March 2026

For a Round of Cheese by Crispin O’Toole-Bateman

Dawn appeared, fresh and rosy-fingered. With a grunt that was only natural for one of his bulk, Feme pushed himself off the short wall and jumped nimbly onto the paving slabs. The early light of the sun slipped over the cool ground, moving like a rapid tide to warm the ground and brighten the yellow brick of the nearby buildings.

Rolling his shoulders to massage out the ache of his many hours’ wait, Feme walked to a large wooden door and knocked.

It was only a few seconds before an old man, impeccably dressed and with a polite countenance, looked up at him, having opened the smaller door-within-a-door that served as a main entrance.

‘It’s too early for visitors,’ the porter remarked.

‘It’s light,’ Feme argued. ‘Men get up with the light.’

‘Some do, I agree.’

Feme leaned forward. He towered over this small gatekeeper.

‘Please, I am here to see Odysseus.’

The porter smiled. ‘Ah, that young man. Perhaps he will be awake. A strong oarsman.’

‘Then I can come in?’

With a slight sidestep, the way became clear. ‘For Odysseus’ friend, I do not see why not.’

Friend. An interesting word.

Feme scratched the edge of his eyepatch. It covered his right eye socket, now merely a gnarled scar. The itch was psychological, he knew, the actual pain had healed centuries ago. It was being forced to say Odysseus’ name. Not a friend.

He stooped and stepped into the shaded entranceway. From here, the way led to a walled square, covered with a perfectly trimmed lawn, a path leading around.

‘Where?’ Feme asked.

‘Staircase three,’ the porter provided, ‘two flights up, room six.’

Feme took a step forward.

‘The grass has recently been cut,’ the small man added. ‘I’d appreciate it if you kept to the path.’

Feme nodded politely. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘It is our pleasure to welcome you.’

The thought twinged on him: xenia. He shuddered.

It took only a few strides to reach the open air. The sun, still only minutes from waking, invigorated him as he moved, lightly soothing muscles that remained sore from his vigil. Feme followed the route as directed, bending his head to duck into the opening to the clearly marked ‘staircase three’. The black wooden steps creaked under his weight as he paced up them, turning with the curve until he found the door he was looking for, a plain ‘VI’ painted in white on the cracked black paint.

He knocked.

The voice that called out was younger than he expected; bright and vibrant. ‘It’s six a.m.! Who’s that?’

‘Open the door, Odysseus.’ By contrast, Feme’s bass overtones thrummed through the walls. He adjusted his eyepatch.

The man who threw open the door stood before Feme in near-naked glory. His was a frame blessed by Zeus: thick arms, shaped thighs, trim torso, golden locks that curled on his shoulders. Light from the morning sun beamed through a window to bathe him in a radiant halo. Despite the tendrils of dark vengeance that coiled in his heart, Feme could not stifle a sense of awe in seeing such a form.

‘Come in, mate!’ Odysseus’ voice was as bright as his aura. ‘Sorry I’m not dressed. Bit early.’

Odysseus turned his back with casual assurance. He walked back into the room, bare except for the skin-tight black boxer shorts that accentuated his shape.

‘Your room is a mess,’ Feme commented. He stepped in, avoiding a scattering of dirty laundry with each footstep, and found a chair.

Odysseus, favoured of the gods, darted forward to clear the cracked leather seat of debris. A pad of paper, a laptop, and two textbooks were dumped on the corner of a nearby desk. Beside it, on the far side of the window, a bookshelf presented yet more flotsam, a chaos of ornaments, books and scattered detritus that were less treasures and more modern excesses.

‘Sit!’ Odysseus insisted. ‘Let it never be said that I do not welcome my guests.’

Feme sat.

For a moment the two of them simply stared at each other. For his part, Feme had already taken stock of his adversary’s condition, but he recognised Odysseus’ rapid thinking wrought on his face as the young man did his own summing up. Odysseus would see a giant of a man, hair badly cropped, scars criss-crossing the face, the patch over one eye and the slight weeping that never ceased in the other. He would see clothes that while well-cared for, had the marks of a long journey.

What he would not see was the image Feme hated: the blinded one-eyed freak of distorted myth.

