Chapter 46
The news spread like wildfire.
Pheme, the fleet-footed Goddess of Rumor, set Ithaca and all its surrounding islands alight.
Queen Penelope is welcoming suitors!
Queen Penelope is looking for a husband!
Before the waxing of the moon, the palace was filled with near fifty hopeful noblemen, all clamoring for the opportunity to claim Penelope’s hand and with it Ithaca’s throne.
They drank and feasted and glutted themselves on Penelope’s hospitality.
Among the chaos, Eurymachus and Antinous reigned, stirring up the men’s hearts and stoking their pride, declaring hollow sentiments such as “May the best man win!” and “Penelope will only choose the greatest among us.”
These were men too young to join the Trojan War, forced to grow up in its mighty shadow, hearing endless tales of the heroes they had come so close to fighting alongside, the legends they had almost lived.
It was evident how heavily it weighed on them.
I imagined they lay awake at night, taunted by visions of who they could have been had they been born a few summers earlier.
Men were obsessed with their legacies, finding ways to carve their names in history, and the suitors seemed to believe Penelope was their best opportunity. If they secured the throne and wife of the famed Odysseus, then at least their names would forever be sung in the same breath as his.
“My husband is not dead,” Penelope would tell them time and time again, but nobody ever listened.
And nobody would leave.
***
“What if we force them out?” Thratta asked one evening as we sat around the hearth.
Even tucked away in Penelope’s quarters, we could hear the raucous revelry of the suitors far below. Penelope had advised us not to wander the palace alone after dark anymore. It made the shadows feel heavier, to know these quarters were no longer a place to simply relax but now also to hide.
“With which men?” Penelope said, staring into the flames. Her face was tight, and I felt my hands twitch in my lap, longing to soothe those worried lines. “The army was lost with Odysseus, and nearly every last eligible Ithacan man is in that hall awaiting my hand in marriage.”
Hippodamia shook her head, dismayed. “How could they betray Odysseus like that? He is their king!”
“Of course they would betray him for power,” I interjected. “They’re all bitter and ego-bruised because the women of Ithaca refused to retreat into their shadow. They’re desperate for control.”
“I could take those pampered pricks,” Actoris snarled, twirling her dagger.
“No, you can’t.”
She scowled at me. “At least let me pick off one or two.”
“If we harm a single hair on their heads, we break the hospitality laws of xenia,” I reminded her. “That is the only thing keeping the suitors civilized. If that bind is severed, they will be within their rights to attack. To seize the throne by force.”
“And even if you were somehow possessed by Ares and able to slaughter all of them,” Penelope continued, “many of those men are born of powerful families, families with strong allies who would retaliate in an instant.”
“So what do we do?” Hippodamia asked quietly.
Penelope said nothing, and I watched her mind turn, skimming through all the possibilities that lay ahead, mentally weaving the threads of fate.
“My queen, if I may speak?” Eurynome ventured from where she sat beside me. She was draped in pelts, as she suffered from chills these days, and I noted how small she looked beneath them. “Would it be so terrible to take a new husband?”
“Yes,” I snapped with more intensity than I intended. “She’s already married.”
My words hung hollow in the room. Everyone knew the truth of Penelope’s abandonment now. She could no longer hide behind the promise of Odysseus’s return; it was as flimsy as using a strip of fabric as a shield in battle.
“Say I chose Eurymachus to wed,” Penelope mused, and I swallowed my nausea at the mere thought.
“Marrying him would strengthen relationships with Same, but what of the suitors who hail from Zacynthus or Dulichium? Do you think they would accept such a rejection? Certainly not. They would fight, as all men do when their egos are bruised. Their blood would be spilled in these halls, some would die, and then a war would begin among our neighboring islands, islands we rely heavily on for trade. Not to mention we do not have the army or the provisions to withstand a war.” Penelope folded her hands neatly in her lap, letting out a small sigh.
“But let us say, for argument’s sake, that by some miracle of the gods, the suitors accepted my choice of husband without retaliation.
What do you suppose my new husband would do with Telemachus?
He is the rightful heir to the throne. Do you think a new king would let him remain in Ithaca? Let him remain alive?”
For a time, nobody spoke. We just listened to the suitors’ drunken laughter reverberating through the walls.
“If you cannot marry any of them, then what are we to do?” Autonoe whispered.
“We will do what all women are known to do,” Penelope said, taking a slow sip of her wine. “We will gossip.”
Actoris coughed out a surprised laugh. “Gossip?”
“Exactly.” The corners of Penelope’s mouth twitched upward. “We will spin tales of Odysseus’s greatness, stories of his exploits over the past seven summers. We will breathe life into his legend so that even the mere possibility of Odysseus’s return will frighten the suitors from these halls.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” Actoris pressed.
Before Penelope could reply, the door was flung open, and Eurycleia entered, trailed by Telemachus.
