Telemachus, Eumeus, Philoetius and some of their most trusted companions were already waiting for me, armed to the teeth.
Telemachus spoke, the excitement of combat, his first, still evident in his voice. ‘Atta, perhaps it’s best that we immediately go to King Laertes, so we can join forces with him and be ready if the relatives of the dead men decide to attack. I don’t think the palace, or my mother, will be in danger. It’s us they’ll be after. When they learn that their sons and brothers are dead, they will either resign themselves to fate or decide to exact revenge. In either case, the corpses will have to be returned to the families.’ My boy had already reasoned it all out, and he was acting with the wisdom and foresight of a king.
We set off, covering ourselves with long cloaks that concealed our weapons. Penelope was at the window of our bedchamber, watching us leave. She looked like a goddess.
‘Where is Phemius?’ I asked.
‘He’s in the servants’ quarters,’ replied Telemachus. ‘He still does not know whether you’ve decided to pardon him and spare his life.’
‘I had told him he could go wherever he liked, after he’d performed that one last service for me.’
‘But where? He has no place to go.’
‘Then he’ll stay with us.’
‘Fine. You’ll tell him when we return.’
I nodded.
The closer we got to the fork in the road, the harder my heart pounded in my chest. I remembered the words of my mother’s shadow: ‘He lies down on a bed of leaves wherever darkness catches him. There he sighs, his heart aching for you.’ Contemptuous and scornful, my father could clearly not bear to stay in a house invaded, the place from which he’d reigned over Ithaca.
‘There is King Laertes your father, Argonaut and hero,’ said Telemachus.
It wrung my heart to see him. It was him, but how he had changed! He was wearing worn, patched clothing, a goatskin cap on his head, gloves of sheepskin on his hands to protect them from thorns. This is what the king of Ithaca was reduced to. The man who had quested for the golden fleece with Jason, the man who’d given me the best days of my boyhood, the best memories of my youth, who’d filled my ardent young heart with dreams and hopes.
When he heard our footsteps, he leaned his hoe against the trunk of a pear tree and walked towards us. He recognized Telemachus: ‘Who is this man, pai? Why have you come so early in the morning to my house?’
I wished I could delay the moment of recognition. I could have told some fantastic tale, one of the many had already come to mind. But how could I think of putting my father, my king, to the test?
I threw myself at his feet, and kissed his hands. ‘It’s me, atta, Odysseus, your son. I’ve returned.’ I removed the cloak from my shoulders and stood before him in my shining armour.
‘Do you recognize me?’ I asked him then.
He embraced me, clasped me close to his chest. ‘Son, my son . . .’ he sobbed, ‘how long, what a long time . . . I never would have wanted you to see me in this state.’
‘Don’t say that, atta, don’t say such a thing. You don’t know the joy it gives me to hold you in my arms. Show me the trees, the ones you gave me as a gift. We planted them together, remember? Are they still alive? Have they grown? Do they bear fruit?’
‘Yes, of course, come, come with me.’ He dragged me by my hand. ‘See that pear? I was digging up the weeds around its trunk. Maybe I was still believing in your return and wanted you to see everything in order, but not like this, I didn’t want you to see me like this . . .’
‘It’s all over, atta, they’re gone. The ones who humiliated you, laid waste to your house, forced you to live like a pauper. They’re all dead. I wiped them out, with the help of my son and a couple of men who are still faithful to me.’
‘You killed them? How did you manage, so few of you? And why didn’t you tell me? I would have rushed to your side! Old as I am, I can assure you that I would have sent many of them into the mouth of Hades myself.’
‘I didn’t want you to have to jump back into the fray at your age. It wasn’t necessary. I’m about to send Eumeus to the city now. He’ll tell their families to come and collect the bodies so they can be given funeral rites. Then he’ll go to the port to talk to the crews of the ships and have them transport the bodies of those who were not from Ithaca back to the continent and the other islands. Eumeus, go now.’
The swineherd left and my father insisted that I stay with him so that we could have lunch together.
