The Adventures of Ulysses Read online

  The Adventures of Ulysses

  Bernard Evslin

  for Hirsh W. Stalberg, voyager on other seas.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Ships and Men

  The Ciconians

  The Lotus-Eaters

  The Cyclops’ Cave

  Keeper of the Winds

  Cannibal Beach

  Circe

  The Land of the Dead

  The Wandering Rocks

  The Sirens

  Scylla and Charybdis

  The Cattle of the Sun

  Calypso

  Ino’s Veil

  Nausicaa

  The Return

  Addenda

  Genealogy chart

  From Ancient Myths to Modern English

  Recommended Reading

  Prologue

  THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES begin many years before the opening of this book. He was the master strategist of the Greek forces in their war against Troy, the war that started with an apple, ended with a horse, and was fought by a thousand kings for the love of a single woman. It left an ancient city in flames that still burn in man’s imagination after three thousand years.

  The war started when Peleus, mightiest hero of his time, was married to Thetis, the most beautiful naiad that ever sported among the waves or fled the embrace of Poseidon. It was a magnificent wedding, attended by all the gods on Olympus. Unfortunately, however, Thetis had neglected to send an invitation to Eris, Lady of Discord and sister to the God of War. It was an omission that was to cost a river of blood. For Eris came without invitation and threw upon the banquet table a golden apple inscribed “To The Fairest.” Mischievous words! The apple was claimed immediately by Hera (Queen of the Gods), Athene (Goddess of Wisdom), and Aphrodite (Goddess of Love).

  The feud between the three goddesses waxed so bitter that no god dared attempt mediation but passed judgment on to Paris, a shepherd boy of Troy, the son of King Priam, whose royal birth had been kept secret. Paris was said to be the most beautiful of all the lads of the Inner Sea.

  Bribes came his way immediately. Hera offered him power, promising to make him the mightiest king the world had ever seen. Athene offered him wisdom. All the lore of heaven and earth, and all the lore beyond death, too—all that has been written and spoken, and also that too secret to be uttered, would be his. Aphrodite said little. She came close to him and whispered in his ear. When she had finished whispering, he gave her the apple. She smiled and kissed him. Hera and Athene flew off, screaming their rage.

  What the Goddess Aphrodite had whispered to Paris was a promise—that he should have any woman he looked upon with desire. She then recommended the most desirable, a Spartan queen named Helen, who the goddess said was the mortal most resembling herself. In fact, Helen was by way of being a relative, for she had been born of Leda, who had been loved by Zeus disguised as a swan, and so she herself had the radiant stature of the gods, a swan’s soft muscularity, and her mother’s eyes. Paris straightaway gave up being a shepherd and resumed his rank as Prince of Troy. He demanded of his doting father a treasure ship and a piratical crew. Thereupon he sailed to Sparta on a diplomatic mission to King Menelaus, Helen’s husband. Paris and Helen met at a state banquet. By dawn she was aboard his ship and it was sailing for Troy.

  Now, Helen had been courted by all the kings and princes of the Greek islands. Her father had hesitated long before allowing her to accept any suitor. He was afraid that the rejected suitors would band together to destroy the successful one—and himself and his kingdom in the bargain. So Helen flirted with them all, encouraged them all, and accepted none. Finally, Ulysses, who was one of the suitors, offered a plan. All Helen’s admirers would swear a mighty oath to refrain from murdering the successful suitor and would join to defend Helen and her husband—whoever he might be—against any attack.

  Thereupon Helen chose Menelaus, King of Sparta, most powerful of the Greek chieftains. Thus it was that when Paris made off with Helen, a thousand kings were summoned to keep their oath. They assembled a huge fleet and sailed for Troy.

  The Greeks camped outside the walls of Troy, and for ten years tried to fight their way into the city. But the walls were strong and the Trojans brave. The defenders were led by King Priam’s fifty warrior sons. The great Hector was their chief. And even after Hector was killed by the Greek hero, Achilles, the Trojans refused to be defeated—until they were tricked into defeating themselves.

