“Dearest son,” said the stranger, his voice broken with tears. “I am your father, Ulysses.”
Telemachus thought he was being attacked and tensed his muscles, ready to battle for his life. But when he heard these words and felt the old man’s tears burning against his face, then his marrow melted, and he laid his head on his father’s shoulder and wept.
Nor could the honest old swineherd say anything; his throat was choked with tears, too. Ulysses went to Eumaeus and embraced him, saying: “Faithful old friend, you have served me well. And if tomorrow brings victory, you will be well rewarded.”
Then he turned to his son and said, “The goddess herself must have led you here tonight. Now I can complete my plan. Tomorrow we strike our enemies.”
“Tomorrow? Two men against a hundred? These are heavy odds, even for Ulysses.”
“Not two men—four. There is Eumaeus here, who wields a good cudgel. There is the neatherd whom we can count on. And, no doubt, at the castle itself we will find a few more faithful servants. But it is not a question of numbers. We shall have surprise on our side. They think I am dead, remember, and that you are helpless. Now, this is the plan. You must go there in the morning, Telemachus, pretending great woe. Tell them you have learned on your journey that I am indeed dead and that now you must advise your mother to take one of them in marriage. This will keep them from attacking you—for a while anyway—and will give us the time we need. I shall come at dusk, just before the feasting begins.”
“What of my mother? Shall I tell her that you are alive?”
“By no means.”
“It is cruel not to.”
“It will prove a kindness later. Women cannot keep secrets, and we have a battle to fight. No, bid her dress in her finest garments, and anoint herself, and be as pleasant as she can to the suitors, for this will help disarm them. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Now, mark this well. You will see me being insulted, humiliated, beaten perhaps. Do not lose your temper and be drawn into a quarrel before we are ready to fight. For I must provoke the suitors to test their mettle and see where we should strike first.”
Telemachus knelt in the firelight and said, “Sire, I shall do as you bid. I don’t see how we can overcome a hundred strong men, but to die fighting at your side will be a greater glory than anything a long life can bestow. Thank you, Father, for giving me this chance to share your fortune.”
“You are my true son,” said Ulysses, embracing the boy tenderly. “The words you have just spoken make up for the twenty years of you I have missed.”
Eumaeus banked the fire, and they all lay down to sleep.
Ulysses came to the castle at dusk the next day and followed Eumaeus into the great banquet hall, which was thronged with suitors. He humped along behind the swineherd, huddling his shoulders and limping. The first thing he saw was a dog lying near a bench. By its curious golden brown color he recognized it as his own favorite hunting hound, Argo. It was twenty-one years old, incredibly old for a dog, and it was crippled and blind and full of fleas. But Telemachus had not allowed it to be killed because it had been his father’s.
As Ulysses approached, the dog’s raw stump of a tail began to thump joyously upon the floor. The tattered old ears raised. The hound staggered to his feet, let out one wild bark of welcome, and leaped toward the beggar. Ulysses caught him in his arms. The dog licked his face, shivered, and died. Ulysses stood there holding the dead dog.
Then Antinous, one of the most arrogant of the suitors, who fancied himself a great jokster, strode up and said, “What are you going to do with that dead dog, man, eat him? Things aren’t that bad. We have a few scraps to spare, even for a scurvy old wretch like you.”
Ulysses said, “Thank you, master. I am grateful for your courtesy. I come from Crete, and—”
“Shut up!” said Antinous. “Don’t tell me any sad stories. Now take that thing out and bury it.”
“Yes, gracious sir. And I hope I have the honor of performing a like service for you one day.”
“Oho,” cried Antinous. “The churl has a tongue in his head. Well, well …”
He seized a footstool and smashed it over Ulysses’ back. Telemachus sprang forward, blazing with anger, but Eumaeus caught his arm.
“No,” he whispered. “Hold your peace.”
Ulysses bowed to Antinous and said, “Forgive me, master. I meant but a jest. I go to bury the dog.”
