The Return From Troy

by Lindsay Clarke

  Frowning, she said, ‘While you were in my chamber?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You looked on her face?’

  When he nodded smiling, she glanced away. After the levity of her manner a moment earlier, he was surprised by the coldness in her voice as she said, ‘It should not have been permitted.’

  ‘But I’ve seen her before,’ he protested lightly.

  Circe’s face grew sharper. ‘Where?’ she asked. ‘Where did you see her?’ And when Odysseus told her about the chance encounters, first in the hall of the palace and then in the woodland glade, her consternation was plain. Yet his spirits were riding so high that he failed to take the change in her quite seriously. Was it possible, he wondered, that she was envious of Calypso’s beauty?

  ‘I believe I’ve also heard her sing,’ he smiled.

  ‘She is not for you,’ Circe answered. A moment later, with a self-reproachful sigh, she added, ‘Nor for any man. She is vowed to the Goddess. Her person is sacred.’ She rose to her feet, arranging the folds of her gown about her. ‘You must look to other women for your sport.’

  ‘Have I offended you?’ he asked, dismayed.

  Abstracted in thought, Circe shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘the fault does not lie with you. But you must excuse me now. We will talk again soon.’

  He saw nothing of Calypso in the next few days. Nor did he see Circe herself apart from the single interview in which she instructed him to prepare for his admission to the Oracle of the Dead at Cuma.

  ‘You have now seen everything that we can show you here on Aiaia,’ she said. ‘Soon you must leave, but whether the omens are yet favourable for your return to Ithaca is not in my power to see. For that you must consult Teiresias and be conducted into the House of Shades.’

  ‘The Oracle of the Dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will Macareus be allowed to accompany me?’ he asked.

  ‘Macareus has gone before you.’

  ‘Did Calypso go with him?’

  ‘That is not your concern. In any case, the Oracle must be consulted alone.’

  ‘But you will be there?’

  ‘My place is here in Aiaia.’

  ‘So I won’t see you again?’

  ‘You will go to Cuma by ship,’ she said. ‘The voyage will take two days and a night. I trust that you will return before you sail for Ithaca.’

  He drew in his breath, looked around at the shining marble of Circe’s house, at the green woods beyond and the high hill where the scavenger kites still flew. ‘If that is indeed my destination,’ he said. ‘But I shall certainly come back.’

  His departure was delayed by an incident that brought an inauspicious omen for his voyage. In the weeks they had spent on Aiaia, many of the crew of The Fair Return had grown bored and restive. Eurylochus, in particular, never overcame his initial mistrust of the place and gloomily foretold that no good would come of spending too long living in the shadow of the dead. For some time he had been itching to make sail for Ithaca and home, and could not understand what kept Odysseus loitering in this dismal spot. Having discovered that Aiaia was not an island after all, but a marshy promontory joined to the mainland, he spent most of his time leading hunting-parties into the hills where they found bears foraging the woods, as well as deer and wild boar. Others, however, had made themselves at home among the local peasantry, enjoying the weather and the easy pace of life. Among them, young Elpenor was almost permanently drunk on the local wine, and most of his afternoons were spent sprawled in the sun on the tiled roof of the palace with a wineskin at his side. He was lying there when Odysseus called his crew together to announce that they were taking ship the next day. Jumping up at the sound of the horn, he lost his footing, scrambled to hold on to the tiles, and fell to the ground, breaking his neck.

  To the aggrieved consternation of his comrades, Odysseus insisted that they would not burn his body and raise a funeral mound in his name. Instead they would give him with all due reverence to the kites and ravens as was the custom of the place, and collect his bones for burial on their return. Again Eurylochus, who was beginning to despair of his master, could be heard muttering that no good would come of it. His mood was not lightened when the crew learned that they were bound, like Macareus before them, not for Ithaca, but for the Halls of the Hades, God of the Underworld, and his bride, Persephone.

