The horns of a living goat have a certain suppleness, but in the course of years they harden somewhat, and after centuries set almost as hard as a stag’s antlers.
Leodes came first. Being a junior priest of Zeus, he had presided at all the recent sacrifices, which gave him the place of honour next to the immense jar from which the wine circulated. He accepted the unstrung bow and an arrow while Eumaeus proceeded to nail up the quoit. Then Clytoneus shouted: “Hey, there, Philoetius, bar that door from the outside; someone might enter unexpectedly and get hurt.” Philoetius went round by the passage and did so.
Posted on the threshold, Leodes addressed himself to the bow, which he struggled to string, using both hands and knees; but succeeded only in ricking his back. “Friends,” he groaned, “I am defeated by this adamantine weapon, and lay odds of ten to one in wine or beef that nobody else can master it. The pull is enough to break the strongest heart. Princess Nausicaa has played another trick on us.”
He leant the bow against the door, propped the arrow beside it and sat down again heavily. Antinous reproached him. “What nonsense! If Philoctetes could string it, his descendants can surely do the same? I never hold with the superstition that the men of old were stronger and more courageous than ourselves. The bow is a trifle stiff, that is all; it needs warming and greasing. Just because you were born on a moonless night—blame your mother—and are consequently slack-twisted, without strength in your wrists or shoulders, and take no exercise except backgammon and cottabus… Very well, I propose to take up your wager: two bullocks and two wine jars against twenty that I accomplish the task! Melantheus, put a panful of hog’s lard to warm at the fire; when we have greased the bow, length by length, you will see how it recovers its spring. Age freezes, lard thaws.”
Melantheus obeyed, after which two or three members of Antinous’s party took turns in trying to string the bow, but without the least success. I should mention here that archery is not an Elyman accomplishment; most of my suitors had never handled a war bow in their lives. Meanwhile, at a prearranged signal, Eumaeus and Philoetius went out unobtrusively by the side door. Eumaeus ran to the main gateway, where his son was waiting with an expectant group of loyal grooms and gardeners. “When you hear the sound of fighting in the hall,” he said, “attack the suitors’ servants and drive them from the court of sacrifice. Make a dash and clatter as though you were an army, and yell threats in the King’s name.” Philoetius hurried to tell Eurycleia: “Lock the maids in their quarters, and keep them there.” Eumaeus then came back through the same door, which Philoetius made fast outside with a bar and a yard or two of Byblus cable, before regaining the hall by way of the throne chamber.
Eurymachus now snatched the bow from Noemon’s hands, but though he turned it slowly round in the heat of the fire, and fairly smothered it with lard, succeeded no better than the others. “Hades curse the thing!” he cried. “Leodes was right. It will break any heart or back.”
Antinous laughed. “When I come to consider the question,” he drawled, “to string the bow on Apollo’s feast day is even more of a mistake than to cast quoits. Hercules used this bow for numerous extraordinary feats during his Labours, but Apollo and he, being rival archers, were always at loggerheads. Indeed, their hostility once degenerated into an open brawl, when Hercules had pulled the tripod from under Apollo’s priestess Herophile and carried it off to found an oracle of his own. Father Zeus was obliged to part them with a thunderbolt. I believe that Apollo himself has stiffened the bow—perhaps vexed at our abandonment of his public festivities. So let us adjourn the trial until tomorrow had propitiate the God by sacrificing certain fat goats which Philoetius has driven in for us. Tomorrow will not be a day of such peculiar sanctity, and may the best man win.”
Antinous was applauded for this pious and ingenious suggestion. I suppose that he had planned to take away the bow, which was now lying on a sheepskin by the fire at some distance from the front door, and replace it next morning with a large but more manageable one.
“Apollo, Apollo, favour us!” he cried. All the wine cups and goblets were hastily filled again to the brim, and each man poured a libation to the God before draining his vessel to the lees.
At this point Aethon bent down and, clasping Clytoneus’s knees, said: “A boon, my Prince! When I return home to Cyprus (may it be soon!) my friends and kinsmen will ask me: ‘What have you done? What have you seen?’ And after recounting my adventures in Egypt and Palestine and Libya, I hope to add: ‘Then I made a voyage to Drepanum, where is stored the famous bow of Philoctetes the Phocian, which settled the Trojan War. The King’s son took this wonder from its curved golden case, engraved with the Labours of Hercules, and allowed me to handle it myself.’ Let me, I beg, make good this hope, although to string it will doubtless prove beyond my power, since I am not of Phocian blood, like many of your gallant friends.”
