by Glyn Iliffe
‘Take him out and throw him in the pigsty for the night,’ he ordered Polites. ‘Maybe that’ll remind him what will happen if he dares insult our hostess again.’
He left through the same door Circe had taken. Eperitus did not see him again until the next morning, when he awoke to find Odysseus on his usual pile of furs near the hearth. While the rest were still asleep, Eperitus put some bread in a leather pouch and woke Astynome. They left in silence and walked out into the forest. As the sun climbed higher, thick shafts of sunlight broke through the canopy, heating the air until it became unseasonably warm and they were obliged to remove their cloaks.
‘Have you thought about leaving yet?’ he asked as they strolled hand in hand through the dappled undergrowth.
‘Leaving? But we haven’t been here more than… I don’t know – a couple of weeks?’
‘I don’t know either. That’s the odd thing about this place. I know the stars are strange here, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, but that’s been the same since Malea. Here, though, I seem to have lost all track of the days.’
‘That’s part of the charm of this place. For the first time since we left Troy – no, since before then – I feel relaxed. We’re safe. We have more than enough to eat and drink. Circe asks nothing of us, though I’ve offered to help. Her nymphs seem to manage everything by themselves. It’s… magical!’
‘That’s what worries me,’ Eperitus replied with a sigh. ‘It’s too good. The thought of setting sail again barely enters my head; it’s easier to stay on Aeaea. Everybody’s happy: Omeros plays his lyre; Elpenor gets drunk; Polites sleeps; and I just want to be with you. The idea of going back to sea and facing whatever else is out there… it doesn’t even occur to me any more.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Astynome said with a smile. ‘We’re together in a place where the burdens of the world can’t touch us. I’ve never seen you this relaxed before. And I like it, Eperitus. I like it.’
‘I don’t. I don’t trust Circe and I’m worried about Odysseus.’
‘I know you are. But you always have been! Perhaps the soldier in you can’t relax his guard. You have to have something to worry about, so you fall back into old habits and worry about Odysseus when he’s just fine.’
‘Then why hasn’t he mentioned Penelope or Telemachus since the night of the first feast? In all the days we’ve been on Aeaea he hasn’t mentioned home once.’
‘Where is home, Eperitus?’
He looked at her. She shrugged her shoulders and turned away, as if her comment meant nothing. Then she frowned a little and pointed.
‘The forest is coming to an end. Come on, let’s go a little further.’
She ran off, a white figure flitting from one shaft of light to the next. By the time he caught up with her the trees had ended and they were looking down at a grassy slope. It led down to a gently curving beach between two headlands. From where they stood they could see the shelf of yellow sand stretching out beneath the blue waves until it disappeared into darker water. Astynome looked at him and raised an eyebrow. At that moment, with the sun on her brown skin and her face framed by her long black hair, he felt she had never looked so beautiful. Then, with an easy movement of her fingers she unclasped her brooch and stepped out of her dress to stand naked on the thick grass.
‘Come on,’ she said, and ran down the slope towards the beach.
Eperitus grinned to himself and chased after her.
The journey back from the beach seemed longer. Whether it was the humid air of the forest or the fact he felt relaxed after their lovemaking, he could not tell. But as he held her hand in his and told himself he should be feeling happy, he knew he was not.
‘What do you think of her?’
‘Who? Circe? How am I supposed to answer that?’
‘Just… tell me what you think of her.’
‘Well, she’s not like us. She’s some sort of nymph herself, or a witch. I think she’s one of the immortals.’
‘And she wants Odysseus to sleep with her. I’m concerned that the longer we stay here, the harder it will be for him to resist her advances.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Isn’t it obvious to you that she’s trying to seduce him?’
‘Isn’t it obvious to you she already has?’
Eperitus looked at her incredulously. ‘Don’t be foolish. Of course she hasn’t. He would never betray Penelope.’
Astynome faced him and took both his hands in hers. The look of lazy contentment that she had worn since the beach was replaced with concern.
‘Can’t you tell? She may be a demigod or an enchantress, but she’s still a woman and she shows all the signs of having –’
‘That’s ridiculous! What signs?’
‘The signs all women show when they are with a lover. The way she can’t stop touching him; that familiar light in her eyes when she looks at him; the fact he’s the one man she doesn’t regard with that remote pride she shows to everyone else. Perhaps it takes another woman to see it, I don’t know, but he has shared her bed.’
‘But why would he? I know him. Everything he’s done in the past ten years has been to bring about the day he can go home to Penelope.’
‘Maybe he’s still trying to –’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘You thought I knew and yet you didn’t think I wouldn’t have said something to him? And that’s what I will do, Astynome, the moment we get back. I’ll ask him to his face and prove you wrong.’
‘Don’t, Eperitus. Think about it. Why did he sleep with her? It’s like you say: why after all this time would he betray Penelope?’
‘He wouldn’t.’
‘He would for your sake. Why else did Circe turn you and the others back into men? Why not leave you as a herd of swine, to join the packs of lions and wolves and the gods know what else that live around that house? He did it to save you, because he loves you and without your help he knows he’ll never see Penelope again.’
