Glyn Iliffe - King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

‘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.’

Odysseus nodded. ‘She’s a real beauty, Damastor, and she’s got a quick mind, too. I intend to make her mine.’

Damastor smiled with secret satisfaction, hardly noticing the young slave girl who passed them by on the steps. Odysseus, however, stared after her with a grin on his face.

‘Or any girl, for that matter.’

Damastor put a hand on the prince’s shoulder and led him quickly away from alternative temptations, down into the maelstrom of the great hall. Almost at once, through the crowds of warriors and attendant slaves, he saw Neaera. Her eyes met his with helpless pleading.

Only then did he notice Little Ajax conversing with Penelope, and to his dismay he saw that the princess’s attitude was not one of coldness. Suddenly he saw his plans slipping out of his grasp in the most unexpected of manners.

‘My lord,’ he said, grabbing Odysseus’s elbow and pointing urgently at the group. ‘If you want to speak to Penelope, you’ve got to do something quickly. That Locrian troublemaker is talking to her.’

Odysseus looked over at the woman he loved. For many evenings he had watched her at the nightly feasts, a distant figure who had dismissed him contemptuously from her company, which was in contrast freely given to others. But never had she looked as alluring as she did tonight. The tail in her hair had gone and the long, dark strands were tied up in a loose coil above her head, baring her exquisite ears and neck to the hungry eyes of the men around her. It set Odysseus’s flesh alight to look at her, creating a vacuum that only his other senses could fill: the sound of her voice; the smell of her clean, feminine aroma; the feel of her smooth skin; the often imagined taste of her lips. The pricking in his flesh that had been stirring in him ever since he left his quarters became a frenzy of desire, aggravated further by Little Ajax’s interfering presence. Instinctively he clutched at his belt, where his sword would normally hang. Recalling its absence, he clenched his massive fists and walked towards the Locrian.

Little Ajax seemed to sense his approach and turned. The flatterer’s smile fell from his tight lips to be quickly replaced by the usual sneer of hatred, rucking up the side of his face as he stared at Odysseus.

‘What do you want? Can’t you see we’re talking?’

Odysseus smiled coldly. ‘So can everyone else. Penelope’s a valuable prize, and some people here have an interest in who talks with her.’

The princess looked at him. Her usual hostility was strangely absent, making the desire in his flesh burn more fiercely.

‘Go tell them to find another woman,’ Little Ajax responded. His pet snake hissed, flicking its tongue menacingly at the intruder. ‘There are plenty of slaves about, so stop wasting my time.’

‘Icarius doesn’t concern himself with slaves, but he does want to know what your interest in his daughter is. He sent me to tell you as much. If you’re wise you’ll go to him now, or it’s my guess you’ll be observing Penelope from the other side of the palace walls.’

The Locrian swore and spat onto the stone flags. Even he could not refuse the summons of a king or delay the matter for longer than Icarius’s patience would last. Reluctantly he turned to go, nodding tersely to Penelope and promising to return as soon as he could. He shot Odysseus a suspicious glance and shouldered past him into the crowd.

Odysseus seized Penelope’s arm and pushed her ahead of him to a corner of the great hall, out of the sight of Neaera, Damastor and the lustful eyes of the men who glanced at the princess.