The Eighth Arrow

By J. Augustine Wetta

Condemned to burn in the eighth circle of Dante's Hell, Odysseus, legendary thief and liar of Homer's Odyssey and Iliad, decides he is going to break out. His adventure begins with a prayer to Athena Parthenos, who appears to him bearing gifts: his armor, his famous bow, a mysterious leather pouch, and seven unusual arrows. She then sends him on a quest through the Underworld along with Diomedes, his friend from the Trojan War who had been sharing in his eternal punishment. To complete their escape, the goddess warns them, they must recover their squandered honor and learn to use "the eighth arrow".

At turns exciting, humorous, and edifying, this action-packed epic follows Odysseus and Diomedes as they journey through all the circles of Dante's Hell, where they encounter various characters from Greek mythology, ancient history, and Renaissance literature, including Helen of Troy, Cerberus, Penelope, Homer, Harpies, Centaurs, and eventually Satan himself.  With witty banter and wily stratagems, the two Greek warriors fight their way through the obstacles that stand between them and redemption.

The Eighth Arrow is a thoroughly entertaining jailbreak story. Full of allusions to great works of old, it is also gently educational, and as such it can be read as a guide or a companion to Dante's Inferno and the works of Homer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ignatius Press
• Release date: Oct 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642290530

J. Augustine Wetta

J Augustine Wetta, O.S.B., is a monk of Saint Louis Abbey.  He serves as the Director of Chaplaincy at the Saint Louis Priory School, where he teaches English and Theology, and coaches rugby.  During his spare time, Father Augustine supervises the juggling team, cultivates carnivorous plants, raises carpenter ants, and surfs.

Book preview

THE EIGHTH ARROW

frontispiece: A Map of Hell Drafted by the Centaur Chiron

J. AUGUSTINE WETTA, O.S.B.

THE EIGHTH ARROW

Odysseus in the Underworld

A NOVEL

IGNATIUS PRESS    SAN FRANCISCO

Cover art and design by John Herreid

Frontispiece: Map of Hell © 2018 by Victor Masetti

© 2018 by Ignatius Press, San Francisco

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-62164-220-6 (PB)

ISBN 978-1-64229-053-0 (EB)

Library of Congress Control Number 2018931260

Printed in the United States of America

To Philip and Jude Pullman

in gratitude for a cup of cold water—and a dandelion cordial

Contents

A Disclaimer

Book I: Realm of the Wolf

1. Out of the Depths

2. Five Sacred Laws

3. Our First Battle

4. Our Guide to the Underworld

5. One Disappointment after Another

6. Charon

7. The First Arrow

8. The Fortress

9. A Long Walk

10. Revelation

11. The Second Arrow

12. Disappointment

13. Storm

14. Helen of Troy

15. The Third Arrow

16. A Parting of Ways

17. Edge of the Abyss

18. Demons of a Different Sort

19. A Light in the Darkness

20. A Race

21. A Rude Awakening

22. Scars

23. The Fourth Arrow

24. Ignatius

Book II: Realm of the Lion

1. Memories, Dreams, Regrets

2. Gates of Fire

3. An Old Acquaintance

4. The Sons of Centauros

5. A Map of Hades

6. An Attempt at Eloquence

7. The Fifth Arrow

8. Dogs

9. The Son of Telemon

10. Paths Converge

11. Onward

12. Man and Dog

13. A Bargain Struck

Book III: Realm of the Leopard

1. Lower Hell

2. We are pursued

3. The Sixth Arrow

4. Devils with Wings

5. Distractions

6. Two Paths Diverge

7. Thieves

8. Liars

9. A Mountain in the Mist

10. The Seventh Arrow

11. Expecting Someone Taller

12. Lake Cocytus

13. Hades

14. The Tables Turn

15. The Tables Turn Again

16. The Enemy

17. The Battle of Lake Cocytus

18. Last Hope

19. The Aftermath

20. The Eighth Arrow

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Glossary

Notes

More from Ignatius Press

A Disclaimer

ALLOW ME TO set the record straight: I was never in Hell. Never been there—not even for a visit. It’s true that I did terrible things while I was alive. I was a murderer, a thief, an adulterer, and above all, a liar. But God’s grace reaches all people, and His providence embraces all. Though unworthy, I was judged worthy. Pardoned. Justified. Redeemed. Ransomed.

