They sat quietly by Daemon’s fire as he told his wife and son what had transpired. Lanaeda wept for the giant’s loss.
“Polyphemus was always aloof,” she said. “He did not require the company of his kind, and I do not deny he could be cruel to men, but he loved that ram as if it were his child ... and now he has nothing left. His flock is gone to feed the Greeks.”
Machaon was thoughtful. “Odysseus and his men will be gone by dawn,” he said quietly.
“You cannot follow them,” decided Lanaeda firmly. “The little one is still too ill to travel.”
Machaon nodded. “Perhaps Polyphemus’ father will prevent Odysseus from getting too far ahead of us,” he mused. “The island on which the fleet is banked,” he began suddenly. “You say it is fertile and rich with beast?”
“Yes,” said Daemon. “If it were connected to the mainland then it would be valuable to the Cyclopes, but we are not a seafaring people, and so it is untouched.”
Machaon nodded. Cadmus looked at him curiously, knowing his elder brother had something in mind, but he did not press him.
As Machaon had predicted, the Greeks rose before Eos had left her cloudy bed, and set sail from the island. The Herdsmen watched the ships go from the vantage of the heights. Hero lay warm and cared for in the cave as she slowly recovered from the enduring poison of the lotus.
“Come on,” Machaon said to his brothers. “We are going to sail to the island today.”
“But Odysseus is gone,” protested Lycon.
“We do not go to find Greeks,” Machaon replied.
They put the Phaeacian craft to sea and were soon upon the luxuriant green shores of the isle. The bones of Polyphemus’ flock littered the beach.
Lycon shook his head in pity as he spied the spiralled horns of the ram. They did not linger on the beach, but went inland into the hills. Armed with rope and net they found the abundant natural pastures. They waited until the nymphs, who were children of Zeus and companions of Pan, set the mountain goats on the move. They caught and secured as many as they could and took them back to the hold of the Phaeacian craft. When they returned to the mainland they drove most of this herd of wild goats into the empty pens of Polyphemus; and the rest, they took as gifts to their generous hosts on the windswept peaks.
“Their days are spent feasting with their father and their estimable mother, amongst luxuries of which they have a never-failing supply. The table hosts an endless banquet which keeps the house fragrant with the smell of roasting meat. And at night, they lie upon well-made wooden beds in the welcoming arms of their wives.”
The Odyssey Book X
BOOK XIII
THE SONS OF AGELAUS stood warily by as Hero lit her sacrificial pyre. It was larger than those she had lit on Ida, as the Cyclopes had found pleasure in adding to her objects of sacrifice until the mound was high. The flames jumped up, fuelled by the flammable powders that Hero had crushed from bark and rock, to consume the wreaths of flowers and the perfect fruits she had gathered. Unlike the Greeks she sacrificed only flowers and fruit and not living things. She was raised among the Herdsmen who kept their beasts to feed the people of Troy and not the gods. Hero lifted her arms to the sky and prayed; her face, no longer gaunt, was exalted in religious communion.
Their Cyclopean hosts stood nearby in respectful silence, and her brothers, reassured that her fire would not spread to the woods of oak and pine, retreated into conversation.
“I think she is well enough now,” Cadmus said quietly. “Although she will not be pleased to leave.”
Machaon nodded. The Cyclopes had asked them to stay, to settle amongst them as friends, but the sons of Agelaus had not forgotten that their people remained hidden and ostracised in the caves of Ida. Perhaps they would return to the land of the Cyclopes one day, but now they had to find Odysseus again.
“It has been ten days since the Greeks sailed,” Lycon said, frowning slightly. “Odysseus may be in Ithaca by now.”
“Then we will go to Ithaca,” Machaon replied. “The ship will find him. I have a feeling that Poseidon will not thank the Greeks for the maiming of his son. Odysseus is unlikely to find a friendly current anytime soon.”
“So we shall set sail tomorrow?” Cadmus asked.
“At dawn,” agreed Machaon.
