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Chapter Text

When Odysseus woke up that morning, he didn’t know he was about to do something so stupid that it would surprise even the Gods. He’d once heard it said that sometimes genius could lie at the centre of madness. If that was the case, he hoped that he was very, very mad indeed.

He knew no one else would have ended up in this position. All his other generals would not have thought twice about finishing it. But sadly, he was cursed with a brain that thought faster than his sword moved.

He looked down at the baby. The baby looked up at him. The wind whipped past them. They were standing on the ramparts, a world away from the war being fought below. The baby blinked, uncomprehending, and wiggled in Odysseus’ grip. Its soft curls danced in the breeze, so similar to his last memory of Telemachus that it made his heart hurt all over again.

He didn’t want this, oh Gods he wanted anything other than this. But he had his orders.

I’m just a man. I cannot command the gods.

The sounds of the fighting raged on below, cries and screams and the terrible sound of metal on metal, metal on wood, metal on flesh and bone.

He looked around. The ramparts were deserted, aside from the corpses of the guards he had slain.

Zeus is right. Peace will never occur whilst the son of Hector still lives.

A small foot kicked against this thigh, indignant at being ignored. Odysseus gently held it still as he brushed away a tear that had landed on the baby’s cheek. It was quickly replaced by another, and another.

How could I hurt you? All I see is my son.

His sword, designed for strength, dexterity, to be used without tiring, felt leaden in his grip. Raising it felt like hauling an anchor from the depths - Odysseus knew he would soon be adrift at sea, spinning out of control far away from where he began.

This baby hadn’t done anything to anyone. It just lay in his arms like a potato, warm and soft. It’s parents were probably dead by now, the wet nurses taken as war prizes by the soldiers. It would be kinder this way.

Who am I kidding? This is wrong. All I see is my son.

A flash of madness tore through his thoughts, the idea white-hot and electric.

“All I see is my son,” he breathed out. His sword clattered to the floor. “All I see is my son!” He jumped to his feet, bringing the baby up to look him in the eye. It gurgled, unsure about the sudden gain in altitude, before it was pressed close to his chest, sweaty, dirty, and crusted with other people’s blood. It felt safe and natural in his arms.

The baby didn’t agree, and flailed around at the stench of his tunic.

Odysseus cast about, frantic to carry out his plan lest he was interrupted by more guards or his own soldiers come to provide back up. He kicked at the rubble, scuffing his foot against the floor until it was mostly clear of debris, before placing the baby down. Picking up his sword, now as light and steady as it always was, he strode purposefully towards one of the slain guards.

The body was still warm to the touch, blood oozing from the wounds he had inflicted not half an hour before. A knife would have been better, but his sword would have to do. He closed the man’s eyes and recited the last rites, along with a prayer for forgiveness about what he was about to do. He hoped the man’s soul knew that it was only to spare further bloodshed.

Without a second thought, he plunged his sword down into the flesh, hacking into the man’s stomach. Fresh blood bubbled up, coating his hands as he reached into the cavity, unflinching at the stench and the grisly noises of liquid sucking at flesh as he turned the blade in one hand whilst pulling with the other. A horrid ripping sound suddenly cut off with a grunt of effort as his hand came free of the body, liver crushed in his grip. He repeated the process again, this time taking out the spleen, before snapping off a rib and grinding it into pieces beneath the heel of his sandal.

Next, Odysseus removed the blue sash wrapped around his tunic, blood staining the fabric where his hands touched it. Moving back towards the baby, he crouched next to it and lay the sash on the ground, trying to emulate the movement of nurses from across the sea and over a decade ago. He gingerly unwrapped the baby from its own swaddling clothes of brilliant red and gold trim. It started to squirm and fuss at the sudden feeling of cool air, burbling a plaintive cry.

Mindful of the limbs jerking about in all directions, he placed the baby in the centre of his sash and wrapped it up as carefully and tightly as he could. It took him a few attempts, but finally he got it comfortable. “Shuuuuush, shhhhhhh. You must be quiet, *please*. If someone hears you, I can’t protect you.”

As if it could sense his desperation, the baby quieted. Odysseus sent up a small prayer that his famous luck had not yet run out, before turning back to the grisly pile of innards and crushed bone. He scooped it onto the red swaddling blanket, cast around until he found a suitable chunk of rubble, and added that to the package, before tightly wrapping the blanket around and around. For this to work, the bundle had to stay together until impact, otherwise his efforts would be for nought.

Odysseus took a deep breath, turned away from where the baby lay, and approached the edge of the wall.

Down below the carnage continued. He could see the ferocious Greek offensive, the retreating red of the Trojans, the smudge on the horizon that meant burning ships. Diomedes cut down two soldiers at once, and as he wiped the sweat from his brow, caught Odysseus’ movement from the corner of his eye.

The ramparts were too high up to hear what was said, but Odysseus knew Diomedes had shouted something to their comrades. A few heads turned, and then a few more, until he commanded the attention of the battlefield, Greeks and Trojans alike. He could just make out the broad form of Eurylochus, the wild hair of Neoptolemus, the lithe form of Teucer with his bow strapped across his back.

Odysseus raised the bundle in his arms.

A sudden shriek carried across the battlefield - that of a woman. His gaze darted across the tableau below, coming to rest on a young, finely dressed woman being dragged out of the palace. Even as a lump formed in his throat, the ruthless part of his brain supplied that it was better this way. She will make it look convincing.

He drew his arm back, and aimed for the densest part of the fighting, where none of his generals were currently standing. With a cry, he flung the bundle with as much force as he could muster.

One end of the blanket untucked, fluttering in the breeze, a comet of red and gold, as it plummeted into the melee, breaking the spell over the soldiers. He saw it swallowed by the trampling feet, and raised his fist to the sky. The Greeks cheered as they returned to the fighting with renewed vigour. The woman sagged between the soldiers holding her.

Odysseus stepped back from the edge.

I have made my move. I have chosen the blood on my hands.

Buzzing from the adrenaline rush, he turned his attention back to the ramparts. Hanging his head low, he took a few breaths to steady himself. Pulling a lit sconce from the wall, he placed it on the mutilated body of the guard. There could be no evidence of what he’d done.

Once the fire caught, he finally allowed himself to turn back to the baby. Gathering it into his shaking, blood stained hands, he looked into the blank eyes.

You have no idea about any of this, do you? You’re just a boy.

“Zeus!” He raised his voice to the sky. “I have done what you commanded. The son of Hector is dead!” He pointed over the ramparts, “ask anyone fighting down below on that field - they will all agree that his infant died this day. In their eyes, I have secured this victory for the Greeks! And in the eyes of the Trojans, I have become the monster capable of such a deed!”

