“Yes, yes, I want you to meet him before Father does. I want to know what you think. Shall I fetch him?”
“I’ll send a servant, child. You are not to see him again until I find out more about him. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes, find out, find out! Tell me everything he says.”
Queen Arete spoke with Ulysses, and then went to her husband, the king, and told him of their visitor. She was amazed to see his face grow black with rage.
“By the gods,” he cried. “These are foul tidings you bring. Only today the oracle warned against strangers, shipwrecks, and storytellers. And now you tell me our daughter has picked up some nameless ruffian who combines all three—a shipwrecked stranger telling wild tales. Precisely what is needed to draw upon us the wrath of the sea god. I shall sacrifice him to Poseidon, and there will be an end to it.”
“You may not do that,” said Arete.
“Who says ‘may not’ to me? I am king.”
“Exactly why you may not. Because you are king. The man comes to you as a supplicant. He is under your protection. If you harm him, you will bring down upon yourself the wrath of all the gods—not just one. That is the law of hospitality.”
So the king ordered a great banquet that night to honor his guest. But certain young men of the court who were skilled at reading the king’s moods knew that he was displeased and decided to advance themselves in his favor by killing the stranger and making it seem an accident.
“We will have games in the courtyard,” said Euryalus, their leader. “We will hurl discus and javelin, shoot with the bow, wrestle, and challenge him to take part. And, when he does, it may be that some unlucky throw of javelin, or misshot arrow, will rid us of his company. Or, perchance, if he wrestles, he will find his neck being broken. It looks to be a thick neck, but he has been long at sea and is unused to such exercises.”
So the young men began to hold their contests in the courtyard. When Ulysses stopped to watch them, Euryalus stepped forth and said, “There is good sport here, stranger, if you care to play.”
“No, thank you,” said Ulysses. “I’ll just watch.”
“Yes, of course,” said Euryalus. “These games are somewhat dangerous. And one can see that you are a man of prudence. But then, of course, you are rather old for such sports, aren’t you?”
He laughed sneeringly, picked up the heavy discus, whirled, and threw. It sailed through the air and landed with a clatter far away. All the young men laughed and cheered.
“Where I come from,” said Ulysses, “such little discs are given babies to teethe on. The grown men need a bit more to test them.”
He strode over to a battle chariot and broke off one of its wheels at the axle. It was a very heavy wheel, of oak bound with brass. He hefted it, and said:
“A little light, but it will do.”
For he was filled with the wild rage that makes a man ten times stronger than he really is. He cradled the great wheel, whirled, and threw. It flew through the air, far past where the discus had landed, and thudded against the inner wall of the courtyard, knocking a hole in it. He turned to the others, who were paralyzed with amazement
“Poor throw,” he said. “But then, as you say, I’m rather old for such sport. However, since we are gathered here in this friendly fashion, let us play more games. If any of you would like to try me with sword or spear or dagger, or even a simple cudgel, let him step forth. Or, perchance, there is one who would prefer to wrestle?”
“That was well thrown, stranger,” said Euryalus. “What is your name?”
“I do not choose to tell you my name, O athlete.”
“You are not courteous.”
“If you care to teach me manners, young sir, I offer again. Sword, spear, cudgel—any weapon you choose. Or no weapon at all except our hands.”
“We are civilized here in Phaeacia,” said Euryalus. “We do not fight with our guests. But I cannot understand why you refuse to tell us your name.”
“A god hunts me. If I say my name, it may attract his notice.”
The young men nodded. For this is what was believed at that time. But Euryalus ran to tell the king.
“I knew it,” said Alcinous. “He carries a curse. He is the very man the oracle warned me against. I must get rid of him. But the law of hospitality forbids me to kill him under my roof. So tonight we entertain him at a banquet. But tomorrow he leaves this castle, and we shall find a way to see that he does not return.”
“He is no weakling, this old sailor,” said Euryalus. “He throws the discus almost as well as I.”
