Odysseus in the Serpent Maze (3 page)

Finally Autolycus said, “Oh, grandson, you wriggle like a serpent to escape the trap of your own folly. You amuse me. You really do! Don’t put on the gods what are your own faults.”

Odysseus said nothing.

“If you’d taken a closer look at your stolen spear,” Autolycus continued, “you’d have seen a crack running through the shaft. Which is why I stopped using it.”

“It was dark, sir,” said Mentor, trying to help his friend out.

“Ah, the wise counsellor.” Autolycus turned towards Mentor and glared at him. “The hero’s friend. And where were you all this time?”

“By his side, sir.” Mentor’s voice broke under the old man’s stare.

“You should have been talking him out of such foolishness.”

Mentor chewed his lip. Should he tell Autolycus the complete truth—how he’d been dragged unwilling from his bed and had argued with Odysseus each step of the way? That would only make Odysseus look worse in his grandfather’s eyes.

“It seemed a good idea at the time, sir,” he mumbled. “The hunt, the glory …”

“Ah yes,” Autolycus said. “Glory. A poorer provider than sentiment.”

“An old man’s answer,” mumbled Odysseus, but low enough so that his grandfather could ignore it if he so chose.

Just then a servant appeared in the doorway, holding out a spear to his master. “The men are prepared, my lord, and the dogs ready.”

Autolycus took the spear and, for all his years, hefted it as if it were a twig. “I’ll be right there.” He waved the servant away. “Now
this
is a proper spear. If you’d managed to steal this,” he said to Odysseus, “it would have been a deed worthy of respect.”

“There’s still time for that,” Odysseus said defiantly.

“Not on that leg, I fear,” Autolycus said. He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll bring the boar back, and you can feast upon him in revenge for the ill done you.” Then he was gone.

Odysseus spat in disgust. “A bitter feast that will be.”

T
HE HUNTERS CAME BACK
from the hunt with the boar and—from what Mentor could find out—only one dog lost to its tusks.

“So we’re invited to the feast tonight.”

“I’m not going.” Odysseus crossed his arms and lay back on his pallet. “Tell them the wound is too painful. Say I’m asleep.”

But Autolycus himself came to escort the boys. “You can walk, or I can have you brought in a litter,” he told his grandson.

“I’ll walk,” Odysseus said sullenly.
Nothing
would have induced him to be carried in. But he used a stick because putting too much weight on the leg made the pain unbearable.

In the feast room Autolycus, splendid in his purple robe, sat in a carved ebony chair. Behind him was a bright fresco of wild cattle being caught and tamed.

Odysseus reclined on a couch on his grandfather’s right while Mentor perched on a stool next to Odysseus. The heroes of the hunt and other men of Parnassus filled the rest of the chairs and couches, chattering and joking about the day’s events.

At the three-legged cauldron, a slave stirred an ox stew. The smoke drifted up through the opening in the roof, obscuring for a moment the night blue of the sky.

“Smells good,” whispered Mentor, his face bright red, having been scrubbed clean of the white paste.

Odysseus said nothing.

“Better than your sickroom and old Menaera’s balms.”

Still Odysseus was silent.

“Well, you can sulk if you want,” Mentor said. “But as for me—I’m famished!” He rose and went to one of the long wooden tables where baskets of flat loaves of bread and bowls full of pomegranates, olives and figs had been set out.

As if the entire company had the same idea at the same time, the room erupted into a frenzy of eating. Whole kraters of wine were soon emptied and new jars brought in.

Suddenly Autolycus banged his knife on the rim of his gold cup, a clear signal for silence. “Let us hear the bard now. Shall he tell us a tale of the Argonauts?”

The room burst into a riot of sound. “
Argo! Argo! Argo!
”

Mentor sang out with the rest of them.

Only Odysseus, still nursing his anger, was silent.

The singer was a man called Phonos, who had an amazingly stiff black beard and sun-bronzed skin. He was blind, his eyes as round and black as ripe olives. A slave girl led him to the very centre of the room, where he stood by the central hearth.

“My lord, sirs, young gentlemen,” Phonos said, “I will sing of the
Argo
and the mighty heroes who sailed on her.”

