“Madam,” I said, giving her and her companion a curt nod—the greeting of equals. “My friend, the king’s guest, would like a word with you.” She looked over my head, her eyes narrowing, and said nothing. The Sikelian envoy, however, gave a bark of laughter.
“Get off, you little panderer,” he said. “Galatea’s busy with me!” He made to rap me across the mouth with the hairy knuckles of his fist but the woman stayed his hand. I did not know it, as I had no understanding of the word “panderer”, but to utter such a thing to a son of Lykaon was a deadly insult. The harsh tone in his voice drew scowls from nearby benches; if he’d succeeded in laying a hand on me, drawn knives would have replaced drawn brows, and that ignorant Sikelian wretch likely would have ended up bleeding like a suckling pig. What? No, child. It was not so much that they would have protected me, but rather the good name of your great-grandfather. The House of Glaukos has deep roots among the folk of Aeolia’s harbor-town; most of the men nearby were my kin. And none of them held the Sikelians in high regard.
But, all that is mere speculation. The woman, Galatea (why these foreign women insist on adopting local names is beyond me), read the lay of the land like a general on the battlefield; she knew the accounting, saw the promise of bloodshed in men’s eyes, and brought the Sikelian to heel with a sharp word. “I will be back. Later, we will finish this,” she said to him, then fixed her uncanny gaze on me. “Take me to this guest of the king.”
I did not presume to take her hand, but trusted her to follow me back to Polyphemus’s side. As we neared, before I could so much as open my mouth to stumble over introductions, he tilted his head and said something to her in the tongue of their homeland. By that age, besides the Aeolian dialect of Achaean that was my mother tongue, I had a smattering of Phoenician and could muddle through Sikelian. The language of Aegyptos, however, was an inscrutable mystery, and remains such even now. It is a sibilant tongue, child, like the cough and hiss of snakes, and it carries on its back the freight of ages.
She was a hard one, this Galatea; hard as bronze plate. But whatever Polyphemus said to her struck with the impact of a physical blow. Near as I can reckon—and this is with the wisdom of my years to draw upon—what happened next was some manner of verbal duel, with words serving as spears. Galatea, her heart one with the savage Amazons, found her footing and struck back; though I could not fathom the words, her tone nevertheless dripped venom. I expected to see my guest-friend deflate beneath such a withering tirade. But Polyphemus merely gave a low chuckle, sloughing off whatever condemnation she’d flung at him, and launched into a devastating riposte. His words hammered at her; they did not rise in volume. No, just the opposite. Polyphemus’s voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. He stood, his titanic height adding to the weight of whatever it was he said to her.
Galatea cracked. She sniffed and looked about her, refusing to meet Polyphemus’s eyeless gaze. For his part, he stood as motionless as the granite statues of his homeland. Finally, she barked an assent, which brought a slow nod from my friend. One more muttered exchange passed between them before Polyphemus resumed his seat and took a long draught of wine.
Galatea eyed me; in her gaze was the specter of a slow death. “Ere long,” she said, and I found myself flinching away from the suppressed violence in her tone. “Ere long, the Venerable One, our friend, will excuse himself. You know the Well of Geryon, out past the harbor?” I nodded; often, I would steal away to Geryon’s Well to partake of the sweet water that flowed from it, which was said to have revived mighty Herakles, himself. “Good. Take him there, and do not dawdle!”
With another soft curse, Galatea whirled and strode from the portico, the embroidered hem of her long skirt flaring out behind her. All that was missing, child, was an ominous crack of thunder with each retreating step.
Polyphemus seemed well-pleased with himself. He finished his wine and dabbed at his lips with a linen cloth. He reminded me, then, of a cat—sleeking its whiskers after gnawing the head off some luckless mouse. “Shall we, young Glaukos?”
Polyphemus stood and made his obeisance to the king. He cited weariness, the pain of his injuries, and a black mood, all, as reasons to withdraw from such convivial company. King Aeolus took pity on him; servants, he said, would see to his sleeping quarters.
“Thank you, lord,” Polyphemus replied. “But, with respect, I would feel more at ease sleeping as I have slept for the last twenty years: with sea foam in my nostrils and the sough and sigh of the ocean to sing me to sleep. I would sleep upon the harbor beach, if such would not offend you.”
King Aeolus scowled; his sons muttered among the merchants and the landsmen. The fishermen, however, my father among them, nodded and murmured their encouragement. They understood precisely what the blinded titan meant: the sea was in their blood, as well. Even now, I sleep my soundest when I can hear the crash and hiss of waves, keeping time like the throbbing heart within Poseidon’s breast.
The king’s displeasure did not last. He stood and embraced Polyphemus. “My city is yours, my friend. Rest well, but come to me upon the morrow. I would talk more with you.”
“You have my word.” Polyphemus half turned. “Good Lykaon?”
“I am here, Kyklops,” my father replied. So long have they called him ‘Kyklops’ that the habit was nigh unbreakable. Polyphemus did not seem to mind. “With your permission, I would ask young Glaukos to see me safely to my perch, this night.”
My father nodded. “He is sure-footed and knows those beaches well. I trust he will not lead you astray.”
Except, I wasn’t meant to lead him to the beaches, but rather to the Well of Geryon. I started to pipe up, but Polyphemus’s long, iron-hard fingers dug into my shoulder. “I expect he will be in his bed and sound asleep ere you set your course for home, good sir.” And, amid a chorus of farewells, Polyphemus steered me around until my wits recovered enough for me to guide him from the portico.
“But Geryon’s Well is far from the beaches of the harbor,” I whispered, confused by what had just happened. “My father, at least, should know—”
“Nothing!”
I admit the harshness Polyphemus ladled into that one word raised goose-flesh down my spine. My resolve, what strength the god left in me, melted; suddenly, I felt like a sneak-thief, creeping through the night on some errand not fit for the clean light of day.
Polyphemus did not relent. “Tell your father nothing,” he hissed. “Tell the king nothing! Take me to this Well, son of Lykaon, and then take yourself home. The business I have this night is not for the eyes of any simple Achaean, much less a boy!”