Argos (23 page)

Noble Odysseus shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled. “Lady,” he said gently, “it is impossible to see this dream in any other way, since Odysseus himself, in the form of the eagle, told you its meaning and how it will end. The suitors are doomed, one and all, upon his return.”

But my mistress did not believe Odysseus. “No, honored friend,” she said. “Although my son and I would like nothing more than your version to be true—for it would mean my beloved husband is still alive—some dreams are deceptive. Such, I fear, is my dream of the geese. No, what the dream has
told me is this: tomorrow dawns an evil day. It is time that I assent to marriage.”

I growled then; I could not help it. But my mistress continued, “Before my husband left for Ilion, he would practice his archery on the grass outside our home. He would set up twelve axes and, standing far away from them, shoot an arrow from his greatest bow through all twelve handles. I will set up these axes as a contest for my suitors, and whoever is able to string my husband's bow with the greatest ease and shoot an arrow through the ax handles will win my hand, and I will go away with him, forsaking this house where I once found love.”

This time a whimper escaped me, but neither Odysseus nor my mistress paid heed. Instead, he took my mistress's hand and said, “O faithful wife of Odysseus, the gods themselves could not disapprove of this contest, for they will strengthen the arm and steady the hand that draws the bow.”

“No one can say what the gods desire, my friend,” my mistress replied. “But having decided this, they seem to have lifted a weight from my shoulders, and now sleep falls heavily upon me. I must return to my bedchamber. Forgive my waking you, and may the dawn find you rested.”

Saying this, she rose and left the room. I followed her to the stairs, where the night servant met her and took my mistress
up to her bedchamber. I returned to find Odysseus preparing to sleep again.

“We must both rest, loyal one,” he said, petting my head, “for tomorrow King Odysseus returns.”

B
right dawn came and woke us both. Above me, in my mistress's bedchamber, I could hear her weeping, for it was the day she must choose a husband. Brave Odysseus heard it too. He lifted his hands and said, “Father Zeus, you who led me over dry land and dark seas to my home, do not abandon me now. Show me an omen that you are with me this day.”

Then immediately we heard thunder rolling above our heads, though the morning was clear, and Odysseus smiled. A few minutes later, Telemachos, followed by Eumaios, strode like a god into the room. He was wearing a fine silk tunic, and a sharp sword was slung over his shoulder. In his strong hand he gripped a spear. He clicked his fingers once. I ran to him and positioned myself by his side.

“Did you sleep well, friend?” Telemachos asked Odysseus, maintaining their ruse. “Did my mother grant you hospitality? A bed and a warm fire?”

“I slept well, noble Telemachos,” the Wily One said. “And while sleeping, my mind devised many things.” I saw him wink at his son, but before Telemachos could reply, several servants entered the room. One rekindled the fire, while another rolled up the blanket on which Odysseus had slept. Several more entered the kitchen.

“The house wakes early. Dawn has just risen,” Odysseus commented.

“There is a public festival today,” Telemachos replied. “The loathsome suitors will be arriving soon, I think. Even now the shepherds are bringing pigs and goats to put on the spit.”

Just as he said this, Melanthios, the goatherd, appeared at the door. He looked at Odysseus and spat on the floor. “Stranger, are you still here?” he sneered. “Do you intend to stay all day, pestering the gentlemen with your begging? If so, you and I shall come to blows!”

Brave Odysseus said nothing, but I saw him clenching his fists. Then Melanthios left the room, and I lifted my nose and smelled another herder enter the yard. By his scent, I knew he was an oxherd. He entered the hall and I knew instantly—the
way that dogs always do—that he could be trusted. Telemachos greeted the oxherd as Philoitios.

“Who is this stranger?” the oxherd asked Eumaios after greeting Telemachos. “What are his origins and who were his ancestors? Unlucky man, he is dressed like a beggar, yet has the bearing of a king.”

Saying this, he approached Odysseus and offered his right hand. “Welcome, stranger. May prosperous days befall you, for I can see now that you are in the grips of misfortune. May Father Zeus take pity on you, though alas, he did not pity the master of this house, Odysseus, who is dead and gone to the house of Hades.”

Then Philoitios began to weep, for he had loved Odysseus and served him loyally, I could tell.

Seeing this, Odysseus put his hand on the cowherd's shoulder and said quietly, “Noble oxherd, you seem like a good and honorable man. I tell you this, and even swear it as Zeus is my witness: Odysseus will come home again soon, to this very house, and you shall see him with your own eyes as he rids this house of the despicable suitors who reign here.”

Hearing this, Philoitios placed his hand on Odysseus's shoulder and said, “How I wish that day comes soon. When it does, you will see what kind of strength my hands have.”

