"Ridiculous," Penelope spat and strode across the hall. Neither girl looked up until she stood before them. Melantho blushed and looked away, giving Penelope an idea of their gossip. "Thoosa, you were told you were not welcome here."
"You need workers," she responded, staying seated.
"Who requested you come? What authority?" Penelope glanced at Melantho as she spoke, daring her slave to claim authority to override Eurynome's commands. She turned back to Thoosa and met her gaze, drawing on her training in silent command, which she had learned in Sparta.
Thoosa looked away first. She dumped the last rushes from her lap and stood, edging away as she did so. Her face went pink, but Penelope doubted the girl blushed for shame. She stayed silent, keeping Melantho still with her presence until Thoosa reached the door. Penelope went to the storerooms to look for Eurynome. She glanced back in time to see Thoosa and Melantho exchange glances. Both looked toward the door of Odysseus' room.
Penelope knew what they thought, what Thoosa hoped, and a new fury and resolve grew in her. When she found Eurynome, she gave instructions to drive Thoosa away next time she appeared, and to keep Melantho within the walls for the next moon. Her nurse said nothing, but Penelope thought she saw satisfaction in the woman's eyes. She wondered what other mischief her maid was finding.
* * * *
When Odysseus returned the next evening, Penelope was ready to follow her plan. She felt well and whole and clean again, and had spent the last half of the afternoon bathing, perfuming and ornamenting herself. When she heard his voice in the hall, greeting the slaves preparing the house for the night, she hurried down the steps to meet him. He laughed and hugged her, holding her up so her feet dangled. She tried to be natural as she laughed and returned his kisses. Odysseus didn't pause, so she knew she had succeeded.
They ate together, alone in the echoing hall. She was grateful he did all the talking, telling her about the people he had visited the last three days, the problems discussed. The wife of one prominent man had sent a present for Penelope. From the way Odysseus rolled his eyes and refused to go into details, she guessed it was another fertility charm. She was glad he took it as a joke.
It was almost a relief when, after they finished eating, he stood and held out his arms for her. Penelope welcomed the soft pulse of desire that began when he caressed her. He led her up the stairs to her room, latching every door after they had passed through. She helped him remove her clothes, returning his caresses with all the skill he had taught her.
Desire didn't grow. She pressed herself tight against him, willing the passion to begin. The pulse of desire didn't die, but neither did it grow stronger.
"Penelope, what is it?" Odysseus shifted to his side, holding her close. His pulse still raced under her hands. "Am I too eager? Are you ill?"
"I am not ill." She hated the way her voice wobbled.
"Then what's wrong? You don't eat, you sleep too much, you give orders as if you don't care how this household is run. You move like a woman caught in a sorrowful dream."
"Did Mentor tell you this?" she snapped before she knew the words were on her tongue.
"What of Mentor? Why should he have to tell me what I can see with my own eyes?" He sat up and reached for the lamp left burning on the table by the bed. In the changed light, his face was creased with worry and frustrated passion. "Penelope, did something happen between you and Mentor while I was gone?"
"Nothing happened. He is a decent, gentle man who deserves far better than to be set as watchdog over any woman, no matter who her husband is." Penelope twisted out of his grasp and sat against the head of the bed. He stared, eyes wide and bright with confusion.
"He was glad to be of help. You enjoy his company and guidance. What has changed?"
"You set him as spy over me."
"Why should I make him spy--"
"Is it true you let the boar wound him? Is it true you could have killed the boar, but you let it past because you two argued?"
"Who told you that?" Odysseus sat very still, his face a stiff mask. Only his eyes showed anger, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Who tried to poison you against me?"
"I overheard some girls talking while they worked."
"Thoosa, Deiros' daughter." A disgusted sigh escaped him. "He would poison the whole island against me if he could."
"Does he have reason?"
"He thinks he does."
