Homer's Daughter

by Robert Graves

  But our mother was standing silently in the doorway beside Eurycleia, and had overheard most of the conversation. “Clytoneus,” she said, “rouse the men in the court of sacrifice. Order them to fetch the usual propitiatory offerings to Hera, Artemis and the Fates. They need not be told why the beasts are required. Thornwood torches: we have a few somewhere in the Tower. Flowers and flutes? No: respect for the dead forbids their use until the third day. Candied quince; there is still a box of that in the larder. I should have liked to draw lustral water from the Fountain of the Nymphs. Never mind, we can placate them later; our own fountain will do.”

  “And Ctimene?” asked Clytoneus.

  Always Ctimene. Yes, she could scarcely be trusted with the secret. But would she not be awakened by the coming and going, the squealing of the pigs sacrificed to the Fates, and the chorus of the Hymenaeus, however quietly we sang it?

  In the end we decided to call her as a witness to the betrothal, and running upstairs, I knocked at the bedroom door. She did not answer. I went in and called “Ctimene, Ctimene!” Still no answer. I moved carefully towards her bed and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. The bedclothes were still warm, the bed unoccupied; and when I came down again, the only explanation that anyone could offer, shameful though it might seem, was that she had gone into the garden with the maids on the same errand as they. Yet we had no time for speculation.

  Our troth was plighted at the foot of my father’s throne, in the presence of my mother, Clytoneus and Eurycleia; and Aethon solemnly handed Clytoneus, as his bride price, a bald old wallet containing a haggis! The maids and menservants stood wide-eyed about us, sworn to silence by oaths which they would rather die than break. Aethon and I were ceremonially washed by our attendants, each apart, in spring water from the gateway fountain; then dressed in bridal costume, and garlanded with leaves. What did I care if my wedding dress wanted a deal of embroidery at the back? Clytoneus hastily slaughtered the beasts—the squealing of the pigs would be interpreted by passers-by as the sound of placatory sacrifices for Mentor—and I threw another lock of my hair into the fire by way of farewell to Athene, whose virgin priestess I could no longer be, though I adored her none the less. Aethon and I then shared our slice of candied quince, eaten for Aphrodite’s sake, kindled the thornwood torches at the braziers, and distributed sweetmeats, while our attendants sang the Hymenaeus, but gently, gently, so that the noise should not reach the garden. We also drank cups of honeyed wine. At last the maids led me by torchlight into the banqueting court, kissed me and tiptoed off.

  Aethon followed, taper in hand, and found me trembling beside a brazier. He unloosed my girdle and, lifting me up, laid me naked on the white ox hide, covered with sheepskins, which had been his bed.

  Neither of us said a word, and never had I realized how overpoweringly fierce is the Goddess Aphrodite. She maddens her votaries, confounding pain and pleasure, love and hate, joy and rage in a holocaust of passion, burning away all shame, all memory of things past, all care for the future. Yet I struggled against the Goddess, remembering poor foolish Ctimene: resolved upon keeping my woman’s pride. I must not let Aethon know that I loved him more than the whole world, more than myself, more than anything in existence but the Goddess Athene, whom I invoked silently for strength.

  At grey dawn I left Aethon and went back into the house to awake Eurycleia, who hurried down to remove Aethon’s wedding garment, the charred stumps of the thorn torches, and other relics of the festivities. When this was done she set the maids to whitewashing the cloisters, as had been agreed, while I slept again in my own narrow bed until high day, dreaming of the Golden Fleece. But Aethon remained in our nuptial couch dreaming of me.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  THE DAY

  OF VENGEANCE

  It was a heavy morning. When Aethon awoke to the swish of whitewash brushes—we use bunches of ass-grass—and the low laughter of the women, he went into the court of sacrifice and prayed softly to Cretan Zeus: “Lord, this is the day of days, after a night of nights. Grant me two things: lucky words from the first person I meet, and a lucky sign from Heaven!”

