Glyn Iliffe - King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

It was Damastor who broke the silence. He had a wife and infant son at home and did not want to leave them to the mercy of Taphian pirates. There was no choice, he argued, but to go to the nearest coastal town and take a ship back to Ithaca. They knew the countryside better than the Taphians and could observe their numbers and defences from the hills surrounding the town. If they sailed by night the invaders would not even be aware of their return, and then they could gather an army of the people and wrest the island back from Eupeithes.

There were murmurs of agreement, but little enthusiasm. Laertes’s defeat had lowered their spirits and put doubt into their minds. Eperitus could see from the lifeless expressions that they questioned their chances of defeating Eupeithes’s much stronger force. Even Halitherses looked sullen and dismayed. Only Odysseus seemed unbowed by the news. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the distant shoreline as he pondered what to do.

After a few moments he stood and looked at his men, their dirty, tired faces raised in expectation. If they hastened back to Ithaca now, he explained, they might catch Eupeithes unprepared and the islanders angry enough to fight. But it was more likely their small force would be massacred, gifting Ithaca to their enemies for ever. The alternative was to continue to Sparta, where they might gain powerful allies and come back with a force that could optimistically challenge Eupeithes. And yet that would also give the usurper time to establish himself and strengthen his position.

‘Whatever we may think,’ said Halitherses, ‘the decision has to be yours, my lord. We all have homes and families on Ithaca, but you are the heir to the throne. You know what’s best, and we’ll commit ourselves to your judgement.’

‘Then I’m going to pray on the matter,’ Odysseus announced. ‘If you’re wise you’ll do the same. I’ll decide when I return.’

He turned to go to the other side of the hilltop, and as he did so gave Eperitus a long look and nodded his head for him to follow. The young warrior waited a short while then went to find him.

Odysseus sat on his haunches, his elbows balanced on his knees and his hands wilting at the ends of his outstretched arms. He was looking out towards the sea. Though winter had begun the sky had few clouds and the sun was bright as it climbed towards its apex, enabling a keen-eyed observer to see for great distances. The prince did not look at Eperitus as he joined him.

‘You wanted me, my lord?’

‘No formalities here, Eperitus. Sit down.’

Rocks were scattered everywhere, none of them flat or smooth enough to sit on, so he squatted next to Odysseus and faced the sea. The landscape was typical of southern Greece – hilly, boulder-strewn, punctuated with scrubby plants and olive groves – but it felt an empty and lonely place.

‘What will you do?’ he asked.

‘That isn’t my decision,’ Odysseus replied, opening his hand to reveal the small clay owl that Athena had given him. ‘She told me to go to her temple at Messene.’

Eperitus looked at the object resting in the palm of his friend’s hand and recalled the goddess’s instructions, as well as her promise to help Odysseus at the time he needed her most.

‘That’s why I wanted you to follow me, Eperitus,’ Odysseus continued, looking at him with his intelligent green eyes. ‘You were there. You saw her and heard what she said. I can’t share that with Mentor or Halitherses, so I need you to help me decide.’

‘We won’t be able to defeat Eupeithes without using the owl to call on Athena’s help,’ Eperitus began. ‘But she won’t come unless you honour her command to go to Messene first.’

‘Even with the help of a goddess it’ll be a difficult task,’ Odysseus said. ‘We’re too few in number. But you’re right either way: we must at least rid her temple of the serpent, as she has commanded. We can decide between Ithaca and Sparta then. And yet . . . and yet I fear for my parents. My every thought burns with anxiety for them! Ithaca will still be there if we return tomorrow or in ten years, but I can’t delay if by doing so I risk the lives of my father and mother.’

‘From everything I’ve heard it seems that Eupeithes is a coward,’ Eperitus said. ‘Surely he wouldn’t dare murder Laertes?’

‘No, he wouldn’t. But he has Polybus at one ear and Polytherses at the other, and the Taphians may yet decide to do away with them all and take Ithaca for themselves. They wouldn’t spare its king and queen.’

‘I can’t make that decision for you, Odysseus,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But if you want the opinion of an outsider, then go to Messene first. That’s the sum of my wisdom on the matter. And now I should go back, before Mentor suspects me of being up to mischief

As he rejoined the camp, he saw Mentor sitting on a rock and staring at him. His arms and legs were tied with fresh bandages – replaced that morning – and the few hours sleep he had gained during the night had eased his look of exhaustion. Eperitus was about to look away and find a friendlier face, when Mentor rose to his feet and walked towards him. The man’s accusations of treachery were still fresh in Eperitus’s mind, and the ordeals Mentor had been through did not lessen his anger towards him.

‘What is it?’ he said, sharply.

Mentor stared at him for a moment, then offered his hand. ‘I owe you an apology, Eperitus. I judged you too harshly when we first met, and I haven’t made things easy for you since. But the events at the palace have changed me, and I just want to say I was wrong to speak as I did.’

Eperitus held Mentor’s gaze for a moment longer, then forced a smile to his lips and took his hand. ‘I’m glad we can be friends, Mentor.’

Odysseus returned shortly after and wasted no time in informing the men of his decision. They would head for Sparta, travelling via Messene to buy new supplies. Even those who were eager to return home and fight it out did not question his decision, and Eperitus sensed the prince’s authority grow then. Before, he felt that the men followed Odysseus because he was the son of Laertes; now it was because they were learning to trust him. The only voice of dissent belonged to Damastor, who still insisted they should return to Ithaca. But his protests were short-lived in the face of Odysseus’s silence and he resigned himself to the long journey ahead of them. And so they marched late into the evening, following the coastal road and hoping to put some distance between themselves and any pursuit.

They made camp away from the road on an outcrop of the eastern mountains. It was similar to their resting place of the previous night, with steep slopes facing the sea and a crown of olive trees upon its summit. They made as large a fire as they dared, which hardly merited the title, and Antiphus sang them an ancient tale from Ithacan legend. It was not a story Eperitus had ever heard in Alybas, as it told of sea gods tormenting shipbound mortals and keeping them from their homes, but it was familiar to Odysseus’s men. They nodded in sad recognition of each element or in anticipation of the next, and the subject of the cursed wanderer struck their mood. But it was also a short song, the sort that can be easily learned and which men will sing to their comrades when they have no bard, and so it was soon the turn of others to sing. They all knew the tales that were shared because they had heard them so many times before and the words had been embroidered into the fabric of their minds. Even Mentor, who was still tired and sore from his wounds, gave them a song in his deep and musical voice.

Then it was the turn of Odysseus. The songs that had come before had gently drawn them away from their self-centred, individual patterns of thought, their insignificant anxieties about food, sleep and tomorrow, and knitted them slowly together into a single entity that fed on words, unconsciously transforming them into a smooth succession of shared emotions which in turn became the heartbeat that unified them. When Odysseus spoke his smooth voice mastered them entirely, reached into their mood and gripped them, leading them, lifting them. He did not sing, but spoke the words of his tale, clearly and rhythmically, mingling their thoughts and emotions into a stream that flowed directly into him and back out again to them. He told them of the gods and the ancient things that preceded them, of battles fought before man’s creation that tore up the mountain tops and burned the oceans, and when, eventually, he stopped telling the tale their minds did not stop hearing it, could not stop, but poured back over it and around it until the night breeze tugged at their cloaks and pinched their skin, slowly clawing them back to the world of the hilltop, encircled by the age-old trees and observed by a raven sky filled with stars.