Chapter 56
“What did you do?”
Eurymachus cornered me in the banquet hall, as I had known he would.
“I do not know of what you speak.” I felt the wall bite into my back as he pressed closer, hands flexing into fists. It was not even noon, and his eyes were already hazy with wine.
“Telemachus returned yesterday,” he said, each word forced out through his clenched teeth. “Alive.”
I widened my eyes. “Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m fucking certain. I saw him.” He braced his hands on either side of my head. “So I’ll ask you again. What did you do?”
“Me? You think this is my doing?”
“That isn’t an answer.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “You believe I went to the pirates myself? Convinced them not to kill Telemachus? And what exactly do you think I had to bargain with? To persuade them to listen to a woman? A slave?”
Doubt punctured Eurymachus’s rage, his body seeming to deflate as he stepped back. Over his shoulder, I saw suitors slowly filtering into the banquet hall, having finally dragged themselves out of their wine-addled slumber, ready for another day of indulgence.
Little did they know that it would be their last.
I suppressed a smile as I turned back to Eurymachus. “You have a palace full of men who all want what you want, yet you point the finger at me?”
“Keep your voice down,” Eurymachus snarled.
I held his glare for a silent beat, then turned to walk away.
“Where are you going?” He caught my arm. “You said you had news for me.”
“Why should I share anything with you when you clearly do not trust me?”
“Perhaps I…hastened to conclusions,” he muttered, releasing me. I was certain this was the closest Eurymachus had ever come to admitting he was wrong. “It’s difficult to know who to trust in this madhouse.”
I lowered my voice to a husky whisper. “Did I not prove my loyalty the other night?”
He gave a dismissive grunt. “Tell me your news.”
I masked a wince as I folded my arms. Eurymachus had grabbed me hard enough to bruise.
“Penelope will choose a husband,” I said. “Tomorrow, during Apollo’s festival. She wants to ensure every suitor is present to hear her decision.”
Eurymachus’s eyes widened. “I have done it. I have finally worn her down.”
“After you uncovered her little ploy with the shroud, she has no other option. She has admitted defeat. You have won.”
Eurymachus did not soften under my flattery.
“I heard the slaves talking. They said Penelope has dismissed them for tomorrow. Why?”
My heartbeat quickened. If he suspects something…
“Penelope always does so during the festival of Apollo,” I said neutrally. “It is tradition.”
“These slaves are disgustingly spoiled,” he spat. “Who will Penelope choose? Do you know?”
“No. But I know my mistress is drawn to wealth, though she would deny it. She will likely choose whoever has been most generous in securing her favor. Ctesippus, I believe, has given the most gifts so far, but there is still time to remedy that before tomorrow…”
“We have given that bitch enough. Her treasuries are overflowing.”
I raised a brow. “And whose treasuries shall they become once Penelope chooses a husband?”
A slow smile crawled across Eurymachus’s face. “Perhaps more gifts are in order then.”
“Perhaps.”
Without warning, he reached out to brush a curl from my face. His touch invited unwanted memories to claw their way up my throat, visions of his bare flesh against mine, his hands in my hair, his hot breath in my face…
“I must go,” I said abruptly. “Penelope is expecting me.”
Eurymachus blocked my path, eyes darkening.
“Penelope must choose me tomorrow,” he hissed. “No one else can sit upon that throne. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He stepped aside. “Once I am king, you shall be amply rewarded for your…support.”
As Eurymachus sauntered away, I caught sight of a hunched shadow scuttling out of the hall.
Eurycleia.
How much of our conversation had she heard?
I went to follow her, but my attention was caught by an outburst of cheers. The suitors were gathered in a familiar ring with two men in the center. One was an old man I did not recognize, and the other was my brother.
I stormed toward the crowd as Melanthius began circling his opponent, drowning in mocking jeers.
There was a coldness in his expression, an abject emptiness that made my chest tighten.
His opponent appeared far older than him; his graying hair was thick and unruly, tangling into his beard like a foaming sea.
His skin had clearly been punished by the sun, which had turned it cracked and wrinkled.
Given the state of his clothes and the smell that clung to him, he must have been a beggar.
How the suitors loved to prey on desperate individuals.
I did not want to watch my brother fight again, yet I found I could not look away. A small, ugly part of me was relieved that Melanthius’s opponent appeared old and weak. At least the match would be over quickly.
