Circe in The Odyssey is one of Greek mythology’s most infamous enchantresses, a woman who blurs the line between gods, their minor counterparts, and the intimidation factor of mortal wielders of witchcraft. The daughter of Helios, god of the sun, and the ocean nymph Perse, she inherited a unique heritage that tied her to the very power base of Olympus. Unlike the major goddesses who are given specific domains of influence, Circe carved her own path using magic, potions, and a cunning that cut when weaponized. In The Odyssey, she is both a threat and a guide to Odysseus, a woman who turns men into pigs but also helps wayward heroes get back on track. Whether she is an antagonist or a misunderstood sorceress depends on who is telling the story.
Who Was Circe, and Was She a Goddess?
Circe is one of Greek mythology’s most enigmatic figures, neither fully divine nor mortal, feared and respected in equal measure. Whatever her classification, she was a deeply magical woman. Born to Helios, the god of the sun, and the ocean nymph Perse, Circe inherited both celestial and dark traits. This duality, a seesawing between light and shadow, defined her. She was not an Olympian, nor was she a vanilla mortal; instead, she carved a spot all her own in the nebulous realm of lesser deities. At times she was called a nymph, a sorceress, or even a minor goddess, though of what isn’t evident.
Circe’s most distinctive trait, however, is not her parentage but her persona. While many deities and their offspring wielded brute force or commanded the elements, Circe’s authority was embedded in her mastery of magic. She was a mistress of transformation, capable of turning men into beasts and bending nature to her will. Unlike the gods she was descended from, Circe wasn’t born with power. No, she had to study to gain it. She had to educate herself in a world in which women weren’t meant to expand their knowledge in such a way. She learned the properties of herbs, the secrets of the earth, and the subtle art of potions and spells. This marked her as a dangerous figure in Greek mythology—a woman who was willing to level herself up in spite of common expectations.
For those stuck on technicalities, the question of whether or not Circe was truly a goddess still lingers. The answer is complicated. In some sources, she is given the glorification of a minor goddess due to her divine lineage. However, it is unclear if she was immortal or worshiped in her own right. Instead, she resembled other magical figures in Greek mythology, such as Medea (who was her niece) and Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft. On the one hand, Circe was similar to nymphs who often had divine parentage but were seen as passive or reliant on a natural element to sustain themselves. What made Circe stand out was her agency. She was an independent operator with her own island and opinions. She was not a servant of the gods, acting as a soldier for one side or another in their causes. She reigned over her own island of Aeaea, maintaining it without interference from Zeus or any other Olympian.
In simple terms, she was special—an extraordinary character who held herself apart from the world of man and the schemes of gods. In a world where gods ruled and men sought fame, Circe answered to no one. Her story in The Odyssey reflects this: rather than simply being an obstacle for Odysseus, she became a fulcrum in his story, forcing him to rise to her challenge.
In a mythology dominated by gods of war, thunder, and the Underworld, Circe represented something different: the power of knowledge, transformation, and defiance. What made her legend truly frightening to those in power in the ancient world was that this sort of talent could be achieved by anyone willing to go against the grain.
Circe and Odysseus: Power, Passion, and Unease
Circe and Odysseus had one of the most complex (and therefore confusing) relationships in The Odyssey—a fanciful mix of hostility, seduction, mentorship, and, ultimately, mutual respect. Unlike the typical hero-meets-goddess story, their encounter was neither a straightforward conquest nor an idealized love affair. Instead, it began with treachery, flirted with the edge of violence, and evolved into something enigmatic.
When Odysseus and his men washed up on the beaches of Aeaea, Circe did not greet them with open arms. Instead, she did what she did best—she magicked them. Offering the weary sailors food and drink laced with a potion, she turned them into pigs. Unfortunately for them, this enchantment took from them their human form but left their minds intact.
Many have debated why Circe does this, and what it means. Was it simply an act of evil queen-style witchery, the poisoned apple before Snow White ever existed? Was it a woman forcing men’s inner beasts (after all, many of these mens had killed in war, and pillaged and raped while overtaking Troy) to the surface? Was Circe guarding herself and her handmaids from being taken advantage of by the men who suddenly appeared? It is left up to individual interpretation.
