Читать книгу The Spoils of Troy - Lindsay Clarke - Страница 9

So loud was the anguish at the fall of Troy you might have thought the noise must carry across the whole astounded world; yet it would be weeks before the news of Agamemnon’s victory reached as far as Ithaca. Of all the kingdoms that sent ships to the war, our western islands were furthest from the conflict. We were always last to receive word of how our forces were faring and by the time reports arrived they were far out of date, never at first hand and, more often than not, coloured by rumour and speculation. To make matters worse, Troy was taken late in the year when all the seas were running high and the straits impassable, so the fighting was over long before we got to know of it.

The view must always have been clearer from the high crag at Mycenae but even the intelligence that reached Queen Clytaemnestra was not always reliable, and she was too busy managing Agamemnon’s kingdom in his absence to keep my Lady Penelope apprised of events on the eastern seaboard of the Aegean. Meanwhile the infrequent letters Penelope received from her father, Lord Icarius of Sparta, were always terse in their account of a son-in-law of whom he had never approved. So throughout the war we Ithacans were fed on scraps of information that had been picked up in larger ports by traders who came to the island, or that reached us from the occasional deserter who made it back to mainland Argos. Such men had only a fragmentary picture of events, and who could say whether their accounts were trustworthy? All we knew for certain was that Lord Odysseus had still been alive the last time anyone had news of him.

As Prince Telemachus emerged from infancy into the proud knowledge that the father of whom he lacked all memory was one of the great Argive generals, this proved to be an increasingly frustrating state of affairs. So as his friend, I Phemius – still only a boy myself – did what I could to supply his need with flights of my own fanciful imagination. Each day he and I, along with a ragged troupe of fatherless urchins, fought our own version of the Trojan War around the pastures and coves of Ithaca. From hill to hill we launched raids on each other’s flocks, singing songs and taking blows. Meanwhile, far away in windy Phrygia, Odysseus used all his guile to steer his comrades towards victory over a foe that had proved tougher and more resilient than anyone but he had anticipated.

Then, in the ninth year of the war we learned that an inconclusive campaign in Mysia had ended with the Argive fleet being blown back to Aulis by a great storm. For a time we lived in the excited hope that Odysseus might seize the chance to visit the wife and child he had left so many years before, but all that came was a long letter which was delivered under seal directly into the hands of Penelope.

The next day she summoned my mother and some of the other women into her presence and with the gentle grace that always distinguished her care for our people, she told them that The Raven, the ship in which my father Terpis had sailed from Mysia, had failed to appear at Aulis. There remained a small chance that the crew might have made landfall on one or other of the islands scattered across the Aegean but the women should prepare themselves for the possibility that their husbands were drowned at sea and would not return.

The island rang loud with wailing that day. For me, for a time, it was as though a black gash had been torn in the fabric of things. But remembering how my father, the bard of Ithaca, had sung at the naming day of Prince Telemachus, I converted my fear and grief into a solemn vow that, if he did not return, I would honour his memory by becoming the island’s bard myself.

Meanwhile Penelope gave her son as sanguine an account of the letter as she could. How else was she to speak to a ten year old who knew nothing of his father except her love for him and the fact that almost all those he had left behind on the island spoke of him with affection and respect?

Only many years later, long after the war was won and Odysseus still had not returned to Ithaca, was Telemachus allowed to read the letter for himself. He told me that it contained warm expressions both of undying love and of agonized regret that a hard fate had kept him so long from his wife and son. But it was also filled with bitter criticism of the way the war was being fought. In particular, Odysseus was at pains to distance himself from the decision that had just been taken to sacrifice Agamemnon’s daughter Iphigenaia on the altar of Artemis in order to secure a fair wind back to Troy.

