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The war was over. The war had been over for ten years, but for Penelope, it was just now ending. Her husband returned, her son fit to rule, her grieving shroud still sitting unfinished, pushed to the side of her bedroom, forgotten by Odysseus, but never by her.
Now, with Helen and Menelaus sitting across the table from her, Penelope felt that finally, the war had truly ended.
Penelope glanced to the side, observing her husband. He was laughing along with Menelaus, to something inane, she was sure, but Odysseus was always excellent at masking his annoyance, as well as his grief. She saw it now, clouding his features, thick as a storm cloud, yet unnoticed by anybody but her. Soon, she knew, the men would be weeping again, reminiscing about their lost companions, about the sons they never got to see grow up. Soon, the laughter would become heavy silence.
“My lord.” Penelope spoke quietly, but she was heard.
“Yes, my wife?”
Penelope inclined her head to Helen. “This has been a wonderful reunion, but I grow weary of sitting, as, I’m sure, does the lady of Menelaus. May we have permission to take our leave? I would derive much pleasure from walking the castle with Helen, and displaying the richness of Ithaca.”
Odysseus smiled, but there was a hint of mistrust behind his eyes. Penelope held his gaze, both of them engaged in a silent negotiation.
Menelaus spoke before Odysseus had a chance. “Let the ladies go,” he said. “They can discuss the linens and dishes of Ithaca. I,” he said to Odyseuss, “Would take joy in seeing the spoils of war you have acquired in these years.”
“Of course,” said Odyseuss, casting one last glance to Penelope. She jutted her chin forward ever so slightly.
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Once Penelope had ushered Helen into her bedroom, she wasted no time before beginning her interrogation of the princess.
“Did you love them?” she asked.
“What?”
“Did you love them,” said Penelope. “Either. Paris, Menelaus, both. Did you love them?”
“Do you love Odysseus?” Helen threw back, which startled Penelope. She had been expecting silence, or perhaps an answer wrapped in wistful could-have-beens, not for Helen to startle the breath out of Penelope herself. The Trojan princess, Penelope thought, was much sharper than the reports gave her credit for.
“He’s…” Penelope paused. “Interesting. And good in bed, which I suppose is the closest to love either of us can get.” She smiled crookedly, an imitation of her husband's very own demeanor. “We make it work.”
Helen paused and cast her eyes to the floor. “Paris was better at sex,” she said.
“Fascinating,” said Penelope, “Though you didn’t answer my question at all. Did you love them?”
Helen pursed her lips tightly, glaring at Penelope. “Menelaus was kinder to me than Paris.”
“Once again,” said Penelope, “You’re dodging the questions I’m actually asking. Either answer or refuse, but you should know by now that I’m practiced in the art of twisting words to fit what you’d like them to say. I’m wedded to the polutropos, after all. We’ve both got a quick wit.”
A long silence, and then Helen answered. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I loved- love- either. I mean, if you could have any man in the world- or no man at all, would you have Odysseus again?”
“Yes,” said Penelope immediately, surprising even herself, and then quickly amended the statement she had made. “But not as my husband.”
“How would you have him, then?”
Penelope narrowed her eyes and leaned in close to Helen, as if she was about to share something very secret. “On his knees.”
Helen covered her mouth and turned a bright pink, which made Penelope revel in finally having the conversation on her side once more. She was not used to being startled or outwitted by those she spoke to. Penelope took pride in her intelligence.
“You would be the husband then?” asked Helen.
“Who says I’m not already?” Penelope spoke to Helen like a cat playing with a toy. In the back of her mind, she was trying to be cautious with Helen, not give away too much information, but far too many of her thoughts were focused on making her cousin finally smile, letting her hand drop from in front of her face in mirth.
“Penelope!”
“Like I said,” Penelope raised her eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “We make it work.” Then she added: “If you could have any man in the world, who would you have?”
“No one,” said Helen, without an ounce of hesitation. “I would have no man.”
“Well,” said Penelope, “I’m certainly not giving him up. Get your own nobody.”
