I sat with my head in my hands and wept. And when I looked up, she was there. Penelope stood at the end of the room with a loom weight in one hand and a twist of yarn in the other. As our eyes met, both hands released their contents to the floor. I had not intended to meet her gaze. My plan—insofar as I had one—was to arrive with eyes downcast, begging on my knees for her forgiveness. But the suddenness of her arrival and the crushing weight of her presence stunned me like a Harpy’s cry. For the first time in three thousand years, I looked into her eyes, gray like summer clouds. And felt their judgment.
A deep heaviness came over me, and all my infidelities heaped over me like stones. The weight of them grew heavier the longer I looked at her until I felt I might break. I had rehearsed a thousand apologies, but none came to me. Instead, I blinked openmouthed like a gigged fish, the pain of all my crimes pinning me to the floor.
Then she left.
I watched her turn and leave the room, and all my hope left with her. The burden lifted from my shoulders, but all I could feel was a desperate weightlessness like drowning and falling at the same time. Solitude closed me in its cold fist.
She returned, a woolen towel draped over one shoulder, and in her hands, a burnished bronze bowl of steaming water. She placed it on the ground before me, and the room filled with the warm scent of rosemary and mint.
Too afraid to look at her, I turned my gaze to the basin. Leaves of mint circled like dreams beneath the water’s surface; a lonely spiral of steam touched my face and fled. Beyond these trembled the features of a blackened, battered man, his beard littered with soot and grime, rivulets of mud running down his cheeks. With horror, I recognized him as my own reflection, and felt shame. Was this the King of Ithaca? Was this the man for whom Penelope had waited twenty years, and then three thousand more? How could she welcome such a man as this, and after all his lies?
With one hand, she stirred the water, releasing another cloud of scent. With the other, she dipped the towel and raised it to my face. I felt its warmth on my forehead, my cheeks and neck. I closed my eyes and breathed.
“Your hands,” she said, and I held them over the bowl. It was an ancient ritual, this washing, but usually performed by slaves. Even as a child, I had sat in this very hall while my old nurse wiped the grime and sweat from my limbs. But it was not the proper work of a noblewoman, and certainly no job for the wife of a king. I opened my eyes again and looked at her as she dipped a gold cup into the basin and poured the water over my hands. A cloud of soot blossomed in the bowl. Her head was bowed to the work, and her hair ran down her back in dark waves. My heart gave a sudden surge as a single lock fell down into her face and across my hand.
Yet I never felt it. In fact, it passed right through—even as the water ran over my palms and into the bowl beneath. I lifted two fingers to touch her face, and she looked up with a sad smile. Where I reached out to her, she faded away like mist. When I removed my hand, she was there again, as real to the eye as flesh and blood.
“A shade,” I whispered.
She nodded and set the gold cup on the floor next to the basin.
“Telemachos?”
“A shade as well. Away. Searching for you.”
“How did he know I was here?”
“He didn’t.”
“Then how . . . how long has he . . .” I couldn’t finish the question. I didn’t want to know the answer. “I can’t stay, can I?”
“Why would you want to?”
“Why . . . to be with you,” I gasped. “To be with you! How can you even ask?”
She frowned. “You left us. Twice.”
A deep chasm opened within me, and again I hung my head. Here was the sum of my infidelities. Here, I realized, was the great failure of my life: that even in death, my own wife and son could not be certain that I loved them. Wily Odysseus. The Man of Many Faces, even to the ones he loved.
“Penelope,” I said, “my queen, I know that wounds can’t be bound with words. But hear me this once, Daughter of Icarius, and I will never ask another kindness. Wretch that I am, weak in faithfulness and wanting honor, I am as worthy of your kindness as you were worthy of my lies. Nonetheless, I beg one act of mercy. My queen, forgive my lies. Forgive me for leaving you.”
“Odysseus,” she said, melting into tears, “I forgave you the moment you left.”
It may have been hours or days. We sat together until the tears dried on our cheeks. We talked until our voices were hoarse. We smiled, and at times we even laughed. But we never touched. The only things in Limbo that could not hold substance were its citizens. The air itself had more weight. So instead of touching one another, we touched the things around us: a bit of cloth, a bowl, a sprig of mint. When I used her cup to dip some water from a jar, she took it from me, and pressed it to her lips. And this became a sort of ritual between us, passing the cup back and forth. It was a sad substitute for a kiss, but it was all we had.
As I watched her drink from that gold cup, I had a sudden inspiration. “Blood!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. “Blood! Of course! Why did I not think of it before?”
Penelope dipped one eyebrow and looked at me sidelong. It was a gesture I had come to adore, and seeing it again almost made me forget my excitement. “Son of Laertes, talk sense,” she said.
“Blood!” I shouted again, too excited to be articulate. I drew my sword and pulled up my sleeve.
“Odysseus, stop!” she shouted. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a kind of trick I learned from a witch: you feed blood to the shades, and then they can interact with the living. If I remember correctly, it was ram’s blood that I used, but my own blood should do the trick. And what a small price! I owe it to you anyway. By the gods, I’d gladly give every drop if it meant I could touch you once.”
