The Lost Books of the Odyssey

by Zachary Mason

  I raised my spear but hesitated because among the tangle of her necks I saw a seventh head, not a monster’s but a young woman’s, with milk-white skin and sodden filthy hair. She caught my eye and shouting to be heard over the wind said, “You are the fate that has been haunting me since I was born. I huddled in my high cave for fear of you, starving and wretched, venturing out only to snatch a little food when I could. I thought of hiding in a deep cavern or on a high mountain but I was too afraid to leave home. Mine has been a miserable life and now it is ending and I wish I had never heard the name Odysseus.”

  *Circe’s island.

  *On Apollo’s island were his sacred cattle, which were immortal, or at any rate ageless, and which he prized highly.

  DEATH AND THE KING

  Graceful young men and women moved in small groups over the gentle slopes of Mount Ida, circulating around the temple of Quickness* where Helen sat receiving suitors with gracious brevity and a marble smile. The three most eminent bachelors were Odysseus, unmatched for intelligence, Agamemnon, who would one day be king of all Mycenae, and his brother Menelaus, who never quit.

  Her father Tyndareus had been in a quandary, as he had just the one daughter but could not afford to offend the many princes who must necessarily go home bachelors. He had therefore abdicated the decision to the goddess, and, to forestall future problems, had made each suitor swear that, should Helen be kidnapped, he would go to war to help recover her. As the suitors assembled on the temple steps, a white heifer was led out of the coolness of the shrine and stood blinking in the sun. Tyndareus said, “The groom will be the one closest to the victim,” and cut the beast’s throat. Odysseus, who was devoted to Quickness and confident of his chances, peered into the shadowy precincts of the temple and saw the idol smile at him with pity and affection and then turn her gaze toward Menelaus. The cow hesitated, then took a few tottering steps toward Menelaus and collapsed at his feet, wetting his thighs with her blood, and the suitors felt that there was a stranger among them. Helen laughed delightedly, either at the death or their dismay, and in the clarity of disappointment Odysseus realized that this was the first time he had seen her show emotion. It also occurred to him that however close Menelaus had been to the dying animal, Death was closer.

  Menelaus took Helen back with him to Sparta but there was no peace in his victory because as soon as he was home the dreams began. Every night he dreamed he flew in lazy circles high over a dark place where he knew there was but could not see a city. Scattered points of light appeared, moving inward. He flew lower and the lights became torches in the hands of soldiers and then the city started burning, the army swarming in over the walls like sparks flowing back into a fire. He lost sight of the soldiers in the thickening smoke and tried to go lower. Then the wind changed and he was on the ground again and the soldiers lay dead around him, their bodies already stiff and pale though they showed no outward wounds. He walked among the bodies for a while and then he was on the walls of the now silent polis. Looking down (he knew he should not but could not help himself), he saw that the walls descended into the earth endlessly, vertiginously, layer upon layer of cold stone stretching down into darkness forever.

  Every night he woke from this dream weeping but dried his tears before Helen could see them. Ashamed, he swore never to be afraid of mortal men or of the gods or even of death. As his wedding day receded into the past the dream faded but his resolve did not. He acquired the habit of smothering his fear with reckless bravado—he dove deeper than his friends in the coastal seas, rode breakneck over rough hills and more than once went first over an enemy wall, made so fast by terror that no spear or sword could touch him. By the time he was twenty*he believed he had conquered fear and valued himself highly for it. It was pride in his courage that made him open his gates to King Death, who, though famous for his hospitality, was used to getting none in return.

  Death, who in those parts most often went by the name Paris, was a tall pale man with colorless eyes and flaxen hair. At first glance he looked like a thirty-year-old who had never been in the sun but the translucence of his skin, the formality of his bearing and the perfect blankness of his eyes made him upon consideration seem older, and older, and finally as old as night. He showed up at the palace gates without any retainers, clad in old black armor, knocking rhythmically and loud. The porter demanded his name and country and got a quiet answer. He went trembling to Menelaus and told him who had come. Menelaus did not hesitate, though he became very grim, and went out through the now empty courtyard to admit his guest.