It was incredible: he knew what had gone on at the palace, I’d told him, but he wanted lunch. He’d give his servants orders to prepare it and to invite Dolius, his neighbour, with his seven sons. His magnificent blue eyes shone with happiness.
I said: ‘Atta, we’ll stay. My joy at seeing you again is immense. I won’t leave you. Tell me, atta, where is Mother buried?’
A shadow descended on his eyes, like storm clouds on the sea. ‘Then you know that she’s dead . . . Come with me. I’ve left an empty tomb, a wonder to behold, in the royal cemetery. Her ashes are here close to my house, and when my time comes you’ll put me next to her.’
We crossed the olive grove and reached a well-tended meadow, its grass freshly cut, with purple thistle flowers and rosehips red as cornelian. There was a little gravestone in the shadow of a holm oak; in front of it, on the ground, a stone cut from the mountainside. I looked into my father’s eyes and then at the stone, and the words of my mother’s spirit, the pale wraith I’d encountered at the mouth of Hades, rang in my heart: ‘It was neither Artemis with her arrows nor a malady that wasted me away, but my longing for you, my beloved son, that took my life.’
I gathered the red rosehips, the purple thistle blossoms and placed them on her tomb. A thorn on the thistle pricked me and a drop of my blood spilled on the stone.
‘Why didn’t you wait for me, Mother, why?’
I got no answer in my heart.
My father’s eyes were glistening. ‘I miss her still,’ he said, ‘even now.’
We started back, but hadn’t got very far before Eumeus ran up to us, panting: ‘Hurry, wanax, hurry, they’re coming!’
‘Who’s coming?’ I asked.
‘The relatives of the dead – their fathers, their brothers. They’re armed and they’re heading this way to get revenge. They were maddened by the sight of the corpses. They threw themselves onto the ground, onto the lifeless bodies of their sons and brothers, groaning and weeping. Antinous’ father was shrieking like a wounded eagle. He demanded that all the others take up arms and rush out to kill you. You’d lost all your ships, he told them, the whole army. You didn’t bring back a single one of the men who left with you, and now you’d come to murder all the rest. They fear that if they wait you’ll seek refuge at Pylos, in King Nestor’s palace.’ He was gasping for breath.
‘Calm down,’ I replied. ‘We’ll draw up in front of the gate. How many are there?’ I asked Eumeus.
‘A lot, but not all of them. Some have already turned back and taken away their son’s bodies to celebrate funeral rites. Quite a few recognized that you had been wronged, your house and your wife’s honour violated. I myself heard one of them say: ‘It’s not his fault if the army was lost. Wars mow down men in their prime and the sea is rife with dangers. Surely he wanted to bring all his comrades back home. And I’m afraid that what he’s done must have been the will of the gods. How else could just four of them get the better of so many strapping youths?’
We hastened to my father’s house. Dolius and his seven sons had arrived, and they armed themselves as well. In all, there were over a dozen of us. I was sorry I hadn’t thought to bring my bow. I could have struck down many of the attackers at a distance; I could already see them approaching. But when they were at about fifty paces from us, a wondrous thing occurred. Something swooped down from the sky. A bird of prey, perhaps? And just then, in the middle of the two formations, ours so small and theirs so much more numerous, appeared Mentor! He seeme
d to hesitate for a moment, then headed towards us. I felt a shiver run under my skin.
Our adversaries were already letting their arrows fly, and we raised our shields. A single spear flew from our side, hurled by my father, the hero Laertes. The same one he’d had when he sailed off to find the golden fleece. The massive rod rose straight and swift, and then the inexorable tip started its descent. It found its mark in Eupites’ cheek, easily penetrating the futile protection of his helmet. He was Antinous’ father. He collapsed, and his arms rattled to the ground with a dull crash.
His comrades stopped in their tracks, dumbfounded. How could the arm of an old man, sapped by years of hard labour and pain, have flung that weapon with such deadly force? Mentor was very close to us now, he shot me a searing look and I instantly knew what I had to do.
I walked towards the relatives of the men we had killed with my father at my side and Telemachus behind us. The others followed in two rows. When we were at a short span from them, Eupites lying pierced between us, we stopped. The vermilion stream flowing from his body was a line of fire between us: we were sons of the same land.
