by Ralph Hardy
Inside his father’s palace, Telemachos props his spear against the wall and bounds up the stairs to see his mother, sweet Penelope, who begins to weep loudly. I could not follow him up the stairs as my legs are too weak, but I hear her thank the gods that he has arrived safely home.
Telemachos tells his mother of his fruitless journey, how no one had heard if his father had perished or still lived. How it must pain my young master to deceive his mother. I can hear his voice catch as he tells her this tale of woe. As his mother weeps, I hear Telemachos ask, though he knows the answer: “Tell me, Mother. Since I have been away, do the suitors still come daily to court you and eat from our table?”
“They do, my son,” she answers bitterly. “They come daily and court me, telling me tales of shipwrecks and destruction, that no man returns after twenty years, even godlike Odysseus, as they deplete our herds and beat our servants.”
Then my young master whispers so that none but his mother and a loyal dog can hear, “Truly, Mother, just as when a doe while grazing brings her fawns too near the den of a wolf, so shall my father, Odysseus, bring destruction upon those men.”
It takes all my will not to bark in agreement at my young master’s words, but just then I hear the suitors approaching the gates. For the next few hours, they distract themselves with games of spear throwing and hurling disks while my master’s servants prepare their dinner. The servants roast lamb and goat and bake loaves of bread in the hearths. Others roll grape leaves stuffed with rice and set bowls of salty olives on the tables. Still others pour flagons of wine and honey mead into cups, for the suitors will be thirsty after their games. Then Medon, the head servant, calls the men inside, and they take off their mantles and prop their spears against the wall before sitting down to eat. As they enter, I leave the banquet hall with my tail hanging low, as if I were afraid of them. My master has taught me well: one should never let an enemy know that he is not feared.
Outside I manage to climb to a small ridge and sniff the air. How I have longed for that scent! My master, Odysseus, sacker of cities, is near. What indescribable joy I feel! Then I have a terrible thought: What if my master has forgotten me? I was just a whelpling when he left, barely a year old. What hardships he has endured! What despair he has known! Why do I expect him to remember me, a faithful dog, now sunken ribbed, broken, and nearly toothless? I could not bear that. So instead of running down the goat path to meet him, I lie down near the barn to wait, turning myself around and around until I am in a position to see the path.
A few minutes later I see them. The old swineherd Eumaios walks side by side with a stooped, ragged beggar—my master. I creep closer but remain hidden, for I smell another man approaching. Just then the goatherd, Melanthios, a proud and vicious man, driving his goats from the far pasture, comes upon them. Seeing Eumaios, whom he has always envied for his friendship with my master, he curses the swineherd, crying, “Why do you bring a beggar around here? He’s just the kind of wretch who spoils the fun of feasting, begging for handouts and wine to drink! You’d better not bring him near the house of Odysseus, for he will feel the weight of heavy blows from the heroes within!”
Then Melanthios raises his cudgel, as if to strike my master! I jump to my feet and run toward them, growling and barking, but I am still too far away to do more than bark. Then Melanthios swings his club, but my master catches his arm, and the blow never lands. The goatherd curses and draws away. “May the gods strike you down, beggar, along with you, Eumaios,” he sneers.
Eumaios raises his own hand to strike the goatherd, but my master steps between them. “We mean you no offense, sir,” I hear my master say. “Please pardon us. We are on our way to the city and will not stop to beg at your master’s palace.”
This was brave Odysseus? Had the goddess stolen his pride as well as his form? Then I see it. My eyes are old and tired, but I see my master wink at Eumaios, as if to say, “Follow my lead!”
Of course! My master is not yet ready to reveal himself. Now I have a part to play. I advance upon them, growling, with my few remaining teeth bared and hackles raised.
“That old dog will see that you don’t come near the palace!” The goatherd laughs. “Now be off! And thank the gods I have more important things to do than beat you!”
Melanthios continues on his way, while I, still growling, approach Eumaios and my master. Oh, forgive me, Odysseus, for showing you my teeth, worn and broken as they are!
I advance slowly, waiting for Melanthios and his goats to descend into the valley. Once they do, I bark once, loudly, for effect, and then I run limping toward my master.
