by Glyn Iliffe
He ran down the hill towards Eurylochus, who dropped his knife in sudden fear. Odysseus grabbed his shoulder as he attempted to flee and spun him about.
‘We had to do it,’ Eurylochus squealed. ‘We were starving –’
Odysseus silenced him with a single punch.
‘You,’ he said, pointing at one of the men carving the meat. ‘Where’s Eperitus? If only he’d been here –’
‘I am here, my lord.’
The figure by the sacrificial fire tipped back his hood. Odysseus looked at him aghast.
‘But why?’ he asked. ‘Why would you do this, Eperitus? Do you think Hyperion won’t see what you’ve done because Poseidon has covered the island in cloud? Do you think he won’t have heard his cattle crying out to him, or that he won’t seek vengeance on every one of us?’
Eperitus’s expression was hard and impenitent.
‘Astynome is starving.’
‘And now you’ve sealed her fate.’
‘Her fate was sealed anyway. All our fates were sealed the moment you gave your name to the Cyclops and brought his curse down on us. But maybe the gods will taste these sacrifices we’ve offered and change their hearts. Perhaps they’ll realise we’ve suffered enough and let us go home.’
‘What gods are you talking about?’ Odysseus said. ‘The same gods who demanded your daughter’s life to release the fleet at Aulis? The same gods who encouraged Greeks and Trojans to slaughter each other in their thousands? The same gods who’ve just denied you a son? You fool! They’re going to kill us to a man.’
‘Then at least we’ll face them with full stomachs! And I’d rather take my chances with the gods than die of starvation. They’ll listen; I promised to build Hyperion a temple when we return to Ithaca and fill it with offerings –’
‘Not in my kingdom you won’t. I’ll take you back to Greece, but not to Ithaca. I’ll set you down on the first mainland we can find and then you and I will never set eyes on each other again.’
As he spoke, a deep lowing broke out behind him. He looked round, but there were no cattle on the top of the ridge or anywhere else. Suddenly the men called out in alarm, some of them throwing down their knives and skewers of meat and running towards the sea. The panic spread quickly. Odysseus drew his sword, then let it fall from his fingers into the sand. The dead animal on the boulder was moving. Though its blood had coagulated in scarlet tributaries down the sides of the makeshift altar and added to the dark stain on the sand, its mouth was clearly moving as it emitted the guttural sounds it would have made in life. More terrifying still, a deep lowing was also emanating from the carcasses of the other dead animals as they lay abandoned on bloody sheets of canvas, though the heads had been removed and they possessed no lungs with which to produce the sound. If this dreadful omen was not enough, the flayed hides were moving. Odysseus’s flesh turned cold and his primal instincts shrieked at him to turn and flee, but he did not move. He could not. As the pelts crept slowly across the sand, like wounded men crawling from a battle, his legs refused to obey the frantic orders of his mind. One by one, the six hides dragged themselves to the edge of the sacrificial fire and fed themselves to the flames, while all around the air was filled with lowing, as if the camp was surrounded by a thousand invisible cattle.
Despite the sacrifice, the storms did not abate. For a day the carcasses and the meat that had been cut from them lay where they had been left, in the sand or on spits over the ashes of the deserted fires. Though the lowing had faded away quickly, the superstitious Ithacans had been too afraid to touch the remains of the animals they had killed. Only when Eperitus rekindled one of the fires and cooked the meat for Astynome did the rest of the crew forget their fear and answer the need of their hunger.
Astynome barely had the strength left to eat, but she managed to take some of the broth Eperitus had made for her. He finished what she could not. Though his appetite was fading as Astynome faded, he knew he had to keep himself strong for her sake. For two more days she barely spoke. He stayed at her side every moment, holding her hand and silently imploring the gods to spare her life. The Trojan nurse came regularly with drinks she had brewed using what herbs there were on the island, but at the end of each visit Eperitus could see the concern in her eyes. When he asked her what was wrong she pretended not to have enough Greek to answer, but he had enough command of her own language to press for a response.
