Argos (6 page)

O
ne of my friends is dying. Titus, loyal pet of Eurylochos, who sails with my master, was poisoned last night, and lies panting beside me. Titus, who was whelped by Acacia and has hunted alongside me for hares, ate poisoned meat set out by one of mistress Penelope's suitors—meat that was intended for me. Of that I am certain, for it is I who guards my mistress's chamber when the suitors, pretending to be drunk, try to climb the stairs leading to her room. It is I who snarls and bites when a servant is mistreated. It is I who believes that brave Odysseus still lives.

This morning I heard Titus vomiting and ran to his den beside the goat shed. I found him pawing the earth, then turning in mad circles like one of Telemachos's spinning toys or a
pup chasing his tail. Titus, son of Balthasar, does not chase his tail like a pup. He is an old dog, but the poison was entering his brain.

“Where did you eat last night, Titus?” I asked.

Titus would not look at me. He turned his back, ashamed. His black fur was dirty and matted with mud and burrs. He had no one to pull them from his flanks.

Finally he said, “One of your mistress's suitors put meat out by the kitchen hearth where you lie at night. Forgive me, Argos, but I was hungry. Since my master left, we have little food, and I grow too old and slow to hunt on my own.”

“I would catch rabbits for you,” I might have said, but Titus is proud and this would have stung him as badly as the poison. Instead I said, “You must drink, brother. Drink and eat grass. Come, I will take you to water.”

He willed himself to stop spinning and said, “It is too late, Argos. They have killed me.”

Still I led him to the stream beyond our western field and made him drink until his belly was round like a melon. I brought him grass and sweet herbs, but soon he could no longer swallow.

Now above us vultures begin to circle, calling their bird kin, and then perching in the pines, waiting.

“Stay with me, Argos,” Titus begs through foaming lips. “Don't let the vultures have me.”

“I go nowhere,” I say. “Now, lie down, and perhaps the gods will smile on you today.”

He lies beside me then, curling into himself, his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Does it grow dark, Argos?” he asks after some time.

“Yes, brother,” I say. “But it is only the sun behind a cloud.”

“Do the vultures come close?”

“No, Titus.” I lie. “They know you have many days ahead.”

“Do I smell a mountain wolf?”

“No, there is a den of foxes nearby, but they are harmless.”

In truth, I can smell a lone, old mountain wolf, lying in the wood, waiting for me to leave. A mountain wolf will not eat the dead, but they will attack a sick animal.

Titus opens his eyes for a moment. They are glassy, and the spark of life is dim in them.

“Brother? Did you see the man who poisoned you?” I ask.

I don't think he hears me, but after some time, he says, “The one with the red beard and the limp. He put the meat in your bowl.”

I know the knave. I have heard some men say he crushed his own foot to avoid the war with the Trojans. Being lame, he is
most desperate to win Penelope's heart and often stays late to catch her alone.

Titus is panting mightily, the way we do after a long and good hunt.

“It grows cold, Argos, does it not?”

“Yes, Titus, there is a cold wind blowing,” I say, though it is a hot summer afternoon.

I lie down next to him. The vultures leave their perches, spinning gyres above us, but they know not to come close. After some time Titus speaks.

“My master will come for me soon, Argos.”

“Yes, very soon.”

“We will hunt again.”

“Yes, even the mighty boar will run from you.”

But at that moment I feel Titus's body relax, and his panting stops. He is dead. After a few minutes I rise and trot over to the old mountain wolf, who has wasted a day waiting to attack my friend and is now feeling hunger. He is alone, and thus dares not attack me, for I am the larger.

“Cousin,” I say. “Do not waste your efforts on my friend. I know where you can find fresh meat to ease your stomach's pains. Keep watch for me tonight, and I will bring you the prize.”

The wolf looks at me with doubt in his yellow eyes but backs away into the wood. It's time to get rid of the vultures too. I return to where my friend lies, but as I do, I pretend to stagger. My tail droops and I hang my head low. I curl up beside my friend and wait. The vultures grow bold. They screech to one another and then, one by one, land on the small hill above the stream and teeter toward us. I close my eyes as if I too have been poisoned, and when they come so close their smelly beaks nearly make me gag, I leap to my feet and hurl myself among them, biting and clawing. I kill three before they can fly off, and rip the wings off many more.

“Feed not on this carcass,” I bark at them, “or you will feel my teeth, most despised of birds!”

