Homer's Daughter

by Robert Graves

  “Well, they were warned,” I said, protruding my Aegadean underlip in a grimace. “They were warned repeatedly.” What else was there to say? Yet my mother had used the same words only the day before when little Telegonus and two of his playmates teased Argus once too often and got nipped in the legs. I laughed aloud at the inadequacy of language. Clytoneus laughed too, Aethon joined in, and we were soon giggling, as hysterical girls giggle, and saying with mock solemnity: “Well, they were warned—repeatedly.”

  I looked round the court at the broken stools, settles and tables, the spilt food, the stained purple cloths, the sprawled corpses.

  “We must ask Eurycleia to send some maids along,” I said. “The place needs tidying up,”—which set us off again roaring and wheezing and sobbing with laughter.

  “Perhaps we ought to confess that we have broken a few things,” Clytoneus added, between gasps. This seemed the best joke of all at the time, though it does not sound very funny now.

  At last I pulled myself together and went to find my mother. For once she was not working and tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Poor, foolish boys,” she said. “They never knew when to stop. And fully half of them were loyal to our house, there’s the pity. The trouble was that they had no manners, but then hardly anyone has good manners these days. I blame their mothers more than anyone else.”

  “What are we to do with Melantho and the other maids who fetched those arms, Mother?”

  “Get their names from Eurycleia, and when they have cleaned the cloisters and scrubbed the furniture, Clytoneus had better take them away somewhere and chop them to pieces. I see no reason why they should continue to live.”

  “Surely we could sell them in the Phoenician slave market?”

  “That is just what your dear father would have said: disguising a soft heart behind mercantile interest. No, child: the men died to appease the ghosts of your brother and your uncle. The women must die to appease the ghost of Ctimene. We do royal justice here.”

  Eumaeus and Philoetius visited the storeroom to lower Melantheus and hack at him with sharp knives, lopping off first nose, then ears, then hands, then feet, until they had trimmed him like an apple tree in January. Meanwhile Aethon, Clytoneus, and the gardeners, led by Eumaeus’s son, carried out the corpses. Being our own fellow countrymen, they were not despoiled, but propped in neat rows against the porch of the main gateway. A few, who proved to be still breathing, Eumaeus’s son knocked on the head with his club. When Eurycleia ventured in to view the slaughter she raised a shrill shout of triumph. Aethon silenced her. “It is unlucky to exult over the dead, old woman, however infamous their behaviour may have been. Ghosts are thick about this court. When we have cleared away the blood, bring quantities of sulphur and burn it on the fire to drive them away.”

  The guilty maids had trooped in behind Eurycleia, terror-stricken because they read their fate in Clytoneus’s eyes. He made them help the gardeners to carry out the dead, and afterwards wash down the tables, stools and settles with sponges, swab the cloister pavement and put the purple covers to soak in a trough. The blood, which coloured the stamped earth of the courts, was scraped off with spades, and the basketfuls of scrapings removed by the gardeners. Next, there was the court of sacrifice to clean: Eumaeus’s son and his helpers had clubbed the servants to death there for fear they might escape and raise the alarm. Nothing is so fertile as blood—we always save the washings of the sacrificial altar—and the pailfuls of dark red water drunk that day by the quinces and pomegranates were acknowledged three months later in a bumper crop of fruit.

  Clytoneus could not face the task of butchering the maids; being as yet a virgin he retained a natural awe of women’s flesh, and ours were all very good-looking girls. Besides, he had been on joking terms with three or four of them. “Aethon, kill them for me!” he begged.

  “The Queen ordered you to do so.”

  “I dare not disobey my mother; but neither can I shed a woman’s blood.”

  “Then hang them and tell her that you considered death by the sword too honourable a fate for them.”

  “I prefer to plead a bruised wrist, which prevents me from further swordplay.”

