Argos (21 page)

“And this ship. Were its sails yellow? Not white?”

“As yellow as Apollo's chariot,” the dog says bitterly.

I have seen red ships in the harbor a few times in my life, but all but one was rigged with white sails. “Tell me of your mother. What color was her fur? Was it tawny like yours? Was her muzzle golden as well? Do you remember?”

“Aye, I remember her perfectly. Both her fur and her muzzle were the color of meadow flowers in spring, as yellow as the solidago plant that covers the mountain sides.”

“We call that plant goldenrod. And it is beautiful.”

I close my eyes. I can see her. My golden mate.

“Noble Argos, do you faint? Should I fetch a servant?”

“No, I was merely thinking and remembering. The man you
seek—he was the one who bought her?”

The dog whimpers. “Yes. I have thought for many years that revenge would bring me peace, but I know now it will not. I have no brothers, no sisters, no mother, and no pack. Not even a flock of sheep to guard. Nor do I have a master to guard, having lived in the wild for many years as a wolf might. Seeing you reminds me I am more alone than before.”

He has her eyes, I think.

I lie down on my side. I can no longer hold my head up. How heavy my eyes feel.

“You are
not
alone. Lie close to me, my son, offspring of Aurora,” I said. “Lie close to your father and know that you belong to me.”

I feel him lick my ear.

“I will remain by your side, noblest of creatures,” he says softly.

Then Athena herself places her hand over my eyes. I sense her there beside me.

“My son,” I begin.

“Rest, Father.”

“I will rest soon enough,” I gasp. “But first you must listen to my charge. My master, noble Odysseus, has returned after many years to retake his home. He is the one dressed
as a beggar, but soon he will be king again. His only son is brave Telemachos. Telemachos is your master now, and Queen Penelope your mistress. Guard them both well.”

Then Athena closes my eyes
.

I am Argos, the Boar Slayer; dog son of Odysseus, sacker of cities, dog brother of noble Telemachos; mate of golden Aurora, now father to a noble son, and here my story ends.

N
o blind poet has sung my story, as they did my father, noble Argos, but I will tell it as it happened—though roughly, I confess, for I never lay at night beside a tutor or a philosopher, and my words are ill formed, I fear. Still, I am the son of Argos, guardian companion to Telemachos, and my tale will be remembered by some, I think.

Brave Telemachos was in the dining hall when Odysseus, still disguised as a beggar, and Eumaios entered, and I followed.

“Eumaios,” Telemachos said. “Whose dog is this? I have not seen him before. Surely he belongs to some noble, for his bearing is proud, as if his sire were Herakles himself, so large and well-formed is he.”

“I know him not, Telemachos,” the swineherd said. “He belongs to no shepherd on this island, or farmer, I believe, for I would have heard of him if so. Perhaps he escaped from a ship. A few have landed recently, and their sailors drink our prized wine and forget themselves often.”

I approached Telemachos and licked his hand.

“I think he has found a new master,” Odysseus said. “I too once had a loyal dog, worth more than gold to me. You should take him, sir, for a companion like that is hard to find on this island or any other.”

“I shall indeed take him, for one day I will hunt boars again, and he looks to be a fine tracker, and fearless, too,” said Telemachos.

“Aye, not even a lion would he fear, I venture,” said Eumaios.

Telemachos laughed and stroked my head. “Thank you, Eumaios, that is what I shall call him. Leander, the lion hunter.”

Leander!
That is to be my name. I licked Telemachos's hand again to thank him. I was his now, for life. My father's command was fulfilled.

I sat beside Telemachos, and with one hand on my neck, he said quietly to the two men, “Forgive my manners, friends. Take this bread and this meat, freshly carved, sirs. Sit at this
small table, where I break my fast, and fill your stomachs, so I do order. Then, when you have finished the meat, old beggar, go into the dining hall where the suitors are eating, and ask them each for bread, for I would see who is generous and who is not.”

