Strength

The Pain of a Commander

            Cyrillus cursed quietly to himself, shivering in the growing chill of the night. He looked over the men, crossing his arms and frowning, confusion and rage written across his face. For me. What did that even mean? His relationship with Odysseus was rocky, filled with strange comments like this one. For me. When they were accomplices in their earlier years, tricking the elderly in the village, Odysseus had often said that. For me. Cyrillus always shivered at the words, as they seemed to hold something in them, a promise, or a threat. What could Odysseus mean?

“LAND HO!” The yell broke the still of the dusk.

Cyrillus scowled, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He resumed his militant9 manner, straightening up and puffing out his chest. He glanced quickly at Odysseus before bellowing, “IN OARS!” The oars clattered against the wood, and the men exhaled loudly, their breath showing in the cool air. Thespus looked up. His mind had been clear of any thought except rowing for the past hour, and the cool breeze and sweat running down his bare back facilitated10 a mighty chill. He shuddered. The shore of the island was clear, white sand, and it reflected the full moon brilliantly. The stagnant11 water showed the men’s tired faces staring back at them in almost perfect detail. Standing, the crew grabbed their gear and sloshed to land, towing the great warship with them. After grounding it and setting up a slapdash12 camp, they lay upon the sand, coals smoldering in their fire pits.

“Men.” Odysseus’s deep, clear voice echoed throughout the small camp. The men straightened up, listening intently. “Your servitude13 to me and your country has been irrefutable. When we return-” The men grumbled impatiently. “Yes, when, you shall be rewarded most regally. But my men, my brothers, we have farther to go. Do not lose courage, for I have been contacted by the gods.” Here the men broke into an uproar; their faces alive with hope and wonder. Odysseus held up his hands for silence. “Yes, a paramount14 occasion, I know. I did not tell you earlier, for the gods bring grave news.” The men began to mutter once more, and again Odysseus silenced them. “Do not fear!” he said, raising his arms, “For they have provided us with a catalyst15 for our journey.” The silence in the camp was almost palpable. The men leaned forward inadvertently, quaking with anticipation.

            “I must go to the Underworld.”

            There was a collective shout so loud it is told to have been heard around the globe. Odysseus flinched, gazing forlornly at his men.

“Take me instead!”

            “Sir, you cannot!”

                        “Please, sire, you mustn’t go! At least let us come along!”

            But Odysseus didn’t hear, nor care for any of their pleas. His eyes were only for Thespus and Cyrillus. Thespus’ eyes brimmed with tears, horror written across his features. He was speechless, staring at the man who was like his father, the man who had just condemned himself to death. And Cyrillus, his face was alight with rage and agony. His jaw twitched as he looked at Odysseus, his friend, his brother. The three men stared at each other for minutes, each lost in his own thoughts, but each connected through pain. Finally, Odysseus looked away, and held up a single hand for quiet. It came immediately. “Please. I have made my decision.” He turned and strode down the beach, hands behind his back, his bent face wet with tears. The other men sat, speechless. Thespus started to scramble to his feet, but was held back by two strong arms. Cyrillus. A mutual understanding came into each man’s eyes as they collapsed back on the beach. Thespus laid his head against Cyrillus’ shoulder, and let the tears flow freely. They hit the sand gently and a quiet moan escaped Cyrillus’ lips before he took a breath and steeled himself. He had to be strong. For Thespus, and for the other men.

For me.

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