NOW more than ever, I wanted to see my grandfather again. It was true that he had beaten me. But then, what man didn’t beat his children? And unlike my father, who seemed to beat me out of a sense of obligation, the beatings I took from my grandfather always felt . . . well . . . purposeful; and if this didn’t quite inspire love, it did create a sort of bond between us that I never felt with anyone else. It was a bond that I rather missed, and now all the more. Besides, I thought, a good thief could be a real asset, so long as I could trust him. Of course, I couldn’t. But then, trust is always an issue among thieves.
So yes, I missed my grandfather. He was a crafty, lying, murderous old crook, but he had meant a lot to me in my youth, and I had wanted nothing more than to grow up to be just like him. Of course, some folk might think it strange to be raised with a man like that for a role model. He was, after all, a rogue in every sense of the word. But the way my family figured it, if the gods gave you a gift, it would be impious to refuse it. And my grandfather had the gift of cunning.
Moreover, he was proud of his ability and did what he could to pass it on to me. I often called to mind a game we used to play when I was little. He would hide figs among his robes, and if I could take one without his noticing, he would give me three more. If he caught me, though, I’d get a swift thump on the head. Well, the game never got boring, and it never seemed unusual either. In fact, it taught me a skill or two that served me rather well later in life.
“Come to me, my clever little Outis,” he would call out, taking a seat on a pile of fleecy rugs. This was always the way he would greet me, and I knew the moment he said it that the game was on. Of course, I was always too excited to get away with the theft on the first try, and then I’d have to leave the room watery eyed and dizzy to recover from his blows. But over time, I learned to wait for his guard to slip, or to create distractions of my own, and pretty soon I could rob him and eat the figs before he noticed they were gone.
Inevitably, the day arrived when I realized I was too old for the game. Indeed, I remember it with no small degree of satisfaction. It was the occasion of my twelfth genethlia, and my grandfather had come down all the way from Phocis to celebrate with the family. I knew by now where all the figs would be hidden, and he knew I knew and watched carefully for my assaults. Three times I reached into his pockets, employing all the arts of distraction and deceit. Three times he caught me, and each time I was caught, he hit me a little harder. “You are a man now,” he said. “Behave like one.”
His rebuke confused me. He had the figs in his pockets. I was playing the game as we had always played it. Yet he seemed annoyed.
The fourth time around, I thrust my hand into his pocket without waiting for a distraction, and when he reached back to slap me, I hit him on the nose, knocking him backward over the rugs. Then I picked the figs up off the floor and ate them while he struggled to his feet. I stood then, chewing quietly, and waited for the inevitable beating. But none came. He simply stood before me, his nose swelling beneath two black eyes, and smiled. “Today, my little Outis is truly Odysseus, the ‘Man Who Brings Suffering’. Now, my son, you have learned everything I have to teach. You are as great a thief as I.” That evening, before all our guests, he handed me his own bronze sword with the silver hilt. I used it for the rest of my life.
So you see, I had fond memories of the old crook—well, good memories, at any rate—and I sincerely hoped to rescue him. However, as I peered over the edge of the bridge, my spirits sank. In a long line beneath me, a mad throng of bandits, burglars, pickpockets, pirates, and crooks of every sort stretched out across the valley. Shifty eyed and nervous, they skulked along the path in a cringing parade of shame. They were naked, all of them, though each wore a sort of loincloth made of living serpents. And around them too on all sides, snakes slid among the stones. The noise of their hissing filled the valley. And there in the midst of them, Autolycos stood like a king. He was as quick and shifty as the others, but I was proud to see that he still held his head like a man of noble birth. Even here, he would not betray the dignity of his blood—a thief, to be sure, but a king of thieves.
“Papos!” I called from the bridge. “Granddad! Up here!”
He snapped his head right to left. It must have been near impossible to hear anything above the noise of the serpents.
“Papos!” I called again, uncoiling the rest of my rope. “Over here. On the bridge. It is I, Odysseus!”
This time, I was sure he had heard me, though again, he was having trouble spotting me.
“Papos!” I called a third time. But as I did, an enormous serpent, fiery eyed and speckled silver-black, rose from among the others.
“Papos, quickly! Over here!” I had the rope halfway down to the floor of the valley by now.
The thieves fled in terror before the serpent, but Autolycos, to my dismay, did not. He stood his ground, looking into the viper’s yellow eyes with calm contempt. And the snake struck him. It sank its fangs deep into his chest, convulsing as it released its venom.
“Papos!” I screamed, and then our eyes met. A look of genuine delight crossed his face, followed by a sudden grimace as the serpent pulled away. As we looked at one another, a pale stain spread across his chest and down his arms and legs till his whole body was white with death. His skin turned stiff and hard. His eyes shriveled in their sockets, and his cheeks sunk into his jaws. The nails popped from his fingers, and then, as I looked on, his body crumbled into ash.
I turned away, trembling with grief, and walked the rest of the bridge without daring to look back.