This was the cue for a pretended tiff between Clytoneus and myself. When he granted Aethon’s boon, I was to round on him and say: “What, let a beggarman profane that holy relic with his foul fingers? Are you picking a quarrel? Replace the bow in its case at once and lock it up in the storeroom.”
Clytoneus was to shout: “I have every right to entrust this bow to whomever I please, and I resent your interference. Go to your quarters now, attend to your own work and see that the maids attend to theirs. Your task is done for today, and I am master here. Eumaeus, bring me that bow!”
We must have spoken our parts convincingly enough, because a shout of laughter arose, which increased to a roar when Eumaeus hesitantly picked up the bow and brought it across the court to Clytoneus. Clytoneus handed it to Aethon with a look of pretended defiance.
I stamped my foot and flounced out, slamming the door behind me as if in a rage.
“Someone is going to have his face scratched tonight,” Ctesippus taunted, “just to show who is mistress in this Palace.”
Aethon held the bow lovingly in his hands, weighing it and turning it over as though admiring its ancient workmanship. He was addressing a secret prayer to Apollo and Hercules, begging them to compose their dispute and together guide his arrows. The suitors nudged each other and grinned: “He is an expert on bows, by the look of it—collects them, no doubt, the old vagabond. Or perhaps he thinks of setting up a bow factory.” Aethon said gently: “My lords, what a marvellous bow this is, unstrung! But how much more marvellous when strung!” He took the flaxen cord and with a sudden commanding gesture grasped the horn and bent it slowly and effortlessly until the loop engaged in the notch; he might have been a musician fixing a new gut to his lyre, for all the trouble it gave him. Then he sat back, twanged the string with his thumb, making it twitter like a swallow, reached for the arrow and, almost without taking aim, sent it screaming across the court at the quoit nailed against the door. It struck the exact centre of the target and the arrow tip pierced the thick oaken plank.
Then, turning to Clytoneus with an easy laugh, he said: “Prince, I stand on your sister’s promise. I strung the bow, I hit the bull’s eye, I am therefore her husband. Do you acknowledge my claim?”
“I acknowledge it publicly.”
“That is well. Now I have another mark to hit. A certain man present treacherously killed my fellow clansman, the noble Mentor. I am come to avenge him: blood for blood. Antinous, prepare to meet black death.”
Antinous was raising a two-handled cup to his lips, when the arrow passed clean through his Adam’s apple and cut through the nape of his neck. He collapsed with a spasmodic thrashing of arms and legs, upset the table and spilt the bread and meat on the floor. Blood spouted from his mouth and nose all over the good food.
A shout of dismay echoed along the cloisters, but Aethon had fitted a second arrow to the bow and sat prepared to shoot anyone who opposed him. Eurymachus gazed wildly around the cloister walls and suddenly noticed that the weapons and shields were no longer there. He quickly made up his mind, and sang out: “Friends, this Cypriot is a master archer
who will kill at least four or five of us before we can arrest him. And he was within his rights to shoot Antinous, in requital of blood; we cannot deny it. Moreover, if the Princess agrees to marry this stranger, let us not stand in her way but disperse to our homes; for the Goddess Athene herself has ordained the contest.”
Mixed cries of assent and protest were heard. Then Clytoneus spoke: “My lords, listen to me. Antinous has died because he killed my uncle Mentor, whom the King appointed Regent in his absence. There are still two other plain murderers among you. First, Eurymachus, who stabbed my brother Laodamas—which was the beginning of all these troubles—and drowned his body in the sea, as his ghost complained to the Queen. Next, Ctesippus, guilty of the murder for which my brother Halius was wrongfully banished—the barbarous disembowelling of a fisherman. Though each of these criminals were to surrender his whole inheritance, it would not be sufficient requital of the wrong he has done our house. My lords, bind them without delay, haul them before the Council, and you will thereby free yourselves from the charge of blood guiltiness which overhangs every person in these cloisters. Come Agelaus, come Leodes, come Amphinomus—I address you as the three most pacific of those who have condoned the rebellion against my father—what do you say?”