He attributed the blame for that atrocity to Palamedes, the Prince of Euboea, a man for whom he cherished an abiding hatred. It was Palamedes who had demanded that Odysseus take the terrible oath that had been sworn at Sparta to protect the winner of Helen’s hand from the jealousy of his rivals – an oath which Odysseus (who was not a contender for Helen’s hand) had himself devised. It had been Palamedes who accompanied Menelaus to Ithaca and compromised Odysseus into joining the war against his will. Now it was Palamedes who had thought up the scheme to lure Iphigenaia to her death in Aulis with the pretence that she was to be married to Achilles, and Odysseus could no longer contain his contempt and loathing for the man’s devious mind.

Small wonder then that Penelope had been deeply troubled by the letter, for the roguishly good-humoured, ever-optimistic man she had married was entirely absent from its words. In his place brooded an angry stranger about to return to a war which he had never sought. And he did so with his mind darkened by the conviction that the evil shadow of that war was corrupting all on whom it fell.

So the fleet had put to sea again in the tenth year of the war, and we in Ithaca heard nothing further about the fate of those aboard until the spring afternoon several months later when a black-sailed pentekonter with a serpent figurehead put in at the harbour. It bore the arms of Nauplius, King of Euboea.

Nauplius was not the only visitor to Ithaca at that time. Earlier that week Prince Amphinomus had sailed over from the neighbouring island of Dulichion to pay tribute on behalf of his father, King Nisus, who owed allegiance to Laertes, King of Ithaca. This agreeable young man had proved such an entertaining companion that Penelope persuaded him to remain a while after his business with her father-in-law was done. She claimed that he lifted her spirits in what was, for her, a lonely and anxious time. I also grew fond of Amphinomus. He was possessed of a charming, easy-going manner, was eloquent without showiness, and did not condescend when I revealed in answer to his friendly question that it was my intention to become a bard like my father before me. But Telemachus took against him from the first and to such a degree that his mother felt obliged to admonish the boy for his rudeness.

‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ Amphinomus mildly chided her. ‘After all, he has lacked the guidance of his father’s hand.’

‘Sons have lost their fathers in this war and fathers their sons,’ Penelope sighed. ‘Sometimes I can see no end to the woes it brings.’

‘My own father feels the same way.’ Amphinomus gave her a wry smile. ‘He often thanks the gods that I was too young to go to Troy with Odysseus – though there have been times when I bitterly reproached them for the same reason.’

‘Well, I pray that the war will be over long before you are called upon to serve,’ Penelope replied, ‘and not least so that my husband will come back soon to take this skittish colt of mine in hand.’

At which remark Telemachus scowled, whistled his father’s dog Argus to his heel, and left the chamber.

‘Go with him, Phemius.’ Penelope favoured me with the smile that always made my heart swim. ‘See if you can’t improve his ill humour before we dine.’

But when I did as I was bidden, Telemachus merely glowered at me. ‘You should have stayed and kept an eye on him,’ he said. ‘I don’t trust that man. He’s too eager to be liked.’

‘I like him well enough anyway,’ I said. ‘He’s asked me to sing for him tonight.’

But Telemachus was already staring out to sea where the distant sail of an approaching ship bulged like a black patch stitched into the glittering blue-green. ‘Who’s this putting in now?’ he murmured, throwing a stone into the swell. ‘No doubt some other itchy hound come sniffing at my mother’s skirts.’

Until that moment such a thought had never crossed my mind. Penelope was the faithful wife of the Lord Odysseus and everyone knew that theirs was a love-match. While most of the other princes of Argos had lusted after Helen, Odysseus remained constant in his devotion to her Spartan cousin, the daughter of Icarius. Their marriage had been a cause for great joy on Ithaca and though its early years had been shadowed by a grievous number of miscarriages, no one doubted that the shared grief had deepened their love, or that it was only with the most anguished reluctance that Odysseus finally left his wife and newborn son to fight in the war at Troy. Then, as the war dragged on and King Laertes and his queen Anticleia grew older, Penelope had become the graceful Lady of the island. She was always a reliable source of comfort and wisdom to those in need, revered throughout all Argos for her constancy, and utterly beyond reproach. So I don’t know whether I was more shocked by the vehemence of what Telemachus had said or troubled by my sense of its astuteness.

