by Glyn Iliffe
Bringing up the rear was a great boar, its skin and bristles as black as the others were pink, its tusks long and fearsome. Remembering the creature that had gored him in the leg as a boy, he stood in alarm, almost tripping backwards over the hairy bodies that crowded around him. But the boar did not succumb to the hateful nature of its kind and spring into a headlong charge. Instead it stood in the doorway, fierce, proud and noble as it watched the panicked chaos of its sty-mates. Circe appeared behind the boar, a clay jar in the crook of her elbow.
‘You might prefer to look away,’ she warned Odysseus. ‘There is no dignity in the metamorphosis of an animal to a man.’
‘Can it be as undignified as changing a man into an animal? I will watch.’
He sat and reached for the cup of wine, though he felt his hand tremble as he grasped it. Circe scooped a honey-like ointment from the mouth of the jar and knelt beside the boar, smearing it along the top of its head and spine. She repeated the action on the nearest pigs and then touched each animal with her wand. At first nothing happened. Odysseus looked questioningly at Circe, but she merely smiled back at him. Then the boar gave a strangled grunt and fell heavily on its side. Continuing to emit a deep-throated squeal, it kicked at the air with its legs and twisted its head sideways as if trying to get back to its feet. Odysseus held his cup tighter and forced it to his mouth. As the liquid touched his lips the boar gave a terrified grunt and almost rolled onto its back, making Odysseus spill some of his wine. Then it happened. The coarse hair began to grow and curl and drop to the floor. Its forelegs jerked forward, thickening dramatically as the trotters became fingers, twisting and grasping at nothing. The boar’s back arched and its chest broadened. All the time its black hide paled rapidly to sunburnt white. Its back legs stretched out, writhing with pain as bone, skin and muscle grew rapidly to form human legs and feet. The squeals had become shouts now and all about it the pigs that Circe had smeared with her lotion were going through similar transformations. Odysseus looked on with horror, repulsed by the sight before him and yet transfixed by it; wanting to run to the aid of his men, but too appalled to leave his chair. All the time Circe had been moving among the remaining swine, smearing them with the balm and touching them with the tip of her wand until the floor of the hall was a living mass of contorting flesh.
The figure in the doorway – once the boar but now recognisably a man – lay curled up in a ball. His hands were over his head and his muscles were strained so that the veins stood out in thick lines beneath the skin. His bare flesh was still smeared with the dirt of the pigsty, and though naked, Odysseus recognised Eperitus at once. He kicked back his chair and picked his way through the half-formed bodies of the other Ithacans.
‘Eperitus! Eperitus! Answer me.’
Eperitus turned and looked at him with dazed eyes. He recognised his name but seemed insensible to all else. Then, as Odysseus approached, he rose to his full height. For a moment it was as if a god had entered the hall. He seemed taller than he had been before. His skin was taut and the many scars that had marked limb and torso were gone. Even his face, which had endured the rigours of countless battles and many years beneath a merciless sun, looked as it had done when Odysseus had first met him, shining with the naïve zeal of youth. Then a shadow passed over him and he collapsed against the door jamb. He would have fallen back onto the porch had Odysseus not leapt forward to catch him.
‘Eperitus, it’s me.’
‘Odysseus?’
The sound of his voice – the knowledge that his friend still recognised him – drove the despair of his infidelity out of him in a blast of sudden joy. He wrapped his arms about his friend and held him tightly, tears of relief filling his eyes. Then he stood back and looked at him again. The godlike aura had gone. The scars and the lines of experience had returned; the light of new life that seemed to have filled him had faded once more; but his friend was back.
‘Odysseus,’ he said, forcing a groggy smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
A glance around the room followed. Then he beheld Circe and his memory returned with a jolt.
‘You!’ he said, tearing himself from the king’s embrace. ‘Where are the others? What have you –?’
‘Look about yourself, my friend,’ she said.
Slowly, the other Ithacans, the last vestiges of their porcine features gone, were struggling to their feet and staring blearily around at their surroundings. Some saw Circe and fell back, while others recognised Odysseus and came towards him with relief and joy on their faces. Before they could throw their arms about him, Eperitus pushed himself between them.
