They go out into the place where the demigod Aeneas had led the Greek slaughter, more than a year ago. Red flowers grow now where their comrades fell. All else is quiet.
Ophellios releases the string of his bow and a bird falls from the sky. It was only a small thing, but the arrow pierced neatly its heart; there will be enough meat for feasting later.
There is hunger in the camp.
He turns, looking to his lone companion. “How many have you caught, Lord Aetos?”
"Three."
His voice is rougher and quieter than it was. Hunger affects him as well.
It hasn't been easy since Ambrosios lost his wits.
The Trojans had fallen upon them like wild wolves, breaking past a watch that should have held, a vast force that should have been spotted well in advance.
A dozen heroes had fallen in Aeneas's path: every blow that should have slain him turned aside by some unknown divine hand. Many had died; much treasure, many slaves - including the mad princess - had been lost.
The Ithacans had been in disarray. It had been the worst time - Ambrosios drugged and sleeping, suspicious soldiers itching to turn on their brother Achaeans like dogs...
It had been all they could do to keep from schism.
And Ambrosios of course had successfully pretended to sanity - they almost drove him off, almost had him bundled in a ship and sent away, when Agamemnon had forbidden it.
The end of the war looks more distant than ever.
And so it is a strange thing indeed that the Pylian boy should have proven himself so: a calm voice among men half mad with war, a steady presence in grief, a hand hard at war.
A thud.
"Four."
A small grin meets Aetos. “That was my seventh.”
Seven for each of the gates of Troy; for all the years of war.
Seven for the months they have been friends.
A movement in the corner of Ophellios’ eye causes him to stir. Like a flash of lightning, his bow is at the ready in the blink of an eye, prepared to catch the eighth–
He lowers his bow. “I bid you, man, what notice do you deliver?”
The war fares ill.
Ambrosios hides it well, his speech and command and fighting are all flawless, but he does hide something - madness or something more.
It had all seemed so promising before - but then the attack nearly broke them, nearly sent them fleeing Troy, did cost them blood and treasure almost beyond what they could bear.
And now-
"Our situation is grave, my lords. The plague has blighted us, and moreover has blighted, selectively, every town and village we have plundered, our flocks and our horses. What could have done this?"
The lord of lords seems already to suspect the answer.
Ambrosios already knows the answer. Gods damn him if he is going to tell these gathered lords.
Maybe the gods already have damned him.
He has learned to keep his mouth shut, selectively, over this last year. After Aetos drugged him, he awoke to a world where terrible prophecies were ringing true: carnage in the camp, discord among the kingdoms, and Cassandra gone.
He had only been unconscious for a day.
Since then, the rumour of the King of Ithaca’s madness has been a thorn in his side. He has had to be careful, forgave Lord Aetos publicly the first chance he got to avoid civil war, and has ceased his efforts to convince the others of a feud between gods.
Blindly trusting the Cretan had led to calamity that day. He works alone now, and does not draw unwanted attention to himself.
"Plague. Plague only, selectively, in places we have sacked. In every case, it struck just a few days before, slaying cattle just in time for them to be useless to us, spoiling grain just before we can seize it."
"It must be the work of Apollo, god of plague, god of prophecy."
For the briefest of seconds, his eyes flicker subtly to Ophellios.
“How can we be so sure that this is the case?” He has leaned forward a little, fingers curling around the arm-rests of his seat. “Does anyone know of some reason for His wrath?”
"No, by Zeus. We have prayed, and offered up sacrifices. We have scoured the camp for any treasure stolen from temples, questioned the men, searched for captives in whom He might have an interest - nothing."
"Something else is afoot."
A fraction less tense, now, he leans back. “Then surely there must be another reason. A mortal one, that may be fixed with mortal intervention. Perhaps the Trojans have been sowing salt on our crops?”
"Over their own countrymen's crops, just before we arrive each time? Unless they have a acquired some mighty prophet, greater than Tiresias of old, they cannot; and if they have we are in any case doomed."
“The bearer of good news as always, King Aetos.”
He sits slouched in his chair, chin propped up by a hand, his eyelids made heavy by the needs of his stomach.
“And what of Calchas, our own prophet? Has he been consulted?”
"Calchas is blind. In truth he is gloomy as he never has been. He agrees with my assessment; he can see nothing."
He furrows his brow until his divine sculptor carves a line down his forehead.
Lord Apollo, my sire, what is this? Can this be true? You would not send a plague for no just cause; enlighten me, I beg You, so that I may defend Your honour before these kings.
"Then there is no more to be done, if Phoebus Apollo wills it and none can satisfy his wrath."
His own mother had been silent, and hunger gnaws at his belly too.
"We knew from the outset that bitter war would bring us swift death or eternal glory: why then do we turn our heads away? Shall we sit by our boats and starve to death, and earn neither prize? Come: let us gather up what food-stores we have and banquet the men, feast here tonight, drink up the wine and devour the cattle and sheep. Let us garner our strength, and tomorrow assault the walls all in force - to take the city at last, or at least die well, and not like beggars and slaves."
…Fine. He will speak up.
“Lord Achilles, great is your strength; you are an army unto yourself. But does that not sound like suicide, lords?”
“I believe that I am with Lord Ambrosios on this matter.”
Something about the Myrmidon king unsettles him. Lord Achilles spent long years passing on attendance, preferring to devote his legendary strength to the battlefield for all Ophellios knows. Now he is here, driven to this place by the same hunger that affects them all, and the balance has changed.
Unpredictably.
“But I thank you, Lord Achilles; I suggest that we bear this noble suggestion in mind, after we have exhausted all other options first.”
"What divinity beloved of the Trojans has broken your courage, your manfulness, your very reason? You speak of suicide! A man may take his life and preserve his honour; but worse than suicide, a death with dishonour, is to sit here and starve. We may yet take Troy by force, in one massive strike; that is hope and glory. Or else if you fear for your lives, then turn and go and depart this place in the hollow ships and leave your manhoods here: and I alone for Menelaus's sake shall remain, to take on all Troy alone, if I must. Or do you too, Menelaus, tire of war? Do you forget your wife, cowering behind Trojan walls? Do you bid us go, I shall depart: this is to the end your affair. But surely you would look upon the face of Helen again; would have her before you, to slay in vengeance for your spurned bed, or to have as slave and not as wife, or indeed to spare and welcome home again, if laughing Aphrodite softens your kingly heart. Come then: let us set aside this talk in vain, and turn to war."
“We speak not of dishonour,” he interjects patiently, before Menelaus has time to argue, “but of reason. We have time yet before our need is urgent. Give us seven days, and we will identify the cause of this blight and put an end to it. If not – then may the gods be with us all, Lord Achilles.”
