Odysseus argued with Eurylochus for a time but in the end he relented.
“I am one man against many,” he said, “and you force my hand. Very well, but each man must give me his solemn oath that we shall kill neither head of cattle nor fat sheep in wanton folly. We will make do with the rations that we have.”
The men of Odysseus agreed readily and the blue-prowed ship was brought in to anchor in a sheltered cove, supplied by a small stream with fresh water. The sons of Agelaus were allowed to disembark, though they remained in irons. The chain that was attached to their ankles was fastened to a large oak to prevent their escape. After that they were essentially ignored as the Greeks sought companionship in each other.
Machaon examined Cadmus’ wound. The blood had now slowed, though the cloak they had used to press it was soaked dark red. He had a feeling they should clean the wound, but from where they were secured they could not reach the water. Lycon also looked worried. Cadmus was in pain and he was angry. He cursed the predator of the strait as his brothers tried to make him comfortable.
After a short time, Eurylochus walked over to them. He gave them a small goatskin of wine, another of water, and some bread as well as a leather pouch containing a dark powder.
“Use the wine to clean the wound,” he said tersely. “Apply this powdered root before you bind it, and it will heal.”
The Herdsmen were astounded by this unexpected act of kindness.
“Thank you,” said Machaon. “We are in your debt.”
“You will repay your debt at the benches,” Eurylochus replied. “Odysseus does not pull the oars,” he went on bitterly. “He does not understand the difference a single man can make to the burden each oarsman bears. Our king is as reckless with our labours as he is with our lives!”
With that, Eurylochus stalked back to where the Greeks had gathered to prepare a meal.
Lycon smiled. “The good Eurylochus seems somewhat disgruntled with the King of Ithaca.”
Machaon turned to Cadmus. “Did you hear what Eurylochus said?”
“I take it that this will hurt?” said Cadmus, glancing at the wine.
“Probably quite a lot.”
“What about the powder — do you think it’s safe?” asked Lycon
“The Greeks have always had good healers,” Machaon replied, “and Eurylochus clearly wants Cad back at the oars.”
“Okay,” sighed Cadmus. “Let’s get this over with.”
Lycon braced Cadmus whilst Machaon flushed the wound with the deep red wine. He covered the torn flesh with the black powder and then bound the area with strips torn from Lycon’s cloak. Cadmus was ashen but he said nothing. He knew well enough that their best chance for survival was to attract as little attention as possible.
When he had finished, Machaon gave his brother the goatskin of wine. “Drink what’s left Cad,” he advised. “We probably should have had you take a couple of swigs before we cleaned the wound.”
“Yes, we probably should have,” Cadmus returned, glaring at him.
Machaon stood and pulled down some of the dead branches that hung low on the oak’s trunk. He broke them across his knee and gathered enough fuel to build a fire. He was aware that now neither he nor Lycon had cloaks, and the night was beginning to cool dramatically. He was not a healer, but he had a vague idea that they should keep Cadmus warm whilst the black powder of Eurylochus did its work.
The warmth of the fire and the remains of the wine saw Cadmus fall into a fitful sleep.
“Do you think Hero’s okay?” asked Lycon as he and Machaon sat watching the Greeks.
For a moment the eldest son of Agelaus was silent.
“The sea was clear between Aeaea and the lands of the Cyclopes, and the Greeks are with us,” he said finally. He glanced at Lycon, seeing the fear and guilt in the boy’s eyes. “She’ll be fine, Ly. Hero is a lot stronger than we give her credit for.”
“Her grotesque body is sunk deep into the black cavern, but her heads emerge from the abyss so that she may fish ... from every passing ship she seizes a man with each of her heads and bears them off as prey.”
The Odyssey Book XII
BOOK XX
HERO’S PROGRESS WAS SLOW as there was little wind to fill the sails. Still the Phaeacian ship bore her steadily across the sea. She stayed by the prow and spoke gently to the faithful craft.
