With that, they were led to rooms normally reserved for traders.
“This is an outrage,” Peisistratus said, his face flushed.
Telemachus blinked. What had he missed?
“Never have I been treated like a mere trader! I should…we should be staying in the section reserved for royals.” He paced the corridor, feet pounding hard on the stone floor. “Perhaps the steward didn’t understand that I was with you. The House of Nestor is always respected in these halls. I will speak to him and fix this.”
Peisistratus did not return until it was time to bathe before joining the king in the main hall. He barely looked at Telemachus and he didn’t say a word about switching to the more respected quarters—all of which filled Telemachus’s belly with dread. Especially since his new friend was refusing to look him in the eye, almost as if he were blaming Telemachus for the insult.
At the king’s great hall, he pair were ushered into a large, glittering room, crowded with richly adorned men, some of whom Peisistratus knew. He left Telemachus’s side to greet each man warmly. Fortunately, when it was time to be seated, Nestor’s son took the chair beside him and he was so relieved Peisistratus hadn’t abandoned him to sit elsewhere, he did not ask why he hadn’t introduced him to the other nobles.
Menelaus, kingly in his thick robes and golden crown, welcomed them all with a nod. The old king’s hair was nearly white, though strands of copper still caught the torchlight. As servants laid platters of loin, roasted fowl, soft cheeses and warm bread before them, the old king bid them to eat and drink.
As everyone fell to, Telemachus had to nearly force himself not to gawp at his surroundings. Leaning over to Peisistratus, he said, “My friend, I have never seen anything of the like! The sheen of bronze, the blaze of gold and amber, silver and ivory—this place rivals Zeus’s own hall!”
Unfortunately, the room had quieted at just that moment and the High King overheard him. Telemachus flushed hot as his friend smirked and Menelaus and his chancellors turned to him.
“No man alive could rival Zeus, dear boys,” the great king said, “though I have amassed many riches. But believe me, I suffered much for every glimmer that you see shining here.”
“Tell us your stories, O great king,” someone from the court called and Menelaus spoke at length about his long wanderings after Troy and of the many deals he made to strengthen and enrich all the Achaean kings. Murmurs of approval and thanks rolled up and down the long tables.
Menelaus continued with story after story of his adventures. Peisistratus leaned over to Telemachus—while the hall filled with laughter at some well-worn joke made by the king—and said, “He feels compelled to retell these tales, even though it has been years since he has returned. We will just have to bear it. It’s a small price to pay to sit in this high-vaulted hall.”
Telemachus agreed but wondered why the man’s bard did not do the singing for him. After some time, Telemachus’s ears pricked up when he heard his father’s name.
“No one, no Achaean labored harder than Odysseus to achieve victory in Troy,” the old king said with a side-glance toward Telemachus, which he took to mean the king knew that the son of Odysseus was at his table. “And yet some say his story has not ended.”
“Oh, it ended all right,” a man yelled drunkenly. “It ended with him face-first between the legs of a foreign whore!” Everyone laughed. Some men slapped the table.
Telemachus’s ears burned. He took a huge swallow of wine to hide his embarrassment. But of course others had heard the rumors, he told himself. It didn’t mean the rumors were true.
And yet one or two of the men spoke so confidently about how “the great oath-breaker Odysseus is hiding away in shame with a woman on an empty isle after losing all his men and all his Trojan gold.” It began to make Telemachus uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, grateful then, that Peisistratus had not introduced him as the son of Odysseus.
But Menelaus knew who Telemachus was—that was clear given the side-look the king had given him. And, it seemed, Menelaus was subtly letting the son of Odysseus know what his court thought of his father. A warning?
Peisistratus must have felt sorry for him. He bawled a little drunkenly into the fray: “Yes, but we must not forget that the great trickster found a way to get the best of the Achaeans inside the walls of Troy!”
“Hear, hear!” called out some of the men. “To the great trickster who tricked himself out of a fortune!” yelled out one man, reigniting the hall with laughter.
