Then he became aware of movement in the room; Amphinomus’s eyes flew open, the shock piercing through the fug of the wine, ready to defend himself. But then he saw her, standing silhouetted in the moonlight, a small krater held loosely in her right hand. And then he realized that it was not his imagination—the familiar scent hung about her, intoxicating and inviting.
“Penelope?” he asked, praying to Zeus that this was not a dream. But this apparition wore, not the queen’s red tunic, but the simple white dress of Danae, her handmaiden.
It is the queen in disguise his heart whispered, and he chose to believe it.
She put a finger to her lips and moved towards him, kneeling on the blankets. She raised the krater and took a sip before passing it to him and he did likewise. It was the same wine that he had tasted in her rooms, sweet and cloying.
They shared it in silence till it was gone and then she took it from him, placing it to one side. She kissed him then, her lips as soft as he had imagined, her tongue teasing yet urgent, the honeyed tang of the wine on her breath. Amphinomus felt a burning desire surge within him like nothing he had ever known. It went beyond the physical—his heart and his soul desired her—could not ever be fulfilled without her.
Gently—but strong and firm—she pushed him down onto his back, straddling him. She tore her clothing away, casting it aside, and he gazed upon her, her exquisite beauty somehow enhanced by the darkness and shadows that swathed her.
And then he was inside her.
Amphinomus had never known such pleasure; it consumed him, fired him and filled him. It was as though he entered her flesh so she entered his soul. There was nothing in that moment, nothing aside from her. She cried out as he began to move inside her, collapsing forward and he crushed her to him, her breasts pressed to his sweat, slick chest as she bit and kissed his neck, whispering to him, urging him on, telling him that she was his. Time seemed to slow yet speed up and Amphinomus could not tell how long they lay, locked together as one.
Then her hips pushed faster now, harder, and she rose up, head thrown back in ecstasy as she moaned with the completion of her desire. Amphinomus felt himself at the precipice too. He wanted it to last forever but it could not and he too cried out in a delirium of joy as though his very soul came into her, her body drawing him forth till he was utterly spent. Only then did she lay on his chest, kissing him, her fingers running through his sweat-soaked hair. He could feel her heart pounding in time with his own.
“Tell no one,” she whispered. “But know that the queen has made her choice.”
“I love you, Penelope” he murmured, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming him. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you and will love you till the day I die.”
She kissed him again. “Sleep now,” she whispered. “Sleep and dream of the queen.”
As Morpheus took him, he murmured, “You are my queen,” even as the handmaiden smiled and disappeared into the night.
Part II: The Reckoning
* * *
Ithaca! Oh my Ithaca!
Odysseus fell to his knees, tears falling from his eyes, running down the cracks and lines in his face that had not been there when he had last touched the shores of his homeland. He filled his fists with her sands, crushing the grains into his flesh so that she—his Ithaca—could be at one with him again.
The tide hissed about him, the sea so recently his nemesis now a balm to his soul; Poseidon—ever capricious—had one last swipe at him, sending the ship gifted to him by the Phaeacian king—and her crew—to the bottom. Only he had survived. Only he had the strength to cling to that lonely spar that kept him from the sea god’s embrace that night.
Why it was that, once again, only he emerged from the miasma of death that consumed those around him at sea was beyond his understanding. He had stopped asking the gods why this should be so. Their ways were impenetrable. Perhaps this last survival was his “reward” for keeping his oaths to Calypso.
If so, it seemed too high a cost for those that hadn’t made it. Yet what else could he think but that this was the final cleansing for all his wrongs and acts of hubris?
Still weak, he staggered away from the cold waters, tottering up the beach before collapsing on the sands again, coughing and puking up brine. An omen, he thought—the sea, so long a part of him, was now being forced from his body, leaving behind a sour taste. Shivering, he rolled onto his backside and sat up, struggling out of the ruined, sodden tunic that robbed his body of warmth.
Odysseus glanced up at the sky and then to the horizon, relieved to see the pink hue of dawn lifting the veil of night. He forced himself to his feet and turned his back on the sea, walking up a scrubby hillock to the land beyond. He looked this way and that, taking in a huge lungful of Ithacan air.
Home.
He was home. After so many years absent, there was a part of him that had begun to lose hope that he would ever see her again. But here he was, Ithacan soil under his feet, her sands adhering to his still-wet legs, her breeze caressing his skin.
He had long ago promised to sacrifice four black rams for all his fallen comrades. What would he sacrifice to honor the Phaeacians that had been so generous and had gone to Poseidon’s realm too for the crime of helping him? Perhaps the loss of this second treasure—the Phaeacian king’s generous gifts—was sacrifice enough.
And yet somehow it seemed fitting that he returned to his homeland alone. This moment was his—only his.
But is it still your home? The voice in his mind—Athena’s voice that had guided him these long years—spoke once again. She was right of course. So many years had passed, so much could have changed. Indeed, Ithaca could now be under the sway of another man entirely.
And so could Penelope. The very real possibility of that made his gut clench. He would fight for her as hard as he fought for Ithaca for in his mind, they had merged into one entity. There could not be one without the other.
His tactician’s instincts took over, knowing that he could not merely turn up at the great hall and announce that the “king had returned” if another now wore his crown. He would have to approach the situation the same way he had conquered Troy—with stealth and, if needed, trickery.
The day was winning the battle with the night and Odysseus was able to get his bearings. Strange, he thought. So long away, yet a quick glance at the terrain and he knew his way again. Like steering a chariot, he guessed. You could not put your hand to one for years, yet step up in the carriage and feel the reins against your palm and it all came flooding back.