Time in Ithaca passed like a sigh, stretching endlessly onward.
In Sparta, life had had a rhythm, like a thumping war drum—fast, monotonous, relentless. But in Ithaca, the days simply spilled into one another, like unspooling threads.
The slaves in the kitchens bumbled around sleepily, taking time to chatter and laugh as they worked. Nobody ever seemed in a rush, as if they believed their time infinite. King Laertes rose late and seemed to let us get on with our work in our own time. Meanwhile, Odysseus seemed happy to tend to his own needs. I had been utterly bemused when I first saw him sauntering into the kitchens one morning, striking up a conversation with the cook as he helped prepare his own breakfast. The cook had been unfazed by his master’s assistance, as if it were a regular occurrence. He even affectionately chided Odysseus, “You are stirring the porridge too much. You must let it thicken!” The Ithacan prince had merely laughed at the cook’s reproach and held up his hands in mock surrender.
I had seen Odysseus in the fields, too, working alongside the other men, their bronzed bodies glinting beneath the harsh sun. Another time, I caught him strolling in the gardens, talking with my father, his face lit with genuine interest as he questioned him on the flowers he was tending. That was the thing about Odysseus—helovedto ask questions, and he spoke to everyone with the same level of unbridledaffability.
It must have been an act.
Surely, he was trying to lull his slaves into a false sense of security so he could catch them out. Or perhaps he was trying to impress Penelope with this facade. Why else would he show such interest in our kind?
Yet as the days rolled ceaselessly on, Odysseus’s charming act never faltered.
Still, I did not trust him. Though I seemed to be the only person in all of Ithaca who did not. EveryoneadoredOdysseus, even the slaves. If ever I made a derisive comment about our master, they would stare at me with baffled expressions, as if I had just condemned Zeus himself.
I quickly learned to just keep my mouth shut, doing my best to avoid all social interactions.
I avoided Penelope too.
Thankfully, our paths rarely crossed. Only on occasion when Odysseus hosted guests and I assisted the serving girls. Penelope often joined these dinners, though she spoke little, if at all. She would smile blandly while Odysseus recounted, time and time again, the story of how he hadso cleverlywon her hand, aiding Tyndareus in his dangerous predicament. He never once mentioned Penelope’s involvement in the concoction of this plan, and Penelope never interjected to correct him. She just sat there silently, a shiny trophy for Odysseus to display. On the odd occasion Penelopedidspeak, the table would always fall silent, and I would glimpse Odysseus subtly squeezing her hand. Penelope usually excused herself shortly after that.
A possession, Hippodamia had called her.
I knew all too well how men hated when their possessions spoke back.
Yet Odysseus seemed to bask in Penelope’s conversation when they were alone. I often saw them strolling arm in arm through the courtyard, deep in discussion. The sight always stoked my hatred,though the feeling seemed heavier in my chest, sadder.
Perhaps I was lonely.
I only spoke to my brother, though our conversations were scarce. Much of Melanthius’s time was spent away from the palace, herding the goats he tended. I knew it wasn’t good for him, being alone in the mountains with only his misery for company. Each time I saw him, it was as if a little more of my brother had disappeared, devoured by that all-consuming grief. I feared the day I would not be able to recognize him at all.
A few times, I considered how we might escape, but just the thought of it had me sweating with memories of that hideous night. Besides, Ithaca was a small island; it would be nearly impossible to make it onto a ship without anyone being alerted. And even if we did, what then? Travel to Sparta and break into Tyndareus’s palace and free Callias and Melitta? And who was to say they were still serving there? They could have been sold for all we knew.
We would not be able to save Callias and Melitta; we would only doom ourselves. But this knowledge, however true, did not ease my guilt, only soured it. Yet I had learned to endure such feelings. Guilt. Loss. Grief. Anger. I had felt them all so viciously in the wake of losing my mother that now they felt dulled, blunted like an overused blade that could no longer cut as deep as it once had.
Still, each night, I woke fighting for breath, my ears ringing with Callias’s screams, the smell of Melitta’s burning flesh catching in my throat, making me retch.
As I lay my head back down, two words would shiver on my lips, the same ones I heard my mother whispering as she lulled me to sleep.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
***
Soon, summer gave way to the harvest season, the days cooling as the nights grew longer.
It was around this time that Odysseus summoned me.
As Eurycleia escorted me to the prince, I felt a cold sense of vindication. I assumed his summons could only mean one thing, the same thing it always did when a prince called a young slave to their chambers. This was my proof. Proof that Odysseus was no different from any other master.
It was an oddly comforting thought.
Eurycleia paused outside his door to throw me a cursory glance, her leathery face pinched with distaste.
“Master Odysseus is a busy man,” she told me as if I were causing some great inconvenience by having been summoned at all. “You should not waste his time.”
“Don’t worry.” I gave her a wink. “Men never usually last long with me.”
She sucked her teeth at that, muttering something under her breath as she opened the door and ushered me inside.