  The author of that fatal trick was Ulysses, sharpest tactician among the invaders. The Greeks pretended to lift their siege. They struck their tents, boarded their ships, and sailed around a headland out of sight, where they anchored and waited until nightfall. Behind them on the beach they had left a giant wooden horse. The Trojans reacted just as Ulysses had calculated. They began to celebrate and quickly lost their wits. They thought the wooden horse an offering to Poseidon, God of the Sea, and dragged it through the gates into the city, so as to anger Poseidon against the Greeks and spoil the voyage home. But the wooden horse was hollow, and so artfully made that Ulysses and a company of armed warriors were able to hide inside and remain undetected as the horse was rolled into the city. That night, as Troy slept, the Greeks crawled out of their hiding place, killed the Trojan sentries, and opened the gates to the Greek army, which had sailed back in the darkness.

  It was a complete surprise. Troy was taken, its fighting men slaughtered, its women and children enslaved. Then Ulysses sailed for home, his three ships loaded with booty. But victory never comes cheap. Poseidon’s anger had indeed been kindled. He roused the winds and tides against Ulysses and sent word to island ogres and monsters of the deep.

  And for ten long years the great voyager had to battle his way through the worst perils that the imagination of an offended god could devise.

  This is the story of that voyage.

  Ships and Men

  AFTER TROY WAS BURNED, Ulysses sailed for home with three ships holding fifty men each.

  Three thousand years ago ships were very different; through the years they have changed much more than the men who sail them.

  These beaked warships used by the pirate kingdoms of the Middle Sea were like no vessels you have ever seen. Imagine a very long narrow rowboat with twenty oars on each side. The timbers of the bow curve sharply to a prow, and this prow grows longer and sharper, becomes in fact a long, polished shaft tipped by a knife-edged brass spearhead. This was called the ram, the chief weapon of ancient warships.

  In battle, the opposing ships spun about each other, swooping forward, twirling on their beams, darting backward, their narrow hulls allowing them to backwater very swiftly. The object was to ram the enemy before he rammed you. And to ram first was the only defense, for the brass beak of the ramming ship sheared easily through the timbers of its victim, knocking a huge hole in the hull and sinking it before its men could jump overboard.

  These warships were also equipped with sail and mast—used only for voyaging, never in battle—a square sail, and a short mast, held fast by oxhide stays. The sail was raised only for a fair wind, or could be tilted slightly for a quartering wind, but was useless against headwinds.

  This meant that these ships were almost always at the mercy of the weather and were often blown off course. Another thing that made them unfit for long voyages was the lack of cargo space. Only a few days’ supply of food and water could be carried, leaving space for no other cargo. That is why these fighting ships tried to hug the coast and avoid the open sea.

  Ulysses’ problem was made worse by victory. When Troy was sacked, he and his men captured a huge booty—gold and jewels, silks, furs—and after ten years of war, the men refused to leave any loot behind. This meant that
each of his ships could carry food and water for a very few days.

  This greed for treasure caused many of his troubles at first. But then troubles came so thick and fast that no one could tell what caused them; hardships were simply called bad luck, or the anger of the gods.

  But bad luck makes good stories.

  The Ciconians

  THE VOYAGE BEGAN PEACEFULLY. A fair northeast wind blew, filling the sails of the little fleet and pushing it steadily homeward. The wind freshened at night, and the three ships scudded along joyfully under a fat moon.

  On the morning of the second day Ulysses saw a blue haze of smoke and a glint of white stone. He put in toward shore and saw a beautiful little town. The men stared in amazement at this city without walls, rich with green parks and grazing cattle, its people strolling about in white tunics. Ten years of war had made Ulysses’ men as savage as wolves. Everyone not a shipmate was an enemy. To meet was to fight; property belonged to the winner.

  Ulysses stood in the bow, shading his eyes with his hand, gazing at the city. A tough, crafty old warrior named Eurylochus stood beside him.

  “We attack, do we not?” he asked. “The city lies there defenseless. We can take it without losing a man.”