  Would you believe it? He had hardly spoken before a distant roll of thunder sounded from a blue and cloudless sky; and at the noise one of our Sicel slaves looked up from the heavy quern in which she was grinding a mixture of wheat and barley, and gave him his lucky word. I should explain that, being weak in the chest, this woman was the last of a team of six to complete the stint set her just before dawn; the others had already crept back to their straw pallets for a nap. All our maids must do an occasional spell at the quern; it is good exercise. As my father tells us: “A slave who does not eliminate the gross humours of his system, by daily sweats, is a sullen slave and soon will be a sick one.” But, as the priests of Apollo say: “All things in measure,” and the unusual consumption of bread, since my suitors had begun to plague us, made work at the quern ten times longer and more tedious than before.

  The lucky words were these: “Father Zeus, for whom do you thunder assent like that? From a clear sky, too! Has some distressed nobleman prayed and found you in a good humour? Then, please, listen to a poor Sicel slave and fulfil her wish at the same time! Pitiful Zeus, let today see the end of impudent banquetry at the Palace! The quern is grinding away my life and breaking my back. May those greedy suitors never again eat the flour that falls from it!”

  Aethon’s heart leapt in his breast, and he prayed aloud to Apollo: “Archer Apollo, whose servitor I am, favour me on the festival of your vengeance!” For, this being the anniversary of the God’s victory over the Python, we had chosen it to be the day of our vengeance also.

  Meanwhile, Clytoneus had taken his spear from the spear stand and gone off to attend Apollo’s public sacrifice, Argus following at his heels. Eurycleia kept the maids busily whitewashing, and when they had completed one wall, sent them to draw water, put purple covers on the settles, lay the tables with goblets, two-handled cups and trenchers, and strew freshly cut branches of juniper on the pavement. Before long Eumaeus drove in three splendid hogs and, meeting Philoetius, who had brought a heifer and some fat goats ferried across from Hiera, greeted him with: “Honest friend, the Queen wishes to see you.”

  When Philoetius returned, he found Melantheus insulting Aethon again. “Are you still about, troublemaker?” Melantheus stormed. “Didn’t you collect enough food yesterday, that you must beg for more? Where do you stow it all away? Don’t tell me you have eaten that entire haggis in a single night as well as those scraps! Now, look here, fellow! Any more of your mischief and you and I must come to blows. I fancy that I can hit a trifle harder than Irus.”

  But Philoetius interposed. “This man is under the Queen’s protection,” he said, “having cheered her with news of Prince Laodamas. If it proves to be true, our troubles will soon be over. The King and he will send those damned rogues packing, and give you your deserts, you traitor!”

  Then he approached Aethon and pressed his hand, saying: “My name is Philoetius, at your service.”

  Melantheus slunk out of the court. Philoetius was not a man with whom he cared to quarrel.

  About an hour later Clytoneus entered the Palace, followed by the suitors, who threw their cloaks down on the settles and lost no time in sacrificing the beasts provided by Eumaeus and Philoetius. Being hungry, they set their servants to cook the livers, kidneys, brains and suchlike in a huge mixed grill, resting them on the marrow bones, and called for wine and a great deal of bread. Two big black cauldrons also bubbled at the hearth fire, containing pigs’ trotters, the heifer’s heels and tongue, sheeps’ heads, and lengths of tripe, to which barley, beans and vegetables had been added. The rest of the meat was roasted on spits of pomegranate wood and five-pronged toasting forks. Eumaeus, Melantheus and Philoetius acted as waiters, because the other servants were still working in the stables and the garden; it was not nearly dinnertime yet.

  Clytoneus called to Aethon: “Beggar, come and
sit at this table with me!” The table had been set on the threshold, just outside the front door, where the red stone dogs stood guard, and he filled a golden wine cup for Aethon, saying in a loud voice: “Cypriot, you may rely on me to protect you from any abuse or assault, though these uninvited guests often forget that they are banqueting in a palace, not a country tavern, and behave accordingly. My lords, are you listening?” He beckoned to Eumaeus, who thereupon helped Aethon, before anyone else, to a steaming bowl of stew.

  A contemptuous murmur arose, which Antinous, who had arrived fairly drunk, interrupted. “Well,” he said, “I suppose that we must put up with Prince Clytoneus’s bragging a little longer; for I do not think that the Fates have measured him out a very extensive life.”

