ODYSSEUS AT DEATH’S DOOR¹

Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey (c. 700 BCE) offers one of the earliest and most vivid glimpses of the punitive afterlife in the ancient imagination. It tells the story of the decade-long voyage of Odysseus, a Greek veteran of the Trojan War, back to his home on the island of Ithaca. Hindered on his return voyage by the sea god Poseidon, Odysseus takes the advice of the enchantress Circe to venture to the threshold of the underworld to consult with the ghost of Tiresias of Thebes, a famous seer, about how best to return to Ithaca. In Homer’s story, the land of the dead is not deep beneath the earth but on a dark and distant shore: “the Ocean River’s bounds, where Cimmerian people have their homes—their realm and city shrouded in mist and cloud.” There Odysseus performs a necromantic ritual and speaks to the souls of the dead who answer his summons, including the shade of his own mother. The last to approach him is the ghost of Ajax, a hero of the Trojan War who fought alongside Odysseus but took his own life after the two quarreled over the possession of the god-forged armor of their fallen ally Achilles. As Ajax’s shade recedes in resentful silence, Odysseus peers deeper into the darkness of Erebus to glimpse “men who died in the old days.” Much to his horror, he beholds the endless torments of the Titans before fear forces his retreat back to his waiting ship.

Now the rest of the ghosts, the dead and gone

came swarming up around me—deep in sorrow there,

each asking about the grief that touched him most.

Only the ghost of Great Ajax, son of Telamon,

kept his distance, blazing with anger at me still

for the victory I had won by the ships that time

I pressed my claim for the arms of Prince Achilles.

His queenly mother had set them up as prizes,

Pallas and captive Trojans served as judges.

Would to god I’d never won such trophies!

All for them the earth closed over Ajax,

that proud hero Ajax . . .

So I cried out but Ajax answered not a word.

He stalked off toward Erebus, into the dark

to join the other lost, departed dead.

Yet now, despite his anger,

he might have spoken to me, or I to him,

but the heart inside me stirred with some desire

to see the ghosts of others dead and gone.

And I saw Minos there, illustrious son of Zeus,

firmly enthroned, holding his golden scepter,

judging all the dead . . .

Some on their feet, some seated, all clustering

round the king of justice, pleading for his verdicts

reached in the House of Death with its all-embracing gates.

I next caught sight of Orion, that huge hunter,

rounding up on the fields of asphodel those wild beasts

the man in life cut down on the lonely mountain-slopes,

brandishing in his hands the bronze-studded club that time can never shatter.

I saw Tityus too,

son of the mighty goddess Earth—sprawling there

on the ground, spread over nine acres—two vultures

hunched on either side of him, digging into his liver,

beaking deep in the blood-sac, and he with his frantic hands

could never beat them off, for he had once dragged off

the famous consort of Zeus in all her glory,

Leto, threading her way toward Pytho’s ridge,

over the lovely dancing-rings of Panopeus.

And I saw Tantalus too, bearing endless torture.

He stood erect in a pool as the water lapped his chin—

parched, he tried to drink, but he could not reach the surface,

no, time and again the old man stooped, craving a sip,

time and again the water vanished, swallowed down,

laying bare the caked black earth at his feet—

some spirit drank it dry. And over his head

leafy trees dangled their fruit from high aloft,

pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red,

succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark,

but as soon as the old man would strain to clutch them

fast, a gust would toss them up to the lowering dark clouds.

And I saw Sisyphus too, bound to his own torture,

grappling his monstrous boulder with both arms working,

heaving, hands struggling, legs driving, he kept on

thrusting the rock uphill toward the brink, but just

as it teetered, set to topple over—

time and again

the immense weight of the thing would wheel it back and

the ruthless boulder would bound and tumble down to the plain again—

so once again he would heave, would struggle to thrust it up,

sweat drenching his body, dust swirling above his head.

And next I caught a glimpse of powerful Heracles—

his ghost, I mean: the man himself delights

in the grand feasts of the deathless gods on high,

wed to Hebe, famed for her lithe, alluring ankles,

the daughter of mighty Zeus and Hera shod in gold.

Around him cries of the dead rang out like cries of birds,

scattering left and right in horror as on he came like night,

naked bow in his grip, an arrow grooved on the bowstring,

glaring round him fiercely, forever poised to shoot.

A terror too, that sword-belt sweeping across his chest,

a baldric of solid gold emblazoned with awesome work . . .

bears and ramping boars and lions with wild, fiery eyes,

and wars, routs and battles, massacres, butchered men.

May the craftsman who forged that masterpiece—

whose skills could conjure up a belt like that—

never forge another! Heracles knew me at once, at first glance,

and hailed me with a winging burst of pity:

“Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus famed for exploits,

luckless man, you too? Braving out a fate as harsh

as the fate I bore, alive in the light of day?

Son of Zeus that I was, my torments never ended,

forced to slave for a man not half the man I was:

he saddled me with the worst heartbreaking labors.

Why, he sent me down here once, to retrieve the hound

that guards the dead—no harder task for me, he thought—

but I dragged the great beast up from the underworld to earth

and Hermes and gleaming-eyed Athena blazed the way!”

With that he turned and back he went to the House of Death

but I held fast in place, hoping that others might still come,

shades of famous heroes, men who died in the old days

and ghosts of an even older age I longed to see,

Theseus and Pirithous, the gods’ own radiant sons.

But before I could, the dead came surging round me,

hordes of them, thousands raising unearthly cries,

and blanching terror gripped me—panicked now

that Queen Persephone might send up from Death

some monstrous head, some Gorgon’s staring face!

I rushed back to my ship, commanded all hands

to take to the decks and cast off cables quickly.

They swung aboard at once, they sat to the oars in ranks

and a strong tide of the Ocean River swept her downstream,

sped by our rowing first, then by a fresh fair wind.