My Name Is No One

By J.C. Graeme

If there is a back story to the Odyssey, then this novel by J. C. Graeme is it. Forget the return from Troy and a band of heroes voyaging the seas and encountering monsters and adventure aplenty while having their way with the local maidens and the odd goddess. In this story of Odysseus, he is a bar-fly in the Sunset Bar on Khios where he trades stories for jugs of wine with the bar owner Homer. He takes on a job for a local merchant on Khios to pick up some cargo on the mainland and while crossing the sea in his little boat he is blown off course along the coast of Asia Minor. On this adventure he encounters a whole cast of characters and maybe even a goddess or two, though they have little in common with the characters peopling the Odyssey as we know it. Some of them may even have been real.
J. C. Graeme vividly brings to life the goings on in the late Archaic period of Greek history and relates a more human epic where even the pantheon of Gods who have ruled over things for so long are being questioned, or at least defied, by mortals. Odysseus meets them all, the Anthropophagus, Circe, Calypso, and the Sirens, but not as we know them from classical literature. In the end Odysseus finds he is accidentally on a voyage that will lead to blindness and madness and even a vision of what the underworld is like. And he will find, despite the despair from all he encounters on his voyage and his descent into madness, that there was more wonder and excitement in the outside world than he ever found in a cup of Koan red in Homer’s Sunset Bar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Graeme
• Release date: Aug 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995469914

J.C. Graeme

Jean-Charles Graeme is a retired history teacher who has spent thirty years sailing his own small boat, Apagio, around the Mediterranean. He has written several books on the history of the Mediterranean. His first novel was To Ithaca. My Name Is No One is his second novel. When he is not sailing he lives in Douarnenez in Brittany with his Jack Russell Odysseus.

Book preview

I

Odysseus looked into his cup of Koan Red. It was empty again. He wondered how he was going to persuade the barkeep to pour him another cup or better yet, get a jug, on credit.

Homer, he said, how about another… awe come on…

Homer had long white hair down to his shoulders and a permanent stoop. Mostly Odysseus reckoned from his fat stomach pulling him down. As usual he was crouched over his ledger on the bar, his nose nearly touching the pages. Except it wasn’t just a ledger. Odysseus knew he kept piles of scrolls there and most of them were a part of what he called his ‘Ongoing Histories’. Odysseus was his best customer, swapping his stories for jugs of Koan Red, though of late the stories had dried up. Down at the docks where Odysseus worked as a runner there were fewer and fewer new stories from the crews of the trading boats.

Homer, a little Koan nightcap.

Homer shook his head and looked at Odysseus with his milky blue eyes, squinting to focus on the craggy face he knew so well.

Odysseus, you have no money and no stories. And you’ve had enough for tonight. His gaze was benign but firm.

No more wine tonight. And anyway, it’s time for you to go home.

Odysseus racked his brain for a story he hadn’t already told. What about the sailor who fell overboard? Off Ios I think, and was rescued by a dolphin.

Homer smiled. Nice try, but you’ve already told it to me twice. With variations.

Odysseus sighed. Whatever else ailed this old man, his memory was as sharp as Priam’s sword and he could recall in an instant any of the stories Odysseus had told him.

Odysseus gazed forlornly around the bar. It was set on hillock just outside of town. The bar and its setting was a beautiful place that had started off as some sort of shrine, though no one could really remember who it had been built for. Large blocks of stone surrounded a sunken semi-circle out of the wind with views down over the sea and up to the wooded mountains in the interior. In the middle of the stone bar Homer had built a wooden shelter to house the bar and keep his amphorae safe, wine from all around the Aegean and even further afield. He was famous for his selection of wines and at sunset the bar was packed. Sailors, merchants, dignitaries from town, musicians, artisans, everyone rubbed shoulders with everyone else.

Some of the stone blocks had toppled over into the semi-circle and sturdy poles had been pushed into holes and into the ground to support woven flax canopies for shelter from the rain and sun. One of them was an old sail from Odysseus’s own boat that in desperation he had given Homer for two jugs of Koan Red. The stone blocks served as tables and seats, although most people sat around the grassy perimeter or propped themselves up against the wall. Homer employed two young boys to help him in the bar and, so the stories went, help him through the night as well.

Homer looked at Odysseus who did his level best to maintain eye contact back. Odysseus’ face was scarred by wind and sea, lined by salt rim, his eyes a startling blue. A tangled beard spotted with grey enclosed a surprisingly sensual mouth. Come on Homer, Odysseus pleaded, give me a jug of red and I’ll get you a story that will knock your sandals off.

Odysseus looked at Homer with his most intent look, at least he hoped it was, but this late in the evening he wasn’t sure. Homer weakened as he looked at his friend. He knew that inside the bar-fly there was a sharp mind and a roving intellect that Odysseus seemed intent on wiping out most evenings with as much wine as he could get. The stories were good and there was enough in them to know that somewhere along the way he may have been a part of them. Or maybe not. Homer was never sure. But he didn’t want Odysseus sleeping in his bar again.

