Argos Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Anu, who believed in me,

  and George, who made it happen

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  BOOK I Chapter I: On the stupidity of sheep

  Chapter II: Arrival of the suitors

  Chapter III: Word of my master

  Chapter IV: The Boar Slayer

  Chapter V: Among the Lotus Eaters

  Chapter VI: The dread Cyclopes

  Chapter VII: I keep a promise

  Chapter VIII: My master returns

  Chapter IX: An ill wind

  Chapter X: Bleak morn

  Chapter XI: Titus is poisoned

  Chapter XII: My master meets fair Circe

  Chapter XIII: Telemachos learns to hunt

  Chapter XIV: A reminder of home

  Chapter XV: Come the mountain wolves

  Chapter XVI: Tales of Hades

  Chapter XVII: A trap is laid

  Chapter XVIII: What the owl says

  Chapter XIX: The blind philosopher

  Chapter XX: The Sirens’ song

  Chapter XXI: Stag hunting

  BOOK II Chapter XXII: A strange dog

  Chapter XXIII: What the goose heard

  Chapter XXIV: Deadly wine

  Chapter XXV: Kalypso makes an offer

  Chapter XXVI: The color of goldenrod

  Chapter XXVII: A wounded gull

  Chapter XXVIII: A boy becomes a man

  Chapter XXIX: A visit with Aurora

  Chapter XXX: Family matters

  Chapter XXXI: Bitter life

  Chapter XXXII: A visitor arrives

  Chapter XXXIII: What the cat saw

  Chapter XXXIV: The rest of the cat’s tale

  Chapter XXXV: Homecoming

  Chapter XXXVI: With the swineherd

  Chapter XXXVII: Telemachos returns

  Chapter XXXVIII: A father’s embrace

  Chapter XXXIX: Comes a beggar

  BOOK III Chapter XL: I find a master

  Chapter XLI: A wrestling match

  Chapter XLII: Odysseus meets my mistress

  Chapter XLIII: To string a bow

  Chapter XLIV: The king returns

  Chapter XLV: Honor restored

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  BOOK I

  CHAPTER I

  On the stupidity of sheep

  Sometimes a new dog will ask me my lineage, for I look like no other hound on Ithaka, most of which are small and bred to shepherd livestock, if they are bred for any purpose at all. When I am asked, this is the story I tell, if the question is not put to me rudely, as often happens in this age.

  My master, brave Odysseus—may the gods favor him—found me one day in early summer as he hunted a stag. Rain had begun to fall, and my master took shelter in a cave. Old men from the town claim that the cave served as a bear’s den, but I have never seen such a creature on Ithaka, except Ursa in the summer sky. While waiting for the rain to stop, my master heard noises coming from deep in the cave’s passages, but having no light, he waited near the mouth of the cave until the rain passed and then returned home, having lost the stag’s trail.

  The next morning, he returned with a burning torch to the cave and followed its dark tunnels until he found me, alone, gnawing on a boar’s carcass. Next to the carcass lay the bodies of my mother, silver furred and wolfish, and three of my brothers, all black, like me. I alone in that cave lived. My master called me Boar Slayer that day, and later, Argos, and I am still called both. Sometimes when he has drunk too much wine, he will say that my mother was a wolf and my father was the last bear on Ithaka, and perhaps that is true, for my chest is sturdy, and no dog on Ithaka is my match in size. And while there are faster runners on this island, no hound can track as well as I or run as far.

  I am Argos, the Boar Slayer, I tell the new dogs, bred of a wolf and a bear, loyal hound to brave Odysseus, guardian of Mistress Penelope, hunting companion to Telemachos, and there my lineage ends.

  But tonight a storm comes and the Boar Slayer must guard the sheep. How is it possible for an animal to be so stupid that it does not seek shelter from a storm? They will stand in the most terrible weather, chewing their cuds, bleating on and on about how the grass on one side of the hill tastes better than the other, seemingly unaware of the rain that beats down upon them. Their wool stinks when it’s wet. Don’t they smell it? I can smell a wet ewe from twenty stadia, and so can a mountain wolf. And while there are no large packs near here, lone wolves, old and crippled, still roam the far pastures looking for stray lambs. And that is why I have to remain outside tonight in the storm. Because sheep are too stupid to come out of the rain.

