Ithaca (31 page)

Penelope is still standing on the stair. Her back is straight, her expression calm.

“Isn't there anyone else?” she asks contemptuously.

The young men are beginning to sidle back. None of them is stronger than Agelaus. None of them can string the bow if Antinous and Eurymachus have failed—and they know it.

“What about the beggar?” Penelope asks. She's looking straight at Odysseus.

“He's a tramp,” Antinous says thickly. They're the first words he's uttered since failing to string the bow.

“He's a man,” Penelope says.

I don't know what to do. Once, Odysseus could string that bow. But that was sixteen years ago—before Troy, before his journey, before fortune took him in its fingers, bowed his back and greyed his hair, crushed his strength, clouded his eyes.

But there's nothing I can do—nothing any of us can do. I watch Odysseus shuffle to his feet. Someone laughs.

“Give him a chance,” Eurymachus says. He turns from the door. His voice has resumed its usual lighthearted tone, as if nothing bad has happened. “Go on. What harm can it do?”

Grudgingly Antinous stands back as the tramp limps to the space under the landing. When he reaches it, though, he stands stupidly, staring at the bow on the ground without picking it up. He looks up at Penelope, then at me, his expression puzzled, as if he doesn't even know who I am.

Suddenly thunder rolls directly overhead. Some of the young men look up, muttering charms. There's a tossing of branches outside, a hissing sound, and a clapping of canvas from the tents in the courtyard. Rain closes the doorway, as if drawn across by a grey curtain. It drums on the roof, darkens the sky, pours suddenly down onto the hearth, dousing the fire and filling the hall with the smell of wet ash. A trickle of dusty water, dark as blood, curls through the doorway, finding crevices in the beaten earth until it puddles at Odysseus's feet.

He stoops and picks up the bow. His face is bent so low I can't see his expression anymore. I'm trying to focus on a plan. What happens next? When Odysseus has failed, do I call for the funeral to carry on? Or is that the end of my father's homecoming? I just don't know. My mind is slipping on the facts, failing to grip them. Numbly I watch Odysseus pluck at the string. His fingers seem too clumsy to hold it. As if he's playing for time, he picks up the quiver in his free hand. It swings sideways on its strap, and arrows cascade out onto the floor. Everyone laughs as Odysseus goes down on his hands and knees, scrabbling to gather them up.

“Get
on
with it,” Antinous snaps.

Odysseus bobs his head, trying to collect arrows and hold the bow at the same time. When he stands up, the bow is dangling in his left hand, an arrow in his right.

“Get on with it!”

Odysseus sniffs, sets the bow against his foot, and grasps the string. The arrow is still dangling from the little fingers of his right hand. He bends suddenly, but it's a false start. Like a
horse shying at a hedge, he stands up again. I can see his legs trembling.

“Maybe . . .” Eurymachus begins.

But he never finishes the sentence. Suddenly Odysseus stoops. His hand grips the bow, crushing the hard wood. As his weight comes on it, the bow curves like a tree caught in a forest gale. It bows, uncomplaining, as Odysseus grasps the upper horn and twists it back. I hear Penelope gasp. In a single, smooth movement, Odysseus slips the string into the notch, swings his arrow to the string, and bends back the bow. It gives a deep creak, almost like the growl of an animal, then booms as he releases the string.

His arrow catches Agelaus full in the throat. It drives through his neck, snapping his head back. Agelaus's fingers claw wildly at a beard that's suddenly saturated in flowing, thick blood. One of the servants screams. Odysseus is already reloading. His second arrow drives into Agelaus's chest, its force tumbling him backward over a table. Merciless, Odysseus fires again, hands finding the arrows without his even looking, eyes picking his next target as soon as each arrow is gone. I vault the balustrade to be at his side, but Odysseus pays no attention to me. The young men tumble backward to escape arrows that seem to have invaded the hall like a swarm of hornets. I see one man caught full in the back, a dark stain spreading around the shaft that has suddenly appeared, antlerlike, between his shoulder blades. I see another hit in the eye, hands clawing his face as he goes down, and another desperately trying to pluck a shaft from his trailing leg. Blood flows over the hearth, mingling with spilled wine on the floor. There's a crash as the table of food goes over, smashing wine jars and plates against the wall.

