The Eighth Arrow

by J. Augustine Wetta

  When I was in my eleventh year, long before I had won the right to armor of my own, I had the audacity to don another man’s helmet. It was the eve of a great battle, and my father had brought together warlords from across Ithaca, Taphos, Zacynthus, and Las. I was young, not yet with a beard on my chin, but my father wanted me to see war and had apprenticed me to one of his armor bearers. He wanted me to know these men before they died, so he invited me into the great hall of our palace, where they sat feasting in a circle around a blazing fire.

  The air was rich with smoke and song, the mood jubilant and dark. At the far end of the hall was a cedar throne sheathed in silver; and upon that throne, in a scarlet cloak sat my father, the king among kings, Laertes. He was deep in conversation with a fawning graybeard, and as he spoke, he opened his left hand. Instantly, a servant girl appeared with a cup of wine. He drained the cup, never taking his eyes from the old man, then held the cup out again, and the servant reappeared with a jug.

  I looked around the room. The other lords filled their own cups. This made me smile, for just yesterday, I had been planting trees with my father. I’d seen that hand—that hand that held the golden cup—packing dirt around a sapling. I looked at my own small, soft hands. The same dirt was under my nails. My heart stretched a little, and I thought, “Someday I will sit on that throne.”

  But my father didn’t seem to notice me as I wandered the hall, and the men talked past me as though I were of no more consequence than a slave. I knew better than to speak in their presence, so I withdrew to the shadows, catching splinters of conversation.

  “. . . but the spear went in between his eyes, broke his teeth, and cut off his tongue at the root . . .”

  “. . . dog-face. Looked him right in the eye and called him dog-face . . .”

  “. . . why, then you’ll know for sure which are your captains and which are common cowards. They each fight according to their class . . .”

  The men feasted long into the night, passing around great jars of unmixed wine. I was only a boy. I grew restless and wandered into the vestibule, where suits of armor lay glimmering in the cold candlelight. I had never seen so much bronze in one place: broad shields painted with griffins and crows; long pikes and short, sharp swords wrapped in waxed leather; sparkling corselets and greaves. But most striking of all were the great plumed helmets. Their hollow eyes followed me as I circled the room, brushing my fingertips across the cool metal and thinking, “Men have killed for these suits—died in them and given death to others, each piece earned in blood.”

  Completing the circle, I found myself face-to-face with a magnificent helm, inlaid with blue enamel and crowned with a jet-black horsehair crest. I cast a furtive glance over my shoulder, then picked it up in my hands. (O Zeo, it was heavy!) I heaved it over my head and closed my eyes. Was this how it felt to arm for battle? When I turned my head, the horsehair whipped my shoulders, and I caught sight of my reflection in a bronze shield that leaned against the wall. Could that be me? I wondered. I leaned closer. The man in the shield was impossibly tall. He was ferocious, serene, strong, inscrutable. He regarded me with contempt, and I realized with a shudder of joy that this was my vocation, my future that I was seeing in the surface of the shield. I was the son of a king—a king to be. If the men in the hall could see me now, they’d know it.

  I hardly considered what I was doing. I pushed out of the antechamber and into the glow of the banquet. And slowly the room went silent. One by one, the men turned to look at me. I folded my arms. I could feel the noble weight of the bronze pass down my neck, through my spine, and into the stones beneath me. In my mind, a silver-tongued herald proclaimed, “Behold the man. Behold your future king.” But the voice went a little hoarse as I contemplated the faces before me. Most had turned their attention to Eupeithes, who sat with his back to me, hunched over a leg of mutton. By now, the hiss of the fire and his grunting were the only sounds in the room.

  The old man lifted his head and belched, then looked over his shoulder. Eupeithes was old then, and older still when I sailed to Troy. He had a scar that ran straight down the center of his face. The young folk called him Amphiprosopos—double face—and his advice was widely sought, for it was said that, in consolation for the wound, the gods had blessed him with two perspectives on everything. I was reminded of this as I watched his features slowly shift. His left eye grew wide with rage and his right narrow with hatred.