Brave Odysseus nodded, and after eating, he, Eumaios, and I entered the great hall. In the hall Odysseus saw Athena (I saw her also), though no other man divined her presence, and he knew she was there to see which of the suitors she would spare from disaster. So Odysseus approached every man, and with his palm extended, asked for spare coins and bread to fill his sack. They all but a few denied him even a crust of bread, and one scoundrel spit on brave Odysseus's outstretched hand! How Argos would have shown his sharp teeth then, but I could not. Not yet.

Then, among the suitors, Antinoos spoke disapprovingly, castigating Eumaios for bringing a beggar into the hall, saying, “Foolish swineherd, why did you bring this old man here? Are there not enough beggars and vagabonds in the city? Let him beg there rather than here among us!”

The Eumaios replied, “Antinoos, though you are noble, you are not well-spoken. Why begrudge a poor beggar food and coin? Although I would expect it, for you, among all the
suitors, treat the servants the worst here, me, most of all.”

Hearing this insult, Antinoos raised his hand to strike the swineherd, but my master, Telemachos, cried sharply, “Enough! What he says is true, Antinoos. You treat the servants cruelly, and you are more eager to eat than to give to another.”

Enraged, Antinoos lifted a stool and threatened to hurl it at the swineherd, but Odysseus stepped between them and said, “Won't you give to an old beggar? You, among all men here, are the most kingly. Therefore, you should give me a better present of food than all the others. And if you do so, I'll sing your praises wherever I travel, for I wander many places and would sing your fame over the endless earth.”

Then Antinoos said, “What spirit brought this pain among us? You are nothing more than a shameless beggar. You already went around the entire circle asking for bread, and some gave to you generously! Do you require more, shameless vagabond?”

Odysseus shook his head. “No, the shame is on you. Your wits do not match your handsome face. For you would not give salt to a servant or bread to a beggar, even though it is not your house and there is food in abundance!”

Hearing this, Antinoos threw the footstool at Odysseus, striking him in the shoulder! But Odysseus did not move, nor was his body shaken by the missile. Instead he strode to the
windowsill and sat there as if gathering his thoughts. Then he shook his head and said, “It is one thing to be struck in battle, or in a fight to protect one's belongings from a thief, but to strike a man simply because he is hungry and asks for food is a terrible thing. Therefore, if there be any gods or furies who look gently upon beggars, they will surely strike you dead before you are married!”

But Antinoos was not chastened. Rather, he cursed Odysseus in return. “Go now, beggar, on your own feet, before we drag you out from this house and tear the skin from your body!” he thundered.

It was then that loyal Eumaios intervened, for surely Odysseus and Antinoos were close to attacking each other, saying, “Come outside, friend. It is better to eat your bread in the fresh air than to suffer the foul curses of an enemy.”

Hearing that, Odysseus took his crust-filled sack, and he and Eumaios and I left the room to join Telemachos. Sometime later, a servant girl came outside and said, “Kind sirs, I bring a message from my mistress Penelope. She says that you, loyal Eumaios, may return home to your pigs before it grows too dark, and that your friend should come to my mistress's chamber, for perhaps he knows news of long-suffering Odysseus.”

How did Odysseus not betray his joy then? To see his loyal wife after such long suffering! But noble Argos's master is known as the Wily One, is he not? Instead of doing as he was bidden, he told the servant girl this: “Tell your mistress, fair Penelope, that I will come to her after sunset and when the suitors have left.”

The servant girl left with her message, and Eumaios stood up as well to leave, but before doing so, he whispered into my master Telemachos's ear, “Dear boy, I go now to guard the pigs. Watch yourself and the old beggar tonight, for there are men here who would do evil upon you both.”

“Thank you, loyal friend,” Telemachos said. “I will see to things here tonight, as will the gods. Return in the morning, though, if you can, and we shall see what the new day brings.”

