by Glyn Iliffe
Eurybates ordered the sail furled and then returned to the prow and took the steering oars from Odysseus. The king spared him a slap on the shoulder and ran down between the benches. Men on both sides were grimacing under the strain now that the ship was turned into the face of the wind. They had won the first part of the battle, but the worst was still ahead. They would have to wrestle the galley past the Cape and into one of the bays on the western shore of the peninsula, fighting the prevailing current the whole way. Odysseus fixed his gaze on the round peak of the Cape, trying to measure their progress. It was woefully small. His men would tire long before they could pull out of the channel and into the shallower, less tempestuous waters along the coast. And if they failed? In a clear but all too brief moment he pictured Penelope and Telemachus standing on a fog-shrouded beach. Then they were gone again. A shadow fell across his spirit, threatening to crush the fight out of him.
‘Odysseus! Odysseus! The fleet!’
He turned to see Eperitus, his face wet with spray and his features set in a look of alarm. Odysseus followed the direction of his finger and saw the dark seas astern, hissing in their natural turmoil as curtains of rain drifted across them.
‘The fleet’s gone,’ Eperitus exclaimed. ‘They didn’t make the turn.’
Odysseus felt panic closing like a hand about his windpipe.
‘They must be there.’
‘They’re not. They’ve been swept away.’
Odysseus turned to the men around him.
‘Row!’ he yelled. ‘Put your backs into it if you ever want to see your homes again.’
‘We have to go back for the others,’ Eperitus said, grabbing his arm. ‘We can’t just leave them.’
The thought of going back – of abandoning the fight – stirred Odysseus to anger.
‘No! I’m not giving up now. The others have good captains and strong crews; they’ll make it home in their own time. We’re heading back to Ithaca. And unless you want us to suffer the same fate as the rest of the fleet, then find an oar and get rowing.’
Eperitus stared at him for a moment, then took his place on the benches. Odysseus looked once more at the Cape, shrouded now in rain but still visible. They had barely made any progress since the last time he had checked.
‘Row, damn it!’ he yelled, drawing his sword and scowling at the men. ‘I’ll strike down any man who doesn’t pull his weight. Now row!’
The galley was rolling awkwardly as it struggled over the waves, some of the crew crying out as they struggled at the oars. Only Polites on one side and Selagos on the other seemed not to be hurting, but many around them were beginning to flag. Omeros, his lips pulled back in a grimace and his eyes closed tightly, had to battle his way through every stroke. Beside him Elpenor was in tears, shouting at the pain that coursed through his limbs. The next moment he had fallen back from the bench, hitting the deck with a thud. Odysseus seized him by his tunic and slapped him across the face.
‘Row, damn you!’ he screamed. ‘I won’t lose this fight because you’re not man enough to pull an oar.’
But Elpenor just groaned and rolled his eyes like a wild animal, not caring whether he lived or died. Odysseus drew his sword, his fury urging him to drive the point into Elpenor’s throat. Then he tossed the weapon across the deck, took the boy’s place at the oar and began to heave at it with all his strength.
Chapter Fourteen
PAST THE RIM OF THE WORLD
Ship,’ the little girl said, though the Greek word was barely distinguishable through her Trojan accent.
Astynome smiled, nodded and pointed above her head.
‘Sail.’
‘Excellent,’ Astynome said brightly, smiling again. ‘And what about that?’
She indicated a goat tethered to the base of one of the benches. The girl sighed, her shoulders slumping.
‘G –,’ Astynome prompted her.
The child shook her head and said the animal’s name in the Trojan tongue, an obstinate tone infiltrating her small voice.
‘Goat,’ Astynome corrected, patting her head.
The child had clearly had her fill of learning the language of her new masters, so Astynome handed her a little piece of wood that – at her request – Antiphus had whittled into the shape of a person with two legs, two arms and a smooth head with no features. Astynome had made the doll a dress from a piece of old flax, with a hood that hid the fact it had no hair. The girl took the wooden figure and hugged her with a rocking motion.