"Likely one of your schemes. Deiros was the victim and he didn't take well to it." She nearly laughed in triumph at the stricken look that dimmed his eyes. She had made a hit before his stern control took over. "I remember good King Nestor, when you told him of the suitors' oaths. He warned your scheming ways would be your bane someday."
"Penelope, what is this madness?"
"Your scheme failed you, cunning Odysseus," she continued, ignoring his words. Her breath shortened and her heart thundered in her ears. His voice was too quiet, frightening her, but she had to continue. "All your pride in seeing what others couldn't see. The joke is on you this time. Joined to a wife too thin and small. The beauty you predicted hasn't come. Nor ever will. And barren into the bargain. A blessing, for how could you be sure my children are yours?"
"Barren?" His face twisted, as if he would laugh if not for the pain that burned his eyes, turning his mouth into a crooked, bitter smile. "In only a year, you think you're barren?"
"And I shall stay that way. Barren and ugly and thin as a stick. A very good bargain you made." Her throat hurt, her voice a hot rasp.
Penelope bit back a shriek as Odysseus snatched her out of the bed by her shoulders. He dragged her across the room to the bronze mirror. He held her tight, her back to him, his arm around her waist while he tore the cloth off the mirror.
"Ugly? Thin?" He caught her at her elbows and shook her. "See the woman I fought for." His voice cracked. "Penelope, I swear to you, I will find the man who poisoned you against me."
"If any man did," she retorted, refusing to struggle against the painful grip on her arms, "you did."
He straightened, shock widening his eyes. Odysseus released her, but she didn't try to move. She faced his expression in the mirror.
"You're like a bard, taking a multitude of faces and voices to tell your tale, to get the desired reaction from your audience. You played me like a harp and you played me well. But the music fades." She closed her eyes against the burning of new tears.
Silence. She felt his breath in her hair, the warmth of his body close behind her. Penelope wondered she didn't shiver in the chill of the room. She opened her eyes, caught by the sight of her naked body in the mirror. The light of the lamp cast shadows that accented every curve, making her hips wider, her breasts more full, darkening hair and eyes to midnight black. She was beautiful, even in her own eyes. She nearly laughed at the painful timing of that vision.
"Is that how you see me?" Odysseus whispered. His voice jerked her gaze up to face him in the mirror. Did the glimmer in the mirror come from his tears or her own?
"I no longer know what I see." She shivered, more tired than cold. The fury that had burned in her faded, leaving ice in her chest. "Cunning Odysseus," she whispered, letting the tears come now and not caring that he saw. "Admired by even your enemies. Tell me the truth, if only once. If you trust no one, who can trust you?"
"Is that what you think? That I trust no one?" He lifted his hand, as if to rest on her shoulder.
Penelope longed for his touch and dreaded it. She knew the feel of his hand on her skin would send fire sweeping through her body and what dregs of her control remained would crumble.
"I don't know what I think, what I feel. I want to believe you, in all things, yet how can I be sure you are honest with me if you are honest with no one else?"
"A dilemma," he whispered. "Your question is wise. And painful. I wish I had an answer we both could believe."
Odysseus looked away and when he turned back she saw his eyes shift as his gaze traveled over her shape in the mirror
. She saw no desire in his eyes, only a new depth of sadness.
"I think you wish to be alone." Then, he left.
Penelope concentrated on her reflection in the mirror to try to push the memory of her burning words from her mind. A sob worked its way up her throat. She turned from the mirror and hurried back to her bed. She curled up under the blankets and listened to the slowing thunder of her heart.
"I hurt him," she whispered. "My words came too quickly. He had no time to prepare, to play a role. It was no game. And if I hurt him..." She closed her eyes, digging the heels of her hands into them to fight the tears. "If he deceived me, he would not have been hurt."
That night, her dreams were filled with visions of Odysseus lying torn and bloody before her. A knife covered in blood lay in her open hands.