  Ctesippus guffawed. Then he shouted: “Comrades, our licenced beggar has already been served with food enough to satiate a smithy full of blacksmiths, and since Prince Clytoneus has shown courtesy to so distinguished a foreigner, I do not propose to be behindhand in following his example. Here is my contribution, and if he finds it too tough even for his ostrichlike stomach to digest, let him pass it on to Gorgo the goose woman or some other humble and deserving person.”

  Melantheus had brought him a dish of broth, and Ctesippus, picking up one of the heifer’s heels—but, because it was very hot, using one of our best purple covers as a glove—hurled it at Aethon. With one of those mirthless grins that you see on the bronze figures of horned men imported from Sardinia, Aethon moved his head aside; and the missile struck the wall instead.

  Clytoneus, grasping his spear, burst out: “It is fortunate for you that the heel missed my guest, Ctesippus! If he had not ducked in time, I should have spitted you like a sucking pig. My patience has a certain breaking point and if you stretch it any further, will snap. No doubt, you have decided to kill me; but beware, for I will take one or two of you with me to Hades first. My lord Agelaus, as the noblest born Trojan present, next to myself, you must help me to keep order here. When the Council chose you to act as Regent for the King, did they authorize you to see his son publicly insulted?”

  Agelaus answered, grinning: “Ctesippus is in merry mood. Pay no attention to his practical jokes, which reflect a lively and generous nature. You must remember, kinsman, that we have absented ourselves from the town festivities in honour of Apollo—after witnessing the introductory prayers and sacrifices—at your personal invitation. You promised that today the Princess Nausicaa will clearly name the man whom she intends to marry, as she has been urged to do for a couple of years at least. Once she does so, this series of banquets will end, and there need be no recurrence of unpleasant scenes, which I deplore no less profoundly than yourself, but for which I hold you largely responsible.”

  Only one of my suitors, the Sican Theoclymenus, had noticed that no arms were hanging in the cloisters; nor did the whitewashing of the single wall deceive him. He cast a keen glance of enquiry at Clytoneus, who raised the butt of his spear a handsbreadth from the ground in warning, and pointed to the side door.

  Theoclymenus rose shivering from his stool. “My eyes are darkened,” he said. “The court is full of ghosts, and I hear a sound of mourning in the air. Forgive me, comrades, if I leave you and invoke the God Apollo in the market place.” He crossed the court at a run.

  Everyone stared. But Antinous hiccuped: “Upon my word, that was the neatest excuse I ever heard! To cover his confusion when he had been taken short at table and disgraced himself…” A yell of laughter drowned the rest of his disgusting speech.

  I paced up and down my bedroom for a while. Dolius the gardener had stumbled on Ctimene’s dead body hidden by long grass in a corner of the orchard, by the melon patch. I ordered him to say nothing to anyone and leave her where she lay—explaining that we could not attend to the funeral rites until I had announced my choice of a husband. I may say at once that we never discovered who killed Ctimene, or why. Her throat was cut from ear to ear and someone had evidently dragged her to this place of concealment. My own view is that, suspecting Melantho of a love affair with Eurymachus, she had joined the party of maids, none of whom realized, in the half-dark, who she was. She then followed Melantho, and either cut her own throat when these suspicions proved to be well founded; or perhaps Eurymachus (who never stuck at murder) cut it for her. It does not matter. The curse of the amber necklace had drawn Ctimene down to join my brother Laodamas in loveless Hades.

  The news animated me with a calm rage. I went into the empty throne chamber and sat unobserved on a chair immediately behind the front door, from which I could hear everything. When, by the sound of drunken laughter—at my orders Philoetius and Eumaeus were assisting Pontonous to keep the cups and goblets filled to the brim—it was at last clear that the time had come for action, I slipped out again and called Eurycleia.

  “Eurycleia,” I said, “the key of the storeroom, please!”

  She accompanied me, and I remember that when, having undone the thong attached to the knob, she unlocked the door and pulled it open, the hinges gave a great vengeful groan, as loud as a sacred bull who sees trespassers venturing across his paddock. I read this as a good sign. On days of critical importance one watches for every possible indication of the Gods’ will; but must be careful not to be deceived by the ambiguity in which they love to cloak their designs.

