Finding Ithaka

by Anna Harvey

  He fingered the robe and was moved by the great delicacy and fineness, a reflection of his wife’s mastery of the loom. He realised this was her precious gift to him. A god brought back to him the memory of when Penelope had first crossed the threshold of the palace as a blushing maiden. His own dear mother, now long dead, had delighted in his choice of young bride. She had cultivated the young woman, taking great pleasure in instructing her new daughter-in-law in the skills of the loom and cloth making. And Penelope had been a gifted and willing learner; there was no doubt that the two women had both been endowed with the skills and crafts of the goddess Athena herself.

  Penelope had already dressed in her new robes for the occasion, her raven hair carefully coiled into a knot at the nape, pinned with elaborate gold spirals. Her single calm presence masked the frantic comings and goings of the servants. Her own garments mirrored those before him, only instead of precious gold, her collar had been embroidered with elaborate stitching. The shoulder was pinned with a bronze fibula decorated with blue faience, a guest friendship gift, and she wore a necklace of amber beads. It was obvious she had been waiting, wanting to observe his reaction and to see if her gift pleased him. He nodded towards her as a sign of approval.

  “This is a fine garment, Penelope,” he said, looking up at her. “And more than fit for today’s Feast of Apollo. You have indeed excelled yourself and the gods have blessed you, good wife. Do you want to help me dress?” He started to strip off his old clothes, hastily thrown on in the darkness of the night. As he exposed his body, he noticed Penelope casting her eyes downwards to avert her gaze. Even now, after years of marriage and love-making, she was awkward at the sight of his naked body. This was not the day to upset her. He chose to ignore it and finished dressing by himself. The robe fitted perfectly and he drew across his waist a belt, embossed with gold foil sewn into the leather. Although he could not see his own reflection, he felt outwardly clothed in the full symbols of his kingship and authority.

  “How do I look to you, wife. Is my appearance to your satisfaction?” He turned round so that she could admire the full effects of her creation.

  “It is indeed, husband. It is a garment well befitting the king of Ithaka.”

  “And his queen,” he added, touching her cheek affectionately, “also looks beautiful and regal.” He kissed her lovingly on her forehead. “Are we ready to go?” He noticed Penelope adjusting her veil over her face, a custom she had always observed as a dutiful and noble queen. A feeling rose up inside him: a frustration or irritation given by the gods he dare not name. He pushed the feeling away from him aware that this was not the time. It could wait. There were more important matters at hand that needed to be attended.

  As Penelope and Odysseus descended the stairway, Telemachos and his family were already gathered in the great megaron. His wife, Epicaste, stood at her husband’s side, her face modestly downcast. She had come from Pylos, the daughter of his dear friend Nestor, and was renowned for both her intelligence and her beauty. It gave Odysseus great pleasure that marriage had joined the two families together, further strengthening the ties of kinship and guest-friendship. Epicaste had borne Telemachos two healthy sons: the elder who was now entering manhood and a daughter, Arete. She had recently married a noble from Zakynthos and had returned with her young husband for the feast. Now she stood in her finest attire beaming, proudly clutching her young babe. At the sight of his family, Odysseus’ heart swelled and he thought with satisfaction how the fortunes of the House of Arkeisios, his father’s father, had flourished since his return.

  Now that the full extended family and the retinue of attendants had assembled, Odysseus with his queen Penelope led out the procession from the palace. They walked at a steady pace slowly winding their way down towards the open fields leading to the shrine of Apollo, close to where Odysseus had slept so long and so deeply only the previous day. A canopy had been raised across the trees to provide shelter from the fierce rays of Helios and the long banqueting table and benches set beneath. Straining and sweating under the solid weight, the servants had carried it down from the great megaron. For those unable to be seated at the table, brushwood and chaff had been scattered over the ground. A throng of people had already assembled, having travelled from all the different corners of the kingdom: from Same, Doulichion, Zakynthos and from Ithaka itself to celebrate Apollo’s feast. Many of the faces were familiar but there were also some strangers, their dress slightly different and their faces haunted as if chased by the Furies. He assumed these people must be from the mainland. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Telemachos embracing a man of similar age and stature, his brother-in-law Peisistratos. The two had become close from Telemachos’ journey to Pylos and his marriage. He had newly arrived to join them in their celebrations to the god. Peisistratos would make a worthy ally for the kingdom in time of need.