He held the baby up as high as he dared, taking care not to accidentally reveal it to the battlefield below. The wind blew around him with a new intensity. “I hereby claim this child as my own. I now hold in my hands the son of Odysseus! From this point on, he is and always has been my son! Even after I draw my last breath, he will remain a child of Ithaca! I do not claim to know the will of the Gods, nor understand your visions. But there is nothing left here for him to avenge. He will grow up an Ithacan prince, and when he comes of age, I will help him to understand why I spared his life!”

Bartering with the Gods was questionable at the best of times. Negotiating their prophecies during a time of war was particularly stupid. Please work, please work, please believe me. Odysseus prayed that Zeus would accept the logic of his impulsive, hairbrained plan.

The wind shrieked for one brief, merciless swell, and then vanished. In the sudden quiet, Odysseus stood, alone on the city wall, mind blank with the enormity of his actions.

In his arms, the baby gurgled happily, oblivious to the carnage around him.

Chapter Text

Penelope is going to kill me. The thought was bouncing around Odysseus’ head, closely followed by if the Gods don’t kill me first.

The baby - his baby? - was pressed into his chest, the blue sash folded over its head to hide it from view as much as possible. It was still pretty obvious. Every so often, a tiny hand or foot would poke out of the cloth, Odysseus pausing to (gently) stuff it back into the sash.

How do women make this look so easy?

Sneaking his way back down the corridors, Odysseus ducked behind corners or into empty rooms to evade the chaos inside the palace. He knew that meeting one of his own men would mean game over for the baby, and meeting one of the Trojans would mean game over for him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fight properly whilst carrying it - him? - so settled for a painfully slow game of hide and seek as he descended through the palace’s levels.

A clatter of sandals and armour erupted from the stairway he had just been about to turn onto. Pressing himself with his back flat to the wall around the corner, he held his breath as five soldiers spilled out onto the landing, pausing to argue. Without seeing them, he couldn’t tell whether they were Greek or Trojan.

“Which way do you think he went?” Came the first voice.

“I told you, he threw the baby! Everyone saw it.” The second voice insisted.

“You’re lying! Far more efficient to slit it’s throat.” A third, disbelieving.

“Why would I lie about this? He just stood there, holding the thing up for everyone to see. It didn’t even cry. Then he just… yeeted it.”

“Yeeted it?”

In his hiding place, Odysseus cringed, and started backing up slowly down the corridor.

“Like it was a sack of potatoes!”

“But where did he get a baby from?”

“Maybe the Greeks are using them as scare tactics. Like, find a random baby and pretend it’s Trojan to strike fear into our hearts, that kinda thing.” A fourth voice, sounding young, piped up.

Ahh, so they were Trojan soldiers.

“We haven’t left Troy, you idiot! It was definitely a Trojan baby. The Greeks aren’t exactly going to bring their own ballistic infants.”

“But why would he throw it? One baby isn’t very scary, especially when it’s dead.” The fourth voice again.

“Stop being so dense! Imagine if that was your baby! I’d imagine you’d find that the scariest thing in the world.” The third voice hissed.

“I think having a baby in the first place would be the scariest thing in the world, yeuchhh,” the fourth voice gagged.

“Quit it, the lot of you! It doesn’t matter where he got it, we need to find out where the bastard went! Who knows what other atrocities he’s committing, running around inside the palace,” the first voice weighed in again.

The fifth soldier, gravelly voice indicating his age, finally spoke. “You’re all fools. That baby was the infant son of Prince Hector. With our great prince dead, and now his son too, Troy is as good as lost. There is no future without an heir.”

The other soldiers quieted down, squabble forgotten.

“That bastard,” came the first voice.

“When we find him, let’s throw *him* off the wall! See how he likes it,” the second voice said with feeling.

“I don’t think we’re strong enough to ‘yeet’ a full grown man from the ramparts,” the third voice chimed in.

Odysseus felt his back come into contact with the wooden frame of a door.

“We’ll each hold a limb. Besides, he looked quite short from down below,” the second voice said.

“Everyone looks short from a great height, idiot!”

Why has it taken us 10 long years to beat these incompetent fools? Odysseus wondered.

“As long as we knock him out first. If he’s awake and struggling, he could really throw off the velocity of the swing and then where would we be?” The third voice said.

“But he should be awake! He needs to understand the poetic irony of his fate,” the fourth voice whined.

“How do *you* know what ‘poetic irony’ is?” the first voice was incredulous.

The fourth voice puffed itself up, “I saw it in one of them bloody long plays they put on at the amphitheatre. It was all about ‘poetic irony’ and ‘the inherent tragedy of human existence’.” It faltered. “At least, that’s what the cute girls in front of me were saying. I missed the part where they actually did the poetic irony.”

Odysseus grasped around with his hand until it closed around the door knob.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the first voice said. “Come on, he must’ve gone down from the ramparts into the East wing. We’ll try this way first!”

Odysseus saw the shadows of the soldiers grow large around the corner, coming towards him. He twisted the door knob. By the Gods it wasn’t locked, and he backed into the room, swiftly closing the door, chest heaving. He listened against the wood as the clatter of the soldiers drew nearer, and nearer, and… rushed past him, back the way he’d come.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and turned around.

A group of servants were staring at him, frozen. Ornate candle sticks and goblets had been bundled into sacks. One had a large, jewel-encrusted serving platter half-stuffed into a sack. Another held a pile of fine silks.

Odysseus grinned nervously. “Hello there.”

He watched their eyes shift in unison from his blood-stained sword to the blue sash bundled in his arms. “Ahhh, carry on. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

The baby wiggled in his arms.

One of the servants found his voice. “Is that a baby?”

“No,” Odysseus gave him what he hoped was a winning smile.

A small foot appeared from the bundle. It kicked against his chest.

His smile froze.

“Well it certainly looks like a baby from here,” another servant said, tenuously.

A second foot emerged, and a little arm, as the baby began to fuss.

One of the female servants piped up, “you’ve not swaddled it very well. You need to leave enough cloth to tuck the end up around the body, otherwise the feet will always get loose.”

Odysseus nodded, desperately trying to hang onto his last shred of composure. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll bear that in mind.”

He poked his head cautiously out of the door. He couldn’t see or hear the soldiers. Ducking back inside, he turned to the servants. “What’s the best way to get out of the palace unnoticed?”

“That’d be the servants passages,” said the servant holding the serving platter. “You’ve got to go down the stairs and turn right, and then left along the corridor. There should be a small door behind the staircase by the drapes.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The servants watched him slink out the door.

“One more thing!” His head poked back inside. “I was never here. Just as you were never here. Do you understand?”

The servants all nodded seriously.

As he crept back down the corridor towards the stairs, their voices floated after him.

“What was he doing with a baby? Doesn’t he know there’s a war going on?”

“It’s a bit hard to miss there’s a bloody war on! Just focus on grabbing the goblets, it’s not our problem, nor our baby.”

“It’s just, well, did he look… a bit, Greek, to you?”

“Who cares? The soldiers will kill him anyway. Pass the candle sticks.”