I was fifteen years old at that time. Telemachus was four years younger, yet he had seen what my own innocently cherished infatuation had failed to see – that the fate of Odysseus was at best uncertain and if he failed to return to Ithaca then Penelope would become the most desirable of prizes. I also realized in that moment that if Telemachus had seen it, then others must have seen it too. And with that thought it occurred to me that he must have overheard someone else uttering some such remark as the one he had just made. In any case, my angry friend stood scowling out to sea, too young to defend his mother’s honour but not too young to worry over it.

However the black ship bearing down on our island that day did not carry some hopeful suitor making a speculative bid for Penelope but someone more devious – a bitter old man motivated neither by love nor by lust but by an inveterate hatred, which he did not at first reveal.

I clearly remember King Nauplius coming ashore on the island that day – a scraggy, bald-headed figure in his sixties with a hawkish nose and an elaborately barbered beard. There was a gaunt and flinty cast to his features, and the shadows webbed around his eyes darkened the critical regard with which he studied both our undefended harbour and the homely palace on the cliff. But what most impressed my young imagination were the conspicuous mourning robes he wore. I remember thinking that whatever news this king was bringing, it could not be good.

King Laertes, the father of Odysseus, was not present in the palace to receive this unexpected visitor. In those days the old king had taken to spending more and more time tending the crops and animals on his farm, or simply sitting in the shade, fanning himself with his hat and wishing that his son would return from the foreign war to assume the burden of kingship over the western islands. Laertes had been famous among the heroes of Argos in his day. As a young man, he had sailed to far Colchis with Jason on the raid that brought back the Golden Fleece. He was also among those who hunted the great boar that Divine Artemis had loosed to ravage the lands around Calydon, but he was growing old and weary now. Earlier that week he had received the year’s tribute from Dulichion, Same and Zacynthus, and then done what he could to give fair judgement over the various disputes that had arisen between them while their leaders were away. Now, once more, he had retreated with his wife Anticleia to the peace of his farm.

Having apologized to the unexpected royal visitor for the king’s absence, Penelope was ordering a runner to call Laertes back to court when Nauplius raised a restraining hand and gravely shook his head. ‘There is no need to trouble him,’ he said. ‘Let old Laertes enjoy such peace as this world allows. In any case, it is you I have come to see.’

The words fell on the air as stark and grim as the robes he wore. Sensing that grief had turned to a mortal sickness inside the man, Penelope said, ‘I see you have suffered some great loss, my lord.’ But she was remembering how she herself had suffered at the last visit from the royal house of Euboea. Already she was fearful that the ill news that Nauplius brought with him must press closely on her own life too.

‘A loss from which I do not expect to recover,’ Nauplius answered. ‘This war has cost me my son.’

‘Palamedes is dead?’

The grey eyes studied her as if in reproach. ‘You have had no word from Troy?’

‘We have heard nothing since the fleet sailed from Aulis.’ Opening helpless hands, Penelope shook her head. ‘I grieve to hear of your loss. Tell me, how did this thing happen?’

Nauplius made as if to answer, then seemed to change his mind, shaking his head at the immense burden of what he had to utter. ‘I have sailed far today,’ he sighed, ‘and my heart is heavy with evil tidings. Let me first rest a while and regain my strength. Then we shall speak of the grief that this war has brought to us.’ Nodding with the absolute authority of a sovereign who had decided that everything that needed to be said for the time being had now been said, he turned away, raising a ringed hand to his body-servant for support.

‘Of course,’ Penelope answered uneasily. ‘My steward will escort you to your chamber. But first … Forgive me, but I must ask you, Lord Nauplius …’

Frowning, the old king tilted his head to look back at her. Penelope forced herself to speak. ‘Do you have word of my husband?’ She saw how one flinty eye was narrower than the other and its lid quivered like a moth beneath its brow. Into a silence that had gone on too long she said, ‘Does Odysseus live?’

