Homer’s Daughter (8 page)

“If you really believed in your vision, Mother,” I said, not altogether pleased by this reflection on my capacity for
tender feelings, “why did you let my father sail for Sandy Pylus on a useless errand?”

She grew grave. “He is a self-willed man, and though, since I first married him, he has come to learn that I always tell the truth, he hates to admit that I can possibly be better informed than himself. Besides, he has never visited the mainland of Greece and this may be his last chance: for he is already past his prime. I told him of my vision, but because you had come to much the same conclusion independently, and because he had not seen the dove with his own eyes, he accused me of plotting to keep him at home. ‘Go, then,' I said, ‘and the sooner you return, my lord, the longer we shall all live.' Daughter, this is the threshold of danger. I can trust you to do nothing foolish; meanwhile, let Ctimene warm herself at what embers of hope she still can rake together.”

Three days passed, and I became aware of a subtle but pervasive change in the local atmosphere. Not among the common people, nor among my few real friends, such as Captain Dymas's daughter Procne and my cousins from Hiera; nor among our faithful maids headed by Eurycleia, who was once my dry nurse and now acts as housekeeper. I can best describe it as a disdainful reserve noticeable in the greetings that certain daughters of the nobility gave me, and an overheartiness in the manner of their brothers and fathers, as if they knew something that was being kept from me. Every summer, Elyman children play a hide-and-seek game on the hills called the Bull's Treasure, which consists in their all going out to search for a boy, called the Bull, who has hidden himself in some cleft or cave. Whoever finds him, stays behind to collect the secret treasure, not proclaiming the discovery
to his companions; but presently first one, then another, also stumbles on the Bull's hiding place, until at last all are in the secret, except for one unfortunate, who goes wandering disconsolately over the deserted hillside, lonely and perplexed. That was how I felt now.

When I am in a bad temper, it amuses me to visit our linen factory, where the sight of women quietly plying the shuttle on the tall looms has a soothing effect on my mind; yet here, too, I found an unfamiliar spirit abroad. Several of the women had left their work and were gathered in a knot near the door, talking in excited whispers, but scurried off to their looms as soon as they saw me rounding the corner, and pretended to be weaving busily. Their shuttles flew backwards and forwards like the fluttering of aspen leaves in the wind.

“Good day, industrious linen workers,” I sang out ironically. “I suppose that you have been discussing the man-headed fish drawn up in the mullet nets this morning? I saw the prodigy myself: it had arms instead of fins, and talked Phoenician—at any rate, everyone thought it must be Phoenician because none of us, not even I, could understand a word. There it lay: jabbering and gesturing, gesturing and jabbering until at last it turned blue in the face; so I threatened it with the strap, shouting that I expect both Phoenician fish and Elyman linen workers to keep their mouths shut when I come on the scene. The monster had the sense to obey.”

A dead silence followed. All our women are afraid of me, believing that I am often under the influence of some deity or other; a fear, perhaps well grounded, which I exploit by talking this sort of nonsense at them. They are a good-natured set of girls, but the least thing will disturb them, and then
their work suffers alike in quality and in quantity; as with the milk supply, when a fox runs through a flock of milch ewes, or a dog breaks loose and chases them.

“Where is Eurymedusa?” I asked. Eurymedusa, the handsome young manageress, dealt out the flax, saw to the comfort of the weavers, was responsible for the condition of the looms, and kept a close eye on the pattern of the web. We always set the looms working together on a single stock pattern—one or other of those in constant demand among the Libyans and Italians—so that Eurymedusa may find it easier to notice mistakes and encourage the laggards. On this occasion she had set up a simple check, with five purple and two scarlet threads occurring after every hundredth white one. My mother nicknames her Eurymedusa of Apeira, meaning the “Incompetent”, but though she has been slow to learn her duties she is popular in the factory.

No, there was nothing strange in Eurymedusa's absence: she had merely gone to draw a pitcherful of drinking water, the day being sultry. “Mix it with a little wine, Eurymedusa,” I said when she returned, “and dole out a gill to each of these tongue-tied women. Then get Gorgo the gooseherd to tell them one of her old-fashioned Sican stories, and keep their minds off the man-headed Phoenician fish which caused such a fright this morning.”

Eurymedusa fetched a wineskin, and did as I ordered. They all drank my health politely, and smiled, but I could see that their eyes were still troubled.

