Argos

by Ralph Hardy

  The servant girl left with her message, and Eumaios stood up as well to leave, but before doing so, he whispered into my master Telemachos’s ear, “Dear boy, I go now to guard the pigs. Watch yourself and the old beggar tonight, for there are men here who would do evil upon you both.”

  “Thank you, loyal friend,” Telemachos said. “I will see to things here tonight, as will the gods. Return in the morning, though, if you can, and we shall see what the new day brings.”

  Then loyal Eumaios left, following the narrow path to his home, while Odysseus drew his cloak near in the cooling evening and built a small fire. Telemachos remained outside with him. I lay there beside Telemachos, and he stroked my back.

  It was the first time I allowed a man to touch me.

  Later that night, I put my teeth around Telemachos’s mantle and led him to where my father, Argos, lay, but his body was gone. All that remained was a tuft of black fur glistening in the moonlight. Telemachos picked it up and returned to the fire, giving the tuft to noble Odysseus.

  “The gods have taken your most loyal companion to Mount Olympus, Father,” Telemachos said softly. As he said this, a cloud passed over the moon, although the sky was clear and star filled.

  “Truly, Argos was like a brother to me,” brave Odysseus said.

  “And to me, a father,” said noble Telemachos.

  Then did I see a king and his son weep.

  CHAPTER XLI

  A wrestling match

  I smelled him first, then heard his curses and oaths as he trod up the path to our estate. His cloak was made of fetid animal skins, and he had not bathed for many days. Iros, it was; a local beggar known for his strength and his large belly, who apparently came often to the palace when the suitors were there, to beg for coin and food. I growled and raised my hackles, but Telemachos called me to his side and made me sit between him and his father.

  “Greetings, sir,” Odysseus, still also clothed as a beggar, said.

  “Not greetings, but farewell, I think,” Iros replied. Truly, the smell of his breath was worse than a boar’s. “Leave this court now, or I shall be forced to drag you out. So say the suitors who hired me to dispatch you. Suitors!” he called. “I have come to do your bidding!”

  The door to the palace opened, and the suitors passed through it. Having feasted, they longed for sport.

  “Stranger,” Odysseus said calmly, “there is no need for such talk. There is plenty of food here, and the door is wide enough for both of us. You are a beggar as I am, so don’t threaten me, for though I am old, I may still bloody your face.”

  Then Iros called out to the suitors, “Did you hear that? The old man threatens me!”

  Then Antinoos, most haughty of the suitors, called out, “Friends, let us wager on this contest. I say to the combatants, whichever of you wins shall come here every night for dinner and sit among us as equals. What say you, men?”

  And the suitors all cheered this wager. Then Odysseus, the Wily One, spoke, saying, “Truly, though I am an old man, I agree to this. For though I bear this vagabond no harm, my stomach drives me to it. But you must all swear that none of you will take the side of Iros and strike me with a heavy hand so as to give this man the advantage. Swear you this?”

  Laughing, the suitors all swore their pledges. Then brave Telemachos stepped forward and said, “Stranger, fear not these men. I am your host, and whoever should strike you would find himself outnumbered. So I swear!”

  The men all jeered Telemachos, which brought a snarl to my lips, but Telemachos kept a strong hand on my neck. Then the suitors made a circle around Iros and brave Odysseus, urging them on. Then did Odysseus remove his outer tunic, displaying powerful thighs and broad shoulders. Athena herself came down (though only I saw her) and magnified my master’s limbs so that the suitors were astonished.

  Iros himself paled and began to back away, but Antinoos cursed him, saying he would be fed to the dogs on a forgotten island if he did not fight, so he charged Odysseus, trying to gain the upper hand. But Odysseus was too quick. He spun out of Iros’s grasp and struck him just below his ear. Iros fell to the ground, and the suitors erupted with laughter. Then Odysseus took Iros by the foot and dragged him outside, propping him against a tree.

  “Sit here and scare away the dogs and pigs,” he said to Iros, “and never again claim to be king of the beggars, or worse than this will befall you!”

