Argos (22 page)

“The gods are playing with us again,” said Penelope, turning to face Eumaeus and her son. “You said so yourself, Eumaeus. The seas were the roughest you had ever seen. Only Poseidon could bring such great seas. He desperately did not want his plans interrupted.”

“But would Meges really kidnap Argos just for revenge?” asked Telemachus.

“No,” said Penelope grimly. “You heard what I said, Telemachus. This is the work of immortals. I think a god has been whispering in Meges ear. Or possibly his loathsome son, Elatus. Regardless, I think we should be grateful that while Poseidon's attention was on Argos, he neglected to harass my son.”

“This isn't over you know, my queen,” said Eumaeus quietly. “Meges did not take kindly to our intrusion or the loss of his prize. I suspect other mischief in store. Both from him and the gods.”

“That is why we must take extra special care of Argos now,”
said Penelope. “His presence will ensure that we are safe. Athena has assured me that while Argos lives, no harm will befall my son.”

I sighed, comforted by this knowledge, and snuggled my head deeper into Telemachus' lap. From that moment on, I would not leave Telemachus' side. As long as I had my strength, I would continue to guard him faithfully. And Penelope for that matter. I would only rest when Odysseus returned. I knew he still lived. Athena had told me as much. If Odysseus could withstand the wrath of Poseidon, then I could do no less. I owed him that. That and more.

“Well,” rumbled Cerberus, “an intriguing tale so far. If it was up to me, you would have easily paid the price of admission.”

I nod slowly and stand, stretching my legs. I'm not tired—sleep seems to have been banished from this place—but my legs are starting to cramp with inactivity. I glance up at Cerberus. The great dog of Hades is sitting on his haunches, looking quite comfortable, his central head regarding me thoughtfully. The huge red eyes bore into me as if trying to scour the innermost parts of my soul. The other two heads keep moving restlessly, constantly scanning the terrain to ensure no one departs Hades without permission. Not that permission is ever given.

“Do I have need of admission at this time, great Cerberus?” I ask. “Have I died in the world above?”

Cerberus shakes his central head. “Not yet, noble Argos. But it is near. You will have more than enough time to finish your story.”

Could be worse
, I think. At least Cerberus—for all his fearsome aspect—is good company. Surprisingly, he is an excellent listener too, only interrupting me a few times to garner some precious extra details. As a result, I have talked almost constantly since my arrival in Hades. The only break was when Cerberus accepted new arrivals through the gates—arrivals brought over the river by Charon. All of the newly dead had been thoroughly disorientated and not a little intimidated by Cerberus as he had ushered them inside the great gates without fuss. If they thought it was odd that Cerberus was accompanied by an all too normal looking dog, they gave no sign.

“Are you ready to continue?” asks Cerberus.

“In a moment,” I say, stretching once more. I circle three times before settling again at the feet of the great three-headed dog.

“Tell me one thing,” says Cerberus.

“Of course.”

“What was it like to have another dog as a friend? What was it like to share that bond?” he asks.

Sudden sadness fills me. Sadness over Butal's death but also empathy for Cerberus. Unlike me, he has never had a four-legged friend before. Until now. Arrogant as it sounds, Cerberus probably counts me as a friend and I him. Perhaps that is the reason he has brought me here—to fill that void.

“It was reassuring, comforting,” I say. “Different to the friendships I had with humans and in some ways better. Butal
never demanded anything from me. Never expected anything.”

“And do you miss him?” asks Cerberus, in a voice tinged with both melancholy and hope.

“Every day,” I say and know it for the truth.

Three years passed. Telemachus passed from boyhood into youth and I, although it pained me to say so, into old age. Not so old that I couldn't run almost as fast as I had in my youth, but I was definitely getting on in years.

Telemachus became a man his father would be proud of. Slightly taller than Odysseus and almost as strongly built. He often seemed wiser than his years and was prone to moments of quiet reflection. I could say that I loved him with all my heart but that would be untrue. I always reserved one special part of my heart for my true master, Odysseus.

As for that worthy, he had still not returned. We had heard rumors, of course, but nothing that confirmed his existence. It did give us hope, however, and some hope was better than none at all. I could tell that these rumors both inspired faith that his father lived but also troubled Telemachus. There was conflict in his heart—a long held desire to seek out and find his father and his duty to his mother and Ithaca.

Penelope was a different story altogether. I knew that she despaired of her husband ever returning. She spent more and
more time locked in her rooms and sometimes would not appear for days. When she did, she looked thin and pale. This only served to highlight her beauty, however. Just in her fourth decade, she was almost as beautiful as she had been in her youth—outshining maidens many years younger than herself.