Unaware of this, Dante Alighieri (God love him!) condemned me to his fictional Inferno, and there have I dwelt ever since, writhing in fictional flame for centuries. And I’m not the only one. Poor Pope Celestine V—Saint Celestine!—also languishes in Dante’s Hell, to say nothing of the billions of souls trapped in his fictional Limbo. Sure, it’s only fiction. Fictional suffering. A fictional Odysseus writhes and gnashes his teeth amid fictional flames. Mere fiction. But flames nonetheless. You can see how it might bother me.

It doesn’t. Nothing bothers me now. Nonetheless, you can see how it might. And so you will understand my eagerness to free my fictional self, and all those blameless others condemned by Dante’s clerical error. Getting us out will take some work, but I can have a bit of fun while I’m at it. After all, I too am a teller of tales. If Dante’s imagination can imprison me, surely my own imagination will break me out.

BOOK I

REALM OF THE WOLF

Bring me my bow of burning gold!

Bring me my arrows of desire!

—William Blake, Jerusalem

CHAPTER 1

OUT OF THE DEPTHS

IF YOU’VE EVER passed your finger through a flame, then you know what I’m talking about. There is this awful fascination that compels you to hold your finger in that flame a moment longer. And perhaps a moment longer still. And who does not wonder, when the stakes are high enough, how long he can hold it there before the pain overwhelms him?

Imagine, then, what it would be like to hold your finger over a flame until the fire burned through. That is what I did for three thousand years. Except that it wasn’t merely my hand that burned—it was my whole body and my soul too, surrounded by oceans of emptiness. Can you imagine such suffering? Yet of my own free will, I remained encased in fire. For three thousand years, I burned in the eighth circle of Hell among liars, frauds, and sowers of discord; and if there was comfort for me in that sea of pain, it was this: that my friend Diomedes remained there with me, the two of us imprisoned in a single flame.

I am Odysseus, Sacker of Cities, Son of Laertes, Raider of Troy, Blinder of the Cyclops, Teller of Tales, Man of Many Faces. Sing, heavenly Muse, the last adventure of flame-tossed Odysseus.

Tedium. Tedium. Emptiness and grief. The dull, incessant groan of countless souls. The hiss of flame on flesh. Looking beyond the smoke and fire, I saw only a ragged wall of blackened stone. Looking within myself, I saw only rage and despair. There was no sun to mark the days, no star to measure the nights, but only a sort of visible darkness. One year dissolved into a thousand. Time turned in on itself like a snake eating its tail. A thousand years passed, and two thousand more.

Then a voice: You there—you two, who burn together, speak. Tell us who you are and how you died.

I opened my eyes and squinted through the fire. The owner of the voice was very tall, and he stood with his chin raised, looking down his long nose at us like someone with a secret. A heavy gray cloak hung from his shoulders.

Beside me, Diomedes stirred. I don’t like him. It was the first time he had spoken in a thousand years, and already he was grumbling. Even so, I had to agree. The stranger had a precious, pampered look—the pale skin and the thin, soft hands of a man who spent his time reclining in the shade with a quill and parchment. Worse still, his voice had a faintly Trojan ring—a languid rolling of the tongue between syllables that tainted every word with a sort of gargle. But after three millennia of boredom, anything is a relief.

I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca. And this blistered mess to my left is brave Diomedes, Conqueror of Thebes.

Diomedes growled.

Speak to us, then, Odysseus of Ithaca, said the tall stranger, for I am Publius Vergilius Maro, singer of tales. With me walks the poet Dante of the Alighieri. Cowering behind him, clinging to his robes was a dwarfish, pudgy, hook-nosed man. He reminded me of a parrot, the way he cringed and ducked, snapping his head to and fro.

It was my curiosity that killed me, I answered. Had to see the far ends of the earth. Fell right off the edge and landed here. It was mostly truth, and it seemed to satisfy the visitor, who touched his thumb to his chin, nodded twice, whispered something to his charge, then led him away by the arm.

