The Lost Books of the Odyssey - By Zachary Mason Page 0,32

for his hospitality, was used to getting none in return.

Death, who in those parts most often went by the name Paris, was a tall pale man with colorless eyes and flaxen hair. At first glance he looked like a thirty-year-old who had never been in the sun but the translucence of his skin, the formality of his bearing and the perfect blankness of his eyes made him upon consideration seem older, and older, and finally as old as night. He showed up at the palace gates without any retainers, clad in old black armor, knocking rhythmically and loud. The porter demanded his name and country and got a quiet answer. He went trembling to Menelaus and told him who had come. Menelaus did not hesitate, though he became very grim, and went out through the now empty courtyard to admit his guest.

Death must have been unaccustomed to a guest’s portion but he played his part with courtesy. When the wine came, he poured a libation to Zeus the All-Father, who some said was his brother, saluted Menelaus and his knights and bowed to Helen, whose radiance seemed to light up the dark and smoky hall, though it and she were tolerably cold. As courtesy required, Menelaus spoke first of his own affairs, but when the wine was down to the dregs he asked the pale man how things did in his kingdom. Death said that though he was the ruler of but a single city he had many subjects and none had yet complained for want of room. He spoke of vast, heavy silence, of shadows moving over fields of asphodel, of the somnolent trickling of the waters of Hell, of the company of the august dead—Minos the judge, wise in all things, bluff Orion hunting the spirits of animals through the endless gloaming, and the mortal part of Hercules standing in the River Styx and looking pensively toward Mount Olympus, where his immortal twin disported himself among the gods. Finally Death said that for all he was master of shadows he had of late begun to pine for brightness, and with a sidelong glance at Helen rose and went away to his room.

That night Menelaus lay uneasily next to Helen. He dreamed that Death came into their chamber like winter. Death’s eyes were cold and bright, his breath was frost, his armor was the void and now there was no mistaking him for a man. Death leaned over Helen and whispered in her ear. Menelaus could not quite make out what he said but his mind was full of dead suns, ancient cities made of ice, cold still things, quiet and thoughtful, on the edge of slipping into nothing. Of falling forever. Death drew her up out of bed and pulled her face into his chest and the dream faded.

In the morning Helen was gone and so was his guest—not only that but the wine he had drunk was spilled on the flags of the banquet hall and his meat lay on the bench unchewed, the dogs shunning it. Menelaus strapped on his sword and rode to see Agamemnon, now the High King, to tell him he meant to bring war to Death’s city.

Menelaus and Agamemnon invoked the betrothal oath and called up all the men who owed them service. They told their recruits only that Helen was gone and that they were making war on a great king in the East to get her back. The most intractable and desirable recruit was Odysseus, who had in the years since the wedding kept to Ithaca, his island kingdom, and spent his days in contemplation in Quickness’s shrine.

Menelaus went to Ithaca, found Odysseus at prayer and demanded that he arm himself and come with him. Without getting up, Odysseus observed that he was indifferent to Menelaus’s domestic problems and that in light of Menelaus’s bad breeding Helen had probably left of her own accord, thereby negating the compact. Menelaus, implacable, said that he would bind Odysseus and bring him as a slave if not as a companion. Odysseus invited him to try and blood was in the air when on impulse Menelaus told him the name of the personage with whom he quarreled. Odysseus hesitated, glanced at his altar, sighed and said, “Your enemy is a terrible one but it seems I must go with you,” and took his spear down from the wall.

They left Ithaca on a mirror-clear night, the ships sweeping through black water and reflected stars. Soon