He stirs.
"I would concur with the Lord Achilles, Ophellios, did I not suspect that you had some trick, some hidden knowledge, by which you might suade Phoebus Apollo and spare us our hunger. But time is not our ally. Tonight we could feast, and with renewed strength assault Troy; in seven days, we may not have the reserves in store to fully restore the strength of our men, and believe me when I say that hungry men do not suit the field of battle. Three days."
"Hesitance still, but not cowardice. Use your days well, son of Hyranon."
"Great though you are, Achilles, you have not such authority. Can you in truth soothe Apollo's anger, Ophellios king?"
“I…”
He cannot be seen to hesitate.
“I will at least determine the cause of this famine. That I can all but swear.”
"If we are to humour this, then we had better do it well. What aid do you require?"
If he fails to deliver on his promise, the consequences may be disastrous.
“Allow me to meet with the prophet Calchas, Lord Agamemnon. After that the path ahead will be clearer, like the waters around your fair kingdom.”
If anyone seeks to know, he is within his hut, and does not speak, alone in a cloud of black gloom.
Ophellios enters the hut. Watches him for a moment, the oracle’s back turned.
He calls to him.
“Clear-sighted Calchas, blessed with Prophecy; I would speak with you.”
Calchas’ words are like the snapping of a lyre’s string.
The Lord Apollo does not so simply revoke his gifts. If the prophets are now blind, and the lands are now blighted…
Agamemnon was correct. Something terrible must be wrong.
“How could this be?”
His words fall like hammer blows.
"I do not know."
He stands, with some difficulty - he's not a young man - and goes to the fire, busying himself with a pot and some herbs; it is as though Ophellios has ceased to exist.
He steps forward into the light, into the attention of the man before him. Lord Ophellios’ presence is an intrusion in this place.
“Calchas, do not turn away a king of Achaea. Speak. What do you know?”
He grunts, still not looking around.
"Nothing, knowing what I did. The entrails of our enemies spell out death and doom. The birds fly confused, in meaningless orders. The auguries of the gods are mad and random."
“Once the Gift is given, it cannot be revoked. Phoebus Apollo will not have abandoned you in full.” Ophellios has stepped in front of him now. The prophet will not be able to ignore him any longer.
“You speak of meaningless directions, auguries that are mad and random. Perhaps they are not as they seem–”
He grasps Calchas’ forearm, preventing the old man from turning away again.
“Please. In three days, Lord Achilles leads us all on a suicide march – unless I can find out the cause of this blight. I know you can help me. What do you think will happen to you, Calchas, if we all die?”
"I do not know. Perhaps in the Underworld I will find the knowledge I once had, among the secrets of the dead."
He sighs.
"The birds circle and dart about one place, the blasted hillside some day's march away. I have never seen such a thing before. It is as though they are afraid."
“What?”
That makes no sense. The blasted hillside, dark even during the day, almost nothing but rubble and bones?
What would bring the divine messengers there? Why would they flock to such a place?
The hunger slows his mind, the strong aroma of the prophet’s herbs turning his stomach.
He draws himself together. “What lies there in that hillside?”
"I do not know," he spits, and turns away, slumping down wearily onto the floor.
The skeletons of small animals litter the floor, each bone neatly stacked into a little pyramid. The dust is covered in marks, lines, mapping the flights of birds that all converge in a circle around - never over - the hillside.
Calchas must be hungry too. More so, taking into account his age.
He has helped him. Ophellios will help him in turn.
Standing almost too tall over the old man, he retrieves one of the dead birds from his sack and holds it out to him.
“Thank you.”
He leaves then, knowing what he must do – but first he needs to eat.
He slits open its belly.
The fragrant entrails that slither out of the wound are just a meaningless mass of flesh and blood.
He weeps.
The Mycenaean and Pylian camps are not close. His appetite bears on him almost like Tartarus when at last he returns to his hut.
It hasn't been long enough for real starvation to set in.
The young man slumped over not far Ophellios's hut is almost certainly not going to die of hunger today. He's just hungry enough that he can't move very much or think very much, only look up and scramble pitifully to his knees as the king approaches and try to shuffle away.
…
“Wait.”
The king unslings his bag again and retrieves another catch. He tosses it to the boy.
“Take this and feast. Gods go with you.”
He stands uncomfortably as he is thanked, and at last he enters his house.
Diameda looks up at him, hollow-eyed. The other maids in his clay court look even weaker.
Ophellios sighs.
He cannot bring himself to care about the insult. The scent of roasting birds turns his stomach, and for a second he worries about being sick all over the Cretan’s sandals.
“Yes,” he responds palely, taking a seat in that fur-lined chair. “He told me of an omen I must follow.”
Ophellios manages a laugh. “No. No, that is not it. Only… I would be cured with a little food. I will sleep tonight and hunt again tomorrow, and I will be fine.”
He shakes his head, which rests rather heavily on his right hand. The signet ring his father gave him glints in the flames.
“No.”
"What happened, by the gods? Were you robbed? Or - Ophellios, tell me you fed yourself first. "
Ophellios doesn’t answer, only glances at him with a sheepish expression.
It reminds Aetos of a prince he met seven years ago.
"Boy. You are the King. If you have any love for the Pylians, you will make yourself strong enough to protect them. What use are you to them like this?"
He rolls his head towards Aetos, now a tired look on his face. “My servants hungered. I can go another week.”
"You hunger too, you fool! Now you would go running after Calchas and seeking to turn aside the will of Achilles, and still starve yourself? Has Apollo stricken you too with disease, a disease of the mind?"
He is in fact going to make Ophellios eat.
“It is none of your concern–”
There is a plate of roasted meat in front of him now.
“You treat me like a child…”
…
“Thank you.”
He will eat.
"I will cease to treat you like a child when you cease to act like one, Pylian King. Stop talking and eat it all."
He sighs. “I am eating. I am eating. Thank you.”
Aetos watched as the godling attempts to sate his gnawing hunger in as dignified a fashion as possible.
The food is disappearing at an alarming rate.
At last some light returns to his eyes. “Had you been a better shot, there would be more meat on this thing’s bones.”
"Had you been a wiser king, you would not have needed it." He cracks a smile.
"Now. Now that you are capable once more of reason - for no man can think well with his stomach empty - what did old Calchas tell you?"
He frowns at Aetos’ own plate. “Have you enough? You had caught only four when we were summoned.”
"I am more used to hunger than you will ever be, young king, unless the gods wax wrathful indeed against you. Speak."