I had tears in my eyes when I said: ‘Peace.’ I plunged my spear into the ground and the others, lined up to the right and left of me, did the same.
Our adversaries followed our example.
I ordered Dolius’ sons to gather the body of Eupites – to wash it, cover it with a shroud, and lay it in a cart in the shade of an oak tree. I cried out: ‘Mentor!’ but got no response. A hawk soared high above me towards the sun, wheeling in wide circles in the sky of blinding bronze.
Together, in silence, we consumed a meal of reconciliation.
When I raised my eyes, I saw Phemius, the singer, at the end of the road, advancing slowly towards us. The wind was picking up and he was enveloped in a swirl of dust. He seemed to be floating, raised above the ground, like a ghost.
23
WHEN THE FUNERAL BANQUET WAS OVER, the fathers and brothers of the fallen suitors left, heading down the path to their own homes. Eumeus and Philoetius returned to the palace to deliver the corpses which had not yet been claimed to the ships moored at the harbour, waiting to carry them back to their families on the islands.
A profound sadness flooded my heart, because revenge is always a poison that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Fury burns itself out, frenzy melts away and your soul remains ice cold, aching with loss and sorrow. What anguished me the most were the days still to come. Who would I be able to talk to? How would I govern my land, how would I administer justice? How could I ever find joy in the company of my son when I knew that I’d deprived so many of my countrymen of the same joy? How would I find consolation in my wife’s arms, knowing how many women of Ithaca were tormented by grief? How would I be able to walk down the paths of my island, knowing that there could very well be an ambush lying in wait behind every bush or tree?
I watched Phemius as he advanced towards us and I realized that the days that inspired the poets were over. What awaited me was nothing but the slow wasting of my soul and long nights with my eyes wide open.
Phemius sat under the oak and watched as the mules were yoked to the cart that would carry the lifeless body of Eupites to his last resting place. My father had killed him and I had killed his son. I approached the poet and said: ‘Phemius, my heart is heavy but I had no choice. You saw everything that happened. Could I have forgiven them instead?’
‘Don’t you remember? Not much time has passed!’ Phemius cried out. ‘That’s exactly what Eurymachus asked you to do: “Forgive your people!” Why didn’t you? Is it not a king’s duty to be magnanimous? You’d already killed Antinous. How much blood did you need to sate your thirst for revenge? They had offered to pay you back for everything they had consumed in your house, and more. They would have done anything to placate your anger. It’s always better to look towards the future when you’re contemplating revenge and bloodshed. Think about it. Had you pardoned them, wouldn’t you be feeling better now? Wouldn’t you be walking down the streets of your island light-hearted, surrounded by the gratitude and admiration of your subjects? Wouldn’t everyone’s lives be better? Yours, theirs, even mine? And instead, look what’s facing us: grief, dismay, bitter cold and emptiness.’ He dropped his head and let the tears fall freely onto his bristly cheeks.
‘Have you forgotten the days of our youth, my king?’ he went on. ‘Have you forgotten those happy days? No fury, no blood, no infinite mourning. Hope, that’s what we embraced then, dreams, singing and joy. The sun, the sea, the clouds and the flowered meadows, the sunsets over a purple sea, the sails returning home, amazement and wonder at the adventure of the life that was waiting for us. That’s what you should have returned to, even if these long years had taxed you so sorely.’
He fell silent again. His chin dropped to his chest, the sea breeze ruffling his thinning hair and drying the tears on his cheeks.
I sighed. A strong urge to cry swept over me as well.
‘Do you expect an answer, Phemius? I only wish that an answer existed! But there isn’t any. Do you want to know why I didn’t forgive? Why I couldn’t be satisfied with a single victim? Because for ten long years that’s all I did: slaughtered, murdered, gutted whoever challenged me. Could I have gone into hiding instead? Fled? Shirked my destiny?
‘If I had been able to come back home after leaving Troy in ruins, none of this would have happened. I would reign now as Nestor does, beloved by his people, surrounded by his children and grandchildren.