  Clytoneus pinioned the maids, led them into the outer court, tied a noose at one end of a ship’s cable, and forced each in turn to subject her head to it. The other end of the cable, rubbed with hog’s lard, had been thrown across the roof ridge of my father’s vaulted chamber. At a signal from Clytoneus, Philoetius and their comrades hauled the rope tight, digging their heels into the earth, until the victim was slowly raised off the ground. When her face grew black, she was allowed to drop and another woman suffered the same fate.

  I lacked the curiosity or savagery to watch the scene, but saw Clytoneus coming out of the garden, where he had just vomited his dinner. He was still white-faced and retching.

  “They kicked,” he said, in a whisper, “but not for long.”

  “Are you unwell?”

  “No, the fumes of sulphur as I passed through the banqueting court turned my stomach.”

  I gave him a drink of cordial wine, flavoured with pepperment, and some dry bread to munch, and after a good wash and a change of tunic he felt better. Aethon presently appeared, fresh from his bath, wearing his wedding garments with the air of an immortal god. He was himself again and took me affectionately by the arm.

  “Let us consult the Queen,” he suggested, “before carrying our war further. She will know what we must do next.”

  My mother smiled for joy to see us. “Well, children,” she said, “now that our family ghosts have drunk enough blood to content them, we may as well complete the wedding. I notice that both of you are appropriately dressed, and we cannot afford to vex Aphrodite or flout public opinion by omitting the instrumental music and the dances. So fetch Phemius, and tell him to tune his lyre; and everyone must put on his holiday clothes.”

  Clytoneus protested: “No, no, Mother. By this time the news of the massacre must have reached the town and we shall have another battle to fight almost immediately.”

  But Eumaeus had posted men along the road and behind the orchard to prevent anybody from leaving the Palace or approaching it; even Theoclymenus had been detained.

  We performed our wedding dance, men and women all together, in the court of sacrifice—I gave orders for the removal of the hanged maids—well content to find it our own once more. Eurymedusa and Procne played flutes and Phemius twanged the lyre as loudly as he could, and the noise of the Hymenaeus reached the market place and the docks. “Aha!” remarked sail patcher to net mender. “What is the betting that in the end she married Antinous? They say that he brought the best bride gift, and Princess Nausicaa thinks of nothing but treasure; just like her father.”

  When the dance was done and we had refreshed ourselves with wine and cakes, Clytoneus made a still more urgent protest: “Kinsmen and friends, if we stay here we shall be forced to stand a siege. Do not deceive yourselves: we fought at an advantage today, and the Gods assisted us. But their continued favour is not to be relied upon, nor can the Palace be defended by a dozen men against the entire town militia. They will soon set the main building alight with fire arrows and smoke us out. While there is yet time, let us escape to Eumaeus’s farm, where we can fend them off until the King marches to our relief.”

  “I remain where I am,” said my mother sternly, “and forbid any of you to desert me. We have behaved most correctly ever since the King sailed, and need not apologize to our enemies for what has happened. Medon, hurry to the town and summon the Council. Say that Prince Clytoneus has an urgent message to deliver and is following close behind you. Clytoneus, accompany Aethon to the Temple of Poseidon, and allow Medon to speak on your behalf. He should announce briefly that because of the Council’s refusal to take action you have been obliged to eject your sister’s suitors from the Palace, and that large numbers of them have been seriously injured, and some killed, including the new Regent appointed by the Council. Let
him add that your cousin Aethon the Cretan, now your brother-in-law, has landed unexpectedly and brought you armed help. They will conclude that Aethon was sent by your father at the head of a powerful force of Cretan mercenaries. If they are as cowardly as I suppose, you will be treated with unexceptionable politeness. Medon may then invite them to claim their dead, but without mentioning that there are no survivors.”

  She was obeyed. Medon’s speech terrified and amazed every councillor present except Halitherses, who asked simply: “My lords, did I not warn you?” Aethon and Clytoneus returned unmolested to the Palace. They had no sooner gone, however, than Eupeithes, Antinous’s father, voted that the town militia should arm themselves forthwith and muster in companies; he himself would lead them against the Cretan invaders.

