Chapter Text
The horse was nearly complete.
It had been a week since Achilles, brokenhearted, idiot, and hero, had rampaged through Troy, killing Hector and many Trojans besides. But Hector’s brothers still lived, most chiefly Paris, who had begun this whole thing, and there were rumors that Hector had recently celebrated the birth of a son. “The Lord of the City,” Astyanax.
It had been a week since the funeral of Achilles, where they’d laid him to rest beside his Patroclus. Every prophecy that had been told about the hero had come true. Including that of his death.
It had been a week since they’d held the meeting, wherein the plan was laid down to finally rescue Helen and fulfill the oath the Achean coalition had taken. If the gods were on their side, the war would end tonight.
Odysseus, king of Ithaca, and the Achean’s best (or second best depending on who you asked) tactician, stood on the hill overlooking the project. Of average height and build, most underestimated him at first glance, because he lacked the physique of some of the other heroes in the army. His hair and beard were slightly unkempt, but short, the dark locks were now sprinkled with some silver, though he was still young, not yet in his 30th year. His eyes were a deep brown, keen and clever. He stood with his arms folded, watching the engineers apply the final panels to the massive construction before him.
The horse was designed to look like a gift, a sign of surrender. Nearly 25 feet tall, they had leveled a small forest for enough wood to build it. Wood that Agamemnon grumbled would have been better suited making and repairing spearshafts and shields, but he’d been outvoted. The horse was built to hold up to twenty men in its belly, and a hidden catch and a lever in the forward leg would open the sides to reveal the men at the appropriate time. The legs had been fashioned with cleverly concealed slots for swords and shields, and the entire thing could be moved on massive wheels, pulled by a team of a dozen slaves.
“That is the ugliest thing I have ever seen,” Diomedes, king of Argos, the Achean’s second-best (or first-best if you asked him) tactician, and Odysseus’ friend, came beside him. Diomedes was the picture of the Achean hero, tall and strong, with long dark hair and a deep brown complexion. His scarred face was intimidating, but his demeanor was easy-going, and he always had some plan brewing behind those black eyes.
He rested an elbow on Odysseus’ shoulder, but Odysseus shrugged it off.
Odysseus grimaced at him. “So long as the Trojans buy it, I don’t care,” he replied. “Are your men ready? You’re going to be the one leading the main force.”
“I’m not worried about where I’m going to be,” the taller man responded. “How’s your focus?”
“It’s fine, I’m anxious to get this done with.” Odysseus walked a few steps away, and Diomedes let him go, but, Odysseus wondered if he saw through the lie.
He knew he should keep his mind on the coming battle. Everything hinged on his actions, after all, but all he could think about was his home.
The island of Ithaca was not the most powerful of kingdoms. The island was small, the soil was rocky and the terrain was mountainous, mostly suitable only for the hearty olive groves and the goats that called it home. He’d done everything he could to avoid coming to Troy, and now, after ten years of fighting, he was *beyond* ready to get back.
Once he was out of sight of Diomedes, he sat and pulled out the old, comforting memory of his wife, Penelope, on the day that he left. She stood slightly taller than him, in her favorite dress, dyed indigo, with her dark hair braided back the way she liked it. Her deep blue eyes gazed down at the bundle in her arms.
Odysseus reached out a hand to brush back the blanket, to see the glimpse of his son Telemachus, who had been asleep at the time, but—
“Captain,” Eurylochus never called Odysseus king, and why should he, when he was married to his sister, and as close as a brother? The man’s name meant ‘Broad’ and it suited him, as he was one of the tallest men that had joined Odysseus from Ithaca, and built like a door, though his disposition was kind. His curly hair was cut military short, and he kept his beard trimmed, the perfect image of a soldier. As one of Odysseus’ oldest friends and companions, Eurylochus was now second-in-command of the Ithacan legion. “It’s time,” he said. “They’re waiting for you.”
Odysseus looked up and saw the sun was setting behind the city walls. How long had he been sitting out here, lost in a daydream?
