Homer’s Daughter (22 page)

Next came the long jump. My ardent suitor Noemon specialized in this event and could outjump his nearest opponent by a good three paces; but Antinous was acting as umpire and whenever Noemon took off, called out: “A foul! You laid
your foot in front of the starting mark!” So the prize went to Ctesippus.

Then the weight-putting, taken more seriously than the other sports because skill in it was aided rather than discouraged by heavy eating. Among the spectators I saw Aethon, looking wonderfully disreputable. He lifted one of the weights and set it down again with a shake of his head: which did not mean, however “Oh, how strong the competitors must be to cast a stone of this size!” but “In Crete our weights are three times as large.” His face was a study as he watched the wrestling match, another scandal. Eurymachus had challenged a youth called Demoptolemus, with whom he pretended to be in love, and scorning a decent combat of half nelsons, flying mares and the rest, gave a shamelessly obscene performance: trying to kiss Demoptolemus, bite his ear amorously and straddle him. I turned my back in disgust and walked away; but Ctimene laughed until the tears ran down her face.

The boxing match was the only event worth watching, because Ctesippus lost his temper and began to maul his opponent Polybus, a tranquil young man of Sican stock. “Hold hard!” shouted Polybus. “This is a sport, not a battle.” When Ctesippus continued with the rough play, Polybus brought up his knee sharply and caught him in the groin; which ended the contest, but started a free fight between the Phocaeans and Sicans who had been betting on the result.

So the umpires cleared a level place and called for a funeral dance in honour of Mentor. Old Demodocus tottered along with his lyre, and a group of boys who had just taken arms gave us the maze dance, which expresses the hope of human resurrection. The wonderful exactness of their steps
and the grace of their carriage salved my wounded civic pride. We Elymans are not athletes, I own, though supreme in seamanship; and if only Halius and Laodamas had been present to perform our famous ball dance, of which they were past masters, their leaps and catches would have amazed Aethon.

As for Ctimene, it was clear that someone had offered to marry her; and it was equally clear who that man must be—Eurymachus. Once Clytoneus and my father had been eliminated, and Antinous had married me and taken a third share in the estates, Eurymachus would be in a very good position as the husband of Laodamas's widow, to claim another third share. The last share would go to Agelaus as Regent for the heir presumptive, my youngest brother Telegonus—until it was decided to drown him. No wonder Ctimene had laughed so loud at Eurymachus's wrestling display!

I put my theory to the test. “Didn't you think Eurymachus most amusing?” I asked. “By the way, you seem to have changed your mind. Last year you accused him of taking a commission from a Libyan merchant who cheated you out of a great deal of money.”

Ctimene answered: “Oh, but Eurymachus has proved to me that he had nothing to do with the Libyan's default, and promised to help me recover my entire bride price from the estate. I think quite differently of him now.”

“How good-looking he is,” I said, “and how clever!”

“You are not considering him as a husband, after all?” she enquired in sudden alarm.

Oh, Ctimene, Ctimene! Women like Ctimene are the undoing of the world.

That morning, as Eumaeus and Aethon drove down half a dozen hogs for sacrifice, they had paused at a famous crossways, near the foot of the mountain, where a waterfall splashes into a stone basin. The basin, with its three altars and the ancient alders surrounding them, was dedicated to the Nymphs by our ancestor Aegestus himself. Travellers never fail to leave a small gift here, if only flowers or wild fruit, and Eumaeus now propitiated the Nymphs by burning a pair of pig's chaps on a brushwood fire. The unseemly insults of Melantheus, who came up with an equal number of fat goats, interrupted his prayers. “Foo,” cried Melantheus, “what a stench! Why, whenever I drive my goats along this road, should I always have the misfortune of meeting you
and your miry, grunting, flea-ridden comrades exactly at this crossways?”

“One remedy,” replied Eumaeus without turning round, “would be to wake earlier. Your farmyard lies not far from here, and by starting at the same time as myself you would miss me by two hours or more.”

“Who is that foul limping biped with you?” asked Melantheus truculently.

“A beggar whom I met on the mountain. I am showing him the way to town.”

“Lout leads lout, and filth follows filth. That is a divine law. You are surely not introducing this idle belly to the Palace, are you?”

