by Glyn Iliffe
Telemachus did as he was told and they continued down the row in silence. It was late afternoon and the only sounds were the calls of the seagulls overhead and the crashing of waves from beyond the cliff’s edge. Every now and then his grandfather would shake his head and chuckle to himself, but Telemachus could not share his pleasure. All he could think about was Odysseus.
‘Do you think he’ll ever return?’
‘Your father? Only the gods know that. But he’s always had his wits about him and he’s not one to let courage get in the way of common sense, so it’s more likely than not.’
‘Will I be made king if he doesn’t?’
Laertes bent closer to his vines and grunted something indistinct.
‘Because Melantho said something to me that I didn’t understand.’
‘You don’t want to listen to her.’
‘She said I wouldn’t be king because mother had sold my birthright. Do you know what she means?’
Laertes sighed and stood up, pressing a hand into the small of his back to straighten himself. He saw a tree stump and sat down, indicating for Telemachus to join him.
‘Then your mother hasn’t told you yet? I thought not. Listen to me, lad. I love your mother as if she were my own flesh and blood. She’s got a good heart, she’s loyal and she’s clever – qualities that most of the nobility seems to lack. What’s more, if a man needs brains and brawn to rule a kingdom then a woman needs twice the brains because she hasn’t got the brawn, if you follow.’ He waited for Telemachus to nod before continuing. ‘Now, she’ll have wanted to say this to you herself at some point, but you’ve asked so I’m going to tell you. You already know your mother sent you to Sparta for your own safety, so why do you think she brought you back?’
‘They caught the assassin?’
‘They caught one assassin in a world full of them.’
‘Then I don’t know why. Am I still in danger then?’
‘Not any more, your mother saw to that,’ Laertes said. ‘She’s promised to remarry if Odysseus doesn’t return before you reach manhood. So Melantho’s right: unless your father returns, your mother will be forced to remarry and her new husband will become king, not you.’
Telemachus frowned.
‘But why? Why would she do that?’
‘Because she loves you enough to want to guarantee your safety. So long as you can never become king, Eupeithes and his cronies don’t need you out of the way. I don’t think there was much else she could do.’
‘Then you’re wrong about her,’ Telemachus shouted, jumping to his feet and throwing the basket into the vines. ‘You said she was loyal, but she’s not. I was safe in Sparta; she betrayed me because she wanted me back home.’
He ran down the hillside to the track at the bottom and kept running. Eventually the need to think things through caught up with him and he slowed to a walk. His future, which had always been securely tied to the throne, was suddenly uncertain. For a boy with an absent father, like so many others on Ithaca, he had always felt empowered by the thought that one day he would be king. Now that had been taken from him. If Odysseus did not come back he had always known he would inherit the throne and have the power to make all the people and things he cared about safe. Now that power would fall into the hands of some unknown stepfather, most likely foisted on him by Eupeithes. Everything now depended on Odysseus returning and reclaiming his kingdom.
He still felt angry as he neared home some time later, though he had stopped blaming his mother, who he knew had done the only thing she could to ensure his safety. He would have welcomed the chance to encounter Eurymachus on the road though and vent his fury on the oaf, even if it meant a beating in return. Instead, as he walked the track along the side of Mount Neriton, he saw a tall boy strolling towards him from the opposite direction. The boy gave him an inquisitive look, then stopped and folded his arms.
‘You’re Odysseus’s son.’
‘So what? And who in Hades are you?’
‘Peiraeus, son of Clytius.’
‘Never heard of either of you.’
‘Well you should have. My father went to Troy with the last shipload of replacements. If it wasn’t for your father and his stupid war, mine would still be on Kefalonia and I wouldn’t have been sent over here to live with my uncle.’
‘It’s not my father’s war and you should speak about your king with more respect.’
‘He’s nobody’s king at the moment, not while he’s on the other side of the world fighting somebody else’s war!’
