a strange beggar encroaching on his patch should have been given a friendly reception. Pushing himself to his feet, he gathered his rags about him and said, ‘Piss off, greybeard, there’s nothing for you here.’

  The newcomer turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. ‘I’ve never heard of a man down on his luck being turned away from the house of Odysseus,’ he said. ‘It seems to me there’s plenty of room here for both of us.’

  ‘It seems you’ve also not heard that Odysseus is with the fishes,’ Irus retorted. ‘There’ll be a new master here this time tomorrow and he’ll have nobody begging for his scraps but me. So on your way, before I throw you out.’

  Antinous had heard the exchange. ‘Here’s something new,’ he shouted, eager for the distraction, ‘—an honour duel between beggars. Come on, let’s see you fight it out. My money’s on Irus. And there’s a roast goat’s paunch for the winner.’

  The newcomer frowned at the ground. ‘I’m not looking for trouble,’

  ‘But you’ve found it,’ said Irus, tucking his ragged smock up into his belt to reveal his scrawny legs. ‘Put your fists up and let me knock you down.’

  The men had begun to crowd around, egging them on and making wagers, when another voice rose above the din. ‘Until my father gets back, I’m the host here!’ Telemachus shouted. ‘One more mouth to feed will make no difference.’

  Shocked by his unexpected appearance, all the men fell silent for a moment. Antinous was the first to recover. ‘So you’ve come home to watch your mother’s wedding, have you?’ he glowered. ‘Well, you’re not spoiling our fun today. Come on, Irus, let’s see you give this bag of bones a blow about the chops.’

  Irus lifted his fists to his face, sniffed, flicked his nose with his thumb, and let fly with his right. The newcomer leaned so that the blow glanced past his chin, then drove his left fist into Irus’s stomach and caught him with his right as his head came down. Everyone heard the beggar’s jawbone crack. A second later Irus fell to his knees, spitting teeth and blood.

  The crowd of suitors stared, astounded, for a moment; then they began to laugh and applaud. As they did so, Telemachus slipped away into the hall. Evidently undismayed that his fancied contender was beaten, Antinous shouted, ‘We’ll have a new king of Ithaca tomorrow, so it’s just as well we have a new king of beggars today!’ Turning to the winner he muttered, ‘I owe you a goat’s paunch, fellow,’ and crossed to where the wine was being poured.

  Amphinomus approached the beggar, taking care not to brush too closely against his clothes, and handed him a goblet of wine. ‘Your luck seems to be improving, friend,’ he said. ‘Here’s to better fortune still.’

  The beggar poured a libation, took a drink and said, ‘And you seem to be more of a gentleman than these others, sir. Amphinomus, isn’t it? Prince of Dulichion?’ When the other smiled, he added. ‘I wonder that you consort with them.’

  ‘If any of them were friends of mine, they’ve long since ceased to be so.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘Because of the Lady Penelope. Why else? A man would be a fool to lose the chance of making her his wife.’

  The beggar gave a canny smile. ‘I hear tell that you’ve half done that already.’

  Frowning, Amphinomus stared at the beggar in disgust. ‘Whoever told you that is a base liar,’ he said, and strode away.

  Telemachus, meanwhile, had made his way up to his mother’s apartment where he found her in tears; but her weeping stopped as soon as she saw him at the door. Uncertain whether to hit her son or hug him, Penelope met him with an outburst of furious relief. Where had he been? How dare he go off without consulting her? She’d been out of her mind with worry. Didn’t he know that his life was at risk? Did he care about nothing but following his own rash will?

  Telemachus let her rage wash over him for a time; then his stern voice astonished her to silence. ‘That’s enough now. I did what I had to do because there’s no other man around here to do it. I dared to do what I think my father would have done in my place. And I’m back, alive and well, aren’t I? Now do you want to hear what I have to say or not?’

  When she had calmed down a little, he told her about his fruitless visit to King Nestor in Pylos, and then about what he had learned from Menelaus in Sparta.

