“You’ve missed the turn!” said Homer. “We should have reached it long ago. But no, we must have passed it while you were chattering away. It proves my point about the folly of a female scribe. How do you expect anyone to think you capable, with your head so full of nonsense?”
“That’s unjust, sir. If you’ll forgive me the impertinence. I suffered these events, along with all those dearest to me. Believe me when I tell you, all these things are true… I’m sorry that I can’t walk rapidly until I’ve healed, but I see the crossroads right ahead.”
In fact, they’d gone by as she spoke of the wine casks. She’d intentionally led Homer past the turn. By her best guess, half an hour had elapsed since they’d set out. One part out of twenty-four between sunrise and sunset at midsummer’s day. If both thumbs touched in turn each of the phalanges on their respective hands, the number came to twenty-four. Father had taught her this. Or twelve finger bones on either the left hand or the right. The exact number of lunar cycles in a year.
Since Homer had told Philemon the errand would take about two hours, it meant they were already halfway to the sheep farm. Nerissa knew she needed much more time before they reached it. Ahead, she could see this lane bent sharply to the right. Though it was actually skirting an ancient burial ground of block-shaped crypts, she’d pretend it was the crossroads.
“Here we are,” said Nerissa as they turned. “I see the vineyard, just as you said. The grapes smell wonderful this time of year, don’t you agree?”
Fortunately, a different vineyard spread along the slope uphill from the crumbling limestone crypts. Instead of moldered death, a westerly breeze carried the rich scent of Ithaca’s pale purple grapes down to the lane.
“Yes, the spring was dry. This rain will plump them full of juice. Then if this summer continues hot, they’ll be especially sweet.”
“I thought they were for wine, not fruit.”
“They are. But sugar turns to spirit. The stuff that makes us poets sing and wise men fools. A strong sun following the rain makes for a potent wine. And if some of the grapes are picked intentionally unripe, their juice adds a nice tartness to the wine.”
“My Uncle Clemon’s favorite wine was very sweet. He says the vintner boiled juice pressed from ripe grapes before it went into fermenting vats.”
“Yes, that’s done here, too, but I find such wine too cloying. I much prefer straw wine to that.”
“Do you mean wine made from sun-dried grapes?”
She’d read about the process in Hesiod. Vineyard slaves would collect the fruit in wicker baskets, then lay them out on mats woven of straw. When they’d dried almost as much as raisins, they’d be transferred into vats. Then slaves would hang onto a rope, while vigorously jumping on these toughened grapes. A flutist would play a lively tune to spur their dance. Of course, she didn’t mention Hesiod to Homer, since his mood darkened every time he heard his rival’s name.
“Yes, straw wine’s one of our specialties. We also export great quantities of wine flavored with herbs and spice and brine. There’s even one vintner here who does well with a perfumed blend… But why are we talking about wine? Are you sure you’ve turned at the right place? When misfortune last forced me toward my boorish cousin’s farm, Philemon and I were nearly eaten alive soon after the crossroads.”
“Eaten alive? By what?”
“Two years ago, the cursed beast that guards this vineyard, the very sire of Cerberus, it didn’t relent until we were out of view. Even then, I feared that it would break its chain. I insisted that Philemon stir his torpid bones into a trot before all three of that monster’s maws came snapping at our flesh. But this time, I don’t even hear an angry growl.”
“There’s a dog, sir, but it only has one head. A great tongue’s lolling from its mouth. A puddle of drool’s collecting in the dust between its feet. The creature looks more indolent than violent. The old one must have died.”
“Ah, I wondered if the fiendish thing were mortal. Now it may join its whelp to guard the far side of the River Styx.”
“Is there really such a monster, sir?”
“Who knows, except the Gods? Men only have time-twisted tales of heroes who’ve struggled from death’s brink. In my experience, ancient lore is often bent by poets to their own designs.”