When they made no reply, Eurymachus shouted again: “Very well then, friends! He refuses our offer and accuses us of rebellion, which if proved would be a capital offence. So let us kill him at all costs and have done with it! Out swords; use tables for shields!”
He leaped at Aethon, sword in hand, but an arrow struck him on the right nipple and down he went, knocking over the table and a couple of stools in his fall.
“And now for Ctesippus,” yelled Clytoneus. “With his death, we can make an end of killing.”
It was too late. Amphinomus, as Eurymachus’s cousin-german, could not refrain from vengeance. Keeping close to the wall, he rushed at Aethon, who was looking around for Ctesippus and had exposed his back. Clytoneus, however, saw him coming and hurled his spear. Amphinomus fell transfixed but Clytoneus, left weaponless, dared not run forward to retrieve the spear, for fear of being slashed with a sword. He cupped his hand and muttered in Aethon’s ear: “Keep them off while I fetch spears, shields and helmets.” He darted through the front door, dragging Eumaeus with him. Philoetius followed; he pushed his way through the tables where the fuddled suitors were all at loggerheads, some calling on the others to make a concerted rush on Aethon, some recommending surrender.
Aethon yelled above the din: “Any more for Tartarus? Any more for the Styx? Walk up, walk up, my lords! Here is a fool’s chance for eternal extinction. But let those who love life keep twenty paces from the bow of Philoctetes. And avoid that side door!”
A general retreat across the court ensued, and the decision might well have been for surrender, had not Eumaeus’s son, roused to action by the uproar, attacked the suitors’ servants in the court of sacrifice and bawled: “Good news! The King’s ship is sighted. Soon he will land and take vengeance.”
Noemon, driven mad by jealousy when he saw Aethon string the bow and heard him acknowledged as my husband, rallied his comrades. “We are lost,” he exclaimed. “The King will make no distinction between guilty and innocent but hang us all as rebels. Quick: we must overpower this single archer even if some of us fall to his shafts. We can then threaten to burn the Palace unless the King consents to pardon us. Seize your tables, and when I say ‘One, two, three!’ charge!”
Noemon had not counted as far as two before an arrow flew in at his open mouth and silenced him for ever. Then Clytoneus and Eumaeus, hurrying back with spears and shields, took up their positions on either side of Aethon; while Philoetius, fully armed, ran to defend the side door.
Clytoneus made a gallant effort to avoid the odium of a massacre. “This is your last opportunity to surrender, my lords,” he cried. “If you let it slip, here are fourteen quiverfuls of arrows, feathered with curses of my brother Halius, to shoot you like dogs. Step towards me, one by one, with your hands above your heads and submit to be bound. We promise every man his liberty except Ctesippus.”
“Never,” shouted Ctesippus. But Leodes lifted his delicate hands and said: “Friends, the battle is unequal and while Ctesippus lives we are harbouring a murderer. I urge you to surrender; for once we are dead, there is an end of love, honour and the joys of this world.”
Agelaus had been consulting with Melantheus, who volunteered to fetch the arms that were so desperately needed. He entered the Tower, jumped from a first-storey window which gave on the street, and ran to the kitchen entrance. Bursting in, he worked his way along a series of passages, making for the storeroom; from which his daughter and her foolish companions helped him to drag out armfuls of spears, javelins and shields. They hurried these to the Tower, where Agelaus pulled them up through the window for distribution among his clansmen. Soon with a shout of “No surrender!” twelve armed Trojans formed a line of battle, shield to shield.
Clytoneus beat his breast “I left the storeroom key in the lock,” he cried. “Melantheus must have gone all the way round. Quick, Eumaeus, prevent him from fetching more! You too, Philoetius! Aethon and I can hold the doorway until your return.”
Philoetius and Eumaeus rushed indoors and caught Melantheus paying a second visit to the storeroom. They sprang on him, felled him, pinioned his arms and legs with a length of cable and, throwing the free end across a beam, hauled him high up. Then, after belaying him to a pillar, they locked the door, pocketed the key and regained the court, leaving Melantheus dangling impotently.
Aethon grew anxious. He had counted on inflicting such heavy losses on the enemy that they must surrender. But now Agelaus was shouting: “Cypriot, lay aside your bow. If you surrender to us, I swear to spare your life and send you back to your island with golden gifts. If you fight on you are doomed.”
