Though Menelaus sent them off with generous guest-gifts—a golden libations goblet for Telemachus and three stallions for Peisistratus—it did not take out the sting of being denied. The journey back to Pylos was silent and grim.
For Telemachus, it was also torture. What could he believe? Was his father actually alive and on his way home? If so, why now?
Or was the story Menelaus’s grand excuse to shame him for the purpose of refusing him?
Either way, he’d failed on his first mission! Gods, what would he say to Mentes?
When Peisistratus and Telemachus reached the crossroads—left toward Nestor’s palace, right toward his waiting ship—Peisistratus stopped the horses.
“I must return to the palace without you,” he said. “This road will take you directly to your ship.”
Telemachus stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. Never could he have imagined such poor host manners. “But it’s late,” he said. He’d assumed he would spend the night under King Nestor’s roof. And now Peisistratus wanted him to walk unaccompanied to the harbor? That was not how one treated a fellow prince.
“It’s easier this way.”
“Easier for whom?” Telemachus cried. “Why would you refuse me shelter in your palace?”
“Your petition to Menelaus was denied. My father will not be happy about it, especially since I encouraged it. It will be easier to explain without you there.”
Easier to laugh at me for my inexperience? Easier to act like you hadn’t pretended to be a friend when it looked like I might provide you with an opportunity for adventure and glory?
“But…but I was hoping to see your little sister again,” Telemachus said, a bit helplessly.
Peisistratus snorted.
“What?” Telemachus shot back, his fists clenching.
“If you have thoughts about marrying into my family, let me make something very clear. My little sister will marry a proven man, a prince of means or a king with power. You are neither.”
Maybe it was because it was late and he was tired and he’d had just about enough of being insulted, but that was all he could bear.
Telemachus roared, pushing Peisistratus off the chariot. The son of Nestor fell hard on his backside. “You acted the friend when you thought you might benefit, but as soon as you realized you wouldn’t, you insult me to my face—and refuse to extend guest-honors to a tired traveler!”
Peisistratus scrambled up, face red. “That’s right!” he said. “I hadn’t known the High King was going to think so lowly of you or your father. And now, he’s associated me with you, something I’m going to have to fix if I want any respect in the future!”
A red haze descended on Telemachus. He leapt on Peisistratus. Nestor’s son must not have anticipated it for he was down on the ground and Telemachus was pummeling him with all his might before Peisistratus could react. But of course, Nestor’s son was bigger and stronger and a seasoned warrior. Within a moment he’d flipped Telemachus over, twisted his arms behind him and pressed the side of his face onto the graveled dirt road.
“I could break your neck right now and no one would have to know,” he said, breathing hard into his ear. “But we are near the crossroads statue of the Protector of Travelers, so I won’t take that risk.”
With a disgusted grunt, Peisistratus threw himself off Telemachus’s back. Odysseus’s son stood up slowly, brushing bits of stone from his neck and face.
“Do not return to Pylos, or our hall, unless you have earned the right to call yourself the king of Ithaca by blood,” he said. “By blood is the only way you will salvage your name.”
With that, his former friend mounted Nestor’s chariot and turned his horses back toward his palace, leaving Telemachus to walk the long path to the harbor alone.
“By blood…by blood…by blood,” he chanted to himself the whole way. “I will reclaim my name, my house—my very manhood—by the blood of all my enemies.”
Menelaus had claimed his father lived, and was headed home. For his entire life, that’s all he’d ever wanted. His father’s presence. His attention, his guidance, his wisdom. His love.
But none of that mattered anymore. I want my name, my house, and my manhood. And I will claim it all, one way or another. With or without my father.
A new ugliness darkened his soul, and he reveled in it. He would show them. His palace would run with the blood of those who had belittled or insulted him.
On the trip back to Ithaca, Telemachus noticed a cut on his arm near his elbow. He walked to the side of the ship and dug his fingertips hard into it until it bled afresh. Holding his arm over the side, he allowed the blood to drip freely into the water, watching it disappear into the dark sea.
“By blood I seal my fate,” he promised the sea god. “I will kill them all. I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I will. Or I will die trying.”
Xenia in the Court of the Winds
Scott Oden
I dreamed, last night, of Lykomedes, Deon’s son; of goodhearted Meriones and of Old Phormion, who stood with me beneath the walls of Troy; of fleet-footed Aristaeus, who was my mother’s cousin. Their shades came to me, shuffling like men worn out with toil, and set up a groaning clamor; spectral fingers grasped and tore at their breasts as they howled over the injustice of dying by the hand of that cursed Kyklops. I felt the damning weight of their blame.
“Why?” they wailed. “Why did we not sail past that wretched land? Had you not had your fill of blood at Troy, vain Odysseus? Had you not glutted your passions for the rich viands of slaughter when you bid us put Ismaros-town to the spear, O son of Laertes? Why?”
But I could not answer them. Mistaking my silence for arrogance, they reached for me, then, and I woke with a start. Beneath the jeweled lamps of heaven, the silent grove was empty. Distraught, I placed my hands upon the breast of the earth and swore an oath to Lord Hades and his Queen. Once I reached Ithaca, I would sacrifice four black rams, the finest of my flocks, so that their blood and flesh might appease my fallen comrades…
— Odysseus
1
Mnemosyne, the Mother of the Muses, is a protean goddess. Her gifts are mercurial; without rhyme or reason she plays with men’s minds, obscuring what was once commonplace behind Time’s curtain while thrusting that which was once obscure onto the orchestra of recollection. I feel her hand on me. Names blur and fade; faces drift away on the tide of years like a skiff left unmoored. I can no longer recall what was said or done yesterday or the day before, but deeds done a thousand yesterdays ago? These memories are as clear and pure to me as the waters of holy Arethusa.
I was but a child—little older than you are right now, dear Eirene, daughter of my daughter—when the man rhapsodes named the Kyklops came to Aeolia. Eh, what was that? Was he a monster? My dear child, if the Fates grant you a life as long as mine, you will soon understand that while not all men are monsters, all monsters are but men. And this Kyklops was a man, no more and no less. It has been three-score and eight years since that day. And while I can no longer recall my mother’s face, until Atropos cuts the thread of my life I will never forget the ruined visage of the Kyklops…