Then loyal Eumaios left, following the narrow path to his home, while Odysseus drew his cloak near in the cooling evening and built a small fire. Telemachos remained outside with him. I lay there beside Telemachos, and he stroked my back.

It was the first time I allowed a man to touch me.

Later that night, I put my teeth around Telemachos's mantle and led him to where my father, Argos, lay, but his body was gone. All that remained was a tuft of black fur glistening in
the moonlight. Telemachos picked it up and returned to the fire, giving the tuft to noble Odysseus.

“The gods have taken your most loyal companion to Mount Olympus, Father,” Telemachos said softly. As he said this, a cloud passed over the moon, although the sky was clear and star filled.

“Truly, Argos was like a brother to me,” brave Odysseus said.

“And to me, a father,” said noble Telemachos.

Then did I see a king and his son weep.

I
smelled him first, then heard his curses and oaths as he trod up the path to our estate. His cloak was made of fetid animal skins, and he had not bathed for many days. Iros, it was; a local beggar known for his strength and his large belly, who apparently came often to the palace when the suitors were there, to beg for coin and food. I growled and raised my hackles, but Telemachos called me to his side and made me sit between him and his father.

“Greetings, sir,” Odysseus, still also clothed as a beggar, said.

“Not greetings, but farewell, I think,” Iros replied. Truly, the smell of his breath was worse than a boar's. “Leave this court now, or I shall be forced to drag you out. So say the suitors who
hired me to dispatch you. Suitors!” he called. “I have come to do your bidding!”

The door to the palace opened, and the suitors passed through it. Having feasted, they longed for sport.

“Stranger,” Odysseus said calmly, “there is no need for such talk. There is plenty of food here, and the door is wide enough for both of us. You are a beggar as I am, so don't threaten me, for though I am old, I may still bloody your face.”

Then Iros called out to the suitors, “Did you hear that? The old man threatens me!”

Then Antinoos, most haughty of the suitors, called out, “Friends, let us wager on this contest. I say to the combatants, whichever of you wins shall come here every night for dinner and sit among us as equals. What say you, men?”

And the suitors all cheered this wager. Then Odysseus, the Wily One, spoke, saying, “Truly, though I am an old man, I agree to this. For though I bear this vagabond no harm, my stomach drives me to it. But you must all swear that none of you will take the side of Iros and strike me with a heavy hand so as to give this man the advantage. Swear you this?”

Laughing, the suitors all swore their pledges. Then brave Telemachos stepped forward and said, “Stranger, fear not these
men. I am your host, and whoever should strike you would find himself outnumbered. So I swear!”

The men all jeered Telemachos, which brought a snarl to my lips, but Telemachos kept a strong hand on my neck. Then the suitors made a circle around Iros and brave Odysseus, urging them on. Then did Odysseus remove his outer tunic, displaying powerful thighs and broad shoulders. Athena herself came down (though only I saw her) and magnified my master's limbs so that the suitors were astonished.

Iros himself paled and began to back away, but Antinoos cursed him, saying he would be fed to the dogs on a forgotten island if he did not fight, so he charged Odysseus, trying to gain the upper hand. But Odysseus was too quick. He spun out of Iros's grasp and struck him just below his ear. Iros fell to the ground, and the suitors erupted with laughter. Then Odysseus took Iros by the foot and dragged him outside, propping him against a tree.

“Sit here and scare away the dogs and pigs,” he said to Iros, “and never again claim to be king of the beggars, or worse than this will befall you!”

Then a suitor called Amphinomos by the others brought Odysseus a loaf of bread and a cup of honey wine to eat inside the great hall.

“To your health, Father and stranger,” he said, raising his own cup. “May you be prosperous in the future, for you have been, until now, most unfortunate, it would seem.”