  ‘He gave me cause to believe my father is alive,’ he said, and for the first time in many months he saw the light of hope break in her eyes.

  ‘Where is he?’ she demanded, clutching him by both arms. ‘What’s happened to him? When is he coming back?’

  Freeing his arms from her grip, Telemachus said, ‘The news was already old when Menelaus received it, and that was nearly a year ago. He heard that Odysseus is on an island called Ogygia — that he is under an enchantment there. A woman — some say she is a goddess — had him in thrall.’

  For a long time he felt his mother searching his face. Then she uttered a little gasp of breath as though jarred by a stab of pain, and seemed to sag before him. Penelope averted her face, looking towards the window where the afternoon sky hung its fierce blue glare. The sound of coarse laughter rose from the hall below. She looked at the loom on which the finely woven shroud on which she had worked for years hung glistening in the light, almost complete. And she had lavished such care on it, stitching and unpicking, and stitching again, the gold and silver threads, the green of the hills, the sea’s translucent blue, the intricate motifs of ships and beasts and birds through which she had told the island’s story. Well, this portion of her work would serve its purpose one day soon. Old father Laertes could not have long to live; and would she rather, she wondered, have preferred to learn that Odysseus was also dead than that he lay in thrall to some other woman on some other island? Was there no faith left in the world? Had the war consumed all hope that life might still run true again?

  Penelope looked back into the anxious face of her son.

  ‘Tomorrow is Apollo’s feast,’ she said. ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Right now,’ she sighed, ‘I think that I would like to die. But I cannot do that; so I will try to sleep instead. Perhaps some dream will come to help me.’

  She turned away. Telemachus knew that she wanted him to go, and half of him wanted to run weeping from the room in any case; but he was under instruction from his father.

  His lip trembled as he said, ‘Do you remember the story you told me about my father’s bow — how he once loosed an arrow through the handles of the axes he had set in line?’

  Penelope shook her head impatiently. Why couldn’t the boy leave her alone?

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Make it a trial,’ he said. ‘Tell them you will only marry a man who can prove himself worthy to replace O
dysseus. Have the axes set in line again. See which of them can even string the bow, let alone pass the arrow through the axes.’

  She turned to look at him again. ‘They will never accept it.’

  ‘When I was in Pylos,’ he said, ‘I made a new friend. He has the sight. He told me that there are still ordeals to come, but that all will be well in the end.’

  ‘They will never accept it,’ she repeated, not daring to believe.

  ‘Shame them,’ he said. ‘They won’t dare to refuse.’ He held her pensive gaze for a moment and then turned away. At the door he stopped as though struck by a fresh thought. ‘There is a new beggar come to the court, he said. ‘He seems a decent man. You might also shame them into treating him a little better.’

  My singing was interrupted by a disgraceful episode in the hall that night when Eurymachus threw a stool at the beggar for rebuking the loose behaviour of Melantho, one of the serving-maids he was bedding. The stool missed its target but hit one of the wine-stewards who fell to the floor, dropping the full jug he held. Immediately Telemachus jumped to his feet in disgust, berating the drunkards who had turned his home into the worst sort of tavern. I was fearful that things might turn very nasty then, but Amphinomus spoke up, reminding the suitors that this was the eve of Apollo’s feast. He persuaded them that they should all pour their solemn libations to the gods and then take to their beds in preparation for the next day. Medon the herald and I left the hall together at the same time and sat, sharing our worries about the future in the quiet night outside.

  As soon as we had gone, Telemachus and the beggar set to work collecting up the javelins from their racks against the walls of the hall and began to take them through into the armoury. When old Eurycleia demanded to know what they were doing, Telemachus said that the behaviour of the suitors had become so unruly that he wanted to reduce the risk of violent quarrelling the next day. ‘This fellow is giving me a hand in return for his meal,’ he said. ‘Get you off to bed, good mother. I shall be there myself as soon as this is done.’