Prologue
THEY WERE IN HIS HOUSE.
Eating his food.
Drinking his wine.
Touchinghis wife.
All he saw was red - furious, irate red. These men spoke of his wife like she was a prized pig, spoke of his son like a nuisance.
Boasted how they would claim his kingdom.
Odysseus watched from the shadows, lurking just beyond the darkness. He looked on at men, half his age, who cursed about being unable to string his bow. A dark part of him wanted to laugh, but he remained silent, as still as the walls he crouched near.
The men, his wife’s suitors, argued over the palintonos. The bow was, by no means, a grand work of weaponry. It was a gift, received from a man many years ago. Only a man with a strength that rivaled the gods could string it together, pull an arrow taut.
His queen had proposed a challenge: the man that could string the bow and shoot it true would sit on his throne and rule his kingdom.
He would sit by his wife’s side.
Pride swelled in his chest, recognizing his wife’s wit. Odysseus had been the only one that had been able to shoot the bow. It washis. In another world, delight would have danced across his skin as he heard of his wife’s cunning. She was a woman to be reckoned with. Even after all this time, she stood strong in the faces of danger.
“To hell with this damn challenge.” A man that Odysseus would later learn was named Antinous, cursed. He threw the palintonos on the ground, spitting. “The old king was mad. His queen must be the same. This bow cannot be strung.”
He willed his feet to stay frozen, to resist the urge to rip his wife’s title out of the whelp’s mouth. “I’ve heard the boy is set to travel within the week to visit his uncle.” another man claimed, standing next to Antinous. “The hell with this waiting, we are owed a queen.”
“Speak for yourself, brother,” Antinous spoke again, clapping the man hard on the back. “Some of us have already enjoyed our share of the whore queen.”
He hit his breaking point. After an evening of watching these infidels going back and forth, switching between brags and jeers, he’d heard all he needed to.
These villains had taken advantage of his wife’s hospitality.
Their welcome in Ithaca had come to an end.
Odysseus stepped out of the shadows with his hood slung over his head, masking his face. “Hand me the bow,” he spoke, the words falling over the group of men.
One man laughed, another scoffed in his direction. It was Antinous who replied. “Old man, you think you can string this bow?” He jeered, tossing the palintonos at the king’s feet. “Be my guest.”
He picked up the weapon, string hanging loosely to one side. Widening his stance, he allowed muscle memory to take over,arms tugging, knees bracing, until the string snapped into place. The crack of the impact echoed in the halls of the palace.
The men that stood around him fell into an eerie silence. The arrogant looks on their faces fell away with the noise. “Where are your bold words?” Odysseus asked, snatching an arrow from a nearby quiver. “Nothing else to say?”
He nocked the arrow, pulling the string taut. “Nothing at all?”
“This can’t be-” Antinous, stuttered, his eyes glued to the king. He took a few steps further away from where Odysseus stood.
But his sights were already set. With an exhale, Odysseus loosed the arrow, the loud-mouthed suitor crumbling almost instantly.
Time stood still. His heart was clambering in his ears as the shouts of the suitors took over the palace. “It’s the king!” someone shouted. “Odysseus has returned!”
“Oh, King!” A man fell to the ground in front of him, hands turned outward in surrender. “You’ve slain Antinous. He was the architect of our deeds. We acted on his authority. Please, spare us, King of Ithaca.”
“You ask for pardon?” He growled, unable to disguise the madness in his voice, “For absolution?” Odysseus slung the bow over his shoulder, bending down to meet the man’s eyes. “The king that might have granted such gifts isdead.” Without breaking the man’s gaze, he unsheathed his sword, burrowing it directly into his stomach.
“You, guests of Ithaca, have long overstayed your welcome.” His voice resounded in the halls. Before he stood, he wiped the blood off his blade on the fallen man’s tunic. “And now you will die by my hand.”
The suitors hesitated, their hands twitching toward weapons. The scent of spilt wine and blood hung thick in the air. Someone whispered a prayer… too late.