Hearing this, the vultures fly away, screeching their anger, but I care not. I return to Titus and sit beside him as the long evening shadows fall. Finally I hear Telemachos calling me. I bark, and after a few moments he comes running down the hill. He sees the dead vultures and then the body of my friend, and he knows I will not leave Titus unattended.

So my master's son picks up Titus and carries him to the edge of our vineyard, and he with his spear, and I with my claws, dig a grave for the body. Afterward Telemachos covers it with large stones so scavengers cannot dig it up. Then,
together, we walk back to my master's house in the gathering darkness.

The suitors are leaving; my mistress Penelope has thrown them out, as she does every night, weary as she is of their promises and lies. The last to leave is the lame red-haired man. He looks about furtively, then lingers at the door, hoping for a final word with my mistress. This was a mistake, for now he has no one to protect him.

“Good widow,” the man says, “we have tarried too long and now the road is dark. Perhaps there is room for me in your house tonight?”

My mistress shakes her head at his request.

“The moon is full. It will light your path,” she says. “And I am not a widow.”

Then, before he can utter another plea, Telemachos closes the door firmly.

And now I am alone with him. The man curses and starts back along the road. He is armed only with a long spear, which he uses as a crutch as well as a weapon. I trot toward him, and he points it at me while uttering another loud curse. I back away and then, pretending to ignore him, wander off toward the sheep stall where I sometimes sleep. From there I can track him as he limps along the path leading down the hill and
through the valley toward his own miserable hut. After giving him a head start, I take a shortcut and pass him. Then I double back to wait.

At one point along the path, the trail narrows and there is a sharp turn overgrown with wild olive trees with low branches that block the sun—or the full moon. I wait for him there. And I smell my cousin. He lies hiding behind the boulders that have tumbled down from the mountains above us.

I can hear the man before I see him. He is singing loudly, as if to give himself courage to walk alone at night. He rounds the turn with his spear pointing straight ahead in case an attacker is poised to strike, as they often do at this spot. But still I wait in the shadows. Then, when he raises his spear again to use it as a staff, I jump from the shadows and clamp my jaws around it, wresting it from his grasp.

“You!” he screams, kicking at me with his lame foot. But I am quick and feel not the blow. With his spear in my mouth, I run down the path and then turn into the thick wood where he cannot follow.

“Cousin!” I call. “He is yours!”

Then I leave the man to his fate and the mountain wolf.

And thus do I avenge Titus.

A
s I stand watch over a herd of sheep, a mountain sparrow, gray chested and with a black crown, alights on the sheep paddock and calls to me.

“Be you Argos, the Boar Slayer?” he asks me.

“I am he, little one. But please, draw closer. Your voice is small, and my ears are not as sharp as they once were.”

Hearing this, the sparrow hops down from the paddock and perches on a fence rail, but he says nothing.

Perhaps he is resting,
I think. Truly, though, I had never seen a sparrow remain so still, for it is their manner to remain in motion, alighting here and there, never stopping for more than a moment. Nor is a sparrow easy to converse with, for they seem to forget what was said a moment before.

“Gentle sparrow, you have found me, the Boar Slayer. Why did you seek me out?”

Hearing my voice, the sparrow lifts his tiny head, as if trying to recall his purpose.

“Why am I here? Why? Oh, yes, I remember. I was sent to find you.”

“Sent by whom, agile one? Who sent you? Did my master, Odysseus, send you?” I allow myself to think this for a precious moment.

“No, it wasn't your master, Aptos—I mean . . . Argos. Your name is Argos, is it not?”

“It is. But who sent you then, little one? Try to remember.”

I wait patiently while he thinks.

“Hermes,” he says finally. “Yes, that's who it was. Swift Hermes asked me to send this message to you.”

Hermes, son of Zeus, has a message for me? Truly, the gods are good.
“What message, little flyer? What did the god say?”

The mountain sparrow hopped to another rail.

“I don't remember.”

“Try, Insect Catcher. You must remember. You must or you will anger a god.”

The sparrow hops to another rail and turns his head, as if in deep thought. Suddenly, although it is a cloudy day, I notice a
ray of sunlight shining on his head, bathing him in gold.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “I remember now.”

I knew then that the golden light was Hermes himself. Hermes, who moves easily between the realms of the gods and those of men, was speaking through the sparrow. And so I sit next to him to hear his story.

The sparrow was from Aiaia, where lives the beautiful Circe of the golden tresses, who talks to mortals though she is the daughter of Helios, who lights the day, and her mother is Perse, who is the daughter of Ocean. The mountain sparrow had seen my master and his men arrive there, on her island, despondent and full of woe.