“Look after me, my friend,” she murmured. “I am not at home on the waves, and it is not my custom to travel without my brave and able brothers. I miss them. Help me find them, help me help them, for they do not look after themselves as well as they do me ... and they can be really stupid ... especially Cadmus ... ”
The sleek strong prow seemed to arch sympathetically in response.
The day was quiet. In her loneliness Hero spoke to the ship, and to her gods, neither of whom said much in reply. When the night closed in, she wrapped herself in a Cyclopean blanket and curled into the company of the high prow. There she prayed until sleep found her.
When Eos shot her gold and crimson arrows into the heavens, Hero awoke to land in the distance. To her frail eyes the island was just a blur that broke the blue. Agelaus’ beloved daughter wondered if this was where Odysseus had taken her brothers. She put her trust in her loyal ship and asked it again to find the sons of Agelaus. The ship did not turn its prow to the island but drifted slowly past in the hesitant breeze.
Hero did not see the Sirens, but they saw her. Their enchantment was for men, and so when they sang, she listened, captivated but not captured. Their mesmerising voices came across the water as they sang their prophecy.
“Hero, draw near, pious child, treasured daughter
Seeking her noble brothers through this perilous water
The flower of Greek chivalry sailed his black ship past
And he listened to our song from the safety of his mast
Beware the strait ahead, child Agelaus thought so fair
Scylla takes only men but Charybdis does not care.”
A chill came over Hero as she heard the song. The music was enthralling but the words made her feel cold. She wondered what kind of creature sang thus, and wished her brothers were there to tell her what they could see.
She put her small hand on the living prow of the Phaeacian ship. “Look after me, my friend,” she said again.
They sailed on spasmodically, through that day and the next, spending long periods becalmed. It was sunset when Hero first heard the roaring scream of waters being sucked to the sea bottom and the explosion as they were thrown to the surface again. She knew they were in a strait. The sound bounced off the rock walls and seemed to buffet the small ship on the churning waters with its echo. Hero clung to the ship’s sides and she raised her voice in prayer.
“Hail Poseidon, son of Cronos, lord of the sea, protector of ships ... ,” she began, and in this way she kept her panic in check as the amazing Phaeacian ship skirted the twisting waters and hugged the cliffs, navigating past the thing called Charybdis.
Hero was soaked by the spray and hoarse from trying to shout her devotions over the roar of the water. She was completely unprepared for the horror that descended from above. Six faces, which came down upon long writhing necks, visions of menace and dread. Eyes of solid colour and bestial jaws that dripped blood. And yet they were somehow feminine. Fear took Hero’s voice and she could not even scream as the repugnant countenances hovered in front of her. The whiteless eyes regarded her. “Scylla,” they hissed in unison. “I am Scylla. Have you no men aboard?”
Hero shook her head slowly.
“Beware!” the creature gasped. “Beware men, they are treacherous. Every creature is their prey.” And then the long necks flexed and whipped the heads back to the black cave that descended to Hades itself.
Hero collapsed upon the deck, sobbing with relief. A wind rose from the north. Perhaps Poseidon had finally answered her prayers, perhaps it was chance, or perhaps it was the breath of Scylla, who it seemed, wished her no harm.
The Phaeacian ship surged forward, though it still held its course close to the rocks and away from Charybdis’ grasp.
By the time they pulled clear of the strait, night had dropped its dark mantle across the sea. The ship’s sails remained taut for a time and then the sea was becalmed once more.
Though it was cold, Hero slept again in the company of the prow, trying desperately to keep the ferocious and unfathomably sad faces of Scylla from her dreams.
“The fat cattle you have seen are the property of the Sun who sees and hears everything that goes on in this world”
The Odyssey Book VII
BOOK XXI
THE WIND HOWLED THROUGH the unseen cracks and crevices of the large sandy-floored cave in which they found themselves. If Lycon closed his eyes he could almost believe the howls were the calls of their kinsmen come to rescue them. But it was just the gale that had besieged the crew since the third watch of their first night on the island of the Sun.
