by Glyn Iliffe
‘Forget and be happy,’ the figure declared.
The voice belonged to Circe. She returned the empty vial to her satchel and turned towards the door. Astynome moved quickly, slipping out of sight round the corner as the sorceress emerged from the outhouse and moved across the glade to the house. Astynome waited a while, then returned to the hall and the furs she shared with Eperitus.
Odysseus looked up at the night sky. The moon was out and great banks of silver-edged cloud scudded across the open expanse, sometimes obscuring the stars and sometimes opening up to reveal them in their thousands. At first glance they were the same constellations Odysseus had observed for years from the hilltops of Ithaca and the plains of Troy. But since being blown off course rounding the Cape of Malea they had changed subtly: a star brighter here and another dimmer there; one or two appearing where they had no business appearing, and others disappearing altogether; while some had shifted slightly, as if gently nudged out of place. To a sailor used to manning a rudder late at night the constellations were faithful companions that knew their place and their time. But not here. In this strange other-world, nothing could be relied on, not even the stars. And yet, as he waited for the last of the voices in the hall behind him to fall silent, he seemed certain of one thing. The stars were almost back to the same positions he had observed them in when they had first arrived on Aeaea. Could a year have passed already? The realisation left him cold. A year lost to Circe’s potions, which had made it seem as if they had only been on the island a couple of months. Had it not been for Astynome following the enchantress to the outhouses and seeing her drug the wine, they might have remained on Aeaea forever.
He shuddered at the thought of not seeing Ithaca again; of not setting eyes on his wife and son, or ever returning to the happy life Agamemnon’s summons had torn him away from ten – no, eleven – years ago. For a month now he had refused to let a drop of Circe’s mellow wine pass his lips, resorting to his trick of letting it spill down his beard while feigning the descent into drunkenness. And gradually the memories of home had returned, reviving in him the passion to seek once more his kingdom and his family.
Voices rose in laughter from the house behind him. Three or four of his men at least were awake, prolonging the moment when he would be able to do the thing he had committed to do. He recalled how, at the feast earlier, Circe had taken his hand and discreetly placed it between her open thighs, below the table while the others had been busy with their wine and songs. He had resisted the instinct to pull it away again. Indeed, for a whole year he had denied the urge to spurn her advances, resenting the fact she was not Penelope and had no claim on his passions. Though he had lied to Eperitus, deceived Astynome’s intuitions and given the rest of his crew the impression he drank himself into a stupor every night, he had shared Circe’s bed on several occasions. The first time had been out of necessity, to save his men from spending the rest of their existence as pigs. But surrendering the final part of his honour that remained intact – his fidelity to Penelope – had broken something in his spirit. After that his resistance had crumbled. Sometimes he had succeeded in getting himself too drunk to respond to her advances, which now seemed ironic as her drugged wine had made Ithaca slip further from his heart. But too often her frustrated passion had turned to threats to break her oath, and all the time he was conscious of Hermes’s warning that without her favour he would never see his home again. And so he had accepted the invites to her bedroom, promising to come to her when the last of his men was asleep. Tonight, though, would be the final time.
Again he heard voices from the house, but louder and clearer. He turned and saw a figure on the porch, closing the door behind him. It was Perimedes. Odysseus watched him approach across the lawn, weaving a wary path between the groups of sleeping lions and wolves.
‘Here you are, my lord,’ he said.
‘Evening, Perimedes. Has our hostess run out of food and wine?’
‘Has she ever? No, I’m hot and sweaty and need some fresh air. Not that it’s much better out here. Feels muggy, more like a summer’s night than early spring.’
‘That’s because it is summer, and late in the season, too,’ Odysseus replied. He pointed up at the stars. ‘Look at the position of Perseus and Andromeda.’
‘The constellations here are different to the ones we used to know.’
‘They move the same, though, and when we arrived on Aeaea, Perseus and Andromeda were almost in the same place they are now. A year has passed, Perimedes, and we’ve barely noticed it.’
