‘Don’t you have anything to say to your grandfather?’ asked Autolykos. He was sitting in front of me, but didn’t turn around.
‘I’ve waited a long time for this day,’ I answered.
‘Why?’
‘A man who makes an invitation fifteen years ahead of time isn’t an ordinary person. And if that man is my grandfather, it means a part of him is in me and I’d like to know which.’
‘Have you been told who I am? The most wicked of men: thief, liar, bloodthirsty plunderer and oath-breaker.’
‘I’ve heard those things . . . but my parents have always spoken of you with respect. And they told me that it was you who gave me my name.’
‘That’s right. Because I was full of hatred for everyone.’
I couldn’t say anything else. I wasn’t ready to know the reason for such bitterness.
My uncles didn’t say a word for the whole journey. Their eyes never stopped darting around and their hands stayed on the hilts of their swords. In the end, we reached a house of stone which was set back in a clearing in a thick oak wood and we spent the night there after eating some bread and cheese with a cup of red wine.
‘Tomorrow you’ll eat better,’ said my grandfather and I nodded my head as if to say that anything was fine with me. I was surprised that we’d stopped in such a solitary, unprotected place, but then I thought that grandfather Autolykos had such a terrible reputation that no one would dare come close unless they had sufficient forces to attack or challenge him.
I slept in a bed that smelled of pinewood and I woke up several times in the middle of the night, roused by the sounds coming from outside: grunts, whistles, the cries of nocturnal animals. My hand fell on my dagger more than once. The second time I awoke I saw a sight I would never forget: the peak of Mount Parnassus lit by the full moon. A thin cloud was passing across the snow-topped peak and the reflected moonlight created a play of translucence that enthralled me. I would have climbed to the peak, then and there, but I was certain my grandfather had already done that, and that he knew everything that a mortal man could possibly know. The time after that I was awakened by a rustling of wings: an owl had settled on the windowsill. I got out of bed but she didn’t move. I took a few steps towards her but the bird just seemed to regard me with curiosity. Why didn’t she fly away? We looked at one another for a long time, or maybe a short time, a time suspended, unreal. Maybe I was dreaming. But today I am sure it was my first encounter with my green-eyed goddess, Athena . . .
Where are you?
The sky was light long before the sun rose from behind the mountains and I went outside. The birds were beginning to twitter and when I turned towards the sea I saw the blue expanse stretching out before me, rippling in the morning breeze, and the tips of the islands being lit up by the sun, one after another.
‘The one down there that’s still dark, that’s Ithaca, your island,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Do you know why it’s still dark? Because the peak of the mountain behind us is still covering it with its shadow.’
‘Pappo,’ I said, turning around and amazing myself at my use of such an intimate, familiar word with a man who despite being my mother’s father was a stranger to me.
He smiled saying: ‘Pai . . .’ and gave me a piece of pork. ‘This is food for men, have some.’
I was finally eating meat and bread for breakfast. I could consider myself a man. ‘Pappo,’ I started up again, ‘have you ever been up there, on the peak?’ pointing to the summit of Mount Parnassus.
‘I certainly have. And I didn’t see anyone playing a lyre surrounded by nine beautiful maidens.’
I dropped my head. ‘Even if they were there you couldn’t have seen them. We mortals don’t have the power to command the waves of the sea or the wind, to stop the stars from wandering in the sky, to change the cycle of the seasons or to defeat death. There’s someone, I think, who rules our world. Someone who’s there but doesn’t show himself, except in disguise.’
‘Listen to my words well, pai: I’ve challenged them time and time again and they’ve never taken me up on it. I’ve done every evil thing a man can do: I’ve murdered, terrorized entire regions and cities, sworn oaths that I immediately broke, and no one has ever punished me. I’m strong and powerful and afraid of no one. If they’ve never answered, you know what? They don’t exist.’
I thought about his words for a few moments and replied: ‘They’ve never even noticed you.’ Challenging the gods is something else.
He said nothing.
