Telemachus only knew the ideal of a man crafted for him by others. People who missed and loved the long-absent king: Mother. Grandmother. Grandfather. Eumaeus. Eurycleia. They all painted an image of a man so tall and foreboding, Telemachus often wondered if his father wasn’t actually a god. All his life, he loved and hated this man named Odysseus. This stranger off to war. Some days, he didn’t care if this Odysseus ever returned, but other days a dull ache carved a deep hole behind his heart. It was as if a part of him was missing. When that happened, he squeezed his fists into tight balls, willing the pain away. A hawk screeched above, shaking the troubling thoughts away.
Something moved in the grass, catching Argo’s attention. The dog’s ears perked up. Slowly, the scruffy hound stood, tail pointed. The grass rustled unnaturally again. Before Telemachus could stop him, Argo bounded off across the meadow.
“Wait! Argo! Get back here!”
It was too late. Argo had caught the scent of the small fox and was off on the chase.
✽✽✽
Oil lamps burned brightly, filling the hall with a warm, golden glow. A lyre player plucked a sweet song of love. Olive garlands graced two trestle tables set with platters of roasted beef and goat. Servants carried out bowls of fresh cheese, figs and dates, and rounds of bread. Bowls of olive oil steeped with thyme and rosemary were set by each plate.
Penelope rose from her seat as Clytemnestra swept into the hall wrapped in a fine-spun purple cloud, her dark hair intricately pinned about her head. Glittering gold dangled from her earlobes. A chain of hammered gold stars sat gracefully around her long neck. She was followed by a boy who looked to be Telemachus’ age and an even younger girl.
“Welcome, cousin.” Gesturing around her, Penelope said, “We hope you will be pleased.”
Clytemnestra’s lips curled up, slightly. “Your hospitality has warmed our hearts.”
The Mycenaean queen took her place with the grace of a woman practiced in royal etiquette. Penelope wondered if Clytemnestra was so poised, how much more so was Helen by now? The stories she heard of Helen bore little resemblance to the girl she ate apples with beneath a tree.
“I understand Palamedes paid Ithaka a visit. I trust his words fell on barren soil?”
Anticlea blurted out, “Most certainly. My son is more honorable than—”
“Than … Agamemnon?” Clytemnestra’s eyes swept to Anticlea’s, her smile wicked, but knowing. “Any man is more honorable than that murderer.”
Penelope shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She cleared her throat. “Have some wine.” Clapping her hands, she signaled the wine stewards to pour. She stole a glance at her mother-in-law, and gulped half her cup. “How does Mycenae fair with its king away?”
“We have managed. As I see you have as well, cousin.”
“With fields and orchards and livestock, we stay quite busy.”
“And raising a fine young prince, I see? Telemachus. Is that correct?”
Telemachus was busy eating a chunk of meat, but looked up at hearing his name.
Clytemnestra narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. “How old are you, boy?”
Straightening in his chair, he squeaked, “Thirteen.” The heat of being scrutinized rose to his cheeks. He took a sip of watered-wine. “Thirteen,” he managed, with more baritone in his voice than an adolescent boy.
“Indeed,” Clytemnestra said, pleased that the young prince had attempted to impress her. “Do you ever think of marriage, Telemachus?”
Penelope and Anticlea blurted in unison, “No.”
Clytemnestra’s laughter unnerved both women. “You believe your son too young for such discussion? Is he not a prince? To rule, one day, after his father?”
Penelope scrambled to find the words. “He is … Telemachus is … is too young. Of course he will be king … Odysseus will return before—”
“Your son is grown? How can you be so certain of that? How many years have passed already with little to no word from any man? I say they are lost at Troy, or will be.”
Anticlea sighed, choosing her words carefully. “We pray that is not the case for my son. What mother doesn’t wish for her son’s safe return?”
“I understand your feelings, Anticlea. More than you might know. I only speak to the fact that as the years pass, it is less and less likely any of our men will return. War makes and breaks men. We must do what we must to maintain our kingdoms and prosperity. If the war drags on much longer, rivals will rise to claim what is ours from our children. That’s what I seek to prevent. Losing the worlds we’ve preserved in the absence of our … kings.”
