Homer's Daughter

by Robert Graves

  Then I turned to the masterless servants. “You, my lads, what is your business? Has the same idiotic joke been played on you? No, I am not being married either today, tomorrow, or on any subsequent day before the return of the King. I say so myself, and surely I should know? And pay attention: some of you are behaving as though this were the shrine of Aphrodite on a morning of high festival, and my chaste and well-mannered maids were her temple prostitutes. Remember, your boorishness reflects on the lords whom you serve; and off with you all—or all except you two lads wearing my lord Agelaus’s badge! Wait here, pray, both of you, and when the court is empty again and the gate barred, I shall require you to salvage the wool which your rude entry has sent flying about.”

  Eumaeus’s son touched his forelock a second time. “Begging your pardon, mistress, I fear that my reverend father will tan my back with his heaviest cudgel if I bring these porkers home without direct orders from the Lord Mentor. You would not have me beaten, mistress, I am sure.”

  “My uncle is away until tomorrow. Like your reverend father, he has gone to Aegesta. This should be proof enough that the orders are not his. And if you doubt my words, would you perhaps prefer to consult the Queen?”

  The boy shifted his feet and looked uncomfortable. “If it please your ladyship, I should like to consult Prince Clytoneus. My reverend father and I honour your mother beyond all women, and your self hardly less, but orders for our hogs always come from the men of your noble house—no disrespect intended.”

  “And no offence taken,” I said. “Put someone in charge of the herd and go to the tower room. You will find Prince Clytoneus there, touching up the device on one of the palace shields—though why he cannot leave the task to a skilled painter is more than I can say.”

  I turned to the intruding servants again. “Why are you waiting? I told you to be off.”

  A tall, curly-bearded man, wearing Antinous’s badge, answered boldly: “We have orders to prepare a feast here for our masters.” He tapped the sharp sacrificial knife at his girdle.

  “Have you, indeed? Well, then, my orders are exactly the reverse: get out, and get out quick! You are interfering with the morning’s work!”

  The servants glanced doubtfully from one to the other, and I clapped my hands for the porter. “Porter,” I said, “call Medon the herald and desire him to clear the court. Since these dolts will not listen to me, perhaps they will listen to him.”

  Some of the servants had raided the woodpile and were lugging out faggots. It would only have made matters worse if I had intervened, so I paid no attention to what they did and continued to direct the wool beating until Eumaeus’s son returned with Clytoneus. Clytoneus’s hands were stained cinnabar red from the painting and, in the light of the first words he spoke, this accident struck me as pleasantly ominous.

  “I warn you wretches who have broken into our Palace, with butcher’s knives at your girdles, that when the time comes, my men and I, not you and your masters, will do the butchering!”

  Medon then entered, blinking and yawning, newly awakened from sleep, his favourite pastime. He raised the white wand, which, like his plumed sandals, showed that his person was sacrosanct, and made a long, eloquent speech. He began with a preface in praise of the Elyman people: their courage, honesty, tenacity, gentleness and good manners, the deeds of their forefathers, the favour bestowed on our nation by the Gods, the wisdom of our rulers, the solidarity of our clans, the beauty of our princesses, the extreme rarity of riots, quarrels or brawls in our market place. Next, he enlarged on his own position as royal herald, the sacred duty imposed on him to keep the peace, and the surprise which had overcome him when informed that certain sacrifical beasts were spontaneously offering their necks to the knife…

  Would he ever reach the point? I wondered. But it was soon obvious that he had no intention of doing so—he was playing for time. Presently the servants’ masters would arrive, and the dispute must enter upon a new and more interesting stage.

  So I asked Medon to desist, and addressed the men myself for the last time. “Lads,” I said, “if you leave this court now, your masters will beat you for disobeying their orders. If you do not leave, however, then as sure as my name is Nausicaa, the Furies will pursue you with their brazen scourges and hound every man to death, though he run a thousand miles. I am a priestess of the royal hearth, and when I summon those daughters of Uranus, they come crowding at my back.” Here I took Medon’s wand from his hands and advanced towards them with slow menace, glancing frequently over my shoulder and smiling encouragement to the invisible Furies. Antinous’s bearded valet folded his arms and stood his ground, but I struck him across the head and kicked him hard in the groin. He cried “Oh! Oh!” and stumbled away, doubled up with pain, and there was a concerted rush for the gate, through which Eumaeus’s son and Philoetius’s cousin had already driven their beasts. The two fat bullocks took fright and charged after them, bellowing, and this added to the fun; but it was not long before I had cleared the court and barred the gate myself.