That coaxed a hearty laugh from Helen. “Of course, I’m sitting at the table of the two people in all of Greece most likely to chide me for my choice of words. I wouldn’t be married at all if I had the choice, Penelope. Men are… too rough for me.”
“So you dislike wars and scandals over your head.”
“I don’t mind that, no. Men are-” Helen made a face- “Coarse. In words and in body. I would rather live my life alone than spend another instant in the company of someone who does not even see me as a person.” She looked up sharply at Penelope. “But it’s my turn to ask you a question now.”
Penelope leaned in a fraction of an inch.
“How does your husband see you?”
“As his wife.”
Helen let out a frustrated sigh. “Stop playing with me, queen of Ithaca. Is he your father or your master? Your equal, your housemaid, your finishing half, what is he to you?”
Penelope spoke carefully. “He’s not any of those. He doesn’t treat me as a son, and he certainly is not my holder after twenty years of my solitude. As for equal, my dear Odysseus is far too vain to see anybody as his equal, and we have servants to do the housework. I could live without him, but his presence provides me security I could otherwise not have without dedicating myself to a goddess. He is…” Penelope stared thoughtfully at the space just above Helens head. “A harbinger of interesting times, and homoousios to me. A good father to my son, and a man with a level head when given power over others. He is the person I respect most in this world, and also the one I respect the least. I know exactly how I could kill him like your dear sister did to her husband, and I choose not to. Likewise, he could strangle me in my bed, but he chooses not to. That is what he is to me.”
“A marriage of love?”
Penelope smiled softly, and almost sadly, though one that had known her for long enough would recognize that the emotion sat heavy in her eyes was not remorse, merely frustration. “When did I ever say that love had made us what we are? We are children forced to grow up too quickly, people who know each other's weak spots intimately and only occasionally utilize that knowledge. That is what we are. Love has nothing to do with it.”
Helen opened her mouth to speak, but Penelope continued. “I believe it’s my turn to ask a question, then.”
“Yes,” said Helen.
“Very well. What made you stay in Troy for so long?”
“Other than the fact that I couldn’t leave?”
“Yes,” said Penelope, “Other than that. “You’re-” She paused, searching for a phrase that wouldn’t come off as admiration, but failed. “You’re intelligent. If you had wanted to come back to Menelaus, you would’ve. So why didn’t you? Why drag the war out for ten hellish years? Was it for the sake of your own pleasure? Did you like the way Paris fucked you better than Menelaus, is that why you stayed?”
Helens lips pinched tight as Penelope spoke. “The war was never about me. I could have gone back and it wouldn’t have made a difference. I will not accept that the blood is on my hands- blood is on the hands of the prideful and nobody else. I’m learning that now.”
“Then why stay?” Penelope pushed. “You knew people in Sparta. You had family, friends, a husband. Tell me, queen, was Paris truly beautiful enough to match you?”
“He wasn’t beautiful at all!” Helen burst out, and Penelope reeled back, unable to school the dawning realization on her face. “I never wanted any of them,” Helen continued. “I never wanted Paris and I never wanted Menelaus. But I was a wife to Menelaus, and a war prize to Paris. Menelaus wanted me, he didn’t want the power that came along with having me, and Paris wanted me as a prize, and I liked being a prize much more than I liked being a wife. With Paris-” Helen was breathing heavily- “With Paris, I could close my eyes and squint and go to another place and imagine that his soft limbs were those of somebody else, his face was clean shaven and his body smelled of roses. With him, I could pretend to myself, in my own head, that it was a woman claiming me. And-” she finished- “You might not know the hell that comes along with being both beautiful and unable to love, but I know it more intimately than I’ll ever know a man. So yes, I stayed, because maybe he was the best of two doors with blood leaking under the threshold! You think the sons of Atreus went to war over me? I was a convenient excuse for a war and another Pandora, Circe, or Persephone. I used to think the war was my fault, but I’m smarter than that now.”