  In the crowd, Odysseus picked out a familiar face and singled him out at once. “Welcome dear friend. Your face and that of your family are a welcome sight to me.” He greeted Eumaios, embracing him. He stepped back, taking in Eumaios’ appearance. His beard had been neatly trimmed and the thick black curls now edged with silver. He was clad in a fine robe, crafted by his younger wife, who waited patiently at his side. For Eumaios had had his wish for freedom and a hearth of his own. Three manly sons stood behind and he could see that soon brides would need to be sought.

  “Thanks that the gods have let us live long enough to see this day,” Odysseus said, clasping Eumaios on his broad back. “For it is twenty years, since we fought shoulder to shoulder to reclaim the kingdom from those insolent suitors so this good could come of it.”

  “Indeed, my lord. It is a fine sight,” the other man said, his eyes watering with tears. “To do honour to Apollo this day. “

  “And I would invite you to sit beside us and your family as our most honoured guests.” Eumaios bowed his head and nodded his agreement. “But first we must give our attention to observing the ceremony to honour the god Apollo and give him his due rights”, Odysseus said seeing the priest approaching him. He felt in good spirits. Already there was a rich aroma of meat and dark smoke filling the air from the roasting spits. In preparation for the feast, fifty lambs and fifty goats had been delivered from the upland pastures, all now cooking over the open fire-pits.

  “Basileos, we are ready to make the offering to the god,” announced the priest, a mild-looking fellow. He gestured to a cooked meat carcass that had just been removed from the fire. Odysseus took the knife proffered by the priest, taking care to cut away the juiciest and most tender meat cuts for the god. He did not wish to invoke the divine punishment as Prometheus had done when he had deceived Zeus, wrapping bone and gristle in succulent fat. When the metal platter was brimful, the priest carried it the short distance to the shrine, holding it aloft and intoning a supplication to Apollo.

  The priest then set the platter down on the altar, together with a kylix full of sweet honeyed red wine, sprinkled with herbs. All bowed their heads and observed silence while the ritual was performed giving full honour to Apollo, he who shoots from afar, the god of prophecy and healing. When the ceremony had been performed to the priest’s satisfaction, a signal was given for the herald to announce the start of the festivities.

  They now took their seats at the table, Odysseus leading his queen to her place beside him followed by Eumaios. Already attention had turned to the shooting contest, which was creating a great stir amongst the young men. It was the feat Odysseus had accomplished when he finally had shrugged off his beggar’s clothes to reveal the truth of his identity to those ill-starred suitors twenty years ago. Now each of the contestants took their turn to string the great bow, bending it to their will, and then to shoot the arrow through the twelve grey axes of iron. Howls of merry laughter arose as the bow got the better of the young men. Odysseus took pleasure in seeing his two grandsons trying their hand. It would not be so very long before the eldest, Persepolis, mastered it. Only when Telem
achos stepped forward for the challenge, turning the bow over in his powerful hands before effortlessly stringing it and sending an arrow through the handle hold of all the axes, was the competition done. Then loud cheers and shouts of praise rang out from the people at what the son of Odysseus had accomplished: the re-enactment of his father’s feat.

  He was the first to applaud his son, embracing and holding him in front of all assembled. “I have no more dearer prize I can give you,” Odysseus whispered under his breath out of earshot, “for the kingdom of Ithaka now belongs to you, my son.” Turning towards the herald, feeling tears welling up from his eyes, he spoke loudly for all to hear. “Come, announce the feast and let us eat!”

