Odysseus swallowed and blinked the tears away and he sat heavily on an unoccupied bench. He tried to prepare for this moment but it was like trying to prepare for your first battle—the reality was nothing like your imaginings.
At least this had not been a lie. None of it meant anything to him. Not lands, not riches, not supplicants, not even the diadem of his kingship. The truth…the hard, bitter, wonderful truth was that all he’d wanted was to be with his Penelope. Seeing her crystalized that truth in his mind—and this time, Odysseus did weep.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Eumaeus. “Are you all right?”
Odysseus sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He looked up at the old swineherd, blinking away his tears. “I didn’t know how empty my soul was,” he said, looking over to Penelope. “Until the sight of her filled it again.”
“Who the fuck is this!” A gruff voice made him look up. Gods, the man was huge—young, once muscular now running to the fat of a good living, he was black bearded, doubtless hairy backed and had half-drunk cruelty in his eyes.
“Outis, Prince Antinous,” Eumaeus replied. “Just a beggar, come to seek scraps…”
Antinous shoved Eumaeus away and towered over Odysseus, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Beggar? Another one? I’ve had my fill of beggars in this place.”
“Forgive me,” Odysseus said. He was about to go on when another man approached. Tall, slim and beautiful, his hair as blonde as Helen’s had been.
“Another beggar, Eurymachus,” Antinous said. “Come for scraps.”
“So we should feed him,” Eurymachus shrugged.
“I’m not fucking feeding him.”
“If this hall is to be mine…or any of ours…we should treat guests kindly.” He waved and a serving girl came to him. “Melantho, bring our guest some food.” He turned and kissed her openly, lifting the hem of her dress and cupping her sex before sending her away with a swat on the backside. “Eh?” he raised his eyebrows up and down at Odysseus. “Food and drink you can have. Anything else, you’ll have to take or earn. Like we have.”
“Thank you, Lord.” Odysseus stilled the angry fire that he knew must be burning his eyes. “You princes have taken many women?”
“Of course. The one we all really want is up there, though” he jerked his head at Penelope and Odysseus desperately wanted to smash out his perfect teeth. “Whomsoever she chooses will be King of Ithaca.”
Odysseus nodded his thanks as Melantho unceremoniously dumped a meagre tray of food—half-eaten leavings—and a cup of wine on the table. “I’m only doing this because you asked me, Lord,” she said to Eurymachus.
“You do a lot of things I ask,” he laughed.
“You’re a lucky man, Lord,” Odysseus forced himself to shove some of the meat into his mouth and chew it like a man who had not eaten for days. “But I heard tell that Odysseus yet lives,” he added with his mouthful.
“So they keep telling us,” Antinous put in. “Omens, whispers, shadows. But where is he?” The big man looked around theatrically. “Hades is where.”
“He’s been all over,” Odysseus shrugged and looked away. “Aegyptos is where I heard tell of him. But he’s Ithaca bound now, Lord. I imagine that when he returns, he won’t be best pleased with…” The pain was sharp—sharper still as Odysseus hit the stone floor. White light flashed in his eyes and the food, half chewed, fell from his mouth. He felt a sandal kick him in the arse and heard the harsh laughter of Antinous and the more lilting chuckle of Eurymachus. He looked up to see the big man looming over him, a wooden stool in his hand.
“I’m sick of hearing that man’s name,” Antinous said and dropped the stool onto the floor. “Say it again, Beggar. Say it.”
Odysseus rolled into a sitting position. “I’m NoOne, Lord,” he said. “I’m sorry for speaking the truth.” He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to make the man angry.
Strong hands hoisted him from the ground. Another princeling, red-haired and ruddy-faced heaved him up. “You’re heavier than you look,” the young man muttered.
“Leave him to me, Amphinomus,” Antinous snarled. “I’ve not yet had my sport with this one.”
“He’s just an old man,” Amphinomus sat him back on the bench. Odysseus noted he had dirty fingernails. A farmer’s hands. “What’s the point? There are harder contests to be fought.”
