For the next hour, Nerissa patiently inscribed Homer’s version of the events on Buskados. As the Cyclopes alternately spoke with eloquence then consumed pairs of sailors at each meal, she bit her lip to silence the protests that wanted to spill out. She read back the poet’s words each time he asked, making no objections.
Apollo drew his blazing orb ever closer to nightfall. If she could keep Homer heedless of their journey’s original purpose until evening, he’d have no choice but return with her to his home. By then, he’d have a true measure of her usefulness as guide. Well, not guide so much, because she’d led him in the wrong direction, but certainly he’d have to credit her value as a scribe.
She’d have a quiet word with Philemon, convince him to rest his swollen feet another day, then another and another. If luck was in her favor just this once, Homer would begin to find her help invaluable. He’d purchase her from Tragus, if only to avoid the embarrassment of explaining why he’d been so slow to return her.
Not hearing any sounds of writing, Homer repeated his latest lines. The poet’s irritated tone startled Nerissa from her rumination. She quickly flexed her hand. She knew she mustn’t allow herself to slip into such thoughts again. She took a deep breath to renew her concentration, then inscribed the Cyclopes's cries for vengeance:
“Hear me, Poseidon; thou whose arms are hurled From shore to shore, and gird the solid world;
If thine I am, nor thou my birth disown,
And if unhappy Cyclopes be thy son,
Let not Odysseus breathe his native air,
Stymie Laertes' son, of Ithacus the fair.
If to regain his country be his fate,
Be it through toils and heartache long and late; His lost companions let him first deplore; Some vessel, not his own, transport him o'er; And when at home from foreign torments freed, More near and deep, domestic woes succeed!”
“You there on the road!” From across the field, a cry interrupted the poet’s recitation. Though far away, the deep voice carried strongly on the wind. “Is that you, Homeros, son of Hippomachus? I want a word.”
“ With imprecations thus he filled the air,” the poet continued, ignoring another loud cry to stop.
“Sir, that man is calling to you,” said Nerissa. “He looks determined that we stop.”
“Pay him no heed. The man whose voice accosts us is a common ruffian. Now where was I?”
“With imprecations thus he filled the air,” Nerissa read back the line.
“Right:
With imprecations thus he filled the air, And Poseidon heard the profane prayer, A larger rock then heaving from the plain, He whirled it round: it sung across the main; It fell, and brushed the stern: the billows roar, Shake at the weight, and ebbing beat the shore.”
“Stop, you scoundrel!” The voice was even louder now, as its owner ran across the field. “I’ll have my seven minai or I’ll wring the silver from your hide.”
“Sir, that man looks very angry,” said Nerissa.
And also very large. He now was close enough to see his size rivaled Polyphemus. But he had two good eyes, with a fierce hatred gleaming from them. Nerissa recognized him as the executioner Jeremos. From the rough homespun he wore, Nerissa guessed that when he wasn’t chopping heads, he was the tenant farmer of this field.
“We must leave at once,” said Homer. “That man is a lunatic. Stir your legs.”
“What’s this about the silver? Do you owe him money?”
“That’s no concern of yours. Just take my hand and run.”
“We can’t outrun him, sir. I suggest you speak to him. Your tongue has more silver than all the mines of Siphnos.”
“Ah, it seems that yours is very clever, too. But that isn’t what’s required. This is why you’ll never serve. It’s true I need a younger guide that Philemon, but a stout manservant’s necessary. Someone who could fight off louts like this.”
“Let me have your pouch, sir.”
“What, do you propose to buy this man off with my dinner? That’s all I carry in the pouch. While there’s a nice piece of roast mutton and some newly ripened olives, I doubt he’ll accept it in lieu of seven minai.”
“Just take the food out, sir, and give the pouch to me. I can fold it for a makeshift sling. If you’ll recall, I proved myself an accurate shot on Imbrus.”
“Oh, brilliant. You’ll defend us by pelting him with olives?”
“Of course not, sir. You may have noticed as we walked that this lane is very rocky.”