The sail rumpled a little in the persistent north wind. The spar had been lowered halfway down the mast to keep the galley steady, while the white canvas with its dolphin motif had been brailed into small loops to prevent the ship being driven further away from Greece than it had to. The sky was blue with a few high clouds and Astynome thought again that it was peculiar that this same wind should have lasted for so many days without abating. A north wind blew most of the year round back in Ilium, but she had always been under the impression that at sea it was more changeable. Perhaps the gods were at play again, she mused, and gave it no more mind. Craning her neck a little from her sitting position she could see a handful of other ships dotted over the surface of the sea, but as ever there was no sight of land. Eurybates would have called out if there had been, of course, but boredom had made her look anyway. Perhaps they had sailed beyond the borders of the ocean. Plenty of the men had said as much, whispering in groups on the benches. Especially after that mist and the unknown stars that had followed it.
She looked down at the four children seated around her. Each had a toy – the doll Antiphus had carved, a bear for the girl’s sister and horses for the two others, which Astynome thought ironic since their fathers had been slain by the massacre Odysseus’s wooden horse had unleashed on Troy – but they were all bored. No amount of toys or lessons in Greek could keep a child entertained for long. At home, the streets of Troy had been their world, which they had enjoyed with a freedom denied to the besieged adults around them. But here, on the claustrophobic deck of the galley, they were all prisoners, hemmed in by wooden walls and the constant moaning of the wind.
There were other children on board, but, unlike these four, they were not orphans. Their mothers considered Astynome a traitor and would not allow their daughters to go near her, though they were happy enough for her to take charge of the four girls whose parents had not survived the chaos of Troy’s last moments. It was a responsibility she had taken up gladly, grateful to have a sense of purpose during the monotony of the voyage. She was convinced it was better for the orphans, too, for they received the attention of Eperitus, Omeros, Antiphus and Polites, and sometimes the king himself. Whereas the other children were kept close to their mothers, these four were spoiled with toys, titbits of extra food and even lessons in sword fighting. Neither would their ears be filled with poisonous thoughts of a lost homeland; not for them the bitterness of knowing they were the last survivors of a proud but extinct race. They would grow up aware of nothing else but Ithaca and their own servitude.
As one of the girls rested her head in her lap, Astynome looked across at Eperitus sleeping on the sacks by the helm. It was over a week now since the winds and currents around Cape Malea had defeated them. The crew had fought hard, cajoled by their desperate king, but in the end they had failed. The force of the gale had driven them helplessly past the shores of Cythera and out into the ocean. In the darkness of night their misery had been compounded by an unyielding downpour of rain that left them wet through and seized by a deathly cold. To the women and children huddled on deck amid the supplies and tethered animals it had been unbearable; to the men, shattered by their exertions, it must have been an unending nightmare. Many had given up the struggle and collapsed. Others, though physically stronger, had been defeated by despair, knowing that their chance of returning home had been lost for days, maybe weeks. But a core of men endured, led by Odysseus, Eurybates and Eperitus and the examples of Polites and Antiphus, sailing the galley thr
ough the storm until the morning light brought some deliverance.
The next day’s sun had never been more than a dull luminescence showing itself through the cloud. Though the storm abated somewhat, the strong winds did not, preventing them from returning to the Peloponnese and driving them further away across a sea devoid of landmarks. Not even Odysseus or Eurybates had sailed this far south. No-one knew what islands or shorelines they could expect to sight, though all had heard that – once past the stretch of water between Cythera in the west and Crete in the east – there was nothing but ocean for many days.
The four orphans had been a blessing to Astynome then, their tearful fear a spur that prevented her from succumbing to her own misery. For their sake she had to forget her increasing anxiety that she and Eperitus might never find their little farm on Ithaca or have children of their own, and the other dark thoughts that grey skies and an empty ocean were nurturing in her. Instead she had to become a source of reassurance, smiling into their sadness and telling them they were on a great adventure that would be sung about until the end of time, while comforting them that their troubles would only be brief and they would soon find their new home. When the mention of Ithaca brought doubts and worries, she told them it was a beautiful island with snow-capped mountains and grassy plains filled with little white flowers, just like the dried ones that the Ithacans wore in their belts. That was how she had always imagined it in her own dreams, and the children’s concerns grew less as she told them about the place she had never been to.
