by Anna Harvey
“But you came to speak to me about something,” Agamemnon said, turning his head now towards Odysseus, scrutinising his expression.
“Indeed. There is a matter that must be raised with you. That concerning Ajax, son of Oileus.” Odysseus paused waiting for a response. The cheerfulness still hung on Agamemnon, but the eyes had narrowed. When no answer came, Odysseus went on. “He defiled the temple of the god Apollo by raping the priestess holding the sacred image. I believe that he must be punished, or by his reckless actions we are all endangered.”
“Yes, I know of it.” Agamemnon said steadily, shrugging half-heartedly. “That is why I have taken the priestess, Kassandra, into my care. The Trojan girl will accompany me back to Mykenai and live out her days in my household.”
He could read at once what Agamemnon was implying. Despite her despoilment, the beauty and graceful looks of the priestess had caught his eye.
“And what of your wife, Klytaimnestra?” He had only a distant memory of the queen of Mykenai, proud and regal. Installing a slave mistress could only bring shame and dishonour to her. “Will she not be displeased?”
Agamemnon looked at him directly. His body was rigid, like unflinching granite. “Klytaimnestra’s thoughts are of no concern”, he said, his expression now stone-like. “She will do as commanded by her husband and her king.” Odysseus held his counsel. There was nothing to be gained from pressing a man so consumed by his own hubris.
Menelaos now stepped forward, breaking the tension. “They say, Ajax has already escaped from the camp, Odysseus.” His words were softer and conciliatory. “When he heard you were demanding his death, Ajax claimed sanctuary in a neighbouring temple. He is beyond the reach of us all. Only the gods can decide justice.”
The feeling of foreboding rose up in Odysseus again, like the bitter taste of bile from the spleen. This was not the news he had wanted. “Then I hope the gods do not punish us all for his actions,” he replied grimly.
“Come, why so gloomy, Odysseus.” Agamemnon’s face had softened and the easy smile had returned. “You are our great conquering hero! Come drink with us!”
“I’m afraid I must take my leave of you, if there is nothing more to be done here. There is still much to do before our departure. I bid you both farewell. May we meet in more peaceful times.” His words were courteous, but he could barely disguise his contempt for Agamemnon.
He retraced his steps along the well-trodden path to his own camp of the Kephallenians. His heart still heavy, he hardly noticed his dear companion, Diomedes, until he was almost upon him. They embraced warmly.
“Why so glum Odysseus,” began Diomedes, “when I hear you leave at sunrise.”
“You hear right, my dear friend.” He pulled the younger man closer, playfully tussling his hair. “May the gods grant us favourable winds and safe passage. And you my friend?”
“We will not be off so speedily. The eighty ships will take time to make ready and watertight. We plan to put to sea on the eleventh dawn to make the journey back to Argos. So you will be back on Ithaka before we have even set foot on the Greek mainland.”
“Indeed so!”
“You know Diomedes,” Odysseus said more quietly, staring down at his feet. ”We have battled side by side like brothers for so long. I don’t regret that this war is over, but I will miss you. I will drink from the kylix and think of you, when I am back on my estates.”
“Perhaps we can extend the ties of guest friendship on our return. You will be my guest at Argos and be richly entertained.”
“And I you.” He paused and then continued. “I only pray that the gods are not enraged by what we have done here and wreak revenge on us. Agamemnon would not restrain the troops.” He felt the anger once more rising up. “Now he refuses to exact justice from Ajax, son of Oileus, for desecrating the sacred image.”
“Do not fear on your own account, Odysseus. You have done everything with honour and kleos, as befits a noble man. You have no reason to fear vengeance from the gods. Come, let us shake off this gloomy mood. I expect you at my camp at dusk. Let us share food and drink eat one last time together.”
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The next morning Odysseus felt fresh and revitalised as the ships were pushed out into the shallow bay, ready to board. A band of the warriors had gathered on the beach to bid them farewell. Diomedes had been amongst them, as too the old man Nestor and the sons of Atreus. He had embraced each in turn, his daily companions of these last ten years.
