The Voyage of Odysseus (The Adventures of Odysseus Book 5)

by Glyn Iliffe

  The Old One smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘There are more ways to defeat armies and pirates than hard bronze and a lust for blood. And as you say, we are still here without walls or xenia to protect us.’

  ‘A man who rejects xenia rejects the gods, and without the favour of the gods you are doomed.’

  Eperitus, half-stunned and half-appalled by what he was hearing, felt another tug at his sleeve. It was the young man again.

  ‘Don’t sleep with the women,’ he muttered. ‘They will weaken your will to resist.’

  Eperitus frowned. ‘I’m not interested in the women. Or you, for that matter.’

  ‘Listen to me. You don’t have much time left –’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Come with me, now, before it is too late.’

  Eperitus felt a surge of anger and prised the man’s fingers from his sleeve, though there was something in his eyes and urgent tone that worried him. Nevertheless, he turned away and saw that Odysseus was staring hard following something the Old One had said.

  ‘You truly believe there are no gods? Then you’re an even greater fool than I thought. But I haven’t come to bandy nonsense. If you won’t ask my name, then I’ll not share it with you; but I will tell you why I’m here and you will tell me what I need to know. Three of my countrymen came this way yesterday morning and I haven’t seen them since. These children you surround yourself with say they know nothing about them –’

  ‘And so we don’t.’

  ‘Then how is it that when I slipped out of the room you gave us last night I found one of their cloaks lying in an alleyway?’

  The Old One’s smile faded slightly and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘I can assure you that you did not leave your room last night.’

  ‘Can you? Then why do your eyes doubt your own assurance? What’s more, the cloak I found belonged to my cousin and I’m particularly keen that no harm has befallen him. Do you understand me? If I find he has been hurt in any way you will no longer find me so friendly.’

  Eperitus wondered whether Odysseus had really found a cloak or whether he was bluffing. The Old One was uncertain, too.

  ‘If you happened across a cloak then it must have belonged to someone else, not this precious cousin of yours.’

  ‘And who would wear a cloak in this place? The most anyone has to cover themselves with is a strip of sailcloth. I know my cousin is here somewhere and you will tell me where or you’ll find that hard bronze and a lust for blood are not as easily conquered as you think!’

  The Old One rose to his feet and Eperitus laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. But the man’s stern expression melted quickly into a smile as he stretched his open palms towards Odysseus.

  ‘My friend, if my words have offended you then I apologise. Relax, be at peace. If you insist on following your custom then I must insist that we do it right. I will gladly answer your question, but first you must accept our hospitality. Isn’t that how it goes? And we have a gift for you and your men that will surpass anything the great lords and kings of your world can offer.’ At this the men and women began to clap and beat their breasts again, clearly agitated by the thought of what was to come. ‘But first, I see one of you has a lyre? It’s many years since I’ve heard music, and there are very few here have had the pleasure. Perhaps your friend will play for us?’

  Odysseus beckoned to Omeros, who rose and came forward with his tortoiseshell lyre in his hand. In the same moment Eperitus sensed a presence behind him.

  ‘I know where your friends are,’ a voice whispered in his ear.

  This time Eperitus did not ignore the man’s words. He turned and looked him in the eye.

  ‘If you’ve seen them then you’ll be able to describe them to me.’

  ‘One is fat, much fatter than the Old One. He has small, arrogant eyes and a boastful mouth. At least, he used to boast. Now he’s more quiet.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Eperitus stood as Omeros struck the first cords. It sounded beautiful, like the call of a god amid the ruins, or the ghostly echo of a feast from the great hall’s distant past. He looked at Odysseus and wondered whether he should let him know where he was going.

  ‘Wait,’ he told the young man, before leaning towards Odysseus. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but you should stay here or they’ll suspect something. And whatever you do, keep the others away from the women. They’ll weaken their will to resist.’

  ‘Resist what?’

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  Eperitus turned and walked back into the shadows by the entrance, where the man was waiting for him.

  ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Won’t we be missed?’ Eperitus asked.

  ‘They’ll think we’ve left to be alone.’

  ‘Even though I hit you yesterday?’

  ‘We who eat the lotus are quick to forgive. The others will assume the same of you.’

  ‘And you’re not assuming I’ve changed my mind, I hope?’

  The man half smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I just want to take you to your friends.’

  He disappeared through a doorway. Eperitus followed him into a dark corridor littered with fallen plaster and broken furniture. A grey half-light suffused the shadows at the far end, silhouetting the puny, underfed form of his guide, who was already some way ahead. Several doorways revealed themselves as black apertures in the darkness to the right, and for a moment Eperitus wondered whether he was being led into a trap. The lotus eaters may have been meek and unarmed, but all they needed to do was draw the Ithacans off one by one and murder them in gloomy corners of their ruined palace.

  ‘Come on,’ the man hissed at him. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  His words were not intended as a provocation, but Eperitus felt his natural courage challenged. He paused an instant longer, stretching out his senses for sounds of breathing or the smell of sweat that might indicate hidden foes, and on detecting nothing he continued down the narrow passageway, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. As he passed each empty room, he could distinguish shapes in the darkness, all of them broken – the remains of chairs and tables, shards of clay, lumps of plaster, even sandals and torn clothing. There were bones, too, grey with age, and human skulls with black eye sockets that spoke of unknown horror.

