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Chapter Text

I was born a bastard, on barren Ithaca, land of rocks and sheep.

I was born in pain and death. I was born of a broken vow. My mother was Anticlea, one of the great companions of the Silver-eyed Huntress. Daughter of Autolycus, grand-daughter of the Trickster God, beloved by all

My father was a coward, and a monster

Sisyphus, they called him, violator of xenia, the divine law that protected guests. He who sought to cheat Hades. Of all his grand crimes, of all the agony he wrought, who would bother to count the deflowering of the young daughter of the Hermit of Parnassus, pathetic little Autolycus ?

But we never forgot

When I was born, my grandfather laid me on his bended knee, rough and hard with age, his bones poking through his wrinkled skin, and said, his voice as grave as an Oracle, his eyes as cold as any god, though a twinkle of humor sparkled in his eyes,“You have been long-awaited for, little one. Since I have angered, and been angered by many, both man and woman, in my life, I shall name thee Odysseus”

My mother’s husband was a proud man, though kind in nature. Even after her desecration, he took her as his wife, even as his people shouted and cursed at her from the streets, and the priests of the gods spat at her in the temples. He took her in.

He was tall and stocky, built like a bear, his body practically all one big muscle, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with years of smiles and laughter. He used to travel his realm regularly, small as it was, dressed in little more than a white robe, a wooden staff in one hand – Fitting, I used to hear neighboring kings mock, a shepherd’s garb, for a king of sheep and dust

I used to grow rageful at their snide comments. I used to shout and to scream at them,  at my father. We were the kings of Ithaca, I used to yell, How could he let these fools shame us like this ?

When he heard that, he laughed. This, of course, only incensed my fool self further. You are the grandson-in-law of Hermes, the Trickster !! This is no laughing matter !! They are humiliating you… and you are letting them !!

He used to stop at that, and look at me, his face grim and serious, for once, looking every inch the king he was, “Odysseus”, he used to say, “Laertiades, my son. You have much left to learn of this world. Care not for the jeers of the masses, my son, or for the praise of the few. Care for nothing but that which you can achieve with your own two hands”

I used to stop then, and look him in the eye, perplexed, confused, What do you mean ?, I used to say. He never replied, simply shaking his head and smiling, “You will learn, Laertiades. Trust me, you will learn”

He was wiser than I, as I later came to know

I am five when the old women show up at our door. The night is rainy, the skies black with storm. Zeus’ wrath rains down upon our humble country, shaking the dust from the rocks that line our dangerous shores.

The doors to my father’s palace shake as someone… something… hits them, the wood shaking under the force. My mother’s grip around me tightens as she looks up, her eyes wide and fearful. My father grows pale from where he sits on his great throne, as he gestures to a servant to open the gates. My mother glances at him, as if to protest, but silences her tongue.

The doors open, and a shower of rainwater flies in, carried by the winds that buffet the palace, shaking it to it’s core. Three hooded figures stand in the rain, their cloaks long and black, seemingly smooth and rough at once. They enter, their footsteps sounding simultaneously on the stone floor of my father’s palace, before stopping in the center of the room

My father rises from his throne and walks to where they stand, lowering himself to his knees on the stone, placing his head at their feet, even as his advisors cry out at him to stop, to not demean himself. He looks up, and his eyes shine with tears

“O messengers of the gods”, he speaks, and his voice is thick with fear. I admire his bravery, for, from the look on my mother’s face, she would not have been able to do even that.

“What brings you to our humble isle ?”, he finishes, before lowering his head once more

The one who stands in front cocks her head to one side, before all three speak at once, their voice at once soft and loud, at once smooth and rough, at once painfully clashing and almost melodious

“O Laertes”, they say, though I cannot see their mouths, hidden as they are by their dark hoods, “O Arcesiades, O grandson of Cephalus. A gift has been borne unto you. The Grey-eyed Maiden smiles upon you tonight, and every night hence”

My father looks up, and his eyes shine with relief, with joy, “Thank you, O great ones. Thank you, O wise ones. Who is this gift ?”

One of the old women – and somehow I knew they were women, though I never saw their face- raise their finger, as it slipped free from their black cloaks. It is old and aged, resembling my grandfather’s fingers, though there is something decidedly inhuman about the woman’s. As the light shifts over it, it almost looks young again.

I realize that the court has gone silent. I look again at the finger… at where it points, and follow it’s track…. to myself

“Me ?”, I blurt out, before clapping two hands over my mouth. It is unwise to interrupt divine messengers , my mother’s gaze clearly conveys with the horror within it

The woman laughs, a high, keening, unpleasant noise, like a sword being dragged across stone, “Yes, O man of many devices, Yes, O polytropos. You. The Lady of Wisdom smiles upon you, tonight and every night from now.”

They turn towards me and smile and I shrink in fear. Their smiles are wide. The light gleams off their teeth, making their yellow, sharp dagger-like forms shine with unnatural light. I see their face, and what I see horrifies me

Their mouths are as red as a freshly cut wound, their dagger-sharp teeth gleaming yellow behind their thin, almost-line-like lips. Their faces look as aged as the parchment my father’s advisors use to write on, cut from the flesh of goat or sheep, dried and turned into a strange, aged sheet. Their skin is cracked in places, revealing what seems to be golden flesh beneath their old skin, glowing with a strange light

Their smiles do not fade. My mother’s grip tightens. I look up to see that her face has turned as pale as the wool of the sheep our people herd. My father doesn’t look far off either, his face almost yellow with fear as he turns to look at us

The three woman bow in unison, their eerie, contradictory voices sounding again, “We will take your leave now, O Arcesiades, for we have overstayed our welcome… and as for you, O favored of the Grey-eyed… we will see you soon”

Chapter Text

I am eighteen when my father calls me to his throne room. I kneel before his great seat, on the soft wool rug he has set out for the knees of messengers.

 He sits on his throne, his head bowed, his white shepherd’s robes arrayed about him like the petals of some blooming flower. At last, he speaks

“Laertiades, son mine”, he begins. He never calls me Odysseus. He says it reminds him too much of the word odysommai, “to hate” in our tongue. I do not mind.

“King Tyndareus’ daughter is finally ready for marriage”, he says, his voice seemingly hinting at something. I, blessed as I was with the wisdom of Athena, could venture a guess. Every man knew of Tyndareus, the king of warlike Sparta. He held in his grasp the vast tracts of fertile, fruitful that filled the southern landscapes of our land, the kind coveted by all the great kings of Greece

I had heard of his daughter, too. Who had not ? Helen of Sparta, rumored to be the most beautiful woman in the world, daughter of Leta and Zeus himself. It was said that Zeus had ravished her in the form of a swan. I had always wondered how, even if I didn’t particularly want to know

Regardless, Tyndareus was proud of his daughter, especially of her beauty, her godlike grace, her mannerisms… everything basically. It always seemed odd to me, how he boasted of having a daughter of Zeus in his household. Generally speaking, a cuckold didn’t go around boasting about having to raise another’s daughter.

My father cleared his throat, the sound echoing loud and hollow through the stone halls of the palace, “Do you seek her hand, my son ?”, he asked, soft and low. I was no fool. He wanted me to choose her. A wise wish, perhaps. Tyndareus’ lands would aid our meager kingdom greatly. But I could not betray my own heart

“No, Father”, I said, my head bowed, still kneeling on the rug, it’s fibers soft and cushiony against my tanned skin

My father sighs. I shift a little on the rug, revealing the boar-tusk-scar on my calf. It is feathered at the edges and jagged, a seam stitching my browned flesh from heel to knee. The servants of the palace used to joke that they would know me by it alone, even if they could not see my face. I could see why. It was certainly distinctive

He turns to me again, his eyes weary with age. “My son, at least venture to Sparta”

“Father, I will not be swayed on this”

“To spare Tyndareus the insult of Ithaca’s absence, if nothing else”

I look up. I could not care less of what Tyndareus felt, and the words expressing this were on my lips, when my eyes fell on my father’s aged face. He looked grave, as if pronouncing some sentence of judgement, and my brain, thankfully sharper than other fool men my age, begins turning

Sparta is not a kingdom one can simply write off. It was known by many as the foremost military power of our lands, and it’s wrath was feared by all. Only the mightiest lands – the likes of Athens or Thebes – would dare to tussle with their sheer military might. Tiny kingdoms ? Like, say, Ithaca ? They would be wiped straight off the map should the land favored by the war god take up arms against them

I lower my head once more, “Very well, Father”. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him let out a small sigh of relief. I rise to my feet, my gait, I hope, as smooth as I intend it to be, though knowing the ills of my age, likely clumsy and awkward, and bow once

“I will travel to the citadel of Tyndareus at dawn, Father. Have a servant put aside some gifts for me to take, and a steed to ride on”, I raise my head, my eyes glinting with meaning as they catch his, “No courting gifts, please”

My father sighed, but nodded, raising his hand in acknowledgement, before gesturing to me to leave his throne room. I bow one last time and do as directed

I left come morning, astride a great white steed, his reins and saddle richly decorated with gold. Packs hung from his side, heavy with gifts, food and drink. As I climbed onto the great stallion’s back, I idly wondered where my father got such lavish ornaments. The horse’s flesh pulsed beneath my legs, steady thrumming with it’s powerful heartbeat

On every side, Ithacan soldiers surrounded me, to act as guards against the bandits and dacoits that roamed the countryside, and to make our relatively poorly-decorated party look even grander at the gates of Sparta. Their armor, finely polished, gleamed like golden fire, the shields on their back shining like carapace. In one hand, they held a spear, long and powerful, shafts finely-made, with heads of precious iron.

All in all, I’d like to think that we made for quite an impressive party

The journey itself left no great impression. It was over sea, and it was barely noticeable when the polished wooden planks of a ship-deck, dripping and sticky with resin, transitioned into the soft, fertile soil of the southern Spartan plains

We were among the first to arrive at Tyndareus’ great citadel, with it’s high walls and magnificent buildings. Sparta truly was worthy of being named as one of the foremost cities of Greece. Dismounting from my horse, I gestured to the soldiers to take him to the Spartan stables, and started walking down the road to the large market. If I was here, I may as well partake in the luxuries one of Greece’s foremost city-states has to offer

The air was thick with the sweet scent of wine and honey, mixed with the delectable scent of meat cooking o’er a fire. Throngs of people filled the marketplace, moving this way and that, from one market-stall to another, haggling and bargaining. From where I stood on a nearby hilltop, they looked very like the serpents on a gorgon’s head, a seething, writhing mass, moving as one, and yet, clearly separate

The guards of the city stood, watchful, at practically every door, waiting and watching for any sign of wrongdoing. They would not have to wait long

For all at once, I heard a cry from the writhing mass of man-flesh

“STOP HIM !! THIEF !! THIEF !!”

I, with my eyes nearly as keen as my wit, stilled at those words, even as the guards dived into the throng of market-goers to search for the thief. I observed the market intently, not to catch the thief,  mind you, but to watch the fun unfold

The shop-keeper’s words had thrown the market into chaos, and all except one man were running about like headless chickens, as if panic would aid in catching the criminal. I focus on the man, and nearly laugh out loud as I realized who it is

Rising from my spot on the hilltop, I walk towards the man, who is dressed in a flowing dark cloak, a hood hiding his face from view. The crowd stills as they see me approach. They know who I am

“O Gentle People of Sparta !!”, I cry, a tinge of amusement to my voice, “What is the meaning behind this chaos ?”

There are a few mutters, until finally the shop-keeper bursts out from the milling crowd of passers-by, “O, polytropos !!”, he cries, kneeling before me, placing his head at my feet, “O Blessed of Athena !! Aid me in catching this criminal !!”

I quirk my eyebrow at the audacity of his words. “You would have me use god-given powers..”, I begin, slightly incredulous, “…to catch a common thief ?”

“Nay, my Lord !!”, the man cries, raising his head a little, only to drop it again, “Forgive me my audacity, O great prince of Ithaca !!”

I can practically sense the hooded man roll his eyes at the man’s words. I grin slightly in his direction. He immediately marches over to where the two of us stand

“Enough”, he says, his voice deep and powerful, with a touch of amused annoyance, “I think I will die if I have to hear you praise him further, man”

He reached into his robe, and pulled something. I waited, with bated breath, to see what it was whose loss had caused the shop-keeper such distress. Gold, perhaps ? Jewels ?

Nay, for the hooded man pulled out, in one swoop, a juicy, red apple, it’s red skin glistening with droplets of water, before dropping it unceremoniously at the shop-keeper’s feet

I stare at it for a second

“That’s it ?”, I look at the man, my eyes wide with shock, “An apple ? That’s what all this fuss was about ?”

The man flushes a deep red at my words, as I simply stare at him, too shocked to do anything else. A deep laugh snaps me out of my almost-trance-like-state

“It’s good to see you speechless, Silvertongue”, the hooded man says, reaching up to bring down his face-hiding hood, “As rare as it is”

He brings the hood down, revealing his pale, sharp face, hard and cruel. His eyes, a brown so light they were almost gold, caught the light, glinting like the jewels that crowned the rings on the man’s fingers. His beard was thin and black, peach-fuzz on a teenager’s face, new-grown. His thin lips were curled up in a small smile

The crowd stilled, drawing in one shocked breath. I did not blame them. It was not often that he was seen outside his mighty kingdom

“It’s been a long time, Diomedes”, I tease, “Had I had my way, it would be longer still”

Chapter Text

Diomedes snorts at my words, but makes no reply, simply turning to march off to the distant palace of Sparta, it’s high towers casting long shadows o’er the city below. I hurry to keep up with his long, loping strides

“How rude, King of Argos, Tydides”, I whine, somewhat intentionally annoyingly, “to simply ignore a well-wisher such as I”

“You ? A well-wisher ?”, the great hero snorts, “If you are a well-wisher, than I must be a girl”

“You may as well be, with how much you style your beard”

“Unlike some people, I like to look good. Why are you here, Polymetis ?”, he asks, his voice suddenly grave and serious. I smirk

“Why, to seek the hand of Helen, of course !!”

“You lie”, he says, a tinge of amusement coloring his deep, commanding voice, “The day Odysseus, son of Laertes, shows interest in that which many desire, is the day the world comes to an end”

I hide a smile behind one hand as I respond, my voice cool and collected, I hope, though it cracks somewhat (Alas !! The woes of adolescence !!), “You’ve caught me out, Douriklytos !! I come not for that which many desire, nor for women, nor wealth. I come merely to preserve our dear Tyndareus’ fragile ego”

Diomedes stifled a laugh at that, “It is unwise to insult a king in his own lands, Polytropos”

At last we came before the mighty gates of the palace. They stretched high into the sky before, vast sheets of wood, polished till it gleamed like flame in the hot sun. High above, I could see men milling about the towers that studded the palace walls – archers, there to ward off enemy attacks.

The sun was low in the sky now, and a cool breeze wafted through the vast city. The afternoon was at an end. Evening approached. I saw a sea of brightly-colored pennants in the distance – the brilliant blue of Diomedes, my own yellow, the purple of Agamemnon of Mycenae… like a veritable rainbow of nations. All of Greece, in one spot. For the first time, it began to sink in just how big of an event this was

“Gods”, I whispered as I looked out upon the ocean of pennants. Diomedes walked up next to me, bending slightly to see upon what I gazed, before a slight chuckled escaped his throat

“All of Greece has arrived to win the hand of her fairest daughter”, he remarked, “You might be the only one in the world who does not desire her”

Stunned as I was by the display, I, thankfully, retained enough of my mind to snark back, “Except Tyndareus, I would hope”

Diomedes huffed out a quick laugh, and with that, we turned and entered the palace

The halls of Tyndareus’ palace were cold and drafty, lined on one side with tall windows that showered the stone floors with dazzling golden rays of light, and on the other side, with tapestries and art pieces – some gifts given willingly by the giver… others, not so willingly. Sparta was famed for it’s military might, after all

As we walked along the hallways, Diomedes took a bite out of an apple, it’s sweet juices trickling down his chin and dripping onto his clothes. I stopped, staring at him with something resembling amusement

“You didn’t actually give the poor shop-keeper his apple back, did you ?”, I asked, resuming walking once I realized that Diomedes wasn’t the type of person to have enough courtesy to stop when his companion does

“Nope”, Diomedes replied after swallowing his bite of apple, popping the “p” as he did

“And no one stopped you ?”

“It’s amazing, the things you can get away with if you’re a legendary hero”

I rolled my eyes. I suppose I could not judge him too harshly. After all, I, too, was guilty of using my name for such things, as the goatherds and shop-keepers of Ithaca would gladly attest to. I shrugged and continued walking, until at last, we came to a small dark corner of the palace, lit only  by a few candles set in golden holders that hung a little up the wall

“Where are we now, Tydides ?”, I asked, for though I had never before been to the palace of Sparta, this was certainly not where guests were meant to stay

“O, polytropos”, Diomedes spoke in a sarcastic drawl, “Do you not recognize this place ? Truly ? I thought you were meant to be omniscient ?”

“Answer the question, Diomedes”, I repeated, already feeling slightly weary of the other man. Idly, I wondered if this was how people felt around me

Diomedes chuckled, a low, biting noise, and gestured to our right, where a small door stood, undecorated and made of bare wooden planks, with no form of ornamentation

“The servants’ quarters ?”, I asked innocently. Diomedes stifled a laugh

“With how we treat them, they may as well be. No, Polymetis. The women’s quarters”

“Ah”, I responded blankly, “… and why are we here ?”

Diomedes looked back at me, his eyes flaring with amusement. “To view the crown jewels of Tyndareus’ palace, of course. Don’t tell me you aren’t curious about the famed beauties of Sparta”

I shrugged, ready to reply, when the door opened, and a goddess walked out

My words died on my tongue, which suddenly felt as dry as the deserts of Lemnos. My jaw hung open as I watched the woman- no, surely she couldn’t be a mere woman – leave the chamber

Her skin was pale as snow, her eyes grey, joyful and bright, as clear as the ice-melted streams that flowed from the mountain-tops come summer. Her arms were muscular – most men would consider such a thing unsightly, but I considered them more beautiful than the scrawny stick-thin arms of other so-called “beauties” of Greece. Her hair, black as midnight, flowed down from her head, down her shoulders, down her black in a waterfall of silken blackness. For a long while, I was speechless

Slowly, as the beauty moved away, coherent thought began returning to me. The first thing I noticed was Diomedes standing beside me, calling my name again and again, shaking my shoulder as he did so

“Odysseus. Odysseus, Od-“

“I heard you the first time, man”, I grumbled, batting away the hand that still lay on my shoulder.

 Diomedes laughed, “Did you now ? You certainly didn’t act like it !! What on Earth did you see, my friend ?”

“Helen..”, I whispered, for surely she could be none other than the famed beauty of Greece, “She truly is as beautiful as the rumors say”

Diomedes looked confused, “Helen ? Where ? I did not see her”

“The girl who just left.”, I whispered, my tongue once again falling limp in my mouth at the thought of her beauty, “… who was she, if not Helen ?”

“Her ?”, Diomedes asked, “She was Arnacia, Penelope, Tyndareus’ niece, I believe. A beauty in her own right, but overshadowed by her far more beloved cousin”

“Penelope…”, I whispered, tasting how the name sounded in my mouth, how it felt against my tongue, and knowing that I would be dreaming of this “Penelope” for many nights to come

Chapter Text

That night, I am summoned before King Tyndareus himself, which is quite the hassle. Half-asleep, I enter the grand stone hall that served as the Spartan king’s throne room, so different from my father’s throne room back home in Ithaca. It is vast, I notice, and far, far bigger than the relatively humble throne room of Laertes.

The walls are richly hung with tapestries and paintings of all kinds, from portraits of ancient Spartan kings, to scenes of conquest. Marble statues of the gods stand at each corner, keeping watch over the room – to the left stand the War-master Ares, to the right, my patron Athena. Behind stands Aphrodite, the Foam-born, and in front of me, standing guard behind Tyndareus’ opulent throne, stands Lord Zeus, king of the gods, awe-inspiring as ever with a thunderbolt in hand, his eyes of marble seemingly fixed on me as I enter the room

Tyndareus sits on his throne, threatening as ever, shaggy as a bear, dressed in opulent beast-furs that flow off his body like white smoke. His beard is midnight-black, slashing across his face, and his eyes glitter dangerously in the dark, two black beads, fixed on me as I approach, kneeling before his throne, the hard stone floor cold and biting where it touches my tender skin

He rises from his throne, his furs following suit, revealing his body… and what a body it is. Muscled as a bear, like my father, but where my father seemed almost friendly, in a way, I had no doubt that Tyndareus could very easily crush me in one hand without a second thought.

I lowered my head, till the stone floor felt cold against my forehead, “O king Tyndareus, gracious host, you summoned me ?”

Tyndareus looks at me for a second, before he speaks, his voice more akin to the growl of a beast, loud and booming, “I did, indeed”, before gesturing to me to rise. I did as was directed, grateful for the relief this brought to my knees

“May I ask why ?”, I ask, trying my very best to keep my voice from shaking, and, hopefully, succeeding. Tyndareus looks at me for a second, and I am half-tempted to ask him if he had finally completed the transformation to wild beast and lost his tongue, when he spoke, “ You have heard of my daughter, I suppose ?”

“Who has not ?”, I remark. It is the truth. There are few Grecians who can truthfully say that they do not know of Helen, fairest of the daughters of Sparta

“Are you here to compete for her hand, polytropos ?”, he asks directly, his eyes seemingly peering into my soul. I barely resist the urge to swear. I could not, under any circumstances, risk Sparta’s wrath falling upon my father’s realm… but I also could not truthfully claim to be in love with Helen of Sparta… and Tyndareus was known to be able to sniff out a lie from a mile away

“You need not worry, O king of Sparta”, I laugh nervously, “Ithaca is a poor nation. What we offer is meager I comparison to what the other… grander… kings do”

“Do not take me for a fool, Silvertongue”, the king rumbles warningly. I flinch. He continues, “I know well your propensity for twisting words into riddles and puzzles, blessed that you are with the wit of the Grey-Eyed.. of Polias.. but I am a simple man. If I receive I answer I do not like… well…”, he brought one huge fist down onto a small pot kept on a nearby table, which immediately exploded, shards flying everywhere. An effective demonstration. I whimper in fear

“So, slippery one”, the king of Sparta continued, “Answer. The. Question”

I wince, jerking back a little from where he stands, before his throne, tall and imposing as any god. “No”, I admit, “I am not here to compete for her”

Tyndareus falls back, his black eyes linger on me for a few seconds more, before finally, they leave my form, and I can breathe easy again. He continues pacing about his throne for a few seconds before turning to me

“You are clever, beloved of Ambu’lia. Need I tell you why I need your help ?”, he sighed, his voice almost frail-sounding, heavy with exhaustion and age

He was right. He did not need to tell me why he needed my help. In fact, it was overwhelmingly obvious. When a pack of wolves fight over a deer, they say, only one wolf leaves. Should a suitor be chosen for Helen, the others would surely take offense… and, filled with righteous anger, declare war on Sparta for daring to reject them… or on Helen’s new husband. Chaos would reign.. and Greece would fall as the city-states descended into anarchy. All for the love of a woman

I shoot a glance at the statue of Aphrodite that stands behind me, shaking my head as I do. Truly, love made fools of us all

“You do not”, I confirm, “Your kingdom will fall”. Not if. Will. There was no escaping it

“Not if I have anything to say about it”, the Spartan king growled threateningly, baring his teeth at me, yellow and sharp.

“You do not, O son of Oebalus”, I answer coolly, my mind racing as I try to figure out an answer, “Unless…”

“Unless ?”, Tyndareus repeats, his eyebrows rising in curiosity, something resembling hope flashing across his face. I look up to meet him in the eye, and steel myself

“I have the answer you desire”, I tell him, not breaking eye contact, “But I need a price”

Tyndareus gazed upon me… upon this runt who dared to ask for payment from him, of all people… his eyes widening a little in sheer shock at my audacity. I took some satisfaction from that.

“I could snap your neck like a twig, little boy”, he hissed at me, spittle landing on my face, “I could destroy you with one finger”

“You could”, I answer, trying to cover up the sheer heart-stopping fear I feel, “and then you could burn too, because as mighty as Sparta is, I doubt it can stand against an alliance of fifty city-states”

Tyndareus growls threateningly, but falls back, recognizing the truth in my words, “Speak then, boy”, he spits the words out like they are poison, “What would you have ? Women ? Men ? Wealth ? Land ? You can have anything… save Helen”

I step forward, giddy with the delight of success, of a deal well-struck, and speak, feeling slightly delirious, “None, my king. All I desire… is your niece. I want the hand of Penelope”

Tyndareus supports his head in one hand, his eyes fixed on the statue of Aphrodite behind me, as if contemplating my demand. After a few seconds of this, he looks up, “Very well, then. Now that you have received your end of the bargain, tell me-“, he nearly roars. He is getting impatient. To delay further would be recklessness

But I am nothing if not reckless, “Wait a second, Oebalides. I need something else first. Swear. Swear that most solemn of oaths, that you will not harm Ithaca or my own person, after I reveal the answer’

Tyndareus growls like a caged beast, but reins in his anger long enough to mutter, his words soft as the summer breeze, “Let Earth be my witness, and heaven above, and the down-flowing waters of the Styx, as I  swear that I shall not harm or otherwise hinder the realm of Ithaca and it’s prince, Odysseus after he reveals to me that which I seek”

I lean in close to him once he has finished, and begin speaking, my voice barely above a whisper, “Good, O great king. Now, we can talk business”

Chapter Text

I stand in the great king’s hall, my back leaning against one of the pillars that stud it’s walls and support it’s high, vaulted ceilings. Thousands of people – kings, princes, heroes and wisemen, mill about the great council chambers, talking and boasting amongst each other. Their voices rise as one in a hissing cacophony, bouncing of the high ceiling and banging against the stone walls. The windows have been opened, in a vain attempt to quieten the thunderous din.

The servants mill about the room too, filling goblets and plates, and fading into the shadows of the background when they are not needed. I feel a strange sense of kinship with them. After all, I too, am doing my very best to fade into the background

I had not seen war, yet, but I thought that war must greatly resemble this room. After all, the men assembled within were practically at war – all for a single prize. The fairest maiden in all the land… or so they say. I smirk. Outside this hall, in their palaces and manors, they could ape civilization. But in here, assembled and hungry for a prize, they acted like what they were, – what every human was – wild animals. Their voices ring off the golden ornaments and stone walls of the halls – threatening, boasting, talking.

I focus on each of them in turn. In the corner there stands a great giant of a man, flanked on either side by two servants, who looked quite small as they braced his shield – Ajax the Greater, son of Telamon.

Beside him stands a tall, lithe man, his eyes painted like a woman’s, his hair long and flowing, clutching a double-headed battle-axe in one hand, it’s heads made of precious, rare iron – Idomeneus, king of the Cretans

Behind them both stand two people – a young man, his eyes glimmering with joy and laughter, his hair a fiery red… and beside him, his brother, older than he, his nose hooked, his face marked with the scars of a seasoned warrior, his eyes glimmering with a cruel wit – Menelaus and Agamemnon, the brothers of Mycenae

An old man sits behind them, sitting on one of the benches, a thin wool cloak covering his form. He is older than most present here, his hair ash-grey, his face marked with wrinkles, but none ask him to leave. Nor do they ask for his name – his fingers, strong and all tendon, and the bow that lies across his lap, yew with a lionskin grip, are markers enough. The room quietens as he stands – after all, this is Philoctetes, the heir to the bow of great Hercules, foremost son of Thebes

King Tyndareus enters the room, and the assembled suitors bow respectfully, a move he acknowledges with a nod of his head, before seating himself upon his opulent throne, his furs once more seeming like they were burying his muscular form beneath their sea of opulence. He shoots me a glare as he sits, a look I acknowledge with a slight grin

“O Kings, heroes, princes of our great country !!”, he cries, his voice as loud and booming as I remember, “You do me a great honor by coming here, from so far away, for the hand of my precious daughter”

The suitors murmur in approval. I snort quietly. Everyone loved a good compliment .

Three women enter the room behind the Spartan king, seating themselves by his side, their faces covered in white veils that hid their features. Among them sat Helen, the prize desired by all who stood in this room, save me, as they clearly knew. The kings whispered amongst themselves, their eyes falling on each woman in turn, as if trying to discern which of them was fair Helen,  but my eyes only lay on woman, who sat at the far left of the lines, stands of her silken black slipping free of her veil. Penelope. My prize.

The suitors move forward in a line, whispering and talking amongst themselves as each hopeful king, hero or prince rises to offer his gift to the Spartan king and returns to his seat. The women shift slightly on the dais, uncomfortable with all the attention placed upon them. I resist the urge to snap at the other suitors to keep their eyes off Penelope.

Idomeneus offers the axe he had been holding, the symbol of his people, and a grand weapon. Tyndareus smiles blankly at the gift, and his eyes rove greedily over the things the others hold in their nervous hands. I sigh under my breath.

Menelaus offers a cloth dyed richly purple, a kingly gift indeed. He smiles as he rises, winking at the lady who sits in the center of the three women. That must be Helen, I think. Tyndareus glances at him, his eyes narrowing in consideration. Menelaus was a good administrator, and a capable warrior. I look at him and I know he has made his choice

Remember the solution I offered you, king of Sparta, I tell him with my eyes, Do not choose. He seems to notices this, sighing and returning to blankly accepting the gifts brought by the suitors

Suddenly, the room froze. I look up, nearly doing a double-take as I see who stands before Tyndareus now. His forehead is lined with the marks of frowns long past, and his arms are thick and muscled, visible on either side of his leather vest. His black beard hides his face, nearly as impressive as Tyndareus’

Menoitius, son of Actor, member of the Argonauts, and king of the Locrians of the Opuntian Locris. Also, married. A young boy stands at his side, barely nine years of age, his skin brown, his eyes wide with worry and confusion. I pity him

“I am sorry to hear of your wife’s death, Menoitius”, Tyndareus says, his booming voice flavored with a confusion, for why else would a married man show up to claim his daughter ?

“My wife yet lives, O king of Sparta”, the king says, his voice deep, almost a roar, “It is my son whom I offer as a husband to your daughter”

There is silence. I look at the king of Opus, then at the stunned faces of the assembled suitors, then, finally, at the young boy standing beside Menoitius, scrawny, nine and pathetic, his body as thin as a twig, his arms even thinner, and resist the urge to burst out laughing

“Your son is…”, Tyndareus begins, trailing off as he tries to figure out the proper response to this level of audacity, “… is…”

A runt ? Pathetic ? Nine gods-damned years old ?!

“… not yet a man”, he finishes, and it is more polite than I would have been. I mentally give him credit for that, at least

“I am man enough for the both of us !!”, Menoitius says, a clear jest. One that falls flat as no one in the room even moves a muscle. I start to feel a measure of pity for them both

He kneels, offering a beaten gold bowl. Tyndareus takes it, his face screwed up into an expression of awkwardness. The tension in the air is as thick as the Spartan king’s impressively muscled arms, that is to say, too thick to be cut with a sword

He offers Helen a place as queen of his palace, clearly displacing the young child’s mother, the current ruling queen, and, if the rumors suggest, unfit to be so. The child’s face screws up in an expression of sorrow upon hearing of the cruel treatment his father intended for his mother. I step in, partly to kindle the flames further, I always love a good show, and partly to save us all the awkwardness of having to listen to this man

“I thought your son was the suitor, O king of Opus, not you”, I remark slyly. Said king turns to me, his face alight with fury. The boy looks at me too, and I try to give him a reassuring smile, though it must have appeared cruel, for he flinches away

“Who invited you to speak, Laertides ?”, the former Argonaut remarks, “For I certainly do not remember doing so”

I smile back, one tinged with cruelty, reserved for people I held distaste for, “You did not, Actides, I interrupted. You need not fear my presence. I speak only as an observer”
I spot Penelope stirring out of the corner of my eye. Hope ignites in my chest. Menoitius reacts to my words, his face colored red and blotchy with irritation, “What does that mean ? Are you not here for Helen ?”

I shake my head no, and look up at the king of Opus, who was now looking more irritated by the second, “Why are you here then, shepherd prince ? Return to your rocks and sheep”

Tyndareus rolled his eyes at our conversation. “Enough”, he boomed, “Return to your seat, royalty of the Opuntian Locris, and let the others come forth”

Menoitius, prideful as he was, grumbled at the abrupt dismissal, but retreated, dragging his son in tow. The boy winced at the tight grip his father held on his shoulder. I winced in sympathy.

On the dais, Tyndareus hunched over, his eyes full to the brim with exasperation, as he gestured for the others to come forth.

And come forth they did – hustling each other as they did, whispering praises and shouting boasts from behind threadbare beards and thinned lips and yellow teeth, their eyes, leering and lustful, lying on the young princess of Sparta

They piled gifts in the center of the room – bottles of oil and sheets of dyed wool, precious gems hung on gold or silver wire to act as earrings, glass bottles of valuable perfume, stoppered with wads of wax, long, supple wooden spears with tips of iron or bronze. One king presented what he claimed to be a drakon-tooth-spear, but I was half-certain it had been taken from a lion

At last, the Spartan king turned to me, and I knew it was my time to speak, to explain my plot

“O great kings, O mighty heroes, O lordly princes !!”, I cried, my voice dramatic and expressive, “Yours gifts are numerous and precious indeed, as I am certain our great host knows”, I gesture to said host who lowers his head in acknowledgement, “, but there is a problem”

Menoitius growls, and whispers start echoing about the room. Conspiracy, they say, Deceit. Odysseus and Tyndareus have conspired to cheat us.

I raise my hands to ask for calm in vain, for that simply incenses them further, until at last a frail, yet firm, voice sounds, echoing out over them all

“SILENCE !!”

Philoctetes, the old archer, rises, his eyes, full of disdain, and fixed on me, “I do not trust you, man of many turnings”, he begins, “but I know that you would not be enough of a damn fool to announce your part in a conspiracy in front of fifty formidable warriors. Speak your mind”

“Your faith in me warms my heart, Great archer”, I remark, somewhat sarcastically, to which he responds by spitting on the floor, “and if you would let me explain, you would see the wisdom in my words.”

“Tell me”, I continue, “What happens after a suitor is chosen ? Do you go home, aware that you were considered unworthy ? Or do you take up arms to claim that which you believe is rightfully yours, even if her father does not think so ?”

I fix a baleful eye on each of the suitors, as they begin shuffling their feet and murmuring out refusals and indignant cries. Only Diomedes and Idomeneus stand stock-still, their eyes fixed on me and full of curiosity

“Silence !!”, Tyndareus booms once more, his nostrils flaring with rage. I look at him gratefully and continue, “I dare say that many assembled here would do the latter, instead of the former. Am I wrong ?”

I am met with nothing but an unbreakable silence. I smile victoriously

“The only true, peaceful answer to this quandary is… well, to let Helen choose”, I say, bracing myself for the inevitable explosion of protests at the idea of  letting a woman choose a spouse. The suitors do not disappoint, murmuring and shouting about how unconventional this was, how uncouth. I raise my hand for silence, before continuing

“She will choose now, that no one may accuse myself or the great King of Sparta here of using her as a mouthpiece, and”, I raise my finger to ask for silence as the hall bursts out into the predictable accusations of cheating and deceit, “… every man assembled here will swear an oath to accept Helen’s choice, and to defend her from any who would take her from him”
Tyndareus nodded, as though he were considering this. I rolled my eyes at his dramatics, he knew damn well that he had no choice but to accept my proposal

“Very well” he rumbles like one of Father Zeus’ storms, “Helen, do you accept this ?”

The woman seated in the center stirs at his words, and turns her veiled face to him, “I do, Father”, her voice rings out, low and melodious, sounding almost like a beautiful song, ringing out through the assembled suitors. The men assembled shivered at the voice, and I rolled my eyes. Helen was beautiful, no doubt, her skin gilded, her eyes slick and black as obsidian, but I only had eyes for one woman, and that woman was not her

The Spartan king rises from his seat, standing tall over the milling crowd of assembled suitors, “Call for Phanias”, he commands a servant, who trembles at his booming voice, before running off, and returning a few seconds later, a priest in tow

“My Lord ?”, the priest questions, bowing before Tyndareus.

“These men are assembled here to swear an oath. Prepare what is needed”

The priest bowed respectfully and called for a white goat to be led to an altar hastily set up in the center of the chamber. It’s throat was slit and I winced as I watched the fat, ruby-red droplets of it’s blood drip from the slit, red and gruesome against it’s pink flesh. The priest captured the droplets in a bowl and mixed it with the hot cypress ash of the fire. Once done, he looked up, at Tyndareus, who nodded and looked to me

“You first, Silvertongue”

I wince. My own noose had fallen round my neck. All through the room, I saw smirks and smiles on the faces of the crowd. Diomedes, especially, had an uncharacteristically large smile on his face. I glared at him, before turning to offer a winning smile to the Spartan king, “Of course, my Lord”

I step forward, extending my hand over the fire, the flames hot and uncomfortable against my browned skin, and looked up at the left-most veiled woman, a reminder of why I was doing this. I feel the hot ash, slightly cooled with goat’s blood, fall on my wrist, leaving a reddish-grey mark, as I repeat the words the priest directs me to say

One by one, the suitors come forth, extending their arms and accepting the terms of the oath (including the nine-year-old child, I could not help but notice), the blood-and-ash markings on our wrists binding us together, a bond stronger and more binding than iron chains.

At last the oath-taking is over, and the king gestures to fair Helen, “Speak now, daughter”

Helen rises, her veil fluttering over her face. “Menelaus”, she says, her voice soft and low, as melodious as , I imagined, the harps of the Muses. The men grumble with discontentment, but make no move towards their weaponry, the blood congealed on their wrists seemed to keep them from doing so

Menelaus smiles, bright and joyful, as he walks towards Helen, even as his brother, clever Agamemnon smiles, for the power Mycenae has gained tonight. The red-haired prince of Mycenae kneels before her, looking up at her, his face shining with outsize joy

“Very well”, Tyndareus rumbles approvingly. He had sought Menelaus too, after all. “My daughter is yours to claim, son of Atreus, even as your brother once claimed her sister Clymnestra”

“What of your niece ?”, the small man besides giant Ajax cries. Teucer, I recognize, “ Who shall have her ?”

“I shall”, I say, my voice deep and satisfied, “as she is promised unto me”

Chapter Text

After he who shall be the spouse of dear Helen is chosen, most of the suitors return to their home countries, leaving only I, Diomedes, who had stayed to “enjoy the show” in his words, and the two sons of Atreus – Menelaus, lost in the love of his wife, his face lined with smiles and laughter, and Agamemnon, his brother, his eyes cold and cruel as ever, focused on me far more often than I would have liked

“I must offer you my congratulations”, Agamemnon said to me one day, as we sat alone in the palace hall, watching the preparations for the dual wedding ceremonies take place through the tall, glass windows, “You played them well”

“I am Silvertongue, am I not ?”, I replied, trying for a lighthearted tone, and failing miserable, “It would be a disgrace to my reputation, had I not been clever back there”

“Indeed”, Agamemnon whispers, his eyes glinting like dark gems in the dim firelight, sharper than any blade. I felt them skewer my form, as if looking through my skin, my flesh, into my heart. The king of Mycenae grinned triumphantly, “and now all those fifty suitors… those fifty kingdoms… they are bound to my word, are they not ?”

“Only if someone tries to take Helen from your brother, Atreides”, I reply, a warning note to my voice, “Only then”

Do not try to command them, Agamemnon, is the message my words carry, for you will not escape alive should you do so

Agamemnon eyes flicker with something resembling irritation, “Yes”, he agrees, gritting his teeth in frustration, “only then”

For a moment, all is silent. The still air seems to weigh oppressively on us, like chains of pure iron, strong, and binding, and slowly, surely, I watch Agamemnon’s hackles, which had risen at my words, fall, the irritation clearing from his face, and the truth floats between us, loud and exigent

Helen is the fairest maiden in all Greece. How long will it be before someone tries to claim her from flame-haired Menelaus’ grasp ? And when the day that happens comes… as it surely will…

Agamemnon truly will be King of Men. All the men of Greece

I know it, and, judging by the self-confident smile that decorates his thin, sharp face, he does too.

I gulp sharply, and pray that Agamemnon meets his end before that day comes. My eyes flicker towards his face, his eyes, shining with the delight of victory. I cannot bear them. I look away, towards the dying embers of the fire, shining like gold in the sunlight that filtered in through the windows

Agamemnon’s voice sounds beside, sharp and loud in the silence of the hall, “Helen is fickle, Polytropos. You know this is true. How long until someone else catches her eye ? How long until she runs off ? How long until…”

Until I become the greatest hero of all Greece, the only man alive to have united every kingdom under his banner

I wince, starting to regret my own cleverness. I turn to meet his stare, and my words leave my mouth. His eyes are as sharp as daggers and twice as piercing. His sclerae stands milky white against his brown irises, which glint gold in the firelight – the gold of divine ichor, and the gold of wealth-laden treasuries.

The king of Mycenae was a clever man, indeed. Almost as clever as Diomedes and I, and twice as cruel. He sought little but his own gain, and was more than willing to slaughter and kill any who stood in his path. I straightened my back, and gulped, before speaking, trying to bring some degree of calm into my voice, “The proualia is almost at an end. The gamos, the wedding ceremonies begin tomorrow, Agamemnon. We should retire early tonight”

I feel ill as I turn to Agamemnon, whose face lights up with delight at having rendered the likes of me speechless. He lowers himself into a mock-bow, “May the gods be with you, groom”

“And with your brother”, I mutter, though I feel sick to my stomach after our conversation.

Agamemnon smiles again, insincere and predatory as a shark’s, “Of course”

With that, he turns to leave, leaving me alone in the vast, emptiness of Tyndareus’ mighty hall. I spot a cup of wine on a nearby cowhide-covered bench. Agamemnon must have left it there. I pick it up, observing it intently for any signs of poisoning.

I knew the signs that revealed the presence of a poison. My father had made me learn them all after a…. particularly nasty incident with a rattlesnake and my grandfather’s wine.

Snake-venom tasted bitter and made the wide viscous and thick. Scorpion-venom bit at your tongue like a thousand pin-pricks, and made the wine grow slightly greenish. Hydra venom made the wine red, and it didn’t matter what it tasted like, because a single sip would eat through your body and kill you instantly

Finding none, I drink it in one swig. The wine, sweetened with honey, tastes like dust against my tongue. The burn it provides as it travels the length of my throat feels less like a gentle, pleasant throb and more like a raging inferno. I stare out the window, out upon the endless, distant lights of Sparta, and further, of Greece, contemplating.

I think : Agamemnon seeks to conquer this. I think : I have given him the tools to do so. I think : Gods help me. I think : Gods help us all

At dawn the next morning, I and Menelaus are called to the central square of the city, silent and dark at dawn. In the distance, I see the Dawn Goddess Eos spread her ruddy fingers o’er the black fabric of the night sky, coloring it a vibrant red, even as great Apollo rises with her, his sun chariot beginning his great trek across the sky

In the middle of the square stand two men. One is a familiar figure – Tyndareus come to see his fairest daughter off - but the other is new. He is tall, stone-faced and square-jawed. A scar lies across one of his deep, fathomless brown eyes, sealing it’s lid shut. He is beardless, revealing his thin lips and the numerous scars that mar his face. His body is thickly carved with muscle and he is big- around a full foot taller than the Spartan king, who is already imposing to the likes of us.

It did not take one blessed by the goddess Athena to realize who he was. Icarius, brother of Tyndareus, and king of some regions of Acarnania, has come to see his beloved Penelope off.

Tyndareus beams on seeing his son-in-law-to-be, turning to him, a smile on his broad, tanned face, even as the flame-haired prince lowers himself to his knees before him, in respect and reverence.

In stark contrast, Icarius does not even turn to look at me as I kneel to greet him. Slightly miffed, I clamber back up onto my feet.

“O Oebalides”, I call to him, as respectfully as I can, “Have you nothing to say to the man who is to wed your daughter ?”

Icarius says nothing for a moment, his gaze fixed on something. I follow his gaze to an area of the square, marked off with lines of yellow ochre, marking a square a few feet in length and width. It stands in the shadow of the three statues that decorated the square.

To the left stood Apollo, Sun-Lord, Python-Killer , known here by the title Pythaeus. Precious gold has been used to make his eyes, inset into the marble visage, and they shine brilliantly as the dawn-light falls on them.

Beside his lordly visage stands his mother, Leto, dressed in simple flowing clothes, her arms raised as if asking for help, her gaze held skywards

To the very right stands the Lady of the Hunt, the Sun-Lord’s beloved sister, her eyes forged from silver, shining like the moon she commands in the brilliant sunlight

“They are… very nice statues”, I remark awkwardly, to break the all-pervading silence, if nothing else. Icarius jerks back, as if snapped out of a trance, before turning to me

“You are Odysseus. He who the Trojans name Ulixes, and who the rest of us name Polytropos”, he rumbles. His voice is rougher than his brothers. Scratchier and grainier, sounding more like rock rubbing against rock than his brother’s animal growl

“That is indeed me”, I say, glad to have broken his silence, bowing slightly at his words, “I am glad to have been recognized by the father of my bride”

Icarius does not answer. He has returned to gazing upon the square of yellow ochre. I sigh

“O, King of Acarnanians, O, brother of Tyndareus”, I call to him once more, my hackles rising, “Turn and speak, I bid you”

Icarius stands for a few seconds more, lost in silent contemplation, before his voice sounds out again, rough and harsh, “Why do you call me “Oebalides” ?”

I look at him, a touch confused, “Is Oebalus not your father ?”

“Not by blood, nay. My blood-father is none other than Perieres, the late king of Messenia.”

I fall silent. Why had I called him Oebalides ? It was, after all, not unknown to me that the man before me had not come from the old man Oebalus’ loins. It was common knowledge, after all.

My lips part once, before falling closed again.

Icarius looks at me expectantly. I cannot hold back the truth

“Laertes is not my birth father, O King”, I speak, quiet as a summer breeze, my voice shaking somewhat with emotion. The old Spartan’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

I barrel onwards before my lose my nerve, “I was borne from the loins of Sisyphus, after he…he…”, the words stick in my throat, their sharp tines burrowing into my soft flesh. I look pleadingly at the old king. Do not make me say it.

Thankfully, the old warrior is smarter than he looks. ‘He took her by force, did he not ?”, he murmurs, “and so you never considered him your father, and so of course you would name yourself Laertides, and, if you had already broken with such conventions for yourself, why would you stick with them for me ?”

I lower my head in acknowledgement. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, heavy and oppressive, before the prince of Messenia breaks it once more

“Do you know what this place is ?”, he asks, his voice thick with emotion and heavy with meaning

I look back at the yellow square. My mind races. It finds nothing. I turn back to the old warrior-prince who stands beside me, “I do not”

“It is the choros. It is where Spartan children come to in order to partake in public games, be they mock or real. I still remember…. Though many decades have passed since that day, like water through my fingers, how joyful Penelope used to look as she played with the other children in this very square.. the dust flying as their bare feet kicked at the earth, in great clouds that nearly hid them from view… I can scarcely believe…”, he whispers, and his voice is choked with emotion,”… that those days are at an end”

I cannot respond. I do not know how. I have never known how best to react to such displays of emotions. It is the one weak spot in my otherwise impenetrable armor of wisdom

“Ah”, I say, somewhat dumbly, reaching up to pat the older man’s shoulder, “I’m…sorry ?”

Those words seem to snap Icarius back to reality, for he turns to me and grins widely, his thin lips pulling back to reveal gleaming, yellowed teeth.

“You need not be, son of Laertes !!”, he roars, patting me on the back so hard that he almost snaps my spine, “It is the nature of all birds to leave the nest, after all. The truest pleasure of any father is to watch how they”, and now he gestures to the blue fabric of the morning sky, where flocks of birds flap about – white groups of doves swirling around midnight-black swarms of crows and ravens, eagles flapping even higher above, safe in the domain of their master, “fly”

I look up at the sky, as I think of my own father, safe back home with his rocks and sheep. Safe, on our little isle of Ithaca, and I think of myself, so far away from it. Icarius’ words provide me with some measure of comfort, some reassurance that he is not too worried for my safety

“True enough, prince of Messenia”, I mutter softly, too low for any but Icarius’ ears, “True enough”

Chapter Text

I stand at the altar, awaiting my soon-to-be bride, the marble pillars of the temple rising on either side of me, and shuffle awkwardly, somewhat nervous.

 The priest, who stands behind the altar, glares at me.

I stop shuffling, instead standing in place, swinging my hands back and forth a little to ease my nerves, which earns  me another glare from the priest, an old, almost-decrepit old man, small and frail, practically swimming in his chiton as he stood there, the bronze ritual knife in one hand.

 Had he not been continuously glaring at me, I would have assumed he was dead for how old he looked. His face was more wrinkle than skin. I glare back, throwing up my arms a little. What do you want me to do ? Nail myself in place ?. The priest just glares at me more

Thankfully, Icarius saves me from the embarrassment (and likely curses) that would come with beating up a priest in a temple, stepping forward next to me, his richly-embroidered robes shining in the dim fire-light, “Now, now, Callimachus”, he rumbled, sounding somewhat amused, “It is perfectly natural for the boy to be nervous. It is his wedding day, after all”

“It is improper, my Lord”, the priest snapped, his voice shrill and reedy, though he bowed while doing so

“I dare say the gods will forgive a little impropriety, today, at least, of all days”, my father-in-law booms, a verdict the priest accepts, bowing slightly before hurrying off to make preparations for the ceremony. I resist the urge to point out that our gods were not known for their forgiving natures, so no, they probably would not forgive a little impropriety, but I decide to hold my unruly tongue

I hear a small laugh from the entrance of the temple, and I am lost. To my ears, it sounds as harmonious as the harps of the Mousai, and twice as melodious.

I turn to the source, and my mouth falls open. My bride, Penelope, stands there, her hand modestly covering her mouth, curled up into a smile. The rest of her face covered with a sheer, green veil, which only serves to make her look more enticing. Her dress flows from her shoulders like a river, as green as summer-grass, embroidered strands of gold and silver running through it in great swirls and designs. Her eyes sparkle with joy as they fall on me, and I forget how to speak

Icarius turns to me, a knowing smirk adorning his rugged face, “Well, Polymetis ? What think you of your lovely bride ?”

I open my mouth, and close it again, gasping like a fish out of water. My tongue feels too thick and coarse to properly describe the vision standing before me. I choke on my spit, letting out something that vaguely sounds like a “yes”

Icarius laughs at that, deep and thunderous, before winking at his daughter, “Well done, daughter mine !! You’ve rendered the silver-tongued prince of Ithaca speechless !!”

I flush a deep red at his teasing words, my cheeks warming as Penelope turns to me. She lowers her hand, and reveals her smile, as dazzling as Pythaeus’ sun, “I am glad, Father”, Penelope says, her voice low and alluring, as captivating as a Siren’s song, “to have a husband who does not try to hide his emotions beneath a layer of steel manliness”

I find my voice once more, “O beautiful one”, I say, my voice echoing off the marble walls of the temple, “to try to hide my attraction towards you would be like trying to blot out Pythaeus’ great sun chariot. Impossible, and a futile endeavor”

Penelope flushes at my words, once more covering her face with one hand, to hide the red that coats her pale cheeks. I mourn for their loss. “My, O husband”, she continues, and her voice quavers with slight embarrassment as she speaks, “You truly are as eloquent as they say. Alas, your slippery words are wasted on me. I know I am no great beauty”

I start at that. No great beauty ? Has she seen herself in the mirror recently ? Unable to stop myself, I blurt out, “No great beauty ? If you, who outshine both the sun and his sister, the moon, and all the myriad stars of heaven, are no great beauty, then what am I ? A carcass ?”

For a moment, all is silent, as I take a moment to digest the words that have just left my mouth, turning redder and redder as I do so.

Icarius lets out a booming laugh beside me, and smacks me on the back in congratulations, “Nicely said, son-in-law !!”

I choke again, flushing an even deeper red, as I watch Penelope turn away, her face and neck flaming bright red

The priest says into the silence, sounding incredibly exasperated, “Shall we begin ?”

I turn to him, still slightly shaken, and nod out a hasty “yes”. The priest peers at me disdainfully, “Has the engysis been completed ?”

Icarius nodded, his voice deep, “Indeed it has”

“Have you, as the kyrios, agreed to this match ?”

“Yes”

“This is quite improper, as you well know. Tradition dictates that the woman be dressed as a man, and be carried secretly to bed’, the priest remarked, his voice high and thin, as he turned to pick up his ritual knife. I roll my eyes, and out of the corner of my eyes, I see Icarius do the same

“Improper for Sparta, priest”, I say, “Not for Ithaca”

“We are not in Ithaca”

“She will taken there at the ceremony’s close.”, I say, a little irritation leaking into my voice. The priest rolled his eyes, an action which raised his sagging eyelids a little, revealing his brilliant blue, unnaturally blue eyes

“Very well, then”, he grumbled, “Let us proceed”

After the wedding, I and Penelope return to the docks. A ship stands there, proud and mighty, it’s large, bright sails, bearing the yellow mark of Ithaca, displaying to all who would care to look upon it, the emblem of it’s master.

“Your kingdom’s mark is beautiful”, I hear my bride say from somewhere beside me. I turn to her, a wide grin splitting my face, “It is yours, too, now”.

For a moment, we simply stand there, basking in the glow of young love, our hearts swollen and thick with joy. There was no need for words, or for touch, between us. Our eyes were enough.

I hear footsteps behind me, and a deep, mournful voice, calls out, “Oh Penelope !! Oh, Ulixes !! Won’t you stay ?”.

I turn. It is Icarius. He looks distraught, his hair is a mess, tangled and strewn about his warrior’s features, now screwed up in sorrow. He has been trying to get us to stay for the last two days, as we completed the traditional marital ceremonies of the gamos, and the epaulia that followed

I step forward, “O father-in-law mine, were you not the one who said that all birds must eventually leave the nest ?”, I ask, my voice soft. I understand why he wants her to stay so desperately. If I ever had a daughter as virtuous, as good.. as kind.. as perfect as Penelope, I, too, would never want her to leave my side

Icarius cried, his voice grainy and broken with sorrow, “I thought it would be easy to let you go, daughter, son-in-law !! I was wrong.”. I pity him

I straighten back up. I turn to look at my wife, an expectant glint in my eye. Answer him.

 She raises her head, her emerald veil lying just below her throat, covering her neck and collarbone in a waterfall of green silk, her eyes glimmering with an unknowable emotion. She looks back at me. I shake my head. This decision is not mine to make

She says nothing. She does not need to. She simply raises the veil that lies discarded against her throat till it once again covers her face, before looking back at her father, her black eyes glimmering through the sheer emerald fabric

He jerks back, before straightening up. A myriad emotions flash across his face – sorrow, anger, regret- before finally settling on acceptance. He bows his head, “You have made your choice”. The two of us nod back. That she has.

We board the ship. The anchors rise, and the great vehicle moves, it’s prow cutting through the waves like a knife. Icarius makes no move to stop us

I later learn that he erected a statue of the goddess Aidos, of Modesty, on the spot we had been standing as he asked us to stay. I nearly laugh at that. It is fitting, indeed

“Do you regret it ?”, I ask my wife as we leave the shores of Sparta, seeing it rapidly shrink behind us, until it is little more than a spot of grey against the blue sky and the bluer sea. She leans against the railing of the ship, a wistful expression on her face, as she watches her home disappear over the horizon

“Regret what ?”, Penelope turns to ask me, “Our marriage ? Or leaving Sparta ?”

“Either”

“Well”, Penelope laughs, a touch bitterly, “The marriage I will never regret, for there were far worse candidates”

“Worse ?”, I ask, somewhat teasingly, “Worse than me ? Impossible !!”

Penelope hits my arm playfully, “Hold your tongue, Odysseus. You are far better than you realize. As for the others… well,” she looks up at the sky, seemingly trying to remember them, “Well, one was Diomedes, that I remember”

“Ah, I see what you mean”, I say, mock-gravity coloring my voice, “He truly is worse”

“I don’t know about that. He’s not a scrawny eighteen year old, for one thing”

I gasp in mock-offense, “Eighteen I may be, but I am not scrawny”

“Yes you are. Practically skin-and-bones. You look like a twig”, she teases back, “Lucky for you, I’m a good cook”

“You aren’t going to have very many ingredients”, I warn jestingly, “Ithaca doesn’t have much of anything… well, other than rocks… and sheep”

“I’m very good at cooking mutton”, she says confidently, crossing her arms, “Unless the sheep are your pets, of course, in which case I’m very good at cooking childhood pets”

I stifle a laugh. Penelope does not. Her laugh rings out over the sound of the crashing sea waves, clear as crystal., and twice as beautiful. Her eyes sparkle with joy as she looks at me. For the first time in my life, I feel truly blessed

“And what of Sparta ?”, I ask, “Do you wish that we had stayed ?”

“An eagle borne on mighty wings will never miss the cliffs it once fell from, and a full-mast ship will never miss the beach where she once ran aground.”, she says, her tone grave and serious, “Sparta was just my beginning. I have miles yet to fly”

“And they call me eloquent”, I scoff, “You are the real Silvertongue here”

She laughs, and I am lost once more, in the tinkling melody of her voice, in the softness of her breath, and her skin, and the sparkle of her eyes

“So, husband mine”, she begins, a sly smile spreading across, “ What do you offer to me as a wedding gift ?”

“A bed, of course !!”, I cry, strutting about gallantly, like the heroes and husbands depicted in our art and pottery, “A fine wedding-bed, of the finest cedar wood. It shall have great pillars that rise into the sky like- ”

“Is that all ?”, Penelope teased back, “I expected better of the famed Odysseus”

I pout playfully, “Ask then, for whatever you shall have of me, that I may bring it to you”

“A wedding bed should not be dead and dry”, she cried playfully, leaning back o’er the railing, till her long tresses of ebony hair hung over the side of the fat-bellied ship like a waterfall of black, “It should be green… oh, and living and vibrant !!”.

She sprang up, suddenly looking me in the eye. I flushed a deep red, “Can you make such a bed for me ?”

She smiles, and I feel like giving her the world. I smile at her, soft and fond, “Of course”

Chapter Text

Weeks pass since that day, joyful and content. I carve our wedding bed into the enormous trunk of a vast, living, olive tree, and build a palace around it, tall and imposing. Penelope blushes when she sees it. I do not think she expected me to take her seriously. The boughs of the tree spread out like splayed fingers high above the vaulted roof of our palace, it’s leaves casting the entire building in a green light as the daylight filtered in through them.

I lie on my bed, my beloved wife beside me. My heart is light, and happy. I turn and smile at her, tracing the lines of her body with my eyes – her lean, muscled form, her long black hair splayed round her head in an ebony halo, and I burn them into my memories, into my mind, so that they may accompany me for all eternity

No matter what happens, I swear to myself, this I will never forget. No matter what

Her chest rises and falls as she breathes, soft and slow, steadily climbing and falling with each inhale and exhale. Her eyes are fixed on the leafy ceiling, and she seems lost in contemplation. At last, she speaks

“Odysseus, do you remember my cousin ?”, she asks, her voice far-away, as if her mind were in another place

“Your cousin ?”

“Helen ?”

“Fear not, Penelope, I only have eyes for-“, I immediately rush to assure her, only to be interrupted by her rolling her eyes and sighing deeply

“I know that, husband. Of course I know that !! But do you remember the way she was ?”, she asked, turning over to face me, her face sinking a little into the downy soft wool of the bed

“…..beautiful ?”

She rolls her eyes, muttering something that sounded very much like “Men”, under her breath, “Of course that’s all you remember”, she grumbled, “No. Fickle”

My eyes grow wide. She sighs, looking relieved, “That’s the Odysseus I remember”

I do not respond. My eyes are wide with horror, Agamemnon’s parting words resounding loudly in my ears

Helen is fickle, Polytropos. You know this is true. How long until someone else catches her eye ? How long until she runs off ?

I part my lips, my tongue is dry in my mouth. I force it to move, “..and if… when…. another man catches her eye”

“You will be called to fight and get her back”, she whispers back at me, looking just as terrified of such a prospect as I felt

My wrist stings where the blood-and-ash mixture was pasted, so many weeks ago.

“What do you suggest we do ?”, I ask, and my voice is hoarse with fear, my mind racing as I try to think of a way to avoid the inevitable war

“It is, of course, possible that she won’t run off”, Penelope mutters musingly, before turning and looking me in the eye, “Except-“

“Our gods are not kind ones. As a general rule of thumb, it’s best to assume that if something can go wrong, it will go wrong”

“There is only one way to know for sure”, she whispers, turning to me.

“Oracle”, I whisper, “We must consult the Oracle”

The Oracle of Dodona of Thessaly is known by many as the “wiseman’s grove”. It’s trees are tall and dark, stretching high above, like great pillars holding up the sky.

I stumble as I move through the choking forest with purpose, my feet catching on the stray rocks and roots of the underbrush. A hissing, green mist surrounds me, choking and acidic. It brushes against my skin, and is cold to the touch.

I recall the ancient myths of the Oracles. How Python, the dark serpent, ruled the Oracles before Apollo, the Sun-Lord, slew him and claimed the title of Phoebus. But as I stand in the vast blackness of the Forest of Dodona, the tendrils of sickly-green smoke swirling about me like serpents, Python seems more alive than ever

A hissing, unearthly voice cuts through the mist, “O Polypenthes… O Polystonos….what is it you seek ?”

The Oracle has found me

“The truth !!”, I cry into the hissing, all-pervading smoke, “I seek the truth !!”

“Ask, seeker of truth, and learn”

“What will become of Helen ?!!”, I cry, loud and desperate, my voice echoing off the thick trunks of the trees that surround me, “What will become of Agamemnon’s plot ?!!”

What will become.. of me ?

For a moment, all is silent, before the green mist begins to rise around me, in hissing, roiling waves, splashing against my skin again and again, each time striking a little higher than before, until at last it passes over my head, and I am submerged in it

The green that surrounds me begins to mold, to shift, as the voice keeps whispering, “O husband of Penelope, O father of Telemachus… heed our warnings… and beware….”

“What ?!!”, I try to shout, as the green smoke creeps down my throat, leaving it ice-cold and numb, “What must I beware ?!!”

“Beware he favored by Aphrodite”, the Oracle whispers, “Beware he who comes bearing a false face of amicability…. for should you ever march to war… your men will fall… your features change… and you.... you will not return… till twenty years have passed”

 My chest freezes at the Oracle’s words, even as the green mist hurries away, leaving me standing in the midst of a dark forest, alone. I feel like a dark pit has just opened up beneath my heart, and threatens to swallow it whole.

You will not return….

I swallow nervously. I suppose that answers my question. Helen will run off… the question was, with who ? And when ?

How much time do I have ?

Time passes, as it always does. The minutes turn into hours and the hours into days and the days into weeks and the weeks into years, leaving us to scramble after them, to clutch and grasp at those fading moments of joy and happiness before they are forever ripped from our grasp

My hair, once lustrous and black, is now streaked with grey. Not for age – I am only twenty-seven, but for the sheer fear that grips my heart whenever I see my wife and remember the warning the Oracle of Dodona gave me

You will not return…

I await the call of a horn every day, calling me to the battle-field, to blood and death, away from my wife, away from my newborn son.

Still, I scrounge up happiness and contentment where I can – in those rare, joyous moments where I let myself fall, let myself forget about oaths, and infidelity and wars, and simply let myself exist, against the calm backdrop of our peaceful Ithaca.

My wife sits by me. Her hair is grey now too – with the stress of childbirth. In both arms she cradles a child, nursing him against her breast, a fond spark in her eyes. He babbles joyfully into her chest, and I smile. He takes after me, I know. He is clever – cleverer than others his age. His hair is dark, and his dark, beady eyes glimmer with intelligence, though you would never know it if you saw him – how mischievous he is

We have named him Telemachus – “far from battle” – a hope, and a prayer. That I stay far from battle, and never have to leave him ? Perhaps, or perhaps that he stays far from battle and never has to risk his life ? That may be true also

As I have grown, my legend has grown with me, and-according to my wife, at least, so has my form

“You know, you really aren’t the way you used to be”, Penelope muses one day, as she lies beside me on our wedding bed, her eyes fixed on my body. At the foot barks the young puppy we have adopted. Argos, we have named him – though perhaps Hermes would have been a better choice, given his speed. Penelope sometimes jokes that I seem to care more for it than I do her.

“What do you mean ?”, I turn to look at her with some difficulty, wriggling on the bed until I am looking her in the eye

“You’re too muscly now. I want my scrawny twig of a man back”, she pouts playfully.

I tease her back, “I thought women loved muscles”

“Well, others might”, my dear wife whines, “I prefer… how do I put it… eromenos”

I jerk back, my eyes wide. A small laugh escapes my lips, “I am not a submissive man. Were I in a relationship with another man, I would certainly be the erastes”

“Hmm… I doubt it”

I playfully pouted at her words, and she laughed. Nine years had passed since I had first heard that sound, and still, even now, nearly a decade, it did not fail at capturing me,  mind, body and soul. It filled the space between us with the sound of a thousand tinkling bells, a music clearer and more beautiful than that of the radiant god, Apollo Aegle’tus

A horn sounded in the distance, abrupt, ragged, a cry of warning. My face goes pale. So does hers.

“Is that…”, she whispers, her face gaunt with horror

I clamber to my feet, my heart thudding in my chest. I feel sick to my stomach. I run to the window and glance outside. A fleet of ships is gathered, their sails marked with brilliant blues and whites. I draw in a deep breath

“Which nation is it ? Who calls you to war ?”, Penelope asks. She is clever. She has realized why they have come, even as my mind frantically tries to deny the sordid truth

“Euboea. It is Palomedes”, I whisper through stiff, fearful lips.

Penelope turns to me, her eyes wide with fear. Palomedes is a clever man. Almost as clever as the likes of I or Diomedes. A wise man, blessed with a mind as sharp as the sharpest blade. He ruled his kingdom with wisdom and honor, not to forget an iron fist. Fooling him would not be as easy as fooling the likes of Menelaus, or even Agamemnon

For a moment, I am lost in thought. I am Odysseus, beloved of Athena. I would not let my wit fail me now. I look back at my wife, and start stripping to my waist

“What are you doing ?”, she says, her tone fearful, as if she worries that I have gone mad with grief at the news of the oncoming war

“I cannot be called to war if I am declared insane”, I reply, and turn to leave the palace. Penelope follows, a few steps behind me

I turn to her, “Stop”, I whisper to her, “Meet Palomedes at the docks. Distract him. Stall him”. She nods, and does not question what it is I intend to do. I am thankful for that.

Calling one of my servants to me, I tell them to bring me salt, a yoke, an ox and a donkey. I arrive at a patch of empty land, and, tying the beasts to the yoke, start ploughing the land, singing loudly and madly, throwing handfuls of salt into the earth after every few steps.

I can hear my wife speaking to Palomedes, this land is near enough to the docks for that.

“Greetings, Nauplides, king of Euboea”, my wife greets, and I commend her, for her voice barely shakes as she speaks, “What brings such a great lord to our humble island ?”

There is a moment’s silence, and then Palomedes speaks, his voice smooth and deep, “Greetings, Penelope, daughter of Icarius. War is kindled. Your husband must come. I am here to call him”

“Does he need to ?”, Penelope replies, and I hear a tinge of desperation to her voice, “Surely, you mighty Greek nobles are more than enough for whatever threat has arisen ?”

“Helen has been stolen from Menelaus”, Palomedes, his voice inscrutable, soft and low, “Your husband swore an oath. He must come”

“Alas !!”, Penelope cries, “Had you only come a few days sooner !! Perhaps you could have saved him, then”

“Saved him ?”

