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.

Oh– oh no–

His hands fly forwards, hands that have never taken life, hands that mean only well – but he arrests their path before they lay their touch upon a queen.

They curl upon the table instead, the sweat coming quickly to his palms.

“Forgive me. I spoke bluntly, I wished only to know what has befallen my friend. We–”

“Your Majesty!” A maid rushes inside, one of the girls from before. Crestfallen, she declares, “It is the King!”

He stands sharply.

She hurries to talk to a maid, as though Ophellios has ceased to exist, speaking in rapid hushed tones-

She marches out swiftly. 

A maid will very apologetically explain to the visiting prince that the king is indisposed and the queen has gone to be by his side. Yes, immediately. No, lord, she's sorry but she doesn't know anything else. No, she's sorry, she doesn't actually know where, one of the many private chambers of the palace. No, she's sorry, absolutely no visitors can be allowed in. Yes, physicians have been summoned at once. Would he like more wine? 

At first, he is confused. And then doubtful, and then hurt all the same, and that old anger begins to rise like fire.

How dare they? How dare his friend lie to him, how dare they take him for a fool?

And then the baby cries.

Ophellios hears it only faintly, the sound of that wailing infant. Somewhere down the many twisting halls he lies, a tiny swaddled child alone in the dark, calling out for his parents.

He understands it, then. Why Ambrosios has gone to such lengths to disgrace himself. Why his wife sheds false tears to envoys and princes. Why all those on this island have each formed a thread of the tale they will chant to the rest of the world, disgracing their own lord for all of time if necessary.

Ophellios thinks then of his own mother, and of the heartbreak in her eyes when he sailed away to Ilium.

They are a family. 

But there were many families torn apart in this war, and many still to be broken.

Ambrosios must play his part.

“Very well. I will go to my own chambers, then.”

Yes. Yes, he will. Under guard, of course, there are many dangers for a prince on his own in a foreign land, perhaps even here. And of course no prince should go unattended. Servants for anything he needs. 

…

They insult him.

The fair-haired prince retires to his given bed. Though he does not sleep, he sees many paths ahead in the dark of his closed eyes.

The child continues to cry throughout the night.

“I wonder, Your Highness, if I may attempt to soothe your child?”

She does, actually, have to sleep at some point. 

In years to come she will remember that this was her one error, when she thought herself safe, when she thought herself so clever, and she will come to see what it is to oppose the will of the gods - the courses history might follow, a river that cannot be dammed -

The Queen is not available right now. 

The usual wet-nurse is not available right now. 

You can't have every single servant in a palace on guard all the time. 

This incredibly tired and miserable and harried maidservant isn't going to argue with the prince. Here, lord. 

He takes the bundled thing into his arms, carefully. The two princes gaze upon each other, the child red from crying.

Ophellios is the oldest of three. He has not left his mother all alone in the world, without an heir to replace him should he fall to Trojan blades, but his brother is hardly past suckling and his sister has yet to say her first word.

He recalls how it is to hold an infant, the correct way to support their heads and make them feel safe.

Ambrosios’ heir chokes on his tears. Ophellios feels, then, that the infant knows something about this – that he cries not for himself, but mourns for his father.

The prince of Pylos begins to sing.

Soon his voice, this gift from his sire, quietens down the crying. The child is subdued.

Ophellios steps outside, and the guards lay slumped and snoring against the great palace walls.

He carries the baby over to the plains.

There he works again. Day after day, toiling in folly, sowing salt over the yellow land like the scorching days of famine.

He senses the footsteps of the Olympian-born prince, but ignores his coming. Surely he seeks to supplicate him again. He will not go to Troy.

The king carries on in his relentless path of madness.

His breathing is tight, his hands sweaty. 

Just do it. 

He won't be able to stay to watch. 

He'll have to do it and run or Ambrosios might call his bluff, that's the problem. And he would intervene. He would, he would, he would, he tells himself, even if it would anger Lord Apollo. 

