‘Good morning to you, father,’ Odysseus greeted him, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. ‘You caught us by surprise just then. Is there anything we can do for you?’
The old man stared at the king, a faint smile just visible beneath the wispy strands of his moustache, but did not reply. Eperitus called to the rest of the file to halt then, replacing his sword, stepped forward and looked at the curious figure seated before them.
‘Answer your king when he addresses you,’ he ordered, trying to keep the anger from his voice.
‘Forgive my friend,’ Odysseus apologized. ‘He doesn’t realize you’re not from these islands. You aren’t an Ithacan, are you, or I’m sure I’d know your face?’
‘I’m a visitor here,’ the old man admitted, ‘though I know these islands well. And I know you, too, King Odysseus.’
‘Then tell us who you are, greybeard,’ Eperitus insisted. His subtle senses detected something strange about the old man that set his instincts on edge.
The old man chuckled to himself. ‘The years haven’t calmed your impetuosity I see, Eperitus,’ he said, shaking his head slowly.
Eperitus shot a glance at Odysseus, who returned his shocked expression with a shrug of his shoulders. Behind them, the assembled soldiers who had come to see why the march back to camp had been halted murmured to each other in confusion. Then the old man leapt lightly down from the boulder and swept his hand in an arc before them. At once, everyone except Odysseus and Eperitus fell unconscious to the floor.
The two men sprang back and pulled out their swords again, staring about at their sleeping comrades and then at the figure before them. He was as tall and straight as an ash spear, and his eyes burned intensely as he stared at them. Though his brown cloak was still held tightly about his body, it glowed as if a brilliant light was fighting to escape from beneath it.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, but as he spoke his voice was strangely changed – deeper and yet unmistakably female.
Odysseus threw down his weapon and fell to his knees, covering his face against the fingers of white light that were escaping from the folds of the cloak. Eperitus – confused and half-blinded – clutched the handle of his sword tighter and squinted against the light, readying himself for an attack. The figure of the old man was now almost completely lost in the blaze of light that was coming from his body. The features of his face were no longer discernible, and even as Eperitus tried to look at him he seemed to grow in height. Then a strong wind swept through the trees, shaking the branches and flattening the young ferns, tearing open the man’s cloak so that it disintegrated into a hundred fragments and was blown away in an explosion of intense light. Eperitus staggered backwards, his vision an impenetrable wall of searing white, and fell over the sleeping body of Antiphus.
He lay on his back, his eyelids closed but his retinas still filled with the light. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the brightness faded and the comparatively dull radiance of day returned. Eperitus opened his eyes and saw branches overhead, creeping like black veins into the corners of his vision. Still fearful of an attack, and feeling dreadfully exposed with his senses stunned and reeling, he strained his ears against the diminishing wind. Twigs crunched nearby under a heavy weight, then a hand seized his ankle.
‘Eperitus! Eperitus, wake up!’ Odysseus said, shaking his leg.
‘I’m awake,’ Eperitus replied, sitting up and blinking at the king, who was on his hands and knees before him.
‘Stop lying around like a pair of drunkards and start showing some respect!’ said a voice. The tone was clear, commanding and familiar to both men.
They turned and squinted at the towering, marble-skinned woman standing where the old man had been moments before. She wore a pure white chiton that shimmered with an internal brilliance, filling the wood with light and making it difficult for either man to look at her for longer than a few moments at a time. Draped across her shoulders and left arm was a leather shawl edged with golden tassels, from the centre of which leered the hideous face of a gorgon, its eyes firmly shut but its fanged mouth frozen in a snarl. In her right hand she held a gigantic spear, as tall as two men, and on top of her plaited, golden hair was a bronze helmet, pushed back to reveal a face that was both beautiful and terrifying to behold. Her large grey eyes looked at them with stern expectancy.
Odysseus recognized the goddess at once. ‘Mistress Athena,’ he whispered, letting go of Eperitus’s leg and pressing his forehead and the palms of his hands to the ground.
Eperitus quickly followed his example.
‘King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,’ she boomed; then, in a much gentler manner, ‘stand up and let me look at you. How long’s it been since I last saw you?’
‘Ten years, my lady,’ Odysseus replied, getting slowly to his feet and daring to look up at the goddess. ‘In the temple where you brought Eperitus back from the dead.’
‘That long?’ she asked, smiling broadly. ‘To me it seems like only yesterday – we immortals don’t count the years as you do. And yet,’ she added, turning to Eperitus, ‘you seem hardly to have aged at all – despite the beard. Doubtless that’ll be the effect of my healing you. Are your senses still as sharp, Eperitus?’
‘Yes, my lady, although I’ve become more used to them now.’
‘He has the instincts of a boarhound,’ Odysseus put in.
‘Does he now?’ Athena asked, narrowing her eyes at Eperitus. ‘A boarhound’s first instinct is unswerving loyalty to its master – to stay at his side and serve his will before its own. Is that true of you, Eperitus?’
Eperitus looked into the goddess’s eyes and saw his most secret desires reflected back at him. His friendship with Odysseus and his strict sense of honour had kept him at the king’s side for ten years, but the peaceful boredom of Ithaca was no place for a warrior. Odysseus had his beloved kingdom and people to care for, and soon his precious Penelope would bear him a child – a son to carry on his memory long after Hermes had conducted his soul down to the realm of Hades. But Eperitus had no kingdom or family; his desire had always been to win eternal glory on the battlefield, a legacy to be measured by the bodies of his foes. On clear days, he would often climb to the lookout post on Mount Neriton and cast his gaze over the world, wondering what adventures were calling to him from beyond the hazy horizons. And always his eyes would turn eventually to the north – to Alybas, where his father had killed the king and set himself upon the throne. The shame of his father’s treachery still stung ten years later, and Eperitus’s thoughts had turned more and more to righting the wrong that had been done – to seeking out his father and wiping away the stain of dishonour that remained on his family’s name.
But that would mean leaving Ithaca and breaking his oath to Odysseus, an oath that he had taken before Athena herself. As Eperitus looked at the goddess, he was certain she knew about the desires that had been eating away at him. He lowered his gaze.
‘I am not a dog, mistress,’ he muttered. ‘But I have sworn to serve the king, and I remain a man of honour.’
‘Good,’ Athena said. ‘For Odysseus will need you soon, more than he has ever done. A storm is approaching that will shake the world of men to its roots and plunge the whole of Greece into darkness.’
Odysseus, who had been looking inquisitively at Eperitus, now turned to the goddess. ‘Ithaca too?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my dear Odysseus, even your happy little kingdom. A war is brewing that will wreak death and destruction beyond the imaginings of gods and men. And when it comes, even your scheming brain and quick wits won’t be able to save you or your people from its effects.’
‘War?’ Odysseus repeated, as if the word were new to him. ‘Then is this why you’ve come to me again, after all this time? To warn me?’