  Before the end of the first day’s sailing, the sky seemed to darken early and there was a greenish tinge to the dim light of the setting sun. The next morning, as they were piloted along the coast, they realised that the light was obscured not merely by clouds but by a thick and acrid fog of black smoke drifting from the summit of a distant mountain. Darker and more baleful than the thin plume they had observed over Aeolia, it filled the crew with trepidation. Even Odysseus began to worry as he remembered his own words to Aeolus about the fate suffered by the island of Kalliste; but he could not believe that his life-thread would be cut so soon after his soul had been washed clean on Aiaia.

  Around noon on the second day they passed through a narrow strait between an island and the mainland, and then doubled a sharply pointed cape into a craterous gulf. The shoreline steamed in its mantle of lush green vegetation. Under brighter sunlight the blue width of the gulf would have been quite dazzling, but the smoke gave the quiet waters a doleful air brightened only by the hectic yellow of the easterly cliffs. A stink of sulphur came drifting off the land.

  They put in at a ramshackle township that had grown up at the sandy edge of a bay within the gulf. Here the pilot handed Odysseus over to a taciturn guide who said only that he would lead him and a small group of chosen companions on the trek across country to the Oracle of the Dead.

  Polites immediately agreed to go with him. When no one else volunteered, Perimedes said he would go too. As they were about to leave Eurylochus discovered that his loyalty to his captain was stronger than his fear. Grumbling at the bleating of the two sheep that Circe had bidden them give in offering to the Oracle, he brought up the rear.

  The track passed through a marshy plain of bamboo and reeds where pools of boiling mud bubbled and simmered, emitting puffs of smoke, and bursting out here and there into hot blowholes that stank of rotten eggs. Insects tormented the sweat about their eyes and ears. At one point, through a fissure in the ground, a river of molten sludge oozed slowly by; and then came stretches where at every step they feared they might plunge through the earth’s crust and plummet down into the vast inferno that must be burning beneath them. Even the air seemed hostile, for there was no wind in the heat of the day and, whichever way they turned their heads, a stagnant smell assailed their nostrils. Yet when they complained of the stink, their guide merely shrugged and, as if taking a perverse pleasure in adding to their unease, told them about a lake lying only a mile or so inland which emitted vapours so toxic that no bird would fly across its waters.

  Then they were climbing up a wooded hill through ancient stands of holm-oak and white poplar. The air tasted fresher there and drifts of white and blue and brimstone-yellow wildflowers bloomed in the glades. Near the crest of the hill they came upon a grassy terrace where more trees had been felled and a tunnelled grotto with many doorways of an unusual, trapezoidal shape had been carved directly into the soft, whitish rock of the cliff. Dogs began to bark even before they stepped out of the trees. Undeterred, their guide walked on, pointing to where a snake slithered away into a clump of rocket as he passed. The air was fragrant with herbs. Below them, they could hear the sound of the sea.

  The first people they met were two old women who proved to be officials of the oracle. They already knew Odysseus’ name and purpose, which was not surprising, as he remarked afterwards to Eurylochus, given that Macareus had preceded them there, though as yet they had seen no sign of him. Having taken the fees that Odysseus had been warned he would have to pay — a sum large enough to cover the cost of sacrificial animals, the wine for the libations to be poured, and various administrative co
sts that remained unspecified — the women explained the procedures of the oracle. As it was late in the day, they said, he might remain with his friends that night. In the morning he could also seek their help in making his preliminary offerings. Thereafter he must submit to ritual cleansing before his first interview with Teiresias. If all was well-aspected, he would be admitted to the sacred precinct. Then, after a time of solitary fasting, the Sibyl would conduct him down into the Halls of Hades where the dead would rise in answer to his question.

  Odysseus declared that he understood and accepted these terms. He and his friends were shown to the lodge where they would pass the night. Food and wine were brought to them and oil-lamps were lit. Then they were left alone.

  Their conversation was uneasy, and when they fell silent their oppressive proximity to the dead reminded Eurylochus that Elpenor’s corpse still lay, unburned without a mound, on the hill in Aiaia.

  ‘What if his angry shade is waiting for us here?’ he said.

