He was drawing near now to the place were the Singer was generally to be found, where there was an outcrop of rock to provide some shelter from the wind, in the open space between the Cretan, Locrian and Achaian encampments. That he so regularly chose this place had led all three of these to claim him as a fellow countryman; but there were others who said he came from Lydia or from Ephesus in Ionia or from the island of Chios. It was not possible to find certain proof in his accent; and when asked where he came from he merely gestured, sometimes toward the mountains, sometimes toward the sea.

As Odysseus approached, he heard the high clear voice with its usual note of lament, and the sound of the lyre, at the same time swooning and vibrant. However, he was annoyed to find that the Singer, far from following instructions and promulgating the message of an offended Zeus as the sender of the wind, was singing about the early life of the hero Perseus, how he had been born in a brazen cell, where his mother, Danae, was imprisoned, and where she became mysteriously pregnant, the very thing she had been imprisoned to prevent.

None of this had anything to do with the wind, though it had much to do with Zeus; but there was a considerable crowd there, people were listening – he could not simply barge in and interrupt. All the same, it was infuriating. Early evening, when people were gathering, when it was cooler and more comfortable and minds were receptive. Prime time, in other words, and it was being wasted. His rank precluded sitting among the others. He waited standing, some distance apart. Despite his annoyance – and the fact that, in common with many there, he had heard the story before – he soon found himself drawn in. It was one of the greats, and the Singer was telling it well. She had been locked up there by her own father, Acrisius, king of Argos, who had been told by an oracle that a son of Danae would one day kill him. She claimed that Zeus was the father of the child, that he had visited her in a shower of gold, but Acrisius preferred to believe that some lecherous and burglarious human had picked the lock. 'Where is the gold then?' he asked. 'Why is there none on the floor? Why is not even the slightest trace left?' Questions to which there was no answer. 'A likely story,' Acrisius said, and he set both mother and child adrift in a chest. However, with his own hands Zeus guided the chest across the sea to the island of Seriphos, where it was beached and found by Dictys, younger brother of the king of the island, whose name was Polydectes. The kindly Dictys looked after the castaways and it was here that Perseus grew to manhood. But then one day Polydectes happened to see Danae and he was smitten immediately and wanted to possess her, but she didn't fancy him at all, she refused, and Perseus backed her up. 'My mother's decision must be respected,' Perseus said.

There were exclamations of approval at this from various parts of the audience, and the Singer observed a pause here, the customary pause for dangerous situations. He resumed with a rhetorical question. How did Polydectes react?

By a cunning falsehood. He announced that he intended to ask for the hand of Hippodameia, daughter of the Pisan king, Oenomaus, and he asked for a gift of horses as part of the bride price. Knowing all the while that Perseus possessed no horses.

This Polydectes was a shrewd fellow, Odysseus reflected. Part of the bride price, brilliant. The lustful king had always been his favourite character in the story, even though things had ended badly for him. He knew what he wanted and he worked things round. He had calculated on the hero's pride and rashness; rather than lose face, Perseus would make any sort of wild vow. And so it had happened. He had undertaken to bring anything that the king might ask for, even the head of the Gorgon Medusa, who had snakes for hair, a glimpse of whose hideous face turned men instantly to stone. No one had ever survived an encounter with the Gorgon. Naturally the king at once accepted the offer. 'Well, since you mention it,' he said, 'the head of the Medusa is just what I would like.'

The Singer proceeded now to describe the appalling difficulty of this self-imposed task. The Medusa had two sisters and all three Gorgons were equipped with wings of gold. On foot, how could he get near her? And then, how could he kill her and cut off her head without once glimpsing her face? Even if by some miracle he brought it off, how could he escape the sisters' vengeful pursuit? But Perseus had one trump card, unknown to everyone, even to himself: he had the support of Athena, who hated Medusa for reasons that belong in another story, one that the Singer, digressing a little, professed himself well able to relate if there was popular demand for it. Athena appeared to the hero in all her splendour and told him how he could get the better of the Gorgon. She gave him exact instructions...

The Singer paused here – at least his silence was at first taken by the audience as simply another dramatic pause. But nothing followed, the silence lengthened and they became aware again of the plucking and clawing of the wind and its voice on the hillside like the shuddering indrawn breath of some creature inconceivably huge. There was a restless stirring among the people and several called out, demanding that the story should continue. But the Singer laid his lyre aside. He had been reciting for many hours, he was tired, it was time for his meagre evening meal. Besides, the appearance of Athena was an excellent point at which to break off, an exciting moment in the story. He would continue next morning. The morning audiences tended to be sparse, they needed beefing up. Having heard the first episode, people were likely to return; and every return increased the possibility of gifts. He heard the rustle of the crowd's disappointment, the faces glimmered before him like soft, very pale flames. He turned his head towards where he knew the sea to lie. 'Tomorrow morning,' he said, 'when the sun is still low enough to make a bar on the water, I will give you the words of Athena, you will have the sequel – there are two episodes in the story of Perseus and the Gorgon.' This evening the boy had not come with his gift of food. He had not come even for the shortest time, to sit close by and listen to the Songs. Perhaps he would not come again.

The crowd began to move away, quietly enough now – they were after all accustomed to sequels and instalments and adventures told in series. It was the wind that had made them feel lonely and unprotected, once the voice of the Singer had ceased. Odysseus waited until the last had gone, then went up to the Singer, who was eating bread and small black grapes. 'I am Odysseus,' he said, close to the Singer's ear.

The movement of the jaws did not cease at this announcement, nor was there any change in the angle of the cropped and bony head, always tilted upward, as if to catch some distant sound.

Odysseus hesitated for some moments. The Singer was not an easy proposition. He was an entertainer, he had power. The audience had been gripped by the Song, spellbound; for a while they had forgotten the wind. One who could distract the people in this way, turn them from discontent and the breeding of revolt, was a very valuable instrument, especially at a time like this. But instruments had to be controlled.

'I don't want to tell you your job, of course,' he said, speaking close to the whorl of the Singer's left ear, 'but it might have been a good idea to insert a reference to the wind that detains us here in that Song you have just been reciting. There was a good occasion when you brought Zeus into it. You know, the god takes his pleasure in a shower of gold, shows his displeasure in this wind that is so bitter to us, sent to punish our offence, an offence, you might have hinted, that involves someone high up in the chain of command.'