My brother threw out a jab, his movements more controlled than the last time I had seen him brawl.
I flinched, anticipating the impact on the poor man’s face.
But the hit never landed. One second, Melanthius’s fist was sailing toward his opponent, and the next moment, my brother was on the floor.
The beggar had felled him with one swift maneuver, grabbing his fist and using his momentum against him to bring my brother crashing down.
The old man landed a punch straight to Melanthius’s nose, then again to his jaw before pulling my brother into a headlock.
After a brief struggle, Melanthius tapped his opponent’s arm, and he released him instantly.
The beggar offered his hand to Melanthius, but my brother shoved past him and stalked out of the hall, chased by the suitors’ mocking laughter. The old man watched him go, his expression unreadable beneath all that wild hair.
“What filth have you let into our palace?” Antinous bellowed as he entered the hall.
“Some wretch the pig man dragged into our halls,” Eurymachus replied, appearing at my side.
Antinous waved a hand. “I can smell the stench of him from here. Someone send that dog away.”
“I was victorious in your competition,” the beggar said, his voice low and coarse, like knotted rope, though his accent was surprisingly refined.
“All you are is another mouth snapping at our table,” Antinous sneered, taking his usual seat. “Be gone, mutt.”
The beggar took a step forward. “You sit in another man’s home, enjoying his food and his comforts, yet you would not share a crumb of your banquet with the likes of me?”
“Are you deaf, old man?” Antinous mocked. “I said: Be gone.”
The man’s weathered face darkened, though his eyes flashed bright. “The gods do not look kindly upon such vile greed. They will punish you for it.”
Antinous rose. “Is that a threat?”
“It is a fact.”
With a snarl, Antinous grabbed his stool and launched it across the room toward the beggar.
But the old man moved with that same, regimented swiftness he had used to dispatch my brother.
He caught the stool smoothly in his gnarled hands, plucking it from the air as if he were picking an apple from a tree.
A shocked stillness fell across the room. Then, with mockingly slow strides, the beggar approached Antinous and set the stool down beside him.
“You seemed to have misplaced your seat,” he said, holding the suitor’s gaze unflinchingly.
Without waiting for Antinous to reply, the stranger then turned and stalked from the hall, leaving a bemused silence in his wake.
***
Melanthius’s face was a mess.
He was in the courtyard, leaning back against a pillar as he probed his bloodied nose.
Both eyes were already starting to darken with bruising, his bottom lip fat and swollen.
Older bruises also marred his skin, as did fresh scars I had never seen before.
He did not flinch under my scrutiny but lifted his chin a little higher, as if he were proud of his ruined face.
“You look like shit,” I told him.
He huffed a humorless laugh. “That what you came here to tell me?”
As I stared at him, I realized we were standing in the exact same way, mirroring each other so effortlessly: both leaning against adjacent pillars, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. I shifted uncomfortably, dropping my arms to my side.
“Why do you still do it—the fights?”
“They give me a cut of the winnings,” Melanthius said, prodding his swollen lip. “Slaves work themselves to death and get nothing for it. The suitors might like me getting bruised up a bit, but at least they pay me.”
“How much do you get?”
He shrugged. “Enough.”
“Where do you keep it? Your winnings?”
Melanthius looked away then, folding his arms tighter across his chest. “Eurymachus keeps it safe for me.”
Of course he does.
“Don’t,” he snapped.
“I didn’t say anything.”
His glare clashed against my own. “I can see it all over your face. Your judgment. You reek of it. Is that why you’re here? To look down on me from your mighty high ground?”
I shook my head, forcing my temper to settle. “I’m here because I want to make you an offer.”
His swollen eyes narrowed. “What offer?”
“To go back to Sparta,” I said carefully. “Penelope will send you as a gift to her cousin, Helen. You can return to the palace.”
Melanthius scoffed. “So you want to trade me from one prison to another? Is that it?”
“If you return to Sparta, you will be able to see Melitta again,” I pressed. “To meet your child.”
His gaze hardened. “You can’t know that. She could be dead or sold for all you know.”
“That is why I never made you this offer before,” I admitted. “I did not want to send you to Sparta unless I was certain there was something there for you.”
“Then why make it now?”
I could tell Melanthius was trying to mask the nervous anticipation in his voice, flattening it to a dull, dead note.
I stepped toward him, my movements placatingly slow.