Antinous jutted his chin out. “You offering?”
“No,” Amphinomus was mild. “I’m just thinking that beating up an old beggar is unlikely to impress Penelope.” He looked up at Odysseus’s wife and the king could see the love light in his eyes. It cut him the quick for in that moment he realized that all these men—all of them—wanted her in order that they might take his kingdom. Take his possessions. Take “the wife of Odysseus” as their own.
But this one was different. This one loved her. He was too young to hide it from Odysseus—and he was lucky the others were drunk enough not to see it. The other two turned to Penelope as well; Odysseus saw that Telemachus was by her side. His jaw was set—he was nervous of what he knew was to come. But he had not excused himself and Odysseus was proud of him.
Penelope’s face was wrapped in anger at the poor treatment the “beggar” had received. She held up her hand for silence and, after a time, the room stilled. Odysseus looked around—the serving girls draped on the princelings, the spilled wine on the floor, the scraps…
“You have all been patient,” her voice rang out. “More than patient. But I can see now that tempers have worn thin and my hesitation has caused you to lash out. I can see now that I must make my choice,” she said. “And I would ask that you treat this beggar kindly. This is not a house where guest-friendship is ignored—as you all well know. Know that this night, I have decided.”
“Who is it to be woman?” Antinous demanded.
“Peace, Antinous,” Amphinomus said, his smile genuine. Happy. “The queen will speak when she decides to—we have waited long. A little longer won’t make a jot of difference now.”
He thinks it’s him, Odysseus thought. He glanced at Eumaeus and shook his head. Not yet. Still, the old boy made his way casually towards the door and sat on a bench.
Ready to move when the time came.
“Amphinomus is correct,” Penelope said. “I wish every man in this hall to enjoy himself tonight,” her arm swept the hall. “After all—a hundred and more will be disappointed by my choice. And a hundred and more will soon be seeking a new place to lay their heads. Please…” she gestured. “Continue.”
The “suitors” took to drinking and talking once again. Amphinomus made to move away but Odysseus grasped his arm. He could tell that the younger man was surprised by the strength of his grip—and tried (as the young do) not to show it. “You’re Amphinomus?”
“That’s right,” he smiled. “What’s your name, friend?”
“I’m NoOne that you should worry about,” Odysseus returned the smile. “But would you hear some wisdom from an old man?”
“Of course.”
Eumaeus had said this one had a good heart—had tried his best to help the islanders. And, even if he was paying suit to Penelope, it seemed to Odysseus that he was conducting himself with decency. “Leave this place,” he advised. “Leave now. Before it is too late.”
“Leave?” Amphinomus frowned. “I cannot. I will not. I love that woman,” he declared. “Not like these others. And I know she has affection for me. I think that they will be surprised tonight, friend,” he said. “Penelope will pick me. I will be the happiest man on earth.”
“Even so. That happiness will be short lived. Odysseus lives; when he returns he will set his house in order—if you take my meaning.”
“Odysseus is dead, friend,” Amphinomus was earnest. “It is sad, but it is so. Should beautiful Penelope wait another ten years and then ten more for a dream? I would make her happy.”
Odysseus looked over to his wife to find her eyes turned in his direction. No, not his�
��Amphinomus’s. He saw the softening in them and adjudged that the young prince was correct. She did favor him above all the others whom she so clearly held in contempt. A desperate wanting and envy filled his chest, which he forced away with a moment of braggadocio.
“I fought at Troy,” he informed Amphinomus.
“Then I count you a lucky man,” Amphinomus said. “That was the last great war. A war where a man could make a reputation. All of us,” he gestured to the room, “live in the shadow of our fathers. Telemachus especially.”
“There’s truth in that,” Odysseus agreed, clearing his throat to master himself. “But that’s not my point. The Trojans had a princess—Cassandra was her name. She predicted all of it—the end of their people, that Agamemnon would be triumphant—thanks to Odysseus,” he couldn’t help adding. “By the gods—she swore it; she told them, Prince. And you know what?”
