“The heaven-sent wind filled the swelling sail
And the swift-oared ship shot through the Clashing Rocks
Like a feathered arrow from a huntsman’s bow.
The angry stones scraped the painted stern
Like a wolf snapping at the tail of a hare,
And then Jason’s brave crew were safe
Upon the bosom of the wine-dark sea …”
Apart from the bard’s deep, lilting voice, a complete silence fell over the feasting hall. The singer held all eyes, all ears, till the very end of the tale.
And then the hall erupted once more, this time with loud applause and cheers. Even Odysseus had been caught up in the story, and he applauded with the rest.
Autolycus rose and presented the singer with a brooch of silver. “Small recompense for your splendid tale,” he said.
At his grandfather’s words, the spell of the story was broken. Once again Odysseus felt the twin throbbing of his wound and his shame. He snatched up his cup and drained it. The watered wine helped dull the pain in his leg but did nothing for the pain in his heart.
“Wasn’t that exciting?” Mentor whispered.
Wiping the thin line of wine from his upper lip, Odysseus said, “One day my adventures will draw cheers like that.”
“I’m still smarting from your adventures,” Mentor told him. “Can’t you just enjoy the feast?”
Odysseus turned to his friend. “Don’t you see, Mentor? We should have brought home the boar. We should have been toasted at the feast.”
“We are lucky to be alive,” Mentor said sensibly.
“Alive without glory,” Odysseus snapped, “is not alive at all.”
“Your father wouldn’t say so,” Mentor told him. “He specifically asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“My father sailed on the Argo,” Odysseus said. “He faced countless dangers and returned with the Golden Fleece. And”—his face was a misery—“no one was assigned to nursemaid him.”
“I’m no nursemaid!”
As if he hadn’t heard Mentor at all, Odysseus continued, “And how far have I travelled from my rocky little island? No farther than to my grandfather’s home.”
Mentor came and knelt by the couch. “Those heroic days are over, Odysseus. The Argonauts are home. There’s peace everywhere. The treasures are all found, the monsters all slain. Be sensible.”
“Sensible?” Odysseus’ anger pulled him upright on the couch. “You can be sensible, my friend. But I know there are still adventures and monsters aplenty. Only not here in Parnassus. And not in Ithaca!” His face had turned bright red.
Mentor held out his plate. There was a bit of bread left, a few olives, black and round as the bard’s eyes. “Here. Eat something. Hunger is a monster easily conquered.”
“You sound like Menaera,” Odysseus said, but he ate.
Suddenly the door opened, and a priest walked across the feast hall holding a pair of huge tusks. Behind him came a boy carrying a silver plate on which sat the boar’s tongue.
The priest laid the tusks at Autolycus’ feet.
Odysseus knew those tusks all too well. Intimately in fact. His wound throbbed in recognition.
Picking up the tusks, Autolycus stood and declared, “Men of Parnassus, the beast that terrorised our countryside has this day been slain. Courage and skill have brought us this victory!”
A great cheer went up, and wine cups clashed together.
Then Autolycus plucked the boar’s tongue from the silver plate and walked over to the hearth. Flinging the meat into the fire, he said, “I offer this share of the kill to the gods.”
The tongue sizzled on the flame, and the sweet, thick smell of it went straight up towards the hole in the roof.
“To Apollo whose light guided us, to Artemis who led us to the prey, to Ares who gave us strength for the fight. The rest is for us.”
A round of good-natured laughter followed, and—right on cue—servants entered the room bearing plates of roasted boar.
Even as those were passed around, Autolycus called for silence once more.
“Those who were with me today know the truth of our hunt. But I tell it now for all to hear. When we came upon the boar, that mighty man killer, widow maker who made orphans of nine children in ten days, he was already sorely used. His wind was gone. His legs had no speed left in them. His fury had been blunted by fatigue.” He looked around the room as he spoke.
“Yes!” called one of the hunters. “He was a broken reed already.”
“Hardly worth the climb!” shouted another.
“We took this as a gift from the Fates,” Autolycus continued. “But when we field-dressed the beast, preparing to take him down the mountain, we found this embedded in his heart.” He raised his hand and held up something for the company to see. There was a long fragment of bronze glinting between his fingers.
Mentor hit Odysseus on the shoulder with his fist. “Look! Look!”
“My spear point,” Odysseus whispered. “It must have broken off in the boar.”
“This bronze had already taken half the beast’s life,” Autolycus declared, turning towards Odysseus. “The glory of the hunt therefore belongs not just to me and my hunters, but to my grandson, Odysseus, who struck this first deadly blow and took a grievous blow himself in return.”
All eyes turned to the boy on the couch. His name was suddenly on everyone’s lips.
“Odysseus!” they cried. “Young prince of Ithaca!”
Odysseus picked up the walking stick and, trembling, stood. He ran his fingers through his hair, then acknowledged the cheers with a slight bob of his head.
“Tell us the tale, Odysseus,” someone cried.
“How did you do it?” called another.
His grandfather nodded. “The story, my boy,” he said, smiling.
For a moment Odysseus felt nervous. He cleared his throat, lifted his chin. I’ll give them a tale, he thought, that they’ll remember for years. He recalled how the bard had stood, and thrust the stick away. It fell back against the couch. He put his hands on his hips and—never minding the pain in his leg—began the way he’d been taught:
“Apollo’s chariots had scarce cleared the flank
Of Parnassus’ rugged heights—”
“Louder!” someone called.
He made an effort to raise his voice.
“When bold Odysseus’ eagle eye spied out the trail.
Spear in hand, he stalked the fearsome beast.
And then it came—charging through the grass
Like … er … er … a storm that drives over the sea.
With his grandsire’s sturdy spear
Held firmly in his grasp,
He met the fierce attack, unyielding,
Like the rock that er … er … breaks a crashing wave.”
“Go on, young prince,” came a cry, which momentarily broke his concentration, but he took another deep breath and went on.
“The tusks of the boar gouged deep
A dreadful wound on the hunter’s leg.
But as it left him there for dead
It carried its own doom in its heart.”
There was an enormous roar of approval as he finished. But when Odysseus looked over to where Mentor was sitting, his friend had turned his face away.
Odysseus felt a stab of pain in his thigh, as though he’d been wounded a second time. Turning back to the listeners, he raised his hand for silence. “There is a little more,” he said.