And that was that. All might have returned to tedium and despair had I not noticed the footprints. The stranger—not the tall one, but the pudgy one named Dante—had left a trail in the soot as he walked. In Hades, where the only things of substance are the walls, a footprint is a sign of life. I looked at those footprints, and something surfaced in my soul—a bright spring of hope, like water from a rock—and lifting my arms to Heaven, I cried out the first prayer that Hell had ever heard: Athena, goddess of the glowing smile, ancient patroness of Greece, bright-eyed virgin whom my people call Parthenos, if ever you have heard my prayers, hear me now. In life, you stood beside me. So now in death, stand by me once more. Rescue me from this prison.

I had no sooner finished my prayer than the flame died away, and calling to me from the very place I had seen the poet stand was a woman, robed in stars. I might have expected her to descend from the heavens on a cloud or burst forth in a flash of light, but no, she was simply there—as though she had been waiting for me all along and I hadn’t noticed. She was impossibly tall, carried the golden aegis, the storm shield of Zeus in her left hand, and wore a shining, silver helmet low upon her head, so that, although I recognized her at once, I couldn’t quite see her face. Timid as fawns at a stream, Diomedes and I crept forward from the fire into her shining presence.

Odysseus. Her voice rang clear as a bell on a cold night. You called. I have come. Each word was a song. Tell me, though, why have you waited so long to invoke my assistance?

That was a question I couldn’t answer. The simple truth is, I have always been a proud and stubborn man. I would no sooner have admitted my powerlessness than lost my shield in battle. And to ask forgiveness, even of a god, was as foreign to me as running from a fight. O moi ego! What a fool I was, no less in death than in life!

And you, Diomedes, she said, turning to my friend, who lay face down beside me, his blond hair spread in the ash like a dirty crown, have you no words of your own?

Diomedes didn’t answer. He didn’t even raise his eyes. He was no coward, but he knew when to hold his tongue.

I’ve never known when to hold my tongue, so I said, Virgin Goddess, forgive us. You know everything already, so you must know that we have always had more courage than wisdom. Release us from this prison, and we will offer you a hundred bulls, pour out rich, honeyed wine at your temple, and dust the fires of your altar with barley.

She looked down at me, the plume of her helm shaking. You used your wit as a weapon, Odysseus. You squandered your talent among brutes like Agamemnon and Achilles. And the worst of it, you son of Laertes, is that you knew better. Therefore it is fitting that you should find yourself in this prison.

Gentle Virgin, I answered, there was an age when you smiled on the men of Achaea. Will you not smile on us once more? I was clever and quick. Diomedes was brave and strong. But look at us now, broken and bowed before you. If we wasted those gifts in life, give us one last chance to serve you with honor. Is there not some deed, some sacrifice, some work of atonement?

The goddess looked away over the sea of fire and nodded. There is perhaps.

Diomedes lifted his head.

I held my breath.

A general is needed, she said, a leader of men who knows the geography of Hell. We need a man who can be gentle as a dove and shrewd as a snake.

That settles it, I said, rising on hands and knees. Here I am. I am a general. Choose me. Choose me! I must have looked rather doglike.

The goddess laughed, her gray eyes glittering from the shadows of her helm. My king has no use for a lying, thieving, adulterous, idolatrous crook such as you.

Those words stung, and all the more because they were true. There wasn’t much in the realm of vice that I hadn’t experienced firsthand. I bowed my head. For the first time in my existence, I was too ashamed to speak.

If you are to be worthy of my service, she continued, casting her eyes from me to Diomedes, you must prove yourselves. Before you can enter the land of the living, you must bear witness to the nine rings of torment and learn the limits of evil. This you must do, my sons, because, as you stand before me now, the geography of Hades is the geography of your souls.

Silence. I knew well—and was learning better by the second—that there is no way to justify oneself before a god. One might as well uproot a mountain or empty the sea with a shell.

The goddess smiled. No clever retort, Odysseus? Now her voice was milk and honey. Very well. Do not lose heart. I would never give you a task you could not complete. I come bearing gifts.

With her right hand, she lifted the corner of her cloak, and there at her feet lay a mound of glittering armor: two shining swords, two sets of well-wrought greaves, two leather corselets studded with bronze, two helmets, two shields, and glowing like gold from the furnace, my polished bow. This lay apart from the rest along with a small leather pouch, a coil of rope, and a quiver of arrows.