When it was Nestor’s turn, the older man had clasped him eagerly to his breast. Odysseus had grown fond of the old warrior, this survivor of countless battles, despite his bewildering quickness to side with Agamemnon.
“You travel straight to Ithaka?” Nestor asked.
“We do and I hope to be there before the next full moon,” he replied, keeping his inner counsel to himself.
“Then take a care to cross to Lemnos and break your journey there,” Nestor said, offering advice. “That will be a good place for you to pull in and rest your men. You should then head towards the island of Skyros and follow the shoreline down to the Cape of Maleia.”
Odysseus smiled indulgently and clasped the older man to him. “I thank you for your advice Nestor, which you offer with a good heart. I trust we may meet again, for our two kingdoms are not so far apart.”
“Perhaps our houses may one day be joined through marriage,” offered Nestor graciously. “For I hear that you have a strong healthy son who one day may be in need of a bride.”
“That would be a joyous day indeed!” he agreed laughing aloud.
“Here Odysseus, take this clay piece, which is stamped with my griffin insignia. If you should come to Pylos, show this and you will be recognised at once as my guest-friend.” And the older man had placed a disc of hardened earth into his rough callused hand.
The troublesome priest Kalchas had also shown up to make offerings on the shore for their safe passage. The man had not been well-liked amongst the warriors and even shunned whenever possible. As Odysseus turned to board his boat, the priest now barred his way. He looked askance at the man, dressed in his dirt-stained priestly robes and long ash-grey locks.
“What is the meaning of this, Kalchas?” he demanded.
“I have had a vision, as I made offerings just now,” the man rasped through chaffed lips. The years had not treated the priest kindly and Odysseus doubted he would survive the long sea journey ahead. Perhaps a fitting punishment for his part in the sacrifice of the innocent maiden, Iphigeneia. “The gods themselves put this in my mind to tell you,” Kalchas continued, the words rasping from his throat. “Your death will come from the sea.”
“I thank you for your words, Kalchas. But nothing will stop my journey home.”
With that he passed the priest and waded through the shallow waters to his ship. But his sense of foreboding swelled, like the ripples on the sea before the storm.
The boats had been launched as one flotilla in the bay. The masts had been positioned upright on each boat, newly painted with the indigo eye on the bow. It was a sight to behold: the Kephallenian fleet. Twelve ships manned by the two hundred and forty proud-hearted Kephallenian warriors, the survivors of Troy. The rowers had stripped down to their tunics, ready and primed for the arduous journey. Loud cheers of men rose up, as he boarded his ship. Their exhilaration at the long awaited departure cut through the air. He glimpsed Hekabe, seated below the deck, her head hung low and clutching her cloak close to her chest.
“Do we make sail westward?” asked Eurylochos, his face full of joy.
“No, we head north on the prevailing wind,” he answered cheerfully. “I have one more raid in mind before we are done. A chance for more plunder!” Eurylochos had shot him a look but the order had been obeyed. Even if his true motive had been suspected, no one had said anything.
At first the voyage had gone smoothly enough. At Lokris, the land of the Chersonese, they had weighed anchor an
d unloaded their cargo: Hekabe, the Trojan queen. The woman seemed confused, no sign of joy or recognition crossing her face at the sight of her native city. Wrapped in her filthy rags, her body resembled a bag of dried up bones.
“Why have you brought me here, Odysseus?” Hekabe had asked him, raising her pitiful face.
“So that you may live out the days that the gods grant you amongst your own people.”
“My family is dead,” she angrily retorted. “You do me no favours but only prolong my agony. Would that I have died too!”
He looked at the woman. The face still showed traces of noble beauty, only crushed by grief. He spoke kindly looking into her blank eyes. “At least here, you can mourn as you see fit and find comfort from your people. I offer this for the kindness you showed on that night in Troy.” Hecuba simply turned her back and said no more.
As he boarded his own ship, a bank of suspicious faces greeted him. Eurylochos spoke on their behalf.
“So this is why we sailed north, my lord. To return our Trojan goods! We could have headed straight for Ithaka.” The words carried an angry rebuke.
