Chapter 7: The Queens Announcement

The great hall of Ithaca was filled with the murmurs of gathered citizens. Elders sat in their places, their lined faces marked with years of war and waiting. Fishermen, farmers, and tradesmen stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the throne where Queen Penelope sat, her back straight, her expression composed.

She had called them here for one reason.

She rose to her feet, and the hall fell silent.

"I have received a message from the gods," she began, her voice clear and steady. "Hermes, the divine messenger, has come to Ithaca."

A ripple of whispers passed through the crowd.

Penelope's fingers curled against the arms of her throne. "He brought news of my husband—of your king." She let the words hang, watching their faces, their hunger for the truth. "Odysseus lives."

The reaction was immediate.

Shouts of joy. Gasps. Some men raised their hands to the heavens, murmuring prayers of gratitude. A few elders, hardened by years of doubt, exchanged cautious glances, but even they could not hide the flicker of hope in their eyes.

Penelope lifted a hand, and the noise quieted.

"He has conquered Troy," she continued, her voice strong. "The war is won. And he sails for home as we speak."

More cheers. Some men clapped each other on the back, while women wiped away quiet tears.

Leodes, one of the elder councilmen, stepped forward. "By the gods, at last!" His old voice shook with emotion. "For ten years, we feared he would never return. And yet he lives!"

"Glory to Odysseus!" someone called.

"To the king of Ithaca!" another shouted.

A chant rose, voices filling the hall like the crashing waves of the sea.

Penelope let them have their joy. But deep in her heart, she knew the gods were never so kind.

She forced herself to smile. "Prepare Ithaca," she told them. "Let the fields be tended, the ships repaired, and the streets cleaned. We will welcome our king as he deserves."

The people roared in agreement.

***

The council chamber was quieter than the great hall, but the excitement had followed the elders inside.

"Well, this is the news we have waited for," Leodes said, pouring himself a cup of wine. "I tell you, the gods have tested us with silence, but at last, they grant us mercy."

Alcimus, an elder with a deep-lined face, leaned back in his chair. "Odysseus still has a long journey ahead." He sipped his drink, thoughtful. "Who's to say he won't face more trials?"

Another elder, Dmetor, scoffed. "Trials? He conquered Troy, Alcimus! He did what no other man could do."

"Yes," Alcimus admitted, "but the war was not waged at sea. It was fought on land, against men. The gods rule the waves, and you know how fickle they can be."

Leodes waved a hand dismissively. "Odysseus is not some ordinary sailor. He has the favor of Athena, and he is the cleverest of all the Greeks."

Dmetor nodded. "Even if he faces trouble, what god or man could outwit him?"

Alcimus frowned but said nothing. He had seen too many warriors believe themselves untouchable, only for the gods to prove them wrong.

Leodes leaned forward, his tone turning lighter. "And besides, it's not only our king who returns."

The elders fell quiet.

"Yes," Dmetor said after a pause. "Our sons."

A few of them glanced toward the hall's entrance, as if expecting their boys to walk in at that very moment—men now, not the eager youths who had left Ithaca a decade ago.

Leodes smiled faintly. "By the next harvest, Odysseus will walk through Ithaca's gates, wearing his victory like a crown. And with him, our sons will return as heroes."

The elders clinked their cups together in agreement.

But Alcimus only stared into his wine.

Something about this felt too easy.

***

As the council spoke of victory, Penelope found herself walking through the palace gardens, her thoughts heavy. The olive trees swayed gently in the evening breeze, their branches whispering secrets to the sky.

Anticlea, mother of Odysseus, stood by a stone bench, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The lines on her face had deepened over the years, but her eyes were as sharp as ever.

"You don't believe it," she said, not turning around.

Penelope hesitated. "I believe he lives."

Anticlea let out a soft breath. "But?"

Penelope looked down at her hands. "The gods never give without taking."

Anticlea finally turned to face her. "You fear the sea will keep him?"

"I fear something will."

The older woman studied her for a long moment before sighing. "You have always been wise, Penelope."

"And yet I cannot be certain."

Anticlea sat on the bench, resting her hands in her lap. "He is clever, my son."

Penelope sat beside her. "And clever men are loved by the gods, until they are not."

A silence stretched between them.

Finally, Anticlea reached over and took Penelope's hand. "Then let us do what women have always done," she said.

Penelope met her gaze. "And what is that?"

"We wait."

***

Outside the hall, Telemachus sprinted through the palace corridors, breathless with excitement.

He burst into the courtyard where his friends had gathered, his face flushed with joy. "Did you hear?" he shouted. "My father is coming home!"

The boys turned to him, eyes wide.

"Truly?" Phemius, the son of a nobleman, asked.

Telemachus grinned. "The gods themselves have spoken it! He's alive! He's coming back!"

One of the younger boys, barely eight, looked up in awe. "The great Odysseus…"

Telemachus laughed, unable to contain himself. His father had lived! He had conquered Troy! He was coming home!

For years, he had only known his father through stories. But soon, he would stand before him as a son should.

He would show him that he had grown strong.

That he had waited.

That he was ready.

Telemachus turned his gaze toward the open sea, where the sun dipped into the horizon.

"Come home, Father," he whispered.

And the wind carried his words away.