Valerio Manfredi: Odysseus: The Return

Later that day a little bay appeared on our right and I decided we would go ashore before facing the straits between Euboea and the island of Andros. The men had been fighting the wind and the waves all night and all day. I had to let them rest. Mine was the first ship to beach. One after another, the others followed, making a complete turn so that our sterns were facing the shore.

We had touched the land of Achaia, after ten years.

The men fished. They found some big pieces of driftwood, lit a fire and roasted what they’d caught over the embers. It smelled inviting and I sat down on the dry sand with my comrades to participate in the frugal banquet. Those who had wine shared it with the others and it warmed our hearts.

Food had never tasted so good to me. I thought of when, under the walls of Troy, the other kings had made fun of us islanders, calling us fish-eaters. Only a few days had passed since we’d taken the city, but they seemed like months. The memory of the furious fray around the wild fig tree was fading like a bad dream before dawn. The day was slowly coming to an end although the wind showed no sign of dying down, and the foam on the sea still blossomed whitely on the crests of the waves crashing against the rocks.

When our hunger had been somewhat satiated, some of the men began to sing. It was the hour of remembering. Distant images, forgotten for years, came to lap at our minds like waves reaching across the beach. The man that I’d lost sight of, in so many years of war’s din and bloodletting, was coming alive in me again, with feelings, emotions, hopes. But I knew well that our journey was not yet over: what still lay ahead was a treacherous passage, fraught with difficulty and danger.

Cape Malea!

‘Let’s sleep now,’ I said. ‘A difficult day awaits us tomorrow.’

I stretched out in the shelter of a rock, covered myself with my cloak and tried to rest. At my side, the sword of Troy reminded me that the past never dies, and can return to strike at any moment. All night, the wind rushing through the bushes and the high boughs of the trees kept me half-awake. I rolled first to one side and then to the other while sleep eluded me. Finally, just before Dawn lit up sea and land, I was able to find some rest. My aching limbs relaxed and I dreamt that I was alone on a deserted beach. The place was immersed in silence. I could hear neither the roar of the sea that never sleeps nor the shrieking of seagulls. But all at once I heard barking and saw a dog running towards me. He jumped all over me, whimpering with joy.

‘Argus, Argus!’ I shouted, ‘it’s you!’ And I petted and caressed him, my heart swelling with affection for my faithful friend. He hadn’t forgotten me.

Then I woke up.

The men had found blackberries among the bushes, ripe cane apples, pine nuts and almonds, along with a great number of enormous asphodel bulbs which they’d roasted over the embers. We ate them all, because we knew they would completely abolish our pangs of hunger.

The time to set sail had come. We got onto the ships and turned them south. Mine was the first to reach the open sea.

I knew of the hazards that awaited us in the narrow passage between Euboea and Andros. The speed of the current and of the wind, already very high, would only increase in the strait. I had the sail taken in and the oars lowered into the water to better manoeuvre the ship and check her speed. The sun was already high when my vessel exited again into the open sea. I counted the ships behind me as they moved forth on their skewed line like a herdsman counts his heifers when he brings them back to the fold from the pasture. They were all there, and I was greatly relieved. I had my crew raise the sail again and watched as this manoeuvre was repeated in the same way by the rest of the fleet. By dusk I could see Cape Sounion, but I didn’t approach the land for fear of the reefs. Had Menestheus already arrived at Athens? Had he already gone to the sanctuary to thank Poseidon by offering a sacrifice? Perhaps he was up there watching our passage over the foaming sea. . We continued south as the sun began to decline on our right over the mountain peaks. The wind was freshening again. I rushed to the ropes with Eurylochus, Perimedes and Antiphus the helmsman. We had to control the speed and direction of the ships and calculate the time that separated us from the most difficult passage yet to come. Was it best to seek a place to land before it got dark and set off again the next morning, or proceed at a faster clip, continuing through the night, in order to get to Cape Malea and double it as soon as we could, leaving the obstacle behind us once and for all? I thought this was the better strategy. We would navigate by night with the braziers lit, watching the stars to stay on route and taking into account the strength of the wind and its direction. We would shorten the sail by half. The others, behind us, would only need to follow our example. As soon as we came within sight of the cape we would dismast and pass beneath the high promontory by the strength of our oars alone, then come back up the other side.

It was a well-conceived plan and I could already see it happening in my mind’s eye. I could almost feel how the speed of the wind would drop off as soon as we passed the cape, how the air temperature would become milder, the waves of the sea calmer. Our next stop would be Pylos, that sheltered, welcoming bay. Nestor would greet us and have a great banquet served up. . I was beginning to let myself think of Penelope: was her heart still faithful to me? Did she love me still? Ten years seemed a terribly long time. .

But the wind, instead of dropping, increased in intensity. The sail ripped and we had to replace it, with enormous difficulty. None of us slept all night. We didn’t move from our posts. We kept scanning the heavens and consulting each other about the decisions to be taken. All at once, the sky became covered with high, thin clouds and the stars disappeared. From that moment on, our eyes were fixed in the direction of the shore, straining to see a light, a farmhouse, a shepherd’s shack, to reassure ourselves that land was indeed close and that we weren’t being blown off course. But all we could see was darkness, all we could hear was the voice of the sea that never sleeps. I trained my gaze to the east, then, to our left, awaiting the first sign of dawn with growing anguish. The only sight that comforted me was when I looked back and saw, in that utter darkness, the braziers of my ships tracing an oblique red line of fire on the water.

When the sky lightened, it held no stars nor moon. Above us was only a pale void. The wind was colder and stronger: we were in the middle of a storm. I was seized with dread: the gods were pushing me away from my destination!

I was shaken by the voice of Antiphus, full of sadness. ‘ Wanax ,’ he said, ‘where are we?’

No matter which way we looked, we saw nothing. The headland of Cape Malea, which must still have been out there somewhere, was invisible, distant, lost to us. I had hoped, dreamt, for so long of my island my house my family. They felt so close I could have touched them. I was reminded of the day that my father had taken me out into the open sea, to the point where all lands vanish. The sea had stretched out before me then, extending infinitely in every direction, while the sun pounded down on us, its rays calling up sprites of light that danced on the still waters.

The sea, all around us, was empty.

What were the men on the other ships thinking? That I’d made a mistake? That the king of Ithaca didn’t know how to get them home?

My heart was burning in my chest like a firebrand. I would talk to them when the moment came, after we had landed. The position of the sun soon told me that we were heading south, fast. I had never navigated in those waters before and I had no idea what to expect, but the wind raged on, swelling the sails, ripping them to shreds at times. We had to change them time and time again. Black clouds galloped through the sky and pelted us with heavy rain. No one would have been able to change course, not even by striking the sails and manning the oars. The sea rushed tumultuously in a single direction, her high, grey waves boiling with foam.