“Thank you, Eurylochus,” he said, reaching up to put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Get the ship ready. With any luck, we set sail for home by dawn.”
By the time Odysseus reached the main force of the army, everyone was already in place. A hand-picked team selected from Diomedes’ men was already inside the horse, armed to the teeth and ready to strike.
Odysseus had debated being inside the horse with them. There was a high chance that he’d be recognized from the stunt he had pulled some weeks back, where he’d disguised himself as a prisoner of war and infiltrated the city, but he couldn’t think of anyone else to do this specific part. The remembered lines, and various contingencies were just too much to lay on another man.
He shed his armor, borrowed from his father Laertes, it still didn’t *quite* fit, even after so long at war and so many small modifications and repairs. Odysseus handed it off to a slave, who would run it to his ship for safekeeping. His sword and shield went into their slots, and Agamemnon himself handed him the lead rope, and the white flag of truce.
“Don’t mess this up, Odysseus,” the leader of the army growled. He’d never been particularly fond of Odysseus, and ten years sharing a war camp had not warmed him at all.
“You know me,” Odysseus smiled, his voice full of thinly disguised contempt. “I always get the job done somehow.”
Agamemnon glared at him, then nodded. The entire contraption began to move, as the team of soldiers, disguised as slaves, began to pull the “gift” up the hill to Troy’s main gate.
Troy had once been the shining jewel on the strait from the Black Sea to the Aegean Sea. It had grown rich and fat over the generations of trade with the Eastern steppes and Southern deserts, and all the peoples on the eastern Mediterranean.
Now, its walls were battle-scarred, dented by catapulted boulders, and stained with smoke and blood. In the fading light of the sunset, the very highest point of the city was still lit by red sunlight. The lower parts were lit now by torches, though none showed over the walls. They’d grown wary over the years. Lights on the wall helped you *feel* safe, but really, they just made good marks for archers and limited your vision at night.
In front of Odysseus was the gate. Solid wood, nearly 30 feet high and 20 across, and studded with iron, they were both a symbol of wealth and an imposing barrier. No one had managed yet to breach this gate. Though yes, Odysseus had snuck in once or twice… it wasn’t the same as breaking it open like a chicken’s egg.
The men grew restless as he stared at the gate, and he realized he’d taken too long. Clearing his throat, he shouted, “Ahoy the gate!”
Arrows rained down and everyone ran for cover. Odysseus ducked behind one of the legs of the horse, narrowly missed by arrows skimming past his face and arms. He swore but waved the flag enthusiastically.
“We surrender!” He cried. “We bring a gift of peace!”
The arrows slowed… then stopped. Odysseus drew in his arm and noticed an arrow hole right in the center of his flag. The archer had either been very lucky, or a very good shot. He frowned at the hole as a voice called out from the top of the gate.
“Why should we believe you when your best ‘hero’ dragged our prince’s body through the streets, denying him a proper burial?! You’ve desecrated our dead, and dishonored our city. Your people will be the sworn enemies of Troy forever! Our children’s children will learn to hate yours! There can be no peace between us, Achean.”
It was a good speech, Odysseus had to give him that, but spoken with a shaking voice. Odysseus took a chance, and stepped back into view, holding his flag up high.
“You killed the one who killed your prince. He lies dead and buried far from his home. Many of our mightiest heroes have died on this battlefield before your city, and we no longer have the resources to stand against you.” Odysseus carefully enunciated every word, putting weight and emphasis in his point, willing the man at the top of the gates to believe him. He even cried a little. “Troy has stood strong for ten years, and we know now that we can’t win. We’ve spent the last week constructing this gift for your kingdom. Take it, display it, burn it, it is yours to do with what you will. We only wish to return to our homes with what we have left.”
That was what Odysseus wanted, anyway, but Agamemnon had other plans for Troy this night, and he’d sworn an oath. He gritted his teeth, and waited for a response, hoping that it wouldn’t be more arrows.
