Pandion’s handclasp slackened, Cavius turned away. They stepped into the warm water and, sliding over the slippery stones, hurried to the ships.
Pandion stepped on to the deck of a ship for the first time in many years; he was flooded with memories of the days of happy sailing in times long past — no more than fleeting thoughts, however, for the memories soon disappeared. All his thoughts were concentrated on the tall black figure standing aloof from the others on the seashore at the very edge of the water. The oars splashed, their rhythmic beat grew faster, and the ship passed out beyond the reefs. The seamen raised the huge sail, and the wind carried the vessel before it.
The figures of the people on the shore grew smaller and smaller; and soon Kidogo, lost to his friends for ever, was no more than a tiny black dot. The deepening twilight hid the coast-line, but the dark mountain ridge hung gloomily over the stern of the ships. Cavius wiped away a big tear, and it was not the first. A huge bat that flew out from the coast, parallel to which the ships were travelling, brushed Pandion’s face with its wing. That light, silky touch affected Pandion like the last word of farewell from the land he was leaving.
It was with a sense of dismay that Pandion parted from his Negro friend and from the land in which he had gone through so much, where he was leaving part of his heart behind. He had a vague feeling that in future days of weariness or sorrow, at home in his own country, Africa would appear before his eyes beckoning and beautiful, and that only because it was lost to him for ever, like Iruma. In abandoning everything that had become part of his very life, in turning his face and his heart towards Hellas, Pandion was stricken with doubt. What awaited him there, after so long an absence?
How would he settle down amongst his own people, he who was returning a different man from the one who had left? Who would he find amongst the living? Thessa — was she still alive, and did she still love him? Or?…
The ships, headed westwards, dived wearily into the troughs of the waves. The Sons of the Wind had told their passengers that they would sail westwards for a whole month before turning north. The mighty breath of the ocean ruffled Pandion’s hair. The taciturn sailors were unhurriedly busy at their work beside him. The Sons of the Wind, descendants of the ancient mariners of Crete, seemed more alien to Pandion than the black-skinned inhabitants of Africa. The Hellene squeezed the bag that hung on his breast — it contained the stone on which was carved the image of Kidogo — and joined his companions huddled together sadly in a corner of a strange ship…
A round, orange-coloured moon rose from behind the mountains. In its light the ocean, the Great Arc that encircled all the lands of the world, was furrowed with black hollows over which the brightly lit caps of the waves glided smoothly on their way. The tiny vessels sailed bravely on, pointing their sharp prows straight up at the star-filled sky amidst showers of silvery spray, then racing downwards into the dull roar of the sombre depths. To Pandion this seemed like his own life story. Far away ahead of him the opalescent crests of the waves merged into one bright path of light, the stars descended and rocked on the surface of the water just as they did by the shores of his native Hellas. The ocean had accepted these courageous men, had consented to carry them on its bosom over an immeasurable distance — to their homes…
“Eupalin, did you see that cameo cut on a stone the colour of the sea — it is the most perfect work of art in Oeniadae, or rather, if the truth be told, in all Hellas?”
Eupalin did not answer immediately. Listening attentively to the strident neighing of his favourite horse, held by a strong slave, he wrapped himself more closely in a cloak of fine wool. In the shade of the stable the spring wind had a tinge of cold in it, although the grey slopes of the stony hills were already covered with blossoming trees. Down below, the almond groves stretched in delicate pink clouds; above them, higher up the slopes, patches of dark rose, almost violet, colouring marked the thickets of dense shrubs. The cold breeze from the hills carried with it the fragrance of almond blossoms, the herald of a new spring in the valleys of Oeniadae. Eupalin took a deep breath and tapped with his finger on a wooden post.
“I’ve heard,” he began slowly, “that it was carved by the adopted son of Agenor who’s been wandering abroad for many years. He was believed dead, but recently returned from some very distant land.”
“And Agenor’s daughter, the beautiful Thessa… You’ve heard of her, of course?”
“I’ve heard that she refused to marry for six years in the firm belief that her lover would return. Her father, the artist, allowed her…”
“I know that he not only consented to her waiting, but himself also awaited the return of his adopted son.”
“This is one of those rare occasions when things turn out according to expectations. He did not die, but became Thessa’s husband and a great artist. It’s a pity you did not have an opportunity to see the cameo; you are a connoisseur and would have appreciated it!”
“I’ll do as you wish and go to see Agenor. He lives on Cape Achelous which is no more than twenty stadia from here…”
“Unfortunately, you’re too late, Eupalin. The artist who carved the cameo made a present of it — just imagine! — to a friend of his, some Etruscan vagabond. The man fell sick on the journey home and he took him to Agenor’s house, looked after him until he was well again and then gave him a jewel that would have made all Oeniadae famous. The Etruscan rewarded him with the skin of a disgusting beast, a horrible thing that has never been heard of before…”
“A beggar he left and a beggar he has returned. Didn’t he learn anything from his wanderings that he can make a valuable gift to anybody he meets?”
“It’s hard for you and me to understand a man who has lived so long in strange lands. Still, I’m sorry the cameo has gone from us!”