For two days my master and his men mourned their fellow sailors who had been lost to the Laestrygonians, but at dawn on the third day, my master took up his spear and his sword and set out to explore the island, to learn of its inhabitants, and to seek the way home to Ithaka. High on a cliff he saw smoke from the halls of a great building, and so he turned back, hurrying to his men to give them hope. Along the way, the gods took pity on my master and sent a great stag with towering antlers on his path, and my master slew the beast and carried it down to the ship.

“Dear friends,” he announced, “sorry as we are, we are not
yet doomed to Hades until our day is appointed. Come, let us feast on this stag that the gods have provided for us, for we are worn out by hunger.” And together they made a great fire and ate late into the night beside their ship. When the rosy dawn came again, my master roused his men and said, “Dear friends, now that we have eaten and slept, I tell you I do not know what course to take. When I climbed the highest point on the island, I saw nothing but the vast sea all in a circle around us.”

Hearing this, his men groaned and pulled their hair with this sad news, but then my master said, “Wait, there is more. In the center of this island I saw smoke rising from a hall. Perhaps the inhabitants can tell us what direction to aim our prow.”

“What if it's another Cyclops?” asked one man, and they all cried out in fear at that memory.

“We can never know until we find out for ourselves,” my master replied. “Come, we will draw lots and divide ourselves. Half will explore the source of the smoke and half will remain here.”

And when they had done that, and they were divided in half, brave Eurylochos was chosen to lead his group of two and twenty men to the center of the island, and the mountain
sparrow followed them. When the men reached the great hall, they heard the spinning of a giant loom and the enchanting voice of the golden-locked Circe. Then Polites, one of the leaders of the men, said, “Friends, someone is singing sweetly inside, and I think there is no monster within. Come, let us call on her and see if she is a goddess or a mortal.”

And when they called out to her, Circe opened the doors, revealing herself to them, and invited them into her hall. But Eurylochos, suspecting treachery, waited outside.

Once inside, Circe seated the men on chairs and benches and gave them a potion of wine and drugs, along with pale honey and barley and cheese. Such was the power of the drugs that the men forgot their own country and stared only in wonder at her while she drew forth a wand and touched them each on the shoulder, turning them into pigs. Then she herded them into pens and set them about eating acorns and small ears of corn, but they cried, too, for though they were pigs, their minds remained as before.

This did Eurylochos see with amazement, and then he stealthily crept back along the trail toward the black ship, to tell my master what had happened to his companions. But when he arrived, so great was his grief and despair that he could not speak, but only cry out in lamentations for many
hours. Finally he managed to tell his tale, but my master did not console him. Instead Odysseus slung his great bow across his shoulder and sheathed his great sword.

“Guide me back there,” he commanded, but stout Eurylochos fell to his knees and begged him not to go.

“Great Odysseus, do not take me there against my will,” he pleaded. “Leave me here, for I know you will not return nor bring back our companions. Rather let us make haste with those who are left so that we may avoid the day of evil.”

“Then stay, Eurylochos, if you will not guide me. For I am compelled to find my men and return with them.”

And Odysseus left then for the glen, climbing high over a mountain to reach the valley where he hoped he would find his companions. Along the way he met a young man carrying a golden staff. This was Hermes himself, who had taken the form of the young man, and he took my master by the hand and asked, “Where are you going, grieving one, alone through these hills? Do you know your men have been captured by Circe and turned into the shape of pigs? Do you come meaning to set them free?”

“I do come for my men, though I knew not they were captured by Circe, golden youth,” answered my master. “Nor did I know she had changed them to swine.”

How like my master to never reveal everything he knows!

Then Hermes said, “You cannot get them out yourself. But come, I will help you with your troubles. Here, take this medicinal flower before you go into Circe's house. She will try to enchant you and put drugs in your food and wine, but this will protect you from her evil charms.”

“Then I will take the medicine and pray to the gods that it is strong.”

“There is more,” the fair-haired youth said. “Once you have eaten her food and drunk her wine, Circe will strike you with her long wand. When she does, draw your sword as if to kill her. She will be afraid and invite you into her chamber. Do not refuse the bed of a goddess, but make her first swear an oath, that she will release your companions from their misery and that she has devised no evil hurt for you.”

My master thanked Hermes, and after eating the black-rooted flower, which would protect him, he hurried on toward Circe's home in the glen. Once he reached her house, my master shouted for the goddess, and she opened the shining door and invited him in. There she bade him sit on a finely wrought chair and drink a cup of her poisoned wine. Then, when he had drained the cup, she struck my master with her magic wand and commanded, “Go to your sty now
and lie with your friends there!”

