Before he was permitted to leave the Oracle of the Dead, he was interviewed by Teiresias once more. As soon as the blind seer spoke, Odysseus felt certain that this was indeed the hooded figure of the priest he had encountered in the House of Persephone. He knew, therefore, that Teiresias had been present throughout the time when the shade of his mother was speaking through the Sibyl’s mouth.
Neither pretending to know nothing of what had happened nor implying that his knowledge was supernatural, Teiresias sat across from Odysseus, an austere figure gazing blindly into space as he tapped his golden staff on the stone floor and began to utter his prophetic omens.
‘Yours can still be no easy journey home, Odysseus of Ithaca,’ he said, ‘for neither the gods above nor the gods below are ready to ease your way. And the home that you find will not be the home that you left when you departed for the war at Troy.’ Twice he rapped the tip of his staff. ‘Neither will Ithaca prove to be your journey’s end, for one day you must travel far inland to a place where men will not recognize for the thing it is, the oar that you will carry with you.’
Odysseus opened his mouth to question Teiresias further, but the seer’s acute hearing must have heard the indrawn breath, for he raised an imperious finger, tapped the staff three times and began to speak again.
‘Beware the Cattle of the Sun, for they are sacred and not to be harmed.’ The pale skin of the seer’s brow wrinkled in a frown. ‘There are things I do not clearly see — perils of the heart, perils of the sword … your home in turmoil.’ He opened his lips as if to add more, but then appeared to change his mind. Odysseus waited apprehensively. He was beginning to wonder whether the audience was at an end when Teiresias tapped his staff once more. ‘Yet death, when it comes to you, will come easily,’ he sighed, ‘and it will come from the sea.’
Teiresias rose to his feet. ‘I adjure you, as you care for your life, to say nothing of the rites you have undergone in this place. The Gods of the Underworld are always listening. They know how to claim those who would reveal their secrets.’
Then the audience was over. One acolyte stepped forward to lead Teiresias from the chamber; another ushered Odysseus out into the light of day by a different door. Eurylochus, Polites and Perimedes were waiting for him there. At their side stood Macareus with a comprehending smile of welcome on his face. Embracing Odysseus, he whispered in a low voice, ‘The ways of the Underworld are perfect are they not?’ And with a quick pang of the heart, Odysseus realized, that of all the people he knew, only this son of King Aeolus would understand him were he to ignore the adjuration of Teiresias and try to explain what it was like to enter the Halls of Hades and become one among the dead before one died.
The second, utterly unanticipated encounter of that day would delay his return to Ithaca for far longer than he could ever have guessed. By then he had left the Oracle of the Dead behind him and travelled back down through that volcanic landscape to the little town of Baia where his ship was beached. Word was sent out for his crew to return from the taverns and whorehouses that had sprung up on that shining shore, and he was about to climb aboard his vessel when he heard a woman’s voice calling out his name. Turning his head in surprise, he saw a dishevelled figure hurrying along the strand towards him.
She was running with the muddied hem of her skirts raised above her shins. Bright hair streamed behind her as she ran. When she came to a halt, panting, before him, he recognized the distraught face of Calypso.
‘You must take me with you,’ she demanded, but her eyes were filled with helpless entreaty.
Astonished to see her at all, let alone in that condition, Odysseus said, ‘I don’t understand. What are you doing here?’
Calypso shook her head as though his questions were of no account. ‘I can’t go back down into that darkness,’ she said. ‘Never again. It terrifies me now.’
Odysseus stared at her in amazement. ‘It was you,’ he said. And when she nodded he frowned down into that beseeching gaze, remembering his earlier encounters with this young woman both on Aiaia and in the gloomy chambers of the dead. ‘But surely you are in the service …’ he began.
‘No longer,’ she cried, interrupting him before he could speak the name of either god or goddess. ‘I have forsworn that service. I can bear it no longer. I want to live my life in the light. You must take me home.’
Already Odysseus shared her avidity for the light. Having spent so long enduring the dark mask of the Goddess — the Gorgon stare that had transfixed him in the House of Persephone — it brought a sense of exhilaration to look on the beautiful human face now gazing up at him. He saw, and recognized, the famished appetite for life blazing in her eyes.
