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'A man with a wreath on his head,' bellowed Ajax the Larger, scarlet with vexation at his partner's lewdness, 'a man with a wreath on his head – what was that?'
Someone in the audience had asked a question that Odysseus did not catch. A look of incredulity had appeared on the large man's face. 'What happens when the leaves wither and start dropping off? Good grief, what kind of question is that? You must be as thick as two planks. You go out and get new leaves. That's the beauty of this prize we are offering, you can, it can be...'
'It's infinitely fucking renewable,' Ajax the Lesser shouted at top volume. His head shuddered a little and the ragged crown slipped down further over his brows.
'I was going to say that, why do you keep–'
'No you weren't, no you weren't, shall I tell you why?'
'Tell me why.'
'Those words are not in your fucking vocabulary, that's why.'
Concepts again, Odysseus reflected as he proceeded on his way. Infinitely renewable, imperishable fame. These two buffoons had found a prize in keeping with the mea
He heard the raised voice of the Singer and the vibrant chords of the lyre while still some distance off. It was the middle of the morning, not a time for peak audiences, but Odysseus was delighted to find that the Song was about the knife to be fashioned for Iphigeneia, this being just the sort of thing he had been going to recommend. He stood listening for a while, observing the faces of those in the audience. They seemed quite gripped, though there was not much to say for the moment, or so at least it seemed to Odysseus, the knife being little more than a project as yet.
The subject of the Song was the purity of the metals that would go to compose the knife. By a cleverly managed shift, this became identified with the virginal purity of the royal victim. This wondrous knife would be forged from a fusion of tin and copper, neither of which had been worked before, never probed, never pierced, never penetrated. Sheet of tin and ingot of copper, different shapes and substances, smelted together to make a third element, finer, stronger, more beautiful than either. A mystery, how things could transcend themselves by blending; only the gods knew the how and the why, but think of the clays from which the hyacinth springs, think of the clear dew left by the thick vapours of night...
He stopped here, raised his head as if listening to some echo, struck the lyre once and with the barest of pauses began the conventional preliminaries to the Song of the Argonauts, the heroes who sailed with Jason in the quest for the Golden Fleece.
Before he had time to get far into the episode he had chosen, Odysseus moved forward through the crowd. The Singer fell silent as he drew near, keeping his face averted with the usual air of listening rather than seeing – though Odysseus, always alert to subterfuge, was sure he saw more than he let on.
'I am Odysseus,' he said, bending down towards the Singer and speaking quietly. 'We had a little chat a day or two ago, do you remember? I am glad you saw reason on that occasion.'
'I did not see reason,' the Singer said, in his soft, rather hesitant voice – he was more fluent when he sang. I was not given a reason. And in any case, there is no more reason in one Song than another.'
'I can't say I agree with you there. Do you mean to say all Songs are of equal weight and importance, whether they deal with the past, the present or the future, whether it's a knife we are talking about or a hyacinth?'
'Yes.'
'You can't be serious. Can one draw blood with a hyacinth?'
The Singer sighed audibly. He had been a
'Well, I don't want to interrupt your performance. I just wanted to tell you how pleased I was, in passing by, to hear you singing of this forthcoming sacrifice; it is exactly what is needed to maintain public interest in the event.'
In fact he had been rather disappointed by the very brief treatment of the knife and by the way the Song had trailed off into poeticisms. No point in saying so, however. He had a close view of the Singer's face in half-profile and the obscured crystal of his left eye. No one knew for sure how much he could see, whether he could see much at all. Light and dark and the bulk of shapes before him he must be able to distinguish – he had no one to guide him. Odysseus felt a certain awe mingled with his repugnance. The man was god-possessed, there could be no doubt of that. How otherwise could you explain line after unfaltering line, and all in metre? But it was indecent to make far-fetched comparisons like that. A knife, a virgin, a flower, dew. Obvious falsehoods – a knife was a knife. He was himself no enemy to metaphor; the controller of concepts must be a master of metaphor too. But he could see no point in idle figures of speech like these. They were transparently untrue, which in itself was offensive to an accomplished liar like himself. And what was the use of them? Whose ends did they serve? And the obscenely casual ease with which the Singer had passed from the destined throat to the voyage of the Argonauts...
'Well, keep up the good work,' he whispered to the unchanging face. 'We are very glad to have you on the team and I am not alone in thinking that. Next time you return to this topic, which I hope will be soon, can I ask you to mention the fact that the smith has now received Agamemnon's instructions for the decoration of the knife? It's going to be fantastic, the last word in sophisticated ceremonial weaponry. The whole length of the blade will be mounted with silver and this silver mounting will be incised in a pattern of foliage and birds – doves actually – and the incisions will be fused with the black powder produced by melting copper and silver together and adding sulphur to the alloy, to make a striking overall design in silver and black. Magical stuff, this black powder, it deserves a Song in its own. The smith is a Cretan and they are masters of it there. You might also dwell a bit more next time on personalities. I must say I found your account deficient in that respect. You know, the extraordinary generosity Agamemnon is showing in this matter of the knife; after the sacrifice it will never be used again in spite of the expense, it will be thrown into the sea, he has vowed that in the presence of witnesses. It's very important that the army should have respect for the man at the helm. Unity and solidarity, that's the only way to beat this wind. You might also put in a phrase or two about the role I am playing, my loyal support for the Commander-in-Chief, you know the sort of thing, a man of few words but sterling virtue. You get it right and I'll see you are rewarded when we get to Troy.'
The Singer listened to the words, heard the silence that followed upon them, sensed the speaker withdraw. Odysseus the trickster, the wrestler, the owner of the Great Bow. There had been the usual pattern: praise, detraction, the desired favour, the promise that always contained a threat. All who came to him with requests spoke with the same voice. Except the boy – he asked for nothing but the story. He had not come today. Perhaps he had been sent on some errand. He knew now that the boy belonged to Calchas, the diviner, and his name was Poimenos. Everyone else, however diverse the requests, always wanted something more than the story, something extra. It was not possible to keep everything in mind; some items were forgotten altogether, others were soon blended with old stories, yet others remained dormant for a time that might be long, like creatures waiting for the right weather. People like Odysseus never understood this underground life of Songs. He had sensed the other's dislike, heard the forced friendliness of the tone. Song was distrusted by people like that, because they saw everything in terms of utility and song escaped their control.