The Armour of Achilles (9 page)
‘And
there
’s another thing about Ithaca that has grown more lovely since we left. I don’t know whether it’s this gods-forsaken country and the lack of women around these past ten or so years, or whether the immortals have simply blessed Ithaca while we’ve been gone, but I’ve never seen so many beautiful girls. And they couldn’t get enough of a couple of battle-hardened old sweats like us. Arceisius here even got married.’
‘Married!’ exclaimed Eperitus and Odysseus simultaneously.
The usually pert and confident Arceisius was suddenly bashful, his naturally red cheeks turning almost crimson.
‘Is it true?’ Eperitus asked, the corner of his mouth rising in an amused smile. ‘The greatest womanizer in the Ithacan camp tamed at last? She must be a real beauty, this wife of yours.’
‘She is,’ said Eurybates. ‘And at least she’s Greek. There are too many men in the army taking Trojan captives as wives or concubines.’
Eperitus ignored the comment and offered his congratulations to his former squire. Odysseus took Arceisius’s hand again and gripped it firmly.
‘You have your king’s blessing,’ he said. ‘Marriage is good for a man – it gives him something to fight for. But who is this girl and where are you hiding her?’
‘It’s Melantho, my lord, Dolius’s daughter,’ Arceisius replied. ‘I insisted she stay on Ithaca. At least she’ll be safe there.’
‘I hope she will,’ Odysseus said. ‘But if Melantho’s the same little firebrand I used to know – though she was only a little girl back then – well, I’m sure she can look after herself until you return. But what of
my
wife? Tell me, Arceisius, is she safe? Are Telemachus and my parents safe? There’s something about you two that tells me all’s not well at home.’
‘Have no fear for your wife or family, my lord,’ Arceisius replied. ‘At least not for now. But if you want to know about affairs at home, don’t ask us; we weren’t back long enough. You should ask the replacements.’
He indicated the men who had been standing at the top of the beach as Odysseus’s galley had run aground. A few were now helping to haul the ships on to the sand, while others were sharing news of Ithaca with the eager crowds of men who had not seen their homes for over ten years. A sizeable group, though, had remained where they stood, aloof from or ignored by the rest. These were generally older than the other replacements and had the bearing of men who had seen battle and for whom war was a way of life. They were perhaps a score in number and at least half of them were tall and armed with long spears. Eperitus eyed the latter with alarm.
‘Some of those men are Taphians.’
‘I told you they wouldn’t be what you were expecting,’ Arceisius reminded him.
‘Did Mentes send them?’ Odysseus asked, referring to the Taphian chieftain. Though the Taphians had been enemies of Ithaca for many years, Odysseus had forged a friendship with Mentes that – though it had not brought friendship or alliance – had at least put an end to the hostility.
‘I only wish that had been the case,’ Eurybates answered. ‘Unfortunately, this isn’t a popular war with the nobility back home. The law has been changed, allowing those who can afford it to send a proxy in their place. Of the eighty-four men we brought back with us, twenty-two are mercenaries and twelve of
them
are Taphians.’
‘Then we should send them back again at once,’ Eperitus said, clenching his fists. ‘And when we get home to Ithaca we can settle matters with those nobles who’ve bought their way out of joining the army.’
Odysseus shook his head. He was concerned and angry that so many of the Ithacan nobility would dare snub his authority so openly, but sending the mercenaries back to Ithaca would only risk more trouble for Penelope and those ruling in his stead. His revenge would wait.
‘Let the mercenaries stay,’ he said. ‘The gods know we need experienced fighting men, and a quarter of the Greek army is made up of mercenaries anyway. Right now, I need to speak to one of these replacements, someone with a good head on his shoulders. Agamemnon, Menelaus and Nestor will be waiting to hear my news, but first I need to learn exactly how things stand at home.’
‘Then you’ll want to speak to Omeros,’ Arceisius suggested.
He pointed to a well-fed youth sitting in the tall grass at the top of the beach. His arms were crossed over his knees and his shaven chin was resting on his wrist as he watched the ships landing one after another and being dragged up on to the sand. His quick eyes were following the activity around the beaked galleys and remained unaware of the four men who were staring at him from among the crowds.
