A COMMON MISTAKE among living mortals is to assume that Hell, for all its drawbacks, is an interesting place—not pleasant, perhaps, but full of monsters and madness and any number of fascinating tortures. Let me assure you it is not. Living with anything—absolutely anything—is torture if it goes on for eternity. An old friend of mine used to say that the gods punish us by giving us what we want. Well, he was speaking more truth than even he thought. Imagine, for example, the most pleasurable earthly experience you have ever had. Now imagine repeating it over and over without variation for eternity. It would drive you mad. So much more for the unpleasantness of Hell. A three-headed dog may be something to look at for a day or two, but live with its barking for a thousand years, and you’ll find that the one thing you want more than all else is to hold those three heads under water. No, Hades is empty and wearisome and very, very boring; and I don’t cope well with boredom, so as we trudged on in silence, my mind began to wander. I grew fidgety. I examined the gravel under my feet, the great gray piles of rock and soot, my sword, my bow. Then I remembered the four remaining arrows in my quiver that I had not yet inspected.
They were longer and heavier than the other three, and fletched with brilliant purple feathers, but were otherwise unremarkable—even shoddy. As I pulled out the longest, its feathers fell off.
I cursed. “Have a look at this, will you?” I caught up with Diomedes and handed him the featherless arrow.
He took the shaft from me and frowned at it.
“Why would the Parthenos give me such an inferior weapon?” I asked.
“Looks well made to me,” he said.
“The feathers fell off.”
“Maybe it doesn’t need them.”
“You really are dense,” I said. “What use is an arrow without fletching?”
He shrugged.
“The rest aren’t much nicer,” I said, handing him the other three.
He examined them in silence.
“So?”
“They’re arrows.”
“Really? Terrific, Diomedes. You see, that’s why I always come to you for advice: your keen powers of observation.”
Diomedes nodded. “Thank you.” He always accepted my sarcasm at face value, and I never could tell whether he was missing the point or egging me on.
I snatched the arrows out of his hand. “Are you really that thick?”
Diomedes shrugged again.
“You know, if you ever dislocate your shoulder, you’ll have real trouble communicating.”
Diomedes smiled and shrugged.
“Shrug one more time, and I’ll punch you.”
He shrugged. I didn’t punch him, though. The last time he and I boxed, he hit me so hard I forgot my name. “Why do I bother to ask you anything?” I grumbled.
“Why do I bother answering?”
We bickered a little more and fussed over the arrows, but Diomedes soon grew tired of arguing. Since the giant wouldn’t speak either, I had little to occupy my thoughts. Silence is as hard on me as boredom, so naturally I turned my attention to the mysterious bag.
It wasn’t much to look at—a plain leather purse such as any traveler might use to carry food or flint or gold. I took it from my belt and spent some time examining the symbol stamped into the grain. The longer I looked at it, though, the stranger it seemed. I had never heard of any god that was likely to take the pelican as a sacred bird. Stranger still, it appeared to be stabbing itself with its beak. Were there eggs in the bag? I gave it a gentle squeeze. Too soft. Gold? I tossed it from hand to hand. Too light. I shook it. No noise. Sniffed it. No smell. I like to think I’m pretty good at riddles, but this one had me stumped.
When I looked up, Diomedes was eyeing me. “You aren’t going to open that bag, are you?”
“I was just looking.”
“Don’t open it.”
“It’s not a bag of winds. I had one of those. It was much bigger.”
“Just don’t.”
“I won’t. I won’t. Relax.”
I waited until Diomedes was looking the other way, and then I opened the bag.
“That’s it?” I exclaimed in spite of myself. I’d intended just to have a quick peek, but the disappointment overwhelmed me.
Diomedes looked at the open bag and roared, “I knew it! I knew you would do it! You never listen to me!”
“It’s just bread,” I muttered, too disappointed to be apologetic. All that fuss over a few stale loaves. “Not even well leavened,” I said, pulling one out of the sack and squeezing it.
“Aggh . . . grrd . . . darg . . . ahhhh . . .” Diomedes clenched his fists and pressed them to his forehead. “Aaaaangh.”
“Calm down,” I said. “No harm done.”
Diomedes took two deep breaths. “It’s not that, Odysseus. It’s just that you never hear what I’m trying to tell you.”
“I do hear you,” I muttered. “I just don’t listen. Sorry.”
Diomedes stared at his feet. “What’s done is done.”
“Anyway, it’s just bread,” I said again, handing him a little loaf.
He stood quietly contemplating it. He managed to look both disgusted and relieved at the same time. “It’s a gift of the gods,” he said. “There must be something more to it.”
“Doesn’t look so,” I answered.
“You two,” shouted the giant, striding over to us with his great fists clenched at his sides. “We had an arrangement. I was to lead. You were to follow.” He strode up right behind Diomedes and clapped him on the shoulder. “Either you keep up, or—”
When Diomedes turned to face him, the giant suddenly lost his voice. He cringed and backed away, trembling.
“What?” said Diomedes, clutching at his sword with his free hand. “What is it?”
The giant said nothing.
“Give me that,” I said to Diomedes. I took the bread from him and stepped toward the giant, holding it out in front of me. “Would you like something to eat?” I said. “We’ve got food.” But he cringed further off like a beaten dog. In fact, he looked as though he might be on the point of running.
“So there is something special to it after all,” said Diomedes.
I contemplated the unremarkable lump in my hand. “This will take some thinking . . .”
“Then think while you walk,” said Diomedes. “We need to move while we still have a guide.”
I carefully returned the bread to its sack, watching the giant out of the corner of my eye. He was noticeably calmer with it out of sight. Curious. Curious.