by Tobias Hill
Castor and Polydeuces were soldiers’ gods, brothers in arms. When Castor was killed, Polydeuces, undying, wept for not being able to follow him. Their father, the All-Father, was touched with pity. Taking half the immortality from Polydeuces, he bestowed it on Castor. Thereafter the brothers lived and died on alternate days. In time Zeus set them in the heavens, in the constellation of Gemini.
Ares was a distrusted god. Few peoples chose to cherish the deity of savagery. Athena was a kinder force: the war-prayers offered up to her were for victory. To pray to Ares was not only to hope for fortune, but for war itself. Among the Spartans he was held in high regard. His epithet among them was Thereitas, meaning The Beastly One. His sanctuary stood on the ancient road from Sparta to Therapne. Black dogs were sacrificed to him, and men, too, before the fight. His companions were Alala, daemon of the battle cry; Kydoimos of the battle din; Enyo, the daemon of horror; and his sons Deimos and Phobos, Terror and Fear.
Finally there is Orthia. Artemis-Orthia, she is called now–she is yet another Artemis–but only in Roman times were the goddesses worshipped together. Artemis was many-faced and ambiguous. Orthia was a simpler thing. Her story goes like this.
Once upon a time, in the deep forests, two brothers found a pillar of wood. It was broken or grown or carved in such a way that a face or a form could be made out in it. It stood upright among a thicket of willow trees. It was as if the trees themselves had grown to hold it upright. It was as if it had been waiting there for those who discovered it.
The brothers knew power when they saw it. They brought the pillar out of the forest. The Lacedaemonians worshipped it, naming it Orthia and Lygodesma, meaning Upright and Bound by Willows. No good came of their devotion. In the pillar’s wake came awful curses. The brothers who found Orthia went insane. Disease and madness inflicted Sparta. To appease Orthia a temple was built by the river. Sacrifices were made there. Offerings were left. The Spartans discovered that nothing satisfied the goddess but blood. The priestess would hold Bound by Willows aloft to weigh her satisfaction. If the blood spilled was sufficient, the pillar would become lighter. If not, its burden would increase.
They are uneasy gods, those of the Spartans. They are half-gods, fragile, capable of death. Or they are cruel immortals, double-edged, hungry for destruction. They have nothing much in common except terror and blood. They are all both gods and monsters…
IV
Monsters
It was true about poetry: he had never liked it. It was too refined for him, too clear. It demanded too much, and demanded it as if it had the right to demand anything. It was like having the truth stuffed down your throat.
Foyt liked poetry. Sometimes, in their morning lessons, he had given them verses to translate, back and forth, from Classical Greek to English, from modern to Koine.
When you set out from Ithaca,
pray that the way is long,
full of knowledge and adventure.
The giant eaters of men, and the Cyclopes,
the ragings of Poseidon–do not fear them.
You will never meet them
as long as your thoughts are dignified,
as long as dignity
steers your spirit and your body…
On his desk Foyt kept a statuette of Calliope, muse of epics, cast in silver-bronze in Ephesus three hundred years before Christ. It was small, quite rare, and valuable. A rumour among Foyt’s students was that a curator from the British Museum had offered Foyt two thousand pounds for it. Ben was prepared to believe it, though he had always shied away from the thing.
The statue was of a young woman, conventionally beautiful, smooth limbed, unmuscled. The muse and her sisters had been born from nine nights of godly lovemaking, but the Ephesian sculptor had made his Calliope too pristine to be erotic herself. Her pose was unusual, and that was what had attracted the man from the British Museum. The goddess had been presented standing, more in the stance of an orator than a singer, her head raised, her mouth ajar, one hand raised in a decisive gesture of emphasis.
What Ben disliked about her was her look. Foyt’s Calliope stared. It had the kind of gaze a living creature wouldn’t turn for long on anything but kin or prey. It was wide-eyed and unerring. It had eyes like a hawk, unnerved and unnerving. Wherever you sat in Foyt’s dark study, the Calliope would be staring at you.
