‘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.
One by one they turned away into their blankets and tried to sleep, pondering the great world that they were but a small fragment of, not needing to comprehend it or their part in it, simply accepting once again their own mortality. And as he saw his true self, a brittle, finite thing, Eperitus did not sink resigned under a sense of fatalism but felt himself lifted, his spirit rising to claim the infinitesimal spark of life that the gods had granted him. He was such a throwaway thing of no importance, and yet he existed and would make that existence worthwhile.
They were woken before dawn by the smell of smoke and the crackle of fire.
Eperitus lifted his head from his rolled-up cloak and at first thought his dream had taken a bizarre twist. Then he saw Damastor running through the camp and shouting.
‘Fire! The trees have caught light! Wake up!’
Eperitus leapt to his feet and looked about with a horrified realization. Two of the trees that circled the camp were now blazing brightly, forming a raging beacon against the fading darkness. The others stumbled from their blankets, bleary-eyed and dishevelled. Eperitus saw Halitherses amongst them and ran to him.
‘We must find some water,’ he said urgently. ‘If Polybus is anywhere nearby he’s bound to see this.’
‘It’s too late for that, lad,’ Halitherses said, pointing towards the raging inferno. ‘See how the flames are spreading from tree to tree? Even if there was a river here and we had something other than our helmets to fetch the water in, we could never douse these flames. I only pray to the gods that there are no Taphians within sight of this.’
Eperitus remained anxious to do something, but the truth was that the fire would be visible to any watching eyes for miles around, and when dawn came the smoke trail would be obvious to all. So they watched helplessly with the heat drying their eyes and warming their faces, and wondered whether matters could get worse. Then Damastor appeared at his side and seized his arm.
‘Eperitus, where are the mules? They were picketed over there last night.’
He looked at the place where the beasts had been when he fell asleep, but they were not there. They must have broken free, panicked by the flames, and bolted into the night. With them they had taken the last of their provisions and, what was worse, the gifts for Helen.
Odysseus came running towards them. ‘Get some men together and search for the mules, Damastor,’ he ordered, clearly angry with the guardsman. ‘Halitherses, see that the escort is ready to march before sun-up. I want to get away from here as soon as possible and continue to Messene.’
‘How could this have happened?’ Eperitus asked him. ‘And why didn’t the sentry see anything?’
‘Damastor was asleep again,’ the prince replied, tight-lipped. ‘And as for the blaze, it was probably an ember from the fire, caught by the night breeze.’