“But what do you think, sir? My dreams are plagued with worries over Cerberus, you see. So many of my loved ones have made that journey recently.”
Nerissa gazed sadly at the largest of the burial chambers. A name was inscribed on the pediment above its entrance, but it had crumbled too much to be legible. Kouroi and korai flanked the doors. She knew these images of maidens and young men were a paean to eternal youth. Many epigrams were also carved on the tomb’s walls, calling out to travelers to learn about its occupant. She wished she could walk close enough to read them. Inside, some ancient champion had been sent to his eternal rest with veneration. Maybe Ithacus, himself. But all the worthy members of her family were scattered into dust. There hadn’t been a funeral for one of them. Their flesh was left to rot unburied. Their bones made food for crabs or jackals.
“You expect me to believe your tales are true?” said Homer.
“I swear it by the gracious brow of Pallas. Everything I’ve reported is exactly how my family’s misfortunes have unfolded.”
“Be very careful what you swear. You’d do well to remember that the good name of Athena mustn’t be impugned. Think of the unfortunate Tireseas, who only chanced to see her bathing and so was blinded for it.”
“Yes, sir, but didn’t the Goddess assuage his loss by sending serpents to wash Tireseas with their tongues? Didn’t this blessing give him the power of second sight?”
“That’s a tale they tell in Athens. I doubt it’s true. My own blindness remains, though I’ve prayed many times to Athena. And I’ve never been compensated with the gift of prophesy.”
“Why should you be? Did you lose your sight in a similar way?”
“Never mind how I went blind. Just remember never to swear falsely by Athena.”
“Forgive me, sir, but it wasn’t a false oath.”
“Nonsense. No one will credit your story, not even the greatest dotards, unless you make your heroes act heroic. As Achilles says in one of my finest verses, ‘One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name.’”
“I never claimed any of my kinsmen as a hero. All right, there was Euredon. As fine and brave a warrior as Perseus, himself. But the others, hot-blooded Kestides and my cousins and my uncles. They were flawed men, not towering immortals.”
“And so should heroes always be. Vanquishing the most calamitous of mortal flaws is why men’s names sing like Sirens in our hearts forever. Take Heracles, if we’re to speak of torrid blood. Even as a lad, it’s told he brained his music tutor with a lyre. Then as a grown man who should shun rash choler, he slew his wife Megara and their children.”
“Yes, sir, but that was in a fit of madness caused by Hera.”
“Ah, so you do know something about heroes.”
“My father told us much of Heracles. His labors slaying the Nemean lion, vanquishing the Cretan bull, cleaning the Augean stables, and the like.”
“Indeed. There were nine more, including the capture of Cerberus.”
“My father never came to that part, sir. But he did tell us how Heracles joined Iason’s voyage on the Argos to retrieve the golden fleece. It’s my favorite portion of the tale. Particularly when he cleverly defeats the warriors sown from dragon’s teeth.”
“Iason wasn’t clever, merely fortunate in his allies. Your comment simply shows how little you understand. In many ways, Iason was the least admirable of our heroes. After all she did to aid him, he abandoned Medea to marry Creusa, Princess of Korinthos. It was all for political gain, a mortal failing if there ever was one. Heroes must redeem themselves by acts of virtue. Bravery isn’t enough. Your story also lacks this quality.”
“I can only tell it as it happened, sir. I’m not so empty-headed as to make Gods out of my departed kinsmen. I’ll be satisfied to see them all someday in the Fields of Asphodel.”
“You’d be happy to walk among the lesser shades, I take it.”
“Not until my time has come. For all I’ve suffered, I don’t wish to hasten Charon’s ferry.”
“I meant as a mortal visitor. I’ve long wondered whether it might be possible… Here -take this down. A verse has come to me.”
Homer extracted a sheet of parchment and a slender stick of charcoal from his chlamys. “Exactly as I recite it, mind. I hope you didn’t lie when you claimed that you know how to write.”
“No, sir. If you don’t speak very fast, I’ll manage.”