  “Dear companions, let us collect the scattered wool,” I ordered cheerfully. Suppressing their mirth, they obeyed, all but Melantho, who sat and scowled on a bench, as though she had not heard me. She was a tall, well-built girl who walked like a princess—as I do not; and this beauty of gait encouraged ambitions in her which she lacked the intelligence to make good.

  “You will come to an unlucky end, daughter,” I prophesied. “What begins in the boathouse, as they say, ends in deep water.” I added “as they say” to pass it off as a proverb, and pretended to be mystified by the sniggering of the other girls. “What’s the merriment?” I asked severely. Melantho bent to chase a whirling strand of wool, but I read the hate and fear in her eyes.

  I drew Clytoneus aside. “Our enemies are showing their hand at last, dear Brother, yet I can trust you to preserve my honour, and that of the house. You must act for our father now, because I have a notion that Uncle Mentor will be detained at Aegesta, so that you are the only man left about the Palace—except grandfather, of course, but he is deaf and his memory is failing.”

  Clytoneus embraced me tenderly, and I was back working at the wool when Medon’s loud voice sounded again from close behind: “Mistress, allow me to present a number of distinguished suitors whom your beauty and the King’s reiterated invitations have drawn together out of all the clans of our nation. They come here in hope of lavish hospitality, and in the confidence that, after a careful review of each suitor’s merit, one of them will be chosen and garlanded as the fortunate sharer of your bridal couch.” There they stood in a solid mass, grinning like naughty children who have broken into the larder and find themselves faced by a staid housekeeper.

  Melantheus had led them around by the garden door, and they numbered no less than one hundred and twelve—fifty-six Phocaean clansmen, twenty-four Sicans, twenty from the mixed clans, and twelve Trojans.

  I greeted them with an imperceptible nod and beckoned to Clytoneus. “Brother,” I said, “as acting head of the royal household, will you be kind enough to inform these impetuous young noblemen that, though they appear without warning, in unprecedented numbers, and at a very awkward time, they are welcome to our palace commons: namely, spruce beer, bread, cheese and olives, which will duly be set before them if they have the patience to wait awhile.”

  “My sister’s words are mine,” cried Clytoneus, staring straight in front of him.

  “Princess,” drawled Antinous with a superior smile, “can you be so young and ignorant as not to know what is expected of you? When suitors for your hand arrive in such a flatteringly large company you should offer them roast meat and the best wine.”

  “No orders have been given to our swineherds, cattlemen, or shepherds; consequently there is no meat to roast, and even if I had authority to draw good wine for you, it would be wasted on a snack of bread and cheese. Spruce beer is a healthy drink, and economical, too.”

  “But unless my eyes deceived me, I obse
rved more than a dozen fat beasts tied to the hitching posts outside the gate.”

  “Ah, those! But they are not for sacrifice.”

  “You are your father’s own daughter,” exclaimed Antinous.

  “So the Queen has always maintained, and since it is a wise child that knows its own father, I shall not dishonour her by doubting my legitimacy. I must therefore ask you to retire. The King gave me his solemn promise, which the Queen witnessed, that my inclinations would be consulted in this matter of suitors as religiously as if I were an oracle. He has since sailed to the east on domestic business, and even if he were here, your visit could not justify the expense of a banquet; for I should be forced to admit that a cursory review of your faces disinclines me to accept a single one of you. They express nothing but insolence, vanity, greed, mockery and rebellion. However, because I am, as you say, my father’s own daughter, and because Clytoneus is my father’s son, neither of us can waive the common claims of hospitality. If you are hungry enough to make do with what you deserve, go to the banqueting court and sit down at the cloister tables; when I have completed this mattress stuffing, I shall attend to your wants. Clytoneus, please find Eurycleia and ask her whether she has sufficient cheese for about ten dozen corpulent young men. And perhaps Phemius will consent to sing to them.”