The news that they were to go was greeted with much lament, for the one-eyed people of the land had grown fond of their mortal brethren. The Herdsmen had made many trips to the island and returned with scores of fine wild goats to add to the herds and flocks of the Cyclopes. They had shared what knowledge they had of herding sheep and goats, and had learnt from their hosts with enthusiasm and respect. They had even tried to teach the Cyclopes to swim and sail, but the land-bound creatures would have none of it. The sea was the realm of their god, Poseidon; they would not intrude into it. The sons of Agelaus, who had often shared a fire with Pan, the god of their kind, thought the relationship odd but did not question it.
The Cyclopes celebrated their last night with feasting and companionship. The Herdsmen were given gifts of blankets and clothes. The Phaeacian ship was loaded with dried fruits, bread, cheese and baskets of edible roots. Lanaeda infused her healing herbs into goatskins of wine, and gave Hero’s brothers strict and repeated instructions for her continued care.
As Eos once again raised her burnished palms from behind the eastern horizon, they left their new friends weeping on the shore as the Phaeacian craft surged through the flecked waters into the open sea. Upon the distant rise they could see the lonely form of Polyphemus, a sightless sentinel against the rising sun.
“I hope he doesn’t start throwing things,” Cadmus muttered as he kept his eyes guardedly upon the giant.
“I don’t think you need worry,” said Lycon sadly. “He cannot see us — it was only Odysseus taunting the poor brute that directed his throw.”
The ship had set its course north and they sailed under a favourable wind for all of that day and half of the next. The winter was upon them and the sun’s warmth muted. They were glad of the wool cloaks and blankets the Cyclopes had given them. Their next sight of land was an island that rose from the waves with great sheer cliffs. Atop the vertical faces glinted a wall of unbroken bronze that appeared to run around the entire island, or at least the southern part of it from which they approached. From the height of the mast, Machaon could see the Greek fleet, moored at the base of the cliffs, guarded by a skeleton crew. He shouted to his brothers and Cadmus directed their craft away so that they could land without being observed. They dragged their ship up onto a rocky beach and secured it.
Hero gazed at the rock face, which seem to soar towards the sky above them. “What are we going to do now?” she asked.
“We’ll have to climb,” Cadmus replied. “I wonder who lives here — someone must have built the wall.”
Machaon studied the cliffs, looking carefully for shadows with the trained eye of a mountain herder. “I think I can see a way up that shouldn’t be too bad,” he said pointing towards the face.
Cadmus and Lycon shaded their eyes to discern what their brother had seen. Hero did not bother — she would not be able to see the trail until she actually walked upon it. Instead she raised her hands to pray whilst her brothers discussed their path.
The sons of Agelaus took their swords and their bows.
“Come on Hero, summarise!” Cadmus urged as they began the steep ascent.
Hero did not truncate her devotion, but she spoke more quickly and ran to follow her brothers. The climb up the barely existent trail was arduous. The ground was uneven and the rocks loose. A misstep would see them plunging down the face of the cliff. The wind, which blew in from the sea, seemed to be channelled up the sheer rock. Cadmus held firmly onto Hero’s hand, for she was slight and he was afraid she had not the weight to stand against the wind.
It was late in the afternoon when they finally reached the top of the cliffs. Just a few paces in from the ledge, they faced a wall of weathered br
onze. It stood at least twice the height of a man with only an etching of green patina from the spray and salt. Its surface was smooth with no visible joins.
“I wonder who made this,” mused Lycon with a low whistle.
“God of some sort, probably,” said Cadmus carelessly.
Hero looked at the construction with awe. It was indeed the work of the divine, as magnificent as the walls of Troy. She touched it reverently whilst her brothers considered the best way to scale it.
In the end, Cadmus climbed upon Machaon’s shoulders and grasped the top of the wall. With some effort and considerable cursing, he swung himself up. Machaon tossed him a rope, and he held it steady whilst they climbed.
Machaon jumped down to the other side. Cadmus and Lycon lowered Hero on the rope and then dropped to the ground themselves. The country within the bronze wall was breathtaking compared to the barren rocky cliffs. The plateau was fertile, fat cattle grazed fields lined with rows of trees, arched with heavy fruit. They could not see people working the soil or shepherding, but in the distance stood a palace, a monolith of sun-bleached white.