The Greeks had found this cavern, and dragged the blue-prowed ship into its shelter at the first light of day. They had not seen Eos, for black clouds blotted the sky, and the only measure of the passing of days was the relative lightness of the grey. It appeared that the Greeks’ supplies had been low, for all their rations had been consumed in that first meal. They had been in the cave for two days now.
As the men began to feel the keen pangs of hunger, the mood deteriorated and quickly became quarrelsome. The Greeks began to fight amongst themselves. Odysseus sat apart from them, watching thoughtfully, apparently happy to have his men match off against each other if it ensured that, distracted by such contests, they did not touch the herds and flocks of the island.
The sons of Agelaus remained in their long chains, now secured to a rock, watching with amusement as the Greeks competed. Lycon scratched the walls of the cave with a jagged stone.
“What are you writing now?” Machaon asked.
“The Sons of Agelaus were here.”
“Very profound.”
“Never claimed to be a poet, Mac.”
Lycon flinched as a burly Ithacan was thrown to the sandy cave floor.
“At least they’re not trying to throw the discus,” he muttered.
The matches continued with each victor facing the next challenger. The stocky helmsman, who was known as Philomedes and often proclaimed his noble blood, turned suddenly and faced Machaon.
“Come herder,” he sneered. “Let us see you match your strength against your masters ... no slave has had a better opportunity.”
Machaon rolled his eyes. He said nothing.
“Do you fear a beating, boy? Are you just some pretty creature who merely appears to be a man?”
Still Machaon did not reply.
“Stand up herder and I will give you the beating of your life!”
The Greeks responded enthusiastically. They did not wait for Machaon to accept the challenge, but instead unshackled and pushed him forth.
Cadmus and Lycon watched unconcerned. The Herdsmen did not fight for sport but they had been known to bring down young bulls with their bare hands when necessary. Philomedes was broad and, typically for the men of Ithaca, belligerent. But Machaon was strong, and he was able.
Machaon stood quite casually in the ring formed by the goading men of Odysseus. He looked around at their excited faces as they began to clap an eager rhythm. He shook his head. The Greeks had the most ridiculous pastimes.
Philomedes launched towards him with a roar. Machaon stood his ground and repelled the man quite easily. The crew jeered Philomedes and spurred him on. His next assault was fiercer, but not much more effective.
Cadmus sat forward cautiously, and smiled. It appeared his brother would teach the Greek helmsman a lesson.
The match between the warrior and the captive continued in that vein for a time. Machaon did not raise his arm to strike often but when he did so it was with shattering force. Philomedes did not seem able to make any sort of impact at all. The shouts and clapping of the Greeks became more aggressive as their champion floundered at the hands of the Herdsman, who still seemed entirely disinterested in the contest.
And then it changed. Philomedes’ blows found their mark and Machaon’s defences seemed to disappear. Cadmus and Lycon both stiffened, alarmed by the unexpected turn. The helmsman sent Machaon to the ground with his fist, and continued his frenzied assault. Machaon accepted the blows without resistance. In the end, Eurylochus pulled Philomedes away.
“We still need the boy to row!” he said, dragging Machaon to his feet and returning him to the shackles.
The cavern echoed with the din of the Ithacans congratulating and cheering their comrade, and then the contests began anew.
“What in Hades were you doing, Mac?” Lycon demanded quietly as his brother wiped the blood from his mouth.
Machaon smiled. “What do you see in front of you, Ly?” he asked.
“The Greeks, fighting each other again.”
“And who are they challenging?”
“Philomedes.”
Machaon nodded. “If I’d beaten the man, then one by one, they all would have challenged me. This way I’m sitting here, and they’re all trying to hit Philomedes.”
“You let him win?” said Cadmus gloomily.
Machaon smiled. “It seemed like the wise thing to do ... the Greeks are happy ... ” Machaon motioned towards the men who applauded and celebrated as they watched another man challenge the victorious Philomedes. “They’re less likely to kill us if they’re happy.”