"It is not meet to ask such questions of a host. Zeus protects guests, and protects hosts also."
“You evade the question because you are a hypocrite.” He points at him with a meat-knife.
"You continue to ask because you are stubborn. Do you not remember the story of Pandora?"
The words are so familiar. It takes Ophellios a moment.
“Ha.” He responds eventually, his lips curling handsomely. “I remember that. When we first met, you posed the exact same question to my father. What is it about that tale that so compels you?”
"You remember well."
He sighs, and sits back, and drinks deeply of wine.
"In truth, it always struck me as -" unfair "confusing. Why did Lord Zeus offer the vessel at all, knowing as He must have done what would happen? Was it truly spite? Would it not seem equally wise as a teaching, if the story had been different, and Pandora had been incurious, and so robbed mankind of some great boon?" That's probably a dangerous thing to say- "but then I became a king, and had to listen to endless questions, and I saw the wisdom of it."
“Lord Aetos the philosopher king.” Ophellios’ gaze is fond. Amused.
In truth, he concurs. But one has to be careful what they say when the gods are listening.
“Why do you believe Hope was left in the box then, O sage?”
"I do not know. I never was a philosopher; I did not even know the word in my youth. But I notice, Lord Ophellios, that in all these fascinating words you have not answered my question."
“It seems we both step around the other.”
He places the knife down, leaving only a pile of small bones on the table.
“Are we locked in a dance, do you think? You are more secretive than most kings in this camp. But you are my friend, so I will tell you. The prophet has lost his Sight, except for strange omens that will not lend themselves to comprehension. The same one returns to him: a flock of birds, circling around the blasted hill some day’s march away.”
Ophellios drinks, and the wine glints red on his white teeth.
“I intend to travel there at first light. Your monster, Hope, has not left us yet.”
"You wish to set out alone into the lands of the enemy, chasing a dream, a whim of a man you admit has lost his Sight."
“Yes. I warn you, friend; do not so quickly dismiss an omen from the gods.”
Colours have returned to his vision again. The nausea has stopped. His fingers flex and his heart is renewed with energy.
“I will not be long.”
Aetos looks at him for a long moment.
The young king has grown strong - it's obvious in his broader frame, the sterner set of his face - but it's hard not to see the boy he was in moments like this.
"You do not intend to go alone."
“I do. I will not easily be noticed if I am the sole traveller.”
"You will be alone in the lands of the enemy with only wild dogs and birds of prey for company. This is folly."
The agitation manifests in the tapping of his foot. “If I can defend myself against Aeneas, I can defend myself against puppies and owls.”
"You were not alone then. You were not weary and half-starved then. And you will have to sleep. You will have to trek for long hours, unawares-"
He cuts himself off.
"I am an older and wiser king, and I have concerns for your welfare, as any man in my place would."
Ophellios leans forward across the table to rest his hand over his companion’s. He smiles a reassuring smile, one that crinkles the corners of his blue eyes and almost fools Aetos into belief.
“I will be fine.”
In an explosive movement, unknowing, he seizes the King's hands and squeezes hard.
"You will not simply be fine! We are at war! Trojan warriors by the thousand wish you dead; your death would be a horror for your people and all the Achaeans, and sweet succour for Troy; you cannot simply cross the field alone save for your personal guard-"
The look on Ophellios’ face – the vanished smile, the startled expression – stops him.
There is silence but for the crackling of the fire.
“I do not intend to die.” The young king’s voice has become quiet. “And your concern I find strange.”
There is only the very minutest pause before he replies.
"Strange perhaps indeed you find it, young as you are. You would not be the first brave young man I would see die in his bravery, mistaking folly for courage, thinking himself greater than death as are the immortal gods."
Aetos still has not let go of his hands.
“By the gods, you are the most cryptic of the Achaeans. Tell me of your story, then, for all that you reference it.”
"Now is not a time for the telling of tales." He squeezes harder, uncaring. "I could not choose only one of those tales to tell. This is the path down which men like you die, Ophellios, and I- no, I could not allow you to suffer such a fate. See reason, I charge you, and do not go alone across the plains."
The intensity frightens him, but not for the reason Aetos would want.
“Very well.” Ophellios is guarded now.
He stares at the younger man and doesn't break away.
"This is folly."
He says it after a long break, too late, he thinks. He stares, deep, into sky-blue eyes and his fingers dig scars into the wood of this crude kingly chair.
"You would risk yourself - why? Why go alone? You have often scorned glory, called great kings fools for desiring glory over life - why change now? You expect me to believe you will heed my words - why should I, when you care nothing for honour?"
He glares, standing without thinking.
"You think yourself different, greater than the rest of us; perhaps you are, for indeed I know more than you think of your heritage. You think us fools, brief and wretched, mortal as we are; so be it, but whether it cost me life or limb you shall not go alone."
Stars dance at his fingertips as the numbness begins. The strength of Zeus lies in the King of Crete’s palms.
He tugs only gently, only enough to draw his attention to it.
“If you are implying something then speak it.”
"You are no fool, nor cunning nor expert enough in counsel to deceive me: you know indeed that I have learned of your parentage, that I have long since known that Phoebus Apollo got fair Alphion with child, when He was among the Pylians; and you know that I have held my tongue these long years." He squeezes hard enough that it will just begin to hurt. "Know then that if I ever wished you ill I could have done you injury, and did not. Now I tell you, see sense, and do not go alone across the dangerous plains."
Something in him shifts. Aetos watches as the young king’s eyes darken.
“You tell me this now. Why? Are you to blackmail me with this secret you know? I have told you that I will heed your counsel, King of Crete. Do you know no other method of negotiation but force?”
The godling stands too, meeting his great height.
“Release my arms.”
In one dreadful lurching motion he has the Pylian king pinned by the wrists up against the wall of his tent - he still thinks of it so, years old and strongly reinforced though it may be, a great trunk of a tree he hewed in the first year of the war forming the pillar against which he now pins the Pylian boy, soft golden skin bruised under his grip-
"Don't be a fool, boy, if I had wanted to take you by force I would have done so long since. It was many years past that I suspected your heritage, many years past that I felt the keen cut of the injury to my friend, the great king of the Pylians Hyranon; the man you call your father, long since dearly departed; had I wished to use it against you I would have done so. Rather, being your friend and long-time protector and counsellor, I know when there are notions you keep hidden on your heart, and indeed I do not trust that you will be honest, when you plan to venture far from the hollow ships, to seek out this omen you think you have found: am I, I charge you to tell me, I call the immortal gods to witness, am I wrong???"