  I took up the fourteen well-stocked Sicel quivers that Clytoneus had secreted here, found a box of brass and iron quoits used for our palace game of ringing the peg, and then with trembling hands reached for the nail where hung a tall, curved, glittering gold case engraved with ancient pictures. My dear friend Procne had fortunately come to stay at the Palace, now that her father had sailed for Elba. She and Eurycleia between them managed to lift the long heavy box of quoits, while I carried the golden case and the armful of quivers. “Come,” I said, and we filed through the silent throne chamber and into the thronged banqueting court, very slowly, not looking about us. I came to a halt beside the main pillar that supported the cloister roof, and to my surprise remained perfectly self-possessed.

  The suitors, startled and pleased to see me wearing my bridal robe and a garland of fresh flowers, beat on the tables with their knife handles and raised a lusty cheer; which I acknowledged with a slight nod before setting down my load and addressing them. “My lords, the Prince Clytoneus decided to make no choice of husband for me that might prove disagreeable to the King, and prudently left the decision to myself. Finding this an invidious task, I appealed to the Goddess Athene, who appeared to me in a dream last night and spoke as follows: ‘Child, choose the man with the steadiest hand and the keenest eye of all who sit at table in your inner court; and since tomorrow is the feast of Apollo the Archer, remember the bow of Philoctetes!’ What could be plainer? Homer describes how Isander and Hippolochus contended for the kingdom of Lycia in an archery match; and though the prize here is a smaller one, more than one hundred noblemen dispute it bitterly—passionate rivals for my love.”

  I let these words cut like a razor.

  “Not only would it be tedious,” I went on, “for so many rivals to contend with the same bow, but I fear quarrels of precedence. Therefore, to limit the entries, I have designed a simple trial of manual skill. My brother Clytoneus will set up twelve pegs in a row, one behind the other, across the court: and no suitor may cast more than one quoit. Whichever three men ring the most distant pegs are permitted to take part in the archery match, which will consist of shooting arrows through axe-heads. The bow I shall lend them is an heirloom; this bow of Philoctetes, the most famous hero-relic in all Sicily. It belonged to Hercules himself, who bequeathed it to Philoctetes as he climbed upon his pyre on Mount Oeta. With this very weapon Philoctetes shot Paris first in the hand, and then in the right eye, thus virtually ending the Trojan War.”

  My speech provoked a deal of confusion, because they had expected me to choose one or other of the suitors whom my father had approved. Now, if the company as a whole accepted my means of deciding the issue,
for which I claimed divine sanction, they too would have to stand by the result and change their plans. And the young men whose bride gifts had not been particularly handsome, thinking that here was a chance to improve their position, clamoured a full-throated assent. Clytoneus at once took a mattock and dug a long trench in the stamped earth of the court; then he fixed the pegs at three paces’ interval along the trench, in accurate alignment, pressing the soil tightly around them with his shoe. Afterwards he drew a mark from behind which all competitors must cast their quoits. “You may begin, my lords,” he said, as he strode back to his seat.

  Antinous, drunk though he was, thought of a clever objection. Reminding us that Apollo had once accidentally killed the boy Hyacinth with a quoit, he suggested that it would be courting death to institute a public quoit game on Apollo’s own feast day. “One of us would be bound to meet Hyacinth’s fate. But I cannot agree that the archery match would be tedious; and, as for precedence, we can compete in a circle, beginning from this wine jar and continuing sunwise, as the wine is served. There seems to be a sufficiency of arrows. Let the mark be a quoit suspended from the door yonder—the one that leads into the court of sacrifice.” This meant that he and his friends would have the first shots and, to judge from the previous day’s funeral games, the contest would degenerate into a farce.

  Clytoneus, however, allowed him to have his way, despite my bitter protests. He took the golden case from my hands and, unfastening the clasps, pulled the bow reverently out. I had never, as it happened, seen it before—a terrible-looking weapon, standing as high as a man, and consisting of what must have been the largest pair of Cretan wild-goat’s horns ever grown, fastened together with hammered bronze. Aethon had already examined it when he visited the storeroom, and provided a cord of twisted flax, four times stouter than an ordinary bowstring, with a loop at either end, and of exactly the right length.