“What?”
“No one believed her. Like no-one believes me. He’s coming home. I promise you,” he added as a serving girl approached. Odysseus started—she could have been Penelope’s younger sister so alike were they in face and form. He frowned trying to imagine her as a girl—who could this be?
Amphinomus looked on “the beggar” with kindness. “If it is as you say, then there will be a reckoning,” he placated, evidently not believing a word of it. “It is in the hands of the gods.” Then he nodded a greeting to the serving girl. “Danae,” he smiled. “As your queen says—be sure this man is treated well.”
Danae! Odysseus could scarcely believe that the precocious girl had bloomed to such loveliness. She looked Amphinomus up and down the way a man would undress a woman with his eyes. A firebrand, then.
“The Queen wants to speak to him,” she said, not taking her eyes off the younger man. Her tongue flicked her top lip and Odysseus could almost feel the heat of Amphinomus’s discomfiture. “Come on, beggar,” she said and turned away, sauntering back to the dais.
Odysseus’s heart pounded in his chest as he followed the serving girl towards the dais. Would Penelope remember? Would she recall that day, so long ago, when he had thrown off his disguise and charmed her? And if she did, would she understand the need for secrecy?
Odysseus felt like a boy again as he went to her. She regarded him for long moments, her eyes questioning but not understanding. She wore the face of a woman who thought she had seen him before but could not place him. In that moment, he wanted to discard the beggar’s cloak aside and take her in his arms. The desire to do so burned within him like fire…but he could not.
“Please,” Penelope said. “Sit.”
“Thank you, Lady,” he mumbled at sat at her feet.
“You seem familiar to me,” she acknowledged. “Tell me, have you been to Ithaca before?”
“Yes—but many years ago, Lady.”
“Your name, sir?”
Odysseus cleared his throat, wondering if he dared use the name he’d used to trick her so long ago. Would she remember? “I am the son of Hylax, Castor, of Crete,” he said, the old lie slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it.
The point between her brows crinkled as if a memory struggled to the surface, but still, the light did not hit her eyes.
He swallowed his disappointment. “I was here before the war. I was a younger man then,” he added. “I was…I am…a sailor. More grey in my beard now,” he made himself chuckle—a different chuckle than that of Odysseus’s. “Yet you have not changed a bit. I remember you clearly and the image of your wondrous beauty has stayed with me. Your Odysseus is blessed by the gods.”
It was her turn to laugh. It had been so long since he had heard such music. So long. “For a beggar, you have a silver tongue,” she said. Earnest now, she added: “You’re a sailor. Have you heard any news of Odysseus?”
His heart soared. So, she still cared then! “Yes,” he said. “Odysseus has suffered greatly—but he lives. There are tales of him from sea to sea,” he went on, suddenly filled with the need to make right his absence. “I’ve heard tell that he has encountered things that no mortal man has seen—titans…one-eyed giants…goddesses,” he put in, recalling his half-love for Calypso, and then added, “...even witches,” as the image of a disgusted Circe floated into memory. He pushed the images away.
“Sounds just like him,” Penelope arched an eyebrow. “Witches and titans, you say. Whores and bandits more like.”
Odysseus flushed despite himself and was grateful that the beard and filth of his disguise would not betray his shame. “Those are the stories I’ve heard,” he said. “Last word was that he will return to Ithaca. He’s coming back to you, Lady. So great a love he has that it has sustained him these long years. Now that I lay eyes on you again, I can see why. You are a woman to walk mountains and cross oceans for.”
Her eyes widened and he saw her see him in that moment—the veil of filth pierced. He’d uttered that precise phrase so long ago when he’d asked her to marry him. And she remembered. Her mouth formed to speak his name.