We resumed our journey up to the highest part of the mountains and finally reached the home of Autolykos: a palace made of big squared-off boulders like my father’s, surrounded by a wall with a single entrance. When we went inside I saw that someone had got there before us: the servants had killed a bull and were quartering it. ‘Our lunch,’ I thought, ‘and maybe our dinner too.’ A big fire was blazing in the middle of the room and the meat was already roasting on spits. We ate and drank until late that night but I held back; I didn’t want to get drunk or overload my stomach. I’d always preferred to feel vigilant and at the ready. Ready for what exactly, I couldn’t say, but my instincts have always made me careful. I considered who my table companions were: only my uncles and my grandfather were present at the banquet, because – I thought – they could trust no one else. I participated in the conversation when I could. Especially when they talked about the next day’s boar hunt.
‘It’s a dangerous pursuit,’ said my grandfather. ‘Have you ever taken part?’
‘King Laertes my father . . .’
‘Whoever taught you to talk that way?’
‘Mentor, my educator. I was saying that my father engaged a Thessalian instructor to train me. In the use of the bow, dagger and javelin.’
‘So how many boars have you killed?’
‘None.’
My grandfather broke out laughing, imitated by his sons. One of them gave me a slap on the back that nearly sent me sprawling. I turned sharply and gave him the sternest look I could, letting him know he should never try that again.
‘Tomorrow you will kill one. The first of your life, but not with those needles you carried here with you. You’ll need this to stop a three-hundred-pound beast.’ He got up, went to the wall and took down a heavy, solid spear. He threw it at me and I caught it in flight. ‘But tomorrow you could die instead,’ he continued. ‘Shall I have someone take you back to the port? You’re still in time.’
‘Have them wake me before dawn,’ I replied and began walking off, spear in hand, towards my room. Before entering, I turned. ‘I have a question for you too. Why weren’t you invited to hunt the boar of Calydon? All of the greatest heroes of Achaia were there.’
‘Tomorrow night, if you’re still alive, you’ll have understood on your own.’
What did he mean by that? I went to bed but kept hearing the laughing and shouting of the revellers until sleep won me over.
There was no need to wake me the next day. The dogs barking, the servants calling to one another, the weapons clanging; all roused me when it was still dark. I got dressed, put on my leather corselet and wristband, pulled my belt across my hips, added my dagger, grabbed the spear in my hand and slung my bow, two javelins and a quiver over my shoulder.
‘I see you’ve decided to come,’ said my grandfather when he saw me appear. ‘We’ll see how you handle yourself. Follow me.’
We walked alongside one another in silence through the forest. I kept thinking of the things he’d said to me the night before and he was surely aware of that. Before the sky started to turn white we had reached a clearing and we stopped there.
‘By this time,’ said grandfather, ‘my sons will have taken position and the beaters will be on the other side of the forest. There are three trails that the boars always favour: the biggest pack come from the south, and will be driven towards my sons, the small pack tend to come up along the little stream we just crossed and they’re for me. Any that separate from the rest
will end up here and you’ll be waiting for them. Don’t move from this position; this is the only spot from which you’ll be able to take aim.’ He picked up some boar droppings and rubbed them on my legs and arms: ‘This way they won’t smell you. The wind is against us. Remember: you’ll find them in front of you.’
He walked back towards the stream and disappeared among the oaks. I looked around and tried to apply Damastes’ advice. I needed to seek cover behind a tree trunk to stay safe but the nearest trees were all far in front of me. The ones behind me were at least a hundred paces away and that was too far. I felt like calling my grandfather back to ask him how I could find a safe position but I was ashamed. I had no choice but to remain where I was. I looked around to work out how I could protect myself if one of those animals charged me, but all I could see was a small depression in the ground. In the distance I could hear horns blaring and sticks knocking and thrashing. The beaters! From the sound of it, there must be more than one boar. I gripped my spear tightly. My heart started pounding but I tried to control it. The sounds were getting closer. Without even realizing what I was doing, I had instinctively begun taking steps backwards. I would need more room to take aim.