He placed his hands on his hips, threw his head back, and began:

“The heaven-sent wind filled the swelling sail

And the swift-oared ship shot through the Clashing Rocks

Like a feathered arrow from a huntsman’s bow.

The angry stones scraped the painted stern

Like a wolf snapping at the tail of a hare,

And then Jason’s brave crew were safe

Upon the bosom of the wine-dark sea …”

Apart from the bard’s deep, lilting voice, a complete silence fell over the feasting hall. The singer held all eyes, all ears, till the very end of the tale.

And then the hall erupted once more, this time with loud applause and cheers. Even Odysseus had been caught up in the story, and he applauded with the rest.

Autolycus rose and presented the singer with a brooch of silver. “Small recompense for your splendid tale,” he said.

At his grandfather’s words, the spell of the story was broken. Once again Odysseus felt the twin throbbing of his wound and his shame. He snatched up his cup and drained it. The watered wine helped dull the pain in his leg but did nothing for the pain in his heart.

“Wasn’t that exciting?” Mentor whispered.

Wiping the thin line of wine from his upper lip, Odysseus said, “One day my adventures will draw cheers like that.”

“I’m still smarting from
your
adventures,” Mentor told him. “Can’t you just enjoy the feast?”

Odysseus turned to his friend. “Don’t you see, Mentor?
We
should have brought home the boar.
We
should have been toasted at the feast.”

“We are lucky to be alive,” Mentor said sensibly.

“Alive without glory,” Odysseus snapped, “is not alive at all.”

“Your father wouldn’t say so,” Mentor told him. “He specifically asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“
My
father sailed on the
Argo
,” Odysseus said. “
He
faced countless dangers and returned with the Golden Fleece. And”—his face was a misery—“no one was assigned to nursemaid
him
.”

“I’m no nursemaid!”

As if he hadn’t heard Mentor at all, Odysseus continued, “And how far have I travelled from my rocky little island? No farther than to my grandfather’s home.”

Mentor came and knelt by the couch. “Those heroic days are over, Odysseus. The Argonauts are home. There’s peace everywhere. The treasures are all found, the monsters all slain. Be sensible.”

“
Sensible
?” Odysseus’ anger pulled him upright on the couch. “You can be sensible, my friend. But I know there are still adventures and monsters aplenty. Only not here in Parnassus. And not in
Ithaca
!” His face had turned bright red.

Mentor held out his plate. There was a bit of bread left, a few olives, black and round as the bard’s eyes. “Here. Eat something. Hunger is a monster easily conquered.”

“You sound like Menaera,” Odysseus said, but he ate.

Suddenly the door opened, and a priest walked across the feast hall holding a pair of huge tusks. Behind him came a boy carrying a silver plate on which sat the boar’s tongue.

The priest laid the tusks at Autolycus’ feet.

Odysseus knew those tusks all too well. Intimately in fact. His wound throbbed in recognition.

Picking up the tusks, Autolycus stood and declared, “Men of Parnassus, the beast that terrorised our countryside has this day been slain. Courage and skill have brought us this victory!”

A great cheer went up, and wine cups clashed together.

Then Autolycus plucked the boar’s tongue from the silver plate and walked over to the hearth. Flinging the meat into the fire, he said, “I offer this share of the kill to the gods.”

The tongue sizzled on the flame, and the sweet, thick smell of it went straight up towards the hole in the roof.

“To Apollo whose light guided us, to Artemis who led us to the prey, to Ares who gave us strength for the fight. The rest is for us.”

A round of good-natured laughter followed, and—right on cue—servants entered the room bearing plates of roasted boar.

Even as those were passed around, Autolycus called for silence once more.

“Those who were with me today know the truth of our hunt. But I tell it now for all to hear. When we came upon the boar, that mighty man killer, widow maker who made orphans of nine children in ten days, he was already sorely used. His wind was gone. His legs had no speed left in them. His fury had been blunted by fatigue.” He looked around the room as he spoke.

“Yes!” called one of the hunters. “He was a broken reed already.”

“Hardly worth the climb!” shouted another.

