by Glyn Iliffe
The nymphs who served Circe looked on in silence as their mistress opened the door and led him from the hall. Odysseus now found himself in a long corridor lit by a series of tall windows on one side. She led him without pausing to a flight of stone steps that led to another passageway on the floor above. Soon they were standing before a door, which she pushed open to reveal a large, airy bedroom. White curtains floated inwards on the back of a faint breeze, groping, it seemed, for the fur-covered bed in the centre of the room. Pots of flowers of every colour were set on the furniture and on the floor against the walls, filling the chamber with heady scents that were as potent as Circe’s magic. Shutting the door behind them, she began to pluck at the laces along the sides of his breastplate, her fingers as nervous and clumsy as a virgin’s. Giving up halfway down, she took her wand from the cloth sash about her waist and ran it down the sides of his armour. It fell to the floor with a clatter and was followed by her wand and sash.
She fumbled now with the brooch that held his cloak, the same brooch that Penelope had fastened with such ease the day he had parted for Troy. It depicted a dog killing a faun. If Circe’s magic had worked on him, would he have been turned into a dog, he wondered? Placing his hand on hers, he loosened the pin that had become so bent and awkward after ten years of war. He pulled off his cloak and folded it gently before placing it on the floor by her feet.
‘She gave you that, didn’t she?’ Circe said. ‘The one you’ve been waiting for.’
He answered with a nod.
‘You will soon forget her,’ she added.
With a touch of her fingertips her chiton fell away to form a pool around her ankles. She stepped free and kicked it aside so that it covered Odysseus’s cloak and its golden brooch. When he refused to look at her nakedness and instead gazed past her shoulder to the window, she lifted her hands to his head and pulled it downward.
‘Look at me, Odysseus. Am I not more beautiful than her?’
‘I have no memory of what she looks like,’ he whispered.
She draped her arms about his shoulders and placed her lips upon his. They were warm and moist and he could feel the soft swell of her breasts as she pressed her body against his. He began to feel the first stirrings of lust and hated himself for his disloyalty. She reached down and tugged his tunic up over his head and arms, before tossing the garment aside and wrapping her arms about his naked body. Now he could feel his skin against hers, that intimate heat that he had not experienced for so long.
‘Make love to me now,’ she insisted, her voice nervous with anticipation. ‘Give me what I want.’
‘You must promise to give me back my men.’
‘I promise,’ she said, pressing her lips against his again, more urgently this time.
He pulled away. The passion in her eyes was now tinged with anger.
‘Swear that you will not try to turn me or any of my men back into animals? And that you will help us to find our way back to Ithaca.’
‘Yes! Yes, of course,’ she assured him. ‘You will be my guests, all of you. You will stay here for as long as you need, until you recover your strength and have a mind to resume your voyage. But first you must earn my hospitality, Odysseus. I am ready.’
She pulled him towards the bed.
‘Swear it by the Olympians, Circe.’
‘I swear it,’ she said, pulling him down onto the furs.
Chapter Thirty
PENELOPE AND ANTINOUS
The news that the war was over and Odysseus was coming home had fallen on Penelope like a hammer blow. Her mind and heart had prepared for a long siege, believing her husband would not return to Ithaca for another ten years. So to learn that he was at that very moment sailing back from Troy was a shock she had not been ready to withstand. She remembered rising to her feet with her hand over her mouth, then everything going black. The next thing she knew, she was in her bed with a breeze blowing the curtains into the room and the scent of lilies filling the air. It had only taken her a moment to recall the news, and then she had leapt to her feet and gone running through the corridors of the palace shouting for joy.
That had been weeks ago and still Odysseus had not returned. Elation had turned to jubilant expectation, which in turn had become patient anticipation, but now was stagnating into desperate hope. Two and sometime three times a day she would climb Mount Neriton and look south to the sea that would one day bear his sail. Once she had even seen the broad canvas of a fighting ship in the distant haze, followed by glimpses of several more. When she saw what looked like a dolphin motif on their sails, she broke down in tears, sinking to her knees and sobbing uncontrollably into her hands. But when she had finally wiped the tears from her eyes and looked out again, the phantom fleet was gone. Unperturbed, she had rushed down to the harbour, waiting until long after sunset for the ships to arrive. They never did.
She had said nothing of it to anyone, not even Telemachus. But she had faithfully maintained her visits to the lookout on Mount Neriton every day since, longing for another glimpse of a dolphin sail. Though many merchantmen came and went, and two brought further messages of victory – one from Diomedes and the other from Menelaus and Helen – her husband did not follow.
Fortunately Telemachus was not disheartened. Ever since his fight with Eurymachus and Antinous he had been more confident. She was quietly pleased to see he had also made a new friend, Peiraeus of Kefalonia, and together they roamed the island with impunity, afraid of no-one. For a while even Eurymachus and Antinous had avoided them, fearful of what would happen when the king returned. But as the weeks passed with no sign of him, their old arrogance began to return. Behind her back, Penelope knew the women in the marketplace were talking about terrible storms sinking whole fleets, and that Odysseus and his men were among them. Indeed, the wives of those who had sailed with him now looked at her with animosity. Their own renewed hopes were fading and they turned their blame on her, as the wife of the man who had failed to bring them back.