“Why not? So many even idler bellies gather there already that one more will make little odds. And they all have larders of their own well stocked with cheese and tunny, which leaves them no excuse for dining every day on roasted meat at our master's expense; whereas my poor fellow is hungry, lame and homeless.”

“Do you dare compare this creature with the flower of our Elyman nobility? If he wants work, send him to me. I am always shorthanded and he could earn a bowl of whey now and then by cutting green stuff for the kids, and sweeping out the stalls, and making himself generally useful. But a lout like this fears work almost worse than death: he wanders up the coast, rubbing his filthy shoulders against every doorpost and demanding scraps of food as the price for his absence. I know the type: if he knocks and finds nobody at home he helps himself to clothes or shoes or something even better. Take my warning: if you bring him into the Palace, foot-stools
will fly and he will be lucky enough to escape with a couple of broken ribs.”

So saying, Melantheus took a running kick at Aethon and caught him on the hipbone. Aethon had the presence of mind not to retaliate; but groaned and nursed the bruise and grumbled under his breath as a real beggar would have done, while Eumaeus, addressing the Nymphs, cried out: “Daughters of Zeus, if my lord the King ever burned rich thighbones encased in fat on your altars, grant him a speedy return, and free me from the tyranny of strangers and the insults of fellow servants!”

Melantheus answered: “Before he returns, many improvements will be seen in Drepanum. His lands will be divided among men worthier to cultivate them than he, his throne occupied, his family extinguished. As for you, surly swineherd, I shall claim you as my slave, in reward of faithful service to my new lords, and after scrubbing you and combing your matted hair and dressing you in a clean white loincloth, sell you to the Sidonian slavers for whatever you fetch. There are always fools to buy fools, and prize fools to buy prize fools. Meanwhile, take good care of your hide, for my sake!”

Eumaeus did not deign to answer. The old white sow had already comforted him with the news that Melantheus would die soon and horribly. Melantheus then hurried his goats to the Palace, while Eumaeus and Aethon went forward at a slower pace. They watched the games, as already described, and afterwards joined the returning crowd, which enabled Aethon to drive the hogs through the town gates without drawing attention to himself. As they approached the Palace,
Eumaeus asked him: “Will you go ahead, or shall I prepare them for your coming?”

“I cannot risk being flung out,” Aethon answered, “and since Melantheus saw me in your company, you had better be my sponsor—though I fear it may get you into trouble.”

“First let us be rid of the hogs,” said Eumaeus, “and then do whatever the Goddess suggests.”

As they passed the midden heap, Aethon said: “What a fine nose that hound has! He must be a wonderful hunter. But why is he allowed to lie and scratch on a dunghill?”

“Poor Argus! Nobody has exercised him since Prince Clytoneus went away. There is nothing so lonely as a masterless hound, unless it be a fatherless child.”

At that very moment Argus cocked an ear, barked joyfully and scudded off. They turned and saw Clytoneus hurrying towards them, spear in hand, though hindered by Argus's exuberant leaps and caresses. In passing he muttered to Eumaeus: “I have news of the King. Wait here until I send for you.”

Clytoneus's entry into the banqueting court with Argus at his heels caused a sensation, but he elbowed his way through the crowd of suitors and paused only to greet Halitherses, who had consented to take general charge of palace affairs during his absence.

“Why, boy,” cried Halitherses, “back so soon? Did you meet your royal father?”

“We never reached Sandy Pylus,” Clytoneus answered. “Tomorrow I will tell you everything, but today I am weary, and grieved by my dear uncle's death. Forgive me, noble Halitherses!”

He went into the house and kissed our mother, who led him up to her bedroom. “Well?” she said.

“The King is nearly home. He has been refitting at Syracuse, and should arrive within four days. The news reached me from Minoa just after Nausicaa had set off down the mountain. But Antinous has posted lookouts all along the coast as far as the Sicel frontier, and a fifty-oarer is waiting to ambush him in the Straits of Motya; so we have no time to lose. I shall send Aethon to you this evening when the court is clear again. And, oh, Mother, my heart is bursting with grief for your murdered brother, and I have sworn in Cerdo's name to avenge him.”

