by Byrne Fone
Then he said: “ I do not know how to ask, but if it is true that you can sometimes look into the future, can you, for me….” His voice trailed off. I was amazed to see that Odysseus of the honey tongue was at a loss for words. “Perhaps, “ he said, “ perhaps you might be able to answer a small thing for me. “ I could tell by his tone that it was no small thing. I let him go on.
“I would be grateful if you could do so. I ask nothing else of you, and for it I will see that you are carried safely home.” I thought,” I said, as kindly as I could, “that was already your mandate from the king—to see me safely home. I cannot bargain with my gift.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It was tactless of me to ask in that way. But you should know, my questions are not about great things, not about politics and the state, not if Troy will stand or fall, or if Achilles will prevail or the king. Nor dare I ask if Apollo will relent, for who can finally know the will of the capricious gods? No, I only ask a small question… for me… a personal one. It would comfort me if I could know. It is about…about…my wife—and my son.”
As he hesitantly explained his request, I could see that here was a man, used to command and used to being obeyed, who had come to beg a favor—and from a woman. It was no easy thing for him to lower his guard, to remove the mask of command. Though before me still stood the shrewd and crafty Odysseus, warlord and advisor to Agamemnon, king of kings, and chief strategist of the numberless forces of Greece. yet what I saw was a husband longing for news of a beloved wife from whom he had been too long separated; I saw a father who wanted to see his only son. “What do you want to know,” I asked.
“Whether they are alive and well. That is all. It has been ten years since I have seen my Penelope and my son Telemachus, who was only an infant when I went to war.”
My heart went out to the father lonely for his wife and child. So my own father missed his child, and remembered everyday the wife he had loved and lost. How could I refuse Odysseus? My fear was that my gift had been forfeit to Agamemnon’s lust. But I was determined to try.
I will do it, but you must do one thing for me.”
“Ask,” he said.
“Protect my servant Briseis. The king no doubt hates me and because of me I fear he will harm her.”
“Consider it done,” he said
“Then bring me that brazier,” I said, pointing to the small three-legged dish that had been provided to warm my hands at night. He brought the brazier and went to search for straw from the cattle stall. Coming back with the straw, he brought chips and scraps of wood from the wood box amidships where the cook-fire smoldered. He arranged the fuel in the brazier and lighted it with a brand from the cook-fire. Quickly it caught and blazed up; he added more wood and in a few moments it had settled into low flame and glowing coals. Now I knew why I had brought the bag of aromatics. From it I took sandalwood and dried artemesia, that some call wormwood, along with some lavender, and threw it on the flames. It burned brightly and the smoke wreathed up. I bent over the brazier and inhaled deeply, wondering if I would be given back my gift. At first there was nothing. All I felt was the gentle rise and fall of the ship as it dipped into and rose on the waves, and the touch of the wind that carried with it the scent of sea salt mixed with the smell of the cattle. Other than the waves splashing on the hull, the only sound was the sail slapping against the mast, and the shriek of an occasional bird, crying out as it dove into the sea to find a juicy fish. Through the smoke I could see Odysseus watching me carefully. I feared that nothing was happening. But then Odysseus’ features began to shift; he himself began to fade. I could no longer see the deck, or the cattle chewing their cud, nor the soldiers lounging aforeship, playing dice. The ship became translucent, then invisible.
I had no palpable sense that I was sitting on a wooden deck. Instead I saw a rocky path, running upward to the high point of a plateau—the acropolis as the Achaeans call it. This plateau looked out over what I could see was an island, set in the center of the wine dark sea. Upon the heights rose a high walled citadel with a single gate of wooden and iron reinforced double doors, though which I passed even though they did not open. I found myself in the courtyard of a large building, its cornice decorated with painted figures, and supported by thick columns painted red and adorned with blue swirling decorations running around them like snakes. My sight carried me inside to an interior court. There at a loom a woman sat, weaving. At her feet a young boy played with a small shield and a wooden sword. The woman, whose blonde hair was streaked with grey, looked down at the boy, and I could just hear her say, “Ah Telemachus, you are your father’s son.”