“What is this place?” asked Cadmus intrigued.
“There’s one way to find out,” Machaon replied, setting out towards the building.
“Mac, wait,” said Cadmus. “Odysseus has seen both Lycon and Hero ... we can’t just walk in as wandering travellers.”
“Fair point,” Machaon squinted at the white palace. “We need to get close enough to see whose land we are on, and to work out whether Odysseus is a guest or a prisoner.”
“Or is he sacking the place?” said Lycon.
Machaon looked around them. “There don’t seem to be many people about — let’s just hope he hasn’t killed everyone in his usual fashion.”
“And if he has?” asked Cadmus.
Machaon sighed. “Let’s just find out where Odysseus and his men are.”
Lycon and Cadmus agreed, and Hero asked Zeus to protect them as supplicants at the mercy of the people of this walled land.
“We’re hardly supplicants, Hero,” said Cadmus.
“Well, there is no god of assassins,” she replied.
“We’re not really that either.” He laughed. “It’s hard to define what we are exactly,” he added thoughtfully.
“We are defenders,” Machaon said firmly. “We defended the people of Troy and now we defend the name of the Herdsmen.”
“There you go, Hero,” Cadmus said, still smiling. “Is there no god of defenders in the Pantheon?”
She ignored him, with the uneasy feeling that there was not.
They made good time across the fields and orchards, though they moved carefully so that their approach would not be seen from the palace. The building was surrounded with lavish pleasure gardens of lavender and trained bramble.
Crouched amongst the shrubbery, they watched for signs of life. The Greeks were soon audible. Their voices did not contain either trepidation or aggression. It seemed they were neither captive nor captor in this place. Presently they spilled out of the house. Odysseus was amongst them. He held a large bag of leather secured with a clasp of burnished silver.
It was at that point that Machaon felt a blade at his throat. He turned slowly. A thin man with wild hair the colour of the sun held the sword with its tip pressed against the Herdsman’s neck. The man put a finger to his lips demanding silence. There were blades upon Machaon’s brothers and Hero, held by men who bore a remarkable resemblance to the first. The man whispered, apparently unwilling to alert the Greeks to their presence.
“Do not try to escape. You may overpower one of us, even two, but not all. If you resist, at least one of you will die.”
Machaon glanced towards Hero, who was pale with terror. “We will not resist,” he said quietly. “What would you have us do?”
“Our father farewells his guests,” the man replied. “I will not have you disturb them. We will wait here till they are gone.”
The Herdsman looked to his brothers. Odysseus was leaving. He would escape them once again.
Hero’s eyes were closed and her lips moved without sound as she prayed. The fair-haired men seemed both amused and intrigued by her. And so they waited in silence.
In time, the stillness of the day was broken with the rise of a wind from the west, and their captors spoke to them again.
“They are gone.”
They were taken, still under sword, into the great house. It was a residence of such luxury as they had not seen since the palaces of Troy. It was fragrant with the smell of roasting meat and its courtyard was set out for a banquet. It was into this courtyard that they were brought before the master of the house and his estimable wife.
He was a thin man like his sons, of whom it seemed there were six. Also, like them, his hair was fair and as untamed as the wind itself. He regarded the Herdsmen and their sister with more interest than hostility.
“Who are you who trespass on my land?” he asked.
“I am Machaon. These are my brothers, Cadmus and Lycon, and my sister, Hero. We are the children of Agelaus, the Herdsman of Ida.”
To this the master of the island threw up his hands and exclaimed. “Then you do not trespass, for you are friends of my guests! I regret that Odysseus has sailed, for he would have been happy to see those who assisted the heroic Greeks vanquish the holy citadel of Troy.”
Machaon said nothing though every fibre of his being screamed to deny the assumption. He shot his brothers a warning look for they, like him, were on the verge of protest.