So then did Eumaios, Philoitios, Odysseus, and my master Telemachos sit and begin to devise their plan. I left the house then to learn more of its surroundings, and as I crested the rise that leads to the sheep pasture, I saw a band of suitors sitting on the ground in earnest discussion. I approached them downwind so that I could hear them more easily, yet remain unseen.

One of them, whom they called Amphinomos, argued forcefully, “Friends, this plan of ours to kill Telemachos is too difficult for now. Let us think of our feasting instead, for today's festival will ensure that we eat well. We have time to do our deeds on another day.”

Just then an eagle flew over, carrying a trembling pigeon in its talons. The men took this to be a portent and agreed with Amphinomos to forestall their evil plan. Rising, they brushed their tunics and started down the path that wound to mighty Odysseus's palace.

I growled as they passed, and then went to round up the stray sheep for my sire, noble Argos, who, alas, was no longer there to do so.

When Apollo's chariot reached its zenith, the suitors took their seats in the great hall to await their feast. Servants filled their wine cups and cooks brought huge slabs of meat to the table and began carving them. I sat just outside the
hall, waiting for Odysseus and Telemachos to arrive. After a few minutes they did, side by side, Odysseus still disguised by Athena and dressed as a beggar, and Telemachos looking strong and stalwart in a fine golden mantle.

I followed them inside the great hall, and the boisterous laughter ceased immediately as Telemachos seated brave Odysseus at an empty chair near his own honored place and filled both of their cups with wine. Never have I seen a hundred men so silent!

Then noble Telemachos spoke. “Gentlemen,” he said. “This man is my honored guest. I ask you to share your meat with him and fill his glass accordingly. Most of all, bear him no insult, for to do so would be to insult me the same.”

Telemachos looked about at the men seated at the table, but none would meet his flashing eyes. Only when he sat and began to cut his own meat did the suitors resume their eating, never looking at Odysseus, or at noble Telemachos, who had defied them. Instead they feasted and made toasts to their own valor, forgetting to thank both the gods and the house of Penelope for their food. Such uncouth men! Even I, living in trash heaps and fields, recognized this.

I myself ate meat passed to me under the table by my master Telemachos, and I licked the juices off his fingers. Then, as the
feasting began to wane and the cups were drained, one of the largest of the suitors rose to his feet. His name, I gathered, was Ktesippos, and from under the table I saw my master clench his fists when he stood up.

He tapped his cup until everyone was silent and addressed them. “Hear me, friends. This stranger has sat among us as our equal, as he should, for he is a guest of Telemachos. But come, let us too give him a gift, so he can give it as a prize to the woman who washes his feet, or to the other servants who dress him or make his bed.”

Then Ktesippos grabbed the hoof of an ox that lay in a basket and hurled it at Odysseus!

But Odysseus avoided it by turning his head slightly, and the hoof hit the wall. All around, the suitors inhaled sharply, but stalwart Odysseus smiled and said nothing. Then Telemachos rose to scold Ktesippos. “Sir,” he said, “it is good that your missile missed its mark, for had it struck my friend, then you would have met my sharp spear, and your father would be planning a funeral instead of a wedding.”

Then another suitor said, “Your words and temperament serve you well, young Telemachos, and it was wrong for Ktesippos to insult your friend in such a manner. But let me offer some counsel. It has been ten years since anyone heard
news of your father, has it not? For ten years you and your loyal mother have held off these suitors here in hopes that your father should return to his rightful place. But now the temper in this house has changed from one of hope to despair, for even the most loyal blood of Ithaka can no longer think that Odysseus will ever return.”

Around the table the suitors grunted in assent, nodding their heads like cows. The suitor continued. “Now it is time, dear Telemachos, to counsel your mother. Sit with her and explain that she should marry the suitor who is the best man among us and can provide the most for her. In that way, you can control your father's inheritance while she looks after the house of another.”

Then the suitor sat, and several men around him clapped and pounded his back for saying what they did not have the courage to speak.
Courage? I am certain Telemachos had more courage as a suckling babe than these men!
I looked over to brave Odysseus, but he said nothing. What nerves he had! To remain silent when a hundred men proclaim you dead at your own dinner table! But beneath the table, his fists clenched again and again.

Then my master, noble Telemachos, answered. “It is not for me to tell my mother where her broken heart should lean, and
I will not force her to choose a husband if she is not ready.”

Suddenly the strangest thing happened! Athena came down, invisible to all but me, and stood at the entrance to the room. With a nod of her head, the suitors began to laugh uncontrollably. Their eyes burst with tears as they crammed the sizzling meat from the spit into their jaws. Soon they had covered themselves in meat juice and wine, and they began to insult one another—and even Telemachos—crying, “Woe to your house, Telemachos, for the gods have brought this worthless vagabond to your door. He will never leave, yet he can do no work to earn his fare. Better to sell him to a slave ship than to have his dead weight around your house!”

