Argos

by Simpson, Phillip

  They had shifted into such a lovely mood that I felt guilty thinking my gloomy thoughts. Surely, I would not be allowed to accompany Telemachus. Athena had told Penelope that while I lived, no harm would come to Telemachus. Surely Penelope would not take the risk. Not only that, but I was old. An old dog had no place in adventures. Even if I was allowed, I would have second thoughts about going. Who would be here to welcome Odysseus when he returned?

  Such thoughts were banished a moment later by the sound of a horn from the tower. That noise only indicated one thing.

  Ithaca was under attack.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You’re not going.”

  “Yes, I am, Mother. I have to.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Penelope, her voice rising in anger. “We have captains to lead the men. They don’t need you.”

  “Yes, they do,” said Telemachus firmly, buckling on his breastplate. That was his father speaking. I recognized the tone. The stubborn sense of pride. “In my father’s absence, I am their king.”

  We were in the stables outside. All around us, men were preparing for war, strapping breastplates and greaves on, harnessing horses to the few dilapidated chariots that had not been taken to Troy. Telemachus was busy donning his father’s second best armor. I had seen Odysseus wear it on a number of occasions. He’d had his armorer make him a new set before departing for Troy.

  “You are not king yet. When my husband—your father—is away, I rule in his stead,” said Penelope, just as stubbornly as her son.

  “You can’t stop me,” said Telemachus, angry now. “Regardless of what you say, I will take part in this battle. You have ruled nothing while my father has been away. You have spent all your time locked in your rooms. Meges’ forces have attacked the village almost at our very feet. I cannot stand idle while they rape, burn, and pillage. What sort of man would that make me? To shelter here with the women and children while men die?”

  Penelope was silent for a moment, considering the words of her son.

  “I have a suggestion,” offered Eumaeus who had wisely held his tongue until this moment. Like Telemachus, he was in the process of donning armor. Penelope glared at him.

  Eumaeus swallowed nervously. “I will act as Telemachus’ driver,” he said. “I’ve driven for Odysseus before. I’ll get one of the other lads to ride with us and protect him with his shield. He’s wearing Odysseus’ old armor. I know how thick that breastplate is. I’ve seen where spears have dented—and been blunted—against it. I’ve never seen thicker. Only the strongest of men can wear it. No mortal is powerful enough to penetrate that armor. Telemachus will be safe in it. I swear by all the gods.”

  Penelope continued to glare at Eumaeus. “I hardly expected you to take his side,” she said angrily.

  Eumaeus shrugged. “I’m sorry, my queen, but there comes a time when a man must do what’s right. Telemachus is king in all but name. The men need him. Desperately. Our forces are depleted. They need hope. Telemachus is that hope.”

  “Listen to him, Mother,” pleaded Telemachus. “You know what he says is right. You said my father had already survived several battles by the time he was my age. You can’t protect me forever.”

  “Yes I can,” said Penelope, shouting now. “You are my only son. You are all I have left. I cannot bear to lose you.” She sobbed but it was only for a moment. She quickly regained her composure.

  Telemachus stopped adjusting his armor and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “You are not going to lose me, Mother. Remember what Athena said? While Argos lives, no harm will come to me.” He took her into his arms and she sank into the embrace. I could tell she wanted to cry again but resisted for fear of shaming herself amongst the men.

  Suddenly, she pushed him away. “Very well then,” she said, her voice like a sharpened spear. “Go to your war.”

  Telemachus grinned. “Thank you, Mother,” he said, donning his white plumed helmet.

  “On one condition,” she said.

  “I’m listening,” said Telemachus.

  “Argos is not to go with you. You said so yourself. While he lives, so do you. He will remain safely here at the palace.”

  Telemachus hesitated for a moment, contemplating arguing but knowing it was useless. He nodded once.

  Someone may as well have thrust a spear through my heart.

  No one could ever mistake Penelope for a stupid women. She knew me. Knew the lengths I would go to in the name of love and loyalty.

