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My rooms were uncomfortably cold, and I snapped my chilled fingers at a slave to rouse the fire in the brazier. Ordinarily, I would have just asked. Politely. Some of my slaves were once royalty, and if the gods willed it, I could easily become one of their number. 

A slave, far from my husband’s island of Ithaca. My island, at least for the moment.

The slave girl hurried and almost tripped over herself, her braid dancing dangerously close to the embers. 

Was her life less fraught with worry than most slaves? I hoped so, at least in our household. In another home she might be be beaten or raped, starved…

It was useless to wonder. I was Queen of Ithaca, although my status was certain to change within a few days. 

My suitors were growing restless. There were over a hundred of them downstairs, probably verbally abusing my son, my dear Telemachus, and his guests. He had a few at the moment: a prophet he picked up on his trip to the mainland, and a beggar who had seemed to appear one night from nowhere.

I wanted to speak with this beggar. He had put me off until later in the day, once the suitors had left. It was well done; the suitors would have harassed us while I tried to question him. 

The day had waned, but I still hadn’t heard anything from my housekeeper, Eurynome. She was supposed to come get me when the suitors retired, when I could speak more freely with this beggar.

I rubbed my hands together as the slave coaxed a small flame from the brazier. The summer was gone. Twenty summers since my husband had left. 

Twenty years, and still my eyes pricked with tears at the thought of him: alone, perhaps dead? Tortured, starving? Or, as Telemachus would snidely suggest when he was peeved, living in luxury with another family, one he preferred to ours?

The tears spilled over with my doubts and fears, as they always did.

“My lady? The suitors have retired for the evening.” Sweet Eurynome, finally coming to release me from my own thoughts. Her honey blonde hair, now streaked with silver, was pinned neatly in place. Everything about Eurynome was neat, composed. 

I felt like a ruin of a woman in comparison, a mangled bird. Eurynome, ever prepared, handed me a cloth for my eyes and nose, and then a drink of watered wine to fortify myself.

The courtyard, delineated by columns, stretched in front of me, cluttered with the remains of the day. The suitors’ chairs and tables were scattered about, some pushed into proximity with one another like they were conversing, some toppled like they had been knocked over in a brawl.

A typical evening for these young men who had no respect for the palace. My home.

And they wanted to marry me! Their behavior was on par with a pack of ill-behaved dogs, not even approaching suitable for the ruler of a kingdom.

Slaves moved like spirits as they drifted through the room, removing uneaten food and setting tables and chairs to rights. One girl took a brazier and emptied it, the ashes making a shushing noise as they landed on the tiled floor. 

Even Telemachus had retired; only the slaves and the beggar remained.

A slave boy brought my chair to the fire and laid a large fleece upon it. I loved this chair, a wedding gift from an Ithacan woodworker: an integrated footstool, whorls of ivory and silver worked into the arms. When I married again, would Telemachus let me take it from the household?

“Why are you still here? Are you spying on us? Get out, you filthy man - you got something to eat, now go!” 

The voice belonged to Melantho, one of my slaves. One of the girls who cavorted with the suitors, who believed they were the true object of affection for one of those power-hungry men. 

It was followed by another voice I didn’t recognize.

“Why are you mad at me? Because I am dirty, dressed in rags, and begging for a scrap to eat? I have no choice, this is what life has brought me to. I used to be rich and had slaves of my own. I was kind to strangers, but Zeus still ruined it; he must hate me.”

I watched in horror as Melantho spit at the beggar’s feet. As he said, he was dressed in rags and holding tightly to a walking stick. His head shone in the firelight, but a thick beard grew on his chin, white as the snow-topped mountains of Sparta.

“Be careful, girl,” he warned her. “You never know when the gods’ favor will end. Perhaps you will be lucky and always enjoy serving in this fine house. But if your mistress gets angry, if the master returns, or if the prince notices misconduct…your life may be forfeit.”

Those words were mine to say, and I felt a rush of heat rise on my cheeks at the beggar having to defend himself. I found my voice. “Melantho, I see you being unkind to our guest! You heard that I wanted to question him. Do you want to be in more trouble than you already are? Leave; I will deal with you tomorrow.”