“My husband, great Odysseus of Ithaca…”, Penelope says, raising her voice in dramatic fashion, “…has gone mad !!”

Palomedes is silent for a second, before his voice rings out again, a tinge of suspicion to his tone, “Is that so ? Very well then, bring me to him. Perhaps I will indeed be able to “save him””

I hear their footsteps approaching me. I start singing louder, drowning out the noise of their approach, until at last they stand right beside me, their eyes fixed on me.

I pull out another handful of salt and throw it into the earth, sneaking a glance over my shoulder to see them.

My wife looks afraid, rightfully so, her knuckles white as she clutches Telemachus to her breast. Beside her stands Palomedes, tall and imposing, yet lithe and slender. A horsehair-helm sits on his head, making his expression unreadable. His bronze armor gleams like a flame in the bright sun

“Oh, Odysseus”, he cries. I pretend that I do not hear him. He continues, “Would you forsake your oath so easily?”

My wife turns to him, “Do you see now ? He truly has gone mad”

Palomedes stands there, his dark eyes glimmering from deep within the shadowed eye-slits of his helm. He appears to not hear her, his eyes are fixed on me.

“Odysseus”, he cries again, “Troy has stolen Helen !! Fulfil your oath !!”. I do no such thing, simply continuing my act of madness. He sighs.

“You leave me no choice”, he mutters, and I barely have enough time to look over and see what he means before he moves

The next few events happen in a blur. I see my son, Telemachus, firmly grasped in Palomedes’ large hands, my wife reaching for him, an expression of shock on her face. I see Telemachus fly through the air, and land right in front of my beasts.

Almost instinctively, I pull on the yoke, stopping them before they killed my son, before realizing what I had just done

I hear deep, smooth laughter sound from somewhere beside me, and for a second, I wonder if the gods are laughing at me.. at my arrogance, for believing I could run from destiny

Palomedes steps forward, a pleased glint in his eyes, still hidden by his helm, “Well, Odysseus ? Are you still mad, or are you ready to fulfil your obligations ?”

Hate fills me then, burning bright in my breast. I turn to look him in the eye, and catch sight of a glimmer of a smile under his war-helm. I spit on the ground before him. He does not move

“Well done”, I mutter, somewhat sarcastically, “I couldn’t have done it better myself”

Palomedes’ grin widens at that, and he speaks, his voice light and airy. He is joyful. He has, after all, outwitted Silver-Tongued Odysseus himself. “You’re going to have to, Laertides.”

I look at him questioningly, and he continues, “I will tell you on the ship. Say your goodbyes, prince of Ithaca, and I shall meet you at the docks”

I turn to Penelope, who looks back at me, her face ashen. I turn to look at the palace in the distance, it’s stone walls gleaming grey-silver in the sunlight. I think of my father, aged Laertes, who sits within, unaware of the trap his fool son has forged for himself. I turn back to my bride,

“Wait for me”, I say, a desperate plea, “These twenty years, wait for me”

She lowers her head. She does not speak. She does not need to. I continue, the ramblings of a doomed man, “Tell my father… where I went. I do not have the strength to face him myself”

“I will”, she replies, and her voice breaks as she speaks, my heart breaking with it. I turn back before she raises her head. I do not have the strength to look her in the eye

“Where to, Palomedes ?”, I question, “Troy ?”

Palomedes grinned, “Hasty, aren’t we ? Not so, Silvertongue. First we must to the island of Scyros”

“Scyros ?”, I question, raising one eyebrow in surprise, “There are no great princes on Scyros. Who do we expect to find there ?”

“Oh, but there are, Polytropos”, Palomedes’ lips curl up into a cruel smile, “Achilles of the Phthians. Aristos Achaion”

Chapter Text

The sea wind bites the skin of my face and hands as I lean out over the railing of the Euboean ship, it’s grainy wood scraping uncomfortable against the skin of my palms, calloused as they are from years of wielding swords

“I am no warrior, Palomedes, as you well know”, I remark, still filled with wrath aimed towards the young Euboean king, “Why seek me out ?”

He laughs, and his voice carries on the sea wind, as biting and sharp as the salty air that buffets my face. “Old Nestor of Gerenia told us”, he says, and his voice is tinged with amusement, “that we could not win this war- any war- without you”

“Should have killed that old bastard when I had the chance”, I grumble

“Perhaps you should have, indeed”, Palomedes laughs, “Alas, you did not”

I roll my eyes, “So, what happens on Scyros ? What makes you think you will find the son of Peleus there? Last I heard, he had returned to his father’s palace in Phthia, after all”

“We have sources that say that he is in hiding on Scyros, dear Odysseus”, Palomedes smirks, “Very reliable sources”

“Achilles, in hiding ?”, I scoff, “His death is more likely. It’s not like Pelides to run from a fight”

“Unless of course, his mother forbade him from fighting”, a deep voice interrupted us. It is cold and ruthless, undercut with some amount of wisdom, and a general air of “I know more than you”.

I look over, and am unsurprised to see Diomedes leaning against a railing a few feet away, eyeing us with something that looks like silent amusement in his eyes

“Let me guess”, I sarcastically remark at the other man, who grins like a wolf at my words, “You’re Palomedes’ source ?”

“Indeed I am”, the king of Argos says, rising from where he leans and walking over to us

“And what’s your source ?”

Diomedes says nothing, merely smiling and pointing at the sky. The gods. I sigh deeply. It was no secret that Diomedes was favored by the gods. It was evident in the strange, almost-innate glow of the shining bronze cuirass that covered his chest, forged by Hephaestus himself. The sword strapped to his waist bore the insignia of a lion and a boar, and the blessing of Athena shone silver on it

The son of Oeneas, exile of Caydon, was blessed by the gods, far more than any hero before him, save the great sons of Zeus himself, and favored by Athena, the Grey-Eyed Maiden, similar to myself

I grin. Perhaps this war will not be so intolerable, if I am fighting by his side, “I see”, I say, simply, turning back to Palomedes, “Will you journey with us to Scyros ?”

“Alas, I cannot”, he bemoans, “Agamemnon has called me to Aulis. I must go”

“Aulis ? Why Aulis ?”, I ask, confused. Aulis is a mere jutting finger of land, barren and rough, with large broad shores and the harshest waters in all of Euboea.

“I know not”, the king of Euboea shrugs, “Agamemnon wants us all there. To revel in the might of his armies, I suppose. The sheer strength of Greece United.”

I roll my eyes. Agamemnon has always been a dramatic, power-hungry bastard. Little surprise that he would waste no time before reveling in what he no doubt considers “his victory”

“It must be intolerable, having to host one such as him in your country”, I remark to Palomedes, who shudders at the reminder

“He is insufferable”, the young king agrees, “He has declared himself Anax Andron, lord of men.”

Of course he would. I sigh. It was going to be insufferable, fighting under his leadership. Diomedes does not look too happy about it, either. In fact, he looks like he wants to wring my neck.

I turn to him, “What ?”, I sigh

“Did you really have to come up with that stupid oath ?”, Diomedes demands, “Now we’re trapped fighting this stupid war !!”

“Would you have preferred that Greece tear itself apart nine years ago, slavering over Helen like a hungry dog ?”, I retort, “How was I supposed to know that Helen would choose Menelaus ? I assumed that she would have actual taste !!”

Palomedes coughs, snapping us out of our argument. He eyes us with some level of caution. I resist the urge to throw him overboard. “Well, then… I suppose… I should go”, he says, walking to the edge of the deck, where a bridge has been made, to carry him over to a great Euboean galley, and then, presumably, to Aulis

I look back at Diomedes, “How many suitors actually stuck to their oaths, I wonder ?”

“Wonder no more”, he remarks, “Strangely enough, almost all of them. Forty-eight of them sent fleets”

“Two of them did not ?”

“The young son of Menoitius-he would be eighteen, now- has not yet shown himself, and”, he stifles a laugh, “King Cinyras of Cyprus has sent a breastplate, and what looks to be 50 ships”

“Is that not a fleet ?”, I ask

“I said “looks to be”, Polymetis. The “fleet” is led by one ship, led by the son of Mygdalion…. And 49 clay ships”

I choke on my spit, and lean over, placing my hands on my knees to brace myself as I hack out a few wheezing laughs

After a few seconds, I am finally able to stop laughing, and look up, “And Achilles ? Agamemnon does realize that there is nothing binding Achilles to him, correct ? He is the son of a sea goddess. And the sea…”

“…does not like to be restrained”, Diomedes finishes. It is an old adage, known to practically every sailor or seaman of Greece, at least, the ones worth their salt, “Alas, our dear “Anax Andron” is quite the fool, it seems. He seems to believe that Achilles will bow and snivel before him when the time comes to march to war”

I simply look at him, my mouth twisted into a mocking sneer, “Fool”, I say. It is the only word that comes to my mind at the thought of Agamemnon, “I know little of Achilles, I admit. Far less than I would wish. But even I know that he would sooner slit his throat than let another man conquer him”

For some reason, Diomedes looks at me when I speak those words, a strange, unnamable emotion glimmering in his deep-set, dark eyes.

For a moment, an awkward silence prevails, before Diomedes speaks again, his voice deep and stilted, almost like he is keeping himself from saying something, “They say he has disguised himself as a girl”

I gape at him, my eyes wide with shock. Achilles, disguised as a girl ? The very idea seemed preposterous. Achilles was Aristos Achaion, after all. He was meant to be the very pinnacle of manliness, the greatest man of them all !! For a few seconds, I can do nothing but gasp like a fish

Diomedes smirks at the expression on my face, “That is what they say”

“A-and is what they say, true ?”, I stammer, starting to recover my wits after the shock that was learning about that

“From the looks of it, yes”

My mouth closes, my mind racing. I look up, and my eyes shine with satisfaction, “Our people disapprove of such things, do they not ?”

“Aye, that they do”

“The very worst names are reserved for men who act like women, after all. Wars are fought over such things”

Diomedes looks at me, unimpressed, “Is that all you have ? Some tawdry blackmail ? He’ll crush your skull with his bare hands before you have a chance to leave the room. This is Aristos Achaion we’re talking about, here”

My mouth closes. Loath as I am to admit it, Diomedes is right. Blackmail would not be enough to sway him. I look back at him, “Do you have a better idea then ?”

“To expose him ? No. Why do you think we’re bringing you to Scyros ?”, Diomedes asks, and my chest swells with pride at his words, “To sway him to our side ? I do”

His face is inscrutable as he speaks. I gesture to him to continue, once he falls silent, and continue he does, his words emerging as a snake-like hiss, cautious and powerful, “There is a prophecy, of which not even the gods dare speak. Twas spoken years ago- eighteen, to be exact- that a son of Thetis shall become mightier than his fa-”

“The world knows of this, Diomedes. I know of this. Achilles knows of this. How-“

“Let me finish. But that was not the entire prophecy”

I lean forward, intrigued, “It was not ? What was, then ?”

“They say, the poets of the gods. He says, Phoebus of the sun”, Diomedes begins, his voice deep, his tone grave, “should the son of nymph Thetis, leader of the Naiads, refuse to fight for the Achaeans ‘gainst the mightiest city of the East-”

“That is Troy”

“Indeed, and should he refuse to take it, he will live a long life…. A life marked with age, disease, and endless, eternal monotony. He will be forgotten by all who revere him now, and live out the rest of his days a man- a mortal one.”

I shudder at his words. Even for one such as I, who sought neither honor, nor glory, such a life was unimaginably horrific. I would sooner slit my throat than live it

“But”, Diomedes continued, “should he take Troy, his legend will become eternal, engraved onto the very bones of the universe. To call him “famous” would be the understatement to end all understatements. He will be known, be loved, for all eternity, in this world and the next”

His eyes glimmer as he speaks, and I see why. Every warrior of our land desires little more than that unreachable, sacred ideal of “being known”. It is on the lips of every one of our soldiers – from the young warrior heading out to war, to the old veterans on their deathbed

Kleos, they whisper, Kleos. Glory.

So to be promised such a thing ? To be assured that your legend will outshine all who came before you ? That you will be immortalized in gold by all the poets of Greece ?

Well, it’s little surprise that Diomedes considers it better than blackmail

“But”, Diomedes continues, and his voice is deep with something resembling guilt, “Should he march on Troy…. He will never return. He will die there, a young man. He will never see his father again. He will never see anyone again. He will die”

I swallow, my throat dry, “So it is a choice between-”

“Glory, or life, correct”, Diomedes says, and his head is bowed so that I cannot see his eyes, nor his face, cannot know what emotions are running through him

I look at him, and my lips part. I wish I could tell him that it is pointless, that Achilles will surely refuse, but I cannot. I know the Greeks too well for that. For an Achaean, kleos is worth everything…. Even one’s own life. He will march on Troy… and though it is our victory, my heart aches at the thought of that young man – too young, really, for death, no matter how powerful he is- lying dead and broken, mangled around the shaft of some spear or arrow

“It will work”, I say, almost mournfully, “It will work”

“That it will”, Diomedes says, and I hear a tinge of tears  to his voice “I pity old Peleus”

“Let us move on. On to Scyros”, I say, trying desperately to distance myself from our task-convincing someone into throwing away their life for the promise of glory

Diomedes nods, slow and solemn, “On to Scyros”

Chapter Text

The bay of Scyros was small and pathetic, and the island rocky and barren. Diomedes scrunches up his nose as he sets foot on the hard stone of the bay-shores, washed smooth by the crashing waves.

“This place is pathetic”, he speaks into the wind, blunt as ever. I am inclined to agree. Ithaca looks positively massive in front of this. Behind us, the rowboat we had entered the bay from is rowed back out. Before us, a vast, sheer cliff rises into the sky, tall and intimidating.

A series of shoddily-crafted steps are carved into the rock face, coiling around the geographical feature like a serpent, leading up to a small palace set  at the top, modest and frankly, tiny, made from stone and wood, and surrounded by scrub and a few wild goats

“The palace of King Lycomedes”, Diomedes remarks, “That is where we must go”

“Calling that a palace seems a bit…”, I remark, peering at the building, “….much”

Suddenly, My ears prick up, every hair on my skin vibrating on end, as if a jolt of electricity had just passed through my body. Heat pools in my chest, oppressive and uncomfortable. Beside me, Diomedes jerks back, his eyes wide

I had not felt a sensation like this in years…. Twenty-two years, to be exact. This was no mere uneasiness. This was my body’s reaction to the presence of divinity

I look up, towards the top of the cliff, and catch a glimpse of hair as gold as treasure, as shining as the sun

“Your sources were correct, Diomedes”, I remark, my eyes fixed on where those strands of hair had been, a mere few moments ago, “We have found him. Pelides”

Suddenly, my will shivers, and a voice speaks inside my head, What are you doing, Odysseus of Ithaca ? Condemning a child to death ? For no reason but to stoke another man’s ego ? Is this what has become of you ? Think of Peleus, Polytropos. Remember your father. Show mercy. Turn and leave.

Is it his mother, trying to dissuade me from taking away her son ? Is it my own conscience, speaking to me, trying desperately to ensure that my hands stay clean of this young warrior’s blood ? I do not know. It does not matter. It does what it intends.

A hand slips into my own, and jerks sharply backwards. I turn around to look at it’s owner. Diomedes stands behind me, his face unreadable, save his eyes, deep-set and obsidian-black , which burn with a fierce determination, “Remember what you are here to do, Odysseus, and do not falter. Do not waver”

I speak, and my voice cracks as I do, “He is a child !! Barely eighteen years of age. How can you just… stand there and ask me to condemn a child to death ?”

“I am not”, he replies, his voice fiery and determined, “Whatever sin falls on your head for luring him into the heat of battle, so too shall it fall on mine. We must do what we must. For victory”

At his words, it is like my heart grows a layer of steel. I nod back, and a deep well of resignation opens up in my heart, “For victory”

I breathe in, and out. My heartbeat fades into a dull throb in my chest, no longer agitated by the thought of Achilles’ death, and my part to play in it. My face clears of emotion, before a mask appears once more on it- cool, clear cleverness, a smug smile. I look back at Diomedes, “Very well. Let’s go”

We enter the palace, striding up the steps with purpose, and Diomedes looks positively horrified. The air is stale and dingy, scented only with the rotting scent of old dinners. A few guards sit on chairs scattered about the room, dicing as they talk. I stifle a burst of laughter. Diomedes looks pale with horror

“What.. is.. this ?”, Diomedes says, his voice far-away, as if he is witnessing Tartarus, rather than a very disorganized throne room

“I believe it is Lycomedes’ throne room, Tydides”, I remark. A few guards  notice our presence, rising to their feet, picking up blunt spears from where they lie on the table. I fancy that getting struck with one of those would feel like getting hit with a twig. I wave at them. They do not wave back

“Lycomedes should be hanged”, Diomedes remarks. I let out a bark of laughter, rough and hoarse, echoing off the dim, filthy stone walls of the palace of Scyros

I turn to one of the guards, who approaches me, his long, supple, stick of wood, for it was no spear, held out threateningly before him. I smile disarmingly at him.

“We seek Lycomedes”, I say, and for a second, the guard says nothing, before jerking to attention, clearly recognizing us as some form of nobility

“O-oh, of course, sir !!”, he cries, saluting, before picking his nose. He approaches us, his hand held out, for some unfathomable reason. Diomedes looks at it like it is a pile of horse dung, before turning his enraged eyes onto the young guard, who cowers under his glare. I pity him. He runs off, Diomedes’ fiery glare scorching his arse as he does

As the guard leaves, I turn to Diomedes, muttering under my breath, “Do you have everything I asked for ?”

Diomedes whispered back, his voice low, “The servants are bringing it in trunks behind us. Are you certain this will work ?”

“Positive”

The guard enters the room once more, and Lycomedes follows shortly behind. He was hunch-backed, and draped with furs, filthy and matted. His skin is papery and yellow, and his beard is graying, white struck through with black, making it look dirty and filthy. His eyes are rheumy and a pale blue, yet sharpen as they land on us

I try to remember what I can of him. He is kind, the people of the neighboring lands say, but weak. Euboea and Ionia have long-thirsted for his rocky lands, and the gods have cursed him with only one daughter. He is old, they say, and forgettable. When he dies, his people will say ‘who ?’

Diomedes quirks one eyebrow at the sight of the king, “This is what awaits Achilles, should he refuse to come with us”, he whispers to me

“Greetings, O King Lycomedes of Scyros”, I say, my voice soft, yet loud enough for the old man’s ears. He turns to look at me, and I spot a glimmer flash in his eyes before he turns away. Fear. The old man is afraid

“Greetings, Prince Odysseus of Ithaca, King Diomedes of Argos. Our little island is honored to host the likes of you”, he says, his voice quavering slightly, and soft as the breeze that covers his dusty, barren lands

“Of course”, I say, “We are here to…. recruit people for the armies of Agamemnon. Surely you have heard of them, close to Euboea as you are ?”

“Indeed I have”, he whispers, and his voice is soft with fear, “But you will find no recruits here. No, not here. Our men are weak and frail. The barren earth saps their strength. They cannot fight”

Diomedes rolls his eyes. The old king is a terrible liar

“That is fine, O King. We are tired, anyhow”, I smile brightly, and insincerely, my mind spinning rapidly under the vapid, empty smile, “We seek a place of rest, of comfort, and have heard good things about your palace’s women”

“We are thankful you would choose Scyros as your place of rest”, the old man assures us, looking up at us through heavy-lidded eyes, “but are your home countries not more comfortable ? Richer, perhaps ?”

Diomedes rolls his eyes, and steps in front of the old king, towering over him, “Lycomedes, Ithaca is seven hundred thousand pechys from here, Argos four hundred thousand. How exactly do you expect us to get there ? Fly ?”

Lycomedes holds up his hands, a pacifying gesture, “Peace, O great kings !! I am old. My mind is no longer as sharp as it once was”

Another lie, I noted, as I saw the man glance at me, for barely a split-second, before turning his face away, as if scared. I feel a tug on my navel, pulling me towards the sea. I look out the window, and Lycomedes reaches out to grasp my hands, dragging me bodily away from it.

Not fast enough, it seems, for in that split-second, I see a man standing outside, stripped to his waist, his gilded skin sparkling in Apollo’s bright sun. His eyes sparkle green-brown, flecks of gold swimming within, like dew-coated grasses on a sunny morning. His body is as lithe as a panthers, it’s lines hard and strong. His hair, however, is his most striking feature. It glows as the bright rays of dazzling sunlight gleam upon it, seeming more brilliant than any treasure could possibly. It falls about his shoulders in a halo of vibrant light, shining as a living flame about his broad shoulders.

There is no mistaking who he is. It is Achilles. Aristos Achaion

Lycomedes turns to me, and I spot a franticness to his movements, a kind of frenzied, fearful haste, “We would be more than delighted to host such great men as yourselves !!”, he bites out through gritted teeth, though his expression is pained, “Please, make yourselves at home”

I smile, and my smile is that of a shark that has scented blood, all teeth and no sincerity, “Thank you for your hospitality, O King”

A few hours later, we stand in Lycomedes’ threadbare dining hall. It looked as gloomy as ever. Torches hung on every wall, burning with merry flames in their hearts, but they did nothing to dispel the oppressive gloom of this place.

A few men filled the room, other than us three. They looked worn and tired, as if something had happened recently that wrung the life out of them. Their clothes, once dyed richly, were faded and dull. A few guards stood stationed at the door, the armor dented and rusty, their spears blunt.

 All together, it was the very picture of decay and entropy. Scyros truly was a dying, desolate land. I wince in sympathy for it’s king, who sat by my side, his eyes fixed on some far-away nothingness, blank and empty, as if contemplating something not meant for mortal eyes… or mortal minds

Diomedes leaned against the king’s throne, perhaps the only opulent object in this room – a large, high-backed chair made of polished wood -, picking at his teeth with the point of his sharp knife, his eyes, glinting with intelligence, scanning the room, searching for any sign of that which we sought

Suddenly, the gates swung open, and two guards entered, a man following shortly behind. He was small, thin and slight – he would be considered a runt in any other land, but here, he was probably the strongest among them. His skin was a light shade of brown, tanned from days in the sun, and his eyes, a pale green, sparkled with something resembling curiosity, that seemed to freeze into fear as his eyes fell on me.

My eyes glinted as I returned the young man’s gaze. Lycomedes followed the trail of my eyes, and seemed to start as he noticed upon whom they fell. His eyes glinted with fear again – they did that a lot, and he stiffened, his eyes seeming to send an unspoken warning to the newcomer

“Chironides”, he addresses the newcomer stiffly, “This is Odysseus, the famed prince of Ithaca”, he gestures to me, his movements almost puppet-like, “and his mighty companion, King Diomedes of Argos”, he gestures to him as he speaks.

Diomedes looks up, his eyes glimmering with hawk-like perceptiveness, and nods in acknowledgement, before turning away. I step forward, peering at the young man, who was looking like he would very much like to be anywhere but here at this present moment

“Greetings, Chironides”, I say, holding out one hand for him to take, my eyes still intently scanning his small, scrawny form, “Son of Chiron, it is a strange name, is it not ? As far as I was aware, the old centaur had no children”

The man laughs, high and shrill with nervousness, “Ah, yes, there is quite a tale behind that”, he lies through his teeth, “You see, my father was named after the centaur. He respected the old teacher greatly”

“Did he now ?”, I hiss, a serpent about to strike, “How… interesting”

He speaks, and his voice is shrill, “It is, isn’t it ?”. My eyes widen.

His vowels were round, his consonants hard, harder than any other island in the Aegean Sea. Phthian Greek. He was not native to Scyros. A small smile spreads across my face, and I cock my head, my eyes never leaving the young man before me. A companion of Achilles, then ? But why would Achilles bring a companion with him into hiding ?

“It’s strange”, I say, testing the waters, my silver tongue darting out through my lips every few seconds like a snake’s head, “I keep thinking I’ve seen you before”

“No”, the young man refuses, quickly…. Too quickly. Like Lycomedes, he is a terrible liar. He continues, tripping over his words as he does, “… I.. I mean… no, sir. I doubt it. I’ve never seen you before”

So he has seen me before ? Interesting. I scan my memories, looking for any trace of the scrawny young man who stands before me. He jerks backwards as I lean in closer. An inkling of an idea begins to form in my mind

He mutters a curse under his breath, in a dialect that belongs neither to Phthia, nor to Scyros. It is hard and rough – a sailor’s tongue. Locrian Greek, the dialect of the Hellenes people, descendants of Deucalion and Pyrrha, who inhabited Locris, around Parnassus. My eyes glimmer with recognition. A memory springs to my mind, of a crowded hall, and a scrawny nine-year old child

“I see”, I say, my words smug and insincere, my voice deep with satisfaction, “I must be confusing you with another young man, then”

He accepts my words with a relieved sigh, and walks over to take a seat at one of the cracked-and-worn tables. My eyes follow him as he does. Diomedes leans over to whisper in my ear, “Who ?”

I turn, a satisfied smile spreading across my features, “Tyche smiles on us tonight, King of Argos, for we have slain two birds with one stone. That man”, I discreetly gesture to “Chironides”, “is none other than our little runaway oath-breaker. He is the son of Menoitius. Patroclus”

Diomedes’ eyes glitter with curiosity as they fall on the young man. The corners of his lips curl up into a small smirk, “Interesting”, he mutters under his breath.

I scan the room once more as the meal begins. It was strange. Achilles was not here. The rumors said that he was disguised as a woman, but even dressed as a woman, he should be here…. Unless

“Lycomedes”, I say, my voice layered with faux-politeness, “I have heard much of Scyros’ famed dancers. I was hoping to catch sight of them, if I may be so bold”.

A smile adorns my face, but my eyes, keen as a hawk’s remain fixed on the old man’s face, as it twists and contorts, cycling through a number of different emotions. Diomedes’ hand freezes, his knife halfway to his mouth, a piece of meat speared upon it, his eyes piercing through the Dolopian king’s aged form

“Well, Lycomedes ?”, I repeat, after a few seconds of frozen silence. I gesture to Diomedes, “Let us show this barbaric king of Argos, who eats with a knife”, Diomedes growls at me, to which I respond with a smile, “some true civilization, shall we ?”

“Now, now, my dear prince of Ithaca”, Lycomedes stammers, trying to change the topic. I smirk and sip my wine as he continues, “I am certain the great King of Argos is no barbarian”

“Perhaps”, I muse, my eyes twinkling with amusement, “He certainly is sour though. Though I suppose I would be sour too, were I married to a hellhound bitch”

“All the more reason to bring out your dancers, is it not ?”, Diomedes rumbles, shooting a pointed look at the king of Scyros, “Well, Lycomedes ?”

Lycomedes swallows. Diomedes twists his head to one side, eyeing him as an eagles eyes a mouse. The old king, “I did not… Well… you see….”, his voice petered off, and our gazes grew sharper. Across the hall, Patroclus swallowed hard, clearly anxious. Lycomedes straightened his back, and his eyes glimmered with desperation, as if he were praying that some god would rescue him from his predicament, before his voice emerged, soft and sad, “If you so wish, then so shall it be”

He gestures sharply to a servant, who runs off immediately. Across the hall, Patroclus looks up, and I see an intense, raw terror in his eyes. Bulls-eye

I lean over to whisper to Diomedes, “Observe the dancers carefully. Achilles is among them”. The king of Argos responds with a sharp nod of acknowledgement, before turning his attention back to the gates of the hall

“You know”, I begin distractedly, as the line of dancer girls enter the room, adjusting the bracelets on their arms, their clothing and hair as they enter,  surprised as they had been by the sudden summons. I internally praise Lycomedes. Achilles is well-disguised indeed.

“Have you ever heard …”, I continue, “…. Of the Titan Atlas ?”

Diomedes eyes quirk with curiosity. Lycomedes looks relieved that the topic appears to have moved away from pressuring him into doing something. The girls begin their dance

“Who has not ?”, Lycomedes answered, “Great Zeus, Lightning-Lord, condemned him to hold up the sky for all-“

“Of course you know”, I interrupt, my voice spoken in a lazy drawl, my eyes fixed on the line of girls, “but have you ever considered how some among us, us mortals, us momentary sparks of light, are like Atlas, too ?”

Diomedes rolls his eyes. He is a straight-forward man, however clever he may be. I know he despises my roundabout ways of interrogation. Thankfully, Lycomedes leans forward, intrigued, wishing to hear wisdom from the slippery mouth of Silver-tongued Odysseus himself. It is something kings would kill for, after all

“For the majority among us”, I speak, and my voice is loud in the silent hall, echoing off the hard stone walls, “there is nothing but mundanity, an ordinary life. But there are those among us, who are as Atlas. Who carry the weight of destiny, and of the future”, I lean forward, and my eyes are fixed on the central girl, whose movements seem to have slowed at my words, “Heracles was one. Perseus, Theseus, and now… Achilles”

Lycomedes jerks back, his eyes wide and frightened. The dancer girl starts at my words too, tripping slightly, before continuing her dance, as if nothing had happened. Diomedes smirks beside me

“He has a choice”, I say, and I watch the “girl” tremble at my words, “Does he simply bear the weight of the world on his shoulders ? Does he let it crush him ? Imprison him ? Or does he shrug ? Does he send ripples through the Earth that will be spoken of for all eternity ? Does he achieve mundanity, refusing his destiny ? Or does he get that which was always his for the taking, but which must be sought. Kleos”

My words echo endlessly through the hall, the people within struck silent at my words. The “girl”’s eyes meet mine. They are green-brown, flecked through with gold. I smile

“Glory”, I say, and my voice sounds loud through the frozen silence, “To have your name echo through eternity. The choice is his to make.”

My eyes meet his, and I send an unspoken message his way, with my eyes alone : Come forth of your own accord, or I will expose you

He says nothing, simply bowing his head and continuing his dance.

I sigh internally, and plaster a plastic smile on my features, before turning to the old Dolopian king, “Ah, pardon my rambling”, I say, my voice filled with faux-remorse, “It is an unfortunate disease of mine”

Diomedes snorts in the corner, “Trust him. He speaks truth. I nearly killed myself twice out of boredom alone on the journey here”. I roll my eyes.

For a second, we watch the girls dance, their ankles flashing beneath the whirling hems of their dresses, their jewelry swinging about their wrists and ankles as they moved with all the grace of one of the Muses. I had to commend Lycomedes on that at least, if nothing else – he had good dancers

As the performance came to an end, I lean back, twisting my head to meet Diomedes’ eye, a glint shining in mine. A signal. Now

He nods and gestures sharply to one of his men, who hurries off. I rise, and flourish theatrically, “Wonderful, wonderful, O king of Scyros !! Truly the rumors of Scyros’ women are not unfounded !! As thanks for this performance, we have brought you”, I gesture to Diomedes’ men, who are dragging in heavy trunks, “a few trinkets as gifts. Take what you will”

The men began unloading the trunks onto the long tables. Silver glittered in the dim torch-light, gems flashed like lights in the grayness, gold shone like sunlight. Gift after gift was laid on those tables, as the members of Lycomedes’ court leaned over it, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the treasures. Luxuries were rare on Scyros

I gesture to another man, and he begins unloading more gifts onto another table – long, supple spear shafts, leather-bound shields, shining bronze pieces of armor. Diomedes’ eyes glitter with anticipation. The trap is set

The girls approach the gifts, fingering the treasures- glass bottles of perfumes, sapphires and rubies set on twisted gold wire to make earrings, ribbons dyed in red and purple, aping the dyes of the East- , looks of eagerness and joy decorating their delicate features.

My eyes shift to Achilles who moves with them, somewhat grudgingly, trying his best to appear interested in the treasures, though his eyes keep flickering towards the weapons

“I pity him”, Diomedes whispers in my ear, “This must be torture. You think he’ll break ?”

“He is a warrior. A born killer. He cannot change his nature, any more than I mine. He will move towards the weapons…. And if he does not”, I smile slyly, “Well, I have planned for that too.”

After a few seconds, Diomedes rolls his eyes, “He appears to be more resilient then we gave him credit for”. He turns to me, “Your turn”

I nod sharply. I look to one of Diomedes’ men, a tall, stocky man, with a scar across his lower lips, and nod sharply. Now

The signal is received. The man nods back, and wanders off. There was utter silence for a few seconds. I observe how Achilles feigns interest in the treasures, fingering earrings and necklaces, his lips curled into something that could be read as both a mocking sneer and a delighted smile.

 I smile. My scorpion-tail begins to rise

There is a cry from outside, and suddenly a ragged trumpet-sound. A long note, and three short blasts. Danger, it cried, Urgent, imminent disaster

And down the tail falls, it’s stinger hitting it’s mark

Lycomedes lurches to his feet, a look of horror writ upon his aged face. I see his mind whirl through the possibilities – the Euboeans and Ionians have long desired his lands, after all

The girls scream and clutch each other, letting go of their treasures, which clatter to the floor with crashes of shattering glass. I wince at the money wasted

Then I turn my eyes to Achilles, a smile playing at my lips. The son of Peleus stands stock-still, seemingly coming to a conclusion, before his eyes snap open. His green-brown irises glow brilliantly, the gold within seeming to flare brighter than the torchlight

He leaps at the table of weapons, one hand firmly grasping the hilt of a silvered sword, the other picking up a long, supple spear. He lands on his feet, and his hair comes loose, flowing about his shoulders once more – blazing and fiery. His eyes burn with determination, and his form is perfect – lithe and smooth, a tiger waiting to pounce. The greatest warrior in the world

I smile. Diomedes snorts. Diomedes’ man walks in casually, a trumpet clutched in one of his broad hands. I see Patroclus draw in a sharp breath at the sight of him

Achilles’ eyes flicker over to the man, and then land on me, burning with hate. I resist the urge to flee from the fiery gaze of a god-child, and step forward

“Greetings, Achilles of Phthia”, I say, bowing slightly, “We have a proposition for you”

For a moment, all was silent. I turn to gaze upon Lycomedes – his eyes are frozen on Achilles’ exposed form, a primal horror stirring within them. I turn to Patroclus, who looks seconds away from breaking, be it into tears, or fits of hysterical laughter. I pity them

I turn to Achilles. His eyes are hard, his knuckles white as he gripped his weapons tightly. I hear the wood shaft of the spear splinter under his strength. He meets my gaze head-on, and his eyes are blinding – bright with rage.

The rage of Achilles.

The rage of a half-god

“Greetings, Prince Odysseus”, he spits the words out like they were poison. His voice is deep, and other-worldly, seeming layered and enchanting. Patroclus lets out a strangled half-scream. He continues, “I am sorry to have caused you so much trouble”

Diomedes steps forward, his lips pulled back in a sneer, “Maybe you shouldn’t have run from your destiny then, boy”

Achilles growls at those words, and a madness infects his eyes. He looks seconds away from tearing out the half-Argive king’s throat. I grasp Diomedes’ hand with one hand, and raise the other in a gesture of surrender

“We simply wish to speak with you”, I say, and my voice is smooth as butter, and twice as slippery, “Refuse us if you must, but hear us out”

Achilles looks at us for a moment, his eyes hard with rage, before inclining his head sharply. I internally let out a sigh of relief. Diomedes snorted at that, before turning to the king of Scyros, “Lycomedes, lend us a room of state. We have much to discuss”

The old king’s was frozen, a stone mask, cold and unmoving, fixed in a horrified stare, his eyes fixed on nothing. I pitied him

“Lycomedes”, Diomedes said again, his voice like a whip-crack

“Yes”, the old man muttered, through lips stiff with fear, “Yes, yes”, he gestured to one of his guards, “Take them there”

Diomedes moved first, marching out the door of the hall behind the guard, Achilles in tow, and I made to do the same, before remembering something.

I stopped, and without turning around, I said, my voice echoing sharply through the silent hall, “You’re free to come as well, Patroclus. We have business with you”

I hear a sharp gasp, and the sound of someone clumsily rising from his table. I smile, and walk out the door

Chapter Text

The room we were led to was small, and bare. A few threadbare, greying tapestries decorated the walls, their dyes faded and dull. In the center of the room, four chairs had been set out for us, made of polished wood.

Achilles storms in first, his face flushed with rage, Diomedes strolling in a few seconds later. I enter third, and behind me, Patroclus enters

“You tricked me”, the Phthian prince hisses, his voice a deep, thunderous rumble.

I gaze into his fiery eyes, the gold flecks that swam in his irises shining like flame, and say, my voice as steady as I can make it, “You hid yourself cleverly, Aristos Achaion. We had no choice but to be cleverer still”

The son of Thetis growls in rage, pacing about the room like a caged animal. Beside me, Patroclus moves forward, as if to comfort him. I grab his hand, holding him back, meeting his poisonous glare with my cool, steady confidence. A man who remembers all that he has to lose has no reason to risk it all.

Pelides turns back to us, and his hair is messy, strewn about his features like strands of gold, “Speak then”, he hisses, his voice taut with feigned princely demeanor, “ What do you want ?”

“Surely you have heard the rumors, Prince Achilles ?”, Diomedes drawls lazily, tossing his knife up into the air and catching it, “The news is quite wide-spread, after all”

“Troy”, Achilles says, and his voice is deep with emotion, “You want me to venture to Troy”

“Yes”, I nod

“Why ? There are greats amongst you. Ajax the Greater, King of Salamis, marches with you. The stories say that he can crack a ship-deck with his footsteps alone. You, Prince of Ithaca, Silver-tongue, perhaps the greatest strategist in the world. You, Diomedes-”, the prince says, and his voice trembles as he speaks, thick with something in-between indecision and emotion

“But”, Diomedes says, and his voice is layered with as much charm as he can muster, “we are not you. We are not half-god. We are not Aristos Achaion”

“What can you offer me ?”, Achilles says, and the emotion pounding through him seems to calm somewhat. He takes a seat, “What do I get out of this ?”

“It is like I said in the hall, Prince”, I say, “Glory. Eternal, undying glory. This war will be the stuff of songs – of legends”

“There will be other wars”

Diomedes scoffs at the idea, “Not like this. Not this great. This is the greatest war of Greece. An alliance of fifty kingdoms, against the as-of-yet-undefeated citadel of Troy. This is the stuff of myths. This is the stuff heroes are born of”

Achilles’ eyes glint at the King of Argos’ words, a glimmer of approval filling them. A small smile plays at my lips

“What greatness ? I see none”, Achilles scoffs, even as indecision glitters in his eyes, “I see a cuckold and his brother’s greed, that is all”

“Then you must be blind, Prince of Phthia”, I interject, my voice cool and composed. Said prince’s head swiveled over, his burning eyes landing on me. I continue, undeterred, “What is more heroic than fighting for the honor of the fairest woman in the world, against the mightiest of the Eastern cities ?.... and what is more pathetic, than refusing ?”

I step forward, my hand extended. Achilles eyes it like it is a burning torch, and he, a pile of driftwood. I smile, “We will conquer Anatolia. We will crack the impregnable walls of Troy. We will carve ourselves into the annals of history. Poets will speak of our stories for centuries to come”

Patroclus lets out a strangled half-cry beside me, his voice strained and grainy with emotion. Achilles’ eyes swivel over to land on him. I speak up, forcefully dragging his attention back to me, “The sons of Priam are known as the greatest warriors of the East. Their deaths will ascend you to godhood. To miss it, is to miss your chance at immortality. At kleos”

“I am Aristos Achaion”, Achilles rumbles, and his voice carries a hint of arrogance, “I am the greatest of the Greeks. For you, perhaps, this war is needed to achieve glory. For me, glory was thrust upon me the day I was born. I am destined for greatness”

His words are practiced, stilted. As if he is merely repeating things he has heard from another’s mouth. Diomedes’ eyes turn on me, and a small smile spreads across his face –thin and cold. He nods. I nod back

“You are”, I begin, and my voice is soft and still, as if it carries some great secret, which I suppose it does, “…. But you must seek it. Glory will not come to you. You must go to her. There is a prophecy, told in ages long past, by Oracles long-buried. The gods have been gracious enough to bless me with it”

Patroclus’ eyes widen, his face paling in fear. Achilles’ eyes narrow with intrigue, “What prophecy ?”, he asks, and his voice is layered with curiosity

“It says that if you do not come with us to Troy…. If you refuse the call to glory…. Your god-blood with rot inside you. You will become weak, mundane…. ordinary”, I hiss, a rattle-snake’s rattle, and Achilles looks stricken with horror at my words, “At best, you will be as poor old Lycomedes, rotting on his island of Scyros. Pathetic. Weak. Forgo-“

“Stop !!”, Achilles cries, panting heavily, his eyes wide with terror at the mere idea, “Stop….. and what if I go ? What then ?”

Diomedes’ smirks, his dark eyes glittering like black diamonds. Achilles looked up, and his eyes were wide with horror, a franticness within them. I reach out to place one comforting hand on his shoulder. He flinches away.

“If you come”, I say, my voice smooth and slippery, “Your fame will be so great that even one such as Lycomedes, whose only accolade was housing you, shall be written into eternal myth. You will be greater than – will outshine any mortal who has ever – will ever walk the Earth.”

My words ring out into the empty silence, and curl around the Phthian prince’s still form. His eyes glitter as he raises his head to look at me, and his breathing is slow and considering. Patroclus, too, seems frozen beside me – a statue of a man.

“And ?”, Achilles asks, his voice soft and low, “What else did the prophecy say ? What’s the catch ?”

A wide grin spreads across Diomedes’ face, and he lets out a deep, booming laugh, “Astute, aren’t you ? You judge correctly, Podarkes. There is more”

My lips part, and suddenly my throat feels dry as the desert, too narrow a channel for the words to slip through. It is one thing to call him to battle knowing that he will die, and another entirely for him to know about his death.

“If you…”, I begin, my voice husky and rough, “If you march on Troy with us… you will… never…”

“Never return”, Achilles finishes, his voice barely more than a whisper, his eyes staring at nothing, “I will die there, should I go”

I incline my head. Yes

Patroclus’ face is a mask of horror, frozen and pale – a stone depiction of nothing less than abject horror at the idea of Achilles’ death.

Achilles lowers his head, considering for a few seconds, “Is it certain ? Unchangeable ?”

“As unchangeable as any prophecy, Achilles. Solid as stone. More, even”, I say, and I cannot be sure that my words reach his slouched figure. He looks like a man lost – adrift in an endless, stormy sea, with nothing but a twig to grasp onto. My words are lost in the howling wind’s churn

His eyes are blank, staring at nothing. Patroclus breaks free of my grip, runs to him, and suddenly I see it – it is in the subtle movements of the two, the way Achilles embraces Patroclus, as if he were a drowning man, and Patroclus a log of wood, the way Achilles leans into Patroclus’ touch, the way Patroclus weeps at the thought of the young prince’s death, as if mourning the loss of a brother….. or a lover.

A jagged shard of pain rips through my heart at the thought, and I turn to Diomedes. His unreadable stone face trembles slightly under my scrutiny. His lips twitch, and something resembling guilt breaks across his implacable, marble face.

I cannot look upon their sorrow anymore, knowing that I am the cause. I turn and leave, and Diomedes follows.

As we stand outside in the halls of Lycomedes’ palace, long and desolate, the very air seeming gray and dull around us, the scent of slow decay everywhere, he seems to be carved of marble.

He looks up at the high, ornate ceilings, carved in some long-ago time, an eternity ago, as if looking to the gods for assistance, before muttering, under his breath, “I always found it strange how we glorify Ares so much”

“Hmm ?”, I sound questioningly, turning to face him. His face is grey now, frozen and hard

“There is nothing glorious about war”, he whispers, and his voice is loud in the frozen decay of the hall, “Nothing great. It is bloody and gory and so, so tragic. It is old men scheming, and young men dying, through no fault of their own. It is…. disgusting”, and his lips are pulled back into a scowl of the purest disgust. I cannot  help but agree

“True enough”, I whisper, and my words are genuine, free of all deception and artificiality, “True enough… but what can we do ? We are mortal only… man only…. The briefest spark of light in an endless, pressing darkness. We do what we can, and try our best to not lose more than we must. That is all we can do. We seek, through war, to live beyond our days, in the word of poets and story-tellers. Is that so wrong ?”

He does not answer. For a few seconds, there is an unbroken silence, that seems as long as an eternity. The firelight flickers, cast from the dim fires burning merrily in the torches that hang from the walls.

Diomedes’ lips part, and his voice, soft, barely audible, emerges, it’s whispery sound echoing down the desolate hall

“What is wrong, Odysseus ? What is right ? Tis not for us to judge. Let those who come after decide who to raise and who to lower”

I am silent. I cannot respond. My silver tongue fails me as I hear Diomedes’ footsteps recede down the hall. I am frozen. Paralyzed.

He is right, I decide. Who are we to judge ourselves ? We are not arbiters. Not gods. Not judges. We are men, and men alone. Weak, pathetic men, no matter how much Agamemnon, in his greed, has deluded himself into thinking himself superior

Greed is strange. I decide. Greed is not desire. No, that is Gluttony. Gluttony is simply content with the act of having – can be sated with enough. Greed cannot. It is insatiable, hungry. It moves forever like a shark, and devours all it comes across, for the sake of filling it’s own bottomless belly. It destroys lives, and burns cities, and levels villages, for no reason whatsoever

Greed is the rich king’s fingers steepled over the rotting bodies of the poor. It is the hungry madman king of Mycenae, who commands so much, and has so much, and yet desires the wealth of Troy. Greed is not just wanting the thousand white horses, but wanting them to come from your stables. Greed eats, and eats, and eats, and hungers still

People always get the sins wrong, I decide, People always go well, I don’t do this, so there’s no way I’m committing a sin !!. They forget the faces of sin

Lust is not a woman who wears a dress cut too low. It is not a woman who dances too much, or flirts too often. It is not Helen of Sparta, locked up in her husband’s palace, who dared look good to others. It is not Psyche, who dared to outshine Aphrodite. It is the king’s eyes, that fall, leering, upon a woman half his age. It is Paris, stealing Helen away like she is little more than an object to be won. It is every king of Greece, sitting in his unearned palace, surrounded by his unearned wealth, furs draped about him, talking about how some people are just born better, how sex raises some and lowers others. Lust is the people who shunned my mother for daring to be forcefully deflowered by someone twice her age. Lust has the Midas touch – it transforms everything- everyone, into an object

Pride is similar. It is not the child who speaks back to their parent. It is not the woman who dares think herself independent. It is the peasants of Greece, who permit their kings to rape their wives and daughters, to burn their fields and slay their cattle, all because who cares about them ? My son is alive, at least. My pride. It is a father’s raised hand, and raised voice. It is a man who think himself better than he is. It is Agamemnon, sitting on his desolate finger of Aulis, and declaring himself Lord of Men. It is me. It is me, who was so caught up in my own cleverness and pride, that I never once considered the consequences of my actions

I sigh. Sin is strange indeed.

I look back into the chamber I had just left. Achilles and Patroclus still sat within it, curled around each other, embracing each other so tightly that it was impossible to tell where one’s body ended and the other’s began. Their finger clutched at each other’s bodies hungrily, desperately, as if tonight was their last night together. Their lips were pressed against each other… I suppose that confirms that theory….. their tongues flashing out through their interwoven mouths every few seconds, in flashes of pink.

I smile slightly, and, turning, leave the hallway. The two deserve their privacy

The next morning, we rise, bright and early, though the skin beneath our eyes and our lips were bruised a dark black from lack of sleep. I leave the room, Diomedes in tow, and begin walking to Achilles’ room.

At his door, I stop. I turn to Diomedes, “You move on ahead to the docks. I’ll talk with our little war hero”. He nods sharply and marches off down the hall. I turn and enter Achilles’ room

He is awake, and in the bright gold of a sun-bright morning, I see, the way I had not yesterday, just how young he is. I see the rosy sheen of his lips, the brilliant gold of his hair. As he turns to look at us, I glimpse the emerald of his eyes. There is no sign of age anywhere. Time has not left her mark on him. And if he follows us, she never will.

Soon, this will end, my mind whispers to me, Wrath and Death will drink deeply of him, of his youth and strength. They will defile him, and all because of you

I try to imagine that body, bent and bloodied around a spear-head, or perhaps worse, those emerald eyes blood-shot with rage, his mouth contorted into a terrible scowl. I imagine those fingers – long and thin, the digits of a musician- curled around the haft of a spear. I imagine that broad, hard chest studded with arrows. It horrifies me more than anything

“Do you have something to say, Prince Odysseus ?”, he says, and his voice is…. tired. It is the voice of one weary of the world, and everything in it. The type of voice that should never emerge from the mouth of an eighteen-year old

“Yes”, I say, and my voice is husky and deep, “Where is your companion ?”

“He will come with us”, Achilles says, in a tone that brooks no argument, “I will go nowhere without him”

“Achilles”, I say, “I know”

His eyes harden, his face flushing with emotion. He turns to me, and his eyes are mad with desperation and rage. He looks like he wants to eat me. Slowly, he speaks, as if the words pain him, “Do… you… now ?... and what do you know ?”

“About you and Patroclus”, I say, my voice is calm. He will not kill me. I see it in his eyes. He has never taken a life before. He does not know how. His is the form of a frightened child, ready to hurt, perhaps, but not to kill

He snarls, his face flushing further, “What business is that of yours ? My love for him does not keep me from holding a spear, nor from killing a man. Stay out of-“

“It will”, I interrupt, and for a moment, Achilles looks cowed, “It will. His presence will drive you to the peaks of emotion – to joy and happiness…. And… gods forbid, should the day of his death ever come….”

“He will not die !!”, Achilles snaps at me, his jaws snapping shut like an alligator’s, “Not on my watch !!”

“Listen to yourself, Pelides”, I snap back, “You cannot guarantee that. You are only a man –“

“I am so. Much. More !!”, he cries, almost sounding desperate, as if he is trying to convince himself as much as me

I am silent. “Achilles”, I say, “Listen to me. I do not speak out of malice. Nor do I aim to deceive”

He does not say anything, merely turning away. I bow my head slightly, accepting the rejection for what it was, “We depart this afternoon. Ours is the ship with the yellow sails. Be there”

With that, I straighten my back, and turn to leave, only to stop as I hear Achilles call my name, “Odysseus !!”

“Yes ?”, I ask, not turning, so that the prince may save at least some face

“Do you ever wonder…. If some people were born… just to die ?”, he asks, and his voice is broken, grainy, as rough as sandpaper

“We are, all of us, born to die, Achilles”, I say, “All that matters is what we do before that inexorable, inescapable day comes”

A few hours later, I meet up with Diomedes at the docks. The son of Tydeus’ bronze armor shines like gold in the brilliant light of the sun. He is leaning against a wooden post, lazily picking at his teeth with the point of his knife. He looks up as he hears me approach

“I’ve already taken the liberty of loading the best of Scyros’ weapons and armor on the ship”, he says, “for Achilles”. He does not need to ask if Achilles will come. He already knows. I already know. The boy is a weapon, made to fight other people’s wars. His fate was sealed on the day of his birth.

 The thought makes my chest ache somewhat

“Good”, I say, “Load some for Patroclus as well”

This catches Diomedes’ attention. He pushes up, rising to his full stature, sheathing his knife as he does, “The boy’s a runt”, he says, “That’s not me being critical. It’s just true”

“Achilles refuses to fight if we leave Patroclus behind”, I say, my voice tinged with more than a little amusement

Diomedes groans, and gestures to one of his men, who runs off, presumably to fetch equipment for Patroclus. He turns and storms off in the direction of the ship, muttering about “hellhound brats” and “whiny little bastards”

A few hours later, he returns, and just in time too, for I hear footsteps start to approach us, from somewhere behind. Two people – one’s feet falling much lighter, his footsteps far softer, than the other’s.

They called Achilles Podarkes, I suddenly remember – “swift-footed”. It was said that he was the fastest warrior in all the Aegean Sea.

Diomedes approaches me, his eyes fixed on the two people behind me, “Get in”, he gestures to the ship with his head, “or Agamemnon will have our hides”

“Agamemnon is not my king”, Achilles’ voice sounds from somewhere behind me.

I turn to face him, almost turning away at his radiance. Here, on the docks, his golden hair caught the light even more, gleaming like it were made of pure light. His dark purple cape flowed out behind him, and the bronze buckles of his tunic threw off fire flashes. In one hand, he held a great spear, it’s tip iron that gleamed grey-silver in the sunlight. Patroclus stands beside him, and beside his grandeur, he looks almost comically small, his eyes fixed on Achilles, drinking him in, as if Patroclus were dying of thirst and Achilles were a pool of clear, sweet water

The Ithacans and Argives, standing on their ships, filling Scyros’ harbor, shout out as they see him approach. He is our savior, they seem to cry, He will crack the walls of Troy

Over and over, the cheer comes, “Achilles, Achilles !! Aristos Achaion !!”. I see him flinch back at their loud words, even as a smile spreads across his face. He looks up and I see a fiery determination in his eyes, and a new arrogance infects them.

I shake my head slightly. Remember Icarus, young prince. Remember Bellerophon. Pride never ends well. But I do not say it. I merely smile at the young prince, “A war cannot be fought on two fronts, Achilles. We cannot beat Troy if we are also fighting Agamemnon. Swallow your pride”

“I will now bow to another man’s greed”, he says, his voice quiet and deadly, the hiss of a viper, “Nor do I fight for it. I fight only that my name may be immortal”

“Let Agamemnon fight for his greed, Achilles”, Diomedes says, his voice deep and powerful, “Let Achilles fight for his glory. And let the men of the future decide who was greater”

Achilles nods at the hero’s words, and steps forward, up the steps that lead to the deck of the ship. The cheering swells, and for a moment, he stands there, framed against the bright sun, and I can half-believe that he is a god, that he is unbeatable, that he will conquer Troy and live to tell the tale, damn the prophecy….. and then, he moves away, and in the shadow, he looks as mortal as any man

The anchors rise. The sails fill with wind. And the great ship begins to move. There is no more turning back. On to Phthia, to gather Achilles’ men, then to Aulis, and then…. To Troy. To destiny

I stand on the deck once more, the resin-sticky wood hard beneath my feet, leaning over the railing, the salty sea-spray stinging my face. A few feet away stand Achilles and Patroclus, seemingly lost in conversation.

“Thinking, Laertides ? That can’t bode well”, a deep voice sounds from beside me. I turn. It is Diomedes

“Just because you rarely, if ever, think, King of Argos, doesn’t mean that no one else does”, I snark at him. He chuckles deeply, his voice resounding in the hollow of my chest.

Achilles turns at the sound, and as he sees us together by the railing, his eyes turn into upturned crescents, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.    

He turns to whisper something into Patroclus’ ear, giggling a little as he does, and for a second, they look just like schoolboys, sneaking secrets under the teacher’s nose, like children… like the children they should have been allowed to be, instead of the warriors… the soldiers that were made of them

“He appears to have forgiven us”, Diomedes observes, his voice low and considering, “He is naïve”

“He is trusting”, I correct him, turning to look him in the eyes, “He has not yet had his heart be hardened by years of blood and war and death. I envy him”

“True enough”, the king of Argos whispers, “What are they speaking about, I wonder ?”

“They appear to think that we are in love”, I turn to Diomedes, “They think this”, I gesture to the empty space between us, “is how we express it”

“Are we ?”, Diomedes asks, his eyebrows raised in consideration. I ponder the thought for a moment

“Who knows ?”, I say, throwing up my hands in a full-body shrug, “Does it matter ? We are married, now”

“So is he, technically”, Diomedes says, pointing to the prince of Phthia

“Ah, yes, poor Princess Deidameia”, I say, a smile tugging at my lips, “Unfortunately for you, though. I actually do love my wife, so…”, I smile at him, my eyes twinkling, “…you missed your chance”

The king of Argos rolls his eyes, though a smile plays at his lips, “Thanks be to the gods”

My eyes run up the young king’s form. He is younger than me, though not by a lot, yet looks far older. The lines of his body are hard and strong, his body a strange mix between bulky and lean, giving him the look of a lion on the prowl. His raven-black hair falls about his face, which is lined with age now, sharper than it had been when we were young. His beard is short and black, slick with oil, emphasizing the slanting panes of his face.

“Maybe in another world”, I muse, “Maybe in another life”

He looks at me, and his eyes are sharp as a knife, a strange wistfulness in their dark depths, “Perhaps”

Chapter Text

It is night by the time we sight land. I stand at the prow of the ship, the wind throwing my dark hair this way and that, ruffling it like a fond father. Diomedes stands beside me, watching intently as the dark shadow of land approaches.

I stroll over to where Achilles stands, by the side of the ship, looking out at the distant lights of Phthia, flickering like tiny fire-flies in the all-consuming blackness of night

“It is a beautiful city”, I say. Achilles starts at my words, having not seen me approach. He relaxes as he sees that it is only me.

“It is”, he says, and his voice is strained, taut with some unfathomable emotion. I understand. These coming days will be his final days in Phthia.

For a moment, there is comforting silence, an absence of sound, a caress of nothing. Achilles starts speaking, his voice soft as the waves that lap against the sandy shores of his home, “It was founded by Aeacus, my grandfather. Made great by Peleus, my father.”

“I see”, I say, simply. I cannot speak further

“It is….. legacy, you understand ? My father’s, and his father’s before him.”, he turns to me, his tongue still moving, giving voice to the never-ending flood of words that flow from his mouth. A hint of desperation, of hysteria, is  in him as he moves.

He speaks ceaselessly, of his father, and how he used to take him on his lap and speak softly to him, of war and destiny, of his mother, and her coldness, her unapproachable divinity. He speaks of Patroclus and how light and happy he feels in his presence.

It is as if he has to speak, he has to make his voice heard, has to ensure that someone hears his thoughts.

As if all trace of him – him, Achilles, not Aristos Achaion – would disappear under the steel of war if he did not. I stay silent, and let the tide of words wash over me

“Am I wrong, Odysseus ?”, he says, “ Am I wrong to throw my life away out of a vain desire for glory ?”

I am silent for a moment, before I step forward, “No”. I make to continue, but the words stick in my throat, adhesive and swollen. I look at him, his bedraggled hair, his bent posture, his wide, desperate eyes, and I think to myself, This is Achilles. Not the warrior they think him to be. This is who he is

I raise my eyes to the stars. Orion shines above, bright and powerful- the mortal who dared love a god. Beside him shines Heracles, his mighty club of stars raised above his head – the mortal who rose to godhood. I imagine Achilles shining among their multitudes. He looks out of place. Cold.

Achilles was not made for the cold, vacant halls of power, of state, of kingship, nor for the high, vaulted halls of the gods. He was made for… well… battle, certainly, but also, so much more.

His body fits perfectly in Patroclus’ arms, his lips perfectly against his. He was made for love and care and joy. All of which were denied to him, cruelly torn away by the machinations of fate, by his own desire for glory

Those broad, pale hands, which fit so well against the pale brown of Patroclus’s body, also fit well against the polished grey of an ash spear. Those eyes, green and bright, which shine so beautifully in the sun, also shine through the slit of a helmet

“Have you ever killed someone ?”, a voice asks, shaky and tired. I start at the words, looking over at the source. It is Achilles

“I have”, I confirm.

“How old were you ?”

“Ten”. It was an assassin, who had broken into our palace to kill my father. He had been sent by a neighboring king who had grown jealous of our stability. I still remember how I killed him – a stab to the neck with a nearby shard of glass

I still remember how he struggled against my hands as I pinned him down, how the last throbs of his dying heart seemed to magnify, racing along the shard and up my hands, how the shard slowly became dyed red with his blood. How I looked down to see my hands, bright with the other man’s blood

“How was…how was it ?”, he asks. He is hesitant. He has never taken a life.

Terrible, I want to say, Horrifying. It still haunts me. But I know that is not the advice he needs

“Achilles, your enemies are soldiers”, I say, and my voice is calm. Steady. “They knew what they were signing up for. They knew what they were doing. They knew there was a chance of-“

“They’re people”, he says, and his voice is quiet with horror, “They’re people”

“Not to you, they’re not”, I shake my head, “Not if you want to win this war”

A movement in the water catches my eye. Something lunges at Achilles, long and serpentine. My hand rushes forward. Something cold and wet fills my hands, bone crunches within it, and I look up at again. Achilles looks too, stunned into silence

“Hydros”, I say, throwing the corpse of the beast overboard, it’s neck snapped. It splashes as it returns to the water, “Water snake. That”, I point to where the hydros’ corpse floats, just at the surface of the ocean, “is how you should- you have to- fight. Strike first. Aim to kill. Because trust me – if you don’t do it, they will”

“My father told me to think of them as animals”, he whispers, his eyes fixed on the serpent’s corpse, “That I should kill them without hesitation, as if I were killing cattle”

“Your father is wise”

“I do not think I can”

“You must”, I say, and look up as a sudden burst of noise hits my ears. The shores of Phthia are in sight, teeming with people, hundreds and thousands. Diomedes’ eyes widen at the prow. Achilles flinches.

A cry rises into the skies, shaking the earth with it’s sound. Over and over, the shout came, clear and joyous, “Prince !! Our prince !! Aristos Achaion !!”.

“Your adoring fans await, Achilles”, I say, a tinge of amusement coloring my voice, “Let’s not keep them waiting”

The prince nods, and rises to his feet, straightening his back to it’s full stature. The moon shines behind his head, the stars all about him, and suddenly he looks every inch the son of a god, perfect in every way. He walks onto the gangplank, and a thousand hands throw themselves into the air, a thousand throats open up in cheer. He looks stunned, but he must get used to it. He has chosen the path of a legend – this is only the beginning

I turn away from the sight. It is too painful for me – knowing what I know. I gesture to the men to make ready the ship for departure. The anchors rise once more, the sails flap in the wind, and the vessel moves.

The tide is high, and I hear in the distance a low keening – mourning. The sea mourns for the loss of her son. The sea mourns for the death of Achilles, even if he yet lives

Diomedes approaches me, “It is unfortunate, is it not ?”

“Unfortunate ?”

“That so many must die for Menelaus’ inability to hold onto a wife”

“It’s not that, Diomedes”, I shake my head, “It’s honor. It’s glory. To have your name echo through the annals of history, for all eternity”

Diomedes nods, slow and thoughtful, “I have to confess, I do not wish to fight. The Trojans have done nothing to me”

“Nor to me, but fight we must. There is no choice. We are princes, Diomedes, and so is Achilles. In our world – our world of blood and war – there are only two choices – fight and rise, or fight and fall. I know that. Deep down, you know that. And so do the sons of Troy”

“Man wars against man. Man rises. Man falls. And the world remains the same. In a hundred years, in a thousand, not even the dust of our bones will remain”, Diomedes ponders, his voice quiet

“But our names will shine forever”

It is dawn by the time our ship reaches Aulis, and the sun was just crossing the meridian. Aulis was relatively pathetic, a simple finger of land jutting out of Euboea, that happens to have enough shore to beach our ships at once.

Agamemnon has commanded the Achaean forces to assemble here before we made for Troy, and as we approached, churning through the rough waters of Euboea’s coast, I could see why

The shoreline bristled with ships, so tightly crammed together that the coast looked like it had been carpeted in a sea of wood. Beyond them, men stood upon the beach, weapons clutched in their grip, looking almost like a sheet of bristling, sharp iron. Further beyond, a sea of tents and canopies stretched out as far as the eye could see.

At last, our fleet reached the dark shore, and anchors dropped from the prows of the twelve Cephallenian ships I led. The sounds of twelve horns rippled through the air, catching the attention of the other armies.
As we descended the gangplank, I saw two young men hurry to Diomedes’ side, talking to him rapidly in the Doric dialect, their words smooth and slippery.

Standing at Diomedes’ right, at the place of honor, was a broad-chested man, a little older than he, his face stoic and hard as stone, weathered with years of battle. His armor gleamed bronze in the dawn-light, and his eyes glimmered with a cold intelligence

On the other side, stood a young boy, who could not have been older than nineteen. His hair was dark and lustrous, hanging to his shoulders. He wore no armor, instead dressing himself in a short, simple, white tunic. His eyes, a pale yellow, glimmered, bright and big, with the light of innocence. In one hand he bore the brilliant blue pennant of Argos

Diomedes was speaking in a low voice – too low to hear. He turned to gesture to me, then turned back to the two men, as they began rapidly whispering to him once more. At last the broad-chested man turned, and shouted, his deep voice echoing across the camp, “MEN OF ARGOS !! YOUR KING HAS RETURNED !!”

“Sthenelus !!”, Diomedes cried in reproach, but it was too late. The Argives had heard the declaration, and were now rising as one, their spears beating against their bronze shields in unison, a drumbeat of celebration, the earth seeming like it was shaking as they stamped their feet in celebration, “Diomedes !! Diomedes !! Lord of War !! King of Argos !!”

Diomedes groaned, holding his head in his hands as if to stave off a headache. I chuckle lightly. The nineteen-year-old grins brightly

I turn to my men, as they wade in from the surf, white tunics billowing out behind them. One of the Cephallenian captains looks over at the Argive forces, an irritated look spreading across his face. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Odysseus !! Odysseus !! Silver-tongue !!”

I hold up one hand, before placing my finger to my lips, stopping him from continuing. I didn’t want to draw attention, especially not here

I turn back to Diomedes, “How many men are there, with you ?”. He raises his head from his hands, and points to the army assembled around us, men in shining armor and flowing, blue capes.

“Our fleet is 80 ships strong”, I suck in a sharp breath. That would make the Argive army the second-largest force here, second only to the Mycenean fleet, a hundred ships strong, led by Agamemnon himself. As if reading my thoughts, Diomedes’ eyes glint with pride, “They are assembled here from Argos, Tiryns, Hermione, Asine, Troe-“

“Yes, yes”, I hold up one hand to cut him off, “No one needs to hear the name of every territory in your kingdom”

He rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulder, straightening out his back. He lifts up a great spear that Sthenelus brings him, and for a second, he is framed against the sun, golden and terrifying – the warrior-king of Argos. “MEN OF ARGOS !!”

The men roar as one, their voices carrying even over the crashing waves

“I HAVE RETURNED !! I HAVE BROUGHT US VICTORY !! I BRING YOU NEWS OF ACHILLES’ ENTRY INTO THE WAR !!”

Silence grips the camp, and in the distance, I see the other leaders stumble at his words. Agamemnon looks like he is choking to death at the thought of having to share the spotlight. Idomeneus jerks back, his painted eyes wide with shock. Ajax the Greater grumbles with dismay, he is no longer the strongest warrior of the Achaean Alliance

Then suddenly, one man roars with triumph. More and more join, till it sounds like a crashing tidal wave, a rush of water, “Hail Diomedes !! Hail Odysseus !! Hail Achilles !! Victory is ours !!”

A pathway opened up before us, through the throngs of men. Agamemnon stood at his end, his nose curved like the beak of a hawk, his eyes glimmering with cruelty, greed and a cold, hard intelligence. He was broad and tall, far taller than I. A large scar ran across his face, cutting through his lip, white and pale against the pale brown of his skin. His thin lips curled back in a cruel smile, revealing his yellowing teeth.

Beside him stood his brother, Menelaus, his red hair threaded through with gray, tall and square, a thick bush of red now covering the majority of his face. The corners of his eyes were marked with smiles long past

Agamemnon spread out his hands, theatrically sweeping them open. I knew what he wanted. He wanted us to kneel before him – the great Odysseus, and the mighty Diomedes – to submit to his authority, to give him the oaths of loyalty he believed himself owed.

I felt nothing but a deep revulsion at the thought, and judging by the snarl building in Diomedes’ throat, neither did he.