Nauplius drew in his breath and stood with his mottled head nodding still.

‘Oh yes,’ the voice was barely more than a hoarse wheeze, ‘Odysseus lives still. Odysseus lives.’ And again, with a sigh that seemed to rebuke the relief that broke visibly across her face, he turned away.

When Nauplius and his attendants had left the hall, Amphinomus approached Penelope, smiling. ‘Good news at last, my lady.’

‘Yes.’ Penelope stood with the fingertips of her right hand at her cheek. ‘But I fear that Nauplius has more to say,’

Amphinomus shrugged. ‘It may only be that his grief has darkened his view of things. You mustn’t let his shadow dim your own fair light.’

Penelope shook her head. ‘The truth is that I didn’t greatly care for Palamedes. He was a clever man, in some ways as clever as Odysseus, but he lacked warmth. And I have often wished that he had never set foot on this island. If he hadn’t come here with Menelaus all those years ago, Telemachus would have a father to watch over him and I a husband in my bed. Yet one must pity any man who has lost his son.’

‘One must indeed,’ Amphinomus pursed his lips, ‘even though he brings a deathly chill into the hall with him!’

Penelope reproved the arch smile in the young man’s handsome face. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the King of Euboea sickens from more than grief. Also he is as much a guest of the house as you are, sir. We will be civil with him.’ But she was glad of her friend’s company in what threatened to be a difficult and demanding time.

Her apprehensions were confirmed at dinner that evening when Nauplius merely frowned in response to Penelope’s warmly expressed hope that he was well rested, and then went on to express his surprise that a young woman of the royal house of Sparta had not long since grown discontented with the dull round of life in rustic Ithaca.

‘I regret that our plain ways are not to your taste,’ Penelope answered. ‘I myself have always found the simple life here wonderfully refreshing after the rivalries and gossip of the court in Sparta. With each day that passes I learn to love this island and its people more.’ Nor did she entirely conceal the reproach in her voice as she added, ‘Indeed I sometimes think that were all the world to emulate such dullness, it might be a happier and more peaceful place.’

‘Your husband has been gone for nearly ten years, madam,’ Nauplius replied. ‘Have those years not taught you that happiness and peace are not to be found anywhere for long?’

Penelope shrugged her delicate shoulders. ‘I respect the wisdom of your years, my lord, but it may be that Ithaca has something to teach you still.’

‘However,’ Amphinomus put in, ‘we are all eager for news of the war, and not much reaches us here. Will you share with us what you know of its progress?’

‘Troy still stands,’ Nauplius glowered. ‘Men fight beneath its walls and die, and it would seem that Agamemnon and Achilles are fiercer in their quarrels with each other than they are with the Trojans. Meanwhile prudent counsel is ignored and honest men are traduced by liars. In short, the Argive army is led by knaves and fools. What more is there to say?’ Undismayed by the flush he had brought to Penelope’s face, he looked away.

Amphinomus said quietly, ‘I think you forget that Lord Odysseus is among those who command the host.’

‘No, sir, I do not forget,’ Nauplius answered shortly.

From further down the table Lord Mentor, whom Odysseus had entrusted with the management of his affairs on Ithaca uttered a low growl. ‘Then you will except him from your remarks, I trust?’

But either Nauplius did not hear him or affected not to have done so. He took a trial sip from his wine-cup, wrinkled his nostrils in a barely concealed grimace of disappointment, and smiled at Penelope. ‘Our Euboean vintage is mellower, my dear. I must make a point of sending you some.’

Her voice uncharacteristically tense, Penelope said, ‘My husband is no man’s fool, sir. Do you suggest he is a knave?’

Nauplius opened his hands in a mild gesture of protest. ‘You were daughter to my old friend Icarius long before you became wife to Odysseus. Believe me, I have no desire to say anything that would cause you pain or displeasure.’