‘By all the gods on Olympus, it
is
Omeros,’ Eperitus said, shielding his eyes against the high sun. ‘I never imagined I’d see him here.’
‘Still a dreamer, by the looks of him,’ Odysseus said, smiling. ‘But if he’s as clever and observant as he used to be then he’ll know what’s
really
happening at home. Eurybates, Arceisius, get those replacements working on the ships – including the mercenaries – and have them ready for my inspection by sunset; Eperitus, come with me.’
As the others bowed and turned to the crowds milling around the galleys, Odysseus and Eperitus walked up the beach towards Omeros, kicking up small fountains of white sand behind them. Omeros only seemed to notice their approach at the last moment, when he stood in confusion and – recognizing his king – dipped into an awkward bow.
‘M . . . my lord,’ he stuttered. ‘My lord Odysseus!’
‘Welcome to Troy, Omeros,’ the king said, pulling him upright. ‘You’ve grown well since I last saw you.’
‘Outwards more than upwards, though,’ Eperitus added, grinning.
Omeros placed a hand on his large stomach and looked down at himself in concern, then back at the captain of the guard.
‘It’s nothing I can’t run off, my lord Eperitus,’ he answered. ‘And may I say that
you
’ve barely changed at all in ten years.’
Odysseus and Eperitus swapped a knowing glance. Since Athena had brought Eperitus back from death he had hardly developed a wrinkle or grey hair, and Omeros had not been the first to remark on this strange longevity.
‘But can you fight, lad?’ Odysseus asked, looking Omeros up and down and noting his slightly pampered appearance, compared to the lean, hardened figures that populated the rest of the Ithacan army.
‘I’ll fight with as much heart as any of those others,’ Omeros answered, nodding at the mercenaries and Taphians. ‘And what some of them have in training and experience, I’ll match in enthusiasm and loyalty.’
This broadened the smile on Odysseus’s face.
‘I’m glad to hear it, very glad,’ he said, placing his arm across Omeros’s shoulders and steering him in the direction of the sprawling camp, with Eperitus following on Omeros’s other side. ‘Without loyalty every other fighting quality is useless, especially to a king. And that’s what I want to talk to you about. I’ve been told some of the nobles on Ithaca have hired mercenaries to take their places. Is it true?’
The line of tall grass where Omeros had been sitting marked the furthest extent of the sea’s reach, and just behind it were the first tents of the huge Greek army. Most of the Ithacan part of the camp was now empty, though here and there groups of men were preparing food or carrying out other tasks that excused them from the work on the beach.
‘It’s true, my lord,’ Omeros said, ruefully. ‘Some of the nobles threatened rebellion if their sons were called to war. Eupeithes told Penelope he could calm their tempers, but only if the Kerosia allowed men of a fighting age to send substitutes in their place. Which meant that while the poor went to serve their king, the wealthy could stay at home and hire mercenaries instead.’
‘This doesn’t bode well,’ Odysseus mused. ‘Eupeithes is still a snake, even if a reformed one, and it’ll take all of Penelope’s skill to keep him in his place. The sooner we can finish this war and return home, the better.’
‘Forgive me, lord,’ Omeros began, ‘but if an army this size hasn’t defeated the Trojans in ten years, what chance is there of
ever
defeating them?’
‘He’s beginning to sound like a veteran already,’ Eperitus said with an ironic laugh.
‘It seems to me the men don’t have any appetite for victory,’ Omeros added, hesitantly. ‘And I think I know why.’
Odysseus cocked an eyebrow.
‘Really, Omeros? So what’s the secret of our persistent failure?’
Omeros’s chin dropped a little at the king’s chiding, but he did not back down.
‘Lord, I’ve been watching the army since I arrived and they look more like barbarians than Greeks: their hair and beards are long, their clothing is foreign, and half of them are equipped with Trojan armour and weapons. All the women in the camp are Trojan and the men speak to them in their own language. Shouldn’t it be the other way round? It’s as if this camp, this makeshift colony of tents and huts, has become their new home. And as long as they’ve forgotten who they really are and why they came here in the first place – to rescue Helen and return to Greece – then I don’t think they’ll ever take Troy.’
Odysseus looked at him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked away along the curved line of the beach.
‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘The Trojans have checked our every move for ten years and no army can fail to lose heart after so long. But perhaps you’re being a little too hard on us. Some may have given up the hope of victory and a return home, but the rest have just . . .
forgotten
, as you say. But it’s forgotten, not
forsaken
. We’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand on our own soil, or to have a solid roof over our heads and be surrounded by our families. All we need is to be reminded of those things and we’d return tomorrow, given the chance.’
‘Ithaca hasn’t changed much, my lord,’ Omeros said.
‘So I hear,’ Odysseus nodded, placing an arm around his shoulder and leading him into the armada of tents. ‘And I wouldn’t want it to. But how are my family, Omeros? Are my parents well? What about Telemachus? Does he look like me or Penelope? And how
is
my wife?’
Eperitus dropped back and let them walk on alone.
H
OME
D
espite his youth, Omeros bore the burden of Odysseus’s desire for news admirably. As he described Anticleia’s sickening for Odysseus and the way she mourned her son’s absence as if he had died, quiet tears fell from the king’s eyes; and when he spoke of how Laertes would climb Mount Neriton every evening to look for the homecoming sails of his son’s ships, Odysseus just nodded his head and smiled.
‘And Telemachus? Is he like me? I mean, can you see anything of me in him?’
‘He’ll be taller than his father,’ Omeros answered, ‘and not so broad.’
‘Like his mother, then.’
‘Yes. Handsome like her, too, but with your eyes. Penelope says she can look at Telemachus and see you looking right back out at her.’
Odysseus laughed with unexpected delight.
‘He has your cunning too, my lord, but it’s kept in place by his mother’s principles. I’d think he could be a very naughty boy if he wasn’t so good.’
‘As long as he can still be naughty when he has to,’ Odysseus said as they reached the entrance to his hut. ‘A future king has to know when to lay aside his morals.’
They stooped as they entered the gloom of Odysseus’s quarters. A small fire burned in the hearth, filling the enclosed space with warmth and the smell of woodsmoke. Odysseus swept off his cloak and unbuckled his armour, before settling down on his haunches before the flames and indicating for Omeros to do the same.
‘What about Penelope?’
Omeros nodded to himself. This was the question that was at the heart of the king’s yearning, the question that would prove whether Penelope’s faith in him had been justified. He glanced at the king, whose eyes were fixed rigidly on the small tongues of orange and yellow flame while he chewed unconsciously at a thumbnail.
‘The queen is well.’
‘Well?’
‘As well as any queen can be without her king.’
Odysseus’s face twitched. A flicker of guilt, Omeros thought.
‘And how does she look now? Has she changed much since I last saw her? It’s been almost ten years, Omeros, and I can barely remember her face – as if she were nothing more than a dream. I sometimes wonder whether she existed at all.’
‘She exists, lord, and she’s hardly changed since you departed.’
‘Describe her, for me. Just as she looked when you last saw her.’
Omeros sucked in his bottom lip and swept his hand through his hair as he recalled the scene.
‘It was night time. No moon, just the starlight. It made her brown hair look black and her skin pale. She stood a little taller than me, dressed in a dark cloak with the hood down.’
‘And her face?’
Omeros, who had been staring at the king as he described Penelope, blinked and looked down at the fire.
‘She’s still beautiful. Not youthful beauty, like Melantho’s, or the powerful beauty I imagine Helen has, but something calm and reassuring instead. The sort of beauty you don’t think would laugh or sneer at you.’
Odysseus nodded as if recognizing the description, but said nothing.
‘My lord,’ Omeros continued, the tone of his voice more tentative now. ‘She asked me to give you a message.’
Odysseus looked up, expectation and anxiety flickering across his features in the shifting light from the flames.
‘What is it?’
Omeros closed his eyes and thought back to the starlit night on Ithaca when he had last spoken to Penelope. It was the night of Arceisius’s and Melantho’s wedding.
