Mentor bore the old nurse’s ministrations better than Odysseus, but of course his wounds were less severe. He merely ground his teeth till he was afraid he would break them off.
When Menaera finally gathered up her bowls of balms and the linen bandages and left, both Odysseus and Mentor let out deep sighs of relief.
“She’s never short of an adage, that one,” Mentor commented. He looked rather spotty, for Menaera had daubed every scratched and torn place with a whitish paste.
Odysseus grunted. “Old women think everything they say is wise just because they’re old.”
“And young men think everything they do is brave just because it’s dangerous,” came a deep voice from the doorway.
“Grandfather!” Odysseus cried out. He tried to stand to greet the old robber prince, but his leg gave way and he fell back on to the bench. “I … I am a prince of sea-girt Ithaca, Grandfather. I can’t very well shrink from danger.”
Grandfather Autolycus stood with both hands on the doorjambs, frowning in disapproval. “Right this moment I have swineherds who look more princely than you do.”
“Sir, we haven’t had time to bathe …” Mentor said, his normally pale face flushed beneath the white spots.
This time Odysseus stood, though most of the weight was on his left leg. “There’s nothing dishonourable, sir, in the scars of battle. You have shown me yours and never apologised for them.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair and found it matted with dirt. “It’s not my fault that the spear broke at a vital moment.”
“Before you steal something,” Autolycus said, “be certain it’s worth the stealing! That’s the first rule of successful thievery.”
“I didn’t know thieves had rules.” The pain in Odysseus’ leg was like fire, but he swore to himself that he wouldn’t show that it hurt.
“Hermes is most particular about the rules of his craft,” Autolycus said. “Corollary to rule one: if a spear’s on the wall gathering dust, chances are it’s not worth much.” He came into the room, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the medicines.
“But only yesterday you said how much that spear meant to you.” Odysseus sat down again.
“Sentimental value puts no coin in your purse,” Autolycus replied. “And it will not bring down a boar.”
The vertical line appeared between Odysseus’ eyes, signalling he was about to lie. Only Mentor noticed.
Odysseus leaned forward. “Owl-eyed Athena appeared to me in a dream,” he said. “In her hand was a spear just like the one in your trophy room. When I woke, I knew that the goddess wanted me to take the spear of my illustrious grandfather and hunt a man-killing boar as had my illustrious father.”
Autolycus made a strange sound, half laugh, half snort. “And did things go as the goddess intended?”
“Well, some rival god—Pan maybe—or … or …”
“Ares?” put in Mentor.
“Yes!” Odysseus said. “Or Ares broke the spear. Afraid that a mere mortal would outshine them in glory.”
Autolycus could not hold back his laughter. He howled, and all Odysseus could do was look down at the floor and outlast the gale.
Finally Autolycus said, “Oh, grandson, you wriggle like a serpent to escape the trap of your own folly. You amuse me. You really do! Don’t put on the gods what are your own faults.”
Odysseus said nothing.
“If you’d taken a closer look at your stolen spear,” Autolycus continued, “you’d have seen a crack running through the shaft. Which is why I stopped using it.”
“It was dark, sir,” said Mentor, trying to help his friend out.
“Ah, the wise counsellor.” Autolycus turned towards Mentor and glared at him. “The hero’s friend. And where were you all this time?”
“By his side, sir.” Mentor’s voice broke under the old man’s stare.
“You should have been talking him out of such foolishness.”
Mentor chewed his lip. Should he tell Autolycus the complete truth—how he’d been dragged unwilling from his bed and had argued with Odysseus each step of the way? That would only make Odysseus look worse in his grandfather’s eyes.
“It seemed a good idea at the time, sir,” he mumbled. “The hunt, the glory …”
“Ah yes,” Autolycus said. “Glory. A poorer provider than sentiment.”
“An old man’s answer,” mumbled Odysseus, but low enough so that his grandfather could ignore it if he so chose.
Just then a servant appeared in the doorway, holding out a spear to his master. “The men are prepared, my lord, and the dogs ready.”
Autolycus took the spear and, for all his years, hefted it as if it were a twig. “I’ll be right there.” He waved the servant away. “Now this is a proper spear. If you’d managed to steal this,” he said to Odysseus, “it would have been a deed worthy of respect.”
“There’s still time for that,” Odysseus said defiantly.
“Not on that leg, I fear,” Autolycus said. He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll bring the boar back, and you can feast upon him in revenge for the ill done you.” Then he was gone.
Odysseus spat in disgust. “A bitter feast that will be.”
CHAPTER 4: A HERO’S TALE
THE HUNTERS CAME BACK from the hunt with the boar and—from what Mentor could find out—only one dog lost to its tusks.
“So we’re invited to the feast tonight.”
“I’m not going.” Odysseus crossed his arms and lay back on his pallet. “Tell them the wound is too painful. Say I’m asleep.”
But Autolycus himself came to escort the boys. “You can walk, or I can have you brought in a litter,” he told his grandson.
“I’ll walk,” Odysseus said sullenly. Nothing would have induced him to be carried in. But he used a stick because putting too much weight on the leg made the pain unbearable.
In the feast room Autolycus, splendid in his purple robe, sat in a carved ebony chair. Behind him was a bright fresco of wild cattle being caught and tamed.
Odysseus reclined on a couch on his grandfather’s right while Mentor perched on a stool next to Odysseus. The heroes of the hunt and other men of Parnassus filled the rest of the chairs and couches, chattering and joking about the day’s events.
At the three-legged cauldron, a slave stirred an ox stew. The smoke drifted up through the opening in the roof, obscuring for a moment the night blue of the sky.
“Smells good,” whispered Mentor, his face bright red, having been scrubbed clean of the white paste.
Odysseus said nothing.
“Better than your sickroom and old Menaera’s balms.”
Still Odysseus was silent.
“Well, you can sulk if you want,” Mentor said. “But as for me—I’m famished!” He rose and went to one of the long wooden tables where baskets of flat loaves of bread and bowls full of pomegranates, olives and figs had been set out.
As if the entire company had the same idea at the same time, the room erupted into a frenzy of eating. Whole kraters of wine were soon emptied and new jars brought in.
Suddenly Autolycus banged his knife on the rim of his gold cup, a clear signal for silence. “Let us hear the bard now. Shall he tell us a tale of the Argonauts?”
The room burst into a riot of sound. “Argo! Argo! Argo!”
Mentor sang out with the rest of them.
Only Odysseus, still nursing his anger, was silent.
The singer was a man called Phonos, who had an amazingly stiff black beard and sun-bronzed skin. He was blind, his eyes as round and black as ripe olives. A slave girl led him to the very centre of the room, where he stood by the central hearth.
“My lord, sirs, young gentlemen,” Phonos said, “I will sing of the Argo and the mighty heroes who sailed on her.”
He placed his hands on his hips, threw his head back, and began: