Homer's Daughter

by Robert Graves

  “It was surely the work of a Sican bandit, or a revengeful slave,” Aegyptius went on. “No Elyman could have committed so foul a murder intentionally or, if it had been an accident, withheld his confession.”

  “My lord Aegyptius,” said Halitherses, “I envy you your innocency of heart. But in my mind’s eye I see rivers of blood flowing to appease that ghost. May none of your own kin be present when the arrows fly!”

  “You croak like a bullfrog in spring,” Aegyptius answered crossly. “Pray signal to the wine pourer and have him fill our cups again. He is half asleep.”

  They began discussing the funeral games that would be celebrated the next day. Agelaus, now the undisputed Regent, proposed to organize them in the field near Athene’s grove: a foot race, a high jump, weight-putting, boxing and wrestling. My grandfather was expected to offer valuable prizes.

  Alone with my mother in her bedroom, I told her of Clytoneus’s visit to Halius, and of Halius’s threat. But she cut me short. “Daughter, these things do not concern me. Your father took a decision many years ago in the case of a beloved son of mine. I swore never again to mention his name, and I am a woman of my word. If, as you say, the commander-in-chief of the Minoans has chosen to send the Elyman Queen a complimentary gift, she thanks him; but there the matter must end.”

  After a pause she added: “Daughter, if the threat is disregarded, can he make it good? You would surely be wiser to let your suitors eat our pork and beef for a little while longer than let those uncivilized Sicels burn and sack our Palace? Since this possibility can hardly have escaped you, it follows that you are committed to some alternative plan. In whom do you trust? He must needs be a nobleman of valour and experience: a man of men. You are only a woman, Nausicaa, and Clytoneus is only a boy. And my poor old father has one foot already in the grave—in fact, I am secretly weaving his shroud, not expecting him to last through next winter. Were there anyone else to defend us, he would have come forward long before this. And yet here you sit, in suppressed excitement, almost as though my dear Laodamas had suddenly reappeared; but that, alas, can never be. Eurycleia vainly tried to conceal her story from me; I know now that he has been murdered. I also know that you are burning with eagerness to avenge him and dear Mentor as well. And I know one more thing, because although I sit here spinning and weaving all day, I still retain the full use of my five senses: that for the first time in your life you have fallen in love, despite your oath not to accept any of the suitors who have invaded our house. So, since you are a girl of principles, who does not allow herself to be tempted into folly or to ride two horses at once, my conclusion is that the man you love, the man who has undertaken to carry out your alternative plan, is none of my acquaintance. Perhaps you will soon be good enough to introduce this courageous stranger to me?”

  It is no use trying to hide secrets from my mother; her oracular little finger tells her everything. “Very well, Mother,” I said, “expect him to call on you tomorrow. As you know, I could never marry a man of whom you disapproved.”

  She looked searchingly at me. “But can he provide a bride price that would satisfy your father?”

  I met her gaze. “Yes, Mother, though he is a beggar, he will provide the bride price—the salvation of our house.”

  A brief moment of doubt: was I in love with a Sican bandit chief, or someone equally unsuitable? But she soon recovered her confidence in me, and answered simply: “That will be sufficient, maybe, so long as he is nobly born.”

  “As a close relative of your own, Mother, he should pass muster. Please excuse me now, and when my beggar arrives remember that your brother Mentor would have already named him to you, and to the suitors, as my affianced husband, had black death not intervened.”

  My mother shrugged her shoulders. “Since you have worked these things out carefully,” she said, “I will leave them in your hands without further questioning. If you need my help you will come to me and, short of risking your father’s displeasure, I promise to do all I can for you. Come, another kiss. You are a good child, and I thank the Gods that besides sons, the cause of much grief and sorrow, I have also borne a daughter from whose conduct I seldom derive anything but pleasure.”

  When had my mother ever said a word in my praise before? She was being prudent as well as generous: giving me increased hope and freeing me from the one anxiety which still beset me—the fear that she would be offended when she found me making adventurous plans without consulting her. To prove her confidence, she did not even enquire the name of the mysterious stranger whom I was trusting to defend our house, nor the degree of kinship in which he stood to her. But she must have puzzled over the problem for hours.