Homer’s large brow furrowed as he turned his sightless eyes once more toward the cloudstreaked sky. Brooding in expression, he took a deep breath, then recited:
“Now I the strength of Heracles behold, a towering specter of gigantic mold.”
“You saw him inside the realm of Hades?” Nerissa interrupted. “How is that possible? Or was it in a dream?”
“No, my hero will encounter Heracles. Ah, better yet, I’ll have many of the dead speak to Odysseus.”
She’d heard this name before. Of all the heroes in the poem that Homer had recited to Lady Phyllis and her friends, Odysseus came off the best. Despite the meaning of his name. He was the wisest of Agamemnon’s allies. And now it seemed that Homer was writing a new poem devoted to this man.
“You’ve chosen to write about a hero named ‘Hated by Everyone?’ That seems inapt, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”
“I take it that your father failed to include my poem The Iliad in your education.”
The poet’s lips curled down with distaste. And yes, Nerissa also saw the tinge of jealous pique.
“No doubt he would have included it, had he but known your work.” She didn’t mention that she’d heard much of it, while a slave in the household of Theoton.
“And yet, it seems he was highly familiar with that woeful scribbler Hesiod.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Father would have disagreed with your appraisal.”
Homer’s glower deepened even more.
“Which isn’t to say that you don’t rank with Hesiod,” Nerissa added quickly. “I’ve only heard a handful of your lines, but as Hesiod wrote, ‘Pleion hemisy pantos.’
“That comes from Works, I think,” said Homer.
“It does. The half is more than the whole. That’s often true, I’ve found. Or in this case, the small sample I’ve heard from your epic is so brilliant, I’m sure Father would have had the highest esteem for your work, too. Most likely, it hadn’t reached our shores before we were forced to leave Smyrna.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Its fame has spread through all the civilized world. I’ve been invited far and wide to read it at great festivals.”
“Was one of them at Smyrna?”
“No, never there, but close. I’ve performed on Lesvos and on Chios. On Lesvos, after I’d astonished them with my Iliad, they feted me with the best wine I ever drank.”
“Really, sir? What was it?”
“Are you trying to distract me into talk of wine again?”
“No, sir. I’m merely interested.”
“If you must know, it was called Protropon. I recall someone saying it was made from grapes never bruised by feet or board. They piled great heaps in their vats, creating enough weight to press the grapes below… But as I was saying, they loved my poetry and feted me throughout the night.”
“You must have visited during a time of prosperity. When we stopped at Lesvos, they weren’t nearly so hospitable to strangers.”
“I wouldn’t know how they treat ordinary people, but they were very good to me. And they loved me even better on the nearby island of Chios. Indeed, after I performed, I was asked to lead a school at its ancient Temple of Cybele. I hear that my former students still leave Sphinx coins at the poplar tree where I’d recite. I’d sit there in a perfect chair made by a great bole at the poplar’s base. I would have thought-- No matter. What significance is there in the opinion of illiterates?”
“Sir! You may be a famous man, while I’m a ragged slave, but there’s no cause to insult me. Father was a very learned man.”
“In that case, I apologize. Still, had he read The Iliad, you’d know why Odysseus earns his name.”
“Perhaps you can explain it.” Nerissa was careful to resume a cordial tone. She knew that this self-important poet might be her only chance to escape Tragus. “What made Odysseus so despised?”
“For one thing, he tried to shirk his oath to Hera that he’d fight in the Trojan War. Feigning madness, he sowed his field with salt. Odysseus only stopped when the emissary Palamedes put his infant son Telemachus in front of the plow.”
“Oh. That makes a good story, sir.” She must have missed this part. “So Odysseus made bitter enemies among both men and Gods?”
“Exactly. It’s why he must seek advice from the greatest heroes no longer on this earth. This journey that Odysseus makes into the underworld will be an interregnum in my verse… Now if you’re quite through with your prattle, I beg you let me continue while the lines are fresh.”
