A Sea of Sorrow

by Libbie Hawker

  As had Odysseus’s own pride. He should have turned his ships for home as soon as the spoils of Troy had been placed on board. Instead…hubris…he’d opted for a few more raids on the way home to bolster his share. Ostensibly to enrich his people further. But moreso—if he was brutally honest with himself—to hear the men of Ithaca hail him above all the others. Now the men of Ithaca were all dead, lost piecemeal these long years. How many other Ithacan sons were growing up without the benefit of an older man? How many wives and mothers grieved because he—wily Odysseus—hadn’t had the sense to take his fair share and sail back to them?

  He gritted his teeth as though by doing so he could clamp shut the maw of despair and guilt that opened up within him, forcing his ears to his son’s voice as Telemachus got to it. “I had thought to travel to your allies,” he explained. “Gather men to take back the kingdom from those that seek to wrest it from me.”

  Odysseus raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge. “So you have spears?”

  Telemachus looked down. “Your allies are weary of war,” he began and then launched into an epic tale of how he had travelled far and wide and how the once great men of Agamemnon’s war had grown old and unwilling (portraying himself in the best possible light, even though the mission had been an abject failure).

  Odysseus smiled. Smiled because he didn’t want Telemachus to see that he was disappointed and because—listening to the story that portrayed his son as victim of capricious and cowardly kings—that they were not so unalike after all. “Then we shall have to gather spears of our own,” he stated.

  “How?” This from Eumaeus. “I see now why you kept your disguise, Odysseus. There is not much love left for your house on Ithaca as I have told…NoOne,” he cracked a smile. “And even if there was, all the good men went with you to Troy. Are they all…?”

  “Yes,” Odysseus saw their faces, vibrant and alive in his mind’s eye. And he recalled how they had ended. “They’re gone.”

  “All of them?”

  Odysseus answered the question with his eyes; Eumaeus could not hold his gaze and looked to the floor. “My king,” he said at length. “Those men that are left here are old. Or crippled. Or both. Even if they were willing to rise up, which they should have done by now,” he threw a glance at Telemachus who didn’t notice, “they won’t be much good in a fight.”

  “Men of Ithaca are always good in a fight,” he stated with kingly confidence he did not feel. “I have returned. I will rally all to my cause. And then I will slaughter these suitors and those that have aided them. Eumaeus…”

  “I’ll put the word about,” he said. “Quietly. People still listen to me,” he added.

  “I will go and inform mother of my…and your return,” Telemachus said, eager to be part of it.

  “I do not wish her—or anyone else—to know.” Odysseus said quickly.

  “But why—she will be overjoyed…”

  “Son, how long do you think I’d last if the suitors got word that I was here—without spears at my back?”

  “Oh,” Telemachus looked dejected. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Eumaeus will gather the men for a secret assembly,” Odysseus said. “You will return to the great house and tell your mother and these suitors of your journey…you will tell them what you told me. That the warriors of Troy are now old and gone to seed. That you are alone. That may play into our hands. When I have gathered a force, we will strike. When they are drunk and unready.”

  “How will you know when that is?”

  “Because Outis the Beggar will dare to go to the great house and learn of it,” Odysseus grinned. “If I was able to convince a man that knows me well—in my disguise—then I am sure that I will fool strangers too.”

  “Father. Are you sure the men will follow you? What will you say to them?”

  Odysseus blinked, confronted once again with the cost of his absence. The boy should’ve been absorbing the art of kingship at his knee.

  He clapped his son on the back. “You will soon see.”

  There were no torches—Odysseus had expressly told Eumaeus that the gathering was to be kept secret; there was to be one flame and one flame only and that was the fire before which he would stand. He had spent a while choosing the right location—by the sea, where the darkness was thick and he could stand at a cave-mouth, illuminated by the glare.

  In the darkness, he waited, adjusting Eumaeus’s old armor. It was falling to pieces and they’d had to use twine to keep it in one piece, but at least the boar’s tusk helmet was still strong and the spear was tall, but blunted. Under the eye of the moon, he would at least look like a king.