So they spoke, but noble Telemachos said nothing. Instead, he looked at his father, and they shared the same thought as I did: that the suitors, with those words, had begun their undoing. I sat on my tail to keep it from twitching.

A moment later I heard my mistress descending the stairs. Yet she did not enter the great hall where the suitors grunted and howled like swine. Instead she, along with her servants, went to the far corner of the house, to a locked chamber. Telemachos sent me then to guard her, for indeed the suitors had grown mad and could not be trusted near her.

Taking an ornate, ivory-handled key from her gown, she
unlocked the door and entered the chamber. Inside were shields of bronze and gold-tipped spears lying next to gifts from many other islands. At the back of the room, hung on a peg, was a splendid bow. It was a powerful bow, as tall as a man, and made of the strongest yew wood. Hanging alongside the bow was a quiver full of arrows, which my mistress took as well. Then with the bow and the quiver in her hands, my mistress suddenly sank to her knees and began to weep. The servant girls—stupid creatures—did nothing, but I went to her and put my muzzle against her cheek and let her bury her face in my neck.

“I shall have to marry one of them, my new friend,” my mistress whispered. “The gods demand it.”

I could do nothing but lick her tears and nuzzle her cheek, but perhaps that helped in some small way. After a few minutes, my mistress rose to her feet, and with her hand on my shoulder for support, she left the chamber, carrying the quiver and majestic bow, after locking the door behind her. Together we walked back to the main hall where the suitors sat, quarreling now and boasting of their prowess with weapons and battle strategy. They did not see us at first, so lost in argument were they. But my master Telemachos and his father, noble Odysseus, now sat off to the side, watching the suitors carefully.

My mistress stood beside the pillar that supported the roof. On either side of her, servant girls held opposite ends of the veil in front of her face so that she might retain her modesty. Then she spoke, not loudly, but in a commanding voice, so that the suitors stopped and listened immediately.

“Hear me now, haughty suitors, you who have filled your bellies daily at my table, drunk my wine, and insulted my servants in this house of a man far greater than yourselves! Never have you said one word in his honor; instead, you talk incessantly of marrying me without even proof that my husband is dead and that I am a widow. But now it is time for you to claim your prize!”

The uncouth suitors began to cheer. “Pick me, choose me, I am the one for you!” they crowed.

“Silence!” my mistress cried. “Here is the contest before you. This is the bow of godlike Odysseus. The one who is able to string it with ease and send an arrow through twelve axes shall become my husband. I shall go away with him and forsake this house, though I will never forget it in my dreams.”

The men began to clamor again, arguing who among them had the strength required to win the contest. Then my mistress beckoned to the loyal swineherd, Eumaios, who was watching from an anteroom.

“Here, Eumaios, let them see this mighty bow and feel its stiffness. They will not boast for long.”

Eumaios took the bow from her, but he, too began to weep, when he saw the bow of his master. Still, he carried it among the suitors and let them marvel at its strength. I sat and watched the suitors. Some were in awe of the polished weapon and some scoffed at the notion that it could not be strung. Beside me, my mistress still wept, but silently.

Then handsome Telemachos rose and addressed the men in the hall. Surveying them, he cried, “Come, you suitors. There is the prize before you: a woman like no other and this wealthy estate. Surely it is time for the contest!”

The men cheered and began to rise from their seats. I heard my mistress inhale sharply, for truly they sounded like an army in battle. Then noble Telemachos continued, shouting over the furor.

“I too will seek to string the bow, and if I am able to do it, then my mother will remain here, in the house of Odysseus.”

Then, drawing his sword, Telemachos left the hall, striding out into the yard, where he dug a trench and set up the axes as straight as a string. When the men had approved of his work, one of them yelled, “Yours is the first attempt, son of Odysseus. After that, we
men
will try our skill.”

They formed a wide circle around noble Telemachos as he stood on the threshold. He took the bow in his strong hands and three times bent it nearly enough to string it. Each time he failed, the men called out insults and scorn. I growled but took no action. Instead I watched and waited.

Odysseus had carefully made his way into the circle of men and stood near Telemachos. I watched as he pretended to enjoy the spectacle. He too jeered when noble Telemachos failed to string the bow on his third attempt. But I saw his eyes too. They were full of cunning.

Then, pulling the bow for the fourth time, Telemachos, with shaking muscles, curved the tips and inched the loop closer. The men jeered loudly, taunting him. Then I saw Odysseus shake his head ever so gently—a signal to his son—and Telemachos gave up.