  ‘Elpenor died drunk and happy,’ Odysseus replied. He gave a little laugh. ‘If he’s here already he’ll only be working up another thirst for my libations!’

  Perimedes and Polites both laughed in the darkness, but Eurylochus was still troubled. ‘I’ve heard of places like this before,’ he said. ‘There’s one such in Boeotia. The Cave of Trophonius they call it.’ He lay in silence, wondering whether to say more; and could not stop himself. ‘They say that once a man goes down into the underworld he never smiles again.’

  ‘They also say that the Boeotians are the dullest-witted people in the world,’ Odysseus silenced him, ‘Now go to sleep, will you?’

  But he lay unsleeping himself, encountering in his thoughts the many shades that still lay heavy on his conscience.

  Not one of them got much sleep that night and they were up and about by dawn. As instructed, Eurylochus, Polites and Perimedes rounded up four of the bullocks that Odysseus had purchased for the sacrifice, and the first of them was brought to the altar. Making fervent prayers to Athena and Zeus, and craving favour of the Dark Lord and Lady of the Underworld, Odysseus put each of the animals to the slaughter. He was covered in blood by the time the rites of offering were complete. Most of the beasts had gone consenting to the sacrifice, but his companions did not conceal their anxiety as he said farewell and was led away.

  After his ritual cleansing, Odysseus was blindfolded and led from the bath-house, wearing only a white smock he had been given. He walked for some distance with a guide at either side to prevent him from stumbling, and when the blindfold was removed, he found himself seated in an arched chamber cut out of a cliff. An old man with stringy white hair and curiously pallid skin sat across from him on a stone seat, fingering his beard.

  Odysseus smiled in greeting, but met no response from the soft, almost feminine features of a lean, introverted face that seemed more interested in the natural patterns of the rock-face than in the appearance of the man standing before him. Only after a few moments did Odysseus realize that he was blind.

  ‘You have come from Aiaia,’ Teiresias said. ‘I am informed that you underwent the initiation there.’

  ‘I was afforded that privilege,’ Odysseus answered, aware that he was in the presence of a man whose stillness was graver, and filled with more searching wisdom, than any he had encountered since his meeting with Cheiron the Centaur on Mount Pelion many years before.

  ‘You will know then,’Teiresias said, ‘where the sun has its home.’

  Without thought or reflection, Odysseus heard himself reply, ‘Where else but in the earth at the heart of darkness?’

  From the depths of his own darkness, Teiresias smiled and nodded. ‘Your fame travels before you, Odysseus of Ithaca. So tell me, what satisfaction do you take from having brought about the fall of Troy?’

  The question was unexpected. For a time the Ithacan gave it thought. ‘That was the achievement of another man,’ he replied eventually, ‘one who believed he was acting in the service of Athena. That man has since found the death he both deserved and desired.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I know that Athena is not her only name and she is greater than I thought.’

  Again the seer nodded. ‘Then what do you seek in the House of the Dead?’

  ‘Guidance.’

  ‘And who among the shades can give you that?’

  Odysseus glanced away uncertainly. ‘I know only that there are many among the dead who have no cause to love or aid me.’

  ‘Then you must beg their forgiveness. There will be time for that before you are admitted to their house. Are you prepared for that ordeal?’

  ‘I am no stranger to death,’ Odysseus said.

  ‘Yet death too may be greater than you think.’

  ‘I would be disappointed,’ Odysseus said, ‘to find it otherwise.’

  His smile went unseen and unanswered. Teiresias sat in silence for a long time. His white head was tilted slightly as though he was listening for some sound on the still air of the chamber. At last he drew in his breath, reached for the gilded staff that leaned against the wall at his side, and tapped it twice, sharply, on the stone flags of the floor. Immediately the two men who had led Odysseus into the chamber returned. Again he was blindfolded and led out into the day.