Telemachus’s wine grew less and less watered as the night wore on. Dionysus’s brew, it turned out, was supremely effective in taking the edge off the shame he felt over his father’s mistakes.
In the morning, Peisistratus kicked him awake. “We’ve been granted an audience with the king,” he said. “Get up and make yourself presentable.”
He did his best, but he knew he probably still looked drunk. To his surprise, Helen, the queen, was seated beside the king in a small chamber adjoining the main hall. Telemachus studied the mysterious queen. Her epic beauty was still undeniable, even at her age. Despite the small lines around her eyes, they shone like lapis lazuli, and despite the occasional white thread, her hair still gleamed like spun gold.
The queen’s lush mouth quirked on one side and Telemachus realized he’d been caught out, gawping. Flushing, he turned his attention to his surroundings, a surprisingly dark room, sparsely furnished and heavy with the cloying scent of a strange, foreign perfume.
“Welcome, princely son of Nestor,” Menelaus boomed at the sight of Peisistratus. The two embarked on a friendly conversation about his father’s health and many sons. It took a moment for Telemachus to realize no one was going to introduce him.
It was unclear why Peisistratus would forget to do so; clearing his throat, he did it himself.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, cousin,” Telemachus said to the still beautiful queen, who somehow looked many decades younger than the now bloated Menelaus. “Your cousin, my mother, Penelope, sends her greetings and well wishes.”
Helen smiled at the mention of his mother. “Dear Penelope. I haven’t thought about her in ages!”
Telemachus turned to Menelaus, “It is a pleasure to finally meet my cousin-by-marriage as well,” he said to the king, bowing slightly.
Menelaus gave a slight nod. “We are grateful for the reminder of our blood relations, Telemachus, son of Odysseus.”
The king smiled at Helen and she smiled back but there was a curious deadness in both pairs of eyes, as if they were putting on a performance of marriage. What magical hold did the queen have on the old king, Telemachus wondered. Despite her beauty, by all rights, he should’ve killed Helen on the steps of Troy for the dishonor she’d brought upon his house. Wasn’t Menelaus shamed by the way she had continued to dishonor him?
After King Nestor’s dodges, Telemachus learned the best approach was to be bold and straight. “I have come to ask for assistance for my claim to patrimony and, at the same time, to honor the man whose stratagem brought you such great wealth,” he said.
“Well said, young man,” Helen noted. “You do indeed sound like your father.”
“What kind of assistance are you requesting?” asked the king.
“I need a force of arms to rout my hall which is overrun by suitors seeking my mother’s hand and my father’s throne.”
Helen and the king exchanged a look.
“It seems to me that my cousin has the situation well in hand,” the queen said. “She has done well by the people of Ithaca, despite the loss of promised Trojan wealth.”
“Despite the loss of her husband, which is more important,” Telemachus corrected.
Helen arched one perfect brow at his tone.
“My patrimony must be defended,” he continued, looking at Menelaus. “To honor a champion of Achaea, I request a small force of arms. I do not need a large number of trained warriors because the men abusing my home are soft and wine-sodden and—”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Menelaus interrupted.
Telemachus blinked. “What? Why?”
“Because I have it on good authority that your father is headed to your shores as we speak.”
The room shifted sideways for a moment and Telemachus put a steadying hand on the table. “Wha-what?”
“Surely you knew he was living on the far isle of Ogygia all these years?”
“I’d heard rumors, yes, but—”
“They were not rumors. Perhaps someone was trying to protect you from the truth of his abandonment. Either way, it is unclear why he has decided that now is the time to return, but knowing that, I cannot send a force of arms unless he personally requests it, as he is the rightful king. The potential for misunderstanding is too great. What if my actions were misinterpreted and it looked like I was arming you to remove your own father from the throne?”
