Take me and my lies, for example.
Ever since that night in my father’s hall, I had lived on the fruit of lies. Savored them. Treasured, polished, and cultivated them. They had been more useful to me than my weapons and more comfort to me than my friends. Sure, truth had a certain power of its own, but a good lie gave the truth a particular shape and direction, stored it away in a hidden seam to be used later like a knife in a cloak. No, lies were more to me than the means to an end. I was an artisan of lies. I was famous for them.
Surely you’ve heard of my adventure with the Cyclops. Now there was a piece of masterful lying. The situation could not have been direr. I had already lost several of my men, we were trapped in a cave with a giant one-eyed cannibal, and I was armed with nothing but a jug of wine. Yet I knew from the moment that poor brute opened his mouth that I was going to get the better of him. Why? Because his lies were bad. “Where’s your ship?” he asked, not even removing his finger from his nose to speak. “I’m just curious. I want to be sure to welcome you good and proper.”
Anyone could see that his true intent was to murder us and steal our ship, and I knew straightaway that if he thought that was a good lie, he’d believe just about anything I told him. So when he asked for my name, I said, “Nobody is my name, and I come from the land of Nowhereopolis.” We were as good as free from that moment on. Once we had him drunk, we gouged out his eye, and when his friends came to help him, the only thing he could think to say was, “Nobody is hurting me!”
It almost makes me chuckle to remember it. But only almost, because now that I’ve lived with my lies for so long, I’ve begun to look back at that lumbering brute and wonder what life must have been like for him after we left. All his miserable days, he’d lived more or less alone, milking his goats and churning cheese. He’d never really hurt anyone until we showed up, and who could blame him for being sore when he caught us in his home stealing livestock?
Nobody. Another powerful lie. A lie to save men’s lives, but a lie nonetheless. An emptiness. The absence of something true. And I was beginning to wonder if all those lies had been worth the price of Hell.
I had plenty of time to wonder about all sorts of things as we trudged across that vacuous wilderness of soot and stone. I wondered about my wife and I wondered about my son and I wondered about all those times I had betrayed them both. But in spite of everything, my thoughts kept returning to Diomedes, whose shield knocked rhythmically against his back as he marched ahead of me. Ours had always been an uneasy friendship. He never quite trusted me, and I never quite took him as seriously as he deserved. Yet we were truly friends, I think. We both had risked our lives for each other on countless occasions. And we were always teaming up for one wild adventure or another.
What was it, I wondered, that kept bringing us together? Diomedes was the living embodiment of everything I lacked, the model of a Greek warrior: honest, pious, respectful, and reserved . . . as dependable in a fight as a good strong spear. In a land populated entirely by short, swarthy men, he was six spans tall and honey blond. No one could figure that out. Neither of his parents had light hair. He had been blond from childhood, or we might have accused him of dyeing it. A rumor got around that Helios had seduced his mother. I think even he believed it.
And as if he were short on blessings, the gods also made him skilled at everything that counted. He could box, run, ride, and throw better than any man save Achilles himself. His swordsmanship was unparalleled, and although he wasn’t much good with a bow (a coward’s weapon by Achaean standards), he could pick birds off a wall with his spear. He was the kind of child who was always chosen first in games, the kind of adolescent who was always leading a gang of rowdy boys, the kind of man who was always given the first seat at a banquet, the kind of soldier who always stood in the front line. So long as he kept his mouth shut, he was golden. And who cared for talk anyway? Achaeans are men of action.
He did, however, have one very serious, very visible shortcoming: he was my friend. For all his decency, loyalty, and trustworthiness, he was a key player in some of my most nefarious schemes. And as often as people warned him that our friendship would bring him to an ugly end, he remained my friend until the day I died.