Melantho glared but left. That girl was quickly snipping every last thread of patience I had at my disposal. 

I pulled back my veil, rubbing at my forehead. “Eurynome? Would you bring a chair and a cushion to the fire for our guest?”

Eurynome clicked her tongue at one of the young male slaves, who brought a chair to the fire and added the cushion. The beggar sat, taking a moment to get comfortable and stretching his dirty toes toward the fire for warmth.

Now that he was here, now that I could speak with him, I wasn’t sure where to start. His eyes were downcast, as was proper, his hands moving restlessly on the arms of the chair, folding and unfolding a piece of his ragged skirt, rubbing the uneven end of his walking stick.
“Good man, what is your name? Who is your family? Where do you come from?” I supposed I should start where I always did, falling back on the pattern of interrogation that my father, and then Odysseus, had drilled into me. 

A wry smile turned his lips. “Faultless queen, you are beautiful and wise. I have only heard good things about you wherever I turn. Your people tell me you are like a godlike king, your islands thriving with grains, fruits, the cattle and sheep bearing in their season, the sea providing fish. Please do not ask about my family or home; it would only bring me pain and I do not wish for you to see it. The maids might accuse me of being a drunkard, because it would cause me to weep unreasonably.”

“The gods destroyed my strength and beauty when the soldiers left for Ilium and my Odysseus left with them. All would be well if he would return, but the gods have ruined me for anything else.” I studied the curls in his beard. Would my Odysseus’s beard curl if he let it grow like that? 

With only those few words between us, I felt more comfortable with this beggar than I had with anyone in years. He inspired confidence, this vagabond who happened to land on their shores without a boat. “You have seen the suitors who are here each day. They come from the larger islands of our kingdom: Dulichium, Zacynthos, Same, and even from Ithaca. They spoil my son’s inheritance, make messes for my slaves to clean -” I indicated the slaves, who were almost finished with their nightly cleanup, “- and press me to choose one of them to marry. I must hide from them, not receiving supplicants and spending my time missing my dear husband.”

“How long have they bothered you, honored lady?” the beggar rasped.

“Years, three years? Four? At first I set them contests, then some god prompted me to make a shroud for my father-in-law. He deserves the honor; he is a good man and was a good king. I wove deceit; increasing the shroud by day, unweaving my work by torchlight at night, tricking them for years. The suitors were working against me that entire time, seducing my maids, destroying their loyalty. One night…” I paused, thinking of that horrible night when three of the suitors pounced to announce my treachery. I had tried everything to delay them, to give Odysseus more time to return. More time to let Telemachus grow up. More time for me to keep them at bay. “One night,” I started again, “My ladies exposed my secret. The suitors found me, working in the dead of night to unweave my work. Then…I had to finish it. Now, I have no more ideas.” 

This is where I did not want my thoughts to wander. I bit my lip, steadied my voice, and implored, “Won’t you tell me about your homeland, your people? I cannot believe that you sprouted from the earth like a flower, or that you came to life from rocks like in a tale. You must have a story?” Anything, tell me anything to take my thoughts away from this island, from my own troubles.

“Gracious lady, will you please stop asking me for my history?” He glanced at her, quickly. 

He must see how much I needed distraction. I leaned forward, anxious.

“Fine, I will tell you, though telling makes the grief harder to bear.” He began to tell me of his upbringing in the royal house of Crete. 

I watched how his hands moved as he expressed himself. The cadence of his voice, the way he adjusted his posture in the chair as he spoke reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place him. Perhaps the similarity was why I was so comfortable with him? 

“I hosted Odysseus in Crete, many years ago.” he said, his words breaking into my thoughts.

I blinked in surprise, tears threatening. “When?”

“Twenty years ago, at least. He and his crew were headed to Ilium, but a storm blew them off course. They stayed with us for twelve days, leaving with our blessing and many guest gifts.”

The tears spilled over, and I was grateful for the cloth that was still in my hand. Could this man really have seen him? I had tired all my servants by begging remembrances, stories, anything to keep Odysseus fresh in my mind. I spent time with the statue of him, commissioned before he went to Ilium - occasionally speaking to it, to my slaves’ dismay - trying to remember the differences between his person and the artist’s depiction. The differences lessened in time, until one day the face in my mind matched the statue exactly. 