“Come boys, you have mishandled these travellers,” the man said to his sons. “Make them comfortable. They are guests. How kind of the gods to send them to distract us with their company when we have so soon lost Odysseus!”
“My lord,” said Machaon slowly. “What is this place, and whom may we say is our host?”
“This is the floating island of Aeolia,” was the reply. “I am Aeolus, Warden of the Gales, whom Zeus has entrusted with the power to rouse or lay the winds at will. I live here with my wife and my six daughters, whom I have given in marriage to my six sons.”
The eyes of the Herdsmen widened a little at the last comment, but they held their tongues. They knew the customs of the world outside Ida were often unusual, and the ways of those close to the gods odder still.
“We must make you comfortable,” Aeolus declared. “We are not often blessed with guests at our table, though we have had a richness of company in the last days.” He turned to his sons. “Go, and have your wives prepare beds and baths for our visitors. They will be weary and hungry. Summon my daughters hence and we will feast and hear their tales.”
“We thank you, Aeolus,” said Cadmus, as the sons of the Warden jumped to fulfill their father’s command. “As you have guessed, we seek Odysseus, and so we must defer your hospitality and continue after the King of Ithaca or we shall be unable to find him.”
“The fleet of Odysseus will not stop again until it reaches Ithaca,” Aeolus responded. “I have called a breeze from the west to blow his ships and their crews home. Stay, my friends, and for the pleasure of your company, I shall send you too to Ithaca with a wind that will see you arrive just a day after the Greek fleet.”
The Herdsmen could see no alternative but to agree. They certainly could not risk offending this man who could control the winds.
For their part, the family of Aeolus, who it seemed were the only inhabitants upon the isle but for a dozen servants, were the epitome of solicitousness and hospitality. His fair-haired daughters bathed Hero and rubbed fragrant oils into her skin. They clothed her in a tunic the colour of the sky, combed the short untidy crop of her hair, and set it with a diadem of gold. They talked warmly to her of common things, and asked her many questions about her brothers.
The sons of Agelaus were similarly well treated, bathed and admired by the women of the house. They emerged to feast with their hosts, clean and groomed, in fine tunics and splendid cloaks.
Hero qui
etly thanked her gods for the seeing them to so kind a destination. She knew her brothers would be anxious to set sail in pursuit of Odysseus, but with the help of Aeolus they would not fall far behind him by staying. It did bother her that their welcome was based on a false assumption, but the falsehood told was not theirs. It seemed Odysseus claimed the Herdsmen as allies though he must have known, before he sailed from Troy, that Agelaus had tricked him and most of their herds had been kept to feed the Trojans. After the fall, the Herdsmen had been hunted and many executed, by both the men of Scamandrios and the Greeks. Why Odysseus claimed that the Herdsmen had betrayed Troy was as perplexing as it was intolerable.
A true banquet had been set at the long table in the courtyard. Lanterns and candles bathed the area in a warm subdued glow as the sun had long set and the only the stars lit the sky above them. Lycon grabbed Hero’s hand, afraid that she would not see well enough to navigate through the courtyard in the soft light. The sons of Aeolus sat beside their sister-wives, who gazed openly at their guests. Hero and her brothers were seated together, close to Aeolus and his wife, Deimara.
Their host drank to their good health. “You will find that we have every luxury on Aeolia in plentiful supply, but for the company of other men,” he said. “You must forgive us then, for our enthusiasm to delay your travels and share your company for a while.”
“We are grateful for the generosity of your house,” Machaon replied as the motherly Deimara piled his plate with meat and poached fruit.
“We have these many days,” Aeolus continued, “been regaled with Odysseus’ tales of the sack of Troy. Never have we heard such an account of heroism and mercy. The Trojans must thank the gods that they fell to men of such compassion.”
The Herdsmen stiffened, surprised and affronted by the description of Odysseus’ story. In an age of brutal battles and ruthless kings, the sack of Troy and the murder of its women and children was a horror beyond the accepted atrocities of war. The bloodletting had been pitiless and even those who served in the temples of the gods had not been afforded the usual refuge.
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