“Someone is coming.”
“Has that coward Eurylochus returned? I hope he’s come to collect his men.”
“No, not he. You’d better come and see for yourself.”
I followed Anthousa up the narrow stone staircase to the flat roof-top of our farmhouse. The blankets and chitons Eumelia had washed the day before lay stretched to dry across the hewn timbers of the roof, weighted down with stones—and forgotten in the chaos of the Ithacans’ arrival. Morning painted the treetops at the edge of our clearing with a soft light; the larches blazed golden in the sun, and the leaves of oak trees were already fading. All too soon, the cold days of autumn would arrive.
A man strode across the clearing, coming from the direction of the Ithacan ship. As Anthousa had said, this was certainly not Eurylochus. Even at a distance, I could see that this man bore himself differently. An overabundance of pride—a presence of natural, gods-given power—was evident in his confident carriage, his straight posture, his unhurried stride, casually arrogant. He made directly for our house, as if he had called on us a hundred times before—as if he owned the place himself. This could only be Odysseus, king of Ithaca.
“What should we do?” Anthousa’s fists tightened at her side. I could tell she wished for one of Agathe’s spears.
Anger flushed my face. I was tired—exhausted by playing hostess to rude men, who had no more wit than gnats or fleas. “I’ll tell you what I won’t do,” I said. “I will not go out to greet their king, nor bow or simper to him.”
“He might have better sense than his followers,” Anthousa said. “Being a king, he must be sensible, at the very least—mustn’t he?”
My father had been a chieftain, and my husband a prince, albeit an exiled one. I had little faith in the mental fortitude of rulers. I only shrugged.
“Perhaps he can be made to see reason,” she persisted, “though his men could not. We might convince him that it’s better to leave us in peace than to try to press us for more food.”
“We might hope for that much,” I allowed, “though it is a slim hope. Still, I will not bow and scrape to him. I don’t care if he is a king. This is our island. He must show respect if he thinks to get anything from me, including directions to the peninsula.” I headed for the staircase. “Come; he’ll be at our door in another moment. Leave him to me. I’ll talk to him, and if the gods have any power or mercy, he’ll be off with his men before mid-day.”
“You ought to let me stay with you,” Anthousa said. “He may be dangerous.”
“He is only one man. So long as we speak here, inside the house, there is little to fear. His men are all outside, and still asleep. He cannot overpower me.”
Exhaustion had stripped us both of our wits. If we’d been better rested, I never would have spoken such foolish words, and Anthousa never would have agreed. But she nodded, yawned, and departed gratefully for her bed chamber, eager for the rest she deserved.
When Odysseus found me, I was alone, seated at the round oak table I usually shared with my friends. I had left my spinning distaff lying on the table the night before; I took it up as the king of Ithaca opened my door without seeking my leave, and strode into my house uninvited. The table was strewn with a few pots and pouches of my herbs—scattered there as I’d searched my collections for pungent flavors I could add to the bread, hiding the bone-dry taste of ash.
How like a witch I must have seemed when Odysseus first beheld me, my staff cradled in the crook of my arm, the implements of sorcery all around me—and most of all, a forbidding scowl upon my face. But he did not balk at the sight. Instead he smirked, as if charmed by my marginal beauty. As if he assumed that whatever beauty he saw in the world was his to possess by rights—a due reward.
The king of Ithaca took a stand across the table from where I sat, smiling easily. He was not tall, but his broad chest and shoulders gave him an undeniable presence. He was dark of hair and eye, with a short-trimmed beard, more neatly kept than those of his followers. He was not a young man, but neither was he old. His straight back and well-shaped arms spoke of great physical strength, even if the grandness of his appearance was somewhat marred by the same salty film that crusted the rest of his men. His red tunic and short cape had seen heavy use, but they hung well and neatly on his frame.
I stared at him, unwilling to speak first. Let him petition me.
After a moment, he chuckled. “I heard a beautiful, dark-haired witch has turned my men into swine.”
“Is that what your fool of a second-in-command told you?”
His smile deepened. “Eurylochus is often very foolish; that much is true. But he told a rather compelling story: you with some sort of magical staff raised above your head—” he glanced at the distaff, still without its telltale wool, held across my chest, “and a herd of frantic pigs, where moments before there had been men.”
I returned Odysseus’s smile. I hoped my own seemed cold, or at least enigmatic. “You saw your men sleeping in my clearing as you crossed it.”
“It seems you’ve restored them to their proper forms.” The king’s eyes sparkled with humor.
I did not feel like laughing. “I’ve given your men all the food I can spare. Meanwhile, you and yours have trampled on our xenia; you have made a mockery of our hospitality. I think you have done enough. Now be gone, king of Ithaca.”
Odysseus folded his arms across his chest. His upper body disappeared into the folds of his short, salt-paled cloak, but his half-mocking smile said more than his posture ever could. “You have a spark, my lady. I appreciate brazenness in a woman, even if it sometimes leads her to offend.”
“Offend?” I scoffed.
“I am a king,” Odysseus said simply, as if that fact both explained and excused everything.
I leaned forward on my stool, one fist white-knuckled upon my staff. “This is my island. It is you who offend by coming here, unasked and unwanted. King or no, you have no right, and you are not welcome.”
Odysseus grinned openly now, as if I’d made a very fine jest. “I’ve never heard of a woman owning an island—or any land, for that matter.”
“Now you have.”
“This island isn’t yours, my lady. If it belongs to anyone, it must belong to a man—a king, a prince. A chieftain, at the very least. You are a—”