She hid from their accusing eyes on Mount Neriton, where she sat now. The thatched canopy of the lookout post afforded her some shelter from the sun, but none from the biting wind that found every gap in her double cloak. She held it close about her and stared out at the surrounding ocean. It was early, so a few fishing vessels were still returning with their catches. To the south a small merchantman was beating its way up the coast. At the first sight of its sail – a dash of white against the beige coastline – her heart had beat faster. But long before her eyes could tell the shape of the canvas or the size of its hull, her instincts told her it was not him. And with the disappointment had come the usual bitterness. Where was he? Why was he absent when so many had returned? And all too often she asked herself whether he even intended to come back. In all the ten years they had been apart, would he have resisted the temptation of other women? It was a long time for anyone to go without the intimacy of sex, and every other man of power she knew of had their mistresses. Her father and her uncle – both kings – had not bothered to conceal the fact they slept with other women. Odysseus had always been different, but wars changed men. If he had found another woman, why would he come back?
‘All alone?’
Penelope brushed the tears from her eyes as discreetly as she could. The voice did not belong to the old lookout, whom she had relieved of his duties and told not to return until midday. Turning, she saw Antinous.
‘What do you want?’
‘You shouldn’t be here by yourself.’
‘I’ve nothing to fear, Antinous. If you climbed all the way up here to protect me from the sun and the wind, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘And has your journey been worthwhile, my queen? Is there a fleet on the southern horizon? Do you see his sail at their head? I imagine your disappointment is far greater than mine.’
‘Don’t mock me,’ she snapped.
‘It’s the truth. He isn’t coming. If he was, he’d have been here by now.’
He approached the open-sided shelter and she saw the dagger in his belt. He always wore it, she suspected, but she had never noticed it until now. She stepped back so that the thick posts that supported the canopy were between them.
‘You should be looking to the east, not the south. If there’s going to be a fleet that’s the direction it’ll come from, but it won’t be Ithacan.’
‘Still worried about your phantom invaders?’
‘More than your phantom saviour. And when they do come Ithaca will be unprepared.’
‘The Kerosia agreed to increase the militia –’
‘The Kerosia! A bunch of old men with nothing better to do than play politics while foreign eyes watch our rich farms and fat livestock from the mainland, just waiting for the day when they can make it theirs.’
‘You exaggerate, Antinous.’
‘And you procrastinate, Penelope.’
‘You will call me “my lady” or nothing at all.’
‘Stop this dangerous game you’re playing. Odysseus is not coming back. He’s at the bottom of the ocean with the rest of the fleet, or he’s in the arms of another woman –’
She crossed the space between them and slapped him hard across the cheek. His eyes flashed with anger so she struck again. This time he caught her wrist, crushing it between his fingers so that the pain made her want to cry out. Only her pride prevented her.
‘Let me go!’
He eased his grip.
‘You will marry me, Penelope. Whether ten years from now or ten days, you’re going to be mine.’
‘You overestimate your charm, boy.’
‘I’m not a boy. You’ll find that out one day. Maybe today.’
‘How dare you? How dare you? I’d rather die than let you so much as touch me.’
‘Really?’ he asked, reaching up and brushing her shoulder where the cloak had slipped.
Again she tried to slap him and again he caught her wrist, forcing her arm downward and at the same time pressing her back against the post.
‘The watchman will return any moment.’
‘I hope not, for his sake. Marry me, Penelope. Make me king so I can give this island the ruler it needs.’
‘It has a ruler.’
‘You will give me what I want,’ he snarled.
He grabbed her breast clumsily and tried to press his mouth to hers. She turned her face away and fought the hands that were on her body, but the power in his arms was too much. She felt his hardness against her groin, urgent and threatening with the strength of his desire. And then the force that drove it stopped suddenly. His body tensed and the lust in his eyes turned to quiet fear. The point of his own dagger was pressed against his crotch.
‘You will not touch me again, Antinous. If my husband has not returned in ten year’s time you will have your opportunity to marry me then, but not before. And if he comes back before the ten years have expired I will make sure he kills you for this. Do you understand?’
Antinous’s eyes narrowed.
‘Then you should understand this: Odysseus is never coming back. He’s already dead.’
‘What do you mean?’
Antinous stepped away and walked back to the edge of the steep hillside that led down to the town.
‘Tell me what you mean,’ Penelope insisted.
‘I’ve heard that two assassins hide among his men. Neither knows the other and both have just one task: to slit the king’s throat in the dead of the night. How’s your faith in his return now, my lady?’
With a mock bow, he turned and jogged slowly down the slope. Penelope let out a scream and thumped the blade into one of the posts. Then she slid to the ground in a heap, sobbing quietly.
Odysseus had been dreaming of Ithaca when he awoke. He turned and laid his arm across the empty furs beside him, expecting to find Penelope there. He opened his eyes to the bright light of mid-morning streaming in through the windows. Then he saw the pots of flowers and the mural on the wall opposite – of golden men and silver women feasting on a long table – and he remembered that Ithaca and Penelope had been just a dream, a dream that his decision of the day before had turned bitter. He buried his face in the furs and wept.
