Chapter Text
I sing of arms and of a man…
Odysseus marched through the camp, limbs heavy and head pounding.
As he turned away from secret council, Agamemnon could be heard giving the order:
“Fetch Epeius,” he said, his grating voice booming. “Tell him…” his voice faded out, but Odysseus knew the command that was to be given.
The Trojan Horse; Pallas Athena’s words instilled the inspiration for such a scheme within Odysseus’ mind.
The council had been eventful.
“Pretend to desert?” Diomedes' voice shook with disbelief.
“Sending one unarmed man to convince an entire army to allow entryway into the city is ridiculous,” Agamemnon decreed. “Utterly repulsive. It's as if you're rooting for a Trojan victory.”
“My friends,” Odysseus began, proudly showing his palms. “This idea was put into my head by the Wise Athena. Consider, we send the clever Sinon to make our argument, tell the Trojans it is an offering to Athena—a surrender.”
Odysseus pointed to the map splayed across the table, tracing his finger along a path toward Troy.
“We approach from the central gate,” he explained. “So they think we have nothing to hide. Sinon will carry with him a white flag.”
It had taken much convincing and reassurance. Still, Odysseus could not be swayed in his pride of the scheme.
Agamemnon would not budge, but the others could be coerced out of their skepticism. Once they were confident in Odysseys’ plan, Agamemnon would be outnumbered democratically. The problem would then take care of itself.
Agamemnon would gather the Greek soldiers and instruct them. Sinon, as planned, would lead the Horse to the gates of Troy. Once the soldiers conceded and granted the Horse allowance into the city, the Trojans would celebrate their assumed victory, drinking and singing at the heart of the city.
Epeius, a masterfully skilled carpenter and pugilist, would build the Horse. While the Greek army would pretend to have left, they would secretly be hidden within the Horse. An opening in the Horse to let them pass in and out would be hidden in its chest.
Agamemnon's initial incredulity at the proposition forced Odysseus to recall the recent death of Achilles. And, by extension, Patroclus.
The swift-footed Achilles would have rallied at Agamemnon, in full support of Odysseus, parrying his objections with passion and ease.
Achilles was their ticket to victory.
Upon hearing of Patroclus’ death, disguised as Achilles himself, Achilles wailed and could not be consoled. His distance and rage in the following days was alarming, considering his friendliness in the ten years up to the point. In the mourning of his beloved Patroclus, he'd killed Hector, and finally been killed himself.
Odysseus could not deny his paranoia. Achilles was to grant them victory, without him, could they win the war?
The Trojan Horse scheme, though only halfway his own, was Odysseus’ idea of a last resort. Something so bizarre and unbelievable, Troy would never see it coming. Who would think to desecrate an allegedly holy wooden machine and risk tipping off a God just to see if there was something hidden inside. It would be even more ludicrous than something (an army, for example) actually being hidden inside.
Nonetheless, the Horse debate had stolen much of the energy from Odysseus’ built limbs and much of the patience from his cunning mind.
He trudges across the campgrounds. Torches occasionally lighting the path back to his tent, he considers sleep, hoping he will have a pleasant dream, if he dreams at all.
Maybe he should stay awake a bit longer, though. The days they would have leading up to his great scheme would be busy, Odysseus didn't need to be a prophet to foresee the several late nights spent planning.
All the more reason to slip into bed, he decides.
“Odysseus!”
Marvelous, Odysseus thinks. What now?
He stops and turns to see Menelaus’ auburn hair, catching his eye in the torchlight. His friend approaches him with an easy smile.
“Diomedes and I were going to head for a drink around the campfire–” he extends a hand, “–come with us, friend?”
“No, thank you.” Odysseus responds. “I've had much of a day and would prefer rest to most anything, right now.”
“Are you very sure? Booze would certainly help you to fall asleep,” Menelaus chuckles, elbowing his friend's side lightly.
Odysseus smiles back at him. Reconsidering, for a brief moment, he returns to the same conclusion.
“No, no. I'll turn in for the night.” His shoulders droop and he sighs, unable to conjure up a more convincing argument.
Menelaus considers him for a moment. Thankfully, he sees the tiredness in Odysseus’ eyes. He draws back, shrugging his shoulders and smiling thoughtfully at him.
“Alright,” he cedes. “Sleep well, then.”
And he turns on his heel and leaves.
“Goodnight,” Odysseus mutters as he departs.
Continuing through the camp, Odysseus observes the soldiers as a passerby. Young Neoptolomus engaged in appears to be gambling with Ajax, Idomeneus sharpening a blade and recounting a tale of battle to a slave woman, Teucer and Perimedes drinking with a small group of footsoldiers. Eurylochus and Polites, speaking lowly to each other, who both turn to wave at Odysseus when they spot him.
Odysseus returns their waving with a smile. Penelope would like them, the thought crosses his mind, and he warmly welcomes it—any thought of her is welcome in his mind.
The Trojan Horse will bring about their victory and the sacking of Troy. Then, Odysseus thinks, he will be able to return to them.
He approaches his own tent, and opens the flaps with thoughts of Telemachus running through his head.
The passage of stars through the night sky tell him that ten years have passed, Telemachus was a mere few months by the time Odysseus left for war. So he is maybe ten, maybe eleven, by now. What could he be doing.
Penelope, he knows. She has most likely distracted herself from thoughts of him with her weaving, and with Telemachus.
For his son, he can't be sure.
Penelope was easy. Loving Penelope was like loving the beating of his own heart. He knew her, like the back of his hand.
Regretfully, Odysseus isn't able to witness the boy Telemachus is growing to be.
There is still time, he reassures himself. He is not yet a man.
“Earth to champion-?” Athena waves a hand in front of his face.
Odysseus yells out, startled. He reels back from her sudden materializing in his quarters.
“Gods,” Odysseus places a hand on his chest, attempting to catch his breath. “Don't do that.”
“I don't know what you mean,” she shrugs. “I simply walked in, as any normal Goddess would've done. I knocked and everything.”
Odysseus glares at her with no real heat.
She returns his glare with a teeth-filled smirk.
“We can tell you're not the Goddess of manners,” he jibes.
“Anyways,” she ignores him. “About that Trojan Horse…” Athena walks across the tent, picking up Odysseus’ sword from beside his bed and inspecting it closely.
“About the Horse…?” He inquires.
Athena's eyes coolly regard him. The towering Goddess draws her sight back to his blade in her hand, frowning at its bluntness.
“Helen has been made aware,” she informs him.
Odysseus takes this in. Helen is on the Greeks’ side, he's aware. The poor woman has wanted nothing more than to return home from the moment she set foot in Troy.
Wanted home so badly, Odysseus thinks, that she would be willing to do anything to return. He shudders at the notion of such desperation.
Even so it is clear that Helen will be taking action in their favor.
“I see.” He squinted at the ground.
“You know,” Athena returns the blade to its place, stepping to face her champion. She considers her words. Her owl-like features twisting into a thing akin to contemplation.
Odysseus waits. The Goddess, in the ten years he's known her, rarely is shy of an ask or report. Even a particularly ruthless one.
“On the day of the Trojan Horse,” she stars again, more carefully. “You will face another challenge. The most difficult yet, though I've no doubt you will prevail.” She eases back into confidence.
Most difficult yet, he considers. A moral challenge, perhaps. There is no way it could be so frighteningly difficult otherwise.
Odysseus clenches his hands by his sides. How bad could it possibly be? There's not a thing I couldn't handle, of this I'm certain.
Athena watches him, head held high, despite her great height over him already.
“Don't overthink it,” she criticizes.
When Odysseus finally looks up to meet her eye, she is gone.