Eberhard Sauer had something of that look. Ben had met him for the first time in Foyt’s lessons. Before that, their paths had crossed without ever colliding. He had seen Sauer in lectures and at formal halls, had known him by reputation. He had envied him from a safe distance. Sauer had been one of those who was at home at Oxford, born to it. He had a gaunt assurance, and more than that a gauging look, as if he were assessing the standards of those around him; a measuring way of looking at the world, where Ben only ever measured himself against it.
He remembered the day they had met, if it could be called a meeting. It had been in his first lesson with Foyt. Emine and he had still been studying together, then, before she gave up on the past for more profitable work in law. They had arrived late to find Eberhard and the others already there. Emine had sat near Eberhard in an armchair by the bay window, the room’s only sunlight stretched in her lap like a cat. Ben and the others had been left with seats in front of the desk.
He had been closer to Foyt than the others, with the Calliope staring a hole in his head. He’d had a sense that Eberhard had been watching him, too, had felt the hairs tightening on the back of his neck, but when he had glanced round he had met only Emine’s distracted look. Sauer had been gazing out of the window, as if his thoughts were well occupied elsewhere. He had been very still, only his hand moving, stroking the furred leaves of the African violets Foyt kept in rows along his dim stone windowsill.
Lent had begun.
–In the old days, Mr Adamidis said, We would close the place, but religion isn’t what it used to be.
The roughnecks bulked out the lunchtime crowd. In the evenings, though, the grill was quieter, and the hours dragged. Only the younger customers and the old regulars still came in numbers, lingering over light suppers and small beer. Adamidis would sit with them, doing the books and grimacing, as if his presence front of house could dissipate the smell of meat.
It was still early. Ben and Kostandin were sharpening the knives, one ear each cocked for customers. Florent was cooking the salt out of vine leaves. Modest was washing potatoes while he told an interminable joke about a one-legged beggar and a three-legged dog, incomprehensible to Ben even with Kostandin’s translations.
When the knives were done he went front of house. It was Friday. There were a few people in. The television was on, an old priest chanting into a microphone. Mr Adamidis sat by the bar, under the framed pictures of his younger self, filling in a sudoku. As Ben came out he folded the paper and waved him over.
–Come keep me company. How are you finding things? Take a seat.
He took it. The priest droned over their heads. Wash yourselves, and ye shall be clean.
– You know, my nieces did me a favour finding you. You turned out to be a safe pair of hands. A head on your shoulders too. You like the place?
–I like the work. It’s better for us when it’s not so quiet.
Though your sins be scarlet, I will make them white as snow; and though they be red like crimson, I will make them white as wool…
–Better for you, better for me. Carnival is like all my name-days come at once, only afterwards I get to pay for it.
There was a tulip-glass of tea on the table. Adamidis dropped in a cube of sugar, stirred it through, the spoon chiming. –My boy’s been spending a lot of time out there with you. He’s behaving himself?
But if you desire not, nor will obey me, the sword shall devour you, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken it.
–I don’t really notice him. Too busy.
–He’s a good boy. Adamidis’s eyes hung onto Ben’s. –He has a temper. He gets that from my side. But he’s a smart boy.
–He seems clever.
–See, I like it when he hangs around here. He says he doesn’t want to run a place like this. It’s not for him, he says. Politics, that’s his thing. Does he talk about this with you?
–No, never.
–No, well. He won’t talk to me any more. Fathers and sons shouldn’t talk politics together. That’s what he says. You seen this?
He jabbed the newspaper at the television. The priest had gone. A split-screen image showed two men engaged in furious argument. It was ten days until the general election. In the last week the campaigning had shifted gear from the Byzantine to the hysterical, with televised mass rallies and marathon pop-eyed debates.
