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?”
"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–
He lowers his bow. “I bid you, man, what notice do you deliver?”
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.
"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.”
"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."
"Hesitance still, but not cowardice. Use your days well, son of Hyranon."
"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 we are to humour this, then we had better do it well. What aid do you require?"
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.
Calchas must be hungry too. More so, taking into account his age.
He has helped him. Ophellios will help him in turn.
Standing almost too tall over the old man, he retrieves one of the dead birds from his sack and holds it out to him.
“Thank you.”
He leaves then, knowing what he must do – but first he needs to eat.
He slits open its belly.
The fragrant entrails that slither out of the wound are just a meaningless mass of flesh and blood.
He weeps.
The Mycenaean and Pylian camps are not close. His appetite bears on him almost like Tartarus when at last he returns to his hut.
It hasn't been long enough for real starvation to set in.
The young man slumped over not far Ophellios's hut is almost certainly not going to die of hunger today. He's just hungry enough that he can't move very much or think very much, only look up and scramble pitifully to his knees as the king approaches and try to shuffle away.
…
“Wait.”
The king unslings his bag again and retrieves another catch. He tosses it to the boy.
“Take this and feast. Gods go with you.”
He stands uncomfortably as he is thanked, and at last he enters his house.
Diameda looks up at him, hollow-eyed. The other maids in his clay court look even weaker.
Ophellios sighs.
He cannot bring himself to care about the insult. The scent of roasting birds turns his stomach, and for a second he worries about being sick all over the Cretan’s sandals.
“Yes,” he responds palely, taking a seat in that fur-lined chair. “He told me of an omen I must follow.”
Ophellios manages a laugh. “No. No, that is not it. Only… I would be cured with a little food. I will sleep tonight and hunt again tomorrow, and I will be fine.”
He shakes his head, which rests rather heavily on his right hand. The signet ring his father gave him glints in the flames.
“No.”
"What happened, by the gods? Were you robbed? Or - Ophellios, tell me you fed yourself first. "
Ophellios doesn’t answer, only glances at him with a sheepish expression.
It reminds Aetos of a prince he met seven years ago.
"Boy. You are the King. If you have any love for the Pylians, you will make yourself strong enough to protect them. What use are you to them like this?"
He rolls his head towards Aetos, now a tired look on his face. “My servants hungered. I can go another week.”
"You hunger too, you fool! Now you would go running after Calchas and seeking to turn aside the will of Achilles, and still starve yourself? Has Apollo stricken you too with disease, a disease of the mind?"
He is in fact going to make Ophellios eat.
“It is none of your concern–”
There is a plate of roasted meat in front of him now.
“You treat me like a child…”
…
“Thank you.”
He will eat.
"I will cease to treat you like a child when you cease to act like one, Pylian King. Stop talking and eat it all."
He sighs. “I am eating. I am eating. Thank you.”
Aetos watched as the godling attempts to sate his gnawing hunger in as dignified a fashion as possible.
The food is disappearing at an alarming rate.
At last some light returns to his eyes. “Had you been a better shot, there would be more meat on this thing’s bones.”
"Had you been a wiser king, you would not have needed it." He cracks a smile.
"Now. Now that you are capable once more of reason - for no man can think well with his stomach empty - what did old Calchas tell you?"
He frowns at Aetos’ own plate. “Have you enough? You had caught only four when we were summoned.”
"I am more used to hunger than you will ever be, young king, unless the gods wax wrathful indeed against you. Speak."
"It is not meet to ask such questions of a host. Zeus protects guests, and protects hosts also."
“You evade the question because you are a hypocrite.” He points at him with a meat-knife.
"You continue to ask because you are stubborn. Do you not remember the story of Pandora?"
The words are so familiar. It takes Ophellios a moment.
“Ha.” He responds eventually, his lips curling handsomely. “I remember that. When we first met, you posed the exact same question to my father. What is it about that tale that so compels you?”
"You remember well."
He sighs, and sits back, and drinks deeply of wine.
"In truth, it always struck me as -" unfair "confusing. Why did Lord Zeus offer the vessel at all, knowing as He must have done what would happen? Was it truly spite? Would it not seem equally wise as a teaching, if the story had been different, and Pandora had been incurious, and so robbed mankind of some great boon?" That's probably a dangerous thing to say- "but then I became a king, and had to listen to endless questions, and I saw the wisdom of it."
“Lord Aetos the philosopher king.” Ophellios’ gaze is fond.
In truth, he concurs. But one has to be careful what they say when the gods are listening.
“Why do you believe Hope was left in the box then, O sage?”
"I do not know. I never was a philosopher; I did not even know the word in my youth. But I notice, Lord Ophellios, that in all these fascinating words you have not answered my question."
“It seems we both step around the other.”
He places the knife down, leaving only a pile of small bones on the table.
“Are we locked in a dance, do you think? You are more secretive than most kings in this camp. But you are my friend, so I will tell you. The prophet has lost his Sight, except for strange omens that will not lend themselves to comprehension. The same one returns to him: a flock of birds, circling around the blasted hill some day’s march away.”
Ophellios drinks, and the wine glints red on his white teeth.
“I intend to travel there at first light. Your monster, Hope, has not left us yet.”
"You wish to set out alone into the lands of the enemy, chasing a dream, a whim of a man you admit has lost his Sight."
“Yes. I warn you, friend; do not so quickly dismiss an omen from the gods.”
Colours have returned to his vision again. The nausea has stopped. His fingers flex and his heart is renewed with energy.
“I will not be long.”
Aetos looks at him for a long moment.
The young king has grown strong - it's obvious in his broader frame, the sterner set of his face - but it's hard not to see the boy he was in moments like this.
"You do not intend to go alone."
“I do. I will not easily be noticed if I am the sole traveller.”
"You will be alone in the lands of the enemy with only wild dogs and birds of prey for company. This is folly."
The agitation manifests in the tapping of his foot. “Aetos. If I can defend myself against Aeneas, I can defend myself against a puppy.”
"You were not alone then. You were not weary and half-starved then. And you will have to sleep. You will have to trek for long hours, unawares-"
He cuts himself off.
"I am an older and wiser king, and I have concerns for your welfare, as any man in my place would."
Ophellios leans forward across the table to rest his hand over his companion’s. He smiles a reassuring smile, one that crinkles the corners of his blue eyes and almost fools Aetos into belief.
“I will be fine.”
In an explosive movement, unknowing, he seizes the King's hands and squeezes hard.
"You will not simply be fine! We are at war! Trojan warriors by the thousand wish you dead; your death would be a horror for your people and all the Achaeans, and sweet succour for Troy; you cannot simply cross the field alone save for your personal guard-"
