"I am wearied of this pretense we play," she said, standing and interrupting Leodes' speech. Penelope doubted anyone minded. He said the same words every night. "Why should I sit here night after night and listen to words that mean nothing? How can you speak praises to me, woo me, when it does not come from your heart? You claim you despoil my son's house for love of me. Your actions do not speak love, or else you would listen when I say I will not marry another man."
"You have given your promise, queen of Ithaka," Antinoos called from the center of the gathering.
"Yes, given my promise. Brought to it by desperation. I will set the contest among you soon, so the will of the gods will choose my new husband. On that very day, I will leave this house where I was such a happy bride. Until then, I wish to see none of you or hear your voices boast of deeds you never accomplished and love you don't feel. Some of you, I know, take pleasure in knowing I fill my bed with tears every night, mourning my husband who stood above all men on Ithaka who live now and who were ever born."
In the silence created by her words, Penelope left. She struggled to keep her feet steady, her back straight, her poise intact. Before she had gone halfway up the steps, the suitors erupted in talk. She caught fragments of their words, admiring her spirit. A few expressed, loudly, their longing to take her as bride. Penelope wondered if they were drunk already or if she had finally created some wedge in their accords.
Aktoris, her newest maid met her at the top of the stairs with the news that Argus had been found dead outside the doors of the feasting hall. Penelope stopped short, unable to feel anything for a moment. She closed her eyes against tears.
"My husband's house slowly falls to pieces around me," she murmured. "Is it a sign from the gods that it is time to move on?" she said, turning to Autonoe.
"Mistress, should I tell Telemachos?" the girl asked.
"No. He would be hurt and the suitors would mock him for caring. Find Eumaios the swineherd. Tell him to take Argus away and give him the funeral rites of a hero." Penelope lifted her veil and used the edge to wipe away the stubborn tears. She didn't care that her maids saw. "That dog was more faithful than many people I have known. Perhaps he will find his master in the shadow lands." She went to her room, closed the door and laid herself down on her bed to cry. Her sobs were quiet because she had no strength to be loud.
When her maids brought up the renewed flood of presents from the suitors, Penelope quieted to listen to them talk. She thought about the herds of swine and cattle slaughtered to feed the suitors and knew no matter how rich the presents they heaped on her, they could never repay the damage done to her home. She lay still and refused to answer when one maid after another knocked on her door to bring her out to see the gifts. After a time, she managed to sleep, her eyes wet with tears.
After the suitors had left for the night, Penelope returned to the feasting hall. Eurynome had done as she asked and made sure Telemachos' beggar guest had food and drink to satisfy him and offered him a bed for the night.
Something inside her shivered in fearful anticipation of talking with the man and she couldn't understand herself. Likely, he would repeat some story she had heard before. If she was lucky, he would use his imagination and add new details to prove his story true. She would give him sandals and a cloak if his story deceived her for a few seconds. A few moments of wishing belief were worth the price.
The man sat by the dying fire when she reached the bottom of the stairs. For a moment, she thought her eyes had deceived her in the hall that afternoon. The shadows gave him dark, thick hair and beard, touched with red. The dirt of travel and harsh living that stained him didn't appear in the flickering firelight. For a moment he was a man twenty years younger, bronzed from the sun, strong with good living and hard work. Then the beggar shifted in his seat by the fire and looked at her. The illusion faded, leaving him stooped and gray. Penelope was glad the shadows hid his piercing eyes.
Eurynome brought her chair from the pillar by the stairs and Penelope greeted the beggar graciously, asking if her household had treated him as a guest deserved. The man spoke well, proving he had indeed fallen from noble station.
"My name is Aithon of Sikania," he said, when she asked his name and birthplace. A spark of humor touched those gray eyes, meeting hers for a fleeting moment before he turned his face back into the shadows.
Penelope shivered, thinking she saw anticipation in those eyes. Was his name significant? She thought she had heard that name before. But where?