When white-haired Gorgo hobbled in, I sat on a stool and listened. Her tale was about our ancestor Aegestus and his arrival in Sicily from Troy. Having landed near Mount Etna
to water his fleet, he ventured into a dark cave, where he was seized by Polyphemus the Cyclops, one of the immortal smiths who live thereabouts, and carried down to the bowels of the burning mountain. It seems that Polyphemus and his clan needed human blood to temper a thunderbolt which they were forging for Zeus. Cunning Aegestus, however, intoxicated them with Pramnian wine, and having removed their shoes (every Cyclops has notoriously tender feet) hammered them full of nails. Then he escaped, and when the smiths pulled on their shoes and tried to give chase, pain forced them to desist. So Aegestus regained his ships in safety, and continued westward until he reached Rheithrum. The howling of the Cyclops was music in his ears.

Gorgo, small, thin, and active as a bird, told the story with such skill—lowering her voice at moments of suspense, raising it to a shout when the crisis came, and mimicking the characters—that the delighted weaving women called for another like it. She looked doubtful, but when I nodded my assent, began a tale about her ancestor Sicanus and his experiences in the cave of one-eyed Conturanus—a giant tall enough to knock a hole in the sky with his staff. With his belly resting on the summit of Eryx and his immense legs thrust behind him on our plain, he used to plunge his great hands into the Aegestan Sea and scoop up tunnies by the hundred. Sicanus had entered the cave in expectation of hospitality, followed by twelve companions, but Conturanus brained and ate them one by one, and their egress was barred by the doorstopper, which only he could budge. This excessively large boulder he rolled back twice a day: to drive his flocks to pasture at dawn and lead them home at twilight. On the third
night Sicanus blinded Conturanus with his own staff, charred to a point in the fire, and escaped by clinging to the wool beneath the belly of a prize ram, when Conturanus let it out to feed early the next morning. Conturanus raged madly against Sicanus, and threw two enormous but ineffectual rocks at him as he swam away towards Hiera.

These rocks are still shown, protruding from the sea about three miles to the south-west of Drepanum; and a huge cave, now occupied by our Sican shepherds, where we go sometimes for picnics, is called the Cave of Conturanus. When one of the women asked how so tall a giant managed to live in a cave no larger than our Palace, Gorgo explained that he had the magical power of diminishing his size at will by eating a certain mushroom.

Eurymedusa said afterwards: “Gorgo, how you enthral us! Alas, that Homer has no daughters as well as sons! If he had, and if they turned your stories into poems, and sang them sweetly to the lyre, what a ravishing entertainment that would be!”

“Alas, indeed!” I thought. The Sons of Homer are so jealous of their privileges that they allow none but their clansmen to declaim before princes. Nor does anyone dare compete with them. Yet if men sing to men, why should women not sing to women? Athene, who invented every intellectual art, is a woman. So are the Muses, who inspire all song. And the Pythoness, who prophesies in unforgettable verse, is a woman.

“Oh, Muses,” I prayed silently, “enter into the heart of your servant Nausicaa, and teach her to compose skilful hexameter verses!”

Believe it, or believe it not, my unusual prayer was at once answered! For I heard myself saying:

This was an important crisis in my life, perhaps the most important, though nobody present realized that I was speaking in verse, and prophesying, too. The common people lack discernment. If the Goddess Athene were to pass through our court of sacrifice today, helmet on head and Aegis displayed, do you think that they would rush to propitiate her? They would do nothing of the kind. I can imagine them saying: “Who in the world is this hard-faced young woman in the fringed goatskin apron? And why does she wear that round shield with the ugly face on it strapped over her shoulder? The effrontery of wearing a plumed helmet as though she were a man! She must be one of those wild, lecherous Nasamonians from Libya—what ship has brought her? Does anyone know? Let us trust that her promiscuity will not create a scandal in the market place.”

Sighing for disgust, I turned on my heel and went to find Clytoneus. He was nowhere in the house, nor in the orchard; so I wandered towards the town deep in thought, and met him striding along, with Argus and Laelaps at his heels.