He would. 

He places the baby down in the path of the plough and runs back, too far to help, and looks back with his heart in his mouth. 

…What is that?

What is that bundle that the prince has placed before him, too far to see?

He grows closer, closer– what is this trick? What is its nature?

A tuft of black hair from royal fabric; two little hands waving in the air, grasping at butterflies.

His heart runs cold.

Ambrosios has never panicked before. 

He’d thought the baby was supposed to be safe, that was Galora’s part of the deal, protect Iskandros–

That cursed, scheming prince. No– this is not Ophellios’ wrong, no doubt Phoebus Apollo lent him the gift of foresight, told him what to do– why do the gods not leave him alone?!

He has no choice.

The plough stops in its tracks, powerful hooves mere lengths away from the infant on the ground.

And the King of Ithaca stands tall, and sheds his commoner’s clothes, and the light in his eyes is sharp and focused once more.

He runs to his child and holds him, safe.

He feels sick. 

"Behold!" He cries out, for everyone to hear, this part must be swift. "I have done as the lord Apollo commander, and so he has healed the king! Rejoice, men of Ithaca! The king is restored to us!"

"I suppose You think that was clever."

"Yes."

He stares unheeding at the King. 

His face is dark and stormy, bowed low, held close to his son.

After some time he meets the gaze of the man who has bested him. Their eyes lock in tension.

And then Ambrosios smiles.

He is amazed: the boy has done it. 

"King Ambrosios. I rejoice to see you among our number, and still more that the gods have seen fit to restore you. You were sorely missed."

He grins, clapping his hand in greeting around Aetos’ large forearm. 

“It was a miracle indeed, brother. I rejoice too, to see that you have all kept yourselves together without me.”

“Ambrosios, King. Welcome. There is much to discuss.”

“Agamemnon! Sheltering your eyes from the sun, I see?”

He steps in. “King of Ithaca! It is a good omen indeed to have you with us.”

A smile towards his son. “Ophellios, come. Tell us of how you returned Ambrosios to us.”

He steps forward humbly into the tent, now formally invited. 

“O great kings of the Achaeans, I do not wish to boast before you. I prayed to my Sire, and the Heavens listened to me and guided His Majesty, the King of Ithaca, back to us in soul.”

He dares to look around, calm – but he does not lay eyes on Aetos once. The act is almost certainly deliberate. The Cretan lord is left cold without the boy’s gaze.

“I hope only that I have now proven myself.”

Childish. 

"You have done your duty; be content and go."

He turns on Ambrosios. "What counsel then, old friend?"

He looks to his father first, who nods. The prince bows and is dismissed.

Ambrosios catches him by the shoulder before he can go. When the prince looks back, almost startled, he is met with the king’s smile again.

“Thank you again, old friend.”

There is no ill will between us.

…

A good man. 

“Of course,” he shapes his lips into the right words. The king lets go of him and he departs.

At last he takes his empty seat at the council.

“Now, lords. The son of Hyranon told me of some details, but also that you would not allow him the luxury of information. I am rather poorly educated on our status, I must admit.”

He leans forward, his hands laced beneath his chin. “Who here has ever entered Ilium?”

...The son of Hyranon. 

Hmm. 

"Heavenly sire," was it?

In truth, the boy does not look much like his father. Too fair, too willowy and graceful, too lithe and soft - it had not occurred to him before, but...

He mutters something inaudible to a counsellor. 

"I have not. It is a fearsome fortress."

“Need I remind you that the war has only just begun? Surely some of you will have visited old Priam?”

A few kings nod, and share their stories briefly.

There are rumours about him, some more wild than others: he was a strong and brave man, he is aged but still a warrior, no, he was always a coward and the theft of Helen was his idea, no, his sister ransomed him from Heracles with a golden veil, no, he was favoured of Zeus himself for his wit, no, he...

“Yes, I have once visited. Long ago. Ilium is vast in size and its princes are strong. Truly I had thought it a kingdom of nobility.”