He just stares at him through his eyelashes, his head tilted proudly back and his lips pressed together. All his muscles are tense like steel, but he does not flinch.
Calmly.
“Yes. Apollo may be my sire, but Hyranon was my father. They say that blood is thicker than water, but our blood fell together on the battlefield. Red. To his name I am no insult.”
“You see liars in every face, Lord Aetos. You must be so lonely. If you treat all allies like this– Perhaps I saw that. Perhaps that is why I have tried to befriend you.”
“I am an honest man.”
“Let me go.”
He releases him as though burned.
His gaze is like knives, as his eyes meet Ophellios', and he holds that gaze for long moments.
"Perhaps you speak truly, Lord Ophellios. Perhaps you know more than I; perhaps you are wiser. Go then: and may the gods go with you."
"I am insulted: you suggest that there was any way this conversation could end, such that I would not come with you."
Ophellios steps a pace backwards, gazing at him warily.
“Your loyalty takes me by surprise after the insult you have dealt. Is this friendship? Or do you seek to supervise me?”
He caresses his bruised wrists, flexing his numb fingers to coax some sensation back into them.
“You shared your food with me. I will attribute your behaviour to hunger, and I will forget that you ever raised a hand against me. Do not touch me like that again.”
He ignores him.
"We set out an hour hence. Gather such supplies as you can, and meet me by the gate. We have precious little time, if we are to complete this mad caper before Achilles is moved to action."
"Be grateful it was not one. Achilles is not a patient man, and nor am I."
He looks at him for a long moment.
Quietly. “You confuse me, Aetos.”
"Tired of waiting. If you have something to ask me, then ask; or else go from here and ready yourself, and I shall meet you by the gates."
“…I shall see you in an hour.”
Ophellios turns and departs.
His cheeks flush red in the torchlight. He flexes his fingers again, over again.
“If I had wanted to take you by force I would have done so long since–”
Was he a fool for telling Aetos, for asking him to come on this quest? No, surely – for all that the Cretan is a rough man, he would not do anything to truly harm him.
They are friends.
One foot ahead of the other. Ahead; only there.
Ophellios turns sharply, leaving his bag half-packed. No one should be able to enter his hut after dark.
His fingers inch towards the sword on his bed.
“Who goes there?”
“Oh.” He relaxes, but not completely. The man is Lord Achilles’ favourite; where one goes, the other is never far behind. “Patroclus. What brings you here under Nyx’s shadow? You know that you are a welcome guest.”
“Forgive me. It is important that my coming here is kept secret. Especially from those who… would take interest in my whereabouts.”
His eyes rake over king’s belongings laid out over the bed.
“So it is true that you depart our camp.”
He shakes his head. “I thank you for your hospitality, King of Pylos, but I have too little time before he notices I am gone.”
His lips pull in a fascinating way. Love and exasperation altogether.
“Yes. He intends to do something drastic in three days. You intend to stop him. I cannot be seen to take another’s side, but know that I also cannot allow him to come to any harm.”
The dark-haired man nods, relief colouring his grey eyes. “Good. Good, thank you, my Lord. Know that I will do what I can to delay him until your return. You have my word.”
He hesitates before stepping forward.
“No.”
From deep within his cloak he retrieves a tiny crystal bottle. The liquid inside is like honey, but glows softly like fire; red almost as blood but warm like the sun. Strange shimmers swirl in its heart.
He holds it out to Ophellios on the end of a silver chain. It does not dangle in the air but seems almost to levitate on its own axis.
“Nectar. We found it on the corpse of a priest’s son. He was struck down as he was fleeing one of the surrounding towns of Troy – likely told to take this artefact and run. Achilles will not miss it, but equally he does not know that it lies in your hands now. Take it, and do not use it unwisely.”
Slowly, he reaches out and curls his fingers around the bottle. It is such a tiny thing, the size of a pendant.
The nectar inside seems to pulse at his touch, surging forward in its tightly-sealed vessel to try to lap at his skin.
He places the chain around his neck and tucks it quickly into his tunic.
“I… do not know what to say. Thank you.” He meets his eyes with such sincerity.
Patroclus is already leaving. “Only use it to stay alive. And remember, Lord of Pylos – I never came to your door.”
He is gone.
He stands there for some time, the weight of the pendant around his neck like wearing a star.
Ophellios completes his packing, leaving instructions for the sleeping Diameda should he not return.
Though some minutes delayed, at last he meets Aetos at the gate.
"You took a long time, Ophellios. Do you have wise doubts at last about this doomed quest? Do you fear now to leave these gates? Or are you merely absent-minded?"
“If you intend to harass me with every breath then I will leave you behind.”
He adjusts the weight of his bag on his shoulders.
“I am giving you one final chance to stay.”
"It amuses me still that you think the choice to be yours. I will not shy away from my fate, whether it is to die defending you from the dangers beyond or to carry back your corpse to the pyre or, if a god grants us good fortune, perhaps to find what you seek; hurry then now."
Ophellios nods.
He knows not what to make of Aetos.
“Let us not take the horses. They will only draw attention to our whereabouts; come. The hillside lies to the north.”
The plains of Troy on this side of the river are quiet by night, and the clouds hide the moon.
They are not spotted, but the going is perilous and slow: the ground is littered now with gnawed bones and scraps of broken armour, bristling like a hedgehog with abandoned spears.
In time they come towards the edge of the plain, and it is Ophellios who first notices the river lap at his sandals.
The air is cold this time of year.
The waters are even colder.
He looks down, looks towards the river.
Only some minutes ago, the bank had been yards to their left. Scamander should not have risen so quickly.
“Aetos.”
"I see it."
He reaches quietly towards his sword.
"Hail, O Scamander, child of Zeus; do not skulk, I ask you, creeping over banks and hidden from our sight without form, but speak plainly. "
"You come here, Achaeans, to my banks, to Ilium which the immortal gods have sworn to defend, to waste away your brief lives and pollute my waters with the blood of men; and now you two alone venture across the haunted plain, and I wonder indeed what it is that you intend. And you, godling, what word of your far-shooting father compels you hither?"
With round eyes he gazes up at the river-god, waters frothing and foaming and roaring around His form.
Should he bow?
“Lord of the River,” he addresses him, “it is my sire’s word yet unspoken that compels us forth. We are on a quest to commune with Him in a foretold place. It is the will of Apollo.”
"Strange words indeed: for far-shooting Phoebus Apollo it is who defends Troy through the ages of man. And indeed in these days none may know His will, for He is silent and brooding, in fear perhaps of the heavenly father. I wonder if you dare lie."