I used to wonder why he stood by me all those years. For that matter, I used to wonder why I stood by him. Perhaps his presence lent my scheming some legitimacy. Or perhaps I just enjoyed seeing someone so perfect do something wicked every now and then. It was a comfort to know that he wasn’t as wonderful as everyone thought. And what did he get out of it all? I really couldn’t tell you. The adventure, perhaps. Or the change of pace. I may be a scheming, two-faced, lying fraud, but I know how to have a good time.
And here’s something else: I always win.
At a key moment in the Trojan War—it must have been in the ninth year, because Achilles was in his funk and the Trojans had come outside their walls to harass us—I decided it was time to stop avoiding the battle and to make an appearance at the front. A good general has to wander up near the battle line every now and then, or the men start to get resentful. So I waited for a lull in the fighting and then pushed my way forward. I made a show of rattling my shield and stabbed some poor sap who looked like he was already dead. Wouldn’t you know, the moment I stepped into the no-man’s-land, the Trojans made a concerted push forward, and I found myself surrounded.
I was beginning to think the best strategy might be to cut and run when out steps this enormous hulk of a man, a real side of beef, wrapped head to toe in bronze and carrying the most enormous, wicked-looking spear I’d ever seen. His thighs were like great, hairy hams, and his nose pushed across his face until it was practically under his right eye. This was a man who had seen a fight or two, and I knew from the moment I set eyes on him that I was in serious trouble. When he stepped forward, the whole Trojan line pulled back a little, waiting to see what I’d do.
Truthfully, I don’t have any qualms about running from a fight, so long as no one is there to see it. A live dog is better than a dead lion, as they say. But my men were watching me, and all day I’d been yelling orders and shouting about death and glory and whatnot. So I just stood there and watched this nasty fellow come barreling in my direction, knowing that if I didn’t think up something up quick, my day was going to end short and glorious. So I waited for him to come within throwing distance, and then I tossed my spear to the ground. It had the desired effect: the poor sap was baffled. All he’d ever known was the throw-throw-stab-stab protocol. So he stopped running and lowered his spear. “Hey you!” he shouted. “What did you do that for?”
Maybe he thought that I was trying to surrender or that I recognized his shield and wanted to talk ransom. But I yelled back at him, “I don’t need it.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he said. “I’ll skewer you right now.”
“You don’t know me, do you?” I said.
He coughed and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Of course I know you. You are Odysseus, the Ithacan, that cowardly schemer. Well, your scheming ends today when I rip your life out with my spear.”
They were bold words, but his tone didn’t match. “So who are you, then?” I answered, feeling reassured.
“Sokos, Son of Hippasos. Brother of the man you just killed.”
I looked down at the corpse at my feet and saw a likeness. This was, of course, bad news if I was looking to get out of a fight, so I decided to go with bravado over flattery. “Never heard of you,” I said. I had heard of him in fact, but it wouldn’t do to let him know that. “Even so, I’ll grant you this honor: now that I have your name, I’ll be sure to let your parents know that you died worthily at the hands of a worthy foe. Needless to say, it will be a lie. I plan to leave your corpse lying here for the dogs to eat. Moreover, you will die slowly, screaming for mercy through a gurgle of blood while I slit you navel to nose, which is why—to answer your question—I threw down my spear.” Of course, that was not the reason. Tossing the spear as
ide was an act of desperation, prompted by the realization that it wasn’t going to do me any good anyway. “This is my last fight before supper, you see, and I’d like to make it last. All the same, I’ll tell your parents you died well, because frankly, I pity you.”
That did it. The big lummox had never been talked to that way in his life. It was too much for him. He dropped his shield to run; and just as he turned around, I picked up my spear and skewered him in the back. Not a brave or clever feat, I’ll admit, but I lived to lie about it. And him? I’ll put it this way: when I got back to my tent and hung his armor on the wall, I had a blacksmith hammer the hole in his breastplate inside out so it looked like I’d stabbed him in the chest. It wouldn’t do his or my reputation any good for folks to remember how he had really died.
