The pigpen stood on a rise above the house. He could see into its courtyard. He could even smell whatever it was they were cooking. Meat, maybe even pork, but not one of his pigs—not likely. The day before, when two of the young visitors had come to take a porker, he had seen them off with dogs. The old man gathered saliva in his mouth and spat again, with some satisfaction. Spitting was the only way he could express his feelings about the big house and everyone in it. The old sow came snuffling around the gob of spittle in the mud. Eumaeus reached over the fence to scratch her between the ears. Not everyone in it. Not Penelope, of course. Nor Eurycleia, the nurse. Annoying old cow though she was—bossy, haughty, and disdainful of men with dirty hands and pig shit on their boots—she was still loyal to the mistress, and to Telemachus. Eumaeus sighed. He liked Telemachus and would do all he could, for the master’s sake, but he had doubts enough to make him sigh. The boy was good-hearted; he was clever, maybe even cleverer than Odysseus—although that would be saying something.