‘She is dying,’ she said, reluctantly. ‘She should not be: she has food now and she is young – and was strong. But her heart is not in it. I believe she wants to die.’
Omeros, Eurybates and others had appeared from time to time, offering words of false comfort and hoping to help by their presence. Odysseus, too, had visited. At least, Eperitus had woken from an unwanted slumber to hear the curtain move behind him and sense that the king had been there. It had been a visit made out of love for Astynome, for Odysseus’s anger with Eperitus remained too fresh and the two men had not set eyes on each other since the sacrifice of Hyperion’s cattle.
On the second night Eperitus woke to find Polites in the tent. He was standing in a corner, a brown shadow on which the orange light of the small fire barely settled. Another time it was Astynome’s father, Chryses, in his priestly robes. Eperitus had staggered up from his chair and drawn his sword, fearful that he had come to claim his daughter for the gods, but the figure had faded away. On a third occasion he had seen Hermes warming his hands over the flames and smiling at Eperitus. That had been a dream, though, for he woke with a start to find the nurse mopping Astynome’s brow. When Eperitus had asked if she had seen Hermes, she only shook her head, though her look of concern deepened.
On the sixth morning since the sacrifice, Astynome’s eyes opened and she reached out a hand.
‘Where am I?’ she asked, a faint smile touching her lips.
Eperitus slid from the chair to his knees and took her hand in his, touching the cold flesh with his lips.
‘Odysseus’s hut, on Thrinacie.’
‘But that can’t be. I was at the farm feeding the baby. You were outside, digging the stones from that patch of ground you’ve been meaning to plough. I could hear you singing, one of those old songs from the war. How can we be back on Thrinacie?’
Eperitus smiled to hear her voice again and to know that Astynome had been happily dreaming of their future home on Ithaca. Then he remembered their baby. The thought of reminding her that the child was dead stole away his joy.
‘It was a dream, my love. You’ve been ill, but soon we’ll set sail for Ithaca and build that farm for real.’
‘A dream?’ she echoed, disappointed. ‘But what about the baby?’
He squeezed her hand gently.
‘We’ll have lots of babies. How do you feel?’
‘Weak. Cold. But I’m glad you are with me. Have you been here long?’
He laughed and felt his spirits rise.
‘A while. Are you hungry, my love? Someone’s cooking a stew, I can smell it.’
She nodded. ‘I can manage a little.’
He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. Then, with a parting smile, he left the hut in search of the stew. A fine drizzle was falling but he barely noticed. Once he had claimed a bowlful of stew, he sought out the fire where the Trojan slaves were sitting with their cloaks over their heads. Seeing him, the nurse rose at once and raised an eyebrow.
‘She’s awake and she wants something to eat.’
The woman nodded and followed him to the hut. On entering he saw Astynome’s eyes had closed again.
‘I’ve brought the stew,’ he said. ‘If it tastes as good as it smells –’
The nurse brushed past him and knelt at Astynome’s side. There was an urgency in her movements that made him feel suddenly, horribly sick. She placed a hand over Astynome’s brow, then took her wrist in her other hand and pressed her fingertips to the soft skin. Eperitus placed the bowl on a table by the doorway, his fumbling hand spilling some of the contents.
/> ‘What is it?’
The nurse looked at him for a moment, then her gaze dropped to Astynome’s motionless chest. Eperitus knelt down by his wife and pressed his hand to her cheek. It was cold.
‘Astynome. Wake up. Wake up, my love.’
He was not aware of the nurse rising to her feet and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder as she parted. Blinded by his tears, he could barely even see Astynome’s pale face as he kissed her for the last time and sank down beside her.
The next day was the seventh since the sacrifice. The sun crept out of the ocean into clear skies. Eperitus felt it on his skin as he stood amid the long grass of the dunes and heard the jubilant shouts of the Ithacans on the beach below, knowing that with the storm gone they could sail for home. It was a joy he could no longer share. His emotions were exhausted and flat, his hollow heart incapable of either ecstasy or despair. His mind, too, seemed empty of thoughts. There was no future and no past, and to think of the present was torture. For a while it was easier to stand in the daze of grief and simply let his senses slump from one sound to another, from one smell to the next, as if lingering on the distant lowing of Hyperion’s remaining cattle or the smell of wet stone drying in the sun could provide an escape from the void within. But it could not. Eventually he turned his back on the bright morning and returned to the nearby hut.