Telemachus and I still spent as much time as we could together. Even though he was popular amongst his peers, he still preferred the company of myself or Eumaeus. His training meant he was often absent for long periods of the day. Now he also had other duties to attend to—duties that were becoming more and more kingly in their nature. Laertes, Odysseus' aging father and the former king of Ithaca, left his self-imposed exile and came to the palace to instruct Telemachus in kingship. He was a nice old man who often had a morsel of boar for me. He, Telemachus, and I spent long hours together. Laertes was wise and kind and both Telemachus and I enjoyed his company very much.

When Penelope was locked in her rooms, Telemachus was the effective ruler of Ithaca. He had Laertes and Eumaeus to advise him, but it was a hefty weight on the young man's shoulders.

We hunted together almost every day. The exercise and activity kept me youthful. I was almost fifteen summer's old now. One day, I realized with mild shock that most dogs my age and size were in their graves by now. I suspected Athena's hand in my life once again. One of her many gifts to me.

Our hunting expeditions were always joyous occasions. Telemachus was almost as skilled an archer as his father and we rarely returned to the palace empty-handed.

After one particularly satisfying hunt, Telemachus decided to
ascend the squat stone tower adjacent to the palace. The tower provided unrestricted views of the sea on both sides of the island and it was a place that Telemachus seemed drawn to, much like his father. The guards posted to the battlements understood Telemachus' need for solitude and wisely made themselves scarce.

I accompanied him, knowing that Telemachus would have it no other way. Most times he would say nothing, simply staring out to sea but some days, when the urge to express himself became overpowering, the words came pouring out. It didn't matter that he was talking to a dog. I don't really think he considered me one at any rate. I was a friend, a companion, and confidant. There was no one else he could reveal himself to, not even Eumaeus or his mother.

This was one of those days.

“He's out there somewhere, you know that, don't you, Argos?” he asked, still gazing intently at the white flecked waves far below. I had jumped up and placed my forelegs on the battlements next to him, enjoying a much better view than the rough-hewn stone in front of me. Besides, I savored the brisk sea wind on my face. Without being conscious of it, my tongue was hanging out. Hardly dignified but only Telemachus was privy to my lack of composure.

One of his hands rested on my head, absentmindedly patting the thick fur he found there. I had seen my reflection in a bronze shield only a few days earlier and had noticed self-consciously that some of my rich brown fur was turning gray. The hairs around my muzzle were speckled with it as well. I did not find the sight pleasing and had vowed not to look again. Who wants
to be reminded that time is the enemy that no man—or dog—can defeat?

I wagged my tail in agreement. Telemachus sensed the movement and his mouth quirked into a tiny smile. “Yes, you will never give up hope, will you, Argos? You know as well as I that my father lives. I
will
find him someday. I will be a man in a few years. Soon, I will be free to seek him out.”

Telemachus was right. He did speak of this often but I never tired of hearing it. I just hoped that when the time came, he would allow me to accompany him. Penelope had forbidden him to pursue his quest until he was older and I could tell that her command filled him with impatience and resentment.

Penelope did not want to risk her only son leaving the island. Not while there was still a feud between Ithaca and Doulikhion. King Meges still sought vengeance and raiding parties from Doulikhion periodically attacked the smaller villages dotted around Ithaca. He knew that it was a weak target. During Odysseus' absence, the prosperity of Ithaca had declined. The fate of Odysseus and the island seemed to be inexorably linked.

As for the gods, unlike Meges, they had made no further efforts to harm either Telemachus or any other inhabitant of Ithaca. It was like they had lost interest. I have always suspected the gods were fickle and this confirmed it. There were many more mortals whose lives—for good or ill—they could meddle with. Lives far more interesting than a young boy-king on a small island. I could flatter myself and say that perhaps they feared my new abilities but I knew that was a joke. Regardless of the gifts given to me by Athena, no god could possibly be intimidated by
me. I had encountered the gods, after all. No, Poseidon or Apollo were too busy interfering in the lives of others to pay Telemachus any heed. Not that I was complaining of course.

“I want to be like him one day, Argos,” Telemachus was saying. “Make him proud. I wish I could've fought alongside him in Troy, perhaps even accompanied him in the great wooden horse. I will get my wish. I know it. One day … ” He trailed off, lost in his own thoughts.

I certainly hoped not. The thought of Telemachus in harm's way was not a pleasant one. Although I shared his wish—to fight alongside Odysseus—I did not want to put Telemachus in danger. I had experienced that before and it was something I didn't care to repeat.

But the Fates—Clotho, the spinner, who spins the thread of life, Lachesis, the measurer, who determines the span of life, and Atropos, she who cuts the thread of life—have a way of interfering with lives. No man—or dog—can control them.

Telemachus and I often had our lunch in a small private dining room near the kitchens. It was an informal room used only by Odysseus, his family, and one or two close friends. The main dining hall was only used for entertaining noble guests.