“I’m not even going to bother,” Eurymachus drawled. “No doubt it is a practical joke that Odysseus liked to play on his guests. It clearly can’t be done—every man here has tried…”
“Not every man,” Penelope said. “What about the beggar?”
“I assume that your offer to marry the winner of this no longer stands,” Eurymachus strolled—a little unsteadily—away as though the entire proceedings were beneath him.
Odysseus rose and shuffled towards the bow and made a show of walking around it—much to the amusement of the suitors. He stooped, picking up the bow and quiver, examining both as though he were slow-witted. He sat on a bench, placed the quiver next to him and rested the bow across his lap.
And loosened the knot at the top of the draw sting. Not once, but twice. That was the key.
And Eurymachus had been correct—it was a joke Odysseus liked to play as no one ever guessed to loosen the knot; without that, the string was just that much too short.
Without rising, he strung the bow with ease, plucked an arrow from the quiver and paused. Turning to Penelope, he said, “There was once a riddle that won love. It went something like this: Arrows at its core, while rings are its symbol. Though it is sacred, it is sealed by contract…”
Marriage, she mouthed, recalling the riddle from their courtship. All eyes were on him and no one saw, fortunately, for surely their connection would be obvious if one cared to see. Still, Odysseus had to force his face from breaking into a grin when he saw Penelope’s eyes crinkle, which meant she’d understood his word play. Replacing Eros with arrows acknowledged that as soon as his barb went through the rings, their own long-lost contract to each other would be revived.
He notched, drew and shot in a single, smooth motion. The shaft sped true, hissing through the rings that had secured the old weapons to the wall and thudding into the wooden doors.
Silence then. It was a good shot. No, Odysseus corrected himself mentally—it was a great shot—and he whispered a silent prayer to Athena in thanks for only she could have guided the shaft so accurately. As ever, his patroness was with him. And she was whispering for him now to claim what was his.
Odysseus rose to his feet, the beggar’s fa?ade gone, leaving the king in waiting. He gazed across the hall at the men who had raped his home and pissed on his kingship. There were reasons that they had come—of course there were. But they were not blameless—they were men, acting as men. Trying to take that which belonged to another and in so doing enhance their own reputations. Thus it had been with Paris and Helen. Agamemnon and Priam. So it was with these suitors and Penelope.
But men had to learn that there were risks. That there were consequences. That sometimes it was not your reputation that was enhanced but that of your enemy.
That sometimes you lost.
“What trickery is this?” Antinous was the first to speak. “We have been deceived. For years we have been patient men. Because of that fucking whore…”
Odysseus whipped another arrow from the quiver, drew and loosed. The warhead punched into the big man’s throat. He gagged, gouts of viscous blood bubbling from the wound, sticky and hot, soaking his beard and chest. Eyes bulging, he fell to his knees as everyone in the hall watched with shock and horror. Antinous’s chest heaved and he made a strange, mewling noise, trying to scream and beg for his life…but the arrow had sliced out his voice. All he could do was wheeze and gasp, pinkish drool bubbling around his lips. He fell then, lying in a pool of his own blood on the wine-stained stones.
“No man calls my wife a whore,” Odysseus said.
“Odysseus?” Eurymachus stepped to the fore as Odysseus notched another arrow.
“Yes,” he said. “I have returned. To set my house in order.”
“He’s one man!” Eurymachus shouted. “We can take him.”
“We have no weapons!” one of the men cried.
“There are these axes,” Odysseus observed. “Though, which one of you is going to die trying to get to them? I can draw and shoot fast, friends. And I never miss.” He said it with all the cold confidence he could muster.
Then—at last—the doors to the great hall burst open and, with Eumaeus at their head, the old men of Ithaca charged in. They were armed—antique swords, boar spears, staves, cudgels and woodsmen’s axes. They screamed and shouted, cracked voices remembering war cries long unused, and set about the suitors.
War! Despite everything, the king within Odysseus had missed it—the clash of weapons, the shouts of pain and triumph, the smell of the blood and the exultation that came with standing on the brink of death. At that moment, all the guilt and sins of the past fell away from him and he was a man again, a man standing in his own hall, a man who would kill those who sought to take everything from him.
The suitors fought back. Some grabbed the axes but most were unarmed. But their youth, vigour—and no little fear—giving them strength as they wrestled weapons from the older men, striking out and taking lives. Eurymachus stepped towards Odysseus, his hands held out, his eyes wide with panic.
“It’s not too late!” the younger man shouted, shrill desperation in his voice. “We can still talk.”
Odysseus shot him in the chest and he fell. “You’ve said enough,” he murmured.
Amphinomus rushed past—unarmed still—towards the dais, seeking to put his body between the fight and Penelope. Telemachus saw it too. Odysseus shouted a warning, but his voice was lost in the tumult of battle and in a blink, his son rushed up behind the man who loved his wife and rammed a broad bladed boar spear into his back, all the way to the crosspiece.
Penelope’s hands flew to her face and the girl—Danae wide-eyed with horror—held her close as Amphinomus crashed to the floor, screaming in desperate pain as Telemachus struggled to withdraw the weapon. He placed his foot onto the fallen man’s back, the cords on his neck standing out with effort as he twisted the haft and yanked it this way and that, each violent action causing Amphinomus to cry out once more.
From the corner of his eye, Odysseus noted that quick-thinking Danae was leading her lady away from the dais and upstairs to safety, her pretty young face contorted with grief.
Finally, Telemachus freed the blade, staggering back as blood gouted from the terrible wound. The boy looked astounded. Shocked. And then he doubled over and puked all over the fallen man’s back. His first kill, no doubt.