The great hall had been given over to the celebrations. Every table and chair in the palace – and more from the town – had been brought in and were now overflowing with food, wine and guests. The hearth blazed, bathing the hall and its occupants in golden light, supplemented by the numerous torches sputtering on the mural-covered walls. To one side of the central fire a square of the dirt floor had been kept free, bordered by tables on its flanks and the table and chairs of the bride and groom at its head: in this large space, dozens of cheerful – and drunk – young Ithacans were dancing to the music of lyre, pipes and tambourines, while on every side scores of onlookers cheered and sang. Leading the dance were Arceisius and Melantho: he in his battle-scarred armour that spoke of heroic deeds and the glory of war, and she with her white chiton and the first flowers of spring in her black hair. They smiled broadly at each other as they moved in time to the music, delighting in being the centre of attention. Omeros, watching from one side, was pleased for them. Though Melantho had been an immature girl when Arceisius had sailed to war, she was now a woman with all the beauty and allure of youth about her. Arceisius had fallen in love with her almost the instant he had set eyes upon her, and while it was well known on the island that her favours had been given freely to others before, Arceisius was blissfully unaware of the fact. As a soldier who had lived in the shadow of Hermes’s cloak, and who had known more than enough slaves and prostitutes in his time, Omeros thought it unlikely Arceisius would have cared anyway.
As he watched them, his poet’s ears offended by the loud, clamorous music, Melantho caught his eye and skipped over to him, dragging Arceisius behind her.
‘Come dance with me, Omeros,’ she pleaded, outrageously flirtatious with her pouting lips and large brown eyes. ‘Come on now.’
‘You know I hate dancing . . .’
‘Nonsense. You’re just jealous I didn’t marry you instead!’
‘No one hates dancing!’ Arceisius exclaimed. His eyes were bright with alcohol and love, and with an irresistible laugh he pulled Omeros from his chair and almost threw him into Melan-tho’s arms. ‘Now dance!’
Omeros really did not like dancing, but Arceisius’s happiness was infectious and the seductive beauty and heady intimacy of Melantho could not be denied. Eventually he was rescued by Eurybates, who took his place and sent the young bard to join Arceisius, who was beckoning to him from one of the crowded tables. As Omeros joined him, Arceisius pushed a krater of wine into his hand.
‘Are you concerned?’ he asked. ‘About the war, I mean.’
Omeros looked at him, surprised by the frankness of the question, and could tell Arceisius was not drunk. His red face was full of light-hearted cheer, and yet in the middle of his own wedding he could still spare a moment to discuss the anxieties of a lad he had not seen for ten years. Omeros was not sure how to reply.
‘Well, you needn’t be. You have a level head, Omeros, and it’s men like you who make the best soldiers. You’ll do well in Ilium, believe me, and, anyway, those of us who’ve seen a few battles will watch over you to start with. But if you want some advice, don’t spend the whole of your last evening on Ithaca in here. Go for a walk and say goodbye to the island you love. She’ll haunt your dreams while you’re gone and no amount of glory in battle can replace the joy of being on your own soil. Besides, you don’t know you’ll see the place again.’
Omeros nodded. ‘I will.’
He drained his wine and stood up, returning Arceisius’s smile. Then a thought struck him and he looked down at the seasoned warrior in his leather cuirass with his ever-present sword hanging at his side.
‘And what about you? Are you concerned?’
Arceisius’s eyes narrowed uncertainly.
‘I mean,’ Omeros continued, glancing over at Melantho who was draping herself about Eurybates and laughing merrily, ‘I mean you’re married now. You have more to lose on the battlefield.’
Arceisius gave a small laugh and shook his head.
‘Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.’
The large double doors were wide open as Omeros left the great hall. A slab of orange light lay at an angle across the wooden portico, reaching out far enough to illuminate the trampled soil of the courtyard where the wedding ceremony had taken place earlier. Omeros crossed to the gate in the outer wall, followed by the mingled noise of music, laughter and drunken voices. Arceisius had been right: while others could forget their fears and doubts in the company of wine and friends, it was better to leave the celebrations behind and spend the remainder of his last evening on Ithaca with his own thoughts. Tomorrow he would sail for war, but tonight he wanted to walk beneath the familiar stars, listening to the wind in the trees as he stared up at the dark, humped shapes of Mount Neriton and Mount Hermes. Omeros sighed; though he had volunteered to go to Troy, seeking adventure and glory on the battlefield, now the time was almost upon him to leave he found the place he most wanted to be in all the world was right here in Ithaca.
