Odysseus in the Serpent Maze

CHAPTER 3: THE OLD THIEF

“HOLD STILL, MASTER ODYSSEUS,” his mother’s old nurse, Menaera, snapped impatiently as she bathed his leg with cold water. “The wind may make the tree’s branches tremble, but it cannot heal the broken limb.”

“That stings!” Odysseus cried.

Drying his leg roughly with a coarse towel, Menaera showed him no mercy. “Not even bad enough to call in the physician, my princeling.” She examined the wound closely, sniffing at it for contagion and finding none.

“You’re worse than that boar,” he complained.

A smile spread over Menaera’s wrinkled face. “Now, now! You sound like a child, not a hero. First the bile and then the honey, little man.” She spread a pale yellow paste over his wound.

“Ouch! Ouch!” he cried again, which was only half of what he really wanted to say. The paste smarted like vinegar on an open sore. He tried to yank his leg away, but Menaera seized his ankle with a strength that a Cyclops would have envied.

“Ooof. Let me go, old lady.”

“A lady, am I?” Menaera laughed.

All the while Mentor sat on a seat in a corner of the room, smirking.

The pungent smell of the yellow paste made Odysseus’ eyes water, and he turned his head away, afraid the old woman or Mentor would think he was crying.

“There, there,” Menaera soothed. “Where there’s stink, there’s cure.”

“Then,” Odysseus said, “I’m entirely cured.”

Mentor laughed, clapping his hands.

“Never you mind, young man,” Menaera said, turning to Mentor. “I’ll fix all your little scratches next. We’ll see if you bear it as well as my young princeling.” She began winding a clean bandage around Odysseus’ thigh.

“Hah!” Odysseus said. Then, “Ow! Menaera—that’s too tight.”

“Keep still, boy. The stag cries where the doe stands quiet. I swear you are twice the trouble your mother was when she was half your age.” She kept winding.

“I’m an Achaean warrior,” Odysseus said, puffing out his chest. “The gods expect me to make trouble.”

“For your enemies, perhaps,” Menaera said, coming to the end of the bandage. “But not for your old nurse.”

Odysseus made a sour face. “I don’t have any enemies.”

Menaera laughed. “Give it time, my little olive.” So saying, she gave the bandage a final yank.

“Owowowow!”

Mentor collapsed with laughter. When he recovered, he said, “She looks after you well.”

“I’d rather be lashed by the Furies than be so well attended.” Odysseus gritted his teeth while Menaera tied up the bandage.

Pursing her thin lips, Menaera regarded her work with a nod of satisfaction. “Now rest that leg until the wound has closed. A pot half-baked will surely break.” She winked at Mentor over Odysseus’ head. “No man ever won the gods’ favour without a little pain. Your turn, Master Mentor.”

Mentor bore the old nurse’s ministrations better than Odysseus, but of course his wounds were less severe. He merely ground his teeth till he was afraid he would break them off.

When Menaera finally gathered up her bowls of balms and the linen bandages and left, both Odysseus and Mentor let out deep sighs of relief.

“She’s never short of an adage, that one,” Mentor commented. He looked rather spotty, for Menaera had daubed every scratched and torn place with a whitish paste.

Odysseus grunted. “Old women think everything they say is wise just because they’re old.”

“And young men think everything they do is brave just because it’s dangerous,” came a deep voice from the doorway.

“Grandfather!” Odysseus cried out. He tried to stand to greet the old robber prince, but his leg gave way and he fell back on to the bench. “I … I am a prince of sea-girt Ithaca, Grandfather. I can’t very well shrink from danger.”

Grandfather Autolycus stood with both hands on the doorjambs, frowning in disapproval. “Right this moment I have swineherds who look more princely than you do.”

“Sir, we haven’t had time to bathe …” Mentor said, his normally pale face flushed beneath the white spots.

This time Odysseus stood, though most of the weight was on his left leg. “There’s nothing dishonourable, sir, in the scars of battle. You have shown me yours and never apologised for them.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair and found it matted with dirt. “It’s not my fault that the spear broke at a vital moment.”

“Before you steal something,” Autolycus said, “be certain it’s worth the stealing! That’s the first rule of successful thievery.”

“I didn’t know thieves had rules.” The pain in Odysseus’ leg was like fire, but he swore to himself that he wouldn’t show that it hurt.

“Hermes is most particular about the rules of his craft,” Autolycus said. “Corollary to rule one: if a spear’s on the wall gathering dust, chances are it’s not worth much.” He came into the room, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the medicines.

“But only yesterday you said how much that spear meant to you.” Odysseus sat down again.

“Sentimental value puts no coin in your purse,” Autolycus replied. “And it will not bring down a boar.”

The vertical line appeared between Odysseus’ eyes, signalling he was about to lie. Only Mentor noticed.

Odysseus leaned forward. “Owl-eyed Athena appeared to me in a dream,” he said. “In her hand was a spear just like the one in your trophy room. When I woke, I knew that the goddess wanted me to take the spear of my illustrious grandfather and hunt a man-killing boar as had my illustrious father.”

Autolycus made a strange sound, half laugh, half snort. “And did things go as the goddess intended?”

“Well, some rival god—Pan maybe—or … or …”

“Ares?” put in Mentor.

“Yes!” Odysseus said. “Or Ares broke the spear. Afraid that a mere mortal would outshine them in glory.”

Autolycus could not hold back his laughter. He howled, and all Odysseus could do was look down at the floor and outlast the gale.

Finally Autolycus said, “Oh, grandson, you wriggle like a serpent to escape the trap of your own folly. You amuse me. You really do! Don’t put on the gods what are your own faults.”

Odysseus said nothing.

“If you’d taken a closer look at your stolen spear,” Autolycus continued, “you’d have seen a crack running through the shaft. Which is why I stopped using it.”

“It was dark, sir,” said Mentor, trying to help his friend out.

“Ah, the wise counsellor.” Autolycus turned towards Mentor and glared at him. “The hero’s friend. And where were you all this time?”

“By his side, sir.” Mentor’s voice broke under the old man’s stare.

“You should have been talking him out of such foolishness.”

Mentor chewed his lip. Should he tell Autolycus the complete truth—how he’d been dragged unwilling from his bed and had argued with Odysseus each step of the way? That would only make Odysseus look worse in his grandfather’s eyes.

“It seemed a good idea at the time, sir,” he mumbled. “The hunt, the glory …”

“Ah yes,” Autolycus said. “Glory. A poorer provider than sentiment.”

“An old man’s answer,” mumbled Odysseus, but low enough so that his grandfather could ignore it if he so chose.

Just then a servant appeared in the doorway, holding out a spear to his master. “The men are prepared, my lord, and the dogs ready.”

Autolycus took the spear and, for all his years, hefted it as if it were a twig. “I’ll be right there.” He waved the servant away. “Now this is a proper spear. If you’d managed to steal this,” he said to Odysseus, “it would have been a deed worthy of respect.”

“There’s still time for that,” Odysseus said defiantly.

“Not on that leg, I fear,” Autolycus said. He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll bring the boar back, and you can feast upon him in revenge for the ill done you.” Then he was gone.

Odysseus spat in disgust. “A bitter feast that will be.”