‘Then perhaps you should have been looking for me rather than lazing about and telling your friends stories,’ Eperitus said, looking at the boy with as much sternness as he could muster. ‘But I suppose I can’t blame you. Odysseus shouldn’t entrust his messages to daydreamers.’
‘I won’t always be a daydreamer, sir,’ Omeros responded, looking hurt. ‘People need stories – and bards to tell them – or where’s the enjoyment in life? If we didn’t give them tales of love, war and glory then no one would have anything to live up to.’
‘And if you left us all alone, we could lead contented lives and not be blighted by impossible dreams,’ Eperitus countered. ‘Anyway, I’d be wary of becoming a bard if I were you. Most end up as little more than tramps, wandering from palace to palace to earn scraps from the tables of the powerful.’
‘Some say that about warriors, too, sir,’ Omeros suggested, stepping back a little as Eperitus gave him another stern glance. ‘But I don’t intend to be a wandering storyteller – I will be bard to the court of King Odysseus himself, and King Telemachus after him.’
Eperitus turned to Arceisius and signalled for him to catch up. ‘Well, if that’s what you want, then you should start telling things as they really were. How many times have I had to remind you Odysseus didn’t enter the palace in a pithos of wine? He was disguised as a wine merchant.’
‘But it doesn’t sound as good, sir. Too much truth can ruin a story, and, besides, the king says he prefers my version.’
‘Odysseus has never been a great respecter of honesty, and you should be careful of following his example,’ Eperitus warned. ‘He was born with the cunning of a fox and knows more than most men about how to live by his wits; but even for him there’s a fine line between trickery and dishonour.’
Omeros was about to reply, but was silenced by the arrival of Arceisius.
‘Odysseus is waiting for us at Athena’s sacred grove on Hermes’s Mount,’ Eperitus informed his squire. ‘We should go and find him now, and leave this young rascal to evade Antinous and his cronies.’
The two men turned and walked in the direction of the low, wooded hump of Hermes’s Mount, which lay to the north-west of the town, but as they moved free of the crowd and began along the dirt track that led to the hill Omeros called after them.
‘Don’t forget that warriors need bards, too, sir. Without us, your acts of glory are worthless.’
‘He’s right, you know,’ Arceisius laughed.
Eperitus said nothing. He was already thinking of what he had to say to Odysseus after Telemachus had been dedicated to the gods, and what the cost of his own search for glory would be.
A strong wind blustered up from the sea, flattening the blades of grass that clung to the exposed flank of Hermes’s Mount. Eperitus and Arceisius held their cloaks about them as they walked towards the lonely thicket of pines that stood tall and dark in the centre of the sloping meadow, enduring the gusts that howled through its interlocked branches. Many years before, Odysseus’s grandfather had met Athena walking through the grove, where she had given him her blessing; since that day it had been considered a sacred place by all Ithacans, and especially the rulers of the island.
As they approached, they could see Odysseus standing beneath the eaves of the small wood. His auburn hair was blowing wildly in the wind as his keen eyes looked out over the Ionian Sea, oblivious to their approach. He was mouthing a silent prayer in preparation for the dedication of his son, and from time to time would close his eyes and bow his head.
Behind him stood Penelope, the knuckles of her fists white as she gripped the edges of her cloak. Her eyes, narrowed against the gale, were fixed upon her husband. At her right shoulder was her nurse, Actoris, whose back was turned against the squall to protect the baby in her arms. Eurybates, Odysseus’s squire and herald, was also with them; he held a struggling lamb in his arms and carried two skins over his shoulder, one filled with wine and the other with water.
Then Odysseus spotted the two figures coming across the meadow and waving at him in the bright sunshine. He waved back, and then, cupping his hands over his mouth so that the wind would not snatch away his words, called out, ‘Where’ve you been? Didn’t Omeros find you?’
‘We found him,’ Eperitus said as he and Arceisius reached the relative cover of the grove. ‘Telling stories by the dung heap, as usual. If he’d given us your message straight away we’d have been here a long time ago.’
‘No matter,’ Penelope smiled. ‘You’re here now, and the gods are waiting. Odysseus, are you ready?’
‘I’m ready,’ he replied. ‘Actoris, give Telemachus to his mother. Eurybates, make sure the sacrifice is willing.’
The squire knelt and placed the lamb on the ground, holding it fast by the scruff of its neck. He pulled a wooden bowl from the woollen bag at his hip and placed it on the ground in front of the gently bleating lamb, then filled it with a slop of water from one of the skins hanging from his shoulder. After a moment of uncertainty, the animal bowed its head to drink. Satisfied it had indicated its consent to be sacrificed, Eurybates removed the bowl and passed the skin to Odysseus.
After the king had washed his hands, he drew a dagger from his belt and beckoned for the animal. Pinning it against his muscular chest so that it could barely move, he cut some of the coarse black hair from its head and held it fast between his thumb and the blade. Holding it in the air above his head, he released it into the wind and watched it sail off towards the grey mass of ocean to the north. Eurybates took the lamb again as Odysseus turned to receive the swaddled baby from Penelope’s arms. The boy woke and began to cry as his father removed the double-layer of white wool and lifted his naked red body over his head. Penelope instinctively raised a hand, fearful for her little Telemachus, then forced it down again.
‘Mistress Athena!’ Odysseus called. His voice, stronger than the wind, carried out towards the maddening waves. ‘Proud lady of Trito! Virgin daughter of Zeus! Most glorious and great goddess, I call on you to accept the dedication of my son, Telemachus. Bestow on him your protection and guidance, just as you honoured my father’s request for me. Make him strong and courageous, teach him the crafts of war, and endow him with wisdom. Seek for him the blessings of the other Olympians, so that he will be loved and honoured among men. And Mistress,’ he added after a pause, ‘allow me to remain on Ithaca and watch my son grow to manhood.’
Odysseus lowered Telemachus into his mother’s waiting arms. As Penelope wrapped the baby in the thick woollen cloth, she gave her husband a questioning look. Odysseus, who had never told her about the doom predicted for him on Mount Parnassus, did not hold her gaze.
‘Give me the lamb, Eurybates,’ he commanded. ‘And mix the wine.’
The animal began to kick out, as if it knew what was about to happen, but Odysseus held it tighter and drew the blade across its throat. Vivid red blood began to pour from the opening and Odysseus let the lamb fall into the thick grass by his feet, where it twitched and continued to kick until the last of its life had pumped out of its body. A moment later, he turned to Eurybates, took the krater of wine he held and poured a little on the ground in a silent libation. Then he took a sip and held out the krater to Eperitus.
‘Do you still consent to be Telemachus’s protector?’ he asked.
Eperitus paused. Odysseus had asked him years before to be the protector of his children, should anything happen to him, and he had agreed without hesitation. Even as the king had reminded him of his promise during Penelope’s pregnancy, he had confirmed he would accept the duty. But since the birth of Telemachus and his realization that his destiny lay beyond the safe and homely shores of Ithaca, Eperitus had questioned whether he was still the right man. Though he said nothing of his doubts to Odysseus, he had considered asking Mentor – Odysseus’s friend since boyhood – whether he would take the role. In the end, though, Arceisius persuaded him to keep to his original promise. Even if they joined Agamemnon’s army and went to war with Troy, they would still be able to return to Ithaca from time to time, and Penelope would know where to send a message should anything happen that would require Eperitus to fulfil his vows. With this in mind, he took the proffered krater and poured a dribble of the dark liquid onto the grass.