Weapons, I gasped. You’ve come to guide us out of Hades.

No, she said, and now her voice was laced with thunder. You lied and swindled your way here. Fight your way out.

But Athena, cried Diomedes, stretching out his hands—man-killing hands, now trembling and streaked with soot—we don’t even know the way!

Truth at last, she said. Stalwart Diomedes, slow to speak and still slower to comprehend. You do not know the way. You do not even know my true name. But now you know your weakness, and that is a good way to begin. With patience and fortitude, you and your companion may yet see the light of Heaven. So here is my counsel to you, Son of Tydeus: prefer your wit to your sword, trust in your armor over your arms, and let mercy triumph over justice. Do this, and you will find your way.

Pointing up the cavern wall, she continued. You will begin at the uppermost ring, where the small-souled chase the wind. There you will see the upper door. But do not dare open it. The weight of the living world would crush you. You will not have the strength until you have descended through all nine rings of Hell and passed through the lower portal. You will not be ready until you have discovered—and used—the eighth arrow. The Authority has willed it. This is to be your purgation and your witness, a fitting and final labor.

Then I cried out, Virgin Goddess, where can we find this Authority? Was it Zeus who consigned us to this prison?

But even as I spoke, she vanished, and her voice, trailing on the hot, hopeless wind, whispered back to me, He of the four-letter name.

CHAPTER 2

FIVE SACRED LAWS

AND THEN she was gone.

Diomedes, never one to waste time, was already examining the armor, testing each piece. The man never looked tired or sick. Even now, bent over double and covered in soot, he had the look of a predator—all taut muscle and agility. In Diomedes, weakness just looked like hidden strength. Odysseus, he called over his shoulder, you should see this. He tossed a helmet at me.

I see it.

That’s my helmet, he said.

An astute observer, as always. I tossed it back at him. Perfect as he was, I always took a certain dull pleasure in making him feel imperfect. Whose armor were you expecting?

He narrowed his green eyes at the helmet, turning it like a bowl of wine. Here’s the place where Hector bashed me with that rock. And here . . . the mark of Aeneas’ sword. But what is this? He lifted his breastplate and pointed to a pair of crimson marks gouged into the center. They were set at right angles like a tau. It’s on yours too.

I walked over and crouched beside him. The symbol had also been inscribed on both our shields. It must stand for something.

Thebes, maybe, said Diomedes. I watched him run his fingertips over the nicks and dents, the ghost of a smile in his eyes. I liked my armor light and flexible, but he preferred armor of the old style—heavy, angular, and plain. The more beat-up it looked, the more he liked it.

I took my own breastplate in my hands, weighing the metal. The buckles clattered. The leather bindings gave off a familiar odor of tallow and beeswax. Long centuries had passed since I’d handled the grim gear of war, and all at once I felt that familiar rush of sweat and fear. I longed to be encased in bronze, to feel once more that thrill of invulnerability like a crab in its shell, to march with locked shields into the no-man’s-land of dirt and blood, to hear the clattering surge of a thousand shields—the scrape of pike on pike. It came over me like the rush of wine, and for a moment I could almost hear the tramp and cry of my brothers-in-arms.

You see, Diomedes and I come from Achaea, and Achaea is a land of warriors. Every waking hour is battle, from the screaming moment of birth to the last rattle of breath in the old man’s throat. From the earliest times, Achaeans have fought one enemy or another, and when there were no enemies to fight, we fought among ourselves. A man who died with both eyes and all his fingers we considered fortunate—though none would call him lucky till he was dead. There were those who considered us savages, who looked upon us with fear and contempt. They called us the Danaans and told their children that we were lawless brigands. Pirates. Men without honor. But they did not know us. We had our own law and our own standard of honor, which we measured in cattle and bronze. For us, there was no good or evil. There were only timē and kleos—honor and fame—and these were embodied in five sacred laws:

Obey the gods.

Honor your parents.

Respect your guests.

Defend your allies.

Kill your enemies.

If we kept these laws, we were men. If we surpassed them, we were heroes.