  Then a suitor called Amphinomos by the others brought Odysseus a loaf of bread and a cup of honey wine to eat inside the great hall.

  “To your health, Father and stranger,” he said, raising his own cup. “May you be prosperous in the future, for you have been, until now, most unfortunate, it would seem.”

  Odysseus raised his cup and answered, “Truly, you are very wise for a young man, and well-spoken, so let me tell you what I know. Surely, of all the creatures that walk this earth, man is the most helpless, for when he is young and full of life, he believes the gods are with him, and when he suffers misfortune, he then blames it on them too. I myself was once promised by the gods a life of prosperity, but look at me now. So I say do not take the gods’ gifts for granted, but offer thanks whenever they are come your way.”

  They each drank from their cups, and Odysseus continued. “I look around and see so many suitors devising evil and showing no respect for the wife who lives here. They take for their own possessions of a man who I think will return soon. When he does, I hope your destiny has led you far from here.”

  Hearing this, the suitors became silent.

  “Perhaps what you say is true,” Amphinomos said finally. “And perhaps it is not,” he sneered. Then he took another drink and returned to his seat. I looked over to Telemachos, and he was staring at Amphinomos, as if to remember his face for another day. Then above me, I heard footsteps: three pairs of feet crossing the floor. Telemachos heard them too. “My mother will be down soon,” he said to Odysseus, who nodded once.

  None of the suitors heard this; they continued feasting, raising their cups and cursing the servants if they were too slow to refill them. But Odysseus and his son, my master, ate quietly, watching, and saying nothing. Then my nose twitched and my ears stood up, for my mistress Penelope had descended the stairs, and she approached the great hall, but such was their noise and revelry that the suitors did not see her as she stood in the door, watching their actions. Never had a woman looked so bewitching, though she held a sheer veil over her face to protect her modesty. My young master Telemachos was the first to see her, and he approached her as a loving son would do. Beside me I heard Odysseus inhale sharply, but he could not betray his identity.

  “Tell me, son,” my mistress said. “Was there a struggle down here?”

  Then noble Telemachos said, “Yes, Mother, there was. It shames me to say that under our roof the suitors wagered on a struggle between two beggars. How low our house has fallen. If only I had twenty men as strong as the stranger who defeated Iros, then the suitors would be driven away and honor would be restored here.”

  So the two were lamenting their fate when suddenly Eurymachos noticed fair Penelope, and he rose to his feet, while slamming down his empty cup with force to draw attention to his announcement.

  “Daughter of Ikarios,” he said. “Loyal Penelope, your beauty tonight outshines the goddesses. Surely tomorrow there will be even more suitors here, for there is no one among the Achaians whose beauty and stature surpass yours.”

  Trembling with terrible emotion, Mistress Penelope answered him thus: “Eurymachos, my beauty and my stature were ruined by the gods when my husband, Odysseus, set sail for Troy. Before he left, he took my arm and said, ‘Dear wife, not all of us will return from this war. The Trojans are men who can fight in battle, and they can throw spears and shoot arrows as well as any Achaian. I do not know if the gods will spare me or if I will be killed there in Troy. But if I do not return, then let everything be in your hands, and when our son, Telemachos, is grown, you may marry any man you please.’”r />
  Hearing this, the craven suitors cheered. But my mistress had not finished.

  “Be silent, guests. Thus did my husband speak,” she said gravely. “And now, wretched me, my son is grown and custom demands that I remarry. But I tell you all, my husband would not have released me to such as you. In the past, suitors would have come to my home bringing gifts of cattle and fat sheep to feed the family of the bride; glorious gifts would have filled the hall. They would not have eaten up their bride’s livelihood, nor abused her servants.”

  As she said this, Telemachos smiled, as did noble Odysseus through his beard, and shame colored the faces of some of the suitors, but not all. Cowardly Antinoos rose then and said to my mistress, “Noble Penelope, forgive us our actions. When we have finished our meal, we shall depart, and in the morning we will return with gifts worthy of your good name.”