  To keep me from the battle, she locked me in a storeroom adjacent to the palace. I heard the sound of chariots rumbling and the tread of many feet. The sounds gradually drifted away and I knew that Telemachus had left for war without me.

  I howled and attacked the door in furious desperation but Penelope had taken no chances. It was firmly barred from the outside.

  I spun around wildly, searching for any weakness in the darkened room. At first, I could see none but then my enhanced vision enabled me to take stock. There was a floorboard on the far edge of the room, slightly more raised than the others. I scurried over to it and tested it with my paws. There was definitely some give in it. I managed to get one paw underneath the edge and bracing myself, slowly forced it up.

  It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But I persevered. Like my master and his son, I was stubborn to a fault. Once started on something, I would not give up until I succeeded.

  Using my nose as a lever, I eased into a crouch and shifted my head further under the board. The floorboard creaked and rose slowly. Underneath was hard packed soil. Without pausing, I began to dig. Never underestimate the ability of a dog to dig when sufficiently motivated. A torrent of dirt flew behind me as I scrabbled desperately at the ground.

  I made swift progress and my efforts were rewarded with a glimpse of daylight. I redoubled my efforts and soon emerged from the soil like I had just been birthed by the earth mother, Gaia herself.

  I shook off the dirt and dust and raised my nose into the air, searching for a familiar scent. At first, I thought my aging senses were failing me and then I realized that it was just dirt clogging my nose. I scraped it away with one paw and tried again. Success! Telemachus’ familiar smell drifted amongst the sea breeze and I set off immediately, following my nose.

  My nose proved unnecessary as I found tracks from the chariots and heavy, sandaled feet. If that wasn’t enough, I could just hear the clash of weapons floating up from the beach. Meges was bold indeed. He hadn’t attacked an outlying village this time—he’d gone for the main village below the palace.

  Following the tracks, I arrived in time to find the battle raging. At least three enemy ships had landed on the beach, numerous warriors streaming from each. They were met by the forces of Ithaca, led by Telemachus. The air was thick with arrows and spears and there were already casualties on both sides.

  The enemy outnumbered us but we had one advantage they did not. We had chariots. They weren’t great but chariots, regardless of condition, could turn the tide of battle. I had learnt this sitting in on one of Telemachus’ lessons.

  I searched for Telemachus and recognized the striking white plume of his helmet almost immediately. He was in the thick of the fighting with only a handful of Ithacan warriors in support. The other chariots were harrying the enemy, wheeling about the battle like great birds, the warrior inside free to throw spears while his driver guided the horses.

  But Telemachus had been brought almost to a standstill. Chariots were highly efficient war machines but only when they were moving. Stationary, they presented an irresistible target. It had been foolish to let Eumaeus drive. It was an art form, something developed over the course of years. Eumaeus was both inexperienced in battle and even more inexperienced driving a chariot. The only times he’d ever driven one was when Odysseus had fancied a race on the beach. I couldn’t blame Eumaeus though—he’d only done what he thought was right. Despite his protective feelings for Telemachus, he knew the boy had to fight. And if driving h
is chariot meant Penelope would allow her son to do that, then so be it.

  Telemachus threw spear after spear at the enemy but he did not have an inexhaustible supply. The other warrior inside the chariot was doing a formidable job protecting Telemachus with his shield but even as I watched, an arrow went through this nameless warrior’s neck. He toppled off the back of the chariot, dead. Telemachus raised his own shield, blocking an arrow as two more clattered harmlessly from his breastplate. As Eumaeus had promised, Odysseus’ old armor was made of the thickest bronze—his only vulnerable spot the armpit and throat.

  But for every warrior Telemachus struck down, another arrived to take his place. The white plume on his helmet marked him as someone important. An obvious target. Not only that, but his armor—although ancient—was highly valuable. Warriors would pause in the midst of battle to strip other fallen soldiers of their armor. Armor from a king was one of the most important spoils of war. Some warriors would only go to war for that reason.

  If Eumaeus and Telemachus didn’t get the chariot moving again, they were dead men. It was only a matter of time before Telemachus ran out of spears. I couldn’t just stand there. I had to do something.