“I took the Eryx road,” he said. “Argus started a hare and had her twisting and doubling between the cornfields. Laelaps kept only a few yards behind. Presently they reached a patch of brambles and butcher's-broom, where they lost her. Then
a vixen bolted from the same thicket and led them a fine chase up the hill, but went to earth in the stone quarry. So we were out of luck. Still, the hounds enjoyed their run; they seldom get enough exercise these days.”

“Tell me, Clytoneus,” I said, lowering my voice because a group of peasants was approaching, “have you noticed any alteration in people's behaviour since our father sailed?”

He stopped suddenly. “Since you mention it, yes,” he answered. “A certain ungraciousness, amounting almost to sullenness. It is natural enough that some people should be tempted to take things easy in the King's absence and neglect their duties. Uncle Mentor is well disposed to our house but, being of lower rank than several members of the Council, cannot sit with proper assurance in the chair of state. Besides, he is a little too softhearted, and his tours of inspection are not nearly so thorough as our father's. I happened to hear Melantheus answering him back most rudely yesterday when he suggested that the goats should be restrained by some means or other from barking the young poplar trees. Uncle Mentor went off with a civil good day, to which Melantheus returned hardly a grunt; but I came up, applied my spear shaft to the insolent fellow's shoulders and advised him to mend his ways.”

“What did he say then?”

“He muttered darkly that Agelaus, being now the senior Trojan prince left in Drepanum of an age to command the Elyman forces, should have been awarded the regency, and that our father had done wrong to pass him over because of some private quarrel. So I drubbed the fool again. If only I were a few years older…”

I pressed Clytoneus further. “Do you feel no danger threatening our house?”

“What sort of danger?”

“That is precisely what I want to find out. I read Melantheus's rudeness as a bad sign, because he would be too cowardly to talk in that strain without powerful backing. However solidly based our dynasty is supposed to be, the whole town smells of rebellion.”

“Rebellion by whom?”

“By Prince Antinous. He, not his old father Eupeithes, is the real leader of the Phocaeans, who have always resented their subordination to the Trojan house of Aegestus. But his cousin Eurymachus appears to be the brains of the movement. Behind these two, willingly or unwillingly, are ranged a large crowd of the young bloods, and even a few Trojans—Agelaus, for one. I trust none of them, except perhaps the sons of Halitherses. What do you say?”

“That the exaggerated courtesy with which your so-called suitors now treat me makes me suspect a plot.”

“Dear Clytoneus, the Goddess Athene often warns me clearly what not to do, or what to do. She has just come disguised as the daughter of our shepherd Philoetius, and ‘Mistress,' she said, ‘a Calydonian boar is to be hunted tomorrow. I foresee mourning.'”

“Explain the reference, please.”

“Are you taking part in tomorrow's boar hunt?”

“Yes, I have just been asked by Amphinomus, a very honest fellow.”

“You mean Eurymachus's cousin?”

“I do.”

“Eurymachus has certainly made a stalking-horse of him.”

“Forgive my stupidity, Nausicaa, and be still more explicit.”

“I am suggesting that in the course of the hunt, to which Eurymachus, Antinous, and all the Phocaean nobles will be invited, a javelin intended for the boar will transfix you; as happened to one Eurytion in the famous Calydonian Hunt. Peleus, who threw the javelin, protested afterwards that he had been aiming at the boar; but Peleus was always a dangerous companion. He accidentally killed his brother Phocus with a quoit—if, indeed, it was an accident.”

Clytoneus scratched his head. “Then should I decline the invitation? Should I say that I have fever?”

“My advice is: go boldly to Amphinomus, and tell him in the presence of his kinsmen: ‘Friend Amphinomus, I have been warned by a female soothsayer not to hunt tomorrow, unless I place myself under your protection. She declares that it is one of my unlucky days. If I am pierced by a misdirected javelin, will you swear to take vengeance on the house of the man who flung it?' As you speak, watch their faces.”

Clytoneus, though inexperienced and unsure of himself on public occasions, never shrank from any difficult assignment. Screwing up his courage, he stalked into Amphinomus's courtyard as if about to hurl a spear at the sacred images, and his request sounded almost like a declaration of war. Amphinomus, who showed no sign of guilt, remarked in quiet tones that it would be folly to disregard the female soothsayer's advice, and that since tomorrow was an unlucky day, by all means let him stay at home and offer propitiatory
sacrifices to the Infernal Gods. But Antinous avoided Clytoneus's eye, while Eurymachus glared defiance.