Argos (20 page)

D
awn comes, and the raven swoops low over the barn where I lie resting. In truth, my legs are weak today, and I cannot yet rise.

“Noble raven,” I call. “Did you come from the home of the swineherd?”

The raven does not answer, but alights on the fence and ruffles his feathers.

“What news do you bring of my master and his son? Have they devised a plan?” I ask again.

Still the raven speaks not.

“Noble raven, did you hear me?”

Finally the bird speaks.

“Is it true, brave Ar-Ar-Argos, that you called the kingfisher
‘most intelligent of birds'? Did you say that?”

I realize then what I had done; ravens are the most vain of all birds. Even a peacock has more modesty.

“I did say that, noble raven. But only a bird as silly as a kingfisher would believe it, thus proving the opposite, yes?”

The raven turns his head sideways and regards me for a moment.

“Haw-haw!” he laughs. “You are very clever, Ar-Ar-Argos. Truly, you understand the mind of my cousin. They are-are-are quite susceptible to false praise.”

“Indeed. Now, what of my master and his son? What did they say this morning upon rising?”

“Ahh, brave Ar-Ar-Argos. A plan is under way, I think. Overnight, Athena changed your master back to an old man, and this morning young Telemachos rose and took up a shar-shar-sharp spear in his grip, saying to the swineherd, ‘I am going to my home so that my mother will know I have returned. You should take the stranger to the city and let him beg there. You have been gracious enough to him, but he must not be a burden upon you any longer.'

“Then your master agreed, saying, ‘The young warrior is right, my friend. I am too old to be of use here. Take me to the city so that I might find a purpose there and charity from the
city folk. You have served me kindly, and the gods will reward you if they are just.'

“Then did brave Telemachos leave, carrying his stout spear, and after breaking their fast, the swineherd and your master also left, on their way to the city.”

“If they are on their way to the city, then they will pass by here!” I cry. “After twenty winters my master returns to his land!” If I were younger, I would have run in mad circles at the prospect of seeing him, but alas, now my legs will not carry me in such a fashion.

“Calm yourself, loyal Ar-Ar-Argos,” he says. “Your master is still in disguise. The moment is not yet at hand for revenge.”

The raven is right. I do not know my master's plan, and until I do, I will have to be careful not to give any clues to the suitors that my master has returned, for they are a suspicious lot, and would kill even a beggar if they suspected he was loyal to Odysseus. And kill me too.

I thank the raven, praising him again for his surpassing intelligence and wisdom, and he flies off with puffed feathers and a dip of his wing. I know it will take several hours for Telemachos to arrive, so I struggle to my feet and make my rounds, checking the sheep and the goats, one of whom gave birth to a kid last week, and so I must be vigilant about the eagles who
like nothing better than tender young goats, enough, even, to risk my wrath.

After Apollo's chariot passes its zenith, I trot slowly down to the swineherd's path and see, dimly, in the distance, a tall young man carrying a spear. Telemachos has returned! I bark and run up to him on tottering legs, letting him rub my belly and scratch my ears. Then I follow him up to the house, but not before I smell, far off, but upwind, the suitors, who will be arriving within the hour. A growl escapes me.

Inside his father's palace, Telemachos props his spear against the wall and bounds up the stairs to see his mother, sweet Penelope, who begins to weep loudly. I could not follow him up the stairs as my legs are too weak, but I hear her thank the gods that he has arrived safely home.

Telemachos tells his mother of his fruitless journey, how no one had heard if his father had perished or still lived.
How it must pain my young master to deceive his mother.
I can hear his voice catch as he tells her this tale of woe. As his mother weeps, I hear Telemachos ask, though he knows the answer: “Tell me, Mother. Since I have been away, do the suitors still come daily to court you and eat from our table?”

“They do, my son,” she answers bitterly. “They come daily
and court me, telling me tales of shipwrecks and destruction, that no man returns after twenty years, even godlike Odysseus, as they deplete our herds and beat our servants.”

