‘I know,’ Penelope said, reaching up and touching his face. ‘But I’m going to miss you however long you’re gone. It’ll be lonely without you.’
‘Don’t say that. There are many people here who love you dearly, and you’ll have Telemachus to look after. Besides, the war may not happen at all, and if it does victory should be swift.’
‘Only the gods can say how and when it will end,’ Penelope replied, sitting up. ‘But I know this much, Odysseus: the Greeks won’t succeed without you. Your intelligence and courage are already well known, but this war is going to reveal the true greatness that I know is hidden within you. I want nothing more than for you to be here, in this bed with me every night, but your potential can never be realized on this forgotten collection of rocks at the world’s edge. So go to Troy and fulfil your oath, and let everyone see the kind of man you really are.’
She stood and took Odysseus’s hands in hers, pulling him to his feet.
‘The time is nearly upon us,’ she said, her voice low to hide the emotion that was welling up inside her. ‘But before you go, husband, I want you to have something to remember me by.’
She led him by the hand from the bedroom to the older part of the palace. There were no slaves in any of the corridors – everybody was outside, seeing Ithaca’s army off to war – and soon they were alone in a torch-lit storeroom that smelled of wine and old leather.
‘Here,’ she said, taking a heap of cloth from a table and unfolding it. ‘It’s a double cloak. I made it myself.’
Odysseus unclipped his worn-out old cloak and let it fall to the dirt floor, then took the garment from his wife’s hands and swung it over his shoulders. Even in the weak torchlight, the purple wool had a silvery sheen like the skin of a dried onion. The fine material felt soft and smooth on his upper arms, and despite its extra thickness was light and moved freely.
As he admired the feel of it, Penelope stepped up and fastened it over his left shoulder with a golden brooch. Odysseus looked down at it, but could not make out the design in the gloom.
‘What does it show?’ he asked.
‘A dog killing a faun,’ Penelope answered, putting her hands behind his neck and kissing him tenderly on the lips. ‘I thought it suited you; it’s like the motif on Agamemnon’s sail, but more restrained. You’re a greater king than he is, Odysseus, though your strength is more subtle.’
‘I’ll need subtlety if I’m to make my mark on this adventure. You remember the sort of men who paid court to Helen – powerful, rich, great warriors to a man. What am I compared to them? The only advantage I have is up here.’ He tapped his head with his forefinger.
‘Just make sure you use your brains to bring the rest of you back safely,’ Penelope said, throwing her arms about his broad chest and leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘I’ve heard terrible things about these Trojans, Odysseus. Is it true they’re battle-hardened and show their enemies no mercy?’
Odysseus thought of his father’s words to the Kerosia, as well as the things he had heard said at the failed council of war held by Agamemnon ten years earlier.
‘They’re good soldiers, I’m told – skilled with the spear, the bow and the chariot. Many Greeks will meet their deaths in Ilium, and I can’t promise you I won’t be one of them – that’s for the gods to decide. But I’m no weakling, either, and there won’t be many Trojans who can better me on the battlefield. If I die, though, or if I’m not home by the time Telemachus is old enough to take the throne for himself, then you must marry whoever you choose and start again. I don’t want you to be lonely, Penelope.’
She opened her mouth to speak, but he placed a finger against her lips.
‘Now I must go,’ he said, kissing her on the forehead and holding her close. ‘Look after my father and mother while I’m gone – they love you very much. And take good care of Telemachus. I’ve left him the horn bow that Iphitus gave me – it’s in its box, hanging from a peg in the armoury. When he’s able to string it, you can tell him he’s old enough to be king in my place.’
‘You’ll be back long before then,’ Penelope replied, then hid her face in her hands as the hot tears stung her eyes.
She felt Odysseus touch her hair with his large, gentle fingers, but when she opened her eyes again he was gone.
When Odysseus returned to the terrace, his newly donned armour gleaming in the grey light, most of the army had moved down to the harbour. The majority of the crowd had gone with them and the hubbub of their conversation could still be heard drifting up from the bay and over the wooded ridge to the town. Only the sixty men of the king’s own ship remained, standing in rows awaiting his return. At their head were Eperitus and Mentor, talking to Omeros.
‘Let’s move,’ Odysseus said, striding up to them. ‘If I don’t go now I might never leave at all. What are you doing here, Omeros?’
‘He was caught hiding in a grain sack on one of the ships,’ Eperitus explained. ‘Apparently, he wants to come with us to Troy so he can experience war for himself and compose a song about our exploits.’
‘Does he, now?’ Odysseus asked. Then, sliding his sword from its scabbard, he turned and presented the handle to the angry-looking bard. ‘I admire your spirit, lad – it’s worthy of a true Ithacan, so I’ll do you a deal. If you can strike any one of us – Eperitus, Mentor or me – with the flat of this sword, I’ll take you with us. Fair?’
Omeros, his surly expression lightening a little, nodded silently and held his hand out for the sword. Odysseus laid the handle gently in the boy’s palm, then let go.
The point fell straight into the dirt. Omeros placed both hands on the hilt and with all his strength was only able to lift the sword level with his knees, before dropping it again. Odysseus took the weapon out of his hands as if it weighed no more than a piece of driftwood, then slid it back into its scabbard.
‘A warrior carries a sword, two spears and a shield made with at least four ox-hides sewn one on top of the other. He also has his breastplate, helmet and greaves. Without any one of these, Omeros, his chances in battle are reduced. He must be able to cast his ash spear as far as the palace wall is from us now, with enough power to drive the point through several layers of leather or bronze. Once his spears are used he must draw his sword and with one hand – the other is holding his shield, don’t forget – fight his enemies to the death. All this with the sun on his back, the sweat in his eyes and the strength draining from his muscles with every passing moment. I’m not telling you this to humiliate you, Omeros, just to make you understand why you’re not yet ready to come with us. If all a soldier needed was a stubborn will and a courageous spirit, I’d put you back in that grain sack myself. But it’s not like that, son.’
‘No, sir,’ Omeros replied. ‘But I can still sing for you. They say all the other kings have their own bards.’
‘Terpius can sing well enough for my liking. And I know you think the man’s an artless buffoon,’ Odysseus added quickly as Omeros’s mouth opened to protest, ‘but he has the advantage of being a grown man who can throw a spear as well as anyone in Ithaca. Now, I won’t argue about it any more – go back into the palace and sing something cheerful for my wife. I think she’d like that.’
Omeros, his head lowered, trudged back to the palace.
‘You’d better go, too, Mentor,’ Odysseus continued. ‘I’m going to miss your counsel, but at least I can feel at peace while I’m away if I know you’re running things here.’
He embraced his boyhood friend, then after sweeping the familiar town and the palace one last time with his eyes, he turned and led his men down the road towards the harbour.
Chapter Eleven
REGRETS AND HOPES