Odysseus Read online

  ‘And the man I’ve chosen is… ahm…’

  ‘Menelaus,’ whispered Penelope.

  ‘That’s right. Menelaus,’ said Helen.

  Menelaus’ eyes flashed in triumph, and for a moment none of the other Princes could believe what they’d heard. But the decision was made and that was that. Slowly they turned and left the room. Menelaus had won.

  * * *

  The moment they were gone, King Tyndareus breathed a sigh of relief. He had thought that his palace was going to be smashed to pieces, but apart from the odd broken pot, it was still intact. He turned to Odysseus, who was hanging around in the corner picking up the odd piece of treasure that had been scattered in the fight.

  ‘Odysseus, Prince of Ithaca, how can I ever repay you for stopping that brawl?’

  ‘Well,’ said Odysseus, with a grin playing on his face. ‘I came for a wife, and I don’t want to leave without one.’

  ‘Any idea who you‘d like?’ said Tyndareus.

  And Odysseus looked up at the laughing girl who had emptied the chamber pot over him, and smiled another big broad grin. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I have.’

  Half an hour later, Odysseus was driving his chariot back to Ithaca with Penelope by his side. ‘It’s a small island,’ he was saying. ‘It’s not rich, but you’ll love it. And I’ll introduce you to my grandfather, who’s a real rogue. And if it’s not quite posh enough, I’ll build you a new palace. And in a year and a half, when I’m eighteen, my father’s going to abdicate, so I’ll be King. What do you think?’

  But Penelope didn’t say a thing.

  ‘Look, please say something,’ he pleaded. ‘You haven’t opened your mouth since we left Sparta.’

  ‘Why should I?’ snapped Penelope. ‘You’ve taken me from my home, I don’t know you, I don’t know your island and why on earth should I want to meet your grandfather? What do you expect me to say?’

  Odysseus slammed on the chariot brakes. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘there are seventeen gold coins here in my pocket. Take them if you like, and make your way home. If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to.’

  Penelope paused, looked at him, then took the money, stepped out of the chariot and began to walk politely home. Odysseus cracked his whip and the chariot roared off in the other direction. He wasn’t going to beg.

  Five minutes later, the chariot was back and Odysseus jumped out. ‘Please,’ he begged, ‘I would like, more than anything in the world, for you to come to Ithaca and be the Queen. Come on. How about it?’

  There was a pause. ‘If I can drive the chariot,’ said Penelope, and let out a raucous laugh.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Odysseus.

  ‘Well,’ giggled Penelope, ‘don’t think you’re ever getting your gold coins back, loverboy.’

  And with that she leapt into the chariot, snatched the reins and they both shot off towards Ithaca. Ahead of them lay a beautiful pink and orange sunset. But at their backs, the black clouds of night were already gathering.

  Chapter Two

  The Burly Nun

  It was a year later. Odysseus was King and Penelope had decided that she liked everything about Ithaca, except the old palace, because bits of plaster kept falling on her head.

  ‘I thought you said we were going to get a new palace,’ said Penelope.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Odysseus. ‘Where shall we build it?’

  ‘Just here,’ said Penelope, standing on a little round hill overlooking the city.

  ‘But there’s an enormous old olive tree in the way. I don’t want that chopped down.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave it where it is,’ retorted Penelope. ‘We’ll build the only palace in the world with an enormous tree sticking through the roof.’

  And they did. The new palace was the most magnificent building on the island. It had a huge throne room with a large bronze throne, and right through the middle of the royal bedroom grew a massive tree trunk.

  ‘Don’t you think it’ll get in the way?’ asked Odysseus doubtfully.

  ‘No,’ replied Penelope, ‘I’ve got an idea…’

  And together they carved a huge double bed out of the tree trunk and, in summer, olives dangled over their heads while they slept. They were young and their lives stretched before them.

  One morning Odysseus was lying in bed, thinking about the day ahead. Before lunch he would go and put some flowers on the grave of his grandfather; in the afternoon he would visit his parents at their retirement cottage in the hills; and this evening he and Penelope would sit in the Great Hall and plan how to make Ithaca great and happy.

  There was a gurgling sound from the other side of the room. Odysseus spat out an olive stone and looked across to where the nurse was rocking his baby son and heir Telemachus to sleep.

