Chapter 57
I was exhausted when I finally returned to our chambers, though my body felt keenly alert, the anticipation for the morning held like a blade to my throat.
I had spent the afternoon ensuring every detail of our plan was securely in place. Now I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, hold Penelope to me, and hide from the world until it was all over, until the suitors were gone and our home was ours once again.
Outside our quarters, I paused. I could hear a voice filtering through the walls, low and gravelly and distinctly male. With a swell of unease, I cracked open the door, peering inside to where a hunched figure sat beside the hearth.
The beggar.
What was he doing here? Penelope never allowed guests into our private space.
Kneeling before him was Eurycleia. The old slave was bathing his feet, an act usually reserved for the most respected of guests.
I inched the door open a little wider, stunned by this curious interaction.
Eurycleia was staring intently at the man’s leg, her fingers trembling as she touched his skin.
The beggar shifted in his seat, and I saw what had caught Eurycleia’s attention—a deep scar stretching along his thigh, one that looked vaguely familiar.
A loud clatter made me flinch. Eurycleia had dropped her basin, water spilling around her knees.
She cried out, but her voice was instantly choked by the beggar’s right hand at her throat.
He was on his feet now, thick fingers wrapped around Eurycleia’s neck as he growled at her, words too low for me to catch.
“Get off her!” I shouted, surging inside.
Though I harbored no love for Eurycleia, I could not simply stand by as a man harmed a defenseless woman.
The beggar released Eurycleia instantly, turning to me. “You again.”
“How dare you touch her like that,” I spat at him. “You need to leave. You have no place here. Get out. Go! Now!”
“Melantho.” Penelope’s voice was like a rush of cold water, dousing my rage.
I turned to find her standing in the doorway. Her eyes darted between the three of us, and there was something odd about her expression, a tightness I could not place.
“You are dismissed,” she said.
Eurycleia obeyed without protest, scarlet rings marring her throat as she hurried away. It took me a moment to realize Penelope was waiting for me to leave also.
“This man shouldn’t be here,” I said, holding my ground.
“I was told you had asked to meet with me, my lady,” the beggar interjected. His voice had shifted now, taking on a softer, more hesitant edge. His expression had changed, too, a strange shyness creeping over him.
Penelope nodded as she approached. “I hear from Eumaeus you are well traveled. I had hoped you might have news of my husband, and I thought it best we meet here so we may have some privacy away from my other…guests.”
“But—”
“That will be all, Melantho, thank you,” she said with a formality I was not used to.
“Penelope, this man tried to—”
“Please. Leave us.” The sting of her dismissal was soothed only by the guilt I sensed in her gaze. There was something else there, too, some message she was trying to convey. “Would you prepare my bedchamber for me? I will retire after I have spoken with my guest.”
I glanced back at the beggar, who was watching Penelope with an uncomfortable intensity, like he was a drowning man and she the glinting brush of shore on the horizon, beckoning him forward.
Then all at once, it made sense.
Why the beggar knew Argos’s name.
Why Eumaeus had treated him with such deference.
Why Eurycleia had reacted to the scar on his leg.
Why Penelope was looking at me now with such tension in her gaze.
I stared at the beggar, recognition seeping through me, accompanied by a slow rush of dread.
He looked so much older than I remembered.
The war had ravaged his features, though the starkest change of all was his eyes: Once sharp and alert, they were now hollow and worn, with an unnervingly wild glint.
This was not the man I had seen sail away twenty summers ago. Rather the rough, weathered shell of him, stripped of all that warmth and charm.
Penelope said something, though her voice sounded far away as I watched the beggar take his seat again by the hearth.
No, not the beggar. Odysseus.
The man who had left Penelope to fend for herself in an unfamiliar land with their newly born child.
The man who had spent ten years fattening his ego in a pointless war while Penelope dutifully raised his son and led his kingdom.
That same man who had spent another ten years delaying his homecoming, risking Penelope’s life while he abandoned his throne to warm a goddess’s bed.
Now Odysseus had finally returned, and he was playing games, trying to hide his identity from the very woman who had held his land together. Did he truly believe Penelope would fall for such a trick?
“Melantho?”
I blinked, realizing Penelope was staring at me, a stark thread of urgency in her eyes.
“Did you hear my request?”