I hear Eumaios say, “Don’t worry, friend. The dog will not bite as long as you are with me. He was well trained once, by his owner, the noble Odysseus.”
Then my master puts his hand out with his palm up for me to smell it. Oh, words cannot describe that smell. His hand smells of the briny sea and the blood of Troy, the sulfur of Hades and the honey mead of Kalypso, the smoky ash of a spear hardened in the fire. He smells like a king. Then I lick his hand, though only once. My master looks me in the eye, as if to say, “Don’t reveal who I am, faithful one!”
Still I wag my tail and fold both of my ears back. May the gods strike me if I did not see a tear form in my master’s eye.
“Eumaios, my friend,” my master says. “Whose dog is this? He has a splendid shape, though he is ancient. What a broad chest he has, and a sturdy muzzle. He looks as if he could have once outrun a deer. What is the old dog’s name?”
Then the swineherd answers. “This is the dog of a man who perished far away, my master Odysseus. You should have seen him in his youth, friend. Such strength and speed he had! Never could any wild animal escape if he pursued it, and he could track anything, even the wild boar, which he and his master hunted, fearing not their size and cunning, but ridding Ithaka of their destructive ways.”
“You have not named him, but I shall, for I have heard his legend and that of his master, Odysseus. His name is Argos, is it not?” my master asks deceptively.
“Aye, this is loyal Argos, once a great boar hunter and wolf killer, but now death stalks him, I fear, for even one such as he is not immortal. It is strange to see him lick your hand, friend, for only Telemachos and my mistress Penelope has he let near since his master left. Come now. We have reached the palace, and Telemachos awaits us.”
My master takes my head in his hands and looks deep into my eyes. “Can it be that you still live? Truly the gods are good, bravest of all dogs,” he whispers. “Now you may let go of your duty to me and hunt the wild stag and the fearsome boar on Mount Olympus. They wait for you on the other side, most loyal of all creatures.”
Then he gives me a final pet, and the two men stride toward the palace. I try to follow them, but my legs will not move, and so I lie down. I close my eyes for a few minutes and feel a cool wind ruffle my fur.
Outside the hall where the suitors feast, I hear dogs growling. I open my eyes slowly and see several small shepherding dogs, all of which belong to the house of Odysseus and its herders, coming onto the estate. I had told them to remain close to my master’s estate this day in case any suitors should try to flee. I know them all by sight, and some by name. I had taught most of their fathers how to guard their flocks, and I have outlived them too. Still, these younger pups show respect, rolling onto their backs, or at the very least, lowering their heads as they approach me.
All but one does this, I notice, but I say nothing, as he is a stranger to me, and I have not the strength to admonish him. He is very large and sturdily built, with a coat of thick, tawny fur. His muzzle is black, his ears erect, and his eyes sparkle. I force myself to my feet, and we touch noses, as is the custom when two alpha dogs meet. “Greetings, stranger,” I say to the dog. “Where are you from, and what is your name? I know most of my brothers on fair Ithaka, but know you not.”
I do not introduce myself, as there is no need; my name is known throughout Ithaka.
“I
am from the north of the island, sir,” he says, “and I have never come to this part of Ithaka until now.” His voice is pleasant and well pitched. “Alas, I have no name, Uncle, being orphaned while young, and living not among men but in the wild.”
I lie down again before my legs give away, but I remain upright. “What brings you here to my master’s palace, then?”
The handsome dog steps closer to me so that only I can hear his answer.
“I learned that Aristratus, one of your mistress’s suitors, has returned. I wish to see him for he wronged me once.”
Aristratus? That name is familiar to me, yet I cannot place it.
“The chance for revenge will come presently, my friend,” I say. “Stay close, and soon your fine jaws will find their target. Destruction is coming, and dogs such as we will play our part. If you are hungry, there is food near the kitchen, where the cooks throw out old meat and water too.”
“Thank you, noble Argos,” the dog replies. “I caught a hare on my journey, and it was enough for now.”