This is it, Homer said, the very last on credit and you owe me a good history. He nodded to his boy Polybus to pour a jug for Odysseus. Homer wondered how many times he had said this in the past and how many times he had relented. He didn’t need to do this and was torn between his weakness for the stories, his history, and some strange affection for Odysseus.

Stories. Histories. He looked at his scrolls and wondered why on earth he was bothering with his ‘Ongoing Histories’. No one would read it and no one would even remember all his hard work once he was gone. Same-same for all of them. The fever, or the creeping disease, or a silly accident under the stick of some brigand and that would be his lot. Still he knew he had to keep scribbling. It provided a sense of place and sense of doing something, some continuity to life that all the Gods couldn’t. He gazed up quickly and muttered a placatory phrase to Athena to protect him against such indiscretions.

Odysseus looked at the clear red nectar in front of him. Sweeter than Thasos Red, but with a dry aftertaste and so drinkable compared to that awful stuff from Myndos. Who had said you needed to mix Myndos wine with sea water to make it drinkable. Some wit. Odysseus measured his sips, pacing himself for what he supposed was his last wine before closing time. He looked around at the other customers, nodded to some of them, and scowled at a few others. Bloody Eurymachus was holding court as usual. Talking about his businesses, his money, his conquests. His bald pate flashed in the torchlight and Odysseus would willingly have squashed the fat body of the old blowhard. For all his wealth and his property in town he was surprisingly successful with the ladies. Even Penelope. A long time ago his Penelope. He looked away and over the sea to Kysos.

So what about this story of yours Odysseus? Homer asked, though he knew Odysseus was all out of stories for this night. Remember if you don’t have a story for me tonight I get two the next time you are in. Deal?

Odysseus looked at the old man. His vision was swimming and he needed to find somewhere to lie down. Deal, Odysseus said. The next time you see me I’ll give you a story that will break your balls. He looked unsteadily at Homer and got up to leave.

***

Odysseus earned a meagre living down at the docks. He would be there when a ship came in and over the years had got to know most of the captains, bosuns and crew. There was a time when he had crewed on coastal routes on the ships and there might have been a time when he had command of his own ship. It was hard to tell from his stories in Homer’s bar and most of the regular crowd figured it was just a bit of bragging on his part with little affinity to reality. The idea of Odysseus in command of a ship would likely frighten most crew.

From his contacts on the ships he would get some idea of the cargo and how much the bosun thought it was worth. Armed with this information he would do the rounds of various merchants and middlemen in town, trying to broker a deal with ten percent on top for his trouble. It was no secret to the bosuns or the merchants that he did this and so Odysseus would shuttle back and forth with offer and counter-offer until a price was agreed. Most of the time Odysseus was lucky to get one percent out of the deal.

It had once been a good living, but in these latter years it had grown lean and Odysseus had grown lean with them. There were fewer ships and the seaways had become more dangerous with the sea peoples raiding ships and towns along the coast. Besides, he had competition down at the docks and a few of the merchants had started to barter directly with the ships. Odysseus spat out a curse on Eurymachus who was pre-eminent in this new practice.

Odysseus started to drink more and though usually an amiable drunk, if anyone rubbed him up the wrong way in the bar of an evening, he would become aggressive and argumentative. And he had grown lonely. At times the black dog came to him in the night and for days after he would be surly and out of sorts with the world. He would sit in the bar in his cups and no one, not even Homer, would try to bring him out of this other dark world he had drifted into.

He remembered his brief time with Penelope in his younger years. Somehow he had inveigled his way into her bed and had moved in with her for a brief time. Less than a year. She had finally had enough of his ways and his drinking, returning half cut at night smelling of wine, never having two drachmae to rub together, always stories and promises and more stories. Once of honey tongue, he now searched for words with an irritable lack of grace. Penelope had finally cast him out and he knew from the gossip in the bar she was courting others. Eventually she had cast her lot with Eurymachus and for that Odysseus had cursed her for choosing someone who had money and standing, yet was as dull as they came. So thought Odysseus.

For years now he had lived in a hut on the beach where he kept his boat. His beloved Ithaca. The hut wasn’t much and even though the walls had holes and the roof leaked, at least it was better than nothing. He kept a few of his things there, the long oars for the boat, the flax sails, a few clothes and keepsakes, some skins of wine and a sheepskin for a bed. He even had the scrolls he had found and decided to keep on one of his trading runs across to Kysos. These were tied up and protected by an old hide cover and hidden in the rafters. He hadn’t mentioned them to Homer and they were his secret currency if ever he needed them. Homer always needed a supply of papyrus and he reckoned there was enough for a good supply of Koan red from his stash.

