“Duty, aye,” he agreed. “But grieve in private, mother. It is time for men to talk now.”
“Let me know when one shows up!” Antinous called out and cracked up at his own wit. But his laughter bounced empty and hollow around the silent hall. He’d clearly expected others to join in, but his mirth faded as his embarrassment grew. He cleared his throat and fell silent, his dark eyes on the boy now, glittering with the malevolence of the angry drunk.
Telemachus didn’t see it—his own gaze was locked with that of his mother’s. Amphinomus could imagine what those eyes were trying to convey: obey me, I am now the man of this house coupled with mother, please don’t shame me. Amphinomus felt some empathy—despite their similar ages, Telemachus still seemed to be a boy battling with the burgeoning man, still vulnerable to the scathing putdown of a parent. Silence reigned for but a moment; Penelope rose then, gave her son the slightest nod of her head and withdrew.
Even more to everyone’s surprise, the son of Odysseus strode to the middle of the hall at the foot of the dais of his parents’ thrones and declared, “I am master here. I’ve kept my peace because I respect Zeus’s laws for guest-friendship. But no more! You—all of you—came here first as our guests…now to pay suit to my mother. That is your right. What is not your right is that you—to a man—act like the basest beggars, filling your guts with my father’s food…my food…and pissing…my wine into your pots…”
“Ah, fuck off,” Antinous rose—unsteadily—to his feet, his voice full of booze-fuelled anger. “If you can, that is. Your balls sprouted any hair yet?” By the gods, Amphinomus thought, he was crass. “If not,” Antinous went on, “go tease one out…boy…and leave we men to our diversions. Ithaca needs a man…a real man…to get on top of her and govern her. To plough her fields, barren and scrubby as they are and hope against hope that something good might yet spring from the fallow ground.”
Rage spiked through Amphinomus: he knew—they all knew that he spoke of Penelope and not the kingdom. But Telemachus, though his face reddened, kept his wits. “You’re drunk,” he stated and refused to take a step back as the big man balled his fists. “And you’re still a guest-friend, bound by those rules—before the gods. And before the gods, as I have said, I will be king here.”
“The boy’s right on one thing,” Eurymachus called. “You are drunk!” This caused a round of guffawing from the suitors. Eurymachus had that way about him, able to win men over with a sly line or a witty quip. Antinous took the crack on the chin, inclined his head and sat down—demanding more wine. “And you,” Eurymachus turned his attention to Telemachus. “You have found your balls. I salute you,” he raised his cup and paused, taking a sip. “Though I can’t help but think that the old man you were speaking to put you up to this. Who was he?”
“It doesn’t matter who he is,” Telemachus lifted his chin.
“Then it doesn’t matter if you tell us.”
“That man was Mentes—a friend of the family,” Telemachus said after a moment. More than a friend, Amphinomus guessed, based on the exchange of smirks around the room. Fools. The older man was clearly one of Odysseus’s retired warriors. The nature of their “friendship” didn’t matter—what mattered was that the prince appeared, for the first time, to be getting good political council. And finally acting on it.
“As I said, it is of no matter,” Telemachus went on. “What is important,” he raised his voice, “is that my patience is at an end…”
“Mine too,” Antinous interrupted. “Can’t you shut up so the bard can get on with his song?”
“Phemius will continue, when I am finished,” Telemachus snapped. “Before the gods, I call for an assembly. Tomorrow.”
“You have your assembly,” Antinous scoffed, “for your swine and sheep-herders. Better men will avail themselves of better things.”
Sober, Amphinomus would have kept his peace. But half-drunk and maudlin over the queen, he had no resistance to the long but useless habit of trying to help Penelope’s son. It was a matter of principle too—he could not allow the invocation of the gods to be insulted in his presence. He was on his feet in less time than it took to think. “Antinous,” he said, his voice loud in the silent wake of the exchange between man and boy.
All eyes turned to him.
“Telemachus calls an assembly before the gods,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “You speak of better men? As better men, it is for us to set an example to those whose birth is not as fortunate as our own. I will attend as I honor the gods—you should too, lest we show disrespect to the…” he was about to say “boy” and corrected himself, “…prince and by proxy his mother whose hand we are here to win.”
“I’ll keep my own council,” Antinous snapped, his eyes blazing—a dangerous sign.
“Then don’t attend Telemachus’s assembly.” Amphinomus knew his bravado was coming from the wine—but he’d had enough of Antinous. “This is still Telemachus’s father’s house and so before the gods, in honor of the law of xenia, I will be there. I offer the rest of you only friendly advice on following the gods’ rules on the matter.”
He shut his mouth then because prodding Antinous was like prodding a bear. Amazingly, the bear sat heavily back down. There was no point in pushing his luck, so Amphinomus turned and left the smoky fug of the overrun hall with his head held high.
He had thought not to bother with war-gear. It was only when he looked out of the small house that, like so many others, Penelope had built for them, and saw Antinous being driven in (and throwing up over the side of) his chariot that he decided gird himself in armor. No need for a helmet, he decided, glancing sunwards. It was likely going to be a hot day and he’d drunk too much the night before. Cursing softly under his breath, he eyed the armor on its stand. It was rich—befitting a prince, the sword that accompanied it long and sharp.
And unpocked by the clash of battle.
As he struggled into the heavy gear, Amphinomus wondered if the other suitors felt as much of a fraud as he did sometimes. The war was, after all, over. Agamemnon’s War that had defined an era. Achaea against Troy, The High King of Mycenae against Priam, Achilles against Hector…the stuff of legends. Their names would echo down the ages; but his name and those of his fellow suitors? Dust soon after they became dust, he did not doubt.
For princes like Amphinomus and the others, it was as though the warriors at Troy had stolen their glory. It was a war like no other and even now, if battle was joined, it was little more than a skirmish of men and boys either too old or not old enough to hold a spear. All Achaea had bled out its best on Ilium’s field.