Argos (16 page)

F
or the last ten days I have been shepherding on the farthest reaches of my master's land. Every spring we move the sheep there to fatten on the grassy slopes of the valley, and I have to stay with the sheepherder in a nearby cave, far from my master's palace. And far from Aurora and my children. We spent our last afternoon together naming them. The three black females we called Alloria, Astra, and Zephyrus. The two black males we named Castor and Pollux, after the twin demigods, since neither their mother nor I could tell them apart.

“But what shall we name the golden one?” I asked my mate as the pup tackled his brothers and chewed his sisters' tails. “He is full of fire, isn't he?”

“Let us wait to name him, Argos,” Aurora said. “For one day,
his name will be known far and wide, as is yours today. Of this I am certain.”

“As you wish,” I said, placing my paw on No Name's chest to give his sisters a respite. A few minutes later, I left to make the long run back to my master's estate.

To wait ten days without seeing my family is unbearable. Not since the pain of my master's departure for war against the Trojans began to ebb have I felt such loneliness. I have taken out my frustration on the sheep, snapping at them when they wander off and barking at them when they take too long to leave the corral. But soon we will be done here, and I will see Aurora and my offspring. It is time they learn to shepherd and for the golden one to learn to hunt.

I am returning from the farthest sheep pasture when a seagull swoops low over my master's palace. I run to where he circles high above the estate and call out to him, “Seagull, do you have news of my master?”

“Nay, loyal one,” he calls back. “But run to the harbor as fast as your black legs will carry you. There is mischief afoot!”

The sharp-eyed gulls have been minding the affairs of humanfolk from the skies since the gods made them, so I run across the courtyard and dash down the path that leads to
the harbor. As I draw closer, I hear it: above the noise of the seamen loading ships, the cries of the waterbirds as they dive for fish, and the pulse of the sea crashing against the rocks, Aurora's strangled bark.

I crest the last ridge before the hillside plunges down to the shore, and see her. She is tied around the neck to the mast of a red ship with a thick rope. Men are seated at their oarlocks, waiting for their cadence call, and their sail is inching its way up. It is a yellow sail, and it flaps loudly in the wind. Next to Aurora, my children are piled into wooden chests. I can see only their heads and front paws as they strain to escape. I bark, but the wind carries my words away. As I run down to the harbor, I notice Aurora's owner walking along the shore. I see the glint of copper coins in his hands. He has sold my family!

I run faster than I have ever in my life, slipping and clawing down the trail that leads to the harbor, but I know as I sprint toward the dock that I am too late. Already the ship's rowmaster has set the rhythm, and the sail is catching wind. I can hear Aurora's panicked bark through the crashing of the waves and the shouts of the sailors. A fisherman slings his net at me, but I scamper under the mesh. A jetty runs parallel to the sea for a short distance, and I run toward it. I have to get closer to Aurora!

I am known throughout Ithaka, and so a dozen men or more try to catch me, perhaps thinking there will be a reward for my return. I dodge a few and bite a few more as they try to block my way. Finally I reach the rocky jetty and jump up onto it. I can see Aurora straining at her rope, but it is a thick sailor's rope, woven from many strands. Only the sharpest sword could cut it. One of my puppies has managed to escape the crate and is clumsily walking across the deck toward her. I dash along the jetty, barking for Aurora—just calling her name—for what else can I tell her to do? She is tied tightly, and already there is blue sea between the end of the jetty and the ship. I see her tug against the rope fiercely, even turning around and backing up so she can pull with her strong rear legs. I can see blood on her neck. Her eyes are wild and desperate. She barks something, but I cannot hear it.

“Aurora!” I howl. I've reached the end of the jetty. The next thing to do is jump. Although I know I could never catch the ship, into the depths of Poseidon's domain I plunge.

I dive in from the jetty and begin to paddle, but the incoming tide is so strong that I can barely swim against it. Waves crash around my head. One swell lifts me, and for a brief moment, I can just see the ship with Aurora and my pups barking from the deck.

Then a wave buries my head, pushing me under. I struggle to swim forward, but Poseidon sends wave after wave carrying me to shore, and there I wash up, half dead. A group of fishermen carry me from the breakers and lay me on the sand. They press my chest, and life enters my lungs.

Life without Aurora.

Life without my offspring.

Bitter life.

