King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

‘If this man’s bothering you, mistress, I can fetch your father. He’s only over there.’

The warrior laughed. ‘As if a mere serving girl would dare approach the royal dais. Besides,’ he added, placing a hand on Penelope’s exposed thigh, ‘your mistress doesn’t appear to be complaining.’

‘Yes, Neaera,’ Penelope agreed, ‘there’s no harm in spending time with such a strong, good-looking man, is there? Why don’t you go back to my room and see if you can mend that dress.’ She turned back and ran a hand along the neck of Ajax’s snake. ‘Go on now.’

Everything was falling down around Neaera’s ears. This was not how things were supposed to have happened, but what could she do? She was only a slave, and not a very intelligent one at that. Feeling the panic growing inside her she glanced around the hall again. And there, finally, was Damastor.

‘Here, my lord, put this on. It’s a gift from the lady Helen.’

Damastor handed the tunic to Odysseus as he was about to throw on his usual clothes after bathing.

‘Her maid gave it me. She feels your old clothes are becoming a bit threadbare.’

And so they were, after so long away from home. Odysseus took the proffered gift and tossed his usual faded and repaired garment into a corner of the room. He had been so involved with Agamemnon’s plans during the past few days that he had almost forgotten Helen wanted him as her husband. She must be confident of his acceptance though, he thought, to be sending him gifts before he had confirmed his decision to Tyndareus.

He pulled the tunic over his head and felt it settle against his skin. Already he could hear the noise of the banquet on the ground floor of the palace and began mentally preparing himself for the questions that Agamemnon would push at him. The council of war had been a disastrous failure, as Odysseus had expected. Some openly accused Agamemnon of wanting to weaken their strength at home, thus making them vulnerable to Mycenaean armies. Beset by such paranoia, it had not taken long for the council of war to slip into chaotic farce, with its members shouting at each other or walking out. Now the Mycenaean king was desperately trying to restore the situation. Impressed by Odysseus’s suggestion of the oath, he had asked him to come up with a similarly shrewd idea for unifying the Greeks against Troy.

Despite the honour, Odysseus’s heart was not in it. Much though he admired Agamemnon’s character and shared his aspirations, his thoughts were focused on returning to his homeland and saving his people from Eupeithes’s reign. He missed the sight of the sea every morning, the smell of the salt water in the air and the cry of the gulls on the wind. He longed to see his father and mother and their faithful servants again. More than anything, he wanted to leave this world of political intrigue and power games and go back to the simple life he had always known.

Had he dared to, he could have returned months ago and used the clay owl Athena had given him. Breaking the tablet would have summoned the goddess, and with her beside him few could have withstood his vengeful fury. But his doubts had prevented him. What if he had broken the clay tablet and Athena had not come? What if it was just another trick of the gods? His lack of faith made him seek out more certain methods of recovering his father’s kingdom, and as a consequence he now faced the dilemma of choosing between Helen and Penelope. Between home and love. But whatever force he came away with from Sparta, be it the might of Tyndareus’s army or the reluctant loan of Icarius’s personal guard, and whatever strategy he devised for retaking Ithaca, in his heart he wondered whether he could achieve anything without the help of his patron goddess.

‘My lord?’ Damastor said, standing by the door. ‘Shall we go? The men have already descended to the feast.’

Odysseus tied the straps of his sandals and followed Damastor out into the empty corridor. There was a curious new sensation in his flesh as he anticipated the night’s banquet, lifting his spirits and sending his mind racing towards Penelope. He pictured her tall, slim body in his mind’s eye and could hardly believe the feelings of physical desire that were coursing through him. His imagination was filled with her, recalling every detail of her physique from her long feet and shapely legs to the swell of her breasts and the curve of her brown shoulders. Would she be there tonight? He hoped so. Though he still feared her rejection, which would compel him to accept Tyndareus’s offer of Helen, he drew renewed courage from the thought of being in her presence. Boldness won battles, not timidity, and tonight he knew he had to approach her or lay all hope of her aside. Just the thought of her made his skin tingle with anticipation, and suddenly he was grateful for the new tunic Damastor had given him.

‘Perhaps Penelope will be there,’ Damastor said, as if reading Odysseus’s mind. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, my lord, you seem to have an eye for her.’