“Do you not wish me to stay and…assist?” I asked, forcing my voice steady.
“Such insolence,” Odysseus muttered to himself.
“No, thank you,” Penelope said. “I would like to speak with our guest alone.”
“Very well.” I nodded numbly. “I shall prepare your chamber.”
Relief touched Penelope’s face, though it did not soothe the worried lines creasing it. “Thank you.”
I turned and walked away, every step feeling like a battle as I forced myself to leave Penelope alone with the beggar.
With her husband.
With the lost king of Ithaca.
***
It felt like a small eternity before Penelope returned to her bedchamber.
She looked dazed as she walked toward me, steps loose, eyes distant, as if she were drifting between thoughts.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” I whispered. I already knew the answer. I just needed to hear Penelope say it, needed her voice to solidify this madness into actuality.
She nodded.
It took every ounce of self-control not to run to her. I wanted to pull her into my arms and hold on as tightly as I could. But fear rooted me to my seat.
If Odysseus was lurking beneath this roof, nothing was safe anymore.
“Where’s his army? All the men of Ithaca…”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
Penelope came and sat beside me, her body stiff. I was desperate to know what had occurred between Odysseus and her, but I could tell Penelope’s thoughts needed space to breathe. So I waited, as patiently as I could, while the silence settled over us.
“His timing is truly impeccable,” she finally said.
Twenty years, and the day Odysseus decided to return was the eve before our plan came to fruition. The Fates were surely laughing at us.
“Did he reveal himself to you?” I asked, leaning forward.
She shook her head, a slight wrinkle of irritation pressing between her brows. “No, he kept up his strange pretense. He thinks me clueless. It is a little insulting, I must admit.”
“A little?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Why is he doing this?”
“Because he is afraid. He does not know who he can trust.”
“So this is some kind of test?”
“Yes. He clearly wishes to see who has remained loyal to him.” Penelope’s eyes focused then as if she were seeing me for the first time since walking into her room. “You must be careful, Melantho. You cannot speak to him the way you did tonight.”
“He grabbed Eurycleia by the throat—”
“And I fear he will do far worse if provoked.”
I balled my hands into fists, refusing to acknowledge the fear twisting inside me. “He cannot simply wander back in here and start threatening us—”
“Of course he can. He is the king.”
“He hasn’t been a king for twenty years.”
“Melantho.” Penelope reached for me, gently uncurling my fingers so she could slot hers between them. “I am not saying any of this is fair. It is simply the way of things.”
My eyes prickled—with tears of sadness or anger, I couldn’t be sure. All I could see was the way Odysseus had looked at her, that desperate longing in his eyes. As if she were his salvation, his hope, his future.
“What do you think he is going to do?” I whispered.
“He’s going to kill the suitors.”
I gaped at her. “He told you that?”
Penelope toyed absently with my fingertips. “He spoke in riddles, but his intentions were clear enough. Though I do not think he has a plan of any sort. I cannot tell if it is arrogance or insanity that makes him think he can take on a hundred men alone.”
“But what of our plan? What of the pirates?”
“Our plan will go ahead. It is too late to change course now, and Odysseus will need the assistance if he truly wishes to defeat the suitors.” A strained smile pinched Penelope’s mouth. “However great the legend of Odysseus is, he is still only one man. I think perhaps he has forgotten that.”
“What if he discovers it was our doing—”
“He won’t,” she said firmly, her hands tightening around mine. “All threads tie Eurymachus to the pirates. Odysseus will believe it was a deal gone sour, as everyone else will.”
“And if he tries to take on the pirates himself?”
Penelope’s gaze grew heavy, drifting toward the shadows. “I cannot say what will happen.”
“What of Telemachus?”
“I believe he already knows of his father’s return. He has spent the day with Eumaeus at his home. That is where Odysseus has been staying.”
“I think Eurycleia knows too. She recognized him.” I hesitated. “Should we tell the others?”
“In the morning. There is no point worrying them tonight.”
“So what do we do now?”
Penelope drew in a slow breath. “Nothing. There is nothing we can do but wait for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. The word had never seemed so daunting, filled with too many unknowns.
Mere hours before, I had been anxiously counting down the seconds until we would be free of the suitors and finally have our home back.
But now, even if our plan was successful, this palace would never be ours again. It would be Odysseus’s.
And so would Penelope.