"Ah. Yes, indeed, many times has He guided Paris's arrows and lent strength to Hector's arm."
He hesitates only briefly.
“The Lord of Arrows acts in His own divine interests. I am His son, river-god; and He has summoned me forth.”
“We desire only safe passage towards the mountains, lest we all invoke the anger of an Olympian god for obstructing His will. Rest assured we will not pollute your waters, great Scamander.”
"You come to ask this boon of me; have ever you made sacrifice to me, or even spoken my name? Do you come without even guest-gifts to make demands of ME?"
The river boils.
He has taken a step back before he realises it.
“Forgive us, river-god – we did not intend to trespass. Allow us safe passage and, when we return safely to our camp, we shall sacrifice the best of our livestock in Your name. You have our word.”
"Oh, you have fine cattle to sacrifice? Wealth in the Achaean camp, grain and wine and cattle aplenty?"
“No. That makes our sacrifice all the greater, for food is scarce in our camp; yet we view you with such reverence that we grant you the share you deserve. Allow us to pass, great river.”
There is a long and horrible moment.
"Tread carefully, Pylian; you meddle in the affairs of the Olympian gods, and They are quicker to anger than I."
There is a crash and a splash and Scamander is gone.
The river recedes, leaving only foul-smelling mud.
His heart beats like war-drums – but they are safe.
Ophellios looks to his companion. “Are you alright?”
"Cold, and weary, but unharmed. I did not expect such opposition, so soon. Can this journey of ours truly be approved by the gods, Ophellios?"
“I have faith.” He shakes himself off and steps onto drier land. “But we cannot afford more delay. We need to make it to that copse before nightfall.”
The clouds above have only thickened by the time they reach the copse, and then Zeus's lightning flickers and thunder booms, and moments later the rain drenches them.
It falls in torrents, rain mixed with hailstones.
They run to take shelter under the dense trees, where few patches of ground are mercifully dry.
All they can do is wait.
“I can layer some of these leaves overhead to shield us from the rain. And– perhaps some of these branches will make good firewood.”
The King of Pylos is shivering.
He does not shiver, but his fingers are thick and slow with the cold.
"You may as well try. But you cannot light a fire here, young Ophellios; even if you could kindle it - for you could not in this rain - it would be seen for miles around on this dark night."
For the first time, Aetos hears His Majesty swear.
“Perhaps we can cover ourselves in the leaves, then.” Ophellios sits heavily at the foot of a great trunk, looking up with at his friend. His long hair sticks to his shoulders, soaked through like a sea nymph. “Our clothes are drenched. There is little other warmth here.”
"They are soaked; we will only freeze more quickly. Strip your cloak if you wish to live, Ophellios, and pray to the cloudgatherer to spare us."
His eyes are colder than the hail. "Your wet clothes will sap the warmth and strength from your limbs. Strip."
He is not paying attention, and has already stripped his own armour and heavy cloak.
Ophellios stands frozen to the ground at first. Probably the cold–
He remembers himself and turns around, tearing his eyes from the Cretan king and his frame like Heracles.
Almost shyly, he sheds his own clothes. It burns at his cheeks even in spite of the cold.
The fabric slides down his back and waist, like the drapery of statues, until it lies pooled on the floor. The deep wound to his side from Aeneas’ attack is an ugly scar now, out of place on his skin, smooth but for the goosebumps.
He looks over his shoulder at him, caught like the birds of the morning’s hunt.
It feels like days ago.
His skin gleams dully in the grey ghost-light of the storm.
His gaze is piercing when he looks over - and he can see it now, the mark of divine parentage, the glow beneath the Pylian king's skin.
"Better." He does not look away. "Gather your leaves and bracken, then; I will make a frame of branches, and we may hope to survive the onslaught."
He finds his limbs moving before the rest of him can keep up.
There is a rock in his throat that prevents him from speech. He can hardly look Aetos in the eye.
What is this, shame? He has never felt shame before.
By some miracle, though their fingers are stiff and the shivering slows them, the shelter is assembled at last.
It offers little relief.
He shows no outward sign of even noticing; it is only when Ophellios looks away that his gaze lingers on the young king's form, that his eyes track the curve of his limbs.
"We will have to crawl in together, to escape the rain and share what little warmth there is."
At this point, the elements have worn him down like old marble.
He does not argue.
They crawl into the shelter together, and he finds the warmth of Aetos’ arms and presses himself into it.
The young king's flesh burns like fire where he touches it.
He looks down at that fair hair, the glowing skin, the form like a marble sculpture - how ever could he not have known, how ever could he not have seen, the godliness made flesh?
His fingers tighten for a moment on firm muscles.
He forces himself to speak.
"We may wait out the storm like this; it may not be comfortable, but we will not freeze. Do you think you can sleep, Ophellios?"
The barrier is broken already. He pushes himself closer, curled with his arms tucked into Aetos’ broad chest.
His breath is hot against the Cretan’s neck, lips a hair’s breadth away from skin.
“No. I dare not sleep like this.” He manages through the chattering.
He sighs and squeezes the younger man close, arms wrapped tightly around, and Ophellios can begin to feel slightly less like he is carven out of ice.
"I will let no harm come to you while you sleep."
"The Cretans are more accustomed to the elements, and I am larger than you, less deeply touched by the cold. And sleep too, I am well used to going without. This will not be my first or thousandth night sleeping outside in the cold, and often I did not have the benefit of even such shelter as this. Sleep if you can: you must be strong if you are to pursue this mad mission."
“I… I cannot.” He dares to tilt his head away to look up at Aetos. His nose is pink, eyes like crystal. “Will you– will you tell me your story?”
He looks down, and he can feel the younger man's breath on his cheek like the ghost of a kiss.
"Mine is not a tale I tell often."
A pause.
"Very well."
He doesn't speak of his early life much. He doesn't much like to remember it.
"I was born to a poor woman: she said of my father only that he was a powerful man, mightier than any of the kings of Crete in those days. We were in station only barely more than beggars. I wandered, and begged for work."
He shifts.
"One day, I came upon a river, and a man struggling in it; he had been wearing armour, and was half-drowned. I was able to pull him from the stream, and learned that he was a soldier; so it was that my introduction was made to the arts of war, and I proved an able student. It was just before the great wars broke out - all of Crete would have drowned in blood. In truth I began to fight only to protect myself and my siblings and mother; I do not quite know how it grew from there. Soon there were a dozen, then a hundred, then a thousand men who fought alongside me. In the end, we made a bid, and seized the palace of Crete by force, and brought the towns into submission by our hand; and I looked about myself, and realised I was the King."