Clytemnestra’s word dove into Penelope’s chest, wrenching her most private fears from the shadows. She’d brushed Odysseus’ words away that day, long ago, when he’d forced her to promise to take another husband if he didn’t return by the time their son was a man. The thought of lying beneath another man wasn’t as frightening as the thought of her son losing his position as the next king. If she chose too soon, Telemachus would lose his birthright. If she chose too late, Telemachus might not survive at all.
Penelope knew the daughters of Tyndareus were able strategists in ways women could be. “Then, you’ve come with a proposition?” Penelope asked.
“I have.”
Curiosity got the better of Penelope. “What is it?”
“That we bind Mycenae and Ithaka together through marriage. My daughter, Erigone, to your son, Telemachus.”
The young prince of Ithaka coughed with his mouth full. Anticlea choked on her wine. Erigone smiled blissfully unaware she was being bartered. Aletes stared disbelievingly at his mother. Only the two queens retained their stoic composure.
Penelope looked Erigone over, sitting there dipping her bread in olive oil. She would be a great beauty someday. That would please Telemachus, perhaps. But, the beauty of Tyndareus’ house had only brought strife and war. She wasn’t certain that was in Ithaka’s best interest. Provoking Clytemnestra wasn’t in her current best interest. Better to deal with the present, when the future, whether she wanted to admit it or not, was uncertain. “Your daughter would become Queen of Ithaka. Eventually.”
“Eventually,” Clytemnestra echoed. “And if Odysseus should return, I think he would approve of such a match. If not, perhaps, your wifely wiles can bring him to reason. There is no more powerful or prosperous kingdom than Mycenae.”
Penelope lifted her cup. A maid filled it. “Agreed.”
Anticlea rolled her eyes, murmuring discontent to whichever gods would listen.
Telemachus was mortified. “But, Mother! I don’t want to get married.”
Penelope reached to pat her son’s arm. “It wouldn’t be for several years to come. It is a good match, Telemachus. Don’t you agree, Mother?”
Anticlea had recovered her senses. “If you think it best for Ithaka, then it will be.”
“It seems, cousin, we have an agreement between our households,” Penelope said.
“Good.” Clytemnestra pushed her chair from the table. “Suddenly, I’m quite tired. I think it best I take to my bed. May I leave the children to finish?”
“As you wish, cousin.”
As Clytemnestra left the hall, Anticlea whispered across the table, “She’s with child again. If I’m not mistaken. She took very little wine.”
Penelope agreed. “Unexpected to say the least.” She silently wondered who was fathering these children while Agamemnon was away. Whispers spoke of Zeus, but Penelope wasn’t so sure. No god was stalking the halls of Odysseus seeking to impregnate her. Although, if one did she might not resist over much. Her husband had been gone for so long that her desires pressed her to find some satisfaction without fear of bastards running loose. She cringed thinking what a nightmare Anticlea would make her life if that happened. Odysseus’ mother loved her son more than her own husband. No, Penelope could never give in to another man.
✽✽✽
Tired from the dinner and a little too much wine, Penelope allowed her
two hand-maids to help her with her gown. They pulled the shoulder pins and carefully folded the sheer garment and stowed it away. They slipped a thin sleeping chiton of pale blue linen over the queen’s shoulders, before they attended her coiffed hair. Pulling golden pin by golden pin, her honey-wheat tresses tumbled down her back. Penelope fingered a lock of hair, noting some gray. When he returns, what if Odysseus does not find me as beautiful as he once did? Then she shuddered. If he returns.
As the women turned to go, Penelope’s hand lingered over one of the maid’s. Without making eye contact, Penelope walked to her bed and lay down. The maids glanced at each other knowingly and followed, climbing into bed with the queen. Penelope lay back against the pillows with a maid settling on either side. They kissed her on the neck, their hands roaming softly over her. The woman with dark, silky hair slid down to her breasts and suckled them, pulling the nipples gently between her teeth, teasing them to tight buds.
