Ithaca (27 page)

We needed to get Odysseus into the palace. We needed to get Eurymachus on our side, but we agreed that could only happen at the last minute. We needed to divide our enemies into smaller groups—Odysseus had a plan for that as well. Talking about Penelope was the hardest of all. Odysseus listened in anguish as we decribed her hesitant, distant voice, the days without eating, the looms full of empty pictures. I was against telling Penelope of Odysseus's return, because I wasn't sure she could take the strain, let alone keep the secret. To my surprise, Odysseus accepted that without hesitation.

“Better not,” he said gruffly. “She won't recognize me now. Better she doesn't know.”

It was late by the time we finished planning and I made my way down to the big house under cover of the olive grove. From where I am now, crouched under the trees, I can see the whole forecourt. The ground outside the big house is full of debris—broken cart wheels and chariots awaiting repair, smashed furniture, abandoned mattresses. Old cooking pots have been thrown out of windows and messes swept out through doorways. Flocks of sheep and goats have left piles of dung drying in the heat. Now, at high noon, the rough ground outside the gate is chalk white in the sun, so blinding it hurts to look at. Stray dogs lie panting in the thin line of shadow under the wall. The guards are slumped apathetically against the doorposts, while the beggars have taken shelter under the covered well a few yards away.

I've known this courtyard all my life. Smoke rises from the kitchen chimneys the way it always has. I've known the
two guards—one whittling a stick, the other scraping mud from his sandal—since I was born. But today the smoke smells different—bitter, somehow—and the guards look like strangers. I'm noticing it all because, for the first time ever, this scene I know so well no longer feels like home. I'm on a foreign island, and this is a doorway I've never passed through before.

I leave the shade and walk quickly across the baking earth to the gate. Startled, the guards pull themselves upright in an untidy salute. Speed is everything, Odysseus said. Don't give them time to think. I stride briskly into the courtyard. Melanthius, the cook, is standing under the balcony, talking to one of the young men.

“Melanthius! Call everyone to the hall. I have an announcement to make.”

Heads appear from the tents. None of them can hide their astonishment. They expected me to be dead by now. I ignore them and stride into the hall, snapping my fingers as if that's going to keep things moving. Can I trust Melanthius? I guess not. That's one of the risks we have to run. There are servants who like the young men being here. The cook is close to several of them, not least Antinous, whom he worships despite the fighter's rudeness. Maids like Melantho have had affairs with them. Village boys have gotten rich on tips. Whom can we trust? I've known these people all my life. Now I have to work out whose side they're on.

I climb up on the hearth and feel the heat of the fire on the backs of my legs. The young men are crowding into the hall as word spreads through the house that I'm back. Eurycleia appears on the stair landing, mouth open in wonder. I know she'll run up to Penelope as soon as she hears what I have to say, and for a moment I wish I'd gone to my mother first. But that wouldn't have worked—we agreed in Eumaeus's hut. Cooks spill in from the kitchen, wiping their hands on
aprons. Antinous, face impassive, takes a seat at the front. Eurymachus leans against a column, looking troubled. These are the men I'll be fighting tomorrow. The thought brings a simultaneous rush of terror and exultation.

“There's something I need to share with you.” No introduction. No apology for calling them in or explanation of my return. Go straight into it. “I went to Pylos for news of my father. Nestor received me there as a friend. He spoke of the ties that link him and Odysseus. If ever I need help, he told me, he will come to my aid with Pylos's ships and men. Next I went to Sparta, to the court of Menelaus and Helen.” A murmur runs around the room. No one there has met Helen of Troy. In their world, that's status, something I badly need. “He gave me Hector's sword as a gift. He told me he will never forget the service my father did him in the war. If he ever heard of trouble in Ithaca, he told me, he would come here to help.”

The smart ones—Antinous, Eurymachus—will know there isn't the faintest chance Menelaus or Nestor will send an armed expedition to rescue the sixteen-year-old son of Odysseus. Antinous is scornfully picking his nails, his chair half turned away from the hearth. But some of the others, at least, are looking thoughtful. Above all the heads I can see Odysseus's armor on the walls, its dull bronze winking in the light from the door.