  I turned my back on the company and resumed work. “What a little spitfire!” cried Ctesippus, not troubling to lower his voice. “To think that more than a hundred of us are competing for the pleasure of having our cheeks scratched by her long nails!”

  “The pleasure would be wholly mine,” I flung over my shoulder, as they trooped past me into the banqueting court.

  I realized that, physically, we were powerless to cope with the invaders, but pride forbade me to show the least sign of accepting so absurd a position. When Melantheus went to the entrance gate, unbarred it, and called in the servants, I ran and shot home the bolt at once.

  “Melantheus,” I said, “if you defy my orders by bringing back that fat stock, let me warn you that when the King returns, he will not hesitate to disembowel you, afterwards cutting off your extremities and feeding them to the dogs.”

  “I act at the orders of Prince Agelaus,” he answered pompously, “whom the Drepanan Council have elected as Regent.”

  “Indeed? Then fetch him to me, unless you want to be beaten as a liar.”

  Melantheus hurried off, and presently brought Agelaus, a small, sullen, dark-faced man who had nothing to commend him but his birth, a luxuriant head of hair, and a certain dexterity at cottabus. Cottabus is a game for banqueters: each in turn throws what wine is left in his goblet at a number of minature silver cups floating in a basin ten paces away; whoever sinks most of these is the winner. My father, however, allows nobody to play cottabus in the Palace—prince, guest, servant or slave—because of the splashed clothes and walls, and the waste of good wine.

  I greeted him with: “Why, kinsman! Have you come to play cottabus in the King’s absence? You have my special indulgence, so long as you stick to spruce beer and keep to the middle of the court. But first tell this scoundrel Melantheus that the beasts tied up outside must stay there until they are rested and can be driven back to the pastures from which they were brought in error.”

  Agelaus flushed. “I shall tell him no such thing! Those beasts are to be sacrificed; and, once the fat and thighbones have been offered to the Blessed Gods, we promise ourselves the satisfaction of eating their roast flesh. And, mark you, when I play cottabus, I play it only with the best wine.”

  “Who, may I ask, are ‘we’?”

  “Your suitors, Princess.”

  “Have a care, Agelaus,” I said. “Resentment at some fancied slight has clouded your intelligence. As soon as my father lands at Drepanum, he will seek you out and strike off your head…”

  “If he ever lands,” Agelaus interjected.

  “And if he does not, kinsman, I doubt whether your position will be in any way improved. Antinous and Eurymachus have already agreed to betray you. What if the javelin intended for Clytoneus at the boar hunt drives whistling between your shoulder blades, and the Phocaeans usurp the sceptre which Zeus himself placed in the hands of our Trojan ancestor Aegestus? Call off your rebellious clansmen, before it is too late!”

  “You seem to know a great deal,” he sneered.

  “The Goddess Athene has been gracious enough to make me her confidante,” I answered.

  Agelaus paused irresolutely, then “Melantheus!” he shouted, in what were meant to be kingly accents, “command the servants to make ready our sacrifice!”

  “Very well, kinsman,” I said. “You have chosen as you have chosen. But theft is no less reprehensible in a Trojan prince than in the cheapest Sicel slave.”

  The servants re-entered boisterously with the beasts. Leodes, priest to Zeus, and one of my suitors, thereupon dedicated the bullocks to the Thunderer and to Poseidon, and the other beasts to Hera, Apollo, Aphrodite, Hermes and the rest—but pointedly omitted Athene, as if scornful of my trust in her. This caused me deep satisfaction, since Athene is the best ally imaginable and quick to take offence. Zeus, though the stronger, is apt to be indolent or preoccupied and, as they say, his mills grind slowly.

  We sewed up the last mattresses, in hurry and confusion because the court was soon filled with the swirling smoke of log fires and all the bustle of cooking. I went to find Clytoneus.