The man described Odysseus as he had seen him several years before, when his own fortunes were much better and he feasted with kings and lords as an honored guest. Aithon claimed Odysseus had been long delayed in his return home, all his companions killed by treachery, his treasures destroyed by the perils of the sea. Odysseus was coming home, but taking his time to collect new treasures so that his welcome would be sweeter.
Penelope smiled at the story. This was something new, as if the man had actually met Odysseus instead of repeating what others had fabricated in hope of a gift. She could believe her husband, deprived of his spoils from Ilion, would pause in his homeward journey to gather more treasure.
The beggar went on to describe the clothes Odysseus had worn at the feast where they met. The deep purple cloak in two layers that she had given him when he left for Ilion. The tunic of muted gold, rose and purple, of thread so fine it was almost sheer, the dyes she had mixed with her own hands. She felt the tears coming into her eyes, sorrowing that she had never seen Odysseus wearing those clothes.
The tears stopped when Aithon described the pin that held the cloak.
"A master craftsman made the pin," Aithon said. "Many who saw it wanted it, and offered your lord husband the bounty of entire ships. An amazing piece, made so that when it closed, it looked like a hound strangling a hare. Odysseus would not part with it. He said his beloved wife's father had made it. His wife had given it to him for luck and he was determined to give it into her keeping again when he returned home."
"That is proof no man has ever offered me," Penelope whispered, her voice choked as she fought sobs. "My love swore he would never wear those clothes, never let any other see that pin, until he was on his homeward journey. So many spoke false words, hoping to comfort me or for their own profit." She fought the tightening of her throat. "Noble sir, that is proof undeniable you have seen my dear husband. Please, tell me if you have heard any word of him since."
"Only rumors, carried from one ship to another." Aithon shook his head, settling further into the shadows. His voice had a scratchy rumble, as if he twisted his throat to change the sound. Penelope wondered she had not heard it before. She sensed if he spoke just a little louder, she would know his voice.
"You have brought me comfort, knowing that even a few years ago, my husband was alive and happy and honored. Ask of me, and I will give you a sword and sandals, clothes and gold, and passage on a ship to anywhere you wish. This on top of the guest gifts my son gives you." She smiled at the man and was startled to see a momentary gleam of tears in his eyes before he turned his face to the shadows once more.
"Thank you, gracious queen. Your kindness and gratitude are food, drink and shelter enough for me. Your son has been too generous with this old, worn out wreck. You have an overbearing burden of guests in this house, I can see, and I would not take what you cannot spare."
"Then let me order a bath and clean clothes for your comfort this night, at least."
"Again, my thanks." Aithon shook his head. She thought his voice mellowed for a moment, growing richer, touched with humor. "It is no wonder every man wishes to claim you as bride, if you are so kind to the meanest beggar. I must refuse. The gods have seen fit to put me in this condition and until they raise me from it, I will not permit myself the comforts of more noble men. If you will, let an old servant of this house bathe the road's dust from my feet and I will be more than happy."
"As you please. My husband's own nurse will tend you." Penelope sig
naled for Eurykleia. She knew the woman had been listening, though pretending to tend to work on the other side of the hall. The old nurse nodded approval when Penelope explained what she wanted.
Penelope turned her head when the beggar hunched over, visibly uncomfortable when another torch was brought. She thought she understood. If he had once been a noble, rich man who had guested with kings, he would not want his hostess to see the full extent of his fallen condition revealed by torchlight. She tended to other work, giving instructions for the morning to the servants while Eurykleia bathed the man's feet in an old bronze basin.
The clatter of the basin and Eurykleia's gasp startled Penelope. She looked back, catching a glimpse of the beggar drawing his foot back under his rags. Feeling shame for the woman's clumsiness, Penelope turned her back on the proceedings. She heard the hissing of urgent whispers and imagined Eurykleia apologizing, Aithon assuring her he was not angered.
There was a graciousness about the man, Penelope decided, a turn of phrase in his speech that proved he had indeed once spoken with kings. She pitied him his fall and his humble condition. Despite his refusal, she determined that he would indeed have new clothes and everything else she had promised him. Even if it was the last command she gave before she joined Odysseus in death.
