Argos (23 page)

Telemachus, like me, always enjoyed a good slice of roast boar or pork and fortunately Eumaeus had only just delivered
some to the kitchens. Underneath the table, I was enjoying my bone immensely.

Eumaeus sometimes ate with us when he wasn't busy overseeing his swineherds, but had left as soon as he and his men had accomplished their task today. Eumaeus had come to view Telemachus as a son and as the boy got older, felt a certain responsibility for his development. Penelope's moods fluctuated but today she was animated and lively. Some days, she could be as bright and cheerful as a summer's day. Other times, doom hung above her like a thundercloud.

“Tell me, my son, what is your favorite?”

Telemachus looked up from his boar. “Favorite what, Mother?”

“Your favorite subject, of course,” she said, smiling fondly at him.

“Geography,” he said at once, with no hesitation.

“And why is that?” she asked.

“Because I want to know more about the world, Mother. I want to know where I am going and how to get there.”

“Are you planning a voyage then, Telemachus?” she asked. Her smile faltered.

“You know I am. To find my father.”

Penelope's smile disappeared altogether. “I've told you before, my son. Not yet. You are too young. Perhaps in a few years.”

“But the longer I wait, the less chance I will have of finding him!” Telemachus protested, dropping his half-eaten chunk of boar meat onto his plate. “I am a man now. It is my duty to seek him out!”

“Nevertheless, that is my wish. Listen to your mother,” said
Penelope, a sudden edge to her voice.

Telemachus looked down at the table sullenly. I could tell he wanted to say more, but, like his father, was wise when it came to mixing words with Penelope.

I sensed a sudden softening in her mood. A lightening of the atmosphere. Unlike my goddess-given ability to read and control other dogs' emotions, this was an innate ability. I believe every dog has this ability to sense basic emotions like fear and anger.

“I will make it up to you, my son,” she promised. “I have made arrangements with another king. In one summer's time, you will travel to his kingdom and begin more intensive training. You require more skills to be a king than I can give you here.”

My ears pricked at that and I felt my heart lurch. Telemachus leave me?

Telemachus was suddenly excited, immediately casting aside his feelings of resentment. “Really, Mother?”

“Really,” she said, laughing.

They had shifted into such a lovely mood that I felt guilty thinking my gloomy thoughts. Surely, I would not be allowed to accompany Telemachus. Athena had told Penelope that while I lived, no harm would come to Telemachus. Surely Penelope would not take the risk. Not only that, but I was old. An old dog had no place in adventures. Even if I was allowed, I would have second thoughts about going. Who would be here to welcome Odysseus when he returned?

Such thoughts were banished a moment later by the sound of a horn from the tower. That noise only indicated one thing.

Ithaca was under attack.

“Y
ou're not going.”

“Yes, I am, Mother. I have to.”

“No, you don't,” said Penelope, her voice rising in anger. “We have captains to lead the men. They don't need you.”

“Yes, they do,” said Telemachus firmly, buckling on his breastplate. That was his father speaking. I recognized the tone. The stubborn sense of pride. “In my father's absence, I am their king.”

We were in the stables outside. All around us, men were preparing for war, strapping breastplates and greaves on, harnessing horses to the few dilapidated chariots that had not been taken to Troy. Telemachus was busy donning his father's second best armor. I had seen Odysseus wear it on a number of occasions. He'd had his armorer make him a new set before
departing for Troy.

“You are not king yet. When my husband—your father—is away, I rule in his stead,” said Penelope, just as stubbornly as her son.

“You can't stop me,” said Telemachus, angry now. “Regardless of what you say, I will take part in this battle. You have ruled nothing while my father has been away. You have spent all your time locked in your rooms. Meges' forces have attacked the village almost at our very feet. I cannot stand idle while they rape, burn, and pillage. What sort of man would that make me? To shelter here with the women and children while men die?”

Penelope was silent for a moment, considering the words of her son.

“I have a suggestion,” offered Eumaeus who had wisely held his tongue until this moment. Like Telemachus, he was in the process of donning armor. Penelope glared at him.

Eumaeus swallowed nervously. “I will act as Telemachus' driver,” he said. “I've driven for Odysseus before. I'll get one of the other lads to ride with us and protect him with his shield. He's wearing Odysseus' old armor. I know how thick that breastplate is. I've seen where spears have dented—and been blunted—against it. I've never seen thicker. Only the strongest of men can wear it. No mortal is powerful enough to penetrate that armor. Telemachus will be safe in it. I swear by all the gods.”

Penelope continued to glare at Eumaeus. “I hardly expected you to take his side,” she said angrily.

Eumaeus shrugged. “I'm sorry, my queen, but there comes
a time when a man must do what's right. Telemachus is king in all but name. The men need him. Desperately. Our forces are depleted. They need hope. Telemachus is that hope.”

“Listen to him, Mother,” pleaded Telemachus. “You know what he says is right. You said my father had already survived several battles by the time he was my age. You can't protect me forever.”

“Yes I can,” said Penelope, shouting now. “You are my only son. You are all I have left. I cannot bear to lose you.” She sobbed but it was only for a moment. She quickly regained her composure.