Perimedes stared at the stars with a doubtful look in his eyes. Like the handful of other Taphians who had joined Ithaca’s army, he was rough and simple, good material for a fighting man. Selagos, too, was an excellent warrior and would have been highly valued were it not for the look in his eyes. Odysseus had seen it too many times: a darkness in his expression that spoke of hatred; a hatred that was too deep to be born out of any loyalty he might feel for Eurylochus. Not that Odysseus trusted any Taphian after they had helped Eupeithes usurp his father’s throne.
Perimedes was standing beside him now, still looking up at the stars. Odysseus gave him a sidelong glance and caught him doing the same. Perimedes looked away again and as Odysseus’s gaze dropped to the Taphian’s side he saw the sword hanging from his hip. Suddenly he felt the absence of his own weapon, which he had not worn since the first few days of their stay at Circe’s house.
‘Since when have you felt the need to wear your sword here, Perimedes?’
‘It’s these beasts, my lord,’ he said, hooking a thumb at the lions and wolves behind them. He settled his hand over the pommel of his weapon. ‘The others say they were men before Circe turned them, but not me. I don’t trust them, and you shouldn’t either, or one morning we’ll find you torn to shreds on the lawn.’
At that moment the door of the house swung open again, spilling a dull orange glow over the porch. A man staggered across the porch and leaned against one of the pillars, then after a long look at the two men on the lawn dropped to his knees and retched loudly on the grass.
‘Elpenor,’ Perimedes said. ‘The boy’s no good, no good at all.’
‘He can pull an oar, and that’s all I need him for now. Go see to him, Perimedes. Put him to bed and then get some sleep yourself. We’ll soon be glad of all the rest we can get.’
Perimedes lingered a moment, looked once more at the stars, then nodded and strode towards the kneeling figure. Odysseus watched him take Elpenor inside and close the door behind him. After a while, satisfied that there were no more voices coming from the house, Odysseus made his way round the side of the building and entered by a back door.
The passageway was dark but for a single torch at the far end. He followed its light until he found the stairs that led up to Circe’s bedroom. Another torch burned red in a bracket on a wall, casting its light over the two nymphs asleep on a single pile of furs beside the door. Odysseus nudged it open, slipped inside and shut it behind him. The solitary flame of a candle formed a small circle of light that throbbed feebly against the encroaching darkness. It filled the room with the odour of beeswax, through which he could detect the scent of Circe’s perfume. As he entered, she rose from her bed and entered the circle of light. Her breasts were large and firm and the triangle of her pubic hair was black.
‘You were a long time,’ she said, laying an arm across her nipples and a hand between her legs in false modesty.
‘I was thinking.’
‘Of me?’
‘Of home.’
‘Home?’ There was a hint of surprise in her voice. ‘I thought you were happy here.’
‘I know you’ve been drugging our wine, Circe.’
‘I –’
‘That’s why I haven’t drunk a drop for four weeks. And now it seems all I can think about is getting back to Ithaca again.’
She moved towards him.
‘Why? What does Ithaca have that I can’t give you here?’
; ‘You know the answer to that.’
‘And if I don’t want you to go?’ she replied, her voice stern and hard now.
He fell to his knees before her and wrapped his arms about her legs.
‘You made me a promise, Circe, that the moment I was ready to leave you would help me find my way home.’
She struggled against his hold, but he refused to let her go. Fighting back his revulsion, he kissed her thigh – the soft flesh was still warm from her bed – slowly moving his mouth higher, kiss by kiss, until his lips pressed against her pubic hair.
‘Don’t leave, my love,’ she whispered.
‘You invited me to stay for a few days, but a whole year has passed. Circe, I must go home. You promised to help me.’
She placed her hands either side of his head and kissed his hair.
‘I can’t. For your own sake I can’t. You don’t understand –’
‘You swore before all the gods you would tell me the way home. Do you, an immortal yourself, dare to break such a promise?’