Ophellios is held captive by his tale.
A beggar turned king. A bard could not have woven together a more fascinating song.
“I– had heard you were a mercenary. I did not– know the rest.”
He buries himself in his chest again, shivering as thunder quakes the sky.
“What happened to the old king?”
"Died some months before. That was what started the whole affair, in fact, for he died without issue: the gods sent him no heir. By the time his house had finished tearing itself apart and chopping up Crete between them, little was left of anything he had built."
“And– you put it all back together.”
Something swells in his heart, but his fingertips are like ice and he can concentrate on little else. Aetos is the only relief, and he hangs onto his every word lest the cold overwhelm him.
He cannot afford the quiet.
“What of your– wife? Did you meet soon after?”
Unbidden, strong hands wrap around his icy fingers.
"Almost at once. After I failed in my suit for Helen I took a wife from Crete immediately. I did not wish to leave my people to suffer bitter war like before, and I could not afford to tarry. I have one strong son now, and in time I will train him to be a good and wise king, if the gods grant it, and I shall pray that he too shall be wise, and war not visit the lands of Crete again."
There is a pause. He chafes the young man's hands between his.
"Tell me of yourself, then. What was your life before the war?"
What about Helen did you so desire?
Ophellios looks at their hands together, dimly aware that something is wrong about this.
After some time he speaks.
“I was born to white beaches and clear skies.”
He goes still for a moment, even in all his shivering, at the memory of Pylos.
“My kingdom is beautiful. I think– I am certain you have visited before. Yes. I– remember you now, in my father’s court. I was only a child, I was allowed only a wooden sword. It– broke, one day soon after, and the shards went everywhere, and I had splinters for– gods, weeks.”
It stirs a dim memory of a boy with wide blue eyes, sitting at the knee of fair Hyranon in the days before a Trojan sword sent him down to death.
"Indeed. A child's wooden sword should be crafted carefully, for that reason, thicker than a true sword and resistant to blows-"
He is abruptly aware that the boy is shivering violently.
"You are still not warm. Have you a fever?"
“Ha. No.”
A smile even through cold lips.
“That is the thing. My parents, they– had wanted an heir for a long time. Long before I was born. They tried, but some– some plague, some circumstance, would always strike my brothers in infancy.
“So they prayed to Phoebus Apollo, the Plague God, the god of medicine, for– for He had always favoured my people – and my father’s prayer had been true, and the– the offerings had been great. And He came to my mother, and– promised an heir who would be robust in health.
“I have never once fallen ill.”
Of course. Son of the Plague God.
He killed them. Slew them to position your mother later in Time to accept Him.
"So you grew up alone? Curious. I had many brothers and sisters, though none have survived - Ophellios king, your shivering begins to worry me."
“I have two siblings. The eldest a– toddler when I left.”
He manages to gain control of his breathing, just a little.
“Then keep me closer.”
He wraps his arms tight around the younger king, pulling him close, wrapping him up.
He's so cold.
With both hands he rubs Ophellios's back.
The hail eases a little.
If Aetos stays like this, the boy will not freeze to death this night.
He manages to fall asleep at last, held like a slave girl in his camp.
His head shifts and rests its weight on Aetos’ arm; his hair falls down his back, exposing his throat.
The pendant around his neck glows as dimly as the moon above.
He lies awake for some moments after that, listening to the sound of the rain.
The pendant has a light of its own, a strange inner fire like the waters around Crete on a dark clear moonless night.
Probing fingers touch it - it's warm like a fresh-cooked meal, bright like flames in his hand.
There is something to it, a depth and beauty more than human, that steals his breath away.
His gaze lingers on Ophellios long into the night.
The birds sing him awake.
He does not know at first that he has missed the sound. Mornings in Pylos. Birds stay far from the Achaean camp – the clever ones avoid it and the foolish ones were all eaten.
What are they doing here?
It is so warm. He settles further into his nest, lulled again into peaceful rest. The arms around him are strong, the chest under his head sturdy.
He rolls away from the disturbance and upright, clutching at his sword and-
Oh.
"Boy," he rumbles, "what has you so startled so early?" Gods, he hates the early morn. His sword is clumsy in his hand, his eyes weak in the light.
It all comes to him. The long night, the stripped armour, the solace of Aetos’ skin–
His clothes are dry now. Lord Helios has resumed his cylical chariot-ride, and the morning brings blissful warmth.
He pulls them on quickly, bare feet on the forest floor.
“Word of this will not get back to camp. Do you understand me?”
Ugh, his head.
"Do not take that tone with me before even the sun has climbed the sky, boy. What are you talking about?"
"I do not know and you will cease this foolish game and tell me." Where's the wine.
The words lodge themselves in his throat–
He forces them out.
“The events of last night. They never happened.”
"... The storm? What? Lord Zeus often sends omens beyond our understanding, and trials to test us; what do you fear would come of it if all the Greeks knew?"
"Have you lost your wits? It was freezing cold. Was that the first time you have had to huddle for warmth?"
"Our clothes were soaked through. To sleep in them would have slain us as surely as any blade!"
He is pacing now in the dappled sunlight.
“It matters not. Aetos, nobody can know.”
"Perhaps I am only quick to wrath because of the early hour, like a bear awakened from its long sleep, but I begin to think that I do not like to hear demands from you. Certainly not without some sane reason. "
“Of the two of us, you are older. I beg you, think. Think of what this will do to my reputation,” he implores.
A Trojan scouting force happened to be out last night and happened to be caught in the rain and happened to bivouac under a rocky outcropping just close enough to hear the shouting.
Immediately, they are under attack.
He roars and leaps forwards, taking up a great stone and shattering a shield with it, then bursting a man's heart with his drawn sword through the splintered wreck.
"To arms, Ophellios!"
Damn the boy.
He springs forwards to cover the "retreat" as the coward goes to ground, to distract the Trojan forces from him.
A man swings his blade, a breath away from Aetos’ bare flesh–
And as if the ground has opened up beneath him, the Trojan crumples, and Thanatos takes him.
Another falls.
Another.
In Aetos’ periphery, he sights a swift blur in the air – and a fourth member of the patrol meets his fate. An arrow through the eye. Tripartite silver fletching – the telltale mark of a weapon of the King of Pylos.
It’s coming from the trees.
Bah. A woman's weapon.
He takes a man almost in half, crushes another skull under his pommel, and then-
He can see the moment when they break, when a man at the back crumples down like a grain-sack just as he slits another one's throat, and they run-
They'll be back.
"Ophellios!"