“We took this as a gift from the Fates,” Autolycus continued. “But when we field-dressed the beast, preparing to take him down the mountain, we found this embedded in his heart.” He raised his hand and held up something for the company to see. There was a long fragment of bronze glinting between his fingers.

Mentor hit Odysseus on the shoulder with his fist. “Look! Look!”

“My spear point,” Odysseus whispered. “It must have broken off in the boar.”

“This bronze had already taken half the beast’s life,” Autolycus declared, turning towards Odysseus. “The glory of the hunt therefore belongs not just to me and my hunters, but to my grandson, Odysseus, who struck this first deadly blow and took a grievous blow himself in return.”

All eyes turned to the boy on the couch. His name was suddenly on everyone’s lips.

“Odysseus!” they cried. “Young prince of Ithaca!”

Odysseus picked up the walking stick and, trembling, stood. He ran his fingers through his hair, then acknowledged the cheers with a slight bob of his head.

“Tell us the tale, Odysseus,” someone cried.

“How did you do it?” called another.

His grandfather nodded. “The story, my boy,” he said, smiling.

For a moment Odysseus felt nervous. He cleared his throat, lifted his chin.
I’ll give them a tale
, he thought,
that they’ll remember for years
. He recalled how the bard had stood, and thrust the stick away. It fell back against the couch. He put his hands on his hips and—never minding the pain in his leg—began the way he’d been taught:

“Apollo’s chariots had scarce cleared the flank

Of Parnassus’ rugged heights—”

“Louder!” someone called.

He made an effort to raise his voice.

“When bold Odysseus’ eagle eye spied out the trail.

Spear in hand, he stalked the fearsome beast.

And then it came—charging through the grass

Like … er … er … a storm that drives over the sea.

With his grandsire’s sturdy spear

Held firmly in his grasp,

He met the fierce attack, unyielding,

Like the rock that er … er … breaks a crashing wave.”

“Go on, young prince,” came a cry, which momentarily broke his concentration, but he took another deep breath and went on.

“The tusks of the boar gouged deep

A dreadful wound on the hunter’s leg.

But as it left him there for dead

It carried its own doom in its heart.”

There was an enormous roar of approval as he finished. But when Odysseus looked over to where Mentor was sitting, his friend had turned his face away.

Odysseus felt a stab of pain in his thigh, as though he’d been wounded a second time. Turning back to the listeners, he raised his hand for silence. “There is a little more,” he said.

The men were silent, waiting, and Odysseus began again.

“But brave Odysseus would not have lived

To tell of his matchless deed

Had not the faithful Mentor,

Friend from boyhood, wise Mentor,

Stood over the injured warrior,

As a shepherd over a smitten ram

From the teeth of a ravenous wolf,

Even at the risk of his own life.”

He did not dare turn again to look at Mentor, but suddenly Mentor’s name was on everyone’s lips. “And there is yet a bit more,” Odysseus called out.

“As unflinching as Parnassus itself,

In the face of the north wind’s fury,

Mentor raised his spear and threw it.”

From behind him he heard Mentor whisper, “Javelin, not spear.” But
javelin
did not have the force in the verse, so Odysseus ignored truth for story and continued.

“He struck the beast a second wound

And put the widow maker to flight.”

He ended the story by letting his head drop slightly, as the bard had done.

The applause and cheers for his story made him feel good. But even better was the grin on Mentor’s face.

His grandfather, too, was smiling. So daringly, Odysseus called out, “Grandfather, what trophy of this hunt can I take back to Ithaca?”

Autolycus roared with laughter. “Oh, you are my grandson indeed!” he said. “Well …” He pursed his lips. “The tusks will stay here on Parnassus where they were won. They shall be carved into scales for my helmet. But this”—he pressed the broken spearhead into Odysseus’ palm—“will be your trophy. I’ll have my metalsmith drill a hole in it so it can hang by a leather cord around your neck. Let it be a reminder of both your courage and your folly.”

Odysseus smiled. “Grandfather, where there’s victory, there’s no folly.”

Who
, thought Mentor,
sounds like the old woman now
!

A
MONTH LATER, AUTOLYCUS
drove the boys down the coast himself, in a chariot pulled by two large, sturdy horses.