  For three days he was left alone in a locked chamber which contained only a large jug of water, a cruse of oil to renew the lamp, a pallet for him to sleep on, and a hole in the floor for easing himself. It was from that last corner, furthest from his bed, that he could faintly hear the sound of running water. There were no windows in the chamber, though every inch of the walls was covered with paintings. It was like being shut inside a static theatre of dreams. But those dreams were the figments of an imagination obsessed, it seemed, both by the naked beauty of women and by the dreadful things that life can inflict on them.

  Because the only source of light came from his lamp, the pictures seemed to move and flicker as he looked at them. He took the lamp to examine them more closely and believed he could name some of the figures depicted there. Many of them were of women ravished by the gods, and the skill of the painter made them appear lovelier even than he had conceived when listening to their stories. And the portrayal of those who had suffered darker fates was just as exquisite in its detail, so that Odysseus felt himself instantly oppressed once more by his own memories of Hecuba and Polyxena, of Cassandra and Andromache, and of all the women of Troy whose lives had been violated by the war.

  Had he known from the first how long he would remain locked up alone with those pictures, he might immediately have hammered for release. Even so, he was soon angered by his confinement. Not very long ago he had dreamed of sailing across far horizons, through the fabled Pillars of Heracles and on around the unknown coast of Libya. Now he was imprisoned like a felon in a cell so small he could cross it in four strides. How arbitrary a fate was this? What was he supposed to do in here? What could he do but sleep and think? And despite his bad night, he was not yet tired, so he lay on his pallet-bed contemplating the pictures on the walls until he was forced to close his eyes against them.

  He slept for a time and, when he woke, his sense of time was broken. There was a taste to the water he did not entirely trust. The pictures merged into his dreams. After only a few hours he was hallucinating with extraordinary clarity. Whenever he closed his eyes he became certain that he was no longer alone in the room; but when he snapped them open again the room was empty. He searched every inch of the wall for spy-holes and found none. The search merely left him with an even profounder sense of isolation and he fell into depression.

  He tried to console himself by meditating on the names by which he had heard Teiresias addressed. On their journey to the oracle their tight-lipped guide had referred to him once as Iatromantis — one who heals by prophesy. That was a reassuring thought. A man celebrated as a healer could surely have no evil designs on him, just as the pharmakopeia Circe had turned out not to be a sorceress after all
but a curer of souls. Yet a second term used by one of the women who had greeted them at the shrine had a less friendly ring to it — Pholarchos, the Lord of the Lair. It made Teiresias sound like a wild beast, which seemed odd for a highly civilized man who had an elusive air of the feminine about his face and posture. His birth-name would not have been Teiresias, of course. Teiresias - Delighter in Signs — was a title, not a name. The title had been born by many seers in Boeotian Thebes; and, as Eurylochus had reminded him the night before, Boeotia also had its Oracle of the Dead. So perhaps this man had crossed the sea as Circe had done, to found an old cult in a new land? Yet Odysseus sensed that this sacred precinct, situated as it was above the boiling rivers of Hades, was already very ancient. Perhaps Cuma too had known many generations of seers called Teiresias?

  For the time being, these things were only puzzles that distracted his mind. When he was free again, and had risen out of the underworld, he must remember to ask about them. But even as the thought occurred to him, he doubted that the old seer would encourage such enquiries. And it was followed by the further thought that he might not, in any case, emerge with his mind intact.

  The hours dragged by. He dozed and woke again, then dozed some more. Once when he woke, he saw the shadows shifting round him and panicked when he saw his oil-lamp gutter. Quickly he leapt up to replenish the oil from the cruse and realized that he was panting as the flame revived. Now he had no knowledge of whether it was day or night outside. Only the fierce pangs of hunger quivering through his system informed him that it was a very long time since he had eaten.

  Hunger further lightened his head. Odysseus became certain that something terrible was about to happen. He knocked on the door for a long time and no one answered. But the dread was hard to bear, so he tried to calm himself. He tried to calm himself by thinking of Penelope but that opened up a chasm in his heart. So he wrenched his thoughts away from Ithaca and began to think about Circe and the rites he had undergone during his time on Aiaia.