They say a blood moon rose over Troy, the night they took Helen.

That is rather like the gods.

Today is the first day. The camps have all but gathered, with the exception of some. There are whispers of a missing king of Ithaca, of a concealed coward – or perhaps a clever one.

All of the kingdoms of the Greeks in one place, gathered outside those towering walls. The sun has not yet begun to beat down on the morning.

He had tried to reason with his father – and when he could not, he came with him, tearing his arms away from his mother’s hands and into bronze plate.

He has friends in Troy.

Paris.

He is not permitted into the war tent.

He certainly is not. 

Troy is old, vast and strange. Those walls of stone and towers pierce the clouds, wrought by no mortal hands only; many great princes are gathered here, yet it may not be enough. 

Perhaps the gods will lend their aid; perhaps this is their will, and all the Achaeans were brought here to die. 

No army can remain still forever; no city can outlast a siege forever. They can pillage the townlands of Ilium only so long. 

The question is: starve them out and force Priam to terms, or find some path to break the walls of Troy?

...The boy still lingers here. 

The guards need only a few copper pieces for their silence.

Silence is not what the prince is looking for. He remains outside the bounds of the tent, though close enough to try to catch some words of the kings within.

He hears the occasional word. Helen… siege… endure. Ithaca…

Nothing he did not already know. He strains his ear further. 

Yes. This is why he does not trust guards of the common soldiery. The house of Aetos on Crete was built on blood by the swords of his fellow men, and so he can trust both their confidence and their competence. 

The boy doesn't notice until he's grabbed by the hair and thrust inside. 

"Well then. Who is this?"

He starts, his hand like a blur towards his sword.

He's already up and kicking the sword from his hand. 

"Spying is a flogging matter, boy."

…

Faced with no other option, he gives his assailant his most regal and indignant stare.

Unblinking. His eyes are a shade too blue.

“Unhand me.” 

People are crying out now and saying unimportant things, two men have his back, and so he takes the boy's throat in his hand. "WHO ARE YOU."

Where is his father–

“I am a prince. Son of Hyranon of Pylos.”

Let me go–

“And who are you?” He scans him, quickly. “Spartan? No– Cretan. Are you not? Our kingdoms are allies.”

The dizziness numbs his mouth, but it moves fast.

"You speak to the king Aetos, boy. Have you not, O Hyranon, told your son Pandora's tale? "

A calm voice cuts through the fray.

“Release him, Lord Aetos. We may discuss our legends alone.”

At once he thrusts the youth away. "Indeed. Go."

The rage, the insult…

He rises above it. 

“I wish to join the meeting.” His voice rasps.

“Ophellios, go.”

…

Very well. Not at the will of the Cretan, but at the command of his king.

He retrieves his sword and leaves.

"Hyranon. Your boy intrudes on our war councils. It was no business of mine whom you chose to bring to this war, but if the child imposes then he must go."

He sighs. “Forgiveness, Aetos. The boy is young and wishes only to help. I shall speak with him.”

The king turns, then, and extends his arms. “Let us continue with the matters of our council, lords. We cannot be seen to be bickering on our first day now, can we?”

There are some mutters of agreement. Lord Hyranon is well-liked, even by the most cynical of kings.

...

"As you wish, Hyranon."

He can be reasonable. 

Occasionally. 

"Perhaps then we turn our attention back to the war ahead. What is your counsel, chief of Pylos?"

He takes his seat, looking once at all the gathered kings.

Never once, not since the court of Sparta, have there been so many under one sun.

There seems to be mistrust, here. They are all afraid, though they do not show it. Some still don their helmets, prepared for a war they will not bare their throats at. Even Lord Agamemnon sits silently, his face hidden in shadow and bronze.

It is his turn to speak, then.

“The King of Ithaca is said to be a master of strategy. Mentored and favoured by Pallas Herself. And not to forget, our defence of Queen Helen was his plot.”

He pauses.

“I say we send a messenger.”

"We did. We sent two. The first returned seeming to have forgotten all he learned, and indeed how to fasten his own shoes. The second came back babbling about the king being mad."

“Mad?”

“Mad indeed…” he murmurs. 

The Ithacan King has always been sharper than a blade. Something is wrong here, some inconsistency.

The first messenger, the one to forget even his own name – no mortal could cause this. Surely this is the intervention of the gods.

Or one god.

“Send my son.”

"Do you jest?"

A knowing smile. “Not at all, my lord. He and the King of Ithaca share a bond. And do you yourself not wish for the boy to be far from our tent?”

That earns a chuckle from some of those present.

Damn the man and damn his silver tongue. "Can he be trusted on a mission of import? This is no child's game." And the Ithacan King might just arrange for the boy to suffer some terrible misfortune, rather than brave the war, though he should not say so out loud. 

“I trust my son with my life.”

“And what of our lives, Lord Hyranon?”

"Perhaps we ought to have the choice at least. As to whether or not we trust the little spy with our own lives."

He places his hand flat on the table, and all eyes turn to him. Lord Hyranon commands a room the way a general commands his armies, or the heart commands a fool.

“He only wished to be part of the meeting. Perhaps then, lords, this mission will be a test of his character. If he succeeds in completing our number, in bringing us the King of Ithaca; then he may prove himself to you, as he has proven himself in our home of Pylos.”

There is a discussion then, but not a long one, and not one he wins. 

Damn the man. 

The King is mad.

The King is mad!

He stands over the rocky pastures of Ithaca with his shepherd’s crook, whistling long and loud.

A dog comes bounding towards him, drenched in seawater. It shakes its shaggy coat at its master’s feet with youthful vigour – and the man laughs, and it echoes all the way to Phrygia, where the giants wonder and the sirens wail.