She knelt and selected three stones from the road. Meanwhile, Homer took out the piece of mutton, a heel of wheaten bread, a handful of plump olives, and a goatskin full of wine. With a dubious expression, he handed the empty pouch to Nerissa.
“Stop!” she yelled at Jeremos, who was now halfway across the field. “Leave my master in peace, or you’ll force me to defend him.”
“I’m not your master,” objected Homer. “If you must speak for me, don’t utter falsehoods.”
Jeremos only snorted with derision. He kept on coming at an even greater speed. Nerissa slung a rock that grazed his boot. Jeremos stumbled, but didn’t fall. He glanced at his foot, then at Nerissa. He was too proud, too strong, and too fearless to be scared off by a tattered slave girl’s lucky throw. With a contemptuous expression, he began to run at them again.
Nerissa’s next rock thumped into his chest. This one put him down immediately, his breath knocked from his lungs. But Jeremos’s rage outweighed his caution. He regained his breath, wiped the mud out of his eyes, and stood. He felt all around his ribcage. It was deeply bruised, but there were no broken bones. Now, he drew a large knife from his robe. Clenching his teeth with hatred, he ran toward the road.
Leading him only slightly, because his pace was slower now, Nerissa struck his thigh. She hoped he’d retreat before she was forced to aim at his head. She knew she’d be blamed for killing him. She couldn’t claim dikaios phonos. The jurors would never consider it a just killing, though the man presented a mortal threat to Homer. She was a slave and had no rights. Not even to have a family and own property, as was the case in many other lands. Moreover, she wasn’t the blind poet’s body guard. Doubtless, he’d say nothing to defend her when Jeremos’s kinsmen pressed their case for execution.
Jeremos sat up and felt his thigh. Like his ribs, it wasn’t broken. Nerissa had chosen the smallest stones. He got to his knees, then to his feet. He glared with fury, first at Homer, then Nerissa. But as she raised her sling again, he turned away, then limped back to his hut.
“Damn you, girl! You’ve lied to me.”
It was the first thing Homer said since Nerissa’s victory. Hardly the thanks that she’d expected. What had she ever done to him, other than save his disagreeable life? Nerissa had to wonder if some woman once betrayed him. Maybe a young one, no older than she.
“Sir, I haven’t spoken falsely. I wouldn’t bring disgrace upon my parents’ memories.Everything I’ve told you of my history is true.”
“You said we turned at the vineyard that belongs to Pylocles. You claimed he had a new
and silent dog. But we never turned as I instructed, did we? Instead, you led me to the one road
I must shun. And you attacked the one man who wishes ruin to fall down on my head.” Homer thrust his arm out. The motion was so violent, Nerissa thought he meant to strike
her. But instead, he opened his palm, his arm held stiff, his visage stern, unyielding. After a
moment of perplexity, Nerissa realized that he wanted his pouch returned. She gave it back
without a word.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” she said after the silence extended uncomfortably. “I admit I may
have been mistaken about which vineyard we passed. I must have gotten lost.” Now that Homer mentioned it, she had strayed far from truthfulness. But Nerissa hardly
felt ashamed. Had this insufferable poet given her a choice? He didn’t have one single grain of
sympathy for all she’d suffered. The only thing he felt for her was a wish to reunite Tragus with
his property, while causing himself the least inconvenience. Ever since they’d met, he’d belittled
her abilities, insulted her family, and now condemned her honesty. She had every right to
indignation.
“But you’re at fault, as well,” Nerissa said. “I saved your life, and all you can do is
criticize. You must be the most ungrateful man who’s ever walked on Gaea’s earth.” “It’s gratitude you want? For what? You knock down Philemon, then convince him he’s
too sore to walk. You beset me with a string of hard luck stories so unbelievable, not even the most gullible audience would credit them. You force me to waste a day returning you to my worthless cousin, who’s bound to put me out of sorts for weeks… then you don’t even lead me
straight. And you entangle me with Jeremos, the one person I must avoid.”
“Why? What have you done to him?”
“Done to him?” Homer’s voice rose high with frustration. “It’s what he’s done to me!
That man has hounded me for years. He’s slandered my good name.”
“He says you owe him silver.”