Chapter 26
* * *
The next morning, Penelope woke to chanting. She lay still, listening as priests walked through Ithaka, calling blessings on every household. It was a feast day, sacred to three different gods and their consorts. She took it as a good omen for the day.
With Autonoe, Penelope went to the storeroom in full view of the household, unlocked the door and brought out the bow and quiver of arrows. Again, she debated whether to return the poisoned bundle to the quiver and let the Fates dictate the day's outcome. If she had finally roused division among the suitors, maybe she had hope. Especially if the contest of the bow didn't prove easy for them. She smiled despite the grisly scenes in her imagination as she returned to her rooms with the bow. Penelope retrieved the poisoned arrows from their hiding place and kept back one to hide in the sheets of her bed. She shook the quiver, to mix clean arrows with tainted.
When the suitors arrived in mid-afternoon, she gave them time to enjoy their games of skill, to listen to Phemios play his harp and to begin feasting. Then, carrying Odysseus' bow, she went to face the suitors.
Several stood when she came into sight. Penelope refused the chair that waited for her. She would meet her destiny on her feet. She set the bow across the arms of the chair, took the quiver from Autonoe and leaned it against the chair. Then she looked around the feasting hall, taking time to gather her thoughts before speaking. She saw the beggar sitting on the steps leading to the doors with a basket of food by his side. She allowed a bitter smile. The suitors were generous enough with food that didn't belong to them.
"Noble men of Ithaka," she began. "For many long, weary years you have pressed me to choose a new husband. I refused often and you still did not listen. In fear for my son, my husband's father, for the sanctity of the house where I was so happy as a bride, I agreed to choose among you. No man ever reached the excellence of Odysseus, who brought me here in such happiness, too many years ago. Yet many of you claim you are more than able to surpass him."
Penelope looked around the hall again. Every eye watched her. No one spoke. She caught triumphant grins on many faces. A few men, ones she sometimes suspected not as hard and arrogant as the others, looked touched with guilt at her words.
"By your words, you have helped me choose the test that shall choose my next husband," she continued. She raised her voice, bracing against the pain. "You have made me a prize to be awarded among you, with no regard to my wishes. Therefore, I make myself the prize in a contest. Often for entertainment, to keep his hands and eyes in their skill, Odysseus would set up a row of twelve axes, like logs forming a cradle for a ship. With this bow he would shoot a bronze-tipped arrow between the handles, never hitting a one, never going astray in its course. You claim you are equals if not better than my excellent husband. Now you may prove your words and your worth."
She paused, smiling slightly as a murmuring like the waves moved through the hall. Penelope looked to Telemachos. He nodded, his smile grave and terrible, full of promises she couldn't read. He reminded her of his father, just before leaving to face an enemy.
"The man who strings the bow--if any man can string the bow--must then shoot an arrow as Odysseus once did. He must set up the axes, send the arrow between them without touching a single one, and hit the cushion set against the wall." Penelope stepped back, gesturing at the bow so it became the focus of all eyes. "Who will begin the contest?"
"I will." Telemachos laughed lightly as he stepped forward. "You have often told me how much I am my father's son. Now I will prove it, though my full growth is not on me. And if I string the bow of my father, my mother is free of her vow to marry. She will stay safe in my house and no man will force her from it."
As he spoke, he caught up the bow and turned to the suitors. Penelope's lips trembled and tears burned at the corners of her eyes. Her pride in him mixed with terror that some angered suitor would strike him down.
A few called taunts, but they soon fell silent as Telemachos scraped out the trench and set up the axes. Penelope saw her son as a young boy, eager for his father's return, practicing through one long winter in the hall. She knew Telemachos could shoot nearly as straight as his father. She prayed that though it hurt, her son would bend his father's bow.
