The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘Go warm yourself by the flames, father,’ one of them said, nodding towards the circular fire before their feet.

A black pot hung over it, bathing the beggar’s senses with the delicious smell of porridge while provoking his stomach into a series of groans.

‘My thanks to you, King Diomedes,’ he said, settling cross-legged before the campfire and holding out his blackened hands towards its warmth.

Diomedes gave him a half smile and nodded to a male slave, who walked over to the pot and doled out a ladleful of porridge into a wooden bowl. He passed it with disdain to the beggar, who cackled with joy as he raised the steaming broth to his lips.

‘He stinks like the lowest pit of Hades,’ Sthenelaus said, leaning slightly towards Diomedes.

Euryalus, seated on the other side of Sthenelaus, could barely conceal the sneer on his lips as the beggar slurped noisily at the contents of the bowl.

‘You shouldn’t encourage these vagabonds, Diomedes. Show kindness to one and before you know it you’ll have an army of them at the door of your hut.’

Diomedes smiled. ‘Let the man eat. Isn’t there enough suffering in this world without denying a poor wretch a morsel of food?’

‘There speaks a true king,’ said the beggar, casting the empty bowl aside and rising to his feet. ‘I knew you was Diomedes, as soon as I set eyes on you. Tydeus’s son, yet greater than he.’

‘It isn’t your place to make that judgement,’ Euryalus admonished him.

The beggar flicked his hands up in a dismissive gesture.

‘Who said it were my judgement? A beggar may lack wisdom, but he ain’t deaf. I’m only repeating what I’ve heard others say: that Tydeus was a great man who killed Melanippus at the first siege of Thebes, though he died later of his wounds. But they also say he dishonoured himself by devouring Melanippus’s brains – something his son wouldn’t ever stoop to.’

‘You can’t deny he’s a well-informed vagabond,’ Sthenelaus commented with a grin.

‘As for your father, Sthenelaus,’ the beggar added, ‘they say he were killed by a thunderbolt, for boasting that even Zeus couldn’t stop him scaling the walls of Thebes.’

‘Who do you think you are!’ Sthenelaus snapped, rising from his chair.

Diomedes laid a hand on his wrist and pulled him back down to his seat.

‘Whoever he is, he’s neither as ignorant nor as foolish as he looks. For all we know he could be a god in disguise. Do you have a bag, father?’

The beggar pulled aside his cloak to reveal a battered leather purse, hung across his shoulder by an old cord. Diomedes stood and walked to his hut, signalling for the beggar to follow. As the bent figure entered behind him, he passed him a basket of bread and another of meat.

‘Here, fill your bag for your onward journey. And if a king can advise a pauper in his trade, I suggest in future you don’t insult the fathers of the men you’re begging from.’

The old man smiled and took both baskets, somehow managing to cram the entire contents into his purse.

‘If I insult you,’ he asked, ‘why repay me with such generosity?’

‘Because there’s something about you. A presence that marks you out from the rest of your kind. You may be a god, or you may just be a good man fallen on hard times, but I know better than to turn you away with nothing more than scorn.’

‘Then perhaps I’m worth a cup of wine, too,’ the beggar grinned.

Diomedes raised his eyebrows a little at the man’s audacity, then pointed to a table by the back wall, beneath the racks of armour and weapons he had stripped from his enemies, and told him to help himself. The beggar shuffled over and found a bowl of mixed wine surrounded by half a dozen silver goblets. After clattering about among them for a few moments, he turned with a cup in each hand, one of which he passed to Diomedes. The king took it at arm’s length, holding back from the stink that clung to his guest. Then the beggar poured a meagre libation onto the fleece at his feet and raised the goblet to his lips, drinking greedily so that the dark liquid spilled down over his beard and neck.

‘Zeus’s blessing on you, m’lord,’ he said, and with a fleeting bow pulled aside the curtain door and left the hut.