Homer’s Daughter (7 page)

Then I wondered: “Are such jests against the Olympians permissible?” Only, I decided, when a god or goddess is worshipped in a manner offensive to public decency and good manners: when the adulteries of Aphrodite, the thefts and lies of Hermes, and the bloody-mindedness of Ares are perpetuated in the cults of these deities and quoted by foolish mortals to excuse their own depravity. Homer goes further than I would dare, in his disdain of the Olympians, whom he makes inflict punishments or bestow protection on mankind for mere caprice, rather than requiting them according to their moral deserts, and quarrel scandalously among themselves. Moreover, in the
Iliad
, Zeus sends a dream to gull Agamemnon, who has always behaved piously towards him;
and, prompted by a divine conclave, Athene persuades Pandarus to commit an act of treachery; and Hera uses an erotic charm to distract Zeus's attention from the battle before Troy; and the Olympians laugh cruelly at the Smith God's lameness, caused by a devoted championship of his mother Hera against the indecent brutality of his stepfather.

Finding such anecdotes frankly irreligious, I close my ears and mind when they are declaimed in our Palace. My father once laughed at me for this and explained that Homer is far from being irreligious: in the
Iliad
, on the contrary, he has satirized the new theology of the Dorian barbarians. For these Sons of Hercules, having dethroned the Great Goddess Rhea—once acknowledged as the Sovereign of the World—had awarded her sceptre to the Sky God Zeus; and made him the head of a divine family composed of deities cultivated by their subject tribes, namely Hera of Argos, Poseidon of Euboea, Athene of Athens, Apollo of Phocis, Hermes of Arcadia, and so on. Homer, explained my father, secretly worshipped this earlier Goddess and deplored the moral confusion which the sack of her religious centres had caused, caricaturing the Dorian chieftains in the shameless, ruthless, treacherous, lecherous, boastful persons of the Greek leaders.

Historically, my father may be right, as when he criticized the Homeric version of Helen's flight to Troy. Yet the Zeus, the Hera, the Poseidon, the Athene and the Apollo whom I worship in my heart, and whom he honours at the altar of sacrifice, are noble-minded, just and trustworthy deities. For me, Hermes is a courteous messenger and conductor of souls, no thief; Ares fights in defence of good causes only; Aphrodite…

Yes, I confess that Aphrodite presents mankind with a difficult problem. I acknowledge her dreadful power, as I acknowledge the power of Hades, King of the Underworld; but ought I not to condemn Helen, Clytaemnestra, and Penelope for defiling their husbands' nuptial couches and becoming a reproach to their sex, rather than smile and say: “They were loyal devotees of Aphrodite, scorning the ties of marriage and home the better to honour her”? The Nasamonians of Libya, the Moesynoechians of Pontus, the Gymnasiae of the Balearic Islands and similarly promiscuous peoples may worship her with moral consistence; no law-abiding Greek can do so.

Nevertheless, I sacrificed a young she-goat to Aphrodite on the following day, burning its thigh bones on juniper billets; and vowed to take an offering up to her temple when I had the opportunity. She resides there between the spring visit of the quails and the vintage season; but, because her mountain top is cold and cloudy during most of the winter, she afterwards flies off, they say, to Libya, riding in a chariot drawn by white doves. Her priestesses and eunuchs then seek their warm college on the plain, bringing with them the image enclosed in a cedarwood chest, the golden honeycomb said to have been Daedalus's own votive offering to Elyme, and the sacred dovecotes; there to live as chastely for the next six months as the attendants of Artemis or Athene. The Goddess's annual ascent of Eryx and her subsequent descent are marked by scenes of wild abandonment to her power, especially among the Sicans. My father has done his best to suppress these revels, which raise vexatious problems of paternity; but without success. Only if some national disaster occurs in
winter does the Goddess reascend the mountain, calling back her priestesses, eunuchs, image honeycomb and doves; and is then propitiated with costly sacrifices, while the eunuchs whip one another until the blood flows, howling ecstatically. I hate the whole performance.