  Before going downstairs, I said: “Mother, Eumaeus and his son have sworn to fight with us to the last drop of their blood. Will you make Philoetius take the same oath? He must already guess what is at stake; but the demand would come better from you than from either Clytoneus or myself, now that my dear uncle is no longer here.”

  “I can foretell his answer: ‘Only give me leave to kill Melantheus, for the honour of the palace servants, and I will take the oath with joy.’”

  And this was exactly what Philoetius did say.

  The next day the funeral games were held. Ctimene and I attended, out of respect for the dead. Ctimene was in a strange mood. She said to me quite cheerfully: “Nausicaa, my dear, I have reached the conclusion that if the King brings no news of my husband, it would be best to assume his death. What do you think? We will give him splendid farewell rites and a cenotaph, and when that it done, I can decently dry my tears. Twelve months of mourning are enough, and a bird-headed Siren perched on my bedrail last night and told me: ‘Ctimene, Laodamas is no more. You are still young. Pay him his dues and marry again.’ Let the King restore my bride price in full, and I will agree to go back to my father in Bucinna.”

  I asked: “And why this sudden change, Ctimene? Has our new sorrow anything to do with it?”

  Flushing, she burst out: “To be frank, it has! I see your household slowly reduced by the ill will of the Gods. Halius is banished. My beloved husband Laodamas disappears without a trace. The King sails off to Sandy Pylus, and rumours fill the town that he is fated never to return. He is followed by Clytoneus, a headstrong youngster who does not hesitate to insult the leading Elymans in public council. Your maternal uncle is deposed from his regency and descends to Hades, struck by the hand of some god. A curse hangs over the Palace, and you have hardly improved our fortunes by refusing to choose a husband.”

  Ctimene’s manner was so outrageous that surprise was the uppermost emotion in my heart. I decided that something new must have happened. But because Ctimene was so stupid that, if I let her talk, she would soon give her secret away, I answered carefully: “Yes, Ctimene, perhaps you are right. I too no longer feel confident that dearest Laodamas will come back to us. And it is a miserable state of affairs when a young and beautiful woman like yourself, who has once experienced the pleasures of marriage, finds herself bound by loyalty to a double bed now chilled by the cold touch of death. For myself it is different: never having been a wife I shall stay perfectly content with my own narrow bed, until I meet a nobleman whom I can love and respect as much as you loved and respected Laodamas. But look, the umpires are preparing the course for the foot race.”

  One foot race closely resembles another. Nine umpires station themselves is a wide circle and the runners, clad in loincloths, must keep outside them or be disqualified. Usually, after a few false starts, they pelt towards the goal as if an Indian tiger were at their heels; someone wins, a great many protests and arguments follow, finally the prize is awarded. But this race was different. The few competitors were all suitors of mine, and the lazy life they led made them incapable of running fast; moreover, their behaviour was an insult to the dead and a disgrace to the town. About a dozen of them, without even taking the trouble to remove their cloaks, ambled around the course, playing infantile tricks—punching, tripping, shout
ing, joining hands and cutting capers. When they reached the eighth umpire they squatted down in a ring and, with smirks or chuckles, cast lots in a helmet. The winner then strolled up to the goal, where he claimed the prize, a fine copper cauldron.

  Next came the long jump. My ardent suitor Noemon specialized in this event and could outjump his nearest opponent by a good three paces; but Antinous was acting as umpire and whenever Noemon took off, called out: “A foul! You laid your foot in front of the starting mark!” So the prize went to Ctesippus.

  Then the weight-putting, taken more seriously than the other sports because skill in it was aided rather than discouraged by heavy eating. Among the spectators I saw Aethon, looking wonderfully disreputable. He lifted one of the weights and set it down again with a shake of his head: which did not mean, however “Oh, how strong the competitors must be to cast a stone of this size!” but “In Crete our weights are three times as large.” His face was a study as he watched the wrestling match, another scandal. Eurymachus had challenged a youth called Demoptolemus, with whom he pretended to be in love, and scorning a decent combat of half nelsons, flying mares and the rest, gave a shamelessly obscene performance: trying to kiss Demoptolemus, bite his ear amorously and straddle him. I turned my back in disgust and walked away; but Ctimene laughed until the tears ran down her face.