Chapter 14
* * *
Penelope lived by rote most of the next morning. She came downstairs to inspect the spices and oil bought from the merchants the day before and stayed to give orders for baking and preparing ointment against winter sores. Not until noon had passed did she realize Odysseus was gone from the house. She reasoned he was at the harbor, seeing to his ship or off to Raven's Crag to inspect the pigs and decide which ones to kill at the first frost, for winter eating. When she thought of him, what she said the night before, she felt only relief that he was nowhere to be seen. There was only echoing numbness inside, where before she drowned in fury and sorrow. It made a welcome change.
When evening came, a servant from Laertes' house brought a message that Odysseus had gone to the island of Kephallenia to see about a shipment of bronze tools and weapons gone astray. Penelope took the news with more empty relief. She forced herself to eat, to assuage the worry of anyone who might be watching, and tried to stay up later than she had recently. Her eyes burned from straining at her loom and her back ached, but she couldn't sleep. She lay awake, staring at the black ceiling, listening for the sound of a particular tread and voice and knowing he would not return so late at night.
When she did sleep, she dreamed again of Odysseus, dead and bloody, and the knife that killed him lay in her bloody hands.
* * * *
In the morning, the quiet that filled her began spreading through the house. Penelope remembered the words of the servant girls and wondered which ones rejoiced at the split between Odysseus and her. She knew it couldn't remain hidden for long. For all she knew, more than one set of ears had overheard the argument in her room. She struggled not to examine the servants' faces as she passed them during the morning, looking for signs of anticipation or satisfaction.
When she could take it no longer, Penelope retreated to her private garden. She hadn't visited it since the day she heard Thoosa speak her poison. Penelope didn't care if the place brought back memories, it was quiet and no one would intrude on her. She slipped between the crackling bushes guarding the entrance, checked to be sure she was alone and settled at the base of the olive tree. It was pure, cool relief to sit still with her eyes closed and hear nothing but the sighing of the breeze in the branches and the faint cackling of her geese in the outer courtyard.
"You have hurt your husband deeply, Ikarios' daughter," a smooth, deep, feminine voice said.
Penelope opened her eyes, swallowing down a gasp of shock. She had heard no one pass through the bushes. A rebuke hovered on her lips but she kept them pressed tightly together and her tongue silent.
A tall woman stood before her, gray-eyed, with long, thick hair blacker than night, simply braided and hanging past her waist. Her dress was of simple lines, dazzling white, girdled with a belt of precious stones and silver. Silver and precious stones decorated her sandals. She leaned on a staff with silver on the tip. An owl perched on her shoulder. Penelope stared at the owl.
"He treasures you as few men can cherish their wives, though there is truly much that is childish in him," the woman continued. "Your accusations were just, but such words should never have come from your lips. Tell me truly, has he ever given you cause to doubt him?"
"I don't know!" Penelope blurted. "If I was sure, it would not hurt so greatly."
"Then believe him and no other." The woman smiled, but with a bitterness that made Penelope feel she had been sorely rebuked. "Go to your husband. Plunge a knife into his heart and finish the killing of your words. Or, heal the wounds you made. Do not leave any job half finished, Ikarios' daughter. It is not worthy of you."
"You don't need to tell me that," she mumbled, wishing she could tear her gaze from the woman's face, the blazing of her gray eyes.
"Your words had truth in them, I admit. Odysseus must endure great trials yet before he is worthy of all entrusted to him. He trusts few, constantly guarding against traitors and thieves. Those few he trusts have the power to destroy him, far stronger than his most bitter enemies."
The sibilant of her last word stretched out, merging with the rasping hoot of the owl. It lifted from the woman's shoulder and flew over the wall. Penelope couldn't help but watch its flight. When she turned back, the woman was gone.
Terror made her tremble. She managed to scramble to her feet. Tottering legs took her to the kitchens. Mercifully, no one was there. Penelope snatched up a honey cake, still hot enough from the oven to burn her hand. She tucked it into her wide cloth belt, then went into the storage room for the sacks of grain. Penelope took a handful of the sweetest wheat and put it into the belt as well. The fine silver guest goblets sat on the table, freshly washed and polished. She snatched up the largest and filled it with wine from the skin Eurynome saved for the most honored guests. Penelope nearly spilled the whole of it before she returned to the garden.