‘Who are you, then?’ Odysseus asked, once he had completed his assessment.

‘I am nobody,’ Feme replied instantly. He had prepared the answer decades before, determined to get the snide barb in early during any conversation. Odysseus did not react.

‘No, really, mate. No one is nobody, we’re all valued in this world. What’s your name?’

Feme seethed. The response had been gratingly casual. ‘I am…’ He paused.

For so long, he had introduced himself simple as ‘Feme’. A corrupted name for a corrupted legend. It had been a millennium since he’d last said his true name out loud. Today was a day for breaking long-established habits.

‘I am Polyphemus,’ he said.

‘Oh man, that’s a cool name. I bet you suffered as much as I did growing up, with people taking the piss. My name’s Greek, you know, from some ancient hero. What about yours?’

‘It, too, is from the ancient Greek,’ said Feme.

A shadow descended on Polyphemus’ soul. For years he had travelled, crossing raging seas and facing untold perils, all to reach this… boy. In the old leather chair, Feme stiffened.

‘Do you mock me?’ he raged.

‘Woah!’ Odysseus jumped back, sitting with an unexpected bounce on the dishevelled bed. With natural dexterity, he adjusted quickly and returned to his feet. ‘There’s no mocking here, mate, I promise.’

‘You address me as “mate”; you titter like a fool. You are Odysseus, and I am Polyphemus. We meet again as it was fated, brought together by the gods in their eternal game.’

Odysseus raised his eyebrows. His brow furrowed, head tilted slightly as a cat when questioning. For a moment, all was silent. Then, shrewdly, he spoke:

‘Will you indulge me a moment, friend?’

‘I am not your friend.’

‘Perhaps not. Nonetheless, will you indulge me?’

Feme nodded.

Odysseus smiled. He sat gracefully on the edge of his bed. ‘Pretend I know nothing of our fate. Pretend I know nothing of Odysseus or Polyphemey—‘

‘Polyphemus.’

‘Exactly. Tell me your story—our story—as if I am a child.’

Feme slouched. In truth, he ached to tell the tale, had done for scores of years. That he had kept it silent and personal had consumed him.

‘Many centuries ago, you tricked and cheated me,’ he said.

‘That’s a long time,’ Odysseus remarked. Then he winked. ‘Sounds like me, though. Do go on.’

‘You forced yourself into my home. Ate my cheeses.’

‘Your cheese?’

‘My cheese! Made from the milk of the goats I tended.’

Odysseus smiled. ‘It’s rude, I agree, to come into someone’s home and nick their cheese. Hardly centuries of vengeance worthy, though.’

‘You did not think it rude at the time. You called upon xenia, the gods’ own law of hospitality. You mocked me.’

‘I was probably hungry.’

‘It is no excuse!’ Feme bellowed.

‘OK, OK, calm down! Continue the story. I doubt you came all this way because of some cheese, no matter how tasty.’

‘You tricked me further, lied, hid, waited until I was vulnerable, and then…’ Polyphemus found he was shaking.

‘And then?’ Odysseus prompted.

‘You did this!’ With a roar, Feme stood from the chair and tore his eyepatch from his right eye. Glowering, he brought his face closer to Odysseus, staring into beauty even as the young man gazed at the scarred horror that consumed Feme’s existence.

‘Nasty,’ quipped Odysseus.

‘You took a spear and you forced it into my eye. Blinding me.’

‘You have another,’ Odysseus remarked. ‘Blinded seems a bit strong.’

Feme staggered and fell back, returning to the soft cushions with a thump. ‘This, indeed, was the final indignity,’ he said, voice quiet.

‘What was?’

‘Your mistelling of me.’

‘Nope, Polyphemus, sorry. I don’t understand.’

‘You went from my island to the land of the Phaeacians. There to entertain their king, Alcinous.’ Feme leaned forwards. ‘All humans embellish their tales, Odysseus, but you are the master of lies.’

‘Go on.’