Odysseus found himself counting his heartbeats as he waited, it pounded so loud in his ears that he was certain they could hear it from above the gate. After his count passed twenty, he lost patience and played one final card.
“The Trojans have rejected our gift! I hope the gods forgive them. Let’s burn this as a sacrifice to Zeus and Poseidon so that we can gain safe passage home!” He didn’t make it two steps before the gates creaked open.
“Leave it, Achean pig!” The voice shouted, and Odysseus concealed his smile.
“Surely, I can bring the news to your leaders?” He asked. “You can put me in chains if you like.” He proffered his wrists to the soldiers now stepping out from the protection of the gate.
“No! You don’t understand, he’s the deceiver!” A voice cried, somewhere in the rear ranks.
Someone swore. “Who let the madwoman escape?”
“She was being taken to Athena’s temple with the other women,” another voice said.
“Shut her up!”
Odysseus did his best not to react as he smiled innocently at the guard. “Take me to your leaders?” He asked again. “I don’t know which of them are still alive—“
A spear-butt in his stomach stopped that line, but his hands were obligingly bound and the soldiers took one look at the ‘slaves’ and simply waved them forward.
“You fools!” The small voice came again. It sounded like a child’s voice, or that of a young woman. “You will all be killed, and the city will fall this night if you trust this man!”
“We don’t trust him,” the commander who had spoken above the gate came close to Odysseus and inspected his bonds, simple rope, but good knots. Odysseus twisted his wrists, testing their strength. “Get her to the temple,” the Trojan commander ordered, and there was the sound of a scuffle, a low “oof,” and a yelp of pain, the sound of bare feet running on stone, then a man in heavy armor running.
The sounds faded, and Odysseus stared in the direction they’d gone for some seconds, before turning back to the commander.
“I don’t have all night,” he said. “I need to get back to my commander with the terms of the truce.”
A messenger was run out, and his footsteps faded into the silence of the city.
“Where is everyone?” Odysseus wondered out loud.
“Silence, dog,” a trojan who was not the commander spit at his feet.
“First I’m a pig, now I’m a dog, make up your mind,” Odysseus tapped his fingers together and leaned against the leg of the horse, finding what he was looking for, a concealed bronze blade at just the right height.
Taptaptap, the faint sound of fingertips on wood resonated through the structure.
‘What’s happening out there?’
‘Just a little setback,’ Odysseus tapped the message back, drumming the fingers of one hand on the scaffolding, while he continued to twist and slide the rope along the slightly exposed edge of the sword. ‘They’ve proved cautious. But soon we will fade into the scenery,’
‘How does a giant wooden horse become scenery?’
‘Once the celebration starts and they all start drinking, they won’t notice anything.’
But why hadn’t the celebrations started already?
‘Something’s off,’ he tapped out after more minutes of silence.
‘We can’t abort now!’ The tapping from inside the horse was more frantic now, and slightly louder.
‘Shhhh,’ Ody nearly said it out loud, and changed it to a “Should we be moving on?” The ropes around his wrists were sufficiently weakened, and he stepped up before the commander again.
There was a stir among the crowd, and a tall woman in a fine cloak swept up through the ranks.
Odysseus knew her immediately, and his heartbeat quickened. Helen of Sparta, now of Troy. Known as the most beautiful woman in the world, she was fair and graceful. As Penelope’s cousin, Odysseus could see his wife in her, but he’d never really gotten the appeal himself. Many blamed her for the war, but she was as much a victim of the gods’ whims as any of the rest of them. And she knew him. She could give the entire thing away right here and now. But would she?
“Well, this is an honor,” she said smoothly. “They send a king to do a messenger’s job?”
“Well, I am not a very important king,” Odysseus said. “If my commander could have hurled me over the wall in his catapult, I’m sure he would have done so by now.”
“Still living up to your name, then, Odysseus?”