‘You wish to go back to Aiaia?’ he frowned. Already he could imagine what kind of welcome this distraught fugitive would receive in Circe’s palace.
But Calypso was urgently shaking her head.
‘I cannot go back there,’ she said. ‘You will take me home to my own island of Ogygia. It lies south of here, to the west.’ She looked up at him again, her chin raised, her breast rising and falling as she breathed. Her eyes fixed themselves on his with the absolute certainty of one who has chosen her fate.
Odysseus said, ‘My course lies eastwards.’
‘I was there for you at a time when you needed help,’ Calypso declared. ‘I know you to have a compassionate heart. Now it is your time to help me.’
Odysseus stood by his ship, aware of his men watching him, aware of what Circe had said about Calypso, aware of the utter impiety of what she had done and of what she now contemplated.
Then she said, ‘If you leave me here I will certainly die.’
And as he looked down into the face of this young woman appealing to him for aid, he saw another frightened face looking hopelessly across at him as a boy wearing his father’s golden armour led her away to her death on Achilles’ tomb. Odysseus winced at the elision of those two young female faces, for he had done nothing to save Polyxena at Troy and he had been haunted by her desolate shade ever since. But it was Calypso who endured his silence now, watching the dark thoughts cross his face like the shadows of clouds passing across a hill.
‘Did my mother truly speak through you?’ he demanded.
‘Truly,’ she said, ‘and with a power that frightened me. That is why you must take me from here.’ Not for a moment had her eyes glanced away from his gaze. They held his attention with a power that astonished him now as she added, ‘That is why you will take me home.’
Menelaus
Telemachus stood at the prow of Peiraeus’s ship for much of the voyage to Pylos, taking the spray in his face and watching the spume flake from the dolphins’ backs as they broke the glittering surface of the sea.
This was the first great adventure of his life.
Since he was a small boy he had been allowed the free run of his island-home, but having consigned her husband to the risks of war, Penelope was loath to let her only son adventure out to sea. So Telemachus had spent much time on the cliffs, watching the boats come and go, dreaming of the day when he too would set sail for far horizons. And now that day had come. The cutwater of this ship was taking him across the threshold into manhood. Holding onto the forestay while the ship’s prow dipped and rose among the waves, Telemachus began to understand why his father had stayed away from Ithaca so long.
Always before, he had assumed that Odysseus must think of Ithaca as the true ground of his life, the homeland hearth from which he was kept only by the chance of war. Now Telemachus grasped how much freedom his father must have found beyond those cliffs and sheepfolds. Odysseus had sailed all the seas from Ithaca to Sidon. His name was known in the richest cities of the world. He could count the heroes of two generations as his friends and had numbered Troy’s proudest warriors among his enemies. In all those years of wandering he must also have encountered many women who melted at his fame. But wasn’t all of this what it truly meant to be a man?
Telemachus had always known tha
t his father set the standard in these things; now he grasped that the true message of his long absence was that for a man to prove himself a man he must do more than wrangle in the council or brag over wine in a tavern with his friends. He had to go forth and take his place among the heroes of the age. And to do that he must put everything at risk for no other reason than an uncompromising love of glory. Only so might his name live on with honour after his ashes were interred.
And now that he had put the frustration and humiliations of boyhood behind him, Telemachus was resolved that the world should learn that Odysseus of Ithaca had a son worthy to bear his father’s name.
As the ship approached the sandy beach at Pylos, they saw a large number of people gathered there. Evidently a festival in honour of Earth-shaker Poseidon was in progress, for smoke billowed from a number of fires along the strand and the salt air was savoury with the smell of roasting meat. Under countless banners snapping in the breeze above brightly coloured awnings, companies drawn from right across the kingdom were watching the sacred offering of black bulls.
Astounded by the size of the celebration, Telemachus gazed in awe at the multitude of richly dressed men and women with children running noisily among them, and at the sheer number of beasts bellowing as they waited their turn beneath the knife. Here was the great world assembled as if to greet him; and Pylos was by no means the largest of the Argive kingdoms. Yet its king, who must be somewhere at the centre of this immense feast, had been famous even before Odysseus was born. In his youth Nestor had fought wars against Elis and Arcadia; he had aided the Lapiths in their battle with the drunken Centaurs and he had taken part in the great hunt for the Calydonian boar. Later he had become a close friend and advisor to Agamemnon, and even though he was much older than the other Argive generals, his courage and sagacity had made him indispensable throughout the Trojan War. Across three generations, King Nestor incarnated the living history of the age; and when he thought of this, Telemachus felt daunted by the immediate prospect of appearing before him.