Now, all this time, Nausicaa had been thinking about the stranger and weaving a plan, for she was determined to find out who he was. She visited the old bard who had taught her to play the lyre, and whose task it was to sing for the guests at the royal feasts. She spoke and laughed with the old man and fed him undiluted wine until he lost his wits. Then she locked him in the stable, where he fell fast asleep on a bundle of straw, and she departed with his lyre.
At the banquet that night, when the king called for the bard to sing his tales, Nausicaa said, “The old man is ill and cannot come. However, if you permit, I shall sing for your guests.”
The king frowned. But Ulysses said, “This illness is a blessing, King. I think I should rather hear your black-haired daughter sing than the best bard who ever plucked a lyre.”
The king nodded. Nausicaa smiled and began to sing. She sang a tale of heroes. Of those who fought at Troy. She sang of fierce Achilles and mighty Ajax. Of Menelaus and his shattering war cry. Of brave Diomedes, who fought with Ares himself when the war god came in his brazen chariot to help the Trojans.
She watched Ulysses narrowly as she sang. She saw his face soften and his eyes grow dreamy, and she knew that he had been there and that she was singing of his companions. But she still did not know his name.
Then she began to sing of that master of strategy, the great trickster, Ulysses. She sang of the wooden horse and how the warriors hid inside while the Trojans debated outside, deciding what to do. Some of them wanted to chop it to pieces; others wished to take it to a cliff and push it off; still others wanted to bring it within the city as an offering to the gods—which, of course, was what Ulysses wanted them to do. She told of the men hiding in the belly of the horse, listening to their fate being debated, and of the fierce joy that flamed in their hearts when they heard the Trojans decide to drag the horse within the walls. And of how, in the blackness of the night, they came out of the horse, and how Ulysses led the charge. She sang of him fighting there by the light of the burning houses, knee-deep in blood, and how he was invincible that night and carried everything before him.
And as she sang, she kept watching the stranger’s face. She saw tears steal from between his clenched eyelids and roll down his cheeks. Amazed, the banqueters saw this hard-bitten sailor put his head in his hands and sob like a child.
He raised his streaming face and said, “Forgive me, gracious king. But the wonderful voice of your daughter has touched my heart For you must know that I am none other than Ulysses, of whom she sings.”
A great uproar broke out. The young men cheered. The women wept. The king said:
“My court is honored, Ulysses. Your deeds are known wherever men love courage. Now that I know who you are, I put all my power and goods at your disposal. Name any favor you wish, and it shall be yours.”
Ulysses said: “O King, if I were the age I was twenty years ago when the ships were launched at Aulis, then the favor I would ask is your daughter’s hand. For surely I have traveled the whole world over without seeing her like. I knew Helen, whose beauty kindled men to that terrible war. I knew the beauties of the Trojan court whom we took captive and shared among us. And, during my wanderings I have had close acquaintance with certain enchantresses whose charms are more than human, namely Circe and Calypso. Yet never have I seen a girl so lovely, so witty, so courteous and kind as your young daughter. Alas, it cannot be. I am too old. I have
a wife I must return to, and a kingdom, and there are sore trials I must undergo before I can win again what belongs to me. So all I ask of you, great king, is a ship to take me to Ithaca, where my wife waits, my enemies wait, my destiny waits.”
Arete whispered to the king:
“Yes … yes … give him his ship tomorrow. I wish it could be tonight. See how your daughter looks at him; she is smitten to the heart. She is sick with love. Let him sail tomorrow. And be sure to keep watch at the wharf lest she stow away.”
“It shall be as you say, mighty Ulysses,” said the king. “Your ship will sail tomorrow.”
So Ulysses departed the next day on a splendid ship manned by a picked crew, laden with rich goods the king had given him as hero gifts.
It is said that Athene drugged Poseidon’s cup at the feast of the gods that night, so that he slept a heavy sleep and did not see that Ulysses was being borne to Ithaca. But Poseidon awoke in time to see the ship sailing back and understood what had happened. In a rage he snatched Athene’s Gorgon-head shield, the sight of which turns men to stone, and flashed it before the ship just as it was coming into port after having left Ulysses at his island. The ship and all its crew turned to stone, blocking the harbor, as the oracle had foretold.
