Chapter 61
Night had fallen by the time we finished.
I stood beside my friends as Odysseus surveyed the spotless room, my muscles aching fiercely. I drew in a slow breath, the stench of blood and death permanently scalded into my nostrils.
I could feel the same suffocating exhaustion weighing down the others as we awaited Odysseus’s assessment of our work. We all longed to return to our quarters, to bathe and sleep and escape this nightmare. But there was still that look in Odysseus’s eyes, that agitated hunger.
I knew his vengeance was not satiated, not yet.
Telemachus lurked in the corner of the room, his face ashen. He had been quiet ever since Eumaeus had dragged my brother away, as if the reality of this day had finally come crashing down upon him. He had never killed a person before, and now so many souls stained his hands.
Odysseus did not seem to notice his son’s unease. Or perhaps he chose not to.
“At least your cleaning skills are still exemplary,” Odysseus said. He then walked down our line and stopped before Actoris, his thick frame towering over her. “You. Follow.”
Panic stole my breath as I watched Actoris hesitate.
She glanced to Telemachus, who gave her a subtle nod.
Then, lifting her chin a little higher, she followed the king of Ithaca out of the door.
Moments later, he returned, this time beckoning Skaris to follow.
Odysseus continued in this way until I was the last left in the hall.
“Where is he taking us?” I asked Telemachus once we were alone. He remained pointedly silent. “I did not betray you, Telemachus. You must know that.”
“So Eurycleia lied about what she saw?” he asked quietly.
“You don’t understand—”
“No. Clearly, I do not.”
“Everything I did was to protect you, to protect your mother. I was never on their side. You must know that. I pretended to ally myself with them for information.”
The prince of Ithaca met my gaze for a silent beat, then looked away. I wanted to storm over and shake some sense into him, but Odysseus appeared in the doorway, summoning me with a large, open hand.
Numbly, I followed the king as he led me to the courtyard, flanked by Telemachus. We walked in silence toward the large oak tree at the center of the square. Darkness had crept over the palace now, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust, to realize what hung from that tree.
Six nooses.
I froze, my eyes darting to the handmaids—my friends, my sisters—who were standing side by side with rope around their throats.
Even in the blackness, I could make out the bruising on Actoris’s and Skaris’s faces.
Clearly, they had put up a fight, but now the two of them stood bound and gagged with Eumaeus beside them, his sword held in silent warning.
“Move,” Odysseus commanded me.
“You can’t do this,” I choked out.
Odysseus ignored me, grabbing my arm and hauling me toward the final noose. I battled against him, but he was unnervingly strong, forcing the rope around my throat with ease.
“Father!” Telemachus shouted, following behind us. “What are you doing? What is this?”
“Justice.” Odysseus snarled the word.
“These women are innocent!”
“Innocent? They spread their legs for our enemies. They conspired to have you killed. They dishonored their queen. And you call them innocent?”
Telemachus froze, trembling hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You’re wrong, Father.”
Odysseus released me to turn toward his son, blade lifted. “What did you say?”
Telemachus held up his hands. “Father, f-forgive me. But these women raised me. I know them. They are innocent. I swear it.”
“They have manipulated you,” Odysseus spat, lowering his sword. “Eurycleia has told me all I need to know.”
Rage scorched my insides, but it was quickly chased by a rush of fear as Odysseus forced my hands behind my back. Beside me, I held the eyes of Autonoe, tears streaming down her scarred cheeks.
“It’ll be all right,” she whispered to me.
We both knew it was a lie.
“Get the rope. Bind her hands like the others,” Odysseus ordered.
“Father—”
“Are you my son, or are you a coward? Bind her.”
Telemachus stared at Odysseus: the man he had idolized his entire life, the legend he so desperately wished to live up to, the father he had always longed to impress.
Then he turned to look at us: the women who had raised him, who were always by his side, who had loved him since he had been just a babe in his mother’s arms.
The prince of Ithaca swallowed, then picked up the rope and walked toward me. He could not meet my gaze as he began binding my wrists.
“Go and get your mother,” I breathed. “She will stop this.”
He glanced at me, his eyes like two gaping wounds, glistening and raw.
“This is all I can do,” he murmured before turning away.