He said as much to Peiraeus, who merely smiled at his friend, told him to trust to the gods that had brought him there, and then made ready to run his keel ashore.
They were greeted by an open-faced young man who declared himself to be Peisistratus, the youngest son of King Nestor. Taken at once by his friendly manner, Telemachus guessed that there could be no more than a couple of years’ difference in their ages, though the Prince of Pylos seemed altogether more accustomed to the courtly ways of the world. Without rudely enquiring who these visitors might be or where they had come from, Peisistratus invited them to take part in the general offering to Poseidon in thanks for a safe voyage and in hope of a successful return to their homeland. Then they must come and join the feast and be introduced to his father the King.
So it was that Telemachus was eventually brought before his father’s old comrade. King Nestor was now well past his seventieth year. His white hair hung thin about his shoulders and his skin was wrinkled and dry as a walnut-shell. Sitting beneath a gorgeous parasol on a gilded throne that had been brought to the strand, he smiled amiably enough at all who passed before his gaze; but his grey eyes wandered as though no longer willing to contemplate anything for very long, and his ringed hands were quivering where they hung below the arms of the throne. At one side of him a young woman wafted an ostrich-feather fan, while at the other a bald-headed Libyan attended to his needs with all the fussy concern a grandmother might show for a helpless child.
As they approached the throne together, Peisistratus whispered to Telemachus, ‘Pray don’t mistake my father’s manner for aloofness. He is the kindest of men but his strength is not what it was, and sometimes his thoughts seem to wander. He has never recovered from the way my brother Antilochus was killed so near to the end of the war. The grief of it distracts him still.’ Then the young prince of Pylos advanced towards the throne and raised his voice over the noise of the throng. ‘We have guests, father. They have made their thankful offerings to Divine Poseidon and wish to give you their greetings.’
Nestor lifted his head in a vague smile as Telemachus and Peiraeus bowed their heads in obeisance before him. ‘They are welcome in Pylos,’ he said, ‘as are all men of good will, especially the young. Give them wine, give them wine.’
Comforted to find King Nestor a less formidable figure than he had anticipated, Telemachus drew in his breath. ‘All Argos honours you, Lord Nestor. My friend Peiraeus and I bring you salutations and rejoice to find you in good health.’
Nestor nodded and dabbed his lips with a napkin that the Libyan handed to him. ‘Where are you from, boy?’ he asked, glancing away along the strand where, with a groan, yet another bull staggered and fell beneath the sacrificial knife.
‘My land is Ithaca, where Laertes is king,’ Telemachus answered. ‘I believe my father is well known to you. I am Telemachus, son of Odysseus.’
Only after the last word was uttered did the old king’s distracted glance drift back towards him. ‘Odysseus, eh?’ he smiled. He took a drink from the proffered goblet. ‘Tell me, how is my old comrade? I dearly miss his company.’
‘As do we all, sir,’ Telemachus answered. ‘I regret to say that my father has not yet returned to Ithaca. I have come here in the hope that you or one of your well-travelled subjects might have news of his present whereabouts, or knowledge of his fate if the gods have determined that he shall not come home.’
‘Not yet come home, you say?’ Nestor nodded as though pondering what such a thought might mean; then his face creased in a smile of admiration. ‘It was he who thought up the idea of the wooden horse, you know. I was too old to ride in it myself, but one of my sons was in there with him … The one who’s still here somewhere … Can’t quite remember his name.’
‘Thrasymedes, father,’ Peisistratus supplied.