Down the stairs, turn right, then left along the corridor. Door behind the staircase. By the drapes. He repeated the directions as a mantra until finally, finally, he found the unobtrusive door hidden in the shadows. Slipping inside, he released a slow, tense breath.

He laid the baby on the ground and rewrapped it, this time leaving enough spare cloth to tuck the end back around its body.

“I’m going to an awful lot of trouble for you, child. You better pray this amuses the Gods.”

The baby looked up at him, gazing at him with the dim comprehension of all small babies, but at least it was quiet.

Settling it back against his chest, he started off down the servants’ passageway. It was dimly lit, but empty. Most of the servants would either have fled, been captured, or killed, by this point in the battle. He didn’t spare them much thought. After 10 years of fighting, the number of casualties didn’t shock him anymore. Idly, he wondered if it should. He knew war did things to the minds of men, made them grow cold, made them stop seeing their enemies as people, made them hunger for violence. He wondered what it had done to him, whether the world viewed him as a cold, mindless killer. Or whether it viewed him as worse than that, with his schemes and his cunning.

The horse had been a good trick. It didn’t have the same glory as valiantly leading a charge with overwhelming force, but unlike all those charges, it actually had a chance of ending the war. It had given the Greeks the advantage and morale boost they needed to push back against the endless Trojan advance.

A better trick would be to get the baby out alive, and back to Ithaca, without anyone realising what Odysseus had done. Now he had a moment of peace, he was starting to realise just how many obstacles lay in his path.

The other generals would notice if he did not return to the fighting, and there would be questions if he reappeared unharmed after it finished. If anyone saw him, it wouldn’t take much for them to connect the baby wrapped in blue with the infant he supposedly threw off the wall. But where could he leave the baby that it would remain undiscovered? He could return it to his ship, or his tent, but neither were completely safe. What if he hid it in his war chest, only for it to start crying and thus draw attention? He supposed he could take a woman from the prisoners, and instruct her to care for it, but the thought made his skin crawl. It would also defeat the point of nobody knowing that the baby lived.

Gods, I really am an idiot. I bet Penelope would be laughing at me, if only she could see how her husband was making a fool of himself.

He clutched the baby tighter to his chest, reassuring himself that it would work out. He had his famous luck, and until he found the servants’ exit, time to figure out a plan.

He found the servants’ exit altogether too quickly. He had not yet figured out a plan.

Thankfully his luck had not abandoned him, and the servants’ exit, unlike the main gate through which he’d entered, opened into a small courtyard on the other side of the palace, away from the fighting. He could hear the shouts and sounds of metal-on-metal, but it was far enough away that he knew he should be safe, for the moment. Blinking as he emerged from the gloom into the bright sunlight, he noticed the disarray - carts abandoned, manicured hedges trampled, the bodies of a few soldiers, blue and red, lying where they’d fallen.

He searched through the carts, looking for anything that might of use. He could have cried with relief when he came across a small urn filled with sheep’s milk, covered with a cloth. Whilst Odysseus knew next to nothing about caring for an infant, he had a vague sense that they had to feed frequently, especially when they were small. He remembered the wet nurse being a permanent fixture in Telemachus’ nursery. How long had it been since this baby had been fed? It felt like a lifetime had passed since he had decided to defy - or ‘creatively interpret’ - Zeus’ prophecy, but he knew realistically that it could only have been an hour or two at most.

The last thing he needed was for the baby to get hungry and start screaming for its mother. He couldn’t carry the milk whilst holding the infant, but he could attempt at feeding it. This was when he encountered his next problem:

How does one feed a baby, without the necessary female anatomy?

He suspected just pouring the milk into its mouth would make it choke. He did remember that babies liked to suck on fingers. However, looking down at his own blood-stained, filthy hands, he decided against it. That much grime could hardly be healthy for an infant.

Odysseus settled for dipping a corner of the cloth covering the urn into the milk, letting it absorb some of the liquid, before putting it into the baby’s mouth to suck. It took a few false starts before it realised what the cloth was for, but then it started sucking aggressively, to the point where Odysseus struggled to remove the cloth for another soak.

It also didn’t help that every time he heard movement coming from the palace, however small, he dived behind the cart, waiting until he was sure they were safe. After what felt like several of the most excruciating minutes of his life, the baby stopped sucking on the cloth, apparently satisfied. It gave a little burp, and its eyes slid shut.

Hopefully that will keep it quiet for a bit.

Recovering the urn with a mind to come back for it later, if possible, Odysseus skirted the perimeter of the courtyard, and gingerly made his way down the path that led out of the palace’s compound.

From the distant battle, a great cheer went up amongst the men, signalling that the battle must be in its final throes. Another stroke of good fortune. If he timed it right, he might be able to deposit the baby in his war tent, race back to see the end of the fighting, and then sneak off to tend the baby whilst the rest of the generals were organising the men.

Oh yeah, it’s all coming together now. By the grace of the Gods, this might just work.

Feeling hope stir for the first time since he’d started down this mad path, Odysseus readjusted the sleeping baby more securely against his chest, and made for the Greek tents at a run.

Away from the centre of the fighting, there were only a few soldiers scattered around, some lying injured or dying, a few deserters wearing Trojan red. Odysseus didn’t blame them. If they were his men, he’d have been compelled by honour to cut them down for turning their backs on their brothers. But these men just wanted to live. The Greek victory sounded inevitable, and after 10 long years of fighting, there would be no mercy for the Trojans, no prisoners taken.

No one spared him a second glance, all too preoccupied with their own survival. Without his sash, without his crown, covered in blood and dirt and his eyes wild, Odysseus didn’t look like a general. Besides, it would be unthinkable for a Greek general to be abandoning his army in their hour of victory.

He took the stairs leading out past the city’s walls two at a time, the gates of Troy hanging open like a gaping wound. The horse stood majestically in its entrance, dark and empty.

A trumpet sounded from the battlefield.

No! We can’t win, not yet! Odysseus had never in a million years expected to wish the war could go on, just a little longer. After 10 years, what’s another 10 minutes? But his luck had finally run out.

As another trumpet sounded, his heart plummeted. There was not enough time to make it to the tents and back, not without his absence being noted. Clutching the baby tighter to his chest, he glanced around, looking for something, anything, that could shelter it.

His gaze landed on the wooden monstrosity parked just inside the city’s entrance.

The horse!

Oh Gods, it would have to do. Frantically sprinting back up the stairs, he jumped onto the horse’s base and started climbing the ladder into its cavernous belly.

As he neared the top of the ladder, he slowed. He poked his head through the opening and willed his eyes to adjust to the gloom faster. He was greeted by nothing but the smell of stale sweat and fresh woodwork, abandoned water skins and food pouches littering the floor. Heaving himself up, he made his way to the horse’s head, where he knew a small alcove was chiselled into the wood.

Carefully, he lay the baby down, making sure it was swaddled tightly. If it did wake up, hopefully the horse would muffle its cries. “Don’t go anywhere, little one. You’re not allowed to get yourself killed just yet.” He smoothed his thumb over its head, and dropped back down the ladder.

