Halitherses thereupon prophesied aloud, though only Clytoneus heard it above the clamour: “I have a strange vision of a hind dropping her fawns in the den of an absent lion; I see him on his way home after a fruitless journey, unaware what will meet his hungry eye when he returns…”
“It would be well for your lion if the hunters had spread no net at the approaches to his den,” said Clytoneus sadly.
“This lion will break any net.”
“May Athene be speaking through your mouth, my lord Halitherses!”
Then Eumaeus came in and Clytoneus waved him to a near-by seat; at once a serving man brought meat on a trencher, and bread in a basket. Close behind Eumaeus hobbled Aethon but, not venturing farther than the ashwood threshold which connects the two courts, sat down with his back to a pillar. Clytoneus took a whole loaf and a slab of beef and handed it to Eumaeus. “Give this to your miserable companion,” he said, “and invite him to make a tour of the company, begging for more.”
“Being a beggar only by misfortune, not by trade, he will be ashamed, I fear.”
“Tell him that no beggar can afford to be ashamed.”
Aethon accepted the gift and began eating as though ravenous, while Phemius sang about King Menelaus of Sparta: how he went to consult Proteus, the oracular old man of the sea who rules over the sandy island of Pharos, and how he bedded down among the seals, wrapped in a sealskin. I was listening at the Tower window when Ctesippus, already drunk, interrupted the song by shouting raucously up at me: “Hey, mistress, tell us: would you also like to bed down among seals?” It should be explained that the Phocaeans call themselves “Seals.” Phemius laid aside his lyre and all eyes were turned on me as I answered slowly and distinctly: “I have no such itch, my lord Ctesippus. A styful of Sican hogs smells sweetly and acts piously by comparison; and though a cloth soaked in strong perfume might drown the seals’ stench, it would not protect me either from their obscenities or from their violence.”
It was our agreed policy that day to foment discord in the ranks of our enemies, and this sally of mine proved successful. The Sicans laughed their heads off at the Phocaeans’ expense. When Phemius had at last been able to finish his fytte—for the Sons of Homer make it a point of pride never to sing against a babble of noise—Aethon went around begging morsels of food from the suitors. Some of them speculated idly on his origin, and Melantheus put in his oar. “My lords, the swineherd who led this kill-joy here, uninvited, can perhaps tell you all about him.”
Antinous asked Eumaeus: “Why did you do it, my man? Did you want to spoil our dinners? Or are you officiously trying to help us eat the royal larder empty? We need no assistance, thanks. Who is he, anyhow?”
“You may be well born, my lord,” Eumaeus answered boldly, “but must have been badly brought up, or you would know that it is no virtue to assist the rich and fortunate, who find a welcome wherever they go. Their hosts expect some gift or service in return; but all doors are barred to a beggar save those of the royalhearted. I guided this shipwrecked merchant here in the confidence that Prince Clytoneus would take pity on him. And who are you to criticize his magnanimity, or to demand the names of his guests?”
Clytoneus intervened. “Steady there, reverend swineherd, pay no attention to his sour jokes! And Antinous, if you cut this beggar some bread and meat, I will ask my father to discount it from your bill.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort.”
“That is the answer I was awaiting,” said Clytoneus. “Every Phocaean is the same: even if he were so crammed with food and drink that his life was despaired of, and a beggar pleaded for the leavings on the plate, he would rather die by wedging another gobbet of meat down his throat than keep the poor fellow from starvation.”
“Beware, Clytoneus,” growled Antinous. “If I gave him as much as I should like, starting with this”—here he fished a footstool from under the table and poised it menacingly—“he would be out of action for three months at least.”
The Sican and Trojan suitors, however, soon filled Aethon’s wallet, and he might have returned safely to his place had not Athene prompted him to try Antinous again.