We touch noses again, and this time he lowers his tail to show his respect. My head begins to swim, and I realize that I have begun to pant, although the day is not yet hot.
“Young one,” I say, “tell me your lineage. Who was your father? Your mother? Where did they live? I would surely know of them if they were from here. And you must have brothers and sisters, do you not?”
For a long time my companion does not speak. Then he says, “Alas, brave Argos, as I said, I am orphaned. I do not know my father’s fate, and my mother is long gone. I know not even if my brothers and sisters live. They were taken away from me when I was a pup. I alone escaped, only to watch helplessly as they, along with my mother, were carried aboard a red ship to be taken to a far-off isle. That was the last I saw of them, although I heard their howls of fear for many months afterward in my sleep.”
Could it be?
“Did you say it was a red ship?” I ask.
“Yes, noble one. With forty oars. I counted them.”
“And this ship. Were its sails yellow? Not white?”
“As yellow as Apollo’s chariot,” the dog says bitterly.
I have seen red ships in the harbor a few times in my life, but all but one was rigged with white sails. “Tell me of your mother. What color was her fur? Was it tawny like yours? Was her muzzle golden as well? Do you remember?”
“Aye, I remember her perfectly. Both her fur and her muzzle were the color of meadow flowers in spring, as yellow as the solidago plant that covers the mountain sides.”
“We call that plant goldenrod. And it is beautiful.”
I close my eyes. I can see her. My golden mate.
“Noble Argos, do you faint? Should I fetch a servant?”
“No, I was merely thinking and remembering. The man you seek—he was the one who bought her?”
The dog whimpers. “Yes. I have thought for many years that revenge would bring me peace, but I know now it will not. I have no brothers, no sisters, no mother, and no pack. Not even a flock of sheep to guard. Nor do I have a master to guard, having lived in the wild for many years as a wolf might. Seeing you reminds me I am more alone than before.”
He has her eyes, I think.
I lie down on my side. I can no longer hold my head up. How heavy my eyes feel.
“You are not alone. Lie close to me, my son, offspring of Aurora,” I said. “Lie close to your father and know that you belong to me.”
I feel him lick my ear.
“I will remain by your side, noblest of creatures,” he says softly.
Then Athena herself places her hand over my eyes. I sense her there beside me.
“My son,” I begin.
“Rest, Father.”
“I will rest soon enough,” I gasp. “But first you must listen to my charge. My master, noble Odysseus, has returned after many years to retake his home. He is the one dressed as a beggar, but soon he will be king again. His only son is brave Telemachos. Telemachos is your master now, and Queen Penelope your mistress. Guard them both well.”
Then Athena closes my eyes.
I am Argos, the Boar Slayer; dog son of Odysseus, sacker of cities, dog brother of noble Telemachos; mate of golden Aurora, now father to a noble son, and here my story ends.
BOOK III
CHAPTER XL
I find a master
No blind poet has sung my story, as they did my father, noble Argos, but I will tell it as it happened—though roughly, I confess, for I never lay at night beside a tutor or a philosopher, and my words are ill formed, I fear. Still, I am the son of Argos, guardian companion to Telemachos, and my tale will be remembered by some, I think.
Brave Telemachos was in the dining hall when Odysseus, still disguised as a beggar, and Eumaios entered, and I followed.
“Eumaios,” Telemachos said. “Whose dog is this? I have not seen him before. Surely he belongs to some noble, for his bearing is proud, as if his sire were Herakles himself, so large and well-formed is he.”
“I know him not, Telemachos,” the swineherd said. “He belongs to no shepherd on this island, or farmer, I believe, for I would have heard of him if so. Perhaps he escaped from a ship. A few have landed recently, and their sailors drink our prized wine and forget themselves often.”
I approached Telemachos and licked his hand.
“I think he has found a new master,” Odysseus said. “I too once had a loyal dog, worth more than gold to me. You should take him, sir, for a companion like that is hard to find on this island or any other.”
“I shall indeed take him, for one day I will hunt boars again, and he looks to be a fine tracker, and fearless, too,” said Telemachos.
“Aye, not even a lion would he fear, I venture,” said Eumaios.