Silence filled the hall when Telemachos finished his task. Penelope couldn't take her eyes from her son as he sat, braced the tip of the bow against his foot and caught the loop of the string in his hand. He glanced toward the door before bending himself to the task. Penelope held her breath, memory showing Odysseus in the same posture.
Where the bronze and horn bow bent easily, almost like wax in Odysseus' hands, for Telemachos it moved slowly, stubborn and stiff. Yet it did move. Sweat beaded on his hands and the metal suddenly slid from his grip. Her son looked up, baring his teeth in a fierce grin of delight. He wiped his hands on his tunic and bent to the task again. This time he had the loop of the bowstring to within two fingers of the tip of the bow when he gasped and gave up. Again, he glanced toward the doorway.
Curious, unwilling to watch him fail a third time, Penelope looked toward the doorway. The beggar, Aithon now stood and watched Telemachos with an intensity that frightened Penelope. She could well believe the man wished all his strength and support to her son. A gasp took her attention back to Telemachos. He had failed again. He looked toward the beggar, and Penelope saw the man shake his head.
"Let no man say I didn't try to keep my mother in her own home," Telemachos announced. With reverent movements, he wiped the bow clean on the edge of his cloak and set it back into place on the arms of the chair. "I dare any man of you to try to do better."
For the next two hours, the suitors stood for the test of the bow. Penelope listened to them criticize the bow, call down curses on its maker, and claim the bow would not yield because it had sat idle for so long. Toward the end, some called for wax and flame, to warm and soften the bow and to let everyone who had gone before try again. She smiled behind the safety of her veil and rejoiced to see her vain suitors sweating and working, cracking their muscles and cutting their soft, idle hands on the tough bowstring.
When everyone had tried and failed, Antinoos stepped forward, sneering. He bowed to Penelope and then to the bow.
"I understand your schemes now, beautiful queen. Your plans and tricks are worthy of your dead husband in all his cunning. This is a feast day, holy to the gods. No man can string a bow or use any weapon of war on a day like this. She thought that in our eagerness to win her," Antinoos continued, turning to the others, "we would forget the day and so try, fail and accept our defeat. No, we will return tomorrow and take the test again, unhindered by the gods. And tomorrow, there will be a bride for the man w
ho wins the contest of the bow."
A roaring wave of agreement rose from the suitors. Penelope held still, refusing to even breathe or she would speak her distress. In a single night, many things could happen. The bow could vanish, stolen, and her scheming suitors would declare the test invalid.
"Mother, have no fear," Telemachos said, stepping forward to take her hand. He smiled, the same secret delight in his eyes, touched with dreadful anticipation. "All will be well. I swear on my life."
"Indeed all will be well," Eurymachos said, stepping up to join them with a sardonic grin. "Tomorrow will be a wedding feast and then this house will be your own again, noble Telemachos. Unless your mother decides now, without the bow, which worthy man among us shares her bed?"
"The bow speaks for me," Penelope said, finding her voice again in cold anger. "Very well, let it be as Antinoos proposes. The contest of the bow is ended for this day. Leave it to be decided tomorrow."
"If the contest is ended," Aithon said, his voice suddenly smooth, strong and clear enough to penetrate the subsiding din in the hall. "May a guest try his hand for the memory of his youthful strength and kinder times?"
Laughter, angry and mocking, rose at the beggar's words. Penelope shivered, touched in long-buried memory by that voice. She thought of the eagle from her dream, yet when she turned to Aithon he was still the faded, stooped old man who had aroused her pity the night before.
Pity turned to anger as her suitors mocked him, throwing scraps of food, calling for the servants to throw him out.
"Noble Achaians, do not degrade yourselves!" she called, pitching her voice above their laughter, letting out all the bitterness in her soul. "Do you fear this man will succeed where noble blood has failed? Do you think he would dare carry me away as his bride? He has stated the contest is ended. If he does string the bow where you have failed, I will give him sandals and sword, two sets of clothes, gold in his purse and passage on a ship to take him anywhere he wishes to go. That is all the prize such a man would want."
THE DREAMER'S LOOM Page 36