“Come,” he pleaded, “you cannot be the only mean man in this large assembly. Your dress and carriage proclaim you one of the richest, and I expected twice as much from you as from your neighbours. My lord, I am a Cypriot of high birth. Seven years ago I owned scores of slaves, and enjoyed all the luxuries that a man could desire. In those days beggars came flocking to my gates and none was ever turned away. Yet it pleased Zeus to send me on a raiding expedition in southern waters and, before the month was out, I found myself a captive in Egyptian Canopus, whence, years later, after many cruel sufferings I sailed for home; but the Thunderer, to humiliate me still further, ordained that I should be blown off course, shipwrecked on your coast, lamed, and obliged to beg from door to door.”
Antinous shouted angrily: “Has Zeus indeed sent this plague to stink us out? Back to the threshold, dog, or I’ll give you Egypt and Cyprus!”
Aethon retreated slowly. “Pardon me, my lord, if I drew false conclusions about your generosity from the splendour of your dress. A professional beggar, used to reading faces, could hardly have committed the mistake. He would have known that you never gave so much as an extra pinch of salt to one of your own slaves. I am a beginner in this vile trade.”
Antinous, stung to the quick, grabbed the footstool and hurled it at Aethon. It caught him on the shoulder, but he merely wriggled a little, as if to shake off a fly, and resumed his seat on the threshold. There he made a speech: “Pray listen to me, illustrious Elymans! One expects to take a few knocks when defending one’s property, or raiding an enemy town. That is all in the day’s work. But never have I been so humiliated as today! A nobleman who has once enjoyed prosperity finds it hateful enough to beg for bread, without the added indignity of abuse and assault. If any god of Olympus deigns to avenge a beggar, I call upon him now!”
“Sit and eat quietly, you rogue,” bawled Antinous, “unless you want to be dragged out of the Palace by the legs and flayed alive.”
A roar of protest greeted this unhandsome threat and one young Trojan, Amphinomus by name, the one who had invited Clytoneus to the boar hunt, crossed the court and told Antinous to his face: “My lord, you did wrong to hurl that stool at a guest. Suppose that he should prove a god in disguise? Gods are said to wander about on earth to watch whether people are behaving with decency: Zeus himself once visited Arcadia to confirm certain reports of cannibalism that had reached him, found them not exaggerated, and let loose a deluge in punishment.”
“Another deluge will flood this court, my lords,” interjected Halitherses, “a deluge of blood, if you do not mend your ways!” And when my mother heard that the reputation of our house had been sullied by this unprovoked attack on a beggar, she exclaimed in disgust: “May Archer Apollo strike the striker dead!” Old Eurycleia echoed: “Ah, if my prayers were granted, there would be few of them left by this time tomorrow!”
My mother then sent a clever message to Eumaeus, which a slave delivered to him in public: “Reverend swineherd, the much travelled beggar whom you have befriended has been barbarously treated by one of our guests. It may be that he has heard something of my son Laodamas. Let him come into the throne chamber and be questioned.” This was both an excuse for speaking privately to Aethon—she guessed that he must be the beggar I had mentioned—and a seeming reassurance to Eurymachus that Eurycleia had kept her mouth shut about the murder.
Eumaeus passed on the message to Aethon. He added: “The Queen has doubtless decided to give you a warm tunic and cloak, even if you have no certain news for her. She always welcomes men of good birth, however unfortunate, to this Palace.”
“As it happens,” said Aethon, playing up well, “I did hear a rumour that Laodamas had been seen, somewhere in central Crete. The Queen will be able to judge whether it is true or not, because I never met the young Prince myself. Pray ask her to restrain
her impatience. I shall be proud to visit her after the banquet, but meanwhile feel safer on this threshold. If I venture across the hall, who knows but that these noblemen may attack me with swords, not stools? Here I am neither in the hall, nor out of it.”
“As you please,” said Eumaeus. “My mistress will surely forgive the delay.” Then he turned to Clytoneus. “Prince, I must return to the hogs. Take good care of yourself. Is anything further required of me?”
Clytoneus raised his voice as he answered: “Yes, reverend swineherd. Early in the morning you must drive down the fattest hogs still left in your herd; because tomorrow my sister, the Princess Nausicaa, is to garland the man she intends to marry. That will be a day of days. Oh, and pass by Philoetius’s house; tell him to bring in eight fat wethers. The Gods go with you!”
