by Glyn Iliffe
‘My lords, I am not used to such a late night. I hope you will forgive me and my sisters if we retire to our beds.’
Odysseus, the spell of his voice broken, bowed and waited for the six women to stand. As they were about to leave, Androcles also stood and begged his guests’ forgiveness. He was followed by his brothers, leaving just Aeolus, Telepora and the Ithacans behind. Despite his disappointment and barely disguised anger, Aeolus insisted that Odysseus stay another day, and then, accompanied by his wife, left the hall.
A robed and hooded figure stood in the passageway, the clay lamp in her hand casting a sphere of orange light that fought against the encroaching shadows. The hiss of the wick and the drumming of the rain beyond the windows were loud in the otherwise silent corridor, so the figure waited a few moments longer before raising the lamp and advancing. She stopped by a door that was slightly ajar, opened it enough to put her head through, then quickly withdrew it again and waved the lamp from side to side. The signal was followed by the patter of bare feet and the whisper of robes approaching from the end of the corridor. Dia snuffed out the flame and placed the lamp carefully on the floor.
‘You’re sure this is the room?’ asked a voice from the darkness, barely able to contain a whisper.
‘Shush! Of course I am. Six men under six blankets, all of them asleep.’
‘I want the giant!’ said one of the sisters, suppressing a giggle.
‘There’s enough of him for the two of us,’ said another.
‘Be quiet,’ Dia ordered. ‘And keep it down when you’re in there, unless you want your brothers to find out.’
‘They’d enjoy it,’ one of her sisters declared.
Dia slapped her across the face and stared down the younger girl’s shocked glare until she looked angrily away. Then she pushed open the door and entered the room where the Ithacans were sleeping. For some reason the curtains had been removed, revealing a sky filled with sheet rain. The six men were barely visible in the faint light that seeped into the room. Dia shrugged off her heavy robe and stood naked in the darkness. Her sisters did the same, their skin a pale grey in the gloom.
Eperitus felt miserable. Soaked through by the incessant rain and freezing cold – his double cloak rolled up under a blanket in the warm, dry room Odysseus had made them abandon – he wiped the wet hair from his eyes and looked up at the empty window.
There had been a noise – only faint, like the clapping of a hand, but his ears had picked it out clearly.
‘Something’s happening.’
‘What do you hear?’ Odysseus asked, standing beside him in the thick mud of the courtyard.
At that moment a scream pierced the damp night air. It came from the window that all six Ithacans had been despondently watching as the night wore on. A second scream was followed by cries of dismay.
‘I think they’ve discovered we’re not there.’
‘So you were right,’ Eurybates said.
‘Then I wish I had been there,’ Elpenor muttered, wrapping his arms about himself and looking up with a dejected expression.
Eperitus scruffed his sodden hair.
‘You’d have paid a high price if you had. We all would. There are much easier ways to find a woman than sacrificing your own life.’
Another shout came from the upper window, this time from a man. An orange light drove back the darkness and the room was suddenly filled with a squabble of voices, male and female.
‘Come on,’ Odysseus said. ‘Let’s get out of this damned rain.’
They ran across the courtyard and up the stairs to their room, which was strewn with blankets and the cloaks and torn curtains they had filled them with. Aeolus was there with Androcles, the younger man holding a flaming torch over his head. Its light revealed Aeolus’s daughters huddled together in a corner of the room. Three held cloaks across their bodies, while the others were naked, covering themselves as best they could with arms and hands. As the Ithacans entered, Aeolus turned to them, his face fierce with rage. At the sight of Odysseus his anger receded a little.
‘I’m glad you weren’t here, my friend,’ he told Odysseus. ‘But then you knew this would happen, didn’t you?’
With a last glance at his daughters, he left the room. Androcles tried to follow, but Odysseus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
‘It’ll take more than that to trap me, lad,’ he hissed, taking the torch from his hand. ‘And now, perhaps, you’ll send us up a few towels. You wouldn’t want us to catch cold, would you?’
Androcles scowled at him and moved to the door.
‘Get out of here,’ he commanded his sisters. ‘Now!’
To Eperitus’s surprise, a slave brought warm towels a short while after.
The next night, Aeolus’s daughters were present at the feast, though this time their eyes were downcast with only one or two daring an occasional glance at the guests. Neither did anyone interrupt Odysseus’s narrative, that night or any other, until he reached the story of his escape from the Cyclops’s cave.
‘And so we set sail again, leaving the blind Polyphemus behind and steering for this island, filled with hope at the monster’s words and believing we would find help from the wise Aeolus, ruler of the winds and favourite of the gods. For without help how can I ever hope to find my way back home to my beloved Ithaca and the family I have not seen for ten years? Every battle I have fought, every obstacle I have overcome, has been for their sake, to hold Penelope in my arms again and look upon Telemachus, the son I haven’t seen since he was a baby. And yet my prayers have been answered. You, Lord Aeolus, have shown me and my comrades mercy, taking us under your roof, feeding us and even describing to us each leg of the journey home. Tomorrow we can sail in confidence, knowing that Ithaca is but a few days away. Thank you, my lord.’
