[told by Cheiron]

Polyphemus son of Poseidon was one of a tribe of giants called cyclopes, because each of them had one huge, round eye like a wheel in the middle of his forehead. They used to work for another nephew of mine, Hephaestus son of Hera, hammering out thunderbolts for Zeus to throw at people he was angry with. They quite enjoyed that, because they liked hurting people, but they weren't happy at having to work together, or having to pay attention when Hephaestus explained the specifications for the thunderbolts. And when he tried to show them how to make something more complicated, like a machine, or something beautiful, like a picture in gold and silver to decorate a shield, they blanked out completely. So, all, in all, Hephaestus wasn't too disappointed when they all decided to quit their jobs and go and live as shepherds on an island where there were only cyclopes and sheep.

Well – almost no-one except cyclopes and sheep. But at the time of this story, Silenus and his sons the satyrs were also there, slaves to Polyphemus, and sick at heart for their friend, Dionysus the god of wine and theatre, who had gone missing. Silenus had been Dionysus's foster-father, and loved the young god as much as he loved his own sons, and maybe even more. It wasn't just that Dionysus was a source of free drinks, but that he was so gloriously himself: Dionysus, who was the sweetest of all gods when he was in a good mood, and the most terrible of all gods when he was in a rage; Dionysus, who had lived in India and who rode a tiger; Dionysus, who loved to change his shape, and could look now like a handsome boy, now like a bull-calf, and now like a man as old and fat and bald as Silenus. You never knew what he was going to do next, and life was much more exciting when he was there.

But now, Dionysus had had to go away. He was the god of theatre, particularly in Athens, and now that all the best playwrights had died, Dionysus had decided to go down to the Underworld to plead for one of them to be restored to life. But then, which one should he choose? Euripides, whose plays were so thoughtful and so cleverly balanced between comedy and tragedy, and made ancient stories feel as if they were happening right now? Or Sophocles, who wrote the most perfectly-constructed tragedies of all? Or maybe Aeschylus, whose speeches were such rolling torrents of poetry that they held the audience spellbound, even if Dionysus himself wasn't sure what all the words meant?

It wasn't an easy decision, and Dionysus had said he might be away for some time. But, when he didn't return, Papa Silenus began to feel worried about him. What if Dionysus had been kidnapped by Hera again? She hated most of Zeus's illegitimate children, but especially Dionysus, and she was always plotting to harm him. Or what if Dionysus was ill? He'd always suffered from fits of madness, and then he did terrible things without realising what he was doing until it was too late.

So, one day, Silenus had said, 'Right, lads. Our bull-calf isn't coping on his own, and we're going to rescue him and bring him home.' And he and all the satyrs had bought a boat, and sailed out to try to search the world for Dionysus, but before they were even out of the Aegean, they were shipwrecked on the island of the cyclopes. Polyphemus had captured them and forced them to work as his slaves, Silenus mucking out the cave where the giant slept and where he kept his sheep at night, while the younger satyrs watched over the sheep on the hills every day. Often they sighed, 'We've got to get away – find Dionysus, find some women – remember those wild girls called maenads he's sometimes got with him? – and have lots to drink,' but they knew that Polyphemus was a man-eater, and probably a satyr-eater too, and he would certainly eat them if he caught them trying to escape. They longed to play music and dance, to gladden their sad hearts, but Polyphemus forbade them to make any unnecessary noise in case it frightened his sheep. So they led the sheep out to graze on the hillside, day after day, and watched to see if there was any sign of Dionysus or anyone else coming to rescue them.

Well, one day, when Silenus was busy plaiting withies into pens for the lambs in the cave, and wondering whether Dionysus was missing him as much as Silenus was missing Dionysus, he heard someone: 'Hello? Anyone at home?' So he hurried out to the mouth of the cave, and there were about a dozen humans, one of them – oh, could they be emissaries from Dionysus? – carrying a wine-skin.

Now, in those days, it wasn't polite to ask a stranger his name or who his father was – the idea was that you should be friendly to anyone who came to your door, and invite him to stay as long as he liked – but there was something about the leader carrying the wineskin that made Silenus blink and say, 'You're not – a son of Autolycus the Burglar, are you? You look just like him!'

'Grandson,' said the man. 'His daughter Anticlea was my mother, and my father is a farmer on Ithaca – that's if he hasn't died while I was fighting in Troy. My dad taught me to farm, and Grandpa Autolycus taught me...'

'How to be a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles, I should think!' said Silenus, chuckling. 'I didn't know there was anything to farm on Ithaca – isn't it just a rock sticking out of the sea?'

The man from Ithaca shrugged. 'Well, it's a rugged island, but it's my island, and I'd give anything to get home and see my family again. My ship's been badly blown off course in a gale, or we wouldn't have come here. But I've got to admit, we don't have the lovely, fertile land in Ithaca you've got here – I'm surprised there isn't more farming going on, really. This would be a beautiful place to grow wheat and barley, and plant some vines and make wine...'