As soon as he left the room, they forgot all about him. They were agog with excitement about the news told by Telemachus, that Ulysses’ death had been confirmed, and that Penelope would now choose one of them to wed. They crowded about Telemachus, shouting questions.
He said, “Gently, friends, gently. My mother will announce her choice during the course of the night. But first she desires that you feast and make merry.”
The young men raised a great shout of joy, and the feasting began. Ulysses returned and went the round of the suitors, begging scraps of food. Finally he squatted near Eurymachus, a fierce young fellow whom he recognized to be their leader. Eurymachus scowled at him, but said nothing.
Into the banquet hall strode another beggar—a giant, shaggy man. He was a former smith who had decided that it was easier to beg than to work at the forge. He was well liked by the suitors because he wheedled and flattered them and ran their errands. He swaggered over to Ulysses and grasped him by the throat
“Get out of here, you miserable cur,” he said. “Any begging around here to do, I’ll do it. I, Iros.”
He raised his huge, meaty fist and slammed it down toward Ulysses’ head. But Ulysses, without thinking, butted the man in the stomach, knocking him back against the wall.
“Look at that,” cried Eurymachus. The old souse has a head like a goat. For shame, Iros, you ought to be able to squash him with your thumb.”
“Exactly what I intend to do,” said Iros, advancing on Ulysses.
“A fight! A fight!” cried the suitors. “A beggar-bout. Good sport”
They crowded around the beggars, leaving just space enough for them to move.
Ulysses thought quickly. He could not risk revealing himself for what he was, yet he had to get rid of the fellow. So he shrank into his rags, as though fearful, allowing Iros to approach. Then, as the great hands were reaching for him and the suitors were cheering and jeering, he swung his right arm, trying to measure the force of the blow exactly. His fist landed on the smith’s chin. The suitors heard a dry, cracking sound, as when you snap a chicken bone between your fingers, and they knew that their man’s jaw was broken. He fell to the floor, unconscious, blood streaming from mouth and nose. Ulysses stooped and hoisted him over his shoulder and marched out of the banquet room, saying, “I’d better let him bleed outside. It will be less unpleasant for you gentlemen.”
He draped the big man over a stile and came back.
“Well-struck, old bones,” said Eurymachus. “You fight well for a beggar.”
“A beggar?” said Ulysses. “What is a beggar, after all? One who asks for what he has not earned, who eats others’ food, uses their goods? Is this not true? If so, young sir, I think you could become a member of our guild tomorrow.”
Eurymachus carefully wiped the knife that he had been using to cut his meat and held the point to Ulysses’ throat.
“Your victory over that other piece of vermin seems to have given you big ideas,” he said. “Let me warn you, old fool, if you say one word more to me that I find unfitting, I will cut you up into little pieces and feed you to the dogs. Do you understand?”
“I understand, master,” said Ulysses. “I meant but a jest.”
“The next jest will be your last,” growled Eurymachus.
Telemachus stepped between them and said, “Beggar, come with me to my mother. She has heard that you are a voyager and would question you about the places you have seen.”
“What?” cried Eurymachus. “Take this stinking bundle of rags to your mother? Sh
e will have to burn incense for hours to remove the stench.”
“You forget yourself, sir,” said Telemachus. “You have not yet been accepted by my mother. She is still free to choose her own company.”
Eurymachus played with his knife, glaring at Telemachus. He was angry enough to kill, but he did not wish to lose his chance with Penelope by stabbing her son. So he stepped aside and let Telemachus lead the old beggar out of the hall.
“You have done well,” whispered Ulysses. “Another second and I would have been at the cur’s throat, and we would have been fighting before we were ready. Besides, it is time I spoke to your mother. She enters our plans now.”
When he was alone with Penelope, he sat with his face lowered. He did not wish to look at her. For her presence set up a great, shuddering tenderness inside him, and he knew that he had to keep himself hard and cruel for the work that lay ahead.
“In this chamber, you are not a beggar, you are a guest,” said Penelope. “So take your comfort, please. Be at ease here with me, and tell me your tidings. I understand you met my husband, Ulysses, once upon your voyages.”