The other moved her kisses down Penelope’s belly to her sacred flesh. The queen moaned, moving her hips provocatively, encouraging the woman to explore the soft folds with her tongue. Penelope’s legs quivered with anticipation. With one sucking at her breasts, and the other sucking at the tiny bud below, it wasn’t long before Penelope’s entire body shook with pleasure.
For a moment, the three lay entwined, one maid resting her head against the queen’s breast, the other resting her head against her thigh. Penelope lay naked between them. “Go,” she whispered softly.
The dark-haired one with golden eyes dared to lean down, kissing Penelope on the mouth, gently biting the queen’s bottom lip. Warmth flushed through Penelope at the exchange, a small flame of desire reigniting. “You may stay.”
Once they were alone, the maid removed her chiton. “If I may, my queen?”
Penelope nodded against her pillows. “There is something in that box there.” She pointed across the room.
The maid pulled the lid off. Inside was a phallus of fired and glazed clay. She carried it to Penelope like a lover, eyes full of fire and hands ready to explore the world of her queen’s body. Leaning down, she pressed her warm lips against Penelope’s ear, whispering words in a foreign tongue.
Penelope uncharacteristically grabbed the maid’s head in her hands, bringing them face-to-face. With eyes locked, the lonely queen pulled their mouths together, deeply kissing the other woman. Pleasured moans rose between them as they pressed their nude bodies together. Penelope reached to touch the maid’s sacred flesh. A flash of heat surged through her as she pressed her fingers into the wetness there. The maid handed her the phallus.
Taking it in one hand, Penelope pushed it into her lover, who moaned with delight.
Grasping her breast, the woman asked, “Will you suckle?”
Penelope, leaning on an elbow, slid up to reach the woman’s side. She’d never felt a woman’s nipple in her mouth. She tongued the brown circle, until it rose like an almond. Then, she suckled like a babe pulling milk. Penelope was overcome by the need to satisfy the woman, and rammed the phallus deeper over and over again until the woman beside her groaned and her legs quivered. Once the maid regained her composure, she returned the passion. Sweating and rubbing together, they passed the night.
When Apollo’s light filtered through the window, Penelope woke with the maid’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Caressing the woman’s hair, she said, “You must wake.”
The dark-haired beauty’s eyes fluttered open.
“Go before the rest of the household is about their chores.”
Without a word, the woman got up and pulled her chiton back on and left the chamber.
Penelope appreciated that this maid never made demands of her, or tried to steal private moments. The first time the queen had allowed such intimacy, was after Palamedes departed. Anticlea had convinced her that the old man was nothing more than a liar and a fool. But, the encounter had dredged up her loneliness, and with it, the ache to feel a man make love to her. To feel his arms wrapped around her. To feel the weight of him as he pressed into her, claiming her as his own. One evening, she had dismissed all her maids save one. She’d taken her by the hand into the private royal chamber.
Penelope had sworn it would never happen again, but her desire for physical touch only grew after that. And with no word from Odysseus, no end in sight of waiting …
She never spoke to the women who privately serviced her. What she did was simply an act of passion to quell the ache of loneliness inside of her. But this night, Penelope wanted to wrap her legs around someone. Kiss someone deeply. Have her body filled and used for pleasure. She wanted to chase the darkness and sadness away by making love to this woman, this nobody, who was everybody to her in the moment.
ITHAKA
NINE, lost boys
1238 BCE
“But I don’t want to marry that little girl.”
“Her name is Erigone.” Penelope pulled a blue thread through the curling ocean waves on her tapestry. “She won’t be a girl when you marry her. She’ll be a woman.”
Telemachus grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Gross.”
Sighing, Penelope plucked a piece of lint from her design. “You say that now. Trust me, son, in a few years you’ll be begging to marry.”
“No. I won’t.” He rubbed at his smooth chin. “Is that why you’re always checking to see if I have a beard? To see if I’m old enough to marry?”