Odysseus gritted his teeth. His name had been some kind of joke by his grandfather, and it meant “hated one” or something similar. “It’s just a name,” he said, waving his bound hands dismissively. “Does your… husband… accept our surrender?”
“He does,” Helen’s voice was soft. “He has invited you to our palace to drink and discuss terms.”
“Why don’t we, instead, discuss them here? Have Paris come down, we can build a bonfire, and have a feast!”
There were grumblings of approval from the soldiers around them, but Helen silenced them with a raised hand. Even for a prisoner, she carried weight with the Trojans.
“He will not come,” she said.
“So he’s hiding, then,” Odysseus folded his arms, and there were more grumblings from the soldiers. Less approving.
“What are you planning?” Helen whispered, ducking her head beneath the hood of her cloak.
“My full and unconditional surrender on behalf of the Achean army,” Odysseus whispered back. “Let these men celebrate, and we can get you out of here in the confusion.”
Helen hesitated, “I can’t appear disloyal,” she said.
“Do what you need to do,” Odysseus was putting a lot of trust in her desire to return to her true husband, but, he didn’t have a choice at this point.
Helen raised her hands, “I will order wine from the palace brought to you this night! The war is over!”
The soldiers around them cheered, and Helen was gone again, like a ghost. Odysseus noted the direction she went, but rescuing Helen would go to some other man tonight.
The wine was delivered, as Helen had promised, and Odysseus was virtually forgotten. No one bothered to unbind his hands, but he didn’t worry about it, and helped pass around cups of wine.
They drank for a long time, and the horse did indeed fade into the background, as they sang songs, and laughed. Odysseus kept an eye on the moon, rising into the sky. When it reached its height, it would be time.
Finally, it seemed everyone had drunk their fill, and while some were still staggering around, singing bad renditions of their favorite poems, most sat on the ground or lay in a drunken stupor.
“Whoops,” he stumbled into the commander and took his knife from his belt. The commander didn’t notice but gave him a shove, which Odysseus used to turn his stumble into a fall, and he rolled beneath the wheels of the horse.
He freed his hands, finally, and stood, tucking the knife into his belt. Then he grabbed his sword and shield and threw the lever.
For three agonizing heartbeats, nothing happened. Then there was a click, and a BANG, and the sides of the horse flew open as if the air inside them had been compressed. Some of the soldiers shouted in surprise, and reached for their weapons, but the men from inside the horse were already leaping down upon them.
One man leapt from the horse, but instead of joining the fight, he ran for the gates, throwing his weight against the lever that kept them closed. Weights shifted, and wheels turned, and the gates opened in their agonizingly slow way, to reveal the army that had moved into position in near silence.
Odysseus joined the fight as Diomedes caught up with him through the gates, and they slew Trojans where they lay. Someone had thrown torches, and the city began to burn around them.
“Watch out!” Diomedes shouted as a squad of men appeared on the roof above them, but a wave of arrows slew them before they could attack from the higher ground. Tuecer had set up on the city walls some ways along from the gate, and he saluted Odysseus with his bow as he was spotted. Odysseus signaled his thanks.
“Where’s Helen?” An older man came alongside them. Nestor had been tasked with the rescue. He may have been older, over sixty now, but he was still able-bodied and keen-minded.
Odysseus pointed in the direction that Helen had gone, and Nestor was gone with a squad of men behind him, like an honor guard.
Odysseus saw a shock of red hair as Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles ran past him, shouting a war cry, to avenge his father. He wasn’t quite as fast or as strong as Achilles had been, but, he was keen and young. More than ready to do his share of damage.
“What do you fight for?” Diomedes asked him as they stood back to back. It was something Odysseus himself asked his men often, to keep up morale and encourage them to keep going.
“I fight for us,” Odysseus said, but in his head he amended it. ‘I fight for my family. I fight to get home to them.’
Fresh troops poured in from elsewhere in the city and the fighting began anew. Odysseus fought with sword and shield, sometimes slinging those on his back and fighting with the fallen spears of the enemy. Only Diomedes could keep up, but soon the two were separated as the fighting forced Odysseus into an alleyway. He fought like a madman, and soon those who had redirected him lay dead at his feet.