  Death must have been unaccustomed to a guest’s portion but he played his part with courtesy. When the wine came, he poured a libation to Zeus the All-Father, who some said was his brother, saluted Menelaus and his knights and bowed to Helen, whose radiance seemed to light up the dark and smoky hall, though it and she were tolerably cold. As courtesy required, Menelaus spoke first of his own affairs, but when the wine was down to the dregs he asked the pale man how things did in his kingdom. Death said that though he was the ruler of but a single city he had many subjects and none had yet complained for want of room. He spoke of vast, heavy silence, of shadows moving over fields of asphodel, of the somnolent trickling of the waters of Hell, of the company of the august dead—Minos the judge, wise in all things, bluff Orion hunting the spirits of animals through the endless gloaming, and the mortal part of Hercules standing in the River Styx and looking pensively toward Mount Olympus, where his immortal twin disported himself among the gods. Finally Death said that for all he was master of shadows he had of late begun to pine for brightness, and with a sidelong glance at Helen rose and went away to his room.

  That night Menelaus lay uneasily next to Helen. He dreamed that Death came into their chamber like winter. Death’s eyes were cold and bright, his breath was frost, his armor was the void and now there was no mistaking him for a man. Death leaned over Helen and whispered in her ear. Menelaus could not quite make out what he said but his mind was full of dead suns, ancient cities made of ice, cold still things, quiet and thoughtful, on the edge of slipping into nothing. Of falling forever. Death drew her up out of bed and pulled her face into his chest and the dream faded.

  In the morning Helen was gone and so was his guest—not only that but the wine he had drunk was spilled on the flags of the banquet hall and his meat lay on the bench unchewed, the dogs shunning it. Menelaus strapped on his sword and rode to see Agamemnon, now the High King, to tell him he meant to bring war to Death’s city.

  Menelaus and Agamemnon invoked the betrothal oath and called up all the men who owed them service. They told their recruits only that Helen was gone and that they were making war on a great king in the East to get her back. The most intractable and desirable recruit was Odysseus, who had in the years since the wedding kept to Ithaca, his island kingdom, and spent his days in contemplation in Quickness’s shrine.

  Menelaus went to Ithaca, found Odysseus at prayer and demanded that he arm himself and come with him. Without getting up, Odysseus observed that he was indifferent to Menelaus’s domestic problems and that in light of Menelaus’s bad breeding Helen had probably left of her own accord, thereby negating the compact. Menelaus, implacable, said that he would bind Odysseus and bring him as a slave if not as a companion. Odysseus invited him to try and blood was in the air when on impulse Menelaus told him the name of the personage with whom he quarreled. Odysseus hesitated, glanced at his altar, sighed and said, “Your enemy is a terrible one but it seems I must go with you,” and took his spear down from the wall.

  They left Ithaca on a mirror-clear night, the ships sweeping through black water and reflected stars. Soon the dark hulls ground on the sands of Ilium, Death’s country, the white sails were furled, and they leapt down onto the shingle with weapons in hand. The sand crackled underfoot—Odysseus scooped up a handful and saw that it was made up of ground bone, tiny fragments of tooth, skull and vertebrae. They pitched their tents on the shore in the shadow of Ilium’s tall j
agged walls and the odor of the charnel smoke rising from its towers. The augurs stared forlornly at the birdless sky.

  The next morning the Greeks mustered to attack. As they drew near Ilium’s massive gate and spike-surmounted walls they wavered, even Agamemnon hesitating, but Menelaus was indifferent both to his men and to terror and he led the way, eyes shining, without looking back to see if they followed. Passing the black tree growing before the gate of Ilium, Menelaus struck the gate three times with the pommel of his bronze sword.

  A fog came down on them just as they were bringing up their battering ram—on that much, everyone afterwards agreed. From there, the stories diverged. Some spoke of stumbling out of the fog onto an endless plain of frost where they wandered for days without seeing any evidence of living things except, sometimes, their own footprints. Some found a palace woven of giant bones from which rushed grey warriors with grim faces who shrugged off even the cruelest blows. Others spoke of a grey devil sitting on a stone who sang dirges in answer to their shouted questions.