  Little did he know that after tomorrow he wouldn’t see his son again, until the child had grown up.

  Suddenly he heard a commotion outside. ‘Where’s Odysseus?’ someone was shouting. ‘They’re coming to get him.’

  Odysseus raced along the high street to the docks. A boat had landed from the mainland and pouring down the gangplank were holiday makers and merchants and foreign tourists and parties of school children, and in the middle of them all, surrounded by pigs, was the old pig man Eumaeus. When he saw Odysseus, Eumaeus elbowed his way through the throng.

  ‘Menelaus is coming,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘And he’s bringing his whole army. There’s going to be a war – and he says you’ve got to fight. Some idiot made all the Greek kings and princes swear they’d get his wife back if she was ever stolen – and she has been!’

  Oh dear, thought Odysseus, it seemed like a good idea at the time. What do I do now? I don’t want to go to war.

  And then he remembered what his grandfather had said. ‘When the going gets tough, it’s not a bad idea to be a bit crafty.’ And a crafty grin spread over his face.

  A week later Menelaus’ golden boat arrived at Ithaca. It was so big it filled the entire harbour. Soldiers and noblemen streamed off and marched up the high street in their emerald green armour. Menelaus walked at the front, with sweat trickling down from his golden crown, and at his right shoulder was a man with a silver bow and a quiver full of silver arrows. At first it looked as though he was squinting, but if you peered closer you could see that one eye was missing. The other was the one he aimed with. He was Philoctetes, a very cunning man and the finest archer in the world.

  Menelaus turned to him. ‘Philoctetes,’ he said, ‘go and find Odysseus.’

  The high street was deserted except for an old man asleep in a chair surrounded by piglets. Philoctetes kicked the chair over and the piglets ran off squealing. Then, quick as lightning, Philoctetes drew his bow and an arrow was pointing at the old man’s throat. ‘Pigman,’ he snapped. ‘Where’s your King?’

  ‘He’s up there ploughing,’ said Eumaeus pointing to the top of the cliff. ‘But I don’t think you’ll like what you’re going to see.’

  And he was right. Half an hour later Menelaus’ soldiers had reached the top of the path. And what they saw amazed them. Instead of a normal field, ploughed in straight lines, the ground was a mass of wild and wavey shapes, triangles and circles. And there, on top of the plough, was a strange sight – a man dressed in rags with a crown on his head and a mad stare in his eyes. And between his plough shafts were a sheep and a donkey in a straw hat.

  ‘Gee up,’ said the mad man, and the animals lumbered forward.

  ‘That’s Odysseus,’ explained the pig man.

  ‘What does he think he’s doing?’ asked Menelaus.

  ‘Plough the field. Plough the field. Plough the field,’ jibbered Odysseus.

  ‘He’s mad,’ said Eumaeus, but Odysseus took no notice. He started to throw something into the crazy furrows.

  ‘Sow the seed. Sow the seed. Sow the seed,’ he chanted. But it wasn’t seed. It was biscuit crumbs.

  ‘He’s stark staring bonkers,’ s
aid Menelaus. ‘I don’t want men like that in my army. Come on, lads. Back to the mainland.’

  ‘He’s either very mad or very cunning,’ murmured Philoctetes, his one eye flashing. ‘Let’s put him to the test. Pigman, does he have any children?’

  ‘Just one – a baby son,’ answered Eumaeus, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Philoctetes sprinted to the palace, burst into the bedroom, snatched Telemachus from the nurse’s arms and then raced back. He pushed his way through the crowd, laid the baby in front of the plough and stepped back to watch. Nearer and nearer came the plough, its huge blades flashing.

  ‘Let’s see how mad he really is,’ said Philoctetes with a leer, as the plough sliced through the grass throwing up huge clods of earth and showering the soldiers. Meanwhile little Telemachus just lay there gurgling.

  Now the plough was really close, but Odysseus’ mad eyes stared straight ahead. He didn’t seem to notice that he was about to chop his baby son into little pieces. Eumaeus shut his eyes in horror…

  ‘Whoa,’ shouted Odysseus, and the plough came to a halt so close to Telemachus that the sheep bent down and licked the baby’s face.