“Neither of them could give me news of my father, so I have come to a decision. Tomorrow I will declare Odysseus dead. I will raise a pyre on the shore and say the funeral rites for my father.”

There's a gasp from Eurycleia. From the corner of my eye, I see her fleeing upstairs to tell my mother. The young men have broken out into an instant hubbub. Antinous is frowning. That's something gained, in any case—I've thrown him off balance.

I raise one hand. “I want you to respect Odysseus's memory. Medon?” The old servant is waiting by the kitchen door. “Take down all the armor from the walls and lock it in the armory. I'll polish it for the ceremony, as a gesture of respect.” My father's hunting bow catches my eye. Its horns are yellowed, and the quiver of arrows next to it has mildewed. It's hung there all my life, and I can't bear to see it moved. “Leave the bow. That will always hang there in Odysseus's memory.”

I step down from the hearth into a sea of urgent talk. Young men pluck at my sleeve, asking questions, but I ignore them. It's worked. The plan is in motion.

Eurymachus appears in front of me. “Come with me. Quickly.”

He pulls me out into the kitchen corridor. It's deserted. “That was brave,” he says briefly.

“It was necessary.”

“That isn't what I asked you here for.” His handsome face is serious. “Listen, Telemachus, there's something going on. You've got to be careful.”

Now I'm the one who's thrown off balance.

“There was a ship waiting for you. Off Asteris, I think. Antinous tried to ambush you on your way home. I don't know how you got past. Twenty of them. They were going to kill you, Telemachus. They want you dead.”

He shakes my arm as if he's trying to wake me up. I pull my sleeve away and he winces, as if I've hurt him. “This is serious, Telemachus. I don't expect you to like me, but please trust me.
Please
. They want to kill you. You've got to take care.”

One more squeeze of the arm and he's gone, leaving me staring down the corridor.

Perhaps my father was right about him after all. I'm still thinking about Eurymachus as I climb the stairs to my mother's room. But it's Penelope who needs my attention. Eurycleia
will have reported my return by now, and my announcement. And I'm about to do something I've never done before—lie to my mother.

If it weren't for Eurymachus, I would have noticed the silence before going in. Penelope isn't sitting at her loom. Instead, she's over by the window, gripping the sill as if she can no longer hold herself upright.

“It isn't true!” she shouts.

“Mother . . .”

“He's
alive
!” She's across the room, gripping me by the arms. “It isn't true!” Tears streak her face, trickling black makeup down her cheeks.

“Mother, I've decided . . .”

“He isn't dead. Do you have proof he's dead?” She shakes me. Penelope's eyes are more focused than I've seen them in months.

“No, but . . .”

“Then he isn't. I know he isn't. You can't tell people otherwise.” Penelope wipes angrily at her cheeks with the hem of her dress, staining it black. She scowls at the marks and goes to sit at the stool by her loom.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“I had a dream.” Penelope sniffs. Her anger has vanished suddenly, leaving her limp. “The goddess sent me a dream. Odysseus came back to Ithaca. He was poor. He killed all these men. He . . .” She looks down, blushing. “He made me his wife again.” She shivers suddenly and hugs herself.

“It was just a dream.”

“Dreams tell the future.”

“They're not real.”

“The goddess sent it to me. Can you prove it isn't true?”

“No, but . . .”

“So there you are—he's coming back! He's coming back,” she repeats, looking idly at the cloth on her loom. She reaches
out one hand to touch it. “See what a stupid picture,” she says. “It doesn't show anything.”

“I think it's very beautiful,” I say dutifully.

“Do you?” Penelope shrugs and looks down at her hands. “You must tell them he's coming back. Tell them about my dream.”

“Mother . . .”

“They tried to kill you.” Suddenly Penelope's eyes fill with tears. She looks up at me, blinking. “They tried to kill you. There was a ship waiting. I couldn't do anything about it. I spoke to Medon, he just shrugged. He said, ‘It's more than my life's worth.' What does that mean?” She shakes her head, bewildered. “I put my oil lamp in my window to warn you. I knew you wouldn't be able to see it, but I did it anyway. Now they'll try to kill you again. You've got to go away . . .” She lays one hand on my arm. It's the longest speech I've heard from my mother in a year. “Do you understand? You've got to get away before they kill you. Take a boat. Take this . . .” She fumbles around her neck, unclasping the gold pendant that always hangs there. “I've got jewels too, a box. Take it and go. Leave the island today. Go to my father's house, or back to Pylos. Go . . .” She stops with a sob, hands crushing the pendant.