“He claims this, but the charge is false. Not only that, but it’s patently malicious.” “What’s it about?”
“About? You have the nerve to ask? After your deception nearly got me killed?” “I drove him off. He was running at us with a knife. A very large one.” “Then it was even more foolish to attack.” Homer’s face plainly registered disgust. He
shook his head and muttered to himself as he put the bread, wine, mutton, and olives back into
his pouch. “Never mind. This is getting us nowhere. Now I insist you retrace our steps to the
vineyard of Pylocles. And this time, you’ll make the turn, no tricks. If we hurry, there’s a
chance of getting some work done this evening with Philemon.”
“You still intend to force me back to Tragus's abuse?” For all of Homer’s coldness,
Nerissa had never quite believed he’d do it. “You think I’ve lied about the rapes and beatings,
too. And that poor ewe. But it’s all true. He’ll kill me, I swear it by Athena’s righteous heart.” “I think you have a rich imagination,” Homer said. “A fine quality in poets, but not the
sort of virtue one looks for in a slave.”
“So be it, then. I’ve endured every pain and calumny the Gods could dream up to amuse
themselves. Why should a weak man like you have greater mercy? I’ll lead us on the proper
path, but don’t expect me to write down any more of your distortions.”
“What? You--”
But a thunderclap obliterated Homer’s words. It was so loud, it seemed to tear the world
like a great mountain-splitting earthquake. Of course the poet couldn’t see the jagged line that
cleft the heavens, but he gazed up sightlessly, aghast at Zeus's fury. He stood there frozen as
more thunder boomed and lightning struck the field. It was so close, their nostrils burned with a
metallic reek. Now Homer’s frightened visage turned to awe.
Grabbing his hand, Nerissa pulled with all her strength. The rain began to lash, driving
from the west. If they cut across the field’s upper corner, they’d reach a stone fence where
they’d find a bit of cover from the slanting storm. Tugging an unresisting Homer across the
fallow land, Nerissa ran.
“No, wait,” said Homer, coming to his senses. “We must head up the road.” “Why? I see no other shelter.”
“Not far north of Jeremos's farm, there’s a small cave on the slope of Neriton. Philemon
tells me there’s a large white boulder on the opening’s right side and a poplar on the left. We
call it the Grotto of the Nymphs. My ancestor Odysseus was born inside it. Before this feud
broke out, it used to be my favorite place.”
Nerissa found the cave just as the worst of the storm began to lash the slope with sheets of water. Little light was coming from outside, and they had no torch or oil lamp. She’d lived through so many things, not much scared Nerissa any more. Least of all was death, but ever since Buskados, she had a fear of caves. She couldn’t help thinking that evil might lurk in its dark niches, that black stains of gore might be splattered on the walls, that she might never reemerge into daylight. She caught herself groping around the inside of the cave mouth. She pulled her hand back, disgusted with herself. Of course there wasn’t a gigantic stone, ready to roll across and seal them in.
“Don’t stop here,” said Homer. “There’s a recess at the back. It has a ledge where we can sit.”
“I can’t see anything in here. The storm has made it very dark.”
“Light or dark, it makes no difference to me. Very well -- now that we’re equally blind, I’ll lead.”
He didn’t sound angry now. The storm had chased away Nerissa’s resentment, too. She only wanted to get warm and dry.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll just put my hand on your shoulder, if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t like to become lost in here.”
“We won’t. It isn’t a large cave. But people come here often enough to keep it free of snakes.”
“No one lives in it, do they?”
“Ancient people did. Philemon tells me there are paintings on the walls. Supplications to a fertility goddess, that sort of thing. And he once found knuckle-bones so old, they crumbled when he held them.”
“Knuckle-bones for astragolomancy? We do that, too, in Smyrna.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s one of the oldest forms of prophecy. No doubt your Achaean ancestors brought it east. They, themselves, learned it from Oreads. Who taught it to the Muses, too.”
“Is that why this cave is called the Grotto of the Nymphs?”
“Just so. If it weren’t dark, you’d see an ancient altar. It’s so old, the stalactites and stalagmites that surround it have managed to wed.”