Odysseus spared one concerned glance back at the horse, and then he was charging towards the battlefield and its sounds of trumpets and cheers.

Even if anyone suspected that the baby still lived, the horse would be the last place they would look.

Poetic irony, indeed.

Chapter Text

The immediate aftermath of a battle was always chaos. After hours and hours of fighting, expecting thousands of men to just stop never worked. There was the inevitable confusion over whether the battle really had ended, and whose side had won - on the edge of the battlefield, where it took longer for news to trickle through the ranks, clusters of soldiers were still fighting one another, so wrapped up in their bloodlust they hadn’t noticed the change in atmosphere. A few Trojan soldiers were desperately trying to flee, some pursued by Greeks cheering with victory, others passing soldiers too tired to stop them.

Medical attention (as much as any man could do for another with their limited supplies) was being dispatched haphazardly. A young Greek soldier lay panting against a pile of rubble, a dark red stain spreading out from his stomach. Odysseus turned away as another soldier held him close, before driving his sword into the man’s chest. Sometimes the only thing you could do was grant them a quick and merciful death, rather than wait for fever or infection to take them after days of agony. At least this way the young man would die an honourable death, in battle.

A few soldiers were picking through the bodies, looking for comrades or brothers or valuables that could be taken and sold back home. Others were statues, sitting or standing as still as rock, numb with fatigue. He saw one man sobbing quietly in the sparse shade of a tree whose leaves had long since shrivelled under the sun’s glare.

He didn’t spare them much thought as he pushed through the tangle of bodies, shoving soldiers out his way, trying to get closer towards the sounds of jubilation coming from the centre of the battlefield. He could have shouted at the men to make way for their general, but then everyone would know he was not at the centre of the fighting. Panting with the effort of trying to go very fast over what could only be described as the world’s most morbid obstacle course, Odysseus kept glancing around, hoping none of his men or the other generals had spotted him.

After what felt like an age, but in reality had only been a few minutes, he finally lunged through a gap in the throng of men, spilling out into a clearing at a respectable distance from the trumpets. He figured he should probably start yelling orders at the idling men, really make his presence known and thus create a solid alibi for his whereabouts. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth ready to shout-

When his gaze landed on Diomedes, his back turned, as he plunged his sword into a Trojan solider.

Of course the soldiers had been giving the general a wide berth as he dispatched the last of his foes. Odysseus could have kicked himself for not looking before he burst out of the throng. He leaned on his sword nonchalantly as Diomedes turned around, looking for all the world like he had been watching this whole time.

Or tried to.

The sword slipped against the hard earth as he put his weight on it, causing him to overbalance. He fell in slow motion, arms pinwheeling in a futile attempt to regain his balance.

The king of Ithaca landed in a cloud of dust at the general’s feet.

Diomedes looked down at him, startled, sword poised to attack this new enemy. “Odysseus! Where have you been?” He boomed.

Odysseus took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Diomedes looked down at his hands with a curious expression on his face.

Saying, I had a crisis of confidence during a crucial moment of the battle, directly ignored Zeus, and stole the baby of our enemy, but no need to worry, I’ve got it all under control, was probably not a smart thing to say. Odysseus liked to think that he was a smart man.

“What do you mean? I have been here this whole time,” he lied.

“We looked for you after you dispatched the spawn of Hector, but none could account for you.”

“Ahh, that is because I was killing Trojans in the palace, brother.”

Diomedes frowned. “I thought you just said you were here.”

“And on the battlefield, of course!” Casting about, he drove his sword into a nearby, headless corpse for emphasis. “Just like that!”

“Yet no one has seen you for quite some time.”

“Really? I have been here for hours. After I… finished killing Trojans in the palace. Strange that no-one noticed me carving a path through our enemies.”

“They all noticed you throwing a baby from the wall. I would have thought that would make a man memorable in a crowd, particularly one as short and fierce as you.”

An earlier comment from one of the Trojan soldiers floated through his mind. “Ahh, but all men look short from a great height. Besides, I lost my sash during the fighting - how would anyone distinguish me as a general when I am as ragged as the next man?”

Diomedes didn’t look convinced.

“Or maybe, brother, after 10 years of war, our men have simply grown blind in their dotage.” Odysseus plastered a grin on his face, slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I can confirm I have been killing many, many Trojans,” he said, lying through his teeth. “An absolutely huge number of Trojans - why, I’d wager more Trojans lie dead by my hand than any other general here.”

It wasn’t his best lie by any stretch - it had been a very trying day, after all - but it didn’t need to be. Diomedes was never able to catch him in his trickery. The man was formidable, a warrior with the strength of 10 men, and the collective intelligence to match. In short, he was very, very dense.

The general’s frown cleared. “Then this is a matter we must discus at our victory feast, Odysseus! You make quite the claim of heroism!”

Odysseus was not always as smart as he thought he was.

His grin froze. Boasting about their exploits would invariably involve his movements being dissected by enough people that they would realise his story didn’t add up. He could lie about being in one place to one person, but it would be impossible to lie about being anywhere when he didn’t know where exactly the other generals had been - other than the palace, but he had just lied about not being in the palace. He could feel himself rapidly losing his grip on the situation. Oh Gods, what trap have I laid for myself? There was nothing else to do now. The feast would not be for a few hours. Hopefully, he would have time to think of a clever story before the boasting began.

Diomedes was saying something to him. Or at least, his mouth was moving. No sound filtered into Odysseus’ ears. He blinked, shook his head. Sound returned.

“-re you quite well, Brother?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, I’m quite fine. Just a long day being very heroic. You know, with all the killing. That I’ve been doing. Here, on the battlefield.” Gods, I’m losing it, he thought, his famous silver tongue tarnished by his earlier efforts to argue for the baby’s life.

A large hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Odysseus jumped about a foot in the air and spun round.

Neoptolemus loomed over him, his wild mane billowing around his head, bloodlust in his eyes and a manic grin on his lips.

“Of course he is well! We have just secured our great and lasting victory over the Trojan animals!” The hand on his shoulder shook him roughly. “He is just jittery from the excitement of battle. His body is still primed for fighting!”

Odysseus nodded fervently.

“It will take a while to dissipate. I myself am filled with the insatiable need to keep killing every Trojan rat in sight. My blood burns with the fires of vengeance.”

The son of Achilles was a full head taller than Odysseus, and built like an ox. A flicker of worry crossed his mind, then quieted. The Gods themselves had decreed that Neoptolemus needed to be put in the war to ensure victory. He was just a man filled with the vigour of righteous purpose. Of course he would feel so strongly about the Trojans, given he had been brought here to avenge his father.

“But we have slain every Trojan in sight, brother,” Diomedes said.

Neoptolemus leaned down to Odysseus conspiratorially when he saw his confused expression, hand still on his shoulder. “Come now, don’t act so coy. Every man knows there are other ways to quench the fires of war, to release all that excitement.”