And all the time she had felt Eurylochus’s eyes upon her, weighing her on the scales of his lust.
By evening of that second day, the clouds had begun to fray at the edges, breaking up above the horizon and allowing sight of the sun as it slowly sank into the sea. Astynome’s heart rose briefly at the sight of it and the hope of warmth that it suggested, but it was quickly absorbed again by the waiting ocean. The night that followed was black and moonless, though the ceiling of shifting cloud was rent by great holes that gave glimpses of the stars above. By their light she could see the shapes of the sailors on the benches around, oblivious to the rocking of the galley as they snored. The women and children, too, were asleep, and for a while she had felt as if she were alone on that great expanse of sea. Then she had heard a movement behind her and turned to see a figure silhouetted against a field of stars. Eurylochus, she had thought, her muscles tensing as she pulled her damp cloak tighter about herself.
‘Astynome?’ Eperitus’s voice whispered her name.
‘I’m here,’ she answered, stretching out a hand.
He took it and guided himself to her side. They embraced and kissed, his arms warm and solid as they closed around her. It was the first time they had spoken in a day and a half, though to Astynome it had felt much longer.
‘How are the children?’ he asked, his features faintly visible in the starlight.
‘Full of terrible fears and inconsolable worries that they’ll forget at the first sight of land or sunshine.’
‘If only our fears and worries would leave us so easily.’
‘They will soon enough, when we find our way to Ithaca.’
It was as if she was talking to one of the children, though this time she was seeking comfort rather than giving it.
‘Of course,’ he said flatly, looking over his shoulder at the ever-present figures of Odysseus and Eurybates at the helm. Neither had left their positions since Cape Malea. ‘Though right now any land would be welcome. Somewhere to light a fire and get warm. Here.’
He unclasped his double cloak and draped it around her shoulders. She protested that he would get cold but he refused to listen.
‘We will find Ithaca, won’t we?’ she asked.
‘I… I don’t know. If it’s within our power to, we will, but we’re not even sure where we are any more. Look at the stars. They seem the same. All the familiar constellations are there, and yet they’re different. A star out of place here and there, some dimmer where they used to be bright or brighter where they used to be dim. Eurybates noticed it first.’
‘What does Odysseus think?’
‘He’s hardly spoken a word since the Cape. You don’t know how desperate he is to get home to Penelope and Telemachus. I’ve tried speaking to him, tried to lift his mood, but most of the time it’s as if I’m not even there. The one time he said anything was to mention the old prophecy the Pythoness gave him,’ his voice fell further, ‘that he won’t get home for another ten years. I reminded him of what he always used to say, that a man can master his own destiny regardless of what the gods say. But he didn’t want to listen. This thing with the stars has only made him worse.’
Astynome looked across at the northern horizon, now almost clear of clouds, and saw that Eperitus was right. The constellations were different. The one thing that had remained constant throughout her fragile life – beyond the reaches of man, nature and even, it seemed, the gods – had somehow become distorted, subtly but undeniably. And it filled her with fear.
‘There’s something else.’
‘What is it?’
Eperitus’s dark eyes flicked from side to side at the sleeping figures around them.
‘One of the ropes parted when we were rounding the Cape. I managed to catch hold of it and haul the sail back round into the wind, not that it did us any good.’
‘I remember. What of it?’
‘The rope didn’t snap, Astynome. It was cut.’
‘What do you mean? By a knife?’
He nodded.
‘But why? Who did it?’
Her voice had risen above a whisper and he had placed a finger to her lips.
‘I don’t know who. One of the men on the stays: Polites was one, and Omeros, but they wouldn’t have any reason to cut the rope. I didn’t see the others. As for why – why else? To stop us getting home.’
Astynome frowned.
