LET ME TELL YOU one last story.
When I was a boy—in my tenth year, perhaps, not much older—I found a corpse floating in the surf near my home. It was the body of an old man who had drowned there some days before. The whole island was troubled by his loss. He had been a pillar of the community, gentle and wise. A respected elder of the assembly. Not wealthy, but often called upon for his good counsel. He had waded into the surf one evening and never returned. Truly, such deaths were not uncommon in Ithaca, but what made this one so tragic was that his body had not been found. Without a proper burial, no man could rest in peace. It didn’t matter how good he was; if his body was not given proper rites, his soul would wander the earth aimlessly for eternity—lost, mourning, and confused. Such were our beliefs back then. So finding his body was singularly important, not just to his family, but to the rest of us who feared we might bump into his phantom some dark night as it roamed the streets looking for a grave.
I had left my home early that morning with the intention of fishing, but when I arrived at the beach, the old man’s widow was standing on the shore, looking out to sea. She had been making vigils at that spot every night since he’d gone missing. I could see, however, that she was not praying. Her veil was down. She was standing tiptoe, wringing her hands and calling for help.
She recognized me immediately, cried out, and ran to where I stood with my nets.
“Son of Laertes,” she cried, her voice cracking with fear and loss of sleep. “My husband. He is out there. I have seen him. You must help me. Show yourself worthy of your father’s name. Bring me my husband’s body.”
I looked out over the surf—bright and blue under the morning sun. Not far offshore, I could see a shadow wavering beneath the swells. “Go fetch my father and my uncles,” I said. “I will bring your husband in.”
I watched her scramble up the beach and over the rocks. She turned to me and bowed, then hurried off along the path that led to my father’s house.
As I looked out at the water—at that dark shape floating just beneath the surface—I realized that I was going to have to dive into that cold surf and tug the rotting corpse to shore alone. I told myself as I shrugged off my tunic and waded into the water that it was merely a matter of placing one foot before the other—that if I could just move my limbs, it would all be over soon. But I also remember—and this part of the story still gives me nightmares—that as I moved closer to the shadow in the water, I realized I might at any moment break down and run away.
Well, there have been only two times in my life when I’ve felt such fear. That day on the beach was one. This moment before Hades was the other.
“It is about time,” he clucked, flicking the door shut with his finger. “That was a fine trick you played on me, Son of Adam, and I don’t trick easily. But what is done is done. The time has come now to consummate our vows.”
“So it has,” I said. We regarded one another in silence. It seemed to me that I had one of two choices: I could turn and walk away—find a place somewhere in the Underworld that wasn’t too uncomfortable and stay there—or I could pretend to keep my word, walk up behind Hades, and then, instead of removing the arrow, make a dash for the door. I was still weighing my options when Hades broke the silence.
“Enough stalling, Odysseus. Do keep your word and come remove this arrow.”
I took a few steps forward and stopped again. Such an odd smile played across his face. I knew that look from somewhere.
“Come now. Your blasted arrow still festers in my flesh, just here where my back meets the ice. You will have to pass the door to reach it.”
Now I knew that smile. I’d used a smile like that to lure Iphigenia to her death. I’d used a smile like that to trick Dolon into betraying his general. I’d smiled like that at the Cyclops when I told him my name was Nobody. It was the smile of a man laying a trap.
Hades spoke again. “You hesitate? Odysseus, incorrigible man. Always doubting. So slow to trust. A man after my own heart. Very well. I shall make you this offer, Son of Laertes: if you bow before me, worship me, and acknowledge that I am your Lord, I will give you half my kingdom.”
Those were generous terms. But why would the Lord of the Underworld make such an offer unless . . . unless he expected to break his word? And then I understood. He expected me to break mine.
“No, Hades,” I said, “I don’t want your kingdom.”
Hades assumed an expression of mock indignation. “You will be punished for such insolence.”
“I know. But first I will pray.”
“Out of the question. You and I are to do battle here. You promised.”
I ignored him. After all, what did I have to lose? “Parthenos,” I prayed, “Virgin of the Glowing Smile, Lady of Wisdom and Victory, Bright-eyed Immortal, hear me now. I did what I could to be worthy of your kindness. I did my best. Still I have failed—through lack of wit or honor or common sense, I cannot tell. Even so, Gentle Virgin, Bearer of the Storm Shield, if ever my sacrifices have pleased you, hear now your unworthy servant. Look after my son and my wife and my friends. Keep them happy and keep them safe.”
Then I strapped my greaves across my shins. I buckled my breastplate and locked my arm into my shield for the last time. I sheathed my sword. I slung my golden bow over one shoulder. Then I took my bronze helm in my hands, and looking into its hollow eyes, I lifted it up and over my head. I was armed for my last battle.
Now I’ll tell you something I have never told anyone.
That day when I walked into the surf to retrieve the corpse, I never found it. I shuffled about in the shallows until my uncles showed up. Then they swam out and retrieved the body while I pretended to help. And as I pushed through the surf in their wake, I gritted my teeth with shame and swore that the next time I had to face my fear, I would not run from it. My uncles never mentioned that old man’s body to me. I suspect they forgot about it altogether—or forgave me for being a boy of ten whose courage had not grown deep as the waters he was swimming. But I never forgot. In the halls of Parnassos, while the bard sang of my bravery before the wild boar, I could not rejoice because I knew that I had the heart of a coward, and no matter how many boars I slew, that coward’s heart would always call to me. I might hide it from my friends. I might shout it down with winning words. But someday, its voice would be heard, and that would be the day I dropped my shield and ran. This was the reason I had always favored the bow. So armed, I could defeat my enemy without actually having to face him. I could strike him from afar and not worry that my heart would fail.