As he sat in the bar that night nursing a cup of wine he looked around and felt a certain displeasure with himself. A plan. That’s what he needed. A big plan so he could get a bit of money together and put his life on track. And slow up on the wine. He wasn’t getting any younger at forty-two years now and that slowed him up some. Not that he felt anything like forty-two, more like mid-thirties, but when he woke up in the morning his joints were stiff and it took him a while to get going. A plan. He looked around the bar and sized up the punters. His Koan Red was nearly gone when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He shuddered but managed a smile.

Eurymachus, how goes it?

I see your cup is empty. Eurymachus signalled to one of the boys who bought a jug of red over. Odysseus hoped Homer had filled it with the Koan Red as he sniffed it.

Eurymachus went on. Odysseus. I need to get some precious cargo over pretty quickly from Kysos. Not much, but I’ll make it worth your while. Interested?

Odysseus sipped his wine and tried to keep it down. He didn’t like Eurymachus, partly because he owned the biggest Emporium in Khios and partly because there was something slimy about him. It was his manner, Odysseus thought, at once unctuous and at the same time arrogant. Somehow the combination didn’t sit right. And he was fat as well. But what distressed him the most, and he was fully aware of it, was the fact Eurymachus had taken Penelope in and set up house with her in Khios. And sired a son. Well at least that was what he had heard, though the gossip in the bar had been it was someone else who had sired the child. Who knows with bar talk?

Still he needed the money. How much? Odysseus asked.

Six drachmae, Eurymachus replied …a good price.

Eight, Odysseus said. I won’t be back for two days and I’ll need to take someone with me. And I need half up front.

Look, Eurymachus said, you get this job done and the goods back here with no questions asked and I’ll give you twelve drachmae. Six now and six when you deliver the cargo safely to me.

This was odd. Eurymachus was not renowned for his largesse and that cargo must be something pretty important to him. Odysseus could only nod numbly and muttered a quick reply. I’ll leave tomorrow. Twelve drachmae was a fortune for a trip like this and Odysseus badly needed the money. This could turn him around and get him on his feet again. As Eurymachus pressed six drachmae into his hand he did wonder what sort of cargo could be worth that amount of money. Dancing girls? Someone who couldn’t take a regular boat across? Stolen goods? Still twelve drachmae was twelve drachmae and life-blood for the dispossessed.

Odysseus looked around the bar to see if there was anyone there to help him on the trip. Old Nestor sitting on the grassy mound was too old and besides that he was losing his marbles. Gods forbid he ended up like that. And old Paris. Too old. He had been a good looker in his youth, but had gone to seed now. He combed his thinning hair forward and had got podgy. There was really no one that Odysseus could afford to pay to help on the trip. Well. He would just have to do it on his own. He had before and he could do it again. He might even manage it in a day if the wind gods favoured him.

II

Eumaneus helped him launch the boat in the morning. Odysseus called it Ithaca after some long story Homer had told him years ago about an island kingdom a long ways westawards. The boat was nearly the length of five grown men with a gentle sweep to the bows and stern. It was tarred in black pitch to keep it watertight and to launch it both men had to lever away on two long poles until it eased back into the water and was snubbed by a length of hemp rope tied off to a tree stump on the beach. Odysseus wondered what he had ever done before Eumaneus helped. Despite his bent back he was immensely strong and made Odysseus’ job so much the easier.

Odysseus needed a drink after the effort of launching Ithaca so he waded out to the boat and after a bit of fossicking around found some leftover wine in a goatskin under the foredeck. It was so sour it almost made him retch. Still, it was all there was and he sat there with Eumaneus sharing it in silence and watching the etesians blow down the strait between Khios and the mainland.

Eumaneus had been born bent and twisted. His back was curved like the bow of a boat so he walked doubled over like some four-legged animal that kept trying to stand upright. At birth his head had been squashed into an elongated melon and his face pushed inwards. Inwards except for his nose which protruded with two huge nostrils. When he talked every third or fourth word came out in a grunt and he had long been the butt of jokes by the young lads of Khios. Odysseus had befriended him when he found some of the local lads throwing stones at him and calling him pig-man. He had waded in and scattered the boys and then stood by Eumaneus and dared them to throw another stone. After the odd taunt at Eumaneus and Odysseus the boys had sauntered off into town.

For the simple reason he had nowhere else to go Eumaneus made the beach his home. At one end of the beach he built a shelter out of driftwood and pine and used one of Odysseus’ old flaxen sails to waterproof it. He gathered up the discarded rubbish that no one else wanted and decorated his hut with it. Around the door he tied old bits of amphorae, strips of woven cloth, odd bits of metal and wind sculpted driftwood. On an old weathered plank Eumaneus painted the evil eye