Eperitus, who had remained astern with Omeros, was now joined by Polites and Eurybates.
‘It’s Zacynthos,’ Polites announced, a hint of excitement in his normally deep, slow voice. ‘Come on.’
He hoisted Eperitus up by his arm and dragged him to the prow, followed by Eurybates and Omeros. Odysseus was already there, not even noticing his countrymen as he grasped the bow rail and squinted hard against the squall. They joined him in silence, staring through the sheet-rain at the almost imperceptible horizon rolling from left to right before them. Eperitus saw the line of the Peloponnesian coast on the starboard side of the galley, which Sthenelaus kept them in sight of at all times, but despite his sharp vision he was unable to see the new land that had been spotted. Eventually he caught a brief glimpse of something black and indistinct, but the act of focussing on a static point in a world of constant motion forced his stomach to contract in protest. He vomited again, this time managing to reach the side of the ship before the liquid spilled from his lips, then staggered back to suffer in solitude on the benches. One by one the others sat down until only Odysseus remained, lost in his own thoughts and memories as he stared at the southernmost point of the kingdom he had not seen for ten years.
Slowly, Zacynthos grew from a small blot to something that was visibly a large, if still distant, island. The gale was already dying away and the galley would soon head towards the mainland, to seek the mouth of the River Alpheius. There they would make their final landfall of the voyage and head inland to find Pisa, and hopefully the tomb of Pelops. Knowing this, Eperitus reluctantly extracted himself from the shelter afforded by Polites and Eurybates, and staggered up the middle of the ship to join the lone figure of Odysseus at the prow. Despite his nausea, which was exaggerated by his supernaturally enhanced senses, Eperitus fought down the desire to vomit again.
‘Thinking of home?’ he asked, raising his voice over the roaring wind.
Odysseus nodded.
‘They’re so close,’ he said, just loud enough for Eperitus to hear. ‘It’s strange, but the nearer I am to Penelope, the clearer I can recall her face. Back in Ilium I could barely picture her, but here –’ He reached out with his fingertips. ‘Here it’s as if I can see her before me in the rain. But it’s only a memory, an image of how she used to be, and what makes it worse is the real Penelope is just over there, beyond the storm. If only I could see her as she is now.’
‘I’m sure she’s as beautiful as the day you left her.’
‘Yes,’ Odysseus said. ‘Ten years would barely have added a line to her face. Unlike me. I feel like the past decade has been spent in Hades, surrounded by horrors and forgetful of the beauty of the real world. It’s as if the Odysseus who sailed away from Ithaca has died a thousand times since then, and all that’s left is this.’ He plucked dismissively at his tunic. ‘I doubt she would even recognise me any more. And what would Telemachus make of me? Could he ever come to love a father he’s never known? Why, Mentor and Halitherses will be more like fathers to him than I can ever be.’
‘Uncles, maybe, but you’re his real father, Odysseus. Nothing can replace that. And the sooner we find this bone – ’
‘Agamemnon and Nestor were right, you know. If this had been my own ship I’d be on my way to Ithaca now. Oh, I’d probably tell myself it was just a short visit, a day or two to see my family. But days would become weeks and weeks months, until I’d no longer care about Agamemnon’s war or my oath to Menelaus. The fact Diomedes is in command prevents that, but it hasn’t stopped me thinking the strangest, most desperate things, Eperitus. Before you joined me, I was even considering whether I could leap overboard and swim to Zacynthos –’
‘That’d be madness,’ Eperitus exclaimed.
‘Madness indeed,’ said another voice.
The two men turned to see an Argive sailor standing beside them. He was tall and pale, with large grey eyes and a straight nose that did not dip at the bridge. His chin was clean-shaven, unlike the rest of the crew, and he had long, fair hair that was tied back behind his neck. Even more notable than this rare feature was the fact that his stone-coloured cloak and tunic were dry, as if impervious to the lashing rain.
Eperitus frowned in confusion, sensing something was wrong. Surely he would have remembered such a man on the long voyage from Troy? Moreover, why weren’t any of the other crew members looking at the striking figure standing in the prow? It was then he saw that many were leaning against each other, their heads lolling on their chests. Others had slumped forward over their knees with their arms hanging limply at their sides. Diomedes and Sthenelaus at the helm were both reclining against the bow rail, propped up by their armpits as their heads rolled back to stare with unseeing eyes at the stormy skies above. Even more strangely, the twin rudders were not swinging freely now that the unconscious Sthenelaus had released them, but were held fast by an unseen force that kept the galley on a straight course. As his mind struggled to comprehend what his eyes were telling him, his other senses were registering that the rain was no longer driving against his skin and the sickness in his stomach had gone entirely.
As ever, Odysseus was the first to recognise her. With one hand still gripping the bow rail, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head. Eperitus followed his example, finally realising the man before them was no sailor, but the goddess Athena, Odysseus’s immortal patron who had appeared to them several times during their many adventures together.
Athena leaned down and took both men by the hand, sending a wave of warmth through their chilled bodies as she pulled them to their feet.
‘Even a swimmer of your skill and stamina would not reach Zacynthos through these seas, Odysseus,’ she said. ‘You would have thrown your life away for nothing and never seen your family again.’
‘If my mortal body is frail, Mistress,’ he replied, ‘then my mortal heart is even weaker. Why shouldn’t I risk the one when the other is already dying without Penelope and Telemachus?’
Athena looked at him and there was pity in her eyes, softening the cold, hard beauty of her ageless face. There was something else, too, Eperitus thought: a sadness beneath the compassion, as if she knew of an even more terrible fate in Odysseus’s future.
‘You are stronger than you think,’ she said. ‘How else have you managed to stay true to Penelope through all these years, when every other man has taken Trojan concubines or satisfied himself with whores? No, Odysseus, you are unique among the kings of Greece and only you can deliver Troy into their hands.
‘As for you,’ she added, turning to Eperitus, ‘I’m pleased, if surprised, that your brain has finally managed to emerge from its long slumber.’
‘Mistress?’
‘I mean your suggestion of making the voyage in an Argive ship, of course. Agamemnon was right not to have allowed Odysseus to sail in one of his own galleys – the temptation of returning to Ithaca would have been too great. But without Odysseus the mission was doomed to failure and the will of the gods would never have been fulfilled. We are grateful to you, Eperitus.’
Eperitus nodded uncertainly. ‘Thank you, Mistress.’
‘And what is the will of the gods?’ Odysseus asked.
‘To see Troy defeated. The war has almost fulfilled its purpose; Zeus does not want to see it prolonged unnecessarily.’