He might be lying. “Can you describe him to me? His looks, his clothing? Or even his men?” I asked, desperate for more details.

The man scrubbed his hand over his face. “It was a long time ago, my lady, but I can try. From what I remember, he wore a purple cloak of double-folded wool, fastened by a golden brooch with double pins. The brooch was quite remarkable: it had a dog with a fawn in its mouth, and was so realistic that you thought the fawn would break free at any minute.” He shook his head with a slight smile before continuing. “He wore a white tunic as soft as dried-up onion peel, as shiny as sunlight. I don’t know where he got them - he could have easily gotten them as a gift, and you might never have seen them. He was the kind of man that everyone wanted to host and give gifts to: I myself gave him a sword of bronze, another double-folded purple cloak and a fringed tunic.” He thought for a moment. “He had a valet named…Eurybates? A black-skinned man with wooly hair? Odysseus said he was his favorite of the crew.”

The tears came faster, my throat crowded with sobs. I had pinned that brooch in place, had spun the wool and finished the clothes myself. Anticlea had helped with the weaving, and the two of them presented it to him with a request that he wear it and remember his ladies, the ones who loved him more than life itself.

“Please, my lady, please stop crying. Times have been hard on you, it is true. But I have something else you might like to hear.” 

His voice sounded closer. I tried to calm down, breathing slowly and covering my face with my veil until I could speak again. “I made those clothes, stranger. With my own hands.” My throat closed with misery, and I stopped again to clear it. When I glanced toward him, I saw that he had oriented his chair a little closer, and was leaning toward me. “Please, do go on.” I sniffled a little, then was quiet, showing him I was ready for more.

“I happen to know that Odysseus is coming home. He is alive and well, bringing home heaps of treasure even though he lost everything - his ships, his men…the men ate the cattle of the Son God, and such desecration has its cost. He landed in Phaeacia, where he was honored and gifted with much treasure. He would have come home then, but he decided to go to Dodona to ask Zeus if he should go home openly or in disguise.”

My chest felt painful; it was expanding but its bonds would not let it take enough room. Hope was dangerous, I knew, poisonous in large doses. Could I trust this man, whose words felt so right? I wanted to hear these words so badly, it was possible I was just believing blindly. I swallowed hard, wiped my cheeks again.

“My lady, I swear by Zeus that I am not lying. Odysseus will be home during the current moon span, between the waning and waxing of the moon.”

Were the gods finally done punishing my family? I huffed out a breath, gripping the arms of the chair, trying to think rationally. This beggar was trying to get into my good graces and receive gifts, food…anything to keep him alive.  I couldn’t blame him, but it hurt nonetheless. 

“I hope you are correct, stranger. If you are, you may look for many rewards from me: new clothing, gifts aplenty. However, I doubt it will happen. Regardless…” I held up a hand and Eurynome appeared at my side. “Eurynome, please see that this stranger is washed, and have the slaves drag a mattress out here by the fire with woolen blankets and fresh sheets. In the morning, bathe and oil this man so that he may sit with Telemachus and eat as an honored guest.”

The beggar moved to disagree, but I stopped him. “I would not be a good host if I kept you in rags in my house; it is my pleasure to see that you are well taken care of.” The gods already had much to complain about when it came to guests being dishonored in my palace, curse the suitors. I refused to add to their grievances.

“My lady, I cannot abide soft beds anymore, I am too used to the ground. Please do not trouble the slaves. A rough pallet is all I ever wish for at this stage in my life. And I would rather not have the slaves bathe me; I will offend them. Unless…” He rubbed at his chin, scratching beneath the full beard.

“Yes?”

“Is there an old woman who might not be insulted by my sorrows? I would allow such a woman to bathe my feet.”

I wondered if ‘sorrows’ was a euphemism for ‘smells,’ but did not ask. Luckily, he was far enough away that I couldn’t smell him, but I did not wish to try, given his appearance.