Diomedes nodded, sagely. “I hear we have captured many Trojan women.”

“The most appetising of whores, brothers! I myself saw to it. Apparently even the fine ladies are eager to renounce their wedding vows when faced with a real Greek man.”

Odysseus swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. War prizes were a time-honoured and integral part of war, viewed as much of a right as any treasure by the winners. It was also, in his opinion, despicable. He tried to ignore it. There wasn’t much he could do, even as a general. He was just a man, against an army who believed their prizes were a Gods-granted gift.

He shrugged off the hand on his shoulder. “Ahh, that won’t be necessary. You know my heart beats only for Penelope.”

“Your wife across the sea?” Neoptolemus scoffed.

“Just my wife.” Odysseus said, flatly.

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. You have been away from Ithaca for so long, after all. It would only be natural.”

Odysseus bristled. Even if he’d wanted to (which he didn’t), Penelope would absolutely find out, and then it would be him who would be hurt, probably repeatedly, with something sharp (if he was lucky). But he knew that he was alone in his thinking, the men surrounding him so blinded by continual war that violence came as easy as breathing to them.

He felt the anger start to seep into his words. “To break my wedding vows would be the ultimate disrespect to her.”

“And you’d let a woman’s feelings get in the way of your manly needs?”

“I’d let my own feelings and my own vows get in the way of needs I do not have!”

This conversation needed to have stopped happening several sentences ago. Neoptolemus was unaware of Odysseus’ mounting rage, but Diomedes saw the tension in his friend’s body, the way his knuckles turned white where he clutched his sword.

“That is not very becoming of a general, brother.”

“And forcing yourself on captives is, brother?” Odysseus hissed.

“Don’t be so dramatic! It is hardly forcing when all Trojan women are naturally insatiable creatures.”

Diomedes inserted himself between the two men, precisely two seconds before Odysseus let his own feelings get in the way of Neoptolemus’ face. “My friends, it has been a long and difficult day. I’m sure we are all overcome with emotion at finally ending this accursed war. Let us not spoil our joy with this silly bickering! Neoptolemus, you know Odysseus here is a famed romantic, and lives for Penelope and Penelope alone. You will understand when you are married, no doubt.”

Odysseus forced himself to take a deep breath, and then another. He wasn’t sure if he could take Neoptolemus in a fight, and fighting his own general after the war had ended would only lead to further scrutiny over his actions and whereabouts. Think of the baby- no, think of your son. He needs you to keep it- him, safe. (Both of them), a little voice whispered in the back of his head.

He turned to Diomedes, deliberately made his voice level. “What happens now?”

“For now, we look for our brothers among the dead, and tend to the wounded. This evening, we will have the greatest celebration in all of Greek history, with all the wine and food we can plunder from the palace!”

Neoptolemus smiled widely, not realising how close he’d come to facing Odysseus’ ire. “Then I shall spread the word amongst our brothers! Till this evening, friends.”

The son of Achilles turned on his heel, and began yelling at the soldiers, calling for his men, ordering them to regroup so that he could assess their losses.

Diomedes gave Odysseus a look. “Do not let him get to you. I do not wish to see you dishonour yourself at our hour of triumph. This day has been a long time coming, and soon we shall be able to leave this accursed land.”

“I shall be glad of it. Too many lives have been lost in pursuit of this victory.”

Patting his shoulder, Diomedes moved off, calling for his own men.

Odysseus was left alone in the clearing of soldiers, all of which continued to leave a wide berth around him. He had the sense of being terribly adrift. He was not the same man who had lead the charge at the first light of dawn this morning. But to his comrades, he was the same as he’d always been.

He thought of the baby, prayed that it was still asleep.

He thought of Penelope, prayed for her to be in his arms again.

He thought of the women, prayed for a mercy they would not be granted.

“CAPTAIN!” Eurylochus was picking his way through the mass of soldiers. How he had spotted him amongst the throng was beyond him. But then, his second-in-command was always there when he needed him.

“Eurylochus! You are a sight for sore eyes, my friend,” Odysseus said warmly, relief blossoming in his heart.

There were no guarantees in war, but somehow Eurylochus had become one, surviving time after time, no matter the odds. Odysseus believed it would take an act of divine intervention to stop the man from prevailing. Blood and dust clung to his tunic, but he was seemingly unharmed, save for a shallow scratch along one bicep. Whoever had dealt him that small nick would have surely paid for it with his life.

Eurylochus saluted before they clasped hands. “I was beginning to worry as to your safety, Captain. The men say you have not been seen for quite some time.”

Oh Gods, not this again.

“Ahh, do they now? I can assure you I have been at the heart of the battle all this time, as is befitting a general.”

Eurylochus looked down at Odysseus’ hands quizzically, a question forming on his lips before it died. Instead, he said: “Then I am glad to hear it from you directly. It certainly looks like you were at the centre of the fight.”

Odysseus nodded, not sure what he meant, but unwilling to question it.

“You are- unharmed, Captain?”

He smiled. “Of course, Eurylochus. The Gods have looked upon me favourably this battle.” At least, they had before. “And yourself?”

“I am quite well. One of their generals thought he had me cornered.” A wolfish grin appeared, “but sadly for him, he did not realise my intention was to let him strike first.”

“I wondered where you had received that mortal wound,” Odysseus pointed at the scratch with a smile.

Eurylochus scowled. “A small price to pay for luring him into my range.”

“As long as you are sure your arm won’t fall off. I would hate for it to be amputated - it will be a long journey back to Ithaca if you are only rowing with one hand.”

“Captain! It is just a surface wound!”

“Forgive me for worrying, then. I could have sworn I saw it turning green with infection. Maybe we shall have to give your title of ‘Eurylochus the Untouchable’ to another man.”

The scowl turned into a glower. Eurylochus had gained the nickname two years previously after taking down a fearsome Trojan commander with nothing but a large rock, emerging from the fight completely unharmed. He guarded the name fiercely, in the way that men at war who have nothing stake everything on their identity.

As could be imagined, he was teased mercilessly every time someone managed to land a hit on him.

As could be imagined, any teasing was met with swift and merciless justice.

His second-in-command coughed. “What are your orders captain?”

“Gather the men - see how many have survived by the grace of the Gods. Tonight there will be a great feast. I would suggest you take a company of men to the palace and gather supplies from their stores to last our journey home. After tonight, I doubt there will be anything left to salvage, and we shall make for Ithaca at first light.”

This last proclamation drew a sharp glance from Eurylochus. “We’re leaving so soon, Captain? I thought we would be taking a few days to give the men a rest, and for you to debrief with the other generals.”

Ordinarily, yes, the aftermath of war could be just as time consuming as the fighting itself, sorting out burials, war prizes, treasure, repairing ships, re-provisioning. And as one of the de-facto Greek leaders, Odysseus would be expected to oversee a large portion of the organisations, to liaise with the other generals, and sort out the complicated matter of what to do with Troy now that every member of its ruling family was either dead or captured.