She pulled his arms from her legs and knelt down to face him. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and there was a softness in her eyes he had never seen before. Then she kissed him, first on the forehead, then the lips.
‘Son of Laertes, I cannot keep you here against your will. But I cannot tell you the way home. For that you must consult with the prophet Teiresias.’
She said the name with a shudder and turned her eyes away.
‘I only know of one prophet by that name,’ he answered. ‘Teiresias of Thebes, but he died before the Trojan War. Who is this man you speak about? Where do I find him?’
‘He is the one you know of, who died after drinking from the well of Tilphossa. He resides now with the spirits of the dead, though he alone among them retains wisdom and the ability to speak.’
Odysseus heard Circe’s words, but it was as if she was talking to someone else. Then her meaning became clear and he felt the hairs on his arms stand up and his flesh go cold.
‘If he’s dead, how can I speak with him?’
‘I tried to tell you, my love, to warn you that the path home is a dark one. If you insist on returning to Ithaca, you must first go down to the Halls of Hades.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
ELPENOR
Odysseus pushed aside the heavy furs and sat up. The little sleep he had managed had been fitful and disturbing and as he shrugged off the nightmares he recalled the horror that had induced them. The memory of Circe’s words settled on him like a weighted net, constraining and inescapable. If he was to find his way home he must first visit the Underworld. The thought filled him with panic. Now more than ever he wished he had not rebelled against Athena at Troy and thrown away her protection. But he was no Teiresias. He could not have known the dark path he had chosen would lead him to this point. And the oracles had demanded the Palladium be taken from her temple if the war was to be won. The alternative was to have remained encamped on the Trojan plain until death took him, doomed never to see his wife and son again. Perhaps that was his doom, despite the Pythoness’s promise he would return to Ithaca, for how could a man enter Hell with any hope of coming out again?
He looked behind him at the sleeping form of Circe. Last night as he entered her she had begged him to stay on Aeaea, to forget his old life and start a new one with her. It was the easy path. He and his men would have everything they needed. They could settle on the island and make wives of the Trojan slaves. They could create a new Ithaca with Odysseus as king and Circe as queen, living a life of peace and plenty. Let Aeaea be your home and I will make you immortal, she promised as she wrapped herself about him and pulled him deeper into her. And in his confusion, undone by his terror at the thought of the Underworld and his lust for the divine beauty before him, he almost succumbed. But his heart was stubborn. It would not abandon his love for Penelope and the son he had barely known. The paradise of Circe’s island would become a living Hell in which a single day would be more torturous than the eleven years he had spent away from his family. Better to face the realm of the dead than surrender all hope of seeing his family again.
He pushed himself up from the bed and returned to the hall, which was filled with the familiar snores of his men. Finding his own furs, he pulled them over himself and waited until the birds in the trees outside began heralding the approach of the new day. As the air grew lighter a few of the men rose and slipped outside to empty their bladders before returning to the warmth of their beds. He wondered how he would tell them of what lay ahead, and what their reaction might be. To visit the land beyond the ocean’s edge was terrifying enough, even if he was the only one who would descend to the Underworld.
‘Good morning,’ he said as Eperitus stirred and raised his head.
‘Morning, Odysseus. You look terrible. Didn’t you sleep well?’
‘Barely a wink,’ Odysseus replied, yawning. ‘Listen, I think it’s time to resume the journey home. I’m going to speak with Circe, and I want you to be armed and ready when I return.’
‘When are we leaving?’
Odysseus lowered his voice.
‘We set sail today, but not for Ithaca.’
‘Then where?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Wake the men before I return, will you?’
He found Circe in her bedroom, sitting on a golden chair by the window. She wore a cloak around her shoulders, but beneath it she was still naked. The dawn breeze teased her red hair as she gazed out the window at the forest beyond. The eaves were still dark and filled with shadows in the thin morning light.