I close my eyes. Sometime later I hear the swineherd Eumaios's voice and feel his strong arms beneath my head. Then I hear a cry, and I turn and see Telemachos running toward me. What burning shame I feel as he hugs my wet neck and kisses my face. How could I have thought to leave him? Was he not my charge? Did not my master expect me to guard his only son with my life?

I rise unsteadily to my feet. Over Telemachos's shoulder I see the seagull that had called me to the harbor. He will not look at me; his head is buried in his wing.

“Come, Argos,” Eumaios says gently. “Let us leave this cursed shore that has taken so many of our loved ones, never to return.”

They did not know that my children were lost on this terrible shore as well.

“Don't say that!” Telemachos cries. “My father will come back any day now!”

“Truly, that is so, young Telemachos. If any man can return, it is your father. Tonight we will make an offering to Zeus that Odysseus and his swift ship appear on the horizon soon.”

Then together we climb the trail back up to my master's home. At the highest vantage point, we all stop to look out over the blue sea. I see no tall masts; Aurora's ship has already disappeared, and my master is still far away, and I know not where or how or when he will return.

As we turn toward our land, I see a man leading a small flock of lambs in the distance. I sniff the air and confirm what my eyes tell me: the man had been Aurora's master. He sold her and the puppies to buy the lambs, and he is now taking them back to his farm. I freeze.

“Come, Boar Slayer,” Telemachos says. “It grows late, and Mother will be worried.” He tugs on my neck, and I reluctantly follow.

Later that night, after we have brought all the livestock in and the suitors have left, I run away. Luna is bright, and she guides my steps. Soon I reach Aurora's farm. There is a candle lit in her master's small house, and the heavy wooden door is barred shut, just as I knew it would be.

In a few minutes I chew through the leather cord that keeps his gate closed, and I scatter his small herd in every direction. I care not their fate; most will be taken onto other farms, and those left will meet the wolves. Then I tell one large goat to stand by the window and bleat loudly. After a few minutes I hear the door bar being raised and the door swings open.

Then I go inside.

A
moment ago, a stranger arrived at our gate. He is tall and beardless, dressed in fine clothes, and carries a long spear of bronze. I watch the stranger closely because he has no smell, and I wonder,
What manner of man is this who smells not of sweat?
I bark once at the man, but I do not bare my teeth, and then I run to where Telemachos is sitting in the hall, regarding warily the suitors who have already begun to drink my master's wine, though it is scarcely past midday. Together we approach the stranger at the entrance, and Telemachos greets him with courtesy, for he is well-bred.

“Welcome to our house, stranger,” Telemachos says, bowing slightly.

“I thank thee, Telemachos, son of the noble Odysseus,” replies the stranger.

Again I sniff the stranger's feet, but he smells not of men or of anything I have known, and yet I am not afraid for Telemachos.

“Tell me,” the man says, “is there a wedding today? For I see many men who are not in the fields, nor hunting game. Where is the bride?”

And Telemachos lowers his head so the man does not see his anger and shame. Then he says, “Stranger, what you say is true. There is no wedding today. Nor yesterday or the day before or tomorrow. These indolent men you see here do little work and hunt even less. Instead, they come here to my father's house—my father whose bones some say lie whitening on the mainland or under the waves—and eat his sustenance, making us poorer by the day. If my father were to come back, then they would be light on their feet, running back to their own farms and houses, but he has perhaps died by evil fate and will not return, and they know it.”

The stranger shakes his head in sorrow and places his hand on Telemachos's shoulder.

“I grieve for you and your noble mother,” he says. “Surely the
gods will reward your loyalty one bright day.”

Telemachos raises his head. “I thank you, stranger. But tell me, what is your name and where are you from? What ship did you come on, for I have not seen a new one in the harbor? And where are the sailors? And tell me this as well, what brought you to Ithaka? Did you know my father?”

Then the stranger replies, “You have many questions, loyal son of Odysseus, and I will answer them truthfully as I can. My name is Mentes, son of Achialos, and my ship is in the small harbor at the north of your island. Your father and I knew each other from long back. In fact, we are distantly related, and Laertes, your grandfather, would vouch for me if he could, though he is old now and may not remember me.”

Hearing this, Telemachos takes the stranger's hand in his and says, “Welcome then, Mentes. My home is yours. I only wish my father himself were here to greet you.”