“Good. We need an idea of what it looks like on the inside – any maps we can draw together, any hidden cracks from within that cannot be perceived from outside. We are laying siege to this place, kings; this is no ordinary war. We must crack the tortoise’s shell.”

Always the Ithacan must know all that is to be known; always he thinks himself wiser than other men. But Aetos has a feeling that no device of Athene's will bring low Troy - only pitiless bronze. 

In any case, he can draw together all they know. 

...And follow up on the question of the "heavenly sire". 

He is assembling a small embassy of kings to ride with him to the walls of Troy.

Who will come?

He will. 

Her favourite is clever, and most mortals are not. Most mortals also do not have the counsel of the Goddess of Wisdom; there is always a path through the web of the futures if One cares to look...

“Let me go with you.”

"No. Of the counsel of kings you are ignorant, and upon some little careless word may depend all this war, its triumph or ruin - only return to your tent and sit and be safe."

He takes a step forward. “I know Paris. It may be better to send a friend than to send a fool with a blade.”

Hm. He does make a point.

The King of Ithaca watches silently as Aetos packs the saddle of his horse, and he does the same. The young prince Ophellios is certainly eager, already carrying his own provisions.

"Watch your tongue, boy, unwiser kings have taken them for less."

He glowers at him.

“Come, Aetos,” he chimes in at last, tightening a strap on his horse with one swift tug. “He may indeed be useful, if only to carry our things.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, then. “Perhaps we could offer him as a trade for Helen.”

He turns sharply to Ambrosios, mouth agape.

“I jest.”

He meets the Ithacan's stare for a moment, then after a long moment, adds "I do not think even Paris would desire such a talkative wife."

He crosses his arms, his brow stormy.

“If it pleases you both to ridicule me, then let it be so. I will not be deterred from coming with you.”

And he takes his own horse from the stables, a white stallion with a beautiful mane, and stubbornly joins the others. The accompanying guardsmen exchange glances.

His eyebrows lift in amusement. “Does your father know that you are here?”

“Yes.”

One of them does. He prayed to Apollo last night.

"Hyranon is a busy man; I am sure that much escapes his notice. Come then, boy, and keep quiet, if you know how."

Other than the softest of huffs, he does keep quiet.

When I am a king, I will not need to suffer this treatment.

He rides along with them to Ilium, the first light of the dawn illuminating the path ahead.

“Ophellios, how is it that you know Paris?”

He rides up ahead on a black horse, taking in the gentle light rather contentedly. He would often rise early to go on walks in the early morning sun.

He misses home.

“Much the same way I came to meet you. When there was famine in Pylos, my father travelled to the courts of Ithaca and Troy, among other great kingdoms, to negotiate agricultural needs. I found that we had much in common.”

His horse is harder to control than usual, and it treads more slowly than the others. It carries not only his own provisions now, but those of the two kings ahead.

“Ha. Is there a prince that you have not befriended?”

He shakes his head earnestly.

“No. Well, there is one who rides with us who I have found difficult,” he glances at Aetos. “And Lord Agamemnon too, although he seems nicer nowadays.”

“Perhaps the gods cursed him to wear that helmet until he can make amends for some insult.”

That earns a laugh like the first notes of a lyre.

"If the gods are in such a habit, then perhaps I might beg a favour of them."

“And what, friend, might that be?”

He has a feeling he knows where this is going. Sometimes the best course of action is to simply allow things to unfold.

He glances at Ophellios and smirks. 

?

He grins.

“Ah, Aetos. As rough as an old stone. Is that a custom in Crete?”

"Oh, yes. We train from a young age. And keep up constant practice, indeed. It does not come easily."

“You do?” He asks in genuine interest.

Ambrosios chuckles and rides on ahead.

He regards the boy seriously. "Indeed. A boy in Crete who laughs too loud goes long indeed without food. A man in Crete once ignored a childish insult, instead of growing angry, and was hanged the next day."

