Chapter 12
Tension choked the palace like a noose, pulling tighter by the second.
The previous day’s jubilant atmosphere had withered in the morning sun, leaving behind a dryness in the air, one that cracked and strained beneath the crumbling cordiality.
I stood in the entertaining hall, a jug of wine balanced in my arms, watching the suitors attempt awkward conversation.
They were growing restless, the impending decision weighing heavily on their delicate egos.
Only one would claim Helen’s hand today.
Only one would be victorious. I glanced around at the sea of proud faces, wondering how many of these men had ever tasted defeat before.
I doubted the bitter aftertaste would sit well with them.
Among the crowd, I spied Agamemnon and felt my insides grow cold. Shrinking farther into the shadows, I watched as the king of Mycenae strode across the room. As he drew closer, I noticed the slight limp he was so desperately trying to hide. I held my satisfaction tight inside me.
I did not regret my actions. I was glad I had made Agamemnon bleed, made him suffer the pain he so carelessly inflicted on my kind. That was worth any price.
I only prayed the wound would scar so whenever he looked at that slice of puckered, pale flesh, he might think of me—the slave he could not break.
Beside Agamemnon was a thickly built man who I assumed must be his brother, Menelaus. He had a shock of flaming hair, a more vibrant red than my own, and an easy smile that counterbalanced Agamemnon’s near-constant sneer.
My gaze then drifted to the dais where Tyndareus’s throne remained empty. He had not been seen all morning, and the suitors’ growing impatience was as oppressive as the heat sticking to the air.
I shifted my jug to my other hip, wishing someone would accept a cup of wine so I could empty some of its contents. But nobody was drinking today.
A bad sign.
“They are all armed,” Callias murmured to me, his face pinched with worry.
I nodded. “At the first sign of violence, we run. All right?”
His throat bobbed. “All right.”
At that moment, the king of Sparta strode through the crowd, nodding greetings to his gathered guests while pointedly ignoring the hostility itching between them.
His sons followed close behind, and in their wake, the women trundled in single file.
Only Leda’s face was bare; the other two were hidden behind rippling veils.
I recognized Penelope instantly.
I knew the cadence of her steps, the proudness of her spine, the elegant yet assured way her body moved, like water slipping over stone. Everything about her felt familiar, and yet she had never seemed more distant to me than in that moment, gliding through a sea of ravenous eyes.
As the Spartan royals ascended the dais, I noticed a shadow stealing into the room.
The other suitors seemed oblivious to this late entry, but their kind were unversed in the art of being unnoticed.
Peering closer, I caught the smirking eyes of the latecomer.
Instead of brushing his attention over me, as everyone else did with us slaves, the prince of Ithaca flashed me a conspiratorial wink.
Odysseus then turned his attention to the dais, his lips quirking as if he were enjoying a joke with himself.
“Guests, friends, I hope you all had a restful slumber and that you will accept my apologies for the delay. I was handling a few…pressing matters in preparation for the impending betrothal,” Tyndareus announced.
He appeared lighter this morning, the cloud that had followed him yesterday seemingly dissipated.
My gaze drifted back to Penelope. I found myself flexing my bandaged hand, the remnants of last night’s tension lingering inside me.
Looking at her now, so regal and remote, it seemed unfathomable—that closeness we had shared.
The girl on the dais was not the same one who had knelt before me, bathing my wounds and whispering her heartbroken apologies.
Did that version of her even truly exist?
My attention then caught on Penelope’s index finger methodically scratching at her thumb’s nail bed, tearing the loose skin. She always did that when she was nervous, and the familiar habit made something loosen inside me. She felt like my Penelope again.
No, no. Not my Penelope.
She was not my anything.
I tried to summon my shield of anger, focusing on the princess’s elegant robes, her expensive jewelry, her proud posture, reminding myself how small it made me feel, how meaningless.
She is not like you, and she never will be.
“Before we begin with the proceedings, I must first request something of you all,” Tyndareus continued.
His words were like stones cast into a still lake, causing pockets of conversation to ripple outward.
He held up a hand to silence his audience.
“It has become apparent that certain tensions have arisen in anticipation of the decision being made today. To avoid any unwanted repercussions, I have taken Prince Odysseus’s wise counsel and decided that any man wishing to be considered for Helen’s hand must first swear an oath.
This oath shall state that every hopeful suitor will respect Helen’s marriage and will do everything in their power to protect it.