‘Odysseus, we are in danger. That woman is a witch. Where is your sword?’
‘His weapons are of no use against me,’ Circe responded. ‘Neither does he need them. None of you do. Odysseus has proved himself to me, and at his request I have made men of you again. You have nothing to fear now.’
Eperitus turned to Odysseus, who nodded.
‘Indeed, you are now my guests,’ she continued. ‘If I was hasty in my treatment of you before, then forgive a woman acting in fear for the safety of herself and her household. Your master has convinced me that you mean no harm, so if you will forgive me then my maids will wash away the mud of the pigsty and dress you in new tunics. Then, after Odysseus has returned to your ship and fetched the rest of your comrades, we will eat together and hear stories of your adventures.’
She looked at Odysseus, who avoided her eye and turned instead to his men. Their faces were filled with doubt and fear at the thought of remaining in the sorceress’s house while he returned to their crewmates. He raised his hands to calm their anxiety.
‘Circe has sworn before all the gods of Olympus that she will not turn you back into swine, or anything else unnatural. She has also asked us to remain here on Aeaea while we recover from our tribulations. A few days ago not a man among you would have refused such an offer.’
‘That was before she turned us into pigs!’ Perimedes said. ‘Besides, what value is there in the oath of a woman? She’ll have us back in that sty the moment you’re gone.’
‘Then why doesn’t she turn us all into pigs?’ Odysseus asked. ‘Why let me go?’
‘Because she wants you to bring the rest of the crew back here and put them under her spell, too,’ Eperitus said.
It was a thought that had occurred to Odysseus, but his instincts told him Circe would not break a promise made before the gods, despite what his men thought. He placed a reassuring hand on Eperitus’s shoulder.
‘I trust her, and you should trust me. Stay here and rest; I’ll be back with the others before sundown.’
But his men were so afraid it took all his authority to make them stay with Circe while he returned to the galley. Even then, Eperitus refused to remain without him. If only to reassure Astynome – whom he knew would be torn with anxiety because he had not returned from the first expedition – Odysseus agreed to let Eperitus come, and together they set off through the woods, leaving their frightened shipmates behind.
On their return to the galley they were greeted with elation. Eurylochus had been busy spreading the tale of his narrow escape, so the sight of Odysseus and Eperitus walking across the beach caused an outpouring of emotion as tensions were released. Odysseus had insisted Eperitus say nothing about what had happened, and when the others were told their countrymen were being bathed and oiled by nymphs in preparation for a feast – to which they were all invited – they were easily persuaded to return with them to Circe’s house. Only Eurylochus refused to believe Odysseus’s story that the rest of the crew had received food and shelter for the night and that his earlier concerns had been unfounded.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ he shouted as the others hauled the ship up the beach into the mouth of a cave. ‘He may be king, but that didn’t give him foresight to avoid the Cyclops’s cave or the harbour of the Laestrygonians. Follow him again now and you’ll be walking into another trap. I saw those lions and wolves with my ow
n eyes, as tame as dogs and walking on their hind legs like men. Because they once were men! The woman in that house enchanted them and she turned our friends into pigs, too – though Odysseus must have given her something in ransom for his favourite henchman. This is a fool’s errand and I can’t be held responsible for what happens to you!’
‘Are you calling me a fool?’ Odysseus asked, drawing his sword.
Eperitus placed a hand on his chest and turned to the crew, who had stopped hauling the ship up the sand and were listening to Eurylochus.
‘Who would you rather believe?’ he asked them. ‘Your king? Or a coward who ran away when he saw lions walking like men and wolves rolling on their backs like dogs?’
The crew laughed out loud and returned to their work. Later, when the galley was inside the cave and everything safely stowed, they followed Odysseus and Eperitus into the woods. Eurylochus sat on the sand and watched them go, until Selagos hauled him to his feet and forced him to join the exodus.