  Still, the mountain wolves will not feast on sheep tonight. Zeus, the father of the gods, hurls jagged lightning at Ithaka, our island, and that is the only thing they fear, besides my sharp teeth. The wolves will lie in their dens, sheltered from the rain, and wait for better days. Yet Telemachos, my master’s son, is on edge. Marauders are about, stealing livestock because the island’s brave menfolk left many winters ago with my master to capture the city of Troy, and although Telemachos is only eleven, I can tell he feels responsible for his father’s estate. He sits with my mistress Penelope every seven days when the remaining shepherds report their livestock deaths, births, and thefts, marking these numbers on clay tablets, which even my master had never done.

  I still remember that morning my master left. On the harbor, the mothers, wives, and daughters of the sailors beat their chests and tore their clothes, crying out for Poseidon, god of the vast seas, to protect their loved ones. My master’s wife and infant son stood on the jetty as well, waving to him, blowing kisses and weeping. I sat beside them and felt my mistress’s warm tears fall onto my back. But the gods have their ways; they seldom listen to humans. And no one has returned to fair Ithaka. So the marauders steal our sheep and break our fences, and there is no one to pick the olives, harvest the grapes, and shear the stupid sheep, which stand in the rain.

  Ten years or more have passed since I last licked my master’s hand. The kestrels speak of great armies with flashing shields, assembling from the corners of mighty Achaia, from Thessaly, Cydonia, Cythera, Ithaka, and more. The high-flying birds speak of heroes and villains, of Achilles and Ajax, Agamemnon, and Paris, the prince of Troy, who stole the beautiful Helen from Sparta and doomed many less foolish men. The chaffinches who alit in the open windows of Troy and gazed upon Helen no longer sing, so much were they in awe of her beauty. But about my master, Odysseus, I have heard nothing since his victory at that cursed city nearly a year ago.

  Troy. It is there my master’s reputation was made; it is there he became known as the city sacker and the Wily One. Who has not heard how my master had his men cut down the tallest trees in the wood, constructing a giant horse, a wooden statue as tall as Troy’s walls, a noble and grand gesture of surrender? How the Trojans must have laughed at my master, mocked him as if he were a knave and not a king. They did not know my master as I do. He is indeed the Wily One. For as they taunted him, hurled rotten food at his men, and awaited his peace offering, he sharpened his sword deep into the night. So the great moonfaced owl told me last winter.

  Once the horse was built, she was rolled up to the gate, which had withstood the Achaian siege without falling. Then the Achaian men who pushed it there retreated under insults and stones, returning to their ships and setting sail. Yet their crews were not full, but smaller by forty men. Nor did they sail far, only beyond the view of the lookouts, where they dropped anchor and waited.

  I am told that a few Trojans were suspicious. One, a prophetess, cautioned them to reject the gift, but they did not listen to her admonit
ions. The Trojans rolled the great horse into their fort and celebrated the retreat of the Achaians late into the night. When all was silent, my master and his men slipped out of the horse and opened the gate for their comrades, who had sailed back under darkness. And so ended the siege of Troy, for the Trojans were all put to the sword. But the Achaians went too far. They destroyed temples to the gods and sacked the city, desecrating its altars and enslaving its women. Finally my master set sail for his home, unaware that the gods had been angered by his men’s actions.

  This every schoolboy knows, for some men did return to their homes from Troy to tell the tale. But my master and his men have not. The mountain eagles circle higher and higher, riding the rippling currents, looking for him as I have asked, but see him not. The seagulls I have ordered to fly over every ship to see if my master is enslaved report nothing. Even the vultures, which smell death everywhere, are silent. And so I believe he lives.

