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

by Glyn Iliffe

  ‘In the name of Athena,’ he called out behind him, his voice shaking, ‘flay and burn those damned animals and pray to Hades and Persephone for protection.’

  The black ewe was dragged away by Eperitus and he heard the slither of a dagger being drawn. Risking a glance behind him he saw his comrades’ blood-drained faces as they skinned and dismembered the two animals. But in that moment of inattention one of the wraiths rushed forward and grasped his sword, running its vaporous tongue along the blade. Immediately it threw its head back and seemed to draw breath, while the faintest flush of colour seeped into its ghostly outline. Odysseus recognised him at once.

  ‘Elpenor? How can you be here before us?’

  Because my guide was Hermes and my soul is no longer weighed down by the flesh, though I yearn to wear my earthly form again.

  Odysseus felt he heard Elpenor’s voice in his head rather than with his ears. Traitor though he was, the king looked at the spectre before him and felt pity. That same morning the man had tried to murder him, and yet there was no joy in Odysseus’s heart to see what he had become. It was punishment enough that he existed now only as a vapid image of his former self, perfectly recreated but without the ability to connect with the physical world. Even his blank eyes were fixed on a point slightly above Odysseus’s head, like the empty gaze of a blind man. Perhaps in this place it was a blessing.

  Why did you not give me my burial rites, my lord? he said. Are you so devoid of mercy that you could not burn my remains and raise a mound for me?

  Odysseus turned and saw Omeros standing and staring at the ghost of his friend. The fleece of the black ewe hung limply from one hand, a bloodied dagger from the other.

  Does he know how I died, Odysseus?

  ‘Be silent, phantom. You suffered a fool’s death, but now I see you I feel compassion for you. If I ever leave this place and return to Circe’s island, I will do as you ask.’

  Swear it! Swear it by the names of your wife, your son and your father. Swear it by the great men who died at Troy, whose spirits I feel pressing behind me. Swear you will leave me a barrow on the shores of Aeaea and plant my oar in its fresh earth. Don’t let my memory perish from the world of men, even if I only serve to act as a warning to others not to sacrifice life’s riches for the sake of poor ambition. Swear it or bring the curse of the gods down upon yourself.

  ‘I swear it!’

  Elpenor’s ghost lowered its head and faded away to smoke. As the vapour cleared, Odysseus recognised another phantom among the crowd of dead. Beneath its hood was the face of an old woman, lined by grief and with a black toothless hole for a mouth. At the sight of her, Odysseus’s eyes widened and he let out a groan.

  ‘Mother,’ he whispered. His vision was blurred with tears, but he knelt before her and bowed his head. ‘Anticleia, great daughter of Autolycus, what terrible fate has brought you here when you should be among the living on Ithaca?’

  The phantom hung before him, silent and loathsome, a ghastly parody of the woman who had brought him into the world and nurtured him.

  ‘Then if you won’t speak about yourself, tell me about Laertes, and your grandson Telemachus? Are they alive? Is the kingdom still mine, or has it been taken by force? And what of my beloved Penelope? Why won’t you speak to me?’

  She can’t, Odysseus heard a voice saying in his head. Not unless you let her drink the blood.

  He looked aside and saw the spectre of an old man leaning on a golden staff. His eyes were not white orbs like the other spirits, but stared with black pupils directly at Odysseus. Anticleia’s ghost bowed before him, then drifted to one side so that the old man could move slowly forward.

  ‘Then why can I hear you?’ Odysseus asked.

  ‘Because Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, has cursed me with the singular luxury of retaining my faculties. In all her wide realm – the greatest of all the kingdoms – there are but four souls that have use of their senses. And before you arrived, there was just me.’

  ‘Teiresias.’

  ‘That was my name, here by the misfortune of death. But what of you? What ill fate brings a man of flesh and blood to shun the warmth and light of the sun and seek out the shades of the dead?’

  ‘I came here to find answers. Answers that only you can give.’

  ‘Then I must taste blood. Withdraw your sword and let me drink.’

