The Adventures of Ulysses (13 page)

And as she sang, she kept watching the stranger’s face. She saw tears steal from between his clenched eyelids and roll down his cheeks. Amazed, the banqueters saw this hard-bitten sailor put his head in his hands and sob like a child.

He raised his streaming face and said, “Forgive me, gracious king. But the wonderful voice of your daughter has touched my heart For you must know that I am none other than Ulysses, of whom she sings.”

A great uproar broke out. The young men cheered. The women wept. The king said:

“My court is honored, Ulysses. Your deeds are known wherever men love courage. Now that I know who you are, I put all my power and goods at your disposal. Name any favor you wish, and it shall be yours.”

Ulysses said: “O King, if I were the age I was twenty years ago when the ships were launched at Aulis, then the favor I would ask is your daughter’s hand. For surely I have traveled the whole world over without seeing her like. I knew Helen, whose beauty kindled men to that terrible war. I knew the beauties of the Trojan court whom we took captive and shared among us. And, during my wanderings I have had close acquaintance with certain enchantresses whose charms are more than human, namely Circe and Calypso. Yet never have I seen a girl so lovely, so witty, so courteous and kind as your young daughter. Alas, it cannot be. I am too old. I have a wife I must return to, and a kingdom, and there are sore trials I must undergo before I can win again what belongs to me. So all I ask of you, great king, is a ship to take me to Ithaca, where my wife waits, my enemies wait, my destiny waits.”

Arete whispered to the king:

“Yes … yes … give him his ship tomorrow. I wish it could be tonight. See how your daughter looks at him; she is smitten to the heart. She is sick with love. Let him sail tomorrow. And be sure to keep watch at the wharf lest she stow away.”

“It shall be as you say, mighty Ulysses,” said the king. “Your ship will sail tomorrow.”

So Ulysses departed the next day on a splendid ship manned by a picked crew, laden with rich goods the king had given him as hero gifts.

It is said that Athene drugged Poseidon’s cup at the feast of the gods that night, so that he slept a heavy sleep and did not see that Ulysses was being borne to Ithaca. But Poseidon awoke in time to see the ship sailing back and understood what had happened. In a rage he snatched Athene’s Gorgon-head shield, the sight of which turns men to stone, and flashed it before the ship just as it was coming into port after having left Ulysses at his island. The ship and all its crew turned to stone, blocking the harbor, as the oracle had foretold.

It is said, too, that Nausicaa never accepted any of the young men who came a-wooing, announcing that she was wedded to song. She became the first woman bard and traveled all the courts of the world singing her song of the heroes who fought at Troy, but especially of Ulysses and of his adventures among the terrible islands of the Middle Sea.

Some say that she finally came to the court of Ithaca to sing her song, and there she stayed. Others say that she fell in with a blind poet who took all her songs and wove them into one huge tapestry of song.

But it all happened too long ago to know the truth of it.

U
LYSSES HAD LANDED ON
a lonely part of the shore. His enemies were in control of the island, and it was death to be seen. He stood on the empty beach and saw the Phaeacian ship depart. He was surrounded by wooden chests, leather bags, great bales—the treasure of gifts he had been given by Alcinous.

He looked about, at the beach and the cliff beyond, the wooded hills the color of the sky. He was home after twenty years, but it did not seem like home. It seemed as strange and unfriendly as any of the perilous isles he had landed on during his long wanderings. And he knew that Ithaca would not be his again until he could know it as king, until he had slain his enemies and regained his throne.

His first care was to find a cave in the cliffside, and there stow all his treasure. He moved swiftly now; he had planned his first moves on his homeward trip. It had helped him keep his thoughts away from Nausicaa. He took off his rich cloak and helmet and breastplate and hid them in the cave he had found, then laid his sword and spear beside them. He tore his tunic so that it hung in rags. He scooped up mud and smeared his face and arms and legs. Then he huddled his shoulders together and practiced a limping walk. Finally he was satisfied and began to hump away along the cliff road, no longer a splendid warrior, but a feeble old beggar.

He made his way to the hut of his swineherd, Eumaeus, a man his own age, who had served him all his life, and whom he trusted. Everything was the same here, he saw. The pigs were rooting in the trampled earth. There were four lanky hounds who started from their sleep and barked, as he came near.