She asked gently: “You approve of—is his name Aethon? You do not think him too wild a man to marry Nausicaa?”

“This is hardly a situation that calls for tameness.”

“I fear you are right. Run away now and ask Eurycleia to prepare a hot bath and find you a change of linen.”

He took the bath, sent a maid to summon Eumaeus, and resumed his seat beside Halitherses. Up came Noemon to ask where the ship lay. “Beached on Motya,” answered Clytoneus, “and having a leak patched. She will be here tomorrow or the next day. I am deeply grateful to you for the loan.”

Halitherses thereupon prophesied aloud, though only Clytoneus heard it above the clamour: “I have a strange vision of a hind dropping her fawns in the den of an absent lion; I see him on his way home after a fruitless journey, unaware what will meet his hungry eye when he returns…”

“It would be well for your lion if the hunters had spread no net at the approaches to his den,” said Clytoneus sadly.

“This lion will break any net.”

“May Athene be speaking through your mouth, my lord Halitherses!”

Then Eumaeus came in and Clytoneus waved him to a near-by seat; at once a serving man brought meat on a trencher, and bread in a basket. Close behind Eumaeus hobbled Aethon but, not venturing farther than the ashwood threshold which connects the two courts, sat down with his back to a pillar. Clytoneus took a whole loaf and a slab of beef and handed it to Eumaeus. “Give this to your miserable companion,” he said, “and invite him to make a tour of the company, begging for more.”

“Being a beggar only by misfortune, not by trade, he will be ashamed, I fear.”

“Tell him that no beggar can afford to be ashamed.”

Aethon accepted the gift and began eating as though ravenous, while Phemius sang about King Menelaus of Sparta: how he went to consult Proteus, the oracular old man of the sea who rules over the sandy island of Pharos, and how he bedded down among the seals, wrapped in a sealskin. I was listening at the Tower window when Ctesippus, already drunk, interrupted the song by shouting raucously up at me: “Hey, mistress, tell us: would you also like to bed down among seals?” It should be explained that the Phocaeans call themselves “Seals.” Phemius laid aside his lyre and all eyes were turned on me as I answered slowly and distinctly: “I have no such itch, my lord Ctesippus. A styful of Sican hogs smells sweetly and acts piously by comparison; and though a cloth soaked in strong perfume might drown the seals' stench, it would not protect me either from their obscenities or from their violence.”

It was our agreed policy that day to foment discord in the ranks of our enemies, and this sally of mine proved successful. The Sicans laughed their heads off at the Phocaeans' expense. When Phemius had at last been able to finish his fytte—for the Sons of Homer make it a point of pride never to sing against a babble of noise—Aethon went around begging morsels of food from the suitors. Some of them speculated idly on his origin, and Melantheus put in his oar. “My lords, the swineherd who led this kill-joy here, uninvited, can perhaps tell you all about him.”

Antinous asked Eumaeus: “Why did you do it, my man? Did you want to spoil our dinners? Or are you officiously trying to help us eat the royal larder empty? We need no assistance, thanks. Who is he, anyhow?”

“You may be well born, my lord,” Eumaeus answered boldly, “but must have been badly brought up, or you would know that it is no virtue to assist the rich and fortunate, who find a welcome wherever they go. Their hosts expect some gift or service in return; but all doors are barred to a beggar save those of the royalhearted. I guided this shipwrecked merchant here in the confidence that Prince Clytoneus would take pity on him. And who are you to criticize his magnanimity, or to demand the names of his guests?”

Clytoneus intervened. “Steady there, reverend swineherd, pay no attention to his sour jokes! And Antinous, if you cut this beggar some bread and meat, I will ask my father to discount it from your bill.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.”

“That is the answer I was awaiting,” said Clytoneus. “Every Phocaean is the same: even if he were so crammed with food
and drink that his life was despaired of, and a beggar pleaded for the leavings on the plate, he would rather die by wedging another gobbet of meat down his throat than keep the poor fellow from starvation.”

“Beware, Clytoneus,” growled Antinous. “If I gave him as much as I should like, starting with this”—here he fished a footstool from under the table and poised it menacingly—“he would be out of action for three months at least.”