Whispers of a royal oath, sworn over the blood of a calf, first arrived when a ship sailed into Odysseus’ shabby harbor in the sticky dusk of a sweltering Ithacan afternoon. From the courtyard of King Odysseus’ palace, where I and the other kitchen maids went day-in and day-out to fetch water for the ever-thirsty royal family, I recognized a ship emblazoned with the red and gold of Sparta. The cooks immediately called us back into the musty dark of Odysseus’ palace, told us that Odysseus would host the sailors, and set us to work preparing for our guests.
For the next of many costly feasts, put on by the King to support his facade of nobility (already diminished by the rough-and-tumble Ithacan landscape,) we butchered cattle, kneaded bread, and set out golden pitchers and basins to rinse the guests’ hands. We worked quickly; just after the sun had set, a large group of men, said to travel around Achaea trading slaves, entered the hall. Odysseus greeted them with shaky laughter and embraced their unfamiliar captain, and Penelope told them hyperbolically of the feasting in store on their visit.
Odysseus’ most attractive slaves brought our guests upstairs, where they bathed and dressed, and then the group, at least thirty men in total, descended the steps. Sitting down around the knife-scarred, wine-stained tables of the great hall, they held out their goblets for filling and took up the pieces of meat served by attendants.
As I stood along the wall, I could hear a discussion between Odysseus, his wife, and the traders ’ captain. The King comandeered the talk with tales of his glorious victory in past wars; he had told each story a million times before, and more impressive details worked their way into the historical record with each recount.
When he paused for a moment, the captain of the slave traders eagerly broke in, telling Odysseus and Penelope that Menelaus, King of Sparta, had sent him with a message. Menelaus, he said somberly, had fallen on trying times; his wife, Helen, had suddenly run away with a Trojan prince, leaving Menelaus in a rage, and the Trojans had refused to return her. This news, spoken by a Spartan captain, blared sirens just below its surface; we had all heard rumours, for years after Odysseus’ marriage, of a cunning oath secured by the all-too-wiley king while he courted Helen. Menelaus, ultimately Helen’s husband, clearly looked to redeem the services promised in the oath, in which all suitors swore to protect one of the others if they faced scorn or war. Penelope, distant and oblivious as always, did not make this connection; hearing this news, Penelope rolled her eyes and glanced at Odysseus.
As the traders around him continued to swig wine, filling the hall with shouts of laughter, Odysseus stared down at his plate. His braggadocious stories ceased to flow forth, and he grew silent; the prospect of keeping his word and shipping off to a real war took him by surprise. His cheeks turned pallid, his lips pursed, and he said nothing; the King, I think, had found himself out of his depth, and no amount of feasting or stories would remove him from his blood-sworn oath.
The captain, unaware of Odysseus’ paralyzing cowardice, continued to recount stories of Helen’s indiscretions. Penelope, surely shocked to see a man as loud and accomplished as Odysseus reduced to a quivering mess, stared at her husband. Sensing that his condition would not return to that of a jovial host, she swiftly turned to their guest. Stopping his story mid-sentence, she clasped his hand, laughed, and waved over an attendant to pour more wine.
For the next of many costly feasts, put on by the King to support his facade of nobility (already diminished by the rough-and-tumble Ithacan landscape,) we butchered cattle, kneaded bread, and set out golden pitchers and basins to rinse the guests’ hands. We worked quickly; just after the sun had set, a large group of men, said to travel around Achaea trading slaves, entered the hall. Odysseus greeted them with shaky laughter and embraced their unfamiliar captain, and Penelope told them hyperbolically of the feasting in store on their visit.
Odysseus’ most attractive slaves brought our guests upstairs, where they bathed and dressed, and then the group, at least thirty men in total, descended the steps. Sitting down around the knife-scarred, wine-stained tables of the great hall, they held out their goblets for filling and took up the pieces of meat served by attendants.
As I stood along the wall, I could hear a discussion between Odysseus, his wife, and the traders ’ captain. The King comandeered the talk with tales of his glorious victory in past wars; he had told each story a million times before, and more impressive details worked their way into the historical record with each recount.
When he paused for a moment, the captain of the slave traders eagerly broke in, telling Odysseus and Penelope that Menelaus, King of Sparta, had sent him with a message. Menelaus, he said somberly, had fallen on trying times; his wife, Helen, had suddenly run away with a Trojan prince, leaving Menelaus in a rage, and the Trojans had refused to return her. This news, spoken by a Spartan captain, blared sirens just below its surface; we had all heard rumours, for years after Odysseus’ marriage, of a cunning oath secured by the all-too-wiley king while he courted Helen. Menelaus, ultimately Helen’s husband, clearly looked to redeem the services promised in the oath, in which all suitors swore to protect one of the others if they faced scorn or war. Penelope, distant and oblivious as always, did not make this connection; hearing this news, Penelope rolled her eyes and glanced at Odysseus.
As the traders around him continued to swig wine, filling the hall with shouts of laughter, Odysseus stared down at his plate. His braggadocious stories ceased to flow forth, and he grew silent; the prospect of keeping his word and shipping off to a real war took him by surprise. His cheeks turned pallid, his lips pursed, and he said nothing; the King, I think, had found himself out of his depth, and no amount of feasting or stories would remove him from his blood-sworn oath.
The captain, unaware of Odysseus’ paralyzing cowardice, continued to recount stories of Helen’s indiscretions. Penelope, surely shocked to see a man as loud and accomplished as Odysseus reduced to a quivering mess, stared at her husband. Sensing that his condition would not return to that of a jovial host, she swiftly turned to their guest. Stopping his story mid-sentence, she clasped his hand, laughed, and waved over an attendant to pour more wine.
Three choices: For this piece, titled “Promises Cannot Be Broken”, I chose to include degrading visual descriptions of Ithaca and Odysseus’ property at the beginning of the piece to convey the narrator’s perception of Odysseus as dishonorable and lacking nobility; examples of this include the description of “Odysseus’ shabby harbor,” which immediately demonstrated that, even to visitors just approaching the island, Odysseus’ property appears underwhelming. Next, I described the slave trader’s reception in terms that emphasized Odysseus’ eagerness to please and impress visitors to Ithaca; I used appositive phrases and qualifiers to modify otherwise unnotable phrases; for example, “Odysseus’ slaves brought our guests upstairs,” became “Odysseus’ most attractive slaves brought our guests upstairs,” which connoted a desire on the part of Odysseus to present a luxurious and attractive version of life in Ithaca. Finally, I added a brief and discursive tangent from the narrator detailing Odysseus’ far-fetched stories, describing them as ”tales of his glorious victory in past wars; he had told each story a million times before,” to juxtapose Odysseus’ bragging about wartime feats with his horror and shock after hearing the news from Menelaus about a possible future war.
No comments:
Post a Comment