They found their crewmates on the lawn before Circe’s house. Their limbs were clean and their hair and skin had been oiled. True to her promise, the sorceress had dressed them in new tunics and cloaks, and as they sat at a long table laden with food and drink it was clear they were all happily drunk. They gave a great cheer as Odysseus and the rest of the crew emerged from the edge of the forest. The memory of their metamorphoses had succumbed to many golden cups of wine, and as the Ithacans approached, several left their chairs and came dancing and singing towards them. The newcomers, though, with the exception of Odysseus and Eperitus, withdrew in fear at the lions and wolves that lay on the grass around them.
‘Look,’ Astynome said, hooking her arm through Eperitus’s in surprise. ‘Some of them are lapping at bowls of wine and chewing cooked meat like they were men.’
‘They are men,’ Odysseus said, overhearing her words. ‘Or at least they were before the Fates brought them to Aeaea.’
Astynome was horrified.
‘And you want us to remain here? This Circe – how do you know she isn’t trying to lure us all into a trap? My lord, you say she has invited us to stay in her home until we’ve recovered our strength, but maybe she just wants to fatten us up before turning us all into a herd of pigs.’
‘She won’t do that. I have her word and I know she’ll keep it.’
‘How do you know?’ Eperitus asked. ‘What reason do you have to trust her? And if she agreed so easily to turn us back, couldn’t you have pleaded with her for the rest of these poor souls?’
He gestured towards the wolves and lions that surrounded them.
‘For one thing, Circe was not so easily persuaded. For another, these animals weren’t part of the bargain.’
‘But they were men, my lord,’ Astynome said, ‘just like you and Eperitus. They could think for themselves; perhaps somewhere they have wives and children who are awaiting their return. Isn’t it your duty to speak with Circe about them?’
‘Astynome, my duty is to my wife and son and to the men under my command. Even if I didn’t have enough troubles of my own to worry about, the price for their freedom is more than I am willing to pay.’
His words were calm and controlled – as much out of respect for Eperitus as Astynome – but Eperitus could see he was angry. Astynome knew it too and with an apologetic bow she went to the rear of the group to comfort the Trojan orphans, several of whom were crying at the sight of the lions and wolves. Eperitus glanced at Odysseus and wondered what the bargain was he had struck with Circe. What had he given to free his men that he would not offer for the other wretches living under her curse?
Circe now appeared, dressed in a yellow chiton that trailed over the grass as she walked. Seeing the newcomers were afraid of the lions and wolves, she sent the animals yelping into the trees with a wave of her hand. Then she beckoned her guests – sailors and slaves alike – to the empty seats at the table. Eperitus hung back, but when Odysseus took an empty chair and made a show of biting into a leg of goat, he decided his place was at the king’s side, come what may. He took the empty seat beside Odysseus and took a slice of bread from one of the many baskets. Sensing a presence behind, he looked up to see Circe standing there.
‘There is a place for you on the other side of the table, Eperitus, son of Apheidas.’
She smiled as she spoke, but there was no warmth in it. Instead there was a strange compulsion in her voice that convinced him to surrender his place to her without so much as a frown. If he protested at all, it was to take a seat beside Astynome rather than the one Circe had indicated. Soon all the Ithacans were eating as heartily as if they had not seen food for a week. Circe’s nymphs, led by her housekeeper, attended them with baskets of fresh food and skins of wine, refreshing the feast so that it carried on until the light faded and twilight shrouded them with shadows. Candles made from beeswax were brought so that the faces of the revellers were lit with a yellow pall, while behind them clouds of fireflies appeared in such numbers that Eperitus fancied they had been summoned by Circe. Then the moon rose over the treetops and bathed the glade in silver light. The Ithacans became steadily drunker, forgetting their hardships and the deaths of their comrades and filling the air with raucous songs. Even Eurylochus forgot his suspicions and eventually fell back from his seat unconscious. Only two men remained sober. From his place at a corner of the table, Eperitus refused the wine that was pressed upon him and drank only water from a skin he had brought from the galley, while all the time his watchful eyes were on Odysseus and Circe. It interested him that Odysseus, too, refused to lower his guard. He barely drank any wine, preferring to close his lips and let it spill down over his beard than let his senses be dulled by its effects. As the evening progressed he acted more and more