  The boxing match was the only event worth watching, because Ctesippus lost his temper and began to maul his opponent Polybus, a tranquil young man of Sican stock. “Hold hard!” shouted Polybus. “This is a sport, not a battle.” When Ctesippus continued with the rough play, Polybus brought up his knee sharply and caught him in the groin; which ended the contest, but started a free fight between the Phocaeans and Sicans who had been betting on the result.

  So the umpires cleared a level place and called for a funeral dance in honour of Mentor. Old Demodocus tottered along with his lyre, and a group of boys who had just taken arms gave us the maze dance, which expresses the hope of human resurrection. The wonderful exactness of their steps and the grace of their carriage salved my wounded civic pride. We Elymans are not athletes, I own, though supreme in seamanship; and if only Halius and Laodamas had been present to perform our famous ball dance, of which they were past masters, their leaps and catches would have amazed Aethon.

  As for Ctimene, it was clear that someone had offered to marry her; and it was equally clear who that man must be—Eurymachus. Once Clytoneus and my father had been eliminated, and Antinous had married me and taken a third share in the estates, Eurymachus would be in a very good position as the husband of Laodamas’s widow, to claim another third share. The last share would go to Agelaus as Regent for the heir presumptive, my youngest brother Telegonus—until it was decided to drown him. No wonder Ctimene had laughed so loud at Eurymachus’s wrestling display!

  I put my theory to the test. “Didn’t you think Eurymachus most amusing?” I asked. “By the way, you seem to have changed your mind. Last year you accused him of taking a commission from a Libyan merchant who cheated you out of a great deal of money.”

  Ctimene answered: “Oh, but Eurymachus has proved to me that he had nothing to do with the Libyan’s default, and promised to help me recover my entire bride price from the estate. I think quite differently of him now.”

  “How good-looking he is,” I said, “and how clever!”

  “You are not considering him as a husband, after all?” she enquired in sudden alarm.

  Oh, Ctimene, Ctimene! Women like Ctimene are the undoing of the world.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  AETHON GOES

  BEGGING

  That morning, as Eumaeus and Aethon drove down half a dozen hogs for sacrifice, they had paused at a famous crossways, near the foot of the mountain, where a waterfall splashes into a stone basin. The basin, with its three altars and the ancient alders surrounding them, was dedicated to the Nymphs by our ancestor Aegestus himself. Travellers never fail to leave a small gift here, if only flowers or wild fruit, and Eumaeus now propitiated the Nymphs by burning a pair of pig’s chaps on a brushwood fire. The unseemly insults of Melantheus, who came up with an equal number of fat goats, interrupted his prayers. “Foo,” cried Melantheus, “what a stench! Why, whenever I drive my goats along this road, should I always have the misfortune of meeting you and your miry, grunting, flea-ridden comrades exactly at this crossways?”

  “One remedy,” replied Eumaeus without turning round, “would be to wake earlier. Your farmyard lies not far from here, and by starting at the same time as myself you would miss me by two hours or more.”

  “Who is that foul limping biped with you?” asked Melantheus truculently.

  “A beggar whom I met on the mountain. I am showing him the way to town.”

  “Lout leads lout, and filth follows filth. That is a divine law. You are surely not introducing this idle belly to the Palace, are you?”

  “Why not? So many even idler bellies gather there already that one more will make little odds. And they all have larders of their own well stocked with cheese and tunny, which leaves them no excuse for dining every day on roasted meat at our master’s expense; whereas my poor fellow is hungry, lame and homeless.”

  “Do you dare compare this creature with the flower of our Elyman nobility? If he wants work, send him to me. I am always shorthanded and he could earn a bowl of whey now and then by cutting green stuff for the kids, and sweeping out the stalls, and making himself generally useful. But a lout like this fears work almost worse than death: he wanders up the coast, rubbing his filthy shoulders against every doorpost and demanding scraps of food as the price for his absence. I know the type: if he knocks and finds nobody at home he helps himself to clothes or shoes or something even better. Take my warning: if you bring him into the Palace, foot-stools will fly and he will be lucky enough to escape with a couple of broken ribs.”