His face falls. “You would hang a man for showing restraint?”

What kind of a king–?

"No."

…

“Are you ridiculing me again.”

"Yes."

He decides then and there that he is not going to say another word to Aetos until they arrive at the gates of Ilium. And that he is going to feed the Cretan’s food to the horses the first chance that he gets.

The Trojans now have come out all in assembly: Hector, tall and broad and gleaming; Penthesilea, beautiful and deadly; fair Aeneas, in whose glance is an ancient power; and Paris is not present. Many captains and aides are gathered, and shining in panoply. 

The Trojans do not speak. 

The Greeks cut a fine figure themselves.

Gods walk with them. Athena whispers into his ear with every step, and even Zeus is said to smile upon Lord Aetos. Apollo’s child, fair-haired divinity, rides close behind them. The envoy of soldiers at their heels raise the flags of the Achaeans high, glittering in bronze. Hero looks upon hero.

No Priam, then – and no Paris. No doubt the king is too old and his son is too cowardly.

He meets the eyes of Prince Hector, where he stands high above on the city walls, and bows his head.

“Great lords of Ilium! We come now in peace.”

The assembled Trojan forces mutter among themselves and shift uneasily - one or two are brave enough, from the back, to call out and jeer. They do not seem happy, or even much willing to entertain diplomacy, and Hector does not silence them. 

“We come bearing gifts,” he gestures for some of his men to present them forth. Lavish gold statues of the gods, cows ready for the slaughter, intoxicating perfumes – all an offering for the Trojans.

“And a promise.”

There is a priest of Apollo with them.

The unease fills his chest.

Those are riches indeed. Perhaps the Greeks are more desperate than they thought - weaker than they thought. 

The men were nervous. It is said that the hide of Achilles cannot be pierced, that the man is an army by himself like the kings of old, that he can withstand the wrath of gods. It is said that among the Greeks is Heracles himself. 

They need reassurance. 

"You have paid us richly, Achaeans; now what is your plea, or your 'promise'"?

“We seek only to end this war before it begins. Before the bloodshed tears apart our two great lands.”

“We seek the return of Helen to her rightful husband. And our promise, our oath – is that we shall withdraw all our kings, take our ships home to our islands, and resume the long-standing alliance between our peoples.”

They are all camped just within line of sight. One-thousand ships, ten-thousand men. If Hector cannot see the threat that they pose, then he is more a fool than Ambrosios thought.

The chorus of cries of anger is almost deafening. 

What's the Ithacan's plan here - does he really think the war can be over like that, before it's begun? Can it? 

The men are shifting - the Trojan council is almost united, for once, and it is against the Greeks. 

He holds up his staff in admonition, and the noise quietens a little. 

"You speak bold words, son of Ithaca, and yet your promise is revealed for the device it is. You would swear only to withdraw in victory; what kind of assurance is that? Are we to believe that, if not for your oath, you would linger here and grow old assailing the impregnable walls, even if we gave you back Helen into bondage? Or shall you indeed go, only to return as soon as your heart is moved to demand something else of ours? No, Ambrosios, your words will not move us. What other surety could you offer us?"

Stubborn Hector.

“We seek no victory; only for matters to return as they were. My lord, she is one woman for the lives of thousands of men. Rest assured she would be treated well, as she was when she reigned queen over the great Spartans. All the lords of the Achaeans are here, now, prepared by sacred oath to give their lives and take tenfold for her safe return – but my word between us, we would far rather all go home to our families, and there we would stay.”

He spreads his arms, his gaze like arrows even where his voice is kind. “Tell me, wise prince: do you truly think it worth the tragedy?”

"In no wise do I think it so. One woman indeed she is, for the lives of a thousand men, and the long dark years of war; wherefore depart, and return to your homes, and forget Helen, for that she is one woman. Do you truly think to come here and demand her and return, for no price?"

What is so special, he thinks silently to himself, about Helen?