  “Yes, it looks tempting,” said Ulysses. “But the wind blows fair, and good fortune attends us. Perhaps it will spoil our luck to stop.”

  “But this fat little city has been thrown into our laps by the gods, too,” said Eurylochus, “and they grow angry when men refuse their gifts. It would be bad luck not to attack.”

  Ulysses heard the fierce murmur of his men behind him and felt their greed burning in his veins. He hailed the other ships and gave orders, and the three black-hulled vessels swerved toward shore and nosed into the harbor, swooping down upon the white city like wolves upon a sheepfold.

  They landed on the beach. The townsfolk fled before them into the hills. Ulysses did not allow his men to pursue them, for there was no room on the ship for slaves. From house to house the armed men went, helping themselves to whatever they wanted. Afterward they piled the booty in great heaps upon the beach.

  Then Ulysses had them round up a herd of the plump, swaying, crook-horned cattle, and offer ten bulls in sacrifice to the gods. Later they built huge bonfires on the beach, roasted the cattle, and had a great feast.

  But while the looting and feasting was going on, the men of the city had withdrawn into the hills and called together their kinsmen of the villages, the Ciconians, and began preparing for battle. They were skillful fighters, these men of the hills. They drove brass war chariots that had long blades attached to the wheels, and these blades whirled swiftly as the wheels turned, scything down the foe.

  They gathered by the thousands, an overwhelming force, and stormed down out of the hills onto the beach. Ulysses’ men were full of food and wine, unready to fight, but he had posted sentries, who raised a shout when they saw the Ciconians coming down from the hills in the moonlight. Ulysses raged among his men, slapping them with the flat of his sword, driving the fumes of wine out of their heads. His great racketing battle cry roused those he could not whip with his sword.

  The men closed ranks and met the Ciconians at spearpoint. The Hellenes retreated slowly, leaving their treasure where it was heaped upon the beach and, keeping their line unbroken, made for their ships.

  Ulysses chose two of his strongest men and bade them lift a thick timber upon their shoulders. He sat astride this timber, high enough to shoot his arrows over the heads of his men. He was the most skillful archer since Heracles. He aimed only at the chariot horses, and aimed not to kill, but to cripple, so that the horses fell in their traces, and their furious flailing and kicking broke the enemy’s advance.

  Thus the Hellenes were able to reach their ships, roll them into the water, leap into the rowers’ benches, and row away. But eighteen men were left dead on the beach—six from each ship—and there was scarcely a man unwounded.

  Eurylochus threw himself on his knees before Ulysses and said:

  “I advised you badly, O Chief. We have angered the gods. Perhaps, if you kill me, they will be appeased.”

  “Eighteen dead are enough for one night,” said Ulysses. “Our luck has changed, but what has changed can change again. Rise and go about your duties.”

  The ships had been handled roughly in the swift retreat from the Ciconian beach. Their hulls had been battered by axes and flung spears, and they had sprung small leaks. The wind had faded to a whisper, and the men were forced to row with water sloshing around their ankles. Ulysses saw that his ships were foundering and that he would have to empty the holds. Food could not be spared, nor water; the only thing that could go was the treasure taken from Troy. The men groaned and tore at their beards as they saw the gold and jewels and bales of fur and silk being dropped overboard. But Ulysses cast over his own share of the treasure first—and his was the largest share—so the men had to bite back their rage and keep on rowing.

  As the necklaces, bracelets, rings, and brooches sank slowly, winking their jewels like drowned fires, a strange thing happened. A shoal of naiads—beautiful water nymphs—were drawn by the flash of the jewels. They dived after the bright baubles and swam alongside the ships, calling to the men, singing, tweaking the oars out of their hands, for they were sleek, mischievous creatures who loved jewels and strangers. Some of them came riding dolphins, and in the splashing silver veils of spray the men thought they saw beautiful girls with fishtails. This is probably how the first report of mermaids arose.

  Poseidon, God of the Sea, was wakened from sleep by the sound of this laughter. When he saw what was happening, his green beard bristled with rage, and he said to himself:

  “Can it be? Are these the warriors whom I helped in their siege of Troy? Is this their gratitude, trying to steal my naiads from me? I’ll teach them manners.”