Then my young master whispers so that none but his mother and a loyal dog can hear, “Truly, Mother, just as when a doe while grazing brings her fawns too near the den of a wolf, so shall my father, Odysseus, bring destruction upon those men.”

It takes all my will not to bark in agreement at my young master's words, but just then I hear the suitors approaching the gates. For the next few hours, they distract themselves with games of spear throwing and hurling disks while my master's servants prepare their dinner. The servants roast lamb and goat and bake loaves of bread in the hearths. Others roll grape leaves stuffed with rice and set bowls of salty olives on the tables. Still others pour flagons of wine and honey mead into cups, for the suitors will be thirsty after their games. Then Medon, the head servant, calls the men inside, and they take off their mantles and prop their spears against the wall before sitting down to eat. As they enter, I leave the banquet hall with my tail hanging low, as if I were afraid of them. My master has taught me well: one should never let an enemy know that he is not feared.

Outside I manage to climb to a small ridge and sniff the air.
How I have longed for that scent! My master, Odysseus, sacker of cities, is near. What indescribable joy I feel! Then I have a terrible thought:
What if my master has forgotten me?
I was just a whelpling when he left, barely a year old. What hardships he has endured! What despair he has known!
Why do I expect him to remember me, a faithful dog, now sunken ribbed, broken, and nearly toothless?
I could not bear that. So instead of running down the goat path to meet him, I lie down near the barn to wait, turning myself around and around until I am in a position to see the path.

A few minutes later I see them. The old swineherd Eumaios walks side by side with a stooped, ragged beggar—my master. I creep closer but remain hidden, for I smell another man approaching. Just then the goatherd, Melanthios, a proud and vicious man, driving his goats from the far pasture, comes upon them. Seeing Eumaios, whom he has always envied for his friendship with my master, he curses the swineherd, crying, “Why do you bring a beggar around here? He's just the kind of wretch who spoils the fun of feasting, begging for handouts and wine to drink! You'd better not bring him near the house of Odysseus, for he will feel the weight of heavy blows from the heroes within!”

Then Melanthios raises his cudgel, as if to strike my master!
I jump to my feet and run toward them, growling and barking, but I am still too far away to do more than bark. Then Melanthios swings his club, but my master catches his arm, and the blow never lands. The goatherd curses and draws away. “May the gods strike you down, beggar, along with you, Eumaios,” he sneers.

Eumaios raises his own hand to strike the goatherd, but my master steps between them. “We mean you no offense, sir,” I hear my master say. “Please pardon us. We are on our way to the city and will not stop to beg at your master's palace.”

This was brave Odysseus? Had the goddess stolen his pride as well as his form? Then I see it. My eyes are old and tired, but I see my master wink at Eumaios, as if to say, “Follow my lead!”

Of course! My master is not yet ready to reveal himself. Now I have a part to play. I advance upon them, growling, with my few remaining teeth bared and hackles raised.

“That old dog will see that you don't come near the palace!” The goatherd laughs. “Now be off! And thank the gods I have more important things to do than beat you!”

Melanthios continues on his way, while I, still growling, approach Eumaios and my master.
Oh, forgive me, Odysseus, for showing you my teeth, worn and broken as they are!

I advance slowly, waiting for Melanthios and his goats to descend into the valley. Once they do, I bark once, loudly, for effect, and then I run limping toward my master.

I hear Eumaios say, “Don't worry, friend. The dog will not bite as long as you are with me. He was well trained once, by his owner, the noble Odysseus.”

Then my master puts his hand out with his palm up for me to smell it.
Oh, words cannot describe that smell.
His hand smells of the briny sea and the blood of Troy, the sulfur of Hades and the honey mead of Kalypso, the smoky ash of a spear hardened in the fire. He smells like a king. Then I lick his hand, though only once. My master looks me in the eye, as if to say, “Don't reveal who I am, faithful one!”

Still I wag my tail and fold both of my ears back. May the gods strike me if I did not see a tear form in my master's eye.

“Eumaios, my friend,” my master says. “Whose dog is this? He has a splendid shape, though he is ancient. What a broad chest he has, and a sturdy muzzle. He looks as if he could have once outrun a deer. What is the old dog's name?”