  Eupeithes belched again, spit a great glob of meat on the floor, and drained his cup. Then he reached over and pulled the helmet from my head. “Boy,” he said, leaning over so that his fuming breath moistened my face, “you may use my daughters. You may use my slaves. But if you ever again use my armor, I will run you through like a goat on a spit.” Then he struck me hard on the cheek.

  He grinned at the others with the right side of his face, and there was some quiet laughter around the hall. I felt tears rising, and a weight of shame settled into my gut. My hands began to shake. I was the son of a king. Could he talk to me like this? I looked to my father, but his face was a frozen mask. My eyes sunk to the floor. I felt as though my honor were seeping out through the soles of my feet. I could not fight this man. I would not run from him. What recourse had I, a boy, in the face of such cruel strength?

  And then it came to me, like light through a cloud. I lifted my chin, and raising my voice, I cried out, “Hear me, Son of Anthuos. I dreamt a dream last night, and in that dream, Athena Parthenos, goddess of the glowing smile, appeared to me. She told me that you shall die a wretched death, bereft of honor. You shall depart this life surrounded by foes, your wife a sonless widow, and your kingdom delivered into the hands of a greater man.”

  I looked around the room again, and every mouth was a mute O.

  “Eupeithes, Son of Anthuos,” I cried. “Hear me well. The warrior that shall send your soul wailing to the House of Death stands before you now.”

  The old man’s half grin melted away, and this time when he hit me, the strength of the blow sent me to the floor. Forcing a laugh, he shouted to my father, “That son of yours speaks prettily, but teach him to tame his tongue, or I shall remove it by force.”

  There was more nervous laughter from the guests as I picked myself up and walked from the room, resisting the urge to touch the welt on my cheek. I was shaken and furious, but I walked with newfound dignity, for in that silent moment between my words and the crack of his fist on my brow, I saw a thing that brought me joy: the old man’s eyes held rage and scorn, but they held another sentiment that was new to them—fear. This great warrior, for all his power and wealth, was frightened by a child. My prophecy was a lie. But it was a mighty lie—a lie to make kings tremble.

  The next morning, Father did not come for me. He left for the battle, fought it, and returned with slaves and gold; but he never mentioned that night, and I never asked him what it meant because I knew he would not answer. That night, I had discovered my birthright—a legacy of my grandfather, the great thief of Achaea. I had discovered the art of the lie.

  Later, I went into our garden and tore up the sapling I’d planted with my father. I burned it to ash and threw its ashes in the hole where the roots had been. Then I swore my vengeance, casting my curse into the dirt so that the worms would carry it to Hades. I swore vengeance on Eupeithes. I swore vengeance on all those kings and their sons. I would never trust them. Never again would I stand vulnerable before friend or foe. Thenceforth I was Scheming Odysseus. Wily Odysseus. Lying Odysseus. The Man of Many Faces. I was above their law.

  “Wily Odysseus,” I said aloud as I took the shining armor in my hands, set the breastplate across my chest, then hung the sword and scabbard on my hip. I was reaching for my helmet when Diomedes kicked me. He was already fully suited—a tower of bronze. His eyes flashed from the dark hollows of his helm. “Look where we are.”

  “What’s the rush? We haven’t gone anywhere in—Oh!” I dropped my helmet and stood up. The flames of our prison had vanished. As the sm
oke cleared, it revealed a vast, empty plain—desolate, dismal, and hopelessly, endlessly gray. A soaring wall of stone towered on our right. An iron door was set in its face about a stone’s throw away. “Aiki! How did we get here?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I was busy with my armor.”

  “So was I, and that’s a poor start.”

  “Where are we?”

  “The goddess said she’d start us off next to a door in the first ring of Hades, right? Well, then, let’s see . . . there are nine levels in the Underworld, we know that much. You and I were near the bottom ring among the liars, so now we must be at the top with the cowards.”