“That must be beautiful. I hope the storm ends before nightfall, so I can see it.”
“Maybe. But don’t count on it.” He didn’t add that Nerissa’s more likely motive was transparent -- if they were delayed here until evening, there’d be no chance of Tragus reclaiming her today. “The Gods are treacherous, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I suppose you’ve heard that Zeus was given lightning by the Cyclopes.”
“Yes. Poseidon gained his trident from them, too. And Hermes his helmet of invisibility. Father taught us all of that.”
“Then you know why Zeus's battles with the Titans are often long. After all this time, their primordial race remains infuriated that he’d usurp their power by turning these gifts against them.”
“Oh. Now that you put it like that, it does seem dishonorable… I’ve often wondered why such powerful beings need to act so faithlessly.”
“Isn’t that obvious? It arises from their very power.”
“Is that why they’re so often angry with us? Because we know about their failings?”
“I doubt it matters to them what we think. As far as I can tell, they care little about us. About as much as we do for the thoughts of beetles. Which come to think of it, you’d better sweep the ledge before we sit down. Beetles, spiders, and what have you, they all tend to gather there, because it’s always dry.”
“Yes, sir. I can see a little now. Your ledge is just ahead.”
“There should be a blanket wedged into a crevice right above it. I used to roll it for a pillow when I’d lie back and think. If it’s still there, we can towel off with it, then brush the ledge.”
“We’re here. I do see something stuck into a crack.” Nerissa reached up and pulled the blanket out. “Your blanket’s dry. A few holes, but it’s in one piece.”
“Good. Help me shake it out.”
She did, then Homer let go of the blanket’s corners. He said nothing, but it was clear that he was offering Nerissa the first turn to dry herself.
Though the blanket wasn’t clean, she accepted readily. She stripped off her sodden rags, then rubbed the woolen cloth over her skin. It was soft, not rough as she’d expected. It felt wonderful, in fact. She could feel warmth start to seep back in her bones. The gooseflesh of her skin receded. Her shivering began to ease.
Homer didn’t hurry her. It puzzled Nerissa, since he’d been just as soaked as she. He seemed a different man from the cross and haughty poet who’d berated her. He sat there patiently as she wrapped the blanket close around her body. He didn’t say a word, even when her chattering teeth grew quiet. Recovered now, Nerissa unwrapped the blanket. Though she extended it against his arm, Homer remained motionless. If he weren’t a blind man, she could swear that he was gazing at her naked form.
It felt odd that Homer’s eyes were turned in her direction, almost as if he had the vision of night creatures that worked inside this cave. It felt odder still that she didn’t mind. An image leaped into Nerissa’s thoughts of the poet’s hands upon her body. Not rough, but tender like the blanket. They’d feel her all around, the way Grandmother used to see the children’s faces with her fingers after her eyes grew dim.
As Homer continued staring straight at her, Nerissa wondered if he was completely blind. Maybe people came to him as blurry forms, as Grandmother once said. But if Homer was enjoying the shadowy outline of her body, there was no change in his thoughtful expression. And no indication that he knew she’d finished drying.
Nerissa pressed the damp blanket into his hands. Still, he didn’t speak. He simply removed his outer chlamys, patted his limbs dry, then rubbed his dark curls vigorously. Again, she was surprised that he didn’t strip his chiton to wring it out. Most men would have done so, whether blind or sighted. Men of property wouldn’t care what slaves might think about their nudity. A slave was no more than a useful item, like a cake of soap or birch flail at the baths.
Maybe he was shy. Maybe he had some deformity, in addition to his blindness. No, that didn’t seem to be the case. With his inner garments plastered tight against him, Nerissa could see that Homer possessed a fine physique. Then she saw this fact confirmed as he unclasped his chiton, turned his back away, and toweled off the beads of water clinging to his upper torso.
It was odd that Homer seemed so ill at ease to bare himself in front of her. Other than the strangeness of his eyes, he was an attractive man. He had a very virile body. Could it be that there was something wrong about his manly parts? No, as he turned back, Nerissa could see their outline beneath the wet cloth. They seemed to be of normal size and form.