  Many Greeks died in battle but some of them came back to take their places in line with the living, their wounds still open but no longer bleeding. Menelaus did not like it but he did not fall short of men. Sometimes Death’s army sallied forth from Ilium, full of rage, but their passion was quickly spent and often his soldiers would stop in the middle of battle as though transfixed by a sudden inspiration, their gazes fixed on the horizon, motionless, even as the rejoicing, vindictive Greeks hacked them to pieces.

  The high walls of Death’s city became the ubiquitous background of the Greeks’ dreams. There was a universal sense of oppression to which only Menelaus was immune—he fought with delighted abandon, never giving ground, always attacking. He would face a thicket of spears alone if his men’s courage failed, but he was never wounded or even tired. His tent was the only one in camp from which laughter was heard and his recklessness and apparent contempt for his enemy gave heart to his soldiers. Agamemnon strove to follow his brother’s example, and though he could not be as careless he fought valiantly against the soldiers of Death—he cursed and roared, hacked through cold flesh, caught them and bound them and burned them in pits.

  As for Odysseus, Quickness carried him. When he was a child he had seen her frequently—she had played games with him in the woods behind his father’s house and instructed him in the use of the bow. She had been more reticent since he had grown up, only appearing to him when he killed his first man and once after five days of fasting. Now he could always feel her with him, hovering nearby him in battle, turning aside arrows and stones, whispering in his ear when to push the attack and when to flee. One night as he resharpened his sword, dull from hacking through the stiffened sinews of the dead, he asked her why, since she protected him, she did not commit herself fully and blast his enemies with lightning? She said nothing but he could feel her amusement and had the sense that she was biding her time.

  The war dragged on. Clouds hid the sun for months at a time and the warriors’ tanned faces turned pale. Not all the apparitions were enemies—Agamemnon swore that when he had been cornered by Ilium’s gates his long-dead great-grandfather had appeared, hefted his old boar-spear and laughed while he spitted the menacing ghouls. Menelaus lost weight and there were black rings under his eyes but he never faltered in his singularity of purpose. As for Odysseus, he woke one morning to a strange sound—he went into the tent next to his and found Karéte, a second cousin on his mother’s side, alabaster pale and drawing each bubbling breath through a long gash in his throat (which had been made by a left-hander, some part of Odysseus’s mind noted, and a strong one). The cut was not bleeding and Karéte turned restlessly in his sleep. Odysseus went back to his tent, lit a stick of incense before Quickness’s idol and begged her to show him how to end the war.

  She answered instantly, as though she had been waiting for him to ask. He heard her out and for the first time presumed to argue with her, but she would not be moved.

  He duly went to the black tree before Ilium’s gates. Standing on a stone, he tied a rope to its lowest branches, knotted it around his neck, closed his eyes, and, commending his soul to Quickness, jumped. Though he had surreptitiously frayed the rope in hopes of it breaking, it held, and darkness overtook him. When he came to, it was night and he lay on the ground beneath the tree wearing a torque of rope. Ilium’s gates hung open and he stole silently in.

  Within the walls of the dead city all was still though the night was full of tension. Now and then high falsetto singing drifted up through sewer grates and he quickened his pace, soon coming to the center of the city where Death’s dour palace loomed. It had high windows but no doors and its seamed facade reminded Odysseus of a mouth sewn shut.

  He climbed up one of the cracks in its face to a small window just wide enough to squeeze through. He could see nothing of the dark room within but heard a faint whispering. He dangled by his hands and let himself fall into blackness, landing heavily and scrambling up, groping blindly, finding nothing. The room felt empty, like an abandoned warehouse, but as his eyes adjusted he made out a tall black throne beside which Helen sat on a footstool. Odysseus tugged at the rope around his neck and knelt before her in the gloom (noticing with a twinge that her beauty had not dimmed), begging her to leave with him and end the awful war but she barely seemed to see him, continuing a low monologue (this was the whispering he had heard) about the vast night of Paris’s eyes and how he, ever the gentleman, had not yet touched her, though she had wanted him to. Odysseus cajoled and reasoned. He pled for his life and the lives of all the Greeks, her kinsmen among them. He revealed the command he had been given by Quickness, who was implacable. But she did not attend and Odysseus, exasperated, full of horror and rage, drew his sword, pulled her head back by the hair and cut her throat. He threw down the sword, the clang as it hit the ground obscene in such a quiet place, and staggered away.