“It’s more than that, Telemachus.”
“Tell me, Mother.”
Penelope’s eyes, sad and distant, met her son’s. How could she expect him to understand what was at stake? “If your father doesn’t return by the time you grow a beard, he made me promise I’d take another husband.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Everything, Telemachus. Everything. Look around you. This palace. The lands. The people who depend on us for prosperity and protection. If your father doesn’t return all of this, your birthright will be forfeit.”
“But I’m your son.”
“Exactly. You’re my son, which may spare your life. But, you’re also Odysseus’ son, which might demand your life. Do you understand? If the elders don’t see you as a capable king, a man, then neither will the people of Ithaka. Rivals will come to take what belongs to us. Force me to marry someone else, for with my hand, the kingdom would pass peacefully to the next king. Have no doubt such a man would likely want his own children to rule after him. That is why you must marry. Why we must talk of these things. Let it be known. In doing so, the elders will know you take your duties seriously. As only a man can do.”
Telemachus shifted his feet and stared out the window, avoiding his mother’s intense gaze. “I don’t want to the king.”
Penelope stood abruptly, spilling her basket of colored yarn. Standing before her son, she raised his chin roughly. “You say that now without knowing what it is to be king. I have labored too long and sacrificed much for you. More than you can ever realize. If I ever hear you utter those words again, I will slap them from your mouth myself.”
Unaccustomed to his mother’s anger, Telemachus stared at her in stunned silent.
“Now, leave me. In the morning, I’m sending you to your grandfather. Maybe you will listen to his reason.”
Telemachus walked out with tears in his eyes.
The queen resumed her weaving. She pulled a bleached thread through a small needle and set to work on a cresting wave. Skillfully, Penelope frosted each one with white foam. When she finally put her work down, Apollo’s light had begun to fade. Odysseus, please return soon. Athena, I beg you bring him home.
✽✽✽
PHTHIA
Deidamia ran a hand across her cheek. The distorted image of the polished silver reflected an aging face. “Has it truly been that long?”
There was a knock at the door. Deidamia signaled one of the chamber maids to open it. A young boy, nervously wringing his hands, entered.
“Well? Have you a message?”
The boy nodded. “King Peleus says to tell you he is here.”
Deidamia stood, reluctantly satisfied with her appearance. She fussed at a few pleats on her gown before sweeping gracefully from the chamber and rushed down the corridor.
The great hall was lit with oil lamps, and the central hearth roared with sunset flames. Garlands of olive curled around every column and hung around every table. Center pieces of rosemary and fresh flowers spilled from vases, spicing the air. Deidamia stood at the entrance looking for her son among the crowd.
“Neo has not arrived,” Chiron said, as he clopped up next to her. “You are his mother, are you not?”
“I am,” she whispered, awestruck. “I never thought to see a … you among these guests.”
Chiron laughed. “Indeed. I wouldn’t miss this reunion for anything.”
“I can scarce believe eight years have past. I’ve missed my son more than he knows.”
“He is no longer the boy you sent away.”
Deidamia pressed her lips to a straight line. “It wasn’t my choice to send him away.”
Chiron clicked his tongue. “I’ve seen that look on Neo’s face many times. Do not be angered by my words.” He placed a warm hand on Deidamia’s shoulder. “His father’s blood runs hot through his veins. If it is at all possible, I believe Ares favors Neo more than Achilles.”
“Are the stories about Achilles true?”
“Which stories? There are many.”
“That he … that he stoned a woman to death?”
“Yes.”
“I never would have believed my husband was capable of such violence.”
Chiron folded his arms and studied Deidamia’s face. “You still regard Achilles as husband? Interesting.”
“He may yet return,” Deidamia said, defiantly. “To us. To me.”
“Ah, look, Neo arrives.”
From across the hall, a man taller than all the others entered. His shoulders were wide and his gate long and confident. He wore a simple bleached chiton with a black cape pinned over his shoulders. A short sword strapped at his waist.
Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Page 7