He returned the blanket to Nerissa. She noticed that he’d used the same side as her, leaving the other dry. It must have been on purpose. Again surprised at his consideration, she wrapped the blanket around her body once again. Now she wouldn’t have to put her wet and tattered clothes back on. She used them to wipe the bench before they both sat down.
“Here,” said Homer, handing her one half of the bread he’d torn in two. “You must be hungry. If I know that lout Tragus, he didn’t feed you much.”
Was the food and blanket Homer’s idea of an apology? She wondered why he couldn’t simply thank her for driving off the huge man Jeremos. And she felt very curious about their feud. Was it possible that it involved a woman? She didn’t even know if Homer had a wife.
But Homer’s generosity wasn’t finished. Using a small knife from a pocket of his cape, he cut his wedge of roast mutton exactly down the middle. He handed one piece to Nerissa, then folded the bread around his own. She followed his example, then took a bite -- it was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. She’d learned to ignore hunger so often in the past two years, she hadn’t realized how much her empty stomach craved food. As she chewed, Homer held out his hand once more. This time it was full of olives. They were bursting with sweet oil. So flavorful, they must have been newly picked that morning.
After Nerissa finished the first three, Homer offered his wineskin. The drink inside was very good. Uncommonly rich in flavor, with hints of clove and orange blossom. If this came from a vintner here on Ithaca, he was a true master of the Bacchan art. She filled her mouth with wine again, then handed back the goatskin.
Homer accepted it in silence. Now Nerissa realized that he felt ashamed about his outburst earlier. For all the clarity of his verse, this poet was a hard man to read. He must be favored by the Muses, because his writing sang with their immortal voices. But he was also plagued with deep hubris. She knew, because today she’d heard echoes from the Muses, too. When told that he’d misheard a word or two, Homer was unwilling to accept the possibility he’d erred.
Here in this holy cave, Nerissa felt a gathering sense that she’d been sent to help. Was this the object of her long and desolate ordeal? She felt a strange connection to this brilliant artist. She found she didn’t mind his frequent spates of arrogance. Wasn’t this the way of exceptional men? No matter how irritating, their sojourn had been the most enjoyable thing to come into her life in years.
Nerissa realized that she felt something powerful toward him, but she could not say what. It was especially unsettling to feel this so soon after Theoton’s betrayal. She didn’t know what to think. She hardly knew how she felt about herself, let alone this man.
She hadn’t been a month on Ithaca before betraying Andrastus in her heart. She’d turned her loneliness into something warm for Theoton. She’d convinced herself he was a man of remarkable worth, when he really was the sort of opportunist who’d thought nothing of casting her aside.
And she couldn’t even blame it on desperation. Even before being made a slave, she’d hardly led an admirable life. She’d killed men, so many that she didn’t have a count. She’d widowed blameless women, and caused children no different than her to live as orphans. Each of them would know a crueler world without their fathers. She’d left her own brother Euredon to die, the noblest person whom she’d ever known. She’d allowed the scum of all the seas to rape her on the Thallia. She should have leaped into the waves before Hycron even had the chance to cut her. This lie she told herself about staying alive to preserve her loved ones memories… it was the worst form of cowardice.
And she was lying still. She should just tell Homer he was right. That she was an unfit companion. That she’d intentionally led him off the route. As soon as the storm ended, she’d go back. She deserved everything that Tragus did to her, and more. She’d stayed alive time after time, while her entire clan had died.
If anyone deserves the name Odysseus, it’s me, she thought. I should be loathed by all, both Gods and men.
Why would her family’s shades want her prayers? They’d be right to curse her if she built an altar for them. She should be kicked to death and covered with manure in place of that poor ewe. Who could blame the Fates if they doomed her soul to lurk alone in misery forever?
“Sir,” she said. “There’s something I must tell you.”
“Another story, is it? Let’s hope that it’s a long one. This storm shows no sign of abating.”
“No, sir, it’s not another tale of tears and grief and lamentation.”