“Still ... ,” said Cadmus, obviously dissatisfied with the outcome. “You could have won easily.”
“Winning is a Greek obsession,” Machaon replied. “We are Herdsmen ... at least I am ... You could well have been sired by a Greek ... you should be careful ... ”
“Shut up,” said Cadmus as he watched the men who struggled in the dirt before them with distaste. “That’s not funny.”
In time Odysseus addressed his men.
“My friends,” he said as he gathered his sword and bow. “I leave you to your entertainments. I am going to walk inland and make supplications to the gods for an end to this terrible gale so that we may sail towards home again.”
His men waved him on his way, anxious to return to their wrestling, and Odysseus walked from the cave to face the wind and beseech the gods.
Eventually the Greeks became tired of their competition and their hunger returned, sharpened by their exertions. Odysseus had not come back. In his absence the men looked to Eurylochus for leadership, and Eurylochus worked his mischief.
“My long-suffering friends,” said he. “Whilst it is the natural disposition of man to fear all forms of death, surely the most wretched is the slow pinch of starvation.”
They all agreed.
“A truly miserable end.”
“I am so hungry.”
“I have a proposition, my friends,” Eurylochus went on. “Let us round up the best of the Sun’s cattle and slaughter them in honour of the immortals, who watch us from the broad sky. Let us pledge that, when we return to Ithaca, we shall erect a great temple in honour of Helios the Sun, who provided these cattle in our time of need. We will fill his temple with treasures. If this pledge is not enough to appease him, then I say that an end by gulping water in the open sea is preferable to death by slow degrees in a land of plenty!”
The hungry men cheered in response, and Eurylochus’ plan was adopted.
“Gods these people are stupid!” muttered Lycon. “They’ll never get away with this.”
“Eat nothing,” warned Machaon. “Hopefully the gods are taking note of who did what.”
By the time Odysseus returned, several head had been caught and slaughtered, for the cattle of the Sun were gentle, naïve creatures that had never known predators. The King of Ithaca was furious, but it was too late. There was nothing to do but wait for the prophecy to unfold.
That night the Greeks feasted, but Odysseus and the sons of Agelaus ate
nothing.
“This is torture,” moaned Lycon as the smell of roasting meat assailed his empty stomach.
Machaon handed him a goatskin of water. “Here, drink this,” he said. “It will still be many days before we starve.”
“Happy thought,” Cadmus murmured, gingerly moving his arm to test how well his shoulder had healed. The action was not painless but the black powder of Eurylochus had certainly closed the wound well.
“How long do you think before the gods make their displeasure known?” Lycon whispered.
“Think it might already be happening,” Machaon replied. He moved his eyes towards Eurylochus who was flattened against the wall of the cave, his face a mask of terror. He gazed at the discarded hide of the cow they had just devoured.
“Look!” he screamed, “the hide crawls as if it were still upon the back of the beast that grew it.”
The Herdsmen could see no movement, but a few of the crew seemed to share Eurylochus’ vision.
In an attempt to end the madness Odysseus threw the skin upon the flames. And then others heard the carcass groaning and lowing as it turned on the spit, and still others were convinced that the roasted meat bled.
“This does not bode well,” Cadmus murmured as Odysseus struggled to calm the panic.
When they awoke the next morning the sun seemed to stare accusingly into the mouth of the cavern. The satiated Ithacans were, however, buoyant. They packed the remains of the slaughtered cattle into the hold, and pulled the blue-prowed ship back into the water.
The sons of Agelaus were returned to their benches, still in the irons that shackled them to each other. Even with the Herdsmen, there were now three oars unmanned.
“My brother is still injured,” Machaon said to Odysseus.
The king looked at the empty benches. “He will row or die.”
Cadmus took the wooden shaft. “It’s all right Mac,” he said. “I don’t think the gods will allow us to row far in any case.”
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