Aware that the answer was neither a withdrawal nor an apology, Penelope made an effort to still her breathing. If she had suspected earlier that this dour old man had come with mischief at work in his embittered mind, she was convinced of it now. Looking for space to gather her thoughts, she turned to Amphinomus. ‘Did you not ask Phemius to sing for you tonight? Perhaps his voice will please our royal guest?’

And so I was required to stand before this uneasy table and raise my voice in the silence. I had been looking forward to this moment all day but any bard will tell you that few can sing at their best before those whose minds are elsewhere. My ambition had been to sing from The Lay of Lord Odysseus on which I had been working, and in the circumstances it would have been the courageous thing to do. But I was reluctant to expose a still raw and tender talent before a judge as stern as King Nauplius, so I chose instead to sing some of the traditional goat-songs sung by shepherds on the island. Amphinomus and Lady Penelope received them warmly enough, but those bucolic airs appealed no more to the visiting king’s ears than our island’s wine had done to his palate.

‘My son told me that you liked to keep a simple life here on Ithaca,’ he said dryly, ‘but I’m surprised to find that the court of Laertes lacks a bard even!’

‘The boy’s father is our bard,’ Penelope answered quietly. ‘There is some fear that his life was lost at sea after the Mysian campaign.’

‘A campaign against which my own son strongly advised,’ Nauplius said with narrowed eyes, ‘but other counsel was preferred, and with what disastrous results we may all now plainly see.’ Then he cast a searching look my way. ‘The boy sings sweetly enough,’ he conceded. ‘I hear the grief in his voice. It is hard for a son to lose a father, but it is in the natural course of things.’ Nauplius shook his gaunt head. ‘For a father to lose a son however …’

Amphinomus said, ‘Surely a father can take comfort from the knowledge that his son died honourably in battle?’

But Nauplius turned a cold stare on him. ‘My son was denied such honour. And denied it by those whom he had loyally sought to serve.’

The silence was broken by Lord Mentor. ‘As the king has observed,’ he said, ‘we are simple souls on Ithaca. Perhaps he will make his meaning plainer.’

Nauplius met the controlled anger with a bleak smile. ‘In good time,’ he said, ‘in good time. My business here is with the Lady Penelope. If she will grant me private audience when this meal is done, we will talk more of these things.’

‘You are the guest of our house,’ Penelope answered. ‘It shall be as you wish.’

And so, with the only subjects about which people wished to speak thus firmly confined to silence, this awkward meal progressed. Amphinomus did what he could to ease the atmosphere by extolling the contribution that Euboea had made to the art of navigation. In particular he praised that island’s introduction of cliff-top beacons beside dangerous shoals, an invention which had caught on across Argive waters and proved a boon to mariners everywhere.

Nauplius nodded in acknowledgement. He and Amphinomus chatted together for a while. ‘It pleases me,’ he said, ‘to learn that the Lady Penelope has found a diverting companion in her husband’s absence.’ And at the fireside pillar where we sat with the dog Argus stretched between us, kicking his hind-legs in a dream of chase, I saw Telemachus scowl.

Eventually, having eaten well for all his disdain for rustic fare, Nauplius declared himself replete, washed his hands in the bronze bowl and indicated his desire to speak alone with the lady of the house. We watched them leave the hall together, he gaunt and frail, she taller by almost a head, yet they felt worryingly like an executioner and his victim.

‘Come, Phemius,’ Amphinomus called across the hall, ‘sing for us again.’

Not for many years, not indeed till after her husband’s return, did Penelope utter a word about what was said between her and King Nauplius that night. The following morning, shortly after dawn, that disagreeable visitor put out to sea without offering thanks or saying farewell to anyone. No one on the island regretted his departure though we were all troubled by the shadow that he had evidently cast across Penelope’s mind and face, and not even Amphinomus could persuade her to share the burden of her cares.