  He moved around the fire, standing in the shadows of the cave mouth, the smell of smoke and brine from the sea heavy in his nostrils. Beyond, Eumaeus’s quavering voice was telling the men to quiet, that soon all “would be revealed”. Which, Odysseus thought was as good a time as any to make his entrance.

  He stepped out from the cave and, steadying himself with the spear, climbed onto a rock so that all might see him. With the light behind him, his eyes were not dimmed and he noted that there was a sizeable gathering. The murmuring stopped as all eyes turned to him.

  “The king has returned!” Eumaeus lifted his voice over the night time hiss of the waves clawing at the shore.

  Odysseus waited, letting that sink in. His eyes swept the assembled men and he nodded slowly. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice raw. “My countrymen. My brothers. My people…” he trailed off and took a shaky breath. He had not expected this sudden surge of emotion that clogged his throat. “I had thought never to see you or my beloved Ithaca again. Yet—by the gods—here I stand, hale and whole…and yet much has changed.”

  “You’re right about that!” someone shouted. “The best of our men are dead across the sea! My son never returned…”

  “Nor mine!” another shout, which was taken up by more of them. Odysseus let their outrage wash over him. He didn’t know why the gods had taken all his men but the least he could do for them was stand tall and look into the faces of grief of the families they’d left. He could almost feel the shades of every one of his men standing behind him, watching, just as bewildered as he was as to why he—and not they—had washed upon the rocky shore of their beloved homeland.

  “The House of Odysseus is cursed!” someone called out.

  “Peace!” Odysseus called, holding up one hand, the other reflexively tightening on his spear. Everyone stilled. Within the deep, hoarse timber of their king’s voice, they recognized the call of the warrior king whose brilliance had conquered Troy. It was their king and their land that would be immortalized by his gods-led actions. The sense that the gods themselves were watching their response to him humbled them and they quieted.

  “That I stand here before you is—by the gods—proof that the House of Odysseus is not cursed. The gods have willed my return. Will you argue with them? Or see what they intend by my presence on this beloved shore: to put my house in order and bring prosperity back to the land that I love.”

  “You’ve been gone twenty years,” Eumaeus said as Odysseus had instructed him to. “We know the war took half of that. But all the other kings that fought in Agamemnon’s War have returned home, their ships groaning with Trojan gold. King Odysseus…what happened to you? What happened to our sons? What happened to our share of the riches?”

  “That is a long story,” Odysseus said, and sat himself down on the rock. “I hope you have brought wine, friends,” he added. They had—of course they had, they were Ithacans—and they too settled down on the sands. “Having brought about the downfall of Troy with my stratagem, we sacked the city. My hulls too were riding low on the water because as the king who had brought the Trojans low, I was granted a greater share. En route to Ithaca, my fleet was blown off course. Only through my efforts did we escape total disaster…at sea at least. Friends, we found ourselves on a foreign shore. I sent the men to gather supplies and fresh water…b
ut the women of the island, eager and willing as they seemed, gave some of our number a magical plant that robbed them of their will and their senses… the Island of the Lotus Eaters should have been the end of us.

  “But I managed to lead our men to safety. So home we sailed—till once again our supplies ran low. We beached at an island and found a cave loaded with all the provisions we could desire. Though I abstained, my men…well…as men will…they lost themselves in their cups and drank too much. It was then that we learned that the cave belonged to a giant…yes,” he shouted over the gasps of disbelief. “Worse, he had only one eye in the middle of his forehead. Polyphemos was his name. He was worse than a giant…he was a Kyklops. Yes! He blocked the cave with a rock so huge only he could move it…and took to eating the flesh my men!”

  And so it went on. Odysseus sang them a song of bravery, of myth and of monsters and of how he—and he alone—was the man that managed to live through it all. He had them cheering at his cleverness of outwitting the Kyklops but how that—in blinding him—he had brought upon himself the wrath of the Sea God, carefully avoiding the truth that he’d blinded and killed an innocent man in a self-righteous rage of bloodlust.