  He reached the end of the corridor, where the man was waiting for him. The pale glow was stronger here, though it remained ashen and ghostly.

  ‘Through here,’ his guide said, ducking beneath a low doorway.

  They entered a spacious chamber with a wooden door at the far end. The light was coming through the cracks in its beams and the gaps between the jambs, where age and neglect had warped the wood. The floor in between was littered with more of the wreckage of whatever had befallen the town.

  ‘There were skeletons in the rooms we passed,’ Eperitus said. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I don’t know. They have always been there.’

  ‘And how long have you lived here? How old are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have always been here, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Just like the bones,’ Eperitus said, more to himself than his companion. ‘How far now until we find my countrymen?’

  ‘Not far.’

  The man crossed the chamber and opened the door. A shaft of green-tinted daylight fell across the floor, forcing Eperitus to squint against its sudden brightness. There was a mass of foliage beyond the doorway and he could smell the pungent scent of earth, leaves and flowers. He followed his guide into what had once been the palace gardens. They were square with pillared cloisters on three sides, but now the pillars were twisted about with a form of ivy that boasted masses of purple, bell-shaped flowers. The trees that bordered the garden had run wild, sending branches into the cloisters and up through their sloped roofs so that many of the clay tiles had slipped off and fallen in
to the overgrown grass below. Shrubs that had once been carefully tended and kept at bay by the king’s gardeners had grown large and monstrous, their white or yellow blooms dying on the bud and scattering their petals over the ground. The cloister to his right had collapsed long ago, leaving a broad gap in the palace wall that was smothered beneath the dark green fronds of creeping plants. In all that chaos of neglected nature, a single rough path was the only indication that anyone ever visited the place. Eperitus’s guide did not wait for him, but took the path to the lowest point in the ruin of the wall and climbed over. Eperitus followed him into a narrow alley between the remains of a stone stable and the side wall of a large house. The rest of the town was quiet, and in the silence he heard a low moaning coming from a bend at the far end of the alley. His guide turned and beckoned to him.

  ‘Come quickly. Your friends are here.’

  He followed him into another, narrower alley that ended in a sunlit courtyard. On the other side of its cracked flagstones was a house with an open door, from which the low moaning was originating. Eperitus drew his sword and approached. The door opened into a low-ceilinged room. The floor was strewn with hay and in the middle were several bodies. Eurylochus was in the middle, naked but for his sandals. The hairy mound of his stomach was rising and falling gently and he was staring up at the ceiling, oblivious to Eperitus’s arrival. A naked woman lay on one side of him with her arm draped over his chest and her knee across his groin. A second woman, also undressed, lay face up with her head on his other shoulder. Her eyes were shut but Eperitus could see the rapid movements of her eyeballs beneath the lids. The other two Ithacans were also there, spreadeagled on their backs with women beside them as they gazed vacantly upward. One was emitting a low moan, but by his empty expression Eperitus could not tell whether the sound was one of pain or pleasure. Only then did he notice that their pupils were rolled up into their skulls to leave their eyes as featureless white orbs. The sight chilled him.

  ‘What have you done to them?’ he asked, seizing his guide by the arm.

  The man winced beneath his powerful grip. ‘It’s the lotus. They’ve eaten of the lotus.’

  ‘Are they in pain?’ Eperitus demanded. ‘Are they sick? What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Pain?’ the man laughed, despite the tightening grasp about his arm. ‘Nothing could be farther from the truth. They are in a state of ecstasy! When a man eats the lotus he forgets his woes; all the pain of this world goes away. But he also forgets the world itself. Compared to the lotus, the world can offer nothing. It is meaningless.’

  Eperitus released his hold on the man, whose laughter was now turning to tears. He slumped onto a stone bench against one of the walls of the courtyard.

  ‘Why do you think we live like this: making nothing, repairing nothing, standing idle as everything crumbles around us? What need do we have of houses and rich clothing? What is the appeal of gold and wine when we have the lotus?’ He looked up at Eperitus, his eyes suddenly passionate and sad. ‘Why do you think we have no walls or army, even though we have many weapons hidden away? They are the weapons of our enemies! The men who came to raid us and conquer us were themselves conquered by the lotus, the humble gift we offered as we grovelled before them. And in the middle of their bliss, as their minds soared free of their bodies, we stabbed them with their own weapons and then burned their corpses on the beaches where their warships sat at anchor. It is what we have always done, with one exception – the Old One. Even he cannot remember why he was spared. But he has told us all about the world across the sea, with palaces and temples where men eat the flesh of dead animals and fight wars to enslave women. Can you deny it, when I have watched your own ships from the hillsides around the bay and seen the women serving food and drink to your warriors?’