–This is politics. Three months of men in bad suits trying not to look like carpet salesmen, Mr Adamidis was saying. –God save us all from politicians. But Ben was no longer listening. Beyond the television, sitting alone in the corner, was Eberhard Sauer.
His back was to the empty room. Even so, Ben knew him at once. He was tall, so tall and thin that, sitting, he always looked a little uncomfortable. His fair hair, already thinning when Ben had first met him, was combed back against his skull. He was in shirtsleeves, his jacket hung carefully over the back of his chair. He had a book spread on the table before him. His head was tilted as he read, like someone listening for an echo.
–I should get back to work, Ben said. As Mr Adamidis began to agree (–Sure, don’t let me stop you. And make up something, just some little somethings, for me to give out later–) he stood up, moving back to the kitchen door, watching Sauer as if he might disappear.
There was a burst of laughter from the kitchen. He half-stepped back through the swing doors, but Eberhard didn’t look up from his book, didn’t move at all. There was a menu beside him still folded around the cruet, a carafe of water with a glass capping its neck, a pannier of bread, all untouched. If he had come into the grill to dine he had forgotten it already. He might have been in a library; the Sackler, where Ben remembered coming upon him once, a great gloomy figure, or the Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents; or Foyt’s study, with the bronzes and violets.
Without thinking he turned and went back to the kitchen. Modest was finishing his story, giggling, helpless, the others laughing regardless of the outcome of the joke. He felt a hand on his shoulder and, looking up, found Kostandin there.
–Listen to this, listen! So there is this beggar with one leg and this dog with three legs. The beggar goes from house to house asking for a bit to eat, but every time–
–Not right now. Tell me later.
–Sure. You okay?
–I’m fine.
–You don’t look so fine.
–There’s someone I know out there.
–From home? A friend?
–Not really a friend.
–You don’t want her to see you?
–Him.
He went past Kostandin to the spits and scored the meat, testing it. He should not want to see Eberhard. They had not met in a long time, certainly not since Emine had left him; but Eberhard knew Foyt, of course. From Foyt he would know how things stood.
A runnel of hot blood slid over the hilt of the knife and he swore, turned past Kostandin and ran water over the new burn. His hands were raw, marked in a dozen places. No, he shouldn’t want to meet Eberhard. And yet, seeing him, his first impulse had not been to avoid him, out of shame or anything else. He had thought that he might talk to him.
–Why is he in Metamorphosis?
–How the fuck should I know?
Kostandin came over and began washing his hands. –Hey, shh, it’s no problem. Modest tells you his joke, I take front of house. I serve your friend, you get your smile back. Okay?
He rinsed the little knife and hung it on a rack of skewers, the lengths of metal jangling. Florent said something behind him in his own language. Modest laughed, less comfortably than he had at his own humour.
–Okay?
–No, look, I’m fine with it. Thanks.
–Why? You’re sure, Kostandin said, as if it were not a question at all but a response to something too bizarre to agree with. –But you don’t want to see him, right?
–I didn’t say that. Or maybe I did. If I did, I changed my mind, he said, smiling to show them it was alright, that he had no issue with them, at least; and taking off the apron, wiping his hands, bracing himself, he went back through to the front of house.
A few more regulars had arrived, men he knew without knowing their names, bachelors with no one to cook for them, widowers with no one at home for them. Two of the old men were getting worked up over the TV debate, slamming their palms on their adjacent tables. Ben took their orders and called them through to the kitchen, then worked his way back to the corner table.
As far as he could tell Eberhard didn’t see him until he stopped beside him. He was still reading, and as Ben began to speak he went on doing so, slowly turning another page. The book was no more than a pamphlet, white-bound but yellowed, printed in Italian, with dense strata of footnotes.
–What will it be?
–Ah. I’m not especially hungry, but I ought to eat. Something sustaining. What would you recommend?
His Greek was modern, nondescript, unaccented. In itself that was a surprise. At Oxford Eberhard’s ancient languages had been admired. Like some of their teachers, though, he had always seemed to have a limited sympathy for the everyday world, a disinterest in modernity that bordered on antipathy.