‘That doesn’t make any sense. Every man wants to get back to Ithaca, don’t they?’
‘Eventually, perhaps, but not yet. I haven’t mentioned it to Odysseus, but I’ve thought long and hard about it myself, and it strikes me the only reason someone doesn’t want us to get back home is –’
They want to kill Odysseus first,’ Astynome finished.
‘Someone doesn’t want him to take up his throne again, and they know that once he’s home he’ll be beyond their reach. But here, out at sea on a small galley, they can get to him.’
‘A knife in the dark –’
‘Why do you think I’ve hardly slept? Someone has to keep an eye open.’
‘Then tell Odysseus.’
‘Not yet,’ Eperitus said. ‘It might be nothing.’
‘And it might be Eurylochus,’ Astynome hissed, her voice barely a breath now. ‘You know he’s ambitious and unscrupulous, and that he has some claim on the throne.’
‘He was on the benches, as was his Taphian. It could have been one of his other cronies, but for some reason I don’t think this is his style.’
Astynome looked over at Odysseus’s cousin asleep on one of the benches, his large stomach rising and falling slowly. Whatever Eperitus’s instincts, she believed otherwise.
Though the whole crew seemed to have slept until dawn, the next morning everyone was talking about the stars. Voices spoke of being cursed by the gods, and a few, in whispers, blamed Odysseus. Eurylochus monopolised on this, attracting small groups of unhappy men who were angry about the failure at Cape Malea and superstitious about the distorted constellations. But as more men came and went and Astynome began to suspect that Eurylochus and Selagos were stirring up mutiny, something had happened to change the mood on board the galley.
‘Ship! Ship to port!’
Odysseus, ever conscious of the loss of the rest of his fleet, had positioned a lookout atop the mast. The man now called out with all his strength and pointed to the east. As if in response, the sun emerged from between two stacks of white cloud and poured warmth and light down on the
beleaguered occupants of the galley, nearly all of whom had rushed over to the port side to get a better view. An angry bellow from Eurybates brought most of them back again and restored the ship’s balance.
‘I see it,’ Eperitus announced. ‘It could be Ithacan. They’re unfurling the sail and turning towards us. There’s a dolphin on it!’
His words brought a cheer from the crew. More orders from the helm brought the galley about on a diagonal path intended to cut across the front of the other ship. The strong winds caught the sail as it fell open and drove the vessel forward.
‘There’s another,’ cried the lookout. ‘And a third.’
Astynome doubted the Ithacans could have been happier if they had spotted their homeland. Before long, eleven ships had been counted, all of them changing course to meet the lone galley of their commander.
When the fleet was reunited, the different captains had come across in small rowing boats and joined Odysseus at the helm, where they informed the king of how they had been swept inexorably out to sea at Malea and driven south by the strong winds ever since. All agreed it had been a miracle they had ever found each other again, but the initial joy of being reunited soon faded as they discussed what to do next. They talked loud enough for Astynome to overhear almost every word, and there was no hiding the fact they were lost and unable to do anything but let the persistent gale take them where it would. One man suggested they had sailed past the rim of the world, pointing out the difference in the stars that they had all noticed. Eperitus was dismissive, but Astynome noticed that Odysseus said nothing.
That night, after the captains had returned to their own ships and torches were lit at the helm and prow of each galley so they would not lose each other in the darkness, everyone but the children stayed awake until late. The men had sat in groups on the benches, looking at the constellations and quietly discussing what it could mean. Astynome joined Eperitus, Antiphus, Polites and Omeros, though she did not feel like adding to their conversation as they pooled their knowledge to decide what was different about each grouping of stars. Eventually they came to accept that the constellations were different and there was nothing they could do to explain or correct it, so Omeros produced his lyre and began to sing a poem he had been composing about the death of Achilles. A few others joined them, drawn like moths to the young bard’s music, and slowly Astynome and Eperitus drew away to the end of their bench. She placed her hand over his cheek, where the beard had grown back full and thick, then leaned across to kiss him.