Not many weeks would pass, of course, before we learned that this was only one of many visits that Nauplius was to make to the chief kingdoms of Argos, and everywhere he went, including, most dramatically, Mycenae itself, he left the contamination of his vengeful grief. And from reports of what happened elsewhere it was not difficult to guess what must have passed between Nauplius and Penelope that night.

Nauplius would have begun by singing the praises of his dead son Palamedes. Was his not the swiftest and most orderly mind in the Argive leadership? Had he not come to the aid of the duller-witted Agamemnon by recommending an order of battle which would take full advantage of the diverse forces assembled under his command rather than allowing their rivalries and customs to weaken their strength and cause disarray? Had he not devised a common signalling system that could be understood and exploited equally well by tribesmen from Arcadia, Crete, Boeotia and Magnesia? Had he not unified the systems of measurement used throughout the host so that there could be no confusion over distances and arguments over the distribution of rations and booty might be kept to a minimum? Wasn’t it Palamedes who had kept the troops in good heart by teaching them his game of dice and stones? Hadn’t he always done what he could to make sure that the voice of the common soldiery was heard among the council of the kings? In short, Nauplius insisted that if it had not been for the presiding intelligence of Palamedes, anticipating difficulties and finding means to overcome them, Agamemnon’s vast army would quickly have degenerated into a quarrelsome rabble with each tribal contingent looking only to its own interests even though the entire campaign might founder on such narrow pride.

Penelope would have listened patiently to all of this. After all, the man was her house-guest and it was understandable that a father’s grief should exaggerate his dead son’s contribution to the arduous effort of a war in which he’d lost his life. She had no doubt, of course, that the intelligence and experience of Odysseus must have played at least an equal part in that effort, and probably a greater one, but she had already sensed that to speak up for her husband at this juncture could only arouse a hostile response from this lugubrious old man. So she preferred to hold her peace and wait to see what menace still lay concealed behind his show of grief.

It was not long in coming. Frowning into space as he spoke, Nauplius told how, late in the previous year, when their supplies began to dwindle and raids along the Phrygian and Thracian coasts produced little by way of grain and stores, the Argive host had been faced with a choice between starving outside the walls of Troy or turning tail with little to show for all those long years of war. Odysseus had been in command of one of the raiding parties that returned with its holds empty. When he was met by the rage of Agamemnon, he publicly defied any man to do better. The harvests had failed everywhere that year, he claimed. The granaries were bare.

‘Palamedes took up the challenge,’ Nauplius said, ‘and when he returned to the camp only a few days later, his ships rode low in the water, heavy with grain. You would have thought he deserved the heartfelt thanks of the entire host, would you not? And the common soldiers were warm enough in their praise. My son had always championed their cause. Now he had saved them from hunger. But with the generals it was a different story.’ Fiercely the old man drew in his breath. ‘Whenever there had been conflict among them as to the most effective course of action, Palamedes was invariably proved right. The high command sometimes paid a high price in blood for ignoring his advice and now, once again, my son had succeeded where others had failed. Their envy turned first to spite and then to malice. At least one of them was determined to blacken his name.’

By now Penelope must already have guessed the direction of Nauplius’s story. She knew very well that Odysseus cared for Palamedes no more than she did herself. But nothing could have prepared her for the charge that Nauplius was about to bring against her husband.

‘My son used to send me frequent reports of the progress of the war,’ he said. ‘After all, I had been one of Agamemnon’s principal backers from the first. To fight this war he needed the wealth of Euboea as well as our ships. Without the huge loans I made him, he could never have mustered half the force he did. And both my son and I were well aware that those loans would not be repaid unless Troy fell. So Palamedes went to the war as the guardian of my investment. I relied on him to make sure that the campaign was effectively pursued. I relied on him for news. When he fell silent I began to suspect that something untoward had happened.’ After a grim silence Nauplius said, ‘I sent urgent messages to the Atreides brothers. When no word came back I decided to sail for Phrygia myself.’