drunk, singing along with the others and laughing out loud as he slammed his fists on the table. But if Circe was fooled, Eperitus, who knew him better, was not. He also watched the sorceress slowly submit to the wine. And with each golden goblet her guard fell lower and lower. Perhaps she thought everyone else was too drunk to notice, or perhaps she did not care, but what had begun with the occasional hand laid on Odysseus’s arm soon progressed to a wrist draped over his shoulder until eventually she was leaning drunkenly against him for support, with her head against his and her hand in his lap. All this Eperitus watched with concern. Then, shortly after Astynome laid her head on the table and fell into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion, Circe cupped her hand to Odysseus’s ear and whispered something that even Eperitus’s hearing could not discern over the songs and laughter around the table. He observed Odysseus’s reaction closely, but though the king had paused at Circe’s words and his fool’s mask had slipped for a moment, he said nothing in return. A little later, to Eperitus’s satisfaction, he let his head fall to the table with a loud bang and began snoring at once. This elicited great amusement from those Ithacans still awake, but Circe’s irritation was obvious. She shook his shoulders to no effect, then stood and bid her guests goodnight before walking – with the occasional stagger – back to her house. Eperitus suddenly felt very tired after his long watch. Content that Odysseus was safe, he picked Astynome up in his arms and carried her to the porch. The doors to the hall were open and he could feel the warmth of the fire that burned in the hearth. Piles of furs covered the floor, enough for every Ithacan and slave, and laying Astynome down in a corner he stretched out beside her and covered them both with one of the pelts. He had barely closed his eyes before he was asleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
CIRCE’S DECEIT
The feasts continued night after night, mostly in the hall where the Ithacans could easily find their furs when they had drunk too much. Eperitus noted no adverse effects on them, unless it was an over-hasty desire to remain on Aeaea and shun talk of resuming the journey home. At least no-one’s features were turning pig-like, he thought, other than Eurylochus’s, who had no need of Circe’s wand for that. Indeed, the crew were losing the exhausted, haggard expressions that had haunted t
hem after the disasters of the preceding weeks. The colour had returned to their faces and a fullness to their flesh, clear signs they had put their woes behind them and were returning to full mental and physical health. A few were beginning to look the way they had before the war, with the plumpness of well-fed farmers rather than the hardened physiques of soldiers.
But if his men were beginning to forget their ordeals, the island was having the opposite effect on Odysseus. Though he remained healthy and powerfully built and retained his warm, attentive and intelligent character, something had changed. When he spoke to Astynome and Omeros about it, neither could see it. But he could. A certain light no longer burned in Odysseus’s eyes. His broad shoulders, too, seemed a little lower, as if they carried an unseen burden that had not been there before. There was an emptiness about him that worried Eperitus. But whenever he asked his friend what was wrong – as they explored the island together during the bright, cold days of approaching winter – Odysseus would say he was imagining things and quickly change the subject. Eperitus also noted that Odysseus no longer spoke of Penelope, Telemachus or Ithaca.
After the first week, Eperitus decided it was safe to drink the wine brought to him by the nymphs. It was not as good as the wine Maron the priest had given them, but it had a reviving quality that explained the rapid improvement in the crew’s morale. Odysseus, too, soon gave up his abstinence, choosing to get drunk every night to avoid Circe’s increasingly obvious attentions. He never snubbed her, Eperitus noted, and was always careful to show her the closest consideration. But when her attraction for him revealed itself, he would whisper in her ear and she would restrain herself again. Then, one evening, Elpenor, who had a weakness for wine and was always the first to get roaringly drunk, watched the sorceress run her hand across Odysseus’s chest and down to his thigh. Leaning across the table, he pointed a finger at Circe and told her it was plain to everyone that Odysseus was not going to sleep with her. Silence fell, but Elpenor went further and offered to fulfil her needs himself. Circe leapt to her feet and pulled out her wand. In the same instant Odysseus’s hand shot up and snatched it from her fingers. Whatever fate he had saved Elpenor from, no-one ever found out, for their hostess turned on her heel and marched out of the hall. Odysseus was equally incensed.