Is this what love will do?

“She is rightfully Menelaus’, Hector. Were you not there that night the vows were made, alongside all the other kings? The world knows it. And still, we wish to resume our friendship; tell us what it is you demand then, O prince, that you find worthy of the girl.”

"Nay, I was not; I was far then from your cares and quarrels over the woman. The world is not so small as you imagine, Ithacan King, nor have we ought but your word alone. To lose his wife will humiliate the prince Paris; he will not willingly part with her unless his pride be soothed."

There's a moment of tension-

"So come. Your pact is fulfilled; only swear here by the immortal gods to go and not return, you and all the kings of the Achaeans; and bring treasure to match the price of this embassy, gold and grain, to make us whole for all the cost of our armies, and the price of the prince's pride; and you shall have Helen, should the gods smile upon you."

"Indeed; until surely the next Trojan chief who covets our wives sees what it will win him."

Aetos has a brain behind all that skull, he sees.

He has a feeling that King Melenaus will not take well to the thought of paying his bride’s ransom. Is that not what the Trojans demand?

“The cost of armies is equal, Prince Hector, for we have taken great pains to mobilise our men in their thousands. Take these gifts for what they are, our gesture of goodwill to your people; and once we sight Queen Helen amongst our number we shall depart. As for Prince Paris, we shall find him a suitable bride.” 

The silence is deafening. All can hear the thumping of their hearts.

“I am prepared to swear this on behalf of all Greeks.”

...He can't help but smirk a little at that; it is perfect justice for Paris, of a sort. 

He opens his mouth-

No. 

This is the council of Trojans, and many lords are gathered here; great they are and accustomed to war. 

But lords do not travel alone, and somewhere, somewhere...

Among the assembled Trojans, not the council of lords but their many attendants - 

Men do break in war. 

Some Trojan youth sees a flash of gold somewhere among the Achaeans, taken in some skirmish- 

The spear leaves his hand on untrained reflex. 

He rolls from his horse and grasps his shield, flinging himself out, and the spearpoint catches the rim of the shield and forces it back into his forehead - he staggers, bleeding...

“Lord Aetos!” 

The world moves almost in slow motion as he turns, his eyes widening.

He takes sight of one man in Cretan colours– bow drawn back, arrow ready to pierce the Trojans’ heart–

Ambrosios’ arm flies out. His horse rears; he shouts: “NO!”

The arrow flies.

It finds home. A man two paces down from Hector collapses, blood pooling out of his mouth.

All hell breaks loose.

Without hesitation, he rides towards Aetos, holding out a hand for him to take.

He can't see and his ears are ringing and he can't balance, but he's strong and well-trained - he's heavy, but heaves himself up onto the horse. 

"HOLD! ALL OF YOU, HOLD!"

Indeed.

Still, no. 

"Do You truly wish to meet Me in battle, Ares?"

"I don't have to."

"Kill them!" Antimachus, a Trojan lord, all in panoply. "Send the Achaeans all their heads!"

With one sharp slice of his blade he sheds all the burdensome provisions. His horse flies faster now, a blur back to the Greek camp.

This was never supposed to happen– There is no time for that now, not when Aetos grips onto his middle like lead weight.

The other riders follow, swift. There are cries and sounds like thunder as Trojan arrows pierce men around them, and they collapse from their horses.

Ophellios dares to look for a second, freezing in horror.

He stays behind for precious seconds, the world spinning.

There is no chance of remedying this now. There is no going back.

The dread weight of the realisation sinks low into his stomach.

He cannot waste any more time. There are those who cannot run yet, slowed down by the burden of the gifts – the cows are a lost cause, running awry in circles, knocking into the horses, trampling one man until he resembles the ground itself–

“RUN!”

Ambrosios helps some of the others onto their steeds– one man, his second in command, shields him from an arrow–

And he too flies away.