‘It was not my fault, Phemius. Do you know how ardently I hoped? How I wept, searched, implored? But forces much greater than my own, immense, frightful forces, drove me away, further and further away, to the extreme limits of earth and sea, beyond the boundaries that men are held to by the gods. The longing to return never left me, believe me, but my life on the sea was to be no different than the years under the walls of Troy. I had to keep fighting. Monsters, savage man-eating creatures. I had to keep watching my comrades die, one after another, atrocious deaths. Cut down, strung up like fish, mangled in the jaws of horrendous beasts . . .’ Phemius’ blue eyes considered mine for the first time; his chin was trembling. ‘I had to harden my heart, I would have been defeated had I not nursed hatred and vengeance. I wanted to survive. Should I have let myself drown, sink into the abyss?
‘When I finally got here, when I kissed my island, could finally smell it, recognize its clouds, I thought that everything could go back to the way it was.’ Phemius’ blue tears accompanied my words, dripping onto the dry sandy soil. ‘I went to Eumeus’ sty and met Telemachus there. He had just narrowly escaped death at the hands of his mother’s suitors. I held my son and we wept together. That embrace made me feel that I could reclaim all those lost years, that I could love again, think of the future, of my home, of my wife, of my father, the hero Laertes who had so suffered my absence. But then I was told that my house had been invaded, taken over by insolent pretenders to my throne who were menacing my wife and plotting yet another ambush to kill my son. I knew I had to act in secret. I disguised myself as a beggar and prepared to suffer insult and injury. You saw me yourself, didn’t you, Phemius? You recognized me under those rags.
‘It was what Tiresias, the Theban seer whose spirit I’d summoned up from Hades, had prophesied. “You will kill them all,” he told me, “either openly, with your slashing bronze, or stealthily, with deceit.” My goddess exhorted me to do the same.
‘And yet neither the prophecy of Theban Tiresias nor the goddess of the green-blue eyes would have led me to massacre them had I not wanted it. What drove me to it was feeling myself surrounded by enemies, feeling the shock of their blows. The ancient fury sleeping at the bottom of my heart awoke all at once and it blazed so bright it burnt my soul. Nothing could have stopped me. There was no mercy to be had. Black night had descended upon my home. The glorious palace of Laertes had become the very mouth of Hades. The sun itself was blacked out. Could I have avoided it? Answer me: could I h
ave avoided it?’
It was only then that I realized my father had been listening to my words. He said: ‘You have nothing to blame yourself for, son. Nothing could be more craven than taking undue advantage of the home and honour of a man who is far away and cannot defend himself. You exacted justice and you acted like a sovereign. You pronounced your sentence and you carried it out. No one will ever dare to follow the example of those wretches again.’
Phemius rose to his feet. He said: ‘Come, my king. Let’s return home.’
IN THE DAYS that followed I suffered no less pain than I had in ten years of war and in my long wanderings beyond the wall of fog. I couldn’t go back into my house, couldn’t speak to my son or my wife. I barely ate, and when I did, it was alone. The only people I felt like talking to were Phemius and my father. For days and nights, I told Phemius what had happened in the long years I spent away from home. Reliving those events made me feel better. I could see what I was describing so vividly that the images in my head seemed almost real. I could hear the sounds, the voices. I saw the colours of any number of distant, different skies, the light of unknown stars. Phemius listened to me intently without saying a word. He did not interrupt me as I spoke and never asked for explanations afterwards.
What I asked my father was how would I be able to continue living on the island, how could I reign over such a harshly wounded people?
‘What you did was your right,’ he told me. ‘You are the king of this land and the surrounding islands. What else could you have done? If you had pardoned them, many others would have followed their example, even on the continent. You don’t know what’s happened to the others. Agamemnon was murdered the night he returned along with all his comrades, in his own palace and by his own wife, Clytaemnestra, with the help of her lover Aegisthus. Diomedes was forced to leave Argus or unleash another war. His wife Aegialia was plotting to kill him. The same happened to Idomeneus . . .’
‘I know,’ I answered. ‘I know.’