Telemachus clenched his fist and swung at the boy, who stepped back from the blow and used his longer reach to punch Telemachus squarely in the face. Telemachus’s legs gave and he found himself on his backside in the middle of the dusty track. But his anger propelled him back onto his feet and, remembering Mentor’s training, he ducked beneath a second blow and punched Peiraeus in the chest. The boy staggered back, clutching his chest and coughing, then returned with fists flailing, a lucky blow catching Telemachus on the same spot where Eurymachus had hit him before. It stung and he felt his legs giving again, but seeing Peiraeus’s guard open, he laid a well-aimed punch hard in his throat. At that moment his legs refused to go another step and buckled under him.
For a moment he lay on his back with a pounding head and looked up at the cloudless sky. Hearing the other boy moving, he sat up to see him also flat out on the track, propped up on one elbow and rubbing his neck.
‘You’ve got a hard punch,’ Telemachus said. ‘If your father fights as well as you do the war’ll be over soon.’
‘I’m sorry I insulted the king,’ Peiraeus replied. ‘You had every right to hit me.’
Telemachus rose unsteadily to his feet and offered the boy his hand. Peiraeus shook it, then allowed Telemachus to pull him up. They looked at each other, secretly admiring the blood and dust that marked the start of their friendship, then, at Telemachus’s suggestion, set off for the palace to see what food could be gleaned from the kitchens.
Under the Cyclops’s arm was a bundle of firewood, which he tossed to one side with a startling clatter. Then he reached through the cave entrance with both arms, took hold of the stone disc that lay propped against the wall outside, and with barely a grunt rolled it slowly across the entrance. As rock grated against rock and daylight was quickly squeezed out of the cave, Eperitus felt he was being entombed. He reached down for the hilt of his sword and gripped it tight in an effort to control the shaking in his hand. It was then that he noticed the faint glow from the extinguished fire and the thin line of smoke that trailed up from it. A new wave of fear gripped him, for the Ithacans were trapped, and if the herdsman found them there they would be utterly defenceless against a creature of such size.
A small gap remained between the top of the stone and the apex of the cave, barely large enough for a man’s hand. Through this a last beam of twilight filtered into the cave, by which Eperitus could see the herdsman’s head turning this way and that as if counting the multitude of animals. When he was done, he took two ground-shaking steps across the cave and sat down on a boulder beside the sheep pens. Reaching behind himself into the blackness, he pulled out some large wooden bowls and laid them on the floor. As if reacting to a familiar routine, the animals began crowding towards him.
‘Come now, don’t push,’ he boomed, his slow, heavy voice shaking the closed air of the cave. ‘You’ll all get your turn.’
One by one, he allowed them up to the bowls to be milked. After gently squeezing their udders with the tips of his enormous fingers, he lifted lambs or kids from the pens and put them to their mothers to feed. When all this was over he took half the bowls and with a patience that seemed unsuited to a beast of such savage appearance, he began curdling the milk. Finally, after Eperitus had grown stiff from lying motionless on the cold stone floor, the last ray of light faded away. The darkness was now filled with the noisy suckling of the young and the fidgeting of animals as they lay down to rest, but of their master E
peritus could hear nothing. He began to fear that the creature suspected their presence and was stalking the darkness for them; that at any moment a giant hand would reach out of the void and pluck him out of his hiding place to be devoured. And then with a loud crack of stone and a flash of light, Eperitus glimpsed him by the ring of stones where the Ithacans had made their fire. The noise startled Elpenor back into consciousness and Eperitus quickly closed his hand over the lad’s mouth again. Another smack of stone upon stone and another spark of light seared a picture of the monster’s face onto Eperitus’s mind’s eye, but it was an image so horrible he knew it could not have been possible. Another crack and flash followed. In the darkness he heard the herdsman blowing life into the spark of fire he had kindled, until slowly the glow of flame blossomed like an orange rose in the centre of the blackness. Before Eperitus could glimpse the hideous face again, the herdsman turned his back and sat cross-legged before the hearth, his shoulders hunched as he stared in dumb silence at what he had created.
After a while, he took a deep breath and spoke.
‘Come out of the shadows. Let me see you.’