"Boy," he gasps, "remember yourself. Now!" He shakes the princeling, hard. "Listen! You have not known battle before. Learn swiftly! Look away!" He risks reaching up a hand and forces the boy's head around. "Ahead! Ahead! Only there!"

It’s like a jolt of cold water.

His eyes retrain themselves–

Ahead. Ahead. Only there.

Over and over again, a prayer–

He speaks aloud before he knows it, a determined mutter, “Phoebus Apollo, lord of the silver bow, shelter us from their arrows, Phoebus Apollo, lord of the silver bow, shelter us…”

They storm into the Greek camp, knocking over stakes and tents. Guardsmen scatter as they reach out for riderless horses. Some bear their lifeless soldiers on their backs, blood staining the ground as they tread.

Ambrosios leaps off his horse, turning desperately to count the losses.

Fifteen men dead.

Where are–?

That arrow can be three inches over there, thank you. 

It doesn't take him long to recover himself and jump down, though he lands more heavily than he should. 

"Well, Ambrosios. We have our answer, then. For the Trojans to attack us in council is a grave crime; they cannot be suaded by reason, only by strength."

He curses loudly, kicking a fallen helmet. “We had him! He was going to agree to our terms!”

“What is going on here?” He emerges, sweeping, from his tent. He frowns further when he sees his son amidst the fray. “Ophellios?!”

He is standing there, shell-shocked.

"It was not in fate, Ambrosios. The gods intend that this war go on - that Ilium topple, or Achaea fail. As for you, Hyranon - you were warned; your boy saw battle today." He spares Ophellios a brief glance. "He did not disgrace his name. But you should send him home."

Confusion. Anger.

“What?!” He turns to him, the clouds in his eyes parting, replaced by storms of a different kind. “I saved your life!”

"You did. And now I am saving yours in return. Go home, boy."

He steps forward in rage–

His arm flies out across his son’s chest, stopping him firmly in his path.

“Ophellios, gather the other kings. We must convene. Now.”

He glares at the Cretan.

But he obeys the word of his king, and will do as he is ordered.

He sits on a rock, hands laced in his hair and tugging. Grief, anger at the incompetence–

"It is often thus, Ambrosios. It was a noble effort; do not be ashamed."

…

“Then I shall see you in Elysium.”

He rises, going to have a word with his men.

"Ambrosios."

He stops.

Turns.

"Have you forgotten the lessons I taught you?"

He exhales. “Athena–”

"Enough. You are wiser than this, Ambrosios; do not forget your craft. Your first device was defeated; it is not your only one. If this war is to happen, let it be a short one." And in the manner of a tutor or philosopher: "How can one win a war before its time?"

He clenches his jaw.

“Tell me how.”

She glares at him disapprovingly; her eyes whirl like storm-clouds. "Do not be ruled by your anger; if you wish to be angry at the folly of men, then you must spend all your days consumed by rage."

Breathe.

This is reality. He must face it.

“Very well. Goddess of wisdom that you are.”

"Indeed."

She regards him for a moment, perfectly calm. 

"What, Ambrosios, does it take to win a war?"

He gives Her a shrewd stare.

“One calculated strike. But I suppose you will tell me I am wrong.”

She rolls her eyes. "It was not a rhetorical question. Describe aloud the state of affairs such that you would have won this war."

Gods above can She get to the point he has meetings–

“I almost did it. Hector was going to agree to our terms, I saw it. He does not want this war any more than we do, but it is too late now to exchange words instead of weaponry. Troy cannot stand forever – not without food, water, trade from its allies. If we cannot penetrate their walls or spirits… then we will wait until they break.”

Galora.

"You are still attached to your first plan. It failed. Let it go. You still do not answer my question. Do you mock me? Or do you not understand? What does winning this war look like?"

He snaps before he knows it. “It looks like Paris dead, the bitch returned to her husband, and peace at home with my wife.”

