Odysseus nodded as if recognizing the description, but said nothing.
‘My lord,’ Omeros continued, the tone of his voice more tentative now. ‘She asked me to give you a message.’
Odysseus looked up, expectation and anxiety flickering across his features in the shifting light from the flames.
‘What is it?’
Omeros closed his eyes and thought back to the starlit night on Ithaca when he had last spoken to Penelope. It was the night of Arceisius’s and Melantho’s wedding.
The great hall had been given over to the celebrations. Every table and chair in the palace – and more from the town – had been brought in and were now overflowing with food, wine and guests. The hearth blazed, bathing the hall and its occupants in golden light, supplemented by the numerous torches sputtering on the mural-covered walls. To one side of the central fire a square of the dirt floor had been kept free, bordered by tables on its flanks and the table and chairs of the bride and groom at its head: in this large space, dozens of cheerful – and drunk – young Ithacans were dancing to the music of lyre, pipes and tambourines, while on every side scores of onlookers cheered and sang. Leading the dance were Arceisius and Melantho: he in his battle-scarred armour that spoke of heroic deeds and the glory of war, and she with her white chiton and the first flowers of spring in her black hair. They smiled broadly at each other as they moved in time to the music, delighting in being the centre of attention. Omeros, watching from one side, was pleased for them. Though Melantho had been an immature girl when Arceisius had sailed to war, she was now a woman with all the beauty and allure of youth about her. Arceisius had fallen in love with her almost the instant he had set eyes upon her, and while it was well known on the island that her favours had been given freely to others before, Arceisius was blissfully unaware of the fact. As a soldier who had lived in the shadow of Hermes’s cloak, and who had known more than enough slaves and prostitutes in his time, Omeros thought it unlikely Arceisius would have cared anyway.
As he watched them, his poet’s ears offended by the loud, clamorous music, Melantho caught his eye and skipped over to him, dragging Arceisius behind her.
‘Come dance with me, Omeros,’ she pleaded, outrageously flirtatious with her pouting lips and large brown eyes. ‘Come on now.’
‘You know I hate dancing . . .’
‘Nonsense. You’re just jealous I didn’t marry you instead!’
‘No one hates dancing!’ Arceisius exclaimed. His eyes were bright with alcohol and love, and with an irresistible laugh he pulled Omeros from his chair and almost threw him into Melan-tho’s arms. ‘Now dance!’
Omeros really did not like dancing, but Arceisius’s happiness was infectious and the seductive beauty and heady intimacy of Melantho could not be denied. Eventually he was rescued by Eurybates, who took his place and sent the young bard to join Arceisius, who was beckoning to him from one of the crowded tables. As Omeros joined him, Arceisius pushed a krater of wine into his hand.
‘Are you concerned?’ he asked. ‘About the war, I mean.’
Omeros looked at him, surprised by the frankness of the question, and could tell Arceisius was not drunk. His red face was full of light-hearted cheer, and yet in the middle of his own wedding he could still spare a moment to discuss the anxieties of a lad he had not seen for ten years. Omeros was not sure how to reply.
‘Well, you needn’t be. You have a level head, Omeros, and it’s men like you who make the best soldiers. You’ll do well in Ilium, believe me, and, anyway, those of us who’ve seen a few battles will watch over you to start with. But if you want some advice, don’t spend the whole of your last evening on Ithaca in here. Go for a walk and say goodbye to the island you love. She’ll haunt your dreams while you’re gone and no amount of glory in battle can replace the joy of being on your own soil. Besides, you don’t know you’ll see the place again.’
Omeros nodded. ‘I will.’
He drained his wine and stood up, returning Arceisius’s smile. Then a thought struck him and he looked down at the seasoned warrior in his leather cuirass with his ever-present sword hanging at his side.
‘And what about you? Are you concerned?’
Arceisius’s eyes narrowed uncertainly.
‘I mean,’ Omeros continued, glancing over at Melantho who was draping herself about Eurybates and laughing merrily, ‘I mean you’re married now. You have more to lose on the battlefield.’
Arceisius gave a small laugh and shook his head.
‘Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.’
The large double doors were wide open as Omeros left the great hall. A slab of orange light lay at an angle across the wooden portico, reaching out far enough to illuminate the trampled soil of the courtyard where the wedding ceremony had taken place earlier. Omeros crossed to the gate in the outer wall, followed by the mingled noise of music, laughter and drunken voices. Arceisius had been right: while others could forget their fears and doubts in the company of wine and friends, it was better to leave the celebrations behind and spend the remainder of his last evening on Ithaca with his own thoughts. Tomorrow he would sail for war, but tonight he wanted to walk beneath the familiar stars, listening to the wind in the trees as he stared up at the dark, humped shapes of Mount Neriton and Mount Hermes. Omeros sighed; though he had volunteered to go to Troy, seeking adventure and glory on the battlefield, now the time was almost upon him to leave he found the place he most wanted to be in all the world was right here in Ithaca.
He stepped through the unguarded gates, intending to walk down to the harbour and look out at the straits between Ithaca and the neighbouring island of Samos. The broad terrace in front of the palace walls was covered with the tents of the men who had left their homes on Samos, Zacynthos and Dulichium to join the expedition. They were empty now, flapping in the wind that came over the ridge from the sea below, and their canvas was a ghostly grey in the light of the countless stars that circled above. Omeros filled his lungs with the briny air, then crossed to the houses on the other side of the terrace.
‘There you are,’ said a voice behind him.
He turned and saw the black shape of a dog running towards him from the gateway he had just vacated. He flinched instinctively as the animal reached his ankles, but it did no more than bark and sniff a circle around his feet, before pressing its wet nose against his thighs and beating the air with its tail. Omeros recognized Argus, Odysseus’s old hunting dog, and ran his fingers over his domed head. Then a tall figure stepped out from the shadow of the palace gates.
‘Had your fill of feasting and dancing already?’ Penelope asked, walking up to him and slipping her arm through the crook of his elbow.
‘I wanted to clear my mind, my lady.’
‘Thinking of Troy?’
‘I suppose I should be, but the truth is I was thinking of Ithaca. I’ll miss the smell of the pine trees and the sound of the gulls following the fishing boats back into the harbour. It’s all I’ve ever known, of course, and now that I’m leaving it behind I feel . . . suddenly uncertain. I don’t even know if the stars will be the same on the other side of the world.’
‘They will,’ Penelope assured him with a smile as they walked between the dark, silent houses of the town, Argus sniffing the ground in their wake. ‘And there are trees and gulls in Ilium too, just as there are here.’