Ithaca (The Songs of Penelope, #1)

by Claire North

Follow me through the halls of the palace of Odysseus; follow to hear the stories that the men-poets of the greedy kings do not tell.

Every little twerp is descended from Heracles these days, it’s practically a requirement for entry to polite society.

These are the men of note. We regard them as one might regard a rash – hopeful that it does not spread further – and then move on.

They say Menelaus washes in a golden bath.” “Menelaus has never taken a bath in his life.”

😭😂

Odysseus is a terrible sailor. I do not see any sign his son has inherited a better sense of direction.

Oh – did you forget the women were there too, at this learned assemblage? So too will the poets, when this song is sung.

“Pertinent?” Penelope’s eyelashes are not like those of her cousin, Helen. She is not skilled in fluttering them, but has seen others try, so gives it her best shot now. It is markedly unsuccessful.

The old men stay behind, studying their hands, before finally Medon, who always had a decent head for these things, glares at his assembled colleagues and snaps: “I’ve had sneezes with more guts than you,” and follows Penelope out.

Teodora looks at the woman with dark grey eyes who stands in the door, and does not know that she looks at a queen. Semele rises, which is a bit of a clue, but it seems too late for Teodora to stand now without being an idiot, so like a different kind of idiot she remains where she’s sitting.

Penelope raises an eyebrow. She practised arching it most magnificently for hours in front of the dusty bronze mirror in an attempt to mimic her cousin Clytemnestra, wife of Agamemnon, who really nailed imperial hauteur in a way that evaded the Ithacan queen. It is one of very few of Clytemnestra’s magnificent qualities that Penelope successfully emulates.

Once upon a time, there were three queens in Greece. One was chaste and pure, one a temptress whore, one a murderous hag. That is the how the poets sing it.

Beauty is a whim, it changes as easily as the tide. I was once considered the most beautiful, until familiarity bred tedium.

That is how there came to be three queens in Greece, voices uttering prayers that no poet-prince, husband-king nor king-above will ever hear.

Now Isis – that’s a woman with a bit of pluck, that’s someone who gets things done, she and I once played tavli for the soul of a manticore and both cheated so much it was practically fair!

our living poets are far more dangerous, for they know how to make a monster from a man long after he is dead.

“I am a stranger to this place. I am unfamiliar with your customs. In my land when a man seeks a woman…” “In your land, I am sure men do not seek other men’s wives, no?”

“Do I… seek a husband? That is… such a curious thought. My husband is Odysseus. No body has been found. Therefore he lives. I am married to him and that vow is unbreakable. I do not, therefore, seek a husband.”

The silence of men is a novel experience, and she is prepared to thoroughly enjoy it.

“He looks… my age.” It is not seemly for a queen to discuss her age, but when there are so few men on the island to compare to, sometimes even a lady has to reference herself.

Men think that Autonoe is the optimist of the two, but they are mistaken – she is simply more willing to laugh at the darkness. No one laughs now.

It is not dignified for a queen to climb jagged rocks up to a smuggler’s cave. Athena would tut; Aphrodite would exclaim, “Her poor nails!” and feign a swoon. Perhaps only Artemis, goddess of the hunt, would give a single short, sharp nod of approval.

“Is this Illyrians?” asks Anaitis, looking up towards the crimson sky beyond the jaws of stone as if Artemis might send a falcon as a sign to answer her enquiry. Artemis will not. She is far too busy bathing naked in a dappled forest brook to give a damn about such things.

I was a queen of women once, before my husband bound me with chains and made me a queen of wives.

Antinous did not learn many lessons from his father, save this: if you make enough people believe you are important, one day it may actually be true.

this is entirely, absolutely the stupidity of man without the interference of gods. It is fascinating in its detail and pettiness.

