In the classic middle-era American superhero comic, the protagonist will routinely run up against a seemingly never-ending supply of gifted supervillains.  Luckily, in very few of these comic book universes is there ever a single superhero:  Whether a lonesome vigilante or dues-paying league member, the vast majority of these heroes exist in a network of fellow heroes, each gifted with their own special power, outfit, and tragic past.   A large part of this is due to brand savviness on the part of comic book publishers, and the rest is due to the simple fact that the relations most likely to provide fodder for endless action and melodrama are those among equals (or, even better, near equals). 

            The gods of antiquity function in a manner much more reminiscent of modern superheroes than of monotheistic deities.  They bicker, woo, scuffle, beg, and trick each other into all manner of wonderful situations which, if on a more operatic scale, remind us of human interactions.  Gods can be fearsome and glorious, but they can also be complete idiots.  This mixing of the divine and the humane is such an engaging and necessary notion that even in the aforementioned “monotheistic” religions, we see figures who in many respects occupy the same field, even if they play by much more limited rules[1].  These “little gods”, whatever their origin, are also sure to occasionally mix in human affairs, being as they are half human themselves.  If we cannot help but be interested in them, likewise are they interested in us.

            We can expect the best fireworks to occur, then, when the gods are simultaneously involved amongst themselves and in the mortal world.  Outside of Homer this mostly occurs in the context of various mortal lovers meeting sticky ends, but within the realm of epic we get to witness a web of action which easily outclasses the comic book world for dramatic and political potential. 

            The world of classical mythology does not, unlike the superhero and monotheistic worlds, generally require any true-blue villains to provide plot excitement.  Monsters are much easier targets, since unlike the gods they can be invented or killed off with impunity, and are free to be both useless and abjectly gruesome.  Gods, who inherently fulfill some purpose in the cosmos, become “villains” only when they cease to accommodate the existence of their fellow gods (Kronos becomes a villain when he swallows his own children), or show themselves to be consistently unsympathetic to a mortal hero.  As such there’s no specific good/evil dichotomy, simply a situational one in better expressed as constructive/constrictive.

            While stubbornness towards the other gods is occasionally expressed in the Odyssey, the (a)moral compass spins mostly on the basis of behavior towards our human hero.  We are meant to root for Odysseus, and therefore any being in a position to oppose him can be written up as a villain.  Poseidon of course is the villain of longest range in the story, trumping the various monsters and temptresses with his continued and determined wrath.  His anger is of such a pitch as to intimidate even Zeus, or at least provide him with a decent excuse for his own inaction:

“No, it’s the Earth-Shaker, Poseidon, unappeased,

forever fuming against him…

But come, all of us here put our heads together now,

Work out his journey home so Odysseus can return.

Lord Poseidon, I trust, will let his anger go.

How can he stand his ground against the will

Of all the gods—one god alone?”  (B.1, 81-96)

 

One cannot fail to notice that this last phrase can be read with a tinge of trepidation.  Poseidon could not win, but he could certainly cause an utterly horrific mess.  It nevertheless neatly summarizes for us Poseidon’s position as the one black marble in a bag of white.  Poseidon and Hades, the two oldest and most mysterious of the pantheon’s original set of siblings, seem to regularly vie in mythical tradition for the role of family killjoy; for a story set in large part on the sea, Poseidon is the ideal choice. 

            How does Athena stack up against her uncle?  They actually form a delightfully complementary pair.  Poseidon is a god of natural origin—that is to say, he has a corresponding natural phenomenon or domain which he represents.  In his case, he rules the chthonic realms of ocean and earthquake, both of them immensely powerful natural forces of incalculable depth and origin.  Both, furthermore, operate without regard to human activity—time and tide indeed wait for no man, and storm and quake can strike without warning.  For a character with such influence on the storyline, he also is rather tight-lipped, and when he does pipe up, it’s to moan at Zeus—“Zeus, Father, I will lose all my honor now among the immortals, now there are mortal men who show me no respect!”  (B.13, 145-7)  Zeus is taken aback at this uncharacteristically high-pitched complaint—“Earth-shaker, you with your massive power, why moaning so?” (B.13, 158-9)  It’s rare for such a stolid being to put himself in a position where he might be so thoroughly thwarted, and by such a puny creature as Odysseus.  Far from a bargaining man, Poseidon is often represented as spending most of his time beneath the waves, scorning Olympus’ more cosmopolitan atmosphere.  He is a god of the natural earth, not of the human world.  It seems he cares little about whether or not he is beloved among mortals, so long as they remain respectful and do not reflect poorly on his ultimate status among the gods.

            Athena, for her part, has no natural corollary; her realm is entirely civilized and conceptual, encompassing handicrafts, tactical science, and rhetoric—in essence anything requiring strategic ingenuity.  As we can tell from the location column of our appendix, she clearly feels comfortable both in Olympus and on the ground, and glibly dialogues with anybody who meets her interest.  She clearly revels in Odysseus’ affection for her—an affection that’s more admiring love than trembling awe.  Responding to Odysseus’ pointed query about her seven-year absence, she replies:

“Always the same, your wary turn of mind,’ Athena exclaimed, her glances flashing warmly. ‘That’s why I can’t forsake you in your troubles—you are so winning, so wordly-wise, so self-possessed!” (B.13, 374-7) 

 

Inconceivable that Poseidon would appreciate such things in a mortal, and respond with such joy to what amounts to an accusation.