  The militia came marching up the road, nearly three hundred strong; but when they reached the main gateway and saw the extent of the slaughter, a universal groan arose and they halted in dismay. Our small force was marshalled just inside the court of sacrifice and by Aethon’s orders stood silent and immobile, shield to shield, as if an outpost of a large army.

  When Eupeithes recognized Antinous’s corpse by its rich clothes, rage distorted his features. He brandished a sword and swore everlasting vengeance on our house. I was watching from the flat roof of the Tower beside my mother and my grandfather Phytalus, who, to be in fashion, had crammed a helmet on his bald head and taken a spear from the spear stand. Though over seventy years of age and plagued by rheumatism, he had been a fine soldier once. “Great Athene, guide my shaft,” he prayed, and hurled it down with all the strength of his trembling right arm. The Tower is three storeys high and the spear gathered such momentum before it struck Eupeithes on the bronze cheek guard that the blade drove right through his head and killed him on the spot.

  My mother, unfortunately, missed this glorious feat of her old father. She stood gazing out to sea, her eyes shining like stars. “Look, look, dearest child!” she cried, and grabbed my wrist. “Heaven is gracious: we are saved. Look, Elymans—two miles or less away! Do you not know the striped sail? It is your King come to restore order and approve our actions.”

  Yes: it was my father’s ship; followed by an Elyman thirty-oarer and an Elyman fifty-oarer. The militia, on the advice of Medon, decided not to engage our supposedly enormous forces; but took up the dead and carried them in silence back to the town, using spears for stretchers.

  My father’s ship, under oars, had nearly threaded the Straits of Motya on the homeward voyage when Antinous’s fifty-oarer ambushed her; and the fight was going against our people until the thirty-oarer came bowling down the wind and took the enemy in the rear. This was Noemon’s ship, detained at Minoa by Halius, and Halius himself was in her with the pick of his Sicel men-at-arms. I cannot recall the details of the dingdong battle that ensued. My father had already been knocked senseless and flung into the water. Halius dived to his rescue. “May the Immortal Gods bless you, stranger, whoever you may be,” muttered my father, as soon as he recovered consciousness, grasping the hand of the Sicel chieftain who bent over him with solicitude. Thus he unwittingly annulled the unjust curse that he had laid upon his eldest son, and soon they disembarked and sacrificed side by side to Athene the Uniter.

  As the vessels drew alongside the quay, a crowd of working people ran to greet my father with cries of delight but no single nobleman showed his face, which surprised him. Suddenly a huge wailing rose from beyond the town gates where the dead had been carried for burning on a common pyre. He reached the Palace in profound anxiety without in the least knowing what to expect; but we had observed his approach from the Tower and sent Clytoneus and Aethon forward to reassure him.

  “Father,” said Clytoneus, “we have preserved the honour of the house.”

  “Well done, lad! And who is this?” asked my father, looking suspiciously at Aethon.

  “Nausicaa’s husband, Lord Aethon of Tarrha.”

  He flushed angrily. “Indeed, and who married her to him without my consent?”

  “I did, for necessity’s sake. The Queen and the Regent had given their warm approval.”

  “Ha! And the bride price?”

  “A goat’s haggis, Father. And several gallons of blood.”

  He lifted his hand to strike Clytoneus but, glancing at Halius, thought better of it and said in level tones: “I cannot solve that riddle, my son. Where is Mentor?”

  “Dead.”

  “Dead, you say?”

  “Dead, buried, bloodily avenged by your son-in-law.”

  My mother then came up, pressed Halius to her bosom and took my father and him for a walk along the road, explaining drily and carefully as they went all that had happened. Since the tale came from her, they believed it, thought it seemed incredible that one man, a boy and two grey-haired servants should between them have accounted for over nine dozen young Elyman swordsmen.

  My father’s greeting to me was brief and generous: “Daughter, you did well to delay your choice, having found a husband so acceptable to me.”

  Never before had my father acknowledged himself in the wrong; and I improved the occasion by saying: “Mother, have you told Halius that the honour of killing the rogue who falsely accused him of murder went to old Philoetius?”