A strange thing happened. A swallow came flying into the cloisters, circled around Aethon, and perched twittering on the lintel above his head. Aethon, who is occasionally gifted with the power to understand the language of birds, recognized the ghost of Mentor, promising him victory in Athene’s name.
The enemy advanced across the court and Aethon rapidly shot three of them in the feet, so that they shrieked for pain and let fall their weapons. Nevertheless, the mass of Phocaean swordsmen sheltering behind the wall of Trojan shields swept forward, and a ragged volley of spears flew at the defenders of the door. All missed their mark, whereas Aethon’s arrows, and a return volley of spears carefully aimed, accounted for three of the enemy, including Demoptolemus. Yet the charge was not broken; on they came. Philoetius had the good fortune to kill Ctesippus with a spear-thrust in the belly. “Payment for the heifer’s heel,” he bawled.
In desperate fighting Aethon dealt Agelaus a blow of his naked fist which shattered his temple; and Clytoneus transfixed Leiocritus. The enemy wavered. Aethon raised a Cretan shout of triumph and they turned to flee. Leodes, who had behaved more correctly than most of my suitors, tried to surrender by clasping Aethon’s knees. “Too late,” said Aethon, striking off his head with the sword that Agelaus had dropped.
Had Procne not been beside me, I should scarcely have been able to bear the suspense; in emergencies no girl equals Procne. I swore to have her chosen as Athene’s new priestess. All this while we were craning our heads out of my window. The cloister roof prevented us from seeing Aethon and Clytoneus, and we could not even be sure that they were still alive and unwounded. But when our champions went charging across the open court in full view, Procne and I gave thanks to Athene for the completeness of our victory. We watched them ruthlessly despatch the suitors, using swords now, drawn from the scabbards of the dead.
“No quarter!” cried Aethon. Suddenly my heart chilled, because among the twenty or thirty wretched, fuddled, helpless men I distinguished Phemius the minstrel, his lyre slung over his shoulder, distraught with fear and battering at the side door. He evidently wanted to escape and take sanctuary at the G
reat Altar. But finding no egress he cast his eyes wildly about him; and saw me.
“Save me, Princess,” he shrieked. “The murder of a Son of Homer on Apollo’s own feast day would curse this house until the seventh generation.”
He was right. I screamed at Clytoneus and Aethon to protect Phemius; Clytoneus shook his head wilfully, Aethon did not even look my way. Scrambling out of the window, I slid down the cloister roof and dropped on all fours to the court below. The corpse of Noemon broke my fall. Picking myself up, I sprang in front of Phemius, and spread my arms wide. Aethon came bounding towards us, drunk with blood lust. “Aethon, beware!” This time my scream dispelled his trance. He flung away sword and shield, fell at my feet, and worshipped me as though I were a goddess; while the other three methodically continued their horrid task of hunting down fugitives and cutting the throats of the wounded.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
HOMER’S
DAUGHTER
It was by the greatest good fortune that we not only saved the life of Phemius but also escaped the infamy of killing Medon the herald, which would, incidentally, have earned us the undying hatred of his patron, the God Hermes. Medon had rolled himself inside the ox skin that had served Aethon and me for our nuptial couch and was lying under the wreck of an inlaid settle. Clytoneus recognized the feathered shoes and extricated Medon, who had been his tutor and always treated him kindly. So he and Phemius were escorted to the court of sacrifice, where they sat cowering at the Great Altar, while we searched the cloisters and Tower for concealed fugitives but found none. The last survivor was one Elpenor, who had gone to sleep off his liquor at the top of the Tower. Hearing the shouts of our men as they mounted the stairs, he started up in fright, toppled over the wall into the cobbled street and died instantly. It appeared, therefore, that we had accounted for every one of my hundred and twelve suitors, except the prudent Theoclymenus; and we checked this afterwards by counting the corpses. Pontonous had been killed too, for siding with the enemy. It was difficult to believe that our men had not been wounded in a score of places, so blood-spattered were they from helmet to shoe; but all proved to be quite uninjured—if one discounts Clytoneus’s bruised wrist and Eumaeus’s scratched shoulder. The dead lay in heaps, like fish emptied out of a net on the sand, no longer even gasping beneath the cruel rays of the sun.