            Given these traits, we can expect Poseidon’s tactics to be less than delicate.  His primary acts against Odysseus involve sweeping him off course, garnished with various attempted drownings.  To Zeus he avers “I said myself that Odysseus would suffer long and hard / before he made it home, but I never dreamed / of blocking his return, not absolutely at least, / once you had pledged your word and bowed your head” (B.13 148-152),  but this response is both toadying and unconvincing.  Zeus has made his position known by the time Odysseus sets sail from Calypso’s shores and is subsequently stormed under, and his last-minute rescue at the hands of the goddess Ino would seem a remarkably subtle tactic for Poseidon to employ in the face of his own determined rage (especially since she is a former mortal, an unlikely candidate for Poseidon’s employ).  Furthermore, Poseidon is being further distracted by Athena’s countering force.  This passage is one of the most direct instances of conflict between the two in the story, and Poseidon’s most blatant statement against Odysseus:

“… ‘Go, go,

after all you’ve suffered—rove your miles of sea—

till you fall in the arms of people loved by Zeus.

Even so I can hardly think you’ll find

Your punishments too light!’

[…]

But Zeus’s daughter Athena countered him at once.

The rest of the winds she stopped right in their tracks,

Commanding them all to hush up now, go to sleep.

All but the boisterous North—she whipped him up

And the goddess beat the breakers flat before Odysseus,

dear to Zeus, so he could reach the Phaeacians…

…and escape his death at last.”  (B.5, 414-427)

 

Poseidon may realize that he is outgunned, but Odysseus’ survival is not obviously due to some sense of deference on his part (as he claims to Zeus), but rather the sheer number of forces opposing his will.  Perhaps this explains his odd lack of antipathy towards Athena. She would seem to be breaking all the rules for the sake of her favorite, and in doing so, she seems to display a very blunt lack of respect for Poseidon’s rather legitimate claim on Odysseus’ neck.  Yet nothing occurs between them; the two never even manage a verbal exchange.  She even offers up a genuine prayer to him while at Nestor’s table. 

            Athena seems to be keenly aware of the balance of power on Olympus which forbids Poseidon from making any real aggression against her.  She has effectively become an officer of the law, working on an approved case.  Athena likewise doesn’t bear any antipathy towards Poseidon (and she is a goddess with no shortage of supply in barbs and quips); their conflict is simply not a personal one.  While Poseidon vents and fumes over his handicap, she merely adjusts her calculations for his influence and continues the game.  Poseidon, true to his solipsistic nature, is playing to keep from losing face.  Athena is playing to win.

            Of course the game would not proceed in nearly so tidy a fashion were not for the judgment of its referee.  While Athena performs the necessary legwork, ultimately the license to act can only be granted by Zeus.  It’s a demonstration of confidence in her powers of persuasion, and her favored status with Zeus, that she feels free to pester and needle him into action, even using outright exaggeration to spur him:

“ ‘Olympian Zeus,

have you no care for him in your lofty heart?

Did he never win your favor with sacrifices

Burned beside the ships on the broad plain of Troy?

Why, Zeus, why so dead set against Odysseus?’

‘My child,’ Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied,

‘what nonsense you let slip through your teeth.  Now,

how on earth could I forget Odysseus?’” (B.1, 72-8)

 

She brings to mind a lawyer of the courts, simultaneously praising the moral character and condemning the situational laxness of the judge; he brings to mind nothing so much as a busy father insisting that he has not, in fact, forgotten that he has promised his daughter the car keys for Saturday.  It would seem that Athena is overshooting her goal—Zeus’ approval—but this is not an inadvisable tactic as it might seem; it impresses Zeus with the seriousness of her plea and, thanks to the watching eyes of the pantheon gathered around them, makes it impossible for him to avoid a full response without seeming to have been defeated on an issue of principle by his own daughter. 

            Also working on Athena’s behalf is the nature of her familial relationship to Zeus.  She is in many ways the original Daddy’s girl, sprung from his skull after his consumption of the goddess of cunning, Metis—the obvious connotation being that she is his own brightest idea.  To deny Athena then is in some way to deny an aspect of himself, and he can occasionally seem frustrated by the necessity of formal communication between the two of them—isn’t she his daughter?  Can’t she do whatever she likes?  The last chapter provides another excellent example of Athena’s graceful manipulations:

“ ‘Father, son of Cronus, our high and mighty king,

now let me ask you a question…

tell me the secrets hidden in your mind.

Will you prolong the pain, the cruel fighting here

Or hand down pacts of peace between both sides?’

‘My child,’ Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied,

‘why do you pry and probe me so intently?  Come now,

wasn’t the plan your own?  You conceived it yourself:

Odysseus should return and pay the traitors back.

Do as your heart desires—

But let me tell you how it should be done.” (B.24, 522-532)

 

Now she not only has provoked his approval of her general intentions, but also cleverly tugged him into acting himself, something which to this point he has assiduously avoided.   To continue the simile of the car keys, it’s as if she has intentionally burned the clutch in order to ensure that he will step in and simply become her chauffeur for the entire evening.  Daddy knows best, and daughter does well.

            These are the only two gods with whom Athena has meaningful interaction.  She allows all the conflict to occur between Zeus and Poseidon, assuring herself both a legal outcome and enough elbow room to move Odysseus about the board as she pleases.  Of course, if we turn our eyes away from Athena’s cleverness and Odysseus’ human appeal, we discover that Poseidon receives a frankly poor treatment over the course of the story.  First Polyphemus is irrevocably blinded, and then he ends up being forced to vent his rage on his own descendants, the Phaeacians.  Odysseus certainly has a miserable journey home, but he does, ultimately, return home, missing only his vaguely-described men (who, furthermore, were frequently responsible for their own demise).  A symbolic journey inland is the only compensation Poseidon will receive for his injuries.  Meanwhile Odysseus has cause to feel satisfied, Zeus has cause to feel just, and Athena has cause to feel smug.