Glyn Iliffe - The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

‘Be on your way, lad,’ Eperitus said, cuffing Antinous’s mop of blond hair, ‘and don’t let me hear you’ve been in any more trouble.’

Antinous turned and scowled at the captain of the palace guard, tears of anger and embarrassment flooding down his cheeks. He bit back the words he wanted to say and, ignoring Ctessipus’s plea to help him out of the dung heap, stormed off into the throng of people.

‘You shouldn’t provoke them, Omeros,’ Eperitus warned the young storyteller. ‘You’re nothing more than a whelp compared to them, and one day they’ll give you the thrashing you deserve.’

‘Perhaps they will,’ Omeros answered, jumping off his basket and following the two warriors as they navigated their way through the crowds. ‘But it’s precisely because they’re bigger than me that I’m always baiting them. I can’t defeat them physically, so I might as well humiliate them with my words.’

‘Which is why Odysseus likes you so much,’ Arceisius said. He took three barley cakes from a basket and gave the seller a wink. The man shook his head resignedly and continued haggling with a fat, red-faced woman.

Omeros took a bite of the cake Arceisius handed him, then caught up with Eperitus.

‘Sir, the king was looking for you earlier.’

‘And I’ve been looking for him ever since I finished my duties this morning. Do you know where he is?’

‘He was on his way to Hermes’s Mount, with the queen and their baby. He said to tell you that he has gone ahead to make everything ready and will be waiting for you there.’

‘Then perhaps you should have been looking for me rather than lazing about and telling your friends stories,’ Eperitus said, looking at the boy with as much sternness as he could muster. ‘But I suppose I can’t blame you. Odysseus shouldn’t entrust his messages to daydreamers.’

‘I won’t always be a daydreamer, sir,’ Omeros responded, looking hurt. ‘People need stories – and bards to tell them – or where’s the enjoyment in life? If we didn’t give them tales of love, war and glory then no one would have anything to live up to.’

‘And if you left us all alone, we could lead contented lives and not be blighted by impossible dreams,’ Eperitus countered. ‘Anyway, I’d be wary of becoming a bard if I were you. Most end up as little more than tramps, wandering from palace to palace to earn scraps from the tables of the powerful.’

‘Some say that about warriors, too, sir,’ Omeros suggested, stepping back a little as Eperitus gave him another stern glance. ‘But I don’t intend to be a wandering storyteller – I will be bard to the court of King Odysseus himself, and King Telemachus after him.’

Eperitus turned to Arceisius and signalled for him to catch up. ‘Well, if that’s what you want, then you should start telling things as they really were. How many times have I had to remind you Odysseus didn’t enter the palace in a pithos of wine? He was disguised as a wine merchant.’

‘But it doesn’t sound as good, sir. Too much truth can ruin a story, and, besides, the king says he prefers my version.’

‘Odysseus has never been a great respecter of honesty, and you should be careful of following his example,’ Eperitus warned. ‘He was born with the cunning of a fox and knows more than most men about how to live by his wits; but even for him there’s a fine line between trickery and dishonour.’

Omeros was about to reply, but was silenced by the arrival of Arceisius.

‘Odysseus is waiting for us at Athena’s sacred grove on Hermes’s Mount,’ Eperitus informed his squire. ‘We should go and find him now, and leave this young rascal to evade Antinous and his cronies.’

The two men turned and walked in the direction of the low, wooded hump of Hermes’s Mount, which lay to the north-west of the town, but as they moved free of the crowd and began along the dirt track that led to the hill Omeros called after them.

‘Don’t forget that warriors need bards, too, sir. Without us, your acts of glory are worthless.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ Arceisius laughed.

Eperitus said nothing. He was already thinking of what he had to say to Odysseus after Telemachus had been dedicated to the gods, and what the cost of his own search for glory would be.

A strong wind blustered up from the sea, flattening the blades of grass that clung to the exposed flank of Hermes’s Mount. Eperitus and Arceisius held their cloaks about them as they walked towards the lonely thicket of pines that stood tall and dark in the centre of the sloping meadow, enduring the gusts that howled through its interlocked branches. Many years before, Odysseus’s grandfather had met Athena walking through the grove, where she had given him her blessing; since that day it had been considered a sacred place by all Ithacans, and especially the rulers of the island.

As they approached, they could see Odysseus standing beneath the eaves of the small wood. His auburn hair was blowing wildly in the wind as his keen eyes looked out over the Ionian Sea, oblivious to their approach. He was mouthing a silent prayer in preparation for the dedication of his son, and from time to time would close his eyes and bow his head.

Behind him stood Penelope, the knuckles of her fists white as she gripped the edges of her cloak. Her eyes, narrowed against the gale, were fixed upon her husband. At her right shoulder was her nurse, Actoris, whose back was turned against the squall to protect the baby in her arms. Eurybates, Odysseus’s squire and herald, was also with them; he held a struggling lamb in his arms and carried two skins over his shoulder, one filled with wine and the other with water.

Then Odysseus spotted the two figures coming across the meadow and waving at him in the bright sunshine. He waved back, and then, cupping his hands over his mouth so that the wind would not snatch away his words, called out, ‘Where’ve you been? Didn’t Omeros find you?’

‘ We found him ,’ Eperitus said as he and Arceisius reached the relative cover of the grove. ‘Telling stories by the dung heap, as usual. If he’d given us your message straight away we’d have been here a long time ago.’

‘No matter,’ Penelope smiled. ‘You’re here now, and the gods are waiting. Odysseus, are you ready?’

‘I’m ready,’ he replied. ‘Actoris, give Telemachus to his mother. Eurybates, make sure the sacrifice is willing.’

The squire knelt and placed the lamb on the ground, holding it fast by the scruff of its neck. He pulled a wooden bowl from the woollen bag at his hip and placed it on the ground in front of the gently bleating lamb, then filled it with a slop of water from one of the skins hanging from his shoulder. After a moment of uncertainty, the animal bowed its head to drink. Satisfied it had indicated its consent to be sacrificed, Eurybates removed the bowl and passed the skin to Odysseus.

After the king had washed his hands, he drew a dagger from his belt and beckoned for the animal. Pinning it against his muscular chest so that it could barely move, he cut some of the coarse black hair from its head and held it fast between his thumb and the blade. Holding it in the air above his head, he released it into the wind and watched it sail off towards the grey mass of ocean to the north. Eurybates took the lamb again as Odysseus turned to receive the swaddled baby from Penelope’s arms. The boy woke and began to cry as his father removed the double-layer of white wool and lifted his naked red body over his head. Penelope instinctively raised a hand, fearful for her little Telemachus, then forced it down again.