At last Eperitus understood. He understood the bargain Odysseus had talked about. He understood the price that had been paid and why he would not pay it again for the sakes of the other animals under Circe’s spell. But he could not accept it. And he would not believe it until he heard the words from Odysseus’s own lips.
The lions and wolves barely stirred when they reached the glade, content to bask in the early afternoon sun and whisk away the flies with their tails. Several Ithacans were lazing on the thick grass, listening to Omeros as he thumbed his tortoiseshell lyre and pieced together verses for the song he was working on. Polites, as ever, was at the young bard’s side, along with Eurybates and Elpenor.
‘Eperitus!’ the giant warrior called. ‘Come over here and listen to this.’
‘Where’s Odysseus?’
‘Haven’t seen him since breakfast. Sing that part again, Omeros, and see what Eperitus thinks.’
Omeros saw the urgency in Eperitus’s expression.
‘Odysseus is inside. Said he wanted to look at the tapestry Circe was working on.’
‘Stay here,’ Eperitus said, turning aside to Astynome. ‘I’m going to speak to him.’
She slipped her hand behind his elbow and led him out of earshot of the others.
‘Don’t be hasty, my love. You judge everyone by your standards, but, remember, Odysseus isn’t you. He has his own ways and his own version of honour, and whatever he may have done he did it for what he believes to be the best.’
‘Treachery is treachery, Astynome, whether it’s between a man and a man or a man and a woman. And if he has betrayed Penelope –’
‘Betrayed? If he has betrayed her in body, he hasn’t in his heart. What is he but a man swept along by the tide of events? Maybe he did fail Penelope, but only because he had no other choice. And before you condemn him, look first to yourself. Have you never failed anyone? You, the most honour-bound man I know. You kn
ow you have, because nobody can live up to your mark, not even yourself. There’s no battlefield code to be adhered to here, Eperitus, only the code of friendship. And if your friendship is to survive, you must forgive him his weaknesses.’
She looked at him imploringly and as he ingested her words he knew she was right. For a moment, and he did not know why, she reminded him of Iphigenia. Her talk of failure made him think of how he had failed his daughter. He had failed to save her, failed to avenge her. But he knew he could not have done more than he had, not without giving up life itself. Was not Odysseus doing the same? Failing Penelope so that everything else could go on, so that one day he could be with her again?
Or had there been another way? Had he simply succumbed to lust? Was he any better than Eurylochus, Selagos, Little Ajax or even Agamemnon himself? Perhaps only one thing lay at the heart of all great men: themselves.
‘Stay here,’ he told Astynome, and he strode towards the house.
He found Odysseus exactly where Omeros had said he was. Circe’s house was not large, overpowering and austere. It did not have stuccoed walls brightly painted with panoramas of warfare or scenes from the stories of the gods. Instead the walls were hung with tapestries depicting mountains and lakes, or woodland temples populated by animals. Rather than echoing with the booming voices of great men, the walls in Circe’s house absorbed sound so that the feasts they enjoyed night after night felt more intimate, more like family meals than the formal interaction of host and guest. And each tapestry had been woven by Circe herself on the large loom before which Eperitus found Odysseus standing now.
The king did not appear to notice Eperitus’s entrance. He stood alone, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he looked down at the loom. On it was a new tapestry, almost complete, depicting a wooded island with a large house at its centre. A woman stood at the porch, tall and dark haired. At her feet were several animals that may have been wolves or swine, but the design had not been completed so Eperitus could not be certain. The woman’s hand was raised as if refusing the creatures entrance – or as if casting a spell.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said.
Odysseus started. In that brief instant, with his guard down, Eperitus could see the burden that he carried clearly written on his features. He seemed to have aged, and even his slowly forced smile could not remove the years.
‘Does she weave them all herself?’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ Odysseus replied. ‘I’ve only ever seen her at the loom.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. You just have to look at the tapestry: it’s just Circe, alone –’
‘Circe?’ Odysseus seemed genuinely surprised and turned to look at the picture again. ‘Strange, but I never thought of the figure as her. From the first moment I saw it I could only think of my wife.’
‘Penelope? I thought you’d forgotten about her.’
‘Forgotten?’
‘How many weeks have we lingered here?’
‘I haven’t forgotten Penelope or Ithaca, though it seems the rest of you have.’
‘Then what’s keeping you from setting sail again? All you have to do is give the order and we’ll obey.’
‘I… I don’t know the way. And the men still need to rest.’
Eperitus closed the fingers of his right hand into a fist.
‘Or is it something else, Odysseus? Why not go now? Why do I see Circe in that tapestry and you see Penelope?’
‘I don’t know what –’
‘Is it guilt?’
‘Guilt?’
‘Yes, guilt. Guilt! You’ve murdered, deceived and even denied the gods to get yourself this far home. And now you’re an adulterer too.’
‘How dare you!’
Anger flashed into Odysseus’s face and every muscle in his hulking chest and arms grew taut. Eperitus met the king’s rage with his own. All it needed was one word. One word to release his fury and end their friendship forever.
