HE WAS A LITTLE FELLOW, with a thin neck, a skinny, slightly lopsided face, and the eyes of a rat. Yet in spite of his looks, I had known Amphinomos to be an honest man, and there had been something about him that Penelope liked as well, which may have been why I hated him. The smile slid from his face, and the two of us gaped at one another. At last, he spoke. “Odysseus.”
I didn’t have the wit to respond, but there was a gasp from the other men in the group that suggested they knew how he had died.
I looked from one to another. “He had it coming,” I said. “He threw in his lot with evil men and met an evil end.”
My words were met with more silence.
“He violated the sacred laws of hospitality,” I continued. “He tried to seduce my wife.”
Still, there was no reaction.
“I tried to warn him. I told him he needed to leave the house before its master returned. He wouldn’t listen. I told him there would be blood.”
More silence. I must have sounded like a caught thief, the way I rattled off one excuse after the other. And the funny thing was that I felt like one too, which came as a surprise under the circumstances. I had no need to justify myself before strangers, and certainly no need to justify myself to Amphinomos. He had known the risk he was taking when he decided to court my wife. No, I’d never regretted killing him. Not much. Or at any rate, I’d never felt the need to justify it. When I had returned from Troy and found my home infested with freeloaders, I’d done what came naturally to me—a heroic deed, at least by the standards of the time. No, my conscience was clear on this matter.
Or if not exactly clear, then at least—I don’t know—translucent. I may have felt some fleeting reservations about Amphinomos’ death at some point. He was the only one of my wife’s hundred suitors who shrank from killing my son. And when I’d approached him in my beggar’s disguise, he alone among them had shown me kindness. But all that paled in light of the outrage I felt when I saw him sitting uninvited at my table in my house eating my food and—to add insult to injury—courting my wife. Ah, but he had courted death when he chose to court the wife of Odysseus Laertides. And now, in death, we met once more. In another age, I might have had more to say, but a curse was all I could manage.
During my exculpations, Amphinomos remained silent, fixing me with a gaze that held grief and rage and regret and despair all at once. I looked away and back, but his eyes never left mine. He seemed to be on the verge of an enormously painful decision. Then he shook his head and said, “Follow me.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned away.
I looked at Diomedes. “I guess if he wanted to kill us, he’d have tried already.”
Figuring we had little to lose but our lives (and weren’t they lost already?), I decided to follow Amphinomos wherever he was leading, though I kept an eye out for an escape should we need it. He guided us through a labyrinth of narrow passages and footpaths, under and over bridges, through parks and city squares, all crowded with the same bewildering variety of peoples, until at last he halted before a tall stone hall. In my day, we would have called it a stoa. Here, virtually everyone was Greek, which gave me a certain sense of security. Even so, a nervous hush spread over the crowd as we approached, and they parted before us as we ascended the broad marble steps.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I muttered.
“Then leave,” said Amphinomos without looking back. He pushed open a set of massive oak doors. “Or follow. I’m not doing this for you.”
He led us into a wide, echoing hall, lined with chairs. Windows, set high in the walls, cast pillars of dusty light across the marble floor. About us, men and women of various ages stood in groups, speaking earnestly, gesturing, nodding. At the end of the hall stood a throne of cedar, inlaid with silver. Our little party made its way up the center of the room until we stood before the throne, and the hall grew quiet as we passed. There were more gestures, more nods, more whispers.
Seated on the throne was an old man. To his left and right stood scores of chattering scribes, clad in loose linen robes, all clutching heavy stacks of parchment. But in their midst, the man on the silver throne paid them no heed. He was bent in deep concentration over a silver lyre, which he cradled in his lap. Eyes closed, he plucked a string. The motion was quick, delicate, timid—like that of a child touching a snake. And at his touch, the lyre sang out, clear and bright. He turned a tiny peg at the bridge, and the lyre’s voice wavered. He frowned, pursed his lips, and then smiled as the pitch leveled off. And all the while, to his left and right, his attendants watched in anxious deference.
Could this be Hades? I wondered.
Amphinomos stepped forward. “Sir, it is I, Son of Nisos.”
The old man did not look up, did not open his eyes. “Speak, Amphinomos Nisides. You are welcome here, as always.” He plucked another string and listened.
“I found this man and his friends wandering the streets. I thought you would want to see him.”
“I’d want to see him?” said the old man. He handed his lyre to a scribe. “Very well. Bring him forward.”
“Sir, this is Odysseus, King of Ithaca.”
At that, every conversation in the hall ceased. Every head turned in my direction.
“Odysseus,” he said, lifting his head but still not opening his eyes. “Is this the Man of Many Faces, known the world over for every sort of guile?”
“Even among the dead,” whispered Diomedes, “you have a reputation.”
“Come closer,” said the old man. He did not open his eyes.
It seemed somewhat beneath my dignity to be ordered about by a musician, but I’d seen enough of the Underworld by now to know that things were different here. Just the same, a king and a son of kings does not quickly submit to a bard. I stepped forward and planted my fists on my hips. “I am Odysseus, Son of Laertes. Glory of the Achaeans. I am King of Ithaca, Sacker of Cities and Mastermind of War. I—”
Halfway through my introduction, he lunged forward and grabbed my face. I gave a sort of yelp and stumbled back several paces, leaving him midlurch, grasping at air. I drew my sword. “What? No! Hello? What?”
I heard the hiss of drawn knives, and the old man raised both hands, palms forward. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Gentlemen, stow your weapons. This is our friend.” He spoke without looking up. “It is just that I have been waiting so long to meet you. I do so much desire to know what you look like. I am blind, you see.”
He opened his eyes. They were clouded over like the eyes of a corpse. I coughed and hemmed and sheathed my sword. “If you’re blind, why do you care what I look like?”
The old man laughed. “Truly this is Odysseus,” he said. “Ever curious. Ever wary.” He smiled and nodded. “The world may be dark for me, son, but it isn’t shapeless. Do an old man a great favor. Kneel.” He held out his gnarled hands again, and in spite of myself, I obeyed. This time he was gentle. He touched my forehead with his fingertips, then ran them slowly down my face. The sensation was like walking through a curtain of silk. I felt suddenly vulnerable. His fingers, light as ash leaves in a breeze, tripped across my face and into my beard. I felt as though a mask had been lifted. I sank to my knees.
Then he settled back on his throne and spoke again. “Welcome, Odysseus, royal Son of Laertes, Man of Sorrows. You would not know me, but I know you well. I spent my life watching you in my dreams. I am Homer.” As though the name itself inspired reverence, the audience bowed their heads. “I thought I would never meet you,” he continued. “So much time has passed, we assumed you must be somewhere in the lower realms. Tell me how you have come to this place, and what took you so very long to get here.”
I stood up in the middle of the great hall, and for a moment, I thought my eloquence had abandoned me. In the presence of this man, Homer, I felt exposed, as though his clouded eyes looked through me to my soul. This was not a man I could lie to easily, I knew that.
Still, I had to try.
“Homer, majesty, shining among your people, what shall I go through first, what save for last? What pains—the gods have given me my due. Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, has appeared to me. She came bearing the storm shield, endowed me with this bow of gold, and sent me here to recruit an army. ‘Your army,’ she told me, ‘will free the souls of Limbo. You, Odysseus, shall be its general. You are to seek out a man named Homer—”
“He’s lying,” said Amphinomos.
The smile dropped from Homer’s face. “Of course he is.”