  He cried and sobbed as he spoke of Circe and how she had bewitched him, how his men had been turned to swine, even as he fought the shame of the truth—of how he had wronged her and allowed his men to abuse her women and her land. The tears were real if the story that they sprang from was not.

  Guilt over not helping a desperate woman singing atop a rock for rescue was transmuted into a story of wily escape from a clawed, winged, foul, monster of destruction.

  He wove regret and madness and shame into shining stories of his triumph, even as he realized that he had—ultimately—brought it all on himself. Here was Odysseus the King that had led his men to their doom, let his kingdom fall into ruin and let his wife rule alone for many years. With each adventure, he drew them more into the palm of his hand, his tale as epic as any bard could muster—better, in fact, because his was a story woven on bitter truth with the ink of the gaudy fantastic daubed on to hide the horrific reality. He spoke often of Penelope and of his longing for her and here at least there were no more lies. Here at least he could bear his soul—and in doing so made his people weep as he did. They wept for him, and he hated himself for it.

  By the time Odysseus spoke of the kindness of the Phaeacians, their rich gifts—stolen once again by Poseidon, he knew that the men of Ithaca were his once again. “…And when I return home, to my beloved land, naked and alone, what do I find? Our fields lying fallow, abused by these…suitors…who would seek to oust my son from his birthright and take my woman as their own?” He stood now, ignoring the painful creaking in his back and knees after such a prolonged period sitting on the rocks. “I won’t stand for it. The gods have returned me to lead you, my countrymen, to glory. We will take back what is ours and kill those who have sought to take it from us. Ithaca will be great again! I will make it so. We will make it so. And all men will know that it is not the House of Odysseus that is cursed…but rather that any man that seeks to cross my and mine will find himself cursed—cursed to die at our hands!”

  They cheered him. Old habits died hard.

  Wily Odysseus had spun a great story: like all great stories, it bore enough truth to sing real. No one wanted to hear the hum-drum reality: they wanted to follow a king that fought with gods and titans, a king whose daring and intelligence knew no bounds. The rules had not changed a jot since Agamemnon’s War. How many of them—Achaean and Trojan both—claimed divine ancestry to inspire awe and love in their own ranks and fear and foreboding in the enemy.

  Odysseus reckoned that—sooner or later—some bard would be saying that the gods themselves had entered the fray.

  And people would believe it. They’d believe it because they wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it. And who was he to stand in their way?

  It was the following evening and despite it all, Odysseus was buoyed by the swaying of his Ithacan men. His past he could not undo. But he could try to make things right. With the help of his people. Even now, the old-timers were at their huts, sharpening their spears and hammering the dents from rusted helms.

  For his own part, the spear and armor had gone. Odysseus limped alongside Eumaeus in the twilight—Outis—NoOne—once again, leaning on a thick shepherd’s staff.

  The swineherd regarded him. “I still can’t believe my eyes,” he said. “How you can go from king to beggar like this. Truly—Athena loves you, my king.”

  Odysseus shot him a warning glance. “Careful. One slip like that in there and I’m a dead man.”

  Eumaeus flushed. “I’m sorry.”

  Odysseus laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Better you screw it up now than in front of our enemies.” Eumaeus walked taller after that, a man forgiven by his king, a man involved in a mission that gave him great honor. And, given Eumaeus’s advanced years—it would likely be his last. Indeed, Odysseus reckoned that—his oratory and stories aside—that was why the old men of Ithaca had resolved to back him: who could resist one last chance to prove he was a man again? To go back to his wife with fresh scars and have her look at him the way she looked at him when he had been in his pomp.

  Would Penelope look on him in such a way, he wondered. Or would she see through the disguise and the half-truths? Of course she would: she had always been clever—that was why he loved her so. The best he could hope would that she—as so many wives chose to do—would blind herself to what she knew her husband must have done when he was away playing at being a man and a king.