  ‘So you mean to drug my friends and slit their throats?’ Eperitus said, looking anxiously back down the alley. ‘By all the gods, I should have stayed with Odysseus in the palace, not here with you! You brought me here on purpose, didn’t you? You separated me from my king when I should have been protecting him.’

  He levelled his sword at the man’s throat, torn between the need for answers and the desire to run back to the great hall, where at any moment Odysseus would be given the lotus and enslaved to its power. Eurylochus and his companions in the room behind him were forgotten. All that mattered now was getting back to his friends before the lotus eaters murdered them.

  ‘Don’t you see I had to bring you here?’ the man pleaded. ‘I tried to warn you but you wouldn’t listen. The only way to get your attention was to tell you I knew where your friends were, and the only way to make you believe me was to show you.’

  ‘Well I believe you now. But I have to go back to warn Odysseus.’

  ‘Wait! Your friends here are in danger, too. My brothers and sisters will come soon to make sure they never wake from their dreams.’

  Eperitus hesitated and glanced back into the shadowy room from which the low moaning was still emanating. He detested Eurylochus and would have gladly seen him dead, but the other two were good men and Eperitus had never abandoned a soldier he could have saved. On the other hand, Odysseus was more important than all of them, and every moment that passed led the king further and further into the lotus eaters’ trap.

  ‘There’s something else you haven’t told me,’ he said, pressing the point of his sword against the base of the man’s neck. ‘Why didn’t you leave me there in the hall to take the lotus and have my throat cut with the others? Why are you helping us?’

  The man’s face was screwed up with pain, his fingers folding timidly over the blade as if wanting but not daring to push it away. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks and he could barely speak to answer Eperitus’s question.

  ‘Because I hate this place. I hate what happens here. I hate the Old One and I hate the lotus. I want it to end. I want to be free of it.’

  Eperitus knew he was looking at a child, a creature enslaved against its will and powerless to take control of its own life. His anger subsided and he eased the point of the sword away from the man’s flesh.

  ‘Then come with us, if that’s what you want. If Odysseus lives then you’ll have earned a place on one of his ships. But first I have to warn him.’

  ‘And these men?’ the lotus eater asked, rubbing his throat.

  Eperitus looked through the doorway at the hated figure of Eurylochus, motionless in the straw. He entered and kicked him in the shin. He may as well have been kicking a corpse.

  ‘You’ll have to watch over them. I’ll return shortly.’

  The sound of approaching footsteps made him turn and look up the alley. Moments later, five lotus eaters turned the corner armed with short swords. At their head was the pale-eyed man who had led them to their quarters the evening before. He stared at Eperitus in surprise, then with a hateful scream he raised the sword above his head and ran at him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  TASTING THE LOTUS

  Omeros had chosen to sing about the feud between Agamemnon and Achilles. He must have been working on it for a while, for Odysseus did not recognise the words but had heard the music many times during the long journey south from Malea. The song was evocative and beautiful and Odysseus was not ashamed of the tears that rolled down his cheeks as he recalled the bitter argument between the two great men and the consequences of their quarrel for all the Greeks. Antiphus was also wiping his eyes, while the young men and women around them – who had no understanding of the world outside their ruined town and for whom the words must have been meaningless – listened in rapt silence. Only the Old One seemed discomfited, perhaps regretting his request as Omeros’s words stirred up memories of a life he had all but forgotten. When the poet reached the point where Patroclus begged Achilles to borrow his armour and ride out against Hector’s victorious army, the Old One held up his hand.

  ‘Enough now. My friends,’ he said, speaking to the men and women about him, ‘it is time to give our guests the gi
fts they have been waiting for.’

  The spell of Omeros’s song was broken and Odysseus felt a surge of anger at the interruption, but he bit it back as he saw the strange reaction that had seized hold of his hosts. All around him they were rising to their knees like slumbering dogs aroused by the smell of food. There was an excitement about them, nothing like the passionless detachment that had possessed them up to that point. And as they awoke from their docile stupor they became more aggressive, jostling each other with their elbows as they shuffled forward.

  ‘Yes, bring it now,’ said a woman.

  ‘They must have their gifts,’ said another.

  ‘And us. We must eat too.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  Odysseus looked at Antiphus. The archer shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, but his eyes could not hide the uncertainty he felt. It was a hesitation Odysseus shared.

  ‘Your cousin,’ said the Old One. ‘Is he a fat man with the pride of a lion but the nobility of a dog? Yes, I remember him now. He and his companions were here yesterday.’

  ‘And where are they now?’

  A wiser man might have sensed the warning in Odysseus’s tone, but the Old One seemed unconcerned.

  ‘First we will eat.’

  ‘We’ve eaten. Tell us where they are.’

  ‘Bring the lotus!’ shouted a voice.

  Others echoed it. The Old One nodded and several men and women stood up and left the hall. The rest began to beat their chests with their hands.

  ‘First, your guest-gift. The rules of xenia offer protection to the host as well as the guest, do they not? And you are the ones with swords and armour, not us. We are at your mercy and so I must insist you accept our humble offerings. Until you do you will learn nothing more from us about your friends.’

  ‘I’ll accept nothing until you give me your word they’re not harmed.’