Ithaca by Claire North

Author:Claire North [NORTH, CLAIRE]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2022-09-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 26

In the darkness beyond Semele’s farm, Priene waits. Teodora of Phenera is by her side, bow across her back. Ourania, spymaster of the queen, stands a little off with one of her maids. There are others too – peer deeper into the darkness and there they are, the widows, the orphan girls, the unmarried maids and ragged fisherwomen. The queen called and they answered, and now as Penelope approaches with Eos at her back, they wait in silence in the dark.

Penelope takes Ourania’s hands, whispers in her ear. The old woman nods, gestures to her women to leave; their work here is done. There will be more work soon.

Then the queen approaches Priene. The warrior does not bow. She shows no deference to woman nor man. Penelope stops a few paces away, considers Priene by the low light of the lanterns, regards the gathered darkness about them, the eyes half hidden in shadow. Says at last, loud enough that all might hear: “Priene. Captain.”

Priene has not been called “captain” before. In her tribe there was no need of these titles. Everyone understood their duty, their place; it did not have to be spelled out by stories, imposed by the strong upon the weak. But this is Greece, where these words have a power all of their own. “Queen,” she replies, not sure if this is the correct form of address, and not caring much either. Then: “So it is Agamemnon’s wife.”

Penelope glances towards the sky, to the setting moon, the line of grey upon the horizon, then gestures a little to one side, that the two might walk together in quieter speech. “Yes. It’s her.”

“Did she do it? Did she kill him?” Priene cannot quite keep the thrill of admiration out of her voice. “Was he in the bath, naked, like they say? Did she drink his blood? Did she eat his manly…”

“I have not made those specific enquiries. How goes the training? It will be full moon soon.” A shrug – this is evident, and therefore not worth commenting on. “The raiders come with the full moon,” Penelope adds, watching the thin light play upon Priene’s face, hunting for a sign in its motion. “Will the women be ready?”

Priene only considers the question long enough to kick a little stone that was in her path. “No.”

Penelope catches herself, holds back the sharp breath she would have released, wants to argue, remembers not to. She is patient. She reminds herself of this all the time. To be patient is to feel burning rage, impotent fury, to rage and rock against the injustice of the world and yet – and yet – to hold one’s tongue. That is what she has come to understand of patience, though no one else seems to comprehend the heat of it in her chest. So instead she says: “Very well. I will leave you to your business. Good day to you.”

“Queen,” blurts Priene, before Penelope can depart. “This Clytemnestra.”

“What of her?”

Priene draws up a little straighter, and touches two fingers of her right hand to her heart.

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