This land, his land – his son, his wife –

The princes have not taken him yet.

"Ambrosios king!"

The King doesn't look that mad.

Perhaps the messenger was mistaken?

"All the chiefs of the Achaeans call you to Troy, my lord. It is time to fulfil your oath of old. We need you, lord."

Ah. He knows that voice.

Can they not leave him in peace?

The king does not turn, but he grins like a wolf baring teeth.

“Troy? No, friend, these are no such shores! You shall find that land when you take a left, left where the white island flies high over the sea.”

He waves his staff dismissively, as though to send the boy on his way. The dog blinks at Ophellios, not knowing whether or not to growl.

“Now leave me to my pastures.”

... Something is not right. 

"You swore an oath, O lord. Do you not think it binds you even if you forget? Do you not think the gods will remember? Do you have no more your honour?"

“Honour…” he mutters, distant. “My honour in these lands. The plants I grow for the King.”

Leaning on his crook, he kneels and kisses the grass. 

“My oath to farm.”

Alert, now. He turns to look at the prince–

And it is all he can do to keep his eyes looking wild, unfocused.

“Is that it? Do the gods require a shepherd? 

"My lord." He takes Ambrosios by the shoulders. "You are the King. You must remember yourself. Have you no healers?"

He does not seem to be listening, taken entirely by the prince’s fair hair.

His fingers close around a blonde braid, and he mutters incomprehensibly to himself about spinning straw.

Just when the king’s unsteady grip is almost too tight to bear, he looks up sharply.

“The sun. The sun!”

He steps back in a panic. “I am late for my work!”

...

"Lord Apollo! Son of fair Latona, far-shooter, my sire, attend: if ever I praised you in the halls of your father, or raised wreaths upon your temples or burned the fairest calves for you, attend, and restore the heart of Ithaca's King."

Curse this boy.

The god is not here. He is not directly intervening, not physically present. Ambrosios is not turning his back on Him.

No sign has come, and he wants it to stay that way.

He leaves now while he still can, treading with determination towards the stables. The dog follows at his feet. 

The king retrieves an ox, tying the tempestuous beast to a plow with bare hands. A stubborn donkey is persuaded to work with the promise of an apple. The creatures grunt and bray as the cart is filled with salt, and they pull their burden along as the sky offers no cloud or promise of shelter. The heat is cruel.

He sows the fields with it, killing the life that struggles now to grow – as only a madman does.

Athena. Shield me.

Unseen by mortals He comes before Her. 

"Athena, grey-eyed, daughter of Zeus, what trickery is this? I, physician of heaven, see no fault or blemish upon this mortal. Shall I be shamed, believed too weak to mend heart and soul?"

"Whatever could You mean? Do You answer every petition every mortal makes unto You? Perhaps You simply care not for this petty mortal squabble."

"Speak not unto Me, grey-eyed One, warrior-goddess, as the wise man does unto the fool; it is My son the Prince of Pylos to whom I harken."

"Perhaps then You merely care not for this mortal, who has no skill at the lyre nor in the healers' halls-"

"He shoots well; My son calls me."

It is folly to try to match the daughter of Zeus cunning-for-cunning, but it is not truly Her way to keep from war - indeed it is passing strange that she goes nearly even this far for the mortal king's petty wants and fears. 

When the prince of Pylos is alone, He bespeaks him with a plot.

Happily, she is not an idiot, and understands the notion of points-of-failure, and very quietly and respectfully and sensibly and not-at-all-disrespectfully-of-any-idiot-meddling-gods keeps her infant son under fantastically heavy guard. Because really it would be stupidly easy to assassinate most heirs. 

There comes a point in the evening where the young prince concedes his efforts, and with a sigh returns to the palace.

Lord Apollo spoke; the King is lying.

He dines with the Queen that night, one of Helen’s Spartan sisters with an ancestral fierceness to her eyes to match. Ophellios watches her closely – surely she knows about the trickery, no doubt to keep her husband close, and if that is the case… perhaps he can find a gap in the woven tale.

“How is your son,” he asks Her Majesty, sipping wine, “and how are you?”

Curious revelry, in this dining hall, for a grieving wife.

Hello, little boy. 

"I? I am... Well enough. I pray for the gods to end my husband's... illness, and I stay by his side and do all I can to watch over his kingdom. I am only grateful that our son is too young to understand."

“I too have prayed,” he replies solemnly. “For my friend. But Ithaca is indeed blessed to have such a strong queen.”

In the corner of his eye, two maids whisper. He frowns ever-so-slightly, drawing his attention back to Her Majesty.

“I have travelled far, from my kingdom to the lands of Troy. I am expected soon to return to war. I thank you sincerely for your hospitality.”

One of the maids departs in a hurried shadow. Ophellios pretends not to notice.

“I bid you, will I have the honour of meeting your heir?”

She raises an eyebrow slightly. "I am surprised to hear you say so. He is not of an age to be introduced to a prince, and very few young men would wish to visit a nursery. But if you wish to see the future King - very well."

He smiles. “Thank you.”

The dinner continues – the maid returns, and the bards perform old epics of gods and titans.

“If I may so plainly ask,” the prince speaks again, “when did the King’s illness begin?”

A hush falls over the table. 

She dabs tears from her eyes - it's not really hard to cry on command. 

She stares at him until everyone else does too, holds it a beat too long to gloss over.

Is he going to squirm? Most people do, when they've made a situation this awkward. 

"Son of Hyranon," she says faintly, "I think it is not meet for me to speak of such things. It has been some time, and came upon us gradually- excuse me." She buries her face in her hands.