Telemachus knew he looked like an idiot with his mouth hanging open, but he could not make sense of what he was hearing. He looked from the king to Helen, to Peisistratus. “I would never…” How could he even suggest that he would do anything but welcome his father?
“One must never assume,” the king said. “You are, after all, the son of Odysseus. You could be trying to trick or mislead us in some way.”
Again, Telemachus could only stare, stunned. After a moment he said with as much conviction as he could muster, “If my father does make it home, I will fight beside him to clean out our house in his name and on his behalf! You must know that! But we cannot do it without a force of arms.”
“I would like to think that a son would fight for his father but I no longer take anything for granted,” the king said mildly. “There are other concerns as well. I cannot risk that other Achaean kings might interpret my involvement in Ithaca’s kingship as proof that Sparta is willing and able to invade allies. So, you see why I must decline to send you men-at-arms.”
Telemachus stood, his bench sliding on the stone floor with a sharp crack. “So you won’t help the family of the man responsible for everything you have here—including your wife, in case you’ve forgotten—to strengthen his house? You owe my father! You owe me!”
Menelaus’s expression did not change. Helen, however, leaned forward. “If your mother really wanted all these men out of her hall, she would’ve ordered them out. Do you not see that?”
“What in Hades are you saying?” Telemachus nearly shouted.
Menelaus scowled at his tone and Telemachus quickly gained control of his voice. “I mean, great queen, that I do not understand your point.”
“Most of the young men in your hall—outside of the interlopers who joined late—are guest-hostages of your mother. A brilliant tactic, I must admit, by the way, that ensured her people did not rebel against your House during the years of want. Penelope always was a sharp one.
“You see, if she were to suddenly banish these young men, or you were to return with an army to rout them, their families may take the attack upon a second generation of Ithaca’s men as an unforgiveable blood-insult.”
Telemachus swallowed. He hadn’t thought of that.
“Here’s some advice, young man,” Menelaus said. “Make alliances and raise the men you need from your own people. You will never win loyalty by bringing in outside forces who fight for coin.”
“The son of Odysseus has never been in battle,” Peisistratus blurted. “Nor killed a man.”
Menelaus’s copper-colored eyebrows rose nearly to his thinning hairline.
Telemachus’s face grew hot. “What should that matter? Every man has to start somewhere.”
“But not from nothing, dear boy,” said Menelaus, who exchanged a meaningful look with the son of King Nestor. “Did Laertes never show you…”
He shook his head.
“The fates have not treated you kindly. However, you must do what all men do, nevertheless. Prove yourself first as a warrior. Once you’ve demonstrated your worthiness, we will reconsider.”
Though Menelaus sent them off with generous guest-gifts—a golden libations goblet for Telemachus and three stallions for Peisistratus—it did not take out the sting of being denied. The journey back to Pylos was silent and grim.
For Telemachus, it was also torture. What could he believe? Was his father actually alive and on his way home? If so, why now?
Or was the story Menelaus’s grand excuse to shame him for the purpose of refusing him?
Either way, he’d failed on his first mission! Gods, what would he say to Mentes?
When Peisistratus and Telemachus reached the crossroads—left toward Nestor’s palace, right toward his waiting ship—Peisistratus stopped the horses.
“I must return to the palace without you,” he said. “This road will take you directly to your ship.”
Telemachus stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. Never could he have imagined such poor host manners. “But it’s late,” he said. He’d assumed he would spend the night under King Nestor’s roof. And now Peisistratus wanted him to walk unaccompanied to the harbor? That was not how one treated a fellow prince.
“It’s easier this way.”
“Easier for whom?” Telemachus cried. “Why would you refuse me shelter in your palace?”
“Your petition to Menelaus was denied. My father will not be happy about it, especially since I encouraged it. It will be easier to explain without you there.”
Easier to laugh at me for my inexperience? Easier to act like you hadn’t pretended to be a friend when it looked like I might provide you with an opportunity for adventure and glory?