After a deliberate silence Penelope asked, ‘And what did you learn there?’

‘I learned that my son had been dead for some time. But he had been denied an honourable death in battle. Palamedes had been traduced by men he took to be his friends. Envious men. Men who worked in darkness to do him harm. A conspiracy of lies had been mounted against him. He was accused of treason. Evidence was fabricated. It purported to show that he had taken Trojan bribes. He was tried and found guilty by the very men who had perpetrated this foul calumny. Palamedes, always the most prudent and honourable of men, met a traitor’s end. He was stoned to death by the host he had sought to serve to the very best of his ability.’ Nauplius was shaking as he spoke. His lips quivered but his eyes were dry as in a hoarse whisper he said, ‘My son’s last words were, “Truth, I mourn for you, who have predeceased me.”’

The words lay heavily on the silence for a time. They could hear the sound of men carousing in the hall below. Eventually Penelope raised her eyes. ‘You are impugning the honour of Agamemnon and Menelaus?’ she demanded.

‘I am,’ Nauplius answered, ‘and I am impugning Diomedes of Tiryns and Idomeneus of Crete who conspired with them against my son.’ He paused to fix her with his flinty stare. ‘And I am impugning your husband Odysseus who was the father of these lies.’

‘Then I will hear no more of this,’ Penelope said steadily, ‘for it seems to me that anyone can vilify another man’s name when he is not present to defend himself, but there can be no honour in such slander.’

‘Which is precisely what your husband did to my son,’ Nauplius retorted, ‘and his shade still cries out for justice. Do not turn away from me, Penelope. I have never felt anything other than affection in my heart for you. Yet I confess I have long shared your father’s doubts about the man you chose for your husband. Odysseus was always a plausible rogue, yes, but a rogue nevertheless. And now I know him to be more and worse than a rogue – he is a villain, one who will stoop to any deceit to secure his own ends. Do not turn away, my dear, for as you will soon learn to your bitter cost, you are as much the victim of his duplicity as I have been.’

But Penelope was already on her feet and crossing the room to leave it. She stopped at the door to confront the old man with the cold rebuke of her eyes. ‘You have already said too much.’

‘The truth is often painful, I know,’ he began to answer, ‘but it must be heard if justice is to be done.’

‘You are the guest of my husband’s house,’ Penelope interrupted him, ‘and you are also old, sir. So I will not ask you to leave this place at once. But I advise you to take to your ship at dawn. Otherwise I will not answer for your safety.’

‘Hear me,’ Nauplius beseeched as she turned to open the door. ‘I speak only out of care for you. This war has corrupted all who lead it. Why do you imagine that not one of them has come home in all these years? It is not because they are constantly in the field, I assure you. Far from it! Those errant gentlemen have long been living a life of licence and debauchery out there in Phrygia. From all the many women they have taken to their tents, each has now selected his favourite concubine. And there is more. They mean to make queens of their oriental paramours when they return to Argos. Pledges have been given before the gods. Believe me, my dear, Odysseus is as faithless as the rest.’ He took in the hostile glitter of Penelope’s eyes and refused to be abashed by it. ‘You do well to look for comfort elsewhere. Amphinomus is a handsome fellow.’

Penelope drew in her breath. ‘Now I am sure that you lie,’ she said. ‘May the gods forgive you for it, for I cannot. Let me never see your face on Ithaca again.’

She left the chamber, banging the door behind her. Yet for all her defiance I doubt that she slept that night. Nor can she have known much rest in the days and nights that followed, for secrets and lies are defilers of the heart and once the trust of the heart is breached it knows no peace. So Penelope was often to be heard sighing as she worked her loom by day, or again when she made her offerings to Athena and prayed that the goddess might teach her patience of soul. And often she would walk alone along the cliff, gazing out to sea as she wondered what had happened to her husband beneath the distant walls of Troy.