He sat, and for a while there was silence as the two men stared at each other across the heat haze. The silence continued to the point of embarrassment before Aeolus pushed himself up from his chair and looked across at his guests.
‘I am grateful to you, Odysseus, for sharing your adventures with us. This hall has not heard the like since its foundations were laid. I also owe you an apology. From the day you arrived, Androcles has shown you nothing but hostility. For that my son offers you his apologies.’
At a gesture from his father, Androcles stood and bowed to Odysseus, though his eyes remained downcast and did not meet the king’s. Odysseus returned the bow.
‘But you must not blame him,’ Aeolus continued. ‘You see, he simply thought he was trying to defend me from my own folly. He believed that in telling you how to chart a course back to Ithaca I was also giving away the means for outsiders to find our island, something I had sworn never to do.’
‘Sworn?’
‘With Zeus’s name on my lips. And why not? This is a peaceful island where I live happily with my wife and children. A blessing that I know, you, Odysseus, will appreciate the value of. We have no need for contact with the outside world and we do not seek it.’
‘But –?’
‘No, my friend, I did not break my oath. As much as you thought you were leading me blindfold down a path of your choosing, it was in fact I who was leading you. After the first couple of days you would have realised the courses and landmarks I revealed to you each night, at such pains to yourself, had been false. Not even for a story like the one you have told with such skill would I provide any man with a map to return to this blessed isle.’
Eperitus looked across at Odysseus, whose face was empty of expression. Empty of hope. He had used all his wit to fool Aeolus into telling him the way home, but for once he had misjudged his opponent. And now he was as lost as he had been when they had arrived thirty days before. On the other side of the hearth, Androcles’s sullen look was replaced by a triumphant smile. He reached across and took Dia’s hand in his.
‘And yet you should not consider your efforts fruitless, Odysseus,’ Aeolus continued. ‘Though I had my doubts when you arrived,
I have not invited you to remain night after night because I enjoyed your attempts to fool me. Even from the first I sensed there was something about you and some of your comrades,’ here he bowed slightly towards Eperitus, who in his surprise forgot to bow back, ‘that deserved a little patience on my part. Had I really suspected you of being a pirate or some other miscreant, I would have driven you back into the sea and sent a hurricane to wreck your fleet without hesitation. But it was clear you were not, and when you mentioned the war I decided you might be worth listening to. And you have been. Not only for the stories that you told with such skill, filling this hall with the sound and smell of battle and intriguing us with the politics of kings, but because, through your ordeals, you have shown me that you are a man of quality. You are more worthy of the title of king than many others who bear it. Yes, you are clearly capable with spear or sword and you know how to command men in war, as well as balance favour with allies more powerful than you are. But kingship is more than that. You have convinced me that your heart does not lust for glory alone. Your concern is for the land over which you rule and for its people, not for the wars and ambitions of other men. Greater still, your heart’s desire is for your family. Though the wars of men fascinate me, I do not understand them. But the love of one’s family – for all their faults – that I can understand. So I will not keep you from yours any longer. If I cannot tell you the way home, there are other ways I can help you. When we part as friends tomorrow morning and I give you my guest-gift, you will see I am not so mean a host as I might at first have seemed. But for now, King Odysseus,’ he said, rising from his seat, ‘I will bid you goodnight.’
Odysseus said nothing as they returned to their quarters, and Eperitus knew better than to disturb him. Besides, he had thoughts of his own to keep himself occupied: about whether the gods were still with his friend, despite Athena’s curse, or whether it was his quality, as Aeolus had termed it, that saw him through. He believed it was the latter.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE RETURN TO ITHACA
The Ithacans were woken by a male slave who invited them to breakfast with Aeolus. He led them down to the courtyard, which was half-covered by the shadow of the palace walls. A number of tables and benches had been arranged in a semicircle in a bright patch of sunlight by the open gates. At its apex were two high chairs in which sat Aeolus and Telepora. Their sons and daughters were sitting on either side of them with a dozen slaves in attendance. The tables were laden with food and several drinking cups glinted gold in the sunshine. At the centre of the semicircle was a large leather sack the size of a bull’s torso.
At a gesture from Aeolus, the slave led the Ithacans to the tables where they were seated in pairs. Eperitus and Odysseus were placed between Aeolus and Telepora on their left and Dia and Androcles on their right. Aeolus began the feast by pouring a libation to Zeus in the sand. The others followed, and for a while the only sounds were of hungers being satisfied, punctuated by the cawing of seagulls overhead as they awaited the opportunity to swoop on any discarded scraps. Eperitus sat peeling the shell from a boiled egg and wondering what was in the leather bag. If it contained Aeolus’s guest-gift for Odysseus, then rather than holding the sorts of treasures one ruler might usually give to another it looked as if it had been filled entirely with air.
Aeolus stood and raised his hand for silence. After a few words honouring Odysseus and his visit to Aeolia, and beseeching the protection of the gods upon his journey home, he faced the king.
