“A princess?” He echoes quietly to himself.

He furrows his brow, trying to get a better look at the prize on offer. He sees no princess. Is this some form of trick?

Well, if none of the others are going to claim her…

“What of you, brother?” He stands to address Agamemnon. “You are lord of men and best of the Greeks. Surely the claim to this princess is yours; but I see you make no attempt, show no desire to have this girl as is your right, for your judgement must have led you to believe there is some fault in the prize, or you are so abundantly rich that you do not have need for another slave. If that is the case, then I shall take her. For are we not of the same blood, my lord, and was our command not the same when we besieged the great Cyclopeian Gate together?”

His men begin to cheer, and he extends his hand towards them, his speech growing more passionate.

“My Spartan warriors held our position firmly, slaughtering the Trojans like lions amongst sheep. Victory could not have been ours on this day without the might of my force. If I have ever been of loyal counsel to you, I believe the princess is mine – for I still feel the loss of my wife, where the other noble lords here have little need for the sweetness of femininity.”

"What god, Menelaus, or what madness has taken away your wits? Surely you have many prizes besides this; your bed must not be empty even a moment. Why then would you say such words? When the Trojan wall was breached today, for the first time in long and pitiless years, was your shoulder behind the ram? When the Trojan captains came to do battle for the city, was your blade drawn? When we set a blasting fire in the courts of the city itself, were you there to lend aid? Sit, and be silent, and be content with what prizes and glory are yours, and do not grasp after what other men have won."

Menelaus’ eyes narrow, deadly. “The Trojans have stolen a Spartan queen. It is in fair justice for me to receive a Trojan princess in turn, for that would satisfy a fraction of my troubles. You have no right to deliver insult, King of Crete, and your impulse for the girl is startling.”

A smirk, then. “We all know fair maidens are not where your eye wanders.”

"If you would have a Trojan princess to soothe your pride, Menelaus, then win one yourself, and do not turn robber having been robbed. I will have the girl, and sell her for princely ransom if I choose, and you will learn to win your own plunder or go without."

Ophellios has never seen the Spartan king crack before. It is evident, the way his cool facade twitches and pulls as the rage of the insult burns hotter than the fires of Troy.

From the Pylian corner of the meeting-ground, he looks between Aetos and Menelaus. All do the same, the crowds of soldiers erupting into jeers on both sides.

That line about fair maidens, and King Aetos’ eye – what did the auburn-haired lord mean by that?

If this is the trouble that claiming a princess will cause, then he does not want her. Diameda is more than enough.

He turns to his brother sharply. “What say you, Lord Agamemnon, greatest of men? Are you to see my rightful prize snatched from me by a lesser king than you?”

"Lesser than Agamemnon, who is not? But the Cretan queen does not lie in another man's arms every night. How many nights is six years, O Menelaus?"

Ambrosios chokes on his wine.

"Enough." The greatest king holds up a hand. "Lord Aetos, do not presume to mock my brother here before the Greeks. And for you, Menelaus, take care: the Oath of Tyndareus binds us all to be your allies in war, not your slaves: if you will not treat fairly with your fellows, you will fight this war alone. But your pride must be respected. As this has gone further than it should, let lord Zeus bear witness, and decide, and grant victory to the worthiest: a duel, for the princess as prize."

His jaw is set, his hand curled tight around his sword.

“I accept these terms.”

"I have no need to compete for what I have already rightfully won. But even weary as I am from my mighty victory today, even worn down by wounds, gladly will I accept the challenge and the chance for glory in combat."

He strolls forwards, smirking, hands loosely at his sides. He doesn't bother looking at Menelaus.

They will meet at the arena, carved out into the ground for the funeral games the weeks before.

His sword is Hephaestus-made. It will not be easily defeated, even by the Cretan brute.

Hera, Mother of Gods, Lady of the Home. See my plight here. I seek only justice for the theft of my wife, the woman I love most in the world, and the other kings seek to insult me. If ever I have burned offerings to You, or praised You in the temples of You and Your husband, Lord Zeus, shield my pride for the day I face Paris, who scorned You and spat on Your domain when he stole the apple from you and took my bride. Queen of the gods, strengthen my arm on this day.

Aetos is badly wounded, and only Ophellios knows the extent of it. Why does he fight Menelaus?

Does he care not for his own life?

His muscles ache from this day's exertions and the movement of his wounded arm is limited - but his cuts are all tightly bandaged, and the song of battle still rings in his ears. 

O Zeus Who hold all in Your hand, did I not burn oxen in thanks and send the fragrant smoke up to Olympus tonight? Lend me then strength once more, and with the gold Priam will render I shall raise a mighty temple.

A presence–

The King of Sparta tosses the sword in his hand, swirls it around, and smirks. With his shield arm, he gestures towards Aetos to approach.

“Your move, Cretan.”

"Passive as always. Did you say so to Paris?"

Then while he's distracted he's going to sweep at the man's legs.

Come on, take the bait-

He leaps, using the momentum of the jump to drive himself forward, kicking hard at Aetos’ chest. He retreats swiftly, several paces out of reach.

“When I have the princess,” he growls, swiping with his sword. “I shall take her, and claim her in front of Paris, in front of the eyes of her old father,” he pants, a man made wild with insult, “and of this sight Ilium will suffer – as you are about to!”

Menelaus drives forward. Their blades meet swiftly, clashing like the winds against the trees, all the sounds of war like thunderbolts from this duel alone.

Not ideal, but good enough. It's the kind of stupid flashy thing the Spartan king would do, and it's going to cost him a twisted ankle when Aetos lets him hit the shield at an angle. 

He gives ground - but he's tired and injured and he won't win a fight that relies on speed. 

This needs to end fast. 

Menelaus isn't stupid, he isn't letting himself get into the bind, hoping to find an opening and in seconds now he'll have one-

"In front of all the Trojans? Is it not enough for just the princess to laugh at you? Or do you hope to impress Helen? Do you think she will even spare you a glance through the window?"

Aetos’ words spear their poison into Menelaus’ heart.

Through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with hatred – “Speak not of Helen, you wretch–”

He lunges forwards with a roar.

Today he has slain a hundred men. Let it be a hundred and one.

…

Menelaus is winning.

The fear sets into Ophellios’ stomach, and he stands without realising.

Something is not right here–