It is said, too, that Nausicaa never accepted any of the young men who came a-wooing, announcing that she was wedded to song. She became the first woman bard and traveled all the courts of the world singing her song of the heroes who fought at Troy, but especially of Ulysses and of his adventures among the terrible islands of the Middle Sea.
Some say that she finally came to the court of Ithaca to sing her song, and there she stayed. Others say that she fell in with a blind poet who took all her songs and wove them into one huge tapestry of song.
But it all happened too long ago to know the truth of it.
The Return
ULYSSES HAD LANDED ON a lonely part of the shore. His enemies were in control of the island, and it was death to be seen. He stood on the empty beach and saw the Phaeacian ship depart. He was surrounded by wooden chests, leather bags, great bales—the treasure of gifts he had been given by Alcinous.
He looked about, at the beach and the cliff beyond, the wooded hills the color of the sky. He was home after twenty years, but it did not seem like home. It seemed as strange and unfriendly as any of the perilous isles he had landed on during his long wanderings. And he knew that Ithaca would not be his again until he could know it as king, until he had slain his enemies and regained his throne.
His first care was to find a cave in the cliffside, and there stow all his treasure. He moved swiftly now; he had planned his first moves on his homeward trip. It had helped him keep his thoughts away from Nausicaa. He took off his rich cloak and helmet and breastplate and hid them in the cave he had found, then laid his sword and spear beside them. He tore his tunic so that it hung in rags. He scooped up mud and smeared his face and arms and legs. Then he huddled his shoulders together and practiced a limping walk. Finally he was satisfied and began to hump away along the cliff road, no longer a splendid warrior, but a feeble old beggar.
He made his way to the hut of his swineherd, Eumaeus, a man his own age, who had served him all his life, and whom he trusted. Everything was the same here, he saw. The pigs were rooting in the trampled earth. There were four lanky hounds who started from their sleep and barked, as he came near.
A man came out of the hut and silenced the dogs. Ulysses felt the tears well in his eyes. It was Eumaeus, but so old, so gray.
“What do you want?” said the swineherd.
“Food, good sir. Such scraps as you throw to the hogs. I am not proud, I am hungry.”
“Ate you a native of these parts?” said Eumaeus.
“No. I come from Crete.”
“A long way for a beggar to come.”
“I was not always a beggar. I was a sailor once yes, and a captain of ships. I have seen better days.”
“That’s what all beggars say.”
“Sometimes it’s true. I once met a man from Ithaca, a mighty warrior and the most famous man I have ever met. He gave me a good opinion of Ithaca. It is a place, I know, where the hungry and helpless are not spurned.”
“I suppose this man you met was named Ulysses.”
“Why, yes. How did you guess?”
“Because I have heard that tale so many times. Do you think you’re the first beggar to come slinking around, pretending to have news of our king? Everyone knows that he vanished on his journey home from Troy. Beggars swarm all over us trying to get some supper by telling lies.”
“Then you will give me no food?”
“I didn’t say that. Even liars have to eat. Ulysses never turned a beggar away, and neither will I.”
The swineherd fed Ulysses and then let him rest by the fire. Ulysses pretended to sleep but watched his host through half-closed eyes and saw that the man was staring at him. He stretched and yawned.
“Are you sure you’re a stranger to this island?” said Eumaeus. “Seems to me I’ve seen you before.”
“No,” said Ulysses. “You are mistaken. What shall I do now? Have I worn out my welcome, or may I sleep on your hearth tonight?”
“What will you do tomorrow?”
“Go to the castle and beg.”
“You will not be welcome there.”
“Why not? I will tell them how I met your king, and how kind he was to me. That should make them generous.”
“It won’t,” said Eumaeus. “It will probably get you killed. Those who hold the castle now want to hear nothing about him—except the sure news of his death.”