It can't last. There are too many men, too few arrows. I sense the flow slacken. From the corner of my eye I see Antinous, still unharmed, pulling his dagger from his belt. Odysseus
steps back. When I glance at him, my father is breathing hard, nostrils wide and forehead filmed with sweat despite the cold in the hall. The bow trails in his left hand. His right hand is empty. The arrows are finished.

I'm thinking,
We have to get to the woodpile, reach the weapons I hid last night
. I pluck at my father's sleeve, but Odysseus isn't seeing me. An odd whimpering sound comes from deep in his chest. Giving up, I race over the hearth to the woodpile. As I reach it, I turn in time to see Antinous lunge at my father with his dagger held in both hands. Odysseus screams. Letting the bow fall, he scrambles desperately back over upturned tables and benches, shoving men aside. At the corner of the hall, he turns, at bay. Antinous is coming after him. From somewhere he's swept up a short bronze spear, whose tip winks dully in the light from the torches. His face is cold, intent, murderous. There's no time for me to do anything. Heart stopped, I watch Odysseus slide down the wall, hands pathetically trying to cover his face. From behind them he shoots me a desperate, pleading look. Our eyes lock.

And in that moment I don't see a hero or fighter. I don't see the conqueror of Troy, the man I dreamed of all through my childhood. I see only one thing: fear.

I
never reach my father, but someone else does. Everything seems to be moving at half speed. I see Antinous draw back the spear. I see his teeth bare in a snarl. But the blow doesn't fall. Eurymachus has crossed the hall. Cool, expressionless, he drives his sword up beneath Antinous's ribs. I watch the bronze disappear into Antinous's soft body, as if Eurymachus has wrapped it in a curtain. For a moment there isn't even any blood. Antinous just stands there, like a statue of a man holding a spear. Then he drops the spear and goes over sideways, blood spurting as Eurymachus wrenches out his sword.

I shout my father's name. Pull the hidden swords from their sacking, race across the hall. Rage is welling up inside me,
elbowing fear aside. Eumaeus is by my father already, swinging a footstool to drive off the men who are already starting to press in.

“Take this.”

Eumaeus grips the sword I pass him, and, swapping his stool to the other hand, slashes at a man in blue who's charging Odysseus with his sword at arm's length. The man screams, clutching his severed arm, and goes down on his knees as Eumaeus crushes the stool down on his head. Eurymachus is already stabbing and parrying. My father is still whimpering on the ground. I drop a sword at his feet and turn to face our enemies. Four of us against a horde of men who are moving toward the corner like sharks, sensing blood in the water.

“All right?” Eurymachus touches my shoulder and grins briefly.

No time to answer. A man charges me, eyes squinting in vicious concentration. I let his weight carry him on, step back, and thrust my blade into his belly. There's no time to think about what I've just done. Another man is already feinting at me. Watch their feet, Polycaste said. I see the man's weight roll forward onto his toes—the blow's coming. As it arrives, I twist aside and bring my blade down on the attacker's neck. I'm not scared anymore. This morning, yes. Right now, though, I'm feeling cold, pure exhilaration—the exhilaration of a battle that's been waiting for me all my life. I can do this. I can fight and survive, kill and turn to face whatever danger comes next.

