I glanced between the two men. “He is cared for just as the other dogs are. He is simply old.”
The dog then shuffled off to the shady cover of the colonnade, settling down for a nap on the cool stone floor. The beggar watched him go, the grooves in his forehead deepening.
“The hound of Odysseus left to rot! Who dares treat Argos with so little respect?”
The name struck inside me, shifting dust from long-faded memories. I saw a small blur of dark muscle pounding over the fields. That same creature resting his head in my lap with soft, trusting eyes.
Argos likes you.
“How do you know that name?” I asked.
The beggar seemed to ignore me, too distracted by his rising temper.
“Someone must be punished for this negligence,” he told Eumaeus.
“I will see to it.”
I glared at Eumaeus, wondering why he was treating this cantankerous old man with such deference. Who washeto demand punishment beneath this roof?
“The dog is perfectly well. He is merely sleeping,” I said. “And nobody will be punished, for no wrongdoing has occurred.”
The beggar’s focus cut back to me, and there was something deeply unsettling about those eyes, a strange detachment to them, as if his thoughts had been loosened, left to swirl wildly in his skull.
“Remember your place, girl,” he warned darkly.
“Excuse me?” I snapped, my own rage rising to greet his.
“Melantho, do not,” Eumaeus whispered.
“What? I am to simply let this stranger intimidate me, is that it? What is he doing here anyway? Is Penelope’s home not leeched upon enough? Must we have another mouth to suck this palace dry?”
“Do not act like you care for your queen’s interest,” the beggar scoffed. “We know where your loyalties lie, girl. You and the other tramps that parade as handmaids.”
“You knownothing—”
“Perhaps it is best you return to the suitors, Melantho,” Eumaeus interjected. “We know it is their company you prefer after all.”
He glared at me with such unbridled disgust, and I knew,I knew, Eurycleia must have told him what she had seen that morning, just as she had told Autonoë.
I balled my trembling hands into fists. “Whatever you think you know, Eumaeus—”
“I do not need to hear more of your lies—”
“Enough! Let us not waste our breath on this one,” the beggar interjected. He then turned to walk away, muttering beneath his breath, “The Fates will see fit to punish her in time.”
57
I was exhausted when I finally returned to our chambers, though mybody 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 wasoursonce again.
Outside our quarters, I paused. I could hear a voice filtering through the walls, low and gravelly and distinctlymale. 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.
