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.
47
Bodies churned in a sea of drunken flesh.
It was chaos. Chaos wrapped in the stench of wine and sweat and meat.
I walked silently beside Penelope, wondering if there were any sight more vile than a room full of intoxicated, entitled men.
Once the suitors noticed Penelope’s presence, they began to cheer, ogling her with hazy eyes. They did not look at her as a queen but as a prize, a vessel for their own glory. I fought the urge to bare my teeth at them.
Only Hippodamia, Autonoë, and I accompanied Penelope into the banquet hall. We had agreed that the fewer women the suitors fixed their sights on, the better. And Thratta and Actoris couldn’t be trusted not to start a fight.
“Our queen!” Unsurprisingly, it was Eurymachus who spoke first. “You honor us with your presence!”
He raised his cup, his handsome face shining with that infuriatingly fake smile of his. Beside him, as always, sat Antinous, his loyal dog. Antinous’s soulless eyes seemed even emptier than usual, like two black pits carved into his ugly face.
“Thank you, Eurymachus.” Penelope refused to raise her voice, forcing the men to fall quiet so they could hear their prize speak. “I wished to ensure you were all comfortable and being suitablycared for.”
There was a roar of approval, wine sloshing as cups clattered together.
“Your hospitality has been exceptional,” Eurymachus said. “But I must tell you, my queen, we are all very keen to know when you plan on selecting a husband.”
“I already have a husband, as you well know, Eurymachus,” Penelope replied, her voice a veneer of calm, “and I will not consider another until I have confirmation of his death.”
“Is it not common knowledge that Odysseus died some time ago?” Eurymachus pressed, then bowed his head. “May Hades keep his soul.”
“It’s time the queen stopped hiding behind Odysseus’s rotting corpse,” Antinous said around a mouthful of fish. He smacked his greasy lips, pushing his long, limp hair off his face. “Ithaca needs a king.”
Fists slammed down on tables in thunderous agreement, and I fought the overwhelming urge to lunge forward and slit Antinous’s throat with one of the meat knives.
“Come now, Antinous. Let us not speak of corpses in the lady’s presence,” Eurymachus chided. “Queen Penelope, you were telling us the purpose of your visit. Do continue.”
“I have brought you all a gift.” Penelope motioned to the man who had entered behind us. “This is Phemius. He is a much-celebrated bard here in Ithaca. I have instructed him to entertain you with his excellent tales.”
The men cheered, and a smile lifted Phemius’s plump face, his eyes gleaming with the challenge of such a raucous audience.
“Thank you, Queen Penelope.” Phemius bowed, then reaffirmed his grip on his lyre.
“I will leave you in Phemius’s capable hands,” Penelope announced before turning sharply on her heel and striding toward the door.
I followed her, with Hippodamia and Autonoë close behind. Penelope walked with steady, assured steps, but I could tell from the tension laced into her spine that she was fighting the urge to flee thisden of wolves.
In the hallway, Penelope let out a small sigh.
“They have fewer manners than the hounds,” Hippodamia whispered.
“That Antinous is a nasty one,” Autonoë echoed.
From within the banquet hall, we heard Phemius’s voice warbling over the din. He was singing of Odysseus, as Penelope had instructed him to, of his might and bravery, how his sharp mind could be bested by no man.
“I do not think a few songs will appease those men,” I muttered.
“No,” Penelope agreed. “But there is still value in keeping the legend of Odysseus alive.”
Phemius began singing of Penelope then, of her exemplary loyalty and devotion to her true love, Odysseus. My eyes met hers, and a chord of tension rippled between us, like the jarring twang of an untuned string. I wondered if she felt guilty when she heard her fidelity praised so lavishly. The impeccable queen of Ithaca, the perfect wife. If Greece only knew the truth, how different those songs would be. I hated to think of it—how my love would demonize her, staining Penelope forevermore.