Then the swineherd answers. “This is the dog of a man who perished far away, my master Odysseus. You should have seen him in his youth, friend. Such strength and speed he had! Never could any wild animal escape if he pursued it, and he
could track anything, even the wild boar, which he and his master hunted, fearing not their size and cunning, but ridding Ithaka of their destructive ways.”

“You have not named him, but I shall, for I have heard his legend and that of his master, Odysseus. His name is Argos, is it not?” my master asks deceptively.

“Aye, this is loyal Argos, once a great boar hunter and wolf killer, but now death stalks him, I fear, for even one such as he is not immortal. It is strange to see him lick your hand, friend, for only Telemachos and my mistress Penelope has he let near since his master left. Come now. We have reached the palace, and Telemachos awaits us.”

My master takes my head in his hands and looks deep into my eyes. “Can it be that you still live? Truly the gods are good, bravest of all dogs,” he whispers. “Now you may let go of your duty to me and hunt the wild stag and the fearsome boar on Mount Olympus. They wait for you on the other side, most loyal of all creatures.”

Then he gives me a final pet, and the two men stride toward the palace. I try to follow them, but my legs will not move, and so I lie down. I close my eyes for a few minutes and feel a cool wind ruffle my fur.

Outside the hall where the suitors feast, I hear dogs growling.
I open my eyes slowly and see several small shepherding dogs, all of which belong to the house of Odysseus and its herders, coming onto the estate. I had told them to remain close to my master's estate this day in case any suitors should try to flee. I know them all by sight, and some by name. I had taught most of their fathers how to guard their flocks, and I have outlived them too. Still, these younger pups show respect, rolling onto their backs, or at the very least, lowering their heads as they approach me.

All but one does this, I notice, but I say nothing, as he is a stranger to me, and I have not the strength to admonish him. He is very large and sturdily built, with a coat of thick, tawny fur. His muzzle is black, his ears erect, and his eyes sparkle. I force myself to my feet, and we touch noses, as is the custom when two alpha dogs meet. “Greetings, stranger,” I say to the dog. “Where are you from, and what is your name? I know most of my brothers on fair Ithaka, but know you not.”

I do not introduce myself, as there is no need; my name is known throughout Ithaka.

“I am from the north of the island, sir,” he says, “and I have never come to this part of Ithaka until now.” His voice is pleasant and well pitched. “Alas, I have no name, Uncle, being orphaned while young, and living not among men but in the wild.”

I lie down again before my legs give away, but I remain upright. “What brings you here to my master's palace, then?”

The handsome dog steps closer to me so that only I can hear his answer.

“I learned that Aristratus, one of your mistress's suitors, has returned. I wish to see him for he wronged me once.”

Aristratus? That name is familiar to me, yet I cannot place it.

“The chance for revenge will come presently, my friend,” I say. “Stay close, and soon your fine jaws will find their target. Destruction is coming, and dogs such as we will play our part. If you are hungry, there is food near the kitchen, where the cooks throw out old meat and water too.”

“Thank you, noble Argos,” the dog replies. “I caught a hare on my journey, and it was enough for now.”

We touch noses again, and this time he lowers his tail to show his respect. My head begins to swim, and I realize that I have begun to pant, although the day is not yet hot.

“Young one,” I say, “tell me your lineage. Who was your father? Your mother? Where did they live? I would surely know of them if they were from here. And you must have brothers and sisters, do you not?”

For a long time my companion does not speak. Then he says, “Alas, brave Argos, as I said, I am orphaned. I do not
know my father's fate, and my mother is long gone. I know not even if my brothers and sisters live. They were taken away from me when I was a pup. I alone escaped, only to watch helplessly as they, along with my mother, were carried aboard a red ship to be taken to a far-off isle. That was the last I saw of them, although I heard their howls of fear for many months afterward in my sleep.”

Could it be?

“Did you say it was a red ship?” I ask.

“Yes, noble one. With forty oars. I counted them.”