Saying this, my master's son begins to weep, and I lick his hand to comfort him. Then the stranger, Mentes, draws closer and whispers into Telemachos's ear. “Hear me, loyal son of Odysseus. Death has not found your father on some distant land. Listen to my prophecy. He will return sooner than men think, for is he not the Wily One? Already he plans his return, and nothing will delay him long.”

My master returns soon? Should I believe this gray-eyed stranger?

I sit on my haunches and wait to hear more. But Telemachos, at these words, falls to his knees, to kiss the stranger's feet.

“Rise, son of Odysseus,” Mentes whispers quickly, “for it is not fitting that these men here see you at my feet.”

Telemachos stands up and again takes Mentes by the hand. “You are right, stranger and friend. It is not fitting that these men be here at all. But what can I do? The most powerful men on the island seek my mother's hand in marriage, convinced that my father is dead. She has resisted them for many years, but our house is nearly depleted, and soon she may have to enter a hateful marriage to save it.”

Mentes shakes his head with indignation. “Shame on these men,” he says bitterly. “If only your father were here, standing at that door, wearing a helmet and carrying two spears, as he was when I first beheld him. Then he would bring quick death and make marriage a painful lesson!”

“Alas, he is not here, noble Mentes, and you yourself do not even know where he is,” Telemachos replies. “What can I do? My arms are strong and I can shoot an arrow straight, but even I cannot defeat a hundred men.”

Again the stranger draws closer. “Here is what you must do, son of Odysseus,” he says softly. “Tonight, tell these hateful
men to leave and return in one year. At that time your mother will make her choice in marriage to the man best suited for her hand. Then, tomorrow morning, take a fast ship with twenty oars and leave this place. Seek out your father's fate. First go to Pylos, where King Nestor lives, and ask him where your father is. He may know it. If not, sail on to Sparta, where Menelaos reigns. He was the last of the Achaians to return from Troy, and he may know if your father was killed in battle.

“If you hear nothing, then return home and build a tomb in your father's honor. Sacrifice your oxen and sheep so that the gods are appeased, and then let your mother choose her husband. Then, if the gods favor you, plan your revenge on these suitors. Take them on, one by one, until they have paid their price in blood. That is my advice, brave son of Odysseus, though it is bitter to swallow, I grant.”

A year,
I thought.
Can I live another year with no proof that my master lives?

Hearing these words, Telemachos embraces Mentes and said, “Your advice is well taken, friend, and I will follow it. Now come inside to our hall and join me for dinner. After that, our servants will see to your bath and give you a fine bed on which to rest.”

The stranger nods and says, “That would be most welcome,
loyal son of Odysseus. But leave me for a moment, and then I will join you.”

So obedient Telemachos leaves the stranger and enters the house. When he has done so, the stranger pets me once and then instantly turns into a sparrow and flies up to a tree. I bark, and Telemachos comes running out, looking for Mentes.

“Argos, where is the stranger?” he asks.

I lift my muzzle up toward the branch where the sparrow is perched. It whistles once and then flies off. I bark again to thank it, knowing it is a divinity who has come to our door, and Telemachos too says a prayer to the gods. Then, light of foot, he turns and makes his way back inside to the hall where the suitors sit eating and drinking. I follow on his heels, after looking back once to see if the sparrow has returned, but it is truly gone.

In the hall, Telemachos whistles so that the boisterous suitors will stop their merrymaking. When they are silent and he has their attention, Telemachos announces in winged words what the deity has told him.

“Suitors of my mother!” he cries. “You have bespoiled my house for too long. No longer is your rapacity endurable; you have scandalized this home and your reputations with your actions, and I beseech Zeus himself to reverse your fortunes!”

Then Antinoos rises, wiping the juice of the ox meat off his lips, and points a finger at my master's son. I growl and stand closer to Telemachos in case Antinoos attacks, but he chooses to fight with words only.

“Telemachos, how dare you rebuke us!” he sneers. “It must be the gods themselves who have put those impertinent words in your mouth. We hundred men are here by custom to seek your mother's hand, as your father, bravest of all men, has not returned for nigh twenty years. If you were my own son, I would strike your mouth for offending a guest in your own house, but since you have no living father, I will spare you that lesson!”

The other suitors cheer Antinoos, but thoughtful Telemachos says nothing until the room grows silent again.

