The point between her brows crinkled as if a memory struggled to the surface, but still, the light did not hit her eyes.
He swallowed his disappointment. “I was here before the war. I was a younger man then,” he added. “I was…I am…a sailor. More grey in my beard now,” he made himself chuckle—a different chuckle than that of Odysseus’s. “Yet you have not changed a bit. I remember you clearly and the image of your wondrous beauty has stayed with me. Your Odysseus is blessed by the gods.”
It was her turn to laugh. It had been so long since he had heard such music. So long. “For a beggar, you have a silver tongue,” she said. Earnest now, she added: “You’re a sailor. Have you heard any news of Odysseus?”
His heart soared. So, she still cared then! “Yes,” he said. “Odysseus has suffered greatly—but he lives. There are tales of him from sea to sea,” he went on, suddenly filled with the need to make right his absence. “I’ve heard tell that he has encountered things that no mortal man has seen—titans…one-eyed giants…goddesses,” he put in, recalling his half-love for Calypso, and then added, “...even witches,” as the image of a disgusted Circe floated into memory. He pushed the images away.
“Sounds just like him,” Penelope arched an eyebrow. “Witches and titans, you say. Whores and bandits more like.”
Odysseus flushed despite himself and was grateful that the beard and filth of his disguise would not betray his shame. “Those are the stories I’ve heard,” he said. “Last word was that he will return to Ithaca. He’s coming back to you, Lady. So great a love he has that it has sustained him these long years. Now that I lay eyes on you again, I can see why. You are a woman to walk mountains and cross oceans for.”
Her eyes widened and he saw her see him in that moment—the veil of filth pierced. He’d uttered that precise phrase so long ago when he’d asked her to marry him. And she remembered. Her mouth formed to speak his name.
“I’m NoOne for now,” he said with the slightest of winks, his heart full of joy at her recognition—and that there was no rejection in her gaze. “I’m happy to see you again—as I am sure Odysseus will be. Once he’s taken care of…” He was interrupted by a shout of laughter from the floor of the hall. The suitors were obviously well into their cups. Antinous was standing on a table, reaching up to take the bow from its hanging on the wall. Odysseus loved that bow—he’d traded a spear and sword for it in Sparta many years ago. Seeing another man’s hands on her angered and saddened him at the same time. Eurymachus was staggering around too, taking the ancient axes from their hangings on the walls. Odysseus glanced at Telemachus who blanched: this they had not planned for.
He moved away from the dais and nodded at Eumaeus. The old man supped his wine, rose and left the hall—unnoticed by the suitors and their serving girls.
Penelope got to her feet. “You have no right to touch that!” she shouted at Antinous who was admiring the bow. “It belongs to Odysseus!”
“Everything that was once his will soon be someone’s here, woman,” the big man slurred. “Including you. And if you have a sense, you will choose me! I am the strongest of all. That is what you need.”
Penelope gave a snort of disdain. “You’re not even strong enough to string that bow,” she said and sat back down. Odysseus’s heart swelled with pride at her strength and courage.
“We’ll see,” Antinous snarled. “We are to have a contest,” he went on. “To shoot an arrow through the rings of these axes here,” he gestured as Eurymachus began to place the weapons—standing on their broad, double bladed heads—on the wine-slick stones. It was drunken nonsense—of course it was. The sort of thing that men always indulged in when they had too much wine. Who was better—who was the best?
Penelope looked at “the beggar” and her lips twitched in the slightest of smiles. “Good Antinous,” she said. “Who would have thought that it would be you who found a solution to this most vexing of questions?”
“What do you mean?” the big man frowned.
“Men say that you are the strongest—but not the brightest blade in the box.” That got a laugh from the men and she waited till it died down. “I can see now that that is not true. You—of all these suitors and would be kings have found the answer. As I have said, that bow belongs…belonged to Odysseus. It is said that only he could string it. But it seems to me if any man can match this test of strength and then skill—perhaps he would be the man for me.”
Shouts erupted at her pronouncement and Odysseus saw Amphinomus’s skin paling, his eyes full of shock and anguish, the breaking of his heart writ large on his face.
“We’ve all been drinking,” Antinous protested. “This is just a game…you cannot just decide…”
“Are you afraid of the challenge, mighty Antinous?” Telemachus mocked. “I should go first then! If I win, she will not have to choose anyone! And we can put an end to this once and for all.”
Odysseus wanted to shake him for his impetuousness. Of course, he could not know that Penelope had seen through the beggar’s disguise and he knew well that the boy wanted to prove his strength and prowess now that his father was home. To show him—Odysseus—and these other men that he was worthy. But Odysseus knew that unless they were very smart, none would be able to string his bow. With no little sadness he realized that once again Telemachus would be found wanting in the face of his father’s deeds.
“Yes!” Eurymachus giggled. “Let Telemachus show us.” He kicked a quiver full of arrows across the floor towards Telemachus and Antinous tossed the bow at him—too hard, Odysseus noted and his son fumbled with it; the weapon fell to the stones, the sound of its clattering masked by the explosion of laughter. He ignored it, stooped and picked the weapon up, measuring the string with its great knot. Placing his foot into the curve, he strained to slip the knot into the groove, chest and shoulder muscles bunching with effort. Sweat burst out on his brow and he began to tremble. The bow snapped back into place and he dropped it.
Again he tried, and failed. The suitors—save Amphinomus—were shouting at him, mocking him and Odysseus could see his own anger mirrored in the glare of Penelope. For a third time, he put his foot to the wood, but his strength was all but spent. As the bow clattered to the stones once more he looked over at Odysseus, shame in his eyes.
Odysseus shook his head and mouthed “no”. Disappointed, Telemachus had to endure the taunting as he left the bow where it lay and sat heavily on a bench. Antinous was next, cocksure and confident in his might but soon it was his turn to be jeered by the others as he tried—and of course failed—to string the bow. And so it went on. Each man in the room trying his hand, each man falling short. Amphinomus almost killed himself with the effort but in the end, even he capitulated.