Nearly every member, a treacherous voice supplied.

But that was why they needed to leave as quickly as possible. If the baby was discovered, then every member of the Trojan royal family really would be dead. The longer they lingered, the longer the men rested and grew restless and started exploring the newly-conquered, newly-safe city, the more likely it was that someone would stumble across the infant. The horse had been safe during the battle. But during peace? It would be a focal point of interest.

He couldn’t tell Eurylochus that though. He trusted his second-in-command with his life, with the lives of all of his men, but he wasn’t sure he could trust him with a secret this big. Eurylochus was a Greek soldier before he was anything else, and harbouring Trojan royalty would go against his every instinct.

He’d find out about the baby like everyone else, once they were safely at sea.

“Our work here is done, Eurylochus. Between the other generals, they have enough brain cells between them to figure this mess out. They can function perfectly well without me, and I do not wish to stay in this accursed city one second longer.”

His second-in-command’s eyes bored into him. Eurylochus might be dependable and loyal, but he had also gotten annoyingly good at reading his king over the last decade. He might not call him out on it, but he had a sixth sense for when Odysseus was up to one of his tricks.

“Is that all, Eurylochus?”

“Please tell me you are not about to do something rash, Captain.”

So much for not calling him out, then.

“Whatever gives you that impression, brother?”

“It is unlike you to trust in the abilities of the other generals.”

Ahhh. That was certainly true. Odysseus privately believed that the war would have concluded in favour of the Trojans many years before if he hadn’t been there. But it would be unbecoming of a man to acknowledge his (clear) superiority.

“Now that the war is over, what can they possibly mess up?”

“Captain…” his friend sounded pained.

Odysseus reached up to clasp his friend’s shoulder. “I promise you, I’m not planning on doing something rash.”

It wasn’t a lie, technically. He’d already done the something rash.

Polites was taller than Odysseus.

Slightly taller.

Though it was only a small difference, it was a big deal to the king of Ithaca. For most of their childhood, Odysseus had been a respectable two inches taller, until the fateful summer that Polites had had a growth spurt, making up the ground between them and then some. Sixteen-year-old Odysseus had spent months praying to any God who would listen to grant him a growth spurt, any growth spurt, even a little one, pretty please.

The Gods had answered his prayers, and he’d grown taller, but as if to spite him, they also granted Polites a growth spurt of exactly the same amount. It wasn’t as if he’d prayed for his friend to stop growing, after all. The finer points of the trickery beloved by the Gods had been lost amidst his considerable teenage angst.

After that, Odysseus learned to be a bit more discerning with his prayers.

“Captain! YOU’RE ALIVE! I’m alive! It’s over!” His friend had been standing at the entrance to his war tent anxiously, no doubt waiting for his return. When he saw Odysseus come into view, he beamed, relief and joy and hope all tangled up in his expression, running towards him, the ends of his bandana trailing in his wake. He didn’t bother with a formal salute, or a respectful handshake, but threw his arms around his friend, pulling him into a tight hug.

Odysseus returned it, elated. Of all the men to survive the war, he was beyond grateful that Polites had somehow made it through. His best friend was a good fighter, but had no love for violence. Throughout the endless battles, Odysseus had always half-expected to return to the Greek tents and be told that his friend had been struck down by a greater foe. A few times, he’d had nightmares about it.

But somehow, Polites was always waiting for him, grinning like a lunatic and desperate to talk about a new poem he’d heard, or a cool plant he’d seen, or a prank he wanted to play on Eurylochus, as if they hadn’t just spent the last few hours brutally murdering other men. The king of Ithaca had watched him dispatch kind words and bandages to his men in equal measure, comfort those who’d lost friends, and magically appear at his elbow with a drink and a smile after a particularly stressful meeting with the other generals.

Odysseus didn’t know how he did it.

The other generals frowned at Odysseus being so casual with his men, believing it to be unbecoming of his station. He didn’t care though. There was a reason why so far, by the grace of the Gods, not one of his men had fallen in battle. He saw them all as the people they were, rather than as a disposable resource.

He thought perhaps it was because he saw Polites lead by example, and would do anything not to disappoint his best friend.

“Polites, my friend! It is good to see you.” He was smiling too now.

“I can’t believe it’s over! I can’t believe we’re going home! And all the men are alive - at least, I was speaking to Teucer, and he said he hadn’t seen anyone from Ithaca amongst the dead, and- have you seen Eurylochus? Ajax said his arm was about hanging off- and what about you, Captain? Are you injured? No-one saw you for ages and I was getting really worried, but you’re here now-” his friend babbled away excitedly, not pausing to allow any of his questions to be answered.

“I am fine, Polites. Just tired and dirty, but by the Gods unharmed. And don’t worry about Eurylochus!” he said before he could be interrupted, “it is only a scratch, Ajax is exaggerating.”

“Oh, that’s good, then why would he-?”

“I think our friend is rather embarrassed at having his perfect bicep marred by a Trojan.”

Polites nodded wisely. “I see, I guess there’s no choice but to amputate then.”

“I already suggested that!” Odysseus said with a laugh. “I think I might have to sleep with one eye open tonight.”

“In that case I will drink wine enough for the two of us, so I may sleep with both of my eyes soundly closed!”

“You’d really abandon your king to the mercy of Eurylochus?”

“He won’t show you any mercy,” his friend said, trying to be serious. His semi-permanent smile shone through, unable to be contained. “And we both know who’d win in a fight between you. There won’t be any point waking up for it.”

“I’m wounded by this treason from my own friends!” As he said it, Odysseus dramatically placed a hand to his forehead, faking hurt.

Polites’s gaze tracked the movement, and he stilled as it landed on Odysseus’ hand. His smile dropped, like he was remembering something important.

“Polites? Is everything alright.”

His friend wouldn’t meet his gaze. His own grin slipping off his face, Odysseus finally looked down at his hands to see what was wrong.

Oh.

It was the first time he’d properly looked at himself since claiming the baby on the wall.

His hands were caked with blood.

No doubt from the guard he’d used to make the decoy baby, blood was streaked up to his elbows, and crusted around his fingernails. Certainly no soldier would look like this from just straightforward killing. Gods, but he must look like a maniac, a butcher rather than a fighter.

“It’s not mine” he tried to be reassuring.

An odd expression crossed his friend’s face, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

“I’m not injured - I wasn’t lying. I just got into a nasty scrap with some palace guards.”

“I saw it,” said Polites simply, which didn’t explain anything.

“Saw what, my friend?”

“When you hesitated, I- I thought maybe you’d change your mind. You always have a plan for everything, I thought, why would this be any different?”

Polites still wasn’t meeting his gaze.

“When I hesitated?“

“I know you must have had to, Captain, and it’s not my place to say anything. I just- did it have to be so public? In front of its poor mother?”

Oh.