‘Did you sleep with her? Did you sleep with Circe?’
Odysseus’s eyes narrowed and he set his teeth in a grim snarl. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the fire that filled him went out. He took a step back, reaching for the loom to steady himself. His eyes were downcast as he answered in a weak voice.
‘Yes. Yes I slept with her.’
There was no attempt to defend his action. No excuse that what he had done he had done for Eperitus’s sake, or the sake of the crew, or even that he had had no choice if he wanted to return to Penelope. Neither did he declare his regret for what he had done. He had admitted his crime and there was nothing more to be said.
Eperitus’s fists remained clenched, but his anger, too, had faded. No fire burned in Odysseus’s eyes now, only the tears that had quenched it. Part of him wanted to strike Odysseus hard across the face, as if that would see justice done; as if Penelope’s honour – like all honour in a hard world – could be restored by violence. But honour had nothing to do with it. Odysseus was a man, not a god. He had failed because the gods had abandoned him, and the gods themselves must take the blame. Who else was there?
He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and Odysseus embraced him silently. Eperitus could feel him shaking with the strength of his tears as, at last, he was able to express something of his grief for what he had killed.
Astynome lay on her side, her hand on Eperitus’s chest as it rose and fell in its slow, contented rhythm. She could feel the warmth of his flesh and the beating of his heart, and it made her feel safe. Safe from the world beyond the furs that covered them. Safe from what lay beyond the shores of Aeaea.
Her other hand was on her stomach, her fingertips pressing the flesh gently as she wondered how long they had been on the island. It was almost impossible to judge the passing of time. Spring seemed to have arrived early – or they had been there longer than any of them had guessed – for the woodland flowers had sprung up and the trees were starting to bud again, filling the Ithacans with new heart if not new vigour. For she was not the only one who had found her ease. All talk of resuming the voyage had died off. Perhaps it was for fear of the dangers they would face moving from one hostile landfall to another. Or perhaps it was because, like her, the others were happy where they were. Not even Odysseus seemed eager to return to Ithaca any more. He and his men would still reminisce as they sat around the feasting table each night, drinking good wine and eating richer food than they could ever have hoped for at home. As the merriment faded and sentimentality set in, they would talk of the people and places they had left behind. But they were looking backwards now, not forwards as they had done before they reached Aeaea. Eperitus had fallen into the same stupor as the others. He no longer mentioned the plans he and Astynome had made to start a farm on their return to Ithaca. More worrying to her mind, he had stopped talking of the children they had dreamed of having together.
The thought that he might no longer want a family bit into her drowsiness and pulled her back from the edge of sleep. For some nights now she had struggled to sleep. Raising her head from Eperitus’s shoulder, she propped herself up on one elbow and looked about the room. The ashes in the hearth had died to a dull crimson and one of the tall wooden shutters that the nymphs were so careful to close every night had come loose and swung inwards, letting the bold light of the full moon spill into the hall. Then, as her senses were lulled again by the snores of the sleeping men and women around her, she saw a shadow cross the open window. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but it startled her to full wakefulness.
‘Eperitus,’ she whispered. ‘Are you awake?’
He did not stir, a sure sign he was fast asleep. The same deep sleep that had taken him every night since they had become guests in Circe’s house.
She thought for a moment, then lifted aside the furs and stood. The night air chilled her naked skin. Slipping hurriedly into her chiton and sandals, she pulled her cloak about her shoulders and moved to the doors. She opened them a crack and peered out at the brilliantly lit glade. Tr
ees and shrubs cast long shadows across the silvered grass, but there was no sign of the lions and wolves that usually slept together in their packs on the sward. As she looked for them among the trees she caught a movement by the outhouses at the far end of the clearing. A hooded figure crept with a slow, halting gait to one of the doors, opened it and slipped inside.
Astynome’s instincts told her that she should return to her bed, pull the furs back over herself and go to sleep. But instincts were natural cowards and she refused to listen to them, succumbing instead to the nagging voice of her curiosity. After a last glance over her shoulder, she stepped out onto the porch and crossed the lawn. The harsh moonlight left her exposed and a sudden fear she might be seen forced her to run to the nearest outhouse. It was the same windowless, single-storey building she had spotted the figure disappearing into. As she pressed her back against one of its walls she cursed herself for not having brought a dagger for protection. Nevertheless, she moved quietly to the door and saw that it had been left ajar. After listening carefully for a few moments, she looked in.
At first all was dark. She could see nothing and began to fear the figure was watching her from the shadows, perhaps moving its way invisibly towards her as her eyes struggled to penetrate the gloom. Then she heard mumbled words and a light flickered into life. It pulsed against the darkness, slowly expanding until Astynome was able to glimpse a hooded face and a pair of hands cupped around the base of a candle. Placing it down on a table, the figure opened a leather satchel hanging from its hip and removed what looked like a small wooden vial. Behind it, just visible at the edge of the circle of candlelight, Astynome could see the clay pithoi where Circe kept her wine. The figure pulled the stopper from the vial and poured the contents into the nearest vessel.