Yes, I made a name for myself among the Achaeans, and if it wasn’t entirely untainted, it was at least feared. And Diomedes? He decorated his tent with more armor than I ever did, and all with holes pointing the right direction. But somehow he considered me his equal.
CHAPTER 5
ONE DISAPPOINTMENT AFTER ANOTHER
A COMMON MISTAKE among living mortals is to assume that Hell, for all its drawbacks, is an interesting place—not pleasant, perhaps, but full of monsters and madness and any number of fascinating tortures. Let me assure you it is not. Living with anything—absolutely anything—is torture if it goes on for eternity. An old friend of mine used to say that the gods punish us by giving us what we want. Well, he was speaking more truth than even he thought. Imagine, for example, the most pleasurable earthly experience you have ever had. Now imagine repeating it over and over without variation for eternity. It would drive you mad. So much more for the unpleasantness of Hell. A three-headed dog may be something to look at for a day or two, but live with its barking for a thousand years, and you’ll find that the one thing you want more than all else is to hold those three heads under water. No, Hades is empty and wearisome and very, very boring; and I don’t cope well with boredom, so as we trudged on in silence, my mind began to wander. I grew fidgety. I examined the gravel under my feet, the great gray piles of rock and soot, my sword, my bow. Then I remembered the four remaining arrows in my quiver that I had not yet inspected.
They were longer and heavier than the other three, and fletched with brilliant purple feathers, but were otherwise unremarkable—even shoddy. As I pulled out the longest, its feathers fell off.
I cursed. “Have a look at this, will you?” I caught up with Diomedes and handed him the featherless arrow.
He took the shaft from me and frowned at it.
“Why would the Parthenos give me such an inferior weapon?” I asked.
“Looks well made to me,” he said.
“The feathers fell off.”
“Maybe it doesn’t need them.”
“You really are dense,” I said. “What use is an arrow without fletching?”
He shrugged.
“The rest aren’t much nicer,” I said, handing him the other three.
He examined them in silence.
“So?”
“They’re arrows.”
“Really? Terrific, Diomedes. You see, that’s why I always come to you for advice: your keen powers of observation.”
Diomedes nodded. “Thank you.” He always accepted my sarcasm at face value, and I never could tell whether he was missing the point or egging me on.
I snatched the arrows out of his hand. “Are you really that thick?”
Diomedes shrugged again.
“You know, if you ever dislocate your shoulder, you’ll have real trouble communicating.”
Diomedes smiled and shrugged.
“Shrug one more time, and I’ll punch you.”
He shrugged. I didn’t punch him, though. The last time he and I boxed, he hit me so hard I forgot my name. “Why do I bother to ask you anything?” I grumbled.
“Why do I bother answering?”
We bickered a little more and fussed over the arrows, but Diomedes soon grew tired of arguing. Since the giant wouldn’t speak either, I had little to occupy my thoughts. Silence is as hard on me as boredom, so naturally I turned my attention to the mysterious bag.
It wasn’t much to look at—a plain leather purse such as any traveler might use to carry food or flint or gold. I took it from my belt and spent some time examining the symbol stamped into the grain. The longer I looked at it, though, the stranger it seemed. I had never heard of any god that was likely to take the pelican as a sacred bird. Stranger still, it appeared to be stabbing itself with its beak. Were there eggs in the bag? I gave it a gentle squeeze. Too soft. Gold? I tossed it from hand to hand. Too light. I shook it. No noise. Sniffed it. No smell. I like to think I’m pretty good at riddles, but this one had me stumped.
When I looked up, Diomedes was eyeing me. “You aren’t going to open that bag, are you?”
“I was just looking.”
“Don’t open it.”
“It’s not a bag of winds. I had one of those. It was much bigger.”
“Just don’t.”
“I won’t. I won’t. Relax.”
I waited until Diomedes was looking the other way, and then I opened the bag.
“That’s it?” I exclaimed in spite of myself. I’d intended just to have a quick peek, but the disappointment overwhelmed me.