“Beautiful queen,” said Ulysses. “I knew him well. Better than I have admitted. I am a Cretan. I was a soldier. When the war with Troy started I went as part of a free-booting band to sell our swords to the highest bidder. We took service with your husband, Ulysses, and I fought under his banner for many years. Now his deeds before Troy have become famous in the time that has passed since the city was destroyed. Bards sing them from court to court all over the lands of the Middle Sea. Let me tell you a little story, though, that has never been told.
“I lay with him in that famous wooden horse, you know. We crouched in the belly of the horse that was dragged into Troy and set before the altar as an offering to the gods. The Trojans were crowding around, looking at this marvelous wooden beast, wondering at it, for such a thing had never been seen. But Queen Helen knew the truth somehow and, being a mischief-loving lady always, tapped on the belly of the horse, imitating the voices of the heroes’ wives. She did it so cunningly that they could have sworn they heard their own wives calling to them and were about to leap out of the horse too soon, which would have been death.
“Now, Helen saved your voice till last. And when she imitated it, I heard Ulysses groan, felt him tremble. He alone was clever enough to know it was a trick, but your voice, even mimicked, struck him to the heart. And he had to mask his distress and use all his force and authority to keep the others quiet. A tiny incident madame, but it showed me how much he loved you.”
Penelope said: “Truly, this is a story never told. And yet I think that of all the mighty deeds that are sung, I like this little one best.”
Her face was wet with tears. She took a bracelet from her wrist and threw it to him, saying, “Here is a gift. Small payment for such a tale.”
“Thank you, Queen,” said Ulysses. “My path crossed your husband’s once again. My ship sailed past the Island of the Dawn. We had run out of water and were suffering from thirst and there we saw a marvelous thing: A fountain of water springing out of the sea, pluming, and curling upon itself. We tasted it and it was fresh, and we filled our water barrels. When I told about this in the next port, I learned how such a wonder had come to be. The enchantress, Circe, most beautiful of the daughters of the gods, had loved your husband and sought to keep him with her. But he told her that he must return to his wife, Penelope. After he left, she wept such tears of love as burned the salt out of the sea and turned it into a fountain of pure water.”
Penelope took a necklace from her neck and said, “I liked the first story better, but this is lovely, too.”
Ulysses said, “Thank you, Queen. I have one thing more to tell. Your husband and I were talking one time around the watch-fire on a night between battles, and he spoke, as soldiers speak, of home. He said that by the odds of war, he would probably leave you a widow. And, since you were beautiful, you would have many suitors and would be hard put to decide. Then he said, ‘I wish I could send her this advice: Let her take a man who can bend my bow. For that man alone will be strong enough to serve her as husband, and Ithaca as king.’ ”
“Did he say that—truly?”
“Truly.”
“How can I ask them to try the bow? They will jeer at me. They may feel offended and do terrible things.”
“Disguise your intention. Tell them you cannot decide among such handsome, charming suitors. And so you will let their own skill decide. They are to hold an archery contest, using the great bow of Ulysses, and he who shoots best to the mark will win you as wife. They cannot refuse such a challenge, their pride will not permit them to. Now, good night, lady. Thank you for your sweet company. I shall see you, perchance, when the bow is bent.”
“Good night, old wanderer,” said Penelope. “I shall never forget the comfort you have brought me.”
As Ulysses was making his way through the dark hallway, something clutched his arm and hissed at him:
“Ulysses … Ulysses … My master, my king … my baby … my lord …”
He bent his head and saw that it was an old woman and recognized his nurse, Eurycleia, who had known him from the day he was born, and who had tended him through his childhood.
“Dear little king,” she wept “You’re back … you’re back. I knew you would come. I told them you would.”
Very gently he put his hand over her mouth and whispered: “Silence … No one must know, not even the queen. They will kill me if they find out Silence … silence …”
She nodded quickly, smiling with her sunken mouth, and shuffled away.
