Exclusive Preview of ‘The Road to Ithaca’

Here is an exclusive preview of my upcoming novel ‘The Road to Ithaca: an Odyssey’, reimagining Homer’s classic ‘The Odyssey’!

In the wake of the Trojan War, Odysseus, the cunning hero of Ithaca, embarks on a perilous journey home. Tested by treacherous seas and divine wrath, he is haunted not only by the Gods but by a dark secret he has carried from the battlefield. Framed as a letter to the goddess Calypso upon his departure, this retelling of Homer’s epic reveals Odysseus’s hidden guilt and the true nature of his heroism.

In a tale where the line between glory and infamy blurs, Odysseus must grapple with his own demons and the harsh reality of his choices, all while the Gods’ whims shape his fate.

The Road to Ithaca: an Odyssey breathes new life into the classic saga, exploring themes of legacy, betrayal, and the complex nature of heroism. Dive into this gripping reimagining of a timeless epic and witness the journey of on man, desperate to reach home.

Note* - This novel is still being edited, what you see here may or may not be different in the finished book.

The Road to Ithaca: an Odyssey:

Oh, Achilles. 

What can be said of Achilles, from those of us that knew him? 

You take a child of prophecy and you tell him he’s special. 

You tell him he’s the greatest child in the world, the most skilled fighter that’s ever lived, a hero destined for greatness. You tie his self-worth, his entire identity, to his amazing skill and blinding speed, you tell him he’s only special because of his goddess mother and his king father. 

Now you give him a choice. 

You tell him he can go to Troy, die to maintain his glory. Or he can live an ordinary life, find a home and a family, but lose his spark. 

What the hell do you think he’s going to choose?

He died not once, but twice, I think. 

Poor bastard. 

He died first when Patroclus was killed by Hector. That was his true death. After that it was only his body that remained, driven by instinct, fuelled by fury. 

I doubt he’d count me as one of his friends, at the end. I doubt I’d count him as one of mine, speaking truthfully. He was just one of my charges, another problem for me to balance, another factor for me to consider in my plans, and mould as needed. 

I find myself thinking this way of most Greeks that went to Troy. 

I did admire him, though. I admired his skill, his effortless grace, to be sure. But most of all, I think, I admired his love. He loved, and was loved in return, so fiercely. 

But, now, you give to me the same choice that was thrust upon Achilles?

I choose to live an ordinary life, every time. My love doesn’t burn like a raging fire, it grows slow and firm, like a great oak. 

My Penelope is not my Patroclus, she is not a half of my soul, she is instead my roots. 

My love, while perhaps less glorious, is far less volatile. 

And then there’s my boy… 

Maybe it was so easy for Achilles to abandon a regular life because he never held his infant son in his hands.

Sure, there was Neoptolemus, but Achilles never even met the child. He was slaying helpless Trojans months before the boy was even born.

After the death of Achilles it all went downhill. 

That’s not to say that things were going uphill before his death, but the fall of Patroclus (and soon after, Achilles) served as a vital turning point in the course of the war. 

He was, by far, my greatest challenge at Troy. It was a great challenge both to have, and to lose, Achilles. How do you win the war without him, the greatest warrior who ever lived?

It’s simple, when you think about it. When you can’t fight them, you don’t. 

You trick and scheme, you deceive. 

The horse, if I do say so myself, was some of my best work. 

A stroke of genius, worthy of Pallas Athena herself!

But then, inevitably, we had to climb out. Slinking from it’s belly in the night, a band of Greeks within the walls of Troy for the first time in ten years of warfare. 

You know what the strange thing is? I barely remember the sacking of Troy. I remember fire and blood and screaming, but I don’t really remember what happened. Who killed who, which kings were there and which remained with the ships, these details escape me. 

The one thing I remember, crystal clear; Neoptolemus throwing a wailing baby from the top of a wall, a wicked smile on his smug little face. 

Poor little Astyanax. Perhaps it was a mercy, sparing him the pain of this wretched life.

All this is to say, however, that it’s not been easy for me, the last two-odd decades. I’ve fought and won the greatest war in the history of the world, I’ve bested cyclopes, threatened goddesses, killed more men than I’d like to remember, and survived countless perils. 

My name is Odysseus, Laertides, King of Ithaca, Aristos Achaion, husband to Penelope, and father to Telemachus. 

This is my tale.