  But my mistress did not answer Antinoos. Instead she turned to Telemachos and kissed him on the cheek before retiring to her bedchamber. Telemachos watched her as she departed, then he took a leg of lamb and a loaf of bread and left the hall to sit outside. I followed him there and sat beside him. He took pieces of meat from the bone and offered them to me.

  Oh, to be fed by hand from one’s master is a sweet thing!

  CHAPTER XLII

  Odysseus meets my mistress

  Once the suitors had left and Odysseus’s palace was dark, with only a handful of servants still cleaning, Telemachos turned to Odysseus and asked quietly, “Noble father, do you have a plan to overcome the suitors? We are but two still, and they number more than one hundred.”

  I snarled at the mention of the suitors, and noble Odysseus said, “There are three of us, I believe. Is that not so, pup?”

  I licked my lips, baring my sharpest teeth, and they both laughed.

  “Truly, I say to you, I believe this loyal one is ready to send more than a few of them to their fates,” Telemachos said.

  “We shall see soon enough,” Odysseus said, turning serious, and scratching my ears. Then he said, “Tonight, my son, go through the house and make sure all of my armor and weapons are hidden. When the suitors return in the morning, we must ensure they leave their spears and swords outside. That will give us the advantage. Now it is late and I must make more plans tonight, as well as give thanks to Athena, for she is my protector.”

  Noble Telemachos rose and left to do Odysseus’s bidding. I stood with him, but he said, “Stay, loyal one. I have no enemies here, but my father does. Guard him tonight, for the servants may think him only a beggar.”

  And so I remained with Odysseus. Some time later, a servant girl appeared in the door and called out to us. “Stranger,” she said. “My mistress would speak to you if you are still awake.”

  “I am,” Odysseus said, rising. “Take me to the lady.”

  I followed them into the palace. The servant girl took Odysseus into the sitting room, where Penelope waited for him, and I entered too. A fire warmed the room, and a fleece had been spread out over a chair for Odysseus to sit upon.

  “Stranger, welcome, and please make yourself comfortable,” Queen Penelope said, smiling. “And who is this lion that accompanies you?”

  How unlike dogs did the gods make men! No dog could resist wagging its tail upon seeing his mate after twenty years, and yet Odysseus revealed nothing, but said, “My queen, this is Leander, a loyal dog sent by your son to guard me against the suitors who bear me ill.”

  When he had seated himself, and I beside him, Mistress Penelope said, “Please do not take offense, but I have some questions for you, stranger. First, who are you and where are you from? Where is your city? Who are your parents? I think I see in you noble lineage, but it is covered in rags and torn clothing.”

  Then did Odysseus answer, “Lady, no man could take offense to these questions. Your faithfulness is known as far as the farthest islands and goes up into Olympus itself. But ask me not my name and lineage, I beg you, for the answers will fill my heart with grief, and it is not right that it should do so in a house in mourning such as this.”

  “Stranger, your words are fine and well said,” my mistress replied. “Truly, this is a house of grief and has been since my husband left for Ilion. As you saw tonight, the suitors, all powerful men, lords of their estates across Ithaka, wear my house out. For years now they have pressed me to marry one of them, but I weave my own plans. I set up a loom here in this room and said to them all, ‘Young men, my suitors, it may be that great Odysseus is perished, and his father, King Laertes, lies near death himself from grief. When I finish weaving this shroud for him, then I will choose one of you.’ And so each day I spin and weave at my great loom, and each night I burn what I have woven. I did this for three years, but last year a disloyal servant saw me burning the shroud and told the suitors. They forced me to finish it, and now I cannot escape my marriage.”

  Saying this, my mistress began to weep. I walked over to her and placed my head in her lap, and she stroked it gently. Then she said, “I have confessed much, stranger. Now, won’t you tell me your name and city and relieve a widow of her anguish for a short time?”