  Bowls piled with roasted meats, bread and ripened fruit were swiftly set before the guests and the heralds distributed the drinking bowls filled with diluted honeyed wine. Odysseus surveyed the scene with great satisfaction, relaxing under the glow of the wine. This outward display of his wealth, now shared, could not be begrudged by the people or the gods.

  When all had taken their fill, the bard was summoned and started up in song, his clear voice ringing out to the accompaniment of the well-strung lyre. For a moment Odysseus drew an inward breath, waiting to discover which heroic story the bard would treat them to. It was with relief that he realised it was the nostoi, the songs of the return from Troy of the Greek conquering heroes. The stories were familiar. And yet, in this strange nostalgic mood that had descended upon him, it struck him what had become of them all. The ending had not been as they imagined, as they set out bright-eyed and clean-shaven for the shores of Troy. It had not been the glittering and glorious kleos they had been promised.

  The brilliant but hot-headed Achilles had met his untimely death, shot in the heel by a coward’s poisoned arrow. Perhaps the gods had been outraged by his defiling of the Trojan dead and his excessive mourning for his beloved companion, Patroklos. And then there had been Ajax “The Big-one”, that giant wall of a man. If only he Odysseus had realised in time and loosened his grip in the wrestling match, perhaps that tragedy could have been averted. For a madness had descended upon Ajax and he had taken his own life, unable to bear the humiliation and shame of not being crowned victor. Death piled upon death.

  And now the gods brought to his mind Ajax Oileus. He shuddered to recall that wretched brute of a man. Shipwrecked and drowned on his journey home, the beast had paid dearly for his sacrilege of Athena’s temple. Even Diomedes, Odysseus’ dearly loved friend, had not escaped unscathed. He had survived shipwreck only to discover another warmed his wife’s bed. And so Diomedes had departed Argos, the city of his birth, to become an exile from his own lands.

  And what of Agamemnon himself, their leader, the Anax of the Greeks, with his haughty and foolish arrogance, the man who had been so eager to grab the spoils of war for himself. But all that wealth and power, all the precious metals, all the plundered weapons, all the fine woven garments and all the beautiful captive women, had not saved him in the end. Rather they had sowed the seeds of his destruction. For stripped naked like a babe, he had been murdered in his own bathtub by his wife Klytaimnestra and her lover, Aigisthos. It was said that she had never forgiven Agamemnon for the murder of her innocent daughter, Iphigeneia. But when the captive Kassandra was installed in the palace as the new mistress, Klytaimnestra’s anger had turned to murderous rage.

  Only Nestor had escaped the painful fate that had awaited them, the conquering heroes of Troy, living out his days wisely and justly. They had been the pride of the Greek warriors, fighting bravely and heroically side by side at Troy to win individual kleos. But this kleos, which all his life he Odysseus had followed, in the end had done none of them any good and had come at a terrible price.

  And as for his own kleos, Odysseus wondered, when life had left his body, what memory would be left behind and what account given of him by the bards down the generations. He did not dwell further on these thoughts as the song was drawing to a close and the bard was playing the final chords. This was his signal to put his plan into action.

  “Grandfather!” A sweet voice caught him by surprise. He turned to see his youngest grandson, standing at his side. The boy was bright-eyed and soft-featured compared to his elder brother, but already he had a way with words. “When I am older, I want to be a bard and sing of your heroic deeds,” he proclaimed in his clear child voice, his eyes flashing with excitement.

  “You will do me proud if you remember half of all the stories I have told you.” Odysseus laughed and fondly patted him on the head.

  “Homer, come here,” whispered his mother Epicaste. And she dotingly led her son away by the hand. Odysseus nodded at the herald, who called for silence now the cheers and appreciation for the bard had calmed.

