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The temple of Zeus was not hard to find. When was it ever?
He had never believed in the gods as a child, and then he met them. He had seen Athena and watched Ares fight. Ichor had dripped off of Diomedes’ spear in front of his eyes. He had spoken to Zeus.
He had been sure they were no different than mortals, overinflated with power and not to be trusted. Now he understood what they were.
Gods were the bridge between men and monsters, the line between chaos and life, and it was a thin line indeed. Chaos birthed Gaia and Gaia birthed Titans, but those who could stretch out one hand into the all-consuming darkness could not be like him. Their genealogy was short enough that they couldn’t be burdened by it.
All these thoughts, the smell of lighting in the air, his stab wound healing, and he still didn’t know what to say.
Eurylochus was dead. His ship was gone. He was on a strange island, deserted, and a ruined temple sat before him. He would not have known it was a temple of Zeus but for the lightning carved into the walls.
He scoffed. Lightning was nothing like that. There should have been more screams. Of course, horror couldn't be carved.
He faced the roof of the temple, a hole cleaved into it, the sky filtering through. The metaphor was too obvious for him to make much note of.
Could Zeus even hear him from here, if he never said his name? Did it matter? What was there to say? He had been warned of this, and in his hubris, he hadn’t listened.
No– no. He had listened. He had listened and tried, desperately tried, and the string fell around his arms like chains. The fates spun and snipped and he suffered. Odysseus, master of lies, found honest words.
“You're a son-of-a-bitch, you know that?” He snapped. He was not kneeling. He was not reverent. His fits were balled. His chiton was torn. He could smell the salt in his hair.
“We finally had found enough food to survive, and it was totally forbidden. What, was that supposed to be funny?” He was pacing now, down the length of this temple. Had it been a wonder to behold once? Did he care?
"Source of abundance, purifying king, O various-form'd from whom all natures spring;" says the Orphics. I don't know whose ass they were kissing there, because I think you're just vindictive.” Odysseus never trusted seers, nor prophets, but he trusted poets even less. And as he spoke, his anger grew.
“What was the infant? A warning shot?” His hands were shaking. “That was my son. What did I ever do to yours except praise his glory and praise his name?” Apollo, who he followed as a life-long devotee, who he honored as greatest of all the archers. Ares, who he respected even when Diomedes himself did not. And who could forget Athena, the daughter who Zeus loved even more than his sons? He had honored her most of all.
“That storm that killed off the last of my crew, the few I was supposed to save. I haven’t seen a storm this bad since you took out those eleven ships of mine last year south of Ithaca.” Poseidon did nothing without Zeus' leave. None of them did. He had known he was allowed to kill the crew. He had left Odysseus alive.
Odysseus was having a hard time believing that was a mistake anymore.
“Five hundred and fifty-eight crew.” Friends. Comrades. Family. “Do you know what those eleven ships did? They were all support staff. They didn’t even have their weapons onboard. They followed me and they went home. That’s all they could do.”
“Ὁ θεός εὐχαριστῶ. Yes, I lied. I am a liar. My men betrayed your sun god. It was a sin. I’ve committed many sins.” Sins you asked me to commit. Sins you demanded that I commit. “Have I displeased you, you feckless thug? Sacking Troy, that wasn’t good? Stole the Palladium, took Rhesus' horses, defeated Ajax, killed the Calydonian boar, brought six hundred men out of a war and sought to defend my family… That’s not enough to buy me out of the doghouse?”
It never would be. It was an uphill battle. The gods played their games and he bled for it. The string was cut, wasn’t it?
He didn’t even care that he was blaspheming. He would not die now, would he? The gods had not finished their game.
'Choice,' Zeus had said. Nothing had been a choice. Not until now. There had been no choice. He had played by the rules, done everything asked of him, tried to make everyone happy, and he had failed. He had been ruthless too late and merciful too early. There was no winning.
He would live. He would see Penelope again. He would praise the gods no longer. They could play their games, but Zeus bowed to the fates too. His string had been cut eons ago. Neither one of them could change it.
Your death will come from the sea. Odysseus laughed. Zeus could not kill him, could he? He could drown him or get Poseidon to stab him or throw bolts forged under the waves at him, but the king of the gods was as bound to fate as the puniest mortal. Odysseus would die when he would die, and not a moment before.
“Πιστεύσω ἄρα τούτοις ὑπὸ θεοῦ δικαίου, θεοῦ ἐντίμου, θεοῦ σοφοῦ; Εἰς τὸν Ἅιδην τὰς τιμωρίας ὑμῶν. Ἦν ὑμῶν ὁ δούλος, ὁ ἀγγελος ἐν τῇ γῇ; Ἐποίησα τὸ καθήκον μου.”
“Find a new toy.”
If Zeus raged, there was no proof of it. The mortals had discovered the gods' undoing– in matters of fate, powerlessness is powerlessness.
The temple was quiet and empty after Odysseus left it. The only sound was the sound of a string hitting the ground, a string that had been cut long ago.