'Oh, wouldn't it just!' sighed Silenus. 'Still, I can't get my boys to settle down to farming and harvesting, so I've set them to minding sheep instead. I expect they'll be back with the flocks soon, but in the meantime, if you're hungry, I can offer you some meat and milk and cheese, if you'd like to trade that wine for it.'

So the leader of the Ithacans mixed a bowl of wine – well, you see, the kind of wine we drank in Greece in those days was very thick and heavy, like a cordial, so people drank it mixed with water, out of wide dishes. If you were an alcoholic, you might drink it mixed fifty-fifty with water, but most people mixed one part wine to three parts water, at least with normal wine. But this wine was an exceptionally strong one, which might have been made by Dionysus himself for all I know, and one measure of wine to twenty measures of water made a drink as sweet and fragrant as anything you've ever tasted. I'm sorry, I shouldn't tantalise you like this when you can't drink, but this is important to the story – do you want me to go on? Okay, then...

So the Ithacan mixed the drinks, and Silenus selected the biggest lamb, cut its throat and put it to roast on a spit, and then he sliced up a ripe cheese to share among the humans as a starter while they waited for the meat to be ready. But as the lamb was cooking, and they were all sitting on the cave floor around the fire, passing the bowl around for a sip each, and the humans were telling Silenus how incredibly valiant they had all been at Troy, suddenly the younger satyrs came back with all the sheep. There was a stunned silence for a moment, and then one of the satyrs said, 'Dad, are you out of your mind? The boss will be back any minute, and when he finds out...'

'What do you mean, "the boss"?' demanded the Ithacan captain. 'I thought you were in charge?'

But at that moment, the mountains shook with heavy footsteps, and there was a rumble of a giant roaring out, as all giants do, 'Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Ithacan!' (I've never been sure how exactly giants smell nationality, but it's probably something to do with diet – being able to scent from the type of curry on someone's breath which part of India he comes from, or whether he's an Englishman who's had a vindaloo from the local takeaway.)

So, before Polyphemus could come any closer, Silenus smeared himself all over with blood from the lamb he'd been cooking, and staggered out to the entrance of the cave, clutching his head and groaning, 'Oh, master, they've half killed me! While the boys were out, this gang of twelve ruffians came against one poor old satyr, and I tried to stop them robbing you, but they beat me to the ground, grabbed your best lamb and slaughtered it, and by the time my boys came back, it was too late! Still, if you fancy a change from mutton, you could always have man for dinner...'

'Yeah! I will!' roared Polyphemus, and he rolled the huge boulder that he used as a door to block the mouth of the cave, so that nobody, human or satyr, could escape.

But the Ithacan captain pushed forward with the sweetest smile he could muster, and said, 'Oh, this servant of yours shouldn't be so ashamed of his virtues! He was proving himself a faithful steward to you by showing me the kind hospitality you would have done if you'd been here, sharing your food with me as Zeus teaches us all to share our food with strangers. But now he's embarrassed in case you'd have given us even more and you're angry with him for holding back. But don't worry, I'm sure you can give us more presents, and I've brought you a present, in return: a skin of wine to share with your friends?'

Polyphemus blinked his eye at the strange foreign words. 'What's "wine"?' he asked. 'And what are "friends"?'

The man tried to explain: 'Well, wine is – it's fruit juice that's turned into – very special fruit juice. And friends – they're people you like sharing your food and wine with.'

'What's "sharing"?' asked Polyphemus.

'I'll show you,' said the man. 'This stuff. Wine. Good to drink.'

'Like milk?' said Polyphemus.

'Yes, but even nicer.'

So Polyphemus rushed to the back of his cave, brought out the biggest drinking-bowl he had, filled it with wine to the brim and gulped it down before anyone could explain about diluting it.

'Ah! I'm hungry now!' he said. 'Can't be bothered to cook!' and he grabbed two of the Ithacan soldiers – not the leader who had offered him the wine – and gobbled them raw. 'That's nice!' he said. 'Need another drink to wash them down, though.' So Silenus filled his bowl again, and Polyphemus gulped it down. 'So that's "sharing", is it?' he asked. 'And you're a "friend"? What's your name, friend?'

The captain shrugged. 'Oh, I'm just nobody.'

Polyphemus thought this was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, because one problem with being an ogre is that you don't get to hear many jokes. He guffawed until the roof of the cave shook. 'Hello, Nobody!' he cackled. 'Well, I tell you what: I'm Nobody's friend, so I'll eat Nobody last, and everyone else before him, because we cyclopes give presents to Nobody!' And he began to sing: 'I care for Nobody, no, not I, if Nobody cares for me!'

Silenus nodded: 'Right, well, now you know what wine is, you can understand about "friends" and "sharing". I'll pour you another bowl, and you lie on your left side like this, the way they do at parties in Greece; you put a wreath on your head, like this; you take a slurp from the side of the bowl, like this; and then you pass it round.'

But Polyphemus just grabbed the bowl and downed it again. 'Friends, sharing, hospitality – who needs all those long words? I'll tell you: weak creatures! Men! Satyrs! People who believe in gods! But me, when I've got a bellyful of this wine stuff, I'm the god! I'm my very own Zeus, with my very own Ganymede to serve me! Come to bed, Ganymede!'