  Diomedes surveyed the landscape. “I don’t see anyone at all.”

  Miles of fine, gray sand stretched off into the distance, punctuated only by piles of cinder and charred stone. It didn’t look much like a ring, but this was surely the door. I had a closer look. No handle, no hinges; it was smooth as a polished shield and tightly shut, but a soft blue light emanated from beneath. I bent down and peeked under the door. Surely that was grass. How long had it been since I’d walked on grass? A breath of night air touched my cheek. I smelled something cool and metallic like rain. I looked over my shoulder at the bleak landscape, then turned to the door and gave it a shove.

  “Athena said we shouldn’t open it.” Diomedes looked over his shoulder, waiting for an angry god to appear. He knew from experience not to trust my whims. At Troy, a saying had circulated among the Achaean troops: Wily Odysseus gets us in trouble; brave Diomedes fights us out.

  “To the crows with Athena!” I snapped, straining at the door. Suddenly all I could think of was grass and trees and cool night air. “That wasn’t Athena anyway. She admitted as much. And even if that were Athena, I can’t say she has done so well by us over the past several thousand years.”

  Diomedes pressed his thumb to his lips and stared at the ground. “She’s a god. She makes the rules.”

  By now I had wedged my sword between the door and its frame, and although it hadn’t moved a hair’s breadth, my sword was well and truly stuck. I growled and kicked it. “You do what you like, Diomedes. I think our odds are better on the outside than in here.”

  “But Athena—”

  “Athena isn’t more trustworthy than any of the other gods; and after three thousand years of ceaseless torment, yes, I have misgivings about all of them.”

  Diomedes looked at the door and chewed his thumb. It wasn’t so much what I was suggesting that bothered him as it was the impiety of suggesting it. The Greeks are a devout race, and our mythology is largely built on stories of what happens to folk when they ignore the deities.

  “We’re a game to the gods,” I continued, “nothing more. Otherwise, why would they make things so difficult for us?”

  Diomedes withdrew his thumb from his mouth and replaced it with his helmet strap. He ground the strap between his teeth, frowning.

  “Think about it. We must have been fairly close to that lower door she mentioned. So why bring us all the way up here to the entrance if we were so close to the exit already?”

  “For our own good?”

  “Right. Right. That’s exactly what my grandfather said whenever he beat me.”

  “And wasn’t it?”

  “I might have thought so if he hadn’t taken such obvious pleasure in the beatings.”

  Diomedes closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Look, if it will make you feel better, why don’t we offer a quick prayer of gratitude: Dearest Virgin Goddess, we thank you for getting us out of that fire. You might have showed up a few thousand years sooner, but who’s complaining?” I went back to work on the door.

  Diomedes was silent a while longer while I strained at my sword. Then he drew a deep breath. On the rare occasions when he contradicted me, it always began with a deep breath. “Odysseus,” he said, “I followed you around the world and back. In all that time, I never doubted your judgment.”

  I nodded.

  “Look where it got us.”

  He had a point. But if the Parthenos was right about the travails ahead, I was in no rush to begin. I might have felt differently had I known what was coming.

  CHAPTER 3

  OUR FIRST BATTLE

  WE STOOD for a long time, facing one another in silence, our hearts torn between pride and fear. Diomedes was a leader of men, but not clever. Not like me. When I got an idea, he followed. And yet our history together had not been entirely edifying. Together, we had breached the gates of Troy in my wooden horse; we had captured Dolon, the infamous spy; we had beguiled the great beauty Iphigenia; and we had stolen the Palladium from under the noses of its temple priests. We had done legendary deeds together, but they had all been my ideas; and all of them—every last one—had been deeply, tragically wicked. Sure, we had pulled the information we needed out of that spy; we made off with the Palladium—and won the war as a result; we breached the Trojan walls without losing a single man.