  Odysseus raised the point of his weapon and stepped back. Teiresias fell forward onto his knees and lapped at the blood like a dog. His grey outline – much fainter than Elpenor’s had been – sharpened and took on a momentary flicker of substance. Then, when he was satisfied, he sat back and raised his head, breathing deeply and savouring the taste of the blood.

  ‘That was good,’ he sighed. ‘When I was alive every artery and vein in my body ran with life and I barely noticed it. I was too busy worrying about life to spend any time living it! You’ll know what I mean one day, Odysseus, son of Laertes. Or perhaps you already do. War, it seems, does not attract you with its hollow glory, nor fame and riches. Instead you seek the way home, to rugged Ithaca that you love so much. And to the humble palace where your wife and son await you. Your heart lies with them. Though you have forgotten Penelope’s embrace and have not seen Telemachus since he was a babe in arms, they have left an imprint on you that time and pain and even the will of the gods cannot wipe away. That makes you greater than all the gory heroes of Tartarus, Odysseus. Their bleeding wounds stand as tokens of their foolishness for all eternity; their acts of bravery ring out from empty poems that entice hot-blooded young men to follow in their wake. But you don’t relish the laurels that only the dead can wear. Rather you have the wisdom to seek love and savour it. You are a true hero, my lord.’

  Odysseus did not feel worthy of the old seer’s praise. Here his heart was not filled with love, only black despair that stole the desires of his heart and left him empty. Who was Penelope, after all? Who was Teiresias? What did it matter if he clawed his way back to Ithaca or not? It would be easier to lie down on the black grass and wait for his physical body to expire so that his spirit could wander down to the banks of the River Lethe and drink forgetfulness. And yet Teiresias was right. Though he could not recall Penelope’s face or hear her voice, though he could not even remember the colour of her hair, there was barely a moment that he was not conscious of her absence or in which he did not yearn for her. Even in this place of utter hopelessness he was aware of his need for her.

  ‘The way back is not easy, Odysseus. You blinded Polyphemus, Poseidon’s son, and in your pride you gave him your name when you could have remained a mere Nobody. Now Poseidon is determined to avenge what you did to his son. He will not harm you himself, because Athena has made him swear not to raise a finger against you. So he will command the seas to imprison you on the island of Thrinacie, where Hyperion keeps his beloved cattle. There you and your crew will be tested by hunger. But be warned: the flesh of the sun god’s herds is not to be eaten. They roam the land from shore to shore, fattening themselves on the lush grass and afraid of nothing, for not even the most foolish of sailors would dare to kill them. Control your greed and you will return home safely, all of you. But if you fail – as Poseidon hopes you will – the gods will punish your sacrilege. Should you survive their wrath, Odysseus, your journey home will be prolonged by many years. When you do return it will be as a beggar in your own palace, where you will witness other men paying court to your wife with rich gifts while you yourself will become an item of mockery.’

  ‘Then I will die a pauper, within sight of Penelope but only close enough to watch her give herself to another?’

  Teiresias shook his head.

  ‘I can speak about your death, if you have the courage to hear it.’ He paused and looked at Eperitus and Omeros, who had flayed the sheep and were listening to the conversation. ‘But I will speak only to you.’

  Odysseus nodded and in his head he heard Teiresias speak of how he would die.

  ‘Everything I
have told you depends on the choices you make on Thrinacie.’

  ‘But how do I reach the island of the sun god? And how do I find Ithaca from there?’

  Teiresias smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I do not have the sight for these things,’ he said. ‘But there is one who does know.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Odysseus pleaded. ‘If he is one of the dead, send him here to speak to me.’

  ‘Can’t you guess who she is, my lord? She is the very one who sent you here.’

  ‘Circe? But why send me here if she knew the way all along?’

  ‘To test your resolve,’ Eperitus answered.

  ‘Your friend is right,’ Teiresias said as his outline began to fade. ‘She wanted to know whether you loved Penelope enough to come here. When you return she will have her answer and she will let you go. You have at least earned your freedom from her, something you would not have gained otherwise.