But he didn’t see the assassin coming until it was too late.
Odysseus felt the hand on his shoulder and turned to see angry grey eyes and a shock of curly blonde hair, cut short, military style. The knife in the stranger’s hand slipped between his ribs and pierced his lung before Odysseus could even cry out. He sank to his knees, and the assassin was gone once again, silent as if he’d never been.
Odysseus reached for the wound, gasping for air and cursing soundlessly. How could he let this happen, he was going to die here, at the end of all this, after he’d come so far, and done so much.
But the pain was gone. Odysseus felt at his side, but there was no rip in his chiton, no hole in his skin, no blood, nothing. He got to his feet, confused, then felt the odd change in the atmosphere that signaled a god was nearby.
“Athena?” He asked, but, no, this was different. Athena usually slowed his sense of time and delivered a message or granted him knowledge. She didn’t spend much time on theatrics like this.
An eagle’s cry sounded overhead, and he looked up to see a massive golden bird circling over his head, silhouetted against the moonlight, and lit by the fires below. Eagles did not normally fly at night, but as he spotted it, it took off in the direction of Hector’s palace.
He followed it through narrow, empty streets, with sounds of the battle all around them. He passed openings that led to where men were fighting and dying, but he continued forward, into the darkness.
Finally, he stood at the top of the hill, at the unguarded gates of Hector’s palace, which stood wide open, like a gaping maw. Few torches were lit inside, and all was in shadow beyond the gates, but the eagle screamed again and flew over the gates and into the palace.
It led him down darkened hallways and through pillared courtyards until they came to a room in a tower high above the western cliffs, overlooking the farmland-turned-battlefield, and the sea beyond.
There was very little furniture in the room, but a gauzy curtain hung from the ceiling, nearly obscuring the unique piece in the center. As the eagle landed on it, the curtain blew back in a strong breeze, revealing a bassinet, carved elaborately from fine wood, and inlaid with gold and ivory.
“A baby?” Odysseus went closer, and the door closed behind him, and he heard a footfall.
Odysseus turned to see a tall man with tanned skin, wearing a rich purple robe and cloak embroidered with gold threads in intricate patterns like storm clouds all around the hem. His beard was white, but his skin was unwrinkled and his dark eyes seemed to flash with occasional light, like lightning flashes behind clouds. On his head, he wore a crown of golden leaves.
Odysseus reached for his sword, but, revised the action and knelt, knowing this was not a king or prince of Troy, but someone much greater.
“Do not kneel to me, king of Ithaca,” the man said. His voice was deep and rumbled, everything about it reminiscent of thunder. “You are the protege of my favorite daughter, and you will do this task for me as you have done her work for many years.”
Odysseus stood slowly, careful not to look the man in the eye. Gods could be fickle if you didn’t show the right amount of respect. “I am your humble servant, Lord Zeus,” he muttered.
The god pointed at the bassinet. “Before you sleeps Astyanax, son of Hector. His fate is in your hands.”
“What do you want me to do?” Odysseus stepped close to the infant, but not so close that he would wake him.
“Kill him.”
“But—” Odysseus couldn’t stop the protest. “He’s innocent! Not even old enough to know his own name!”
“If Astyanax is allowed to reach adulthood, he will become an avenger for Troy, their greatest hero. He will enact this revenge on everyone. Most especially you.”
“What if I raised him as my own son? I could—”
“He will discover who he is, and what you’ve done.”
“Send him far away, Egypt maybe—”
“The gods will make it known,” Zeus said. It was a promise and a threat. “No one will be left to save you. This is the will of the gods.”
“Don’t make me do this,” Odysseus whispered.
“Who dies is up to you. Personally, I don’t think you’re up to it.”
Odysseus looked at the child, sleeping peacefully, not even a year old yet, and when he looked up again, Zeus, King of the gods, was gone.