Antinous jutted his chin out. “You offering?”
“No,” Amphinomus was mild. “I’m just thinking that beating up an old beggar is unlikely to impress Penelope.” He looked up at Odysseus’s wife and the king could see the love light in his eyes. It cut him the quick for in that moment he realized that all these men—all of them—wanted her in order that they might take his kingdom. Take his possessions. Take “the wife of Odysseus” as their own.
But this one was different. This one loved her. He was too young to hide it from Odysseus—and he was lucky the others were drunk enough not to see it. The other two turned to Penelope as well; Odysseus saw that Telemachus was by her side. His jaw was set—he was nervous of what he knew was to come. But he had not excused himself and Odysseus was proud of him.
Penelope’s face was wrapped in anger at the poor treatment the “beggar” had received. She held up her hand for silence and, after a time, the room stilled. Odysseus looked around—the serving girls draped on the princelings, the spilled wine on the floor, the scraps…
“You have all been patient,” her voice rang out. “More than patient. But I can see now that tempers have worn thin and my hesitation has caused you to lash out. I can see now that I must make my choice,” she said. “And I would ask that you treat this beggar kindly. This is not a house where guest-friendship is ignored—as you all well know. Know that this night, I have decided.”
“Who is it to be woman?” Antinous demanded.
“Peace, Antinous,” Amphinomus said, his smile genuine. Happy. “The queen will speak when she decides to—we have waited long. A little longer won’t make a jot of difference now.”
He thinks it’s him, Odysseus thought. He glanced at Eumaeus and shook his head. Not yet. Still, the old boy made his way casually towards the door and sat on a bench.
Ready to move when the time came.
“Amphinomus is correct,” Penelope said. “I wish every man in this hall to enjoy himself tonight,” her arm swept the hall. “After all—a hundred and more will be disappointed by my choice. And a hundred and more will soon be seeking a new place to lay their heads. Please…” she gestured. “Continue.”
The “suitors” took to drinking and talking once again. Amphinomus made to move away but Odysseus grasped his arm. He could tell that the younger man was surprised by the strength of his grip—and tried (as the young do) not to show it. “You’re Amphinomus?”
“That’s right,” he smiled. “What’s your name, friend?”
“I’m NoOne that you should worry about,” Odysseus returned the smile. “But would you hear some wisdom from an old man?”
“Of course.”
Eumaeus had said this one had a good heart—had tried his best to help the islanders. And, even if he was paying suit to Penelope, it seemed to Odysseus that he was conducting himself with decency. “Leave this place,” he advised. “Leave now. Before it is too late.”
“Leave?” Amphinomus frowned. “I cannot. I will not. I love that woman,” he declared. “Not like these others. And I know she has affection for me. I think that they will be surprised tonight, friend,” he said. “Penelope will pick me. I will be the happiest man on earth.”
“Even so. That happiness will be short lived. Odysseus lives; when he returns he will set his house in order—if you take my meaning.”
“Odysseus is dead, friend,” Amphinomus was earnest. “It is sad, but it is so. Should beautiful Penelope wait another ten years and then ten more for a dream? I would make her happy.”
Odysseus looked over to his wife to find her eyes turned in his direction. No, not his—Amphinomus’s. He saw the softening in them and adjudged that the young prince was correct. She did favor him above all the others whom she so clearly held in contempt. A desperate wanting and envy filled his chest, which he forced away with a moment of braggadocio.
“I fought at Troy,” he informed Amphinomus.
“Then I count you a lucky man,” Amphinomus said. “That was the last great war. A war where a man could make a reputation. All of us,” he gestured to the room, “live in the shadow of our fathers. Telemachus especially.”
“There’s truth in that,” Odysseus agreed, clearing his throat to master himself. “But that’s not my point. The Trojans had a princess—Cassandra was her name. She predicted all of it—the end of their people, that Agamemnon would be triumphant—thanks to Odysseus,” he couldn’t help adding. “By the gods—she swore it; she told them, Prince. And you know what?”
“What?”
“No one believed her. Like no-one believes me. He’s coming home. I promise you,” he added as a serving girl approached. Odysseus started—she could have been Penelope’s younger sister so alike were they in face and form. He frowned trying to imagine her as a girl—who could this be?
Amphinomus looked on “the beggar” with kindness. “If it is as you say, then there will be a reckoning,” he placated, evidently not believing a word of it. “It is in the hands of the gods.” Then he nodded a greeting to the serving girl. “Danae,” he smiled. “As your queen says—be sure this man is treated well.”
Danae! Odysseus could scarcely believe that the precocious girl had bloomed to such loveliness. She looked Amphinomus up and down the way a man would undress a woman with his eyes. A firebrand, then.
“The Queen wants to speak to him,” she said, not taking her eyes off the younger man. Her tongue flicked her top lip and Odysseus could almost feel the heat of Amphinomus’s discomfiture. “Come on, beggar,” she said and turned away, sauntering back to the dais.
Odysseus’s heart pounded in his chest as he followed the serving girl towards the dais. Would Penelope remember? Would she recall that day, so long ago, when he had thrown off his disguise and charmed her? And if she did, would she understand the need for secrecy?
Odysseus felt like a boy again as he went to her. She regarded him for long moments, her eyes questioning but not understanding. She wore the face of a woman who thought she had seen him before but could not place him. In that moment, he wanted to discard the beggar’s cloak aside and take her in his arms. The desire to do so burned within him like fire…but he could not.
“Please,” Penelope said. “Sit.”
“Thank you, Lady,” he mumbled at sat at her feet.
“You seem familiar to me,” she acknowledged. “Tell me, have you been to Ithaca before?”
“Yes—but many years ago, Lady.”
“Your name, sir?”
Odysseus cleared his throat, wondering if he dared use the name he’d used to trick her so long ago. Would she remember? “I am the son of Hylax, Castor, of Crete,” he said, the old lie slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it.