  CHAPTER II

  Arrival of the suitors

  Truly the gods are good. This afternoon mistress Penelope ordered the servants to leave her. Then she took Telemachos by the hand and, with no guard but myself, led us to a mountain meadow where they would make a picnic. It has been many years since I have seen my mistress so at ease, and so I believe she has heard from the oracles that my master returns soon. While Telemachos chases butterflies and my mistress picks mountain flowers, grape hyacinths, and scarlet anemones, I keep watch, as it is my duty and my joy.

  Telemachos, seeing his mother happy at last, brings a wild iris to her. How they embrace! I sit down next to them, watching and waiting. Finally Telemachos says, “Argos wants a hug too!” and they fold me into their circle. When Telemachos lets go, he scrambles to his feet and grabs a small spear to practice his javelin throwing. I am tempted to run after him, but I must stay with my mistress Penelope, who weaves a garland of flowers.

  Watching his son and wife, how can I not think of my master? He has been gone now for more than ten years. How we have all changed! Telemachos grows tall, but not yet broad, and his black hair curls in ringlets like his father’s. Mistress Penelope is still radiant, outshining all the women of Ithaka, but sometimes the shadow of worry crosses her face, her green eyes sparkle less, and her lips forget how to smile. As for myself, I have seen just a few more days than Telemachos, but I have passed half my life, while he is still a pup. A pup who throws a javelin far.

  Across the meadow I see movement. A doe, trailed by her fawn, steps carefully into the meadow, leaving the safety of the forest to graze on green grass and flowers. Mistress Penelope follows my gaze and sees them as well. She puts her hand on my shoulder, but there is no need. Today is not a day to hunt. Even Telemachos lowers his javelin to watch the pair. Then the trees move again. A buck steps into the meadow. The buck does not graze like the doe and the fawn but holds his antlered head high, watching over them.

  “Three of them now,” whispers Telemachos. “There is the father! Mother, the fawn has a father!”

  “You have a father too,” mistress Penelope reminds him gently.

  “But he is not here on Ithaka, is he?” the boy says. “He is not here to watch over us.”

  “No, Telemachos, my son, he is not. But he left Argos here for that purpose until he returns.”

  I turn to lick Telemachos’s hand, and when I do, I see him. A hunter. No, a poacher, on our land. He has a bow in his hands and is slowly raising it.

  I bark. The buck turns its head. I bark again, and he sees the hunter. I hear a hum and the whistle of an arrow flying past us. But I have warned them in time. No animal on Ithaka has a faster first step than a deer. Before the arrow can strike, the deer are gone.

  I turn back to the poacher and bark again, but after missing the shot, he retreated into the forest. I start to chase after him, but my mistress calls me back.

  “Come, Argos, Telemachos. Let this day not be ruined with blood. The poacher’s arrow missed, thanks to the Boar Slayer. Now it grows late, and the servants will be worried.”

  “What about the poacher?” asks Telemachos. “Should we let him get away?”

  “I will send out guards when we return. If the poacher is still on our land, they will find him,” my mistress says.

  Or I will find him myself, I think.

  Then mistress Penelope packs her sitting cloth and gathers the flowers she had picked. Telemachos throws his javelin one last time—the farthest he has ever thrown it—and we take the trail back to my master’s house, Telemachos chatting happily about his new prowess, and his mother assuring him he will grow to be the finest javelin thrower in all Achaia.

  But I can sense something is different on Ithaka; grim tidings are in the air.

  I hear them first, and then smell them, for the wind is not strong: men. I climb the ridge that runs along the western side of my master’s farm and look down at the road. A great throng of men, armed with spears, but using them as walking staffs, is heading our way. The fur on my spine rises and my lips pull back into a snarl. But I wait a moment before barking. Then I see several of them laugh and hear others singing. They are not on a raid, I realize. Is there a festival today? Then I wonder: Is my master returning? Is this a welcoming party? Despite my best efforts to control it, my tail begins to wag.

