There are funeral games to arrange. 

A truce is called, the pyre is lit; there is no body to burn, but there are clothes and armour and the sodden cloak Ophellios wore to his death. 

Aetos says little, does not even compete, awards no prizes. 

He drinks deep of the unmixed wine, and tries to sleep.

The grey days wear on; for a long time battle is held off by the driving rain, the plains of Troy turned to mud-slicks by the storm. 

There is little left to do, it seems, only to ponder.

The visitors do not stop.

That dark-haired woman shows her face in one of the days after. Aetos dimly recognises her as Ophellios’ lover – his favourite Trojan girl. He does not know her name.

She comes clutching a letter in the late king’s script, having mourned so perfectly at his funeral. 

He has left instructions that she will be taken care of, should he fall absent for whatever reason the gods decree. And he trusts no one more than King Aetos of Crete.

Another day, the King of Ithaca dares to come to him, sorrowful as he is.

There seems to be no end to the duties. 

The Diameda girl is very quiet and very respectful; there is not much room in the camp for women without a use. He does not understand it, but it was the king's wish, and he will see it done, and no harm come to her. 

The Pylians are without a king and Ophellios died without an heir, the last of his house; soon the questions will be asked about who exactly it is who keeps them there, and indeed it is not clear that the oath of Tyndareus will bind the new king, for Ophellios had fought only for vengeance. 

He does not wish to speak to the Ithacan. 

But his own wishes have never ruled the day, beggar or king. 

"What do you want?"