For the Achaean, therefore, life was ceaseless battle, and the one prize above all others—the only prize worth the fight—was the armor. To lose one’s armor was to lose face in the most fundamental sense, because armor was the physical manifestation of the warrior code—the source of the hero’s identity. To seize another man’s shield was to strip him of that dignity, and to drop one’s own in battle was the ultimate disgrace. I’d watched men throw themselves on their swords for the shame of it. As I left for war, my beloved Penelope would tell me, Come back with your shield, or come back on it.

When I was in my eleventh year, long before I had won the right to armor of my own, I had the audacity to don another man’s helmet. It was the eve of a great battle, and my father had brought together warlords from across Ithaca, Taphos, Zacynthus, and Las. I was young, not yet with a beard on my chin, but my father wanted me to see war and had apprenticed me to one of his armor bearers. He wanted me to know these men before they died, so he invited me into the great hall of our palace, where they sat feasting in a circle around a blazing fire.

The air was rich with smoke and song, the mood jubilant and dark. At the far end of the hall was a cedar throne sheathed in silver; and upon that throne, in a scarlet cloak sat my father, the king among kings, Laertes. He was deep in conversation with a fawning graybeard, and as he spoke, he opened his left hand. Instantly, a servant girl appeared with a cup of wine. He drained the cup, never taking his eyes from the old man, then held the cup out again, and the servant reappeared with a jug.

I looked around the room. The other lords filled their own cups. This made me smile, for just yesterday, I had been planting trees with my father. I’d seen that hand—that hand that held the golden cup—packing dirt around a sapling. I looked at my own small, soft hands. The same dirt was under my nails. My heart stretched a little, and I thought, Someday I will sit on that throne.

But my father didn’t seem to notice me as I wandered the hall, and the men talked past me as though I were of no more consequence than a slave. I knew better than to speak in their presence, so I withdrew to the shadows, catching splinters of conversation.

. . . but the spear went in between his eyes, broke his teeth, and cut off his tongue at the root . . .

. . . dog-face. Looked him right in the eye and called him dog-face . . .

. . . why, then you’ll know for sure which are your captains and which are common cowards. They each fight according to their class . . .

The men feasted long into the night, passing around great jars of unmixed wine. I was only a boy. I grew restless and wandered into the vestibule, where suits of armor lay glimmering in the cold candlelight. I had never seen so much bronze in one place: broad shields painted with griffins and crows; long pikes and short, sharp swords wrapped in waxed leather; sparkling corselets and greaves. But most striking of all were the great plumed helmets. Their hollow eyes followed me as I circled the room, brushing my fingertips across the cool metal and thinking, Men have killed for these suits—died in them and given death to others, each piece earned in blood.

Completing the circle, I found myself face-to-face with a magnificent helm, inlaid with blue enamel and crowned with a jet-black horsehair crest. I cast a furtive glance over my shoulder, then picked it up in my hands. (O Zeo, it was heavy!) I heaved it over my head and closed my eyes. Was this how it felt to arm for battle? When I turned my head, the horsehair whipped my shoulders, and I caught sight of my reflection in a bronze shield that leaned against the wall. Could that be me? I wondered. I leaned closer. The man in the shield was impossibly tall. He was ferocious, serene, strong, inscrutable. He regarded me with contempt, and I realized with a shudder of joy that this was my vocation, my future that I was seeing in the surface of the shield. I was the son of a king—a king to be. If the men in the hall could see me now, they’d know it.

I hardly considered what I was doing. I pushed out of the antechamber and into the glow of the banquet. And slowly the room went silent. One by one, the men turned to look at me. I folded my arms. I could feel the noble weight of the bronze pass down my neck, through my spine, and into the stones beneath me. In my mind, a silver-tongued herald proclaimed, Behold the man. Behold your future king. But the voice went a little hoarse as I contemplated the faces before me. Most had turned their attention to Eupeithes, who sat with his back to me, hunched over a leg of mutton. By now, the hiss of the fire and his grunting were the only sounds in the room.