Diomedes moved suddenly, as if to throw his spear into the Mycenaean king’s throat, and I grab his hand, holding him back. My eyes land on his, and I communicate a message, Do not make trouble. Do not incense Agamemnon. Stay on his good side

Though it clearly pained him to do it, he nodded slowly, and knelt before the Mycenaean king, followed shortly by me. I did not need to look up to know that the greedy old man’s face was split by a wide smile

“Hail, Anax Andron, king of men !! Hail, Agamemnon, High Commander of the Alliance !!”, I say, my voice deep and commanding, layered with several layers of flattery and untruth. Diomedes nods fervently beside me, though he says nothing, as if this lie was one too big for even him to speak

Agamemnon nods, his face twisted into an expression that he no doubt considered regal, and gestures to his right –a  place of importance. The two of us walk over to stand there.

“Wise move”, an old, ragged, yet firm voice says from somewhere behind us. I turn. It is the old King Nestor of Gerenia, ruler of the sandy strip of Pylos

His face is lined and whittled with age, and his beard – threadbare and white as snow – barely covers his gaunt, wrinkled face. His eyes twinkled where they sat, deep-set in his face, shining like twin emeralds, sparkling with cunning and cleverness. His thin mouth was twisted up into an amused smirk, and in one hand he held a great ash spear, it’s iron tip shining in the sunlight

“You old bastard”, I say, though there is little heat behind my words, “You got me involved in this damn war”

“I only spoke the truth”, Nestor says, his eyes big and bright with mock-innocence, “Agamemnon asked me which leaders were necessary to win the war. I truthfully replied that no war could be won without you”

Diomedes clears his throat beside me, attracting our attention. His eyes are sharp as a hawk’s, swooping this way and that, as if scanning all of Aulis, “How many in total ?”

Nestor grins, his old eyes, the eyes of the survivor of a thousand plots and schemes and plans, glinted with amusement, “That’s Diomedes, all right. Right down to business, without even a spot of rest !!”

“How many ?”, Diomedes repeats

“If you believe Agamemnon’s poets, a thousand ships have set sail for fair Helen”, Nestor says, the last sentence spoken in a mocking, high-pitched voice, “In actuality there are twenty-nine armies, led by forty-nine captains, making for a total of 1186 ships…. But that doesn’t fit well in a verse”

Diomedes nods solemnly, “This battle will be a bloodbath.”

I turn to look at him in surprise, “We’re going up against the mightiest city of the East. Did you think it would be easy ?”

“Not that”, he shakes his head, “1186 ships… that would be around 142,320 men, all striving for fame and glory…”

My eyes widen, “You don’t mean to say…”

He nods grimly, “Expect friendly fire. Expect ruthlessness and war-madness. With this many soldiers, it is inevitable”

 “I mean, have you met half the people here ?”, I snark, trying to lighten the mood, “ I doubt the friendly fire will be too accidental, if you know what I mean”

“Indeed, I expect that people will start trying to kill you the second we set foot on the Troad”, Diomedes replied, his face completely still, “I wouldn’t blame them”

“Hey !!”

Nestor laughed at our banter, “Now, now, King Diomedes. Don’t offend Prince Odysseus too much. He’s quite necessary to our cause. After all, he’s the cleverest man here”

“Bit like being the tallest dwarf, to be fair”, I reply. Diomedes stifles a burst of laughter

Chapter Text

A few weeks later, we are standing on the shoreline of Aulis, watching the horizon. The waves crash in the distance, dark against the pale blue of the sky. The sun beats down from high above, a brilliant ball of fire. In the distance, I see something glint.

After a few moments, it becomes clearer. A vast fleet of ships – fifty in total – approach Aulis, their sails blood-red. In the front, a flagship rode forward, faster than the rest, riding low in the water, sleek and quick, cutting through the waves like a knife

Fifty horns sound forth from the ships, alerting the rest of the army to the fleet’s presence. As one, the others begin to turn to it, muttering amongst themselves, wondering who it could be

Someone lets out a cry, “It’s Achilles !!”, and the whispering grew, frenzied and joyous, questions, answers

Is it him ? Is it him ? Can it be ?

Fifty anchors fall from fifty sterns, and the Myrmidons, Achilles’ men, I remembered, begin to wade to shore, their bronze armor gleaming like gold in the sun, their white capes flowing out behind them. As one, they line the water’s edge, foam-edged waves lapping at their heels, and raised their spears as one, slamming them into the ground with a thunderous sound

The gangway is lowered from the flagship, landing with a splash into the shallows of the ocean, and the Myrmidons begin to chant, twenty-five hundred voices rising as one, “Achilles, Achilles”

Every head turned at the name, and the whispers swell, before one of the other soldiers – a young Argive – rises too, caught up in the excitement, and shouts “Achilles !! Achilles !!”. The soldiers remain silent around him for a second, before more and more voices start joining him, as a figure appears at the top of the flagship’s gangway.

A purple cape flaps in the sea wind, he is framed against the sun, looking every inch the son of a god, the savior of the Achaeans. His hair shines in the sun like solid flame, and his white tunic gleams like polished bone. His skin looks gilded, catching the light of the sun like gold in a treasure, and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

In one hand, he holds a great spear – polished oak, tipped with a stone-grey spear-head of iron – which he raises in the air. The chanting swells, “Achilles !! Achilles !! Aristos Achaion !!”

Diomedes quirks one eyebrow next to me, “He certainly has a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t he ?”

“He is the son of a god, I suppose”, I reply, my eyes fixed on the prince of Phthia, as he descended the gangway. Patroclus follows right behind him, his form small and slight, almost twig-like when compared to Achilles.

The golden prince strides down the gangway and past the lines of men that fill the beach, stopping a few feet away from Agamemnon

“Oh shit”, Diomedes curses

“What ?”, I turn to him, “What is it ?”

“Did you forget how rebellious our little prince was?”, he asks, turning back to me. For a second, I look back at him, uncomprehending, before a terrible realization washes over me.

“Oh shit”

“Exactly”

The chanting has died down now. The crowd is watching Achilles and Agamemnon with bated breath, as if they are watching a duel to the death, instead of a conversation. What a pair. Each more headstrong than the other. This can’t end well

Agamemnon flourishes theatrically, sweeping his arms open in a regal gesture. Bow, his stance says, Bow and accept me as your leader

It was fealty he demanded, a pledge of allegiance, gifts and praise. Achilles offers none of those. He stands ramrod-straight, his chin held high, a glint of fiery determination burning in his eyes. Beside me, Diomedes face-palms. I resist the urge to do the same

The two of us approach the area where the two men stand, and I notice with some measure of fear that Agamemnon’s jaw is tight with rage.

Diomedes groans beside me, “Does this boy listen to anyone ? How many times did we warn him not to tussle with Agamemnon ?”

Behind Achilles, Patroclus’ eyes are wide with fear. I sympathize. I move forward, ready to offer honeyed words to either party if needed, to calm them down as they inched closer and closer to the inevitable explosion that would happen when their personalities – twins of each other- collided

Achilles speaks before I can, “I am Achilles Pelides”, he says, and his voice is steady, confident- a warrior’s voice.

Any trace of the young boy who had asked advice from me off the coast of Phthia is gone. My heart aches for his loss

He continues, his stance proud and powerful, his voice deep and commanding, “I come to bring you victory”. A roar of approval rises from the watching crowd. Pride and confidence became us Achaeans – to us, modesty was a foreign concept – for barbarians and Easterners

Agamemnon’s eyes flare with rage, and I reach forward, gently stroking the purple fabric of Agamemnon’s left shoulder, “O Anax Andron”, I say, and my voice is honeyed, sweet with flattery and false adulation, “O King of Men, Achilles surely means no disrespect”.

I shoot him a warning glare and he responds with a mocking smile, stepping forward a little, “I come to fight of my own free will, for Helen, and for Greece”

The “but not for Agamemnon” was not said. It did not need to be, it was obvious enough. Agamemnon lets out a frighteningly animalistic snarl beside me. I resist the urge to throttle the arrogant idiot prince of Phthia, along with the arrogant idiot King of Mycenae

A cheer rises from the crowd at his words, loud and long, until Agamemnon raises one hand  into the air, balling it into a fist. Silence

“Indeed”, he says, and his voice is rough and husky. A smile slips across his features – cold and insincere as a shark’s, “I command the greatest army in the world”. He steps forward, his eyes are glittering black gems in the hollows of his eye-sockets, “and you are free to join, if you so wish, god-son”, his smile gains a tinge of cruelty, “Pity that we had to drag you out of hiding first”

He raises his head, and his eyes rake over his army, burning as hot coals, “We have waited enough”, he hisses, “We will wait no more. We leave for Troy tomorrow. Make yourselves ready”, his voice is loud, commanding, as if to show the assembled army, see, I am the leader here.

With that, he turned on his heel, and took off striding down the beach. I turn back to Achilles, “Really ?”

Achilles shrugged, “I don’t like being ordered about”

I sigh, and lower my head slightly, before turning to walk up the beach, gesturing to Achilles to follow me. After a few seconds, we came to a stop by the edge of the water, the white sand warm beneath our feet. The moon casts a bright white light over the dark water, making it gleam like silver

I turn to him, “You know you are their savior, right ?”

“I do”

“No”, I shake my head, “I don’t think you do. Look at them, Achilles”, I gesture to the men who had gathered a few feet away – far enough to be out of earshot, but close enough that they could glimpse the famed Aristos Achaion, “They’re desperate. They’re scared. They have the right to be. They’re going up against the mightiest city of the East. But they still fight – for glory, for their oath, for their families – you know why ?”

Achilles is silent

“Because they have you with them”, I say, my voice soft as the lapping of the waves against our ankles, “Because they think that you’re unbeatable”

“I am unbeatable”, he says indignantly. I shake my head

“No one is unbeatable, Achilles. All you have to do is make them believe you are. To give them hope. And you can’t do that if even our High Commander is trying to undermine you. Swallow your pride. Make peace”

“No”

“Then you will die stupid”

“Better to die on my feet than on my knees before Agamemnon”

“No, Achilles. Better to live”

For a moment, there is silence, unbroken and painful, tight as a string stretched too taut, about to snap. At last, Achilles breaks it, his voice deep and questioning, “Who are we up against ?”

“Troy”, I say, and my voice is low, “The greatest of the Eastern cities”

He is silent. He nods at me to continue

“The greatest of their princes is the great Hector, Tamer of Horses.”, I shiver as I speak the name, a rush of cool wind running down my neck. Achilles flinches too. It is as if the Fates have their eyes on us. “First son of King Priam, greatest warrior of all the East. They say he is twice the size of a man”

“And what about you ? What do you think ?”

“I think that’s a load of horse-shit, is what I think. He might be larger than a man, but if the Easterners had a giant, we would have heard of him by now”

“And what of his brother, the one who stole Menelaus’ wife ?”

“Oh, Paris ? He’s a coward, and vain, but he’s a skilled archer. Keep one eye on his bow, the other on his hands. They say that he shoots so fast that his enemies only see the barest glimmer of the steel of an arrow-head before it hits them”

“I see”, he says, and there is another silence, long and still, unbroken, before he speaks up again

“I will accept Agamemnon’s counsel, not his orders. I fight of my own free will, and nothing else”. With that, he rises to leave, leaving me alone by the surf. My eyes linger on the waves, as a tidal wave of hot anger stirs in my chest.

That fucking idiot

A deep chuckle beside me snaps me out of my thoughts. “Well, how did talks go ?”, Diomedes says, his voice a deep, lazy drawl

“He refuses to bow to Agamemnon”

Diomedes whistles appreciatively, “Well, he’s not too wrong for that. Agamemnon is a fucking idiot”

“That’s not the point”, I shake my head, “A house divided cannot stand. Adding to that their enormous egos, and”, I groan, “this war is going to be hell”

Diomedes chuckles

I awake in the morning, hot and sticky with sweat, gasping for breath. I leave my tent and notice something strange. It is silent

There is no sound. No jingle of unsecured harnesses, no flapping of tent-canvas, not even the steady splashes of waves against the shore. There is nothing but an endless, unbroken silence, as impenetrable as the walls of Troy

Diomedes walks up beside me, his face grim and serious, as if cut from stone, “You notice it too ?”

I raise one hand into the sky. Nothing. “There’s no wind”

Diomedes nods, “Twenty drachmae says this is somehow Agamemnon’s fault”

“I’m not taking that bet”, I shake my head, “I guess we’re not leaving today. Our men aren’t powerful enough to power the entire journey to Troy. No men are”

Diomedes grumbles, “I’m going to kill him”

The air feels like fire, the sand is scalding beneath my feet. In the distance, I hear shouts – already, fights are breaking out. I look down at my arm. It is red with heat-rash.

I look up at Diomedes, and his face is screwed up in annoyance as he glares at the camp – at everything in it, the air, the tents, the horses -, his eyes bloodshot with annoyance

As if on cue, Agamemnon walks up to us. His face is screwed up too, filled with annoyance and confusion. He speaks, and his voice is rough, husky with anger, “What ?”, he gestures to the air, as if expecting me to fix it, “What is this ?”

I cannot resist. I snark,“Air”

“Yes”, he says, his teeth gritted with anger, “Still air. Why isn’t it moving ?”

“Do I look like a god to you, Agamemnon ?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smartest one here ? Polymopos, or whatever ?”

“It’s Polytropos.”, I grimace in annoyance, “and this is clearly unnatural. Look at the sea”

We look. It is flat and still, as level as the polished surface of a bronze mirror. I look back at our commander, and gesture to the sea as if to say, See ?!

Agamemnon grumbles, his face flushed red, “Well, how do we fix it ?!”

I shrug, “Pray ? I don’t know”

Diomedes speaks now, his voice a low, threatening rumble, “Agamemnon….. what did you do ?”

Agamemnon swallows hard, and turns to face Diomedes. The Argive king’s eyes burn with rage, looking like hot coals in his head

“Well…. Uh…. You see…”, he stammers, “What makes you think I did something ?”

“The gods are punishing the entire army”, I point out, “They would only do that if our High Commander”, I gesture to him, “did something wrong”

For a second, there is silence, before Agamemnon sputters, “I didn’t know, alright ?!!”

Diomedes rolls his eyes. I look up, sending a silent prayer to the gods to kill this man before we get to Troy

“What ?”, Diomedes hisses, deadly as a cobra, “What didn’t you know ?”

“That…”, he stammers, looking sheepish as he speaks, “…That that damn deer was sacred to Artemis”

“You offended Artemis. More, you killed one of her sacred stags,”, I say, and my voice is flat, sardonic, “As a man”

“Yes”

“It’s a miracle she didn’t kill you”, I snort, “That’s a new low in stupidity”

“Can you help, or should we just boil to death ?”, he snarled at me

“What have you done, Commander ?”, a thin, shaky voice cries from a few feet away. It is Calchas, our chief priest

“Oh, look”, Diomedes says, his eyebrows rising slightly, “Another member to this merry band”

“What do you want, Calchas ?”, Agamemnon snarls without even turning around to face the priest

I turn to him, a small, hysterical smile tugging at my lips, and take in his appearance – he’s a small man, frail and rail-thin. His skin is pale, milk-white, a few shades off from the dirty grey of his long beard, that hung almost to his chest. His eyes – blue, a freakishly vibrant blue, were fixed on Agamemnon. As I turn to face him, they slide over to me, and I resist the urge to shudder under the old priest’s scrutiny

“How have you offended the Huntress ?”, he demands, his voice reedy and shrill. Agamemnon snarls

“He has slain one of her sacred stags”, I say, and Calchas jerks back, his freakish eyes growing wide at my words.

“Have you gone mad ?”, Calchas cries, his voice high with fear. Diomedes snorts

Agamemnon finally turns to face the old priest, his face a mask of rage, “Either help, or get out !!”. He is turning back to me when the old man speaks up

“I can help”

Agamemnon turns back to him, his eyes glinting, “Is that so ?”

“Explain”, Diomedes commands, his voice deep and authoritative

“I will, I will”, Calchas says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, “You see, last night, I had a dream, or perhaps, a vision”

Agamemnon’s eyes narrow at his words, his gaze sharpening till it is skewering the poor old priest. His voice is husky as he demands, “Continue”

“In it, I saw a silver stag in a dark forest – dark as midnight. It came to a stop before me, and bowed it’s head. There, on the tips of it’s silvery horns, I saw skewered ten children – girls all. It raised it’s head, and spoke, it’s voice deep – Kill the daughter of your highest ranked man, and the curse will lift”, he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his head bowed

For a moment we stood there, stricken with horror. It was one thing to kill a man in battle, but to kill your own daughter ? That was truly horrifying.

 I turn back to the priest, “Is there no other way ?”

He shakes his head no, “This is the will of the gods – of the Huntress”

I turn to Agamemnon, and his eyes glimmered in the sunlight. All trace of anger had vanished from his features, replaced with sorrow and a strange emotion that not even I could name

“Think about this,” Diomedes said, “Either you step down as the commander of the forces, and let another man take the blow or you…”. He could not continue. It seemed too horrifying to even say

Agamemnon nods slowly, considering. At last, he raises his head, and his eyes shine with tears. They are cold and sad, “Tell…”, he clears his throat, licking at his lips to wet them, “Tell the forces that the gods demand a sacrifice, and that my daughter, as the youngest priestess of Artemis ever, shall preside over it”

I jerk back. Diomedes’ eyes widen in horror. Even Calchas looks shocked

“Agamemnon !!”, Diomedes hisses, “You go too far !! Is your lust for power so great that you would kill your daughter for it ?”

Agamemnon lowers his head, he cannot meet Diomedes’ blazing eyes, “….. tell them that she’s coming here to marry one of the kings”

“What ?”, I ask, my anger temporarily forgotten

“Let her be happy, at least, before her death”, he says, and his voice cracks a little as he speaks, “She will be wed to Achilles. She has long-since desired him”

Diomedes is silent. I am not, “And what of Clymnestra, huh ? What of your wife ? What of her mother ? What will she think ?”

“She will think what she will”, the commander looks up, and I hear a hint of steel in his voice, “It is not my concern.”

With that, he turns and marches away, Calchas in tow. After a few seconds of unbroken silence, Diomedes speaks up, “What are we going to do ?”

“He has…”, I swallow, my throat dry, “He has made his choice. We must…. help him”

“But to kill an innocent girl ?”, Diomedes asks, no, demands, his eyes wide with desperation, “Surely you can’t be endorsing this ?”

I am silent. Diomedes looks horrified, almost as horrified as I feel. I open my mouth, and the words slip out, quiet and scratchy, “Do I have a choice ?”

“We can end this foolish war. Go home”

I shake my head, “The assembled armies were promised war. They will accept nothing else”

“But…”, Diomedes looks at me, an almost frenzied look in his dark eyes, “But…. If the alternative is killing a child-”

“Tell me, what do you think will happen once we get to Troy ?”, I raise my head and ask him, my eyes meeting his, “Peace and friendship ?”

“I expect to kill soldiers – armed, trained men – not children !!”, he cries, his voice faint with outrage

“Really ? Then you are an idealistic fool”, I bite out, “I’d love to reassure you that that is what will happen, that we won’t harm anyone other than the soldiers, but it would be a lie”

Diomedes is silent

I continue, barreling onwards, “What happens when a farmer’s wife catches the eye of one of the men ? What happens when a civilian girl attracts their attention ? What happens when an innocent, unarmed man tries to fight for his home ? Remember, to them, Trojans are dogs – animals, not humans. They won’t think twice about hurting them – innocent or not.”

“I…”, Diomedes’ lips part, his voice trailing off. His dark eyes are wide with realization and a sinking dread

I continue, not stopping to let him speak, “Why is Agamemnon’s daughter worth more than them ? Because she’s Greek ? Because she prays to our gods, bows to our kings ?”, I throw my hands up into the air, “Why ?”

Diomedes does not speak

“I am a warrior, Diomedes, and so are you”, I bite out, somewhat bitter, “The likes of us don’t have the right to the luxury of outrage”

For a moment, Diomedes is silent, before slowly, steadily, like ice freezing over the surface of a lake, his face grew flat and expressionless. He nodded, “What do we do ?”

Chapter Text

The declaration is made that night, to the sound of cheering and applause – it has, after all, been a long time since many of them had seen a woman, and not even Agamemnon’s eyes, sharp as his spear, though tinged with sorrow, could dampen their joy at the thrill, the newness of having a woman in their midst

Achilles is called to Agamemnon’s tent at dawn. His face is annoyingly perfect, as calm and collected as ever, even as Patroclus turned red with heat-rash beside him.

“What is it ?”, he asks Agamemnon, his voice practically drowning in hostility. Agamemnon’s head is lowered, as he sits before the Phthian prince. Patroclus’ eyes, sharper than Achilles’, land on me, a question brimming in their depths, What is this ?

I smile and hold a finger to my lips, Spoilers.

“Achilles of Phthia, Aristos Achaion”, Agamemnon begins, and I see Achilles’ hackles rise. It was no secret that Agamemnon despised Achilles, so, why was he flattering him ? It could be for no good reason, for sure.

“Agamemnon ?”, Achilles rumbles, “Odysseus ?”, his eyes land on me, “Why have you called me ?”

“I have a daughter”, Agamemnon begins, and for a second it seems like he is  unable to finish, to truly accept that he was signing away his daughter’s life for the sake of his title, but he powers through, “Iphigenia, you might have heard of her ?”

Achilles nodded slowly, recognizing the name, “You mentioned her to the men tonight. Something about presiding over the sacrifice”

Agamemnon nods, his movements sharp, almost robotic, “Indeed. I understand that relations between us have not always been…. amicable”, I snort. That’s an understatement. Agamemnon continues, “ Well, I want to change that. I wish to wed her to you. Consider her a…. peace offering of sorts”

I see Patroclus’ eyes shine with jealousy at the commander’s words. Achilles stutters too, his face paling rapidly. His eyes lock onto mine, and the message is clear : I’ve already betrayed the one I love once. I won’t do it again

I shake my head slightly : Accept it. His gaze sharpens. I place my hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder, smoothing the rumpled purple cloth of his cape, my eyes fixed on Achilles. I speak, my words pointed, “It will, regrettably, only be for a single night. She must return to Mycenae come morning. It will barely be a marriage, barely a relationship”, See ? You won’t actually be betraying him

“Indeed”, Agamemnon tries for a smile, and fails miserably, the crags of his face growing deeper as a stormy frown sweeps over it, “Though much may happen in a night”

“A wedding is good for morale”, I say, my voice a little too loud, coated in fake cheer, “Reminds people of what they’re fighting for, and the gods always love a good wedding. Good for the war, for the men, for the gods… oh, and for you, of course”

Patroclus seems to consider this for a second, Achilles’ eyes lingering on him, before nodding. Achilles turns back to Agamemnon, clearing his throat a little, “Very well, then. I will be glad to name you father-in-law”

Agamemnon looks dead, I notice. Defeated, though he rises as Achilles. He offers his hand to the young teen, who accepts it. A choking noise, as if choking down tears and sorrow, sounds in his throat, “Iphigenia is… is… a… kind person”, he says, stuttering like it pained him to say it, “Treat her well”

Achilles turns to leave the tent, Patroclus following shortly behind, and Agamemnon’s eyes linger on them until they are well out of sight. I cough slightly beside him, startling the king

“Well ?”, I say, my voice rough as rocks grinding in the surf, “What now ?”

“We kill her at the marriage altar”, Agamemnon whispers, “Diomedes will grab her, hold her down onto the altar. I will…”, he draws in a deep, shuddering breath, “…slit her throat. I will make it quick, painless”

“The gods will punish you for such a sin”, I warn, “They tend to disapprove of murders at weddings”

“Really, Odysseus ?”, he looks up, and his eyes are frenzied with madness, “I’m a father plotting to kill his own daughter. The gods were always going to punish me”

I am silent. There seem to be no words that are enough. At last, I speak, my voice cold as ice, “As well they should. I don’t care if you repent now, or if you feel “guilty”. What kind of father sentences his own child to death ?”

With that, I turn and leave, leaving Agamemnon alone in his tent, to wallow in his own self-righteous guilt

Later that week, she arrived, a guard of elder, scarred, battle-worn Mycenaeans accompanying her – those unfit for battle, the royal guards of the palace. I hear the rolling of the wooden chariot-wheels over the stony path to our camp, and to me it sounds metallic, the sound of a knife being drawn from a sheath, being slit across a neck

The wooden platform stood in the center, bare wood, grainy and dark, raised from the earth, a smaller, higher platform serving as the altar

Iphigenia steps out of the chariot, and for a second, I imagine my own son Telemachus in her place – smiling and excited at being somewhere so novel, at being allowed to marry the one they idolized…. so unaware of Thanatos’s hand hovering o’er them. A grip of horror encases my heart. Beside me, Diomedes looks sick

She flings her arms, long and thin – the arms of a teenager – around her father’s throat, whispering something in his ear. Agamemnon looks seconds away from crying, but she does not seem to notice, or dismisses the tears as the tears of a happy father, for she is turning away already, her eyes searching for the groom she has been promised

She walks up the platform. Death’s fingers close around her. My eyes close.

The next few seconds happen in a blur. Diomedes moves forward, his hand snapping out like a snake’s head, his grip tightening around the young girl’s shoulder as he yanks her back and pins her to the altar. Agamemnon moves towards, his hand raised. Silver gleams in his grip, as he brings it down, slicing against her jugular.

For a few moments, there is a struggle, blood spurting from her slit throat, staining her white dress crimson. Agamemnon steps back, his eyes wide with horror, and drops the bloody knife. Diomedes moves away too, looking like he’s about to vomit, but it is too late. The girl thrashes on the altar for a few seconds, already too weak to move off it… and then, nothing

For a second, Agamemnon’s eyes are pale with horror, lingering on the corpse of the girl he gave life to…. the girl he took life from, before he speaks, his voice blank and emotionless, “The goddess is appeased”

The air is silent, still with horror. Achilles’ mouth is still agape in a shout of confusion, his eyes wide, uncomprehending, as if unable to believe what has just occurred. I do not blame him

Human sacrifice was an abomination. Every Greek worth his salt knew that. It had been driven from our lands aeons ago… but the blood-salt stench in the air refuted that

Then something cool brushes against my cheeks. I look up, the leaves of the trees above are rustling. The wind has returned. It smells of the sea – the fresh, salty smell washing away the stench of death, as if Artemis herself were trying to remove any evidence of the horrific act that has taken place to appease her

Achilles stood there, still as a stone, his eyes wild, his face spattered with the life-blood of his to-be bride. Gently, as if he were some kind of fragile glass sculpture, would break if pulled too much, Patroclus takes his arm, and leads him from the dais.

Diomedes collapses at the other end of the dais, his face white as milk. I run to him as fast as I can, gently taking him up in my arms and removing him from the dais, though the eyes of the men remained fixed on us even as we stepped off it.

Their eyes were piercing, accusatory – Monsters, they seemed to say, or perhaps that was my own mind supplying words where there where none, Cold-hearted monsters

I could not find it within myself to refute their claims

I set him down a few feet away from the marketplace, a quiet stretch of grassland. For a few seconds, he is quiet, before he looks up, and his face is drawn sharply in shadow by the distant lights of the camp, his eyes wild and guilty

“You know”, he begins, and his voice is quiet, “When I kill a soldier, their heartbeats are loud, pumping, full of adrenalin and excitement….. hers wasn’t. It was quiet, steady. She wasn’t expecting to..to..”, his voice trails off, as if he is unable to complete the sentence

To be murdered ? To be slaughtered like cattle ? To be killed by her own father ?

I speak up, and I am proud to note that my voice carries only the barest hint of the horror I feel, “It was quick. Painless”

“It was murder”, he whispers, “Unjust. Horrific. Murder”

I cannot refute that. It is true. I kneel down before him so that I may look him in the eye, and speak, my voice heavy with emotion, “Diomedes, when we went to confront Achilles, to drag him kicking and screaming into this war, you told me that whatever blame, or sin, fell on me for doing so, so too would it fall on you. Well, allow me to repay that. Whatever sin falls on you for killing her, so too will it fall on me. We are bound now, in guilt and in death, for better or for worse”

He does not reply, though his breathing becomes markedly less frantic. I take it as a victory

I continue, “This is only the beginning. There will be worse sins we will have to commit as the war drags on. There will be more blood to stain our once virgin hands… and through all of it, I will stand with you. Whatever you do, whatever I do, we will share the blame for it.”

Diomedes’ lips part, and two quiet words leaves his mouth, “Thank you”

With that, his head lolls again, and I hear the footsteps of men approaching. I turn to see who it is. The first thing I see is the bright pennant of blue one of them carry. They are Diomedes’ men. I step away from him that they may see him

“Captain !!”, one of them, Sthenelus, I remember, cries, turning to me, “Is he okay ?”

“He’s uninjured”, I reply, “Well… physically at least”

I hand Diomedes over to the capable hands of his subordinates, and return to the marketplace, where Agamemnon stood before the assembled armies, his hands and clothes still red with innocent blood.

He claimed, his voice solid and steady, though his eyes betrayed his shock and horror, that Artemis had been displeased with the bloodshed we intended, and so had demanded payment, in advance, and kind. Blood for blood. A virgin priestess for the sons of Troy.

He was a good liar, I would give him that, at least. The armies, grateful and desperate to cling onto any excuse for the horrific act, accepted his explanation with cheers and celebration. The sounds made me feel sick to my stomach

Iphigenia, he explained, his voice smooth as silk, barely shaking as falsehoods flowed from it like water, had agreed to the sacrifice. The lies had simply been there so as to not startle any of the soldiers in attendance

A few feet away, I saw Achilles look sick. Beside him stood Patroclus, steadying him. The young son of Menoitius looked over to me, and his eyes blazed as they caught on mine. I simply responded by closing my eyes, and letting the sounds of the crowd, the lies of Agamemnon, dissolve into the background

We burnt her that night, on a pyre of cypress wood, the flesh of Cyparissus. It was fitting, I thought, as the pale wood ignites into a brilliant orange blaze, consuming the body of the young girl, that wood born of one innocent death be used to burn away the remnants of another

Agamemnon ordered that a hundred casks of wine be broached to celebrate, the curse has lifted, we would leave at first light. It tasted like ash in my mouth, and judging by how Agamemnon, normally all too willing to engage in his baser desires, turned away from it, it did so in his, too

Chapter Text

After the celebrations begin, I return to my tent, unable to bear the sight of the soldier’s joy. As I enter, the tent is dark and hollow, empty and bare, save for some furniture, books and maps.

 The candles that light it are extinguished, leaving nothing but a dark empty nothing hanging in the air, like an oppressive weight on my shoulders – the weight of the world.

“You did well”, a voice speaks, breaking the fragile silence, sharp and metallic, sounding almost like a knife screeching across bone, “You are mightier than your companion – strong where he is weak”

“Diomedes isn’t weak !!”, I snap at the voice, turning to it’s source, a silvery owl standing in the middle of my tent, it’s feathers glinting almost metallic in the dim starlight pouring in through the open tent-flap. I continue, “He’s human. And he reacted like a human should. Unlike me – the monster”

The owl cocks her head to one side, “Remember what I taught you, boy. Emotions are obstacles. Tear them down”

“That’s not as easy as it sounds”, I plead, “Maybe for you, goddess that you are, but not for me”. I rise to my feet, and I know how I must look to her – weak, disappointing, pathetic, mortal – but I could not stop the words that slipped from my lips next, sharp as a dagger, and soaked in the emotions she so despised

“Did you know ?”

The owl cocked her head to the other side, her silver eyes glimmering with intelligence – more intelligent than an animal, more than a man. The intelligence of a goddess - , and asks again, “Know what ?”

“That the girl would have to die ? That your beloved sister, in her infinite wisdom”, I spit out, “would ask for the life of one completely unrelated to he who spited her ?”

“Know your place, boy”, the goddess’ voice rings out again, and it is cold as ice and sharp as a thousand needles, “The gods are infinite and eternal. To question them is to question truth itself”

I am silent for a second, a  thousand emotions bubbling in my chest, threatening to spill out my mouth, and almost certainly get me immediately smited. At last, I look up at the goddess, who looks back, her silver eyes glimmering curiously,

“You…”, I begin, the words sticking in my throat, “I…”, I trail off, unable to complete it. For a second, there is an unbreakable silence, that seems to stretch as long as time, before finally I speak again

“What of Troy ?”, I ask, my voice steely and determined. Our voyage to Troy was hard-bought. I would not let it be wasted, “What of her ? Will we take her ?”

The owl’s eyes glimmer in approval, “Good. Focus on what you can control.”

I do not answer, my breathing heavy as an anvil. She continues, “My father, the great Thunder Bringer, has made a declaration, and my brother, Phoebus of the Oracles, a prophecy. For nine long years you shall labor in vain against the walls of Troy, and on the tenth, you’ll take her streets”

I bow my head in a sharp nod, and say nothing. The goddess remains for a second longer, before her wings flap open, silvery and vast, larger than any ordinary owl, and the voice rings again, “Good luck, my favored. Do not disappoint me”

With that, she vanishes into a fine mist of silver, which gently floats down to the earth, before dissolving into nothingness. I am once more alone in my tent, with nothing but my thoughts to accompany me

I collapse onto a nearby chair. For a few minutes, there is nothing but an endless nothing. My eyes are open, staring at the blackness, but before my eyes flashes the blood-red of Iphigenia’s blood against her white dress, the silver gleam of Agamemnon’s knife as he drew it across her throat

I draw in a shuddering breath, and it sounds metallic too, the slide of a knife against the flesh of a throat. There are footsteps outside, their fall sounding like goat hooves. I hear the guards move to stop whoever it is. I hear the tent flap be sharply pulled up as someone enters

“Hello, Patroclus”, I greet, slouched over in my chair, not bothering to turn around to look him in the face

“You let them murder her”, he spits out, his voice tight with rage

“I did”, I admit, “More, I helped orchestrate it. Your point ?”

“You would have stopped them, had it been one of your family”

“I would have”

“Then why didn’t you stop them now ?”

“Because…”, I trail off, the words fading into silence. There were a thousand reasons, but none Patroclus could understand. He was too empathetic for them. I complete my words, “…because she was not. My family, that is”

I hear Patroclus draw in a sharp, enraged breath, before speaking again, “Her death is on your head”

“So it is”, I say, “so ?”

“So ?”, he scoffs, sounding like he couldn’t believe I had just asked that, “Have you no guilt ?”

“No”, I reply coldly, though the creeping ache in my heart, my skin, my spine, proved otherwise, “Guilt won’t help us get to Troy. Guilt won’t help us win  this war”

“You defiled him”

I uncoil my body. There it was. The root cause of Patroclus’ rage. Not that the girl was dead, well perhaps a little, but mainly that Achilles had been forced to witness it. That his precious Achilles had been dishonored by my deceit.

It sounded selfish, even as I thought it, but I suppose, were I in his place, and Diomedes or Penelope in Achilles’, I would have reacted the same way

I am silent, my eyes fixed on the earthen floor. An insect wriggles it’s way out of it, small and beautiful, gleaming brown in the dim moonlight. It enters my shadow, and it is gone, melded with the blackness of my soul’s projection. I snort internally. Wasn’t nature poetic ?

“Answer me !”, Patroclus demands, “You murdered an innocent !! You killed a child !!”

“I did what had to be done”, I refute, my words hard as steel, a tinge of desperation to them, almost as if I am trying to convince myself of that

“‘What had to be done’ ?”, he says, and his voice is an incensed whisper, “In what kind of sick universe is the murder of a child necessary ?”

“In this one”, I say and my words echo off the thick fabric of the tent. Patroclus is silent. I continue, “You are here because your lover grieves for the death of the girl”

He does not answer. I take it as a reply, and keep going, “Should I advise you on something, my friend ? Nothing good will come of coddling Achilles. He is a weapon, to be wielded, not polished and kept in a glass case”, I say, though my soul screams out against my words

“He is a man”, Patroclus bites out, “A man”

“An inhuman”, I refute, though my heart of hearts knows that Patroclus is right, “A god-son. It is apparent in everything he does. His inhuman beauty. His speed, his strength… everything. And he is marching to war.”

Patroclus is silent behind me

“He won’t be rescuing people there, will he ? No, he’ll be killing… and looting… and ransacking. Burn out his soft heart, my friend. Replace it with one of stone, because he will need it”, I reply, and my words are sharp in the stillness of the tent, like arrows, “His fame is hard-bought. Ask yourself this – what do you want him to be known for ? The coward who refused to kill in the Trojan War, even as Greeks died by the hundreds around him ? Or the legendary warrior, slayer of a-“

Patroclus holds up one hand to stop my flow of words. I taper off, as he speaks, his voice shaky with anger, “What right have you to speak of him like you know him ? What do you know of him ? Nothing. That’s all. Do you know how he smiles when he is truly happy ? Do you know what his laugh sounds like ? Do you know what his favorite food is ? Do you know the taste of his lips, of his skin ? Do you know how warm his body feels pressed up against mine on a cold winter’s morn ? Do you know his scent ?”

I am silent

“If you do not, then you do not know Achilles”, Patroclus declares, turning to leave the tent, “You only know your precious Aristos Achaion”

For a second, there is nothing but a silence that stretches to fill the space between us, tenuous and fragile. My lips part. Nothing emerges. I hear the tent-flap rise again, before it flaps down, casting the tent in darkness

Chapter Text

The next morning, I walk over to where the Argive army is training, their king overseeing them, his back straight as an iron bar, his armor shining like fire in the sun. Only his face, drawn, gaunt and pale, gave away his emotions.

“Are you alright, Diomedes ?”, I ask, my voice gentle. He turns to me, and his eyes, hard as diamond as he oversaw his men, softened somewhat

“Thanks to you, yes”, he replies, his voice softer than I could believe possible. This close to him, I cannot help but notice his eyes, that sparkle like black diamonds in the sunlight. Their depths seem to pull me in as I gaze into them. I snap my eyes away with some effort, my face flushing pink. My chest is hot and tight

“Good”, I mutter, my voice quiet enough for Diomedes, and Diomedes alone, to hear. I notice one of his men – the nineteen-year old boy, Euryalus, eyeing us with a strange expression painted on his delicate features. I glare back

“So”, Diomedes says, and his voice is deep and commanding – the voice of a king, “What are you here to say ?”

“Our ships are not made for heavy travel, or for days of sailing. We will need to put in at a different port every night”

“This is true”

“But it is unreasonable to expect one island to house over one-hundred and forty thousand men. Our fleet will be split up. Two leaders will land on each island, and we will reunite once we get to the isle of Tenedos, just off of the coast of Troy itself”, I explain, “I want you to accompany the Phthian fleet”

“You believe they will try to flee ?”, he asks, and his voice contains a note of reproach. Have more faith in them

“I believe that I can take no risks”, I reply, and my voice is steel, “I believe that Achilles is the one man in the world who can slay Hector, can bring us victory”

“You wound me”, Diomedes remarks, though a grin tugs at his thin lips, “Do you believe me so weak ?”

For a few seconds, he is silent, his eyes glimmering in the bright sunlight, before he speaks again, his voice tight with concern, “Will you be safe on your travels ?”

I look back at him, and a smile stretches over my face at the thought of his worry, “Do not worry, Diomedes”, I reassure him, allowing a hint of arrogance into my voice, “I am Odysseus, the pride of Ithaca. I will be fine”

He nods, and his eyes glimmer oddly in the light, filled to the brim with an emotion I cannot name. “Very well, then”, he gestures to his men, who stop training at once, instead moving to assemble before him, a single unit, “Let us be off”. His voice echoes with a strange tone, almost sad

We leave a few hours later, and the fleet splits off. Most of us follow the same route- only docking at different islands if and when needed- but a few have received a different set of directions. Some had been ordered to take the long way round, to assemble to the south of Troy, at Lesbos. Yet others had been ordered to go directly to Sigeum, to the north-west. The majority, including the Argives and the Phthians, had been told to come by the Thracian coast – the easiest, and most comfortable path – or well, as comfortable as it could be, we were still marching off to war, after all

I, and my Cephallenians, are paired up with Agamemnon’s Mycenaeans, along with Philoctetes’ archer army. Our ships stood proudly in the harbor – twelve bearing brilliant yellow sails – the mark of Ithaca, a hundred bearing the purple sails of Agamemnon, and seven bearing the unmarked sails of Philoctetes, who was no great king- as the other ships around them surged forward, in a mass of wood and cloth, the warriors on board shouting out battle-cries as they did so

At last, one-hundred and nineteen anchors rose, and our fleet surged forward too

After a few seconds, Agamemnon turns to me, and his eyes glimmer in the sunlight, “Any plans, Silver-tongue ?”

“It is easy to plan, Agamemnon”, I warn, my eyes fixed on the receding shore of Aulis, desolate and abandoned – rocky, with the only markers of our presence being the white, ashy ruins of Iphigenia’s pyre – a reminder of the blood that stained our hands, even before the war had begun. I continue, “Far harder to make a plan that survives first contact with the enemy”

Agamemnon laughs, a deep, throaty, unpleasant noise, “True enough, my friend”

“Not your friend”, I snap at him, “Simply one of your captains”

The commander’s eye twitched in irritation at my words, and he nodded sharply, “Very well, then”. His eyes scanned the horizon, the blue of the sky and the dark churning sea

“Well, then, Captain”, he bites out, “Plan a route for us to take once we get to the Hellespont”

I nod sharply, “As you command”

The next week or so passes in a blur of rocky beaches, high, sun-bleached cliff faces and scrubby vegetation.

I am aware, only barely, of Agamemnon complaining about me not showing my face on deck as often as I ought to. I do not quite remember how I replied. I hope it was witty.

I scan every map and book I can find on Anatolia, and on Troy. The rest of my time, I spend on the deck of the ship, trying to catch sight of the other fleets. At last, on the seventh day, as the sandy shore of Lemnos draws near, I spot the other ships making landfall.

The island of Lemnos was lower in the sea than the other Aegean islands, full of noxious swamps and stagnant ponds, choking with insects and water-lilies

I find Diomedes sitting by a pool, his feet dipping ever so slightly in it, his eyes fixed on a distant landmass, so far away that it could barely be seen. I recognized it instantly – the western shores of Anatolia. Troy

“This island is infested with water snakes”, I call as I approach him. He starts at my voice, turning around to see me. His face lights up as his eyes fall on me. I continue, “It’s pretty dangerous to leave your feet in the water like that”

“Not this pool. It’s not”, he says, and his voice is deep with relief, like he was happy that I had made it here safely. For some reason, the thought of that makes my chest feel warm from within.

“It isn’t ?”, I ask, sitting down next to him, careful to keep my feet from the water

“Nope, I killed them all”, he says nonchalantly, gesturing to the small pile of brownish-grey beside him. Beady, dead eyes stare back at me from it. I look at him incredulously

“I was very frustrated”, he says, by way of explanation

“So you murdered, what, like twenty water snakes ?”

“Twenty-five, actually, and yes”

“What on Earth could have frustrated you to that extent ?”, I ask, my eyebrows rising

“Do you understand how sickeningly in love Achilles and Patroclus are ?”, he says, and I hear a note of weariness in his voice. I pat him on the shoulder in solidarity. He groans slightly

A laugh slips free of my lips, and a smile spreads across my lips, before fading, almost as quickly as it came, “We are two days from Troy.”, I say, “Two days from destiny”

Diomedes’ face hardens, till it looks like it is cut from stone. He nods, “Yes”

“They say that the walls of Troy are impregnable”, I say, my voice soft in the silence of the island, “They say that the city of Apollo cannot be conquered”

“They say a lot, don’t they ?”, Diomedes muses, a ruthless determination burning in his eyes, “Perhaps ‘they’ should keep their mouths shut”

I let out a small chuckle, “Perhaps”

“Troy is strong, I will give them that”, Diomedes says, his eyes raking across the Anatolian shoreline, barely visible in the distance, “They are guarded by the god Apollo, and a half-god, Aeneas, son of Aphrodite, fights with them”

For a moment, there is a quietness to the air, an uneasy stillness. The calm before the storm.

Then the moment ends

In the distance, two long, low sounds break the fragile silence. I spot the amassed armies rise from where they had been sitting at the shoreline.

“What is it ?”, Diomedes asks, his eyes narrowing onto the ship that had sounded the horns – Philoctetes’ flagship, “Surely it’s too early to take to the waters ?”

Another long, low note, and three short blasts. My eyes widen. Emergency

I leap to my feet immediately, Diomedes following shortly after. I rush down the slope, to where the ships are docked. Philoctetes’ men – three hundred and fifty in total, all archers – were milling uneasily about the flagship when we arrived

“What is it ?”, I ask the nearest soldier, “What’s happened ?”

“It happened so quick,” the young man muttered, sounding shell-shocked, “Like a bolt of lightning”

“Speak clearly, boy”, Diomedes barked, his voice sharp as splintered glass, snapping the man out of his trance

“A serpent”, he said breathlessly, “Far bigger than an ordinary one. Pure gold in color…. A python”

Diomedes drew in a sharp breath, turning to me, his eyes wide with panic. The python was a symbol of Apollo. If this meant what I thought it did… if the gods had started taking sides…. then we stood no chance in the upcoming war, prophecy be damned

“Bring me to him”, I demand from the young man, who hastily nods and begins leading us to the ship, his face drawn and pale with fear

We barge into the cabin in which the archer lies, shouldering past the men who surround him to get to him. He is lying on a bed, his face gaunt and pale with pain, twisted into an expression of the utmost agony.

One leg has been propped up, and a paste, light-green in color and smelling vaguely of curdled milk, had been applied to it, but it was not thick enough to hide the wound. Two holes had been made on his right calf, black and oozing with a strange, clear fluid, alongside small rivulets of blood and pus. I could see small, dark veins emanating from the wound, mapping across the skin of his leg. A foul smell emanated from it – of rotting meat, of corpses and plague

A tourniquet had been tied further up his calf to stop the venom in it’s tracks, but it’s only a temporary solution.

Agamemnon, who has been kneeling by the head of Philoctetes’ bed, rises as we enter, and looks to us with an expression of horror, “The gods have turned against us”, he mutters, “We must abandon this campaign immediately”

“We will do no such thing”, Diomedes speaks quietly and his voice is as hard as diamond, “We will continue the war, gods be damned”

“Are you a fool ?”, Agamemnon demands, “You can’t deny the will of the gods”

Diomedes smirks, “I am Diomedes, king of Argos, son of Tydeus. Everything I have today , I have received on the strength of my own merits. Any divine favor I have received has been for my own courage, my own strength. If the gods turn against me, I will fight. If the world turns against me, I will fight. For denying destiny has always been my specialty”

I step forward and kneel down beside the archer, “Enough, both of you. Regardless of whether the gods are with us or nor, we have no choice but to fight. The kings would have our heads if we don’t”

I examine the wound for a few seconds, before speaking up, without turning, “We have to cut off the leg”

“What ?”, Agamemnon asks

“We have to cut it off. The venom has already permeated his body. If you want to save his life, amputate the leg”

“We can’t do that”

I turn to look at him, one eyebrow raised questioningly, “And pray tell me, why ever not ?”

“He’s an archer”, Agamemnon explained, “He needs his leg to fight”

“He needs his life more”

“Can you delay his death ?”, Agamemnon asks, turning to the healers who stand arrayed about the injured man in a ragged semicircle, his eyes glinting strangely, “without cutting off the leg ?”

“Yes”, one of the healers say, blinking at the son of Atreus, “but he won’t be able to fight with it. He’ll be condemned to lie in one spot.”

“A necessary sacrifice”, he nods, “Do it”

“Do what ?”

“Treat him”

“You realize that…”, I gesture to the prone man, “… we will have to abandon him here if he is treated like that, right ? Otherwise, he will be little more than a dead weight”

“I know”, he nods, “So be it. I will leave a man or two here with him”

Philoctetes lets out a small growl at the commander’s words, spitting out, through a mouthful of blood and foam, “You damn traitor !!”

“We have no choice, archer”, Agamemnon says, and his voice is cold as ice

“Do what the Ithacan says, then !!”, he chokes out, “Cut off my leg, and send me and my men home”

Agamemnon smirks coldly and shakes his head. No

My eyes widen with realization, and I whisper, “He won’t do that”

“Why not ?”, the old archer says breathily

“Because he wants your men. If he cut off your leg, he’d have to send you home, and your men with you”, I say, turning to look at the king of Mycenae, who had begun grinning, a sharp twinkle in his eyes, “but if he pretends to be doing whatever he can to save you… and leaves you here…”

“Your men will have to accompany him to war”, Diomedes finishes, “Ingenious, if cruel”

Philoctetes lets out another growl of outrage at Diomedes’ words, half-rising to confront Agamemnon before one of the healers forces him back down.

I ponder over Agamemnon’s words for a moment, my mind whirling as I try to sort out my thoughts. “He’s right”, I finally nod, turning to the healer, “Treat him. Do not cut off his leg”

Philoctetes thrashes against the man who is pinning him down, roaring and cursing at my words. My face is flecked with the blood and foam flying from his mouth. I wipe it off, and try to look as cold as I can

“This is war, Philoctetes.”, I say, my voice flat and emotionless, “We must do what must be done to survive”

Chapter Text

The next morning, we leave the island of Lemnos, leaving behind Philoctetes and two of his men. He appeared to have resigned himself to his fate, when we came to inform him of our departure, for he did not even look up from where he lay. We left him be

For the next two days, the sailing was easier, and in the distance, I could see the Greek fleets approaching the isle of Tenedos, our destination, vast carpets of wood, masts rising high into the sky, their multicolored sails blazing like colored fire in the hot sun

“It is time”, I say, as the isle of Tenedos, small and rocky, comes into view…. And just beyond it…. The broad beaches of Troy

Agamemnon and Diomedes nod sharply at my words, and turn to their fleets, commanding them to take position, and to pass the commands on. Slowly, steadily, the Greek army regathered itself by Tenedos, vast and extensive, a carpet of wood, and began slowly, painfully, moving into the positions

The flagships formed the front line, the kings leading the charges, the men assembling behind them. It was borderline agony, watching the ships reorganize themselves. I was half-sure that several of them would sink right then and there, from colliding with each other. Miraculously, however, we all pulled through

“Now !!”, Agamemnon commanded, as the drums begin to beat, and the ships surge forward. The dark shore of Troy draws closer, and, looking closer, I see swarms of men standing upon it

“The armies of Troy have come to greet us”, I warn Agamemnon, who nods and gestures to his archers to nock their bows and keep them ready

As the ships draw closer, the blurry, tall forms of mountains and trees become visible, and the army on the beach clearer. At the front stands a man, taller than the rest, dressed in armor that gleamed in the sun, a horse-hair helm hiding his head, it’s plume the dark crimson of the house of Priam. He clutched a spear in one hand, which seemed to be twice the size of a grown man, it’s head shining like grey fire

I draw in a sharp breath. Beside me, I hear Diomedes do the same. “Hector”, he whispers, and so it is. The prince moves, drawing his spear back and holding it at the ready. This was no wine-sodden prince, used to debauchery and luxury, as the men of the East were said to be. This was the great prince of Troy, immortalized in gold by the poets of our land.

He held himself like a statue – perfect and poised . Every move he made, he made with purpose and determination. This was Hector, foremost prince of Troy

I hear shouts of shock down the line of kings as the army comes into sight. They are confused. I grit my teeth. Confused people make mistakes. We needed to give them confidence.

 I gesture to Diomedes, whose ship is placed beside Achilles, and he nods, turning to whisper to one of his men, who turns to whisper to another, and another, and another, till I see a Phthian soldier run up to Achilles and whisper something in his ear. He nods, and draws a spear from the weapons-rack beside him

He draws it back, as a man steps forward, a captain of the army. There is a gasp of air, a whistle on the wind, and the man keels over, a spear embedded in his chest. The Greeks have drawn first blood

A smile of victory stretches across my features as shouts of joyous triumph sound down the line. Victorious horns split the air, as the news was carried throughout the army.

On the shore, Hector’s eyes blazed with fury, barely visible out the slits of his helm, as he flings his spear forward. It flies through the air, letting out a whistle of wind as it does so, blazing and terrible as a star

There is a gasp, and a shout from down the line.  A man has fallen. Agamemnon lowered his arm, and the arrows fly. From down the line, Achilles begins throwing spears with inhuman accuracy and speed.

Protesilaus, king of Phylace, leaps into the water from the prow of his ship. Perhaps he desired the additional glory that came with being the first man to set foot in Troy. Perhaps he was drunk.

Regardless, the outcome is the same. A spear, thrown by Hector himself, catches him on the back. The surf around him blushes red, and he goes limp. The first of the Greek kings to fall

Hector turns to us, and his eyes catch on Achilles’ form, widening ever-so-slightly as they took in the sight of the legendary prince of Phthia.

He raises his spear, shouting something to his men, and the Trojans fall back, seizing their fallen and raising heavy shields to guard their forms. The beach is ours

The Greeks stream to shore. Achilles is the first to set foot on Trojan soil. Agamemnon comes to me, and his face is flushed with victory

“The beach is ours !!”, he crows, “Victory is ours !!”

“Calm yourself”, Diomedes says as his men pulled the Argive ships on shore behind him, “This is only the beginning”

“We didn’t come here for sand”, I agree, gesturing with my head towards the distance, where, it was said, lay the legendary city of Troy, “Keep our goal in mind”

I walk closer to the edge of the beach, to the line where the hot sand gave way to fresh, green grass, and regarded the city that loomed in the distance.

It stood high in the distance, set on a hill, separated from us by a large expanse of grassy flatland – that would be bloodied quick in the days to come, I couldn’t help but think. It is framed by two wide, lazy rivers, and surrounded by what can only be described as an impenetrable wall.

It is high and mighty, made of sharp, squared stones that perfectly slotted against each other, their faces smooth as silk. The legends say that the walls were made during the reign of King Laomedon, by the god Apollo himself. Perhaps that was even true.

After all, no mortal could have made walls so high, so strong, so clearly divinely-smoothed. For  a few seconds, I wondered how we could ever take the city, before my eyes narrow in on the bronze gates visible in the distance – the famed Scaean gate, whose hinges were said to be the size of a full-grown man

Diomedes walked up beside me, “Getting any ideas ?”, he asked

“The walls are impenetrable. The rumors are true. We can’t break through them using force”, I shake my head, “No. Not force”

Diomedes’ eyes glint with curiosity, “If not force, then what ?”

“The city cannot sustain itself”, I whispered, “It is supported by the vast network of neighboring villages, cities and minor kingdoms”, I gesture to the regions surrounding Troy

“Then, you are suggesting…”, a smirk pulls at Diomedes’ lips and his eyes glint with a strange emotion

“Burn a man’s food supply and kill the man”, I say, and my voice sounds strange to my ears – cold and hard, “Burn a city’s food supply, and…”

“…and take the city”, Diomedes finishes, “Or at least force them into open combat”

I nod, and for a second, there is silence, which is nearly immediately broken by the sound of a horn calling us to the beach

We return to where the captains stood, at the edge of the beach, a region lapped on one side by the salty waters of the Aegean Sea, and shaded on the other by a small forest of trees

The leaders stand around Agamemnon in a loose semi-circle, their eyes expectant as they gazed at him

“Have the camps been chosen ?”, I ask, my voice echoing loudly in the grim silence of the beach

Agamemnon nods from where he stands, “They have”

“Who shall have the spot farthest from the war ?”, I ask. The safest place, and by and far, the best. It was a small strip of land on the other end of the beach, surrounded with trees and green, the river Scamander running right beside it. The noise of battle would be quiet and dim there, and the threat of invasion low

“Phthia”, Agamemnon says, his eye twitching in irritation, “Phthia shall have it”

I hide my smile with the palm of hand. Of course. Agamemnon wants to keep Achilles on his good side. Wise of him

“Very well”, I nod, before gesturing to my men to start unloading the supplies and setting up the tents. Beside me, Diomedes did the same. Agamemnon turned to us, his eyes flaring with rage, “Wait, halt. I never told you to set up camp here”, he growled

“No, you did not”, I acknowledge simply, before gesturing to my men to continue. Diomedes’ gaze, fiery and hot, landed on Agamemnon, and for a second the two glared at each other, their gazes blazing and razor-sharp, before Agamemnon finally turned away

“I was going to assign that spot to you anyways”, he muttered, before stomping off to who knows where, defeated by a pair of unflinching eyes. The corners of Diomedes’ mouth quirk up into a small smile

After a little while, we left our camps under the direction of our far more capable subordinates, and made our way towards the main camp, set up at the center of the beach. Every corner of the beach seemed to buzz with activity, as men hauled in the ships, unloaded supplies, set up tents – all with a kind of manic, frantic energy – a kind of relief. We were here, at long last

Along the way we passed by the camp of Idomeneus, the king of Crete, who stood there, resplendent in his golden armor as he directed his men, his face screwed up into an expression of annoyance. A battle-axe hung on his belt, it’s edges crusted slightly with dried blood.

Beside him stood another man, taller than him, skinnier, his face gaunt and pale, his stature solid and firm. Meriones, his half-brother

They turned as we passed, nodding respectfully at us, a gesture we returned, before returning to barking commands and gesturing harshly to their crew

Beside their camp stood an empty space, where men carrying the blue-and-gold pennant of the Isle of Salamis rushed about, unloading supplies and setting up camp. In their midst stood what could only be called a giant of a man.

He towered over the other men, his muscles bulging beneath his dark skin, as large as boulders. He was busy dragging huge bags out of his ship’s hold. I recognized him instantly, from Aulis, and from Sparta. Ajax the Greater, son of Telamon, king of the Isle of Salamis.

There were rumors aplenty about him. He could crack the deck of a ship if he walked on it. He could lift a mountain with his bare hands. He once challenged Ares himself to a fight. And looking at him now, as he towered over his men, as large as a mountain, it was easy to see how they began

He turned as he saw us approach, bowing a little, “Laertides, Tydides”, he rumbled, his voice grave and deep. He raised his head, offering us a hand knobbed with calluses as big as pebbles

“Greetings, son of Telamon”, I said, trying my best to incorporate some princely hauteur into my voice, and judging my Diomedes’ facial expressions, failing miserably

Diomedes nodded respectfully at the large man, who nodded back, before returning to his load

Later that day, as the sun hangs low over the horizon, and the sky is touched with the orange of late afternoon, Agamemnon calls for the first council meeting

A large tent had been set up, and filled with around fifty chairs in a ragged circular formation, surrounding a raised central dais made of earth. Hierarchy was the word of the gods in our lands – the lesser kings – Podarces of Phylace, Nireus of the Symians, Tlepolemus of the Rhodians – took the seats further away from the dais, while the greater kings, the more famous heroes – thankfully, including us- took the seats that formed the first circle

On the dais stood Agamemnon, looking every inch the commander he purported himself to me, dressed in bronze armor that had been polished to a gleam, his eyes raking over the kings as they entered the room one by one.

Achilles, followed shortly by Patroclus, entered first, taking a seat beside us, followed shortly by Ajax of Telamon, his bastard half-brother Teucer, and Idomeneus and Meriones, who all took a seat on either side of us

Achilles leaned over to us, “What’re the chances that he’s going to spend the meeting inflating his own ego, like he did back on Aulis ?”

“Low”, Diomedes pointed out, “Agamemnon may be a cruel, greedy bastard, but he’s no fool. He stands on the precipice of his power. If anyone wants to take it from him, the time to strike would be now”

And, surprisingly enough, he is correct. The meeting passes without any grandstanding from the commander, and almost without incident, all business – latrines, food, drink, and strategy. Well, until it comes time to decide on our plan of action

“We should at least try at peace”, speaks Idomeneus of Crete, “before spilling the blood of innocent men”

“Innocent ?”, barks Ajax in a mocking tone, “They stole Menelaus’ woman. They broke the laws of xenia. This is an offense to Zeus himself !!”

“Would Zeus want a war amongst his children ?”, Idomeneus demands, to which Meriones lets out a braying laugh.

“Clearly, you haven’t been paying attention to our history if you think he does not, half-brother”, he says, eliciting a hiss of rage from the king of Crete

I scan the room intently, my eyes alighting on every king in turn, before I turn to Diomedes, speaking in a low, hushed whisper, “What is your opinion on this, Argos ?”

“Peace would be best”, he replies, his voice equally quiet, “Menelaus can remarry, but those slain in war can never be brought back”

“And will you say this ?”

“Of course not”, he scoffs, “The kings would have our heads”

I look up as a new voice begins speaking. It is Menelaus, who has half-risen from his seat as he speaks, gesturing animatedly, “We should seek peace, a parlay, at least”, he says, “I will go myself. It is my duty”

Nestor speaks up now, his voice a low drawl, “Why have we come so far, then, if we intend to talk them into surrender ?”

“Bloodshed without conversation is the rule of animals”, Idomeneus stubbornly says, “ and savages. We are neither”

“Perhaps they will concede to reason”, Menelaus argues, eliciting a mocking scoff from his brother

“Gentlemen, gentlemen”, I raise my hands to placate the crowd before a fight broke out, “I have an idea. Idomeneus and Menelaus are correct, in that diplomacy is needed. We seem the villains otherwise”, I speak into the ensuing silence, “We need diplomacy, to placate the cities of Anatolia, and to stop them from giving aid to Troy. On the other hand, there is a better way to achieve the same thing, with more profit”

Agamemnon’s eyes quirk slightly at my words, lighting up with greed

“Raiding. Attacking the lands surrounding the city, instead of the city itself”, I say, “A good raid always gets the job done”

“Yes !!”, cried Ajax, his voice deep and fearsome, as Nestor nodded approvingly, “A show of strength !! Of our power !!”

Diomedes leaned over to me as the room exploded into whispers, “What are you planning ? I’ve never known you as one to go for the more violent approach”

“Remember our conversation on the hill ?”, I remind him, “Raiding will burn the net supporting Troy, removing major sources of sustenance, and, as more and more villages fall, their inhabitants will flee to the main city, quickly..”

“….overflowing it”, Diomedes nods thoughtfully, “Ingenious”

I look up again as Agamemnon loudly clears his throat, silencing the hall. His gaze swings over to alight on me, and his lips twist into a considering grimace, “Very well”, he nods, “First we raid, then, perhaps, we send an embassy. Tomorrow”

I look over at Achilles, and at Patroclus, who sits beside him, a pained expression on his face. This is their first time killing, I remember. However, Achilles’ face seems cut from diamond as he nods solemnly, as if he is a battle-hardened veteran.

With that, the meeting was over. The kings rose as one to leave the hall, returning to their own camps to prepare their men.

“Wait”, I call into the silence, as the men freeze in their tracks, turning to look at where I sat

“If we attack at once, there will be chaos and disarray. We are civilized men”, I say, leaning back against my chair, “We must have lines, and orders”

Agamemnon nods, before once more assuming a regal air, “Yes, yes, of course”, he says, “Menelaus and I will take the center”. The place the enemy would choose to punch through, if needed. The most honorable position

I resist the urge to face-palm as a ripple of discontent spreads through the kings like the shockwaves of an explosion. Menelaus rises now, and his face is a mask of grim disapproval, “So that messages can reach us easily, of course”.

This seems to calm the crowd somewhat, as Agamemnon continues speaking, “Phthia shall stand to my brother’s left, Ithaca to my right. To Ithaca’s right shall stand Argos, and to Phthia’s left Salamis”. Positions the enemy would seek to flank, perhaps even more honorable than Agamemnon’s own position.

I hide a small smile. The king of Mycenae was clever indeed. He knew exactly who to appease and who to dismiss…. Well, until he got angry. Then, all that strategy immediately left his mind

“The rest of the positions shall be decided by drawing lots”, he says, turning to leave the tent, “The raids begin at sun-up. Prepare”

By the time we return to camp, it is sun-set. The stars fill the sky above, white and stark against the black fabric of the universe, even as the sun fades over the horizon, taking with it the blush of evening. Diomedes looks well-pleased, and for good reason. One of the greatest places of primacy was his, after all.

The dying light made his lustrous black hair gleam like it had been oiled, his eyes glittered like gemstones as they surveyed our camps

The men rise as they see us come, and raise their spears, bowing slightly to welcome us.

“Greetings, Prince of Ithaca. Greetings, my king”, Sthenelos says as we approach him, lowering himself into a low bow

“Well done, Sthenelos”, Diomedes remarks, looking about him, “The place has been set up well”

“Thank you, my king”, he says, as he rises to his full stature once more. Diomedes looks at the men – Ithacan and Argive, who surround us in a ragged semi-circle

“The raids begin tomorrow”, he says, his voice hard and cool, the voice of a king, “Any man who wishes to join us, to receive the honor of being among the first  to shed Trojan blood in battle, must awake at dawn. The rest of you may remain asleep”

The men bowed lowly at his words, and we turn to enter our tents, ready for a meal and sleep. We had a long day ahead of us, after all

Chapter Text

The next morning, we awoke early, us and around twenty of our men. The sea threw off great sheets of light. The sun pierced down from above, burning our skins like a live fire, as if Apollo himself were trying to dissuade us from attacking his people. Unfortunately for him, not even a god’s wrath could have held back our blood-lust today

The men were practically straining at their harnesses as we assembled in the center of the main camp. The kings stood in front, as had been previously.

Agamemnon’s face was hidden by the Corinthian war-helm he wore, polished bronze and fearsome in appearance, though he looked intimidating enough without it, his armor shining almost brighter than the sun, his great purple cape flowing out behind him like a waterfall. In one hand he held a spear, and beside him stood his charioteer, a young boy of eighteen, holding a stack of polished bronze javelins in his arms

Beside him, Menelaus stood, dressed in the armor of Sparta, his red cloak covering most of his body, like a thick coating of blood. His war-helm stood proudly atop his head, it’s great crest rising higher. In one hand, he held a Spartan shield, the small bronze circle standing proudly against his hand. In the other, a great spear was clutched, it’s tip of polished bronze

To the left of him stood Achilles, as god-like as ever, his golden hair shining bright in the sunlight, his forest-eyes blazing emerald as they reflected the brilliant light, seeming to glow from within with inner radiance. His bronze armor burned in the sun, almost too bright too look at, throwing off bright glares of light. A cape of purple silk flowed from his shoulders. His face, barely visible beneath his helm, looked grave and carved from stone, and in one hand he held a great spear, it’s tip grey as stormy sky

To his left stood Ajax, towering over all the others, his head covered with  a Thracian war-helm, brilliant and bronze against the darkness of his skin. His eyes, black gemstones, shining as stars, peered out of the helm, blazing with fire. His muscles bulged beneath his skin, like a sack that had been over-filled with stones, and he held a great shield, made, as the rumors said, of seven cowhides and a layer of bronze. It looked twice the size of a man. I had no doubt that he could easy crush several people beneath it

All in all, the army of raiders made of quite the terrifying display

“Impressive”, Diomedes muttered from beside me, “If anything’s going to strike fear into the Trojans, this is”

“Good to see that you finally made it”, Agamemnon said, his eyes glinting in the bright sunlight, wide with something that eerily resembled bloodlust. Beside him, his brother bowed his head in acknowledgement

We nodded back to the two of them, and took our place in the formation, our twenty soldiers fanning out behind us like the tail of a peacock. Beside me, I saw Diomedes move slightly, his muscles rippling and tensing under his skin, as he readied himself for combat

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Patroclus standing behind Achilles, his face grave and sober, his body looking hilariously small compared to the armor he wore – a leather cuirass, a bronze breastplate, and bronze greaves

His knuckles were white as he clutched a spear in one hand, it’s tip gleaming iron-grey in the sun. In the other, he held a shield, small and round, shining, polished bronze

He looks over at me, and I make a small gesture to him. He turns to Achilles, and whispers to him, his words too soft for me to hear, too intimate for me to want to hear, before turning and walking over to me, his spear weighing down his arm, his gait slow in his armor

“Greetings, son of Menoitius”, I greet him, “I’m surprised you came to fight. I was under the assumption that you didn’t like violence?”