“How is that?”
“They hate him, because they do him harm. There are more than a hundred of them—rude, brawling young princes from neighboring islands and thievish young nobles of this island. They dwell in his castle as if they had taken it after a siege and seek to marry his wife, Penelope, refusing to leave until she accepts one of them. They drink his wine, devour his stores, break up the furniture for firewood, roister all night, and sleep all day. Do you know how many hogs I have to bring them? Fifty a day. That is how gluttonous they are. My herds are shrinking fast, but they say they will kill me the first day I fail to bring them fifty hogs.”
“I heard he had a grown son. Why does he not defend his father’s goods?”
“He’s helpless. There are too many of them.”
“Is he at the castle now?”
“No one knows where he is. He slipped away one night. Just as well. They were planning to kill him. The rumor is that he took ship and crew and went to seek his father. I hope he stays away. They will surely kill him if he returns.”
“I go there tomorrow,” said Ulysses. “It sounds like splendid begging. Such fiery young men are frequently generous, especially with other people’s goods.”
“You don’t know them,” said Eumaeus. “They are like wild beasts. But you cannot keep a fool from his folly. Go, if you must. In the meantime, sleep.”
Now, upon this night Telemachus was at sea, sailing toward Ithaca. He had found no news of his father and was coming home with a very heavy heart. He would have been even more distressed had he known that a party of the wicked suitors were lying in wait for him aboard a swift ship full of fighting men. The ship was hidden in a cove, and the suitors meant to pounce upon him as he put into port.
But Athene saw this and made a plan. She went to Poseidon and said:
“I know you are angry with me, Uncle, for helping Ulysses. But now I wish to make it up to you. See, down there is a ship from Ithaca.” She pointed to the suitors’ vessel. “No doubt it holds friends of Ulysses, sailing out to meet their king. Why not do them a mischief?”
“Why not?” growled Poseidon.
And he wound a thick black mist about the suitors’ ship so that it was impossible for the helmsman to see.
“Nevertheless,” he said to Athene. “I still owe Ulysses himself a great mischief. I have not forgotten. In the
meantime, let his friends suffer a bit.”
The suitors’ ship lay helpless in the mist, and Telemachus, sailing past them, ignorant of danger, put into port and disembarked.
Athene then changed herself into a young swineherd and hailed Telemachus on the beach:
“Greetings, my lord. I am sent by your servant, Eumaeus, to beg you to come to his hut before you go to the castle. He has important news to tell.”
The lad set off, and Telemachus followed him toward the swineherd’s hut.
Ulysses, dozing by the fire, heard a wild clamor of hounds outside, then a ringing young voice calling to them. He listened while the snarls turned to yaps of pleasure.
“It is my young master,” cried Eumaeus, springing up. “Glory to the gods—he has come softly home.”
Telemachus strode in. He was flushed from his walk. His face and arms were wet with the night fog, and his red-gold hair was webbed with tiny drops. To Ulysses he looked all aglitter, fledged by firelight, a golden lad. And Ulysses felt a shaft of wild joy pierce him like a spear, and for the first time he realized that he had come home.
But Telemachus was displeased to see the old beggar by the fire, for he wished to speak to Eumaeus privately to ask him how matters stood at the castle and whether it was safe for him to return.
“I do not wish to be discourteous, old man,” he said, “but would you mind very much sleeping in the pig byre? You can keep quite warm there, and there are secret matters I wish to discuss.”
“Be not wroth, my lord, that I have given this man hospitality,” said Eumaeus. “He claims to have met your father once. A pitiful beggar’s tale, no doubt, but it earned him a meal and a bed.”
“Met my father? Where? When? Speak!”
But at the word “father,” Ulysses could not endure it any longer. The voice of the young man saying that word destroyed all his strategies. The amazed Eumaeus saw the old beggar leap from his stool, lose his feebleness, grow wilder, taller, and open his arms and draw the young man to him in a great bear-hug.
The Adventures of Ulysses Page 10