The old man lifted his head and belched, then looked over his shoulder. Eupeithes was old then, and older still when I sailed to Troy. He had a scar that ran straight down the center of his face. The young folk called him Amphiprosopos—double face—and his advice was widely sought, for it was said that, in consolation for the wound, the gods had blessed him with two perspectives on everything. I was reminded of this as I watched his features slowly shift. His left eye grew wide with rage and his right narrow with hatred.

Eupeithes belched again, spit a great glob of meat on the floor, and drained his cup. Then he reached over and pulled the helmet from my head. Boy, he said, leaning over so that his fuming breath moistened my face, you may use my daughters. You may use my slaves. But if you ever again use my armor, I will run you through like a goat on a spit. Then he struck me hard on the cheek.

He grinned at the others with the right side of his face, and there was some quiet laughter around the hall. I felt tears rising, and a weight of shame settled into my gut. My hands began to shake. I was the son of a king. Could he talk to me like this? I looked to my father, but his face was a frozen mask. My eyes sunk to the floor. I felt as though my honor were seeping out through the soles of my feet. I could not fight this man. I would not run from him. What recourse had I, a boy, in the face of such cruel strength?

And then it came to me, like light through a cloud. I lifted my chin, and raising my voice, I cried out, Hear me, Son of Anthuos. I dreamt a dream last night, and in that dream, Athena Parthenos, goddess of the glowing smile, appeared to me. She told me that you shall die a wretched death, bereft of honor. You shall depart this life surrounded by foes, your wife a sonless widow, and your kingdom delivered into the hands of a greater man.

I looked around the room again, and every mouth was a mute O.

Eupeithes, Son of Anthuos, I cried. Hear me well. The warrior that shall send your soul wailing to the House of Death stands before you now.

The old man’s half grin melted away, and this time when he hit me, the strength of the blow sent me to the floor. Forcing a laugh, he shouted to my father, That son of yours speaks prettily, but teach him to tame his tongue, or I shall remove it by force.

There was more nervous laughter from the guests as I picked myself up and walked from the room, resisting the urge to touch the welt on my cheek. I was shaken and furious, but I walked with newfound dignity, for in that silent moment between my words and the crack of his fist on my brow, I saw a thing that brought me joy: the old man’s eyes held rage and scorn, but they held another sentiment that was new to them—fear. This great warrior, for all his power and wealth, was frightened by a child. My prophecy was a lie. But it was a mighty lie—a lie to make kings tremble.

The next morning, Father did not come for me. He left for the battle, fought it, and returned with slaves and gold; but he never mentioned that night, and I never asked him what it meant because I knew he would not answer. That night, I had discovered my birthright—a legacy of my grandfather, the great thief of Achaea. I had discovered the art of the lie.

Later, I went into our garden and tore up the sapling I’d planted with my father. I burned it to ash and threw its ashes in the hole where the roots had been. Then I swore my vengeance, casting my curse into the dirt so that the worms would carry it to Hades. I swore vengeance on Eupeithes. I swore vengeance on all those kings and their sons. I would never trust them. Never again would I stand vulnerable before friend or foe. Thenceforth I was Scheming Odysseus. Wily Odysseus. Lying Odysseus. The Man of Many Faces. I was above their law.

Wily Odysseus, I said aloud as I took the shining armor in my hands, set the breastplate across my chest, then hung the sword and scabbard on my hip. I was reaching for my helmet when Diomedes kicked me. He was already fully suited—a tower of bronze. His eyes flashed from the dark hollows of his helm. Look where we are.

What’s the rush? We haven’t gone anywhere in—Oh! I dropped my helmet and stood up. The flames of our prison had vanished. As the smoke cleared, it revealed a vast, empty plain—desolate, dismal, and hopelessly, endlessly gray. A soaring wall of stone towered on our right. An iron door was set in its face about a stone’s throw away. "Aiki! How did we get here?"

I don’t know, he answered. I was busy with my armor.

So was I, and that’s a poor start.

Where are we?

The goddess said she’d start us off next to a door in the first ring of Hades, right? Well, then, let’s see . . . there are nine levels in the Underworld, we know that much. You and I were near the bottom ring among the liars, so now we must be at the top with the cowards.

Diomedes surveyed the landscape. I don’t see anyone at all.