  He rose to his feet, hoping that the winged words would not desert him in what he was about to say. He began, his clear voice ringing out steady and strong to the expectant throng. “People of Ithaka, Same, Zakynthos, Doulichion and our guest-friends, I welcome you all to this great feast and celebration of the god Apollo. Since I was a boy at my father’s side, I have always done my duty to win kleos for myself and this island kingdom to show myself worthy of being your king. As a young man, I was called to serve the great king of Mykenai, Agamemnon himself, and for ten long years did my duty as a warrior fighting on the plain of Troy. I have seen the loosening of men’s limbs in battle and the destructive force of the war god Ares. During that grievous time we all lost many dear ones: your fathers, your sons and your brothers, both in battle and on the journey home. Living here in peace and harmony amongst ourselves and with bountiful nature is perhaps our greatest achievement.” As the words left his mouth, it tore him like a blade: Kirke had spoken the same words all those years ago, but he had not understood then. For a moment, a god took his breath away.

  He grasped the solid table to steady himself. “Are you well, father,” enquired Telemachos, noticing the sudden change in his father.

  “I am quite well,” he replied in a hushed whisper. He paused for a moment to compose himself and then continued. ”My greatest desire is that no longer do we witness the death, the destruction and the slaughter of young men for personal greed or vainglory. Rather a new way is found that honours our dead. But these are troubling times. On the mainland, disturbing news reaches us that the old order is breaking down.” His glance fell on the strange faces, their appearance strained and haunted. “New peoples arrive each day fleeing violence, unrest and hunger that hold sway over the great Mykenaian cities. If Strife brings troubles to this kingdom, then we must be ready and prepared.“

  He glanced around at the sea of heads awaiting his words: old and young, men and women, parents and children drawn from across the kingdom. “I have deliberated this much in my mind and at my request Telemachos has been visiting the islands. Discussing this with my son and advisors, we propose to found fortified towns across the kingdom, each having strong walls where its people can take refuge and seek safety in case of war. Each shall have the right to raise an army from all who are freemen and farm the land. Thus if danger comes, we can act quickly to avoid calamity or invasion and its people can rally to its defence.” A murmur had risen from those listening, as they turned to one another and he put up a hand to silence them. “Further, to help ensure good governance, each town shall hold an assembly each season of the year where the politai, its free citizens shall have a say and vote on decrees. Thus we may maintain this state of harmony and no more witness the death and destruction of bygone times. On the island of Same, these cities will be known as Same, Krani and Pronnoi. And here on Ithaka, Pali.”

  “Finally,” he said now turning towards his son, “a new order requires a new king. One who has the vitality and strength to accomplish this task. I believe the time has come to hand over the kingship to my beloved son, Telemachos. It was always on my mind when I battled my way back from Troy that he would succeed me and be king one day. Now he is a man full grown, that day has now arrived and my
duty is done. The gods give me no doubt that he will be a good king and will rule you wisely and justly. I give to you your new king and leader, Telemachos.” For a moment, there was stunned silence and no one spoke but slowly came chants of approval and the banging of tables until the clamour rose to a great upsurge.

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  In the still of the evening, he sat once again under the old plane tree to gather his thoughts before bed. Penelope had already taken her leave and retired to their bedchamber with her circle of handmaidens to make her preparations. It had been a most auspicious day to see Telemachos take possession of the kingdom and become king at last. For so long and through all the many trials he had endured, this had been his heart’s desire. In the distance he could hear the sounds of raucous laughter and clapping. The revelry was continuing into the night. He had decided to withdraw, leaving Telemachos as the new king to lead the festivities and entertain his guests. This was the time for his son’s star to rise and shine full and bright.

  “So it is done,” he said to himself, in the quiet of the darkness. The moon was full above him, casting a silvery light over the mountain tops and dancing on the waters of the lagoon. He had at last dispatched his duty and was now free to live as he wished. If the gods favoured it, he and Penelope might retire to one of the country estates as his father, Laertes, had done before him, living out his days. Yet he noticed this thought gave him no pleasure. Then it came again this unsettling feeling as if the gods were stirring his mind to tell him something.