But it was safer this way—to keep those boundaries clear between us. And whenever I found myself longing for that closeness with Penelope, the one we had shared the night Telemachus was born, I would force myself to remember Callias instead. To see his terrified face. To hear his bloodcurdling screams. To smell his burning flesh. I would repeat those memories over and over until the very idea of closeness made me sick to my stomach.
Until I felt myself drifting further away.
***
“I heard news today,” Penelope told us one night.
It was late in the evening after an especially wearing day. Telemachus had been bawling since sunrise, seemingly indifferent to everything we offered him. Now, finally, he had settled, and the four of us were nursing well-earned cups of wine by the fire.
“What news?” Hippodamia asked from where she sat beside Penelope. Autonoë was on her other side while I knelt on the floor by the hearth, willing its warmth to soak into my tired limbs.
“Of the war,” Penelope replied.
This caught my attention.
News of the war trickled in slowly from the seas, morsels feasted on by hungry Ithacans eager to hear of their husbands, sons, fathers, and brothers. Since Odysseus’s departure over three moon cycles ago, the atmosphere on Ithaca had been strange, as if everyone were holding their breath, suspended in time while they waited for the army’s return. Though I cannot say I missed them. It felt nice to have an island largely free of men, like I could breathe a little easier.
The last we had heard, Agamemnon had finally gathered all his allies, but they had been unable to sail for Troy due to unseasonably dead winds.
An act of the gods, people had whispered.They do not support this war.
“The winds have finally picked up,” Penelope said, swirling her cup in her hand. “Agamemnon’s army are on their way to Troy as we speak.”
“That’s good news, isn’t it? The sooner they reach Troy, the sooner this war will be over,” Autonoë said in her soft voice, a faded accent rounding her vowels.
Penelope shifted in her chair. “Agamemnon had to make a sacrifice to the gods to be allowed passage to Troy.”
“A sacrifice to the gods is customary,” Hippodamia replied around a sip of wine.
It seemed she had not noticed the disquiet creeping over Penelope. I remained silent, watching Penelope stare intently into the hearth.
“He was forced to sacrifice his own child,” she whispered.“Iphigenia.”
Her words seemed to steal all the warmth from the fire, plunging the chamber into an icy stillness.
A sickness pierced my stomach.His own child.
“How could he do such a thing?” Hippodamia whispered, wrapping her arms around herself.
“To appease the gods,” Penelope replied.
“Why would anyone worship a god who would demand that of them?” I muttered.
“It gives people a sense of purpose to worship something,” Penelope mused, taking a slow sip of her wine.
The silence around us was a terrible, heavy thing. All I could think of was that faceless girl, so young and innocent. How afraid must she have been in those final moments, surrounded by a swarm of glory-hungry men? Had she looked to her father for protection? Had his betrayal been the last thing she’d seen?
After a time, Autonoë began to sing. It was a song of lamentation,one sung during funerals to honor the dead. Her beautiful voice filled the room, the heartbreaking melody seeming to pluck the threads from my past, laying my losses bare in the shadows around me. Tears were in Autonoë’s eyes as she sang, and I noticed Hippodamia was crying too. I wondered what other ghosts lurked in the room alongside my own.
When the song was over, Hippodamia and Autonoë quietly excused themselves and retired to our shared chamber in the adjoining room. I did not follow them. Instead, I stared at Penelope as she continued watching the fire, eyes glassy.
“I cannot imagine what Clytemnestra is going through,” she whispered. “If I lost Telemachus, it would be like having my soul ripped out of me. How can a mother endure that?”
I looked away, an old pain aching through my bones. I felt Penelope’s gaze snap to my face, her pity staining the air.
“I am sorry, Melantho. Forgive me. I should not have spoken socarelessly.”
“It’s fine,” I murmured.