Penelope shuddered and shook her head, “No. No, Odysseus. Not that way. It would never last. And even if it did, no good would come of it. It could never bring us joy.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, heartbroken.
“No, you wouldn’t. You are not one of us, so you could not understand.” She held out her hands. “Look around us, Odysseus. What do you see?”
“I see my home, my wife, my love. I see all the joys of my mortal life.”
“No, Odysseus. Not joy. This is the shadow of your home, and I am only a shade. Those who dwell here have every comfort, even laughter. But joy is something for which we must wait, watching and praying, until it is given us someday by the gods.” She looked away across my shoulder and closed her eyes. “You must go, Odysseus. You must finish your journey. If the goddess led you this far, then my own fate is surely bound to yours. Find a way out of this prison, and I feel certain that my joy will follow close on the heels of your own.”
“But I don’t want to leave,” I said. “I just got here. And besides, I’ve left you too many times already.”
She shook her head. “No. You must go on, Odysseus. The gods will it. When you have accomplished their will, then you may return to me, not before.”
I could see that her resolve was fixed, and I knew from experience that she would not back down once her mind was made up. This was a quality in her that I had always found both intriguing and irksome. In an age and a culture that valued obedience in a wife above all other qualities, Penelope alone seemed to believe that her consent was needed before anything of importance was done in our house. I don’t know where she learned it.
“Just stop there, woman. What is this ‘you may’ and ‘you must’? Am I not the head of this household?” The words sounded rather weak coming out, and it occurred to me that I had probably forfeited any rights I had as a father when I abandoned my family.
Penelope smiled broadly, as in response to a joke. “Of course, my love. You are the head of this household.”
“And as the head, do I not manage its affairs?”
This time, a little cough of laughter escaped her. She jerked her hand to her mouth. She was baiting me.
> I sighed. “So what is that supposed to mean?”
“Odysseus, dear husband. As your obedient wife, I have never once challenged your right or duty to rule your own family. But I cannot recall a single occasion when you have taken a direct hand in ‘managing its affairs’.”
I sputtered but couldn’t actually come up with evidence to the contrary. “I guess I managed those suitors all right,” I said at last.
“You killed them, Odysseus. I managed them.”
“What? How? You didn’t even know I was in the house until I called you from your room.”
The smile dropped from her face, and she folded her hands in her lap. It was the sort of gesture she used with our son when he was determined to do something foolish. “Well now, Odysseus, if you must hear it from me, so be it. When you showed up in our house, ten years late and wearing that ridiculous beggar costume, it was enough to infuriate the goddess of marriage herself. Of course I knew it was you. I might have slapped you for your callousness in appearing to me like that after so many years—and then having the gall to think your disguise so brilliant that I would not recognize my own husband. I knew immediately what you were up to, and because there didn’t seem to be a sensible alternative, I resolved to play along. I’ll grant you this much: you had the suitors fooled, though I can’t imagine it was any great challenge. They were so drunk and stupid, they hardly recognized one another. But old Euriclea saw through your disguise, didn’t she? And no doubt the suitors would have too if I hadn’t distracted them with the sudden announcement that I was ready to marry.”
“I would have killed them one way or another,” I protested.
“How exactly did you expect to accomplish that, Odysseus? Did you think it was their custom to sit all together in a locked room, unarmed and alone? And with what weapons did you expect to kill them—your hands? If I hadn’t invented the trial of the bow, you might have pranced around all year in your disguise, scouting them out.”
“But the bow was my idea,” I protested.
“No, the bow was not your idea, Odysseus. How could it have been? Would the suitors have accepted such a ridiculous challenge from a beggar? It was my idea, and a clever one at that. I knew you were the only one who could string that bow. So I put the suitors at ease, put that weapon in your hand, got the servants out of the way . . . and in the process, I even managed to make off with a mound of gifts from the very men who hated you most.”
By the gods, she was right! And all these years, she’d let me boast of my cleverness! “Well, I did manage to kill them all,” I said, feeling rather small.
“That you did. And I admit I did not see it coming. I assumed that once you had them cornered, you would exact some promise of recompense. But I guess I underestimated the depth of your jealousy.”
“And I underestimated the depth of your wit.”
She pursed her lips. “The slowness of the hand deceives the sly.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said at last, “but why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”
Penelope raised her eyebrows and leaned in close. “Would you have listened?”
“All this time . . . ,” I muttered, thinking over my life and wondering how much of it was really the work of my spouse.
“It’s not that I’ve been secretly running everything all along,” Penelope said. “It’s just that your plans have always been . . . I don’t know . . . half-woven. You needed someone to come along and hem in the edges. But there’s no dishonor in that. I am your wife, after all.” She reached out to touch my hand, then drew it back again. “I should have had the courage to tell you this sooner.”
“No,” I answered, “I couldn’t have handled it till now.”
Penelope smiled.
“My wife,” I said, looking her over and thinking that there might be no end to the surprises in her. “My wife,” I said again. “My wife.”
“Yes,” she said.