  I watch the approaching men for a few more moments, straining to hear word of my master, but I hear only my mistress Penelope’s name on their lips. Then one of our servants comes running up the road to greet the men. After a few minutes, he turns and runs back to my master’s palace, and soon all the servants are rushing around, stoking the cook fires and arranging chairs in the great hall, bringing great jugs of wine from the cellars and sharpening knives, and I hear the squeal of a pig being led to slaughter.

  A moment later I hear barking, and soon after I see a pack of dogs, my herding pack, running toward me. They are led by Titus, a loyal but thickheaded mongrel, who guards the far pastures when he isn’t scavenging food from the servants. The other dogs—curs, mainly, of dubious lineage—stand a few steps behind him, as befits their status, barking sporadically at the wind.

  “Who are those men, Boar Slayer?” Titus asks. “Are they marauders? Thieves?” The fur along his back bristles at his own words.

  “I know not their purpose, Titus, but thieves and marauders seldom travel by day, nor do they sing or dress themselves in fine tunics, I think.”

  “So it would seem. What should we do then?” Titus asks, sitting now on his haunches.

  “Do? What is there to do?” I reply. “Return to your flocks and herds and tell your underlings to stop barking at shadows. The men approach my master’s home and so I shall investigate their purpose.” Behind Titus, a mangy-looking whelp barks again, and Titus spins around and snaps at him, biting his ear and sending him scampering away.

  Truly, I think, I must build a stronger pack.

  Just then I hear a whistle. Telemachos!

  “Go, Titus. I will summon you if I need you,” I say.

  I leave the ridge and run back down to the palace. My master’s son is outside in the courtyard. When he sees me, he claps his hands and I run up to him. He is blinking back tears and his fists are clenched. Is he sad or angry? Humans have such complex emotions!

  “They are suitors, Argos,” he whispers. “They think my father died after the fall of Troy and so they seek my mother’s hand in marriage, as is the custom throughout Achaia, so one of them can inherit my father’s land as I am too young to hold it.”

  My master dead?

  I growl at these words, and again the fur along my back stands up straight. How dare they! What proof do they have?

  “Easy, Argos,” Telemachos says gently, stroking my back. “They are many and we are few. My mother will send them on their way once we have fed them. That is her duty.”

  I sit on my haunches so he can pat my head, and we wait for the men to arrive at our courtyard. Since many of the island’s bravest men left with my master years ago, the only men left on the
island are poor farmers, shepherds, and traders, along with these men, who were too old to fight with my master when he left, too young at the time to leave home, or too craven to test their skills against the Trojans. None are worthy of my mistress.

  I knew some of their names: Antinoos, Eurymachos, Agelaus, Ktesippos, Leiocritus, and more; even together, they are not worthy to enter our estate. When they reach the courtyard, they stop, stamping the butts of their spears down in unison as if they are trained warriors. Telemachos and I approach them. He has one hand firmly on my neck, but there is no need. They are guests, arriving with peaceful intentions, and it is Telemachos’s role, as the only man in the household, to welcome them.

  After he has done so, they enter the great hall, and there they remain for the rest of the day, eating and drinking my master’s stores and insulting his servants when they are too slow to refill a cup or slice their meat. My mistress Penelope never comes down to greet them, and they leave when Luna is high in the sky. Antinoos’s last words to Telemachos are that they will return the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, until his mother chooses one of them to marry.

  Hearing this, I know one thing: woe has come to the house of Odysseus.

  It is late now, and my master’s house is quiet and dark. Even the guards are dozing, as it is the hour before rosy dawn comes to Ithaka. I make my way down to the shore, guided by Luna’s face. The seagulls are asleep on the jetty, hundreds of them with their heads tucked behind their wings. I wake them all with a single bark. When they finish squawking, I say this: “You must fly higher and farther and find King Odysseus. If you fail, another man will become king and our fair isle is doomed. Go now, and do not return without news.”

  Their wings fill the sky.

  CHAPTER III

  Word of my master