  After a few moments, brave Odysseus said, “O loyal wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, since you ask so plainly, I will tell. You may not know it, but there is a land called Crete, a beautiful country with good harbors, fertile soil, and tall pine trees for shipbuilding. There was I born and given the name Aithon, son to greathearted Deukalion, and grandson to Minos, who conversed with Zeus himself. And there did I meet your husband, noble Odysseus, when a strong storm forced him to take shelter on the way to Ilion. I took him into my home for twelve days and entertained him with proper hospitality, and on the thirteenth day, the wind relented and he set sail with his men on a fine black ship.”

  Hearing this, my mistress gasped. “Surely this is untrue and designed to ease a grieving widow’s mind!”

  Great Odysseus placed his hand on his heart, saying, “Nay, lady. It is true that I knew your husband and knew him well.”

  “My friend,” my mistress said. “I think I shall give you a test to see if what you say is forthright. Tell me, what sort of clothing did my husband wear on his body, and what sort of man was he himself and his companions as well?”

  My mistress began to stroke my head for she was truly vexed by the stranger’s tale. How soft her hands were, how gentle!

  Noble Odysseus answered thus, “Lady, many years have passed since then, and look at me now, how I have fallen from high place. But still I will tell you what he wore and who his men were. Great Odysseus wore a woolen mantle of purple hue with two folds, but the pin that held it was golden and artfully made: a hound much as this one at your lap, holding a deer in its paws. It was much admired. Of his men, their faces are a blur to me but one—his herald. He was a little older than your husband, round in shoulders and dark complexioned, and wooly haired. His name was Eurybates, and Odysseus valued him among all his companions. Is this so what I have told you?”

  But my mistress could not answer because she was weeping. Bitter tears splashed onto my forehead. Dogs cannot cry, thank the gods, but her tears fell from my own eyes as if they belonged to me. Finally my mistress collected herself and said, “Stranger, while before you had my pity, now you have my friendship and a place of respect here in my palace. The clothing I gave my husband is as you described it, and all who saw it shine admired the pin. But I know now that I will never welcome my husband into this house again.”

  Then my mistress buried her face in my neck. Now, I am a brave dog and have seen many things, but nothing except for the loss of my mother on that red ship moved me like this. How I wished then that I could say words of comfort to my mistress, but the gods severed human talk from us when Kronos first strode the earth.

  For a time Odysseus said nothing; truly, he is the wisest of men. How many husbands would have taken their mourning wives in their arms and said, “I am here, O wife, but in disguise”? But instead he said this: “O respected wife of
Odysseus, son of Laertes, let not your lamentations spoil your famed beauty. Mark what I tell you, for this I say in all honesty. Your husband is near.”

  My mistress raised her lovely head and said, “Now that I have called you friend, you say this cruel thing? To give false hope is to give no hope, stranger, so regard carefully what you say.”

  Then great Odysseus knelt beside us and put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Loyal Penelope, I am as faithful to you as this dog is to your son. I know this to be true. Although brave Odysseus has suffered much and lost all his men, he is close at hand, I swear to Zeus.”

  My mistress rose from her chair and made her way to the door. Turning then, she said, “I do not doubt that your words are true, if you believe them to be so. But I cannot believe them. Still, you are my friend and honored guest. I will tell the maidservants to bring a basin to wash your feet and new clothes for you to wear. They will prepare a bed too, for that is fitting in this house. Tomorrow you will dine at our table, seated beside brave Telemachos in a seat of honor, for you have sought to bring comfort to a grieving widow, and I thank you for that.”

  Then Odysseus said, “Noble wife of Odysseus, I am not accustomed to beds, so I will sleep here on the floor beside the fire. Nor do I want some young servant girl to wash my feet. But if you do have an old nurse or servant, one who has suffered as much as I, then I will allow her to do so.”

  “Dear friend,” my mistress said, “truly you are as thoughtful as any guest who has come to my palace. There is such a woman here, an old nurse who once comforted my unhappy husband as a youth. Her name is Eurykleia, and I shall call her at once.”