This announcement, upon which Clytoneus and I had agreed, caused immense excitement among the company; but he sat impassive and to the buzz of questions addressed to him replied merely: “Who knows whom my sister may choose? She will spend the night in consultation of the Goddess whom she serves.”
Though less than an hour of daylight remained, and the suitors were accustomed to leave as soon as darkness fell, the banquet was far from over.
A professional beggar named Arnaeus, a Corinthian by origin, happened to have fixed his abode in Drepanum. He described himself as an odd-job man and used to wander about the market place, on the lookout for easy ways to stuff his belly. He would keep pigs from straying into the Temple, mind hounds or horses, deliver love letters, pretend to lend a hand with the catch when fishing boats put in, lead the applause whenever anyone excelled himself in public—if it was only to spit straight or break wind (forgive me) with a lusty crack. They nicknamed him Irus, the masculine form of Iris the Rainbow, Messenger of the Gods; and he had become the town butt. Antinous now sent his servant, for a joke, to tell this Irus that another beggar had collected a fine bagful of food at the Palace, and that the suitors were making much of him. He came lumbering up—he was a big man, though fat and flabby—intent on chasing Aethon away. “Get off that threshold, you idle wretch,” he yelled. “Everyone here is annoyed by your presence. Can’t you guess why my lord Antinous has refused you food? It’s because he patronizes me, whom he knows and trusts, not you.”
Aethon answered: “I have never offended you, stranger, nor do I grudge whatever alms anyone cares to throw you, if you are an unfortunate like myself. There is room for both of us on this threshold. So be quiet, or you may get hurt.”
Irus screamed in falsetto: “Get hurt, eh? I wonder who will do that. Look at this fist of mine and, as you hope to keep those white teeth in your head, avoid it! What, you accept my challenge? Then tuck up your rags, come outside and fight.”
“I am prepared to destroy you, if you love life so little,” said Aethon wearily.
Antinous was overjoyed by the scene he had staged. “Come, friends, a match, a match! This beats all! The Gods have arranged a special interlude for our amusement. The Cypriot and Irus are challenging each other to box. I warrant the match will be better worth watching than this morning’s bout. Form a ring, quick!”
His Phocaean supporters leaped up and surrounded the pair. Antinous said: “Now for the prize. I propose one of those goat-haggises roasting at the fire, and the sole right to beg in this hall.”
Everyone approved this suggestion, but Aethon shouted: “My lords, though a man of peace, I would do much to win a haggis. Very well, then. I accept. Only, my lord Antinous must swear to keep it a fair fight. I want none of his supporters to trip or kick me while I am disposing of this bag of lard.”
“I give you my oath by Zeus,” smiled Antinous, “that if any of my companions interfere with Irus’s sport, I’ll half kill them.”
Clytoneus broke in: “The same holds good for me, stranger. I am host here, and what I say goes.”
Hitching his rags, Aethon squared up to Irus, who grew so terrified that the servants had to drag him into the ring. Aethon was in two minds whether to destroy him with a single blow or merely knock him senseless. Having decided on the more merciful course (because of the trouble and expense that homicide always brings in its train, however worthless the victim), Aethon led with his left, brought over a right swing, caught Orus on the angle of the jaw and sent him down like a slaughtered ox. He spat out teeth and blood and drummed his heels on the floor in agony. Aethon hauled him across the threshold by the feet and propped him against the nearest wall of the outer court. “Now sit there and keep the hogs and dogs away,” he said. “And no more beggar-king make-believe, if you please, or I shall smash the other side of your face too.”
When amid ironic cheers he limped forward to accept the haggis from Antinous’s hands, Amphinomus congratulated him sincerely, and drank his health from a golden cup. “Here’s to your good fortune, stranger,” he cried, “and a change of trade.” He offered the cup to Aethon, who looked at him with a certain pity and said in a low voice: “And for you, my lord, I wish a change of company. You are frank-faced and warmhearted. Yet your life will be short unless my wish is granted.”
“Are you a prophet?”
“I am a man of experience, which comes to much the same thing, and I heard a rumour at the games that the king is on his homeward voyage.”