“But Heracles becomes a god. What would he be doing among the dead?”
“Be still! You’re worse than Philemon, quibbling away at minor points.”
“But--”
“Very well, I’ll make it clear that Odysseus only meets the shade of Heracles.”
Homer took another deep breath, then began again:
“Now I the strength of Heracles behold, A towering specter of gigantic mold.
A shadowy form! for high in heaven's abode Himself resides, a god among the Gods; There in the bright assemblies of the skies. He nectar quaffs, and Hebe crowns his joys.”
“Oh timeless joy, Calliope smiles on the peasant rhymester’s awkward measures.” “Yes, all but ‘abodes.’” Nerissa ignored Homer’s sarcasm. “‘Fold’ would serve you
better, sir.”
“You think so, do you?”
“Yes, sir. It makes the rhyme exact. The scansion, too.”
“Indeed? How I could have used your deft ear as I struggled against Troy… Never
mind. You may have stumbled across something that could actually use improvement. Read it
back with ‘fold.’”
Nerissa did.
“Good. Leave it there. For now… Are you ready? I have more.”
“Yes, sir. Your pace is just the speed at which I write. And may I say, your voice is very
stirring.”
“You may say it, but do not think that flattery will change my mind. I have no intention
of buying you from Tragus. I’m impervious to a maiden’s sweet, soft words. Or her scorn, for
that matter.”
“But what of the obligation toward guests? As I understood Philemon, you hold this to
be paramount.”
“And so it is. A man who’d be disloyal to his guests cannot be trusted by his family or
friends, let alone by the immortals… But you are not my guest, so I fail to see why you’d cite
this duty.”
“No, not a guest who’s taken shelter in your home, but it seems an inescapable truth that
the Fates have guided me into your protection. As everyone knows well, humans are powerless
when the Gods direct the pathways of our lives.”
“That’s true; no one would dispute this. But do not try my patience. Tripping over
Philemon’s big feet hardly qualifies you as my guest. You are my kinsman’s slave, that’s all.
I’m already doing you a considerable service by wasting half a day to speak with him for you.
Now if you have no more specious arguments, I’ll thank you to resume writing down my words.” “Yes, sir.”
“Here hovering ghosts, like fowl, his shade surround, And clang their pinions with terrific sound; Gloomy as night he stands, in act to throw
The aerial arrow from the twanging bow.
Around his breast a wondrous zone is rolled, Where woodland monsters grin in fretted gold; There sullen lions sternly seem to roar, The bear to growl to foam the tusky boar; There war and havoc and destruction stood, And vengeful murder red with human blood. Thus terribly adorned the figures shine, Inimitably wrought with skill divine.”
“It’s wonderful,” Nerissa said.
“Is it? No, I think that it needs more… Heracles must speak of his progression from base human to demigod as he drags the three-mouthed dog away. Yes, that’s very good. I’ll put it in:
Down to these worlds I trod the dismal way, And dragged the three-mouthed dog away.”
“Or you could say, ‘And dragged the three-mouthed dog to upper day.’ It flows more naturally. And it is what Heracles did with Cerberus, after all.”
“By Zeus's beard! Will you stop interrupting? Now the next line’s quite flown out of my head.”
“Sorry, sir. But I need more charcoal, anyway. The stub you gave me wore down to a crumb. It’s fallen from my fingers on the lane. If it were food, we’d say it’s for the snakes.”
“Heroes turned to demigods, you mean? Implying what?”
“Nothing, sir. It’s just what Mother always said when food fell on the floor. Is that where the expression comes from? Offerings left for Gods who’ve taken the form of serpents?”
“Of course. Why, what did you suppose?”
“Nothing, sir. A fishing settlement brings many snakes. They couldn’t all have come down from Olympus… But now that you mention it, the next thing that my family suffered might have been avoided if we’d only remembered to appease the Gods.”