"What madness has overtaken your reason? You know better. If you truly care for Ithaca, for your wife, for your son, more than you care for shouting about how much you care for them, then you will not waste time on petty outbursts, and still less will you dare rebuke me. Paris need not die; if Menelaus were otherwise assuaged, would you linger here only to slay him? No. I grow tired of this. State for me the conditions of victory. Do not forget what war you are fighting."

He takes a series of deep breaths, fingers itching.

Feelings aside.

“Helen returned. The Trojans defeated or appeased.”

Feelings aside. 

“Goddess, if there is some darkness obscuring my understanding, I bid You; guide me.”

"Better, but disappointing. Victory for you is getting home and staying there. If that path goes through the fall of Troy, then what does it mean for 'the Trojans' to be 'defeated' or 'appeased'? All of them? Every Trojan dead or happy? No. Your war is fought for the woman, Helen. Does every path to retrieving her go through "waiting until they break"? Obviously not. There are innumerable other paths. Does every path even go through "laying a siege"? Obviously not. Do not be so disheartened that your first device fails, that you forget the hundred others at your fingertips."

…

“Thank you, Goddess. I will not disappoint You a second time.”

"When you disappoint me next, it will not be the second time or the tenth; and yet you are favoured by me above all the Achaeans. I will not say 'good luck', but 'good skill'."

She is gone. 

Night falls. There is a guest to see Lord Aetos in his camp; one who claims to be a prince.

Is there really. Send him into the tent with a couple of hidden archers in range. 

A flash of hair like gold. He enters, eyes darting around the place.

He exhales, takes his hand away from where it was casually covering his hidden dagger. "Boy. What do you want?"

He frowns for a second at the dagger, but does not ask.

“My father sends his condolences for your fifteen soldiers.”

"Hyranon is a kind man, and always has been. Their kin will know they died with honour, as nobly as any Cretan ever did, and that their names shall go on. Was that all?"

He nods tersely, and then…

“No. I… thought to ask about you. You received a blow to the head.” He is stiff. “You bled.”

"I am well. Men do bleed in war, boy. They do worse. It was not out of contempt that I bade you look away, only true concern."

Ophellios shakes his head. “I have known men to wake up dead after such a blow. I bid you, if the great king Aetos will deign to listen to the words of a boy – call upon your physician.”

He turns to leave, but is compelled after a few paces to stop. “And do not pretend you have any concern for me, my lord. Do not pretend that you know me, or what I am capable of. I will be no man, no regent prince, if I am to abandon my people on the eve of war.”

He snorts. "I have taken far worse blows. Don't confuse courage and folly, little prince."

“And how old were you, when you took the throne of Crete for yourself by blood? People say you were hardly older than I.”

He is speaking out of turn, he knows that. But in this moment, he does not care if he is flogged.

“Some are destined for a shorter life than others. If that is my lot, let it be so.”

"Ha. You truly are bold. I was some years older than you - and I would not have been deterred, not even angered, by the doubts of older men. The fact that you are proves that you are unready. Speak with your actions."

“I will.”

He storms out, his head held high.

He returns with Menelaus after some time. Soot blackens their hands, and the exhaustion blackens their eyes.

They take their heavy places at the council.

“We have set the lands aflame. Lord Agamemnon’s men work now to dry the river routes, and the Myrmidons are arranging a blockade. Soon they will have no food; no water; no means of calling for help, unless a god should take pity on them.”

“And what have you taken in the raids?”

He opens his mouth to speak–

“Rest assured, brother; enough gold, cattle and women to keep us satisfied for many months, and to make the Trojans feel the loss at every breath.” He is pompous; larger than life.

“And you believe this will pressure the Trojans into a surrender?”

“I believe, at the very least, that it will scare them.”

Well, he definitely won't be able to sway the people now. They were mostly nervous, conflicted - none of them care much for Paris - but now their hearts are filled with rage and vengeance. 

So he goes before Paris. 

"Brother. Listen to me."

He has nothing to say to Hector.