Eperitus felt his heart pounding faster and louder against his rib cage. He wanted to believe the monster was talking to his sheep again. But the tone was less gentle than when he had spoken to his flocks. Instead, his words were stern – a command rather than an invite. Peering into the tar-black recesses of the cave, Eperitus saw the slight sheen of the firelight washing over armour, but none of his comrades dared step out of their hiding places.
‘Come now, do you take me for a fool because I’m big and clumsy to your tiny eyes? Do you think I didn’t notice the smoke rising from the wet ashes when I entered? Can I not see the crumbs of cheese your little mouths have let fall around my hearth. And did I not notice that one of my children is missing, that one of my ewes is without her lamb?’
His voice rose so that the cave seemed to tremble with his anger, an anger that was as yet contained but which threatened to erupt with terrible consequences. While the echo of his words was still ringing from the stone walls, no-one moved. Then a man rose to his feet at the back of the cave and walked towards the edge of the firelight. It was Odysseus. Eperitus took his hand from Elpenor’s mouth and stood. Though the giant’s back was still turned to them, he had to wade through his own fear to cross the short distance to Odysseus’s side.
‘Only two of you?’ the herdsman asked, as if speaking to the flames. ‘Or only two of you brave enough to face the master of the home you have invaded? Yes, that’s it: two brave men and eleven cowards. For thirteen men entered this cave. But what sort of men are you? Merchants? Well-fed merchants with big, fat legs, useless for running away but perfect for eating? No, you don’t smell like seafaring traders. Too lean, too inquisitive, too reckless. Pirates then, with your pricking spears and your flimsy shields, and your unquenchable lust for what is not your own.’
‘We are neither, my lord,’ Odysseus answered.
In that dark prison, surrounded by cold stone and with a fiend as their gaoler, the king’s voice sounded smoother and more reassuring than Eperitus had ever heard it before. It was like a warm light flickering into life amid the black hopelessness of their situation. And as Eperitus watched the hunched shoulders of the herdsman it seemed they were frozen, snared by the small voice that had emerged from the shadows. Behind him he heard the scuff of sandals on rock as more Ithacans conquered their fear and emerged from the shadows.
‘We are Greeks, men of honour who respect the gods. We were returning from the siege of Troy where we were part of Agamemnon’s victorious army. Ten years we fought for him, building his renown with the bricks of our dead bodies and the mortar of our blood, but from the moment we sailed for home we’ve had nothing but trouble. Recently the gods sent a storm to divide our fleet, and now we find ourselves alone in a strange land without any idea of how to find our way back again. When we saw your cave and its well-made wall, and when we entered and saw the carefully tended animals and other signs of a civilised mind, we decided to stay and throw ourselves upon your mercy. After all, in Greece a shepherd honours the gods as much as any other man, and anyone who honours the gods will show grace to a suppliant, if only because Zeus commands it.’
To Eperitus’s mind, even a creature of such fearsome size and temper as the creature that sat before them could not refuse such a request. For a moment the shepherd sat in silence, then slowly – his shoulders shaking slightly so that he seemed to rock back and forth – he began to laugh. It was a deep, menacing sound that was felt rather than heard.
‘I’ve been called many things, but civilised is not one of them. There’s a threshold where flattery becomes obvious, and you, my little mouse, have crossed it. But after trying to flatter me you then dare to insult me! Do you think I am like you – small and weak, clinging on to life by grovelling before the gods? I am a Cyclops! The gods do not command me, for I am stronger than they are. And if I treat you as suppliants rather than thieves then it is because I choose to do so, not because Zeus commands it.’
‘It wasn’t my intention to offend you, friend,’ Odysseus countered, calmly. ‘If we stole from you then it was not due to base character, but because we were starving. We will gladly pay you back.’
‘You have nothing I want, for I want nothing but to be left alone.’
‘Then tell us where we are and how to find our way home. Do that and you will never hear from us again, you have my word.’