  Paris stepped forward (he had always been there, Odysseus realized, but unseen) and gently picked up her body. As he held her she spasmed and drew a long shuddering breath. In that moment Quickness appeared with a feral hateful grin and fell upon Death with a howl. She crushed him close and wrapped her strong white fingers around his throat and in the moment before they disappeared Odysseus saw dismay on Death’s face. Though Quickness was gone, her war-cry echoed in the dismal hall. Odysseus fled then, getting a last glimpse of Helen crawling slowly away, leaving a trail of bloody hand-prints behind her.

  There was a door to the outside that he hadn’t seen before. He ran through it and straight to the unguarded city gates. He threw them open and called out to Menelaus to come and get his revenge if he wanted it. Menelaus and Agamemnon came running, eyes blazing, their army close behind, and rushed into the city. The listless dead pulled themselves out of the vaults and sewers to resist them but with Paris gone the defence was apathetic and the Greeks carved through them with élan.

  In the uncountable mausoleums were many funerary offerings, among them jars of strong wine, and even before victory was certain the soldiers were drunk, mouths stained red, draping themselves in rotten thousand-year-old finery and pausing in their bloody work to chase after the marmoreally cold empty-eyed girls who watched from alleyways. For all that, the Greeks soon broke their enemies and built a great fire in Ilium’s square to burn them.

  Before the bonfire Menelaus declared to his cheering men that Paris was dethroned, that Ilium would be razed and a new city built over its ruins. He would anoint himself the new king, break Death’s dominion and open the kingdom of shadows to the sun. He went to Death’s palace to get Helen but found only sticky red hand-prints and an overturned stool.

  When all Paris’s soldiers had been turned to ash, Menelaus did as he had sworn and took Death’s throne. His commands rang through the onyx halls of Ilium and though the soldiers could have gone home then, every man chose to stay, except Agamemnon, who made a short trip back to Greece to see his wife.*

  Menelaus passed his days in
the citadel, reading Death’s book and walking his halls. When the moon shone just so on his great black throne there sometimes came a clattering from below and a white, pure light would shine up through a grating in the floor. In a bubbling voice with just the barest trace of her old music Helen would then speak to him, telling him the gossip of the underworld that was now her home, of the basements and dungeons stretching down below the city, the extremities of whose depths were even for her just a rumor. So Menelaus had his wife, though he never set eyes on her, and his revenge, though not by his own hand, and his enemy’s throne, though it was a terrible one. In due course he set out to add to his kingdom.

  As for Odysseus, he slipped out of the city during the sack and took ship for Ithaca alone. He had hoped for a quick passage home but found himself opposed by strong winds and thick fogs. He found many islands but all were abandoned.

  He was walking through still cold water toward a grey beach when Quickness appeared to him for the last time. She floated in the air, naked now and taller (he had never seen her naked before—she was as well made as he had imagined but seemed to have somehow moved beyond beauty or its absence), and sparks glowed in her hair. She touched his face (somehow he could not imagine her talking now). She looked viciously happy. Her eyes met his and then she disappeared and he was left wondering.

  *In the eighteenth century B.C. there was a thriving cult of the goddess Quickness, known for virginity, quick thinking, harsh laughter and an association with owls. Her particular enemy was Death, with whom she had fought a number of inconclusive wars, her object in which seems to have been eradicating his kingdom and ushering in an era of immortality. Her cult was immensely popular but such was the ruggedness of montane Greece that it soon speciated into a dozen subgenera. By the twelfth century B.C. her incarnation as Pallas Athena had displaced all others and is now remembered to the exclusion of her sisters. Quickness was a more lively goddess than Athena, open to human sacrifice and, in contrast with her sister, as much a user and a predator as a lover of heroes.