Peisander, one of Antinous's friends, hurls himself at me, lifting his sword in both hands. He was one of the men who dressed me as a girl and made me sing to them. I dodge the swinging sword and stab him sharply in the groin. Peisander screams, and as he goes down, I kick out at his face, feeling my foot jar against bone. Then I'm feinting again as someone else slashes at me. I parry and slash back, but miss. Eurymachus's
sword cuts in from one side, though, and blood flowers from the man's ear. I step back, take a deep breath, then dance forward again as a spear flickers past me. I don't even see who's holding it but bring the hilt of my sword down hard on someone's hand and kick out again. Suddenly the exhilaration is draining out of me. This is hard. My thoughts were surfing ahead of each danger in the beginning, but now the threats are coming thick and fast, from every direction. I
can't
foresee them all. And my sword's getting heavier. How can I keep lifting it? Suddenly I'm tired, and know it. I start noticing other things, stupid things. A swallow darting into the hall through the open doorway, circling the beams in a flash of red and blue and disappearing through the opening above the hearth. I lower my sword.

Luckily I'm not the only one who's tired. There's a general lull in the fighting, as if by agreement. Eurymachus rests his hands on his knees, panting. The others stand back, forming a ring around us. For the moment we just watch each other, chests heaving. It isn't the usual exchange of glances, though—it's the gaze of men who intend to kill one another. I become aware of rain still drumming down on the courtyard and hearth, as if the heavens are unburdening themselves of all their fury. It feels like the end of the world. A deluge to drown everything. Skies melting until water laps over the harbor wall, creeps up streets and alleys, reclaims the mountainside and washes over the peak of Nirito. My mother's loom will float upon the waves. Her pictures weren't meaningless after all. They showed this: chaos.

A man slashes at me, and dully I hit back. The battle starts again, but untidily. I can feel the heaviness in my arm. When another man thrusts a spear at my side, I'm too slow in responding and feel a burning pain along my rib. How much longer can I go on? I can sense Eumaeus's weariness as well. The
old man is grunting as he fights, his breath coming in hoarse, rasping pants. Eurymachus's hair is black with sweat, and there's a crimson bloodstain on his shoulder. He was fighting with sword and dagger to start with, one in each hand, but now he's holding his dagger awkwardly.

Like water built up behind a dam, the men in front of us seem aware of their own weight, their power to overwhelm. They thrust forward, pressing us back. Eurymachus gives a sudden gasp of pain but keeps on fighting. All of a sudden I'm treading on something soft. I'm standing right over my father. There's nowhere farther to retreat.

Odysseus moves.

I feel him move beneath my feet. At first I think he's simply cowering farther back and step over him. When my father moves again, it makes me angry, for some reason. All I want is to fight, now—fight until some blade slips through my guard and it's finished. The sooner the better, so I can drop this weight in my hand, lie down, and quietly sleep. When my father pushes me to one side, I push back furiously, and it's only then I realize that I'm shoving against an immovable strength.

Odysseus has risen to his feet, like a bear uncoiling itself from winter sleep. A spear jabs at him. He grabs its hilt and tears it out of the fighter's hands. I hear a roar. Somehow Odysseus has a sword in his hands. He grips me by the shoulder and shoves me aside, pushing me against the wall so hard that for a moment I'm winded. Pressed against the wall, I hear Odysseus howl again. And watch my father move across the hall.
Move
—he doesn't walk or stride; he just
moves
. The sword blade flickers around him like lightning around a tall pine tree. With great sweeps of the weapon he clears a path before him. Men clutch at him, screaming, and he tosses them aside. Blood drips from his wrist. His progress becomes a dance. He rocks from side to side, yelling and slashing, as if he's cutting not men's
bodies but nets that seek to ensnare him, cutting himself free, turning with a roar to scatter the cowering men around him.

I do what I can to keep up. I'm still winded, but I follow Odysseus with Eurymachus and Eumaeus at my side. Sweat fills my eyes. The others are beaten now and know it. Most are going down on their knees, begging for mercy, but Odysseus ignores them. The fighting lust has taken hold of him. Melanthius, the cook, is pushed against him, babbling a plea for forgiveness. Odysseus slashes his throat with a single movement. Only when they realize they have no hope of mercy do the last men stand to fight. Odysseus crushes them as he moves forward. They retreat against the hearth with the rain wetting their backs, a dozen of them standing on the bloodstained bodies of their friends. Odysseus closes in for the kill.