At the walls of Troy, the Achaeans followed Agamemnon, but the Myrmidons followed only Achilles. Didn’t that turn out well?

two maids move Penelope’s loom into place, so that the suitors may watch her work upon it in her shadowed corner. She is weaving a funeral shroud for her father-in-law, Laertes. When it is finished, then she will marry a man – so she says.

“Argos likes you, friend.” Telemachus calls everyone in the hall “friend”. He finds that saying the names of the suitors themselves makes him want to retch with disgust and shame, so instead he has spent some time cultivating a word that he can speak with acid but the men hear with flowers.

The women, of course, are the impious ones – not the men. My husband Zeus has made this point very clear, and mortals do learn from their gods.

Come, see with me the unfolding of all things; know the world as a goddess might.

I half close my eyes at the prophecy now unfolding, but see, see – we must not be afraid, you and I, to see the future in its full.

Kenamon, you gorgeous little mortal, if I could squeeze your beautiful face; if the touch of my fingers wasn’t instant death to your naked flesh, I’d be all over you, yes I would.

Damn damn damn triple-cursed Titan-chewing damnation!

The future hangs upon the edge of a blade. Here at least I have a certain subtle knack, and so I lay a hand upon Telemachus’s shoulder and murmur, Don’t be a sardine-brained pillock, boy.

At her side stands Semele, the daughter of mothers, the mother of daughters, an old farmer who dares to define herself by something other than a man.

There is also a scar down her back that should have killed her, but Apollo remembered he was a god of medicine that day, which is unusual for the prancing little squirt.

This is how Agamemnon, greatest of all the Greeks, mightiest king in east and west, conqueror of Troy, lord of Mycenae, died. “Fucking whore, fucking whore, come here, you little bitch, you slut, you… come here! When I catch you, I’ll…”

One of the disadvantages of a well-appointed palace of white marble and gold trim is that your words may echo mightily through its halls.

Telemachus turns, and though he is forced to walk away from the direction he actually wanted to go in, it is the only direction he can walk to make a point of turning his back on his mother as he strides down the hall. Later, once she’s gone, he sneaks back the way he’s come, so as not to ruin the effect.

Ithaca is nothing if not sufficient. It’s practically the island’s motto.

It would be kind now for Elektra to speak her mind, to lay it out fully. But she is not kind. She has sworn never to be kind ever again.

“But you are a queen.” “Hera be praised, am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“But no one went clamouring for Clytemnestra’s hand while her husband was away – don’t you think that strange?” “Perhaps because that hand was so far up a poet’s arse it’s a wonder he could speak without the fingers showing.” “That is frankly disgusting.”

“I know very little about killing,” she replies with a shrug. “That is the men’s business. But it is the women who come to dress and wail at the corpses when the killing is done, no?”

“I know.” Voice soft as the butterfly wing, loose as cobweb, Penelope stares into a future, and is so tired of looking.

“If you dare tell me he’s Odysseus’s son as if that’s some sacred charm, I will scream,” she answers, clear as the ringing of the hollow drum. “I will wail and rend my hair, the whole thing. So help me, Hera, I will do it.” Sweetheart, I whisper, I’m here for it.

Many is the time my husband has returned from his frolics and I’ve turned on the waterworks, rent my garments, flung myself upon the ground and sworn that I shall die, scratched at my eyes, drawn blood from my celestial skin and beaten my fists against his chest. It doesn’t change his behaviour long-term, but at least I get to embarrass him some tiny, tiny fraction of the way he humiliates, demeans, dishonours and diswomans me. So you do the wailing; I’ll bring the olives.

No songs are sung of a life lived quietly, of a man and a woman growing old in contentment.

Love is more than a queen might hope for, but the least a woman might do.

“For… myself?” Penelope’s voice is a slap across the face, a rise of stifled fury. “You think I let a hundred slobbering men dribble over my body and my land every single night for myself? You think I tolerate their endless slander, their relentless talk and insult, demeaning myself every day, for myself? I do it for my people, and I do it for my son!”