“Indeed not!” Odysseus replied, not wishing to betray any kind-hearted sentiment. “We still have unfinished work. I hear the Kikones, allies of the Trojans, escaped the worst of the fighting. So they will have no complaint if they offer us some hospitality.” His grabbed the tiller, his eyes wide and shining. “I have a thirst for the famed Kikonian wine. Let us row on and test the land. Afterwards we can wait for a favourable wind to take us down to the Cape.”
A big grin broke out over Eurylochos’ face. “Certainly my lord.” Turning to the rowers, he barked out the command “Rowers to the oars! Raid!” As they dipped the oars into the wine-dark sea, a big roar of hollering rose up.
The attack on the land had been initially successful. The battle-seasoned Kephallenians had caught the townspeople by surprise and quickly overwhelmed the citadel of Ismaros. But with victory, the great conquering heroes had grown careless, over-confident and unruly. Instead of a speedy departure, they had idled for several days, seduced by the heady Kikonian wine and the pleasures of the women. Perhaps that was when the Fates, the hideous sisters Atropos, Clotho and Lachesis, had changed the men’s luck. The delay cost them dearly. Mustering their neighbours, the Kikones had come upon them at Dawn, lulled by Sleep, their bodies sprawled out, mouths agape, heaving with loud snores. Hard-pressed they had fought back bravely but the Kikones punished them severely for their bold raid. Seventy two warriors in all descended to Hades, their lives cut short in the full-pitched battle.
In disarray, they had boarded the ships, rowing as hard as they could to escape death. The men had sweated and heaved, their bodies straining at the oars. This time the course was set for the Cape of Maleia and beyond Ithaka. As they crossed the open water, birds had skimmed overhead and then familiar landmarks came into view: the island of leafy Thasos, the rugged contours of Lemnos and small countless islands until at last the long coastland of Achaia itself. Each night they pulled into a shallow harbour to setup camp and take rest. But their progress was tempered by adverse weather sent by Zeus and the sorrow of losing so many, when the war was over and done. And then disaster truly struck.
It happened as the ships were rounding the Cape. The god Zeus had whipped up a storm, for the sky turned into night and the winds blew cruelly against them. The ship’s timbers had groaned, as the waves battered the wooden hull, soaking their bodies with the briny water. As hard as the men battled against the wind and tide, they could not overcome the force of the waves which pushed them further and further away from home. For days they had rowed. And each day brought neither any sighting of other ships nor land to beach the ships and take shelter for the night. Only the vast boundless sea and endless waves in front of them. Wearied by their efforts and nights sleeping at their oarlocks, the men’s eyes had grown dull and their limbs stiff. He could see the fear in their faces. In despair, he had prayed to his goddess Athena to show some sign of favour. But there was nothing. No bird in flight, no dolphin leaping from the sea, no promising lightening flash. The gods had abandoned them, horrified by their deeds at Troy. A shudder passed down his spine as he recalled Kalchas’ words of prophecy, “Death will come from the sea.” He gritted his teeth. He refused to accept that ignoble fate for him and these conquering heroes of Troy: to be food for fishes.
On the tenth day, land appeared. The people had been friendly and welcoming but it was a strange seductive place, where the air tasted sultry and heavily laden. Even the vegetation was unfamiliar: there was a honey-sweet brown fruit, its skin leather-brown and wrinkled; a rounded fruit, red-skinned and bulbous like an onion, which when split revealed a hundred jewelled seeds; but the most seductive was the Lotus flower. There was a mesmerising beauty in its delicate star-shaped petals, the colour of murex purple. But any who tasted it were robbed of their senses and memories of all that was most precious. Alarmed, Odysseus had ordered them to put to sea immediately. They had dragged those unfortunates, still under the Lotus’ spell, writhing and screaming onto the ships.
Once at sea again, he had tried to navigate them back on course, following the Little Bear in the sky which pointed towards Ithaka. But for days there was only the grey-green sea and swell of the endless waves, an emptiness all around devoid of land, ships or other living creatures. It was then, he had to admit to himself, they were lost. This was no longer the civilised domain of the Greeks he recognised, with its rules of philoxenia and hospitality. A strange world, with new lands and strangers who might not obey the rules of the gods. But he had been curious too and keen to discover all he could.