“Your speech impresses me, stranger.” More than that, it called up an old ache where I could speak and be heard, listen and respond. “There is such a woman, the nurse who raised my husband. Eurycleia?”

The nurse, an old lady whose back was bent with age and sorrow, was gathering the fleeces from the righted chairs and shaking them before stacking them carefully out of the weather. She placed her work aside. “My lady?”

“Eurycleia is weak, but she can wash your feet.” 

The old woman gathered a bowl and filled it, muttering to herself all the while. She brought the bowl back to the beggar and knelt at his feet. “You remind me so much of my master, good man. I miss him so much…” She laid a towel on the ground for his feet, untying his rough sandals and putting them aside.

I watched her, touched by the care that Eurycleia spared for the beggar. Such a contrast to the nasty words from Melantho. The beggar’s feet were indeed filthy, dirt worn into the folds of his skin. 

Odysseus’s feet must be lined just in such a way. 

I turned from the beggar as more tears came to my eyes. Would the gods ever allow me to see his feet again? His beautiful curly hair, his shining eyes? Would I ever count his scars and kiss them again, hoping my kisses could take even the memory of pain from him?

I could hear Eurycleia and the beggar talking softly as the slave went about cleansing his feet. After the day he had, being ridiculed by the suitors, he needed some kindness. 

When I heard Eurycleia leaving, and the stranger once again rearranging his chair for conversation, I turned back to him. He was frowning, his hands pulling at his beard. His feet, I was pleased to see, were clean and his sandals had been replaced. It was the least I could do, and apparently the most he would accept.

“I have another question, stranger, if you will.”

He inclined his head. He must have been brought up in a palace in truth, with such manners. “I am wondering if I can ask for your advice. I am of two minds: should I try to keep things the same, staying by my son and awaiting my husband, or should I marry one of these suitors? I couldn’t leave my husband’s home while my son was young, but now that he is grown, he urges me to go to safeguard his property.”

The beggar seemed to consider this, but did not answer immediately.

Perhaps I was wrong to ask a complete stranger about my path in life. Instead of waiting for his answer, I decided to ask him about a dream that had plagued me for several nights instead. Since he had prophesied about my husband, maybe he would venture into interpretation. “I had a dream that perhaps you can interpret: twenty geese came from the river to my house to eat grain. Then a huge eagle swooped down from the mountain and broke their necks. I wept in the dream because the eagle killed my geese, but then the eagle came back and spoke, saying: ‘Queen, be of good cheer. This is no dream, it will come true. The geese are suitors; I was once an eagle but am now your husband. I have come back and to end them cruelly.’ Then I woke up to see the geese eating at the trough with no harm to them. Is that not the strangest dream?”

“The dream included its own interpretation, glorious queen. I believe it is a true dream: your husband will return and the suitors will die.”

I waved his assurances away. “Dreams are all confusing, stranger; one can never tell if a dream is true or false until it proves itself one way or another. I wish it to be true…but the day of reckoning is here.” 

I jutted out my chin, firming my resolve. “I have decided to arrange a final contest for the suitors. I will set up axes in a row like the props of a ship, then present my husband’s bow to the suitors. Whoever can string his bow and shoot through the eyes of the axes will win me…and I will follow him. I will part from my lovely house, my marriage home, so full of wealth and life, which I will only get to visit in my dreams henceforth.”

I bit my lip, trying to stem the rush of emotion that crashed over me like the waves at the base of the cliffs. This had been my home since I left Sparta, just a girl. So innocent, so trusting that the gods wished me to marry this King Odysseus. Then I had fallen in love with him. We had ruled as one. 

The beggar smiled. “I would recommend that you not postpone the contest. It is a good plan, my lady.”

I tried to return his smile, feeling comforted by his approval. “I don’t think I would ever wish to sleep as long as you speak with me. There is something…” I sighed, still unable to place the reason he made me feel so safe. “It is time for sleep, though. I wish you a good night. Thank you for your counsel.”

I stood and nodded to him as an equal, then left the courtyard, instructing Eurynome to spread blankets on the floor or to make whatever bed the stranger wished.

I wished he would have allowed a real bed.