‘We Cyclopes are not sailors,’ the herdsman replied, picking up a large branch and stoking the flames with it before dropping it into the fire with a puff of embers. ‘I could not tell you how to get home even if I knew where it is. Only Aeolus knows such things. But if you tell me where your galley is moored, maybe I could help you.’
‘We have no ship. The storm that separated us from the rest of our fleet tore our sails and snapped our rudders, so that when we reached these shores we were driven helplessly upon the rocks. We are the only ones who made it to shore alive.’
‘Liar!’ the Cyclops boomed, rising to his feet. ‘A sailor without a ship does not ask the way home.’
He turned towards the Ithacans, towering above them. With the light of the hearth behind him, he presented a terrifying silhouette, the shaggy hair of his head and limbs catching the orange glow of the flames. But as the men’s eyes adjusted and his features became clearer, they fell away, some of them crying out in dread. Even Odysseus took a step back, colliding with Eperitus, who had remained rooted to the spot, staring up in disbelief at the hideous visage that stared down at him. For the herdsman had but a single eye in the centre of his face, a fierce, dominant orb that simmered with malevolent intelligence.
‘And now that I think of it, perhaps you do have something that I want!’
With a roar that shook the air in the cave, the monster leapt towards them. Eperitus seized the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it Odysseus caught him and bundled him backwards into the shadows. The others turned to run. From the corner of his eye Eperitus saw Omeros stumble and Polites rush back to help him. As Polites seized the back of the young warrior’s tunic, so the monstrous hand of the Cyclops reached down towards them both. Eperitus drew his sword and rushed to help them. At the same moment, Mydon and Hippasos ran out of the shadows with their blades flashing in the firelight. Mydon struck at the Cyclops’s outstretched arm, but the creature’s thick hide turned the blow and the weapon flew out of the warrior’s hand. Immediately the Cyclops’ fingers closed about him and snatched him up into the smoky darkness. Hippasos charged the monster with a yell, aiming the point of his sword at his thigh. Before he could drive the attack home, the herdsman knocked him to the ground. Picking him up by his legs, he swung him high in the air and then back down against the floor, splitting his head open so that brains and pieces of skull exploded in an arc across the rock. Filled with rage for his comrades, Eperitus ran on, only to have his legs pulled from beneath him. A moment later, Ody
sseus was on top of him.
‘I won’t let you throw your life away,’ he hissed. ‘There’s nothing you can do for them now.’
The king seized him by the elbow and dragged him back into the shadows. Eperitus caught sight of Polites doing the same for Omeros, who was now unconscious. Looking up, he saw the Cyclops drop the decapitated body of Hippasos onto the floor and turn his attention to Mydon. The Ithacan screamed, the cry of a man driven out of his mind with terror. Then the monstrous herdsman took hold of one of his arms and wrenched it from its socket, as if he was snapping a branch from a small tree. While Mydon’s shouts rang back from the walls, the monster devoured his limb whole. Then, seizing the man’s legs in his other hand, he tore him in two and put an end to his pitiful cries. Slumping back down onto the boulder where he had been sitting, the Cyclops gorged himself on the two Ithacans until his beard ran with blood and pieces of their flesh. Then, after draining one of the bowls of fresh milk, he gave out a large belch and threw himself down on the floor. Within moments he was asleep.
Odysseus had dragged Eperitus into the recess where Elpenor was still hiding. From here they had watched wide-eyed with fear as the Cyclops murdered and ate their friends. After convincing himself that the ogre’s slow breathing and loud snores were not feigned, Eperitus mustered the courage to stand. He picked up his discarded sword and forced himself the few paces to where the ogre slept. Mortal dread sapped his strength, but he knew this would be his only opportunity to destroy the Cyclops and avenge his comrades. Yet every step was a trial, as if the air had solidified about him and could only be moved with the greatest effort. He had fought with selfless bravery against many terrifying enemies, but the sight of the fiend disarmed him. He tried to picture Astynome’s face in his mind’s eye but could not. The darkness of the cave and the horror of the Cyclops seemed to suck everything from him, so that only the instinct to slice open its throat or hack off its hideous head kept him going.