  I raced into the fray, dodging arrows and spears and sidestepping men hacking and slashing at one other. Largely ignored, I managed to get close to the chariot, where the fighting was thickest. Someone cast a spear at me—likely a throw gone wrong—and I had to jump to the side to avoid being skewered.

  Between the legs of jostling, straining men, I saw the hooves of the two black horses harnessed to the chariot. Without pausing, I darted through and did what dogs did best.

  I chose the nearest horse and bit it on the ankle. It wasn’t a hard enough bite to permanently injure the animal but it was certainly hard enough to give it a fright. The horse reared up, frightening its companion in the process, and both horses sprung into motion, trampling any warrior foolish enough to get in their way.

  As the chariot surged past me, Telemachus glanced down. His eyes widened in surprise.

  “Argos! Get on,” he shouted.

  I didn’t need to be asked twice. I leapt up into the back of the charging chariot.

  Free of the encircling warriors, Eumaeus swiftly brought the horses to a gallop, mowing down the fleeing men before him.

  The Ithacans, seeing their king-in-waiting gain his freedom, gave a great cheer and rallied, pushing the enemy down the beach toward their waiting ships.

  The battle was over. We had won.

  After this defeat, Meges’ forces left us alone, retreating to their own island to lick their wounds. For a time, there was peace on Ithaca. Peace but not prosperity. Demeter, the Goddess of the harvest, presiding over the fertility of the earth, turned her back on the island. The wealth and power of Ithaca, already diminished by the absence of Odysseus, further declined.

  That said, it was one of the happiest times of my life. My bond with Telemachus was stronger than ever and even Penelope, furious at first that I had escaped from the storeroom, could not maintain her anger when confronted with a happy, triumphant son.

  But it didn’t last. Before I knew it, it was time for Telemachus to depart. He was to be fostered in Sparta, by Menelaus himself—the very man who had started the war with Ilium in the first place and who, ironically, was the reason why Odysseus was no longer around to look after his son.

  Telemachus was to spend a year with him, learning how to be a king. As Penelope had stated, Ithaca was no longer a fit training ground for Telemachus.

  Other than Odysseus’ departure, it was the hardest separation I have ever had to endure. I wanted to go, of course, and had made my desires plain but they were ignored. I suspected that Penelope wanted me close, secure in the knowledge that while I lived, so too did her son. Despite his protests and fervent desire that I accompany him, Telemachus was also ignored. Penelope’s will would not be denied in this matter.

  It must have been hard for the young man, to live in a strange place without a familiar face, but I knew he would cope admirably. He was, after all, his father’s son.

  Menelaus had sent a ship for Telemachus—a great honor. It had been pulled up onto the beach, like a beached whale only too eager to return to its element.

  Telemachus was once again dressed in his father’s old armor. Penelope, Eumaeus, and myself gathered on the beach to bid him farewell.

  “Goodbye, Mother,” he said bravely. Tears welled up his eyes but pride would not allow them to fall. They embraced.

  “Farewell, my son. Be safe. You will always be in my thoughts.”

  Telemachus nodded. Eumaeus stepped forward. Tears were running down his cheeks unchecked but he didn’t seem to care. He gathered Telemachus into a bear hug and held the boy tight. “Learn well. Make us proud,” he said. “Return to us a king.”

  Telemachus reluctantly broke the embrace. “I will, Eumaeus. Thank you.”

  Finally, Telemachus turned his attention to me. He crouched down and hugged me so that my head rested on his shoulder. “Look after my mother, Argos,” he whispered into my ear. “Just like you have looked after me so well. Keep up our vigil for my father.”

  I licked his ear, promising to do no less.

  He stood and turned, making his way down the beach to the waiting ship. The sea was calm, proof that Poseidon no longer had designs on his life.

  After Penelope and Eumaeus had returned to the palace, I remained at the beach, despite the fact that I had long since lost sight of the ship’s sail. It seemed that another stone had been added to the burden already on my heart.