  ‘Odysseus isn’t mad,’ crowed Philoctetes triumphantly.

  ‘No, I’m not mad,’ replied Odysseus. ‘I’m furious. You could have killed my son,’ and he picked the baby up and hugged him tenderly.

  ‘Odysseus,’ called out Menelaus. ‘Do you remember the day you persuaded the Princes of Greece to swear that if my wife Helen was stolen they’d help to get her back?’

  How can I ever forget, thought Odysseus. ‘Err, vaguely,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, she’s been taken away by Paris, the youngest son of the King of Troy. Will you honour your vow?’

  Odysseus looked at Menelaus, all hairy and ferocious, and he looked at the army of hairy and ferocious men behind him, and he knew what his answer had to be.

  * * *

  Next morning, down at the quayside, Odysseus held his baby son tightly and kissed his wife goodbye.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll be back very soon.’ But his brow darkened. He knew life was not always as easy as it seemed.

  ‘I’ll wait for you,’ said Penelope.

  ‘Don’t wait forever,’ came the reply. ‘You know what can happen in a war. If I’m not back by the time Telemachus is a man, promise me you’ll marry again.’

  ‘I promise,’ answered Penelope, hugging her husband tightly. She knew as she held him how much she loved him.

  Slowly Menelaus’ huge boat pulled away from the harbour and behind it ten smaller boats set off, each one containing a hundred men of Ithaca. Penelope waved until they disappeared over the horizon.

  When the Ithacan fleet arrived at the Greek port of Aulis it was already jam-packed with boats. No one could get in or out. Sailors were arguing; boats were tangled up in each other’s rigging; and in the centre of it all was General Agamemnon, Menelaus’ brother, leaping from boat to boat, shouting instructions, patting people on the back, knocking others into the sea. And on the quayside was Calchas, the old archbishop, with a white pointed beard and a huge silver coat covered in stars. He was yelling at Agamemnon.

  ‘How many times have I told you there’s no point in invading Troy till we’re properly prepared. You haven’t made one single sacrifice yet.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ shouted Agamemnon.

  ‘And where’s Achilles? The fleet can’t go without him. He’s the strongest, bravest man in Greece. He can wrestle with lions, he can squash elephants. I even saw him kill a hippopotamus with his little finger.’

  ‘I’m afraid he won’t be coming,’ replied Agamemnon. ‘His mother doesn’t want him to fight and she’s hidden him so well that even my most brilliant spies haven’t been able to find him.’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s staked out on the island of Scyros,’ said Diomedes, the Prince with a big spotty nose and a belly hanging over his trousers. ‘I’ll go and take a look if you like.’

  ‘Send Odysseus with him,’ said Menelaus. ‘He’s the craftiest Greek I’ve ever met. If anyone can find Achilles, he can.’

  ‘But he’s a cheat,’ protested Philoctetes.

  ‘And a liar,’ shrieked big Ajax.

  ‘Sounds like just the man for the job,’ said Diomedes, smiling. ‘I’ll take him.’

  Odysseus and Diomedes searched every single nook and cranny on Scyros but everywhere they drew a complete blank.

  ‘There’s only one place left to look,’ said Diomedes, ‘and that’s the nunnery. But if he’s in there, how on earth are we going to winkle him out?’

  ‘I’ve got a plan,’ said Odysseus.

  ‘I thought you might,’ replied Diomedes.

  An hour later Odysseus was knocking on the nunnery door disguised as a travelling salesman.

  ‘Roll up, roll up!’ he shouted. ‘Mirrors, manicure sets, holy relics, all at bargain prices.’

  Hordes of excited nuns dragged him into the nunnery and slammed the door behind him.

  So far so good, he thought and tipped the contents of his sack on the ground. ‘Scissors,’ he shouted, ‘winter vests, a great big sword, boiled sweets. Buy now while stocks last.’

  The nuns clustered round him. Short nuns, fat nuns, skinny nuns, one extremely tall nun. They peered into the mirrors, tasted the sweets, held up the vests to see if they fitted, when suddenly there was a terrifying hammering at the door and Diomedes’ voice boomed out, ‘Yo, ho, ho, I’m the pirate king and I’m going to burn down the nunnery and sell you all as slaves.’