  He whistled across the horizon to his son, Aeolus, keeper of the winds, who twirled his staff and sent a northeast gale skipping across the sea. It pounced upon the little fleet and scattered the ships like twigs. Ulysses clung to the helm, trying to hold the kicking tiller, trying to shout over the wind. There was nothing to do but ship the mast and let the wind take them.

  And the wind, in one huge gust of fury, drove them around Cythera, the southernmost of their home islands, into the open waters of the southwest quarter of the Middle Sea, toward the hump of Africa called Libya.

  The Lotus-Eaters

  NOW, AT THIS TIME, the shore of Libya was known as “The land where Morpheus plays.” Who was Morpheus? He was a young god, son of Hypnos, God of Sleep, and nephew of Hades. It was his task to fly around the world, from nightfall to dawn, scattering sleep. His father, Hypnos, mixed the colors of sleep for him, making them dark and thick and sad.

  “For,” he said, “it is a little death you lay upon man each night, my son, to prepare him for the kingdom of death.”

  But his aunt, Persephone, sewed him a secret pocket, full of bright things, and said:

  “It is not death you scatter, but repose. Hang the walls of sleep with bright pictures, so that man may not know death before he dies.”

  These bright pictures were called dreams. And Morpheus became fascinated by the way a little corner of man’s mind remained awake in sleep, and played with the colors he had hung, mixing them, pulling them apart, making new pictures. It seemed to him that these fantastic colored shadows the sleepers painted were the most beautiful, most puzzling things he had ever seen. And he wanted to know more about how they came to be.

  He went to Persephone and said, “I need a flower that makes sleep. It must be purple and black. But there should be one petal streaked with fire-red, the petal to make dreams.”

  Persephone smiled and moved her long white hand in the air. Between her fingers a flower blossomed. She gave it to him.

  “Here it is, Morpheus. Black and purple like sleep, with one petal of fire-red for dreams. We will call it lotus.”

  Morpheus took the flower
and planted it in Libya, where it is always summer. The flower grew in clusters, smelling deliciously of honey. The people ate nothing else. They slept all the time, except when they were gathering flowers. Morpheus watched over them, reading their dreams.

  It was toward Lotusland that Ulysses and his men were blown by the gale. The wind fell while they were still offshore. The sky cleared, the sea calmed, a hot sun beat down. To Ulysses, dizzy with fatigue, weak with hunger, the sky and the water and the air between seemed to flow together in one hot blueness.

  He shook his head, trying to shake away the hot blue haze, and growled to his men to unship the oars and row toward land. The exhausted men bent to the oars, and the ships crawled over the fire-blue water. With their last strength they pulled the ships up on the beach, past the high-tide mark, and then lay down and went to sleep.

  As they slept, the Lotus-eaters came out of the forest. Their arms were heaped with flowers, which they piled about the sleeping men in great blue and purple bouquets, so that they might have flowers to eat when they awoke, for these people were very gentle and hospitable.

  The men awoke and smelled the warm, honey smell of the flowers and ate them in great handfuls—like honeycomb—and fell asleep again. Morpheus hovered over we sleeping men and read their dreams.

  “These men have done terrible things,” the god whispered to himself. “Their dreams are full of gold and blood and fire. Such sleep will not rest them.”

  And he mixed them some cool green and silver dreams of home. The nightmares faded. Wounded Trojans stopped screaming, Troy stopped burning; they saw their wives smile, heard their children laugh, saw the green wheat growing in their own fields. They dreamed of home, awoke and were hungry, ate the honeyed lotus flowers, and fell into a deeper sleep.

  Then Morpheus came to Ulysses, who was stretched on the sand, a little apart from the rest. He studied his face—the wide, grooved brow, the sunken eyes, the red hair, the jutting chin. And he said to himself: “This man is a hero. Terrible are his needs, sudden his deeds, and his dreams must be his own. I cannot help him.”