‘I mean just that, sir.’
The three men exchanged concerned looks.
‘But how?’ Menelaus asked.
‘Who can guess the will of the gods?’ she replied with a sob. ‘We were dedicating Telemachus here to Athena one moment, and the next Odysseus was rolling his eyes and talking nonsense. Now he’s ploughing this field with an ox and an ass, and sowing salt in the furrows.’
‘I’ve heard of Cadmus sowing serpent’s teeth,’ Agamemnon said. ‘But he was acting on the orders of Athena, and each one became an armed warrior. What can Odysseus expect to reap from a bag of salt?’
‘Nothing, sir. He’s mad, and the mad do as they please,’ Penelope answered.
‘But he was one of the cleverest men in Greece,’ Menelaus said, ruefully. ‘Why, of all the oath-takers, did Odysseus have to lose his mind?’
Palamedes rubbed his chin speculatively and looked over at the Ithacan king, who had reached the ridge and was already returning, dipping his hand in the bag of salt at his side and casting it with skilful flicks of his wrist over the dark earth.
‘Let’s not be too hasty to dismiss him, my lords. We should speak to him and see whether this sickness is temporary or more long-lasting. Here he comes now.’
They turned to look at Odysseus, who was whistling cheerfully as he sowed. His belt was stuffed with pine branches and he only wore one sandal; the other was tied by its thongs around his neck, and in it was the partly decomposed body of a squirrel. Agamemnon waited until he was almost at the end of the furrow before drawing back his red cloak and stepping forward, his armour flashing in the sun.
‘Odysseus!’
Odysseus stopped and looked at the king of Mycenae and his companions. An instant later his face was filled with recognition and joy, and he immediately ran towards them with open arms.
‘My lords!’ he cried.
‘See,’ Agamemnon said, turning and winking to his brother. ‘A momentary madness, brushed aside at the sight of his old friends.’
Suddenly Odysseus was on his knees before them and touching his forehead to the ground. Agamemnon’s look of satisfaction turned rapidly to consternation.
‘Get up, Odysseus,’ Menelaus said. ‘There’s no need to prostrate yourself like this, and you’re embarrassing us.’
Odysseus peered up at them from between his fingers. ‘But no mortal – even a king – can dare to look on the faces of Zeus and Poseidon and expect to live.’
‘Zeus and . . .’ stuttered Agamemnon. ‘Odysseus, stop this nonsense at once and get to your feet.’
‘As you wish, Father Zeus.’
‘Don’t you recognize us?’ Menelaus asked, genuine concern on his face. ‘Menelaus and Agamemnon? And Palamedes, who you met at Sparta.’
Odysseus looked at Palamedes and screwed his face up.
‘I don’t remember meeting any satyrs in Sparta. I’ve heard it said they’re the ugliest beasts a man could ever have the misfortune of setting eyes on, and now I know it’s true.’
‘Stop this blasphemy, Odysseus!’ Agamemnon commanded, checking Palamedes’s anger with a hand on his chest. ‘We’re mortal men, not gods.’
‘Of course, my lord. But why did you leave Mount Olympus to set foot on this humble rock, where I was king before my son took the throne from me?’
Agamemnon looked questioningly over his shoulder at Penelope, who shrugged forlornly and held Telemachus closer to her chest. Menelaus, now standing beside her, tapped his finger to his forehead and raised his eyebrows.
‘Have it your way, Odysseus. We come on a mission of the greatest importance: a crime has been committed against my brother – indeed, against the whole of Greece – that needs immediate retribution! A new enemy has raised his head, and if we don’t unite against him now then our wives, our families and our homes will never be safe again.’
Odysseus folded his arms and scratched his chin while focusing intently on Agamemnon’s right ear. ‘A new enemy, you say? Committing crimes against Greece?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you want my help?’
‘If you think you’re well enough,’ Menelaus added.
‘Never felt better, sir. But you’ll need an army! Every king from every city in the land must dust off his spear and shield – ornaments for too long – and call their subjects to arms.’
‘Yes, yes – exactly,’ Agamemnon enthused. ‘I knew you’d be the first to understand, Odysseus. How many men can you bring, and how quickly?’
Odysseus’s eyes lit up with a sudden fervour. He opened the mouth of his satchel and showed the salt to Agamemnon. ‘Thousands! Tens of thousands. But not until harvest time.’
‘Harvest!’ Agamemnon cried. ‘But that’s over half a year away.’
Odysseus looked at him as if he had gone mad. ‘Even you gods can’t hurry nature, my lord. I’ve only just sown them,’ he added, indicating the ploughed field with a sweep of his arm. ‘They won’t be full grown warriors until the late autumn. Why, they won’t even be boys for at least two months.’
‘By the name of every god on Olympus,’ said Menelaus, storming past his brother and seizing Odysseus by the shoulders. ‘Odysseus, I don’t know if there’s any part of the old you left in there, but you must listen to me. This is no joke – it’s important, urgent! We – I – need every bit of your fighting skill and your cunning. I’m at my wits’ end, Odysseus! It’s Helen. She’s been kidnapped and taken to Troy.’ Tears rolled down the king’s cheeks and fell in large droplets to the ground. ‘Being without her is destroying me. Unless you can shake off this madness and help my brother and me get her back, then I’ll be the one ploughing with an ox and an ass and throwing salt in the furrows.’
Odysseus looked at him for a long time, during which nobody spoke. Eventually, his eyes turned away to rest on Penelope.
‘I know what it’s like to love someone so much that you can’t bear to be apart from them. For that reason, Poseidon, I shall tend and water these crops every day until they’re ready. You’ll have your army by the summer, even if they’re only lads. And I’ll get back to the plough this instant – there are thousands more warriors in this bag and I need to get them sown before evening.’
He patted Menelaus’s arm sympathetically before sprinting as fast as his short legs would carry his ungainly bulk towards the waiting plough. As he reached the top of the ridge, he slipped the leather harness over his shoulders and picked up a long stick, which he applied to the backs of the two animals. The ass brayed angrily and immediately struggled against the yoke, whilst its slower companion took three more cracks of the stick and several shouts of ‘Hah! Hah!’ before it would agree to move. Though unhurried in its movements, its solid bulk prevented the ass from pulling away, and before long the plough was being dragged back down the slope with only Odysseus’s great strength keeping it straight. Every now and then he reached into his satchel and tossed a handful of salt over his shoulder.
‘By all the gods,’ Palamedes said suddenly, snapping his fingers. ‘Was one of the cleverest men in Greece, you say Menelaus? I think he still is; but he doesn’t fool me, and I’m going to prove he’s not mad.’
As the plough came nearer, they could hear Odysseus singing a popular farming song, the words of which he had twisted to a martial theme.
‘I sows ’em when it’s frosty,
The ground as hard as bronze,
I waters ’em when it’s sunny,
My beautiful warrior sons.
I reaps ’em in the summer,
’Cos foreign wars demand,
Then sends ’em in the autumn,
To die on foreign land.’