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?”
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 another 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.”
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