Ulysses lurked outside the banquet hall until he heard a great roar from the suitors and knew that Penelope had come among them. He listened outside and heard her announce that she would choose the man, who, using her husband’s great bow, would shoot best to the mark. He heard young men break into wild cheers. Then he hid himself as Telemachus, leading the suitors into the courtyard, began to set out torches for the shooting. Then it was that he slipped unnoticed into the castle and went to the armory where the weapons were kept. He put on a breastplate and arranged his rags over it so that he looked as he had before. Then he went out into the courtyard.
All was ready for the contest. An avenue of torches burned, making it bright as day. In the path of light stood a row of battle-axes driven into the earth, their rings aligned. Each archer would attempt to shoot through those rings. Until now only Ulysses himself had been able to send an arrow through all twelve axe-rings.
Now Penelope, followed by her servants, came down the stone steps carrying the great bow. She handed it to Telemachus, saying:
“You, son, will see that the rules are observed.” Then, standing tall and beautiful in the torchlight, she said, “I have given my word to choose as husband he who best shoots to the mark, using this bow. I shall retire to my chamber now, as is fitting, and my son will bring me the name of my next husband. Now may the gods reward you according to your deserts.”
She turned and went back into the castle. The noise fell. The young men grew very serious as they examined the great bow. It was larger than any they had ever seen, made of dark polished wood, stiffened by rhinoceros horn, and bound at the tips by golden wire. Its arrows were held in a bull-hide quiver; their shafts were of polished ash, their heads of copper, and they were tailed with hawk feathers.
Ulysses squatted in the shadows and watched the suitors as they crowded around Telemachus, who was speaking.
“Who goes first? Will you try, sir?”
Telemachus handed the bow to a prince of Samos, a tall, brawny man, and a skilled archer.
He grasped the bow in his left hand, the dangling cord in his right, and tugged at the cord in the swift, sure movement that is used to string a bow.
But it did not bend. He could not make the cord reach from one end to the other. He put one end of the bow on the ground and grasped the other end and put forth all his strength. His back muscles glistene
d like oil in the torchlight. The bow bent a bit under the enormous pressure, and a low sighing sound came from the crowd, but when he tugged on the cord, the bow twisted in his hand as if it were a serpent and leaped free. He staggered and almost fell. An uneasy laugh arose. He looked wildly about, then stomped away, weeping with rage.
Telemachus picked up the bow and said, “Next.”
One by one they came; one by one they fell back. Not one of them could bend the bow! Finally, all had tried but Antinous and Eurymachus. Now Antinous was holding the bow. He shook his head and said:
“It is too stiff; it cannot be bent It has not been used for twenty years. It must be rubbed with tallow and set by the fire to soften.”
“Very well,” said Telemachus.
He bade a servant rub the bow with tallow and set it near the fire. Ulysses kept out of sight. As they were waiting, Telemachus had a serving girl pass out horns of wine to the suitors. The men drank thirstily, but there was no laughter. They were sullen. Their hearts were ashen with hatred; they did not believe the bow could be softened. And Ulysses heard them muttering to each other that the whole thing was a trick.
Finally, Antinous called for the bow. He tried to string it. He could not.
“It cannot be done,” he cried.
“No,” said Eurymachus. “It cannot be done. I will not even try. This is a trick, another miserable, deceitful trick. Shroud that is never woven, bow that cannot be bent, there is no end to this widow’s cunning. I tell you she is making fools of us. She will not be taken unless she be taken by force.”
A great shouting and clamor arose. The suitors pressed close about Telemachus, hemming him in so tightly he could not draw his sword.
“Stop!” shouted Ulysses.
He cried it with all his force, in the great bellowing, clanging battle voice that had rung over spear shock and clash of sword to reach the ears of his men on so many fields before Troy. His great shout quelled the clamor. The amazed suitors turned to see the old beggar stride out of the shadows into the torchlight. He came among them, grasped the bow, and said, “I pray you, sirs, let me try.”
The Adventures of Ulysses Page 11