He turned west and threw the damp tunic back on, hating that it was sodden but knowing he couldn’t walk the place naked as he had often done on Ogygia. He thought of Calypso then. If he had been truly honorable, he would have stayed with her; he could have. She loved him. He could have made a life there with her and cast his wife and his kingdom into the fire and make hecatombs of their memory. But he knew—as he guessed Calypso also sensed—that Penelope was, had been and always would be, first in his heart.
Ah but it was that endless search for honor that had brought him to this moment, was it not? If he had not gone raiding, had not gone grasping for more worthless glory, he could have made it home and into the arms of his wife, claimed his crown and guided his son to manhood years ago. Perhaps there was still time, he told himself. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps it would be as he had dreamed and Penelope would weep with joy at his arrival and take her to the bed he had carved for them so long ago.
As long as another man hasn’t taken your crown, Athena whispered. “True enough,” he answered her aloud. “I must think this through.”
Suddenly, it was as if his shipmate and captain, Eurylochus, stood beside him, laughing as he always did at such times: “Oh, you’ll think of something. They don’t call you ‘wily Odysseus’s for no reason.”
But Eurylochus was gone, drowned along with the others after leaving Circe’s isle. Odysseus shook his head to rid himself of the shame and regret that clung to him like seaweed whenever he thought of the strange woman’s furious expression that moonlit night so long ago when she bade him leave. Only to lose all of his men soon after.
It was inconceivable that he would walk these shores again without any of them. The shades of his lost comrades crowded all around him. I will honor you, he promised. But it was not yet the time for grief or for the rites of the dead. Like the warrior he was, survival came first.
He walked for some time, hunched over and limping, taking on the aspect of a beggar. Foolish perhaps, for it was with this disguise he had tricked and delighted Penelope when first they had met. But Odysseus was honest enough with himself to allow the sentimentality of the obfuscation.
With the coming day, he saw men at work in the fields—though to his eye, much of the land looked uncared for—as though work had only just started after a time of the ground being fallow. However, as he continued on his way, there was no mistaking the smell of pig-shit. Odysseus grinned as the old boy’s huts came into view. Eumaeus loved to talk—and Odysseus knew that all he had to do was a bit of prompting and the truth—whatever it was—would not be long in coming.
He spied Eumaeus, lounging on the fence, watching his helpers corral the swine. The pig man looked older, Odysseus thought. Then again, so did he. Eumaeus’s dogs started barking and raising their paws onto the gate, tails wagging frantically. Of course—dogs could sniff through even the keenest disguise. He would have to act his way through it.
“Shut up!” Eumaeus growled at the pair, swatting them away from the fence. “They’re acting up,” he said to Odysseus as he shuffled towards the gate, his head bowed.
“Help for a beggar?” he mumbled.
“Aye,” Eumaeus said. “You look like you’ve been through the mill.”
“Someone on my ship offended the Earth-Shaker,” Odysseus said. “Down she went. I made it. My mates didn’t.” Always better to swathe the lies with a veneer of truth.
Eumaeus regarded him. “Wasn’t you, was it?”
“If it was, I reckon Poseidon would have taken me.”
Eumaeus grunted. “Let’s get you some food, then.”
Odysseus followed him into his hut—it hadn’t changed at all and that pleased him, this sense of unchanged permanency somehow comforting. And for once the mild tang of shit-smell had been obscured by the delicious succulence of roasted pork.
“I roast it up in the morning and then the boys have cold pig for lunch. But…it’s hot, greasy and if I say so myself, well made. I’ve had a lot of practice,” he added, cutting large chunks from a joint and piling them onto a serving slab—which he delivered roughly.
Not that Odysseus cared: his stomach growled and he dug into the food, mouth watering as he shoveled it in. “It’s good,” he said between chews. “You have skill.” Eumaeus didn’t respond, placing a flatbread by the serving slab and pouring wine for them both. Odysseus paused in his eating and tipped some on the floor. “For Poseidon and Athena,” he said.
“Odd pair to hail at the same time,” Eumaeus noted and made an offering himself. “But for them both as you say.”
“Thank you, friend,” Odysseus said. “I honor the gods and I honor guest-friendship. A man takes you into his house—you owe that man respect. Trust. And thanks.”
Eumaeus grunted. Odysseus immediately wanted to do away with the masquerade and embrace the old boy; but the wily survivor-part, the part honed by all his long years of experience told him to keep his sword in its scabbard. Anonymity was his closest ally now.
Odysseus continued to wolf down the excellent pork, watching under his ragged eyebrows as Eumaeus supped on his wine. Judging the moment. “Tell me of the shore that the Earth-Shaker has delivered me to,” Odysseus said. Casual. As if he didn’t really care but wanted to make some guest-friendly conversation.
“Ithaca,” Eumaeus virtually spat the word. “This place has gone to Tartarus now,” he went on. “Used to be a haven under Odysseus. Now…” he waved a hand. “Those days are over.”
“Who rules in Ithaca?”
“Queen Penelope yet sits on the throne,” Eumaeus said. “But not for much longer.”
Relief and pride flooded through him. And no little guilt. Of course she would not take another over him; Penelope had done well to keep a grip on things for so long without him but she must have had help. “There is a prince?” he probed. “Ready to take his father’s place?”
“Would that there were.”
The words hit Odysseus hard as a bronze blade, snuffing out the relief as though he were a man who had bested his foe on the battlefield only to have a spear thrust through his back. He struggled to keep his fa?ade in place. “The prince is dead?”
“No. He’s a good lad—and I love him dearly. But really, living under the shadow of a legend like Odysseus…he’s never fulfilled his potential.”
The surprise of such a statement took him aback. “But is a son’s duty to outdo his father!”
“Not if you’re the son of Odysseus. Tough one to follow. Without the king to guide him, he’s spent too long in the company of women—you know how they can be. Too much coddling, you see. He’s not what you’d call a leader of men. Too soft. And the suitors…some of them are tough men.”
“Suitors?” Odysseus didn’t have to hide his confusion.
“Sorry—I forget that you’re new to the shore. Literally,” Eumaeus gave a grim laugh and poured more wine. “You want more pork—help yourself,” he added. Odysseus did as he was told, gritting his teeth to keep himself from commanding the old boy to get on with it.
“Where was I?” Eumaeus asked.
“Suitors.”