Before long, the bedroom door opened. His body stiffened at the sound of bare feet padding across the wooden floor.
‘Master, your bath is ready.’
He looked up and saw Clonia, one of Circe’s maids.
‘Will you come with me?’
He rose naked and followed her to a door further down the corridor. Gouts of steam wafted out as she opened it and inside he found a burning hearth with a bronze cauldron hanging over the flames. There were no windows in the room and it was hot and humid. A bath was in the corner, which Clonia had already filled with water from the cauldron and let cool to the right heat. At her invite, Odysseus tested the water and stepped in. Wearily he leaned forward over his knees and let the nymph pour warm water over his head and shoulders. A pungent mix of herbs had been added to the cauldron, and after a while he felt himself reviving a little, though not even Circe’s skill with herbs could drive away the lethargy that had consumed his spirit. As he closed his eyes and tried not to think about what he had done, Clonia knelt down behind him and began to massage his tired muscles. When the bath was over she rubbed him with olive oil and dressed him in a tunic and cloak that she told him she had made herself. Then she led him back through to the hall where the long table was set for two. He sat down at Clonia’s bidding, but there was no sign of Circe.
Another maid set a silver basin before him and filled it with water. As he washed his hands, a large, middle-aged woman he had not seen before brought him a selection of foods. She spoke roughly to him in a language he did not recognise, but when he showed no interest in her offerings she helped him to a generous portion of each before shuffling off to a corner of the room. Odysseus looked at the food before him, as fine as anything he had been presented with at Aeolus’s palace, and pushed the plate away.
‘Not hungry, my dear?’ Circe asked, emerging from the door behind him. ‘Not even after last night’s exertions?’
She sat down opposite him and leaned her chin on her hands, gazing at him until he eventually returned her stare. Her normally white cheeks were flushed pink and there was a light in her eyes that had been absent when she had welcomed him yesterday. She smiled as he looked at her, an easy smile that recognised the intimacy they had shared, but which also sprang up from a newly tapped well of contentment. Circe, it seemed, was happy.
‘Come now,’ she continued, ‘have the gods struck you dumb? Isn’t the food and wine to your liking? Or do you suspect a trap, Odysseus? Surely last night has shown you my intentions towards you are honest and good?’
‘Perhaps your guest would prefer some pork?’ suggested the housekeeper, filling Circe’s plate with the same delicacies she had offered Odysseus.
Circe laughed aloud at the suggestion, before waving the woman away.
‘She’s joking, of course. Your men are perfectly well.’
‘Apart from the fact they are pigs,’ Odysseus retorted. ‘How do you expect me to sit here and eat good food when my friends are wallowing in mud and snuffling at acorns?’
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to eat alone with me, rather than surrounded by a mob of rough-mannered sailors? Right now they’re happy eating nuts and cornel berries; let them stay that way a little longer and you and I can enjoy breakfast together in peace.’
‘I can’t eat a crumb until I see my friends again. Nor can I take pleasure in your company until you have honoured your promise to me.’
‘Very well then,’ she said sternly, rising to her feet. ‘You will have your wish. But don’t think I will tolerate being ignored when your countrymen are with you again.’
She sat again and took his hand in both of hers. They were soft and warm and he was reminded of their touch on his body the night before.
‘You won’t ignore me, Odysseus, will you? I have waited so long for… c
ompany. Promise me you’ll stay here on Aeaea with me, for a few days at least. It will give you and your friends time to recover – put your ordeals behind you and look to the future with renewed courage and hope. And it will gladden my heart to hear these lifeless walls echo with the sounds of human voices and the ring of laughter, and to have you here with me a little longer.’
Odysseus thought of Penelope waiting for him on Ithaca while he wasted time feasting with the woman he had betrayed her for. The bitterness of his treachery – necessary though it may have been – touched his heart and filled him with black thoughts. He had sold his honour many times over the past ten years to bring the day of their reunion closer, but he had never been unfaithful. And now that single remaining strand by which his humanity hung had been severed. He felt as if he was made of stone, and it was only by an act of pure will that he took her hand and lifted it to his lips.
‘It will be my pleasure.’
Circe leaned across and kissed him on the mouth. Then, snatching her wand from her belt she ran lightly to the double doors and threw them open. She was gone before his eyes could adjust to the morning sunlight that came flooding in, though he heard her singing to herself on the lawn outside. It was a song from the heart, as joyful as he was sad, but it was soon lost beneath the loud grunting of a herd of pigs. The animals charged up the porch steps and into the hall, knocking over chairs and sending the servants scuttling into corners for safety. The din of frightened squeals filled the room and Odysseus looked on in dismay as the creatures that had once been his men rushed beneath the table and overturned furniture in their madness. For some reason he had expected them to retain some human qualities: perhaps a sense of misery at their condition, or a restrained dignity in defiance of their brute form. But they were just swine, as much beast as they had once been man. In a moment of horror he wondered whether anything of their old selves would remain when Circe transformed them again.
