“There’s such a thing as guest-friendship!” Eumaeus called after him, but Melanthius just made a dirty gesture and turned his back.
“Did he make the gathering last night?” Odysseus asked as they continued on their way.
“Oh yes,” Eumaeus couldn’t help but laugh. “Last night, he was signing Odysseus’s praises. Tonight, he’s cursing him to his face. Funny how it goes, eh?”
Just then Odysseus spied a group of young men walking with purpose some way up ahead. “Is that them?”
“Some of them,” Eumaeus said.
Odysseus’s anger spiked at the sight of the men sauntering toward the great house as though they owned the place. They were laughing, joking amongst themselves, hale and hearty, confident in the immortality of their youth. Balling his fists, Odysseus rose to his full height for a moment, ready to sprint over and bash their brains in with his staff...but then he gathered himself and shrank back down, the itinerant beggar once again.
With Eumaeus, he walked the once familiar path to the house that had once been his home. It looked the same from without and—on another day—he would have been overcome with emotion. But the bile of anger still sat in his gut like naphtha—he just wanted to see the worst of it now.
There were no guards, he noted as he shuffled towards the big, wooden doors. That was a good thing—but the fact that these suitors were so confident in their ownership of this place that they didn’t even see fit to post men on duty raised his ire further.
Eumaeus shouldered his way in front of him. “You’re the beggar, remember?” the old boy scolded. He pushed the door to the great house open and the sound washed over them, the booming laughter of men and the tittering giggles of serving girls, the smell of roasting meat—his roasting meat, the sweet tang of wine—his wine, the buzz of conversation, the fug of smoke; it reeked of manliness and all the rage of the cuckold surged through Odysseus.
He limped in Eumaeus’s wake, his eyes drawn to the dais and the sight of her drained the wrath from him.
Penelope.
Cronos had not touched her—she was still as beautiful as the first day he had seen her, and the last. He recalled that he’d tricked her with this same disguise years ago and how it had delighted her when he revealed himself. Would she, he wondered, see through it now? No—if time had not touched his wife, it certainly had marked him.
Odysseus swallowed and blinked the tears away and he sat heavily on an unoccupied bench. He tried to prepare for this moment but it was like trying to prepare for your first battle—the reality was nothing like your imaginings.
At least this had not been a lie. None of it meant anything to him. Not lands, not riches, not supplicants, not even the diadem of his kingship. The truth…the hard, bitter, wonderful truth was that all he’d wanted was to be with his Penelope. Seeing her crystalized that truth in his mind—and this time, Odysseus did weep.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Eumaeus. “Are you all right?”
Odysseus sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He looked up at the old swineherd, blinking away his tears. “I didn’t know how empty my soul was,” he said, looking over to Penelope. “Until the sight of her filled it again.”
“Who the fuck is this!” A gruff voice made him look up. Gods, the man was huge—young, once muscular now running to the fat of a good living, he was black bearded, doubtless hairy backed and had half-drunk cruelty in his eyes.
“Outis, Prince Antinous,” Eumaeus replied. “Just a beggar, come to seek scraps…”
Antinous shoved Eumaeus away and towered over Odysseus, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Beggar? Another one? I’ve had my fill of beggars in this place.”
“Forgive me,” Odysseus said. He was about to go on when another man approached. Tall, slim and beautiful, his hair as blonde as Helen’s had been.
“Another beggar, Eurymachus,” Antinous said. “Come for scraps.”
“So we should feed him,” Eurymachus shrugged.
“I’m not fucking feeding him.”
“If this hall is to be mine…or any of ours…we should treat guests kindly.” He waved and a serving girl came to him. “Melantho, bring our guest some food.” He turned and kissed her openly, lifting the hem of her dress and cupping her sex before sending her away with a swat on the backside. “Eh?” he raised his eyebrows up and down at Odysseus. “Food and drink you can have. Anything else, you’ll have to take or earn. Like we have.”
“Thank you, Lord.” Odysseus stilled the angry fire that he knew must be burning his eyes. “You princes have taken many women?”
“Of course. The one we all really want is up there, though” he jerked his head at Penelope and Odysseus desperately wanted to smash out his perfect teeth. “Whomsoever she chooses will be King of Ithaca.”
Odysseus nodded his thanks as Melantho unceremoniously dumped a meagre tray of food—half-eaten leavings—and a cup of wine on the table. “I’m only doing this because you asked me, Lord,” she said to Eurymachus.
“You do a lot of things I ask,” he laughed.
“You’re a lucky man, Lord,” Odysseus forced himself to shove some of the meat into his mouth and chew it like a man who had not eaten for days. “But I heard tell that Odysseus yet lives,” he added with his mouthful.
“So they keep telling us,” Antinous put in. “Omens, whispers, shadows. But where is he?” The big man looked around theatrically. “Hades is where.”
“He’s been all over,” Odysseus shrugged and looked away. “Aegyptos is where I heard tell of him. But he’s Ithaca bound now, Lord. I imagine that when he returns, he won’t be best pleased with…” The pain was sharp—sharper still as Odysseus hit the stone floor. White light flashed in his eyes and the food, half chewed, fell from his mouth. He felt a sandal kick him in the arse and heard the harsh laughter of Antinous and the more lilting chuckle of Eurymachus. He looked up to see the big man looming over him, a wooden stool in his hand.
“I’m sick of hearing that man’s name,” Antinous said and dropped the stool onto the floor. “Say it again, Beggar. Say it.”
Odysseus rolled into a sitting position. “I’m NoOne, Lord,” he said. “I’m sorry for speaking the truth.” He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to make the man angry.
Strong hands hoisted him from the ground. Another princeling, red-haired and ruddy-faced heaved him up. “You’re heavier than you look,” the young man muttered.
“Leave him to me, Amphinomus,” Antinous snarled. “I’ve not yet had my sport with this one.”
“He’s just an old man,” Amphinomus sat him back on the bench. Odysseus noted he had dirty fingernails. A farmer’s hands. “What’s the point? There are harder contests to be fought.”