There is a rustling from up above, and he leaps down – onto one of the fleeing Trojans, the last still in range, and with a flash of the knife he slits his throat.
He takes a moment to catch his breath before he turns.
"There you are! Kept yourself far away from the heat of battle, I see. "
There is red on his cloak, a dagger in his hand, and a man bleeding to death at his feet.
He gives Aetos a stare.
"It must be a pleasant experience, to have such a distance between oneself and a Trojan blade, to have a choice of helpless targets."
He steps onto and over the dying man, failing chest a bridge for the king’s bare feet.
“I took advantage of the terrain. What is your issue?”
"You were seen to flee. I thought you cared a great deal, some would say too much, for the seeming of things."
“I relocated. I dealt with the problem. Are you ungrateful?”
He only laughs a little. "You are still young, forget that though I sometimes might. I am not ungrateful - but that is not the way among warriors."
“You are the most unpleasant and hateful of men.”
He pulls his arrows from Trojan flesh, cleaning their sharp points on the moss.
“We did not have the chance to finish our discussion.”
He chuckles deeply. "A strange way to begin your supplication, King of Pylos. Were you not asking of me that I keep a secret, only moments ago? Is this how you expect to make petitions and pleas? Or do you believe I should keep this secret for my own sake?"
“You would be a man of terrible honour also if you did not keep this to yourself.”
The young king has quite the glare on him.
He does, but he's not as scary as Hector. "Would I? And why is that? It is a perfectly normal thing among comrades in bitter weather."
He glances down at himself. Oh.
"I am surprised that you remain so... Squeamish, after years of war."
But he will get dressed.
"We had best move swiftly, lest the Trojans grow suspicious, or receive word outright of what happened here. The ground is wet and treacherous now, but with good haste we should make the site by noon. Come."
Strapping on his armour now, Ophellios does not look at him.
“I have already offered explanation.” He responds curtly.
The boy’s ears are pink.
"No, you have offered girlish hinting and riddles, of which I tire easily, and you will state your thoughts plainly."
“That is the very thing.” He tugs sharply at a strap on his breastplate, fastening it tight. “Womanly. Girlish. You know our circumstance and yet you still seek to emasculate me. What do you believe the men at camp will think, what my soldiers will think, if they hear of last night’s episode?”
"If they respected you enough, you would not need to care what they would think."
“Aetos.” There is an edge of desperation to his voice. “Do not ruin me on a whim.”
“Good.”
And he will speak no more on the subject.
Ready to depart, now, they continue to tread forth towards the mountain range.
He is in rather a cheerful mood. He whistles.
"Remind me again, O Ophellios, what it was you asked me to keep secret, when you begged a boon of me?"
He affects not to hear him. "Was it not how, upon a glimpse of the Trojan forces, you yelped and hid behind a tree?"
The best tactic is simply to ignore him.
Lord Apollo grant me strength.
"Ah! Forgive me! It was surely the way you collapsed in shivers at the first fall of rain, and indeed almost perished of the cold.'
"The way you sniffled like a babe and sucked on your fingers to keep them warm."
"Oh! I have it! You wished that I not tell any of the Achaeans how it was your first night away from camp, and you missed them so much you cried."
His resolve snaps.
“It is little wonder you have never been loved.”
“Helen rejected you. Your wife cares little for you. You keep the company of boys because no woman will speak to you.”
It is cruel, and he feels guilty immediately upon saying it. Ophellios is unused to being cruel.
King Aetos brings out the worst in him.
They come in time to a lonely and wild place. One could believe almost anything of this lost and lonely hill, nestled among others at the foot of the mountain but shrouded in darkness; and indeed, coming here, the soil is like ash and dust, the trees long dead and withered, and the only sound is the wind blowing through old stone.
At the top, half-buried in dead shrubbery and dust like ash, is the collapsed facade of a temple.
Ophellios stands still, too still, as he looks up at the ruined temple.
His eyes are larger than they should be and they blink too little; the black points are only narrow, the blue like the unknowable wells of the sea in storm.
He has taken Aetos’ hand, squeezing it tightly. He is not sure when he started doing that.
“There is something Terrible here.”
The pendant around the King of Pylos’ neck glows hot. Like a dog eager to reunite with its master, its divine contents surge forward.
His sword is out of its sheath and his eyes are alert.
He had not had proof with his own eyes of the boy's parentage until now, only whispers and now hearsay; until now, he could almost have doubted it, almost believed it was some great trick, some conspiracy; to see it with his own eyes still chills his blood.
He stares for a long moment at the godling.
Then he squeezes his hand back.
"What is it?"
He turns to him, more serious than Aetos has ever seen him.
“You should turn back.”
“You need not put yourself at risk for this. It is not so important, in the grand scheme of the Fates. And you are not so unimportant.”
"I could say the same of you. But I will not turn my back and leave you here like a coward, for fear of trees and stones and ominous feelings."
He lets go of his hand.
“Very well.”
The son of Apollo leads on.
This was an enormous temple once. Among the dead shrubbery are shattered marble pillars of Titanic size, stones that must have been lifted by Cyclopes' strength, twisting passages carved through the earth.
And in the end they come to a wide flat space in which there stand two huge braziers, flaming merrily with coals though the signs of great age mark them, and a place where a statue should be.
It’s the man from his nightmare, all those years ago in Pylos when he was a boy–
Ophellios hesitates no longer. He kneels instantly, pressing his forehead to the rough ground.
“My lord Apollo. My sire. You honour me.”
"Stand up, My son, nor kowtow before your father; for I it was who got your fair mother with child, in the days when Pylos sorely lacked an heir."
His gaze falls on the other mortal, and it is not a kindly one.
"And, look! What mortal dares to enter here?"
He rises, though he keeps his head bowed.
When the god’s Sight is turned the other way, Ophellios dares to glance up at his–
father.
Well, this does not look good.
"O lord Apollo of the silver shafts, it is I, Aetos, the king of Crete; have I not burnt fine oxen for you, venerated your name upon my island, and counselled well your son?"
"I know you, proud king, and your name and your birth, and the name of your father, and more things besides; for the gods see further than men. I ask rather, who are you to come here?"
“He is my companion,” he dares to interject, “and my protector.”
His gaze lingers on the Cretan king for a long time.
"If you, My son, trust mighty Aetos to be your companion at the shield, then so be it. Fear: for of all the things that you have chosen in your brief life, some might men of future times sing of in song, some might you regret and lament above all else.
Now tell me: what news?"
“So the bridge is collapsed on both sides? Prophets no longer hear from You, Lord; do You no longer hear from them?”
