The Eighth Arrow by J. Augustine Wetta

Author:J. Augustine Wetta [Wetta O.S.B, J. Augustine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Spirituality & Religion
ISBN: 978-1-64229-053-0
Publisher: Ignatius Press
Published: 2018-09-06T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 3

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

I LOOKED BACK to see where the voice was coming from. I heard Diomedes’ sword slide from its sheath.

“Odysseus!” Not only was it my name, but the voice itself was familiar. “Odysseus, Lord of Ithaca! Come back! I command you!”

Then I recognized it. Looking to my right through a forest of flame, I beheld Agamemnon, Son of Atreus, Lord of the Argives. He stood about a stone’s throw away. The old warlord. The last I’d seen of him was on the beaches of Troy. He had a ship full of slaves and gold under his feet, and in spite of myself—for I never much liked the man—I thought he had never looked so majestic. “Say what you like,” I’d whispered to Diomedes, who had come down with me to see him off. “He is a bully and a lout and the sort of man who would steal his best friend’s woman . . . but that fellow knows how to carry himself like a king.” Even at the age of sixty, he cut a powerful figure: his tan face scarred and coarse from battle, his broad, broken nose and white beard falling across his chest in braids woven with gold . . . the man had a way of holding his head that made you want to bow.

But that was not the man who cringed before us now, writhing in flame. He was still wearing his armor and crown but was blackened from head to toe; his hair hung in knotted mats, and his body shook with pain. Even so, he did his best to stand upright, and when another head poked up out of the tomb, he knocked it back down with his fist.

“Odysseus! Lord of Ithaca! Rescue me, I command you.”

If his imperiousness hadn’t been so pathetic, I might have laughed. The old goat was in no position to give orders, but he just couldn’t help himself. “Diomedes! Is that you? Good man. Get me out of here. Now.”

Diomedes looked over at me with half his face screwed into a frown. “I didn’t even like him when he was alive.”

“Diomedes!” he shouted again. “Odysseus! Help me out of here . . . please.”

It was a word we had never heard from King Agamemnon in all our years fighting under him, and it astonished me.

“We should at least try.”

“How do we even know it’s him?” said Diomedes. Poor man. If the episode with Proteus had taught him anything, it was skepticism.

“Just look at him.”

He looked. “Yeah. We should try.”

And we did try over and over, but the heat would not allow us any closer, and there were several rows of tombs between us. At last, sweating and gasping in the path, Diomedes and I gave up.

“Lord Agamemnon, we have failed you,” I shouted. “We can’t even get close enough to throw the rope, and I fear it would burn if we did.”

“That’s all right, boys,” he called back, and with every breath, his voice grew weaker. “You’ve done your best.

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