She found the spot where the woman had stood. There were footprints in that one spot in the dust and nowhere else. She imagined the indentations were warm with unnatural heat. Penelope put the cake in the footprints, then the grain over it. She carefully trickled the wine over the pile.
"Athena, you have scolded me as I deserve. Now, I pray you, give me the words and the wisdom I need. My anger and sorrow have taken my wits from me. He is my beloved, but I fear I have lost him. Help me." Tears slipped from her eyes as she closed them. Penelope waited, wishing for a sign, a touch of divine fingers, the brushing of owl wings against her hair. Only silence reigned in the garden.
* * * *
That evening, when she heard Odysseus' voice in the hall below her chambers, Penelope dropped her thread. She stared at it, unsure what to do. She felt Melantho's gaze on her and refused to give her maid any triumph. Penelope bent and retrieved the thread, but didn't continue weaving.
"We have done enough for the day," she said, without turning to look at anyone. "I have pushed all of you too much. Enjoy yourselves this night." Penelope sat still, studying the thread in her hands until all her women had gone. From the corner of her eye, she saw Melantho pause in the door to watch her, then shrug and follow the others.
Penelope waited, listening for the voices coming up the stairs, through the open doors. Odysseus stayed in the hall, talking. She caught the rumble of Dolios' voice, likely reporting on the fall plowing and other work done during Odysseus' absence. A fond, trembling smile touched her lips, grateful for the faithful man. Dolios was sometimes as oblivious as a wall, but his feelings were clear and true.
"Enough cowardice," she whispered to the still room. Penelope made her way to the stairs. She listened for the first sign of Odysseus leaving the hall, but his voice stayed steady. She wished she could catch the words, the tone of his voice, the inflections he used, to gauge his mood.
He sat at the hearth, examining a spear shaft with one of the hunters when Penelope reached the door at the bottom of the stairs. She paused in the doorway, watching him. Her husband smiled at some remark the slave made. Then he glanced up and met her gaze. His smile didn't leave his face, but faded from his eyes. With a jerk of his head, he bade the man leave.
"The journey went well?" she asked, voice trembling. Penelope forced her legs to take her across t
he hall to him. She was aware of the servants lingering, finishing various tasks for the day. She hated them. If she was going to confess, it had to be soon, but not with an audience.
"More than well." He stood and came to meet her. His hands on her shoulders, the kiss brushed across her forehead, were mere perfunctory gestures. Penelope swallowed hard against the sob that choked her. "I brought something for you." He dug into the pouch hanging from his belt and brought out a thin chain of polished bronze links. "Menthes, chief of the bronze workers of Kephallenia, sent this for you. He overflowed with apologies that he had not sent a marriage gift to us earlier."
"What did he gift you with?" she asked, letting him slip the chain around her neck. It hung light and delicate on her shoulders and down over her breasts. Penelope studied it to avoid his neutral, nearly empty gaze.
"A knife, some new heads for my arrows...and advice on how to treat a new wife." He paused. "He has three."
"Was his advice helpful?"
"Touching the woman concerned, no. Menthes likes to struggle with a new wife, usually obtained unwilling, and prove he is the master of his household."
"I came to you willingly," she said, lowering her voice so a man standing two paces away couldn't hear.
"Is that why you played Dyvis and tried to run away?" he whispered. When she looked up, he smiled sadly at her.
"Odysseus--"
"I laughed at Menthes," he said, brushing her cheek with his fingertips. "He said a new wife should be beaten regularly, whether she deserves it or not." He forced a crooked smile onto his lips. "I have messages I promised to take to my father tonight." He gave her a nodding bow and left.
Penelope waited, fingering her new necklace, gaze fastened on the floor until the sound of his footsteps faded. She went back to her room, controlling her steps and her face so no one would guess the storm inside her.
THE DREAMER'S LOOM Page 20