Helplessly, I looked to where Autonoe and Hippodamia quietly wept.
To Eurynome holding her head proudly despite her shivering body.
To bloody and bruised Actoris furiously trying to rip herself free from her bindings.
To Skaris, who seemed a little woozy with blood loss, Eumaeus’s blade angled at her throat.
“You know this is wrong,” I shouted at Eumaeus.
“Do not speak to me of wrong,” he retorted, his voice lit with purpose, blazing like a funeral pyre. “You betrayed our queen, our prince, our king. You betrayed all of Ithaca. This is the justice my master calls for, the gods call for, and I shall abide by it.”
“Do you see? That is what it means to be a true servant of this household. Loyalty above all else,” Odysseus declared. “Now the gods shall see you answer for your crimes.”
“Penelope would not want this!” My words sounded hoarse, roughened by the noose biting at my throat.
The king of Ithaca turned slowly, then stalked toward me. He stopped inches away from my face, and beneath the pale gaze of the moon, I noticed how bruised his eyes were, the skin puffy and drooping, as if he had not slept in days. Longer perhaps.
The blood on his face had started to dry, gathering in the deep creases bracketing his features, emphasizing every groove. He looked so old, his face beaten down to a gnarled husk of the man I had once known.
This was Ithaca’s beloved king, whom they had waited two decades for. Their salvation.
But I saw no salvation in his eyes, only death.
“What did you say?” he asked, his voice lethally soft.
I leaned as far forward as the rope would allow.
“Penelope would not want this,” I repeated.
As I held his glare, I realized there was more than just death written in those sharp eyes of his. Something else lurked there, too, something dangerously delicate. He reminded me of a cornered beast—lost and frantic, perhaps even afraid.
Odysseus mirrored my movement, leaning in so close our lips were almost touching.
“And what would you know of what my wife wants?”
So many retorts danced on my tongue, begging to be flung into his bloodied face. But I bit the truth back, grinding it between my teeth.
“Ask her yourself,” I said. “Bring her here. See what she thinks of your justice.”
“You have put my wife through enough. You will not trouble her a moment more.”
I turned to Telemachus, panic seeping into my voice. “You know your mother would not want this. Please. Do something.”
“Do you see how their kind speak to us when they are not kept in check? There is no respect here.” Odysseus threw his arm around Telemachus, making him flinch. “Son, it is time I show you how a true king handles his household.”
I could feel the shadow of death creeping into the courtyard then, leeching all warmth from the air. Time seemed to thicken and slow, seconds trudging past as if they were minutes, hours.
Come back to me.
Odysseus was saying something to Telemachus, and the prince bowed his head and turned to leave.
But before he walked away, Telemachus’s eyes flickered to mine.
Over the years, I had read a million silent messages through Penelope’s eyes, and I saw that same look in Telemachus’s gaze now, willing me to understand.
This is all I can do. His words came back to me, and it was in that moment I realized…my bindings were loose. With just a little force, I would be able to free my hands.
But if I freed myself, what then? I knew I wouldn’t have time to untie the others, nor could I leave them there to die. What if I somehow lured Odysseus away? If I provoked him into giving chase to me, could that allow the others a chance to escape?
This fragile burst of hope was quickly eclipsed by the sight of Telemachus dragging a naked, bound slave into the courtyard and placing him at Odysseus’s feet.
My brother.
I began desperately pulling my wrists from their bindings, but panic made my hands clumsy as the king of Ithaca stared down at Melanthius.
“If you were a better man, I would give you a speech. I would speak of loyalty and honor and the price of each. But…” Odysseus tilted his head to the side, a slow, menacing movement. “You are not worthy of such words.”
With that, he bent toward Melanthius, yanking back his head. My brother’s eyes collided with mine, and I froze.
I could not think. Could not breathe.
“Nor are you worthy of a dignified death,” Odysseus said. “You chose to live in dishonor, and so shall you die in her humiliating embrace.”
With a grim smile, the king of Ithaca took his dagger to Melanthius’s face and carved off his nose.
The world tilted beneath me, my knees crumpling, making the noose pull tighter around my throat, choking back my screams.
Then Odysseus took the blade to my brother’s ears.
“Don’t look,” Autonoe gasped beside me. “Look away, Melantho.”
But I could not.