Odysseus felt guilt, heavy as a stone settling in his gut. Everyone had seen him ‘throw’ the baby off the wall. So of course Polites had seen it. And of course the looks he were giving him were not accusatory, just… disappointed.

Of course Polites was the only one to have cared that he killed the baby.

“It had to be done. You know there could be no survivors.”

He couldn’t say anything, not even to his best friend who he’d tell anything and everything. Not when their situation was so tenuous. Once they were at sea the truth would be revealed - I mean, it would be impossible to hide an infant on a boat as small and cramped as ours - but until then, the deception had to continue. He only hoped it would not cause too large a rift between him and his friend.

“But it was not a good way for it to die! It was not a kind way to end its life.”

Odysseus swallowed past a lump in his throat. He didn’t want this to turn into an argument. It would be pointless, and he’d run the risk of revealing the baby’s fate.

He knew Polites wouldn’t let the matter drop. If something upset him, particularly on a moral level, he wouldn’t be mollified until the other side had conceded their behaviour was wrong. He also knew it had been an exhausting, emotional day, and that quarrelling with one of his men publicly would attract unwanted attention.

He let his voice become cold and detached. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’ll remember to keep your feelings in mind next time.”

“Captain?!” Polites said, shocked. “But it was wrong! You know it was wrong! Imagine if that had been Telemachus.”

Wasn’t that the truth of it though. He had imagined Telemachus, and had been unable to follow through.

But he couldn’t have this conversation, not now.

“Sentimentality has no place in war. That infant was a threat and had to die. Clearly you should be grateful you do not have the burdens of leadership.”

Polites looked as though Odysseus had just slapped him.

He turned on his heel to avoid having to look at Polites’ crushed expression. Odysseus needed to check on the baby, and feed it, and maybe hide it somewhere else, before the bulk of the soldiers assembled back at their camp and he had to be a general again.

“There will be a great feast tonight, Polites. I expect you to be there. And not another word about the baby.”

He could worry about Polites later. The baby was currently more important.

As he strode off, he winced at the downcast “…. of course, Captain…” that floated on the air behind him.

He would have a lot of apologising to do in the morning.

Chapter Text

The baby - his baby - was where he’d left it, hidden in the horse. Odysseus knew it was still there, because it was currently screaming its head off.

The plaintive wails were echoing around inside the horse, and clear enough that Odysseus could hear it from five feet away. How had nobody heard him? He looked around in a panic, but by some small miracle the area around the horse was empty of soldiers - clearly they were still regrouping, tending wounds and counting losses.

One thing was clear though, the baby couldn’t stay in there anymore, not whilst it had the decibel range of an air raid siren.

He crawled into the cavernous, musty belly of the horse and scooped up his charge. He held it close to his chest, rocking it gently, then firmly, then a bit desperately, when it still wouldn’t settle. How long had he been gone? Certainly no longer than an hour, and even then he’d thought he was being overly cautious.

“Shhhh, it’s okay little one. I didn’t abandon you, I’m here, it’s okay. You can stop crying any time now. Preferably sooner rather than later.”

The baby didn’t stop crying.

“Are you hungry? I only fed you a short time ago. You shouldn’t be hungry this quickly!”

He shifted the bundle in his arms.

“If I take you to get some more milk, will you stop crying?”

The little arms reached up against the baby’s face, fists closed. Odysseus went to rewrap his sash, lying it down on the wooden floor. He loosened the rough fabric, and -

Oh.

The smell hit him. Odysseus, King of Ithaca, General of the Greek Army, warrior of Athena, flinched back.

He had completely forgotten about that part of caring for an infant, on account of never having to do so himself.

He’d thought all small babies did was sleep, occasionally waking for milk or to stare blankly at their caregivers. He’d counted on it being too small to be at the high maintenance stage.

Telemachus was not as demanding as this.

A stab of guilt pierced Odysseus as he considered that maybe Telemachus had been exactly this demanding, and that after a decade of war his knowledge of parenthood might not be the most reliable. And that back in Ithaca, he’d had a whole palace of servants, and Penelope, to do the actual taking care of his son.

He realised he needed to wise up pretty quickly, and stop relying on his old, inaccurate assumptions, if this baby was going to make it out of Troy alive.

Bracing himself, he reached for the sash again.

As the hot afternoon sun gave way to frigid evening air, the celebrations were in full swing. A decade of war had left the soldiers hungry for relief from the incessant violence, and this party promised to go down in history as legendary. The night hadn’t even begun properly, and already men were stumbling about, blind drunk and shouting with joy. Somewhere, the discordant noise of several separate music groups competed to be heard over one another.

The Trojan palace had predictably been looted for any and all food and wine. Despite its considerable size, there would be little left by morning with the way the armies had descended upon it like a plague of locusts.

Odysseus was glad he’d had the foresight to send Eurylochus to re-provision the ships. After the chaos of the day, at least he’d done something right as a general.

The last few hours had passed in a blur of shouting orders, hastily preparing the ships to sail in the morning, and liaising with the other generals. As Eurylochus had predicted, he’d received several raised eyebrows when he informed his brothers-in-arms that he intended to leave as soon as possible. But nothing they said could make him change his mind, so eventually Diomedes ordered the matter to be dropped.

And there was the baby.

Odysseus had decided that the horse was no longer a safe place to hide it, so between all of the shouting and ordering and liaising, he’d been anxiously shifting his charge from one poorly concealed hideout to another, attempting to feed it milk, and praying that it kept quiet.

In short, he had reached the end of his tether quite some time ago.

The baby was currently hidden by a mess of wooden crates in a dark corner under the city walls, past the horse and as far away from the celebrations as Odysseus felt comfortable leaving it. No-one had any reason to go down there, and it would be difficult to accidentally stumble across it.

Moving through the press of bodies in search of his second-in-command, he ran into Polites again. He had been avoiding his friend since their argument earlier that afternoon, and had no wish to continue it here, with his nerves already frazzled past their limit.

His friend opened his mouth to say something, a reproachful look in his eye. Odysseus turned away with a glare, unwilling to meet his gaze. Polites would just have to stew for a bit longer. He had bigger problems than his friend’s moral concerns. A very small, churlish part of him took satisfaction at his actions. He doesn’t know the stress that I’m under. He doesn’t understand what it means to be a general currently betraying his own cause.

Without turning around, he marched off in the opposite direction, completely missing how Polites stopped in his tracks, looking crestfallen.

Barely an hour after the night had properly fallen, Odysseus’ mood had gone from bad to worse. After the fiasco at the end of the battle, he’d committed to being as visible as possible during the celebrations. This meant pretending to rejoice with the other generals, and congratulating passing soldiers on their war efforts, and overall being sociable and present, despite the fact that the raucous music and shouting was giving him a headache, and all the wine tasted like ash in his mouth.

At one point, Eurylochus had cornered him and forced him to eat a bread roll, saying ‘I know you haven’t eaten all day, Captain, don’t give me that look. You can’t survive off nothing but wine. It will settle your stomach and help to keep your strength up.’