Then I felt myself dropping through space, the vision began to fade, I heard the ocean sounds against the ship, a cow lowed, and face, anxious and concerned, hovered above me where I had fallen back on my pallet. He held a cup of wine to my lips. I sipped gratefully, feeling weak. There was a question in his eyes. I smiled, and was glad to say, “Your wife lives; and your son will be a hero. Like you.” I did not tell him that as my spirit traveled from the citadel, across the island and the sea, that I caught a glimpse, quickly, barely, vaguely, of a single ship tossed upon the sea, breasting the waves and storm wracked, traveling and traveling towards Ithaca but always deflected from its destination, thrown upon strange shores as the gods toyed with it.
My vision faded and I could not tell if the ship ever came to its homeport. But this I did see, at its helm Odysseus stood, a man battered and older than the haughty commander who stood before me now. The passing vision left me exhausted. I knew that Odysseus’ passage home would not be easy and was in no wise certain of success. I could not decide if this knowledge left me vaguely pleased, or instead, saddened.
Chapter 15
Chryseis
The next morning Chrysa was in sight. Around the ship hundreds of birds swooped and floated in the air, their calls seemed to be a chorus of welcome. And the dolphins, absent thus far from our voyage, leapt and tumbled before us, rising high above the waves and diving back again like acrobats performing before an audience. As they leapt and almost seemed to fly over the water it seemed to me that they were as happy and excited as I. We entered the bay at mid-day just as the sun, Apollo’s heavenly sign, reached its highest point in the sky. The gleaming rays reflected off the water, turning the foaming waves into a million diamond points breaking against the ship and shore and Chrysa‘s sand- always fine and golden-- was so washed by the sun that its seemed to be a carpet woven of fine gilt thread. News of the coming of a ship must have spread from person to person and house-to-house, for the cliff above the beach was now filling with people. I wondered if someone had gone running to the temple precincts to take the message that an Achaean ship had come to Chrysa. The people stood close together and appeared to be talking excitedly but nervously one to another, for how could they know if the ship meant well or harm. It was a dark-hulled Achaean ship after all, and such ships had brought nothing but sorrow to Ilium. But wise Odysseus, seeing this too, and wanting nothing to go wrong, shouted to the mid-ships deckhand to haul down the king’s pennant and raise instead a white flag of peace, a signal that all men knew.
Seeing the flag, the people began to shout-- no, cheer-- and run toward the path that led down to the beach. And among them, indeed above them, I could see a small white-haired figure carried on a chair by four strong young men. Before him walked another carrying a staff. I didn’t have to see it well to know that this was the staff of Apollo. It glittered and flashed as it caught the sun’s rays, sending them out across the golden sand, across the waters, and to the horizon as if to signal that at last all was well. I stood at the deck rail and watched the little procession come down the steep path to the beach. The calling of gulls, the shouts of the people, the splashing of the waves against the hull, seemed to combine into a paean of triumph, punctuated by the steady beat of the oar-master’s drum as we tacked smartly in towards the shore. I clutched at the rail; I was nearly blind with tears. Then I fe
lt an arm, strong, protective, and fatherly, about my shoulder, Odysseus stood next to me. “Soon,” he said, “soon.”
The ship rushed toward the beach; the oar-master struck a final quick tattoo; with a clatter the oars were raised and with a hiss of waves and sand we slid neatly up onto the beach; sailors leapt ashore and thrust blocks beneath the hull and with a shudder we were still. I was home at last. Time seemed to stop for moment. Like a frieze painted on a temple wall the scene stood still: a dark hulled ship drawn up on a golden beach; a young woman standing expectantly at the gangplank about to disembark; a crowd of people, among them a white-clad attendant bearing Apollo’s golden staff and four strong young men who having lowered a carrying chair to the ground are in the act of reaching out to help a reverend and aging priest, white hair gleaming in the sun, face bright with joy, descending to meet her.
Then time began again. I heard the people cheering; from the ship there were cheers as well and the lowing of cattle and bleating of goats. I ran down the gangplank, joy singing in my heart, and into my father’s arms. All around me the air was perfumed with the heady smell of lavender, wild and sweet.