Astynome’s corpse lay where he had left it. His eyes flickered over her, indulging the faint hope that something might have moved – a slight turn of the head or repositioning of a hand that would indicate life had returned. But she was exactly as she had been. He knelt beside her and stroked her hair, soft with the illusion of life and yet the scalp beneath cold, horribly so because once it had been warm and lovely to touch. His red-rimmed eyes were too dry to shed more tears, but something continued to sink within him as if his heart and lungs and liver were slowly contracting in on themselves. And he felt afraid. More afraid than before any battle he had fought. Afraid that soon he would be parted from her forever; that once he had buried her corpse he would never be able to look on her again, beautiful even in death; that eventually he would forget what she looked like, even as he had forgotten Iphigenia’s face; and that all that would remain would be the aching gap where their love had been. The tears returned at the thought and he bowed his head in submission to them.
After a while he took her body up in his arms and carried her to the hill where he had buried their child. He laid her on the grass beside the small mound and took her cold hand in his. She looked as if she was sleeping, but as he touched her cheek the deception was revealed. Her spirit had gone to Hades, leaving behind all memory of their short time together. He spoke his last farewell and laid the blanket over her pale, lovely face.
When he returned to the camp, his hands rough and bloodied from the stones he had placed over her, he saw the galley already resting in the bay with most of the crew aboard. Odysseus was in the stern, but he turned away as he saw Eperitus coming across the sand. The last few men waited for him in the small boat and then rowed out to the ship. Not caring that every eye was upon him, he sat down on one of the benches and hid his face in his hands. With his eyes closed he could pretend the world around him did not exist, and after a while his mind drifted to thoughts of Astynome. Then someone sat down beside him.
‘I’m sorry, Eperitus,’ Omeros said.
Eperitus nodded.
‘Odysseus is too.’
‘He told you that, did he?’
‘He didn’t have to. On the surface he’s angry – with all of us – but beneath he hurts for Astynome and for your grief.’
‘To Hades with him.’
Omeros sighed. Eurybates shouted for the anchor stones to be hauled in and the oars to be lowered. Eperitus and Omeros were joined by another man and together they slid the long pine blade into the water and began rowing. Before long the galley was out at sea with the wide hump of Thrinacie visible in its entirety behind them. A westerly wind was blowing, and after a discussion with Eurybates, Odysseus called for the oars to be withdrawn and the sail unfurled. It caught the breeze with a snap and soon the ship was moving swiftly at an angle across the direction of the low waves.
‘He won’t carry out his threat,’ Omeros said. ‘To cast you off on the mainland, I mean. He doesn’t know what’s facing him at home so he’ll need his best men at his side when he gets back.’
‘I’m not his man any more, Omeros,’ Eperitus answered. ‘I want nothing more to do with him. And if he tries to keep me around until he gets back to Ithaca then I’ll take a boat to the mainland.’
‘And do what? You need him every bit as much as he needs you, especially now that –’
‘Now that I don’t have Astynome?’
Omeros looked away. ‘Yes. You’ve lost one of the two most important people in your life. If you lose Odysseus, too, the last twenty years of your life will have been for nothing. Can’t you see that?’
‘All I see is that he killed Astynome. Just as he killed Polites and Elpenor, the closest friends you had.’
‘Elpenor was a traitor.’
‘No more than I am for sacrificing those cows for Astynome’s sake. Odysseus decided to stop at Thrinacie instead of sailing on to this other island Circe spoke of, Phaeacia. The woman I love would still be alive if he’d had the will to keep going, rather than letting himself be overruled by his own crew.’
‘Your grief has distorted your judgement,’ Omeros said, laying his hand on his shoulder. ‘Odysseus made the best choices he could, better than any you or I could have made. Without him we would be dead anyway.’