Odysseus, however, was not tricked into transformation. Thanks to Hermes, who provided him with a magical herb that repelled sorcery, he became immune to Circe’s spells. When he called her out, emanating anger and a sense of betrayal, the scene grew heavy with tension. Circe, who recognized his strength and intelligence, chose not to fight back. Despite his menace, she surrendered. Instead of a continued clash of enemies, she offered Odysseus another arrangement. Their battlefield became the bedroom, and the stakes were uncertain.
Their relationship, from that point on, took on an ambiguous quality. Circe did not become another simpering love interest in Odysseus’s journey but more of an equal. She certainly was no Penelope, waiting loyally at home. Nor did she become Calypso, who tried to keep Odysseus as a permanent lover and companion. Instead, Circe’s behavior was more that of a temptress mixed with a guide. She agreed to restore his men to their human forms and invited Odysseus and his beleaguered crew to stay on her island for one year. There was a pact of comfort, pleasure, and a sense of peace—but it was only temporary.
Odysseus, ever restless, eventually decided he must leave. Circe, independent and unpredictable, didn’t cajole the hero to stay. Rather than resist his departure, she gave him the tools to get home. She instructed him on how to navigate the perils that loomed ahead, from the Underworld to the deadly sirens. This is what made Circe so different from other female figures in The Odyssey. She did not love Odysseus as a mistress, as one who felt a sense of ownership of him—she was a wise woman able to equip him with the knowledge he needed to survive. She had been fine before his arrival on her island, and she clearly felt she would be fine once he was gone.
Was there any genuine affection between them? Like so many aspects of Homer, it is unclear. Some versions of the myth suggested that Circe bore Odysseus a son, Telegonus, who would later cause Odysseus’s death. Yet, the Odyssey itself did not dwell on deep affections between them. Their relationship is one of mutual recognition—Circe sees Odysseus for what he is, a cunning survivor, just as he sees her as a force both dangerous and valuable.
In the end, Circe was one of the few figures in Odysseus’s labyrinthine journey who neither hindered him nor clung to him. She did not demand devotion, nor did she expect him to provide her with anything. Instead, she was a pillar of power, wisdom, and a glimpse of something rare in Greek mythology—a relationship between a man and a woman based not on dominance, but on an exchange of knowledge and mutual respect.
Circe in Fiction: From Homer to Riordan
Circe has captivated audiences for centuries, evolving from Homer’s dangerous enchantress to a fully realized character in modern fiction. While her core role as a sorceress often remains intact, different authors have reshaped her story to reflect shifting cultural attitudes toward gender and a woman’s conduct. From her original role in The Odyssey to her reinvention in Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series, Circe has transformed from a feared temptress to a symbol of defiance and feminine vengefulness.
Homer used the character of Circe as both a threat and friend, a figure who emasculated Odysseus’s men (turning them into pigs couldn’t really be anything but a sort of sterilization) only to later guide their hero on his journey. In The Odyssey, she embodied the duality of female figures able to act independently: dangerous but wise, alluring yet untamable. Unlike the mortal women Odysseus encountered, Circe held power over men who entered her kingdom. She was a woman who didn’t need help, didn’t need the use of Odysseus’s skills, and was quite able on her own. Such a woman was an outlier in The Odyssey and in the Greek world at large.
Despite all this, Circe’s role in The Odyssey is brief—she appears in only two chapters of the tale (books 10 and 12)—but her impact is great. She proved a single figure could be both obstacle and ally, that defying a hero didn’t necessarily make a woman a villain. Her ability to be comfortably both has mystified and enchanted readers for centuries. If her dual nature and inability to fall on her knees to glorify a man sound familiar, scholarship connects Circe to Morgan Le Fay of Arthurian legend, the elder influencing the shape of the newer.
Circe’s own myth has undergone a significant transformation in modern literature. In Madeline Miller’s Circe (2018), she is no longer a supporting figure in a male hero’s story but the protagonist of her own story. Miller reclaims Circe from Homer’s bare margins, portraying her as a misunderstood woman who grows from a naïve nymph into a powerful sorceress.