‘You told King Alcinous that on the isle of the Cyclopes, you faced Polyphemus and struck out his single eye, blinding him. In doing so, you destroyed not just my sight, but my reputation and that of my people. The very word for my kinsmen, Cyclopes, was twisted and turned to mean not ‘round face’ as it truly did, for we tended towards that soft feature, but ‘one-eyed’ to match your hyperbolic tale. I was Polyphemus, tall and proud, no longer. Instead I was a one-eyed freak, condemned to an eternity of hideous representation, to be depicted in art as a foolish oaf; a brainless, sightless monster.’

At this, Odysseus stood. He walked to the wall and gazed for a moment out of the window. The bright rays of the golden sun surrounded him.

‘Ah, Polyphemus, I have to stop you there,’ he said.

Feme fell silent. Something in Odysseus’ tone had changed.

‘I can accept that you did not understand or respect xenia.’ Odysseus straightened as he spoke. ‘Though today you apply the same right to come into my home and sit there accusing me.

‘I can understand that you see it as a theft of cheese - poor cheese, by the way - and that you are angry that I tricked you.

‘But let’s not pretend your innocence, friend.’ Odysseus’ emphasis on the final word could not be missed. He continued:

‘You feasted on my men. Two of them immediately and then, as we desperately planned our escape, two more, and two after that. And yes, I resorted to guile for the rest of us to escape. And yes, I pierced your eye with a pole I employed as a spear. And no doubt, in that moment, with the pain, you were truly blinded.’

Odysseus shifted his stance. ‘But at no point, did I ever tell good King Alcinous, most illustrious of all his people, or any the Phaeacians that you were a race of one-eyed freaks. Not once. For that detail, you must look elsewhere, to the poets, the storytellers, the singers of songs.’

Odysseus raised himself to his full height; shorter still than Feme, but impressive nonetheless. ‘On that count, I am innocent!’

Feme stared. ‘You are he! You are Odysseus.’

‘Who else?’ Odysseus winked.

The glint of light on the spear was the only warning the giant had. Odysseus reached behind him in a lithe motion and brought the weapon to bear. Previously hidden in the shadow of a bookcase and the clutter of the room, Feme hadn’t considered its existence.

The cyclops moved with practised speed, ducking the blow and raising his arm to force the pole away. He closed the ground between himself and his ancient foe, and with strength born of Poseidon himself, picked up the well-muscled hero. Without hesitation, Feme hurled Odysseus at the window. There was a crash, a shatter of glass, and the destruction of a historic frame, and Odysseus flew as an arrow out to the courtyard beyond.

Ducking once more, Polyphemus darted out of the door and down the thin staircase. He emerged into bright sunlight, the smell of fresh air, and a gathering crowd of chattering students, armed with smartphones and a sense of invulnerability born of over-privilege.

Odysseus was on his feet in the centre of the lawn, spear twirling.

‘Come, Polyphemus,’ he goaded, ‘a rematch, toe-to-toe? I will beat you without trickery this time.’

As Feme stepped forward, Odysseus turned to his audience.

‘Record this well, people of the world, as I, Odysseus, face my most famous foe once more. This giant creature is none other than Polyphemus, the Cyclops. See how he has but one eye to see with, the other torn from him by me centuries ago! Today, I will make him permanently blind.’

One of the watchers gave a cheer: ‘Odysseus’. Others followed until it became a chant. ‘Odysseus, Odysseus, Odysseus!’

Polyphemus roared.

The combat that followed was a dance of rage and precision, a kata of strength and timing. Moving with the speed of a striking viper, Odysseus flew at his hulking foe, who relied on his mammoth strength to hold ground and bat away the lethal thrusts. With every near-miss, Odysseus turned to the gathered folk, calling for evermore enthusiastic responses. Uncaring of the spectacle, Polyphemus focused his energies on his strikes and grapples, twice kicking with such force that Odysseus rolled into the crowd, only to be picked up and dusted off for another round.

The Cyclops held nothing back, wrestling Odysseus many times to the ground, where he would pin him with the expectation of victory, only to have the gods-blessed hero wriggle free as if the ground itself shifted to grant him escape. Polyphemus adjusted his strategy, throwing the young man into the air with the expectation that the floor would break him in the fall; all to no avail, as Odysseus landed like a cat, ready to spring once more.