  ‘Now I must return to my own misery. Thank you for making my existence a little more tolerable, Odysseus. If you wish to speak with the other spirits in this place, all you have to do is let them drink the blood.’

  Teiresias faded away as Elpenor had done, and as he disappeared the other spirits pushed forward towards the trench, only to be driven back by a sweep of Odysseus’s blade.

  ‘Mother,’ he said, turning to the ghost of Anticleia. ‘Come forward and drink.’

  She drifted forward and lay across the trench, lowering her face to the blood. Again, the spectral vision became clearer, its features more focussed and its pallor less grim. The white orbs blinked and vaporous arms reached out towards Odysseus.

  My child? Oh my sweet child, why have you come here? Go back! Go back to the upper realms and savour what life remains to you.

  Odysseus wiped the tears from his cheeks and reached for her outstretched arms, feeling nothing but icy vapour between his fingertips. But as his hands passed through hers she pulled away in shock, then raised her palms to her cheeks. He saw she was smiling.

  It is good to be mourned, she said. I feel your tears, my son, and they are like balm to me.

  ‘Then I will stay here and comfort you with my grief.’

  No. It is no comfort to me that you have descended to Hades’s Halls. It is with good reason the gods have made this place difficult for mortals to find. Why then are you here, instead of making your way to Ithaca, where Penelope awaits you with an aching heart?

  ‘Then she hasn’t given herself to another?’ he asked, the sudden flash of joy he felt quickly stifled by the bitter memory of his own unfaithfulness. ‘I would not be in this terrible place were it not for the desire to be with her again. Ever since Troy fell I have been a luckless wanderer, rejected and cursed by the gods and now led here to learn the way home from Teiresias. But now you must tell me how you… how it was you died. Is Father with you? And what about Telemachus? He must be a lad now. Is he strong? Is he bright? Will he grow up to inherit my throne, or has Eupeithes claimed the kingdom for his own son already? And tell me about my wife. If you have nothing else good to say, at least soothe my anguish and tell me she is happy.’

  How can she be happy when you are absent? But you need not worry for her. She is strong and patient, and her wits were still a match for Eupeithes when I departed. Your kingdom is safe for now, but only if you hurry home. And hurry you must, my dear Odysseus. Each day Telemachus grows bigger and more handsome, with the heart of a lion and the wits of a fox. But the support he has from the people sleeps, and while they slumber Eupeithes’s shadow creeps ever closer to the throne. Telemachus and Penelope alone will not be able to withstand his schemes for much longer. Neither can they look to your father. Laertes has retreated to his farm where he skulks like a beggar, dressed in rags and sleeping in drifts of leaves or in the ashes of a fire for warmth. His grief has robbed him of his senses, just as grief took my life. No arrow of Artemis slew me, Odysseus; I died of a heart that broke yearning for your return.

  Odysseus’s own grief welled up at her words. He stepped over the trench to fling his arms about her, but her flesh had long since perished in the fire. What remained slipped through his arms like smoke and fled wailing into the multitude of souls behind her.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  THE SPIRITS OF THE FALLEN

  Eperitus’s relief at escaping the confines of the tunnel was short-lived. Immediately the whispering voices of the dead assailed his hearing, and at the edges of his vision he could see them in the mist, human shapes that writhed in the agony of their suffering. By comparison the tunnel seemed a place of sanctuary, a lifeline back to the physical world. Only his sense of duty to Odysseus kept him there.

  He watched Odysseus collapse in tears on the grass as the ghost of his mother faded away. The spirits of many noble women had gathered in her wake and now surged towards the unguarded blood. Eperitus leapt forward with the point of his dagger and they fell back with a shriek, as if swept away by a gust of wind. Only one remained, a child in bloodstained sacrificial robes. The dagger fell from Eperitus’s grip and he staggered backwards.

  It was Iphigenia.