“I’m NoOne for now,” he said with the slightest of winks, his heart full of joy at her recognition—and that there was no rejection in her gaze. “I’m happy to see you again—as I am sure Odysseus will be. Once he’s taken care of…” He was interrupted by a shout of laughter from the floor of the hall. The suitors were obviously well into their cups. Antinous was standing on a table, reaching up to take the bow from its hanging on the wall. Odysseus loved that bow—he’d traded a spear and sword for it in Sparta many years ago. Seeing another man’s hands on her angered and saddened him at the same time. Eurymachus was staggering around too, taking the ancient axes from their hangings on the walls. Odysseus glanced at Telemachus who blanched: this they had not planned for.
He moved away from the dais and nodded at Eumaeus. The old man supped his wine, rose and left the hall—unnoticed by the suitors and their serving girls.
Penelope got to her feet. “You have no right to touch that!” she shouted at Antinous who was admiring the bow. “It belongs to Odysseus!”
“Everything that was once his will soon be someone’s here, woman,” the big man slurred. “Including you. And if you have a sense, you will choose me! I am the strongest of all. That is what you need.”
Penelope gave a snort of disdain. “You’re not even strong enough to string that bow,” she said and sat back down. Odysseus’s heart swelled with pride at her strength and courage.
“We’ll see,” Antinous snarled. “We are to have a contest,” he went on. “To shoot an arrow through the rings of these axes here,” he gestured as Eurymachus began to place the weapons—standing on their broad, double bladed heads—on the wine-slick stones. It was drunken nonsense—of course it was. The sort of thing that men always indulged in when they had too much wine. Who was better—who was the best?
Penelope looked at “the beggar” and her lips twitched in the slightest of smiles. “Good Antinous,” she said. “Who would have thought that it would be you who found a solution to this most vexing of questions?”
“What do you mean?” the big man frowned.
“Men say that you are the strongest—but not the brightest blade in the box.” That got a laugh from the men and she waited till it died down. “I can see now that that is not true. You—of all these suitors and would be kings have found the answer. As I have said, that bow belongs…belonged to Odysseus. It is said that only he could string it. But it seems to me if any man can match this test of strength and then skill—perhaps he would be the man for me.”
Shouts erupted at her pronouncement and Odysseus saw Amphinomus’s skin paling, his eyes full of shock and anguish, the breaking of his heart writ large on his face.
“We’ve all been drinking,” Antinous protested. “This is just a game…you cannot just decide…”
“Are you afraid of the challenge, mighty Antinous?” Telemachus mocked. “I should go first then! If I win, she will not have to choose anyone! And we can put an end to this once and for all
.”
Odysseus wanted to shake him for his impetuousness. Of course, he could not know that Penelope had seen through the beggar’s disguise and he knew well that the boy wanted to prove his strength and prowess now that his father was home. To show him—Odysseus—and these other men that he was worthy. But Odysseus knew that unless they were very smart, none would be able to string his bow. With no little sadness he realized that once again Telemachus would be found wanting in the face of his father’s deeds.
“Yes!” Eurymachus giggled. “Let Telemachus show us.” He kicked a quiver full of arrows across the floor towards Telemachus and Antinous tossed the bow at him—too hard, Odysseus noted and his son fumbled with it; the weapon fell to the stones, the sound of its clattering masked by the explosion of laughter. He ignored it, stooped and picked the weapon up, measuring the string with its great knot. Placing his foot into the curve, he strained to slip the knot into the groove, chest and shoulder muscles bunching with effort. Sweat burst out on his brow and he began to tremble. The bow snapped back into place and he dropped it.
Again he tried, and failed. The suitors—save Amphinomus—were shouting at him, mocking him and Odysseus could see his own anger mirrored in the glare of Penelope. For a third time, he put his foot to the wood, but his strength was all but spent. As the bow clattered to the stones once more he looked over at Odysseus, shame in his eyes.
Odysseus shook his head and mouthed “no”. Disappointed, Telemachus had to endure the taunting as he left the bow where it lay and sat heavily on a bench. Antinous was next, cocksure and confident in his might but soon it was his turn to be jeered by the others as he tried—and of course failed—to string the bow. And so it went on. Each man in the room trying his hand, each man falling short. Amphinomus almost killed himself with the effort but in the end, even he capitulated.
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