  My father kissed me. “Child,” he sighed, “if you knew how cruelly I punished myself by banishing your brother in what I thought to be the interests of justice, you would not taunt me.”

  That night at supper he said: “My son Aethon, you and Clytoneus have raised a difficult point of law by this massacre of my rebellious subjects. When a man kills a fellow citizen, he is outlawed for a period of years and seldom ventures to return. For you two have together destroyed one hundred and eleven of your fellow citizens. Either outlawry is too light a punishment for the crime, and you therefore deserve to die like villains, or else you deserve olive crowns for having brought peace to this distracted kingdom and set an example of confidence in the Just Gods. I shall sleep on the problem, if you permit me, and deliver my verdict in the morning; as Alcinous of Drepane did in the song.”

  Aethon turned to my mother. “Queen Arete,” he said smiling, “soften his heart towards us again!”

  It proved to be the olive crown, not the hangman’s noose; and at Halius’s suggestion my father concluded a defensive alliance with the King of Minoa, which greatly strengthened his throne; and to give no cause for grumbling, he sent back the bride gifts to the families of the dead suitors. Nor did he exact the fourfold payment due on account of the beasts slaughtered and the wine drunk, but a simple fee of beast for beast, and pint for pint; with a return of the purloined cups, and of the treasures which Eurymachus had stolen from Laodamas’s bundle. We found Laodamas’s corpse when we dragged the harbour and, as his ghost had told my mother, the hilt of a dagger stood out between the shoulder blades. He was wrapped in the missing sails, wound about with the missing cordage, and weighted down with stones.

  ***

  When our daily routine was something like normal again, I took Phemius aside. “Phemius,” I asked, “what payment are you prepared to make for the new spell of life I gave you?”

  “I had been wondering when I should have to answer that question,” he said. “The answer is: I accept the price you name, though I fear it will be a high one.”

  “For so valuable a life it must be exceptionally high. Besides, I might have been killed myself in saving you. Come then, it is as follows. Since you are a Son of Homer and your guild alone is privileged to perform in the courts of Greece, I demand that you shall approve, sing and circulate an epic poem of my own composition on which I am already working and which, if Athene continues to inspire me, I shall finish within two or three years. It begins with the opening verses of The Return of Odysseus, as far as his visit to the Lotus-eaters. After that the story will be different. Probably it will include the adventures of Ulysses (whom some believe to have been Odysseus) and end with the massacre of Penelope’s lovers. I have a fa
ir notion now how Odysseus managed it singlehanded. The Iliad, which I admire, is devised by a man for men; this epic, The Odyssey, will be devised by a woman for women. Understand that I am Homer’s latest born child, a daughter; and listen attentively. When I have finished the poem, and written it out in cuttlefish ink on sheepskin, you must memorize it, and (if necessary) improve the language where it halts or flags. One day I shall send you back to Delos and you will carry my poem to all the courts of Asia. When princes and princesses—but especially princesses—praise it and heap gifts on you, asking: ‘Phemius, golden-mouthed minstrel, where did you learn that glorious story?’ you must answer: ‘My ancestor’s songs are highly esteemed by the Elymans, who live at the far western fringe of the civilized world; and it was at the Elyman court that I learned this Odyssey.’ I shall be careful to include nothing that might betray the land of its origin, though immortalizing my own name and Aethon’s and yours in the course of the story.”

  “But if I refuse, Princess?”

  “Then you may expect a worse fate than Melantheus. Be wise: take your oath by Athene and by Apollo.”

  Eventually he swore: perhaps because he thought me incapable of completing the immense labour which I had set myself. As though I ever fail in any of my undertakings!

  ***

  I must confess that Phemius behaved very well when, a couple of years later, I presented him with a manuscript of more than twelve thousand lines—not written on sheepskin but on scrolls of Egyptian papyrus which Aethon won in his glorious sack of Canopus. After all, Phemius is a professional bard and I am a mere interloper and a woman; and we had several serious tiffs while I was composing it. However, I let him have his way sometimes when he protested that this verse or that was faulty. But not always.