This vow will be watched over by golden-throned Hera, Goddess of Marriage, and cloud-gatherer Zeus, Guardian of Oaths.
Any who break it will face their divine wrath. ”
Murmurs ricocheted through the room, eyes cutting to where Odysseus stood a little apart from the crowd with his arms indolently folded.
“How do we know this isn’t one of Odysseus’s ploys to best us?” a voice piped up.
“Because I have no interest in what you seek.”
I could not make out Odysseus’s face among the sea of turned heads, but I could hear his smirk in the curl of his words.
“Then why are you here?” came the thunderous voice of Ajax.
“I have made my desires clear to the king,” Odysseus replied.
Eyes narrowed on Tyndareus, who cleared his throat with a nod. “In return for Odysseus’s counsel, I have agreed to give my niece as his bride.”
I stared at Penelope, but she remained as motionless as a statue.
A strange satisfaction swelled inside me, knowing she had played these men so perfectly without them even realizing she was part of their game. Yet beneath that satisfaction, something tugged, like cords threaded around my ribs, pulling tight.
Men were slapping Odysseus on the back, shaking his hand. On the dais, Penelope still had not moved an inch, though I noticed her thumb was now bleeding, a crimson crescent moon spreading along her nail bed.
“I have a final suggestion if you will hear it, Tyndareus,” Odysseus announced.
“Very well. The floor is yours, prince of Ithaca.”
“I believe we should make Helen choose her husband.” Odysseus smiled at the shocked reactions, forging ahead in the silence he had created.
“After all, it is Helen who we are here for, is it not? She is the daughter of mighty Zeus. His divinity runs in her veins. If she chooses her husband freely, then every man in this room shall know the decision is a fair one, and it will not plant any malcontent.”
Tyndareus made a show of considering Odysseus’s words as if this were the first time he was hearing them. I wondered if anyone else bought the act.
“Very well. We shall let Helen choose her fate. As a child of Zeus, I believe she is entitled to do so.” Tyndareus nodded, clearly taking pleasure in painting himself as a fair, benevolent king. “Are there any objections to these conditions?”
At first, there were many. Most seemed reluctant to take the oath, unwilling to indebt themselves to another man, but Odysseus soon talked the room around.
The prince of Ithaca had a way with words, like a running stream, gentle and flowing yet determined in its destination, its currents gradually weathering all obstacles in its path.
He played to the men’s honor, to their glory, and they devoured his rhetoric, purpose gleaming in their eyes.
After the debates were finally settled, a bull was brought in for the sacrifice. It seemed an awful waste as I watched Tyndareus slit the poor creature’s throat, its lifeblood sweating onto the stone floors for the mere purpose of assuaging the men’s insufferable egos.
“Odysseus, you may do the honors,” Tyndareus declared once prayers to the gods had been offered.
The prince of Ithaca held up his palms. “Thank you, but there is no need, as I am no longer a prospective suitor for Helen.”
The amity that had settled grew taut as the men turned on Odysseus. His smile was slippery around his lips, his eyes sharp as he tried to think of a way out of this predicament.
Eventually, Odysseus seemed to accept there was no escape. He gave an easy laugh as he walked forward, as if this were all a joke to him. Though even from across the room, I noticed the tightness of his jaw.
Tyndareus held out a bowl filled with the dead beast’s blood, and Odysseus dipped his hands inside.
“I swear this oath to you, Tyndareus, to defend Helen’s marriage, whomever she chooses here today.” His words rang heavy and solemn throughout the room.
The other men followed suit.
The oaths took the rest of the morning, and I watched the sun stalk its way toward Callias and me until we were standing in a direct pillar of scalding light.
Finally, the time came when Helen was to make her decision.
It felt as if the palace itself were holding its breath, the walls leaning closer to listen as the veiled girl stepped forward, robes rippling around her feet.
As I watched her, I wondered what she must make of all this. All these men gathered for her, for the rumored beauty that rivaled the gods’. Did she enjoy the attention? Did she loathe it? I tried to recall what Penelope had told me of Helen.
She used to relish the fuss, she had said once. Until Theseus.
What happened?
He stole her. Took her far away. He wanted her as his bride. She was only a child. Castor and Polydeuces were the ones who brought her back. She was different after that. Quieter. She never speaks of what happened. Not even to Clytemnestra.
“Well, daughter? Who is it to be?” Tyndareus prompted.
When Helen spoke, her voice glowed like sunlit marble, warm and strong.
“Menelaus,” she announced clearly. “I choose Menelaus.”