On one mountainous land, a small party of them had gone ashore seeking food and supplies from the local people. The land was fertile but uncultivated and had never been put to the plough. Whoever lived here, led a troglodyte existence. They had found a hollowed cave packed with young lambs, kids and curdled cheese.
“We should take our fill and go,” one of his companions had urged him, looking around anxiously. But he had closed his ears, curious to see what kind of fellow lived there. It was almost dark, when the herdsman arrived back from tending his flocks of goat and sheep. He was a strange unkempt fellow, a giant of a man towering above them. On his forehead was a blue spiral body-painting like an extra eye. It was not philoxenia he had offered them but death. The Spiralled One had flown into a rage, killing two men with his bare hands on the spot, pitiless like a mountain lion. With his monstrous strength, the brute had rolled a boulder in front of the entrance, entombing them so he could kill them off one by one. But in the darkness of that cave, Odysseus’ wits had not forsaken him. He had devised a plan to save them. First, he had offered the wild man a skin-sack of heady Kikonian wine. Never tasting liquor before, the brute had taken the bait, quickly guzzling down the wine and falling into a drunken stupor. Then using a stake of green olive wood, heated in fire, they had blinded him. Finally clinging to the underbellies of the well-fattened rams, they had escaped that tomb. But six companions had been killed by the Cyclops beast, violating the rules of philoxenia.
Then there had been Aiolos. A strange island which from a distance floated above the sea, ravaged by winds from all four corners. There ruled a brother and sister, who shared a marriage bed siring two children. At first the two rulers had received them well, entertaining them with fine food and shelter. They had departed on a north-west wind, which carried them towards the Little Bear and Ithaka. For ten full days they had made good progress across the wide boundless sea. They had come almost within sight of Ithaka itself. But then a sudden storm, whipped up by Zeus, had descended upon them, driving them back the way they came. That time, the king of Aiolos turned his back and refused to help them, claiming it must be the will of the gods. They had been driven off the island, truly hated by the immortals.
Then there had been the Laistrygonians on whose island they had sheltered within a natural harbour to beach the ships and taken rest. Instead of comfo
rt and hospitality, they had been pelted with boulders and rocks from the cliffs above. There had been the hideous sounds of men screaming and ship timbers tearing apart. The gentle sheltering cove had turned into a deadly trap. Odysseus’ was the only ship to survive, cutting the cable ropes and rowing out to open sea. Their losses were heavy. Yes, he knew well the effects of bad xenia. With each encounter, the survivors from that ill-fated war had dwindled.
They had sailed on with heavy hearts, once more across that endless sea. The men had grown silent, their faces frozen, as they strained at the oars. Now looking back, it was hard to believe that fateful meeting was so close at hand.
They were steering once more towards the Little Bear. It had been four full cycles of the moon since they had left Troy. He could smell the chill in the air. The seas grew turbulent and squally. Winter was fast approaching. The need to reach Ithaka or find suitable wintering quarters had become pressing. He had driven the men hard, barking out orders, taking his turn at the oars, anything to quicken their passage. So when Aiaia had come into sight, with its distinct mountain and fertile green land, they had felt only despair. Some of the men had wept openly, no longer able to hide their feelings. He Odysseus had understood this unexpected land mass as a barrier, blocking their sea passage home. The thought of her so close, even now had the power to move him deeply. But then as they beached the boat, all they could do was collapse on the sandy beach, spent from endless rowing.
Chapter 10
Hospitality
“Which way do you think?” Rob asked. They were at a T-junction, in front of a worn signpost, the painted letters rusted and faded. The left arm pointed towards a village two kilometres away and the right arm towards a tourist beach over twice the distance. The clouds had now thickened and the blackening sky intimated the approach of a storm somewhere out at sea. Just then there was a flicker of light, for a split second illuminating the landscape. In that moment everything was caught in a ghostly light, like a sepia photograph. It was soundless but there was no mistaking the lightning flash.