Telemachos laughed and stroked my head. “Thank you, Eumaios, that is what I shall call him. Leander, the lion hunter.”
Leander! That is to be my name. I licked Telemachos’s hand again to thank him. I was his now, for life. My father’s command was fulfilled.
I sat beside Telemachos, and with one hand on my neck, he said quietly to the two men, “Forgive my manners, friends. Take this bread and this meat, freshly carved, sirs. Sit at this small table, where I break my fast, and fill your stomachs, so I do order. Then, when you have finished the meat, old beggar, go into the dining hall where the suitors are eating, and ask them each for bread, for I would see who is generous and who is not.”
Brave Odysseus nodded, and after eating, he, Eumaios, and I entered the great hall. In the hall Odysseus saw Athena (I saw her also), though no other man divined her presence, and he knew she was there to see which of the suitors she would spare from disaster. So Odysseus approached every man, and with his palm extended, asked for spare coins and bread to fill his sack. They all but a few denied him even a crust of bread, and one scoundrel spit on brave Odysseus’s outstretched hand! How Argos would have shown his sharp teeth then, but I could not. Not yet.
Then, among the suitors, Antinoos spoke disapprovingly, castigating Eumaios for bringing a beggar into the hall, saying, “Foolish swineherd, why did you bring this old man here? Are there not enough beggars and vagabonds in the city? Let him beg there rather than here among us!”
The Eumaios replied, “Antinoos, though you are noble, you are not well-spoken. Why begrudge a poor beggar food and coin? Although I would expect it, for you, among all the suitors, treat the servants the worst here, me, most of all.”
Hearing this insult, Antinoos raised his hand to strike the swineherd, but my master, Telemachos, cried sharply, “Enough! What he says is true, Antinoos. You treat the servants cruelly, and you are more eager to eat than to give to another.”
Enraged, Antinoos lifted a stool and threatened to hurl it at the swineherd, but Odysseus stepped between them and said, “Won’t you give to an old beggar? You, among all men here, are the most kingly. Therefore, you should give me a better present of food than all the others. And if you do so, I’l
l sing your praises wherever I travel, for I wander many places and would sing your fame over the endless earth.”
Then Antinoos said, “What spirit brought this pain among us? You are nothing more than a shameless beggar. You already went around the entire circle asking for bread, and some gave to you generously! Do you require more, shameless vagabond?”
Odysseus shook his head. “No, the shame is on you. Your wits do not match your handsome face. For you would not give salt to a servant or bread to a beggar, even though it is not your house and there is food in abundance!”
Hearing this, Antinoos threw the footstool at Odysseus, striking him in the shoulder! But Odysseus did not move, nor was his body shaken by the missile. Instead he strode to the windowsill and sat there as if gathering his thoughts. Then he shook his head and said, “It is one thing to be struck in battle, or in a fight to protect one’s belongings from a thief, but to strike a man simply because he is hungry and asks for food is a terrible thing. Therefore, if there be any gods or furies who look gently upon beggars, they will surely strike you dead before you are married!”
But Antinoos was not chastened. Rather, he cursed Odysseus in return. “Go now, beggar, on your own feet, before we drag you out from this house and tear the skin from your body!” he thundered.
It was then that loyal Eumaios intervened, for surely Odysseus and Antinoos were close to attacking each other, saying, “Come outside, friend. It is better to eat your bread in the fresh air than to suffer the foul curses of an enemy.”
Hearing that, Odysseus took his crust-filled sack, and he and Eumaios and I left the room to join Telemachos. Sometime later, a servant girl came outside and said, “Kind sirs, I bring a message from my mistress Penelope. She says that you, loyal Eumaios, may return home to your pigs before it grows too dark, and that your friend should come to my mistress’s chamber, for perhaps he knows news of long-suffering Odysseus.”
How did Odysseus not betray his joy then? To see his loyal wife after such long suffering! But noble Argos’s master is known as the Wily One, is he not? Instead of doing as he was bidden, he told the servant girl this: “Tell your mistress, fair Penelope, that I will come to her after sunset and when the suitors have left.”
