Lord Achilles came yesterday to deliver his condolences in person.
In the absence of any family, Aetos of Crete has been deemed the representative of the late Lord Ophellios. It is known that the two had once shared a bond, before the young king fell with honour.
Aetos does not understand it, nor does he welcome the visitors.
Feasting has returned to the camp; Apollo has lifted the blight. But the days thereafter are cold and bleak.
There it is. That question again.
“I swear to you. I do not know.”
The answer condemns him – but it is the only truth he can speak.
"All right."
He says it quietly, as if to himself.
"All right. Perhaps indeed you speak the truth. Perhaps- perhaps you were stolen away, and then restored, at the whim of the immortal gods. In which case- my friend. I, I am sorry-"
He staggers forwards, half-opens his arms.
He hesitates again.
"My friend- forgive me. Your... Your loss was hard on me. I thought... In truth I had wished to offer myself, and so considered the fault to lie with me. It was... A strange thing to accept, that all my grief had been for nothing. Please. Come, sit down, let us mend this-"
He finds himself nodding slowly.
“No– it is alright, friend. More than anything, I want to mend this; no fault lies with you–”
Ophellios steps forward, eyes softening like snow in the sun, his own arms spread.
He clasps him in his arms-
-And tears aside his cloak and tunic with a burst of savage strength.
New skin, baby-soft, gleams where once there was the vast knotted scar left by Aeneas's blade.
The sight of it almost bowls him over, the fresh wave of grief for the lost hope, the strange relief that he was right all along.
He’s buried his face in Aetos’ neck–
And then the air strikes cold against his skin and, wide-eyed, he rips himself back from treacherous arms.
He grasps desperately at the fabric’s remnants, uncovered–
"A fair effort, whoever you are, convincing to most; but I remember the wounds dealt in battle, the scars the true Ophellios bore, of which you do not know. Now end this! Show yourself! And do not defile any longer the memory of a King of the Achaeans, or be you spirit or god or Zeus himself I shall fix this blade in you!"
He staggers back, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to think–
Aetos’ own black cloak lies draped over his seat. Ophellios takes it swiftly and wraps himself in it, it’s warm and it smells like him and–
his heart is shattering, a hundred pieces like shards of a wooden sword.
He is unarmed and unable to run.
“Please–”
Ophellios backs away towards the door.
He doesn’t have his bow, not even a blade, but his fingers close around that staff and he holds it between them like a shield.
And he realises, seeing the crazed look in the man’s eye, that there is nothing he can say that will not make this worse. And if Aetos attacks him now, if he– kills him–
then it would be an act of war.
It would tear apart their camps, the entire Achaean force.
It would doom Aetos’ soul.
In one quick move, he takes the dagger from the bed and throws it, pinning the man’s sleeve to a wooden beam–
And in this moment of distraction, Ophellios flees.
He doesn't bother to give chase.
Now that he has a moment to think, he is amazed that he survived speaking thus to a god.
He collapses into his chair, and drains the amphora of wine, and passes into something like sleep.
Nightfall or not, it is a miracle of the gods that he makes it to his hut without being stopped.
His clothes lie tattered on Aetos’ floor. The Cretan’s cloak provides cover, but he knows his appearance is distinct – people might see him, they might ask questions, they might wonder why he is dressed in nothing but the mantle of another king.
Pushing through the door, the King of Pylos orders everybody out. He has pushed himself tonight and his entire body aches as though with fresh wounds.
And when they all leave, the tears coming now silently, he throws that cloak into the raging fire and watches it burn.
Ambrosios is getting rusty.
There had once been a time, back in the court of Ithaca, when he could tell guilty from innocent with only a glance. He blames the nature of kings, for they are greater than ordinary men and indeed keep their secrets closer to their chests.
It takes him a full cycle of the moon to run his investigation. But it has been fruitful.
One night, soon after the first raid of the season, he requests that all the lords of the Achaeans convene.
They are, to a man, too proud to be nervous. Each man knows his innocence - in fact, there is a distinct sense of hunger about them. They are not natural allies.
He considered not attending.
He considered taking Agamemnon aside, to reveal the truth.
But he does not understand the game of the thing wearing the boy's skin, and he does not trust it.
By all rights, it should have killed him and been done with it.
So he sits, and is silent.
He will come, though it may damn him.
If Ambrosios is going to accuse him today, he will not hide like a coward. Perhaps the kings will listen to his defence; perhaps they will not.
Ophellios braces himself, silent, and does not look at Aetos.
“Out with it.”
Lord Menelaus is in a bad mood. He has those more frequently in the cold months.
“Very well, lords. I thank you all for gathering here on such short notice, but I trust that you will find the inconvenience rewarding. For it is the case, my friends, that after many long weeks of thorough investigation…”
He glances around at each and every one of them.
“I have identified the traitor among us.”
"Then lay aside all thought of theatrics and tell us, swiftly; and I charge you all, be ready to seize the traitor, but do not slay him yet. I would speak with him."
The corners of his lips curl in an eerie sort of smile.
“Of course, Lord Agamemnon; all in due time.”
He splays his hands.
“Kings, I charge you all to think carefully about the kind of man this traitor could be. The Trojans have received word of all our battle plans; that means it must be somebody who knows them all, who all the information goes through before even the first man clads his armour to go to his death. And it would be the person we would all suspect the least, or the traitor would certainly have been caught by now. Who here do we know, comrades? Who here can we say we trust above all others?”
His brutal stare lands on the King of Mycenae.
“Whose face can we know like our own in the mirror?”
Agamemnon breathes, perfectly calm. What will come will come; there is nothing to be done now, and so no reason to feel fear.
Goddess, be with me, look here and remember, remember the sacrifices I have made to you, the fragrant garlands hung on your temples, remember...
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