  “I have done my best, Sister,” he said. “On our mother’s advice, I have given the clerk of the Drepanan Council notice to convene it again for tomorrow morning. I am not yet old enough to qualify as a member, yet Halitherses tells me that any royal prince may call a Council in the absence of the King or his authorized Regent. I shall protest strongly against this invasion of our Palace. Meanwhile, the rogues have browbeaten Pontonous the butler into fetching them wine, although he was expressly warned to take orders only from me. I have sent Eumaeus a message by his son, and Philoetius a message by his cousin, to send down no more beasts unless they receive a written demand bearing the imprint of my seal.”

  “You can do little else at present. Whether the Council will reverse its judgment is another matter; but your protest must be placed on record, if only to satisfy our father.”

  “Hush, Phemius is tuning up. It is to be Odysseus’s Return, the last fytte of the cycle.”

  Phemius’s delivery was neither so dramatic nor so compelling as Demodocus’s. His voice, however, was younger and more resonant, and he had lost none of his front teeth, which made for clearer enunciation, and his self-assurance improved with every performance. It is my view that he will one day become the most famous of all his guild, and I have entrusted my epic poem to him partly for this reason.

  After the conventional invocation of the Muse, he gave a summary of the tale: how the anger borne by Aphrodite towards the Greek leaders who had attacked and burned the holy fortress of Troy and, by killing her favourite, Paris, had dealt a blow to devoted lovers the world over, was expressed in her peculiarly savage treatment of Odysseus. Being the Goddess of the Sea as well as of Love, she was content, in some cases, to wreck her enemies’ ships and drown them, as she drowned Ajax; others she drove by adverse winds to distant lands from which they took years to return, as did Spartan Menelaus; still others she so wearied by bad weather that they despaired of seeing their wives and children again, but stayed to found cities beside outlandish rivers, as did Guneus in Libya, and Elphenor in Epirus. Her usual revenge, however, lay in allowing the victorious champion to reach home, only to find that his wife had set her lover on the throne; as happened to Argive Agamemnon and Cretan Idomeneus, joint leaders of the Greek expedition. On Diomedes and Odysseus who, between them, had done more than any of the Greeks to earn her hate, she visited a double punishment—a wearisome return after shipwreck and similar perils, and the subsequent discovery that their wives had been false to them. Yet Odysseus’s sufferings were far harsher and longer drawn out than those of Diomedes; and whereas D
iomedes’s wife Aegialeia had taken only a single lover, Odysseus found that Penelope, supposedly so faithful to his bed, was living in riotous and promiscuous love with no less than fifty of his own subjects; and that his son, Telemachus, had been sold into slavery, none knew where.

  Phemius stopped to rinse his throat, and Clytoneus applauded. “Well sung, Phemius,” he cried, “best of bards next to the venerable Demodocus! I hope that you will enlarge on the subject of those rascally fellows who camped in Odysseus’s palace and made the swineherds and shepherds slaughter his fat stock for them. Have their infamous names survived, to bring a blush to their descendants’ cheeks? And was it they who, to detach the Ithacans’ affection from their rightful prince, plotted to sell him in the Sidonian slave market?”

  Antinous sprang up with an oath, but Eurymachus restrained him. “Clytoneus’s question is a very pertinent one,” he grinned. “Let us hear how Phemius answers it.”

  Phemius gulped, and seemed ill at ease; however, his good sense and ready wit did not desert him. “My ancestor Homer has given us little information on this point,” he said apologetically. “But you should remember, I think, that Penelope’s fifty lovers, the leading citizens of the islands over which Odysseus ruled, were all bewitched by Aphrodite, who had lent Penelope her girdle of irresistibility: though she was by now fat, ungainly and well past the age of childbearing, they could not refrain. Each awaited his summons to her couch, sitting expectantly in a ring, as dogs do when a bitch is in heat. They found Telemachus’s presence awkward. Stung by his taunts, which they felt keenly, yet unwilling to turn murderers, they begged him to sail away. Then, since he would neither go nor keep silence, they sold him to a slave trader who undertook to find him a considerate master. It would have been better had Telemachus disregarded the situation at the Palace, unpleasant as it must have been to so spirited a prince, and spent his time in the chase. Now, if you will allow me, I shall proceed.”