“I do not”, he corrects, his voice tight, his eyes pained

“Then?”

“I cannot leave Achilles. Not now. Not when he needs me most”

A smile tugs at my lips, even as something weighs on my heart. Patroclus knew how this would end. I did too. Achilles would die, and the bright embers of their love, that flared so bright now, would be nothing but cold ash. My lips part, but no words come out.

Patroclus shifts too, his eyes glimmering in the sunlight, a brilliant green, like new-born grass, and speaks, “If that is all, I must return to Achilles now”

That snaps me out of my trance. I nod, “Yes, yes, of course. Don’t let me keep you”, and Patroclus nods, his face solemn, his lips pursed tightly, and turns to return to his lover’s side

With that, the march begins, as we pass over the green plains that flowed like an endless sheet of emerald beside the gentle Scamander river, our spears thudding against the earth, our armor clanking. At last a village came into view, standing beside the Trojan capital, made up of small, thatched, clay huts and a few wooden fences.

A few men stood at the gates of the village, pitchforks clutched in their hands. Ready to fight, but clearly not warriors. Beside me, I feel Diomedes flinch at the sight, and reach over to grab his hand, gripping it reassuringly

Patroclus’ face goes pale in horror at the sight, and Achilles’ goes even more grim, till it looks made of marble, but no word leaves their lips

Agamemnon raises a horn to his lips, black bound with gold, and a long, low noise echoes out over the plains. The men standing at the gates lowered themselves into a crouch, holding their pitchforks out like spears

Menelaus nodded grimly, and held out one hand, bringing it down sharply. The signal is given. Charge

The men move forward, first in a heavy, clanking march, then a slow jog, until finally they were running full-tilt at the village, their bronze armors and weapons blazing in the sunlight – a dead-run charge, meant to break the enemies’ ranks… but now there were no ranks to shatter. We were doing this out of habit only

A javelin flies through the air, thrown by Agamemnon, it’s bronze body burning like a stick of flame, before falling to the earth, spinning, as it pierces through the chest of one of the defenders, emerging from the other side of him, and stabbing into the earth. The others yelp and move away, but do not run. They are ready to sacrifice themselves to slow us down, to buy enough time for their friends and families to escape

Ajax is the first to reach them, holding his shield out in front of him like a battering ram, before swinging it up, sending a man flying with a spray of blood and the sickening crack of breaking bone. He lets out a blood-curdling war-cry as he bangs his shield against the Earth

Beside him, Menelaus throws his spear with the force of a bow firing an arrow, impaling a man clean through, before grabbing the shaft of the spear and raising it up, the man’s corpse hanging limply on one end, shaking it as he walked slowly towards the village, a gruesome display of intimidation

Beside me, I hear someone retch violently, before the unmistakable sound of a spray of vomit colliding with the ground reaches my ears. I turn to see Achilles supporting Patroclus, as the other man rises unsteadily to his feet, his breathing erratic, greenish vomit dripping from his mouth. The Phthian prince’s face looks almost inhuman, drawn in the shadows cast by his helm. His eyes seem to glow as he looks at me, and nods sharply.

I turn to face the village, and start my run. My breath comes thickly as I move forward, Diomedes by my side, my spear at the ready, held forward. Diomedes leaps forward like an animal, deftly slicing through limbs and pitchfork-shafts, disarming and injuring, but not killing

Behind me, the armies surge forward, moving forward on either side of me, like the horns of some great bull come to destroy the village, through no fault of its own. Another javelin lances through the air, and another defender falls. Patroclus moves forward too, his spear held unsteadily before him, pitching back and forth, as though he were standing on the deck of some salt-slicked ship.

I hear battle-cries from the opposite side, too, as warriors stream into the village. Ajax lets out a booming laugh, raising his great shield once more. Agamemnon smiles savagely as he readies another javelin.

 Achilles rushes forward, moving with the grace of a mountain goat, his feet never once slipping as they landed on the blood-slicked ground, his wrist twisting as he hurls spear after spear at the approaching soldiers, each one hitting its mark. It is almost graceful, the way he fights. A dance of death. His wrist twists again and again, his flute-like bones thrusting forward, as he sent shafts flying with inhuman speed

I eye the warriors as they approach, scanning one of them for weakness, for chinks in his armor, before darting forward like a serpent, burying my spear in his chest. The man’s flesh gives way easily to the sharp head of my spear, and he falls against it, limp and dead, but as I try to pull it out, it catches on the bone of his ribcage. I brace myself against his stomach, which tears under my gritty boot, before pulling hard.

A crack echoes about me, as his ribcage gives way and the gleaming red-silver point of my spear emerges, the man’s life-blood dripping from it’s end

Another man lets out a howling cry of agony, and rushes at me. I barely hear a whistle of wind as a spear flies past my ear, embedding itself in the hollow of the man’s throat. I turn to see Diomedes standing behind me, his eyes blazing with a strange, bestial emotion, already busy with equipping himself with another spear

A man approaches me, his pitchfork held out in front of him, running full-tilt at me, his mouth twisted into an expression of absolute despair. There is a blur of gold behind him, and the man stops in tracks, gaping down at the silvery-red spear-head now protruding from his tracks

Achilles rips the spear free and swings it around again, burying it in the nape of the man’s neck, before ripping upwards into the brain. A relatively painless death, compared to the others

The blonde prince turns to me, and he is wet with blood. Around us, the fighting has calmed. The defenders  and reinforcements are dead, and there is only dishonor to be had in killing defenseless women and children. The soldiers were laughing behind him, their dark silhouettes clearly visible against the bloody red that stained every surface.

Achilles looks shell-shocked. His eyes are wide and vacant, staring at nothing and no-one. His helmet has been thrown aside, it lays on the ground a few feet behind him. His once-brilliant blonde hair is damp and darkened to a dirty red-gold with blood, sticking to his face and ears. His lips are marked with the red of death

His lips part, “I killed them”, he chokes out, “Twelve men, with nothing to do with this… this damn war… with Menelaus… or Helen. I killed them”

My eyes are dark as they alight upon his form, raking him for any injury. As expected, there is none to be found. My lips part too, darkened with blood-spray, my face reddish and wet. They close again. There is nothing to be said

The men’s voices become loud and raucous. I see Patroclus approach Achilles, his face pale and gaunt, his armor stained with small droplets of blood, grabbing him by the arm, and pulling slightly, “Come on”, the younger man says, and his voice is thin, unsure, “Let’s leave”

A hand falls on my shoulder. I look up into the dark eyes of Diomedes, his face spattered with blood. His lips part, and a deep voice emerges from it, “Let us leave them to their indulgences”, he nods to the other Greek kings, “Let’s go”

Chapter Text

After the raids came the distribution of the spoils of war, the awarding of prizes. Oh, of course, it was customary what you had won yourself – jewels torn from a woman’s neck, armor stripped from a  warrior’s corpse- went to you. But the rest – furniture, braziers, vases, were carried back to camp, to be distributed amongst those who participated in the raid

First spoils went to the greatest of the warriors, by tradition, though Agamemnon had an odd tendency to name himself instead. Achilles did not seem to mind, merely shrugging and smirking when this was pointed out to him

“Let Agamemnon do as Agamemnon wishes”, he says, his blonde hair burning in his sun, his eyes twinkling with amusement, “The men know that I am best. I know that I am best. That is all I need”

Agamemnon was normally named first, as the raids went on, though on a few days, when he felt that the men favored Achilles more, Achilles would receive the lion’s share, as was his right.

Third pick went to Diomedes, who the men had taken to calling the “second Achilles” for his overwhelming prowess in battle. Fourth to me, fifth to Ajax, who always grumbled at being placed under me, apparently seeing no use for things such as strategy in war, and on and on, until poor Cebriones was left with only a few leather cuirasses and some old, bent swords

However, one day, as we walk to the dais after a raid, our bodies sore and aching with bruises and scrapes, we notice a strange buzz in the air. The men are whispering as they approach the dais. A hum of excitement seems to be stirring through them

It is only after we get to the dais that we realize why that was the case. A woman stands on it, surrounded by the swords and rugs and jewels. I draw in a sharp breath, disgust filling my heart, and feel Diomedes tense beside me, his brow furrowing with discontent

She cannot be older than eighteen. Her skin is pale brown, her hair black and tangled, matted with dirt and blood. Her upper lip is split and bleeding, and a large bluish-purple bruise was spreading across her right cheek – the mark of a fist. Her eyes are puffy and red, lined with darkness, like Egyptian kohl. Her dress was ragged and tattered, and iron chains bound her wrists

The men shifted again with excitement. They knew exactly why she was here. What her presence meant. Camp follower. Spear-wife. Bed-slave. Fancy terms for the same thing. A sex slave, to serve at the whims and pleasures of the men of the camp. And Agamemnon had just given us permission for them

The girl shifted again, looking close to either crying or vomiting. Across the camp, I notice Achilles, his face blank as a smooth slate – emotionless and solid, looking straight past the girl, as if he had not seen her.

Patroclus, on the other hand, very much had. The boy looked horrified, his eyes wide with disgust, his mouth twisted into a helpless expression of pure horror. He leans over to whisper something in Achilles’ ear, just as Agamemnon ascends the dais, a leering grin adorning his face, his eyes raking over the young girl. The appetites of the House of Atreus were bottomless indeed

Suddenly, Achilles steps forward, his bronze armor, dulled with smears of blood, still shining the sun, “High Commander Agamemnon”, he says, and his voice is low and deep, and carries the note of a threat, “I would have the girl as my prize”

I release a relieved breath that I had not realized I’d been holding. Achilles was many things, but unfaithful, he was not. He would not touch the girl, not with Patroclus there.

Agamemnon’s eyes flash with irritation, his upper lip twitching, as if he desperately wanted to deny the young warrior’s request. But, as cruel and arrogant as he may be, he was no fool. He disliked Achilles, but it would be political suicide to be churlish here. However beautiful the girl may be, she was not worth that.

He straightened his back, looking the very picture of generosity

“As you wish, Prince of Phthia”, he says, his voice barely trembling with rage, “Have her. She is yours”

The Myrmidons cheer out as one – perhaps assuming that their captain would let them have a taste of the gift he had acquired. Achilles does not flinch, nor show any signs of hearing them, merely stepping forward, and roughly grabbing the girl by the arm, dragging her away from the dais, even as Patroclus winced at her clear discomfort

He brought her over to his lover, and for a moment, there is whispered conversation – short, low and significant. He turns to the girl and says something in mangled Anatolian. The girl seems to visibly relax at his words, her shoulders falling as a sigh of relief escaped her lips

Achilles turns back to where Agamemnon watched him with hawk-like eyes, “My men will collect the rest of what I am owed”, he says, his voice loud and echoing, “I will take the girl now”

Instantly the crowds erupts into approving whistles and laughter. Achilles pays them no mind, as he turns to return to his camp, Patroclus in tow, gently dragging the young slave girl along

I stepped forward from where I stood, and the eyes of the many fell upon me. My eyes, dark and stormy with disdain for these so-called “kings”, spun to find the most capable of my men, a mighty, scarred general by the name Pittacos, and gestured sharply for him to stand. He did as he was commanded, watching out the corner of his eye as Diomedes gestured to Sthenelos as well, whispering something in his ear

“Pittacos”, I command in a harsh bark, “Collect what I am owed”. Agamemnon half-rises from where he sits, his scepter, black wood banded with iron – his pride and joy, symbolizing the “right to rule” that was granted to him by Zeus himself…. Or so he says, slipping a little from where it lay on his lap

“Whither do you go, son of Laertes ?”, he asks, “Did you, perhaps, desire the farm girl ?”,. His voice is high, a mocking sneer. I turn to face him, and he jerks back at the fury in my eyes

“What was her name ?”, I ask him

“What does it matter ?”, he waves his hand dismissively, “She’s nothing but a slave, now”

“What. Was. Her. Name ?”, I repeat, my voice a thunderous, low rumble. He flinches

“Hippodameia, daughter of….”, he turns to his brother, who whispers something to him, “Briseus of Pedasus”

I nod, and turn to march off in the direction of the Phthian camp, Diomedes following shortly behind. The journey is relatively short, as we pass by camp after deserted camp, until at last we arrive at the Phthian camp, where Achilles stands at the gates, Hippodameia beside him, Patroclus gently whispering to her

I bow as I approach, “Greetings Pelides, Menoitiades !!”, I call. Achilles spins around, ripping a knife from his belt and holding it out threateningly. I put my hands up  in a gesture of surrender, “Woah, there !! I’m not here to hurt her”

“Why are you here, then ?”, Achilles asks curiously, sheathing the knife

“If I had to spend one more moment surrounded by…. being forced to appease…. people who would willingly rape and abuse an innocent farm girl, I would have slit my throat”, I say, “and I’m sure Diomedes would agree”, I gesture to him, and he nods in agreement

“I see”, Patroclus says, his voice low and soft, his eyes sharp as a dagger as they looked us over

“What’s her name ?”, Achilles asks roughly, gesturing to the young girl, “What shall we call her ?”

“Agamemnon said it was Hippodameia”, I mention. The girl shakes her head frantically at that

“No ? Not Hippodameia ?”, I ask, slipping into Anatolian, the words strange and slippery on my tongue, “Well then, girl. Name yourself. Who are you ? What do you want your name to be ?”

The girl’s eyes widen, apparently unused to hearing her mother-tongue from Greek mouths. Her lips part once, twice, before slipping shut, and not opening

Diomedes scoffs from somewhere above me, “What kind of hosts are you ? The girl’s filthy, injured and freezing. Of course she doesn’t want to talk”, he says, his tone informal, gesturing to Achilles and Patroclus, who flush with embarrassment at his words

“Ah.. of course”, Patroclus says, gesturing to her to follow him, “Right this way, please”

After a few hours, I entered her tent, gingerly lifting the flap of the tent with one hand. In the other, I held a compress, some bandages and some medicine that I had procured from the Phthian medical tent. Well, I say “procured”. I actually mean, Patroclus gave it to me, along with a list of strict instruction, because, for all my expertise, I knew nothing of medicine

The girl is sitting in the tent, dressed in a tunic that hung past her knees, making her look even younger than she already did. Her face was buried in her knees. I approached her gently, kneeling down beside her, and gingerly lifting her face from her knees.

Thankfully, she did not flinch away. I had won her trust by speaking Anatolian

“How are you ?”, I ask, my voice gentle, though it still echoed loudly in the empty stillness of the tent. The girl is silent, she does not speak. Her eyes are shattered and broken, and I got the sinking feeling that that wasn’t a new development

“What about your name ?”, I try again, applying the compress to her bruised forehead, “Who gave it to you ?”

“H..”, the girl whispers, her voice barely loud enough to be audible. I crane my head to listen

“Helenus”, she says, “Scamandrius”, tears gather in her eyes

“The seer ?”, I ask. Helenus of Troy was a household name among the people who inhabited the isles of the Aegean Sea. The soothsayer who had predicted the fall of Troy. Greatest of the augurs. Still, for him to give someone else’s child a name…

“Not your parents ?”, I ask, clearly the wrong thing to do, for it set off another wave of sobbing from the young girl

“No”, she shakes her head miserably,” "I used to have a different name. My father used to say it affectionately to me when he taught me to read by candlelight, or when he taught me about the different herbs and their effects, or when he told me I had my mother's smile."

Her voice is heavy as she speaks, growing heavier and heavier as she continues

“He was a well-liked and appreciated man. People would call out ‘Briseus!’ when they were injured and needed care, or ‘Briseus!’ when he had to teach their physically handicapped sons how to write so they could at least find work in another field.”

I am silent, as I wait for her to continue

She does so, “… but then our village was overrun”

“By the Greeks ?”

“No, by another Anatolian kingdom”, she says, “I was sent to the village where you found me. My father….. I never saw him again. I don’t remember much, I was a child then, four, a mere babe”, she sobs, “All I remember is that I was assigned a task, one I did not do, and then another, and then another. I could do nothing but cry and sob. Soon, people began assuming I was mute”

The pitch of her voice rises now, into a mocking, high-pitched parody of the people who renamed her, “She can't talk. She's like a pet, give her a name. And so they did. Every job I did, I got a new name. Until I finally received this name, when the great seer Helenus stopped by our village one day.”

Her breathing calms as she continues, “He took one look at me, and was smitten. Not because he lusted for me, but because he wanted to me to marry Prince Hector. And so he named me this, Hippodameia. “She who masters horses”. Fits well with Hector’s own epithet of “Tamer of horses”, does it not ?”

For a few seconds, her voice cannot be heard, drowned in a series of indistinguishable sobs and cries, “But…”, she continues, “…. I never married Hector. Andromache received that honor…. And so I was forgotten. Poor, pathetic, mute little Hippodameia”

For a moment she was as silent as she could be, with her muffled breaths. I wondered if she was forcing herself to be quiet by pressing her hands to her mouth. It sounded like it, but I didn't dare look.

“What do you want your name to be ?”, I ask, as calmly as the rising inferno within me would allow

“What do I- my name ?”

“Yes. Consider this a new beginning. A fresh start. Choose another name, and it will be yours”

She looks at me, and her eyes sparkle with tears

“Briseis”, she says, and her voice cracks, “So that everyone knows that I am my father’s child”

As I leave the tent, I spot Achilles standing near it’s mouth, leaning against a nearby wooden post, impatiently tapping the ground with his foot. He sees me come and rises from where he leans, straightening up to his full stature

“Well ?”, he asks, his voice tinged with impatience

“Briseis”, I say, “Her name is Briseis”

“I see”, he says blankly, as if he didn’t really care, “Patroclus will be well-pleased. He was worried for her”

“She doesn’t speak Greek”

“I wasn’t expecting her to”, he says, now filing his nails with a knife, “She’s an Anatolian farm girl, with no reason to know our tongue”

Diomedes walks up beside him, “We should probably return”, he says, a tinge of amusement in his voice, “Our men have started sending scouts into Trojan territory to find us. Apparently they think we walked off and got ourselves killed”

I roll my eyes, “Dramatic little shits, aren’t they ?”

Diomedes chuckles, a deep, resounding sound, “To be fair, that does indeed sound like something we would do”

“Speak for yourself”

Days turn to weeks, weeks to months. Agamemnon’s scouts watched the city every hour of every day, waiting for any sign of movement. The raids continued, as village after village fell to the wrath of the Achaeans, and every day Agamemnon ascended the dais, surrounded by the day’s loot, some items still smeared with blood and brains, to announce that there was no news – no movement, no sound, no soldiers.

The endless raids had taken a toll on us all, some more than others. Patroclus had started to look hollowed-out, a husk, deep shadows smudging the skin beneath his eyes, as he sat at the council meetings, staring forward into nothing. Beside him, Achilles look chiseled from stone – cold and still as a rock, his skin pale, and often spattered with blood.

Diomedes had taken to walking the campsite at midnight, when the men were asleep and the stars shone above, and I tended to accompany him. The nightmares kept us both up. Often, I saw Palomedes, too, sitting by the entrance to his camp, staring up at the stars, as if waiting for some kind of divine sign.

Of course, some relished in the slaughter we carried out, and they were easy to spot. Ajax could often be seen laughing heartily as he related some tale of the blood and gore he spilled that day to his men. Agamemnon often kept the heads of the men he had personally killed on a small table beside him, like gruesome trophies

 In stark contrast to his brother, Menelaus had become increasingly withdrawn, his face carved from alabaster at meetings, barely, if ever, speaking.

The men were growing restless too. I could feel discontent stirring in them like an awakening inferno, and so could Agamemnon. I saw it in the way he stood at meetings, his eyes not so much observing as much as pinning each leader to their seat, a clear sign of dominion, a clear message : I am your superior. Do not dare rebel. 

Some, like Idomeneus and Meriones, were more than willing to bow their heads in submission. Others, like Achilles, growled back

The soldiers consoled themselves in other ways. Girl after girl is brought to the dais after that first day, in a similar fashion to Briseis, wounded and staggering as the men around her hooted and hollered like a pack of hyenas who had just spotted a corpse to eat

They were everywhere now, farm girls with sun-browned skin and callused hands, moving throughout the camp, carrying buckets of water, carving meat, serving food, filling wine-cups, their long, ragged dresses covered in rust-red stains- blood or wine.

 Some polished armor, though most of the men refused to let the girls near their precious armor, claiming that a “woman’s touch would weaken the metal”. Others wove, spinning long, gossamer threads from sheep wool, to be made into clothes for the soldiers

And at night…. Well, they served in other ways still. The night sky echoed with their cries of agony and despair. In the distance, there is light- red and faint – the light of a burning village, a reminder of what we had done

I lie awake and listen to their cries, and I try not to think of my own mother, and how broken and desolate she had seemed the first few years after my birth – how she refused to even look at me for how much I resembled my father. I fail

They are covered in bruises, and wounds, from fists, feet, some from spear-butts or sword-hilts. I watch them come up to the dais, ragged and filthy, and be sent off to a new master, cringing at the blotches of grief stamped across their faces – their wobbly eyes, their tear-stained cheeks.

Achilles does nothing, his eyes, blazing bright and fiery – though with fury or power, I could not tell- fixed on Agamemnon, as he ignores the girls, the treasure, everything. Beside him, Patroclus winces with every new girl brought out, but does not encourage him to take them as his prize, save for a few- the ones who are especially wounded, the ones who are especially young, or weak, or fragile.

I do what I can to help. I try my best to console them, to teach them what little I can of our Grecian tongue, to try and bring them some comfort – however little. But I am only a man, and a man can only do so much.

Diomedes takes no one as a spear-wife. Neither do I. The very thought horrifies me. The men chide me for it, me and Diomedes both – they tell us that our wives wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care.

They tell us that we should treat ourselves, that we deserve it for our work–what’s the point in starving ourselves when a fine feast has been spread out for us ?

We make no reply, our faces are impassive – carved from ice.

The feast is fine, certainly- some of the girls were beautiful indeed, some of the fine Anatolian beauties the poets of Greece spoke of with such reverence – but it is rotten. It is filthy. It is ash in our mouth. No happiness can be derived from an innocent’s pain

Chapter Text

The days drag on, long and dreary – after all, however successful the raids might be, they were only raids. The men itched to fight real soldiers – the famed sons of Troy – instead of the laborers and farmers we slew in the raids.

Agamemnon got angrier and angrier with every passing council meeting, and the men grew restive, restless with irritation – where was the war promised? Where was the glory desired? Where was the fight?

They demand answers from Agamemnon, from me. I tell them to be patient, that the streets of Troy were surely full to bursting from the refugees spilling into the city by now. I tell them that it was only a matter of time before King Priam gave in and opened the gates to talk

As if conjured by my words, as if some god had heard our fervent prayers, the very next morning, a flag of parley is seen flying high above the citadel. A strange fervor fills the men at the sight – finally, a change

The air buzzes with energy as I approach the main camp, where Agamemnon sits in his throne upon the dais, his brother sitting beside him.

I walk towards them, and a ripple of excitement passes through the men that fill the camp. It makes my hair stand on end as I move through it, the steady electric buzz of anticipation.

The entire camp stood on a blade’s edge, about to either fall, tumbling, into the blood-haze of battle, or into the light of peaceful triumph

I finally reach Agamemnon, kneeling slightly before him as I do. The older man’s face is gaunt and stony – twisted into an unreadable expression. I rise to my feet, “You called for me ?”

Agamemnon is silent at my words, his eyes fixed on the earth in front of me, glinting with a strange light. He looks up after a few seconds, and his voice is hoarse as he speaks, trembling with excitement, “Yes…”, he begins, “Yes. You and Menelaus will act as the embassy to Troy”

I nod sharply at his words, and hear the men erupt into whispers all around me. Beside me, Menelaus rises to his feet, and his face is grim and stormy. His lips tremble with suppressed rage. I turn to him, “Put aside your weapons”, I say, my voice soft and warning. Agamemnon’s eyebrows quirk with curiosity at my words

“What ?”, the Spartan king asks, turning to me, his brow furrowed in confusion

“Put aside your weapons”, I warn again, “or you will kill Paris the second you meet him”.

His lips part. Perhaps he intends on denying the accusation. But that would be a lie. I know. He knows. It is evident in his white-knuckled grip around the hilt of his still-sheathed sword, his twitching lips, his blazing eyes. For a few seconds, his eyes are closed, and I see a small vein pulse at his temple

At last, he spits “Fine !!”, the words leaving his lips like a spray of poison, and, drawing his sword, he throws it to his brother’s feet, the shining bronze blade clattering against the hard, packed earth of the dais. Agamemnon’s lip twitches in amusement.

“You think they will accept peace, Commander ?”, I ask Agamemnon, my eyebrow rising at the idea. At my words, there is a cry of outrage – how dare I think they would not !! Surely any sane country would wish to spare themselves the wrath of the Achaeans ?

“I think”, Agamemnon says, and is voice is slow, almost lethargic as it creeps from his lips, a small, sadistic smile spreading across his face, “I think that this will be a splendid show of diplomacy on our part. I think that the Trojans will regret, as they fall to our blades”

The men cry out at his words – loud and boisterous, their arrogant cheers bouncing off the sand of the beach, and the waters of the sea behind us. I nod slowly, and my lips quirk a little

“So you think they will refuse”, I say, matter-of-factly. It is not a question. I am not uncertain. Agamemnon simply smiles, and that is answer enough

The sun is high in the sky by the time we leave, our horses neighing and shifting beneath our legs, their hides, brushed to a shine, gleaming in the brilliant, burning light

Beside me, Menelaus rides forward slightly. He is impatient, or perhaps eager, though the glint of fear in his eyes belies his true emotions.

He is terrified of what he will find, of what he will see or hear, of what his wife will say. The men had been whispering, speaking to one another in hushed tones when they thought Menelaus wasn’t listening – Menelaus’ palace was built like a fortress. Would Helen not have been heard, had she cried out even once ?

His breath comes quickly as the grand citadel of Troy looms before us, his eyes wild and unfocused. Not for the first time since the beginning of our journey, I thank the gods that I made him put away his weapons before coming here

The Scaean gates swung open, and Menelaus let out a small growl as we entered the city, which stretched out on either side of us, an endless carpet of houses. People surrounded us, flocking around us like sheep around their shepherd. Some wore tunics, others blood-stained rags. Some of them looked up at us with faces stamped with pain and grief, cursing at us in Anatolian. Refugees

The palace of Troy looms high before us, and beside it, a smaller, marble, building, high pillars shining like silver in the sun. The famed Trojan temple of Athena.

In the distance, we saw two figures standing at the gates of the palace, their clothes faint smudges of purple and red. Priam and one of his sons had come to greet us.

I turned to Menelaus, only to see that he was raking his eyes across the tops of the walls, seemingly looking for any archers. Clever. After all, if the Trojans wanted to ambush us, now would be the best time

We approach the temple first, and through the pillars, I see a man kneeling before the wooden statue of a woman, her features delicate and soft, and yet, hard as steel, her brow furrowed, her mouth twisted into a snarl of rage.

A bronze helm decorated her flowing oak curls of hair, and she held a mighty spear in one hand, it’s tip made of shimmering, polished bronze.

There was no mistaking it. The Palladium, fashioned by the goddess Athena herself in response to the death of her beloved companion Pallas, sent to aid Ilus, the founder of Troy

Before it, the man rose, his head lowered in submission before the goddess. From behind, I could see the muscles of his back flex as he did, powerful and strong. A warrior. For a few seconds, he remained standing, whispered prayers flying from his lips, before he turned to face us

His beard was full, covering his lips and chin. His cheekbones were high and delicately set, even as the lines of his body were hard and strong. His eyes glinted like twin zircons in the sunlight. He nodded at us as we passed. He did not introduce himself. He did not need to. I recognized him from the beach. Hector, foremost prince of Troy

As we approached the palace, King Priam descended the stairs, his arms open in welcome. In the sunlight, his age was evident, his face wrinkled and lined with it, his lips thin, his beard, wispy and grey, hanging down to his frail chest

“Welcome”, the old man said, his voice quaking with his age, his eyes shining slightly, “Welcome, sons of Greece”

Menelaus sneered at the king’s words, his thin, wolfish lips pulling back to bare his teeth, “Where is my wife ?”, he demands, his voice trembling with concealed rage – an inferno of pure wrath

I grab his arm and squeeze tightly, “Menelaus of Sparta”, I say, my voice carrying a warning note, “This is a diplomatic mission. We are here as the guests of great king Priam here. Treat him with respect”

“He is our enemy !!”, the Spartan king whines, to which I click my teeth in disagreement

“Not here. Not now”, I say, “Not if things go well”

Menelaus looks like he wants to argue for a second, before falling silent. I turn back to Priam, who has been watching our conversation with interest

“Thank you for your hospitality, O King of Troy”, I say, bowing my head slightly as I dismount my steed, “and thank you for being willing to receive an embassy from us”

Priam stiffens at my words, and I notice the other man – small, slight, with rings decorating his long, thin fingers, his eyes painted like a woman’s – snarl at my words. Everyone here knew that Priam had no choice but to fly the flag of parley. To pretend he did was just salting the wound

“O-of course”, he said, turning to lead us to his hall, “Right this way, please”

The andron of the palace of Troy was long and vast, illuminated by hundreds of candles that lit  up it’s stony walls, though still somehow cool.

At the other end of the hall stood a long table, reserved from Priam, his sons and some of his chosen guests. Before it, a few smaller tables had been set

“Come”, Priam said, his voice shaky as he led us over to the main table, the other man following shortly behind, “Eat with us”

Menelaus looked ready to refuse, but I grabbed his hand and fiercely squeezed it, silencing him

“Of course, O King”, I say warmly, taking a seat. After a few seconds, so does Menelaus, grumbling as he did

There is silence, for a second, as the other man takes a seat on the other side of his father, lowering himself till he was hunched over his meal, ripping off chunks of bread and chewing them savagely

Menelaus’ eyes flickered over to him, and I saw the flames of madness ignite inside them. I grabbed his leg, restraining him to his seat, though I could not stop him from leaning over and growling at the other man, “You !!”

The man squeaked like a mouse and scurried to hide behind his aged father’s frail form. Priam let out a long-suffering sigh, and raised his hands in a gesture of apology, “Forgive my son, O King of Sparta.”

Menelaus does not hear him. He calls out to the other man again, “Paris, you cowardly wife-stealer !!”, he says, his voice deep and threatening, “Come out and fight me !!”

“Enough !!”, I snap irritably, and Menelaus’ jaw snaps shut. He turns to look at me as I continue, “We are here for diplomacy. I understand that Paris has wronged you, but I refuse to let blood be shed on a diplomatic mission”

“Thank you, Lord Odysseus”, Priam says, his voice thick with relief, “I do not think my son would have survived a bout with the famed king of Sparta”

“I did not do it for him”, I correct the old man curtly, “I did it for peace”

An awkward silence reigns for a few seconds, before the door opens again, with a deafening creak. A man strides in, his face dark and thin, made up of sharp corners and slanting panes. A thin moustache decorated his upper lip, and he held a stack of scrolls in his arms.

Priam nods at him, his eyes glinting with an unspoken warning, “Greetings, Helenus.”

Helenus starts as he notices us, “Father, what…”

“Ah, yes”, Priam says, holding up one hand to silence his son, “These esteemed guests of ours are two of the foremost captains of the Achaean army, Odysseus of Ithaca, and Menelaus of Sparta”

There is silence, as a myriad of emotions flashes across the man’s face- anger, humiliation, pain, grief. At last, it settles on a mild, milquetoast politeness, with which he bows and mutters something that sounds like, “Welcome”

Caution flashes in his eyes as he takes a seat beside his brother, poking at the food that has been set out for him, his eyes fixed on me. I wave slightly at him, and his mouth twists into the snarl of a terrified animal, his finger unconsciously tracing patterns into the wood of the desk. A horse

I observe the patterns carefully, my mind going over Helenus’ reputation

Greatest of the seers. Greatest of the augurs

My mouth forms a considering smirk as I mentally note the image down. Perhaps it will be useful later

 “I have heard much of you, Greatest of the Augurs”, I say, raising my wine-cup in the air, my eyes fixed on the nervous figure of the young prince, who flinches at my words

“I-is that so ?”, Helenus squeaks, his eyes fixed on his food, without turning to look me in the eye

“Indeed it is”, I say, “Mind sharing one of your famed prophecies with us ?”

The table falls silent. Menelaus smirks beside me. Priam coughs slightly as he prepares to speak, but is interrupted by his son, who has raised himself till his back is as straight as an iron bar

“O-of course”, he squeaks once more, before his eyes go glassy and glazed, his irises fading from a deep brown to a pale gold. His lips part, and a whispery, inhuman voice emerges, “Beware the sea, son of Laertes. Beware the sea”

Beside me, Menelaus flinches at the strange voice, but I only smile blankly in response, “I see”, I say, breaking the fragile silence that had fallen after the prophecy, “Well, it’s a good thing this war’s being fought over land, then”

As the shockwaves caused by the prophecy are fading, the door opens again. The room hushes as the newcomer enters, towering and muscular. Priam’s eyes gleam with pride as they fall upon him. Paris sighs with relief at the sight of him

It is Hector, who turns to us, and lowers himself into a respectful bow, “Greetings, kings of Greece”, he says, his voice silken and polite, as though he were greeting old friends of his father, rather than people who had, just yesterday, been slaughtering his people

Menelaus looks cowed at the sight of him, and I can’t help but agree. Hector is awe-inducing, both in towering physique, and smooth, eloquent voice. I rise to my feet and bow back, “Greetings, prince Hector”, I say, a small smile tugging at my lips, “It is an honor to meet you”

“The honor is all mine”, the prince says, as he strides over to the table and seats himself between his aged father and us, as if protecting Priam from us

“We have heard much of you”, I say, my voice coaxing and slippery, “Seen much, too. You were quite impressive at the beach”

Hector’s eye twitches with something resembling irritation, “I see”, he says, his voice respectful and low, “You were impressive too”

“I didn’t fight”, I protest, somewhat for show, as a grin tugs at my lips

“Not all fights are physical”

I grin with approval at his words, before leaning back against my chair, lightly swirling the wine in my cup, “A wise man”, I say, “Why do you show us such respect ?”

“What ?”, Hector asks, appearing to be caught off-guard by my question

“Is it because, for now, we are not your enemies ?”, I muse, “But, gods forbid, if these talks fail, we will be your enemies tomorrow”

“You are my enemies today”, Hector interjects, “The blood of the men you’ve slain – my men – still stains your hands. But I see no reason to refuse to show respect, even to an enemy”

My eyebrow rises, “I see, I see”, I say, “You truly are as great as the stories say, if that is the case”

For a moment, there is silence as Hector eats. No one dares speak. Even Menelaus holds his tongue. The presence of the Trojan prince seems to fill the hall with a strange energy, as if the very air itself was attracted to him

He finishes eating, and calmly leans against his chair, sipping his wine as he did, his eyes fixed on me. “Achilles is with you”, he says, his voice thick and low, “I saw him on the ships”

“He is, yes”, I say, “He saw you, too.”

“He killed my father-in-law”, he says, matter-of-factly, placing his cup back onto the table, as the whole room freezes at his words

“I-is that so ?”, I stammer, my eloquence, for once, leaving me

“Indeed”, Hector says, his expression unreadable, “King Eetion of Cilicia. Heard of it ?”

I swallow. I had. In fact, we had raided it only a few weeks ago. I am silent. Menelaus, beside me, is frozen in his seat, a statue of alabaster

“It’s near Lesbos”, he says, “He had eight sons. They tried to hold him off. They failed”

Simple as that. My lips part, but nothing comes out. He continues, “He left one son alive. The youngest, that the line may live on, even if the members have all but fallen. I suppose I should thank him for that”

“We apologize”, Menelaus says, his face stormy, “We did not know”

“You could not have”, Hector shakes his head, “It’s not exactly common knowledge. Still, I feel sorry for my dear Andromache, with her entire family, save one brother, slain”

For a moment, there is silence, and Hector speaks again, “In any case, what is done is done. Let us speak now of peace”

Menelaus’ eyes widen slightly, “You are not against us ? I would assume that you would want to kill Achilles, for what he’s done to your wife”

“I do”, Hector nods, “but my heart lies with Troy first, and currently, the best thing for Troy is peace”

I nod solemnly, and move a little, my eyes flicking over to Paris, who currently sat cowering behind his father’s form. Hector shifted slightly, his eyes following my gaze. His lips twisted into a grimace as he saw upon who it fell

“By stealing away the wife of Menelaus”, I begin, my words short and simple, my tone cold and harsh, “your son has violated the laws of xenia, and, in so doing, has offended the great gods Zeus and Athena. Amend his error. Return what he has stolen”

Priam turns to me, and his eyes glimmer, watery and small, “I believe you must be misinformed, Lord Odysseus”, he says, his tone firm as steel, “for my son “stole” nothing. The lady has put herself under my protection. She has asked us for asylum.”

“You lie !!”, Menelaus growls, practically pouncing at the old man. My hand snapped out, and grabbed him arm, pulling him back into his seat, even as Hector rose, towering and powerful

“Hold your tongue, king of Sparta”, he rumbles warningly, “My father speaks nothing but truth”

I raise my hands in surrender, placing myself between the two warriors, attempting to de-escalate the tension in the room, “Of course, of course, Korythaiolos”, I say to Hector, my tone soft and soothing, “We never intended to imply that your father was a liar. Menelaus here”, I nudge the king of Sparta sharply, shooting him a vicious glare, “simply spoke without thinking”

“Y-yes”, Menelaus says, bowing his head slightly in apology, “I sincerely apologize”

Hector seems to calm slightly at Menelaus’ words, nodding sharply and seating himself once more, though his hackles remained risen. His eyes, sharp as a dagger, were fixed on me. I swallow hard.

“So…”, I begin, my voice quaking slightly, “You will not return Helen ?”

Priam shakes his head, “I apologize, but I cannot”

Menelaus speaks up now, his voice deep with anger, “You would go to war for your coward of a son ?”

“I would go to war for my principles”, Priam corrects, and his voice is firm and resolute, even as Paris quakes in fear behind him, “I would go to war because I have not refused a woman’s right to defense yet, and I will not begin now”

Menelaus smiles a wolf’s smile, sharp and savage, a thin veneer spread over a fiery inferno of rage and bloodlust, “War it is, then”, he says, rising, “I will drown the fire of your conviction in an ocean of your men’s blood. Let us see if it still burns so bright then”

With that, he spins around, and marches out the hall, his crimson cloak flying out behind him like a sheet of congealed blood

I turn to Priam, and my voice is low as I speak, almost pitying, “I admire your convictions, O King”, I say, shaking my head, “but I cannot help but feel like you have just doomed your kingdom”

“If we die, then we die”, Hector interjects, “but I refuse to let us degrade ourselves morally”

Priam nods, “My son is correct, Lord Odysseus”, he says, his voice shaky with age as he rises to his feet, Hector helping him up, “I thank you for letting us have this conversation, even if it ended in disaster”

I nod back, “Goodbye, King of Troy”, I say, turning to leave, “I will include you in my prayers”

“So will I”, Hector says behind me, his voice echoing loudly in the still hall, “and I hope that the day fast comes where we can stand together, as allies, be that in another life, or in this one”

I smile at his words, “Honor-bound Hector”, I say, my voice low, but still loud in the silence that surrounds us, “I mean no offense, nor malice in this, when I say that you should have abandoned Paris and Helen on the Spartan beach”

“Perhaps I should have”, he acknowledges, “but I will never turn my back on family, however”, I could practically sense Hector glaring holes into Paris, “stupid they may be”

“Admirable”, I say, “Foolish, but admirable”

“That’s me all right”, Hector says, a tinge of laughter to his voice, “foolish, but admirable”

“Oh no, Prince”, I smile, shaking my head, “You are anything but foolish”

With that, I leave the hall, my steps echoing loudly in the silence, slow and loud, a death knell for the Trojans. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hector and Priam sit down again to continue their meal, Paris cowering beside them. Helenus eyes his brother with something resembling sorrow stamped across his face – as if he is already measuring out his funeral shroud

As I leave, thoughts flash in my mind, of Hector – “horse-tamer” to his own men, “man-killer” to ours. It did not take a genius to realize why Helenus looked so sorrowful. Hector was fated to die. And there was only one man who had the strength to deliver the killing blow

It takes tenderness and patience and devotion to get a wild horse to trust you, let alone let you ride it. Hector's life and relationships to others, even the gods, are defined by devotion, and it has won him honor. But it has doomed him

For Achilles was no wild horse, he was a dog, and one that answered only to one master. Even the wildest horse has the desire for food and comfort, but Achilles has never desired anything save Patroclus and glory

My eyes close, and I fancy that, far in the distance, I hear the snip of the Fate’s scissors cutting through a golden thread. In my heart, I curse the day I chose to travel to Sparta

Your blood, and mine, prince Hector, king Priam. It runs red all the same

Chapter Text

Agamemnon reacts with glee to our news, his eyes gleaming with a strange savage joy, “Well, they have chosen their route”, he shrugs, and his voice is giddy with bloodlust, “We have tried diplomacy, and were refused. Tomorrow, the real war begins. The blood of the sons of Troy shall flow like water !!”

The men cried out at his words – joyful and ecstatic, looking for all the world like a pack of hungry dogs baying over the corpse of an animal. Beside Agamemnon stood Diomedes, and even his eyes glinted with something resembling satisfaction – at last, the killing of innocents would end, and the killing of soldiers, begin

Achilles raises his head, and his eyes gleam in the torchlight, making them look like hollow pits of flame. They shone like Sirius, that brightest of stars, known by the world as Orion’s dog, that is so magnificent and bright in it’s glory, emblazoned upon the heavens, and  yet induces in men a feverish rage

Diomedes turns to me, and sees the sorrow etched on my brow, and says nothing. He does not need to, his presence is enough. His eyes glint with a mixture of confusion and empathy, and he embraces me. His body is warm against my own, his chest hard as steel, his lips soft against my ear. I feel a warmth spread through me, before he moves away

“We’d best prepare”, he says, his voice deep, a red tint to his dark cheeks, “The war begins tomorrow”

I nod shakily and move to leave the main tent, to return to my camp, ever-aware of Diomedes’ sharp eyes boring holes into my back

The next day, the armies assemble at the banks of the Scamander, the wide flat plain of Troy rolling out like an endless carpet of green before us. At the base of the citadel, looming in the distance, a black, roiling morass had gathered, bronze helmets shining in the sun, great spears thrusting into the sky

Beside me, Diomedes shifted slightly, a growl building in his throat, as he readied his spear. To the other side of me, Menelaus crouched like a lion about to pounce, his spear held out before him

A trumpet blows, loud and echoing in the endless space, and we break into a lurching, clattering run, our shields banging against our spears and swords, letting out war-cries every so often

I see Achilles running before all the rest, as graceful as a panther on the hunt, twin bronze-tipped spears flashing in his grip. He leaps, and throws one, piercing a man clean through, before stabbing another man with the second. From here, he looks his part – the deathless son of a goddess

Paris emerges from the horde of Trojans, leading the pack, his purple cape flowing out behind him, brandishing twin spears in his grip, similar to Achilles, though in his hands, they look clumsy and mortal.

Behind him rides his great brother Hector, as towering and powerful as he had been in the hall, his great horse-hair helmet lending him an impersonal air. He spears an Achaean clean through with his spear, the blow alone enough to shatter the hard-packed, dry earth of the Trojan plain

I see Menelaus’ eyes fall on Paris, and he leaps forward, intent on revenge, his eyes glinting with the savage hunger of a lion that has caught sight of a goat carcass. Paris shrinks back, receding into the throng of dark-headed Trojans that followed him.

I see Hector’s eyes shine with disgust as he turns to his brother in the crowd, and cries out, his voice tinged with disgust, “Paris, you appalling coward !! Prince of Beauty, deceiver of women. I wish you had never shown your god-blessed face from our mother’s womb, or had died before your accursed marriage. Better that then have you here – a mocking disgrace to the name of Troy”

Menelaus laughs aloud at the great prince’s words, and cries out, his words disappearing into the roaring whirlpool of battle, “Your brother speaks truth, Paris, wife-stealer. Where is the strength in your bones, your body ? Is this the man who dared steal my wife from my halls ? Woe to your father, and joy to us, your enemies ? Come face me now, and find the kind of man you have robbed of his wife. Your lyre shall fail you then, and your beautiful face and flowing hair shall not help you as you lie in the dust”

Paris whines as he emerges from the throngs of men, his face red with shame, “Hector, as always, you speak truth. Hard-hearted Hector, Honest Hector. As fair and simple as the axe of the shipwright splitting a beam of wood. But do not insult the gifts given to me by my patron, Menelaus, for such gifts – given by the gods- are not to be mocked, for no man chooses them. Well then, if you really wish me to enter battle, then I will. Stay your hand, men of Achaea, and of Troy, for I shall face Menelaus, who I’ve wronged, in single combat. Let the victor return home with both wealth and woman, and let peace reign”

Hector nods sharply at his brother’s words, his eyes glinting with a hint of a pride, as he whispers something to the nearest man, who runs to whisper it to another man, and to another

The news spreads like wildfire amongst the men, and slowly, steadily, and with much grumbling from both the Greeks and the Trojans – both sides thirsty for the others’ blood – the fighting slowed, almost to a crawl, before stopping entirely, an unsteady truce reigning over the battlefield.

 Both sides now stood opposite each other, the ground in between littered with corpses and smears of blood

Menelaus and Paris circled each other between the two armies, before lunging at each other, their bronze spears flashing in the sun as they clashed against each other, the sounds of their battle echoing out over the battlefield, like bursts of thunder

I look to the palace of Troy, and see a strange sight by one of the windows. A rainbow seems to be emerging from it, bathing it in it’s multi-hued light. I see Priam, a smudge of purple, standing on the top of the Wall of Troy, a group of a few men surrounding him – smudges of white against the grey stone of the palace

My attention is drawn from him as Menelaus’ spear crashes into Paris’ again, knocking the Trojan prince back somewhat. A few meters back, stands Hector, his face impassive and unreadable as a blank slate of stone.

Paris stumbles as he moves back, and Menelaus lets out a bestial roar of victory as he moves in, his spear swinging upwards into Paris’. I see the soft wood of Paris’ weapon splinter under Menelaus’ overwhelming strength, till it split completely, and the spear swung up directly towards the soft flesh of Paris’ throat

Until he disappeared, as if he had never been standing there. Menelaus’ spear passed through empty air, his eyes wide with surprise, as even Hector, who had simply been watching until now, approached the place Paris had been standing, his face screwed up in something resembling a mix between shock and confusion.

For a second, there is a confused silence, until Menelaus broke it with an earth-shaking roar, “THAT DAMN COWARD !!”, he raged like an inferno, his steps cracking the earth beneath his feet. Hector’s knife-sharp eyes scanned the Trojan and Greek armies for any sign of his brother, but there was none to be found

Agamemnon raised a horn to his lips, it’s ear-splitting yell echoing loud over the heads of the assembled men, who fell silent at the sound

“Noble Hector, prince of Troy”, he says, a sneer evident in his voice, “Clearly victory belongs to my dear brother, and to none other but he. Yield Helen, queen of Sparta, now, and pay us recompense, on a scale”, and here his eyes glinted with that familiar greed of his, “on a scale men shall remember for decades to come”

For a few seconds, there is silence, broken only by the feathery sounds of the Trojans whispering amongst themselves. At last, Hector raises his head, his sharp eyes falling on the king of Mycenae, and his lips part, as if to speak

But it is too late, for there is a twang, sharp and terrible in the silence, and a whistle of wind, unmistakable from what it was. A dark, feather-ended shape flew across the battle-field, it’s iron-point shining silver in the sun. The arrow just barely scraped past Menelaus, drawing blood as it cut his shoulder, dark red fluid pouring from the torn cloth like wine

The Greeks yelled and leapt to their feet, shouting about broken oaths and dishonorable cowards. Hector’s eyes widen with horror, as the Trojans raise their heavy shields to defend against the Greek attack. My eyes scan the crowd of Trojans to find the one who fired the arrow, at last alighting upon the stationary figure of a dark-haired youth, tall and strapping, a bow of ibex horn held in his hands, clearly recently-used

Pandarus, son of Lycaon, my mind helpfully supplied, as I rise to my feet and draw my spear. The youth laughs aloud at the chaos he has created, and turns to aim at another man. My eyes widen as I see at whom he aims.

Diomedes stands a few feet away from me, a burning bronze sword in his hands. My mouth twists into a panicked snarl as Pandarus looses another arrow in his direction.

Diomedes reacts instantly, his blade flashing up into the sky, slicing through the arrow-shaft, sending it clattering onto the ground behind him, harmless.

I, almost instinctively, heft  my spear and fling it at the Trojan archer, impaling him through the stomach. The man chokes out a mouthful of dark, winey blood and collapses against his chariot, the horses taking this as a sign to trot away.

Agamemnon raises his spear, shaking it’s tip threateningly, barely looking at his wounded brother, “TREACHERY !! BETRAYAL !! Come, my fellow Achaeans !! Let us drown them in their blood !!”

Diomedes stands there for a second, reluctant to fight. Sthenelus standing beside him. Agamemnon’s eyes flared with rage as he saw this, and he rode up to the two.

As he neared, he snarled, “What is this I see ? Is it true ? Great-hearted Diomedes, son of Tydeus, standing by to watch the sway of the battle ? Your father never wavered, that’s for certain. He was strong and decisive, that Aetolian Tydeus. You are far inferior when compared to him”

At this, both Sthenelus and I were filled with righteous rage on Diomedes’ behalf, with Sthenelus practically drawing his sword to fight Agamemnon for the insult. Diomedes’ hand snapped out and restrained him, and the great King of Argos subtly shook his head, before raising, his eyes twinkling with humor

“You may well be right, son of Atreus”, he said, his voice light with jest, “but I do not recall my father conquering the walls of Thebes, as I did. Do you ?”

With that, he rose once more, sword in one hand, spear in the other. His helm and armor burned like stars, like great Sirius, Star of Harvest, who, bathing in the depths of the ocean, rises to shine brightest of all

“Very well”, he says, striking his spear against the earth, with a sound like a clap of thunder, “you have convinced me”

The battlefield hushes as he enters it, Achilles following swiftly. In the brilliant sunlight, Achilles’ skin gleamed rust-red from the blood that had spilled on it, his eyes burning with something resembling cold, hard, wrath

Diomedes drew back his spear, and flung it hard, the bronze-tipped shaft spinning like a whirlwind as it flew, before a Trojan fell dead, the spear having passed through his chest. I recognized the young man – Phegeus, son of Dares

“GLORY TO ARES !!!”, Diomedes cried, drawing another spear and raising it, shaking it’s burning point threateningly. The eyes of the soldiers seemed to be fixed on it as he moved, burning like the sun, magnificent and glorious, yet terrible and fiery

Achilles roars out a war-cry beside him, the Myrmidons surging forth at the sound of his voice. The Argives hesitate for a moment, before Sthenelus charges forth to stand beside his king, crying out as he did, “COME ON, YOU FOOLS !! FOR GLORY !! FOR ARGOS !! FOR GREECE !!”

Hector leapt from the back of his horse, readying his spear as he did, his eyes blazing with a fiery intensity. Brandishing his spear, he roared, “IN THE NAME OF PHOEBUS !!”, a cry which soon echoed across the entirety of the Trojan army, as the men put down their shields and raised their weapons, beginning their charge towards us

The front lines clash together in an explosion of noise, and a spray of blood and splinters. The sound of bronze meeting bronze fills the air with a sound like a lightning-storm, as the writhing mass of men shifted and twisted like the hundred heads of the Hydra, fighting amongst each other

Rank after rank of men got swallowed up in the heart-rending chaos of the battle, as though by Charybdis. I stand a few feet away from the center of the battle, overlooking it, the Ithacans swarming behind me, nipping at the bit to fight

In the distance, surrounded by hordes of men, I spot Patroclus, standing in a completely unaffected circle, an island of tranquility in the sea of chaos. A Trojan soldier approaches him, brandishing his spear threateningly, only  to drop dead the next second, transfixed through the heart with a spear

My eyes back-track the spear’s motion, and are unsurprised to discover Achilles as the source, fighting three men at once, a spear in each hand, and a sword clasped between his teeth. He looks almost bored as he fights, as if this is not enough excitement for him.

Beside him, I spot Diomedes cutting down one man after another, his blade flashing as it weaved through the Trojans, gleaming an ominous red-bronze as it moved. I spot a bronze blur move beside him, before he falls with a loud cry, an arrow buried in his shoulder.

I start at the sight, my eyes following the arrow’s trail to a few feet away, where stands none other than Aeneas, son of Aphrodite, the legendary Dardanian prince. I grit my teeth in horror, as the half-god turns to leave, his bronze arrow, clearly tipped with some form of poison, bringing Diomedes down onto his knees

My eyes close, and I mutter a silent prayer to my patron, my words echoing in my mind like the desperate ravings of a half-dead man, “Atrytone, Athene. Hear me, bearer of the Aegis !! If you have ever loved either me or Diomedes, have ever stood by us, raise him up. Drive the poison from his body, and strengthen his spear, that he may slay the child of Aphrodite Pandemos, that cowardly daughter of Ouranos”

For a moment, there is silence, even as the sound of the war reach me like distant flashes of thunder. The ground around me glints brightly in the sun, as though made of silver, as a whisper reaches my ears, distant and faint, though undeniably powerful

“Very well”

Instantly, Diomedes rises to his feet, and even at this distance, I can feel his aura blaze with power as he stands, silencing the combatants around him, who can do nothing but watch him, their mouths gaping with awe

Achilles lets out a bark of laughter as the king of Argos stalks forwards towards the receding figure of Aeneas, “Glad to see you back with us, Tydides !!”

A man rushes at him, his teeth bared in a snarl, as he approached, a bronze spear held threateningly in his grip. Diomedes does not even look at him as he flings a spear in his direction, shattering his teeth, and emerging from his cheek, as the man falls, dead

Aeneas turned to face him at the man’s cry, his spear held threateningly, his eyes gleaming with god-given power. He beat his bronze spear against his tough, hide-bound shield, and cried out threateningly

Diomedes bit out a growl, as he bent low, raising up a great rock, about twice the size of him, and flinging it at the son of Anchises, who tried in vain to flee. I see the rock catch him on the hip, darkening instantly with blood-spray, the sickening noise of crushing bone echoing out across the field. He fell to his knees, supporting himself with one hand, as the other pressed against the wound, trying to stem the blood-flow

A brilliant sheen surrounded him, bright as gold, as Diomedes flung a spear at him, only to see it harmlessly pass through him. A second later, he was gone, and Diomedes’ eyes widened as he realized what had happened. A woman stood now before him, beautiful beyond compare, such that the men around her ceased to fight in favor of gaping at her like mindless fish

Her eyes gleamed a brilliant pink, and her dress, gleaming gold, and spotless, even amidst the heat of battle flowed from her shoulders like the tides that gave her birth. Her thin, blood-red lips curled up in a smile. There was no mistaking it. This was Cyprian Aphrodite, the mother of Aeneas.

Her eyes are deep, and empty, without pupil or iris. The eyes of a deathless goddess, they shine with cruelty, with the sadism of an immortal, who, born perfect, seeks enjoyment in marring and destroying the creations of man. The one who cursed Psyche, the one who began this damn war to begin with. The goddess of rape and lust and sexual violence

For a moment, Diomedes stands there, his eyes fixed on the figure of the goddess, and I expect him to flee, or to kneel at her feet. No one could blame him for it, after all. But it seemed the king of Argos had different ideas

“Aphrodite”, he begins, his deep, commanding voice echoing out throughout the field of battle, “Morpho. Pandemos. Areia. You have robbed me of my kill”

The goddess’ smile falters at the steel in his voice, at the silver sheen of Athena’s protection around him. She jerks back slightly, and gasps rings out across both armies at the sight

Diomedes growls, his eyes gleaming with anger and hunger, like a predator denied it’s prey, “Well then, gentle goddess. You are no Athene, goddess of warfare, nor Enyo, sacker of cities. You are beauty and love, and neither of those things belong on a battlefield”, he brandishes his spear, dripping red with blood, “Since you have stolen from me the glory of slaying that son of your, allow me this, the glory of slaying you !!”

Holy shit, Diomedes

For a few seconds there is nothing but utter silence, on both sides of the battle-field, as they tried to digest the fact that a mortal had just challenged a god to a fight, before the field exploded into a barrage of cries and whispers. Diomedes grinned a shark’s grin, and the tip of his spear flashed forward, just barely missing Aphrodite, who dodged at the last second

Again and again his spear flashed forward, each time barely scraping past the goddess, until at last, Diomedes twisted his wrist while lunging, sending the spear careening straight into the goddess’ wrist

A howl of agony, as inhuman as it was loud, sounded out over the heads of the silent onlookers, as the goddess clutched her wrist. Brilliant, golden light poured from it, as if concentrated sunlight had been flowing within her veins.

Diomedes drew back his spear, it’s tip now a burnished gold, and smiled in satisfaction at the goddess’ pain, “Sea-foam-daughter, leave battle and strife to others. Is it not enough that you deceive feeble men and women with your wiles ? Rejoin the battle, and you’ll learn to shiver at the name of war !!”

The goddess straightened up, and her eyes blazed with fire as she coolly regarded Diomedes, “Son of Tydeus”, she begins, her voice sounding more like a choir of singers, a strange melody to it, “King of Argos. Bright-eyed Athene sets thee against me, un-aware that thee are of how short life is for those who oppose the gods. I shall not harm thee now, for thy fate is sealed and set in adamantine. But know this, I never forget”

Diomedes laughs aloud at the threat, the heart sound echoing up and down the battlefield, “Bring your armies, then, goddess. Bring your men. I welcome them !!”

The goddess laughs, an eerie, keening, inhuman noise, “Be not so quick to die, Diomedes. Lest thee never return from the heights to which thee seek to ascend, thee and that son of Thetis”, Achilles jerks back at the goddess’ words, “Lest thee never return from the horrors of war, lest thy children never prattle at thy knee again, lest there come a day that thy wife Aegialeia wake the servants up with her long lament, wailing for thee, the Lord of War”

“My wife will understand”, Diomedes scoffs, “and if she does not, she was never my wife. Do you have nothing but empty threats, O Goddess ?”

Aphrodite merely smiled in response to his words, before disappearing in a flash of brilliant light, and the sweet smell of roses, and I immediately rode down from where I stood, to come to a halt beside Diomedes, as my men whooped with joy at finally being given permission to fight

“Impressive, Tydides”, I whistled as I approached, “Not many would have the guts to face off against a goddess”

A man walked up, then, tall and broad-chested, brandishing a blazing spear as he spoke to the Trojans in a low, hushed voice. I recognized his face as that of Acamas, the general of Thrace, and ally to the Trojans

Suddenly the Trojans rose again, in a wave of ashen death, blood-stained fury raging in their hearts as they charged the Achaeans, who responded in kind, beating their spears against their shields and letting out loud, whooping war-cries.

I could no longer pick out individuals from the twisting, featureless mass of man-flesh, weapons, armor and blood, they were lost amidst the bloody chaos of the battle, as shards of spears and armor and bone flew everywhere.

I watched a Trojan man stagger out of the writhing mass, before falling, an arrow having pierced the nape of his neck. With sharp eyes, I noted that the man still drew breath, letting out wheezes of beseeching terror, before another arrow flew out of the horde, like the spines of a manticore, transfixing him through the chest, ending his life

“War is hell”, Diomedes grumbles, his face dark and stormy, his eyes grim as he surveyed the battlefield with them, “and we are the devils”

“Perhaps”, I say, and my voice is faint, the roar of battle loud around us, “but better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t”

It is dusk by the time we are finally released from the war, and are allowed to limp, dust-coated and blood-stained, wound-covered and aching, back to our camps and our tents, to burn our dead and heal our injured.

There are no spoils to gain this time, however. No wealth to be piled upon the central dais, to be given away to the warriors, for this is not that kind of fight. No, it is a far stranger kind of war, fought not for land or wealth, but only for the sake of glory and honor

The day repeated tomorrow (without, of course, the assistance of the divine), and again, the day after, until a week had passed, then two, then a month, then two

A rhythm emerged in due time, and a kind of mutual respect grew between our parties. We fought seven days out of ten, and had truces for festival days and funerals. The leaders of our parties grew tired and war-weary in time, where they had once been buoyant and joyful with hopes of a quick victory

Despite our hopes of keeping them at bay, all of Anatolia poured troops into the defense of Troy – from Zeleia, Larissa, Ascania – of all manner of size and shape, each given only one instruction – fight for Troy, defend her with your life, and earn glory for your homeland

Diomedes and Achilles seemed to get only sterner and sterner as the days passed, their faces carved of granite at the council meetings, even as the men around them celebrated their victories, the very picture of the inhuman, god-like warriors the armies viewed them as

It was only in the safety of trusted company – Patroclus, for Achilles, and I, for Diomedes, that the inhuman hardness of warrior-hood finally faded from their face, and their true nature shone through.

Soon, the nightmares came, of blood and gore and war, roiling and hissing, biting like a serpent as I slept. I was only mortal, after all.

The first night they came, I was woken by Diomedes gently rousing me from sleep, his rough, calloused hands warm against my face

“W-what happened ?”, I muttered sleepily, sitting up as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes

“You were screaming”, Diomedes informed me, his eyes black with concern, his face glistening as though gilded in the dim torch-light

“Ah, sorry”, I had whispered, “I didn’t mean to wake you”

Diomedes’ eyes had alighted on my face then, the deep, dark circles around my eyes, the pale pallor of my skin, and he seemed to come to a decision

“Move over”, he said, lying down beside me. I did as he said, though my face burned a brilliant red as I did

“Wh-what are you doing ?!”, I yelped at him, eliciting a deep chuckle from the king of Argos, who was now facing me, his eyes deep and fathomless as the oceans, as bewitching as a Siren’s Song

“Helping you, like you helped me”, he rumbled, his voice deep and smooth, warming me from my face to the tips of my toes, before reaching over to caress my cheek, the skin tingling and warming where his fingers touched, “Now sleep”

Who was I to deny his command?

That quickly became a regular event, with Diomedes barely, if ever, spending the night in his own tent, and almost invariably, through one excuse or another, sneaking his way over to mine.

His men didn’t seem to mind, though, even if they did break into whispers whenever they saw us emerge from the same tent come morning. Ah, well. Let them think what they will

Chapter Text

The passage of time was visible, too, in the stature of the other men. Diomedes grew taller, and broader, as time, now towering over me, his once lean, lion-like physique now more muscular and stocky, bear-like, almost resembling my father’s

Patroclus had grown, too, from the small, scrawny runt of a man we had seen on Scyros, to a warrior worthy of having his name emblazoned beside that of the mighty Aristos Achaion. No longer did his borrowed armor seem too large for him, now fitting him like a second skin. He looked and acted a true warrior, though his eyes still flashed with discomfort whenever he was asked to kill

The only one who had not changed, it seems, was Achilles, who looked as god-like as he always had been, his golden curls lying against his bronze skin in much the same way they had back on Scyros. His eyes, however, belied the true change he had undergone. No longer did they speak of an innocent whose head had been filled with praise from others, now they were hard and cruel, the eyes of a soldier, though they still softened as they lay upon his lover, as they always had in the past

Agamemnon grew more solemn as time passed, too, the war stripping away the last of his empathy, his humanity, leaving only a hungry beast in his place, who only aped civilization to deceive his own men. I saw it in the way he leered at practically every woman who had the misfortune of crossing his path. His gold-lust had gotten stronger, too, practically to the point of obsession now, as he stripped any sign of wealth from the soldiers he slew

And how he slew them !! Hiding behind his men, throwing spears with near-terrifying accuracy, piercing limbs and breasts he could not have possibly been able to see !! Agamemnon was many things – greedy, cruel, vain – but unskilled he was not

I would admit, I had changed too, even if only a little. My chest had gotten broader, stockier, more muscular than ever before, and my beard had grown down to my chest, straggly and sharp-threaded, where once had been a clean-shaven, boyish chin. My face was now lined, both with age and weariness, and as I stood, looking in the mirror, I wondered, not for the first time, if Penelope, the thought of whose name still made my chest ache, and little Telemachus, who would approaching boyhood by now, would recognize me once I returned

Diomedes aided me then, as he always did, when the memories got too much, too overwhelming, when the homesickness grew to a feverish pitch. He comforted me, embracing me and whispering in my ear, and suddenly, for a moment, it feels like everything is alright again.

But only for a moment, for as he moved away, I would once again remember the war- from the clanging outside, the sight of the bloody spears lined up against the wall of our tent- and then ice-water would break over me, and the world would be at chaos again

I saw Hector, too, sometimes, caught glimpses of him here and there on the battlefield, though now he seemed almost animalistic in his fury as he slew Greek after Greek, none able to get close enough even to hurt him, let alone slay him. He was tall and muscular, much like he had been at our meeting years ago, though now that bulk seemed to resemble more the muscles rippling under the hide of a lion, and less the body of a man, and stood like a bulwark before the Scaean Gate, slaughtering any Greek foolish enough to approach it, the final defense for his family, his countrymen, his home.

It was strange, the way we lived, scraping together a life out of blood and ash and rubble. The inferno of war raged around us, unforgiving and cruel, it’s sharp talons raking through everything we touched, tainting everything around us with it’s blood-stained, necrotic grip, but over time, we learned to ignore it. As a man who lives beside a waterfall learns to ignore it’s sound, we too, in time, learned to ignore the constant terror promised by war.

We thanked the gods for our continued existence, and went on living, scraping and scratching tooth-and-nail to continue it, for that was all we could do, all any man could do.

This, even though we knew a few amongst us were marked for death. It was writ on the faces of their dearest companions. I saw it on Andromache’s face whenever Hector stepped out from behind the Scaean Gate. I saw it on Patroclus’ whenever Achilles leapt into battle.

A kind of primal fear, a connective tissue that bound us together – be we Trojan, Greek, Anatolian, whatever – a fear that stripped away the identities and cultures that divided us and revealed us for what we were – human.

Their eyes meet over the battle-field – Trojan woman, Greek warrior – and for a second recognition flashes through them – You know my pain – holes cut into the blood-soaked fabric of war, revealing a kinder, more peaceful existence behind it

Soon, the camps start to feel more like families than war camps, drawn together around the fire of the hearth. All across the Grecian camp, there was a similar softening, a similar bringing together. We were men only, drawn together and bound together in spilled blood and split flesh.

The night sky echoed with the sound of Ajax laughing as he regaled his men with yet another tale of his wartime exploits, with the sound of Menelaus softly, carefully teaching the youngest Spartans how to string a bow, how to swing a sword.

A wall was set up around the camp, a vast palisade, ten miles long, at my suggestion, after a man named Thersites had dared to suggest to Agamemnon that we abandon the campaign and return home, both as a way to keep the men too busy to even think of open rebellion, and to protect our tents and ships from the plain

The men had grumbled at the idea, seemingly unwilling to help build a wall

What need have we of walls, they said, when there lives no man who can get past the great Aristos Achaion ?

Diomedes had stepped in then, his smooth, silver tongue, nearly as sharp as mine, quickly weaving vivid visions of night raids and burning ships, frightening the men till they were more than willing to help build the palisade, going off to the woods with their axes and hatchets over their shoulders, their eyes bright and eager to help

Of course, I soon had Thersites quietly beaten to death, lest he start more unrest with his loose tongue

Things had become even more tight-knit after that, as every man began to think of Troy as less “the city we were sacking” and more “the city on whose borders we were living”. Our invasion had become an occupation, and the changes to our camps reflected that

Where before we had only scavenged off of nearby villages and the land itself, now we began to truly build. A forge was set up, a pen for the animals we had stolen, even a potter’s shed, to repair our ceramics, cracked and broken after four years of hard use

The men, too, became less like a hundred different armies, forced to live together by the war, and more like men of the same country. Where there had once been Cretans and Argives and Ithacans, now were only Greeks, born from the same root, drawn together by the other-ness of the Anatolian armies, led by Troy.