“Hmmm, that’s rather sonorous. This phrase, I like it well. It perfectly describes the ordeal that I seek for heaven-scorned Odysseus. Your history contains no more lamentation?”
“It does. That is to say, many more sorrowful things occurred between Buskados and here, but I have no wish to disturb you with them. I am a slave. That’s all I am, and all I should be. As I remember from your Iliad when you recited it for Lady Phyllis, ‘Zeus, of the far-borne voice, takes away half one's virtue, when the day of slavery comes upon him.’”
“That’s ‘half a man’s virtue.’ And no one disputes your status as a slave. But come, slaves needn’t be dejected. Take Philemon. That old grouser may be a hypochondriac, but he’s happy, I can tell you. He has a cat he pampers; he feeds it kitchen scraps and goat’s milk every night. I’d wager it surprises you to hear that I permit my slave a pet.”
“No, not really. I hope I haven’t given you the impression I consider you harsh. Maybe it’s because my only experience with masters is that they’re cruel men, thinking only of their selfish needs.”
“I’m anything but cruel. People can say what they like about me, but I assure you I’m the most tolerant master imaginable. I even allow Philemon a bowl of barley ale each night before he sleeps. You should hear him chuckle in his dreams. And my cook, she’s singing constantly. They both have well-contented lives.”
“Maybe so, but they don’t belong to Tragus.”
“Come now, girl. It isn’t like you to sound so despondent. I’ve listened to you through the day, and this is the first time your voice has lost its cheerful tone.”
“Is that why you don’t believe me? Because I failed to recount my travels with appropriate gloom? I suppose it never occurred to me to change my voice.”
“What? No, I never said I don’t believe you. But you must admit, you have a bard’s natural affection for hyperbole. I’m sure your family saw its share of hardship. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have wound up a slave. And I don’t mind a fair bit of exaggeration. That’s why people listen to us poets. Accounts of ordinary life, the sort favored by that plodder Hesiod, they hold no interest for most. So don’t hold back on my account. I find your tales implausible, but fascinating. Go right ahead. What’s next?”
“Nothing sir. That is to say, it wasn’t another tale I wished to tell you… What I wanted to say is you were right.”
“Right about what? It’s not often I hear that from a woman.” Homer smiled with selfdeprecation. “If I’m right this once, it would certainly help me to know what it involved.”
“Please don’t banter with me, sir. I don’t deserve your kindness. I deliberately missed that turn. I hoped to gain more time. I wanted to prove my skill at scribing to you. And to convince you that it would be unjust to force me back to a brutal master. If you only heard my wretched history, I thought--”
“Wretched history? Why, it’s marvelous. You needn’t be dispirited. My criticism’s only intended to improve. You mustn’t think I offered it in malice. If you simply make your heroes act heroic, this tale has everything it needs. Warfare, disaster, vengeance, greed, deceit, and lust. Olympian intrigue. Not to mention a budding romance, if I correctly read the signs between you and this Andrastus. But I’d like you to do more with that.”
“I would have liked it, too…” Nerissa felt relieved the poet couldn’t see her blush. “But it never happened, sir. I prayed it would, and once, it seemed Athena heard me, but then--”
“Her rivals intervened? Yes, that would be good. Poseidon, perhaps, furious that the Athenians rejected his gift of water.”
“They what?”
“It happened when they held a contest to name their city. While Poseidon’s water would give them naval and trading power, they claimed it was too salty to make Athens prosper. They chose Athena’s olive tree instead, for its bountiful fruit and wood and oil. The perfect crop to take advantage of their rocky soil. That’s why they named their city after her, you know.”
“I know nothing of the Gods’ rivalries. I can only tell you what actually took place on earth.”
“You still insist this story’s true in all its details?”
“Of course it is. I wasn’t gifted with your powers of imagination.”
“No? Pity, that… Cheer up, girl. You’ve done well enough so far. We’re dry now and we’ve had a satisfying meal. Better yet, this wine’s particularly good for storytelling. Can you feel it curl its warmth into your blood? There’s nothing like good food and drink, pleasant company, and a safe place when you know the storm outside could flay you into carrion. We have all evening, it seems. You’d better carry on.”