Now, though, what did it matter if I dropped my shield? I had nothing more to lose and no one to see me lose it. And with that revelation came another: I did not need my shield or my bow. In the presence of such a foe, they were useless anyway.
Today, I myself would be the arrow.
I took a deep breath and looked up at Hades. He was grinning. But this time, I had a sense that something had changed. I couldn’t help feeling that there was a certain vulnerability about that ugly grin—vulnerability or loneliness or desperation. It seemed to me now that, for all his power, Hades had the look of a beaten man. A mortal, even. Or less than mortal. Yes, I had seen that look before. It had all the hopelessness of a whipped slave or a warrior on the brink of an ignoble death. It struck me as odd to see it in Hades, the god of the Underworld. All this dark realm was his, and yet somehow, it was all beyond his control. I looked up into his face, and—to my own surprise—I smiled back.
“The time at last has come,” he declared. “Bow before me and show that I am your god.” He opened his arms in a gesture that was meant to look magnanimous.
“If you were my god,” I answered, “you wouldn’t need me to show it.”
The smile faded from his countenance like breath off a razor. “Bow before me, Odysseus, and I will let you pass.”
In spite of my fear, I felt oddly tempted to laugh. “I’ve told too many lies in my day not to recognize one as obvious as that.”
“Bow before me,” he hissed, “or I will force it from you.”
“A forced bow is no bow at all.”
He ground his teeth and grimaced. “You will bow now, or you will suffer a punishment far worse than what I have planned already.”
Again, I felt that temptation to laugh. “No suffering could be greater than the loss of those I love. No reward could be greater than seeing them saved—and you have granted both already.”
His three jaws trembled, all the muscles of his face twisted with rage, his chest heaved, and he dug his sharp nails into his palms. But he said nothing.
“Wait!” I said—as much to myself as to him. “You—you’re a prisoner here yourself, aren’t you?” I removed my helmet and scratched my head. “You have no more authority over the Underworld than I do.”
“Nonsense,” he hissed.
“No. Not nonsense. If this were your realm, you would never have allowed the Parthenos here in the first place.”
“Ridiculous.”
“No. Not ridiculous. If this were your realm, you would never have allowed Ignotus to leave. You would never have allowed anyone to leave. In fact”—and here I had to pause for thought—“if you were a god, you wouldn’t need to bargain with me at all.”
“You are a worm, not a man.”
“Oh, to be sure! But no less a worm than you are, because I understand now that there is a god, and you—you are not he. And I am not he. The Parthenos is not he.” The words just seemed to tumble out. “I may not know who he is, but I do know that all of this . . . this prison . . . is under his dominion. So really, I have nothing to fear from you. His will is going to prevail regardless of your designs. In fact, any punishment you give me will be given because he wills it. And . . . and . . . and because he has saved my wife and my son and my friends . . . I love him. Despite my punishment, I love him. I love him because of my punishment. I love him, whoever he is, because he is a god of justice.”
“More nonsense!”
“No. No. No. I’ve had enough nonsense. I’ve had enough lies. Do what you will. You cannot give me more pain than to take away my friends. You cannot give me more joy than to set them free. Both have been done already, and neither was your doing.”
“I’ll show you a doing,” he roared, shaking his fist. “Draw your sword, Son of Laertes.”
“No,” I answered, smiling. “No more fighting either.”
Hades scowled. “But your vow!”
“I will keep my vow,” I said, “and then I will walk through that door.” I had no doubt that as soon as I removed the arrow, Hades would crush me or eat me or pull me limb from limb . . . but one conviction surmounted all my fears—I was determined not to give him the pleasure of seeing me lie.
I unstrung my bow. I finished the last of my wine. Then I walked straight up to him. I stood before the Lord of the Underworld with my fists on my hips, and I raised my voice to the heavens. “I am Odysseus, Son of Laertes. I am Odysseus, Father of Telemachos, Husband of Penelope the Faithful. I am Odysseus the Truth Teller, the Peace Bearer, the Healer, the Man of Many Friends. I am Odysseus, Servant of the Four-Letter Name. I am Odysseus. I am the Eighth Arrow.”
And then—Aimi!—there was a howling and thrashing that shook the Underworld to its core. Hades screamed and battered his fists till the cliffs shook and the ice turned to powder and the wind of his foul breath cast everything about me into the air.
But he never touched me. In fact, the more he twisted and thrashed, the more he spat and cursed, the more did he appear bested and broken—but not by my hand, not by the hand of any mortal man. He had been defeated long ago by some Force that had beaten him before and would beat him again and again.
“You,” he snarled. “You used to be a man, Odysseus. A hero.”
And as I walked past him to the door, still he did not touch me.
“You were the Man of Twists and Turns,” he said, wincing as I pulled the golden arrow from his back. “You were wily and smart. You were the Teller of Tales, the Master of Plots and Schemes. You had a talent, a place in the world, a name that bowed the heads of men. You were the Sacker of Cities, the Raider of Troy, the Blinder of the Cyclops, the Son of Pain, the Man of Many Faces. You were a magnificent liar, Odysseus. You had one real talent, and you have cast it away. And now what is left? Nothing. No one will remember you now, Odysseus. You are nobody now.”
Well, that last bit really did make me laugh. “I’ve been nobody before,” I said to him as I stepped through the door. “It’s not as bad as you’d think.”