Instead of being defined by her interactions with Odysseus, Miller’s Circe forges her own path, finding strength in her exile and carving out a place for herself in a world that fears that autonomy. Miller’s Circe challenges the way ancient myths often depict powerful women as threats to be conquered. Going against their original portrayals, this time Odysseus is but a short interlude in Circe’s story.
Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians series takes a different approach to Circe, portraying her as vain and manipulative. In The Sea of Monsters, she runs a luxury spa where she uses her magic to “refine” and “improve” men by transforming them into guinea pigs (a nod to her Odyssey portrayal). For girls, she promises to help them reach their true potential by remaking them in her own image.
Riordan’s Circe is a reimagined caricature of her mythological counterpart, emphasizing her vanity, control over men, and taste for theatrics. In Percy’s world, she once again becomes a figure who can’t outgrow the ancient world—powerful, yes, but ultimately just an obstacle for the young heroes to overcome.
From Homer to Miller to Riordan, Circe’s evolution reflects changing perceptions of female power but a continued obsession with a figure who is made of so many incongruous aspects. In The Odyssey, she is a mysterious and dangerous figure, neither fully villainous nor entirely benevolent. In modern fiction, she has been reimagined both as a feminist icon and a humorous antagonist.
What remains consistent, however, is Circe’s undeniable power. Whether she is an obstacle, a mentor, a mother, or a villain (or some combination of them all), Circe defies the traditional roles imposed upon women in both myth and fairytale. She is not a passive damsel, nor a one-dimensional seductress—she is a force unto herself.
Circe, Pigs, and Greek Womanhood
Of all the things Circe could have transformed Odysseus’s men into, why pigs? Homer wasn’t just making a farmyard reference—this particular bit of sorcery carries symbolic weight. Circe’s pig transformation is one of the most memorable magical moments in The Odyssey. It is more than just a demonstration of what she can do. It reflects Greek anxieties about women, desire, and the role of women in the lives of their lovers, sons, and sisterhoods.
Circe is not alone in subverting depictions of ideal Greek womanhood. Grecian mythology is full of ladies like her who wield power in ways that make men deeply uneasy. Medea, who uses her magic to aid Jason before turning it against him, is one example. The Gorgons, whose gaze literally unmakes men, are another. Circe fits into this tradition of fearsome women, but she’s unique in that her magic doesn’t kill—it transforms. By turning men into pigs, she strips them of their agency, an integral part of them that defined their masculinity.
We must remember that Greek society was deeply patriarchal. A man was expected to be rational, strong, and in control—both of himself and of the women of his household. A woman like Circe, who disrupted that gendered dynamic, was a source of anxiety. Worse, Odysseus’s men don’t put up much of a fight against Circe’s offered comforts. Had they been a bit more steadfast, they may have smelled something fishy about her easy hospitality. Instead, they give in easily to their cravings.
Odysseus, by contrast, resists. He doesn’t fall into the trap of indulgence, and in doing so, he reasserts himself above base instincts. Rather than killing her or otherwise giving into his anger, as one might expect of a monster or macho man, he did something more shocking. He took her as his lover. This was extremely disruptive in a world where men and women couldn’t meet as equals.
If Circe symbolized the fearsome aspects of female power, she also revealed something about how Greek society viewed women in general. Women who were too independent, too knowledgeable, or too charming were dangerous. They needed to be tamed, controlled, or—even better—conscripted into serving male interests. Think of Helen. Too beautiful. Or Medea. Too sharp. Even Arachne. Too confident.
Circe and Odysseus’s unusual alliance mirrors a broader theme in Greek mythology: women who threaten male authority must either be destroyed or domesticated. Circe’s ultimate fate is not as grim as that of Medusa or Medea, but the message remains the same—female power, when unchecked, is dangerous, but when it serves male ambition, it becomes acceptable.
Circe’s story has fascinated readers for centuries because it taps into something primal: the struggle between control and chaos, precaution and indulgence, men and women. Her ability to perform man-to-pig transformation is, at its heart, a test. It asks audiences to reflect on what separates man from beast, leader from follower, hero from fool.