So she spoke, but my master, drawing his sharp sword, rushed toward her as if to kill her. The goddess screamed aloud and ducked under the sword, falling to her knees and crying out for mercy.

“What manner of man are you, and where did you come from?” she demanded. “Who are your parents? No other man beside you could have withstood my drugs once he drank them.”

“Release my men,” my master demanded, “and I will tell you my name.”

The goddess shook her head. “You must be Odysseus, of the black ship,” Circe said. “I was warned that you would come my way, and now you have.”

“I
am
Odysseus, son of Laertes, on my return from Troy,” my master said, and demanded again that his men be released.

“I will release them,” the goddess said. “But first let us retire to my chamber so that we have faith and trust each other.”

So she spoke, the mountain sparrow said, but my master trusted her not.

“Swear a strong oath,” he demanded, “that you will release my men from your magic and that you will not seek to unman me, nor devise evil against me.”

And the goddess swore a great oath and led him into her room, where her servants bathed my master, washing away the weariness of his journey, and then anointed him in oil. When he had bathed and dressed in a fine tunic, the servants brought food to my master, but he touched it not.

“Brave Odysseus,” Circe said. “Why do you touch not food or drink, but look like a man eating his own heart? Do you suspect me of treachery? Did I not swear an oath to you?”

So she spoke, and my master replied, “O fair Circe, how can a man eat when his companions are not free?”

Then Circe walked out through the palace, holding her wand in her hand, and entered the sty where my master's companions were kept, and touched them all with her wand. Soon where there had been bristles and curly tails stood tall the fine men of my master's black ship, and they ran to my master and clung to his hand, begging him to take them back to where their ship lay in harbor.

But Circe spoke and persuaded my master otherwise. She told him to return to the ship and drag it onto land, stow their possessions, and then return with the entire crew.

And so my master left the citadel in the glen and returned to his fast black ship where his crew wept tears in lamentation, thinking their companions dead.

“Weep no more,” he said to them. “Your companions eat and drink their fill in Circe's hall while we tarry. Drag the ship up onto the beach and stow your goods. Circe has bid us all to her citadel.”

The men did as my master ordered, except for Eurylochos, who addressed the men thus: “Poor wretches! Where are you going? Why do you seek evil in Circe's palace? She will turn us all into swine or wolves or lions so that we can guard her great house.”

My master, upon hearing this, nearly drew his sword, but instead his men obeyed him and not Eurylochos. When they had finished their tasks, they left Eurylochos alone by the hollow ship, but he soon followed after.

When they reached Circe's hall, she bathed them all with loving care, anointed them with oil and put about them mantles of fleece and tunics. Then when they entered the room where the rest of their companions were feasting, they burst into tears, so happy were they to be together again. But Circe said, “Cry not, for I know of your suffering on the sea and the damage done to you on land. Eat your food and drink your wine until the spirit returns to your chests.”

“Fair Circe will nourish them, will she not?” I ask the mountain sparrow when he says this.

“Aye, Boar Slayer. She knows herbs and potions that will restore your master's men, it is true.”

The mountain sparrow says nothing for many minutes. Never have I known a sparrow to not chirp incessantly until this one. I watch as he hops onto another rail, in the shadow of a branch, and the golden light no longer shines on him. Hermes has gone, but there is more I must know.

“Tell me, bravest of birds. When will they leave Aiaia? What is the rest of Hermes's message?”

“What message do you speak of, strange dog?” the sparrow asks, and he begins to fly away.

“Mountain sparrow!” I snap.

He pauses midflight.

“I know where there are fields of grasshoppers waiting for your sharp beak,” I say, hoping he will stay longer. “But you must first return to that rail yonder and finish your tale.”

After a few moments the sparrow returns to the rail and the light reappears.

“They may never leave that island, Argos,” the sparrow says finally. “Circe's potions will cure their bodies, but steal their minds. Already they have forgotten their homeland. Some do not even remember their names. You should forget them too. Even your master, Odysseus. That is Hermes' message to you.
Now, where are those grasshoppers?”

“Three stadia over to the west is a newly threshed field,” I whimper. “You will find them there.”

“I thank thee, Aptos,” he says, and flies away.

Now I stand on my hind legs and place my paws on the rail where the golden light had shown, hoping that Hermes has more to say, but alas, the light is long gone, and I am alone.