‘Must you go?’ she asked without looking at him.
‘I must. Do I have to find Teiresias?’
‘If you want to return to Ithaca, yes.’
‘And how do the living find the dead?’
‘At great cost to themselves,’ she answered, meeting his gaze.
‘The spirits of the departed don’t scare me,’ he said.
‘Yes they do. I can see it in your face. And you should be afraid. A ghost cannot kill a man, but when you witness their suffering and understand that the same fate awaits you, it will not leave you unchanged. It will haunt you, Odysseus, until the very day you go down to become one of them. It will make you value every moment of your short, mortal life.’
‘My life only has value if I am with Penelope.’
Circe’s white brow furrowed slightly and she returned to looking out the window.
‘You left early again. Still trying to keep up the pretence you’re not sharing my bed? Well, you’re becoming sloppy: you forgot your cloak.’
She rose from the chair and picked up a square of folded cloth from the bed. She hung it around his shoulders and clasped it together with Penelope’s brooch. Then she crossed the room, removed her own cloak and lifted a dress from her dressing table. The material shone like silver as she slipped it over her head and fastened it about her waist with a golden belt. Finally she fitted a veil in her fiery hair and pulled it down over her face, though the thin material barely hid her beauty.
‘Again I ask you, how do the living find the dead? Where do I find the entrance to Hades?’
‘No pilot can show you the way, neither can you set a course towards it by the sun or any star. Rather you must sail with the north wind behind you, and if you are resolved to visit the dead, then the entrance to the Underworld will find you. And if it hasn’t revealed itself to you by nightfall of the day you set sail, then it never will. One last time: do you insist on going?’
‘I do.’
‘Then I won’t keep you any longer,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I will tell my maids to prepare your breakfast.’
‘You’ll join us, of course?’
‘Don’t pretend you enjoy my company, Odysseus. I know I’ve been nothing more than a convenient sanctuary on your voyage home, someone to use and perhaps be used by. Why else would I need to drug your wine to make you forget your home? So no, g
o eat with your men and think of Penelope. I will fetch the animals you need for the sacrifices I spoke of last night.’
She turned her back on him with all the pride of an immortal and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Her footsteps receded along the corridor and down the stairs, leaving him to his thoughts. Then the silence was broken by a thud. Looking up at the ceiling, he heard more thuds and a scuffing sound. Someone was on the roof.
‘What’s happening?’ Astynome asked.
‘We’re leaving,’ Eperitus answered, kicking a sleeping figure beneath a pile of furs. ‘Wake up, Eurybates. The day’ll be half gone before you show your ugly face.’
‘Go away,’ came the muffled reply.
Eperitus moved to the next bed and gave another figure a shove with the sole of his sandal.
‘Leaving? When?’ Astynome persisted.
She laid a hand on her stomach, a recent habit Eperitus had noticed when she was concerned about something.
‘Do we know the way?’
‘Gods, I hope so. Circe will, I’m sure of it. Get up, Omeros.’
‘Eperitus, there’s something I need to tell you.’
He offered a hand to his squire and pulled him up from the heap of pelts, where he stood and yawned loudly. Eperitus turned to Astynome and caught the particular look in her dark eyes. Whatever she wanted to share, he knew it was important. He reached out and took her fingers in his.
‘Will it wait? Just until I’ve got these laggards out of their beds ready for Odysseus?’
She paused, then gave a nod.
‘I’ll get the women and children up.’
The crew had become lazy and ill-disciplined during their long sojourn on Aeaea, and it took a lot of kicking and shouting to rouse them all. His task was not helped by the appearance of Circe’s nymphs and the housekeeper bringing freshly baked bread and pots of hot porridge for breakfast. Fortunately Odysseus was slow to return, enabling Eperitus to get the men out of their beds and eating. He was just pondering how fit they were for an immediate voyage, when he noticed an empty space beside Omeros.