Odysseus raised his cup and answered, “Truly, you are very wise for a young man, and well-spoken, so let me tell you what I know. Surely, of all the creatures that walk this earth, man is the most helpless, for when he is young and full of life, he believes the gods are with him, and when he suffers misfortune, he then blames it on them too. I myself was once promised by the gods a life of prosperity, but look at me now. So I say do not take the gods' gifts for granted, but offer thanks whenever they are come your way.”

They each drank from their cups, and Odysseus continued. “I look around and see so many suitors devising evil and showing no respect for the wife who lives here. They take for their own possessions of a man who I think will return soon. When he does, I hope your destiny has led you far from here.”

Hearing this, the suitors became silent.

“Perhaps what you say is true,” Amphinomos said finally. “And perhaps it is not,” he sneered. Then he took another drink and returned to his seat. I looked over to Telemachos, and he was staring at Amphinomos, as if to remember his face for another day. Then above me, I heard footsteps: three pairs
of feet crossing the floor. Telemachos heard them too. “My mother will be down soon,” he said to Odysseus, who nodded once.

None of the suitors heard this; they continued feasting, raising their cups and cursing the servants if they were too slow to refill them. But Odysseus and his son, my master, ate quietly, watching, and saying nothing. Then my nose twitched and my ears stood up, for my mistress Penelope had descended the stairs, and she approached the great hall, but such was their noise and revelry that the suitors did not see her as she stood in the door, watching their actions. Never had a woman looked so bewitching, though she held a sheer veil over her face to protect her modesty. My young master Telemachos was the first to see her, and he approached her as a loving son would do. Beside me I heard Odysseus inhale sharply, but he could not betray his identity.

“Tell me, son,” my mistress said. “Was there a struggle down here?”

Then noble Telemachos said, “Yes, Mother, there was. It shames me to say that under our roof the suitors wagered on a struggle between two beggars. How low our house has fallen. If only I had twenty men as strong as the stranger who defeated Iros, then the suitors would be driven away and
honor would be restored here.”

So the two were lamenting their fate when suddenly Eurymachos noticed fair Penelope, and he rose to his feet, while slamming down his empty cup with force to draw attention to his announcement.

“Daughter of Ikarios,” he said. “Loyal Penelope, your beauty tonight outshines the goddesses. Surely tomorrow there will be even more suitors here, for there is no one among the Achaians whose beauty and stature surpass yours.”

Trembling with terrible emotion, Mistress Penelope answered him thus: “Eurymachos, my beauty and my stature were ruined by the gods when my husband, Odysseus, set sail for Troy. Before he left, he took my arm and said, ‘Dear wife, not all of us will return from this war. The Trojans are men who can fight in battle, and they can throw spears and shoot arrows as well as any Achaian. I do not know if the gods will spare me or if I will be killed there in Troy. But if I do not return, then let everything be in your hands, and when our son, Telemachos, is grown, you may marry any man you please.'”

Hearing this, the craven suitors cheered. But my mistress had not finished.

“Be silent, guests. Thus did my husband speak,” she said gravely. “And now, wretched me, my son is grown and custom
demands that I remarry. But I tell you all, my husband would not have released me to such as you. In the past, suitors would have come to my home bringing gifts of cattle and fat sheep to feed the family of the bride; glorious gifts would have filled the hall. They would not have eaten up their bride's livelihood, nor abused her servants.”

As she said this, Telemachos smiled, as did noble Odysseus through his beard, and shame colored the faces of some of the suitors, but not all. Cowardly Antinoos rose then and said to my mistress, “Noble Penelope, forgive us our actions. When we have finished our meal, we shall depart, and in the morning we will return with gifts worthy of your good name.”

But my mistress did not answer Antinoos. Instead she turned to Telemachos and kissed him on the cheek before retiring to her bedchamber. Telemachos watched her as she departed, then he took a leg of lamb and a loaf of bread and left the hall to sit outside. I followed him there and sat beside him. He took pieces of meat from the bone and offered them to me.

Oh, to be fed by hand from one's master is a sweet thing!