I saw him first, standing alone at the end of the stone mole that protected Aeolia’s harbor from the harsh winds that blew off the Tyrrhenian Sea at season’s change: a figure etched against the dawn sky, wreathed in fire; a Titan in silhouette—taller even than my father, who men counted among the tallest of Aeolians. He simply stood there, unmoving, like the harbinger of a doom not yet written.
“Papa,” I said. Father looked up from his nets, his fingers working across the strands of their own accord, and followed my gaze. A scowl cut deep furrows across his broad forehead.
“Zeus Savior and Eris,” Father muttered. Your great-grandfather, Eirene, was a pious man, and curses rarely passed his lips; hearing him invoke the Goddess of Discord caused the hairs to stir on the back of my neck. He straightened from his task and stood, shading his eyes with one long, calloused hand. “What is he doing here?”
“Who is he, Papa?”
“No one of consequence,” he replied. Our neighbors along the mole, fishermen like my father, also caught sight of the stranger. Murmurs of consternation rippled through them like wavelets caused by a dropped stone. “Stay here, boy.” Father stooped; nimbly, he caught up his bone-handled knife, its curved copper blade honed thin and pitted by the sea air. He sheathed it at his waist and mounted the crude steps to the top of the mole. Like his peers, my father wore nothing but a short kilt of saffron-colored linen, a zoma, supported by a supple girdle of ox hide. I watched him stalk toward the newcomer. “Polyphemus!” he called out.
You recall, dear child, the many times when your mother says one thing to you, but you hear another? That was what happened, then. Polyphemus was not the name my father had yelled, but it was the name my youthful ears heard. And when the tale went about, spread by that blind teller of tales in far Ionia, the name Polyphemus stuck. In truth, the name my father had bellowed that day was not “Polyphemus”, but “Polloi-phêmê”. Yes, “Many-Words”, it means in the tongue of Aeolia, as it does in the tongue of the Achaeans from whose loins we sprang. But while in Achaean it means “a man who has command of many languages”, in Aeolian it means “a man who does not know when it’s best to remain silent”.
“I…I do not know you,” the man called Polyphemus replied. He spoke with an odd accent. “I am sorry, friend, but I do not know you.”
“But I know you, Kyklops! I am the son of Glaukos, called Lykaon, and all of us who make our livelihood upon the breast of Lord Poseidon’s realm know you! Aye! Pirate, we name you! And thief!” There was rancor in my father’s voice that went well beyond this day. His anger fed on the memory of some past transgression. Nor was he alone. Curses and shouts rose from the collected fishermen. Like dusky sharks haunting the shallows off the sandbar, they scented blood. I could not see through their forest of legs; Pandora’s curse gnawed at me, red-handed curiosity. Thus, ignoring my father’s command, I scrambled up the steps and onto the mole. Its stones were wet with salt spray as choppy surf crashed against the mole’s outward face. Clouds boiled along the far horizon, presaging a storm.
Even over the racket of the clustered fishermen, I could hear the stranger, this Polyphemus, sigh. “I was those things, once, son of Glaukos. And worse. The spear was my trade, and the blood of Pharaoh’s enemies the coin by which I paid my way. But no longer. I come to you in my hour of need.”
Though young and with little knowledge of the world beyond the familiar nooks and crannies of our harbor and the little town around it, even I could see there was something not quite right about this Polyphemus. He was xénos, a foreigner—neither Aeolian, nor Achaean, nor native Sikelian; likely a son of some distant land whose name was barbarous and uncouth to our civilized tongues. A fringed shawl of faded blue linen shrouded his face; though a giant in truth, he was nevertheless as thin as a manikin, with skin that gleamed beneath the sun like burnished terracotta. His body trembled and shook as though wracked by fever.
With a quaking hand, he drew down the shawl—I recall to this day how long his face was, his features as sharp as though a sculptor had molded them from a lump of stygian clay. His pate was smooth as an egg; his pointed chin sported a wiry beard the color of old silver. Tattooed cheeks bore the scars of fire and bronze. But his eyes, Eirene. His eyes…one socket was empty, child, the orb of sight long since sacrificed to Ares, and the flesh around it bisected by a brown and puckered scar. And the other…the other had been taken recently, gouged out in what surely must have been an act of wanton cruelty.
“Have the men of Aeolia no pity?” Blind Polyphemus said.
Lykaon, who had faced the gods’ wrath with the same forbearance as he had the wrath of his enemies, recoiled.
Even as a boy, I felt I knew my father. He was solid as bedrock; a staunch traditionalist, though not without some measure of flexibility. He was patient, slow to anger, and disapproved of raising his hand against me, my sisters, or my mother. We were not his possessions, as so many men treat those who live under their roofs, even in this enlightened day. Always he respected the gods and the king, giving each their due portion. Never less than what was proper, and often a good deal more. Knowing all this, I expected my father would put aside whatever grudge he carried against the stranger and offer him xenia.
What is that, dear Eirene? You do not know this word, xenia? Come, the sun has stolen our shade. Let us shift to that seat, yonder, beneath your father’s stately oak tree. Yes, this is much better. Xenia, child, is the duty one man owes to another: that he offer the hospitality of his oikos, his household, to a stranger in need. You welcome the stranger, offer them food and drink and a bath; you give up your comforts for them—your favorite chair or most comfortable bolster—and make them a gift upon their departure. For the stranger’s part, accepting xenia means they must be respectful of their host’s oikos, be charming and entertain their host as best they may, and not stay longer than needs must. If they have one, the stranger gives a gift to the host, as well. Do these things, child, and do them well. For we do not know when the next stranger we meet, who might be in need of our succor, is almighty Zeus in mortal guise.
My father taught me these things, which is why I expected him to relent of his anger and offer blind Polyphemus the hospitality of his house. Who’s to say he wasn’t a son of Poseidon—nay, even Lord Poseidon himself, eh?