The people began to stream toward the beach. We kissed again, and again, and then I said,
“Father, a word.”
“My dear?”
“Odysseus, be kind to him.”
My father looked surprised, for why, he must surely wonder should he be kind to him? I could see it in his face: Why be kind to this man who with Agamemnon had come to despoil our land, who had connived with this king to steal me, his daughter, and who had made her suffer. What kindness was owed to him? I answered the unspoken question.
“Be kind to him; he is a father too, and he will suffer. ”
Then we awaited the coming of Odysseus who was standing at the gangplank, waiting till the reunion was done. The soldiers came to attention, and Odysseus, a man who lived in legend, came toward us.
“Chrsyes, Apollo’s Priest, and Lord of Chrysa,” and my Lady Chryseis,” he began, using the stilted and formal language of envoys, for there are forms for such sacred things as this and language in which they must be spoken, “I, Odysseus, King of Ithaca come from Agamemnon, King of men, to bring your daughter home. I see that you have greeted her, as a loving father should do. Agamemnon my master has commanded me to bring her back to you and with her these offerings for Apollo, the Archer whose arrows have stuck us all a grievous blow and left us dying in the dust. We come to humbly beg you, Chryses, put aside your anger. And intercede for us and beg the god to put away his anger too, and end this plague. For this we have returned your daughter of the golden hair and for this we kneel before you now.” He knelt, and all his men did likewise.
My father accepted this homage for a long moment and then bent down and taking Odysseus by the shoulders raised him up and beckoned him to come closer. Odysseus handed my father a bag of grain, the proper thing, and which must always be used at sacrifice. He took it in token of acceptance and said, as formally, “Bring your offerings to the temple within the hour, before the sun sets. I will invoke the god and make the sacrifice and then we will break bread together.”
I have to say it. It was all I could do to resist the wave of triumph that washed over me. I felt justified and revenged, that somehow I had won a victory. But, no, the victory was not mine; it was Apollo’s. We are His servants, we His voice on earth.
My father motioned for the boys to help him into his chair and me into another chair and carry us up to the temple. As we went they broke into a hymn to Apollo, praising his power and mercy. Behind us the Achaeans had joined the procession, leading their sacrifices. Odysseus walked first, the soldiers next and behind them the priests and the cattle behind them. They joined in the singing, and as the voices rose echoing mightily off the cliffs, it was good to know that in this, at least we were one, united in praise to the god and singing together in the same sacred tongue. How must our procession have looked, climbing up the steep hillside: me, my white haired father in his chair, me in mine, golden hair floating in the wind chair, Ariston going before with the symbol of the god; Odysseus and his line of soldiers, armor shining, then the priests and the beribboned cattle, decorated for the sacrifice. It must have been like a scene painted on a cup, in red and black, that men have made to give to boys they love or women they adore.
We arrive at the temple courtyard, Odysseus and his men following. When all of the cattle had been picketed, and the soldiers given leave by Odysseus to rest, he came to us. He stood a head or more taller than my father, and was some years younger, his hair was streaked with grey and white and he walked with slight limp. His dark eyes were shadowed by heavy brows, and his face, alert and wise, was nevertheless lined and craggy. War had laid unkind hands upon him too. He came up to us; made a military salute, and them surprisingly, knelt in the dust before us. He was clearly used to commanding and to being obeyed. But now he knelt before Apollo’s priest and before Apollo’s daughter whom he knew could not be commanded. He was the supplicant now. Nevertheless, I was determined to treat him better than his king had treated me. I reached down and raised him up.
“Lord Odysseus, I said, I cannot ask you yet to break your fast as yet, for we--you my father and I-- must first make the sacrifice. But I will cattle.
”That is as it should be,” he said. “I will not eat till our work is done.”