His eyes are wide.
“My father – there is a blight on our lands. We starve. I starve. In two days, the son of Thetis seeks to mobilise all the Achaeans to assault Troy. Disaster decays us.”
His eyes darken from the first sentence.
"You presume much of the ways of gods. In truth our father lord Zeus has many designs; in truth matters graver than you know are in motion, and perhaps even were I to labour long in explaining, your reason could not grasp them. Suffice it to say that you Achaeans have committed a grave sin, and lord Zeus himself was filled with vengeance and furious anger, and it was I, and not you, who bore the brunt of his rage; well indeed for you, for lord Zeus is above us all, and none last long in his despite."
He looks back to his Olympian father.
“No prisoner of ours is blessed by You. No temple of Yours was ruined by us. You bear the anger of Lord Zeus for us all, benevolent as You are; why would Lord Zeus be angry? Prophecy is altered; affected. I– I do not–”
"Indeed. I am surprised, my child, and saddened, that you could not see this for yourself; have you not wondered as to the nature of your celestial father, and My power of prophecy? Did not she interest and fascinate you? She did Me, long ago."
…
“Forgive me. Long have I wondered about You. Long have I wished to speak with You. But the Trojan princess evaded my notice.”
"He did not know, O Apollo, because we did not tell him. He was not privy to the truth; nor indeed were many of the Achaeans, for I feared lest it cause - division."
"Division it has indeed caused; division between Me and the Achaeans, whom I have favoured and blessed, and loved and treated in ceaseless friendship, now curdled into bitter wrath."
Know what?
He looks as if he is about to fall to his knees, but recalls his father’s admonitions mere moments ago and with effort keeps himself upright.
“Please, my Lord; if I have ever spoken words of praise to You, tell us how to fix this.”
"Why, learn gentleness and soothing sweeter than Hera, and calm the temper of Zeus, or beard ye the Cloudgatherer upon His throne and bring Him to terms, if you would fix this, or indeed weave a better and stronger web than the Fates. Zeus thunders still: this old fane of mine I hope He does not care to watch. For Cassandra's power was great; for I saw in her a possibility, a thing mortals can scarce conceive, a capacity for power: but such things were not ordained by Zeus, and so I saw to it that her words would not be believed, and so her prophecies not break and twist the threads of Fate. And yet I was outfoxed by wretched Ambrosios, and now I know not what my fearsome gift has done, for Zeus keeps His own counsels. Wherefore the Achaeans shall suffer sore, and all Ambrosios would do with his forbidden knowledge be frustrated, and perhaps My own father shall forgive Me."
“What offering would Lord Zeus accept such that his anger may be calmed?” He steps closer, brave, terrified. “I wish nothing more than to help You, my father, who has suffered so much for our actions. I wish to reassure You that we Achaeans are still worth Your trust, Your favour.”
"I do not know, or I would have done it long since, for I fear His wrath if I am wrong. But if you wish it, then: take up Lord Ambrosios, and burn him bound upon the pyre in Zeus's name, and perhaps all shall be well."
Then there is only one thing to do. Ophellios steps forward, heart in his mouth.
“If I may offer an alternative, though Your wisdom is great – another Achaean king, of equal greatness, of equal worth as sacrifice.”
Of course.
There was another reason after all to bring him along.
Would he obey, if Apollo Himself demanded it?
No.
He will not be a sacrifice, like a deer upon an altar.
He goes for his sword-
Well, he's still drawing his sword, and if Ophellios says anything else he'll knock him down with the pommel -
"Lord Apollo, forgive him, he is weak with cold and hunger and knows not what he says- it is not his crime," though of course the Olympian gods in anger care little for fairness -
He holds up a hand.
For a long time he looks wonderingly at his son.
"Would you truly, my boy?"
“I would.”
For his people, he would. For his friends.
A strange feeling passes over him then, of the kind felt in battle. Somewhere beyond fear, more than terror – strange, cold calm.
He reaches forward.
“My father – let us be reunited at last.”
All right, pommel to the back of head, he'll drag the boy out of here and make some sort of apology to the Lord Apollo and find Ambrosios and cut his damn throat himself.
When he awakens the next morning, stiff with the cold, he is lying on a shattered concrete floor among the twisted and green-rusted remains of sacred braziers, and he is alone.
There is no evidence to suggest that any of it was ever real.
No god.
No Ophellios.
Any trace of the King of Pylos has long since vanished.
“Aetos!”
The King of Ithaca is silhouetted at the end of the long ruined hall. He runs towards his fallen comrade, band of men in tow.
You-
He tries to roll to his feet and grab for his sword, but his fingers are numb with the cold and all his muscles protest and his back locks - he can only groan, and roll over.
There were two on this quest. Where is the Pylian?
“Eurylochus, see to the king. I will search for Lord Ophellios.”
Very large, very gentle hands take up his shoulders and lift him from the cold floor, loop one of his arms around broad shoulders, help him to his dragging feet.
"You will be well. You are not wounded, only stunned, I think."
...
There are too many men here.
It should have been him. It should have been him.
The thought had occurred to him, when Ophellios spoke, to throw himself forwards instead but-
Not here. Not now.
Only ahead. Only there.
"You will not find him, Ambrosios."
"He is gone."
Ambrosios stops abruptly in his tracks. Turns to King Aetos. Slowly asks:
“What do you mean?”
He cannot confront the man here, not among all his men, no matter how much he deserves it. Wrath does urge him to take his sword and hold the man to account for all the ruin that his clever tricks have brought the Achaeans, for vengeance-
"Return. We shall have no trouble with plague now, I wager. Apollo took him, Ambrosios, took him when it should have been- another. We will discuss it at length, I swear to you."
He shrugs off Eurylochus's arms and staggers away, back to the camp, back to the rest of the war.
After all, there is a funeral to arrange, for a fallen king.
He walks to where the man called him over. It catches his eye instantly.
Bending down, he plucks the curious item neatly from the ground.
“Hm. Do you recognise this, King of Crete?”
"I do." And he does, and the rage and the grief are no longer contained - for could he not have done something?
He can now.
He snatches the pendant from Ambrosios's hand too fast to see.
"It belonged to the King of Pylos, a treasured possession. I will see that it returns to his house."
He stows away the pendant, and looks at Ambrosios for a long, hesitant second.
But what difference does it make? Perhaps it was some charm, some gift of a god to his family, extinguished with the last heir of Hyranon's house. Perhaps he only dreamt the strange light within it, or saw only a reflection of the moon.
The bleakness returns, surfacing.
He turns, and goes, and speaks no more.