He stepped through the unguarded gates, intending to walk down to the harbour and look out at the straits between Ithaca and the neighbouring island of Samos. The broad terrace in front of the palace walls was covered with the tents of the men who had left their homes on Samos, Zacynthos and Dulichium to join the expedition. They were empty now, flapping in the wind that came over the ridge from the sea below, and their canvas was a ghostly grey in the light of the countless stars that circled above. Omeros filled his lungs with the briny air, then crossed to the houses on the other side of the terrace.
‘There you are,’ said a voice behind him.
He turned and saw the black shape of a dog running towards him from the gateway he had just vacated. He flinched instinctively as the animal reached his ankles, but it did no more than bark and sniff a circle around his feet, before pressing its wet nose against his thighs and beating the air with its tail. Omeros recognized Argus, Odysseus’s old hunting dog, and ran his fingers over his domed head. Then a tall figure stepped out from the shadow of the palace gates.
‘Had your fill of feasting and dancing already?’ Penelope asked, walking up to him and slipping her arm through the crook of his elbow.
‘I wanted to clear my mind, my lady.’
‘Thinking of Troy?’
‘I suppose I should be, but the truth is I was thinking of Ithaca. I’ll miss the smell of the pine trees and the sound of the gulls following the fishing boats back into the harbour. It’s all I’ve ever known, of course, and now that I’m leaving it behind I feel . . . suddenly uncertain. I don’t even know if the stars will be the same on the other side of the world.’
‘They will,’ Penelope assured him with a smile as they walked between the dark, silent houses of the town, Argus sniffing the ground in their wake. ‘And there are trees and gulls in Ilium too, just as there are here.’
‘But they won’t be the same. It’s just that I might not see Ithaca again. After all, I’m not a soldier. I’m just a storyteller.’
‘You’re stronger than you realize, Omeros, and you’re not a coward – although you think too deeply to be a natural warrior,’ she added, tapping her forehead. ‘Stay close to Arceisius, Odysseus and Eperitus: they’ll keep you safe.’
Omeros nodded, smiling at the thought of so many people seeming concerned for his safety. They walked on, following the broad path out beyond the edge of the town and down towards the harbour. For a while they said nothing, then, as they passed the town spring and the poplar trees that surrounded it, Penelope’s grip tightened about Omeros’s arm.
‘I want you to do something for me, Omeros.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I want you to give a message to Odysseus. I want you to give it to him in person, when he’s alone.’
‘Me? But Eurybates is Odysseus’s squire. Wouldn’t he . . . ?’
‘No, I want you to give it to him. Eurybates has spent the past ten years in Ilium; what can he tell Odysseus about Ithaca? But you’ve seen everything that’s happened here these past ten years. You can let him know everything that’s happened while he’s been away, in all the detail he could want. More importantly, you can tell him about Telemachus: how tall he’s getting, how strong he is, and how he’s always talking about his father. Tell him that . . .’
She paused. They could see the harbour below them now, where the two galleys had their sails furled, ready for the morning departure. Penelope stood watching them as they rolled gently on the black, starlit waves that swept in from the straits. Across the water was the vast bulk of Samos.
‘Tell him that sometimes I look at Telemachus and see Odysseus staring back out at me. And sometimes I can’t bear it. I want him back, Omeros.’
She turned to face him, and though her face was in darkness he could see the tears glistening in her eyes. He took her cold hand and pressed the palm, trying to offer reassurance and yet not knowing how to comfort a queen.
‘The gods will bring him back.’
‘The gods are fickle,’ she replied. ‘And yet I still pray and hope. When I saw those galleys a moment ago, I imagined they were his and that he had come home at last. I could almost see him climbing the road from the harbour, as if the past ten years had been an awful nightmare and that he had returned. But this isn’t a nightmare; it’s reality, and Odysseus is in a darkness that’s beyond my reach.’
Omeros lowered his eyes.
‘I’ll tell him for you,’ he promised. ‘I’ll tell him all about Telemachus and how much he needs his father. And I’ll tell him about you, how much you love him and need him.’
‘Thank you, Omeros,’ Penelope said, laying her hand on his arm. ‘But there’s something else you must make clear to him, something I will entrust to you alone. Tell Odysseus his kingdom is under threat again.’