Penelope's mouth was held slightly open in shock from Helen’s outburst, and Helen’s hands were gripped tightly in her skirt, her teeth bared, like she was daring Penelope to speak further.
‘You could not love a man,” said Penelope.
“No.”
“Could you love a woman?”
Helen took a deep breath. “What women are there to love?”
“You’re the most beautiful woman on earth. I’ve heard old wives tales that Artemis would take a young woman for herself.”
“We are not young women anymore.”
“I suppose not,” said Penelope, sighing as she handed Helen an intricately carved vase. “I could not live with myself if I did not send you home with gifts,” said Penelope, in answer to Helen’s questioning gaze. “It’s only proper.”
Helen held the vase for a few seconds as Penelope busied herself around the room- idle work, clearly done to give Helen a blessed few seconds of privacy, but a kind gesture nonetheless- and then she spoke. “Penelope?”
“Yes?”
“Am I-” she faltered, and then continued speaking. “Am I always meant to live my wretched lot?”
“Depends on what is wretched,” Penelope answered. “Close your eyes and grit your teeth at night, then find yourself a new lover in the daytime.”
“What women are there to love me?”
“Oh come on, surely you made eyes at Hector’s wife.”
Helen’s mouth fell open. She looked like she was about to hit Penelope, and the only thing stopping her was the knowledge that Penelope could surely hit harder. “I would never! That would break hospitality!”
“We had a war over broken hospitality, cousin! It doesn’t mean a damn thing anymore!” Penelope stood up and took a deep breath. “Take a vacation. Go to Skyros, or Lesbos, or Carthage, for God's sake. Make it a pilgrimage. Find out what you want. At the end of it all, Odysseus and I will still be here, waiting for you to return.”
Helen cocked her head. Penelope expected a response, but she got a question instead. “My turn,” said Helen. “Does Odysseus love you?”
“No,” said Penelope. “He loves me as much as he loves telling a good story, or a well-aged glass of wine. He loves me like the sea and the rocks of Ithaca. Which is to say, he admires me, but it’s never love.”
“Then why did he marry you?”
“I suppose I’m an interesting woman,” said Penelope, “And he’d rather be stuck with someone that had no preconceived notions about his nonexistent love than with a woman who truly believed he loved her. I did not think he would love me when we wedded, and so I was never disappointed. I was glad he didn’t love me, and he was just as happy that I didn’t love him. Such things make relationships messy.”
“Such things are what relationships are built on, Penelope!”
‘Relationships,” said Penelope, her eyes seeming sharper all of a sudden, “Are built on trust. They’re built on knowledge, they’re built on vulnerability. I will say once again, love has nothing to do with it.”
“Could you love a woman?”
“No.”
“Could you love a man?”
“No.”
“Do you love me, Penelope?”
“As I would love a sister.”
Helen frowned. “And Telemachus?”
“He is my pride and joy. I am proud of what he has become and excited to see what comes after this stage of my life. I love him like any mother would love their only son.”
“But not Odysseus,” said Helen.
“Why is that so hard?” said Penelope. “Most relationships aren’t built on love, they’re built on politics and who can fuck you the hardest. Helen, you were luckier than most women to have your pick of man, and unluckier than most to find all of them repulsive. Love isn’t found in marriage, it’s found behind street corners and where prostitutes roam. You long for a life that doesn’t exist, Helen. A life like that- where you can have a woman and choose her- that’s not reality. And it never will be, as long as we both live.”
“I want to be happy! I have this life and only this. I don’t want to be property, let me be a prostitute if that is where love is found, Penelope, I want to be happy. Who gives a shit about reality?”
“Be as happy as you can be, cousin,” said Penelope. “Go to Skyros and find a woman who'd want you. But don’t lose sight of how lucky you are, as both a queen and the most beautiful woman in all the world. Women don’t become wives for other women. Not in this life.”
“I’ll take your words to heart,” said Helen, as Penelope busied herself with folding linens as gifts. “And perhaps we aren’t so different after all.”
“Or we’re the most different people can be, and we only understand each other through some odd antithesis of sky and sea.”