“Hear me, Antinoos, and you other suitors too, for I will not say these words again. This is my offer. Tomorrow I leave on a ship to seek news of my father. I shall return no more than a year hence. While I am away, my mother will marry not. Perhaps on my voyage I will learn that my father is returning; perhaps I will learn that his bones lie beneath the sea. If that is the case, then I will offer my mother's hand for marriage. But if my father is returning, I will bring destruction to your houses. That is my vow to you.”

One of the suitors, hearing this, throws a bone at Telemachos,
but he ducks it, and the bone lands against the wall. Then Telemachos reaches for his short knife, but Eurymachos runs to him and stays his arm, and he sheaths his weapon. After that, without another word, Telemachos leaves the room.

But I linger.

I lie down under a table, and this is what I hear, though I do not know who says it: “Heed these words, suitors. It is clear to me that Telemachos plans to kill us. Even if he does not find his father, he will bring back men from Pylos or Sparta and visit evil upon our houses. Therefore, I say to you, let us send out our own ship when we learn which direction he sails. Who knows? Might he not perish at sea just like his father?”

The man laughs most foully, and so do the other suitors.

“If we are in agreement then, I shall be the one who spies on young Telemachos, for I know my way around the harbor. I will go there tomorrow and report back to you all, and then we will hire a swift boat to do our bidding,” the man continues. “Do you all say aye?”

And they, most treacherous of all men, agree.

I cannot see the man who said this, but I can smell him. From beneath the table I sniff his dirty and yellow-nailed feet. A dog never forgets a scent, and I am Argos, the greatest tracker on Ithaka.

When the suitors are distracted again by a servant bringing more wine, I slip out from under the table. My master's dear son had gone to his room, and I find him there packing for his journey. He takes my head in his strong arms and says, “I leave tomorrow to search for news of our father, Argos, but I dare not tell my mother that I leave, for she would beg me too piteously to stay, and I would obey her. Watch over the household and guard our property, as you have done for so many years, noble one. When I return, with or without my father, we will drive the suitors from our house, if the gods allow it.”

I lick his face and settle down on the floor beside his bed to sleep, as I used to do when he was a young boy and I was a pup. Strange dreams come to Telemachos in the night, and he thrashes and moans, though never wakens. But I remain awake as the black evening falls on us, planning my own revenge and thinking of smelly feet.

Dawn's rosy fingers creep over Ithaka, turning the wine-dark sea purple and then blue. After breakfast, I watch as Telemachos and his servants carry his belongings down to the harbor. He calls me thrice to join him as he climbs down the path, but I do not go to his whistle, though it tears my heart to disobey him. Instead, I take my own path, high above the harbor, to a
point where the women and children of Ithaka can gaze down at the harbor and far out to sea, watching for ships returning their loved ones. I know Smelly Feet will come there to spy on Telemachos and to learn what ship he hired and which direction he sails, and so I get there first.

I hide in the windswept scrub near the edge of the ridge and wait. Apollo's chariot rises higher, and still I do not move. A young widow from the village climbs the path that I have taken and stands there at the ledge, weeping and cursing the gods. Then two boys come and throw stones down toward the sea, but soon they too leave. Finally I smell him. He is alone. Then I hear his labored breathing as he climbs the path. I think he had drunk too much wine the night before, because he stumbles twice and complains bitterly to no one about his aching head. I crouch lower. Only the gods can see me.

Smelly Feet reaches the top of the narrow ridge, not ten paces from where I lie hidden. His back is turned to me as he stares down at the harbor far below. After a few minutes, I hear him say to himself, “There is his ship. A black one like his father's, with a single white sail. And he sails southeast, toward Pylos, just as he said he would. Now I go quickly to make my report.”

I wait for Smelly Feet to turn before I make my move. I want him to see me, his destruction, before he sees no more. When
I charge him, he barely has time to lower his spear, and I easily dodge it. He falls to his doom with my name on his lips.

From the high ridge I look out and see Telemachos's ship entering the bay. He had said he would be gone a year. I think how cruel the ships were that took away the ones I loved: my master, Odysseus, my mate, Aurora, my children, and now Telemachos. I say a prayer to Athena, and then, although my legs are old, I run the rest of the way home. When I am nearly there, I hear Penelope's cry of anguish; she has just learned that her beloved son has left on a ship. I do not leave her side for three days except to growl at the suitors when they arrive each night. Now I alone must protect the honor of the house of Odysseus.