Agamemnon’s eyes glimmer as he overlooks the armies. The idle boast he had made four years ago, of uniting all Greece under his command, does not seem so idle now

My reputation began to grow too, with every battle won, every Trojan slain. I hear the men whisper as I walk past – in almost reverent, hushed tones, the way they spoke of Achilles, of Diomedes, as if I were some kind of god-son, or some great conqueror.

They named me ptoliporthios, the sacker of cities, for they believed that I would be instrumental in the downfall of Troy. I hear them whisper as I pass, crouching in their darkened corners – naming me the “great glory of the Achaeans”, “mastermind of war”

I hated it.

It made me feel impersonal, a king ruling from afar, greedily counting his wealth as his subjects suffered. It made me feel cruel and arrogant and everything my father wasn’t.

Luckily my own camp, and Diomedes’, appeared to not have adopted such grand epithets for me, instead treating me as a fellow soldier, a friend, a comrade-in-arms. A fact that would have made someone like Agamemnon froth at the mouth with rage, perhaps, but to me, it was perfect.

It was only in the soft split-seconds of eternity that everything felt okay, the small moments I spent with them, gathered around the hearth like a family.

Sthenelus laughing heartily as he leaned forward in his chair, telling some grand old story, of his youth, of the gods, of the heroes long past. Beside him, leaning against his chair, stands Diomedes, looking as magnificent as ever in the warm light of the hearth, which makes his black beard and hair gleam like obsidian, and makes his eyes twinkle like distant stars. A fond smile decorates his face, his eyes on me. Euryalus sits on the floor, cross-legged, his eyes gleaming eagerly as he clamored for more stories, my own charioteer sitting beside him as I smile fondly at them from a few feet away

It was only in those few moments snatched from the gnashing jaws of time, that I could let my heart beat freely, and not have to be the great Odysseus, sacker of cities. It was only in those moments that I felt truly at home

It was only in those moments that I could let myself forget, about the war, the prophecy, Agamemnon, about everything but the joy we felt in the current moment

I wake before dawn, the twinging sharp cold of fall stinging my skin like a thousand arrows. Outside I hear our men laughing. It is a festival day, one dedicated to the god Apollo. Agamemnon had protested that, when the kings had first suggested celebrating it

“Why should we revere the sun god”, he had said, his face ruddy with outrage, “when the sun god guards our enemy ?”

Luckily for our continued survival, I was able to talk him down from committing a sin that would surely have ended up spelling doom for our men

Diomedes stirs beside me, his body warm and hard, his sweet scent flavoring the air that lay like a heavy blanket over us both. His eyes opened, the dark depths of his iris glinting in the dawn-light that crept in through the tent-flap

“It is the harvest of the first-fruits, isn’t it ?”, he says as he sits up, rubbing at his eyes, his voice deep and husky with sleep. I nod slightly as I sit up beside him.

I see his shoulders fall slightly, a sigh of relief leaving his lips at my words, “Good”, he says, standing up to reveal his full stature, “Good. No fighting today, then”

“Oh ?”, I say, my eyes glimmering with humor as I stand up too, “Is the great Diomedes, conqueror of Thebes, shying away from war ?”, I gasp in faux-shock, “How preposterous !! The very idea !!”

“Shut up”, Diomedes grumbles, rolling his eyes as he playfully shoved me away, eliciting a small laugh from me

Some time later, we took our breakfast. The tent-flap had been thrown open to let in the sea air, which pressed cool and sweet against our skin as we ate. The sea glistened in the distance, a roiling sheet of sapphire, glinting gold in the brilliant sun

“Greetings”, a voice sounds, ethereal and multi-toned, a cacophony composed of a thousand whispers speaking in unison. We start at the noise, turning around to see a woman standing behind us, tall and imposing

Her skin looked composed of marble, as fresh and white as the new-fallen snow that topped the highest mountains of our lands. Her eyes are blank and pupil-less, seeming to glow from within with an inner radiance. A great helm lay atop her cascading black curls of hair, with fell down her back and shoulders like an onyx waterfall

She was dressed in golden armor, so bright that we could not look at it directly, for it seemed to burn our eyes if we tried, as if it were forged of the purest sun-light, the brightest embers of the fire. In one hand, she held a great spear, made of dark olive wood, topped with a golden spear-head

Really, there was no mistaking who she was

I was the first to fall to my knees, Diomedes following shortly after.

“Lady Athena !!”, I cry, and my voice is hoarse with fear, “I apologize for ignoring your presence, for I did not see you enter”

She cocks her head to one side like an owl, her marble eyes raking across us, making us shiver under her scrutiny, “I did not”, she says finally, her voice screeching with a metallic sharpness, “So you could not have”

“Did not ?”, Diomedes asks, his eyebrow raised in curiosity, “You didn’t enter through the door ? But then how…”

“We are gods, boy”, she rises to her feet, towering over us both, making us feel like mere toddlers as her powerful aura washes over us, “We do not have to adhere to your petty mortal “rules of nature””

“O-of course”, Diomedes stutters, rising to his feet as he speaks, “We are welcome to host you here if you so-”

“I have received a warning”, Athena interrupts, her voice sharp and snapping, like a wolf biting through bone. In the dimness of the tent, her skin glows bright as a star. I could see each sharp line of her divine features, every strand of hair in her waterfall of black

“Apollo is angered by your actions against Troy. Sacrifice to him today”, she says, the words simple, a command. She was a warrior after all.

“We will”, Diomedes agrees, nodding sharply in agreement

“You have to”, her eyes, white as bone, locked onto Diomedes’ face, “The grandest sacrifice you can. A hecatomb”. I draw in a breath. That would be expensive. It was our grandest offering, a hundred heads of oxen. Agamemnon would not be happy to hear this. “Whatever you do, prince of Ithaca, he must do this”, she says, her eyes flickering over to me, locking me in place, “After all, he has already angered the gods once”

Diomedes eyes flicker with anger, and he raises his chin up defiantly, “The love goddess stole my kill”, he speaks, his voice calm and stable, “I simply-“

“Stop whining like a child”, Athena snaps, her words short and forceful, like the crack of breaking bone, “I do not disapprove of what you have done”, she smiles, her teeth, white, sharp fangs glinting just beyond the bloody crimson boundary of her lips, glinting predatorily in the dawn-light, “That…. goddess”, and her voice flickers, like she wanted to use a different, much more insulting title for Aphrodite ,”always needed to be taught a little lesson in humility”, her smile falls, leaving her face flat and smooth as polished alabaster, “but actions have consequences, boy, and the gods are displeased that you dared to harm one of our own”

For a moment there is silence, pained and just-a-little-too-long, like a bow-string stretched too far and about to snap, before the goddess speaks again, “The gods have chosen sides’, she warns and her face is ashen grey, “Whatever you do, you must never fight them. They will not spare you a second time”.

Her hand darts forward, faster than a speeding arrow, and catches Diomedes about the temple, her fingers holding his forehead in a steel-grip. His eyes begin to glow a faint silver color

“I will tear away the veil that coats your eyes, that you shall know gods and men apart at the merest glance”, she says, her voice vibrating with power, “and should any god approach you, do not fight with them, for your death is certain if you do”

“Aphrodite mentioned something about his destiny”, I say to her, “and how she could not hurt him for it was sealed”

“She speaks truth”, the grey-eyed maiden says, her voice echoing like a trumpet-blast, “but does not comprehend it. His destiny allowed the strike against the seashell-born. It will not allow one against any other deity”

The light fades from Diomedes’ eyes as he lowers himself into a hasty bow. Athena cranes her head like an owl, her eyes raking over us, feeling like a fire burning across our skin

“The time has almost come. Destiny is at hand”, she says, her voice hissing and whispering throughout the tent, “Do not disappoint me”

She growls slightly on the final words – a lioness instilling the art of the hunt in her daughters – before vanishing

Diomedes turns to me, “She seemed… almost afraid, like she was worried for us”

“I mean, she’s invested a lot into us”, I shrug, “Maybe she’s just scared that all that effort would go to waste if we died now”

“Hmm…”, Diomedes hums, lost in thought, “Maybe… I don’t think so, though”

That night, after much grumbling from Agamemnon, we do as she commands, and the sacrifice is performed. Great altar fires reached up into the night sky with their leaping tongues of flame, and Diomedes cut throat after throat. Beside him stood Sthenelus, holding a small wooden bowl to catch the rich crimson blood as it spilled from the wound.

The first knife slits across the ox’s neck with a spray of blood, sizzling as it fell upon the blazing altar fire, and the sky seems to lighten somewhat, as if Apollo were appeased by what we were doing

The rich ox-meat thigh-pieces are burned together with barley and pomegranate, and our best wine sizzles as it is poured across the hot coals of the wire, as red and dark as the blood that had sprayed across it just a few seconds ago

The rest of the Grecians watch our hecatomb sacrifice from a few feet away, their eyes piercing and inquisitive. Agamemnon stands before the rest, his eyes blazing with anger as he watched all that food, all that money, be burnt as an offering to the gods. Beside him stands Achilles, his face a smooth stone plate, emotionless and unreadable.

I hear the men whisper as the sacrifice continues. Apollo is angry, they whisper, their breaths thick with fear. It was only natural. Apollo was one of our most fearsome gods – the Golden Archer, the Lord of the Golden Sword, with his blazing fire and light, and arrows that were faster than the rays of the sun he commanded.

I was not known for my piety, but that night I praised Apollo with a fervor only seen in dying men.

At last, Diomedes rose from where he stood, as the sacrifice came to an end. He was coated in ox-blood, thick, red and viscous, dark in the warm, orange fire-light

“The sacrifice is complete !!”, he shouts, raising the bloody sacrificial knife like a trophy. Throughout the camp, I hear the men’s sighs of relief, “Apollo is appeased !!”

With that, the men begin to slowly disperse, shuffling back to their tents. Diomedes leaves to walk down to the sea, dark and foamy, glinting silver in the starlight, so that he may wash the blood from his body.

I make to follow him, only to stop in my tracks as I notice Achilles moving towards me, his eyes glinting with a fiery intensity, one I had only seen in him on the battlefield

“Greetings, prince of Phthia”, I say, once he is close enough, “Do you have something to say to me ?”

“Odysseus”, he says in acknowledgement, his voice rough and husky, sounding almost strangled, “There is a prophecy”

My eyes glint in curiosity, reddish-orange from the light of the altar fires, “Is that so ?”, I say, my voice soft, as I rake my eyes across his body. A scent is emanating from him, a strange, fresh, yet stinging scent. Sea salt

“Did your mother deliver it ?”, I ask, eliciting a nod from the blonde prince standing before me

“According to her, in two years time, Hector will die”, he says, his words simple, yet they seemed to fill the space between us with their reverberating exigence

I swallow hard, as a pang of pain echoes through my chest. I was prepared for this. Hector was our enemy. It was him or us. Either he dies, or I did

“That is… good, is it not ?”, I whisper, though my voice trembles slightly.

Achilles nods, though his eyes glimmer with a strange emotion, “That is not all”, he says, and his voice is rough with emotion, “The prophecy also said….he would die, near the time of Hector’s death”

“Hector ?”, I ask, though fingers of dread start creeping up my spine at the other man’s words

“No”, Achilles shakes his head, as if trying to shake off a wild animal that had sunk it’s talons deep into his mind, “P…p..”, he stutters, as if unable to finish the words, as if the very thought was too horrifying to comprehend

“Patroclus”, I softly complement for him, my eyes wide and unseeing. A voice rings in my head – This is your fault. You dragged them into this war

He nods, and his eyes gleam with sorrow, and I can tell, without asking, that the same thought is running through his mind, too

“Does he know ?”, I say, my voice soft with something resembling pity. I didn’t know what I would do if someone prophesized my Penelope’s …. Or Diomedes’ death. Probably go mad

Achilles shakes his head no, “It would only bring him pain”

“What will you do ?”, I ask, my words echoing hollowly in the empty space between us. The camp is all but empty now, the men having left a long time ago. The fire, too, is starting to fade.

“What can I do ?”, he asks, and his voice is broken, halfway to a sob of the purest despair, “What can anyone do ?”

 “It is the will of the gods”, I bite out bitterly, “It is already pre-decided”

Slowly, eventually, I turn to leave, Achilles’ broken sobs echoing harshly off the sandy earth, and the cloth walls of the nearby tents. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, messy and scattered, as I walk

How would they die, I wonder ? Stabbed by a spear, mangled around it’s head, their body stained with grit and blood ? Slit across the throat, like the sacrificial animals the gods clearly saw them as ? Strangled ? Shot ? How ?

And for what ? For being loyal ? To their love, to their country ? What great sin had they committed that they deserved such a terrible fate ? What sin had Achilles committed, to be bound for death ? What sin had Troy committed, to be doomed to fall ?

My father had once told me, after witnessing the death of a young woman to a particularly nasty disease, that “Wherever the gods appear, the world holds its breath, and the Lord of the Underworld dances with joy, knowing full well that his army of the dead will increase”. Perhaps there was some truth to that, after all

I do not sleep that night, and judging by the sounds I hear from the Phthian camp, of sobbing and walking, neither does Achilles

Chapter Text

After that night, Achilles and Patroclus seemed inseparable, whether on the battlefield, or in camp.

Patroclus seems almost uncomfortable with the amount of attention and affection Achilles was lavishing onto him, looking around nervously whenever Achilles ignores one of Agamemnon’s orders, or stays behind from a battle, to spend time with him, but he smiles all the same, fleeting ones shot at Achilles when the Phthian prince looked away, the smile  of a man desperately in love

Achilles, on the other hand, resembles a devout worshipper kneeling before their god. A drowning man clutching at a straw. A priest reading the auguries over and over again, desperately hoping for, praying for, a way to avoid the destiny that has long-been set in stone. His eyes gleam with nothing less than complete and utter devotion. The eyes of a man who would set the world afire for his love

I did not envy the man who was destined to slay Patroclus

Achilles’ fighting had changed too. No longer the graceful dancer, he now fought like a feral beast, with a strange desperation to his movements, as he brought down man after man, cutting his way through the Trojan army as if they were little more than weeds – If I kill you all, none of you can hurt my Patroclus

It is strange, that one man’s love led to the deaths of so many. Like they were little more than sheaves of wheat before a farmer’s sickle. Like they loved and were loved by no one. Like they were simply kindling for the raging flames that was the love of Achilles

Patroclus fights too, and his fighting has grown in leaps and bounds, though still nowhere near Achilles. He fights like a lion, with pride and honor, a certain warrior’s dignity that is absent in his lover. The Myrmidons respect him, their raucous cheers at his presence make that very apparent, even louder than the ones they let out for his lover. The Achaeans respect power, yes, but we also respect a certain adherence to the laws of warfare, the ones Achilles appears to consider himself above

Briseis and the other slave women have started to look… better ? Less broken, certainly, though the scars of the things they suffered were clear as day, imprinted across their faces. It seemed to harden their faces somehow, be evident in every part of them, though they never spoke of it.

The men had long-since stopped raping them (at least, as frequently), now that their thirst of war was well-and-truly sated. Some had even fallen in love with the men, started families. Building a home using death and horror as the bricks. Quite marvelous

I had heard tales from the merchants who used to visit Ithaca, of a distant, far-away land, where there was a tradition that if a ceramic object broke, it would be mended with gold, making the breakage obvious, and part of the object’s history. Not ignoring the past, but making a part of you

It was strangely beautiful, in a way.

The bloody touch of war smeared every surface, as it had for the past ten years, and I wondered, not for the first time, what Lady Athena had meant by “destiny being at hand”

I would, unfortunately, soon find out

A girl mounted the dais near the end of the ninth year of the war, and the beginning of the twelfth. A bruise lay across her face, stark and purple-red as wine, spreading across the pale skin of her face. Ribbons fluttered in her hair, golden and stark against their raven luster – ceremonial fillets.

I swallow in slight horror.

She was the servant of a god. Agamemnon must have gone mad, to have brought her here

Agamemnon mounts the dais behind her, his leering eyes fixed on her form as he spoke, each word accentuated with a sick, oozing lust that seemed to infect his entire form, “You may be wondering why the dais is full again”, he declares to the assembled crowd, who break out into whispers of assent at his words

The daily raids had ended ten years ago. Now we only raided out of necessity, for food, wine or medicine. A girl had not mounted the dais in a long time, and a distribution had not taken place in longer still

“Well, wonder no more, my men”, he declares, his lips thin, as he lay one hand on the girl’s shoulder, his fingers moving around like greedy, grasping tentacles, “This is Chryseis”, he declared, “and she is mine”,

That explained nothing, and everything at once. The men’s eyes are wide as Agamemnon leaves for his tent, roughly dragging the girl behind him. The commander has doomed the camp to the wrath of a god to sate his own lust

Beside me, Diomedes had stiffened in horror as he hears the commander’s words, and now he whispers, his voice soft with a strange mix of revulsion and horror, “Do you think that this is punishment ?”

“Punishment ?”, I ask in return, though I know exactly what he means

“By Aphrodite”, he says, “for hurting her. Is she punishing the Greeks for my sin ?”

My lips part, pale with horror, and I watch Calchas, the blue-eyed priest, run up to Agamemnon and Chryseis, his mouth moving rapidly as he tried to speak, only to be roughly shoved aside by the lust-crazed commander

A month passes before the girl’s father comes, old and hunch-backed, holding in one hand a staff of gold-studded laurel, entwined with flowing golden ribbons and garlands – the wreaths of the gods. His gray-black beard and hair were long and unbound, as was the style of the Anatolian priests, flowing freely in the sea breeze. Ribbons had been set in his hair, as gold as the metal studding his staff – the golden ribbons of the god he served

Behind him walk two underlings, carrying in their arms great chests of wood. After walking a few meters, he stood outside the ships, his head held high, his old, lined face appearing grave and commanding, and raised his staff, his booming voice echoing out over our hollow ships

His voice was resonant and gravelly, the voice of a high priest, made for sermons and speeches, “Great King Agamemnon !! High King Menelaus !! All you great Achaeans, so outfitted for war !!”, he cried, his voice saturated with emotion, and pity welled up inside my heart at the sight of him, “May you have victory o’er Troy, and sack Priam’s grand city, and sail back home with all safety !!”

The Greeks nodded and whispered approvingly at his words. Was he throwing in his lot with us ? It would  be the wise thing to do, after all.

He pointed to his underlings, who flipped open the chests in their arms to reveal gleaming gold, jewels and bronze that caught the light of the sun, glittering as if enchanted

“I am – by the grace of the gods – a High Priest of the distant Archer Lord”, he continues, as we explode into whispers. A High Priest of Apollo ? Here ? In our midst ?

“I am Chryses, by name,”, he says, bowing a little, to even more whispers. After all, High Priests weren’t known to bow before anyone but their god. “I have come to ransom my daughter. Chryseis”, he looks up and his eyes gleam with unshed tears, “Please…”

There is silence for a moment, and a ripple spreads through the assembled crowd. This was a chance – to correct their commander’s foolish error, to gain the favor of a god. The wealth he offered was quite the draw, too, almost excessive – twice, thrice what the girl was worth

Even Ajax and Nestor nod in agreement, and Menelaus moves as if to speak, before his brother steps up in front of him

“Return to your temples, priest”, he spits, and I can practically see the sky darken as Apollo takes offense at this display of cruelty towards his High Priest, “Never let me catch-“

“Brother !!”, Menelaus roars, his face ruddy with anger, “I have watched you debase yourself, debase us, for long enough !! Now you intend to offend Apollo for what ? Some common wench ? Revere the god who strikes from leagues away, Agamemnon !! Fear him !! Accept the ransom !!”

There is silence, as Agamemnon, wide-eyed, digests his brother’s harsh barks, before his face hardens. My head falls in dismay. Ah, right. How could his brother have forgotten? Agamemnon had a strange tendency. The more precarious his position became, the more unlikable he became

He turns to the priest, and his face is hard, his voice rough with anger as he barks out, “Never let me catch you by our ships again, priest !! Not even your golden ribbons, and god’s wreaths will be able to guard you then. Your daughter is mine – mine to keep, mine to do with as I see fit – and this will never change. Not for all the wealth in Troy !!”

The armies fall silent at his words. The very sky seems to darken, till the sea appears black as night. The soldiers suck in a breath. For a moment, Chryses stands, his face pale with a mix of horror and terror, before his jaw tightened – whether in fear or rage, I could not tell – and he turned to leave the camp, marching back up the beachhead, his gold-and-red-banded robe flowing out behind him, his attendants following behind

For a moment there is silence, a swirling chaotic silence, as everyone tries to comprehend what just happened. It was one thing to insult a farmer, or a peasant, and another thing entirely to insult the High Priest of a god. Beside me, Diomedes swallowed hard.

Achilles looked like he was seconds away from ripping Agamemnon limb from limb and sacrificing his body parts to Apollo to appease the god. Patroclus didn’t look too far away from that either

Agamemnon turns and marches off, stomping angrily back to the Mycenaean camp, as the men still stand there, gaping in shock and more than a little horror

There is a moment’s silence, before the men start leaving the beach, to return to their camps and their tents. However, even long after the beachhead had cleared of men, I stayed, watching the shamed priest standing in the distance, shaking his gold-studded staff, his mouth open in a shout of rage

Fear stirred in me like ash. A prayer. To his god.

The sky above seems to lighten as the priest shouts, and the sun seems to grow brighter, and brighter, as if it sought to consume the sky, and earth in a blazing wave of fire. I gulped nervously.

Dread welled in the pit of stomach. It was right to do so

That very night, hissing and roiling like a wave of smoke, invading and infiltrating and flickering, the plague began

Chapter Text

We awoke the next morning to the sickly sweet scent of vomit infecting the air. Outside the tent, I heard the sound of hacking, coughing, retching. As I walk outside, I notice the mules leaning against their fences, their eyes bloodshot and watery, breaths bubbling with greenish mucus.

“Disease”, I whisper to Diomedes as he walks up beside me, “Plague”

“The vengeance of the High Priest”, he replies, his face pale with fear. A dog staggers across our path, his eyes welling with yellow mucus, whining and snapping as his tongue foamed a red-tinted scum, before dropping down. I bent down to check his heartbeat, and found none. He was dead

“Wash in the sea, or from the forested streams. Do not touch the water of the Simois or the Scamander”, I ordered Diomedes, “Tell your men to do the same.”

“You think the rivers are infected”, he surmised. I nodded

“Every Greek uses those rivers – to bathe, to drink, to clean- and so do our animals”, I say, scanning the horizon, where the twin Trojan rivers glinted sinisterly, crystal-clear and shining, “If Apollo wished to kill us, infecting them would be easiest”

Machaon, the head healer, staggers over to us as we speak, his eyes dark and stormy, a make-shift cloth mask hiding his nose and lips

“Infection”, he says as he gets closer, “with no apparent source. Animals dead by the hundreds.”

“Any men ?”, I ask, my eyes dropping to the corpse of the dog, now lying in a puddle of dark crimson blood, along with a swampy dark liquid – the final emptying of the poor beast’s bowels

“A few reports”, Machaon says, his voice grim, deep with seriousness, “Cracked, bloody lips. Vomiting. Sores-”

“No earthly disease did this”, Diomedes interrupted the healer, stepping forward to examine the corpse. He roughly moved it’s limp face, eliciting a stream of bloody mucus from it’s nostrils.

“No earthly disease comes on this fast, kills this quickly”, he looks up, and his eyes shine with dread, “This is divine handiwork”

“Either way”, I say, my voice thick with a strange fear, “We must treat it with the highest caution. Burn every body you find.”

And so we do. All day, we throw bodies onto pyres, their bones rattling against the hard drywood, their bile-soaked bodies dripping with dark blood and pale mucus. All day long, brilliant orange flames lick at the sky, like the lashing heads of Scylla

But they drop faster than we can burn them. They fill every street, every nook and cranny of the camp, with their sickening, rotting stench, their bloody forms slumped lifelessly against walls, fences, the earth.

A few men had fallen, too, by now, their eyes bulging and bloodshot, their throats choked with bloody mucus, skin dry and brittle, tearing with the slightest movement, shredding into yellowy pus and winey blood

Their shuddering forms lay, wasted and abandoned, in dark puddles of excrement and blood, as the sounds of infection – coughing, vomiting – fill the air.

The grounds around the camp can no longer be seen, covered as they are with a thick film of greyish ash from the countless pyres we had made.

Days of this passed, with more men dropping every day, dropping suddenly, without warning, as though pierced through with an arrow. Fields of the sick and dying, coughing up blood,  sweating and crying out for water.

It is not enough. We do not have enough wood to burn them. We have already cut down entire swathes of forest-land to create the pyres we have. To burn them all individually…. We would need to deforest all of Anatolia

At last we abandon tradition, and start burning mounds of corpses together, using the bodies as kindling, with no time to even stand and watch over their prone forms, blackening in the heat of the inferno

The council is angry, and  unwilling to believe Diomedes as he calmly explains the reason behind the plague.

They instead turn to bickering, their brows furrowed with distress as they yell and shout at each other like petulant children – blaming and arguing and screaming.

In the midst of it all stands Achilles, his face hard with thought, an expression of consideration decorating his features as his eyes lay fixed on the empty chair that stands on the central dais. Agamemnon is missing

In fact, he hasn’t been seen in a full week, since this outbreak began

The tenth night of  this, of raging pyres, and pus-stained bodies, of men falling with slight shouts, as though they had been shot with the quick shaft of some godly arrow, Achilles climbs atop the dais, his Myrmidons behind him, his Patroclus beside him

The sounds of weeping and groaning fill the air, barely audible over the roar of the pyres, but as he speaks, his voice deep and thrumming, everything seems to fade away. We crane our heads to listen, the men gathering before the dais, their eyes wide with inquisitiveness, as though he were some priest about to deliver a sermon

“Men of Greece”, he spoke, his voice rippling through the crowd, as grave and serious as the utterance of an Oracle, “Achaeans. I have something to say”

Agamemnon shoulders his way through the crowd as Achilles speaks, his Mycenaeans following behind. He makes to interrupt the son of Thetis, to regain control over the situation. I grab his arm and pull him back, placing a finger to my lips as he turns to glare at me. Silence

“By now, you must have realized”, he begins, pacing back and forth upon the dais, his men assembled behind him, as steady as a mountain face, “This is no ordinary illness. Diomedes tried to warn you”, he gestures to the king of Argos, who quirks his eyes at the Phthian prince’s words, craning his head in curiosity, “but you didn’t listen. You never listened”

A ripple of discontent passes through the crowd, as they shift backwards, away from the barely-felt anger hidden skillfully under Achilles’ honeyed words, away from the tremor of earth-shaking rage in his voice

“This is not a plague. Not a creeping, haphazard disease, common and treatable. This is a sudden attack.”, he snarls, his voice rough with anger, “A sudden, malicious attack. A cataclysm, as inexplicable as the snuffing-out of Aulis’ winds”

The men are silent, stricken with horror. A smug smile creeps across Diomedes’ face as he listens to the prince speak, his eyes glinting with only one phrase – I told you so

“A god’s wrath”, he snarls, “Terrible as it is magnificent. To strike down… what ? How many men have died ?”, he gestures to Patroclus, who leans forward to whisper a number in his ear. His eyes widen momentarily, before he regains his composure, “ Five hundred men”, he whispers, “In one-fiftieth that number of days”

The men shift again, a chorus of whispers breaking out at Achilles’ words. Five hundred men. Five hundred. Nothing compared to the number of men still living, but still… to lose fifty soldiers a day… was no laughing matter

Achilles’ eyes fall on the commander again, as smooth and hard as stones, “Son of Atreus”, he rumbles, “If this continues, we shall be forced to give up the campaign. Well, at least, if we live to do so. But”, he begins as the men start in horror at his words, “I have a better solution in mind. We must learn why Phoebus rains down his wrath upon us – for surely it can be none but him”

The Myrmidons behind split like a  parting curtain, and a man emerges – small and hunchbacked. It is Calchas. Agamemnon growls like a wild beast at the sight of him

“We have here, a priest, a prophet”, Achilles says, his voice carrying a tone of anticipation, like a showman presenting a trick, “An interpreter of dreams !! For dreams, too, come from the gods. Why not call on him to speak ?”

His expectant eyes fall on the blue-eyed man, who cringes at the attention. A ripple of agreement runs through the men, and I hear the creak of metal, as Agamemnon’s fist tightens in his buckled gauntlet

His blue eyes flickered between Agamemnon and Achiles, shining with fear – fear of death, I realize with a start. He is afraid of what Agamemnon will do to him.

A few seconds pass, before he speaks, his voice slow and slippery , like a man trying desperately to avoid some pre-determined fate, “Lord… Lord Achilles…. I…. well… you see…”

Achilles’ face is stone as he speaks again, craning his neck in faux-confusion, “You have sacrificed ? Prayed ?”

“Yes… well, yes of course, but…. Well… you”, his breath caught, his eyes, fearful and wobbling, fixed on the figure of the commander, “… well… you see”

“The gods did not speak to you ?”, Achilles demands more than asks, his voice sharp as a whip-crack,

“They did… and… and…”, Calchas stutters, before finally spitting, “I will tell you… but first, you must promise me this. Protection”

“Protection ?”, Patroclus speaks up now, for the first time, his voice softer than Achilles, yet firm as steel, “From whom ? Who would dare harm a priest ?”

“A powerful man, who does not forget… nor forgive”, he begins, as Agamemnon’s neck went taut, his eyes flaring with fiery rage, “For a king crushes easily the lesser man who offends him, and even held back, nurses resentment within, to repay at a later date. Speak now, Pelides. Can you protect me ?”

Achilles nods sharply, his face a granite mask, “No Achaean shall harm you for the words you speak now, not while I still draw breath. This I swear on the fiery waters of the Underworld-bounding Styx”

There is a moment of silence, before Calchas begins speaking, his wavery voice echoing loudly in the empty silence of the camp, as the men listened intently

“The god Apollo is displeased, or so the auguries say”, he says, his fearful eyes fixed on the still figure of Agamemnon, “for the dishonor shown to his servant. To Chryses”

Agamemnon is still. A vein pulses at his temple. His eyes blaze with anger

“To repay this, in full”, he begins, “The girl must be returned, without ransom, and our commander must offer sacrifices and prayers to far-striking Apollo”

The crowd hushes, holding its breath at the priest’s words. Agamemnon steps forward, and his face is red and blotchy with rage and shock. There is utter silence for a second, a cold, frozen eternity, before Agamemnon steps forward, and spits, a wet smack on the ground before Achilles. Calchas cringes in fear

“Baneful priest, your words have never once brought me joy !!”, he spat, “First my daughter. Kill her, you said, to appease the goddess. And now this?! You love only to prophesize evil. Never a word of good has left your lying tongue !!”

Calchas shifted back a little, and Achilles moved to stand before him, his eyes blazing with warning, “Agamemnon – “, he rumbles warningly, but Agamemnon has already started speaking again, “And now you prophesize to my Danaans, that the far-striker troubles us for my wrongdoing ? That I must give up my prize, that I have conquered with my own hands…”, I saw Patroclus cringe, disgusted, at those words, “… for the whining words of her priestly father ? Do you seek to humiliate me ?”

For a moment, there is stunned silence, as Agamemnon breathes heavily, his face purple with rage, his eyes blazing with fury. Slowly, the purple tinge fades from his cheeks, and I watch his mind swirl behind his eyes, slowly, painstakingly assembling a conclusion, and one he clearly disliked.

His eyes are black with fury when he speaks again, his face pale, his voice trembling with barley-guised wrath, “And yet, gracious king that I am”, he speaks, and his eyes run wild with fury and contempt, though his voice betrays none of it, “I shall let go of the girl, and the ransom, for I would rather you be safe and protected”.

The crowd bursts into shouts of approval and cheers at the commander’s words. They like their leaders generous. However, something is wrong – Achilles frowns, Menelaus shifts uncomfortably, creeping dread starts moving up my spine like fingers of frost. It is not like Agamemnon to accept a loss so gracefully. There must be a catch

 “So ready a prize for me, then”, he grins, the blade falling. His teeth shine in the sunlight like lion-fangs, “For I shall not be the only one empty-handed here, now that my prize is leaving me. I shall have another’s. I shall have a match for my desires, one equal to that which I’ve lost. Yours, perhaps, great Achilles”, or perhaps Ajax’s or Idomeneus’. Let them choke to death on their rage, for all I care !! For I will not be the one returning home with empty hands”

Achilles draws in a sharp breath, and Menelaus makes to speak, but seemingly has no words. Dishonor, the air seems to echo at his words. He wants one of us to dishonor themselves, for him. A war-prize was the living embodiment of aristeia- warrior’s honor, be it wealth or women. In taking it, Agamemnon would be denying one among us the full measure of his worth, and we all knew who it was whose prize would be stolen. After all, Agamemnon despised Achilles

Achilles steps forward, and his face is dark with rage, a fiery, all-consuming inferno, that had brought death to many a Trojan, “Why you covetous schemer”, he spat, and Agamemnon nearly flinched before catching himself, “Why should any among us…. Why should I… dishonor themselves, myself, when we have already given so much to you ? No quarrel brought me here, not with the Trojans, not me. No beast of burden have they stolen from me, nor have any crops of mine been hurt where they grow, back home in black-soiled Phthia. No, for honor, you cur, and for your pleasure. To win you recompense, and to win ourselves honor. And now, you would steal it from me ? Me, who has fought the greatest battles of this war, who has been granted his prize by the sons of Achaea themselves ? I may as well return home, then. It would be better than staying here piling up wealth for you to take, unlawfully”

Agamemnon practically leapt away from the warrior-prince, and I could not blame him. Like this, Achilles resembled some great mythical beast, foaming at the mouth, near-rabid with rage. He had come here for honor – had given up his life for it – only to now be told that Agamemnon was robbing him of it

However, as his armored Mycenaeans surround him, guarding him from the Phthian’s wrath, he rises to his feet, as a serpent-like grin covers his face, his fangs shining pearlescent behind his thin lips, “ Go then, Achilles”, he mocks, “Aristos Achaion, if that is what your heart demands. The others follow me”, his voice is loud in the stillness as he speaks, his Mycenaeans standing like statues around him, their armor gleaming like carapace. The other Greek leaders wear expressions of shock, disapproval, or disgust. A little ways away, Diomedes’ face is screwed up into an expression of dread. I do not blame him. So is mine

He continues, his voice dripping with contempt, “Zeus, great god of counsel, stands with me !! You, who loves little but strife and war, I hate you most. So what if you are our greatest warrior ? Such a thing is only a gift of the gods. Return, Pelides, to your rocky little island, with your ships and men, and display your pride to your Myrmidons, and tell your aged father, how you wasted ten years here, only to return before the war was won. I care little for you, nor your anger, which sparks so easily”

Achilles snaps at the commander in rage, like a wolf snapping at the hind legs of a deer, though Agamemnon simply smiles tauntingly, and keeps speaking, “Now, here is my punishment for your impudence”, the Greeks hiss in disapproval at his words, but  he pays them no mind, “Since I have been robbed of my Chryseis, I shall take from you, your fair Briseis, that you may know the difference in our power, my superiority o’er you, and never compare us again !!”

Patroclus’ face is dark with rage as Agamemnon speaks, and only Automedon’s hand on his wrist stops him from drawing his sword and killing the commander on the spot at those final words

“Agamemnon”, I step forward, my face stormy with fury and fear. Achilles must be calmed. “Agamemnon”, I continue, “You go too far”

Agamemnon snarls like a wild beast at my words, “What do you know of the debates of princes, son of Laertes”, he spits contemptuously. Rage bubbles in my breast. He continues, “Son of rocks and sheep. You are ready enough to come to my feasts, and devour my meat and swill my honeyed wine, yet now you dare speak against me ?”

I jerk back. Diomedes moves forward, his hand already reaching for his sword, before I hold up one hand to stop him, shaking my head. This was too far. My rage-heavy blood roared in my ears. Let Agamemnon dig his own grave. I would protect him no more

Achilles’ hand falls to the hilt of his sword, half-drawing it from it’s sheath, as the Mycenaeans crouch, ready to battle the half-god. His eyes were wild and bloodshot with fury. His face contorted, a struggle ensuing within him, before he released the sword, which fell back into it’s sheath with a loud shunk

“Listen well, you drunken bastard”, he thundered like an approaching lightning-storm, his face blotched red with fury, “You with the heart of a deer, and the eyes of a dog !! Never once have you fought beside your men, always hiding behind, a javelin in your hands, never daring to bare yourself, to risk your own life. You devour your own people to fuel your greed, for worthless cowards they must be, else surely you would be slain long ago, your final outrage committed. Look upon your scepter, fool, which once bloomed upon the branch of some lush tree, and now lies barren in your hands, stripped of both bark and leaf by the bronze axe, for I swear an oath on it, as binding as the Styx”

The silence was deafening, as Achilles continued, his men arrayed behind him like the columns of a temple, Patroclus at their head, “Hear me, king of Mycenae !! For the day will come, yes, it will come, that  a yearning for my presence shall strike you, as man-killing Hector grinds your bones to dust, and your cities to ash. But you shall not find me. You will be powerless as he slays swathes of your men, and I will laugh. You will cry and beg me to resume the fight, and find naught but refusal. Then you will feel remorse, for failing to honor he who was the best among you. This I swear !!”.

With that, he spat loudly, a great wet glob landing on Agamemnon’s foot, and he was off, marching back to his camp, Patroclus by his side, his Myrmidons jostling and shouldering their way through the crowd behind him

For a moment, there is silence, stunned and all-enveloping, a collective intake of breath. Nestor rises, his aged lips parted to offer words of wisdom, but is pulled down by Menelaus, who shakes his head subtly. The damage was done, the man dishonored. Nothing could stop this now

Agamemnon swallowed hard, before gesturing sharply to his Mycenaeans, who bowed in response, hurrying off to prepare what was needed to return the girl to her father

I spend the rest of the meeting lost in thought, barely paying attention to anything, even as Agamemnon calls up two of this men, and speaks to them brusquely – in harsh, sharp whispers, before sending them off – no doubt to collect what Agamemnon considered “his” prize

Chapter Text

After the meeting, as Agamemnon orders his men about, I quietly, swiftly slip away, making my way down to the Phthian camp, where two men stand, dressed in the purple of Mycenae. I recognize them on sight -  Talthybius and Eurybates, sent to collect Briseis from Achilles

On either side of them stand Myrmidons, their eyes blazing with wrath, their armor shaking and banging threateningly

They stand there, quaking slightly, as leaves in the wind, as Achilles towers over them. His rage boils beneath his skin, incandescent flame. His muscles are pulled as taut as bowstrings. But worst of all were his eyes – wild with nothing less than the purest wrath. In one hand, he holds a spear, tall and thick, it’s head shining iron

Behind him stands Patroclus, his face unreadable, the lines of his body taut with mirrored rage

“Tell me again”, the golden-haired prince of Phthia rumbles, and his mouth is twisted into a hideous grimace of fury, “what that fool said”

Talthybius stutters as he shifts back, away from Achilles’ fiery eyes, his great grasping hands, that could easily snap their necks in one swift move, “He asked why Hector yet lived, my lord Achilles”, his voice is high with fear, “He wondered if, perhaps, you are not…not”

There is a crack, and an explosion of wood-dust, as the spear in Achilles’ hands, thick as a man’s fore-arm, explodes in his iron grip, the two halves falling on either side of him. His eyes roll wildly with rage. The two heralds cringe in terror

An animal snarl builds in his throat, and Patroclus steps forward to speak on his behalf, his eyes icy with a tamped fury

“He has written his own death sentence”, Patroclus says, his voice calm, though the slight tremor concealed within gave away his loathing rage, “He has set his fate in stone. The men will not stand for this dishonor”

“W-we have c-come for the girl”, Eurybates stammers, his face pale with fear.

Patroclus nods slightly, cold bitterness in his eyes, as he gestures to the tent. Briseis emerges from within, and I feel a cold hand clamp down around my heart

I had not seen much of her, since the day I met her, so many years ago. She always seemed to blend into the background, to be a little too indistinct for me to speak to her. Over the years, practically nothing had survived of the sobbing girl in the tent, being replaced with a mature, joyous woman, who seemed…. content, if not happy

None of that is visible on her face now. It is shattered, broken. It is worse than it had been in the medical tent, ten years ago. At least then, she had known that Achilles wouldn’t harm her, at least not sexually. Now, there is no such guarantee

Her hair is wild and disheveled, bloody, torn-out strands of it lying about her shoulders, as though she had been tearing her hair out before the men arrived. Her face is stained with tears, her eyes shining, watery and broken, a deep emptiness within them.

There is a strange familiarity about her. One that makes her ruined appearance hurt far more than it would otherwise. The truth hits me like a spear through the gut. She resembles Penelope.

Hate wells in my stomach, for Agamemnon, for his heralds. I wanted to kill them, to reach out and snap their necks till they lie dead against the ground, as limp and lifeless as rabbits slain at a hunter’s hand

My mind swirls with apocalypse. I want destruction, death. Fervent prayers rise up my throat – to Poseidon, to shake the Earth and end us all, to Zeus, to cast down his lightning from on high, to set us afire for our sins, to Athena, to Ares, to Aphrodite – but none escape my lips.

I had given up ten years for this war. I would not throw away by long-earned victory for a moment of emotion

When I look up again, the girl is gone, leaving Achilles and Patroclus standing alone, as the heralds drag her away, back to Agamemnon’s own camp, their fingers pressing hard into her skin, leaving red marks on her pale fore-arms

I approach them, as the two heralds leave. Anger sweeps through the pit of my stomach like brush-fire. Their eyes fall on me, and I see the simmering rage cool somewhat, till it is only scalding, instead of burning

“Prince of Ithaca”, Achilles says coolly, his eyes hard, emeralds set in his shadowy eye-sockets, “What can I do for you ?”

“You coward”, I spit as I approach, “You let them take her”

“The alternative would be war”, he says and his face is cold as ice. I want to punch it

“You know full well that you could break the entirely of Mycenae – you and your men.”

Patroclus winces from where he stands beside his lover. I have spoken what he must have been thinking.

“I could”, Achilles acknowledges, “but this way, he dooms himself”

“Dooms him…”, my eyes widen, “You !!”

“Briseis is my prize”, the warrior growls like a lion, “To take her is one thing,  but to dishonor her…”

“You would gamble with an innocent’s safety ?”, I demand. Achilles cranes his head coolly, and the gold flecks in his eyes shine like flame. Ah, right. This is the son of a god. However human he may seem, his core would always be that of an inhuman

Patroclus’ eyes shine with guilt at my words, and I see him look away, as if avoiding my piercing gaze. Guilt is visible in every part of him – his stance, his eyes, the set of his mouth.

On the other hand, his lover appears completely unperturbed

“The moment he touches her”, the Phthian rumbles, “my trap will fall on him. The men will not stand for such dishonor. They will kill him”

The words I had been about to speak catch at my lips. Clever. Well-made. A plot worthy of Athena. And yet…. It seemed too cruel a fate, for her, to doom her to Agamemnon’s lecherous grip, even if only for one night

“Tell me, Odysseus”, Achilles continues, “Why do you care for her ? She is not the first slave girl to be raped in our camp, after all”

He steps closer, and his piercing forest-eyes seem to stare into my soul, “Is it because she told you her life-story ? The rest of them have those too. But I never saw you speak up against their abuse”

My throat swells in realization. A black hole stretches open in my stomach – the gaping maw of Charybdis. Achilles was right. I had been blinded by my… my… I didn’t even know what to name it… love ? Emotions ?

But he was right. I knew it, and judging by the way the son of Menoitius’ eyes seem to rake across the ground, his lips flickering as if to protest, but never opening in objection, so did his lover

I am silent, for the longest stretch of eternity, before I speak again

“He won’t take the bait”, I say, “He is cleverer than you think. He won’t fall for it”

Patroclus’ eyes shine at my words, reflecting a strange emotion – hope ? relief ? I do not know – as he looks up at me, his lips parted slightly.

Achilles cranes his head again, “I see”, he says, “You may well be right, Son of Laertes, and yet…”

The half-god’s body trembles, ripples running along the length and breadth of his muscled, towering form. Rage bubbles within him, as he grits his teeth and speaks, “I cannot let this insult to my pride go unpunished. I meant what I said, back on the pavilion. I will not fight. Neither will any among the Myrmidons”

“Even so”, I begin, “Your pride”, hubris is the word I use. Pride that scrapes the skies, that shakes the stars, that challenges the gods themselves. “Your honor. Is it worth the life of the thousands who will surely die if you are not there to fight ?”

Achilles is silent, as Patroclus steps closer to him, as though his mere presence will be enough to provide him comfort, solitude. It works. Achilles’ shoulders fall, and his muscles relax as he speaks

“Honor is all I am”, he says, and his voice trembles, saturated with an unnamed emotion, intermingling with his ever-present rage, “I am not long now, for this world. Memory is all I am. All I will be, when I die, and I will die”

“They will remember you as you were, Achilles”, Patroclus speaks up now, for the first time in a while, his voice soft with love, a dull throbbing warmth that slipped so easily from his tongue, “They will remember you as you are. The kind, amazing prince of Phthia, god-like on the field of war. They will remember Agamemnon as he is too, the coward who dared to try to dishonor you. Have no fear. Not for your legacy. I will ensure it”

Achilles turns to him, and draws in a sharp breath. His eyes overflow with emotion, the dull ache of anticipated loss. Patroclus will die before him, the prophecy said. But he doesn’t know that

“Yes”, I lie, “Yes, you will”

The night falls like a dark blanket covering the blue fabric of the sky. Achilles’ rage has not dimmed, though Patroclus’ eyes, clouded with love, seem to think it has. I meet him at midnight, by the sea-shore, the jagged rocks biting into the feet, the salty air into the skin of my face

 “You plan on calling on your mother”, I say, calm and collected. A fact of the matter

“I already have”, he turns to me, and his eyes are wild with fury. He could ape calmness, around his lover, but his wrath was unleashed now.

His hands bleed where he has beaten them against the sea rocks in supplication, the red seeping down his fist like the pulpy blood of the animals we sacrifice

 “Zeus the Thunderer shall throw aside his scales”, he says, and each word grinds into me, crashes against me like the waves against the jagged shore-line rocks, “He will make us lose and lose and lose. He will grind the Greeks into the surf, sear us with his mighty bolts, for he owes my mother a debt, and a debt must be repaid”

“You have doomed us”, I say, and my voice trembles – though I do not know with what

“I have”, he says, and his eyes glint, “I have.  They will learn, the consequences of dishonoring me. They will learn, for who they must beg”

“And if Agamemnon doesn’t ?”, I ask, feigning calmness, “If he doesn’t beg for your presence ?”

“Then he dies”, he says, simply, calmly, as though he were merely stating a fact of the world, “They all die. Not one man survives. Not without me”

His eyes shine gold in the dark of night – black flecked with brilliant streaks of it – the eyes of an inhuman. His rage seems to course through every facet of him, pooling in every nook and cranny, flowing out of every orifice, threatening to drown the world in is endless, insatiable rage

His face is hard with pain. Patroclus lies slumbering in the tent. My mind swirls in confusion. Achilles stands in the surf, his eyes conflicted and torn, his rage dampening somewhat

“I never asked for this”, he says, at last, a simple plea, almost child-like in it’s innocence, “I never asked to be born Achilles, the great conqueror”

His face turns to face out into the endless sea, to the horizon-line, and the moon above, unreadable and unfathomable. I look at him for a second, but he is lost to his own thoughts

For a moment, there is silence. The sky above crackles and thunders. Dark clouds amass over the sea. There will be a storm tonight. It will pool in the bends and bumps of the mountains and hills and flow down their side, in an endless flood of devastation, washing away everything in it’s path.

It will also saturate the earth with water till it is bursting at the seams. The crops will thrive off it, once the flood fades. New life will burst from the devastated earth – green shoots and rainbow flowers.

 Strange, I think, my eyes leaving Achilles as I turn to go. That which destroys is the same as that which heals and revives. No man is singular, not in his self. A human is a crystal face, with a thousand facets

And yet, our historians would have you believe otherwise. Our heroes are little more than painted figures to put on our pottery, our ornaments.

Did Heracles, great breaker of men, ever doubt himself ? Did Theseus, Minotaur-slayer, ever regret his actions ? Did Perseus, gorgon-killer, ever laugh ?

We do not know. We never will know, because now, they are no more than moral stories, to tell the children at bed-time, or around the fire. I wonder, will they speak of Achilles the same way ?

History obliterates every trace of complexity, leaving people as good or bad, right or wrong, when the truth is often far deeper than that, far more gray. What will they remember, I wonder – his wrath, that consumes him now ? Or his love, that defines him far more than wrath ever could ?

I had the terrible feeling that I knew which, and it certainly wasn’t the latter

Chapter Text

My assumption is proven right. Agamemnon does nothing to the girl, though he never fails to drag her about, as if on a leash, her dress threaded with gold, a lapis-lazuli necklace round her throat, as if to say : Look, see how well I keep her ? Far better than Achilles, for sure.

Achilles stays true to his words, though Patroclus and I try desperately to convince him to reconsider. When the Grecian armies march off to battle the next morning, Phthia does not follow. The air resounds with whispers of horror and curiosity, as I stand amidst the armies with my Ithacans.

At the front, Agamemnon is slowly growing a strange purplish-red with rage, his eyes fixed on the spot where Achilles should rightfully be standing, and where there was now nothing but empty air

A man speaks up, one of Meriones’, “What are we supposed to do ?”

Agamemnon’s eyes snap over to him, blazing with rage, like two hot coals, “What do you mean ?”, he says, brusquely, even as Meriones moves to silence the man who had spoken out of turn, “So what if the great “Aristos Achaion” is too much of a… of a coward to come fight alongside us ? Are we not men in our own right ? Are we not strong ?”

There is a pause, a stillness, and the world holds it’s breath, like a beast poised to pounce. Agamemnon swallows hard. Across the field, the Trojans mutter amongst themselves, some jubilant, others cautious and cynical. They have noticed Phthia’s absence. They do not know what to make of it

Hector steps forward, and his eyes rake across our front, searing into our bodies like the flames of an inferno. He nods, his eyes gleaming brilliantly, before gesturing sharply to his own men. Slowly, lurching and clanging, they break into a run

Agamemnon gestures for us to do the same, and we follow his commands. Now is not the time for regret or doubt. Now is the time for action. War-cries slip free of our throats as we run, and are answered in turn by the Trojans

The front-lines meet, in a ear-shattering blast of blood and bronze and wood, and suddenly Diomedes is there, by my side, fighting, as graceful as a lion.

We fight hard, and long, and great, but it is of no use. The Trojans seem nigh-unstoppable, in Achilles’ absence. Every day they drive forward a little bit more, bold in the absence of our greatest warrior. Hector blazes with victory, burning through Greeks at a frankly terrifying rate, as man after man falls to his spear-head.

A new army arrives, vast and countless. The Lycians, led the Zeus-spawn Sarpedon. His skin gleams dark with pulsing blood as he moves, a giant among his men, a great saw-toothed blade in one hand, what looks to be a vast fish-hook in another

They let out piercing war-cries, whooping and shouting in their harsh, sharp tongue. The left flank is broken, Idomeneus brought down by a spear through his thigh. Hector will crush us, and Sarpedon will drink our blood

Tlepolemus rides out to meet Sarpedon, as the battle reaches it’s climax. His eyes are wild with rage, rolling and bloodshot, as he cries, “Is it true ? Are you Zeus’ son ? For you are far inferior to the warriors he birthed in aeons past. Heracles is my father, staunch in the fight, with the heart of a lion. Though he came here with but a small army, he sacked the streets of Laomedon’s Troy, and  razed Ilium to the ground. Yours is a coward’s heart, Sarpedon. We do not need Achilles to slay the likes of you”

Sarpedon laughs, deep and sinister, “True it is, O Tlepolemus, that your father razed the city I fight to protect. And yet, here and now, you will die to me. Down my dark spear will bring you. Down to Hades where dwells your father, and your mother, and soon, where will dwell all your comrades”

Their ashen spears fly from their hands with whistles of wind, long shafts of greyish wood. Sarpedon’s spear buries itself in Tlepolemus’ neck, and down falls the son of Heracles, never to rise again

I hear a roar of pain echo out over the battlefield, as Tlepolemus’ spear hits it’s mark, lancing through the Lycian king’s thigh, but I do not care. Rage bubbles in my breast as I watch the Lycians carry their king away, and, drawing my sword, I leap into the fray, the raucous cheers of my men bolstering my soul

Another spear flies from my hands, the dart burying itself in the neck of the man standing beside the Lycian king’s prone form, who falls with a shout. My sword blazes like a bar of sunlight, moving rapidly as it sliced through the bodies of the Lycians.

At last, my rampage ends, as Hector rides up in front of me, his spear drawn, his eyes hard with rage. I see Sarpedon drag himself over to him, and make to behead him, before my sword is blocked by Hector’s spear, which flashes forward to block it’s arc

A man draws the spear from the king’s thigh – Pelagon, I remember – and Sarpedon rises again, his thigh bleeding, his face pale with pain and blood-loss

“You fought well, Prince Odysseus”, Hector says, almost amicably, “I am impressed”

“Move aside, Horse-tamer”, I say through gritted teeth, “It is not you I have a quarrel with”

“Unfortunately”, Hector begins, readying his spear for battle, “Sarpedon has begged me for sanctuary. I must protect him. It is my duty”

I draw my sword, before a blur of bronze-and-grey flashes out the corner of my eye. Almost instinctively, Hector raises his shield, as a spear buries itself in the leather-bound surface. He starts, turning to look at it’s source.

Just over the hill stands Diomedes, already busying himself with drawing another spear. His eyes flash with fury. Hector’s lips curl into a grim smile.

The prince of Troy turns to face Diomedes, and there is a great battle, as the two clash. I do not see them, for they are quickly swallowed in the heat of battle, the endless cacophony of clashing bronze and iron, of screams and splintered wood

The right flank falls, Ajax lanced through the fore-arm with a spear thrown by Hector himself, and Agamemnon, slowly, shamefully, sounds the retreat. It blasts out over the battlefield, harsh and cold, a symbol of our weakness, or perhaps, of the curse Zeus had laid upon us

Sarpedon lets out a barking laugh at the noise, and the Lycians echo it as one, a rising wail of laughter, shrieks of mocking condescension. Hector smiles, tight-lipped, even as Paris laughs with the Lycian forces. Hector’s eyes shine with concern, and I can see his mind whirling, even as he gives the command to leave the field

The funeral pyres burn bright throughout the night, as their greasy smoke smeared across the sky. The bodies of the dead burn with the stench of melting fat, as their faces burn to ash, and their bodies – so strong in life – give way, that the spirit may live on.

Achilles stands at the mouth of his tent, watching the cremations. His face is as unreadable as a golden mask. His lips are thin and tight with an unnamable emotion, even as Patroclus beside him winces with every flare of the funeral flame.

The next morning, as Dawn spreads her saffron cloak over the land, Agamemnon calls for a meeting. We arrive there, dragging our sleep-wearied limbs behind us, rubbing the slumber from our eyes as we took our seats. Upon the dais, Agamemnon is pale with a strange fear, his eyes bloodshot and wild

“Men,”, he begins and his voice is rough and low, any trace of arrogance having been purged from it long ago, “Kings of Greece, we must return. Thunder Bringer Zeus, son of the crooked Kronos, has made his decision. He has thrown in his lot with the Trojans. So do as I command : outfit our ships and set sail for home. All hopes of taking Ilium are lost”

Diomedes snarled at his words, his eyes blazing with rage, “Atreides – I have followed you thus far – and yes, remained silent at your misdeeds- but I must condemn such a folly on your part. Zeus may have endowed you with his great scepter – his right to rule – but he withheld from you his second, far greater in power, gift of courage”

He rises to his feet, and his voice is hard as he speaks, loud and commanding in the silent stillness of the tent, “Do you think the sons of Achaea such cowards, just because you named them as such? If you wish to leave, then leave, perverse king. Desert- sail away, if that is what you desire !! Your hundred ships stand at the beach. Your men are in your camp. Take them and leave. The rest of us will stay, until we have raided the city of Apollo, and sacked it and razed it to the ground. And if the rest of you leave, then I know that I, Sthenelus and Odysseus will stay, fighting until the day Troy falls, or we die”

There is a great shout of approval at the Argive-Aetolian king’s words. The men like their heroes brave and boastful

My heart warms at his faith in me, as Nestor rises to speak, his deep-set green eyes twinkling with intelligence, “Well said, King of Argos !!”, he says, his voice is light with assent, yet seems to silence the kings assembled in the tent, whose jaws snap shut at once, as they crane their heads to listen to the cunning old king of Pylos

The old king of Pylos continues, his voice loud in the newborn silence, “Agamemnon, Anax Andron, king of men, with you my counsel shall begin and end. You are the commander of Achaeans – blessed by Zeus with the scepter of kings, and so it is your place, to listen and then, and then alone, speak. To hold the security of the Achaeans over your own pride. And yet, you have failed in this task”, his eyes glint like hard emeralds in his lined face. Agamemnon flinches under his gaze

“Zeus-born king, grandson of Tantalus, our troubles have but one root. Your dishonoring of Thetis-born Achilles, and the unlawful”, Agamemnon tries to speak up in protest at that word, but is silenced by a fiery glare from his brother, “the unlawful taking of his war-prize, the young daughter of Briseus. It was unwise, and unbecoming of a king, and yet, you, swayed by the pride that welled in your heart, dishonored the warrior favored by even the gods themselves, and took and kept his prize. We must placate him. There is no other choice”

Agamemnon’s face has been steadily growing red as the old king speaks, and now, at last, his lips part to speak. I can already imagine what would emerge from them – How dare you !! I have done nothing wrong !! But luckily, I was swifter

“My thoughts exactly, wise Nestor”, I say, my voice smooth and soothing, a balm on the seething anger clearly visible on Agamemnon’s hard face, “The man Zeus loves is worth an army, and more; be he Hector, or Achilles. See how easily the Man-killer of Troy crushes us, as if we were mere ants !! Therefore, let these gifts be offered in exchange for his return, our very own Man-killer”

Agamemnon’s eyes narrow, his glare searing into my face. I ignore him, “Let seven tripods be given to him, unmarked by the fire, and  ten talents of gold, twenty gilded cauldrons, and twelve of Mycenae’s strongest horses. Let Briseis be returned to him, along with seven other Lesbian slaves, taken by King Agamemnon on the fall  of their home of Lesbos. Let him be told that the commander shall honor him as he does his own son, great Orestes”

Agamemnon moves to interrupt me, his face already blotched purple with indignant rage, but is silenced as Diomedes and Menelaus both move to place their hands across his mouth. I pretend not to notice them, and continue, though a twinge of satisfaction runs through me at the naked rage on Agamemnon’s visage. I continue my offers, “Let him be wed to one of Agamemnon’s three daughters –“

I am interrupted, as Agamemnon rises fully from his seat, his eyes fiery with a rage, that seems to ebb away as he thinks over my words. He may despise Achilles, but even he had to admit- Achilles seemed to be our only hope. He starts speaking, and his voice is deep, and rough with suppressed anger, “Indeed, worthy Odysseus. You have spoken well. I was just about to offer such riches myself”, he lied through gritted teeth, “In fact, I shall forgo the bride-price of whichever daughter he chooses, and pay instead a worthy dowry, greater than any man has yet given for his daughter”.

He speaks with a flippant confidence. He knows Achilles won’t choose one of his daughters. He was far too smitten with Patroclus for such a thing. He continues, barreling onwards, “Let seven cities be bequeathed to him, well-populated and rich – Cardamyle, Enope, Ira, of the grassy fields, and holy Pherae, the home of our great Diocles, beautiful Aepeia, Antheia with it’s beautiful meadows, and Pedasus, rich with vineyards. All such riches shall I grant him, all such honors bestow upon him, if only he relinquishes his endless rage. Let him give way, and submit to me – for even Hades, great god of the Underworld, is hated by us for his unyielding nature – and accept my seniority and sovereignty over him”

I wince. Achilles won’t like that last part, but hopefully, the gifts will be enough to win him over. Beside me, Diomedes is lost in thought. As the council rises to leave, he speaks, his voice resounding through the room

“Wait”

Nestor turns to him, his eyes glimmering with curiosity, “Yes, Lord Diomedes ?”

“It won’t work”, he shakes his head, “I know his type. To him, his pride is worth more than anything and everything in the known universe… except maybe his lover. We cannot buy him with a few paltry gifts”

Agamemnon’s eyes flare with anger, “Paltry ? You call such luxuries –“

“Paltry”, Diomedes replied, not even flinching in the face of the king’s wrath, “To him, that is what they are, compared to his honor. Mere gifts will not appease him, his heart is not set on physical wealth”

My mind begins to turn now. I turn to look at the king of Argos, a glint in my eye, “But…”

Diomedes smirks, “Guilt is far more powerful than greed. Let a list be prepared, of every man who has, as of yet, died at the hands of the Trojans, and let it be placed before him. Proof of what his actions have costed us. So many men who will never see their families again, who have been buried so far from home”

Chapter Text

He is singing, when we arrive, Ajax and I, his lithe fingers dancing across the gossamer strings of a lyre, his eyes fixed on his lover Patroclus, who sat by him, his pale green eyes dancing across the warrior’s form – the hard, strong lines of his body, the muscles that rippled under his pale skin.

His voice is clear and sweet, markedly different to the warrior’s roars he let out while fighting

He rose as he saw us approach, and beside him, so did the son of Menoitius. Achilles turns to us, and his eyes glint amicably. He has no reason to dislike us. We are not the ones who dishonored him

“Greetings, prince of Ithaca, prince of Salamis”, he says, clasping his hands together, a smile tugging at his lips. His eyes glimmer with a touch of amusement as we approach. He knows why we have come. His jaw is taut with irritation. He is angered that Agamemnon is not the one begging for his return

Patroclus rises and walks over to another corner of the camp, where sat Automedon, busy with something. Achilles stands alone now, his lyre lying abandoned by the side of the fire

“You know why we have come”, Ajax rumbles, his voice deep, flavored with a touch of anger. His forearm is wrapped in grey rags, stained red where they touched his wound. Achilles’ eyes flicker to it for a second, before snapping back to the warrior’s face

“I do”, he acknowledges, leading us over to where chairs, covered in purple cloth, had been set out around the fire. I quirk my eyes, mildly impressed. He anticipated this

We sit, and the meal is served – the fat-rich chine of a pig, and the meat of a sheep and a goat, along with some bread. Patroclus stands by as we are served by Achilles, who smiles and praises as he gives out our portions, playing the perfect host. There is silence as we eat, the air heavy with tension and dread. Achilles’ smile is steadily growing more plastic as time passes, his eyes brimming with curiosity as to what we have come to offer him

After the meal, Achilles sits with us, a cup of wine in his hand, and two more laid out before us, crimson as spilt blood, it’s scent rising up over the scent of roast meat that tinged the air, from our meal

There is silence for a moment, uncomfortable and long, before Achilles starts speaking, his eyes glinting dangerously, “So, son of Ithaca, what have you come to offer me ?”. He does not bother asking Ajax. He knows that I must be the one sent to speak – Silver-tongued Odysseus

I raise my cup, the lacquered wood cool in my grip, and begin speaking, the sweetened words slipping from my lips as if oiled, “To your health, great Achilles, far mightier than any of the Achaean legion !!”. So saying, I brought the cup to my lips, the honeyed wine sweet against my tongue, the burn of alcohol a welcome relief to my dry throat.

Achilles looks mildly appeased at my words, his eyes quirk with approval at my declaration. Patroclus, beside him, looks far more apprehensive, his eyes sharp with mistrust. But he does not intervene, and I speak, “Achilles, there is fear in my heart. The Trojan forces are bivouacked not far from here, beside our palisade. There they sit, circled round their fire, waiting for the rosy fingers of Eos to splay across the sky, that they may enter our camp, and lop the tops off our masts, and set the hulls aflame, that we may never return home !! The son of crooked Cronus favors them, and Hector exults in this, driving himself into a fiery frenzy, fearing neither man nor god !! We –“

“I was never going to return anyways”, Achilles says coolly, his eyes fixed on the dying embers of the fire, “I was doomed to death the day I stepped foot on Trojan soil”

Ajax starts, and I remember that he knows nothing of this. I laugh nervously and continue, barreling onwards, “Yes, of course, but what of your comrades? What of the Danaans who have sailed here, so far away from home? Should they accept death, for the sake of your honor?”

Achilles does not respond, but Patroclus shifts uncomfortably beside him. My words had clearly hit him to the bone. Achilles’ eyes are hard as ice, as he stares into the heart of the flames

“What would your father think ?”, I beseech him, “What would aged Peleus think, in his halls on lonely Phthia, of his son throwing away so many innocent lives for the sake of his own-“

“He would approve”, Achilles rumbles. I fall silent. Achilles continues, “He is the one who taught me to desire honor above all else. He is the one who first told me that men such as I, god-sons such as I, are born for the stars. Anything less is a failure, and unacceptable”

There is an uncomfortable stretch of silence, before I draw forth a tablet from my robes, a list of all the gifts Agamemnon has promised Achilles. His eyes fall on it, and I see them glimmer with apprehension

“These gifts shall be yours, great Achilles, and much more, too, if only you lay aside your heart-devouring anger, and return to the battle-ground. But if your hatred of him is too great for wealth alone to overcome”

I draw forth five more tablets – the endless list of the dead, their smooth surfaces crammed to the margin with marks. I lay them out before him, and his jaw grows hard. Beside him, Patroclus pales in horror

“Then at least take pity on the weary, home-sick Achaeans, who will honor you like a god, should you aid in driving back the Trojans, if you avenge the dead. Look upon them- their blood stains your hands- poor Leucus, speared through the groin, poor Teuthras, and Trechus and Oresbius. All who-“

Achilles holds up one hand, to silence my speech, and as I trail off, he rises to his feet. His eyes glitter in his head, like polished emeralds, speckled with gold, and I see him push away guilt as he speaks, “Odysseus, Odysseus”, he grins insincerely, a biting, shark’s smile, “Odysseus of the nimble wit, Odysseus of the silver tongue. Let me tell you directly how I feel, with no deceit, for I hate a man who thinks one thing and says another. But first, answer me this. How many cities have I captured for dear Agamemnon ?”

I am silent. Achilles’ sharp eyes bore into me like twin jade-headed spears.

He speaks again, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, “Twenty-three. Twelve of the great island cities, and eleven dotting the Troad’s fertile plains, and I plundered much from them. Now tell me, who received the lion’s share of this ? Was it I, who, by right of conquest, should have received it ?”

He continues, his eyes blazing like fire, “Nay. None received it other than our beloved commander, Agamemnon himself, who slew a pathetic fraction compared to I. He, who took the greatest part, and gave out some fraction to the rest of the worthy conquerors of the Troad. He who kills little gains more than he who kills much. The coward and the brave man win like honor. And yet, I would not begrudge him this. I am a generous man”

There is a second of precarious silence, and then, his voice hard with rage, Achilles continues, “And yet, those princes yet hold their prizes, but mine has been taken from me. Tell me, Many-faced Odysseus, why do we war with Troy ? Is it not to take back fair Helen, his beloved sister through her marriage to Menelaus ? Are the sons of Atreus the only men who love their sisters ? I loved Briseis like one of my family – like a sister, though a captive won by my spear. Well then, since he steals her from me, and cheats me, do not try now to win me. I warned you then, and warn you now – I will not return.”

