“But I managed to lead our men to safety. So home we sailed—till once again our supplies ran low. We beached at an island and found a cave loaded with all the provisions we could desire. Though I abstained, my men…well…as men will…they lost themselves in their cups and drank too much. It was then that we learned that the cave belonged to a giant…yes,” he shouted over the gasps of disbelief. “Worse, he had only one eye in the middle of his forehead. Polyphemos was his name. He was worse than a giant…he was a Kyklops. Yes! He blocked the cave with a rock so huge only he could move it…and took to eating the flesh my men!”
And so it went on. Odysseus sang them a song of bravery, of myth and of monsters and of how he—and he alone—was the man that managed to live through it all. He had them cheering at his cleverness of outwitting the Kyklops but how that—in blinding him—he had brought upon himself the wrath of the Sea God, carefully avoiding the truth that he’d blinded and killed an innocent man in a self-righteous rage of bloodlust.
He cried and sobbed as he spoke of Circe and how she had bewitched him, how his men had been turned to swine, even as he fought the shame of the truth—of how he had wronged her and allowed his men to abuse her women and her land. The tears were real if the story that they sprang from was not.
Guilt over not helping a desperate woman singing atop a rock for rescue was transmuted into a story of wily escape from a clawed, winged, foul, monster of destruction.
He wove regret and madness and shame into shining stories of his triumph, even as he realized that he had—ultimately—brought it all on himself. Here was Odysseus the King that had led his men to their doom, let his kingdom fall into ruin and let his wife rule alone for many years. With each adventure, he drew them more into the palm of his hand, his tale as epic as any bard could muster—better, in fact, because his was a story woven on bitter truth with the ink of the gaudy fantastic daubed on to hide the horrific reality. He spoke often of Penelope and of his longing for her and here at least there were no more lies. Here at least he could bear his soul—and in doing so made his people weep as he did. They wept for him, and he hated himself for it.
By the time Odysseus spoke of the kindness of the Phaeacians, their rich gifts—stolen once again by Poseidon, he knew that the men of Ithaca were his once again. “…And when I return home, to my beloved land, naked and alone, what do I find? Our fields lying fallow, abused by these…suitors…who would seek to oust my son from his birthright and take my woman as their own?” He stood now, ignoring the painful creaking in his back and knees after such a prolonged period sitting on the rocks. “I won’t stand for it. The gods have returned me to lead you, my countrymen, to glory. We will take back what is ours and kill those who have sought to take it from us. Ithaca will be great again! I will make it so. We will make it so. And all men will know that it is not the House of Odysseus that is cursed…but rather that any man that seeks to cross my and mine will find himself cursed—cursed to die at our hands!”
They cheered him. Old habits died hard.
Wily Odysseus had spun a great story: like all great stories, it bore enough truth to sing real. No one wanted to hear the hum-drum reality: they wanted to follow a king that fought with gods and titans, a king whose daring and intelligence knew no bounds. The rules had not changed a jot since Agamemnon’s War. How many of them—Achaean and Trojan both—claimed divine ancestry to inspire awe and love in their own ranks and fear and foreboding in the enemy.
Odysseus reckoned that—sooner or later—some bard would be saying that the gods themselves had entered the fray.
And people would believe it. They’d believe it because they wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it. And who was he to stand in their way?
It was the following evening and despite it all, Odysseus was buoyed by the swaying of his Ithacan men. His past he could not undo. But he could try to make things right. With the help of his people. Even now, the old-timers were at their huts, sharpening their spears and hammering the dents from rusted helms.
For his own part, the spear and armor had gone. Odysseus limped alongside Eumaeus in the twilight—Outis—NoOne—once again, leaning on a thick shepherd’s staff.
The swineherd regarded him. “I still can’t believe my eyes,” he said. “How you can go from king to beggar like this. Truly—Athena loves you, my king.”
Odysseus shot him a warning glance. “Careful. One slip like that in there and I’m a dead man.”
Eumaeus flushed. “I’m sorry.”
Odysseus laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Better you screw it up now than in front of our enemies.” Eumaeus walked taller after that, a man forgiven by his king, a man involved in a mission that gave him great honor. And, given Eumaeus’s advanced years—it would likely be his last. Indeed, Odysseus reckoned that—his oratory and stories aside—that was why the old men of Ithaca had resolved to back him: who could resist one last chance to prove he was a man again? To go back to his wife with fresh scars and have her look at him the way she looked at him when he had been in his pomp.
Would Penelope look on him in such a way, he wondered. Or would she see through the disguise and the half-truths? Of course she would: she had always been clever—that was why he loved her so. The best he could hope would that she—as so many wives chose to do—would blind herself to what she knew her husband must have done when he was away playing at being a man and a king.
He pushed the melancholy from his thoughts. He had to focus on the task at hand or he may well wind up dead before sunrise. “So,” he said to Eumaeus. “We’ll assess the situation and see how it plays out. Once I’m satisfied, I’ll give you the signal.
“Telemachus and the men will be waiting,” the swineherd affirmed.
“Then…we’ll finish this.”
They walked on and approached the town proper. Despite himself, Odysseus felt a sense of trepidation. He had faced many perils in his life yet before each travail, each test of skill and nerve, he felt the same way. Sometimes he envied men like Achilles and Ajax who weren’t afraid of anything. Then again, they were dead and he was still alive.
He saw a man coming towards them, a little unsteady—clearly in his cups. “Who the fuck is that piece of shit, Eumaeus!” he bawled. It was…Odysseus tried to remember…Melanthius! He was a goatherd and, like Eumaeus, long in the tooth now and swaying as he walked.
“Outis,” Eumaeus replied. “A beggar, come to seek his fortune. I can’t keep him anymore—I’m taking him to the great house.”
“What an idle bastard,” Melanthius looked “Outis” up and down with some distaste. “Foreigner, aren’t you? Just like those fucking suitors.” Even at five paces, Odysseus could almost smell the wine emanating from him. “Yeah,” he went on. “Dirty foreign bastards landing on our shores and sponging off our queen. Bet you’ve never done a day’s work in your life, beggar,” he sneered.
“I was a sailor,” Odysseus said, keeping his eyes averted.
“Well sail away from Ithaca,” Melanthius snarled. “We’re sick of you lot. And don’t think that you’ll get any joy from the suitors either,” he made off. “They’ll kick the shit out of you. And you,” he pointed at Eumaeus as he tottered away. “You shouldn’t encourage the likes of him.”