‘My friend, you have a long voyage ahead of you and I do not wish to delay you any more than I already have. It is customary for a host to provide his guest with a gift, something befitting his status and which brings him honour. But I doubt there is anything I can give you that will increase the honour you have already won for your name. Instead I present you with something more valuable than glory. If I cannot tell you the way back to Ithaca, I will at least give you a favourable wind to guide you home to your family.’ He raised his hands to the skies and closed his eyes, muttering words under his breath. At once a strong breeze blew across the courtyard, raising straw and dust from the floor. ‘Keep this wind full in your sail and it will bring you home in nine days. What’s more, I have imprisoned the other winds in this bag so that they will not hinder your progress. All I ask is that you untie the silver cord and release them again when you are safely on the shores of Ithaca – and not a moment before. I’ll know when you have freed them and will call them back again.’
Because of its size they tied the leather bag to a pole, which Eurybates and Polites carried on their shoulders back to the fleet. The bored Ithacans greeted the news they would be leaving with a cheer and set about readying the galleys. The bag aroused much interest as it was stowed in the hold of Odysseus’s ship, but the king had sworn his comrades to secrecy and neither kindness nor bribes could persuade them to reveal its contents to the others. Eperitus found Astynome under the watchful eyes of the two soldiers whom Polites had assigned to guard her while he was in Aeolus’s palace.
‘Thank the gods we’re leaving,’ she said, greeting him with a tight embrace. ‘I’m tired of being treated like a prisoner. At least I like being guarded by you.’
One by one the fleet rowed out of the cove and with the wind at their backs made good progress into open waters. At a signal from Odysseus the sails dropped and were stiffened by the breeze, driving the galleys across the waves. There was no sign of any other landmass west of Aeolia and Eperitus felt uneasy about sailing over an unknown sea with no idea of where or when they would encounter the next landfall. Odysseus, though, seemed unfazed as he stood at the prow watching the distant horizon. Then, when the afternoon was growing old, he called over to Eperitus over his shoulder.
‘Look out there and tell me what you see.’
Eperitus shielded his eyes from the lowering sun. The farthest point of the horizon was topped by a layer of white.
‘It looks like fog.’
The chariot of the sun had ridden over the horizon by the time the fleet reached the bank of mist. The wind that Aeolus had promised would take them all the way home now dropped away and the twelve galleys were met by vaporous arms that drew them into a half-lit world of thick fog. Ghostly tentacles crept over the bow rails and quickly shrouded everything in white. The ships on either side became grey phantoms that soon disappeared altogether. Eurybates, his voice deadened in the still, damp air, called for the oars to be lowered into the becalmed waters, an order that was echoed by the invisible galleys around them.
‘We’re in trouble if there’s land out there,’ Odysseus said.
‘I can’t smell anything,’ Eperitus replied. ‘As far as I can tell we’re still in the middle of an empty ocean. Do you think Aeolus has betrayed us?’
‘The wind has gone, but he can’t have sent this fog. I don’t like it, though. It’s getting dark, and even if we don’t get smashed to pieces on rocks we could emerge on the other side with the fleet scattered and lost.’
The dense mist persisted until night had fallen, then began to break up and thin out until a few stars became visible overhead. The westerly breeze returned, chasing away the last tattered banners of fog and half-filling the sail so that it rumpled and flapped back into life. Eurybates ordered the oars to be withdrawn, and the weary crew cheered, only to be silenced by an order from Odysseus.
‘Do you hear or see anything, Eperitus?’ he asked.
They were clear of the fog now, which was receding rapidly behind them, and though there was no moon, the stars were bright enough for him to see the outline of a sail away to their right. The voices of the crew came to him across the waves.
‘There’s at least one other ship,’ he said, pointing, ‘and I think there’s another ahead of us to the left.’
‘Polites,’ Odysseus called, ‘go aft and light a torch. We need the others to know we’re here.’
‘There’s another thing,’ Eperitus said. ‘Look at the stars. They’re how they
used to be before the land of the lotus eaters.’
A slow smile crept over Odysseus’s face.
‘We’re on our way home, Eperitus. We’re on our way home!’
The doors of the great hall were open and bright daylight reached into the centre of the open space, cramming the shadows into the corners so that the darkness there seemed thicker and more impenetrable. A breeze wafted in and encouraged the flames on the hearth to dance higher. The smell of bread from the palace ovens mingled with woodsmoke and Penelope’s perfume, an interesting and not unpleasant mix that distracted Eupeithes momentarily from his thoughts. His son’s angry voice brought him back again.
‘Ten years is too long,’ Antinous said. ‘Ithaca needs a king now, and you, my lady, should recognise that. If you agree to remarry then the people will accept your decision.’
‘But will my husband when he returns,’ the queen replied, smiling affably.
Antinous waved his hand dismissively.
‘Those rumours your son spread were lies, even if they had a few simpler minds believing them for a while.’ He looked at Melantho waiting in the shadows with a pitcher of wine, but she refused to meet his eye. ‘The war will probably continue for another ten years. The Trojans show no sign of weakening, and with the Greek kings bound by Odysseus’s oath they’re stuck there until the matter is decided one way or another.’