King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

Hermes entered and filled the temple with his presence. Odysseus, who still held Eperitus’s body in his arms, did not see him, nor did he hear the frightened muttering of Damastor’s ghost as the god beckoned to him. Such things were not for mortal eyes.

To Eperitus, though, they were inescapable. He saw Damastor fall to his knees, silently weeping and begging not to be taken, but nevertheless inexorably drawn towards the dark figure. He watched him shuffle forward, resisting every movement until an instant later he was swallowed up in a great sweep of the god’s cloak, disappearing from sight altogether. Hermes then turned his gaze upon Eperitus, and in a commanding gesture threw his hand out towards him.

At that moment Eperitus heard Odysseus say his name. From the corner of his vision he saw him lay his dead body back onto the earth of the temple floor and wipe the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Still on his knees, the prince looked up and accused the gods of cruelty to all mankind.

Reluctantly Eperitus took a step towards Hermes. He wanted to remain with his friend, not share Damastor’s fate, and as he took two more heavy steps towards the god he looked again at Odysseus. He silently implored him to see what was happening, to save him from his fate, but Odysseus’s chin now rested upon his chest and his hands were in his lap.

Eperitus’s resistance gave way and he took the last few steps towards Hermes. But as he reached out to take the god’s hand, the palm was suddenly turned towards him and Eperitus was fixed to the spot, unable to move. Hermes’s attention was now rooted firmly upon Odysseus and, following his gaze, Eperitus saw that in his friend’s hands was the clay owl Athena had given him.

The prince turned it about in his fingers, blandly studying each detail of the seal, but as he considered what to do with it Eperitus already knew what was in his mind.

‘No,’ he said, though no sound came from his mouth. ‘The seal is your only hope for winning back Ithaca. Without Athena’s help you’ll never defeat Eupeithes. Odysseus!’

But there was not a breath in his ethereal body to give shape to the words. Instead, the only sound was the snap of the seal as his friend broke it between his fingers. The two halves melted away into fine dust and were gone for ever.

Odysseus wiped his hands on his cloak and looked up. After a few moments he glanced over his shoulder, directly through Eperitus’s ghost to the doorway, and then into each corner of the temple. Eperitus followed his gaze, but the goddess did not appear. Nevertheless, Hermes’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Odysseus.

The Ithacan dug his fingers into the loose soil of the temple floor where the dust of the tablet had spilled, trying to recover any fragment that might remain from the clay owl. There was nothing.

‘Athena! Goddess, come to me.’

‘What do you want, Odysseus?’ said an invisible voice.

The prince squinted against the darkness of the temple but saw nothing. Then he noticed that a faint light outlined the crudely shaped effigy of the goddess. Its features were no different, but as he looked he could see a glimmer from its black eyes. Immediately he bowed his head and whispered her name.

‘Why have you called me?’ she said. ‘I can’t see any enemies – at least not living ones – and you haven’t even reached Ithaca yet! Weren’t you going to call me when you returned home?’

Odysseus lifted his head and looked directly at the clay figure.

‘That was my intention, Mistress, but circumstances have changed. I have wits and courage enough to defeat my enemies on Ithaca, and yet there’s one thing that’s beyond any mortal. Only a god can give a man back his life.’

He gathered up Eperitus’s corpse into his muscular arms and held it towards the statuette. Eperitus watched with a deep sense of pity in his heart: even Athena would not restore life to a dead mortal, and so Odysseus had thrown away his last hope of saving Ithaca. He heard Athena’s voice admonishing Odysseus, telling him that what he asked was an insult to the gods, a request no man had any right to make of an immortal.

But, she added, she was compelled to honour her word.

Eperitus turned to Hermes, ready to be taken under his black cloak, but the god now stood at the threshold of the temple. His cloak was open and in the dark shadows of its folds was the quaking ghost of Damastor. His mouth was open in a soundless groan and his insubstantial arms were stretched out towards him, imploring his help. But there was nothing Eperitus could do, even if he wanted to, and a moment later Hermes had taken him on his final journey. He heard again the sound of rushing air outside, this time receding and accompanied by a low, despairing wail.