  The nuns were extremely sensible. They didn’t panic. They didn’t scream. Some started to bar the door, some began to hide, others grabbed scissors to protect themselves. But the extremely tall nun behaved in an extremely un-nunlike fashion. She tucked her dress up into her knickers, rolled up her sleeves to reveal a massive pair of hairy arms, grabbed a great big sword and started swinging it round and round her head.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Odysseus. ‘Don’t I know you?’

  ‘Please don’t interrupt me,’ replied the nun. ‘I’m about to decapitate a pirate king.’

  ‘You’re Achilles, aren’t you?’ insisted Odysseus.

  ‘Don’t put me off,’ answered the nun. ‘Any minute now this pirate’s going to come belting in and… hey, wait a minute. How do you know my name?’

  ‘I’ve come to collect you,’ answered Odysseus. ‘You’ve got to go to Troy to fight the Trojans.’

  ‘Have I?’ said Achilles sadly. ‘Can’t I stay here with the girls?’

  ‘No,’ replied Odysseus. ‘Sorry.’ And they sailed back to the mainland.

  When they arrived at Aulis the boats were deserted. The whole army was crowded on to the slopes of the hill overlooking the harbour. On the hilltop, in front of a stone altar, stood Calchas, his voice quivering, his arms outstretched and his huge cape billowing in the wind.

  ‘In order to speed the boats to Troy,’ he bellowed, ‘an enormous sacrifice has been made and the Gods are grateful. They’ve brought forth this great wind to carry us on our way. Behold the sacrifice.’ He dropped his arms and stepped to one side – and what a sacrifice it was! The Greeks let out a gasp of horror.

  On the altar was the body of a young girl – Agamemnon’s youngest daughter. And standing by her side was General Agamemnon with a bloody knife in his hand and tears pouring down his face. The whole crowd hushed. There was a silence which seemed to last an age, then – ting! – the knife dropped from Agamemnon’s hand and he flung his arms round his daughter and kissed her lifeless body again and again. He’d made the ultimate sacrifice, yet how could he ever forgive himself?

  Agamemnon was lost in fear and sorrow, until a sudden cheer roused him. Someone was pushing through to the front, someone the Greeks had been praying would arrive.

  ‘Fear not,’ shouted Achilles, ‘for I, the people’s hero, have returned! Obviously our General is not quite himself at the moment so I will lead you. Who will follow me to burn Tro
y to the ground?’

  ‘Me! Me! Me!’ shouted the men, and raced down the hillside back to their ships. Achilles turned to Odysseus.

  ‘Which way exactly is Troy?’ he whispered.

  ‘North-north-east,’ replied Odysseus.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ called Achilles as he disappeared down the bill after his men.

  ‘Shall we go for the ride?’ asked Odysseus.

  ‘I think we better had,’ replied Diomedes, scratching his long spotty nose.

  Next day the Greek fleet landed near a small seaside town. Achilles leapt off the leading boat and sprinted up the beach.

  ‘Charge!’ he yelled.

  ‘Hurrah!’ shouted his men and rushed into the town waving their swords in the air.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ said Odysseus.

  ‘Have you ever known me to make a mistake?’ asked Achilles contemptuously. Diomedes looked at Odysseus and pulled a face. The answer was yes – and it looked like he was about to make another one. Within minutes the whole town was ablaze and the market square was littered with bodies.

  ‘Pretty simple operation,’ chortled Achilles looking rather pleased with himself.

  ‘But this isn’t Troy,’ said Diomedes.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s Mysia,’ said Diomedes.

  ‘And the Mysians are on our side,’ added Odysseus.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Achilles. ‘Cease fire, men!’ And he took out a bronze loudspeaker and yelled into it.

  ‘People of Mysia. There appears to have been a slight mix up. Apparently we’re all on the same side, but there’s no hard feelings and as a gesture of our good faith we are going to throw away our weapons.’

  Then he nodded to his men who rather reluctantly dropped their swords and spears. But before the echo of the last weapon had died away there was a roar of anger. The people of Mysia burst out of their blazing buildings and attacked the Greeks with anything they could lay their hands on – pitchforks, logs of wood, razor-sharp scythes. The Greeks turned and fled as best they could. Some were trampled to the ground and beaten; others reached the sea only to be pulled under and drowned.