  So saying, Melantheus took a running kick at Aethon and caught him on the hipbone. Aethon had the presence of mind not to retaliate; but groaned and nursed the bruise and grumbled under his breath as a real beggar would have done, while Eumaeus, addressing the Nymphs, cried out: “Daughters of Zeus, if my lord the King ever burned rich thighbones encased in fat on your altars, grant him a speedy return, and free me from the tyranny of strangers and the insults of fellow servants!”

  Melantheus answered: “Before he returns, many improvements will be seen in Drepanum. His lands will be divided among men worthier to cultivate them than he, his throne occupied, his family extinguished. As for you, surly swineherd, I shall claim you as my slave, in reward of faithful service to my new lords, and after scrubbing you and combing your matted hair and dressing you in a clean white loincloth, sell you to the Sidonian slavers for whatever you fetch. There are always fools to buy fools, and prize fools to buy prize fools. Meanwhile, take good care of your hide, for my sake!”

  Eumaeus did not deign to answer. The old white sow had already comforted him with the news that Melantheus would die soon and horribly. Melantheus then hurried his goats to the Palace, while Eumaeus and Aethon went forward at a slower pace. They watched the games, as already described, and afterwards joined the returning crowd, which enabled Aethon to drive the hogs through the town gates without drawing attention to himself. As they approached the Palace, Eumaeus asked him: “Will you go ahead, or shall I prepare them for your coming?”

  “I cannot risk being flung out,” Aethon answered, “and since Melantheus saw me in your company, you had better be my sponsor—though I fear it may get you into trouble.”

  “First let us be rid of the hogs,” said Eumaeus, “and then do whatever the Goddess suggests.”

  As they passed the midden heap, Aethon said: “What a fine nose that hound has! He must be a wonderful hunter. But why is he allowed to lie and scratch on a dunghill?”

  “Poor Argus! Nobody has exercised him since Prince Clytoneus went away. There is nothing so lonely as a masterless hound, unless it be a fatherless child.”


  At that very moment Argus cocked an ear, barked joyfully and scudded off. They turned and saw Clytoneus hurrying towards them, spear in hand, though hindered by Argus’s exuberant leaps and caresses. In passing he muttered to Eumaeus: “I have news of the King. Wait here until I send for you.”

  Clytoneus’s entry into the banqueting court with Argus at his heels caused a sensation, but he elbowed his way through the crowd of suitors and paused only to greet Halitherses, who had consented to take general charge of palace affairs during his absence.

  “Why, boy,” cried Halitherses, “back so soon? Did you meet your royal father?”

  “We never reached Sandy Pylus,” Clytoneus answered. “Tomorrow I will tell you everything, but today I am weary, and grieved by my dear uncle’s death. Forgive me, noble Halitherses!”

  He went into the house and kissed our mother, who led him up to her bedroom. “Well?” she said.

  “The King is nearly home. He has been refitting at Syracuse, and should arrive within four days. The news reached me from Minoa just after Nausicaa had set off down the mountain. But Antinous has posted lookouts all along the coast as far as the Sicel frontier, and a fifty-oarer is waiting to ambush him in the Straits of Motya; so we have no time to lose. I shall send Aethon to you this evening when the court is clear again. And, oh, Mother, my heart is bursting with grief for your murdered brother, and I have sworn in Cerdo’s name to avenge him.”

  She asked gently: “You approve of—is his name Aethon? You do not think him too wild a man to marry Nausicaa?”

  “This is hardly a situation that calls for tameness.”

  “I fear you are right. Run away now and ask Eurycleia to prepare a hot bath and find you a change of linen.”

  He took the bath, sent a maid to summon Eumaeus, and resumed his seat beside Halitherses. Up came Noemon to ask where the ship lay. “Beached on Motya,” answered Clytoneus, “and having a leak patched. She will be here tomorrow or the next day. I am deeply grateful to you for the loan.”