"Three."

His voice is rougher and quieter than it was. Hunger affects him as well. 

It hasn't been easy since Ambrosios lost his wits. 

The Trojans had fallen upon them like wild wolves, breaking past a watch that should have held, a vast force that should have been spotted well in advance. 

A dozen heroes had fallen in Aeneas's path: every blow that should have slain him turned aside by some unknown divine hand. Many had died; much treasure, many slaves - including the mad princess - had been lost. 

The Ithacans had been in disarray. It had been the worst time - Ambrosios drugged and sleeping, suspicious soldiers itching to turn on their brother Achaeans like dogs...

It had been all they could do to keep from schism. 

And Ambrosios of course had successfully pretended to sanity - they almost drove him off, almost had him bundled in a ship and sent away, when Agamemnon had forbidden it. 

The end of the war looks more distant than ever. 

And so it is a strange thing indeed that the Pylian boy should have proven himself so: a calm voice among men half mad with war, a steady presence in grief, a hand hard at war. 

A thud. 

"Four."

A small grin meets Aetos. “That was my seventh.”

Seven for each of the gates of Troy. Seven for all the years of war.

Seven for the months they have been friends.

A movement in the corner of Ophellios’ eye causes him to stir. Like a flash of lightning, his bow is at the ready in the blink of an eye, prepared to catch the eighth– 

That is no distant bird.

“Don’t shoot!” A messenger cries, panting from his swift journey uphill. “Don’t shoot, my lord.”

He lowers his bow. “I bid you, man, what notice do you deliver?”

“King Agamemnon has convened the council. Your presence is required urgently, lords.”

The war fares ill. 

Ambrosios hides it well, his speech and command and fighting are all flawless, but he does hide something - madness or something more. 

It had all seemed so promising before - but then the attack nearly broke them, nearly sent them fleeing Troy, did cost them blood and treasure almost beyond what they could bear. 

And now-

"Our situation is grave, my lords. The plague has blighted us, and moreover has blighted, selectively, every town and village we have plundered, our flocks and our horses. What could have done this?"

The lord of lords seems already to suspect the answer. 

Ambrosios already knows the answer. Gods damn him if he is going to tell these gathered lords.

Maybe the gods already have damned him.

He has learned to keep his mouth shut, selectively, over this last year. After Aetos drugged him, he awoke to a world where terrible prophecies were ringing true: carnage in the camp, discord among the kingdoms, and Cassandra gone. 

He had only been unconscious for a day.

Since then, the rumour of the King of Ithaca’s madness has been a thorn in his side. He has had to be careful, forgave Lord Aetos publicly the first chance he got to avoid civil war, and has ceased his efforts to convince the others of a feud between gods.

Blindly trusting the Cretan had led to calamity that day. He works alone now, and does not draw unwanted attention to himself.

He is too hungry to think.

"Plague. Plague only, selectively, in places we have sacked. In every case, it struck just a few days before, slaying cattle just in time for them to be useless to us, spoiling grain just before we can seize it."

"It must be the work of Apollo, god of plague, god of prophecy."

For the briefest of seconds, his eyes flicker subtly to Ophellios.

“How can we be so sure that this is the case?” He has leaned forward a little, fingers curling around the arm-rests of his seat. “Does anyone know of some reason for His wrath?”

"No, by Zeus. We have prayed, and offered up sacrifices. We have scoured the camp for any treasure stolen from temples, questioned the men, searched for captives in whom He might have an interest - nothing."

"Something else is afoot."

A fraction less tense, now, he leans back. “Then surely there must be another reason. A mortal one, that may be fixed with mortal intervention. Perhaps the Trojans have been sowing salt on our crops?”

"Over their own countrymen's crops, just before we arrive each time? Unless they have a acquired some mighty prophet, greater than Tiresias of old, they cannot; and if they have we are in any case doomed."

“The bearer of good news as always, King Aetos.”

He sits slouched in his chair, chin propped up by a hand, his eyelids made heavy by the needs of his stomach.

“And what of Calchas, our own prophet? Has he been consulted?”

"Calchas is blind. In truth he is gloomy as he never has been. He agrees with my assessment; he can see nothing."

He furrows his brow until his divine sculptor carves a line down his forehead.

Lord Apollo, my sire, what is this? Can this be true? You would not send a plague for no just cause; enlighten me, I beg You, so that I may defend Your honour before these kings.

"Then there is no more to be done, if Phoebus Apollo wills it and none can satisfy his wrath."

His own mother had been silent, and hunger gnaws at his belly too. 

"We knew from the outset that bitter war would bring us swift death or eternal glory: why then do we turn our heads away? Shall we sit by our boats and starve to death, and earn neither prize? Come: let us gather up what food-stores we have and banquet the men, feast here tonight, drink up the wine and devour the cattle and sheep. Let us garner our strength, and tomorrow assault the walls all in force - to take the city at last, or at least die well, and not like beggars and slaves."

…Fine. He will speak up.

“Lord Achilles, great is your strength; you are an army unto yourself. But does that not sound like suicide, lords?”

“I believe that I am with Lord Ambrosios on this matter.”

Something about the Myrmidon king unsettles him. Lord Achilles spent long years passing on attendance, preferring to devote his legendary strength to the battlefield for all Ophellios knows. Now he is here, driven to this place by the same hunger that affects them all, and the balance has changed.

Unpredictably.

“But I thank you, Lord Achilles; I suggest that we bear this noble suggestion in mind, after we have exhausted all other options first.”