Not long afterwards, my father took out a ten-oared galley to inspect our red cattle and the mares with their mule foals on the island of Hiera; but had gone only about half a mile when he sighted a large Rhodian vessel approaching from the west. The sea was calm, and her sailors were pulling a long, even stroke in time with the helmsman's lugubrious chant. My father hailed the captain, and as soon as each of them had satisfied himself that the other was no pirate—one cannot be too careful nowadays—they drew alongside and exchanged gifts and compliments. The Rhodian ship was bound for Sardinia with a mixed cargo, and at Sandy Pylus, her last port of call in Greece, two staid merchants had come aboard to join the trading venture. Overjoyed to meet
these Pylians, my father enquired anxiously for news of Laodamas. They shook their heads. “If such an important person had visited our city,” they declared, “at any time since the autumn, we should certainly have heard of him.” When he quoted the Hyrian captain's report, they admitted having met the fellow at Sandy Pylus and formed a very poor opinion of his character. “As slippery as a cuttlefish,” they said, “and as mendacious as a Lerian slave. His wine was watered; his vases were flawed; his silver ingots leaden-cored.”

This came as a great shock for my father, who abandoned his visit to Hiera and returning home more depressed in mind than I had ever known him, found Ctimene back in one of her old black moods, biting her nails and moaning the popular song: “Why does my darling delay? Has he no pity on my loneliness?” over and over again. He retired to his vaulted chamber, where he had built himself a curious bed, using a live olive tree as the bedpost, inlaid with gold, silver and ivory. In theory, the room is a tomb; and once a year at midwinter, when the customary Demise of the Crown occurs, he shaves his head, enters, eats the food of the departed, and pretends to have been killed. He lies in state under a scarlet coverlet; while the Boy King, chosen from our own clan, dances the Ballet of the Months, and assumes the sceptre for a day. My father now locked the door and, after pacing up and down, his hands tightened into fists, flung himself miserably on the bed, and closed his eyes. I asked one of my maids to peep in at the window occasionally, and report his movements; which I regarded as most ill-omened, though I did not tell her so.

Some hours later, he emerged, went to his study, and sent
for me. “Nausicaa,” he said, “what shall I do? You are, at times, the most sensible member of this family (always excepting your dear mother) and I feel that—ahem—some god may have inspired you to advise me.”

He then described his meeting with the Pylian merchants, and waited for my comment.

I sighed deeply before I answered. “Father, the news does not surprise me. Your shameless Hyrian guest was lying—as I could have told you at the time. So could my mother, and perhaps she did. Let us dismiss that whole story as a fantasy designed to improve his trade; and think only of Laodamas's possible fate. It now seems certain that the Rhodian captain never took him aboard…”

“I do not agree. As Eurymachus points out, the Rhodian would hardly have risked his reputation by going off with our sails and cordage, unless Laodamas had given him permission in my name.”

“If he had Laodamas's permission, would there have been any need to drug the guards?”

My father brushed off this question as impatiently as if it were a bluebottle settling on his morning slice of bread-and-honey; nevertheless, he shifted his ground.

“Well, then, what of that Sidonian vessel which the women saw? Laodamas may have rowed out to her.”

“In that case, why was no dinghy missing from the quay?”

“He may have swum. He is a strong swimmer.”

“Father, please use the reason on which you so justly pride yourself! Could he swim with a cloakful of treasure on his back?”

My father fell silent and I continued: “The first report of
that mysterious Sidonian vessel came a month or two after Laodamas had disappeared.”

“Are you suggesting that Eurymachus's mother also lied? Why should she lie? Why should Melantho lie? She is Ctimene's own maid, and devoted to our house.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I wish I knew why, Father. But my heart assures me that they are in collusion.”

“What can you be trying to tell me?” he asked fiercely.

I did not blink an eyelid. “That Laodamas never sailed at all,” I replied.

“Stop joking, child. Everyone knows that he sailed.”

“Everyone knows that Helen eloped to Troy with Paris: or everyone, except you! To be alone in your knowledge does not prove you wrong; as it did not prove Laocoön wrong when he told the incredulous Trojans that the Wooden Horse was full of armed enemies.”

That pulled him up short. “Oh, so Laodamas went off overland somewhere? Perhaps to join your rebellious brother Halius among the Sicels? It is possible, but not likely. Why did nobody meet him on the road?”

Again I shrugged. “Let me tell you, Father, what the Goddess Athene has put into my mind: Laodamas never left Drepanum.”

He looked searchingly at me, as though he feared for my sanity, and went out, slamming the door. A long piece of plaster fell from behind the doorjamb—shaped like a dagger.