‘No, it’s his presence that has cursed us. When he and I first met, the Pythoness gave us each an oracle. She warned him against ever going to Troy, saying that if he did he would not find his way home for twenty years. Twenty, Omeros, not eleven or twelve or however long it is now since he left Ithaca. And that wasn’t all: she said that if he came back he would be alone and destitute. Whatever happens to him, we’re doomed anyway.’
A change in the wind brought something to his senses that made him look up. Behind the galley to the east a bank of dark cloud had appeared in the otherwise clear skies. It was moving with an unnatural rapidity that made him stiffen. Odysseus was in the helm beside Eurybates and noticed Eperitus sit up and look. He glanced over his shoulder and alerted Eurybates to the approaching danger.
Eperitus rose from the bench and walked to the stern.
‘We need to turn around,’ he said. ‘Thrinacie is just over the horizon; if we turn the ship about now we might make it back in time to save ourselves.’
‘We’re not going back,’ Odysseus replied with a scowl.
‘That cloud is not natural. Look at the speed of it! It’s a storm sent by the gods to destroy us.’
‘Because you slaughtered those cattle against my explicit orders! You brought this on us.’
‘Then I’ll save us,’ Eperitus replied through gritted teeth. ‘Eurybates, turn the ship around.’
The helmsman looked at Odysseus, who shook his head in response. The cloud now slipped across the face of the sun, turning the light grey and the air cool. A squall of rain swept the deck, pursued by a blast of wind that pushed out the sail so hard it strained the forestays. Eperitus pulled Eurybates’s hand away from one of the rudders and took hold of it. Before he could seize the other, Odysseus grabbed him by the chest and shoved him across the deck, where he fell among the Trojan women huddled below the mast.
His melancholy at Astynome’s death now turned to sudden and terrible fury. Tearing his sword from its sheath he charged through the pouring rain at Odysseus. The king drew his weapon and their blades met with a ringing clash. Lightning flashed, followed by a boom of thunder so loud it felt like the sky was being torn in half. Eperitus lunged at Odysseus’s stomach, a blow that would have taken his life. Odysseus parried and returned with a thrust that spelt out his own murderous intentions. The blade glanced off Eperitus’s belt and again the two men th
rew themselves at each other on the plunging deck. Then a new gust of wind snapped the forestays and tore the sail from the cross spar, whipping it up into the angry skies like a rag. A loud crack followed. Odysseus looked up, then threw himself at Eperitus’s waist, knocking him to the deck just as the broken mast fell lengthways across the galley. It landed on Eurybates, crushing his skull and sending him toppling overboard into the churning sea. Women screamed and men shouted in terror. Eperitus rolled aside and tried to stand, but the deck dropped suddenly beneath his feet and he was thrown against the bow rail. Steadying himself, he looked for Odysseus but could distinguish nothing through the driving rain. A man’s body lay on the deck before him. Wiping the water from his eyes, Eperitus saw that it was Omeros. His forehead was gleaming with blood and his eyes were closed, so that Eperitus could not tell whether he was alive or dead. Then the sea fell away beneath the galley and he was pitched headfirst across the deck. His hand found a bench and seized hold of it with what strength he could muster, but all around him he heard screams as others toppled overboard into the hungry sea.
Zeus’s anger was approaching its zenith. The skies erupted with a second deafening boom and a flash of intense light. A loud, splintering crack followed and the air was filled with the stench of sulphur. Eperitus felt the ship that had carried them through so many ordeals give a last groan, then disintegrate beneath him. The deck split into two and sank rapidly into the tumultuous sea. Everything went dark as he plunged into the water, sinking deeper and deeper amid the black, falling shapes of broken oars, benches and other bodies. His senses were muffled and confused, alive only to the coldness of the water as the heat and immediacy of life was sucked from him. He considered surrendering to the quick death that was but a few heartbeats away. There would be the brief panic of drowning as his body died, then his soul would go to join Astynome. But he knew that would never be. As soon as he had drunk the waters of the River Lethe he would no longer love her, just as she would no longer love him; two more strangers in a kingdom where the only emotion was regret.