“Those men are vile, uncivilized animals,” Eurycleia spat as she hobbled over to the hearth, reaching her knotted fingers toward its warmth. “They drink like animals too. They are demanding more wine. More! They are already running our stock dry. What would you have us do, my queen?”
Penelope did not lift her eyes from the fire as she replied, “Give them what they ask for.”
“But—”
“We must keep our guests satiated.”
“They insult us with their gluttony. It is a show of disrespect,” Telemachus cried, his angular frame tight with rage.
Penelope looked to her son. “What would you have me do?”
“They are only here because they want Father’s title. Once that opportunity is gone, they will leave. Announce me as king. I will banish them all when I sit upon the throne.”
Penelope shook her head once. “No.”
“Mother—”
“Please, if you would give us a moment,” she said to the room.
I caught her eye as the others left, my unspoken question rippling between us. Penelope gave a slight nod in answer. Stay.
Once we were alone, Telemachus strode toward his mother, every step full of tightly wound purpose.
“Why, Mother? Why will you not announce me as king?”
“Because you are not ready,” Penelope replied.
These words, so brutally simple, were a slap in Telemachus’s face, and for a moment, he could only stare at his mother, trying to mask their sting.
“I am seventeen,” he said through clenched teeth. “Younger men died on the fields of Troy for their kingdoms.”
“Is that what you wish? To die for Ithaca?”
“I wish to fight for it.”
I had never heard such passion in Telemachus’s voice before, and I felt a sudden swell of pride.
“I will fight for my father’s throne. For my birthright. For this land that I love. I would fight for you.”
“With which army?” Penelope challenged. “You have no swords sworn under your name, no men who will fight for your honor. You say you wish to fight, but there will be no battle, Telemachus. There would be only slaughter.”
Color rushed to the prince’s cheeks, and I watched as that shame quickly heated into anger.
“I am the only son of great-hearted Odysseus, Sacker of Cities. His blood runs in my veins. It is my birthright to sit on Ithaca’s throne.”
“Do you think these men care for such titles?” Penelope’s voice remained steady. “To them, you are an obstacle, Telemachus, nothing more. They will cut you down the moment I announce you as king.”
“What if Ithaca’s council supported me?”
“The councilmen—those still alive—are the fathers of the very suitors who roam these halls,” I pointed out.
“Melantho is right. The council cannot openly stand against you, as their loyalty is sworn to Odysseus. But neither will they support you.”
“Mentor will support me,” Telemachus insisted.
“Mentor is just one man,” Penelope countered. “One very old man who has never lifted a sword in his life.”
A muscle in Telemachus’s jaw ticked.
“What if I announce myself as king?”
Penelope tilted her head as she studied her son. A rage had appeared inside him during his most recent flush of adolescence. It was his father’s rage, I knew. I recognized its quiet heaviness, like a stone settled in his core.
“You would take your father’s crown without his blessing?”
“My father is dead.”
Penelope arched a brow. “You have proof of this?”
Telemachus glanced away as he muttered, “I pray he is.”
Of course he would, for what was the alternative? A father who had abandoned his son for a better opportunity?
My heart ached for Telemachus as he stared at the floor, quietly suffocating beneath Odysseus’s unyielding shadow. How must it have felt to have only an intangible legend for a father?
I wished I could tell Telemachus how distinctly average his father truly was, how he was idolizing the wrong parent. But I knew he would never listen.
Slowly, the queen of Ithaca rose from her chair and moved toward her son.
“I will see you rule Ithaca, not die for her,” she told him, taking his hands in hers. “You will be a great king, Telemachus. But only once you are ready.”
“And when will that be?”
“I wish I knew.”
Telemachus recoiled from her words, snatching his hands away.
“What do you know of such things?” he bit back at her. “You are just a woman.”
I rose to interject, but Telemachus was already storming away, robes billowing behind him with each furious stride.
“Let him go,” Penelope said, sinking back into her seat.
I moved to her, unable to keep the agonizing distance between us any longer. Standing behind her chair, I draped my arms around Penelope’s shoulders, resting my cheek against hers.
“Was I too hard on him?”
“You did what you had to,” I murmured. “To protect him.”
“And he hates me for it.”
“He will understand. Give him time.”
Penelope reached up to grip my arms wrapped around her, lips grazing my skin.
“I’m afraid for him,” she admitted, her voice so achingly vulnerable.
“I know.” I buried my face in her neck. “But we will never let anything happen to Telemachus. You know that.”
In the silence, I could sense a poisonous anxiety creeping beneath Penelope’s skin, taking root inside her. I wanted to say something reassuring, something that would keep those fears at bay, even make her smile perhaps. But what words could suffice against all that she was facing?
So instead, I simply held her tighter, hoping the warmth of my body against hers would be enough to chase the darkness away.