I felt a sudden and unexpected rush of pride. Of all the men in Achaea, this clever, clever woman had chosen me. She had chosen me. In spite of all my flaws and failures, in spite of my lies and my infidelity and my arrogance, this woman—this ingenious woman—had waited twenty years faithfully and lovingly and patiently. For me. Could I possibly be worthy of such a wife?
“Very well, then,” I said, standing up and shouldering my bow. “I will do this for you. I will fight my way—claw and fist, sword and wit—out of Hades. But hear me, Penelope, gentle Daughter of Icarius. I will return for you. And for Telemachos too. Tell my son I will return for him. Tell him to ready his bow and sharpen his sword. When I have done the goddess’ errand, I will return. I give you my word. And Penelope, tell my son . . . tell him . . . I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
“Here,” I said, reaching into my quiver. I found the arrow with the bloodred feathers. “Let this be my pledge. It is a gift of the gods, bestowed on me by the Parthenos herself. Keep it until my return.”
Penelope took it cautiously from my hands, holding it as if it were a child. Then, bending down, she picked up the golden cup from which we had been drinking.
“And here is my pledge to you, Odysseus, Son of Laertes. Until you return this cup to me, I shall offer every prayer of my heart to the Parthenos. If it takes you another thousand years to return, know that you will find me here, praying at my loom for my husband.”
I took the cup in my hands and smiled. “A cup, Penelope?” She grinned back at me. “A lesser woman might have given me something more portable,” I said, tying it to my belt.
“A lesser man might have given me something more romantic,” she replied, frowning at the arrow. Together we laughed. Then I turned to go.
“Odysseus,” she called as I reached the door. I looked over my shoulder at her. She was holding the arrow against her breast like a flower. “Come back with your shield, or come back on it.”
I placed my fist to my chest and bowed. For the third and final time, I left her.
CHAPTER 12
DISAPPOINTMENT
WHEN I CAME OUT of the house, Amphinomos and the giant were exactly where I’d left them, though they were sitting, and silently staring at one another. They stood up as I approached. He was a good man, Amphinomos; I could see that now. He hadn’t deserved such an ignoble death. I didn’t exactly regret killing him, but I did feel that I owed him a certain debt of honor.
Amphinomos started off, and I called after him; he stopped but did not turn around.
“Your death was . . . unmerited,” I said from behind him. “I should not have . . . you know . . . done what I did.”
He turned to face me, half-frowning. I coughed and shuffled my feet. How do you repay a man when you have stolen his dignity? There was only one way. Though every muscle in my body resisted, I dropped to my knees and lifted a hand in supplication. “Amphinomos, Son of Nisos, I, Odysseus, King of Ithaca, beg your . . . I beg . . . your forgiveness.” With that word said, the others came easily. “If ever my deeds have won honor in the sight of gods or men, so now let it be known that I come to you, a suppliant, bearing the weight, if possible, of your dishonor on my own shoulders. Since no weight of gold could ever suffice to repay this debt, I come to you with empty hands—a beggar.”
I looked up. Amphinomos was looking away now. His hands were shaking. Could this have been harder for him than for me? At last, he extended his right hand over my head, palm down. “Son of Laertes, rise. You have more than my forgiveness. I give you my blessing.”
I lumbered to my feet. “Now what?”
“I would help you up,” he said, “but . . .”
“I understand.” I reached over to pat him on the shoulder. I stopped myself.
We stood awkwardly regarding one another until at last the giant broke the silence. “We should leave,” he said.
Amphinomos nodded toward him. “Your friend is a poor conversationalist.”
“You are right about that,” I said.
We arrived back at H
omer’s palace to find Diomedes seated on a throne beside him, legs pressed together, arms folded tightly over his chest. Everyone was talking but him. He sat tapping his heel on the floor and looking from side to side with an expression of forced jollity. Looking at him, I found it hard to understand why everyone preferred his company to mine.
The moment he spotted me, Diomedes leapt from his seat. “Odysseus!” he called out. “Back so soon?”
“Back soon and soon to leave,” I answered.
He was visibly relieved. “Very well, if we must. Our friends here have loaded me with good advice.”
“Homer,” I said, turning to the old bard. “Lord of the Silver Lyre, we thank you for your hospitality. There is, however, one more favor we would ask. Lend us a dozen of your finest warriors—men skilled in battle. Fit them with armor and swords. Our success would be assured if we had strong arms to share the burden of this journey, and as I now plan to return to you when it is done, there is surely much to be gained for you and for your people by aiding us.”
“I am afraid we cannot help you in that way,” sighed Homer. “It is not our fate to leave this place. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. We have no life in us and no powers of our own. Some authority beyond our sight has given you this charge, and it is for you alone to fulfill.”
I was about to reply when the giant stepped forward, pushing me to the side as he did. “I once spoke as you do now, but if what you say is true—you who place such credence in fate—explain to me how it is that I have accompanied these men so far.” His broken wings stretched a little as he talked. “I am of the exiled race—unchoosing and unchosen angeloi. Do you think it likely that one such as I should take up arms? Yet here I stand. So how can you know what is not possible? How can you speak of fate when one of the Undecided stands decidedly within the walls of Limbo?”
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