‘Yes, that’s him. Not half the man his brother was, but good enough in his way.’ Nestor darted a confiding glance at Telemachus. ‘Antilochus was killed, you know … not long before we breached their walls. I could better have spared the other son …’ Shakily he drew in his breath, wiped his mouth with the napkin again. ‘So many of them dead and gone at Troy … Young Achilles and his friend Patroclus, who were boys at Cheiron’s school together once. Thysander before them, cut down in that clash at Clazomenae. And bluff old Ajax, Telamon’s son … Ajax who lost his wits and threw himself on his own sword after Achilles was murdered by Paris. So many of them gone into the Land of Shades. And now,’ his grey eyes blinked with doleful incredulity as he shook his white head, ‘now they tell me that Agamemnon is dead … stabbed by his own wife as he went into his bath-house … What kind of world is this? And Diomedes … driven out of Tiryns … Idomeneus of Crete gone too. So many of them dead and gone, with only me left to remember them.’ Sharply he sucked in his breath. His manner grew more agitated. ‘Ten years we were there, freezing in the winters, driven half-crazy by the flies in the summer heat … And for what, I ask you, for what?’ His mood seemed to darken with the demand. His eyes narrowed; he glanced up at Telemachus in accusation. ‘Who did you say you are?’
‘Telemachus, sir — son of Odysseus.’
Nestor grunted. ‘So have you come to tell me that Odysseus is dead as well? Is that it? Have you come to tell me I must learn to grieve all over again?’
Hastily Peisistratus interposed himself between his father and the discomfited guest. ‘Telemachus doesn’t yet know his father’s fate,’ he explained softly. ‘He’s come here to Pylos hoping that someone has news of him.’ Nestor nodded at his youngest son, a little tetchily. ‘I know, I know.’ He frowned back at Telemachus. ‘Listen to me, boy. You want to know about Odysseus — let me tell you this. Your father is the craftiest man I ever knew … No one will have caught him napping … not unless by treachery … and the gods know there’s enough of that in the world. So when you find the villain who murdered him don’t hesitate to cut him down. Cut him down without mercy. That way your father’s shad
e will rest in peace and you’ll make a name for yourself. Do you hear me, son of Odysseus? That’s the way of this world. Blood cries out for blood. Do you hear me, boy? Do you hear?’
Telemachus nodded uncertainly. The old king spluttered on his wine and began to cough. The Libyan servant wiped his mouth and patted him on the back until he was pushed impatiently away. Nestor looked up at the sky with stricken eyes. ‘We should never have done it, you know. We should never have offered up that child Iphigenaia on the altar in Aulis. That was a strong fate that Artemis inflicted on us then … Never have I done a harder thing … She was such a beautiful child. A child to charm the heart … I gave her a pony in Mycenae once, when she was just a little girl still. I was always soft with her … But that business at Aulis … It should never have happened … It was a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing.’
Speechless and dismayed, feeling the desolation of the world gather force, Telemachus watched the king’s palsied hand shake uncontrollably at his side. There was a muttering among his attendants. A palanquin was summoned. Shaded by the parasol, with his hand-maiden fanning him, King Nestor was carried away along the strand, back to the royal comforts of his bed.
Anxious to explain that his father’s mood was rarely so grim, Peisistratus apologized to Telemachus; and then, still eager to do what he could to help, he called his older brother Thrasymedes into council with them.
‘Be grateful you have no brothers who were killed in the war,’ Thrasymedes said wearily when he learned what had happened with his father. ‘Believe me, they would always mean more to your father than you ever could, and there’s nothing at all you could do about it.’
‘I’m not even sure that I have a father still,’ Telemachus replied.
Thrasymedes shook his head in gloomy sympathy. ‘There’s been no word of Odysseus here, I’m afraid. Nor did anyone know where he was when Diomedes called the council in Corinth. You understand now why I had to send word there that my father was in no shape to fight. But the truth is that none of us were. We’d all had our bellyful of fighting out there in Troy.’ He glanced away to where the women were dancing along the strand. ‘It’s been nearly six years since the war ended. You have to face it, boy, there can’t be much hope for Odysseus. So many men were drowned in the storm off Euboea.’ He took in the grief and disappointment on the young face before him. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I know it must come hard. He was a great man, your father. I admired him more than anyone else I met in the war at Troy. He was brave and resourceful and wise … and he was a funny man too. Even when things looked hopeless, he could still make us all laugh. That’s how you should try to remember him.’
The Return From Troy Page 40