Odysseus showed both skill and mettle, striking the giant several times on the arms, legs, and torso with the razored edge of his shining spear, slicing wounds that bled and stung with the heat of a crimson fire.

‘Come on, you old goatherd, live up to the legend!’ Odysseus taunted. ‘Where’s the monster who once devoured men for breakfast!?’

Polyphemus roared in response, centuries of learned wisdom tempering his natural inclination to engage in distracting banter with the trickster. He circled the muscled son of Laertes, waiting for an opportunity where his size gave an advantage. It came, and he dashed forwards, shouldering Odysseus inside the defender’s guard, sending him sprawling.

The Cyclops’ slamming heel came down on nothing but sod. Again, the gods’ favoured one had regained his footing, cartwheeling backwards on his golden dory. This, he swept low on the grass, forcing Polyphemus to leap backwards himself. Once more, they circled each other, the roar of the crowd embellishing the spectacle.

The fight went on thus for seventeen minutes. Bleeding and weary, Polyphemus concentrated on making a final blow, aware that to lose this fight would mean the end of his sight in the very least. Odysseus, for his part, had the arrogance and obligation of a true hero—for him, to lose was simply unconscionable.

As exhaustion threatened them both, the combat came to an end without a true victor. Around them, the audience’s rhythmic chanting had settled to a sombre hush, peppered with occasional cries at only the most significant blows. Bruised and blooded, Odysseus laughed and held up his hand.

‘Polyphemus, mighty Cyclops, most renowned of all my foes, I call a truce with you.’

Feme paused. His breath was short, and he had tired faster than he dared admit. He stared warily at his opponent. Around them, the crowd had grown: fully a hundred people, students and masters, lined the grass.

‘Wise Odysseus, chosen of all men, I accept your truce.’ To do otherwise would surely be to die.

Odysseus dropped his spear and stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘Around here,’ he said, ‘we shake on it, mate.’

Feme clasped the smaller man’s wrist. The temptation to hurl him once more taunted him, but he resisted. ‘Zeus and Athena both look down on you,’ he said.

‘Come with me,’ said Odysseus.

Polyphemus followed the man, still naked but for underwear, through the short tunnels and winding alleys of the enclosure. They came to a set of double doors, which Odysseus pushed open with gusto. Around them, the crowd, once wary but now relaxed, swarmed into the room. It was a high-ceilinged bar and meeting place, filled with scattered tables, benches, and chairs, and bright with a mixture of small windows and warm artificial light.

‘It is early,’ Odysseus shouted over the sound of growing conversations, ‘but I think we all deserve a pint!’

He turned to Feme. ‘Join me in a drink, friend,’ he said. ‘It honours me if you accept my hospitality.’

Feme took his place at a table. Tall pints of beer were brought over, their contents spilling over the side as Odysseus enthusiastically slammed them down. Music burst from speakers as the atmosphere moved from the aftermath of combat to untempered celebration.

‘Today, we drink until we pass out!’ Odysseus enthused.

Polyphemus took a long draught. The beer was immediately soothing.

Odysseus leaned forward and spoke quietly. ‘I am sorry, Polyphemus,’ he said, ‘for the many years during which you and your kinsmen have been poorly portrayed. But perhaps I have done what I could to right this erroneous wrong.’

‘I do not understand,’ Feme said.

‘That’s because you don’t have an Insta account.’ Odysseus grinned and turned to a young woman on the next table. ‘Penny,’ he said, ‘pass me your phone, please.’

The girl called Penny leaned forward and placed her smartphone gently on the table.

Odysseus flicked through for a moment, then turned the screen so Feme could see. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Look.’

The comments on the video were many and growing. Polyphemus read and he smiled.

The cyclops has two eyes, one read. History books got it wrong, said another.

Not so stupid or blind! - watch this cyclops fight!

Gotta love Polyphemus’ return. Check out his wrestling moves.

Odysseus is gonna get smashed. This monster’s a monster.

Two-eyed cyclops. Not a fake!

He handed back the phone.

‘We’re going to go viral,’ said Odysseus with a smirk. ‘Again.’

Polyphemus picked up his glass and drained it. ‘You still owe me some cheese.’