When there was no quick answer he glanced up, the light striking off his spectacles like a flashbulb. He cocked his head and the spectacles went clear. His face reminded Ben of Lorne, the Professor of Egyptology, a man who had looked at all others with benevolent, spoiled incomprehension, like a child in a car watching walkers hurrying through snow. Then Eberhard’s expression altered, the smile physically indifferent but no longer meaningless, the Calliope stare coming into his eyes.
–The meat is always good.
He was still speaking in the demotic, and was glad when Eberhard hesitated. He would have preferred not to have recognised Ben and was wondering whether he could avoid their meeting; was wondering, therefore, if he had been recognised himself. Then something must have shown on Ben’s face, and Eberhard closed his pamphlet and took off his reading glasses, folding them away into a dented metal case.
–It’s you. What are you doing here?
–I’m waiting on your table.
–Evidently, Eberhard said. Really?
–Really.
Sauer was quiet, his eyes resting on Ben; then, pocketing his pamphlet, he looked past him, taking in the front of house–the nicotine-stained ceiling fans, the old men growling over politics, Adamidis slouched by the bar–all at once.
–That seems a waste. Are you allowed to sit down?
He shook his head, sat anyway, shook his head again and discovered himself beginning to laugh. –It’s so strange, seeing you! I never thought I’d meet anyone, here.
–I imagine you meet lots of people. Rather too many, if anything.
–You know what I mean.
–Yes, this is a surprise. Eberhard was smiling faintly, as if the situation were amusing or ludicrous or perhaps distasteful. –But it is a small world, ours, and getting smaller. There is no escape these days. A shame we don’t meet in better circumstances.
–It’s not so terrible.
–How is it you come to be here?
–Luck.
–You call it luck?
–Bad luck, then.
–Oh, I’m sure there are worse places to be. Still, an ordinary suburb shouldn’t have such an extraordinary name. Metamorphosis only invites disappointment, don’t you think? I was expecting streets of gold.
Now he was pouring himself some water. –There’s only one glass, I hope you don’t mind, he said, and after a moment glanced up, waiting again for Ben’s answer.
–I’m not that thirsty.
–You look tired.
–The shifts are long.
He didn’t know what else to say. Already he wished they hadn’t met: they had nothing in common but shared history. He checked the room. Adamidis was hunkered over his puzzle; the old men were winding down their argument. A bevy of office girls was settling the window tables. Soon he would need to fetch their orders, and find something for Adamidis to give the old men on the house.
–I heard about Emine, Eberhard said, and just like that, as if a switch had been pulled, a light turned on, he became aware of the source and direction of his anger.
–I knew you would have. Good news has a way of travelling, doesn’t it? Thought I might get away from it here, but you’re right, it is a bloody small world…
He stopped himself. His hands were sweating. His accent had revealed itself, stripped raw. Eberhard was looking at the table.
–I am sorry, Benjamin.
–Yeah.
–I heard you were planning to leave, there was a rumour to that effect, but I had no idea you were coming to Greece. You couldn’t find anything better than this?
–I never got around to looking.
–You should make the time to do so. You could find some real work, surely.
–I might. I’m alright here, for now. It’s not like I came here for the work.
–I see. For the air, then. Fresh air, fresh pastures. That’s understandable.
–Is it?
–Yes. I suppose you must feel–
–You don’t know how I feel.
–No. Well, at least your Greek has improved.
–Not much.
–Oh, quite a lot. If you weren’t so well mannered you’d sound like an Athenian taxi driver.
–Is that good?
–Why wouldn’t it be?
–I don’t think of you admiring modern Greece.
–I wasn’t aware that you had noticed. Still, any classicist should envy these people their Greek fluency. Physicists and mathematicians never have to experience that kind of jealousy, there being no citizens of the Nation of Physics or the Republic of Numbers. It would do their egos good if there were.