His voice is biting, sharp as first winter’s cold. Beside him, Patroclus’ eyes close in guilt. He does not seem to notice as he continues, “Let him look to you now, God-favored Odysseus, or perhaps wise Nestor, or mighty Diomedes, to find a way to fight the fire off his ships. He has done much without me, I see”, a smile tugs at his lips. We both know that the Greeks have faced nothing but defeat since Achilles withdrew from the war

“And yet”, he continues, “He cannot slay the killer of men, that mighty Hector. Nay. Only I can, the man he failed to honor. Let him try to find a way to defeat him, or flee, without me now, Odysseus. Why is Hector not dead, he asks me ? Well, why should I kill him ? He’s done nothing to me. Unlike, of course, our dear commander”

His eyes are dark, glittering like stars in the fire-light, “Tomorrow, I shall sacrifice to Zeus, then load and launch my fleet, and, if you’d care to do so, look to the Hellespont, that teems with fish, and perhaps you will catch sight of them. It should take me three days to return home to dark-soiled Phthia, should the mighty Earth-shaker bestow his grace upon me. Much wealth have I left there, to feed Agamemnon’s greed, and much wealth shall I take back – grey iron, and red bronze, and yellow gold, and wan jewels – all mine, save for that which has been stolen by Agamemnon. For why should I remain ? I came here to fuel my honor, and if that is denied to me, then why should I stay ? I owe Agamemnon no fealty, after all. Perhaps I shall even see the red light of the flames that bite your ships from my own”

He continues, his voice growing more and more agitated as he does, “Even if he offered twenty times, thirty times what lay in the treasury of gold-rich Mycenae, even if he raised levies over all the Aegean Sea. Even if it were ten times the wealth of rich Orchomenus, or Egyptian Thebes, where even the houses glitter, full of gold. He could not persuade me, should he offer me as much gold as there are grains of sand upon this beach, as many stars in the sky !! Not until he pays for my shaming”

“As for the daughters he offers me”, Achilles continues, his mouth twisting in disgust as he speaks of them, “not one of them could compare to the bright jewel already in my grasp. Patroclus is greater than them all, even if Agamemnon arrogant as he is, believes him not to be. They could not match even the most infinitesimal part of him.”

I am not surprised. Neither is Ajax. We had both anticipated this reaction, even when I had first suggested marrying him to one of the Mycenaean princesses. His rejection, though, is harsher than expected. We would have to water it down significantly, lest Agamemnon try to physically attack the Phthian prince

Phoinix, Achilles’ old mentor rises to speak, his white hair shining like freshly-fallen snow, his voice thin and wavery, “Achilles, Achilles, if you sail away from here, if so consumed are you with rage that you would leave the Greeks to burn, I shall follow you. How could I not ? Peleus, your aged father, sent me with you, from Phthia to Troy. You were a child, when I met you first. I remember, ignorant of the sinful world of princes and kings, of wars and honors”

Achilles’ stone face cracks, and I see emotions flicker through his eyes, too innumerable to count. His lips part, “Phoinix, respected Phoinix, Father…”

Phoinix raises a hand for silence, and continues to speak, “That is why your father made me your guardian – you and your beloved both – to teach you how a prince ought to speak, to act. I shall never leave you, even if the gods themselves come down from high Olympos and offer me that strength of youth I had when I left lovely Hellas, my home, after a quarrel with my father, Amyntor. The reasons are lost to time, but the effects yet remain. I fled my home, and traveled far to Phthia, beautiful, deep-soiled Phthia, where your father, respected Peleus, greeted me as if I were one among his beloved heirs. He granted me a home and a subject people, as King of Dolopes, which lies on the far border of our home, Phthia”

Achilles is silent, and my eyes, sharp as daggers, flicker to Phoinix’s face. The old man is spinning a plot, a web to trap Achilles in, or perhaps, more favorably, to save the lives of the Grecian forces. Slowly, my mind begins to turn as well

“And then, I met you”, Phoinix says, his eyes shining with the joys of memories long past, “and loved you with you all my heart. I formed you as you are, divine prince mine. From the days when you would not eat if you were not seated upon my bent knee, were not fed from my hand, from the days where you would spatter my chest with wine and soak my tunic, to now, where still, I seek to protect you, man though you have become, from all manner of harm”

“Whatsoever path you choose, I will stand with you”, he says, his voice soft and low, “but first, there is a tale, one you should hear”

“In ancient times, long before the time of Hercules and Theseus”, he begins, seating himself across from me, beside Achilles. His eyes glow orange in the light of the flames, “There was a great realm. The realm of Calydon. In it, dwelled a young hero, headstrong and proud, much like you, named Meleager.”

He continues, his aged limbs gesturing as he speaks the tale, acting out the parts in lieu of actors, “Now, one day, his home was besieged by a fierce people, who the legends name the Curetes.”

I know this tale. My eyes widen, and flicker over to Patroclus, before a smile tugs at my lips. The old man is cleverer than I gave him credit for.

“In the beginning, the Curetes were losing, at the hands of mighty Meleager, beloved of Ares. So long as he stood tall at the gates of Calydon, not a single Curete could make their way past him. But one day, a slight was made against Meleager, a deep anger caused by his own mother, beloved Althea”, he continued, his voice rising in volume as he spoke, swirling around us like rising smoke

“He retreated from the battlefield, and lay at home, idle and still beside his wife, whom he adored with all his heart. She was the daughter of slim-ankled Marpessa and Idas, the greatest man on Earth in those times, who once raised a bow against Phoebus himself for her sake. Her parents named her Cleopatra Alcyone, for the kingfisher-like mourning cries Marpessa had cried when her daughter was taken from her grasp by far-sighted Apollo”

The world froze. My eyes glint with a strange emotion. Patroclus freezes beside Achilles, his eyes, wide and brimming with emotion, laying on Phoinix’s age-lined visage. Beside me, Ajax smirked, and yet, Achilles did not seem to notice anything out of the ordinary

“And so he lay there, brimming with rage, for his mother had cursed him for the death of one of his uncles, a Curete, and had beat the Earth with her hands, and called on Dread King Hades to curse him, and the Erinyes, pitiless, heartless, had heard her.”, he continued, with not even a change in his face to signal the message he was giving

“The enemies were unstoppable, without Meleager there to help. They soon reached the city walls, and overran it and burnt the neighboring villages, and beat the wooden gates of the city with her hands and feet. The Aetolian elders sent man after man to him, promising wealth and honor and riches beyond compare. King Oeneas, his aged father came to his door and beat against it, begging him to return, but still he refused

At last, as the Curetes entered the city, and the buildings were set aflame, and the walls cracked and the fair doors of his very room were being beaten in by Curete warriors, that his beloved Cleopatra fell before him, on her knees, and begged him, her face streaked with tears, to rejoin the field, to save the men that would surely die without him”, the old man continued, a smile tugging at his thin lips, “and do you know what he did ? He rejoined the war, and won a mighty victory for Calydon, though his people gave him none of what they promised, despite being saved”

There is a snapshot of silence, a second of stillness. Patroclus looks like he has forgotten how to breathe. Phoinix is a crafty old man. I am almost impressed, if a little disappointed that Achilles had not realized it too… or perhaps he had, and was simply hiding it

Cleopatra. Kleo-patra. Patroclus. Patra-kleos

The same syllables, only reversed. Phoinix wasn’t telling this story for the ears of Achilles. He was telling Patroclus to do what Cleopatra did – to beg Achilles to rejoin the field.

There is silence, and I watch emotion flicker through the young boy’s eyes – myriad and intense. Before he can speak, I do.

“Listen to him, Achilles”, I say, and my voice echoes in the silence of the camp. Achilles’ eyes, sharp as blades, flicker over to me. I continue, “Already the men are angry with you. They blame you for their defeats. Agamemnon stirs the flames, sending his men amongst them to exacerbate such talk. They will come to hate you, if you do not go”

“What care I of what the men of today think of me ?”, he scoffs, his eyes bright with living flame, “Only the men of future can decide, who to raise and who to lower. Only the gods can”

With that, he turns and storms off, Patroclus following shortly behind, lost in thought. For a moment, we stand there, as the embers of the fire dim and dim, the shadows growing deeper around us

Ajax turns to me, speaking, his voice gruff and deep, “What does he mean, he was doomed to death ?”

“I believe he means that he was fated to die”, I say, my eyes fixed on the dying embers of the fire. A spark rises from them, stark red against the black of night, before fading away

“He can’t die !! He’s Aristos Achaion !! There’s no fire that can consume his body, no pyre that would hold him”

“Save one he lights himself”, I say, my voice soft, barely a whisper in the still night.

Patroclus would die, soon. The time fast approached, now, and it was unavoidable, as inexorable as the clutch of Thanatos. And after his death…. Well, I wasn’t sure Achilles would want to keep living

The death of Hector would ascend Achilles’ name to immortality, it is true, but what profit is honor to man, if the price is his own soul ?

Chapter Text

The next morning, Diomedes and I are roused from sleep by the cries of Nestor, who stood by the mouth of our tent, a bronze-bladed spear clutched in one hand, a purple wool cloak wrapped tight around him

I rise slowly, rubbing the sleep from my limbs, trying to ward off a hysteria – The wall has fallen, The Trojans are here. Beside me, I see Diomedes rise too, grumbling as he does

“Are they here ?”, I ask, rising to my feet, Diomedes right behind me. Nestor shakes his head, “But they may as well be. They are barely a stone’s throw away”

“Good gods, man”, Diomedes says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, finally entering the conversation, “Have they no young men to do the rounds and summon the kings ? You are tough, I’ll give you that”

“Indeed”, Nestor laughs slightly, though his eyes still shine with worry, “My sons are far stronger than I, and yet, there was no time to rouse them. We are in dire need. Since you are younger, do me a favor- go rouse Ajax the Lesser and Megeus, son of Phyleus, for me”

We do so, and return shortly, with the two kings in tow, to the main camp, where Agamemnon sat, solemn and sober, upon the dais, his scepter laid across his lap

“My friends”, he says as he sees us approach, “The camp is at the mouth of our own, the wolf at our heels. We must venture into it – to disrupt them, or to glean some information from them. Whosoever volunteers for this will-”

“I will do it”, Diomedes speaks up immediately. His eyes glitter like hard jewels, “I will do it, on one condition”

“Speak your mind, Lord of the War-Cry”, Nestor spoke, “and you will have it”

“I will not do it without Odysseus at my side”, he says, and his voice carries a note of an unreadable emotion, “A man alone sees less than two men together, and if a warrior must go with me, I would rather it be our god-like Odysseus, the shrewdest of all men”

My cheeks warm at his praise, and Menelaus’ eyebrow rises at his words. I look up at the sky, scanning the celestial map, and speak, my voice resounding in the expectant silence, “Be sparing with your praise, Diomedes, and your blame, for the men all know me and my qualities. As for the expedition, it  must begin now. The night is almost over, and dawn, and the Trojan invasion is almost upon us. The stars have ventured two-thirds their course, only one-third yet remains”

He nods sharply, and our eyes turn to land on the lights, barely visible in the distance, over the wall – warm and orange – The Trojan fires.

There is a moment of silence. The sea is flat and smooth as polished glass, and the air is still, as if even the great gods Zeus and Poseidon were holding their breaths.

Four hours. Four hours till the Trojans rose, war-horns and weapons in hand. Four horns till the walls fell – till Greece rose, or Greece fell

We set off in the direction of the camp, on-foot, so as to not attract any attention, and the air seems to swirl around us, as though we were moving through a dense slurry. The lights flicker in the distance, growing brighter and larger as we drew closer.

We are close enough now, to see figures round the blazing orange flames. Tens of warriors, their bronze armors flashing in the light of the fire, the blades of their swords and spears throwing of gleams of orange and red, as though already soaked in blood

We reach the camp in a few hours, the orange light of dawn already creeping up over the sea. The camp is empty, when we get there. Diomedes immediately heads off to the Thracian camp, farthest out from the center, while I head to the center

In the center, I see a great tent, made of white cloth, a small fire set out before it. A man stands before it, looking out into the distance, as if lost in contemplation. He towers over me, his bronze armor dark and gleaming in the starlight, even as the approaching light of dawn made it glow like flame as its rays fell upon it.

“Greetings, prince of Ithaca”, Hector says, his voice deep and rumbling, “I presume you are here to spy on us”

“Diomedes is”, I say, approaching the Trojan prince, who does not make a single move against me, his eyes fixed on a small building in the distance, it’s columns and façade gleaming marble-white, visible even from where we stood

I come to a stop beside him, and for a moment there is silence. A fear rises in my throat as I watch the prince. His noble stature will be laid low, soon. His flowing locks stained with grit and blood

“There is a prophecy – “, I begin. I do not know why. By all rights, he is my enemy. I should not be the one giving him prior warning of his death. But something compels me

“I know”, he interrupts, “I have heard it”

“And yet you fight ?”, I ask, “You are willing to die for the sins of your brother ?”

“If that is the will of the gods”, Hector says, his voice hard and yet carrying a tinge of resignation, “Then I have no other choice”

“You do !!”, I cry, “Flee from here !! Leave this city !! Leave you-“

He turns to me at my words, and his eyes flare with anger, “Hold yourself, Many-faced One”, he rumbles, his voice sharp with outrage, “And hear what it is you speak. You tell me to leave my family to die ? I would not. I cannot. I would rather die myself. Do not waste your effort on a corpse, Odysseus. I’ve been dead since the beginning”

So saying, he turns back to the building, that gleams in the distance. I am close enough to recognize it now, from the many depictions of it that I had seen – in art, in sculpture, in writing. The tomb of Ilus, founder of Troy

I am silent. His declaration has stolen away my eloquence – ripped the words from my tongue. Honor-bound Hector, doomed to death for the sins of another. It almost seemed too unfair

A faint hint of guilt tugs at my heart as I tear my eyes away from it, from Hector. A brilliant light gleams in the distance – Diomedes’ raid is complete, it is time to leave.

I start trudging back to the mouth of the camp, even as Hector remains, his eyes fixed on Ilus’ tomb, as if contemplating the history of the city he was fighting  to – dying to – protect, as if he were wondering if it was worth it

It is dawn when we return, the orange fingers of Eos licking away the darkness of night like tongues of flame burning away the lacquered wood of a ship’s hull.

Diomedes arrives first, covered in the blood of, according to him, at least thirteen Thracian warriors, riding a horse as white as snow, with eyes that gleamed deep amber in the brilliant dawn-light – the horses of Rhesus, the god-like king of Thrace. Spoils of our raid

When we arrive, the Greek leaders have already assembled by the palisade, armed and ready for battle, their bronze armors and greaves gleaming like fire, the iron points of their spears shining like stars

There is the blast of a war-horn, the gleam of armor in the distance. Menelaus crouches down in a battle-ready stance. The distant drumbeat of horse-hooves on soil reaches our ears from beyond the wall.

And then the first rows of Trojans reach us, and the battle descends into the chaos. There is a blast of pure light, descending from above, before the acrid stench of lightning-detonated earth and ozone reaches us, an area of the sandy beachhead seared to glass from the heat of the blow

“Agamemnon was right”, Diomedes says, leaping fully from the back of his horse, not bothering to wash the blood from his body, “The Thunderer supports them. Damn it !!”, he spits out a curse, before leaping into the fray.

I follow shortly behind, and as I leapt into the swirling gaping abyss of battle at the gates of the palisade, the air resounding with screams and the clangor of bronze on bronze, I cannot help but feel like I am charging into the mouth of some great beast

There is a great crack, like the uprooting of an ancient tree, and a roar of victory, as the palisade falls, leaving us exposed to the armies of Troy. Sarpedon smiles grimly, before gesturing with his mighty spear. A pounding deep in the earth begins, as the chariots begin to charge

Around me, men fell like sheaves of wheat to a farmer’s scythe, as they raged about each other, like packs of wolves fighting over mates.

A man crumples to the ground beside me, as limp as a puppet with its strings cut, an arrow in his face, and is dragged away – I recognize him, from Aulis. It was Euryplus, the prince of Thessaly. One look at him and I could tell that he was as good as dead. Just another casualty in this war

A spear flies from the fingers of Agamemnon, who charged to my right. It strikes a man in the chest with enough force to fling him from his chariot, driving him to the earth. Agamemnon reaches him, ripping the spear, it’s head slick with scarlet blood, from his corpse, and lets out an earth-shaking war-cry, his soldiers replying in kind – beating their spears and swords against their shields as they did.

A few feet ahead stood Diomedes, raging through the Trojans like an inferno through dry wood. He was completely soaked in scarlet now, his eyes peering through the crimson like stones forged of pure night. He raises his spear into the air, and, shaking it’s tip, lets out a piercing war-cry

There is the crack of burning wood, the whoosh of fire, and with a shout of victory, the first ship goes up in flames. Ajax lets out a roar, and leaps atop the deck of the ship, his men behind him, frantically trying to beat out the fire that quickly ignites the dry wood of the ship-deck

There is the blow of a great war-horn, and, as one, like a swarm of mad, biting flies, the Trojan horde turns to our ships. Diomedes and Agamemnon leap after them like a pair of hunting dogs, but for every Trojan they slay, two more seem to take their place.

A melee is happening by the ships now, Ajax crouched upon the prow of the second ship, frantically stabbing at the Trojan forces with a bright-headed spear, trying in vain to keep them away.

A hand breaks through the melee, rising into the gray, smoke-filled air – brown and knotted with muscle. It grasps the prow of the ship upon which Ajax stands, and pulls down, and like a shark surfacing to devour its prey, Hector’s head breaks out of the roaring melee, leaping into the air, followed by his broad torso, his gleaming bronze armor wrapped around it.

His face is smooth, peaceful, emotionless – a soldier carrying out his duty, a priest seeking his god.

His other hand swings up – a silver shaft shining in its grip – and Ajax lets out a roar of pain, teetering for a second, before falling from the ship, a spear embedded in his thigh. Hector leaps from where he hangs off the prow and slips once more into the black hole of the melee beneath

A torch flies through the air, bright and burning like the sun, and the second ship is lost, too – the men frantically leaping from the charring decks, as the rich sails of Euboea caught flame, their white cloth lost under the orange tongues of fire

Agamemnon lets out a roar of pure rage, rushing madly at the Trojan forces, before we hear the unmistakable twang of a bowstring, and red blooms across his side, the dark-feathered shaft of an arrow embedded in it. He staggers back

Menelaus lets out an angry, desperate scream, and, lifting up his brother’s spear, throws it with all his strength at the man who shot the arrow – piercing him through his arm. He drops like a falling stone, landing hard against his chariot-floor, startling his horses and setting them on a mad run through the field

Diomedes roars, and flings his spear with all his great strength, narrowly scraping past Hector’s own bronze helm. Beside the prince, Paris raises a great yew-bow. There is a twang of a bowstring, and Diomedes lets out a roar of pain, as Paris’ red-feathered arrow passed through his foot and heel

He makes to limp after the Trojan princes, swearing and cursing them as he does, but I grab him, dragging him back to the relative safety of the inner camps

There is a crack of thunder, and the whole world flushes white, before Menelaus lets out a roar of frustration. The third ship doesn’t catch afire as much as explode into a thousand shards of wood and scraps of cloth – struck down by heavenly wrath

A Trojan warrior laughs aloud, and raises yet another blazing torch, aiming for Idomeneus’ ship, before falling suddenly, without warning, a silver spear embedded in his chest, piercing it clean through with a strength none among us possessed.

For a moment, there is silence, as the Trojans surrounded the fallen man, and a thousand pairs of Greek eyes raked across the vibrant, bloody, fiery chaos of the field, before a war-cry breaks through the air, guttural – almost an animal’s roar. The pounding of feet on sand resounds across the battlefield, and the gleam of bronze armor shines through the dark, choking smoke

A pennant is thrust forward – red, red as spilt blood – the mark of Phthia. My eyes widen. Diomedes lets out a burst of relieved laughter. Phthia had joined the battle

The chariot of Achilles surges forth, the Myrmidons lurching forward behind it, their armor gleaming gold and bronze in the light of the inferno –as though they had been sent by the gods themselves. The Greeks let out whoops of joy at the sight.

At the head of the legion stood Achilles, his famed armor glinting gold in the sunlight his face hard in his horse-hair helm, his pale-green eyes peering out through the slits. In one hand he held a great spear, it’s head gleaming grey-silver in the fire-light, forged from precious iron

Wait

Achilles’ eyes weren’t pale green

My eyes widen. A gasp of shock slips free from my lips, and Diomedes turns to face me.

“That’s… not Achilles”, I whisper to him, “Its Patroclus”.

His eyes widen too, in dread this time, and he makes to yell something, before I reach out to grab his arm, dragging him back slightly

“Leave it be. At least he’s giving the men an image to form around”, I say, as the Trojans draw back, moving away from the mere sight of Achilles on his chariot, the horde of men finally receding away from our ships

Patroclus draws back his head, and lets out another guttural, frenzied war-cry, the Myrmidons responding by clanging their spears against their shields

He hefts a spear – great and long and shining – and throws it with all his strength. Another Trojan falls in the distance.

I see Hector rise from the horde of fleeing Trojans, his face hard with frustration, his eyes gleaming as they narrowed on Patroclus’ form. His armor gleams like flame as he lifts a great brown war-horn to his lips, sounding the retreat

The Trojans turns as one, fleeing through the gate, and over the narrow causeway, Patroclus hot on their heels as they moved. He reaches out to grab a few spears from the fallen bodies, nearly dragging their bodies behind his chariot before jerking them free

A spear flies from his fingers, splitting open a Trojan’s throat, and another, and another, tearing flesh and snapping bone as they did, blood spilling from the torn-open wounds like jagged punctures in a wineskin

I hand over Diomedes to the far-more-adept hands of Podaleirus, the brother of Machaon, and let out a guttural war-cry, as I plunged into the battle. Almost immediately, a spear tears through my right shoulder, leaving behind pure, hot pain. I shake it off, as I had seen Diomedes doing in the past, and surge forward, my Ithacans swarming behind me.

I heft a spear, and it flies from my fingers, spinning as if caught in a whirlwind, before catching the back of a Trojan spearman – Socus, I recognize. I rip the spear from his back, and raise it, it’s bloody tip gleaming crimson.

“Socus, son of Hippasus,”, I cry out, my voice slick with sadistic satisfaction, “Mortal fate has caught you now, and delivered you to me. The carrion birds shall feast on your flesh. GLORY TO ITHACA !! GLORY TO ATHENA !!”

My cries are echoed back at me from my men, who stand at my back. Patroclus, from the other end of the battlefield, is still leading the charge against the retreating Trojans, spear-shafts flying from his fingers, at a near-inhuman pace. For a moment, I wonder if the armor of Achilles is somehow granting him it’s master’s strength

A spear flies from the roiling mass of battle, silver as fish-scale, and narrowly misses Patroclus, it’s sharp point embedding itself in the earth behind him. From the dark mass bursts a chariot, gleaming like the sun

Sarpedon stands in it, huge and imposing, his armor fitting him like a second skin, his long hair flying behind him. His mouth is twisted with rage as he shouts –  his voice lost in the churn of battle.

Patroclus hefts another spear, even as Automedon reaches up to dissuade him. It flies from his fingers, and Sarpedon stumbles. There is silence.

And then he falls, like some great oak tree, cut down by lumberjacks, slamming into the hard-packed earth with a great thud. The earth around him begins to bleed red. His eyes are grey and lifeless. The dust has already settled on his hair, like pollen on a bee’s abdomen

Patroclus freezes as the great son of Zeus falls, a spear embedded in his chest, as though not even he had anticipated such an outcome. The Greek army erupts in a roar of victory.

Patroclus flushes with victory, and his eyes shine as he leaps from his chariot, landing just beside the half-god’s corpse. Bracing himself against the man’s stomach, he tears the spear from the Lycian king’s corpse and holds it high, it’s tip dripping red with the man’s life-blood.

The Lycians start at the sight, freezing for a moment, before turning and bounding away, as the sky crackled with electric rage – the great god Zeus’ wrath at the sight of his son’s corpse. A bright light descends upon where the king’s dust-coated corpse lay, a flash of pure white, and the next second, it disappears, and with it, so does the corpse

Automedon rises now, from where he sits in his position as Achilles’ charioteer, and gestures sharply to Patroclus, as if telling him to retreat from the field. Patroclus does not seem to hear him, his eyes are fixed on the bloodied tip of his spear. They gleam strangely, like those of a man possessed.

The sounds of battle fade away, as horror lifts up in my throat, clogging it with the thick inevitability of fate. Godly intervention. The will of a god swaying that of a man. The prophecy swirls in my head, filling it with looming dread.

The shadow of Thanatos hangs thick and dark over the young son of Menoitius’ head, as his head rises, his eyes flickering to the tall walls of Troy, and the empty archer towers that stud them. It swirls about him, drawing him close, like a jealous lover, sinking his teeth into the man’s throat, drawing phantom blood

I stumble back, and my face is pale with horror. I reach forward, my mouth opens in a yell of warning, but it is too late. Patroclus is already running towards the city. Automedon leaps from the chariot and makes to run after him, only to be taken down as a black-feathered arrow buries itself in his thigh. A Myrmidon lunges forward and drags him back towards safety, as another barely misses his neck

Guilt thrums in my chest, my blood is roaring in my ears, saturated and thick with something – fear ? dread ? horror ? I do not know.

Hector starts at the sight of the young man approaching the walls of his city, his eyes widening in surprise at the idea of this upstart taking the impregnable city of Troy, before his face shutters, hardening into diamond, his eyes gleaming with a wrath that would make gods fear

He takes off running after the young man, beautiful and terrible as his patron, the Sun, great black spear in hand, it's tip shining like a star, his jaw steely and determined.

I run too, towards the pair, hoping to talk them down, hoping against all hope that I am able to save at least one of them, but when I get there, it is too late

Always, always too late

Patroclus is climbing the walls, the damn fool, his feet scrabbling for purchase – seeking infinitesimal chips in the faces of the god-cut rocks. He scrabbles up the walls like a man possessed, his eyes mad and bloodshot, gleaming with triumph.

He slips a little, his eyes rising to the top of the wall he climbs, and his face morphs into a startled expression of shock. Hector’s face changes too, as he looks up towards something – someone I cannot see - into wide-eyed shock, and into priest-like devotion.

Then, there is an explosion of light from the top of the walls, as if the sun itself had descended to earth and alighted atop the grey face of the walls he had once helped build. Patroclus drops like a stone towards earth, and Hector rounds on him like a half-starved wolf

But he doesn’t even turn his eyes to look at the great prince, instead looking about him, as a man awakened from a dream, his eyes gleaming with confusion. For a moment, there is clarity in his gaze, before his eyes glaze over again, the pale green growing watery, as if submerged in a bath of godly magic

He leaps at the walls again, and begins the climb, rising with a fervent devotion, as if this were the one thing he had sought his entire life – to take the city of Troy. His fingers sink into hollows in the rock face, and below him, Hector frowns, an expression of confusion flashing over his features for the merest fraction of a second.

Once more, he falls to the earth, his head crashing against the hard ground with a sick crack, and once more he rises, and begins the climb. Hector is merely standing back now, not even moving to attack the young man, his eyes wide, tinged with confusion, and more than a bit of horror

Suddenly, a deep laugh cuts across the battlefield, slicing through the air like a blade through skin, and Patroclus rises from the walls for a second, hanging in the air, limp and lifeless, a puppet held up by strings we could not see… and then he falls, as if his strings were cut

With a flash of golden light, his armor is shattered, and his shield flies from his hands, and he crashes, armor-less, defenseless, into the earth. Hector starts at the sight, his eyes blowing wide at the sight of the young man lying limp against the ground, a puddle of blood spreading round what was surely a snapped ankle.

Patroclus rises again, staggering and limping to his feet, and lifts up a discarded spear, waving it threateningly in Hector’s direction. His eyes gleam gold, as though some divine magic were clouding over them

A spear flies from the hands of a nearby Trojan – Euphorbus, son of Panthous, I recognize – and Patroclus lets out a yell of agony, as the great ash spear buries itself in his back. He falls forward, on his knees, and Euphorbus rips the spear from his back, scurrying away, for even in this defenseless state, he did not wish to face the might of he who slayed Sarpedon

He rises to his feet again, even as blood trickled down his back from the gaping wound. Hector’s eyes are fixed on him for a second, gleaming with silent contemplation, and he nods, seemingly having come to a decision.

He draws his great, black spear back, and terror clogs my throat, as I race forward, my arm outstretched in the vain hope of stopping him. The spear thrusts forward, and spears the young son of Menoitius through the stomach.

Hector’s eyes are slick with pity as they look down upon the dying man, “You fought well, therapon of Achilles”, he says, his voice deep, rumbling like a thunderstorm, “You have died a warrior’s death”. His hand reached forward to wipe away some of the blood that had spurted from the warrior’s lips at the blow, and though the touch is soft, Patroclus shudders with pain

He looks up, and his eyes gleam defiantly, “Not therapon…”, he chokes, a line of blood spurting from his lips, staining them crimson, “Agapitos”. Dearest one

He falls again, as Hector tears the spear from his chest, blood spurting weakly from the wound, propelled by a fading heart-beat, and his head rises, with the last of his strength, turning to the Greek camp, where Achilles sat still, in his white tent, waiting for a man who would never return. A gnawing loathing scrabbled at my chest at the thought – for Menelaus, for Helen, for Paris, and yes, a little for Hector

He smiles grimly, his dust-stained lips curling up a  final time, and chokes out, “O Hector… Horse-tamer… take glory in your victory over me. A gift, granted to you by the dread son of Cronus, Zeus – and his son, Apollo. In truth, it is them who laid me low, beating me against the earth, weakening and blinding me till you could slay me – they are the ones who tore away my armor, broke my spear. It was the hand of Apollo, bright Leto’s son, that dragged me to Earth from where I flew. All you did was finish off a man already dead. Even if twenty Hectors had charged against me in my prime—they'd all have died here, laid low by my spear. Alas, Fate the Destroyer and her servants, the Moirae, have judged and found me worthy of death. Take my words to heart, dear Hector, I urge you, for you, you are not long for this world either. I go now, down to the depths of Hades, and you will follow soon – laid low at the hand of glorious Peleus’ son- my beloved Achilles !!”

With that, a spurt of blood flew from his lips, spattering across Hector’s face, stony and grave, and his eyes closed one last time. My heart pounded against my breast, and my mind whirled feverishly in my skull. I was submerged in a sea of guilt, and I was drowning – frantically beating my feet against the waves but being dragged down, the weight of my sins almost enough to bring me down to the stone-lined sandy sea-floor.

You did this, my feverish mind screams at me, You dragged them into this war, him and  his lover both. Hector wielded the spear, but you killed them

For a moment, there is a silence, pained and taut, like a string stretched to its breaking point, before Hector rises to his full stature, as Patroclus’ lifeless corpse collapses against the ground, never to rise again

There is a choking, strangled cry beside me, as Menelaus charges forward, hefting his spear in one hand. He flings it with all his strength, and down falls Euphorbus, the spear-blade having passed through the soft flesh of his neck and throat

He makes to rip the spear from the man’s body, but Hector brings down his own spear to block his path. His face is stormy, his eyes hard and cold as beads of ice, “Peace, son of Atreus”, he begins, his voice resonating across the battlefield, “Take him back to his home, his lover, now, that brave son of Menoitius, and anoint and burn him as you wish, but leave his armor here, and his shield, for they are the spoils of our duel, won rightfully on the blade of my spear”

“Why you cowardly cur !!”, Menelaus cried, “Duel? That was no duel!! The gods gave you aid, that’s all.”

“Be that as it may”, Hector says, his face smooth and peaceful now, not even a trace of irritation in his voice, “I was the one to deliver the final blow”

“You !!”, he reached forward, his hands forming grasping claws, as if seeking to strangle the life out of Hector. I move, slowly, sluggishly, as if trapped in a mire of guilt.

My hands grip his arm, and pull him back, away from Hector, away from what would surely have been certain death. Hector says something, and Menelaus hisses in response, but I do not hear them. My mind is lost, buzzing with regret and rage, my blood pounding in my ears

The steady river of Patroclus’ blood trickles across the soil between my feet, splitting into a thousand tributaries and distributaries as it does. They intertwine with each other, swirling and tangling like the hair of a gorgon, turning me to stone

Only one thought remains coherent, pokes it’s head out of the roaring whirlpool of emotion

“What is Achilles going to say to this ?”

Chapter Text

With heavy hearts, we allow Hector the right to strip the fallen warrior of his armor, and to take the shield which lay, discarded, just a few feet away. We look up, and the sun seems to shy away, the sky itself darkening before our eyes. The Scamander roils and roars beside us, a boiling black mass.

Hector is impassive as he stands there, the golden armor of Achilles piled high in his chariot. Menelaus lifts up Patroclus’ body, and it hangs loose, one grass-stained foot hanging off to the right of Menelaus’ arm, his head lolling wildly, his pale green eyes wide-open, devoid of light or life

I see a pale figure in the distance, her dress ashy and misty, her dark eyes fixed on the bloodied corpse of Patroclus. She raises her head, and a keening wail splits the silence of the field, mourning and sad.

“It is Thetis”, Hector says, raising his head in her direction, “She is mourning”. I turn to him slowly, my eyes alighting on his form. His jaw is taut and hard

“For Patroclus ?”, I ask, and though my lips form the words, they are lost to me the second they slip from them, like slippery fishes slipping from my grasp as they move downstream

He shakes his head solemnly, “For her son. For Achilles”

The journey back is a blur. The fighting hordes seem to part before us as we pass, like the curtains before a stage-show. The Greeks fall silent as their eyes fall on the slain body of Achilles’ lover, and their eyes start to gleam with triumph – Achilles’ lover has fallen, he has to enter the fight now, for vengeance, if nothing else

At the gates of the camp waits Automedon, limping slightly, his eyes frantic as they rake the mass of men, searching desperately for his charge. His eyes alight on us, then on Menelaus, and finally, on the limp body in his hands, and he goes white with fear

His lips tremble as they part, and he approaches us, “T-this… this is”, he mutters, shaking his head, trying desperately to deny the truth he sees, feels in his hands

“It is”, I say, and my eyes lower till they are fixed on the charioteer’s feet. I am a coward. I cannot look him in the eyes

He draws in a sharp breath, and slowly, reverently takes the body from the Spartan king’s hands, turning to the far side of the beach, where sat the Phthian camp…. where sat Achilles, awaiting a man long-gone

“Wait !!”, I reach out to stop him. He halts, jerking slightly, and turns to face me. My voice is a whisper as I continue, “Tell him… tell him not to do anything too reckless. Patroclus wouldn’t have wanted him dead”

The younger man shakes his head, a cynical smile tugging at his lips, and looks up, his eyes shining with a strange emotion

“You don’t get it, do you ?”, he says, and voice is incredulous, “He’s dead already. He died with his lover. Or at least, his soul did.”

With that, he turns and leaves, marching towards the Phthian camp.

For a moment, there is silence, before I slowly make my way to the Ithacan camp, where stands Diomedes, a ragged cloth wrapped round his foot. His eyes are shining with concern as he looks for me, which transforms into relief as his eyes land on me

However, as he approaches, he seems to notice that something is wrong. He grasps me around the shoulders and calls my name, shaking me slightly, breaking me out of my trance-like state

I blink rapidly, feeling like a dream-like haze was clearing from my mind, and look up into the other man’s eyes. My breaths are short and ragged. A heavy weight lies in my stomach, dragging me down to the earth.

“He’s dead”, I say, and he freezes, his face going ashen grey. He steps back slightly, and I rise to my feet, my eyes gleaming with a madness-tinged sorrow.

A mad laugh slips free from my throat.

Polytropos, they called me. Man of many turnings. God-like Odysseus, shrewdest of men. What a laugh. I wasn’t “god-like”. I wasn’t “clever” or “smart” or “glorious” or whatever epithet the Greeks had assigned to me, blinded as they were by folly. I was a mortal. Just that. A pathetic little mortal, who couldn’t even save one man

“It wasn’t your duty”, Diomedes says, his voice deep with concern, tinged with pity. It makes my chest burn with warmth. He continues, “Patroclus was a warrior. He knew what he was –“

“I dragged him into this war”, I interrupt him, “I knew the risks – hell, I didn’t want to come myself – but I went ahead and brought him into this war”

“Achilles brought him into this war”, Diomedes replied sharply, “Patroclus was his responsibility. Not yours”

“And who brought Achilles into this war ?”, I ask, somewhat hysterically, before gesturing to myself with a thumb

“You did what you had to do”, he says, his voice sharp as a needle pricking through my skin, bringing me back to my senses, “No one could have done better”

“I should have !!”, I gasp out, my throat clogging with guilt, “I’m Odysseus, the pride of Ithaca !! I should have done – “

Diomedes interrupts me by grabbing me round the shoulder and pulling me into an embrace. His chest is cool and hard against mine, and his beard tickles my upper ear slightly. A sweet scent rises from his body, and I get the intense urge to melt into the embrace forever

“No one could have done better”, he repeats, somewhat forcefully, “Not even you”

For a moment, there is a silence, as I let out hiccupping sobs into the younger man’s shoulder, before I break away, my cheeks pinking with embarrassment

“Uh..”, I stammer, for once, devoid of words, “…um… S-sorry for.. you know…”

Diomedes rolls his eyes, “Did you forget our deal so quickly? Whatever sin falls on your head for your actions, falls on mine too. Remember?”

I open my mouth to respond, only for it to snap shut, as the wind abruptly went quiet. A sense of looming dread fills my heart, and I turn to look at the sea. It is smooth and flat, a sheet of age-blackened copper

I draw in a sharp breath, and my eyes snap to the Phthian camp, seconds before….

A terrifying scream cut through the air like a knife – guttural and visceral, choking with pain and anguish. The earth seems to shake at the sound of it, the trees swaying to-and-fro as if caught in gale-force winds. Another scream follows the first- and another – a roaring cacophony of the deepest pain and sorrow, garlanded with tears and pierced through with the purest rage

My lips tremble as they part, “He knows”. Diomedes nods solemnly

I rush to the Phthian camp, my steps hard and heavy against the sandy earth, and find Automedon grabbing Achilles’ wrist, holding it away from his throat. A spill of brilliant silver glints within it. A knife

Achilles’ face is contorted in despair, his mouth agape in a shout of agony. Cries of despair rip their way free from his throat. A single name, a plea to the gods, to the Fates, to everyone. But none of them heard him

Before him, upon the floor, lay Patroclus’ body, as cold and lifeless as I remembered from a scant few moments ago. He breaks free of Automedon’s grip, even as the charioteer rips the knife from his, and reaches up to grasp at his hair, tearing out brilliant golden chunks of it – the strands of gold floating down to lie against the crimson red of blood and the light brown of the fallen man’s skin

“Patroclus”, the name flies again and again from his lips, till it almost loses all meaning, “Patroclus, Patroclus”. But there was no answer. There would never again be an answer

After all, the dead cannot answer anyone

He brings his face down to lie against his lover’s chest, his hot tears flowing down his face to mix with the slain man’s blood, even as the other leaders storm into the tent behind me, talking and whispering amongst themselves

One of them – Idomeneus – kneels at Achilles’ side, offering food and drink. Achilles raises his head, and his eyes are black with rage. Froth builds against his lips, tinged red with his lover’s blood.  He looks like a wild beast – a slavering dog, who has just lost his master

He brings up a handful of black soil and pours it over himself, again and again, till he looked as dusty and blood-stained as his lover’s body. His eyes are wild, rolling and frenzied with rage and grief

He speaks, at last, and his voice is cracked and broken, a shattered ceramic that could never be put back together again, “Who ?”, he demands, and his tone is inhuman, eldritch, in a way

“Who ?”, he rises to his feet, staggering and swaying from side-to-side, as if drunk with blood-lust

“WHO ?”, he roars out the last question, a lion looking for his prey, a hunter aiming his bow

“Hector”, a voice says. It is Menelaus, who stands beside me, his face stony and smooth, showing no trace of the rage he had displayed a mere few moments ago, “It was Hector”

Achilles reaches for his ash spear, and I leap forward, wrapping my arms around him, and pulling him back. Beside me, Antilochus does the same.

His back is hard as diamond against my chest, and through it, I feel the faint beat of his heart – soft and faint, like the final wingbeats of a dying butterfly

“Tomorrow”, I say, desperate to avoid the spilling of more blood, “Kill him tomorrow, son of Thetis. Let it be tonight. Enough blood has been shed today”

He screams – a guttural, visceral noise, the primal roar of a dying beast – and thrashes against the arms that hold him. Outside, waves crash into the earth, breaking against the rocky coast with shocks of sea-spray

A few moments of this, and he collapses in his arms, sagging loose and heavy, limp as the corpse that lies at our feet

His lips part, and his voice is broken and soft, “Patroclus….. Emou Patroclus”. There is a thud, as his knees collide with the sandy soil of the tent-floor, and then silence. We step back, and he falls forward without us there to support him, his hands sinking deep into the soft sand

The tent-flap is ripped up, as if by a gust of wind, and a woman strides inside. Her skin is pale as frost, her lips a brilliant blood-red. Her eyes gleam – black as the night sky, all the way through – devoid of pupil or iris, before turning to her son. They narrow in concern, and she approaches him, kneeling at his side

Her sharp-featured face falls till it is level with his ear, and one of her spidery, long-fingered hands finds his back, running soothing strokes over it as she murmured something to him.

Menelaus walks over to Patroclus’ corpse and takes it up in his arms, intending on preparing it for cremation, only to stop as a sharp cry, like the snap of breaking bone, emerges from Achilles’ throat. He rises to his feet, even as his mother rises with him and steps back slightly

“Let go of him”, he says. His voice sounds strangled, broken

“I need to prepare him for –“

“Let go of him”, he repeats, and his eyes are wide and vacant, raking over Menelaus’ body like a predator watches prey

The Spartan king shudders and places the body back upon the dust-coated ground, and turning brusquely, marches out of the wide-open tent-flap, the rest following shortly behind. I linger a few moments, long enough to see Achilles lifting Patroclus’ body and bringing it to his bed, before leaving too

Chapter Text

For hours, there is utter silence from the Phthian camp, and I return, in time, my steps soft and tentative, as if I were stepping beside the maw of a grieving lioness. The camp is dark and empty, and not a  soul stirs as I enter. The Mymidons have receded to their tents now, though the sky is still tinged with the orange of late afternoon – they are too afraid of their prince’s wrath to remain in his line of sight. They have nothing to fear. Achilles thirsts for only one man’s blood now

At the mouth of Achilles’ tent stands Phoinix, his hands clasped together, a helpless expression adorning his age-lined features. He turns to me, and shakes his head solemnly

“He refuses to release the body”, the old man says helplessly, “He prowls around it like a lion stalks round the bodies of his cubs. No one has managed to persuade him”

“Not even you ?”, I ask, my eyebrows rising slightly. Everyone knew how much the son of Peleus respected the old man, his childhood nurse. So if not even Phoinix was able to convince him…

“No”, the old man shakes his head again, and I see tears prick the corners of his eyes, “My prince respected me, he did. But that is not my prince. The death of his lover… tore out everything that made him Achilles… made him who he was. That is not the boy I raised. That is a raging beast, with a volcano of hatred boiling in his chest, spewing out endless streams of lavatic misery”

A blast of guilt ripples through me. You did this. I nod solemnly

“Perhaps you will be luckier, Silver-tongue”, the old man says miserably, “though I doubt it”

I nod again, and step closer to the tent-flap, flickering rays of light shine from within – from a candle, I assume – and an eerie, utter silence permeates the air around it. I gingerly lift the tent flap, and step inside

Achilles was lying on the bed beside his lover’s corpse, his arms thrown about Patroclus’ broad shoulders. His face was stained and streaked with the snail-trails of shed tears, and his eyes were bloodshot – dry as a desert, having relinquished all their moisture in the form of tears already

He rises as he sees me approach, sitting up slightly, but makes no move to greet me. His eyes snap to me – they are wide and vacant, as dead as Patroclus’

“Achilles”, I say softly, as if soothing a wild beast. I do not bother with titles or greetings, I doubt he cared in his current state. “His body –”

“Remains with me”, he barks abruptly. His answer is abrupt, startling me slightly

“He cannot pass into the Underworld if you do not perform the rites –”, I begin, attempting to get the warrior to see reason

“He remains with me”, Achilles responds, and, climbing out of bed, rises unsteadily to his feet, as if the desire for Hector’s blood was all that kept him standing, “How idle it seems now, the promise I gave to old Menoitius, that when I sacked Troy I would return his son to the Opoeis, shining with treasure !! Alas, the hands of gods tear down all mortal-made plans. He is dead now, and I will soon follow. He shall not return to his home, nor I to mine. We will both dwell here, covered with the black soil of Anatolia, till our bones are dust, and our muscles grit”

He continues, and his face is pale with sorrow, his voice broken and hoarse, “I won’t perform the funeral rites for him. Not till I lay Hector’s shining armor at the feet of his broken body, and anoint him with the blood of twelve of Troy’s finest men. Till then, he shall lie here, and, in time, he shall be warmed by the fire that consumes Priam’s fine city”

He turns to me, and his eyes are shattered and glassy, unfocused in grief, “Promise me this, prince of Ithaca. When you burn him… and when you burn me, let us lie together. Mingle his ashes with mine, and bury us in the same grave, else I am certain neither of us will ever find rest”

My tongue is thick in my mouth, a useless muscle, devoid of my famed eloquence. My throat feels dry as I draw in a painful, scraping breath. I nod sharply. Yes

He nods back, and raising his head, lies down beside the cold, stone-still body of his lover, as unmoving as him – a man already dead, in every way that mattered

I nod again, to empty air, and turn to leave, my heart a hard stone in my chest, plummeting to Earth with every step I took

I return to the Ithacan camp, and Diomedes greets me with silence. Words cannot help me right now. Words cannot wash the blood from my hands

It is only hours later, when the moon has already passed the majority of the sky, and the rosy fingers of dawn are rising like trickling blood up the celestial dome, that I fall asleep, and sink, spinning, into the endless froth of a dream

In my dream, I stand in a vast void, devoid of light, and of sound – a gaping, empty nothing, as dark as Erebus. There is nothing before me, and nothing behind me. An abyssal nothing above me, and the floor beneath is as dark as the void

I look up, my eyes raking my surroundings, before a voice comes, as soft as the fall of a snowflake, as biting as the sharpest cold. I recognize it instantly, it swirls around me like the eddying currents of a whirlpool. I turn to face him

Patroclus stands behind me, his form distorted and warped, appearing to me as if through layer upon layer of water, and I am reminded of the blunt-nosed, waterlogged corpse of the hydros I slew, back in Phthia. An innocent life, slain to strengthen Achilles.

Perhaps I wasn’t as wise as I thought, after all.

He moves, and I see that his lower half seems to slips away into shadow, as though it is immaterial, invisible. His wounds gape against his bluish-gray skin, inky-black blood spilling from them. His eyes are sad, roaring whirlpools of misery

“He refuses to let me go”, the younger man whispers, and his voice resounds like the harmony of a thousand echoes, as tempting as a Siren’s song. The voice of a shade, luring me into the darkness of Hades

I am silent, the roaring guilt has robbed me of speech. I simply stare at him, as his head rises

“Does he think I will cease to love him, should I pass on ?”, he wonders to himself, and his voice is tinged with sorrow, “I will not. I will never. Should I be blessed to retain my spirit beyond Death’s Five Rivers, I would still love him more, and more. He is a star, I know, the man who holds my heart, for he burns his own life, that he may be bright”

“Not any more”, I say, and his head snaps to me. My voice is hoarse, soft as a breeze, “Now he lives only to avenge you”

“I know”, he says, and his head falls like a stone, as if weighed down by choking guilt. I know the feeling. “It is my fault”

He looks up, and his yearning eyes, hollow with hunger, stare into the void that surrounds us, as if somewhere out there sat Achilles, able to hear the voice of his beloved. Perhaps he did, but it would not cure him of his destructive madness to hear it

He speaks again, and his voice is barely audible, as soft as ash falling to earth. His body is pale as the silvery surface of Artemis’ chariot – that celestial body some call the Moon – and as grey as the ash of dead men. He looks hard and cold – carved out of marble and suffering

“I caused this, didn’t I ? This destruction. This rage. He is the sun, and I, the moon…. But there are such things as eclipses, too. There is no way, to heal him of it, for he is glass, and I have shattered him beyond repair. Sometimes, I wonder”, he looks away, and his eyes are unfathomably sad

“I wonder if the simple truth of it is that loving another makes you live a half-life. One half of your soul will always belong to the other. Who did this to us? You take away a human’s lover, his ability to love, and that ability becomes crippled, a shaking, shriveled thing, wincing at every glimpse of light. Take away a human’s feelings of love and desire and want, and you take away the human themselves. We leave behind ghosts and empty shells, wandering the world half-blind. Always alone. Always lonely.”

I am silent. No words could possibly capture the emotion that swirls in my throat. At last, my lips part, and I speak, “"People are like rivers, those who rage for no reason, like Agamemnon, are often shallow; but when the truly deep ones rage, they sweep away countries with them. Hector will not live to see tomorrow’s moon"

He laughs, a broken, cynical noise, “Is that your way of comforting me ?”. His voice is hoarse, incredulous – Why would I want more people hurt ?, it seems to say. I empathize, in a way

He turns away again, and his eyes shimmer slightly, as if tears were straining desperately to break free from his glands, to roll down his cheeks in showers of sorrow, but failing, “I won’t be in any history books”, he says at last, and his voice is faint, “I won’t be remembered. That’s for him. But I loved him first, and I loved him most. As long as they get that right, I don’t care what else happens to my memory”

There is silence again, one that stretched for a hundred years. The shadows swirled around me, whispering and shouting in my ears – or perhaps that was simply my own guilt.

He speaks again, and his voice is soft – light as a hummingbird’s wings, and tinged with self-deprecation, “I suppose I only have myself to blame for this”, he gestures to himself in a sweeping, wide motion, a dramatic flourish, “I was foolish. I wore my heart on my sleeve and mistook it for armor.”

He looks around for a second more, before his eyes flicker to me, and shimmer once more. A clot appears in my throat, choking off my voice. He speaks again, and it is softer than anything I have heard before – the voice of a man already dead, of a shade who has snatched a scant few moments from the gnashing jaws of death, “Promise me this, Odysseus. One last favor. Never bury me apart from my Achilles. Let our ashes be laid upon each other, just as we grew up in his father’s house”

I nod sharply, and a slight smile of satisfaction spreads over the dead man’s face, before his eyes close, and he dissolves, unspooling into soft grey strands of smoke and mist, and drifting into the darkness of Hades.

Chapter Text

I awaken the next morning, gasping and cold, sweat drying on my skin, to the sound of racing feet. I scramble to the tent-flap, and see Achilles racing down the beach to the Scamander plains, his eyes bloodshot and wide.

Golden armor gleams against his skin, almost too bright to see. God-forged. Thetis must have brought it to him.

He does not wait for the Myrmidons, who were straggling behind their prince, desperately trying to catch up, even as Achilles loped ahead like a lion on the prowl, too fast for any mortal to catch

His eyes are dead as he moves, bloodshot, even as his pupils flare with bright rage. He opens his mouth, and a guttural roar emerges from his lips.

Amassing at the base of the Trojan city, the armies of the Troad start moving as they see him approach, bronze armor flashing in the sun, dark, oiled hair gleaming like obsidian. The Greeks follow the Phthian prince, staying behind, not getting in his way, yet craning their necks as they went, eager to see the devastation he would wreak upon the Trojans

He meets the front lines of Troy, with an explosion of shrapnel and blood, splinters flying everywhere. He is a walking storm, a tsunami of wrath, blazing like a meteor as he moves across the field, shattering chests and tearing flesh, with no technique apart from his sheer, raw power

The grass grows bloodied and scarlet from the blood he spills. Hector sees him coming, and turns to flee. No one calls him a coward for it, he is running from a god-son. He flees the wrath of the gods themselves.

Yet Achilles pursues, his feet a blur as they move across the blood-soaked earth, carrying him with a speed that rivals that of Aeolus’ Four Winds. Roars slip from his lips as he moves, and repeated calls of Hector’s name, spoken with such loathing that I was half-surprised that the Trojan prince didn’t drop dead right then and there.

Hector gleams too, as he runs. He is fitted in Achilles’ armor, stolen from Patroclus’ corpse, the phoenix bright and large against his broad chest. But Hector is larger than Achilles, bulkier, and the armor is too tight for him. At his throat, it gapes away from his flesh, leaving a patch of unprotected skin.

Achilles lets out another guttural scream as a man runs before him to stop him. Polydamas, I recognize. The youngest of Priam’s son. Achilles is not even slowed down by him. He simply reaches out and crushes his helmet in one hand, and his skull within, and the youngest son of Priam drops dead.

A chariot rushes at him. He grabs one of the horses by it’s wide, brawny throat and flings it away, sending the vehicle careening into a line of soldiers, cutting them to pieces with it’s sharp bronze wheels

Hector’s eyes widen in fear as he sees this, and he speeds up, running, chest heaving towards the wide, meandering Scamander river. It shone gold, once, dyed by the yellow rocks of it’s river-bed. Now however, it is a muddied, churning red, choking with bodies, armor and debris, frothing as Hector dives into it, and swims, his arms easily pushing aside the debris that polluted it

He reaches the other side, and leaps up onto the bank. Achilles makes to follow, only to stop as a figure rises from the muddy waters, tall and massive. The filth-ridden water sluices off his swollen muscles and runs through his great black beard. The Scamander had come to save the prince of the city that stood on it’s bank

Achilles does not hesitate, his sword flashes as it moves, a spill of glinting bronze, but the river rises against him, the waters leaping up like grasping tentacles, the river thrashing like a tortured man, rising in flood. Achilles leaps away from the water, and Scamander rises before him, great and mighty, a dark of blood-tinged water rising behind him. It falls upon Achilles, knocking him to the Earth, again and again, beating against his shield

For a moment, silence grips the field, with only the noise of Achilles’ struggle against the river god echoing out across the plain. Thousands of Trojan eyes gleam in victory at the sight and they move to strike him where he lies – to cut him down before he can kill any of them

But then, a crack rings out, like dry wood catching flame, and the whoosh of fire, before an inferno begins at the river banks. The trees that grew along the banks of the river caught fire, as a wave of pure heat washed over the field. The elms, willows and tamarisks burned, the rushes and sedge and lotus leaves that grew densely along the winding streams, and the eels and fish thrashed about in the swirling pools, tormented by the blazing inferno

Great swirling spires of smoke rose into the sky, and Achilles staggered to his feet, as the water holding him down evaporated under the heat of the blaze. The waters of the Scamander boiled under the heat of the flames, and the god staggered back, clutching his face, as it grew red and scalded.

Achilles’ lips curl up into a wolf-like grin, and he leaps past the injured god, who sends a wave of water to halt him, only for it to be immediately consumed in a wall of fire. The god staggers back, and a mark brands itself against his chest, the skin burnt black, splitting slightly, dripping golden ichor into the muddy waters

A great anvil, and a hammer above it. Lord of the Forges. The Lame Master-smith. Hephaestus

Beside me, Agamemnon’s lips pull up into a broad, victorious grin. The gods are with us

At the sight, Hector comes to a halt, by the great, twisting laurel that grows by the walls of Troy, sacred to Apollo. He turns to face the approaching god-son, and his eyes are wide with fear. Yet his jaw hardens in determination, and his feet are planted firmly on the ground. He does not run

Achilles slows to a halt before him, panting like a wild dog. He is red all over, from the blood he has shed, as if he has swum in the vast chambers of the heart, and emerged just now. He holds a spear in one hand, it’s tip gleaming red with blood, terrible and beautiful as Sirius, the brightest star of the night sky. Sirius, the star of blood-soaked madness

“Your time is up, son of Priam”, Achilles says, aping calm as he spoke, though his voice trembled with blood-lust, “Zeus and his son, the Far-striker, have doomed you. His golden scales have spoken truth, and have dragged you down, down into the dark halls of dread Hades”

Hector’s eyes shine as he speaks, and his voice is soft, almost soothing – the voice of a man who knows he will die, “I know why you are here, Achilles, and I do not blame you. I would do the same, had you slain my beloved Andromache. And so I will not run anymore, no, no more. I will meet you head-on. Kill or be killed. Avenge him or meet him in death. Come, we'll swear to the gods, the highest witnesses—the gods will oversee our binding pacts. I swear. I will never mutilate you. I will return your body to your men, to be done with as they see fit, but I will not desecrate your body. Let us make a pact-“

Achilles lets out a sound that sounds halfway between a scream and the choking sounds that slip from the lips of someone being strangled, “Speak not to me of pacts, you insolent cur !!”, he snarls, his mouth twisting into a nearly unrecognizable expression, “For there are no pacts between lions and men, nor covenants between wolves and deer. So it is with us. No truce. No peace. Nothing but an everlasting hatred – till one falls and gluts with blood the great Lord of War. You have robbed me of my soul, and in return, I shall rob you of your life. Call up now what courage you can muster, and die by my spear !!”

Hector’s jaw grows hard and taut, and he steps forward, his hands held out pleadingly. He does not make a move to strike Achilles. He knows his death has come. “By your immortal soul !! By those that gave you breath. At least leave me with this barest shred of honor in death, to soothe my father’s woe and my mother’s cries. Let the wealth that shines in the halls of Troy procure for me an urn at least, and let my ashes in my own country rest”

Achilles makes a noise like choking – a strangled scream of rage. Fire flashed from his eyes, an inferno of hatred, “Not those who gave me breath, nor the sacred prevalence of prayer could stay my hand. I could eat you raw, such is the wrath I feel. No living man could keep the fangs of the dogs and the beaks of vultures from  your tender flesh. Should your father, that Dardan Priam, empty all his store, and giving thousands, give thousands more, to buy but one candle-flame for you, then still their son on the pyre their eyes will not see, and no amount of wealth could rob the vultures of one limb of you”

Hector’s eyes closed, and a pained expression flashes across his features. Guilt throbs in my throat, a serpent circling it, slowly tightening it’s grip, strangling me to death. The foremost prince of Troy nods and rises, and brings his head back to expose his throat. His eyes flicker to the palace of Troy, within whose stony halls sat his wife and son, waiting desperately for his return. Pain saturates them for a second – an expression mirrored in the man before him – the inexorable agony of love and loss.

 His eyes flash defiantly as they alight upon the rage-driven prince of Phthia

“I could not convince you, this I should have known”, he says, and his voice is slow, mournful, “The Furies have steeled your breast against such soft words as mine, and cursed you with a heart as unyielding as the Helm-wearer’s. I warn you now, Achilles, as your lover once warned me – there will come a day, that this wrong is repaid to you. Phoebus and Paris will avenge my fate, and lay you low before the Scaean Gate”

Achilles smiles, a gruesome, bloody sight, almost seeming painful for him, “I await them eagerly, if that is the case”

So saying, he drew his spear back, and let it fly. Up and up it spun through the air like the whipping winds of a tornado, black and fearsome as the night, it’s point shining like the Evening Star, the loveliest jewel that adorns the night sky, dimming only slightly as it catches the hollow of Hector’s throat

There is the sharp tear of metal cutting skin, and then muscle, a sharp gasp of breath, and it is done. My heart aches as I watch him fall, a giant falling to Earth. Blood roars in my ears again, saturated not with guilt, as with Patroclus, but a dim rage. What did Hector do to deserve such an ignoble fate ? What did Patroclus do ?

There is silence, and Achilles rears back his head, letting out a roar of laughter, though there is no humor in it, or joy. There is nothing but a biting, cold hatred. Nothing but a sea of agony, cold and sharp.

A wail cuts out across the battlefield- sharp and mournful, and garlanded with sorrow. I see Achilles flinch at the sound, his stone face cracking a little. His eyes rise to the palace walls, where stands Andromache, her face twisted in sorrow

For a protracted second, their eyes meet, and an understanding flashes through them – You understand me. You know my sorrow

Then the second ends, and Achilles’ eyes rip away from the grieving woman’s, freezing into hard pearls of hatred.

He reaches forward and grasps Hector by the ankles, dragging him towards his own chariot, and I turn to leave. I cannot bear to continue watching

Chapter Text

I return to the camp soon after, even as the soldiers exult in Achilles’ victory over Hector. There is a sound – piercing and terrible- that rings out across the battlefield, of a body being dragged across the hard-packed earth. It pierces my ears like hot needles, painful and agonizing.

Hector doesn’t deserve this. Neither did Patroclus, and neither does Achilles.

I recall Patroclus’ words, as the sounds of Achilles’ desecration draw nearer and nearer

Who did this to us ?

Was it Helen ? No, we do not choose to love

Was it Menelaus ? No, it was his right to recover his wife

Was it Hector ? No, he was simply defending his home

Was it Agamemnon, then, in his greed and vice ? No, he simply did his duty as a brother by dragging us into this

Was it I ? No, how could I have seen this coming ?

Who, then ? Who ? Who ?

The question swirled about me like the biting winds of a tornado. Who did this to us ? Who did this to me ? Answer, answer, wise one

War did this to us.

It is war, and the festering rotting infection that grows from it – of taking children, and turning them into warriors.

It happened to Achilles, to Hector, to Patroclus…. to me. You take your youth, your innocence, your childhood, and burn it up, in the mad dash for glory, for honor. Because you’re told that in your world, that’s all that matters. Aristeia. Kleos

We become so good at hiding our child-selves, at lying, at appearing older than we are, that even when we dare to go looking, we can’t find ourselves. You wake up, and don’t recognize yourself in the mirror. You wake up, and don’t know how you got here. How we came to be like this.

You take away your youth and you lock it into a small room, where it would break it’s back if it dares to grow, and you turn away, unaware if you’ll ever open the door again. And even when you try, later, it will always bear the limp, the injury of isolation, agony lacing every step it takes forward.

Perhaps it is not war to blame after all. After all, what is war but a mere consequence of existence, in a way. Our gods reflected that – Ares, the Blood-soaked War-lord, sibling to Wisdom and Art. A mere consequence of our shared emotion – the strand of bloody violence that ran in us

To live is to suffer. To live is to endure pain. To live is to scream a thousand times, to endure pain beyond compare. And yet, pathetic and wretched creatures that we are, we cannot help but want to live anyways – crawling forward on broken and bloodied limbs, stitching together torn and muddied flesh, and always, always moving forward, in an inexorable march towards inevitable death.

And so we turn our wrath on others. We seek glory and power and honor – and pray with all our might, that the hand of Thanatos takes bribes, that enough money can save our souls from the slow, rotten decay of life. We seek power and glory, and write off any who fall to our insatiable greed as “necessary casualties”. I imagine that, by the end, the only unnecessary casualty will be ourselves

Happiness in life is something you have to actively try to achieve every second of your life and you're not even guaranteed to find it but you have to try because there is no other option

But when you do find it it's not going to be in power or legacy or control

It's going to be in the day of your child’s birth or the way the sun comes through the trees or sharing a moment with a stranger you will never meet again

Life is an endless series of infinite pain and then you die but also in the middle somewhere you told a really entertaining story and all your friends laughed and that has to be enough. You have to make those moments be enough.

After all, what else can we do ?

A chariot rolls to a halt outside the camp gates, and the sound of Hector’s body being dragged to Achilles’ tent reaches my ears. For a few moments there is silence, and then, I see the lone figure of Achilles – black and stark against the gray sky, walk down to the sea, and sit in the shallow, lapping waves, his feet sinking into the soft sand.

The waves crash against his body, but he doesn’t move. He looks up, and for a second, I can imagine what he sees. The sea-spray rises into the air and suddenly there stands Patroclus, standing in the knee-deep water, the wind streaming currents through his raven hair, looking back with eyes shining, offering a secret smile only for Achilles

I love you

And then, he is gone

The first child of Loss, they say, is Rage. Lyssa of the Madness, of the Ruthless, Unyielding Fury, who stormed from room to room with her blazing fingers and her fiery tongue , leaving destruction in her wake. A hurricane building in your ribcage, that won’t be released till you shatter

The second child is Grief. Oizys of the Misery, of the Endless, Gray Depression, who crawls inside your bones and splays her freezing fingers over your insides, consuming you in the icy grip of her misery. A decay in your heart, that will never heal

The final child is Healing. Epione of Soothing, of the slow Return, who builds you up from broken pieces, and sets you free again, who mends broken hearts with lacquer and gold. She who never lets you forget your grief, but lets you make it part of your past. Balm and mercy

Achilles had passed through his blinding rage, and entered the endless fog of sorrow. I could only pray that he found healing

He does not burn Patroclus, even when I approach him for the body. He does not eat, no matter how much food is brought to him. Not even a drop of wine, or morsel of food passes through his lips. A penance, unto starvation, and starvation, unto death

I hear the Greeks start to whisper amongst themselves at his actions. Strange, they call him. Bizarre. I tamp down the disgust that wells in my heart at their words. They do not understand. They will never understand

But I do. The ever-burning agony of lost love – of sand slipping through your fingers. I do not know what I would do if I lost my wife…. if I lost Diomedes. Die, perhaps, but Achilles could not do even that.

Some say that it is better, perhaps, to have loved and lost, than have never loved at all. As I look upon Achilles’ pale, tear-streaked face, his torn clothes, and the paper-white pallor of his skin, I could not help but disagree

He does not sleep that night, either. He spends all night down by the water, his feet placed against the pebble-lined shore, the blue waves gently lapping at his heels. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, and I could only guess at what he was thinking.

He was punishing himself, that much was starkly clear. For what, I could not tell. Perhaps he considered it a sacrifice – some holy ritual made in the name of his love. Privately, I thought to myself, that it seemed an awful lot like another word that started with S

He rises early the next morning, and we awaken to the sound of wails, and, even more horribly, of a corpse being dragged across hard earth. I sit in my tent, and silently count. Once. Twice. Thrice.

When he returns, Hector’s corpse is mutilated, practically beyond recognition. The skin that once shone ruddy with blood had split open, leaking inky black blood against the ground as Achilles enters – a trail of death.

The great prince’s face is blackened and muddy with dust and grime, and his gleaming hair has grown dull and matted with the blood that leaked from his broken skin. Bone shone, white as a phantom, out of the deeper injuries – the powdery white of his skull, the red-stained grey of his femur

A leather thong has been pierced through his ankles, and has been dragging his limp body behind Achilles’ chariot as he rides round the city

I rise to my feet, and follow him to the mouth of his tent, where he disembarks from his chariot, and with a great heave, throws Hector’s bloodied, dirtied corpse at the foot of his bed, at Patroclus’ feet

His chest is heaving with exertion, and he is panting like a dog. His eyes shine viciously as they lie on his fallen adversary. Behind me, I feel Diomedes’ presence. I turn to look at him, and his lips are thin with disgust

“Rejoice, my love”, he says, and his voice is tinged with an animalistic satisfaction, “for I have brought you peace, at last.”

I wince at the sheer sharp loathing in his words, even more so at how closely they seem to intertwine with a deep, inextinguishable love. The wailing of the Trojans reaches me, though dim, and an ache spreads across my heart

My eyes find Achilles’ profile, his eyes shining with a fierce malice, his lips twisted into a sneer of victory, and I wonder,

Where was the limit? Where was the line between not wanting to get hurt and inflicting it on others?

Perhaps I was wrong to try to find an answer, after all. Perhaps I was wrong to try to parse the roaring whirpool, the maelstrom of chaos that is life.

It is in this moment, helpless and confused, that I realize my own weakness.