A man came out of the hut and silenced the dogs. Ulysses felt the tears well in his eyes. It was Eumaeus, but so old, so gray.

“What do you want?” said the swineherd.

“Food, good sir. Such scraps as you throw to the hogs. I am not proud, I am hungry.”

“Ate you a native of these parts?” said Eumaeus.

“No. I come from Crete.”

“A long way for a beggar to come.”

“I was not always a beggar. I was a sailor once yes, and a captain of ships. I have seen better days.”

“That’s what all beggars say.”

“Sometimes it’s true. I once met a man from Ithaca, a mighty warrior and the most famous man I have ever met. He gave me a good opinion of Ithaca. It is a place, I know, where the hungry and helpless are not spurned.”

“I suppose this man you met was named Ulysses.”

“Why, yes. How did you guess?”

“Because I have heard that tale so many times. Do you think you’re the first beggar to come slinking around, pretending to have news of our king? Everyone knows that he vanished on his journey home from Troy. Beggars swarm all over us trying to get some supper by telling lies.”

“Then you will give me no food?”

“I didn’t say that. Even liars have to eat. Ulysses never turned a beggar away, and neither will I.”

The swineherd fed Ulysses and then let him rest by the fire. Ulysses pretended to sleep but watched his host through half-closed eyes and saw that the man was staring at him. He stretched and yawned.

“Are you sure you’re a stranger to this island?” said Eumaeus. “Seems to me I’ve seen you before.”

“No,” said Ulysses. “You are mistaken. What shall I do now? Have I worn out my welcome, or may I sleep on your hearth tonight?”

“What will you do tomorrow?”

“Go to the castle and beg.”

“You will not be welcome there.”

“Why not? I will tell them how I met your king, and how kind he was to me. That should make them generous.”

“It won’t,” said Eumaeus. “It will probably get you killed. Those who hold the castle now want to hear nothing about him—except the sure news of his death.”

“How is that?”

“They hate him, because they do him harm. There are more than a hundred of them—rude, brawling young princes from neighboring islands and thievish young nobles of this island. They dwell in his castle as if they had taken it after a siege and seek to marry his wife, Penelope, refusing to leave until she accepts one of them. They drink his wine, devour his stores, break up the furniture for firewood, roister all night, and sleep all day. Do you know how many hogs I have to bring them? Fifty a day. That is how gluttonous they are. My herds are shrinking fast, but they say they will kill me the first day I fail to bring them fifty hogs.”

“I heard he had a grown son. Why does he not defend his father’s goods?”

“He’s helpless. There are too many of them.”

“Is he at the castle now?”

“No one knows where he is. He slipped away one night. Just as well. They were planning to kill him. The rumor is that he took ship and crew and went to seek his father. I hope he stays away. They will surely kill him if he returns.”

“I go there tomorrow,” said Ulysses. “It sounds like splendid begging. Such fiery young men are frequently generous, especially with other people’s goods.”

“You don’t know them,” said Eumaeus. “They are like wild beasts. But you cannot keep a fool from his folly. Go, if you must. In the meantime, sleep.”

Now, upon this night Telemachus was at sea, sailing toward Ithaca. He had found no news of his father and was coming home with a very heavy heart. He would have been even more distressed had he known that a party of the wicked suitors were lying in wait for him aboard a swift ship full of fighting men. The ship was hidden in a cove, and the suitors meant to pounce upon him as he put into port.

But Athene saw this and made a plan. She went to Poseidon and said:

“I know you are angry with me, Uncle, for helping Ulysses. But now I wish to make it up to you. See, down there is a ship from Ithaca.” She pointed to the suitors’ vessel. “No doubt it holds friends of Ulysses, sailing out to meet their king. Why not do them a mischief?”

“Why not?” growled Poseidon.

And he wound a thick black mist about the suitors’ ship so that it was impossible for the helmsman to see.

“Nevertheless,” he said to Athene. “I still owe Ulysses himself a great mischief. I have not forgotten. In the meantime, let his friends suffer a bit.”

The suitors’ ship lay helpless in the mist, and Telemachus, sailing past them, ignorant of danger, put into port and disembarked.

Athene then changed herself into a young swineherd and hailed Telemachus on the beach:

“Greetings, my lord. I am sent by your servant, Eumaeus, to beg you to come to his hut before you go to the castle. He has important news to tell.”

