The Song of Achilles(41)

“That’s it?” I had expected persuasion and pressure, a long evening of it.

He laughed, almost affectionately. “Yes, that’s it. I assume I will see you at dinner?”

I nodded. He made as if to go, then stopped. “You know, it’s funny; I keep thinking I’ve seen you before.”

“I doubt it,” I said quickly. “I don’t recognize you.”

He studied me a moment, then shrugged, giving up. “I must be confusing you with another young man. You know what they say. The older you get, the less you remember.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Who’s your father? Perhaps it’s him I know.”

“I am an exile.”

He made a sympathetic face. “I’m sorry to hear it. Where were you from?”

“The coast.”

“North or south?”

“South.”

He shook his head ruefully. “I would have sworn you were from the north. Somewhere near Thessaly, say. Or Phthia. You have the same roundness to your vowels that they do.”

I swallowed. In Phthia, the consonants were harder than elsewhere, and the vowels wider. It had sounded ugly to me, until I heard Achilles speak. I had not realized how much of it I had adopted.

“I—did not know that,” I mumbled. My heart was beating very fast. If only he would leave.

“Useless information is my curse, I’m afraid.” He was amused again, that slight smile. “Now don’t forget to come find me if you decide you want to join us. Or if you happen to know of any other likely young men I should speak to.” The door snicked shut behind him.

THE DINNER BELL had rung and the corridors were busy with servants carrying platters and chairs. When I stepped into the hall, my visitor was already there, standing with Lycomedes and another man.

“Chironides,” Lycomedes acknowledged my arrival. “This is Odysseus, ruler of Ithaca.”

“Thank goodness for hosts,” Odysseus said. “I realized after I left that I never told you my name.”

And I did not ask because I knew. It had been a mistake but was not irreparable. I widened my eyes. “You’re a king?” I dropped to a knee, in my best startled obeisance.

“Actually, he’s only a prince,” a voice drawled. “I’m the one who’s a king.” I looked up to meet the third man’s eyes; they were a brown so light it was almost yellow, and keen. His beard was short and black, and it emphasized the slanting planes of his face.

“This is Lord Diomedes, King of Argos,” Lycomedes said. “A comrade of Odysseus.” And another suitor of Helen’s, though I remembered no more than his name.

“Lord.” I bowed to him. I did not have time to fear recognition—he had already turned away.

“Well.” Lycomedes gestured to the table. “Shall we eat?”

For dinner we were joined by several of Lycomedes’ counselors, and I was glad to vanish among them. Odysseus and Diomedes largely ignored us, absorbed in talk with the king.

“And how is Ithaca?” Lycomedes asked politely.

“Ithaca is well, thank you,” Odysseus answered. “I left my wife and son there, both in good health.”

“Ask him about his wife,” Diomedes said. “He loves to talk about her. Have you heard how he met her? It’s his favorite story.” There was a goading edge to his voice, barely sheathed. The men around me stopped eating, to watch.

Lycomedes looked between the two men, then ventured, “And how did you meet your wife, Prince of Ithaca?”

If Odysseus felt the tension, he did not show it. “You are kind to ask. When Tyndareus sought a husband for Helen, suitors came from every kingdom. I’m sure you remember.”

“I was married already,” Lycomedes said. “I did not go.”

“Of course. And these were too young, I’m afraid.” He tossed a smile at me, then turned back to the king.

“Of all these men, I was fortunate to arrive first. The king invited me to dine with the family: Helen; her sister, Clytemnestra; and their cousin Penelope.”

“Invited,” Diomedes scoffed. “Is that what they call crawling through the bracken to spy upon them?”

“I’m sure the prince of Ithaca would not do such a thing.” Lycomedes frowned.

“Unfortunately I did just that, though I appreciate your faith in me.” He offered Lycomedes a genial smile. “It was Penelope who caught me, actually. Said she had been watching me for over an hour and thought she should step in before I hit the thornbush. Naturally, there was some awkwardness about it, but Tyndareus eventually came around and asked me to stay. In the course of dinner, I came to see that Penelope was twice as clever as her cousins and just as beautiful. So—”

“As beautiful as Helen?” Diomedes interrupted. “Is that why she was twenty and unmarried?”

Odysseus’ voice was mild. “I’m sure you would not ask a man to compare his wife unfavorably to another woman,” he said.

Diomedes rolled his eyes and settled back to pick his teeth with the point of his knife.

Odysseus returned to Lycomedes. “So, in the course of our conversation, when it became clear that the Lady Penelope favored me—”

“Not for your looks, certainly,” Diomedes commented.