Diomedes looked at the open bag and roared, “I knew it! I knew you would do it! You never listen to me!”
“It’s just bread,” I muttered, too disappointed to be apologetic. All that fuss over a few stale loaves. “Not even well leavened,” I said, pulling one out of the sack and squeezing it.
“Aggh . . . grrd . . . darg . . . ahhhh . . .” Diomedes clenched his fists and pressed them to his forehead. “Aaaaangh.”
“Calm down,” I said. “No harm done.”
Diomedes took two deep breaths. “It’s not that, Odysseus. It’s just that you never hear what I’m trying to tell you.”
“I do hear you,” I muttered. “I just don’t listen. Sorry.”
Diomedes stared at his feet. “What’s done is done.”
“Anyway, it’s just bread,” I said again, handing him a little loaf.
He stood quietly contemplating it. He managed to look both disgusted and relieved at the same time. “It’s a gift of the gods,” he said. “There must be something more to it.”
“Doesn’t look so,” I answered.
“You two,” shouted the giant, striding over to us with his great fists clenched at his sides. “We had an arrangement. I was to lead. You were to follow.” He strode up right behind Diomedes and clapped him on the shoulder. “Either you keep up, or—”
When Diomedes turned to face him, the giant suddenly lost his voice. He cringed and backed away, trembling.
“What?” said Diomedes, clutching at his sword with his free hand. “What is it?”
The giant said nothing.
“Give me that,” I said to Diomedes. I took the bread from him and stepped toward the giant, holding it out in front of me. “Would you like something to eat?” I said. “We’ve got food.” But he cringed further off like a beaten dog. In fact, he looked as though he might be on the point of running.
“So there is something special to it after all,” said Diomedes.
I contemplated the unremarkable lump in my hand. “This will take some thinking . . .”
“Then think while you walk,” said Diomedes. “We need to move while we still have a guide.”
I carefully returned the bread to its sack, watching the giant out of the corner of my eye. He was noticeably calmer with it out of sight. Curious. Curious.
CHAPTER 6
CHARON
IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING that Hell is an unattractive place, but the “vestibule” of Hell is uniquely ugly. I knew a woman once—a prophetess from Delphi—whose face was so empty, so void of emotion, you had to fight to keep from running when you saw her. A similar feeling crept over me now as I took in that bleak
terrain. All was emptiness and monotony. No sky to distinguish from earth, no cloud or breeze, no warmth or cold . . . just league after league of soot and stone and gray, empty waste.
Thus it was with a feeling something like relief that I first caught sight of the river Acheron. I say something like relief because there was little about this river to suggest refreshment. From afar it resembled a snake, not only in form but in color. It had a sickly viridescent sheen to it, and where the water lapped against the shore, a brown foam bubbled and hissed over oily gravel. Diomedes and I stood on the bank, contemplating the river with wrinkled noses. A warm odor of rot emanated from it in wave after rancid wave. It was disheartening to think we had marched all this way to arrive at something so unpleasant.
Our guide, however, stood unperturbed, looking off across the water with folded arms, and after a while, we were able to make out a tiny shape on the horizon (or what passed for a horizon in the Underworld, for no sun would ever rise there). It was the ferry, and in it the demon Charon, whose burly shoulders worked the oar from side to side.
I had been planning this encounter for the last several hours but was caught quite off guard by Charon’s appearance. The demon seemed frail and old—a skeletal frame wrapped in a thin layer of pale flesh with a tangled mess of patched and stringy hair. His legs were bowed, and matted from hip to toe with a lattice of dark veins. No, this was not the dreaded Charon of our legends, nor was it the Charon I had encountered on my first trip to the Underworld. He had aged. In fact, the only thing about him that retained the suggestion of power was his broad back, which was crowded with layers of bulging muscle. With every movement, his shoulders swelled and shook, rippling like the great river itself. Indeed, the muscles themselves seemed to climb up his neck, forcing his bulbous head down in an ugly slouch.
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