Chapter 38
I nursed a cup of wine by the hearth.
Around me, the handmaids were talking, their chatter like a distant buzz at the back of my skull.
I stared at the fire, though I could not feel its warmth. I could not feel much at all, my body deliciously numb.
“What’s this?”
I glanced up to see Hippodamia enter, hands set on her hips.
“Why does everyone look so glum? Are we still mourning Achilles?”
“Not me,” Actoris muttered. “I’m bored stiff of everyone yappin’ on about him.”
Hippodamia swanned over with a smile. “Well, you’ll be delighted to know I heard some very exciting news today.”
“What news?” Autonoe perked up.
“Melantho and Eumaeus, of course! They are getting married!” Hippodamia clapped her hands, eyes sparkling with delight.
Everyone turned to me.
“That’s wonderful news, Melantho,” Eurynome said, moving closer to squeeze my arm. “Congratulations.”
“Is this why you’ve been drinking like a fish since you got back?” Actoris snickered.
I smirked at her and, with deliberate slowness, drained my cup.
“Well?” Hippodamia urged. “What do you have to say, Mel?”
“We’re not marrying,” I muttered.
Confusion rippled between the women.
“But…Penelope told me she had given her approval,” Hippodamia said.
“She did, and I refused him.”
“What?” Hippodamia gasped. “Why?”
I shrugged, moving to refill my cup. My limbs felt clumsy, and I chuckled as the wine slopped over the floor. Eurynome quickly steadied my hands before taking the jug from me.
“I don’t understand,” Hippodamia pressed. “Eumaeus is such a lovely man—”
“Why don’t you marry him then? He’s free for the taking now.”
Hippodamia seemed unsettled by my suggestion, glancing warily to Autonoe, who said, “Are you…all right, Melantho?”
I flashed my teeth. “Never better.”
“Marriage, pah.” Thratta made a point of spitting in the fire. “Marriage is how they control us.”
“I’d slit my own throat before I got married,” Actoris muttered.
“But what if the marriage were for love?” Hippodamia asked, settling herself on the rug.
“Love.” Thratta glanced to Actoris, who mirrored her smirk. “It is a myth.”
“That’s not true!” Hippodamia shot back, cheeks reddening.
“Looks like Hip has another crush.” Actoris grinned viciously.
“I do not!” Hippodamia folded her arms, visibly flustered. “You don’t have to be in love to believe in it. Ah, Penelope! You will agree with me, won’t you?”
Every inch of my body stiffened, as if a cord had been pulled taut inside me. The others appeared unchanged, as if Penelope’s presence had not just tilted the entire axis of the room.
Over the years, I had perfected the art of watching Penelope out of the corner of my eye, stealing fleeting glances.
But tonight, I did not care for subtlety.
I stared at her unashamedly as she took her usual seat by the fire.
She must have felt the weight of my gaze, but she ignored it as she asked, “Agree with what, Hippodamia?”
“That you can marry for love.”
Penelope’s smile was calm, measured. Of course it was.
“It is unusual, I’ll admit. Marriage is primarily a business transaction between men. But that is not to say there cannot be mutual affection, given time.”
“Is that what happened with you and Odysseus?”
My vision was too hazy to decipher Penelope’s expression.
“We did not have much time, sadly,” she said.
Hippodamia reached over to squeeze Penelope’s hand. “Of course, I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless of me to ask.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Eurynome whispered to me as I refilled my wine again.
“What? I’m celebrating my marriage,” I whispered back with a grin. “Or lack of one.”
“She will regret it in the morning,” Thratta muttered from my other side.
I ignored her as I drank, glaring at Penelope over the cup’s rim, willing her to look at me.
“The mood has been foul since this news of Achilles,” Hippodamia announced. “Let’s have a song, Autonoe, darling! Something to cheer us up.”
“What song would you like?” Autonoe asked, brushing her fingers through her long, glossy tendrils.
“Let’s have one about love,” I said loudly. “What do you think, my queen?”
Finally, Penelope met my gaze, her expression infuriatingly blank as she replied, “If that is what the others wish for.”
“What about a tale in honor of Achilles’s passing? Of his great love for Patroclus?” Autonoe offered.
“Oh yes! Perfect!” Hippodamia smiled, settling into the cushions she had piled behind her as Autonoe reached for her lyre.
“Penelope asked me a question once,” I interjected, rising to my feet. The world tipped beneath me, and Thratta flung an arm out, but I managed to catch myself with a hand on the back of my chair. “Do you think Achilles and Patroclus admitted their love to each other?”
There was a pause before Hippodamia answered, “I certainly hope they did.”
“Why?” I pressed.
She watched me with cautious eyes. “Well…it would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
“Exactly! What a shame it would be. What a waste.” The room tipped again, so I gripped the chair a little tighter. “Ten summers. Imagine that. Imagine wasting ten summers loving someone so pointlessly. It’s pathetic really, isn’t it? Utterly pathetic—”
“Melantho.” Penelope rose, the steadiness of her voice slicing through mine. “I think it best if you retire.”
“Is that an order, mistress?” I smirked as Penelope stiffened beneath the title.
“What happens if I disobey? Will I be punished? Will you have me whipped again? Did I ever tell you all about that?” I turned to the others, and their faces swayed around me like churning waves.
“When we were children, Penelope had me whipped.”
“Melantho,” she breathed. “Please, do not.”
“I was only nine at the time, and I was so scared I pissed myself.” I laughed, the sound rough against the accompanying silence. “Oh, come on. We can joke about it now. It’s funny. Isn’t it funny, Penelope?”
She stared wordlessly at me, eyes filled with a pain I refused to acknowledge.
“The wounds became infected. I nearly died, you know. Actually, come to think of it, Penelope never knew that. She ran away. Seems she has a habit of running away from things that scare her, don’t you, my queen?”
“Melantho.” My name was a warning now.
“Penelope.” I stared at her in challenge, dragging her name over my tongue. “Penelope, Penelope, Penelope.”
She glanced away while the others shared perplexed glances.
“I still have the scars,” I continued, speaking to the room, though my eyes remained fixed on the queen of Ithaca. “I’m sure you’ve all seen already, though I try to hide them. Do you want to see them now? I’ll show you.”
I began unclasping my gown, but a firm, tattooed hand locked around my wrist, halting me.
“Enough.” Thratta loomed over me.
“Get off,” I snapped.
She shook her head, her face blurring with the movement. I tried to break free, but she swept me into her arms, causing the room to tumble away like spilled wine.
“Put me down!” I shouted.
In Thratta’s large arms, I was a child again, being restrained against a table as the princess of Sparta readied the whip. I was a young girl held back as her mother was ripped from her life forever. I was a woman pressed against a bed as a man had his way with her.
The starved memories consumed me, and I began to scream, thrashing wildly, that vicious panic stuffing itself into my lungs, choking every breath.
“Let go of her! Let go, Thratta!” a voice came.
I felt the grip around me slacken and the sudden softness of a bed.
Whose bed am I on?
I flung myself off, hurtling to the farthest corner of the room. But the walls started to warp around me, the world spinning out of control.
I wanted it to stop.
Make it stop.
“Melantho?” That voice again. “Melantho? Can you hear me?”
I opened my mouth to say, “Yes, Penelope,” but the words did not come; instead, the entire contents of my stomach emptied onto the floor. The smell burned into my nostrils, my stomach roiling.
I’m sorry, Penelope. The words clogged in my throat as my consciousness bled away. I’m sorry…