The madman spoke not,
and met not the eyes of his fellows,
feigning that he did not recognize the men at his door
as he pushed through the crowd and hurried into his fields.
He yoked an ox and an ass to his plough
and began to sow salt
while the delegation from Menelaos’ brother watched.
“Agamemnon isn’t going to like this; clearly this man
provoked the wrath of Dionysos, and is much the worse for it.”
Palamedes watched his jittery movements, the irregular trench he carved
circling back upon itself and then twisting off in some new direction
as the man mouthed the words to an old work song
though no sound passed his lips.
“He’s faking it,” Palamedes spat and stormed past Penelope
into the home she shared with the lunatic. “And I know just how to prove it.”
He found the babe sleeping, and yanked him from the crib by his arm.
Little Telemachos shrieked as the warrior carried him outdoors
and plopped him down in the erratic path of his imbecile father.
What could he do? Swerve at the last moment
– but that would give the show away,
and he remembered what the grizzled old Orphic priest had muttered to him in warning.
Was it worth it? Could he do it?
Crush that fat fruit of his loins with the plough
while his wife – the boy’s mother – watched on.
She would hate him forever and after,
ignorant of what it will cost him – and far worse, her – if he does not.
He flicked the lash on the ox and ass,
figuring it best to just get the horrible deed over with,
hoping he had the heart to endure what followed,
wondering if he would ever stop hearing Telemachos’ terrified lamblike cries.