“But…but I was hoping to see your little sister again,” Telemachus said, a bit helplessly.
Peisistratus snorted.
“What?” Telemachus shot back, his fists clenching.
“If you have thoughts about marrying into my family, let me make something very clear. My little sister will marry a proven man, a prince of means or a king with power. You are neither.”
Maybe it was because it was late and he was tired and he’d had just about enough of being insulted, but that was all he could bear.
Telemachus roared, pushing Peisistratus off the chariot. The son of Nestor fell hard on his backside. “You acted the friend when you thought you might benefit, but as soon as you realized you wouldn’t, you insult me to my face—and refuse to extend guest-honors to a tired traveler!”
Peisistratus scrambled up, face red. “That’s right!” he said. “I hadn’t known the High King was going to think so lowly of you or your father. And now, he’s associated me with you, something I’m going to have to fix if I want any respect in the future!”
A red haze descended on Telemachus. He leapt on Peisistratus. Nestor’s son must not have anticipated it for he was down on the ground and Telemachus was pummeling him with all his might before Peisistratus could react. But of course, Nestor’s son was bigger and stronger and a seasoned warrior. Within a moment he’d flipped Telemachus over, twisted his arms behind him and pressed the side of his face onto the graveled dirt road.
“I could break your neck right now and no one would have to know,” he said, breathing hard into his ear. “But we are near the crossroads statue of the Protector of Travelers, so I won’t take that risk.”
With a disgusted grunt, Peisistratus threw himself off Telemachus’s back. Odysseus’s son stood up slowly, brushing bits of stone from his neck and face.
“Do not return to Pylos, or our hall, unless you have earned the right to call yourself the king of Ithaca by blood,” he said. “By blood is the only way you will salvage your name.”
With that, his former friend mounted Nestor’s chariot and turned his horses back toward his palace, leaving Telemachus to walk the long path to the harbor alone.
“By blood…by blood…by blood,” he chanted to himself the whole way. “I will reclaim my name, my house—my very manhood—by the blood of all my enemies.”
Menelaus had claimed his father lived
, and was headed home. For his entire life, that’s all he’d ever wanted. His father’s presence. His attention, his guidance, his wisdom. His love.
But none of that mattered anymore. I want my name, my house, and my manhood. And I will claim it all, one way or another. With or without my father.
A new ugliness darkened his soul, and he reveled in it. He would show them. His palace would run with the blood of those who had belittled or insulted him.
On the trip back to Ithaca, Telemachus noticed a cut on his arm near his elbow. He walked to the side of the ship and dug his fingertips hard into it until it bled afresh. Holding his arm over the side, he allowed the blood to drip freely into the water, watching it disappear into the dark sea.
“By blood I seal my fate,” he promised the sea god. “I will kill them all. I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I will. Or I will die trying.”
Xenia in the Court of the Winds
Scott Oden
I dreamed, last night, of Lykomedes, Deon’s son; of goodhearted Meriones and of Old Phormion, who stood with me beneath the walls of Troy; of fleet-footed Aristaeus, who was my mother’s cousin. Their shades came to me, shuffling like men worn out with toil, and set up a groaning clamor; spectral fingers grasped and tore at their breasts as they howled over the injustice of dying by the hand of that cursed Kyklops. I felt the damning weight of their blame.
“Why?” they wailed. “Why did we not sail past that wretched land? Had you not had your fill of blood at Troy, vain Odysseus? Had you not glutted your passions for the rich viands of slaughter when you bid us put Ismaros-town to the spear, O son of Laertes? Why?”
But I could not answer them. Mistaking my silence for arrogance, they reached for me, then, and I woke with a start. Beneath the jeweled lamps of heaven, the silent grove was empty. Distraught, I placed my hands upon the breast of the earth and swore an oath to Lord Hades and his Queen. Once I reached Ithaca, I would sacrifice four black rams, the finest of my flocks, so that their blood and flesh might appease my fallen comrades…
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