I was wrong to feel guilty. I couldn’t have saved Patroclus. Nor could I have saved Hector

The story was written down aeons ago, so far ago that the parchment upon which those fatal words were noted is little but dust now, and the ink nothing more than black ash

But it was written all the same. And the gods read it aloud, and they bound Achilles in chains of undying fate

He was a dead man the day he was born. It was foolish to believe otherwise. Always a victim. A victim of his mortal self. A victim of the part of him that desired.

The lines of causality are unchangeable. All we can do is follow them, and try to draw out whatever little joy we can, whenever we can

The hero has fallen. The hero is dead. All glory and victory has been stripped from him in one fell swoop, as if felled by some precise arrow

All that remains of him is his body.

His noose of longing throttles him. The manacles of need bite into his flesh, and he dangles, like a puppet on a string, and in his mouth is one name, sweet in the midst of boiling bitterness – infected with a hollow hunger, a desperate need

He chases after him, like a drowning man chases air. Like a great lioness chases after the hunter who has stolen her cubs, only to fall back from his shower of arrows – wounded, alone and sick at heart

I turn to leave, Diomedes behind me, but a dry sob from behind me stops me. I gesture to Diomedes to continue ahead, and turn back to Achilles

I see the light fade from his eyes. I see his smile flicker like a dying candle-flame – flickering, flickering, and then darkening completely. He collapses to his knees. Like a bird with no wings, the fall came. The anger that had supported him fell away, dissolving into pain and heartbreak, as he knelt at his lover’s side

He drops to the earth, beside the drying blood of his worst enemy, and weeps

His vengeance is complete, now. The roiling pit of loathing inside him is sated. All that remains is an empty nothingness.

Forever

Chapter Text

It is deep night when he comes, an old man, ragged and hunch-backed, so different from the proud king I had spoken to ten years ago.

His eyes are watery and blue, and his beard is snow-white now, dirty and ragged from lack of grooming. His face, lined with age, is streaked with tears, and he leans heavily on a thick staff of wood as he walks. He reaches the mouth of Achilles’ tent, and, silent as a shadow, I haunt his footsteps, following just behind him

He lifts the tent-flap with one shivering hand, and peeks inside. The tent is dark, lit only by streaks of silver moonlight filtering in through the thick hide of it’s wall. On the bed lies Patroclus, wrapped in a cloth, so as to muffle the stench of decay, and beside him, facing away from the flap, sits Achilles, and upon the ground, face-down and bloodied, lies Hector.

I see Priam’s eyes waver at the sight, and his lips quiver, as if he is mere moments away from breaking out into tears

“Who goes there ?”, sounds Achilles’ voice into the dark stillness, hoarse and broken, “If you are an assassin, then make it quick, and painful”. He sounds… defeated, as if killing Hector had sapped away the last of his soul, and all that remained was a broken, empty husk of a man. His voice echoed with yearning – for death, I realized with a start.

It is strange, how, for some, the existence of a certain person is, in itself, life. And when that person dies, it is as if the other is dead too, and merely awaiting the swoop of the blade that will finally end them

“I am no assassin, son of Peleus”, says Priam, stepping into the tent. His voice is empty, too. Devoid of life, “I am Priam, my lord. King of Troy”

“Ah”, Achilles says blankly, “Have you come to kill me, then, for slaying your son ? I would not blame you”

“No, no, “, Priam hastily corrects, kneeling at Achilles’ feet, “How could I dream of such a thing ? How could one as weak as I slay god-like-“

“Stop”, Achilles says. I cannot see his face, but his voice drips with self-loathing, “I am not a god”, he continues, slow and quiet, “I am a mortal. I am a human. No matter what anyone says. I will always be a human. When I rose, I was human. Now I have fallen. I am still human ”

I wince. No longer did he believe the flattery of others. Worse, no longer did he believe in himself. The higher set the pedestal, the greater the fall

Priam looks up, and inhales sharply. His own pain stares back at him from the depths of Achilles’ eyes. For a moment, the king is silent

“Achilles.”, he begins, an equal speaking to an equal, “I would kneel before you here, on this dust-laden ground, and beg you to consider your father, and my aged head, and the grief that wells in my heart, but I see I do not need to”

Achilles is silent

“You know me, don’t you ? You know my suffering”

His shoulders tremble, a ripple moving across the pale flesh of his back, and I hear droplets strike the earth

“We are bound now, in pain and in sorrow”

Achilles is silent, a marble statue, frozen in suffering, tears streaking his face like quicksilver, his back bowed, as if carrying a great weight.

He gestures to a nearby chair. Sit. Priam nods and does so. Achilles moves, and his skin is sickly pale. His ribs are visible through the near-transparent white of his chest

For a moment, he is silent, and then he speaks, his voice rough as the rocks that line the coast of Anatolia, “God-like, you call me, and perhaps you speak truly. For I am as cruel as the gods, as inhumane, as utterly without a path to redemption. For I have slain the man I loved, with my tongue, and the man you loved, with my blade. Let us speak, then, you and I. The ones left behind ”

Achilles rises to his feet, and, walking over to a small table, pours two cups of glistening red wine, bringing them over, and handing one to Priam, and keeping one for himself

He nurses the cup in his hands as the old man drinks deeply, and does not even move to raise it to his lips. At last, Priam’s cup empties, and for a moment, there is companionable silence

Priam’s eyes flicker over the bound and wrapped corpse of Patroclus, “He is…”

“My soul”, Achilles answers, without looking up from the depths of his wine-cup, “My heart.”

Priam nods and settles back. His wine-cup lies empty by his side. His eyes fill as they flick to his son’s corpse, “I have come to ask for my son’s body. I have heard much of your nobility, great Achilles, and I rely on it now, as I come to beg you for my son’s corpse, that he may find peace in death”

Achilles speaks, and his voice is weak and fragile – the voice of a dead man, “You are brave, to have walked into the maw of the wolf for a corpse”

“It is worth it, if it ensures my son’s peace”, Priam says, and he walks over to Achilles, and, kneeling before him, presses a kiss to his hand, “These hands”, he says, cupping them in his own, “They slew my son. So, I beg you, Achilles, have mercy, and remember the corpse of your lover, who lies beside you, and remember your own pain, and pity me, who has done something no father has done before, and has raised to his lips and kissed the hands that slew his son”

Achilles shakes at his words, and silent tears fall from his face, and at his feet, Priam, too, begins to weep. For all they have lost. For all they mourn. For Patroclus and Hector. For Peleus, who is doomed to never see his beloved son again. For Troy, doomed to fall

Not for the first time, I wondered why we mourned the dead, when those who are left behind suffer infinitely more

The weeping continues, as I step back, and let the tent-flap fall closed. This felt too personal to look upon, as if I were pressing against a gaping, festering wound. As if I were watching two men strip utterly naked before each other, exposing their very core.

The gaping abyss of loss, swirling in them both, bridging them together. But there was a difference, a marked shift in the two. Priam despaired, yes, but he wanted to live. He has a family and the handful of children he has remaining to return to and a city that he knows is going to fall without him and plenty of reasons to want to make it out of this war alive.

Achilles, on the other hand ? He has become a shell of a person, with gaping fury within him. A person who knows he will die, and craves it as a starving man craves food

I look up at the sky, and the moon set within it like a great pearl, and regret, again and again, that I ever took my father’s advice and traveled to Sparta.

For a moment, there is silence, before the tent-flap lifts a little, and Priam emerges from within, the body of his son held almost reverently in his frail arms. Inside the tent, I catch sight of Achilles, slumped over the body of Patroclus, his face against his lover’s belly, dampening it under the steady, relentless flow of his tears

He burns Patroclus the next day, carrying him to the pyre himself. The bodies of four of Phthia’s horses have been placed on the edge of the pyre beside him, and two of it’s most faithful dogs. All seven bodies are red-stained and slick with the blood of twelve of Troy’s finest warriors, whose bodies now lie scattered around the blazing pyre

The flames rise into the air like the flickering tongues of serpents, and smoke, greasy and thick with human fat, rises in a spiraling tower into the sky.

I am poised to pounce, as Achilles strikes the flint and sets the dry wood aflame, in case the great warrior decides to leap onto the pyre himself, to burn with his love. He does not do so. Perhaps he believes himself unworthy of burning alongside Patroclus

He draws wine from a golden bowl and pours it onto the earth in libation, Patroclus’ name slipping from his lips again and again, saturated with a desperate need. The pyre is a roaring column of fire, now, glowing red-hot in the dimness of night

At last the flames cease, and Achilles steps forward, collecting the white ashes of his lover in a golden urn, though this is a woman’s work. He turns to the Myrmidons, who surround the pyre, and his eyes flare with a strange emotion – a kind of twisted, hopeless, rage-mixed sorrow.

“Patroclus is dead”, he speaks thickly, as if the words are too difficult to say aloud, “and now, he is burned. Today there is peace, a temporary truce, to burn the dead and heal the injured. Tomorrow”, his voice is a rising roar of rage. He may have returned Hector’s corpse, but his wrath towards Troy had not yet faded

“Tomorrow”, he continues, “You attack with all your strength !! Kill !! Kill in the name of the god-like man they have taken from me !! Kill for the despair that consumes me now !! Kill !!”

The Myrmidons cry out as one – a howling battle-cry, that resounds off of the tallest hills of Troy in a cacophony of triumph. They beat their spears against their shields as they do so, and the air fills with the noise of clashing bronze.

 Beside me, Agamemnon smirks victoriously. Our victory was all but guaranteed, now.

Achilles rears his head back and howls out a battle-cry too, broken and hollow, more a wounded beast lashing out than a warrior preparing for battle. He clutches the urn for dear life, as if it were his life, as if he would die, should he let it go

The howling continues long into the night, the air heavy with ash and smoke. I lie awake in my tent, unable to surrender to the sweet release of sleep, listening to those cries, saturated with pain and agony

The next few months are a blur of blood, bronze and wood. The Grecian armies barely fight anymore. Achilles leads the charge, and by the time our ranks reach him, panting and lurching into battle-ready stances, he has already shattered the first ranks of Troy, and is busying himself with devouring the rest like a fiery blaze consumes dry wood

Ironic, isn’t it ? That he needed to break for us to win. To make a tragedy, you break something beautiful, and scatter the fragments. To make a victory, you break something mighty and rebuild it piece-by-piece, with the jagged, broken edges facing outwards

The Greek leaders praise him, but he does not respond to them, instead busying himself with loping across the field like wounded, sick lion, slaughtering Trojans by the hundreds, quenching the flames of his pain with a flood of their blood

Hector and Sarpedon have fallen, and Troy teeters on the brink of collapse, but never falls. Agamemnon is growing frustrated as hero after hero appears in defense of Troy, as if summoned from the ether

First come the Amazons, from their high hills and dense forests, their dark, oiled skin glistening in the sunlight, their obsidian-black eyes raking the battlefield. Their chests are exposed, revealing one solitary breast, the other having evidently been removed in some ritual. Their arms bristle with spears and arrows and bows, and at their head stands their great leader, upon a great black horse, her ebony hair floating loose. Penthesilea, the great hero of Anatolia

She charges into battle, a howl of anger upon her lips. Arrows fly from her women, dense enough to blot out the sun, and row after row of Greeks fall under the relentless barrage. I move back, and so does Diomedes, his eyes fixed on the lithe figure of Achilles, who moved like a hydros through water, miraculously avoiding every fired arrow. This battle is not ours to win

He reaches Penthesilea, who charges at him, spear ready, tip glistening gold, and he turns to her, rearing his head back, as Hector had done, baring his throat to her. His eyes shine wistfully. Kill me, they seem to say

But his body betrays him, his instincts causing him to dodge the blade. The Amazon queen stumbles slightly, and Achilles sighs in despair. His face is exposed, dull and dark, and his armor is tied loosely, and still no strike seems to reach him

He reaches out and grabs her by her flowing hair, throwing her from her horse’s back to the hard earth. She staggers back, and rises to her feet, letting out a howl of rage, and stabs at the Phthian prince, who grabs her spear-head in one hand, blocking it with his impossible strength. His hand bleeds where the blade cuts his flesh. He does not seem to care

His face is disappointed as he moves, sad that she was unable to kill him, to release him. He strikes as fast as a scorpion, his spear rising in a flash of silver, and Penthesilea slumps over, bowed around the haft of his ashen spear. He rips the spear free, and turns to leave, even as the Amazons howl at the death of their beloved leader

Next comes Memnon, the son of Eos, rosy-fingered Dawn, the step-brother of Priam, the great king of Ethiopia, who comes to face Achilles before the walls of Troy, his rumored god-given armor gleaming like the sun. Behind him mills a massive army of men – dark-skinned and wielding strange, foreign weapons – Ethiopians and Indians.

Further still behind him rises the flickering red of his mother. Dawn rises across the sky, though by all rights it should be evening. She has come to see her son fight.

His dark, curving eyes move restlessly over the Greek forces, hard as diamond in his burnished-black face. They fall on old Nestor, who shrinks back from the other king’s glare. He draws his hand back and a glint of silver flashes within it as he lets his spear fly. It flies from his fingers, long and terrible, aimed at the old man’s heart.

Nestor shrinks away from it, and Antilochus, his beloved son, leaps to block the blow, the spear tearing it’s way through his chest. He falls, limp and dead, and Nestor lets out a mourning wail. The Ethiopian king smirks cruelly at the sound

Achilles appears now, carelessly pushing his way through the army. His hair is loose and lank, still streaked with the dust and blood of yesterday’s battle, and he wears no armor. Memnon laughs at the sight

“Is this your prized warrior ?”, he sneers, his voice deep and foreboding, as his men let out whoops of mocking laughter, “This will be easy”

He does not even last two minutes. It is like watching a man try to battle a ray of sunlight – Achilles had apparently decided that, even in his death-seeking state, the king of Ethiopia was unworthy of taking his life.

The Dawn-son’s spear flashes forward, and Achilles moves, a blur of brilliant gold. Again and again, the spear flashes, and every-time, hits only empty air. Finally, there is the sound of tearing skin, and Achilles appears behind Memnon, a bloodied sword in his grip.

The Ethiopian staggers as he turns to face the god-son, clutching feebly at his throat. A line of red appears against his throat, stark against his dark skin, before starting to spill over, like an over-filled wine-cup. The king collapses, his smile shaken from his face, his throat slit

Suddenly, silence grips the battlefield, and the fingers of Dawn flee from the sky, taking their orange hue with them, leaving the sky-dome dark and black. A figure rises to stand upon the walls of Troy. I cannot see his face from here, but the purple cloak flowing out behind him names him more clearly than that. Paris.

He draws a bow, and raises it to his chest. His head seems to move to Achilles, who looks up to meet his gaze. His eyes are steady, warm. The son of Thetis lifts his arms and spreads them wide, in a welcoming gesture, as if offering an embrace. Come, kill me.

The prince of Troy nocks an arrow, even as the Myrmidons rush to protect their captain. Achilles does not move, and his lips curl into a small smile. His eyes close, in apparent contentment. His lips move, in a silent mouthing of one name, as reverent as a whispered prayer, stealing the last of his warmth as his warrior’s mask rebounds the name back onto his lips in a cruel phantom of a kiss.

The razor’s edge of love drew across his throat, even before the arrow flew from the drawn-tight string, golden flickers of godly magic dancing amidst it’s fletching. Relieving and burning, cursing and blessing. A sweet, poisonous ecstasy. He was dead before the point reached him

The heavy coat of grief falls away, and his eyes snap open, with all the tenderness of a priest seeing his god. It is as if a ghost stands before him, raven hair gleaming even in the darkness, eyes sparkling with love, a secret smile upon his lips. Achilles reaches forward, a desperate call upon his lips, and the phantom’s chest parts, the arrow passing through it.

It strikes Achilles between his ribs, and the pain of tearing skin and muscle, of a pierced heart, cannot compare to the sheer, overwhelming relief. The sun’s fire burnt away his wax wings, and he fell, streaming wax and smoke, into the endless depth that was the ocean of death. The cool waters surround him, and drag him under

The last thing that reaches his ears, before he falls, is a whispered name, heavy and dripping with love and devotion – a love that transcended death. He smiles, one last time, and then he is gone

“Achilles…”

A cry of anguish echoes out over the battlefield, and I cannot tell if it flies from my lips or from another’s. A mourning wail rises into the air, sharp and piercing as the most biting cold of winter. Everything is a blur – reaching my eyes and ears as if in pieces

Paris staggers back. An arrow flies through the air – it’s fletching a brilliant red – the red of Thebes. Has Philoctetes returned? I do not know. Paris staggers back further, the dark shaft jutting from his chest like a broken rib, and then falls, spiraling off the walls of Troy, and crashing hard into the dark earth below.

I leap into action, running towards the still, prone body of the once-mighty prince of Phthia, Ajax beside me, defending against the rain of arrows the Trojan forces shower upon us. They rejoice, I see, even as a few among them carry off the broken, twisted body of their prince – the Hydra-tipped arrow still buried in his thin chest.

The sea thrashes and screams out, the salty air carrying the inhumanly-shrill keening wails of his mother and her nymphs. Out of corner of my eye, I see Philoctetes – I supposed that confirmed that he had, in fact, returned – nocking another red-fletched arrow in his great bow.

I reach the body, and take it up in my arms, even as the Trojan forces surge into action. His flesh is cold beneath my fingers, and his golden hair flows like water down as his body rises. My eyes fall on his face, streaked with dust and blood, as I run, Ajax single-handedly fighting off the Trojan forces behind me

He looks…. Human. All his glory and glamor and inhumanity had been stripped from him by the snatching, blood-stained claws of death. His eyes didn’t gleam anymore – they were dead and bare. This wasn’t the body of a demigod, and the world didn’t halt when he died. It barely shuddered

The body was just a body, his armor was just armor, and the world was just a series of colors and sounds that had no meaning.

He looks happy. Peaceful, even. I hope he is. I hope he is happy, wherever he is. I hope that he is  granted, in death, the peace he was denied in life. I hope they all do- him and Patroclus and Hector and everyone who has fallen thus far

I drop the body once I approach the camp, and suddenly, I am tired. I am so, so tired. Of losing and watching people die, and all the pain. My knees give out, and I collapse, and suddenly Diomedes is there, holding me against his chest. He says some indistinct words to the other kings, that slip my ears, and suddenly he is taking me up in his strong arms.

In an ordinary state, perhaps, I would have blushed, or tried to hide from the other kings, but I am tired and well past the point of caring. And so, all I do is bury my face in the warm crook of his neck, and let out a dry sob.

He smells as good as I remember. I could spend a hundred years here, and I would not mind – in the heart of a battle, against the hard of a chest, in the crook of a neck, in the arms of a king

He starts to carry me from the battle-ground, even as the other kings cry out at his sudden departure. I can practically feel them freeze as he turns to offer them the iciest look he can muster. Despite myself, I stifle a hollow smirk, and from the tensing of his facial muscles, so does Diomedes

Chapter Text

The nymphs come, a few hours later, carrying bottles of precious ambrosia and nectar, and bathe him in silence, anointing him in the golden liquids, till he gleamed like a god, one last time. They wove flowers in his golden hair, and shed silent tears over his prone form. Behind them stands Thetis, and her face is as cold and hard as ice. Her eyes are a pitch-black, and her emotions are unreadable.

No one weeps. Not the men, not the kings. Not even Thetis, with her wolf-bite eyes. They all know that Achilles’ death was nothing to weep over, nothing to cry about. It was fixed.

More, it was a relief. I collect his ashes, even as Briseis’ mouth twists in protest. She wanted to  be the one completing the final rituals for her savior. I carry the urn over to where Patroclus’ sat, and tilt it reverently, as if I am sacrificing something to a god

The gray flakes ash fall from the shining lip of Achilles’ urn – his being, his body – and tumble into Patroclus’, floating down to settle amidst the other’s remains.

Thetis watches all this impassively, her stone façade cracking only when the first flakes of Achilles’ ashes rest upon his lover’s, revealing a deep, hollow pain. Then, as quick as it came, the crack sealed up into marble perfection once more

“My son is dead”, Thetis says at last, her voice thick with a strange emotion, even as it twangs out into the silence of the beach, unnatural and inhuman, a discordant note, “Apollo guided the arrow that slew him. A mercy. A rare one, from one as blazing as him. The mercy of the gods, cloaked in cruelty. As rare as diamond. Twenty-eight years this destiny has approached, crawling towards him like a venomous serpent, and now, it finally has him. It is done. He is done. And”, she bows, already fading into mist, “so am I”

She fades completely, leaving behind a fog that is quickly torn apart by the breeze. I look down into the mouth of Patroclus’ urn. The ashes intertwine with each other, two lovers who would never again be parted, as tightly wound together as the sky wraps around the sun.

Philoctetes approaches me from behind. He has grown taller, in his ten years of exile. I turn to face him

“It is strange”, Philoctetes says, his eyes fixed on the golden urn. His voice is hoarse and deep, sandstone scraping across granite, “How the greatest heroes always die begging for death”

“Philoctetes, I…”, I begin, and I do not know what to say. Guilt is blinding in my head. I am sorry for abandoning you ? If I was, I would have returned for him. I am sorry that I have to face you again, as the living, breathing reminder of my sins that you are might be more accurate

“How are you here ?”, I ask, at last, the words slipping from my lips. Philoctetes does not even turn to face me as he speaks

“Diomedes brought me here”, he says, “Said that I was destined to win you lot the war. Maybe I was.”

Of course it was Diomedes. The only one wiser than I, capable of seeing my errors, and correcting them. I felt the sudden urge to hug him

He is silent for a moment, before stepping forward, and tracing one knotted, twisted finger across the golden surface of the urn, and the embossed figures depicted on it – the story of Hercules,

“Strange, ain’t it ?”, he near-chuckles as his finger comes to rest on the scene of Hercules’ death, “how the artists always make him look so peaceful, so heroic. No doubt they’ll do the same to Achilles”

“Was he not ?”, I blurt out. My curiosity has always been greater than my self-preservation

“Nope”, he shakes his head, “He was crying and vomiting and shitting as he climbed upon the pyre, his face twisted and ropey with purple veins thick as mooring-ropes. His chest was ravaged and torn by the poison. But a poet won’t tell you that.”

It is what always happens, again and again and again. The hero is dead, lets desecrate his image. Let’s swarm over his corpse like a pack of hyenas and pick and choose parts of his life that make him look good, painting them upon our ceramic pots and beaten gold vessels – black and stark and so, so two-dimensional.

A more absolute death than the one delivered unto him by the arrow. A death of memory.

“Who knows”, is what I say, the words slipping from my lips, sharp as shattered glass, “Maybe they will remember Achilles as he was. It depends on the poet”

“Oh ?”, the old archer replies, raising one eyebrow slightly, “And what poet would decide against glorifying him ?”

“A Trojan one, for one”, I say, a bitter smile tugging at my lips, “Who knows ? We cannot tell what fragments of our being will survive the hurricane of time. We cannot tell who will look up to us and who will curse us. In the grand scheme of things, there is very little we can control”

I bring up one hand to drag it across my face. He will be remembered for his rage. It didn’t take a genius to see that. He will be immortalized for his ever-burning anger, and every other part of him will be forgotten. People will forget, as they are wont to do, that it was love that ruled him, far more than anger and pride.

It was not wounded pride that fueled his rampage against Troy. It was a broken heart.

Perhaps some will remember his lover, in the thin misty nothing of eternity, and write him down too, and maybe they will say the truth. Maybe they will remember him forever, and maybe they will forget the bond. Maybe they will forget the bond, and call Achilles a prideful monster with no reason behind his actions. Maybe they will simply forget everything

But I won’t. I never will. I draw my sword, as Philoctetes watches in silence, and place the tip of it to one of the great rocks that line the beachhead. There is a stroke and another and another, and when I draw back, this is what looks back at me

ACHILLES, and beside it, PATROCLUS. There is no reason for me to put “loves” in between their names. It is evident. It is obvious. No need to say “Achilles loves Patroclus”. It is enough to say “Achilles and Patroclus”

“You realize that they will put the pair’s names upon their tomb-marker anyways, don’t you, prince of Ithaca ?”, a voice comes from beside me, marked with a hint of amusement.

“Tombs can be edited”, I say, without looking back, “Names can be removed. But this stone, even if it be buried by the sand of a thousand years, will always bear their names. Will always carry their memories”

Philoctetes snorts and turns to leave. His receding footsteps sound out behind me, as my eyes remain nailed to the rock.

A legacy is a strange thing. It can be mythic stories told for hundreds of years, but it can also be two names carved in a tree trunk out of love, or two urns, their contents mixed together. Perhaps the latter is superior to the former.

In my mind’s eye, I conjure the eighteen-year olds I had met on Scyros – innocent and unmarked by the horrors of war, whispering to each other like two school-boys, eyes sparkling with love. I remember two bodies twining around each other like two coiling serpents, unwilling to part with the other. I remember a smile brighter than sun, teeming with innocence and laughter

And I hope. Let this be how he is remembered. Please. Because this is who he was, in the end. Not a demigod. Not the conqueror of Troy. Just a man, in love.

The tumulus is erected shortly thereafter, rising high into the sky – a great burial mound, lining the beachhead, rising to the sky in a great mass of earth, lined with great yellow stones, raised from the depths of the Scamander. Inside we laid out glorious gold items – bowls and cups and armors and swords, and in the center, we laid the golden urn containing what remained of the great heroes

As we rise to leave, a voice rings out from the barrow’s entrance. It is a strange voice – high and shrill as a child’s, yet layered repeatedly, in a noisy, tumultuous attempt at a harmony, as if such a thing granted it maturity. We turn to it’s source

A man stands at the gates of the barrow, tall and imposing. His hair is a fiery red, blazing like magma from deep in the earth, and his face is as cold as ice, it’s lines sharp and jutting, like knives emerging from his skin. In one hand, he held a struggling figure – I recognized him immediately, though time had not been kind to him. The Trojan prince Helenus.

We do not need to ask whose son he is. Only a fool would not recognize it – by the lines of his face, and his gleaming forest-green eyes.

He throws the prince at Agamemnon’s feet. “An offering”, he says once more, in his discordant, strange voice, “from Pyrrhus. Aristos Achaion”

He looks around, his eyes raking our faces, “I have been summoned, from my home in the caves beneath the sea, by the words of my grandmother – great lady Thetis.”

I wince slightly – Achilles’ ashes had not even cooled yet, and already his mother had replaced him. It made sense, I supposed. No matter how much she loved the fallen hero, Destiny waits for no mourning period.

He walks forward, past the fallen prince and turns to survey the barrow, his eyes gleaming approvingly, “Worthy of my father”, he says, and I notice that his words are strange – clipped, like a child reciting from a script, “What will you do with his armor ?”

Ajax rises to his feet, broad and mighty, and shrugs greatly, “I will have them, of course. After your father, I was the mightiest of the-“

“Ah”, Diomedes interjects, a sharp, cutting noise, slicing through the air like a knife, “I think you’ll find that Odysseus did more damage to Troy than you, great Ajax”

My eyes widen in horror, as Ajax purples in rage. I turn to him, asking a silent question with  my eyes alone – why the hell are you dragging me into this battle of machismo ?

“Odysseus ?!!”, he roars out, sounding slightly choked. Pyrrhus eyebrows rise – This is the second-greatest of the Greeks ? Really ?

“That wily statesman !!”, he continues, and I cannot tell if I should take that as a compliment or an insult, “What the hell has he done to deserve Achilles’ armor ?”

Pyrrhus coughs, a sharp, almost-painful-to-hear sound, slicing through our words like a knife, silencing us. His thin lips curl into a sneer

“It seems my presence was required”, he says, a note of derision to his voice, “if this is how the second-greatest of your men acts – like a whining child denied a prize”

Ajax roars in rage, and moves as if to strike Pyrrhus, who simply looks on coolly. Beside him, Teucer, grabs his arm to keep him from rising. I stand and raise both my arms in a placating gesture. Behind me, Pyrrhus shifts a little, slumping down onto a seat, leaning against the arm-rest like a child

“Great Ajax”, I say, my voice calm and smooth, oiled, “This is not a question easily answered. In terms of brute strength of course, you are the greatest-“

“Excuse me ?”, Pyrrhus interjects indignantly

“-second-greatest amongst us”, I correct hastily, “but a battle is more than brawn, and in terms of strategy, I believe that even you have to concede that I reign supreme”

Ajax’s face is still purple as I speak, but he seems to calm slightly, perhaps recognizing that hurting a fellow Greek king would likely get him immediately killed. He grunts in response to my words, and I stifle a small smile. Victory was mine

“So”, I begin again, gesturing animatedly, “I propose that we come to a compromise. A vote. Amongst the Trojan captives, to decide who caused more damage to their great city. Whosoever wins the vote, shall gain the armor of Achilles”

Ajax rises to his feet, his face dark and stormy with rage, and for a second, I am worried that he will crush me to death on the spot. But he does no such thing, instead grunting in acknowledgement and storming off in a cloud of dust, with Teucer straggling behind him

I turn to Pyrrhus, who does not look even slightly remorseful for aggravating the situation. His eyes drift lazily over the faces of the assembled kings. I cough, stepping forward slightly. His green eyes snap onto me, and rises slightly

“Greetings, Pyrrhus, son of Achilles”, I say, trying to appear as cordial as I can, “ We are glad to host you for as long as we can”

“Host me ?”, Pyrrhus scoffs, and it is a childish noise, though it emerges from the mouth of a grown man. For a second, I wonder if he truly was a grown man, “No need. I have to come to fight for you, and to win for you”. Again, that stilted, abrupt manner of speaking.

“I see”, I say, somewhat mildly, “and, if I may inquire…. How old are you ?”

“I was born from the womb of Lady Deidameia of Scyros”, he begins, speaking in a matter-of-fact manner, “ten years ago”

There is the sound of droplets striking the earth as Diomedes spits out the wine he’d been drinking. I close my eyes, feeling slightly pained. And I’d thought dragging an eighteen-year old into this war was bad. Try ten.

Agamemnon scoffs, “A ten year old claims to be the next Aristos Achaion ? Preposterous !!”

Pyrrhus turns to Agamemnon, and the Mycenaean king’s jaw snaps shut. The young man’s (boy, really) eyes blazed with rage, like the lip of a volcano, like an inferno – like the fire he was named after. He rises from his seat, and suddenly he looks utterly inhuman – even more so than his father.

His skin gleams gilded in the dim light, and his hair dances about his shoulders like a red wild-fire. His eyes glowed like emerald embers in the dimness, and suddenly his irises seemed to crowd with gold flecks- the mark of godhood – swirling against the green like a swarm of buzzing, biting bees

“I am Pyrrhus”, he begins, and his voice booms out like a clap of thunder, just as discordant and chaotic as before, if not more so. Young he may be, but there was something decidedly inhuman about him

“I am Neoptolemus”, he continues, his voice again taking on a stilted, fake quality, “I was raised in the sea-caves of the nymphs, by my grandmother, the sea goddess Thetis. I was nursed on ambrosia and nectar. I could snap every man here like a twig. I come now to win the war for you. Troy will fall under my blade”

The other kings back away at the man’s declaration, but I do not. My eyes are fixed on the other man, scanning his body – strangely grown, bulging in some areas and thin in others, as if artificially aged. His voice, too, was strange – a ten year old’s voice taken and harmonized with itself, over and over again, in an effort to sound threatening. A boy, presented to us in the shape of a man, and given a script to read off of if questioned.

Why ? Maybe so that we don’t feel too guilty, should he fall in battle. Or perhaps it was a mere consequence of feasting on ambrosia. I did not know. All I knew was that there were many places a ten-year old should be, and a battle-ground was not one of them

Pyrrhus falls back into his seat after he is done speaking, and once again slumps over the arm-rest irreverently. His eyes move restlessly across our faces – a child trying to tell if his ploy worked

Agamemnon speaks now, “I see”, he says, and his face is dark, though whether it is because he disapproves of involving a child in a war, or if it is because he now has to deal with another Achilles is anyone’s guess, “We are glad to have you here, if that is the case”

“You should be”, he says, and a child-like grin splits his face. His voice is light and airy – a child’s. My heart aches. A bug runs across the armrest of his chair. Without hesitation, he brings one hand down upon it, crushing it into a black, gooey pulp. He smiles at the remains, seemingly uncomprehending of the insect’s death. A faint dread begins to build in my heart

“Pyrrhus…”, I begin, and my voice is wary, “Do you…. Know what happened to your father ?”

“Yeah”, he looks up, his tone unserious, his eyes glittering in confusion, “He died, right ?”

“And…”, I continue, “Do you know what that means ?”

“Dying ?”, he asks, “Yeah. It means going away for a long time.”

A bucket of ice water falls on my head, sluicing down my limbs, freezing every part of my body. I hear the kings break out into whispers behind me, but I do not hear what they say for the sheer horror I feel at the child’s words. He does not even know what death is. Behind me, Menelaus sucks in a breath through his teeth

Diomedes is pale as he moves to speak, his mouth already opening under his horror-struck eyes. I hold up one hand to stop him. A plastic smile stretches across my face, thin and incredibly fake

“Yes, Pyrrhus”, I lie through my teeth, “That’s exactly what it means”. My voice is saturated with a sickly-sweet false cheer. He will learn of death, in time. He has to. He is Achilles’ successor, after all. But that does not mean that I cannot keep the truth from him, at least for the time being

“In fact”, I continue, leaning forward conspiratorially, “This barrow – it’s a house for him !!”

“Is that so ?”, Pyrrhus leans forward, and his eyes gleam with a child’s curiosity. I suppose that confirms that he didn’t actually know what the barrow had been made for

“Mhm”, I say, “It’s almost done, too, as you can see. All that’s left to do is erect a sign that tells everyone just whose house it is !!”. I wasn’t lying. Not really. A column did have to be erected, to mark this barrow as the final resting-spot of Achilles and Patroclus, and in a sense, Achilles did reside here. All I omitted was that he would be staying here for a long, long time.

“It’s a nice house”, he smiles, innocence gleaming from every facet of his face. It is strange. I have no doubt that his father, even at the age of ten, was far more mature than Pyrrhus. Perhaps it was a consequence of being raised by mortals, and surrounded with death, while Pyrrhus remained blissfully unaware of such grim concepts

“I’m sure he’ll like it”, he says, sending a spike of pain through my heart. Behind me, Diomedes erupts into a coughing fit

“Y-yes”, I say, “I’m sure they will”

“They ?”, he asks, turning back to me. Oh right, he doesn’t know about Patroclus

“Yes. Him and his companion, Patroclus”, I say, my eyes fixed on him.

“Oh”, he says, innocently, with not even a hint of emotion, showing absolutely no reaction to the revelation that his great father had been buried with someone who should have, by all rights, been inferior to him (though we who knew him knew that he was anything but).

Complete lack of contact with the human world meant no prejudices. I suppose that was one good thing that arose of his…. growth spurt, for lack of a better term

I draw in a deep breath, my eyes flickering over Pyrrhus’ sharp face. “Do you…”, I falter slightly, “Do you know what happens in war ?” Do you know what happens when you stab someone ? Do you know what happens when you kill ?

“Of course”, he says, “You stab people”

Well, he wasn’t wrong, per se.

“And ?”, I question, a faint sense of fear prickling up my back, “What happens next ?”

“They fall”, he says, craning his head in confusion, blinking innocently, “and don’t get back up. It’s like the games we used to play down in the ocean”

I suck in a deep, sharp breath. Behind me I hear Diomedes mutter, too low for Pyrrhus to hear, “Gods help us”. Menelaus looks positively horrified. His brother just looks amused.

I nod, a little to Neoptolemus, and a little to ward off the hysteria rising in my breast. I turn my eyes away from the imposing figure of the prince of Scyros – he reminds me too much of my own son Telemachus – he would be Pyrrhus’ age by now, after all.

I turn to Diomedes, and hold my hands out in a kind of helpless, wordless plea for assistance – Help me

He steps forward, towering over us both, and turns to the son of Achilles, “I see, Achillides”, his voice is strained slightly, taut with a kind of mounting dread – one I shared, “Very well, then. Automedon shall lead you to your father’s men, and show you to his tent – the tent of the prince of Phthia, your rightful title now. In the meantime, we will…”, he looks back at me, and his expression is lost. What were we going to do ?

“We will put up the sign that marks this barrow as your father’s residence”, I say, and am proud to note that my voice barely shakes as I do, “and then, tomorrow, we will question the Trojan prince you have brought us. I think we are all far too drained to do such a thing today”

Pyrrhus nods brightly at my words, and practically skips out, buoyant with a kind of innocent joy we had, all of us, lost. A small flame of envy ignites in my heart at the sight.

There are a few seconds of silence, and then the other kings begin rising too, filtering out of the barrow’s entrance, till only Diomedes and I remained inside, my eyes fixed on where Pyrrhus had been, only a few seconds ago

“Well”, Diomedes’ voice sounds from beside me, “that was…. certainly something. Something good ? Well that’s another thing entirely”

He clicks his teeth disapprovingly, moving slightly till he stood closer to me, “You realize he will have to learn of death eventually, yes ? You aren’t doing him any favors by keeping it’s truth from him”

“Honestly”, I sigh deeply, “I see a bit of Achilles in him, somehow – not in his level of maturity, Achilles was far more mature than him, even at this tender age. No, in his virgin hands – unstained with blood. It reminds me of the way Achilles was, back when we first met him – posturing and arrogant, yet inexperienced in killing. Maybe it’s a vain hope, but…”

I sigh again, “Maybe he died because we forced him to confront the grimness of fate too early. Maybe… maybe”

Maybe I can make up for the errors of my past, with this second Achilles. Maybe he’s a second chance – a chance to make right what I did wrong

I look up, and my eyes find Diomedes’, sparkling and swirling with infinite depths, “Perhaps”, he acknowledges, his voice deep with emotion, “but I think that both you and I know that… he would have died anyways, even if we had kept the truth from him”

My head drops like a stone, and Diomedes steps closer, resting a gentle hand in the curls of my hair, stroking it.

“Hope springs eternal”, I mumble, slightly choked

Chapter Text

We erect a great monument for Achilles, placing it at the mouth of the barrow. It’s white stone surface has been smoothed to almost a shine, and it stretches into the sky. Upon it’s face, inlaid in shining bronze, is inscribed “A C H I L L E S”, and beside it, “P A T R O C L U S”.

It’s surface blazes like silver in the hot sun, the words shining out like fire from within.

These names will stand as representations of the people whose ashes lie within, and will carry within them their legacy – a reminder that they had loved, lived and lost.

Below the names is embossed a small drawing, too small to see unless you are standing almost at the foot of the column. A small sun, and a crescent moon. For a boy who shone like the sun, and his beloved companion

“Historians are going to be very confused when they see that”, Diomedes snorts once he catches sight of the illustration. His rough, sword-calloused fingers trace the pattern of the illustration, the slight indentation that formed it’s outline. It is imperfect – I have chiseled it myself, and I am no great sculptor – but it is made with emotion

“Leave it be”, I say, walking up beside him, my eyes lingering on the two figures. A better representation, in my opinion, of them than any amount of paintings or tapestries

“I didn’t make it for them”, I finish, and Diomedes turns to give me a small smile, one that seemed to blaze brighter than the sun.

Pyrrhus appears on the coast, looking imposing in his blazing bronze armor. The armies of Scyros and Phthia are arrayed behind him in a spreading fan, and their banners have been thrust into the sky like spear-tips – the red of Phthia blazing like fire, and the blue of Scyros gleaming like the smooth surface of the ocean behind us

He moves towards the monument, and suddenly he looks every inch the general he appears to be – his movements are fluid yet solid, decisive and confident – he may be an inexperienced child, but he is still the son of Aristos Achaion.

He approaches the monument, and a look of strange despair passes over his aquiline features – he cannot comprehend death yet, but some animalistic instinct is telling him that this monument symbolizes some kind of sorrow. He approaches the column, and kneels down before it, a son kneeling before a fallen father – a son trying to live up to the image of perfection with which he has been presented

His eyes reverently find the tip of the column, shaped into a pyramid, and trace their way down, lingering only slightly on the carving I have made. His red hair blazes like fire against the blue fabric of the sky, so dissimilar from his father’s gold

“It will be carved with their achievements, in time”, I say, above him. He turns to look at me, rising to his feet as he does so. I continue, “The slaying of Hector, of Penthesilea, of Memnon, and for Patroclus, of Sarpedon”

“Only death ?”, he asks innocently, his eyes raking over the unblemished stone, “What’s so huge about killing people that it must be immortalized ? Personally I think liking someone enough to share a barrow with them is a far greater achievement”

Beside me, Diomedes flinches, and a sharp, jagged shard of pain rips through my breast. Pyrrhus has put voice to the words that had been swirling in my mind. He was like his father, in that way.

“Perhaps you are right, young prince”, I say, a small, bitter smile tugging at my lips, “but that’s not the way our world works”

“Oh”, he says blankly, turning back to the small carving I had made, and the names that blazed above, “The world is weird”

I manage a choking laugh, “That it is, Pyrrhus. That it is”

I see a flicker out the corner of my eye. A flash of grey, against the endless blue of the ocean. A woman stands by the shore-line, looking out towards the invisible horizon. I know who she is on sight.

Turning, I leave Pyrrhus kneeling before the column, Diomedes standing over him like an eagle guarding her eggs, and approach the solitary figure. She does not move, as I draw closer

“Lady Thetis”, I greet. She does not respond. Her eyes – now pure white, glinting gold in the sun – fixed on something only she, perhaps, could see.

“You are here”, I say, for I do not know what else to say, “Why are you not with your son ? Down in the depths of Hades ?”

Now she speaks, and her voice is far coarser than it had been in the tent, after Achilles’ cremation. It grinds against me like rocks in the surf, and crashes over me like the stinging slap of a tidal wave.

“I cannot”, she says, “Gods cannot walk the cavernous darkness of the Underworld. This is all I have left”

A child soldier, and a stone column. I almost pitied her.

“I did not want him, did you know ?”, she says, and her voice twangs out with another emotion – a pure, raw pain, “He was thrust upon me.”

“I know”, I say simply. Everyone did. The prophecy of Achilles’ birth was well-known.

How Zeus feared it – the prophecy that spoke of her son outstripping his father. How the gods condemned her to a violation at the hands of mortal Peleus – in the vain hope that the mortal’s mud-stained blood would shackle the young boy to earth, and that he would not dare to rise to Olympian heights.

The gods feared powerful sons. The scythe of Kronos still smelt of spilt blood and patricide, as did the thunderbolts of Zeus.

They shackled him to Peleus – trying to dilute his godhood. Throwing him away from godhead with full force. Thetis suffered for it, in turn – forced to bear the children of a man she never liked nor desired. A tragedy, altogether.

Was it any surprise that the child borne as the result of such a union would also live a tragedy ?

“I tried to make him great”, she says, and her voice sings with bitterness, “I tried to make him a god. I failed”

I am silent. There is nothing to be said. The sky roils above us, dark clouds massing at the horizon – there will be a rainstorm later.

“I tried to love him, hoping that, somehow, my love might save him”, she continues, her voice only growing coarser and coarser, till it scrapes across my eardrums like sandpaper, making them bleed, “I failed in that too”

More silence. The sea thrashes now, wild and untamed, as if rising in anger, in pain, in bitterness. A woman tortured

“And see where I stand now”, she says hysterically, her voice rising in pitch, discordant and bitter, “See where all my sacrifice has got me !! Alone, with no one beside me, save a single child, who is mortal, and will die, and an eternity of stone.”

“I was the first to hold him”, she says, “I held him in my arms when he was born, staining my white robes with my own golden ichor – and the fluids of the womb, and pressed my lips to his forehead, and promised that he would live forever. And I”, the sea rises in anger as the goddess practically screams this to the heavens, “failed, again and again and again !!”

She roars in frustration, and a tidal wave rises in front of us, rising high into the sky, tilled it blotted the sun, and crashing with a great boom into the sandy coast around us.

She calms, breathing heavily, her blood-red lips parting to reveal flashes of silver fang behind. “He is gone now. His memory is all that remains”, she turns to me, “Odysseus of Ithaca. Silver-tongued Trickster. Beloved of Athena. I entrust it to you, to your line”

I bow my head in acknowledgement, and acceptance. She seems unconvinced, shifting slightly, her eerily blank eyes moving across my form in jerky, snapping motions.

“No”, she says, and her voice is a whisper, soft as the sea breeze, “Not you. It is not your fate. Nor your son. It is not his, either. Your grandson, on the other hand….”

She cranes her head, “What will you name him ?”

The question is abrupt enough to snap me out of my reverie. I jerk back, “What ?”

“Your grandson”, she presses, “What name will you choose for him ?”

My mind whirls, and practically without thinking, my lips part, “You have bound him in a pledge, Lady Thetis, to keep your son’s memory alive. Keeping that in mind, I think the best name for him would be….”

The world goes silent, and a cool wind seems to drift across my face, so similar to the one that had blown when I had said Hector’s name aloud for the first time, “…Homer”

“I see”, she says moving back, and rising to her full stature, towering high over me. Her lips slip back into a pseudo-smile, “I see”

Her neck twists like a hydros’ body, and I can practically hear the joints of her spine clicking into place, as she speaks again, “For this favor, Odysseus of Ithaca, I will deliver unto you a warning”.

Her eyes are fixed on the horizon, but slowly break away, and come to settle on the ocean surface, and the foam-tipped waves

“There is a creature, that lives in the darkest recesses of my ocean, beside the caves in which I dwell with my Nereids. It’s tail contains a poison strong enough to kill mortals with a touch. To kill you with a touch”, rays of sunlight break through her form, as she starts to once again dissolve into mist, “Beware it, beloved of Athena, for it is your doom”

I jerk forward at her words, and a dull panic grips me. But before I can ask her to clarify, she is already gone, dissolving into mist that slips away upon the sea breeze, carried towards the endless ocean that was her domain.

My eyes twist to the horizon, like hers, and slowly, slowly, I sink to sit upon the soft, sea-sculpted sand, the waves, cool and stinging, lapping against my legs

 This was an old story, I realize with a jolt. Even as we are living it, it is an old tale. We are actors, carrying out actions predicted thousands of aeons ago. This is an old tale. This was always meant to be. There is no doubt, no lack of knowledge. Killer is as innocent as killed. It was meant to happen

We’ve been dead since the beginning

I am reminded of the plays I had seen – in Athenian festivals. The actors did not expose their faces, ever. Especially in tragedies. You did not see Creon’s face break when he learned of his son’s death, for it had always been distorted into an expression of grief, from the very beginning.

Our lives are little more than means for us to grow into our death masks. What has been done is too great to be undone, and any future save one is rendered nigh-impossible.

Oedipus’ theatre-mask always had the trails of black paint marking the streams of blood that would one day flow from his gouged eyes, always wore his father’s crown – even before he had grown truly into it, before he had fulfilled his destiny

Creon’s son had to die. Theseus’ father had  to jump. Hercules’ family had to be slaughtered. It ends tragically, because there is no other version of the story, no ending without tragedy.

In death, we achieve completeness – a divine culmination of our fates. A complete circle – ending where we began, thrust into the arms of Thanatos, and brought into the darkness of the Underworld, so similar to that of the womb

The waves of fortune are fickle – raising one man and pushing down another – and changeable, untrustworthy, up until the final second, where all the pieces fall into place. The tragic hero is complete, perfect, in a way.

Up till then, he is mortal – half-gone already, fickle, unhappy, as ever-changing as the sand of a desert, but then he falls, and in that shining instant, achieves something resembling the simple truth of the gods – their utter completeness.

And then, what else is left to do but die ?

Chapter Text

The next morning, we gather near the main tent to hear the verdict passed by the residents of Troy, jostling and shouldering our way to the front of the ranks, eager to hear the name of the warrior who would inherit the armor of Achilles – the legacy of Achilles

I sit, slumped against a plain wooden chair like a petulant child, a stark contrast to Ajax, who leans forward in his like a starving wolf who is lunging after a straggling deer. I do not want to be here. I do not want to partake in this meaningless contest of “macho-ness”.

I shoot a glare at Diomedes, who stands to my right, his hair gleaming like onyx in the brilliant, hazy light of early morning. He smiles back, tinged with mischief, and a slight promise – if you do not take care of your legacy, I will.

Agamemnon steps onto the dais, and his lips curl up into a predatory smile as he takes a scroll of parchment from somewhere within the acres of robe-cloth spilling like a purple water-fall from his shoulders.

His eyes rise to meet mine, and then spin over to Ajax. They glint with a sadistic anticipation, though it is tinged with a little apprehension. Without even the slightest whisper of a name passing through his pursed lips, I already know who has been chosen.

The verdict is passed. I hear Ajax’s reaction before the words spoken by Agamemnon reach me. A roar of rage rips free of his throat, and he rises to his full stature. I rise to my feet and slip silently, like a shadow, into the crowd behind me.

His eyes are rolling and bloodshot as he lunges at Agamemnon. An arrow flies through the air, shot by Menelaus, burying it’s dark shaft in his left forearm. Blood springs from the wound, dark and winey, and he drops to earth like a wing-less bird.

He rises, and for a second, there is a strained silence. His eyes open wide – in shock, in horror- as if seeing something, someone, we cannot, before his irises – a deep brown – glint silver. His head drops like a boulder, and he turns and runs off into the distance, towards the animal pens

There is a scream, and the gruesome sound of tearing flesh as Ajax kills one of the sheep, twisting it’s head clean off it’s shoulders. Teucer runs to stop his half-brother from causing any more damage, but Diomedes is faster, grabbing the young boy’s arm and pulling him back to stop any harm from coming to him

A memory flashes through my mind – of Patroclus climbing the walls of Troy, again and again and again, no matter how impossible it seemed, how irrational, like he were a man possessed. Divine interference. A god’s will asserting itself over a human’s

I wince in pity. Poor Ajax. My eyes close as the sound of a second sheep’s gruesome death reaches me. A dull ache races through my heart like a ripple through water.

Diomedes has reached him now, and is saying something to him – I cannot hear it, they are too far away. There is the sound of someone giant falling to earth, more indistinct words, and then the unmistakable noise of Ajax’s sword being pulled from it’s sheath

I draw in a sharp breath, as more indistinct words are exchanged. Diomedes’ voice is higher now, as if rising in a strange panic. There are sounds of a struggle, as if Teucer is trying to approach his half-brother, but Diomedes’ strong arms wound around him prevent him from doing so

Ajax is speaking now, first low, his voice rising in volume, saturated with a dim realization, and a terrible, fatal shame, till his indiscernible words ended with a wordless roar to the heavens, one pierced with a deep, undying humiliation, and then… the sound of a sword being plunged through someone’s throat.

I turn away from the scene of Ajax’s death immediately – feeling sick to my stomach, even if I had not physically witnessed it. The crowd explodes into cries around me, and the sickly, coppery stench of life-blood hits my noise with the force of a spear-butt

I resist the urge to vomit and shoulder my way through the crowd, who surges toward Ajax’s fallen corpse, Teucer weeping over his body like a widow, and swirl around it like a whirlpool of men, being drawn towards the corpse

I cannot help the broken laugh that slips from my lips at the sight of Ajax’s prone form. His name – what was it ? Ajax. Aias. So similar to the traditional mourning cry of our people – Aiai.

A name he carried from birth, prepared for his end. A mourning cry as a name – an actor wearing a frozen mask. He was doomed from the beginning. An old tale – written down aeons ago.

I did not know him well, and it would be untruth to say I mourned him, but in turn, it would be untruth to say that I wanted him dead. I pitied him, is all – another victim of inexorable destiny, caught in the endless spider-web the Moirae have spun for us hapless mortals

Diomedes emerges from the crowd of milling warriors, a set of gleaming armor- Achilles’ armor- in his arms, his face and body speckled with crimson drops of blood, and he smiles in relief on seeing me, dropping the equipment at my feet, and then, as quickly as it comes, the smile fades

“I recovered your armor for you”, he says, somewhat somberly, “and this”.

He shifts a little and, from beneath the pile of armor, draws out a small flower, red as fresh-spilt blood, it’s verdant green stem spattered with a dim scarlet fluid. Nestled in the heart of its circle of red petals is a golden core – brilliant as a blazing fire, and one of the leaves is inscribed, in faint gold lettering – Ai. The first two letters of Ajax’s name, and a mourning cry

“This is…”, I say, my eyes sharpening in curiosity as I reach out, gently brushing the tips of my fingers against it’s petals. It seems to tingle under my fingers – vibrating like a plucked wire

“It sprang from his blood”, Diomedes says, rolling the flower between his index finger and thumb, his eyes lazily following the circular motions of the “Ai”

“Like Hyacinthus”, I say, almost unconsciously, before a realization hits me. I look up, and my eyes narrow in reproach, “Diomedes, did you take this without asking Teucer ?”

For a moment, there is silence, before a small smile tugs at his thin lips, “In all fairness, he seemed too distraught to care. Plus I thought it would look nice adorning your armor…. Or your hair”

My cheeks tint red slightly, “Return it !!”, I hiss, “He’s Ajax’s next-of-kin. It’s his by right !!”

“Technically, it’s Telamon’s by right, not his”, Diomedes grumbles like a punished schoolboy, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He sighs, “Fine, fine. I’ll return it !!”

Ajax’s body is burned at the edge of the beach, on a pyre of cypress wood, and anointed with our finest wine. As the spire of smoke rose into the sky, twisting and turning like the body of a great black python, I hear the rustling of cloth, and someone emerges from the tent behind us

Pyrrhus’ red hair blazes like a funeral fire as he approaches to stand beside us, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes as he does. The gold flecks in his irises catch the firelight and reflect it, making them shine, as if small pieces of the sun itself had been embedded in his eyes.

“Who is that ?”, Pyrrhus says. His sharp eyes have caught on the sight of Ajax’s broad skeleton, wreathed in red, biting flames, lying on the center of the pyre. His flesh has burnt away, gone up into the air as greasy smoke, leaving behind only his shining white bones, which were slowly being charred to an ebony-black by the heat of the pyre

“Ajax”, Diomedes says simply, before I am able to come up with a suitable answer, “It’s Ajax”. I shoot him a slight glare, one he summarily ignores

“Ajax ?”, Pyrrhus questions, and his voice sounds young, lost. I am once again reminded of how young he actually is, “but why are they burning him ?”

“It’s a ritual”, I say before Diomedes can confess the truth, “to help his soul find peace”

“But won’t he…”, his eyes narrow as he looks at the pyre. It is as if he knows instinctively that burning someone would kill them, but does not comprehend the full meaning of such a thing

“Won’t he die if you burn him ?”, he asks at last, his voice dripping with a child-like innocence. Beside me, Diomedes sighs.

“He was already dead”, I say mildly. The smoke from Ajax’s pyre is falling to earth, too, now, heavier than the air around it. It lies on the ground like an ocean of darkness, curling it’s writhing ebony tendrils round the assembled mourners, covering them in the hazy, black mist of funeral smoke – greasy with burning human fat

“But how ?”, Pyrrhus asks, and his eyes are fixed on the blazing inferno. A curiosity glimmers within their unfathomable depths – morbid and consuming. He steps forward slightly, towards the heat of the burning body.

“Stabbed in the throat”, Diomedes says bluntly, as Pyrrhus spins, his gleaming eyes landing on the figure of the king of Argos. The son of Achilles is crouched over slightly now, his back bowed and knees folded, so as to get a better look at the burning body.

As he approaches Diomedes, his face is drawn sharply in the shadows cast by the funeral flames, which, combined with his posture, make him look like some great bird of prey- a great gleaming falcon approaching a white gull

He makes a thoughtful noise in his throat, sort of a growled “hmmm…”. I can see his child’s mind start  to spin, as he re-evaluates what he has been told about death. He steps forward, and the thin tendrils of smoke start wrapping around him, too, as if sucking him towards the pyre, like the grasping tentacles of some eldritch sea-beast

His outline seems to glow where he stands, silhouetted against the blazing pyre, looking like a glowing aura that surrounded his body – as though he were some kind of god.

His red hair blazes against the dark of night, looking like an inferno rising from the top of his skull, and his form seems to grow, almost, even as his eyes remain fixed on the slowly-collapsing skeleton of Ajax.

His face is drawn sharply in the light of the fire, looking near-inhuman in it’s blazing glare. His lips part slightly, and his teeth flash as white as bone.

The funeral comes to an end, and Ajax’s ashes are collected by his half-brother Teucer, and deposited in a hastily-constructed barrow upon the Rhotean promontory, jutting partly into the Hellespont.

Slowly, one-by-one, the kings begin to turn and leave, the pyre, covered in the white ash of cypress, a gray-white ruin behind them. Diomedes turns to leave, too, and seeing him, so do I. But Pyrrhus does not. Even as we leave the ash-streaked beach, Pyrrhus remains, his eyes fixed on the ruin of the pyre, gleaming an eerie emerald-green.

Chapter Text

The next day, the battle begins, as it always does, with the two front-lines colliding in a crash of splintering wood and cracking bone. Pyrrhus fights, too, at the head of his Myrmidons and Scyrosians. His eyes flash as they rake across the dark mass of the charging Trojan armies, and seemed to gleam with intrigue when the two armies clash with a thunderous boom

He moves, smooth as a serpent, and twice as agile. He has inherited his father’s speed. A spear rises in his hand, in a spill of silver, and the point draws back for only a second before it is flying through the air, spinning like it is caught in the heart of a terrible whirlwind. A Trojan falls, with a scream and a spray of blood.

Pyrrhus’ eyes shine with interest and curiosity, as he hefts another spear, and another Trojan falls – Polites, a prince of Troy. The Trojan armies start to break their lines, whirling in a maelstrom of confusion. I hear them whisper amongst themselves, even as Pyrrhus draws a third spear from the arms of a nearby guard – Achilles has returned, he never died. Gods save us.

The spear flies again, bright and silvery as the chariot of Artemis, and transfixes another man through the heart, driving him to the earth. The Greeks are talking, now, too – well, chanting – one word, one name, as they had for his father, before his death – Pyrrhus !! Pyrrhus !! Aristos Achaion !!

Pyrrhus does not roar out a war-cry, as his father was wont to do, instead simply raising his arms, and spreading them wide – a showman gesturing dramatically to his audience. His eyes are black and cold as they rake over the confused, chaotic Trojan army, black as the endless heights of the night sky. My heart aches slightly as I look upon them.

A child is easily influenced. They are chameleons, and wear the colors thrust onto them. Pyrrhus had been raised by Thetis – brought up to follow in his father’s footsteps, all the way down in the fathomless depths of the black ocean. He was raised a warrior, and trained in the art of the spear and the sword.

It was meaningless effort to try and shield the boy from the horrors of war, because he was born to inherit them. He was born for the fire and the chaos of the battle-field. Even his name reflected that – Pyrrhus.

Red. The red of the funeral fire. The red of shed blood

This was his frozen mask – his death-mask – as much as heart-rending grief was his father’s. He has always been a warrior

There is a whistle of wind, and a fourth Trojan falls dead. Pyrrhus reaches for another spear, only to find none. They are all gone, buried in Trojan bodies. I see his shoulders slump as he sighs, so like a petulant child. A faint reminder of his actual age, buried under the hard steel of war

He draws his sword, and it’s bronze blade catches the light, shining out like liquid gold. There is a second of strained silence, and then, he disappears in a blur, like his father had, in his final battle against Memnon

On the battlefield, another Trojan drops dead, and the son of Achilles seems to almost materialize behind him, a blood-stained sword clutched in his hand. His eyes rake downwards to find the wheezing body of the dying man, and I see them flicker – first with a dawning realization, an all-encompassing horror – before slowly, slowly hardening into balls of ice. A shard of pain rams itself through my heart

He raises his blade again, before bringing it down hard, splitting the man’s throat. A merciful, relatively painless end. He swings his sword in a wide arc, and the blade catches on another man’s throat, simultaneously slitting it and flinging the man into the crowd of milling Trojans, who now begin to turn towards the young prince of Scyros, converging on his location, and leaving their backs exposed to us

Agamemnon gestures sharply with one hand, and a rain of arrows rises into the sky, black and stark against the blue sky, looking for all the world like the shadow of death descending upon the field. They rise into sky in a tidal wave of black, and slow to almost a halt as they reach the peak of their arc

And then they fall, whistling through the air in an ear-piercing song of death, and then the unmistakable sound of a thousand sharp points ripping through flesh. Line after line of Trojans fell to the shower of death the Achaean archers released upon them, even as Pyrrhus busied himself with ripping through their lines like paper, flinging them this way and that like they were little more than dolls.

He did not seem to fully comprehend what he was doing as he fought, his mind lost to the blood-haze of open combat. His sword swung through the air again and again, accompanied by a symphony of screams and spatters of blood. At last, the Trojan captain, a small man – Dephobus, the second-oldest of Priam’s fifty sons, I recognize – sounds the retreat, and, as one, the army turns and practically races towards the Scaean Gates, with a kind of desperate terror moving through them – in their minds they were running from Achilles, deathless Achilles, who they had slain and who had risen again to haunt them.

Pyrrhus staggered slightly, his dark eyes following the enemy soldiers as they desperately retreated to the safety of the Walls of Troy. Agamemnon raised a horn to his lips, intent on continuing the pursuit, but Pyrrhus shot him a blazing glare – Thetis had passed on her skills of godly intimidation onto her grandson, if nothing else. Diomedes, too, stepped forward and roughly pulled the commander’s arm down, pulling the horn away from his lips.

Agamemnon glared at the Argive king, who only responded with a cool gaze, a warning embedded deep within his dark eyes, a kind of caged bestial rage that made Agamemnon pale with fear – Diomedes was not happy with the commander, especially after all the drama his actions had caused.

Pyrrhus swayed on his feet slightly, before the sound of a dying man’s wheezes reached his ears. He turned and looked down. A man lay at his feet, his chest studded with dark-feathered arrows, blood trickling from his lips, forming a river of red flowing fast down his chin. The man’s hand was reaching for Pyrrhus’ chin, as if to try to form a pose of supplication – to ask for mercy, and the barest shred of honor in death, like Hector had to Pyrrhus’ father, the day he died.

Pyrrhus’ eyes linger on the fallen man for a few seconds, uncomprehending, before he reached forward, and, gathering all the arrow-shafts in one hand, roughly wrenched them from the man’s flesh, eliciting a shout of pain. Phoinix walks up beside him, and the two engage in a whispered conversation, Pyrrhus pointing insistently at the fallen man.

At last, Phoinix lifts up the man’s body, and carries it over to Automedon, who raises a flag of parley over Achilles’ chariot, and begins making for the walls of Troy, carrying the man’s body home

A small flicker of relief rises in my breast. Pyrrhus was a born warrior, but at least he was an honorable one.

As we return from battle, soaked in blood and sweat, stained with grit and dirt – looking every inch the intimidating monsters the Trojans made us out to be-, we are greeted with cheers and praise from those who had stayed behind – the healers and the wounded.

The air resounds with cheers, as the army splits up to retire to their own camps, and the clangor of spear-hafts against leather-bound shields echoes off the hill-sides. I stay behind, even as the other kings go down to the gentler, wider regions of the Scamander and Simois to wash the dirt and filth from their bodies, laughing and talking as they did.

Of course, this catches Diomedes’ attention – everything does, the man’s eyes are as sharp as a hawk’s, and he stops in his tracks, turning to look at me inquisitively. I gesture with my head to a small tent that has been set up by the main tent. Helenus, the seer-prince of Troy, is housed within. We still needed to interrogate him. His eyes gleam with understanding, and he nods, turning and walking down to the Simois where his men awaited him, leaving me to my work

Helenus’ tent is made of thick cow-hide, tinted a deep red with iron ochre. It is dark and damp within – no Achaean has bothered to light a candle for the prince of their greatest enemy. Inside sits Helenus, curled up in the corner, frantically drawing symbols into the dust by his feet, strange ones – A Cyclopes, a trident, a ship.

“Unused to living in a tent, prince of Troy ?”, I call out, and my voice carries a note of condescension – I had respect for only one among the Trojan princes, and that man is dead

He looks up at my words, his head snapping up with the force of a whip-crack – making me half-fear for the safety of his neck-bone. His eyes shine with panic. With one hand, he began frantically rubbing out the symbols he had just made, even as the other, open-palmed, rose as if to hold back a blade

“I have no intention of hurting you”, I say, moving with the lithe grace of a predator who has cornered his prey. I draw my face close to his, and take some joy from the beads of sweat that erupt from his forehead and neck, and the sheer fear-induced paleness of his skin. I smile wolfishly, “Yet”

I draw away from his terrified figure, and move around him – a serpent coiling round a mouse. A small smile tugs at my lips, “Answer me truthfully, and I might not change my mind”

“Mercy, good Odysseus”, Helenus says, and his voice is older, more mature from when I had last met him ten years ago – and rough with a terror that made me feel like a tiger stalking a young fawn, looming over it as the smaller creature cowered before me. He continues, “M-mercy. I will tell you what you want to know. All I ask in return is my life”

I crane my end, my eyes, sharper than spear-heads, raking across the cowering man. I come to a decision, nodding and slumping down into a chair, one leg dangling carelessly off to the side, my eyes fixed on the seer-prince. I flick my fingers at him – Speak

“The… the second Achilles you have in your retinue”, he speaks, his voice quavering slightly as he does, “I must commend you on finding him. He might be the one person capable of matching Achilles blow-for-blow”

“Mhm”, I say, disinterested. I already know that Pyrrhus is skilled. What I want to know is –

“How did he capture you ?”, I ask, leaning forward slightly, “How did he take you from behind the impregnable walls of Troy ?”

“A-ah”, the prince stammers, rapidly scrabbling away from my piercing gaze, “Well, you see, I wasn’t”

“Wasn’t ?”

“W-wasn’t behind the walls”, the prince continues, now waving his hands vaguely in the air as the words spill from his mouth like a flood, “I was on Mount Ida – that sacred mountain some call Phrygian Ida- near the topmost peak of Gargarus when he found me”

“I see”, I say, and crane my head to one side, like a humanoid owl. It had the desired effect – the Trojan prince immediately started crawling away from me. I step closer, placing one foot onto the bottom of his tunic, holding him in place, “Where, exactly, do you think you’re going ?”

I kneel down beside his face, and my blazing eyes rake over his pale cheek, “Even if you manage to escape this tent, you’re in the heart of the Grecian camp. You won’t live long, let me assure you of that”

I rise to my feet, and walk back over to my chair, “Even if you escape to the very edges of the camp, Pyrrhus – that man you called “the second Achilles” – has a throwing strength and speed rivaled only by Achilles himself. You won’t make it ten feet before one of his spears hits you”

“So”, I lean forward, aping amicability, and resting my arms on my knees, “Be rational, and answer what I ask, and if a lie slips from your tongue – rest assured that I will cut it out”

“Y-yes, sir”, he stammers, at once rising to sit uncomfortably on his knees, his back straight as the haft of a spear. I lean back, lowering one of my arms till it lies loosely over an arm-rest. I twist my head from side-to-side, and my eyes find his trembling form again. A small smile tugs at my lips

“Good boy”, I say, my voice sounding abruptly in the silence, like the crack of breaking bone, “Now, first things first – Paris is dead, correct ?”

“Yes”, he nods wildly, so fast that I am half-afraid that his head will fly clean off, “Yes, he is. I burned him myself”

“I see”, I whisper, my eyes closing in quiet thought, “Then… why on Earth is this war still dragging on ?”

Helenus scoots backward slightly at the lava that drips from my voice. I am angry, and I wager that I have a right to be. Paris is dead. Why has his wife not returned ?

