She pulls away as soon as she can bring herself to - if she's discovered like this she can explain away him breaking into her chambers, she can't explain weeping in his arms. 

"It was- the night after he had that argument, or whatever it was, with the Lord Aetos."

“What happened? Were you present for this argument, as you describe it?” He hands her a cloth to wipe her eyes as he speaks. “Whatever might be happening now to Ophellios, I think it stems from that night.”

"I-"

"I was not - there - it was very late at night, I was asleep - but I remember... raised voices, someone called for guards - I was afraid, I only huddled in my bedclothes and waited, and then all was quiet - I thought perhaps I had dreamt it."

“Is there anything else you can recall? Was anything amiss, when you saw him next? Did he say anything?”

His manner is intense – he takes a small step forward, his eyes not leaving her own.

She backs up - space between them might give her half a second to scream - 

"I- I got into bed with him, and touched him, and the next I knew, he had me by the throat - I thought I would die - I remember, I remember he was bruised, his face - his fingernails, they were broken, the floor marked, I think he scratched it, I know not why - I don't, I don't know, I should have gone in that night when I awoke but I feared to disrupt the business of soldiers-"

Aetos… what did you do?

“I have asked much from you tonight, my lady. Forgive me. I should go now before I am seen, but if I may offer a word of advice. This knowledge, this precious gift of yours – that you are carrying the king’s child, that you are to be wed to him soon – must remain secret until you are in a safer position. It makes you a target.”

"A target for whom??"

“Anyone. Anyone who might wish to harm the king, or Pylos itself, or even you. Someone may covet your new position, for example, or wish to strike at Ophellios’ heart. Now that he has withdrawn his army, I fear the turn that this diplomatic situation will take.”

...

"Thank you," she whispers. "Good luck."

She is going to get guards. And people to taste her food.

Anything she can, to live another day. 

He nods. Bows down low and kisses her hand.

And he stands tall, draws his cloak around himself again, and departs.

Before Diameda can even draw the curtains closed, there is shouting. Armed guards rush forward, pointing spears at the shadowy figure of the King of Ithaca.

“Show yourself, intruder!”

…

He lowers his hood and raises his hands.

The two of them are brought before the King of Pylos.

At first, he does not seem to pay attention to them. He sits by the fire, back turned, plucking at the lyre as though in some kind of trance. 

The strings are stained red. Fresh blood drips down them, glistening almost in gold. He does not seem to notice that his fingertips are torn.

And then he turns his head partially, attention diverted at last – but he is not looking quite at them. The song continues softly.

There is an expectant air about him – the sense of something pressing, dangerous, like the seconds it takes in battle to react before a sword’s blow strikes you in the chest.

It's a familiar motion, to think very very very quickly. 

She's seconds away from this reflecting on her - the King isn't the man she knew, obviously, but he's - a thing made out of him, is the way she's been imagining it. 

If she defends herself or makes excuses - the old Ophellios might have listened. 

This one-

He's frightening, powerful, like Ophellios wasn't; he's also in many ways simpler. More inclined to take things to extremes - but more inclined to go along with them as well. As long as she steers it. 

Sell Ambrosios out? Tempting, but too obvious - and she thinks this being might be inclined to grow wrathful, and defend his old friend if he is attacked, for all that otherwise he might attack him himself. 

So-

"My King, I pray you, show mercy to the Ithacan: he is only afraid for you and for me, and brought an urgent warning from Pallas's wisdom of a terrible danger to my life, of secret foes who seek to murder your heir. He did no harm, nor showed anything but respect. I beseech you, accept tribute from him; his aid, and gold in store, and support in council, for his intrusion."

The unnerving melody is all that they hear for a long time.

And then–

“Did he touch you?” He asks quietly, as though his voice were part of the song.

"Not a hair on her head, Ophellios," he interrupts smoothly. This has gone far enough, and he needs to wrest back control right now. "You of all people, you who have known me all these long years, know there is no woman other than my wife of whom I ever think, nor would I ever wish harm upon one for whom you cared, so deep is my friendship for you. I only worry for you, and wish to offer the hand of friendship once again."

“Friendship is a fool’s game.”

He turns back around, face hidden now from view.

“Go, Diameda. Return to me tonight.”

"Your will, my Lord," she says, bowing, and flees departs in a submissively queenly manner. 

2 + 2 = ...

"Aetos did something, didn't he."

The music stops abruptly.

Well, he's said it now. 

Athena once said that was his curse: he saw fast, thought fast, and, alas, spoke fast. 

Well, better to run with it now than try to walk it back. 

There have been more than enough mysteries, and it's time to start untangling this whole mess before it tangles any more. 

"Old friend, maybe he broke your trust, and that is a dreadful thing, but do not spurn all men over one man's foul temper and wretched stubbornness.  Speak plainly, and let the Achaeans broker a peace, and soothe your mind."

“Speak not that name here.”