  Again the dead rushed forward. Royal women who had never lifted a hand to serve themselves now clawed at each other’s ethereal faces and arms in their desperation to taste the blood and feel their empty veins run with the memory of life once more. Only when Odysseus returned to his senses and drove them back with his sword did they stop, though those that had already slaked their thirst he permitted to remain and talk with him. But Eperitus was only vaguely aware of their whispers. For a long time all he was able to do was stand and stare at his daughter. He remembered how full of life she had been when they had first met in Mycenae. Now her white feet made no impression in the black grass, and her marbled eyes, which had once stared at him with love, now looked straight through him. As he watched, the dark stain on her robes where Agamemnon’s blade had torn the life from her seemed to spread, as if the fatal wound had been struck only moments before. It was almost too much. His limbs shook so fiercely that he was barely able to stand, and though he wanted to turn to Odysseus and tell him to let her drink, he was afraid to. He was afraid that by taking his eyes from her she might disappear. He was more afraid that by giving her voice she might blame him for failing to save her, words that would crush what spirit remained to him in this place. So he stood and let the tears run in unending streams down his cheeks and into his beard. Then the rustle of empty, breathless voices beside him faded and the ghosts of the women who had spoken with Odysseus withdrew. Sensing Iphigenia would soon follow, Eperitus stepped forward and opened his arms to her. Only then did he see the tears in her eyes, empty though they were. At this evidence of her pain he fell to his knees and sobbed openly.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he pleaded.

  She came to him with open arms. He saw the word ‘Father’ forming on her silent lips, but as he staggered to his feet and reached out to embrace her, she halted and glanced away to her left. Fear marred the features of her beautiful face, and then, like autumn leaves swept up by the wind, she turned and fled. Eperitus threw himself forward, as if his living arms could snatch up her spectral body and keep her there, but she was gone. He buried his face in the dead grass and beat the ground with his fist.

  The agony of losing her again might have kept him there, but as black misery threatened to descend on him he heard a sound like the approach of a wave. The clamour grew and he recognised it at once: the shouts of men and the groans of the injured – the terrible cacophony of battle. Instinctively he raised his head and reached for the sword at his hip. A great crowd of warriors now pressed forward, struggling against each other like fish in a net. But as he watched he saw they were not fighting one another. Instead, each man seemed engaged in individual combat against an invisible enemy, all of them oblivious to the life-stealing wounds already imprinted on their wraithlike bodies. They hacked at the air with their weapons and screamed war cries as if they were still fighting for their lives, though they we
re already dead. They looked like an angry mob demanding the return of the lives they had thrown away. And as he watched he realised he could so easily have been one of them, protesting the theft of the only life he had to give. He saw then the real price of the glory he had sought for so much of his life; and he knew it would not have been worth it.

  Odysseus lowered his sword and called to a man from a part of the crowd where there seemed to be no fighting. In answer to Odysseus’s summons he detached himself from his comrades and walked naked across the grass. Water dripped from his muscular body onto the ground below. His face, head and shoulders had been cleaved in several places by a heavy blade and rivulets of blood ran down from the wounds to mingle with the water. The injuries were so terrible that for a moment Eperitus did not recognise him. When he did, he understood why his daughter’s ghost had fled.

  Agamemnon knelt and dipped his fingers in the blood. Raising them to his lips, he looked up and beheld his old ally standing before him. His empty expression changed and he tried to throw his arms around Odysseus, but his limbs passed through him. Reminded of his bodiless state, the king of Mycenae let out a mournful groan that silenced the clamour behind him.

  Odysseus, great Laertes’s son, do not look at me as if I shouldn’t be here, he began. This is my home now. Once I was the greatest of all the kings in the world of the living, but here among the dead I am poorer than the least of the beggars who sit before the mighty gates of Mycenae. If all my wealth and power could not keep me from this destiny, what use was any of it? I tell you now, Odysseus, I would not have sailed to Troy for all the oaths of men if I had known the real price of sacrificing my daughter to the gods. Only now do I see my folly.

  ‘But what tragedy has brought you here, my friend?’ Odysseus asked. ‘You led us to victory over the Trojans and should have lived to enjoy the spoils, and yet your spirit is here among the dead. What was it? A shipwreck? We saw Little Ajax’s corpse on our voyage, floating among the wreckage of his galley, and now I see your body streaming with water. What did you do to anger Poseidon so much?’