The lad set off, and Telemachus followed him toward the swineherd’s hut.

Ulysses, dozing by the fire, heard a wild clamor of hounds outside, then a ringing young voice calling to them. He listened while the snarls turned to yaps of pleasure.

“It is my young master,” cried Eumaeus, springing up. “Glory to the gods—he has come softly home.”

Telemachus strode in. He was flushed from his walk. His face and arms were wet with the night fog, and his red-gold hair was webbed with tiny drops. To Ulysses he looked all aglitter, fledged by firelight, a golden lad. And Ulysses felt a shaft of wild joy pierce him like a spear, and for the first time he realized that he had come home.

But Telemachus was displeased to see the old beggar by the fire, for he wished to speak to Eumaeus privately to ask him how matters stood at the castle and whether it was safe for him to return.

“I do not wish to be discourteous, old man,” he said, “but would you mind very much sleeping in the pig byre? You can keep quite warm there, and there are secret matters I wish to discuss.”

“Be not wroth, my lord, that I have given this man hospitality,” said Eumaeus. “He claims to have met your father once. A pitiful beggar’s tale, no doubt, but it earned him a meal and a bed.”

“Met my father? Where? When? Speak!”

But at the word “father,” Ulysses could not endure it any longer. The voice of the young man saying that word destroyed all his strategies. The amazed Eumaeus saw the old beggar leap from his stool, lose his feebleness, grow wilder, taller, and open his arms and draw the young man to him in a great bear-hug.

“Dearest son,” said the stranger, his voice broken with tears. “I am your father, Ulysses.”

Telemachus thought he was being attacked and tensed his muscles, ready to battle for his life. But when he heard these words and felt the old man’s tears burning against his face, then his marrow melted, and he laid his head on his father’s shoulder and wept.

Nor could the honest old swineherd say anything; his throat was choked with tears, too. Ulysses went to Eumaeus and embraced him, saying: “Faithful old friend, you have served me well. And if tomorrow brings victory, you will be well rewarded.”

Then he turned to his son and said, “The goddess herself must have led you here tonight. Now I can complete my plan. Tomorrow we strike our enemies.”

“Tomorrow? Two men against a hundred? These are heavy odds, even for Ulysses.”

“Not two men—four. There is Eumaeus here, who wields a good cudgel. There is the neatherd whom we can count on. And, no doubt, at the castle itself we will find a few more faithful servants. But it is not a question of numbers. We shall have surprise on our side. They think I am dead, remember, and that you are helpless. Now, this is the plan. You must go there in the morning, Telemachus, pretending great woe. Tell them you have learned on your journey that I am indeed dead and that now you must advise your mother to take one of them in marriage. This will keep them from attacking you—for a while anyway—and will give us the time we need. I shall come at dusk, just before the feasting begins.”

“What of my mother? Shall I tell her that you are alive?”

“By no means.”

“It is cruel not to.”

“It will prove a kindness later. Women cannot keep secrets, and we have a battle to fight. No, bid her dress in her finest garments, and anoint herself, and be as pleasant as she can to the suitors, for this will help disarm them. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Now, mark this well. You will see me being insulted, humiliated, beaten perhaps. Do not lose your temper and be drawn into a quarrel before we are ready to fight. For I must provoke the suitors to test their mettle and see where we should strike first.”

Telemachus knelt in the firelight and said, “Sire, I shall do as you bid. I don’t see how we can overcome a hundred strong men, but to die fighting at your side will be a greater glory than anything a long life can bestow. Thank you, Father, for giving me this chance to share your fortune.”

“You are my true son,” said Ulysses, embracing the boy tenderly. “The words you have just spoken make up for the twenty years of you I have missed.”

Eumaeus banked the fire, and they all lay down to sleep.

Ulysses came to the castle at dusk the next day and followed Eumaeus into the great banquet hall, which was thronged with suitors. He humped along behind the swineherd, huddling his shoulders and limping. The first thing he saw was a dog lying near a bench. By its curious golden brown color he recognized it as his own favorite hunting hound, Argo. It was twenty-one years old, incredibly old for a dog, and it was crippled and blind and full of fleas. But Telemachus had not allowed it to be killed because it had been his father’s.