“But,” my father said, “we can offer you wine, for the god has no quarrel with Dionysus and the fruits of his vine. Come.” Motioning him to a seat beneath an ancient olive tree that had spread its branches here for longer then any man could remember, we all sat together in its shade. The afternoon sun washed the temple yard and colored the temple itself with ochre and gold, picking out and heightening the brightly painted frieze that wound its way below the pediment. The cicada hummed in the warm afternoon sun and the newly mown fields-- for it was near the end of summer--perfumed the air all around us. Ariston brought some wine, sweet and chill, for we keep it in earthen bottles in the cold depths of the sacred spring. We poured some out on the ground beneath the tree; my father said a prayer and we drank. A second cup and then a third made us, if not giddy then relaxed and open with one another. I felt the tension drain away; perhaps he did too. His formal manner thawed, his careful and guarded speech became more free. We talked-- not about the war, not about the king, but about our lives. He told us about his wife and son and told my father how I had seen a vision telling him that all is well with them. In turn my father told him about his life before the god called him, and after, about my mother and my birth. I said how grateful I was that he had brought me home.
“I am glad to have done it,” he said. “It was wrong to keep you and wrong to treat you so. But to our grief we know that now. “
My father laid his hand, brown and mottled with age, on Odysseus’ arm, muscled and hard from years of battle. The hand of the priest that wields the knife of sacrifice lay on the arm of the general that wields the sword of conquest. For the moment they were not priest and general, Achaean and Trojan, but instead just two men, both getting on in years, sharing a cup of wine and having a chat and gossip, enjoying not what divided them but what they both shared, love of family. I thought, how can there be war and strife, hatred and battle, when two men can speak from the heart about the things that are dear to them.
The afternoon sun began to wane. “Lord Odysseus,” my father said, “it is time now. We must do what you have come for. The sacrifice must be made just before the sun sets so that the god can take its virtue with him when he sleeps. See, the people know.”
Along the road from the village the people were coming, dressed in black as was right for this was a solemn sacrifice-- women in shawls drawn tight around there shoulders, men draped in dark wool cloaks. My father nodded to Ariston who came forward carrying a black cloak for Odysseus and his own black robe, edged with gold, the sign of the Apollo embroidered upon it back and front.
“My lord,” he said, �
��your soldiers will be given such clothes as well. It is out of respect to the god that we do not outshine him. Odysseus, will you attend me at the altar?” He nodded his assent. “Come, then, the time is now.”
By now a large number of people had gathered in the temple forecourt and lined both sides of the path, its stones as ancient as Troy itself, that led from the precinct gate to the steps of the temple. They stood in silence, waiting for us to come there in procession. Ariston fell in before at the head of the procession, carrying Apollo‘s staff. My father followed with Odysseus by his side. I followed behind them. Four young men helped Odysseus’ priests to lead the cattle for the sacrifice, one brought the white bull, its horns gilded and garlanded with flowers and came immediately behind me; two of the others each led a goat, the fourth carried a cage with white doves. The priests each cradled in their arms a newborn lamb. The soldiers followed, shields slung over their backs and spears reversed, point down, and wound about with laurel and ivy. Ariston, in his strong young voice began to sing the most sacred of the hymns to Apollo, the one that praises him for his strength and goodness and begs him to look with kindness and mercy on all his children, and to that moving chant we walked to the temple and into the presence of the god.
Once inside, all the cattle were ranged about the altar, each with its attendant who would offer the beast they attended to the god after the sacred bull had been sacrificed and his spirit sent up to heaven. My father began the ritual, purifying all who were there, sprinkling water and scattering grain, and especially purifying Odysseus himself, who was the supplicant. The fires before the altar burned and the smoke mingled with the incense Ariston had thrown on the flames. The air was redolent with the heady perfume I have known so well for so many years, but which still fills me both with excitement and reverence, for it signals that the god may soon come. Ariston brought the Archer‘s staff. And my father took it and turned to face Odysseus and his soldiers. Standing before them in his robes and with the staff catching the rays of the sun that were now beginning to enter level and straight through the temple door, I could not wonder that they looked at him with awe, for when they last saw him thus he had called down the curse of Apollo upon them all. Odysseus knelt and covered his head with the black cloak, and his soldiers did likewise.