Telemachus marched to the women’s quarters, teeth gritted, feet pounding on the stone floor. Was the rumor true? That his mother had left with three of her ladies to the cave of Mount Neriton, even after he’d ordered her not to go?
How could he earn the respect from anyone in his house if his own mother did not obey?
“Eurycleia,” he barked. “Come here now!”
The old woman shuffled out of a back room, her face beaming with joy at the sight of him. Gods dammit, why didn’t she cower at his tone? If his father had called for her with such anger in his voice, he was sure, she would likely be groveling at his feet. Why could he not command such a reaction? Why did he have to be so weak?
“Yes, my sweet prince?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, his lips thinning. “Do not call me that,” he commanded. “I am not ‘your’ prince.”
“Of course you are,” the old woman said, reaching up to brush the curls off his forehead, as she always did. He slapped her hand away, and not very lightly either. But the old woman just giggled, her hand covering her mouth to hide the sight of her missing front teeth.
“Oh you were always such an ungrateful boy,” she said. “Even when I nursed you at my breast, you would nip me just because you could.”
By the gods, must she bring up the fact that she suckled me in every damned conversation?
“Where is my mother?” he asked.
She waved her hand, as if to say, “Oh, you know…around.”
His scowl deepened. “Where. Is. My. Mother. Precisely.”
A shadow passed over Eurycleia’s wrinkled, sagging face. He suppressed a growl. “Some of the servant girls are claiming they saw her leave with Danae and two others for Mount Neriton,” he added. “Is that true?”
Eurycleia’s eyes widened but she shrugged her shoulders as if she wasn’t sure. Telemachus raised his arm as if to slap her down and the old woman flinched.
There. Finally. Respect.
“The truth old woman!”
“Y…yes,” she said. “The queen left to seek the Mother in her Sacred Cave.”
He brought his upraised hand down hard on his thigh. “I told her not to,” he cried. “I told her the Goddess has no power in my House. We pray to the strong gods of sky, sea and victory. She undermines my authority by disobeying!”
“She does it for you,” Eurycleia said. “Even if you do not bow down to her.”
“I bow down to the gods of warriors and kings, not women and girls,” he spat.
The old woman sighed and Telemachus clenched his fists. Why did one disapproving look from her or his mother leave him feeling like a misbehaving little boy? When would that change? As he had countless times before, he wished he had his father at his side. A father would’ve shown him how to be strong, how to command respect.
He was weak because he lived in a house controlled by women. Even his own grandfather, Laertes, had abandoned him to the women, preferring to tend to his orchards rather than guide Telemachus to manhood.
“Tell her to come see me as soon as she’s home,” he ordered before turning on his heel and marching back to the main hall. He snatched his cloak off the bench and stalked out of the palace.
The hall, as usual, was empty at that early hour. The other “princes”—gods how he hated it when they called themselves that!—were either passed out drunk or still sleeping it off. He wished the spins upon them all in their borrowed beds.
Assholes. Drunkards.
In the beginning, when his hall had swelled with boys his age or a little older, he had gloried in the change. Finally—friends! Playmates. Older boys to look up to.
But instead of friends, they had turned into monsters, mocking and belittling him in his own home. Then the ultimate insult—they thought themselves so far above him, they imagined they could marry his mother. They actually thought they might become his stepfather and take over the kingdom. His kingdom. As if he wasn’t the true prince, the one and only future king of Ithaca.
The insult to his honor—to his manhood—was unforgiveable.
He would find a way to pay them back. He’d banish them and they would be forced to slink away, tails between their legs, back to their long neglected homes. He smiled, imagining the scene—him, helmeted, holding up his sword and his father’s shield as they cowered, thinking, I underestimated the son of Odysseus! I should have honored him!
The morning breeze from the ocean was cool and thick with moisture. The young prince wrapped his heavy cloak tighter around his shoulders and brought up the cowl to cover his head. He’d warm up as soon as the road turned inland toward the home of the one person he could always count on: Mentes. It was far enough inland to allow him time to master himself. He did not want to be raging, or too out of sorts in his presence.
Telemachus rolled his shoulders inside his purple cloak—which wasn’t quite purple of course. But near enough. Still, the softer color irritated him. As a true royal, he should be wearing strong, Tyrian purple. But, of course, they could not afford it—and so he was forced to wear the color made popular by his own mother, the one favored by those who only wished they had royal blood. The grasping nobles of Achaea, still flush with all that Trojan gold ten years after the great city fell, paid handsomely for Penelope’s handiwork.
But it shamed him. Gods, how it shamed him! Kings earned riches for their people through raiding and war, not through women’s work!
Telemachus’s mouth filled with sourness, the wine from the previous night gurgling up like old vinegar. He hawked and spit loudly onto the side of the road. If his father had made it home, he wouldn’t have allowed his people to grow soft on Trojan gold like so many of his neighbors. He wouldn’t have allowed them to spend their riches on frivolities like fake purple cloaks or pretty weavings. Instead, he would’ve built bigger and better war boats, made stronger weapons, and trained ever-greater warriors.
But of course, Ithaca never got any of that Trojan gold. It lay at the bottom of the sea somewhere, along with the bones of his father.
Telemachus straightened his back and lifted his chin, imagining that his father could see him through the shimmering veil separating him from the land of the dead. He imagined Odysseus smiling and nodding at him, blessing his efforts to protect his royal house. He’d been a newborn when his father had left so he had no memories of Odysseus, but his old nurse had described him often enough—his stout strength and god-like shoulders. In his imagination, Odysseus had taken on the countenance of a fierce young Poseidon, his hair and beard stiff from the salt of the sea as he led his men to victory at Troy.