“D-dephobus demanded her hand in m-marriage”, the seer-prince squeaks like a trapped mouse, “S-she agreed”

Dephobus. That bastard. I was going to give him an exceptionally gruesome death the day Troy fell. Denying peace for the sake of a woman – well, he certainly was Paris’ brother, there could be no doubt about that

A low growl builds in my throat, and Helenus squeaks, scurrying away a little, till his back pressed into the heavy, red-dyed hide-walls of the tent.

I draw in my anger- It would get me nowhere, after all- and recline against the back of my chair again, my fingers tapping out a pattern against the hard oak wood of the right arm-rest. My eyes find Helenus, and blaze over his body like a wildfire, more piercing than a shower of arrows

“So,” I say, and my voice is low, deep, just-barely concealing an animal growl beneath, “Great prophet of Troy”, I shift again, sliding like a serpent, coiling and uncoiling upon my seat, my eyes flashing over his form every few seconds, pinning him to the wall – as though he were a dead bug, and I the child who killed him.

I lean forward, and steeple my fingers, “Tell me, what does it take to take your damn city ?”. I rise from my seat, towering over the cowering man, my face and body streaked with dirt and blood from the battle-field – looking every inch the demon the Trojans believed me to be. I had heard the names they called me – Ulixes the Deceiver, Ulixes the Cruel  - and I exulted in them now, soaking in the fear they provoked in the young prince, and using it as a weapon against him

“Ten years we have fought tirelessly”, I hiss, my voice dripping with rage – partly for show and partly real. I draw my sword, and it glimmers like the dying embers of a funeral fire in the dim light. Helenus winces harshly at the sight

“Ten years. With nothing to show for it. What does it take to break your damn walls ? What does it take –“, I draw the sword back and thrust it forward, just barely missing Helenus’ head, burying it’s shining blade into the hide behind him, “-to win ?”. I rip the sword free from the wall, leaving a ragged, gaping wound, light spilling from it like blood.

Helenus swallows hard, his eyes flickering over the tear, as if imagining it on his own flesh. He turns to me, and utter panic flashes through his watery eyes, a kind of animalistic terror. Victory is mine

“P-pallas”, he says, in a voice so soft that it is barely audible. He clears his throat a little and repeats, a little louder this time, “Pallas Athena.”

I am silent, and gesture sharply with my sword – Don’t stop talking

“As long as the Pallas Athena remains behind the walls of Troy”, he says, and his voice is trembling, vacillating like a leaf blowing in the wind, “you cannot take it”

My eyes glint with satisfaction. I have my answer. I lower myself into a mocking bow, and turn sharply to leave. Behind me, Helenus seems to snap awake from the fear-induced trance he had slipped into

“Wait !!”, he cries, “Aren’t you going to let me go ?”

I halt at his words, and mentally chastise his naïveté. I turn to face him, ensuring that he could see my profile – drawn sharply in shadow and light by the golden light spilling into the dark tent through the rip I had made – and smiled – the smile of a serpent who has already bitten his victim, and is watching them flee, knowing that they will soon collapse

“I never said that”, I say, and my voice rings out into the silence of the tent, “I promised that I would let you live – not that I would let you go”

Helenus cringes in fear at my sharp words, and I see his mind whirl as it supplied any number of terrible things we could do to him without killing him – only terrifying him more and more

“You will be handed over to Neoptolemus of Scyros – the son of Achilles – as a slave”, I declare, and my voice seems to cut through the last of his hopes, making him collapse to the earth like a dead bird, “Consider it recompense for your brother’s killing of his father”

With that, I walk brusquely out the tent-flap, leaving the seer-prince of Troy in the dust and darkness of the tent’s interior, to be collected later by Automedon – or whoever Pyrrhus decided to send.

It is a comparatively merciful fate. Pyrrhus is not too terrible a master, after all. Of course, he doesn’t know that –which would explain the terror in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Agamemnon is well-pleased with the information I have drawn from Helenus’ lips, seemingly believing that it spells an end to this terrible war. I am warier. Troy has, thus far, survived every attempt we have made at breaching its walls.

The walls will remain, even if Pallas Athena’s protection fades. That won’t change. In fact, the guards stationed at the walls would probably double after we capture the city – Priam is not enough of a damn fool to believe the walls truly impervious.

Diomedes agrees with me. I see it in his eyes, in the way the muscles of his body seem to tense as I deliver Helenus’ prophecy, as if preparing for combat. His eyes glint, black and slick as obsidian in the dim torch-light, with a strange expression – one that immediately let me know that he was lost to the endless black seas of thought

Agamemnon dismisses the kings, with a promise that the conquest of Pallas Athena would mean the doom of Troy, that sooner of later, we would capture the city of Apollo. Slowly, the leaders filter out, chatting and talking excitedly amongst themselves – save for Diomedes, who still seems lost to thought as he leaves, and Pyrrhus, who seems entirely unconcerned with the information I have just relayed

At last, only I and Agamemnon remain within the dusty, dimly-lit tent, lit only by the light of the flickering bronze braziers. His eyes are cold as they fall upon me – all trace of amicability is gone. He knows I do not believe his reassurances.

“Agamemnon”, I begin, “What do you believe will come of taking Priam’s city ? Wealth ? I doubt Priam has any remaining – he has likely spent all his famed treasury in the hiring of troops to guard his city. Land ? You won’t be able to remain here. It is bordered on all sides by the kingdoms of Anatolia, after all. The Hittite Empire in particular, would drive you out instantly. Fame ? Perhaps, but fame is a fickle thing, and remarkably-“

“Vengeance”, Agamemnon hisses like a python, his eyes blazing, as the hard shell of ice cracks to reveal the inferno beneath, “Vengeance”

I scoff incredulously, “Vengeance ? Since when do you care about any of us ?”

“For you ?”, Agamemnon lets out a rough bark of insincere laughter, “No, no. For my daughter, whose blood yet stains the altar back in Aulis. For the ten years of life I have lost in this godforsaken campaign”

I laugh too, a mocking, bitter bark of it – more the humorless laughter of a hyena than a man, “Of course”, I say, and my voice resounds bitterly through the tent, “Of course that’s all you care about. Who gives a flying fuck about the thousands who have fallen for the sake of your ego, right ? The war didn’t kill your daughter, Agamemnon. You did. You had the choice. You chose. You don’t get to regret it now”

Agamemnon snarls at me, a bestial noise, seething with anger, “What would you have me say then ? What do you want to hear ? Honor, Love, Loyalty ? Such things are unfit for us. They are worthless – for mortals and fools. You might say we are little more than beasts without them, but look around, Odysseus – can you really say that humans are more than beasts ?”

“Beasts ?”, I say, somewhat mockingly, “You think of humans as beasts ? But a beast is not so much a fool as a human. A beast would not allow themselves to be dragged off to an endless war by one more dull-witted than themselves”

Agamemnon snaps at my words, his teeth gnashing together with a sharp click, like the closing of a crocodile’s long jaws.

I am right. A beast is not a man, and will never be. A beast could never be so meaninglessly cruel to others of his own kind. A beast hunts for food. A man hunts for fun.

Agamemnon twists his neck, and I can audibly hear the bones of his spine crack free from their stiff states, “And what part did you play in that, King of Lies ? You were the one to drag Achilles kicking and screaming into my war, after all.”

“I never disqualified myself from my statement”, I shake my head, “I am a fool, and so are you, and so is each and every one of us. It was a foolish decision to come here, and even more to remain”

“Perhaps it was”, Agamemnon hisses, his words are slippery as the bloodless fish who dwell in the deepest recesses of the ocean, “Alas, you came anyways, and while you are here, you obey me. Life is a storm, and humans are leaves caught in it, blowing this way and that, and I am the Zeus who commands it. I will have my vengeance. Troy will burn”

“Your desire for vengeance is nothing but your own pride”, I spit, venomous as a serpent, “The Trojans did not kill your daughter – you did. The Trojans did not keep you here – your pride did. Well, then – mark my words, King of Men – your payment will come. Nemesis and Themis will reach you, even if you leave the field unscathed.”

“Payment ?”, the commander scoffs, “For what ? I have simply done what was required of me – fought. Perhaps you believe me unjust – well, that would simply be hypocritical. After all, your hands aren’t so clean of blood and filth either”

“Justice ? Injustice ?”, I scoff now, the words leaving my lips as rasping, incredulous noises, “Don’t make me laugh. Justice died the day this war was declared. No, I’m talking about…. What was the word you used again ? Vengeance”, a sadistic smile tugs at my lips, “After all, I doubt your wife is too pleased with your murder of your daughter”

Agamemnon freezes at my words – paling rapidly till he resembled an alabaster statue. His eyes glimmered with a strange emotion – fear mixed with a desperate disbelief – or perhaps, just the desire to disbelieve. I smirk, and a small flame of satisfaction lights in my heart

My eyes linger for a few seconds on the frozen form of the Myceneaean king, and then, slowly, languidly, I turn and exit the tent, leaving him to his own whirlpool of thoughts.

I stop and lean against a nearby wooden pole, driven halfway into the sandy earth, it’s surface polished to almost a shine, my arms crossed over my chest, and raise my eyes to the star-studded fabric of the early night sky. Directly above my head gleamed the constellations – shining formations of stars, said to be the spirits of heroes and monsters, raised to divinity by the gods

To the left stood Orion, his gleaming bow raised to fire, his dog shining at his feet. To the right, Hercules raised his mighty club. Below shone out Amalthea, the she-goat who had reared the great god Zeus as a child, and in the center….

In the center shone a patch of empty sky, no constellation formed in it – no god ruling it. A legend yet to be made. Perhaps to be made by us.

My eyes raked over the point-lights that pinpricked the dark sheet of the endless sky-dome – like holes in the cloth of our mortal realm, a peek into the shining divinity that lay beyond. They had stood there forever, and would stand there forever no matter what we mortals do. No matter what kind of cruel acts we carry out – whatever darkness stirs in the black depth of our souls – the stars would always stand, as they always had. A sobering thought, indeed

As my eyes continue to rove restlessly over the starry landscape of the sky – the body of Ouranos -, my mind starts to whirl. A new constellation is forming now, right before my eyes – one set not by the gods, but by my own mind.

That star forms an eye, that one another. That shining cluster over there becomes the muzzle, and that one the gaskin. And at last, I step back, admiring the craftsmanship of my eyes, and my mind travels back, back through the starlit stretch of a decade – back to that symbol I had seen Helenus draw on the table, at the diplomatic meeting we had attended in Troy.

It does so, because that very same symbol is staring back at me from the heavens, drawn in the stars with an invisible chisel, as if placed there by some divine messenger. A horse. A smile tugged at my lips, and my mind begins spinning again, as it had so many times in the past.

I am Odysseus, the Man of Many Turnings. I am Odysseus, the Sacker of Cities.

The answer to the fall of Troy had finally revealed itself to me, be it via a burst of divine knowledge, or my own mind. Agamemnon was right, though I was loath to admit it.

Troy would burn

The next day, Agamemnon gathers us for a council, as he often does, and it is, predictably, practically dripping with pomp and circumstance – a wounded beast licking away at its injured pride.

He declares, his voice dripping with a kind of vengeful conviction, that, as the one who delivered the news, I would be the one to capture the Pallas Athena, and his eyes glint as he speaks – gleaming with a kind of strange, desperate bid at authority – See ? I am in charge here, they seemed to say

“Very well”, I lower myself into a small bow, more inclining my head than bowing, really, and, to my satisfaction, this only seems to incense the commander further, “but I will do nothing if Diomedes is not by my side”

Behind me, I hear the crowd explode into whispers at my request, and ignore them. Diomedes rises to his feet, a strange emotion glimmering in the dark depths of his eyes, and walks over to stand beside me. His presence is solid and strong beside me, a guiding rock, a North Star round which I could revolve.

I suddenly feel Automedon’s eyes boring into the back of my skull.

I turn my head slightly, and find the young charioteer, leaning lazily against the wall, a forgotten cup of wine gripped in one white-knuckled hand, and his eyes, wide and overflowing with emotion, fixed on me. It is strange. His eyes are on me, but it is not me he sees. It is someone already dead – a man who shone like the sun, or perhaps, his beloved companion.

Agamemnon makes to speak once more, to dismiss the kings, but I raise one open-palmed hand in objection, effectively ripping control of the room away from the commander.

“I have one more request to make”, I turn to the assembled Greek kings, who crane their heads together to listen to the words of the silver-tongued prince of Ithaca, “Wood. Get me wood. And a lot of it”

“Wood ?”, Idomeneus speaks up, eyeing me suspiciously through heavy-lidded eyes, his head propped up lazily on one folded arm, “Why wood ?”

“Well…”, I spread my arms, like a showman presenting his next trick. The crowd’s eyes are on me. I complete, “Let’s just say that I might have a way to conquer Troy”

The reaction is immediate, spreading like a ripple through them, a disturbance – a manic, frantic energy. Could it be ? After ten years, could it be ? Is victory finally at hand ?

Upon the dais, Agamemnon gnashes his teeth at the attention being showered on me, even as his brother massages his forehead as if to ward off a headache, clearly lost in thought.

“If that is so”, Menelaus says at last, after a long, and frankly, uncomfortable silence, “then we would be glad to get you whatever it is you require. How long would this plan take ?”

“That depends on how skilled our craftsmen are”, I say, and my voice is low. Outside, the wind is roaring now – a storm is coming. I resist the urge to laugh – Isn’t nature poetic ?

“I need them to build me a hollow horse. A big one. Big enough to fit thirty men inside”, I say at last, my words resounding in the silence. The wind is screaming now, and I almost feel like I am listening to a thousand Trojan voices, raised in a cacophony of pain and sorrow, watching their city burn.

“A…. horse ?”, Menelaus asks, his voice tinged with confusion, “Why a  horse ?”

“The emblem of Troy”, Agamemnon speaks up now. His lips are pursed, and his fingers steepled before them. His eyes flicker with a strange mix between triumph and wariness – a wiser reaction than I would have expected from our commander

Diomedes’ eyebrows rise, “The emblem of Troy…. So, they would be more likely to trust it”, he turns to me, and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “More likely to…. take it into their city”

“So you plan on gifting it to them ?”, Meriones says, his eyes shining with intrigue, “Interesting”. The ghost of a smile flickers at his lips

“Why would they accept any gift from us ?”, Idomeneus interjects, somewhat indignantly, “This plan is doomed to fail”

“Give me time, king of Crete”, I say, and my eyes gleam like silver blades, “and trust. Everything will fall into place”

“Trusting is all we have been doing !!”, spits Teucer, his eyes blazing with rage and blame, “and its gotten us nowhere !! So much for cleverest of- ”

“Hold your tongue, nephew of Priam”, Diomedes cuts him off, rumbling like a thunderstorm beside me, “The titles Odysseus holds far outstrip your own. If he says that he has a way to conquer Troy, he means it”

My chest grows hot and tight as I hear him speak, warmed by his faith in me. My eyes linger on his profile, noble and aquiline, his onyx hair gleaming in the torchlight, and it is some time before I notice that the room has fallen quiet

I rise to my feet, and cough a little into the awkward silence.

I draw in a deep breath, to calm my heart, which had begun racing on hearing Diomedes’ defense of me, and begin talking, the words slipping easily from my tongue, “Thank you, Diomedes. As for the rest of you, the king of Argos speaks true. This creation will be our door into the heart of Troy. Our victory. All you need to do is trust, and obey.”

“Obey you ?”, Agamemnon scoffs, “Why should they do so ?”

“If you want to spend ten more fruitless years trying to take the city via brute force then you are free to do so”, my words ring out into the stillness, firm and decisive, “but if you want to see your homes again, your families again, then you would do well to listen to me”

Agamemnon makes to speak again, perhaps to argue, but Menelaus speaks up instead, raising one hand for silence, “Of course, Polytropos. We can leave this in your more-than-capable hands, I presume ?”

I nod, and turn to the assembled kings. A horn sounds outside, calling us to today’s battle, and I see a change pass over them. No longer were they the pompous, arrogant kings of the Aegean Sea. Their faces grow hard as they rise from their seats, drawing spears and swords from dark cloaks and bright capes. There is no give in them. They have been fighting this war for a decade – any mercy in them has long-since dried up

“Fight tonight, kings of Greece”, I say to them, my voice resounding over their heads, “and fight tomorrow. For the day the horse is finished… is the selfsame day Troy shall fall – not with a roar, but with a whimper”

There are whispers at my words – at the confidence I display like a peacock displaying his feathers, at the theatrics I conduct – and then a collective hardening of jaws.

We are creatures of the now – born one moment and dead the next. Leave tomorrow for tomorrow, and exult in the present, for death is swift and unpredictable. Perhaps the horse will help us conquer Troy, but there is no point in raising hopes now, in taking joy in it now, and perhaps, becoming complacent – not when victory is close enough to taste. Fight now, and worry about such things later.

This time, as the men marched out to fight, there was a strange fervor to them – like dogs straining at the leash, eager to escape into the golden glow of freedom. They fought like dogs too, with a rabid, untamable desperation – punching and kicking and biting.

Now that they had seen a way into the light, they were desperate to live long enough to enter it.

Pyrrhus might have been the only man there not fighting like a beast, instead calmly planting his feet into the earth, roots driving into the soil, a stack of shining spears beside him. His eyes had grown cold, dark now – there was barely any trace left of the posturing, arrogant child who had come before us on the day of his father’s funeral – his innocence had been stripped away by the fires of war, almost as fast as his father’s had

He hefts one shining spear, and it moves in a blur, the bronze head shining like gold against the sea-blue sky. A Trojan falls. Then another. Then another.

His cold, black eyes fly across the battlefield, spinning dizzyingly from one target to another, dark and fast as a swarm of biting, squawking vultures. The shafts fly from his fingers as fast as he draws them – soundless and precise – never missing, even once

A Trojan stumbles back, and draws a bow, nocking one dark-feathered arrow in it. One eye closes, and he takes aim. I recognize him on sight – Troilus, the youngest son of Priam, kept behind the walls for his own safety. It is the massacre of his people that has drawn him out, a lure leading him into the maw of his beast. The maw widens

The spear spirals through the air, dark and terrible, it’s head a blur of shining silver, and shatters the bow he is aiming with, showering him in oaken splinters. The head of the spear buries itself in his left thigh. The young prince lets out a cry of pain, and rips the spear free from his leg, strings of red flesh clinging to and dimming it’s silver head

He turns and his eyes widen as he sees Pyrrhus heft another spear, his cold, fathomless eyes fixed on him. He raises his hand as if to guard himself, but it is too late. The shaft rises, arcing through the air like a monochrome rainbow of death, and catches the bulb of his throat.

For a moment, he stands, his chin raised, defiant and brave, inky black blood spilling from where the spear has ripped through his throat. And then the moment ends, and the youngest son of Priam is dead.

Dephobus jerks back at the sight, and raises his horn to his lips – intent on sounding a retreat, on removing his beloved brother’s body from the field. But one look at the roiling mass of flesh and death below him told me that that would be suicide. The Greeks would not yield in their hunt, no matter how many times the retreat sounded. Sounding it now would mean the death of Troy… and while I wanted Troy defeated, I wasn’t quite ready for it to be so ignoble

I raise a bow, the wood cool under my fingers, and nock an arrow in it, it’s fletching yellow as the waving shafts of wheat growing on Cephallonia’s more fertile islands. The arrow flies through the air , and lances through Dephobus’ horn. The Trojan prince starts, dropping it into the endless whirlpool of men beneath him, and the crunch of breaking ivory tells me that it is near-immediately crushed. No retreat.

I raise my bow again, and take aim at the bulb of Dephobus’ throat. My lips twist into a cruel grimace, but this is a mercy compared to the pain some of the crueler kings of Greece would have put him through.

The dark shaft flies through the air like a bar of  night, it’s tip shining like the moon, arcing across the blue sky.

For a moment there is silence, and Dephobus’ eyes seem to follow the missile’s arc. Panicked, he raises his heavy shield, but it is too late. The arrow slips through and pushes through skin, parts the muscle of his thick neck, before finally cutting through the skin of his windpipe.

He doubles over in pain, and rips the arrow from his throat, releasing a fountain of scarlet blood. He coughs, and a glob of red spatters against his horse’s neck. He wavers for a moment, and then, he falls, spiraling down, down into the roiling chaos of the field.

The battlefield freezes for one protracted moment, as the shock registers. A bark of cruel laughter splits the air, let out by none other than Diomedes, who runs up to the fallen prince and raises the arrow into the air like a bloody, gory prize, before throwing it straight into another Trojan’s chest… and then all hell breaks loose

It spreads like a ripple, the mad desperation, the rush of retreat. The Trojans turn and race for the Scaean Gate – shouting and screaming about someone they named “Scliros”. Cruel.

It is only when I get closer that I realize that they are, in fact, shouting about “Ulixes the Cruel”. They had, all of them, seen the yellow feathers of the arrow – the feathers that marked it as mine.

A smile splits my grisly, blood-stained face, sharp and cutting as a knife. The gates of Troy open to let in the retreating armies , and the tides of the Greek army draw, reluctantly, back, pulled away from the taste of Trojan blood by the horns of their generals

Agamemnon rides up to the walls of Troy, their grey sheen spattered with splotches of scarlet and pink – brain matter. He dismounts from his horse, and his eyes shine with triumph, even as the great, copper Scaean Gates slam shut before him. He rears his head back, and a smile of satisfaction pulls at his lips as his piercing eyes land on a smudge of purple atop the walls – King Priam, come out to witness the battle, and witness to the deaths of two more of his sons

“Trojans !!”, he roars, his voice like the whip-sharp winds of a typhoon, threatening to blow Troy away completely, “Rest now, for you have escaped our claws. But know this !! Your god has abandoned you !! Apollo has turned his face away from you. Now, we are your only gods !! We !! The Hellenes !! And we are not merciful”

“Like a whisper of wind, you stole away my brother’s bride !!”, he bellows, “But we have stirred that wind into a hurricane, and now it bears down upon you. The consequences of your actions. So sleep now, Trojans, and thank the gods that their eternal mercy has saved you from damnation… and remember…. No mercy lasts forever”

Chapter Text

The next few months pass in a blur of wood, blood and bronze. The armies met again, and again, and again, and each time the Greeks fought with an animal fervor – throwing themselves mind, body and soul into the fight, with the manic desperation of men who know themselves victorious.

Somewhere in the middle, Diomedes and I sneak into the city via a secret passage and carry off the wooden cult statue of Athena. It slips free of its pedestal with nothing more than the noise of wood dragging across smooth stone, and I take a moment to marvel at how little noise it had made – almost as if Athena herself were silencing the grinding, ear-piercing noises of wood against rock, were blessing our mission

The statue slides free of it’s altar, into the waiting arms of Diomedes, and I can almost audibly hear cracking as, slowly but surely, the protection of Athena faded from the city of Troy. A small smile stretched across my face, and beside me, Diomedes’ eyes shone with a predatory glint. Troy was conquerable, now. The owl has left her perch, now the horse can destroy it.

The next day, the protections around Troy double, as soldiers begin flooding out of the city – both from the city of Ilus itself, and the many, many kingdoms around it. A draft has begun, and every man, no matter how ill-trained, is flocking to the defense of his home, of his family

New heroes emerge, too, as if summoned out of thin air, from the Anatolian kingdoms, who begin throwing everything they have at us – a way of prolonging the inevitable. They know that if Troy falls, it would serve as an open invitation to other kings – of the Aegean Sea, or beyond – to conquer Anatolia, now no longer defended from Western invaders by Ilus’ mighty stronghold

First comes Pyraechmes, brother of the fallen hero Asteropaios, king of the archer Paeoians who dwell upon the river Axius, upon the fertile plains of Amydon. They ride into battle with whoops and cries in their strange tongue – echoing out like the crunch of splintering glass – fingering their great longbows as they did so. They shower the Hellenes armies with sun-blotting swarms of purple-feathered arrows, inexhaustible and sharp-pointed. Their assault is short-lived, as it takes but one blow from Pyrrhus to bring down their leader, sending the hordes into a panic, easily cut down by our forces. Rather disappointing, given their spectacularly theatrical entrance.

Next, up ride the Thracians, on their dark horses – large and powerful, larger than ours, and faster. A contingent of them had entered the battle earlier, led by Rhesus and Acamas, but now the entire army had arrived, and it was a sight to behold.

A sea of dark-eyed men stretched out before us, their black haired heads gleaming with oil, unguarded from attack, even as their armor shone like flames in the brilliant sunlight. The top of their army bristled with spear-head – looking like the spiny back of a porcupine, stretched out across the army. At their head rode a tall, broad-chested man, his eyes blazing with rage, as he spoke inaudibly to his men, thrusting a great, silver-tipped spear in our direction every few seconds. Acamas, the warrior-son of Eussorus, had returned, and with Rhesus dead, had claimed sole command over the mobilized armies of Thrace.

The armies charge towards us, and our front-lines shy away, before splitting. My eyes rake over them as they split into two halves, curving out like the horns of a bull. The Thracians cannot turn quickly – their horses are too wild for that – and that shall be their doom. I gesture sharply to them, and the archers take their positions, lining the insides of the bull-horn formation. I see Acamas’ eyes widen at the sight, as he realizes the trap we have laid out for him, but it is too late. His lines enter the bull-horn trap, and the men complete the curve, forming a perfect ellipse around them

Agamemnon raises a horn to his lips, and as the sound rings out, the arrow-shower begins – veritable swarms of dark-shafted arrows arcing through the air with deadly speed and precision, hilting themselves in flesh, bone, armor, whatever. The Thracians begin to panic, and Acamas, his eyes wide with rage, turns to charge at the Cretan fourth of the formation. An arrow hits the right wheel of his chariot, and the whole thing bucks, sending him flying.

He lands hard against the earth, and scrabbles to rise to his feet, but it is too late. The grim face of Idomeneus towers over him, and the sharp point of his spear passes through the Thracian general’s throat, and it is the end.

Next comes Pylaemenes, premier son of the Eneti tribe, leading the roaring, hooting armies of the Paphlagonians down from their rugged, mountainous lands, to fight for Troy. They are used to attacking from the shadows, using the crags and crevices of the mountainous land of Paphlagonia to their advantage. Drawn out into the open, upon the vast plain of Troy, they are effortlessly routed, and Pylaemenes himself dies when a great bronze spear, thrown by Menelaus, impales him through the gut

Next, the Ciconians ride up from their stronghold at the foot of Mount Ismara, their hands bristling with countless dark-shafted, iron-tipped spears, their heads guarded from harm by shining bronze helms, with face-plates that extended to cover the lower halves of their faces. At their head rides a towering figure – great Euphemus, the son of Troezonus. They do not ride horses, instead charging at us like hordes of monsters drawn up from the fire-and-brimstone of Tartarus.

It is the Ciconians who come closest to routing our forces, nearly shattering our front lines under their relentless barrage of melee attacks. But as the Ciconian forces began overwhelming our front-most ranks, it is Diomedes who forms a plan.

Slowly, our front ranks fold back, in seeming retreat. Drunk on the wine of triumph, the spearmen charge forward, even as Euphemus stays back, seemingly sensing danger. For a moment, there is quiet, and then, Diomedes moves forward, silent and swift as a shadow, and, standing at the front of the lines, the Ciconians drawing nearer and nearer, hefts a gleaming silver spear in one hand

The spear flies, silent and deadly, lower to the ground than an ordinary spear-throw, and appears to miss completely. A barrage of laughter sounds from the Ciconians, but Diomedes does not seem to notice – his eyes are trailing his spear. It catches on the wheel of an emptied Achaean chariot, and in seconds, Diomedes grabs its shaft and levers it to fling the entire vehicle into the heart of the Ciconian army, throwing the forces into disarray. He lowers his arm in a sharp, cutting motion, and his men step forward, throwing huge armfuls of dust into the air, clouding it with brown-grey particles, blinding the spearmen of Ismara, who begin fighting amongst themselves. The plot of Medea and her father’s skeletons, repeated with an army

Euphemus draws back, and his mouth opens, as if to call for order, but Diomedes is quicker. Before even the whisper of a noise can slip from his lips, another dark shaft embeds itself in his chest, slotting through the finger-gaps between his ribs and piercing his heart. With that, the son of Troezenus falls, and his army is easily defeated.

Eventually, their reinforcements run out, and with it, their hopes. The armies of Troy withdraw to the safety promised by the walls. Archers start lining the tops of the walls, showering anyone who dares approach the city with a hail of piercing arrows. This was their strategy, born of spite and desperation : starve, and pray. Die without giving them the satisfaction of killing you.

Agamemnon calls a council the first day we enter the battleground to find it empty. His eyes gleam with triumph, and his lips are drawn into a tight smile. He rises as the kings filter into the tent, and his face is red in the evening sunlight, filtered through the scarlet tent-cloth

“Rejoice, kings of Greece !!”, he cries, and his voice resounds through the chamber, “for the Hellenes have claimed victory over Troy !! Our decades-long struggle is at an end !! Looks like we didn’t need your precious horse after all, Odysseus”

There is a ripple of triumph, as each king exults in the long-awaited victory, their faces gleaming with joy, their eyes upturned into small, upturned crescents of pleasure, but there is a strange undercurrent of emotion that accompanies it – something is wrong. A dark dread spreads through my chest. It can’t be this easy

Diomedes is the first to speak, to shatter the illusion, his brows furrowed, his eyes dark with displeasure. “You’re wrong, Agamemnon. We can’t outlast Troy.”, his voice rings out – a cold, undeniable truth. We were running out of food, and fast. There were no more villages left to raid – they had all fled to the safety of the other Anatolian kingdoms – and with them had fled our most stable sources of food and drink. We were doomed.

“Surely our farms can supply enough food for us !!”, Agamemnon protests, as the kings begin to whisper amongst themselves – giving in to the truth staring them in the face.

“No”, Idomeneus rises to his feet, his face sharp and grim – sharpened with a strange angers, “The last attack the Trojans conducted before silencing themselves was…. well, it was a regiment of archers. They managed to sneak past our palisade today, and moved towards our camp, while we were on the battlefield. By the time we returned, the farms were already ashen wrecks”

Agamemnon lips snap shut with an audible clacking of teeth. His face purples with rage, and his blazing eyes swivel over to Meriones, asking a silent question – What about our stores of food ?-  He gets his answer via a sharp shaking of the Cretan king’s head. Ashes.

“In such a predicament”, Nestor begins, his voice quavering like a leaf in the wind, yet firm and solid as he speaks, “We have only one option – a war of attrition.”

“One we would lose”, Diomedes replies sharply, “Troy is a stronghold. It is built to outlast a siege. We, decidedly, are not”

“The  only option is putting Lord Odysseus’ plan underway”, Teucer bites out through gritted teeth – he dislikes me, but he cannot deny the truth- “To conquer Troy before we all starve”

Agamemnon makes as if to speak, to protest against handing me more fame than he, but his brother speaks first, “How long until the horse is complete ?”, his voice is strained, desperate, “How long until Troy falls ?”

“A week’s time”, Epeius, the master craftsman, speaks, “At least”

The room descends into whispers and the chaos that comes with conversation. Diomedes has his head in his hands, and his eyes shine with thought, fixed on the earthen floor.

Beside him, Pyrrhus is still as a statue, and his eyes are fixed on Agamemnon. He cranes his head to one side, and his eyes flicker to the east, where the citadel of Troy lies, beyond the thick tent-cloth and across the Scamander plain. His hand balls itself into a fist, and his eyes blaze- hard and cold – a soldier’s eyes

A hard lump forms in my throat at the sight. A boy’s rage, directed at a city, and outfitted with the means to kill. Any trace of the ten-year old I had met were gone – perhaps permanently – replaced with the cold rage of a warrior, one who lacked teaching of the ingrained rules of war.

He was less bestial, perhaps, than his father, but also more easy to provoke – a child’s rage is easily ignited, after all – and also quicker to kill, with no thought of how and when. He was honorable, but only sparingly, and only occasionally – rare bursts of mercy and goodwill, rare moments of respect and honor, quickly buried under an endless tide of war-craze and vengeful wrath.

It would kill him, one of these days. Of that I was sure

He is shifting restlessly now, swaying this way and that, like a cobra about to pounce. His eyes snap from Agamemnon, to the tent-walls, to Diomedes, until finally, they land on me – nearly burning my skin as their fiery gaze falls on them. I see the fire in him falter a bit, before reigniting with full force.

He rises, and twists his neck, before turning to leave. Agamemnon makes to stop him, but he simply turns and says something in a deep voice – something that makes the kings burst out into cries – though whether of approval or outrage, I cannot tell.

Seemingly ignorant to their voices, he leaves, Automedon hurrying out behind him. The tent flap falls closed, and silence grips the leaders once more.

Agamemnon coughs a little into the silence, looking around awkwardly for a moment, before gesturing to the leaders, dismissing them. Tomorrow would be dealt with tomorrow.

The next week passes swiftly, and the air buzzes with anticipation as the horse nears completion. It is massive, easily able to fit fifty, let alone thirty men in its hollow belly. It is made of fir wood, dark and polished to a gleam.

It towers over the camp at its height of twenty-five feet, its dark, hollow eyes gleaming with torches we have placed within – small, flickering flames that light up the dark sockets with an eerie orange glow. Inside, we have hollowed out a vast cavity – large enough to fit forty well-armored soldiers without giving them away – all noise would be muffled by the dense fir layers, hiding them from outside observation.

Epeius’ tools glint silver in the sun as he works, hammering away at the horse’s belly – the womb that will hold us – framed darkly against the brilliant sun, the horse beneath him, impressive and towering. The giant king of the Cyclades, the great son of Panopleus… and now, architect of our destiny

A silver owl is seen, flying near the head of the horse, it’s wide eyes fixed on the architect and his creation, dripping with a all-too-human benevolence, as if blessing them with success. The men notice this, and rumors begin to spread – Athene is with us, they say, Our mission is ordained by the divine. I blow on the fire with the bellows of my wit, and fan on the flames. The more confident the men are in this quest, the easier it will be to succeed.

At last, the horse is complete, and my heart hammers in my chest as I step near to it. This is it. Victory or defeat. All or nothing. A crazed fervor stirs through the men like the receding waves before a tsunami. This is it. After so long, this is it

I pick up a chisel, and begin carving something into the front-right hoof of the beast. One stroke, then another. Each movement bringing us closer to victory. I feel the piercing stares of the men bore through my skull, and swallow hard, rising from where I had been kneeling

“O Athena, goddess of wisdom -  bless our retreat from this field of battle. We dedicate this horse – symbol of the enemies we failed to defeat – to you”

There is a collective intake of breath, and my eyes rise to the heavens. There, perched upon the muzzle of the wooden beast, was the owl. It looked down at me, and craned its head to one side. If I didn’t know better, I would have said that its eyes seemed to gleam with approval.

I grab a spear, the haft cool and solid in my grip, and raise it to the sky, the pointed tip shining like a burning city. A roar escaped my lips – guttural and vicious, a predator about to sink its fangs into a prey-beast’s throat- and is answered by a collective chorus from the assembled men.

I am giddy with anticipation, and my heart pounds in my breast. Ten years of war, and it all comes down to this. I turn to the crowd, and their eyes gleam with a mix of triumph and disbelief – a combination that makes them look quite insane-, and roar out another war-cry, shaking the tip of my spear like a vibrating bow-string.

Diomedes steps out to the front of the ranks, and his eyes rake across the wooden beast. An almost unconscious smile tugs at his lips as his eyes finally fall on me, and his stoic  mask of a face breaks for a second – revealing a kind of triumphant joy, an exhilarating relief, and… strangely enough… pride – not the kind you hold for  yourself, but the kind you hold for the ones you love.

“Hellenes !!”, I cry into the silence of dawn, my voice resounding off the nearby hill-slopes, “It’s time. Ten years !! Ten years of struggle, of loss, of war, and finally, it is time. Time for this hellish war to end. The time is nigh. Troy will fall.”

The Greeks busy themselves with donning their armor and weapons, and start to file into the doorway Epeius has built into the right flank of the beast.

The first through the gate is Pyrrhus, looking resplendent in his blazing armor – his father’s armor, lent to him by me, that the Trojans may once more look upon the phoenix-breastplate of Achilles and feel the fear of imminent defeat at the hands of a man they believed dead.

His great horse-hair helm covers his head, making his expression unreadable. The plume is still stained with dirt, and with the blood of Patroclus. His father never bothered to wash it off – it was a reminder of why he was still fighting – and neither had I – it was a reminder of all my errors.

They enter single file, and my eyes linger on each of their faces as they pass me, shouldering their way into the belly of the beast. These men will become legends, in due time. It was inevitable. They would be the ones to conquer the “unconquerable citadel of Apollo”, after all.

After Pyrrhus enters, Agamemnon is next, his horned helm gleaming like flame in the sun. After him enters his brother Menelaus, his Spartan cloak flowing out behind him like the sea of blood he intended to shed. After him enters Teucer, his blazing eyes fixed on the inside of the beast, his knuckles white as he clutched his bow. Then Idomeneus and Meriones, each carrying golden battle-axes tied to their belts – symbols of their homeland of Crete.

The line keeps going, and it seems never-ending. Philoctetes enters, then Thersander of Crete, here to avenge his son Hyllus, slain by Aeneas. Anticlus, and Sthenelus, and Euryalus all enter, their youthful faces grim and marked with scars, and behind them move in Ialmenus and Iphidamus

A thousand heroes, marked with exhaustion and injury, yet determined to fight, to conquer, to finish what they started. They were terrified, and they had the right to be. They were setting out to do what had never been done, no matter how well-prepared for it they were

At last, Diomedes lingers at the mouth of the gate, glorious as ever in his shining armor, his purple cape flowing behind him like a sheet of amethyst. His dark eyes flicker over the men seated within the horse, and then back to me. I raise one hand. Wait, I will be there soon

My eyes turn back to the hordes of remaining men, and then to the dark horizon. Fingers of dawn were slipping up the dome of the sky, the colors of dawn spilling over the dark water. Time is running out

“We are mortal”, I begin, my voice thrumming out into the stillness, “Death is a constant for us, as it is for every creature of blood that yet dwells upon this sordid world. And we are acutely aware that everything is finite – from the smiles of the one you love, to the countless pieces of gold that line the walls of your treasury. Everything has its time. Even iron rusts. Even cities fall. When we seek what it is we do – be it wealth, land, women, we are aware it will die, in time. Our nations will crumble to dust. Our boundless wealth will line the sea-floor. So what do we fight for, you may ask ? What do we live for ? We yearn for that which will never die.”

The men are silent as they watch me climb up the steps to the gates of the horse, Diomedes beside me. I continue, “The children of men are clouds before the winds of time – easily torn apart, easily slain – but glory is, names are, mountains- eternal. Unchanging.”

The men let out war-cries at my words – roars of approval and triumph – beating their spears against their shields, causing such a terrible clangor that I am half-afraid the Trojans will send someone to check the beach to see what on Earth we could possibly be doing.

We enter the horse, and the doors close, casting us into the dim torch-lit interior of the horse, coloring everything a dark orange – nearly blood-red. The warrior’s faces are drawn sharply in it, looking nearly inhuman – more like the statues that filled our temples than living, breathing humans.

Their weapons flashed in the dim glow, and the men shift slightly as the noise outside penetrates to where we sit – of packing, of departure

A thousand anchors rise, and a thousand ships set sail. The plan is underway. The Greeks have left the shore, to await further orders by the mouth of the Hellespont – just out-of-sight of the Trojans, but near enough that they can be called back as and when needed.

For a few moments, there is silence, and then we hear feet – armored and heavy. Trojan scouts. Priam must have noticed the departing ships and sent them to find out what we were doing. They congregate around the right flank, and begin an animated discussion – presumably about what they should do with the horse. I move to the horse’s head, hollow and huge, and peer out the eye-sockets, catching glimpses of the tiny figures, throwing off fire flashes as sunlight reflects off their bronze armor.

I move to the lone torch we have kept in the right eye, and pass my hand over it. For a second, the gleam in the horse’s right eye flickers out, unable to pass through my opaque palm. The signal has been sent.

A man emerges from behind a nearby boulder, bloodied and battered, dressed in little more than rags, even as his eyes, sharp as daggers, rake across the Trojans. He falls to his knees, and kowtows before the two men, begging for aid and mercy. He looks up, and his eyes flash sinisterly. A smile stretches my lips to either side – cold and sinister.

Sinon, for that is his name – a cousin of mine – continues to talk to the Trojans, no doubt spinning some fanciful tale about how the Greeks had abandoned poor old him here and how I, cruel as I was, had left him here to die, and how we had made the horse as an offering to the Grey-eyed Maiden, and how it would have the same effect as the Palladium, should the Trojans bring it into the city

I gesture sharply to the other leaders, and they let out sighs of relief. The plot appears to have worked, for the Trojans nod to each other, and, grabbing the ropes we had attached to the statue, start pulling it towards their city.

But my eyes rake the sandy beachhead. Once again, it seems too easily accomplished. There has to be a catch. There always is. A man walks up the beach, and his cry splits the air. Inside, the leaders freeze. I draw in a sharp breath.

It is Laocoon, I recognize. A priest of Troy. He is tall and broad-chested, his flowing black beard hanging to his chest, and his hair to his shoulders, both streaked through with grey slashes. In his hair, he has tied silver ribbons, and his robes, flowing red, flapped loose about his ankles. In one hand, he held a withered, rough-hewn staff of olive wood, leaning on it as he hobbles down the beach. One of his legs is twisted and withered.

He reaches the men, panting heavily, and I crane forward so that I may hear them better. For a moment, there is indistinct conversation between the three Trojans, Laocoon gesturing wildly at the horse and the Trojans holding their hands up in a placating gesture.

I hear the word “fire” and my blood freezes. No. No. Not like this. This can’t be how I die !!! Burning to the death in a giant horse can’t be my destiny !!

 But before I can even move, or cry out in warning, the earth around Laocoon’s feet glints silver, and starts trembling violently. The priest collapses, clawing at his eyes, his mouth twisted in a frozen yell of agony.

The Trojans step back, and they are pale with fear as they look at each other – Divine punishment, their minds seem to murmur. I do not need to have the ability to read minds to know that.

The priest, writhing on the ground in pain, reaches for one of the scouts’ spears and rips it from his grip, hefting it and throwing it at the horse, where it stuck in the fir wood woven over it’s ribcage for a second, before dropping under the weight of its own gravity, and clattering to earth, leaving behind a huge gash.

For a moment, there is a strained silence – taut as a garrote wire – and then the sea starts to thrash and boil. Laocoon and the scouts pale in fear, stepping away from the roiling tides, as hissing splits the air. Two great beasts rise from the depths of the ocean – at least ten feet long, and colored a sickening mottled yellow-green. Their eyes gleam yellow in the sunlight as they rise from the foaming chaos beneath, dark water sloughing off their bodies.

Their eyes snap to the Trojan priest, and in seconds, they pounce on him, wrapping around his body and locking him in place, one snake tying his hands behind his back, and another, his feet. A third snake crawls up his body, towards his thin, exposed neck, and starts to wrap around it, even as the priest struggles to break free.

The snake finishes coiling around the man’s throat, and starts tightening. The man starts to choke as his windpipes are blocked. The snake tightens, and tightens, and the man’s face starts to flash all manner of colors as he struggles against his organic bonds – purple, red, mauve, green, blue – until finally it settles on a grey-blue sheen. The snake tightens one final time, and the sickening crack of breaking bone resounds out over the sandy beach, and the priest falls limp, his head bent at an unnatural angle. Slowly, surely, the snakes leave his body and start to slither off- their purpose is complete

I release a breath I hadn’t even known I had been holding, as the scouts turn to talk to each other. Suddenly, my knees are too weak to support me, and I collapse, leaning against the inside of the horse’s cheek for support. I feel the floor beneath me tremble as the horse starts moving, and resist the urge to laugh in glee.

One vibration – we pass over the hill between the Scamander plains and the beach. The Greek leaders were practically baying for Trojan blood now, straining at the leash to stain their weapons with the life-fluids of those who had slain their brothers-in-arms. Only Diomedes and Pyrrhus look moderately calm now – the king of Argos is still as a rock, seemingly lost in some kind of meditative trance, his knuckles white round the hilt of his sword, the point of which was buried in the wooden floor between his feet.

Beside him, the son of Achilles is staring holes into the walls of the horse – his back ramrod-straight, his eyes gleaming with the strange, vicious bloodlust of one who had never lusted for blood before. His spear trembled in his grip, vibrating like a taut bowstring, and veins pulsed up and down his broad neck. He looked like a caged animal.

I hear creaks, and the great whoosh of two vast gates swinging open, and my breath catches in my throat. The Scaean Gate. We were here. There is talking, then shouting – a woman’s voice is raised in protest, and silenced as a man’s voice talks over her. I take a chance and peek out the hollow socket.

A woman is being held by two guards, screaming and crying desperately as she points repeatedly at the statue… and perhaps even more eerily, directly at me. I duck down again – but that one glimpse had given me more than enough information.

Her rich clothing, and the golden ribbon round her wrist – the mark of a priestess of Apollo- marked her out more than any name could. The eldest princess of Troy – Cassandra. Said to be a seer, though no one ever believed her.

The young man – Polites, one of the few remaining children of Priam – gestures dismissively, and the guards start dragging his sister away – though her cries, visceral and sharp, soaked in despair, still cut through the air like a knife – the cries of someone who knew they were powerless to prevent the destruction of everything they held dear. I pitied her.

The floor trembles again, and the clacking noise of wooden wheels moving on paved stone echoed throughout the horse’s belly. The kings rose from their seats, and their eyes blazed with fire. We were in the city. We had passed the impenetrable walls of Troy.

Menelaus makes to leap from the gate of the horse, as if seeking to conquer the city and reclaim his wife by himself, but I restrain him, shaking my head. Not now. Wait.

I recede to the interior of the horse, and for a few moments, all that is audible is the soft buzzing of indistinct conversation, before that too, fades away, leaving us in a dense, thick silence, the air abuzz with the electric hum of anticipation

Chapter Text

After a few hours, the sky grows dark with night, like a great ebony sheet falling across the world. Above, the stars shine down upon us like the eyes of the gods, eagerly awaiting our next move. I rise from where I sit, and move to the horse’s head once more, positioning myself by his right eye-socket of the beast, my eyes fixed on the beach – barely a sandy strip from here.

There is a flare of orange light, and dark shapes start moving down the Hellespont towards the Sea of Marmara. The ships were returning. My heart hammers inside my chest, and blood is roaring in my ears. I draw in a sharp breath, and turn to the Greek kings, who stare at me expectantly. I nod sharply. Now

The reaction is instant, as they leap to their feet, drawing weapons out from under their cloaks, gleaming a bloody red in the orangey torch-light, looking like they were already soaked in blood. Pyrrhus – no, Neoptolemus – steps forward and unhooks one of the torches from the wall, even as it dripped burning fat all over the pale skin of his wrist. He does not seem to notice the pain, or perhaps he simply does not care.

There is silence, as the gate in the horse’s flank falls open with a dull thud, revealing the starlit sky. The city of Troy is quiet outside – almost eerily so. The Trojans have gone to sleep. Directly in front of us, there is a great building, tall and vast, and made out of polished mahogany wood – dry, flammable mahogany wood

Neoptolemus hefts the torch in one hand, drawing his arm back to its fullest extent. The flames in the torch’s belly flicker and writhe like a gorgon’s hair, and in the dim light, his hair seems to blaze almost as bright as them. Pyrrhus. Fire

The bright torch flies through the air, streaking a brilliant line of fiery red light behind it, like the trail of a comet. It spins as it flies, a wheel of flame, like Ixion’s solar wheel – a punishment for hubris – and lands with a dull thud upon a small platform that ran round the building, amidst chairs and tables and flowers.

There is the crack of igniting dry-wood, and the wood kindles into flame, a great sheet of fire rising to lick at the sky. The smoke spirals up in a tornado of darkness from the building – a signal to our men, awaiting further instructions by the beach. The raid has begun.

Diomedes is the first to leap from the horse, landing with a thud upon the stony ground, already drawing his spear. He looks up at me, and his eyes gleam in the light of the inferno, the sound of the fire roaring out behind him like a pride of man-eating lions.

I gesture sharply to the other buildings. Lead the charge. He nods sharply, and begins moving towards the heart of the city. He moves silently, and his men drop down behind him, like a host of bats taking flight from their sleep, moving towards the other buildings.

Agamemnon drops next, and he and his Mycenaeans don’t even bother to wait for their directions. They are too giddy with the excitement of a long-awaited victory to do so, their eyes shining with the blazing joy of triumph. Still, they move close to the walls, taking out the archers that line its top and the guards that surround its bottom alike

Menelaus moves to the Scaean Gates, grunting slightly as he lifts the great bar keeping it closed, and drops it onto the ground with a great crash. The gates shudder slightly as he steps away from them, before swinging open, the age-blackened copper quivering as the two sheets of metal slammed into the interior side of the wall in which they were embedded.

A sea of men stand outside, spears shining in the moonlight, armor blazing with a silver-bronze sheen. Their eyes, blazing with determination, seem to reflect the light of the flaming building, making them gleam with inhuman light – like a host of gods come down to destroy the city of Apollo

The raid begins with a bang, as the awaiting armies let out thunderous war-cries, shaking the night as they charged as one into the city, their armored boots shaking the city – the world – like thunder.

One of them flings a spear at a hanging flag of Troy, tearing through the rope that tied the cloth to a finger-like rod of metal jutting out the side of a building. The embroidered purple flag drifts slowly down to the ground, and is quickly trampled by us, growing dirty and torn under our feet. How poetic.

There is a crash, as a roof tile falls to Earth, narrowly missing Teucer’s skull. His eyes blaze as he swings around and fires an arrow into the darkness from whence it seemed to come. Seconds later, the lifeless body of a man topples off the roof, crashing to the earth with a great thud, Teucer’s arrow embedded in his chest

“Well, well”, laughs Menelaus, his teeth bared like an animal’s, his eyes alight with a sadistic glee, “Looks like they’re trying to fight back”

He prods the man’s corpse with the tip of his boot, and slowly, gingerly rolls him onto his back. The man couldn’t have been younger than seventy years of age, and wore nothing other than a white cotton night-robe. A civilian.

I suppose disgust would be the appropriate reaction to such a sight, but I feel nothing. This was a raid, after all. Civilian casualties were basically guaranteed, and my heart had long ago grown cold to the thought – feeling neither pity nor joy at the sight of the slain man. I turn away from the sight, and Diomedes rushes past me, driving a spear into the man’s throat – making sure, I assume, that he truly is dead.

He grunts slightly as he wrenches the spear from the man’s frail throat, the blood spurting weakly, with no heartbeat driving the scarlet liquid forward. He raises the spear-tip to the sky, and his sharp eyes rake across out faces, as if seeking to find any signs of indecision.

At last, they linger on Euryalus’ face – by far the youngest one there -, which looked slightly grey at the sight of the man’s dying body. The Argive king’s eyes narrowed, and he begins speaking, his voice echoing like thunder, “If even a hint of doubt stirs in your heart, remember what they have taken from you. Remember your fallen comrades. And steel yourself. The brave man makes an end of every enemy”

So saying, he turns and marches off down the main street of Troy, leaving bloody footprints against the white stone. I see armor glinting in the distance, hastily tied and loose – the Trojan guards have finally come to the defense of their city, however futile it be.

Diomedes raises his spear tip, rears back his head, and, shrugging his shoulders, lets out an earth-shaking war cry, that seemed to shake the very foundation of the city, the ground trembling beneath his feet at the noise. Lord of the War Cry, indeed.

The Trojan soldiers lurch into a clanging run towards him, and I catch sight of their eyes through the slots of their gleaming helms – wide with fear. They are terrified, I realize, and yet they fight. How admirable.

Not that it would do them much good, because Diomedes barely slows down as he defeats them, swinging his spear in a broad, sweeping motion as they near – slitting their throats effortlessly. The defenders collapse with choking gurgles, and thrash on the ground for a moment, bloody foam spilling from their lips like an overfull wine-cup, before finally ceasing movement, and lying still and lifeless against the bloody earth.

There is a strained silence for a moment, like a string stretched too far, like a singer trying to hit a particularly high note just out of her reach – before it ends, the string breaks, the singer continues her song, and the Greeks break out into utter anarchy

Racing and panting like wild animals, they stormed into the buildings and houses of the city, dragging out civilians and killing them, even as the few remaining Trojan warriors tried desperately to defend their home. It was in vain.

The scarlet blood ran in thick rivers of red down the street, pouring from the countless bodies like a torrential rain of crimson. This was not a fight. It was a massacre.

In the distance, I spot Diomedes, moving with lion-like grace, his spear weaving in and out of Trojan bodies, barely hindered by the thick flesh it tears through with ease. His body is soaked in red, and his eyes gleam with a mad triumph, a triumph that seemed to echo in the hearts of every Greek there – Victory at last

The slaughter continued well into the day, as thousands of men, women and children fell to Achaean blades. An endless bath of blood. I see Ajax the Lesser drag Cassandra from where she kneels before the marble statue of Athena, and avert my eyes to the barbarity that no doubt follows. A ratchet of pain rings through my heart at her piteous cries.

I shoulder my way through the horde of blood-soaked Greeks, and finally reach the palace, and within it, a tranquil, green courtyard. A small marble shrine stands in the center, and a statue of Zeus upon it, majestic and great upon his ivory-inlaid throne, his sightless marble eyes staring off into the horizon. The altar of Zeus of the Courtyard

The old king Priam is kneeling by it, his lips moving in reverent prayer, and I make to approach him – to drag him away from it, perhaps, or to get him to safety. I do not know. But Pyrrhus is faster, bursting in through the gates of the courtyard, soaked in blood. The phoenix on his breastplate is truly red now.

Priam rises as he sees the son of Achilles approach, and for a few moments, there is silence – strained and protracted. Then I hear the thump of flesh hitting stone – Pyrrhus has thrown a corpse at the king’s feet. Priam rushes to the corpse, and fearfully, gingerly, turns it’s head, his fingers shaking with dread.

It is Polites. The last of Priam’s sons. The king lets out a terrible wail of despair, and it pierces through my heart like a shard of ice. His face is contorted in the purest agony as he raises his head to the stars, and continues his mourning cry. I turn my face away. I cannot bear to watch.

Pyrrhus’ face is cold as ice – carved from the sharp sculpted waves of his grandmother’s ocean, hardened by months of bloody combat. The lines of his face are sharp as knives in the brightening dawn-light, colored a bloody red by its orange glow – or perhaps that is simply actual blood. He does not even flinch at the king’s cry of despair.

He moves swiftly, standing at the gate of the courtyard one moment and before Priam the next. He towers over the old man – he has the body of a warrior, whatever his age may be, after all – and tilts his head to continue gazing upon him.

“Your son robbed me of my father”, he whispers, and I can hear the barest trace of emotion in his voice – a hollow, gaping hole, “My family. I will rob you of yours”

“You already have”, Priam bites out, his tone soaked in a weary, tired spite – a man who has outlived all his sons, “An eye for an eye. Are you appeased yet ?”

Pyrrhus’ lips curl up in a cruel mockery of a smile, carrying no true joy or humor – nothing but a sea of resentment, “Not yet”

His hand darts forward like the stinger of a manticore, catching the old man round his frail neck, “You miss your sons so much, former king of Troy ?”, he asks, his voice condescending, yet carrying within its depths a raw pain, “Go and join them”

With that, he flicks his wrist, and there is the sickening crunch of breaking bone, followed shortly by the distinctive thud of a falling corpse, as Priam’s neck snapped like a twig under the might of the son of Achilles

He stares down at the body for a few seconds, and his eyes grow hollow as he does. “Now I am”, he mutters, but it almost seems like a reassurance to himself – that he truly is appeased with the death of Troy. That this was enough to fill the hole inside him – to avenge his father. Perhaps it was. Perhaps not. Who am I to know ?

For a few minutes, he sways there, seeming almost drunk on blood-lust, as his eyes roved restlessly across the bodies that lay at his feet, before he turns and leaves the courtyard, rejoining the red carnage outside

For a second, I stand there, listening to the screaming outside, before turning to leave – to rejoin the bloody massacre, before the creak of a door opening catches my attention.

My eyes swivel to the source of the sound, and find a young boy standing there, carrying… something… on his back. It is Aeneas. He does not look up as he approaches me, and I see that there is a bloody gash drawn across his face, blinding one eye. He stops before me, and looks up, almost pleadingly

“Son of Anchises”, I rumble, drawing my spear with one hand as I move to block their passage, “I see you escaped the slaughter”

“The wooden horse, I assume ?”, he says, and his voice is soft and lilting – like flower petals drifting to earth. He shakes his head as if reproaching himself, “I should have guessed”

“You should have”, I say, my razor-sharp eyes raking over him. They find the load that he is carrying on his back, and widen slightly in surprise. It is an old man – withered and decrepit, his bones visible through his unhealthily pale skin.

I turn to Aeneas, and gesture questioningly at the man he is carrying on his back. The son of Aphrodite shifts slightly, as if to make carrying the man more comfortable on his back, and says, terse and cold, “My father”

I nod. They must be trying to flee, having escaped the general destruction wrought by us. A twang of guilt runs through my heart, and my fingers shift along the haft of my spear, the smooth, polished wood slipping like oil-slicked metal in my grip.

My eyes swivel over to the corpses of Priam and Polites, lying one-atop-the-other, a stack of flesh – Father and son joined in death – and turn back to Aeneas. My eyes flicker with emotions not even I could name, and a twang of sharp pain rings through my heart like a strum on a lyre string.

I nod sharply, and step back, “Enough blood has been shed today. I was never here”

The Dardanian prince looks at me, and his eyes are wide with surprise. For a protracted second, there is nothing but a shocked silence, and then, he snaps out of his trance-like-state, and nods to me, before turning and walking slowly away.

As I watch them leave, I cannot help but think of the tale of Baucis and Philemon – two people, saved from the utter destruction of the rest of their people, for the sake of their… piety? But I didn’t even consider a thing such as piety when I let them go.

Mortals were far less rational than gods, after all. It was a simple consequence of our human nature – to  be ruled by emotion. Was it a good thing ? Well… that is a question philosophers have long-debated over.

I could not save one shining son of a goddess. The least I could do is save his Trojan counterpart

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

By the time the chaos finally comes  to an end, the white paved stones of Troy had been dyed a sickening blood-red with…well.. blood. The Greek kings crack the bones of Troy and drink deeply of the marrow of its wealth.

They carry off more gold than they could possibly use in a lifetime, though it pales in comparison to the wealth Agamemnon had clearly anticipated finding. At last, the dusk of the second day colors the sky a pale red, and the Greek holds have been stuffed to the brim with gold and jewels and women. The corpses lie unburied in the street – no one yet lives to conduct their funeral rites.

Already flies are starting to descend upon their bodies in great, biting swarms, black masses of writhing bodies. Out the corner of my eye, I spot a pack of mangy, disease-ridden hounds tearing at a man’s face. I wince harshly at the sight, and yet another twinge of guilt races through me like a brush-fire

There are very few survivors – Aeneas, of course, had escaped, with his family in tow, much to Agamemnon’s dismay. Last anyone saw of them, they had set sail on the Aegean Sea, heading for Crete. I can only pray that they will reach there alive.

A few have been taken as slaves – the royal women have been gifted to Pyrrhus – Hecuba and her daughter-in-law Andromache. They trail behind him as he walks out to the balcony, dyed with the blood of their family and friends. In his arms is a small child – Astyanax, the son of Hector. His blazing eyes are fixed on the infant’s face. He appears to be lost in thought.

“Throw him from the balcony, son of Achilles”, urges Agamemnon, and a rush of hatred fills my heart at his words, “Avenge your father. Kill the son of Hector”

“He’s just an infant.”, Pyrrhus disagrees, his voice soft and ringing with a strange affect, “Just a boy”

“For now”, argues Agamemnon, “He will become an avenger, in time. What will you do then?”

“I will kill him, if he does so”, Pyrrhus looks up, and his jaw is taut with defiance, “But I will not kill him for something he might do”. Behind him, Andromache heaves a sigh of relief, but he does not seem to care, not even turning to acknowledge her existence.

Agamemnon snarls at the young man’s words, and turns away, gesturing roughly to his men, “Come on. We’re leaving !!”

A smirk tugs at Diomedes’ lips at his words, and my eyebrows rise, “Already ?”

“The Hittite Empire”, Diomedes begins languidly, before Agamemnon could respond, “is threatening to slaughter us if we do not leave immediately, right? After all, we just conquered one of the final bulwarks protecting its territory from the might of the Western lands. It wants to restate its power, so we do not forget”

Agamemnon seems to be biting something back as he nods sharply and takes off, stomping off towards the beachhead, his footsteps loud and clanging against the stony ground. Diomedes snorts a little as he sees him go, and turns to Pyrrhus, “Your father’s tomb….”

“What about it ?”, Pyrrhus asks roughly, tearing his eyes away from the child in his arms. The blood on his skin is already dyeing the baby’s swaddling a dim red.

“The dead need a sacrifice of blood”, Diomedes continues, and his eyes flicker slightly, something resembling guilt stirring in their depths, “to bring them rest”

Pyrrhus gestures to the blood-soaked city around them with one sweeping arm, “Is this not enough blood ?”

“Fresh blood”, I reply, my eyes widening as I try to parse the suggestion Diomedes is making, “Straight from the beating heart of a dying creature”

“Sacrifice a heifer, then”, Pyrrhus responds dismissively, “Why are you asking me this ?”. Diomedes swallows hard at his words.

“We did”, he begins, and his voice trembles slightly, “It…”, he gulps again, “… it… didn’t work. In fact, the wind died almost immediately”

My eyes snap up at his words, and so do Pyrrhus’. A dense dread starts collecting in my heart. No. Not again.

“What?”, Pyrrhus murmurs, and his words are rasping and sharp – taut with disbelief, “Then…”

“Achilles died with a… a lot of anger in his heart”, Diomedes begins, and for the first time in ten years, he sounds almost nervous, “It is possible… that animal blood… might not be enough to quench the flames of his rage. He hungers for… for more.”

“No”, the whisper slips free from my lips before I can stop it, “Achilles wouldn’t… wouldn’t want..”

“Wouldn’t he ?”, challenges Diomedes, “Have you forgotten what he did to Hector’s corpse ? Even if he disapproved of such things in his right mind, who knows how far his morals might have fallen in his vengeful rage ?”

“Who ?”, Pyrrhus interrupts before I can reply. His face is dark and stormy, and his eyes glint with a strange emotion, “Who ?”

“Helenus, perhaps ?”, I say, but Diomedes is already shaking his head no

“He is a favored of Apollo. Sacrificing him would bring the wrath of the sun god upon our head. Not him”

My lips part to provide another name, but once again, Pyrrhus speaks before I can, “One of the daughters of Troy, then. The sons have all fallen.”

“Who ? Hecuba ?”, Diomedes asks, and the queen of Troy stiffens in fear where she stands behind Pyrrhus

“No”, he responds, “one of her daughters”. Hecuba looks close to tears now. Her children have all fallen.....well, all save one

“Polyxena”, he decides at last, “Polyxena will die”

The former queen lets out a ragged cry of despair, and Pyrrhus finally turns to her, his eyes glinting with pity, “I am sorry, but I must. It is the will of the gods”

Diomedes swallows and turns to leave, his footsteps echoing out into the silence, off blood-spattered walls, and corpse-laden streets. After a few seconds, so do I, unable to bear the sight of Hecuba’s grief anymore.

A few minutes later, we reach the beachhead to find the sand completely bare. The tents have all been rolled up and stowed away, the animals killed and taken apart for food. It was honestly impressive how fast the beach got stripped clean

I turn to Diomedes, “Well,” I say, my eyes flickering to the Ithacan fleet, ready to set sail. A heavy lump weighs on my heart. “I suppose… this is goodbye, then”

Diomedes looks… unreadable. His face is as solid as the cliff face behind him, even as the slight tremor of his lips gives away his emotions. A scar has formed across his face, I notice. It cuts diagonally through his lips, ragged-edged and pale. I remember Achilles, unscathed and unmarred, lying dead in my arms, and I am thankful for them. They prove he is alive. Dead men don’t scar

“This day was always going to come”, he replies, and his voice is rough with emotion, “You have your family, and I… I have my kingdom”. He didn’t mention his wife, I can’t help but notice

“We are the sun and moon”, I say, and suddenly I feel torn in half. One half wants desperately to return home, to return to the arms of my loving wife, and to the cries of my beloved son, and the other wants desperately to remain here, by Diomedes’ side, till the winds of time carry us away. A sharp splitting pain builds in my chest as I speak, “Chasing each other across the sky. Each with our own place in the universe, our own domain to rule. Sometimes we occupy the same sky, even mimic each other’s roles a bit. But in the end, we have to part, because the world needs night and day”

“Was there a chance ?”, Diomedes asks me, and his voice is scraped raw, an open wound, “Did I have a chance ?”

I do not need to ask he means. It is obvious. I have simply been ignoring the signs. I want to tell him yes, that, had I spent a few more years on the field, things would have worked out differently, but that is not the truth, no matter how painful it is to say. He knows, and I do too

“No”, I whisper, “Not in this world”

His head drops at my words, and for a few seconds, there is silence, before he rises to his full stature once more. His eyes are grey with sorrow, though it is dulled, like he had seen this coming a long time ago.

Love is a friendship that has ignited into a ball of fire, a poet once said. I’m not sure who, or even if someone did say it, but it has never felt more accurate than right now.

“Its not fair”, he bites out, and his voice emerges as a whine. It is almost disconcerting, watching this great king complain like a petulant child

“Nothing ever is”, I reply, and my voice is soothing, “The best we can get is impartial”

There is an eternal silence for a few seconds, and I begin again, “I can’t betray my wife… or my marriage. I would rather die first.”

“My wife… I only married her out of respect for her father. He was one of my former comrades”, he grumbles, kicking at the sand of the beach, sending a spray of it up into the air like a fine mist, “I never really cared for her… so I don’t really get how you feel”

He stops kicking, and turns to me, and his eyes shine with a strange tearful hunger, “But if such is your wish…. Then I will respect it”

It is not my wish. I do not want to hurt him. The pained expression on his face – the grey, depressed acceptance – it pains me more than I can understand, like daggers plunging into my heart.

I have always admired him…. dare I say, loved him, even if not in the way he wanted. Had he confessed to me before I met my Penelope, I would have accepted him in a heartbeat, and never looked back. Alas, the Moirs are cruel indeed…. and I have no choice but to hurt him

“You will endure, Diomedes. I know you will”, I say, reaching up to clasp his shoulder. He flinches away from my touch like it is a hot brand, before pressing into it, and my hand tingles where it touches him. I continue, “There is no greater endurance than love”

Love is a strange curse, burning and blessing in equal measure. To care for someone deeply enough to want them with every part of your body is a blessing indeed…. but what happens when such a blessing extends to two people ? It tears you to shreds, it rips you apart and burns you on an altar of passion.

A heart is a delicate thing, and easily shredded. There is never any guarantee that someone you decide to give your heart to is ever going to take care of it, no guarantee you will ever receive anything back. You just hope for the best. Diomedes had given his heart to the wrong person.

The living mourn the dead, but I can’t help but think that life inflicts far more pain than death ever could

There is silence, and then Diomedes turns to return to his ship. There is nothing to be said that wouldn’t be a naked lie, or simply rubbing salt into the wound.

This isn’t a play. There’s no dramatic raising of expectations, no shout of “WAIT !!”, no confessions of love. There is simply a receding back, and the endless stretch of sand and sea.

I stand and stare for a few seconds more, before turning and walking to my own men, who greet me with smiles and laughter, completely oblivious. They ask me what we had been talking about

“Nothing”, I tell them, and it is true

The words are finished. The play is done. The curtains have fallen, and the city with it.

There is nothing more to be said.