  Some good came out of Telemachus’ departure, however. Penelope was determined to keep me safe. My safety ensured that of her son and proximity was her primary tool. I slept outside the bedchamber she once shared with Odysseus and accompanied her wherever she went—whether I wanted to or not.

  It was a mutually dependent relationship. For the most part, I wanted to be with her because—let’s be honest—other than Eumaeus, she was all I had left. The two most important humans in my life had departed. Not that she needed me to protect her against any danger. She had her own guards and Meges was no longer a threat to Ithaca.

  On long quiet nights, she would often sit in front of the fire with my head in her lap. It must have been therapeutic for her to comb fleas and knots out of my fur. In a way, the time we spent together helped her come to terms with the absence of both her husband and son. I gave her a much needed outlet to her grief—someone she could tend to and look after. It also served to bring her out of her self-imposed isolation and she spent less and less time locked in her room.

  I grew a little fatter due to the inactivity. When Telemachus was around, I would often hunt with him. Now, I did almost nothing other than pace around the palace or have the occasional stroll outside. Certainly nothing taxing or strenuous. Penelope would not even allow me to hunt on my own or with her men for fear that I would be injured. It grated but I consoled myself with the knowledge that Penelope was the most content she had been in a long time. It was worth it.

  Happily, before I knew it, a year had passed and Telemachus was due to return to Ithaca. When Penelope heard news that a sail was on the horizon, she immediately donned her best dress and departed for the beach, myself trotting at her heels.

  The excitement in the air was palpable. We waited on the beach, watching nervously as each figure clambered off the ship and onto the soft sand. Finally, we recognized one of them.

  I threw dignity to the winds and raced toward the armored figure. It was indeed Telemachus. He gathered me into his arms and we embraced joyfully. I licked his face thoroughly, enjoying the taste of salt on his skin.

  “How I have missed you, Argos,” he laughed. He patted my growing stomach affectionately. “I see that you have made the most of my absence.” I wagged my tail half-heartedly, feeling a little embarrassed. I had been reluctant to refuse the extra tidbits offered by Penelope. No dog turns down food. Unlike myself, Telemachus had clearly th
rived during the last year in Sparta. He looked fit and healthy, tanned and well-groomed. A man amongst men.

  Together, we moved up the beach. Telemachus and Penelope embraced, much like they had on the day he had departed a year earlier.

  “Are you well, my son?” she asked.

  Telemachus smiled. “Never better, Mother. Menelaus was a generous and wise host. I have learnt much from him and his men.”

  Penelope nodded. “Good. You can put those lessons to good use. We have need of strong leadership. Especially now … ”

  Telemachus saw the worried look on her face. “What is it, Mother?”

  “The same troubles we had before you departed. The crops continue to fail. Livestock sicken and die, despite Eumaeus’ best efforts. Ithaca struggles without your father, Telemachus.”

  He hugged her. “Do not fear, Mother. I will do my best to make matters right.”

  Penelope gave him a tight smile. “I have no doubt of that, my son.” She paused for a moment. “I am glad you are back, Telemachus. I have missed you. Argos has been good company but the palace is not the same without you.”

  Aggrieved by her comment I understood it nevertheless. I was just a dog. No dog could replace the affections of her only son.

  Together, the three of us made our way back to the palace.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After his return from Sparta, Telemachus was more obsessed with finding his father than ever. He sent out spies and messengers and questioned every arriving sailor. He departed from our shores for weeks at a time but always returned empty handed. His time with Menelaus had only fanned the fires of the quest that burned in his heart.

  A few more years passed and I grew so old that I became more of a hindrance than a help when Telemachus went hunting, much as it pains me to admit it. Filled with excitement as he readied himself to go hunting, I would accompany him out of the palace gates. Once past them, however, my joints would start to ache and I would begin to hobble. Telemachus would have taken me regardless, but it was always I who turned back before the situation became awkward. My mind was still young but my body was failing me. Despite my enthusiasm, I was a realist. If I couldn’t keep up with Telemachus, I had no right to go on a hunt with him.