  And the death of Iphigenia? That one always did bother me, and more so than the others. I can still see her in that wedding dress, blushing with all the enthusiasm of a young bride. It was my idea to tell her she was getting married. She was so eager, we had to run to keep up with her. Well, it was a necessary evil. The wind wouldn’t blow unless her blood was spilled. So the seer told us. She had to be sacrificed. A necessary evil—or so I told Diomedes. Ah, but the cost of it. To my dying day, I could not forget her face, pale and blue under that white veil.

  So my name lived on in legend, and I was remembered as a master of lies. Even my closest friends regarded me with suspicion. In all my long life, only one person ever really had faith in me: my wife, though I never understood why. Penelope herself was utterly trustworthy. I used to wonder if perhaps she was such a loyal soul that she simply could not recognize infidelity when she saw it. I believe that is why, even as I lay in the arms of the immortal Circe, I could not forget her.

  But I digress. The decision that lay before Diomedes had little to do with my trustworthiness. The question was whether or not he would throw in his lot with me this one last time. And it couldn’t have been an easy decision. At some point during the tedious years of our mutual torment, it must have occurred to him that my ideas had never been all that good—that we had paid for our fame with our souls.

  As I watched him, Diomedes frowned again, then sighed and shook his head. “I guess you would know better than I.” He trudged over and gave my sword a reluctant push; I pulled at it from the other side, and we worked in this way until it became clear to us both that the door would never move.

  “So we leave now?” asked Diomedes.

  “Now I gather the rest of my gear and we do as the goddess told us.”

  “Good.” For the first time in three thousand years, I saw him smile.

  I strolled back over to my gear and picked up the leather purse. I tugged on its strings.

  “Odysseus!” Diomedes grabbed at it. There was a note of real fear in his voice.

  “Yes?” I said, holding the purse away from him.

  “Are you sure you want to open that bag?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “You remember the bag of winds?”

  “I do.”

  “So you remember how that ended.”

  “Iolos told me not to open that bag.”

  “And Athena told you not to open the door!”

  “Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?”

  Diomedes grit his teeth and cursed through them. He balled his fists and shook his head. I knew from experience that once he locked his jaw like that, it was time to back down. Plus, there was a symbol stamped into the leather—a pelican—which could, I thought, mean wind.

  “I see your point,” I said. “I’ll open it later.” I tied the bag to my belt. “I’ll have a look at the arrows instead.” I emptied the quiver at my feet. “Can you believe this? She gave me only seven. How long do you think these will last?” />
  Diomedes sank to the ground and put his head between his knees.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” I said. “No one’s waiting for us.”

  “The sooner we begin, the sooner we get out of here.”

  “I need to know my tools.”

  “You and your curiosity. I tell you, one of these days . . .” He went on about how I never took anything seriously, and how at this rate we’d never even make it to the next ring of Hades, and why couldn’t I just focus on one thing at a time, and how come I never listened to anything he said, and so on and so forth. I don’t remember it all. I wasn’t really listening. This was pretty much the way we started anything—he anxious to begin, I waiting for something more interesting to come along.

  While he droned on, I sorted the arrows by size and began examining them in detail, beginning with the smallest. The first was thin and razor sharp and seemed to be made of ivory, though it weighed heavy in the hand. The next two were of identical workmanship, one painted green, the other red. I’d never seen mere arrows constructed with such care. And their fletching had been dyed to match.

  “Diomedes,” I said, “your eyes are better than mine. Have a look at this.”

  I handed him the red arrow.

  After some more grumbling and eye rolling, his curiosity got the better of him. “Pretty,” he said.

  “Odd, though, don’t you think? If you’re just going to shoot it at someone . . .”

  Diomedes tested the point with his thumb. “Maybe you’re not supposed to shoot it.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “Ceremonial?”

  I snorted. “Isn’t that just like the gods? Give us a job we don’t understand, take us to a door we can’t open, hand us a bag without telling us what’s in it, and equip us with a quiver full of arrows we can’t use.” I groaned and shook a fist at the heavens, then looked to Diomedes for a reaction.