  He pushed the melancholy from his thoughts. He had to focus on the task at hand or he may well wind up dead before sunrise. “So,” he said to Eumaeus. “We’ll assess the situation and see how it plays out. Once I’m satisfied, I’ll give you the signal.

  “Telemachus and the men will be waiting,” the swineherd affirmed.

  “Then…we’ll finish this.”

  They walked on and approached the town proper. Despite himself, Odysseus felt a sense of trepidation. He had faced many perils in his life yet before each travail, each test of skill and nerve, he felt the same way. Sometimes he envied men like Achilles and Ajax who weren’t afraid of anything. Then again, they were dead and he was still alive.

  He saw a man coming towards them, a little unsteady—clearly in his cups. “Who the fuck is that piece of shit, Eumaeus!” he bawled. It was…Odysseus tried to remember…Melanthius! He was a goatherd and, like Eumaeus, long in the tooth now and swaying as he walked.

  “Outis,” Eumaeus replied. “A beggar, come to seek his fortune. I can’t keep him anymore—I’m taking him to the great house.”

  “What an idle bastard,” Melanthius looked “Outis” up and down with some distaste. “Foreigner, aren’t you? Just like those fucking suitors.” Even at five paces, Odysseus could almost smell the wine emanating from him. “Yeah,” he went on. “Dirty foreign bastards landing on our shores and sponging off our queen. Bet you’ve never done a day’s work in your life, beggar,” he sneered.

  “I was a sailor,” Odysseus said, keeping his eyes averted.

  “Well sail away from Ithaca,” Melanthius snarled. “We’re sick of you lot. And don’t think that you’ll get any joy from the suitors either,” he made off. “They’ll kick the shit out of you. And you,” he pointed at Eumaeus as he tottered away. “You shouldn’t encourage the likes of him.”

  “There’s such a thing as guest-friendship!” Eumaeus called after him, but Melanthius just made a dirty gesture and turned his back.

  “Did he make the gathering last night?” Odysseus asked as they continued on their way.

  “Oh yes,” Eumaeus couldn’t help but laugh. “Last night, he was signing Odysseus’s praises. Tonight, he’s cursing him to his face. Funny how it goes, eh?”

  Just then Odysseus spied a group of young men walking with purpose some way up ahead. “Is that them?”

  “Some of the
m,” Eumaeus said.

  Odysseus’s anger spiked at the sight of the men sauntering toward the great house as though they owned the place. They were laughing, joking amongst themselves, hale and hearty, confident in the immortality of their youth. Balling his fists, Odysseus rose to his full height for a moment, ready to sprint over and bash their brains in with his staff...but then he gathered himself and shrank back down, the itinerant beggar once again.

  With Eumaeus, he walked the once familiar path to the house that had once been his home. It looked the same from without and—on another day—he would have been overcome with emotion. But the bile of anger still sat in his gut like naphtha—he just wanted to see the worst of it now.

  There were no guards, he noted as he shuffled towards the big, wooden doors. That was a good thing—but the fact that these suitors were so confident in their ownership of this place that they didn’t even see fit to post men on duty raised his ire further.

  Eumaeus shouldered his way in front of him. “You’re the beggar, remember?” the old boy scolded. He pushed the door to the great house open and the sound washed over them, the booming laughter of men and the tittering giggles of serving girls, the smell of roasting meat—his roasting meat, the sweet tang of wine—his wine, the buzz of conversation, the fug of smoke; it reeked of manliness and all the rage of the cuckold surged through Odysseus.

  He limped in Eumaeus’s wake, his eyes drawn to the dais and the sight of her drained the wrath from him.

  Penelope.

  Cronos had not touched her—she was still as beautiful as the first day he had seen her, and the last. He recalled that he’d tricked her with this same disguise years ago and how it had delighted her when he revealed himself. Would she, he wondered, see through it now? No—if time had not touched his wife, it certainly had marked him.