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?”
"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."
"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 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.
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