All at once, a rush of broken branches and uprooted underbrush. I drew my bow and assumed my stance, planting myself firmly with my legs wide apart. Nothing. More branches snapping. I backed up. Nothing. Drops of sweat dripped into my eyes, burning them. Then a group of boar suddenly broke into the clearing at a gallop. Not in front of me, not behind me, but at my left side. I turned that way but the rising sun blinded me. I let fly regardless and a female collapsed abruptly. Instantly a dark shadow, enormous, loomed; I hurled my spear. A tremendous snort of pain. I threw myself on the ground and found him on top of me. A gigantic male. I felt an acute, agonizing spasm and was overwhelmed by a foul stench. With my right hand I pulled the dagger from my belt and plunged it hilt-deep into the animal’s belly. I was drenched in blood. I neither saw nor heard anything else.
It was my pain that awoke me, piercing, at the bottom of my thigh, near my knee. I opened my eyes and saw.
A mighty albino ram, with great curving horns, enormous horns. Perhaps I was dreaming. But the pain was real and getting stronger. I was lying on the ground in the middle of the grass. I was all covered with blood. A voice:
‘You’ve killed your first boar.’
The voice of Autolykos, my grandfather.
‘Is it real?’
‘What?’
‘That.’ I pointed to the ram standing absolutely still in front of me.
‘The ram. Of course. He’s the leader of my herd. He’s magnificent. No other ram this big exists. I stole him from the Aetolians who live in the interior. They offered to pay a ransom to have him back but I refused.’
‘It hurts, so much . . .’
‘The boar ripped your thigh open,’ he said, and turned away.
A downpour of water hit me. Then another and another. They were taking buckets of water from the stream nearby and throwing them over me. I was being washed.
Autolykos reappeared and in his hand was a red-hot knife. ‘I have to cauterize your wound and sew you up or you’ll die. Don’t scream, it irritates me.’
The blade burned my flesh, the pain rent my heart, my eyes clouded over.
Only the albino ram remained, a white vision standing out against the darkness.
5
THE FEVER RAGED WITHIN ME for five days and five nights, then left me. It was then that I met my grandmother Amphithea because it was she who stitched my wound, not grandfather, and who nursed me. She spread an ointment on the flesh scorched by Autolykos’ blade that greatly eased the pain and calmed the itching of the scab that was forming. When she felt I had begun to heal she allowed me to get out of bed so I could try to take a few steps. I was careful not to betray my fear: the gash had been very deep, all the way to the bone. I knew that many, under similar circumstances, had remained crippled their whole lives. I tried to take heart by telling myself that even though I hadn’t been wounded in battle I could say I’d had a close encounter with a wild animal, so at least it had been an honourable fight.
I touched the ground first with one foot and then with the other and . . . I was standing. A servant handed me a cane but I refused to take it. I took one step and then another: my muscles and tendons didn’t seem to be severely damaged. My gait was halting and quite stiff, painful but normal. My spirit filled with joy. This wouldn’t prevent me from doing battle, from running, from competing, on land or sea. In my heart of hearts I thanked Athena, who had appeared to me that first night in the form she most often takes when she wants to hide from mortal gaze. And I thanked my grandmother, who had cured me.
My grandfather came to see me as well and since I’d had plenty of time to ponder what had happened I told him what I thought: ‘The attack didn’t happen by chance. I was expecting the boars to come from the north and that animal charged at me from the east. You were the one who told me to take position at that spot, without any cover. You had them drive that animal at me knowing that I would be blinded by the sun. Was it the beaters who did it, or did you drive him at me yourself? Is that why you invited me to hunt with you when I was still an infant? So you could watch me die? At least now I know why no one wanted you around when they were hunting the boar of Calydon.’