His sword’s blade shrieks as he sharpens it, stroke by relentless stroke. The sound echoes through the empty throne room, where he perches at the foot of their father’s chair.

"Put down that sword and drop this warrior's pretence. If you are to be a prince of Troy then you will not turn away from me, child that you are, when I come to speak with you on matters of state."

A dry laugh.

“What, you think yourself our king? You are far too small for your leather boots.”

He towers over Paris. "Don't speak to me like that, dog, sitting here polishing your shiny armour like a woman's trinkets, cowering behind our father's walls - you have not even seen the horrors you have wrought upon your own people. I knew you were mad, but not that Trojan blood could be so weak."

He stands sharply, his eyes flashing. His fist tightens around his sword.

“Have you sought me out to insult me?”

"No. Your pride and your feelings are not the cause of all things. Now put that down and do your duty; come to the tower."

He growls. “Wherefore?”

"Your city's sake. Come, or show yourself the coward you are in truth."

“Call me a coward one more time.”

"Coward."

There is a roar and a flash of silver as he strikes.

He punches him heavily in the gut, again, and again. 

"Coward. You would turn a blade on your own brother? Better for you that you were never born, you odious thing in a fair disguise. Whatever the Cytherean saw in you, even She must turn away in shame. If that blade had landed, if your hand had ever been turned to any weapon greater than a lady's razor, you would have been a parricide, and died a slower death than any Greek's spear would bring you. I have saved your wretched life, brother. Are you grateful?"

He is curled up on the ground now, in vain defence against his brother’s blows, wheezing and spitting blood–

He tries to push himself up, again, again–

“Paris!”

She runs barefoot from the baths, trailing water behind her like pearls.

Before Hector can land his next blow, she forces herself between the brothers, her hand outstretched like the statues of Aphrodite herself. Her hair is loose, curls tight around her pretty head.

“Stop! Stop this, what are you doing?!”

He inclines his head courteously. "Helen, as lovely as you are in every moment; forgive me, I did not wish to frighten you. I was just protecting your foolish husband from his follies, again."

“Protecting him? You have hurt him!” She crouches now, cradling her arms around her husband. The loose drapery of her clothes slips in the motion, settling just below her fair shoulder.

“What folly do you speak of? Your own rage, you brute? What has become of the great princes of Troy?”

Her eyes are so big, so blue.

“Helen,” he croaks out her name, her beautiful name, “it is alright.”

He manages to hold himself up at last, his arm against the ground. The world spins; his body and pride bruised.

"Fear not. He will live - he is not even much wounded. Boys take harder blows in training for war; for your sake, Helen, I would not harm my brother's pretty looks. I only needed to keep him from doing something stupid." He glances at the blade, and then at Paris, but doesn't tell Helen what happened. 

She does not know what he means and she does not care.

In the blink of an eye, in the release of a single breath, Prince Hector ceases to exist.

“Come, my love.” She touches Paris’ cheek, her eyes welling with tears for his suffering. “Come with me.”

His heart pulls towards her. It presses against his bones and skin, an ache.

Dimly, he thinks he should be somewhere else. The tower, a meeting of the council – he should be somewhere, somewhere important.

He smells her. The perfumes of her bath, the flowers he decorates her bed with…

Prince Paris allows himself to be led softly away.

The first time it happens is during the sack of an outlying town. 

No troops are stationed here. It's mostly women and children and the elderly and infirm left behind, while their sons and husbands and brothers swell the ranks of the city. It would be too costly to defend. 

So there isn't much resistance, except for the little boy who takes a kitchen knife and sneaks outside and tries inexpertly to jam it into Ophellios's neck as he supervises men loading wagons. 

The look on one of his men’s faces tips him off– then a crack as someone takes a single misstep behind him.

Ophellios turns swiftly, driving his boot into his assailant’s chest. The attacker falls back onto the ground, and the son of Apollo draws his bow back to shoot–

This is a boy.

A child, younger than even he.

He does not release the arrow.

“How old are you?”