“Mother . . .”

“Go!”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I say gently.

Penelope seems to collapse then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. For a moment she sits with her face in her hands, then looks up. I thought she was crying, but her eyes are dry.

“Then they'll kill you,” she says coldly. “I've lost my husband. Now I'll lose my son as well. I'll put you on the same pyre you build for Odysseus. I'll put ashes in my hair and scratch my face until it's bloody.” She looks curiously down at her own fingernails, as if checking how sharply they could rip flesh.
“We did it when my grandfather died. We howled so long we were hoarse for weeks. The women at Troy must have buried husbands and sons every day, then worn black and waited for the grave to open for them. That's what women do, isn't it? It's what I'll do. I won't let them marry me. I'll be a widow. I'll go to the shrine every morning until my legs get too fat to carry me. I'll mutter to myself and everyone will start to avoid me. They'll say I've gone mad.”

“You won't go mad.” Out of habit I'm trying to make my voice light and cheerful. “No one's going to hurt me. Everything's going to be all right.”

My mother looks at me without smiling, almost without love. “Go away,” she says at last. “I'm not going to make it worse by pleading. Go away.”

I've never been dismissed like that before. I bow stiffly and close the door behind me. For a while I just stand there, back against the door. Should I go back in and tell Penelope that Odysseus has returned? Tell her my announcement was just part of a trick? I don't dare. We agreed it was better to keep Penelope in the dark. I have to stick to that.

A sudden noise from below breaks through my thoughts. I hurry down the stairs and stop dead on the landing, looking down into the hall.

Odysseus is sitting on the ground against a column. He's slumped like a beggar, shoulders rounded. His hair is covered in dust, and his clothes are rags. He holds a beggar's bowl loosely in one hand and has an old leather satchel draped over one shoulder. His head is lolling on his shoulders like he's drunk.

Beggars are allowed into the great hall—that's custom. It brings luck to give them food and drink. In return they joke and poke fun at the fighters in a way no one else is allowed. Quite often, there's one beggar who takes up residence and becomes a kind of jester. At Ithaca, his name's Irus.

Irus is circling around Odysseus now. He's angry, and you can see why—there's another man on his patch. I guess beggars are as touchy as fighters, in their way. They have their territory, they have their pride. Odysseus is on Irus's territory, and he's not happy about it.

The men in the hall love that.

Antinous is in the middle of them, slumped in a chair with a cup of wine in one hand. His face wears a cruel little smile. You can see what's on his mind.

“Send him away,” Irus whines. “This is
my
place,
my
hall.”

I never liked Irus much. He's a big, bragging man with the kind of belly you shouldn't see on a beggar. Beggars often have twisted legs or some other deformity, but there's nothing wrong with Irus, he's just too lazy to work.

He's carrying a staff, as he always does, and takes a vicious cut at Odysseus's legs. Odysseus rolls clumsily out of the way, and the young men roar with laughter.

“Why did you let him in?” whines Irus.

Antinous says, “Because we're bored.” He puts one hand over his mouth and screws up his eyes as if he's thinking. He keeps pretending to think until he has the hall's full attention, until all the young men are looking eagerly at their leader, waiting to see what he has up his sleeve. Then Antinous takes his hand away from his mouth and says quietly, “Fight.”

They all take up the chant as they prod Odysseus to his feet, thrust a stick into his hands, and drag chairs into a rough circle to act as a ring. From the landing above, I watch bets being made. Odysseus stands stupidly in the middle of the ring, holding his stick as if he doesn't know what to do with it. Irus stops whining and drops into a crouch, gripping his staff in both hands. Odysseus watches him dully, like a bear tracked by a dog. His hurt leg is slightly crooked. He turns himself with slow, shuffling steps as Irus dances around him, his stick trailing in one hand.