‘I told you that first night that you would soon understand why I hadn’t been invited on that hunt despite the fact that I was the best hunter, and that should have put you on your guard. It was meant as a warning. It was I who saved your life, actually, no one else. You are a wise and courageous boy: two virtues that are rarely found in the same person. Many courageous men are stupid; many a shrewd, clever man is a coward. What happened was my will. You’ve learned that you can trust no one in this world and you’ll never forget that as long as you live. That’s why I called you here. In Ithaca you would never have learned what you now know. Now your flesh bears the indelible mark of your credulity. That scar will be a reminder forever.’
‘I could have died.’
‘But that didn’t happen. I’ve been observing you since the first moment we met: how you take in your surroundings, how you listen to the men, the animals and the world around you. I haven’t missed a single one of your words.’
‘What if it had happened? If I had lost my life?’
‘We are all mortal beings, but no one can say whether living a longer life is a boon or a curse. For me it has been a curse and I have met many men who are sorry they were ever born. I have a terrible reputation because I don’t hide who I am. Others, many who are much worse than I am, manage to hide their true natures. I’m exactly who you see I am. And I came to your father’s palace when you were born because I had waited so long for you.’
‘You came to give me this dreadful name.’
‘No, a sincere name. I wanted you to remember what the world is like, what human beings are like. Hatred is by far the most common emotion felt by mankind.’
‘And why were you so eager for me to be born?’
‘Because I don’t like any of my own sons and I was hoping that the new heir would be different.’
‘Well then?’
‘What I desired has come to be. You don’t know what happened that day during the boar hunt: I saw everything. I had my bow aimed at that big male, ready to take him down but I didn’t need to do that. Your instinct was faster than the beast’s, your spear struck a vital spot with precision. And your bow did not fail either. The arrow that felled the female penetrated her right shoulder, very close to her heart. All that was missing was a bit of strength, but that will come as you finish growing. Your body fitted perfectly into a hollow of the soil so you wouldn’t be crushed by the weight of the boar. You are perfect, Odysseus, the son I would have desired.’
I couldn’t answer or say another word. My grandfather lived in his own reality of hate-fuelled folly. He was violent, arrogant, maybe even cruel, but not evil. I learned in the
days that I spent with him that a truly wicked person is a coward who doesn’t have the courage to look his victims in the face, who prefers to charge others with the loathsome task of inflicting suffering. In his own way Autolykos wanted to make me understand that he loved me and that he wanted to protect me from a world he despised, to provide me with the weapons to defend myself even when he was no longer alive. The old wolf certainly had a secret he was bent on carrying to his tomb, but I was in no hurry to find out what it was.
The day before I left he pulled me aside and asked me: ‘Your mother. Didn’t she leave you a message for me?’
‘Yes. I was going to give it to you tomorrow morning before my departure.’
‘You have to give it to me now. I won’t come to the port. I won’t like seeing you go.’
I took the minuscule terracotta amphora from my bag and gave it to him. He crushed it in his hands. Inside was a thin bronze leaf with a carved inscription. As he was looking at it, I told him: ‘The way you should start is with the star.’
The symbols must have represented some secret language because I understood nothing of what I could see, and what I’d just said was the phrase that my mother had asked me to learn and repeat to him.
He looked at the little bronze leaf for a long time and then tucked it into his belt and looked straight into my eyes. ‘You’ll tell your mother the names of three animals, the ones that come to your mind . . . No, say nothing to me,’ he added when he saw me opening my mouth. ‘I don’t want to know. Be careful, those three names could mark your destiny.’
When it was evening the three of us ate a meal together: Amphithea, Autolykos and me. The uncles were off on some venture. I thanked my grandparents for their hospitality, for their care and for everything they had taught me. My grandmother kissed me on the head and eyes and took my face in her hands for a long time, then retired to her rooms. Grandfather stayed with me a little longer. He said: ‘I don’t know whether we will ever see each other again. A man like me lives in constant danger and when my strength starts to wane someone will be eager to take advantage. But to ward off this eventuality, let’s say I invite you to return for another round of hunting when you’ve entered your twenty-first year. That way I’ll have to stay alive to welcome you back. Don’t let me down.’