King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus. The spectacle of the bloody sacrifice had awed the young warrior and the muscles of his face were strained with tension, but Odysseus simply grinned back at him and winked. Eperitus was taken aback by his cool, slightly amused indifference, but before he could react further Tyndareus spoke.

As he held the staff before him, he asked them whether they promised to protect the husband of Helen against anybody who should wish Helen for himself. The words were not elaborate or extensive, as a Greek warrior will always obey the spirit of an oath, even those like Odysseus who could twist words like blades of grass. Every voice answered in agreement and thus the fateful oath was sworn.

A moment later one of the priests clapped his hands and a host of servants rushed in, carrying vessels of water to wash clean the floor of the hall. More servants brought bowls for the oath-takers to cleanse the blood from their skin, and soon they were seated again with food and drink set before them. Then Agamemnon stood and received the staff once more from Tyndareus.

The council of war had begun.

Chapter Twenty-one

ODYSSEUS AND PENELOPE

Fearing her cousin was already overripe for marriage – and would remain as little more than a maid to her demanding father if she did not force her hand – Clytaemnestra agreed to Damastor’s plan and immediately made an ointment for the purpose. She gave it to Neaera with instructions to rub it on the clothing of both Odysseus and Penelope and arrange for them to meet shortly afterwards. As long as they were together when the ointment began to take effect, she assured her, they would be unable to resist each other.

When Neaera asked how she was to apply the ointment to the princess’s clothing, Clytaemnestra handed her a vial filled with a pleasant-smelling liquid.

‘Give this to Penelope’s body slave, Actoris,’ she instructed. ‘It’s a mild poison. Put it into her drink and she’ll be paralysed with illness for a few days. Then you can volunteer to take her place, and after that you’ll have every opportunity to rub the ointment into Penelope’s clothing before dressing her.’

And so Neaera was able to prepare one of the plain woollen dresses that Penelope favoured and spread it out over the princess’s bed while she bathed in an antechamber. Satisfied that the first part of her task was done, she picked up a soft brush and went to scrub her mistress, who lay stretched out in the heated water with only a few wisps of steam to cover her nakedness. Her breasts and stomach had retained their natural pink hue, but the rest of her flesh was burned almost to the colour of a common slave’s, causing Neaera to frown disapprovingly. Helen, by whose standards Neaera measured everybody, kept out of the sun to preserve her pure white complexion; her cousin hardly seemed to care.

‘Not so rough with that brush,’ Penelope chided her. She stepped from the bath to drip on the stone floor, where Neaera at once began to dry her off. ‘Are you this brutal with Helen? She told me you had a delicate touch.’

The truth was that Neaera was nervous. First Clytaemnestra, then Damastor, had instilled in her the vital importance of getting Penelope to the feast at the same time as Odysseus. Damastor would apply the charmed ointment to his master’s tunic and ensure he was by the double doors of the great hall just before the food was brought in to the guests; Neaera was to do the same with Penelope, or risk Odysseus reacting to the first female he saw. But unless she could persuade Penelope to be a little quicker, they were going to be woefully late.

‘Give me that, you clumsy girl,’ Penelope said, taking the towel and drying herself. ‘Bring me my best robe – the purple one. I feel like a change tonight.’

‘But my lady . . .’ Neaera stuttered.

‘Stop flapping, Neaera. It’s in the basket by the wall. Hurry up and fetch it for me.’

Why tonight, of all nights, did she have to be fussy about what she wore? The slave girl ran past the dress she had prepared and began looking through the large woven basket by the wall, all the time thinking about what she should do. There was not enough ointment left and no time to apply it anyway. Then, as she found the neatly folded dress in the basket, she heard Penelope pad barefoot into the room behind her.

‘Come on, then. I’m dry,’ she said, holding out her arms for Neaera to slip the dress over her naked body.

Neaera stood up, clutching the dress to her chest, but as she did so she felt it snag on the weave of the basket and tear.

‘Oh, my lady! I’m so sorry,’ she said, tears rimming her eyes. She was too shocked to realize that her clumsiness had solved her dilemma.

Penelope sighed at the sight of the rip.

‘Never mind, Neaera. Don’t cry, now: I can mend it after the feast. I suppose I’ll have to wear this old thing you’ve laid out on the bed for me instead.’