A ship had just made port in the northern harbour: a Taphian thirty-oarer, with a cargo of Chalybean iron ingots, bound for the Temesan copper mines in south-west Italy. Her captain, a cousin of the Taphian king, called at the Palace,
and when he had been entertained in a manner befitting his rank, my father, as usual, asked him whether he brought news of Laodamas.

He brought none, but proved liberal with advice. “My lord King, it is clear that his absence is eating at your heart like a mouse at one of these splendid Elyman cheeses, and I can see only one course for you to take. First: despatch a responsible member of your household to Sandy Pylus, where, since it is the centre of the amber trade, your son will naturally have gone to buy his necklace. If the Pylians have no news, mourn him as drowned, return, and build him a cenotaph worthy of his fame. Afterwards send your peevish daughter-in-law back to her father's house with the bride price; there let her marry again. Why keep her here in the Palace, my lord King, weeping and mourning without cease? A half-blind man could see that the Lady Ctimene depresses your spirits and those of your admirable servants.”

“Yes,” my father agreed, “and she is not even breeding me grandchildren.”

“Well, then,” the Taphian continued briskly, “who can go to Sandy Pylus? Your son Clytoneus? Though young, he is keen-witted. Or, failing him, what of your capable brother-in-law, my lord Mentor?”

“I trust nobody but myself,” replied my father, “to make the necessary enquiries. Yet how can I go?”

“Every king believes that his presence is indispensable; but a short holiday does him good, and his people little harm. Why not accompany us, when we sail home, in twenty days' time at the most, from Temesa? I prefer, you see, to take the longer route back, avoiding the Strait of Messina, which is
both dangerous to navigate and a notorious haunt of pirates. We could land you at Sandy Pylus within the month. How would that be?”

My father was goaded into taking a sudden resolution: he would leave the kingdom under the regency of my uncle Mentor and sail to Sandy Pylus. Despite my warnings, he still obstinately believed the first part of the Hyrian merchant's story—which was, I admit, circumstantial enough—and concluded that Laodamas must have reached Thesprotia by way of Corcyra. But what happened then? Had he met with unexpected trouble? Had he been robbed of his wealth by King Pheidon? Perhaps even sold into slavery?

“If all other sources of information fail,” my father told the Taphian, “I shall visit Delphi and consult the Oracle of Apollo. Or, maybe, Zeus's at Dodona would be the more reliable of the two.”

Though reposing small faith in the prophetic gifts of the divine priestesses, he knew well that Delphi and Dodona were centres of information and gossip for all Greece, and that he would learn from the sacrificial butchers, or the intelligent corps of messengers, whatever was to be known of Laodamas's whereabouts. He summoned my mother, my brother Clytoneus, my uncle Mentor, my grandfather Phytalus, and myself to a family council; but not Ctimene.

“Let me tell the truth,” he confided to us. “The fact is that I cannot face the prospect of Ctimene's prolonged anxiety and grief. She makes the very walls of the Palace weep and shudder in sympathy. Often I despair of her life; more often I grow enraged and am tempted to send her back to Bucinna, with the bride price which she brought—or its equivalent in
sacerdotal and commercial privileges. But this I will not do, for fear of antagonizing Laodamas when he returns—you must notice that I refuse to take your pessimistic view and say ‘
if
he returns'.”

Fifteen days later, the Taphian put in again with his cargo of copper, to which my father now added a valuable consignment of linen, honey, and folding bedsteads, and stepped cheerfully aboard. Almost the whole town sped him on his way, offering generous sacrifices to all the deities who rule the sea or protect travellers. Clytoneus and I climbed halfway up Mount Eryx to watch his sail, bellied out by a stiff westerly breeze, disappear behind the island of Motya, some eight miles to the south. When we regained the Palace, my mother drew me aside, and said: “Child, your father has told me what Athene put into your mouth: namely that we must mourn Laodamas as dead. Nor was it a lying oracle. I myself saw him in a dream three nights ago: he came, dripping blood and sea water, a dagger between his shoulders, and stood piteously before me. Then he pointed to the banqueting court, and cried: ‘Let them avenge me, Mother! Let them avenge me with the bow of Philoctetes!' ‘How shall I know that you are truly my son Laodamas?' I asked him. He answered: ‘Dear Mother, when you wake tomorrow, I shall fly in by one window and out by the other, taking the shape of a white dove.' And so he did. Tell nobody of this, even my brother Mentor, even my son Clytoneus. But be resolute to find his murderers, and let us take exemplary vengeance. You alone of my children have a better head than heart.”