Glyn Iliffe - The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘Go warm yourself by the flames, father,’ one of them said, nodding towards the circular fire before their feet.

A black pot hung over it, bathing the beggar’s senses with the delicious smell of porridge while provoking his stomach into a series of groans.

‘My thanks to you, King Diomedes,’ he said, settling cross-legged before the campfire and holding out his blackened hands towards its warmth.

Diomedes gave him a half smile and nodded to a male slave, who walked over to the pot and doled out a ladleful of porridge into a wooden bowl. He passed it with disdain to the beggar, who cackled with joy as he raised the steaming broth to his lips.

‘He stinks like the lowest pit of Hades,’ Sthenelaus said, leaning slightly towards Diomedes.

Euryalus, seated on the other side of Sthenelaus, could barely conceal the sneer on his lips as the beggar slurped noisily at the contents of the bowl.

‘You shouldn’t encourage these vagabonds, Diomedes. Show kindness to one and before you know it you’ll have an army of them at the door of your hut.’

Diomedes smiled. ‘Let the man eat. Isn’t there enough suffering in this world without denying a poor wretch a morsel of food?’

‘There speaks a true king,’ said the beggar, casting the empty bowl aside and rising to his feet. ‘I knew you was Diomedes, as soon as I set eyes on you. Tydeus’s son, yet greater than he.’

‘It isn’t your place to make that judgement,’ Euryalus admonished him.

The beggar flicked his hands up in a dismissive gesture.

‘Who said it were my judgement? A beggar may lack wisdom, but he ain’t deaf. I’m only repeating what I’ve heard others say: that Tydeus was a great man who killed Melanippus at the first siege of Thebes, though he died later of his wounds. But they also say he dishonoured himself by devouring Melanippus’s brains – something his son wouldn’t ever stoop to.’

‘You can’t deny he’s a well-informed vagabond,’ Sthenelaus commented with a grin.

‘As for your father, Sthenelaus,’ the beggar added, ‘they say he were killed by a thunderbolt, for boasting that even Zeus couldn’t stop him scaling the walls of Thebes.’

‘Who do you think you are!’ Sthenelaus snapped, rising from his chair.

Diomedes laid a hand on his wrist and pulled him back down to his seat.

‘Whoever he is, he’s neither as ignorant nor as foolish as he looks. For all we know he could be a god in disguise. Do you have a bag, father?’

The beggar pulled aside his cloak to reveal a battered leather purse, hung across his shoulder by an old cord. Diomedes stood and walked to his hut, signalling for the beggar to follow. As the bent figure entered behind him, he passed him a basket of bread and another of meat.

‘Here, fill your bag for your onward journey. And if a king can advise a pauper in his trade, I suggest in future you don’t insult the fathers of the men you’re begging from.’

The old man smiled and took both baskets, somehow managing to cram the entire contents into his purse.

‘If I insult you,’ he asked, ‘why repay me with such generosity?’

‘Because there’s something about you. A presence that marks you out from the rest of your kind. You may be a god, or you may just be a good man fallen on hard times, but I know better than to turn you away with nothing more than scorn.’

‘Then perhaps I’m worth a cup of wine, too,’ the beggar grinned.

Diomedes raised his eyebrows a little at the man’s audacity, then pointed to a table by the back wall, beneath the racks of armour and weapons he had stripped from his enemies, and told him to help himself. The beggar shuffled over and found a bowl of mixed wine surrounded by half a dozen silver goblets. After clattering about among them for a few moments, he turned with a cup in each hand, one of which he passed to Diomedes. The king took it at arm’s length, holding back from the stink that clung to his guest. Then the beggar poured a meagre libation onto the fleece at his feet and raised the goblet to his lips, drinking greedily so that the dark liquid spilled down over his beard and neck.

‘Zeus’s blessing on you, m’lord,’ he said, and with a fleeting bow pulled aside the curtain door and left the hut.

Outside, the sun was beginning to climb and the cold air and dew that had marked the dawn were swiftly forgotten. The beggar nodded to Sthenelaus and Euryalus as they stared at him with disdain, then shuffled off in the direction of the camp walls. But as soon as he was out of sight of Diomedes’s hut, he placed less weight on his staff and quickened his pace, until a short while later he had climbed the slope and was approaching one of the gates. It was then he heard the sound he had been listening out for: a series of shouts and the clamour of men running some way behind him. He was barely feigning a shuffle now as he passed between the open gates and across the causeway, the guards keeping as far back from the shabby, foul-smelling old man as they could. But he had taken no more than a few paces on to the plain when a voice commanded him to stop. He turned to see Diomedes striding towards him, with Sthenelaus and Euryalus at each shoulder. A horse whip was in the king’s hand and his handsome face was creased with wrath.

‘Where is it?’ he demanded.

The beggar backed away, instinctively covering his head with his forearms.

‘Where’s what? I ain’t got nothing but what you gave me, m’lord.’

Diomedes reached across with a snarl and pulled open the beggar’s robes. The man fell unceremoniously onto his backside, causing a ripple of laughter from the gate guards. As he hit the ground, a silver goblet tumbled from his mess of rags and rolled in a semicircle towards Diomedes’s sandalled foot.

‘Call this nothing?’ he said, stooping to retrieve the cup.

‘You said to help meself,’ the beggar protested.

Diomedes raised his whip and brought it down smartly over the beggar’s shoulder, causing him to howl with pain. As the whip was raised for a second strike, the beggar threw his arms about Diomedes’s knees and pleaded for mercy.

‘A man shouldn’t beat his guests, not for nothing!’ he sobbed. ‘It’s an offence to the gods.’

‘And you’re an offence to me, thief,’ Diomedes replied, kicking him away and lashing his back as he scrambled through the long grass on his hands and knees.

His whimpering yelp was met by more laughter from the guards, who had now been joined by other men from the camp. As they watched, Diomedes whipped the beggar again, slashing open his filthy robes and leaving a red line on the brown skin beneath. Euryalus swung at the man’s stomach with his foot, knocking him onto his back, but as Sthenelaus stepped up to follow with a kick at the man’s head, Diomedes seized his arm and pulled him back.

‘Enough now. He’s learned his lesson.’

‘It’s you what needs to learn a lesson,’ the beggar groaned, clutching at his stomach. ‘Odysseus didn’t attack me when I was in his hut last night; he’s a proper host and knows the rules of xenia.’

Diomedes shook his head in disgust. ‘So you’re a liar as well as a thief. Odysseus retired to his hut last night with orders not to let anyone in. Agamemnon himself would have been turned away, so the chances of a beggar –’

‘But I was there,’ the beggar countered. ‘Fact is, he invited me in to help him with a little problem he was having. Something about finding a way into Troy to pinch a statue.’

‘The Palladium!’ Sthenelaus exclaimed.

Diomedes rebuked him with a warning glance, then turned to the beggar.

‘So you’ve overheard a bit of campfire gossip you think you can twist to your advantage. Perhaps you believe I’m a fool? Well, I’ll show you I’m not.’