“But tomorrow the Princess Nausicaa will announce her choice.”
“Tomorrow may be too late. What if the King arrives tonight?”
Aethon drank from the golden cup, and poured a libation for my uncle Mentor’s ghost. Amphinomus strolled away, shaking his head gloomily, and Aethon hoped that he would be prudent enough to take his hint.
A sudden murmur, and the whole company rose to their feet. My mother had appeared at the main door and was standing with her hand raised for silence. Everyone either loves or fears my mother; most people fear her. She speaks little and acts seldom, but when she speaks and acts, it is wise to pay attention.
“My lords,” she said, “I am notoriously patient and indulgent. Hitherto I have thought of you as a crowd of irresponsible boys, tolerating your wild behaviour in the assurance that you will eventually make good the damage you cause. Certain misdeeds, however, I cannot permit. For instance, I cannot permit you to strike a beggar who comes to the Palace in search of food. Clytoneus, why did you fail to eject the nobleman who threw that stool?”
“I lacked the strength and power, Mother,” Clytoneus pleaded. “No one here would have supported me.”
“The Gods would have done so, child,” she answered. “Surely, you know that? Another thing, my lords. Tomorrow my daughter has decided to name the man whom she proposes to marry, and if you think that these arrangements are wholly one-sided, you are much mistaken. As Nausicaa’s mother, I must see that she is generously treated. The usual custom is for suitors to bring their own hogs and sheep and cattle to the house of their prospective father-in-law, not to expect free meals day after day. And they offer valuable gifts as well; so send off your servants for your gifts without delay, and let anyone who has come servantless go and fetch one himself. Afterwards I will show my daughter the gifts and a list of the donors. Your overexcited condition, and the insults to which you subjected her when she appeared at the Tower window a short while ago, discourage the Princess from showing herself to you again for the present.”
Grumbling in low tones, they all obeyed, and half an hour later my mother had gathered the finest collection of bride gifts imaginable. Antinous’s was a long embroidered robe of scarlet linen with twelve gold safety brooches, each representing a different beast or bird; Eurymachus’s was the amber and gold necklace which Ctimene had coveted; and there were also pearl earrings, ivory combs, gold tiaras, silver bracelets set in agate, and a remarkable belt with scales like a serpent’s given by Amphinomus. My mother thanked them gravely and went back into the house, whereupon the suitors began to sing, dance and play cottabus.
Nightfall found them still at it. So Clytoneus called for tripod braziers, which two or t
hree maids brought into the middle of the court and fed with slivers of dry pine; joking and laughing together.
“This is no place for young women,” said Aethon, limping towards them. “Leave this task to me and return to your mistress upstairs.”
Melantho was one of the maids. “You dare lecture me, disgusting old beggarman?” she cried. “The wine must have gone to your head. Clear off now, and make room for your betters.”
“Shall I report you to the Queen when I visit her?” Aethon asked. Melantho grew frightened and scampered away with the other girls; which vexed Eurymachus, because he had planned to take her out into the garden.
“Hey, my man,” he said. “Suppose I hired you to work at ditching and planting young timber? What do you say? You seem strong enough for field work. Or is begging a less laborious way of earning your livelihood?”
“My lord Eurymachus,” Aethon replied, “I should be glad to challenge you one day to a reaping or a ploughing match; I know well who would tire first. Or for the matter of that, to fight side by side with you against a regiment of Phoenician militia, and count the corpses afterwards; I know well who would have killed the most. You are a boaster and bully, my lord Eurymachus, and consider yourself a big man merely because your courage has never been put to the test.”
Eurymachus boiled over. “And you seem to think that just because you knocked down that windbag Irus you can talk to me as if I were a slave. Here, take this!”
He threw a footstool at Aethon’s head. Aethon dodged, and the missile struck Pontonous the butler as he was filling Amphinomus’s cup. He fell, groaning, and the flagon dropped from his hand, while the Sicans and Trojans loudly reviled Eurymachus for quarrelling with a beggar and spoiling the night’s entertainment. Aethon had done pretty well by making the two leaders of the plot look ridiculous and destroying the unanimity of the rest.