Telemachus stopped adjusting his armor and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “You are not going to lose me, Mother. Remember what Athena said? While Argos lives, no harm will come to me.” He took her into his arms and she sank into the embrace. I could tell she wanted to cry again but resisted for fear of shaming herself amongst the men.

Suddenly, she pushed him away. “Very well then,” she said, her voice like a sharpened spear. “Go to your war.”

Telemachus grinned. “Thank you, Mother,” he said, donning his white plumed helmet.

“On one condition,” she said.

“I'm listening,” said Telemachus.

“Argos is not to go with you. You said so yourself. While he lives, so do you. He will remain safely here at the palace.”

Telemachus hesitated for a moment, contemplating arguing but knowing it was useless. He nodded once.

Someone may as well have thrust a spear through my heart.

No one could ever mistake Penelope for a stupid women. She knew me. Knew the lengths I would go to in the name of love and loyalty.

To keep me from the battle, she locked me in a storeroom adjacent to the palace. I heard the sound of chariots rumbling and the tread of many feet. The sounds gradually drifted away and I knew that Telemachus had left for war without me.

I howled and attacked the door in furious desperation but Penelope had taken no chances. It was firmly barred from the outside.

I spun around wildly, searching for any weakness in the darkened room. At first, I could see none but then my enhanced vision enabled me to take stock. There was a floorboard on the far edge of the room, slightly more raised than the others. I scurried over to it and tested it with my paws. There was definitely some give in it. I managed to get one paw underneath the edge and bracing myself, slowly forced it up.

It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But I persevered. Like my master and his son, I was stubborn to a fault. Once started on something, I would not give up until I succeeded.

Using my nose as a lever, I eased into a crouch and shifted my head further under the board. The floorboard creaked and
rose slowly. Underneath was hard packed soil. Without pausing, I began to dig. Never underestimate the ability of a dog to dig when sufficiently motivated. A torrent of dirt flew behind me as I scrabbled desperately at the ground.

I made swift progress and my efforts were rewarded with a glimpse of daylight. I redoubled my efforts and soon emerged from the soil like I had just been birthed by the earth mother, Gaia herself.

I shook off the dirt and dust and raised my nose into the air, searching for a familiar scent. At first, I thought my aging senses were failing me and then I realized that it was just dirt clogging my nose. I scraped it away with one paw and tried again. Success! Telemachus' familiar smell drifted amongst the sea breeze and I set off immediately, following my nose.

My nose proved unnecessary as I found tracks from the chariots and heavy, sandaled feet. If that wasn't enough, I could just hear the clash of weapons floating up from the beach. Meges was bold indeed. He hadn't attacked an outlying village this time—he'd gone for the main village below the palace.

Following the tracks, I arrived in time to find the battle raging. At least three enemy ships had landed on the beach, numerous warriors streaming from each. They were met by the forces of Ithaca, led by Telemachus. The air was thick with arrows and spears and there were already casualties on both sides.

The enemy outnumbered us but we had one advantage they did not. We had chariots. They weren't great but chariots, regardless of condition, could turn the tide of battle. I had learnt this sitting in on one of Telemachus' lessons.

I searched for Telemachus and recognized the striking white plume of his helmet almost immediately. He was in the thick of the fighting with only a handful of Ithacan warriors in support. The other chariots were harrying the enemy, wheeling about the battle like great birds, the warrior inside free to throw spears while his driver guided the horses.

But Telemachus had been brought almost to a standstill. Chariots were highly efficient war machines but only when they were moving. Stationary, they presented an irresistible target. It had been foolish to let Eumaeus drive. It was an art form, something developed over the course of years. Eumaeus was both inexperienced in battle and even more inexperienced driving a chariot. The only times he'd ever driven one was when Odysseus had fancied a race on the beach. I couldn't blame Eumaeus though—he'd only done what he thought was right. Despite his protective feelings for Telemachus, he knew the boy had to fight. And if driving his chariot meant Penelope would allow her son to do that, then so be it.

Telemachus threw spear after spear at the enemy but he did not have an inexhaustible supply. The other warrior inside the chariot was doing a formidable job protecting Telemachus with his shield but even as I watched, an arrow went through this nameless warrior's neck. He toppled off the back of the chariot, dead. Telemachus raised his own shield, blocking an arrow as two more clattered harmlessly from his breastplate. As Eumaeus had promised, Odysseus' old armor was made of the thickest bronze—his only vulnerable spot the armpit and throat.

But for every warrior Telemachus struck down, another
arrived to take his place. The white plume on his helmet marked him as someone important. An obvious target. Not only that, but his armor—although ancient—was highly valuable. Warriors would pause in the midst of battle to strip other fallen soldiers of their armor. Armor from a king was one of the most important spoils of war. Some warriors would only go to war for that reason.

If Eumaeus and Telemachus didn't get the chariot moving again, they were dead men. It was only a matter of time before Telemachus ran out of spears. I couldn't just stand there. I had to do something.

I raced into the fray, dodging arrows and spears and sidestepping men hacking and slashing at one other. Largely ignored, I managed to get close to the chariot, where the fighting was thickest. Someone cast a spear at me—likely a throw gone wrong—and I had to jump to the side to avoid being skewered.