Mentes, on the other side of the courtyard, heard their exchange. “Telemachus,” he called out. “Welcome. Come, join me for some morning wine and bread.”
One of his servants—he hadn’t even seen the girl come up—took his cloak from his shoulders. Mentes had gotten up from his bench and was limping toward him.
“No, no, don’t get up,” Telemachus said stupidly because, well, he already had.
“Welcome, welcome,” Mentes said with great warmth, which made Telemachus’s throat tighten.
Stay detached.
Still, when Mentes opened his arms to him, Telemachus instinctively nestled into the older man’s bear-like embrace.
It was all he could do to not press his nose into the man’s thick neck and breathe in the familiar scent of his warm skin.
Too quickly, Mentes pulled him away, holding him by his shoulders. “What brings you out here?” he asked, leading him to the bench near the small wooden table. A servant had already poured him some well-watered wine and had put out a small plate of olives and warm bread.
Suddenly, Telemachus didn’t know why he had come. He knew only that he’d missed Mentes. That he wanted—no, needed—to be in his company.
“I’m angry,” he blurted. “And lonely.” His face flushed and he quickly took a sip of wine. He hadn’t meant to say the latter part.
“And horny too, no doubt,” the older man said with a chuckle.
“Well, now that you mention it...” he said playfully, hoping. He tried to hide just how much he was hoping.
Mentes sighed. “Come on, boy. We’ve been through this.”
Telemachus gulped more wine. “Don’t call me boy.”
“Right,” Mentes said, laughing. “That’s at the crux of this whole issue, isn’t it?”
But Telemachus wasn’t laughing.
“Telemachus, we’ve been through this so many times,” he said. “You are too old for this. It’s time to find a boy or girl of your own. You will see how it changes everything.”
“I don’t want anyone else,’” he said through gritted teeth.
“You should marry a sweet girl. Until you take someone as your own, you will always be seen as a boy. You will always feel like a boy.”
“I don’t want anyone but you,” Telemachus repeated miserably. He put a hand on his old lover’s bent and twisted leg. He leaned toward him. When Mentes didn’t turn his head, he pressed his mouth against his. Again, he didn’t pull away. But neither did he kiss him back.
Telemachus drew back. Mentes reached out a thumb and brushed it around the younger man’s mouth. “See, it’s this,” he said, running his nail over the nubs of his growing beard.
Why hadn’t he shaved? He wanted to kick himself for forgetting to do so.
“You are a man now. And I am not attracted to men.” He patted the bristles still growing in uneven patches on Telemachus’s cheeks. “I let this go on for too long because you always looked younger than your age. And I knew you needed me. But that has changed. I should’ve let you go long before now. And for that, I am sorry.”
Telemachus’s eyes burned and he took another sip of wine.
“Come on now. You are a man of twenty!” Mentes reminded him. “Take a younger lover. Marry a sweet girl and start having children. You cannot be a man until you begin to act like one. Until you take action, you will continue to feel like a child.”
Telemachus had heard all this before, of course. But no matter how many times Mentes tried to extricate himself, he still couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t turn off his emotions, nor his desires, just because his beard had finally come in!
“Mentes, please,” Telemachus muttered and he hated himself for his weakness. He would give up everything for this man, to spend one more night wrapped in his broad arms. Mentes, by all rights, should’ve hated him too for this weakness. The fact that he didn’t only made it worse.
“Dear boy—”
“Don’t call me b—”
“Excuse me, my dear young man,” Mentes corrected, his deep, gravelly voice filled with compassion. “Our time together is over, but I can continue to guide you. Here’s what you must do: take action. Your passivity is what the other men disdain.”
Telemachus’s throat grew even tighter. How he hated that word. Passivity. But how could he take action when no one listened to him, let alone respected him? More and more, he wished he could return to his smooth-cheeked days when all that mattered was whether his javelin throw had gone farther than it had the day before.
“I don’t know what to do,” Telemachus said.
Mentes sighed. “Of course you do. You just haven’t done it yet. Demand retribution from those who are abusing your house. Make them leave.”
“You know they won’t listen to me.”
“They will listen if you have a force of arms behind you,” Mentes said. “So get one. Your father helped all the neighboring kingdoms take Troy. Use that to make alliances.”
Telemachus stared at his fingers, willing himself not to chew on an enticing bit of skin ridging his thumb.
“Take a ship to sandy Pylos,” Mentes continued. “King Nestor was a friend of your father’s. Make your appeal. Or just go straight to your grandfather in Sparta. It’s long past time for you to strengthen that family connection. If you want to be king, you must convince your grandfather to marry off your mother to someone else and give you a squadron of Spartan warriors to enforce your rule.”
Telemachus abruptly rose and began to pace.
Seeing that Telemachus was about to spew another excuse, the older man plowed on. “And if that doesn’t work, go to Menelaus. He owes your father. Convince him to send you some of his forces to back up your claim and rid your home of the lazy suitors.”
“Why would Menelaus help me?” Telemachus asked, stopping to take another gulp of wine.
“By the gods! Because your father helped him win the goddam war,” Mentes thundered. “Without Odysseus, he would not be the most powerful High King of the land.”
“But if I did that, I’d be beholden to him,” Telemachus said, aware that his voice had taken on a whiny tone, but unable to stop.
Mentes rubbed a rough, callused hand over his face. “Everyone is beholden to Menelaus now, as he is High King of all the Achaeans. You just need to make that work in your favor.”
Slowly, Telemachus nodded his head. Of course, they’d had this conversation before, but the idea of actually following through had seemed as remote as a dream. But Mentes’s rejection had hardened something in him. And although he would never admit it, a part of him imagined winning him back by the sheer brilliance of his countenance at the head of a powerful and deadly force of arms.