Miles of fine, gray sand stretched off into the distance, punctuated only by piles of cinder and charred stone. It didn’t look much like a ring, but this was surely the door. I had a closer look. No handle, no hinges; it was smooth as a polished shield and tightly shut, but a soft blue light emanated from beneath. I bent down and peeked under the door. Surely that was grass. How long had it been since I’d walked on grass? A breath of night air touched my cheek. I smelled something cool and metallic like rain. I looked over my shoulder at the bleak landscape, then turned to the door and gave it a shove.

Athena said we shouldn’t open it. Diomedes looked over his shoulder, waiting for an angry god to appear. He knew from experience not to trust my whims. At Troy, a saying had circulated among the Achaean troops: Wily Odysseus gets us in trouble; brave Diomedes fights us out.

To the crows with Athena! I snapped, straining at the door. Suddenly all I could think of was grass and trees and cool night air. That wasn’t Athena anyway. She admitted as much. And even if that were Athena, I can’t say she has done so well by us over the past several thousand years.

Diomedes pressed his thumb to his lips and stared at the ground. She’s a god. She makes the rules.

By now I had wedged my sword between the door and its frame, and although it hadn’t moved a hair’s breadth, my sword was well and truly stuck. I growled and kicked it. You do what you like, Diomedes. I think our odds are better on the outside than in here.

But Athena—

Athena isn’t more trustworthy than any of the other gods; and after three thousand years of ceaseless torment, yes, I have misgivings about all of them.

Diomedes looked at the door and chewed his thumb. It wasn’t so much what I was suggesting that bothered him as it was the impiety of suggesting it. The Greeks are a devout race, and our mythology is largely built on stories of what happens to folk when they ignore the deities.

We’re a game to the gods, I continued, nothing more. Otherwise, why would they make things so difficult for us?

Diomedes withdrew his thumb from his mouth and replaced it with his helmet strap. He ground the strap between his teeth, frowning.

Think about it. We must have been fairly close to that lower door she mentioned. So why bring us all the way up here to the entrance if we were so close to the exit already?

For our own good?

Right. Right. That’s exactly what my grandfather said whenever he beat me.

And wasn’t it?

I might have thought so if he hadn’t taken such obvious pleasure in the beatings.

Diomedes closed his eyes and shook his head.

Look, if it will make you feel better, why don’t we offer a quick prayer of gratitude: Dearest Virgin Goddess, we thank you for getting us out of that fire. You might have showed up a few thousand years sooner, but who’s complaining? I went back to work on the door.

Diomedes was silent a while longer while I strained at my sword. Then he drew a deep breath. On the rare occasions when he contradicted me, it always began with a deep breath. Odysseus, he said, I followed you around the world and back. In all that time, I never doubted your judgment.

I nodded.

Look where it got us.

He had a point. But if the Parthenos was right about the travails ahead, I was in no rush to begin. I might have felt differently had I known what was coming.

CHAPTER 3

OUR FIRST BATTLE

WE STOOD for a long time, facing one another in silence, our hearts torn between pride and fear. Diomedes was a leader of men, but not clever. Not like me. When I got an idea, he followed. And yet our history together had not been entirely edifying. Together, we had breached the gates of Troy in my wooden horse; we had captured Dolon, the infamous spy; we had beguiled the great beauty Iphigenia; and we had stolen the Palladium from under the noses of its temple priests. We had

Reviews for The Eighth Arrow

[judithrs · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Eighth Arrow: Odysseus in the Underworld. J.Augustine Wetta, O. S. B. 2018. What a clever story! Odysseus decides to break out of hell, and asks the goddess Athena Parthenos for help. She sends him on a journey through Dante’s hell! For readers unfamiliar with The Illiad, The Odyssey, and The Divine Comedy, Wetta includes a map of Dante’s hell, and a helpful glossary of names and ample notes. Wetta certainly knows Homer and Dante’s inferno. The book is interesting and witty, and at times it seems as though Wetta is a little too witty and clever. It is almost as though he is showing out. It might have been better had it been a graphic novel! And in that format it would appeal to teens who like fantasy and it might encourage them to dip into Homer and Dante. I prefer his other book, Humility Rules: Saint Benedict’s Twelve Step Guide to Genuine Self-Esteem.