Defeated, he’d eaten the roll. It had helped him feel a bit better, which only worsened his mood further.

Eurylochus was very good at his job, and by the Gods Odysseus hated that about him, sometimes.

Now he was sitting by a fire, glowering into the flames in an attempt to get some peace and quiet, counting the minutes until he could sneak away to check on the baby.

Snippets of conversations from the nearby soldiers floated over him. He’d expected boasting about the glory of battle, or relief that they were going home. He heard a few wannabe strategists dissecting the brilliance of his horse trick in front of a gullible crowd, and gossip from everywhere about the exploits of the generals - the death of Hector, Neoptolemus’ valour, grisly retellings about the infant being thrown from the wall. He hadn’t expected one rumour in particular to be the centre of attention, though.

“Did you hear someone befouled the horse?”

“What?!”

“Yeah, apparently the smell was awful!”

“But who would do such a thing?”

“Only a Trojan coward would show such disrespect to General Odysseus’ masterful invention!”

“I heard they wrapped it in a Greek sash, so they must have been Trojan.”

“I know those savages must be angry we won the war, but to stoop so low?”

“I’m sure stooping low was part of their plan.”

“Basically a hate crime, if you ask me.”

“I just want to know why it was so runny. Impossible to pass waste smoothly eating those awful army rations. Absolutely no fibre whatsoever.”

Odysseus’ glare deepened.

Polites flopped down next to Eurylochus, a goblet of liberated wine in his hands. The Ithacan second-in-command was sober, keeping an eye on his men. Keeping an eye on his captain, who was behaving very suspiciously for someone trying to behave as if nothing was wrong.

The night was still young, and he’d already snuck away from the gathering several times, each absence far longer than the time he spent glowering at the fire, sitting poised and restless. At one point, Teucer had walked past, challenging him to a good-natured (drunken) archery contest to see who could shoot the most apples off the heads of the men. Odysseus would normally have delighted in such a competition, but today snarled something dismissive and turned away from his friend. Teucer had looked confused, but hadn’t pressed the issue, moving off in search of better company.

People often thought that Eurylochus was a stupid man, because he said little and followed orders without hesitation. But most people missed that Eurylochus was quiet because he was always watching everything. His job was to observe the men, analyse threats, and keep his Captain safe. He was the focal point between solider, general, and enemy, and Odysseus relied on him to keep him updated should something shift, however minutely. He followed Odysseus’ orders without hesitation because he trusted him completely.

Odysseus knew all of this, of course. He wouldn’t have allowed any old fool to become his trusted right-hand man.

Beside him, Polites shifted dejectedly. Eurylochus had expected the sun itself to be shining from his smile, now that the war was over and they could go home. Instead, his friend frowned into his wine, saying nothing.

“You’re very quiet for someone who was on the winning side of a war.”

Polites hummed. “Do all celebrations have to be conducted out loud?”

“Yours normally are.”

His friend was silent, an acknowledgement of the truth.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Eurylochus probed.

“Nothing’s wrong!” the frown deepened.

Sometimes it was like dealing with a petulant child.

“Did you and Odysseus have a fight?”

Polites choked on his wine. “W-what gave you that impression?”

“He has been skulking around all night like he’s a kicked puppy. And you’re sitting next to me.”

“Hey! We’re friends too, Eurylochus!”

“We both know that you two would be raising merry hell together if something wasn’t going on between you.”

“You take back that comment about us not being friends!”

“Why? It’s true.”

“No, it isn’t!”

“Compared to Odysseus, I’m only your second best friend.” He knew this would rile the man up. It did every time.

“Stop it, Eurylochus!”

“Make me.”

“No! I don’t want to be fighting with both of you!”

There it was.

“So you did have a fight with the Captain.”

“I- no! Aghh, why are you so annoying?!” Polites fell back dramatically, wine sloshing into the grass as he laid down. His soft curls bunched under his head as he stared up at the stars.

Eurylochus sat quietly, waiting for him to fill the silence. It didn’t take long. It never did with Polites. When he had something to say, it would burst out of him sooner of later, damned be the consequences. But it was the same with his smile, his warmth, his friendship. Polites lived as he preached, facing the world honestly and with open arms. Eurylochus didn’t know how he did it, after everything they had been through, and it was often at odds with his own serious, cautious, controlled way of doing things. But he respected it, and held a great deal of affection for the man.

“He shouldn’t have thrown the baby,” Polites finally said, quietly.

“Polites,” Eurylochus said with a sigh. He should have predicted this. Of course his friend had said that, and of course Odysseus had taken it badly. Any other general would have ordered him to be flogged for such blatant disrespect. But Odysseus was not any other general, and his friendship with Polites was deep and strong, built of so much history that Eurylochus had only scratched the surface of it. He didn’t quite understand it, but he knew that it was a rare and special thing.

What a pair of idiots they were.

“But it was so little! And its mother was watching! It was unnecessarily cruel.”

“I know you want to believe that the world is a good place, my friend. I have no idea how you can still believe that, after all these years of bloodshed. But the Captain was granted a prophecy from the Gods themselves. What would you have had him do?”

“I- I don’t know! Something, anything! He always has these schemes and tricks and cunning- he came up with the horse!”

The stars glittered, cold and far away and beautiful.

“I don’t know what he should have done… I just thought he would have done something! That baby was innocent, it could have grown up to be innocent! It’s just all so wrong.”

Eurylochus placed a hand on his friends’ shoulder, pretended not to see the tears threatening to spill over into the grass.

“You’re too idealistic.”

“Someone has to be! Someone has to care about all the lives we’ve ended! And for what? Some spat over a woman just because neither side would talk to each other? This war served no purpose! You can’t justify a war based on the egos of powerful men.” Polites’ face was screwed up with anger, frustration, grief, too many complex emotions fighting to be articulated.

Eurylochus drew a sharp breath. They were straying into dangerous territory. “I’d speak quietly, my friend, before someone hears you. You’d be executed for treason.”

He didn’t say he disagreed though, and for that Polites was grateful.

They fell into silence, trying and failing to contemplate the enormity of a decade of war suddenly coming to an end.

On the far side of the fire, their Captain was sitting by himself, staring into the flames. They both watched as Odysseus glowered at some soldiers who strayed too close to his private pity party. Diomedes passed by, handing him another goblet of wine. Their captain drained it in one long gulp, slamming it down on the dirt floor.

“You should go talk to him, the next time he sneaks off to mope.”

Polites made a noise of protest, and sat up, limbs flailing. “I’m not going to apologise.”

By the Gods, these two made his life difficult. Such stubborn pride.

“I didn’t say to apologise, I said to talk. If not for the sake of your friendship, then for me. It will be a long journey back to Ithaca otherwise, and I refuse to entertain this much bullheadedness on a ship that small.”

Polites made a vague sound, not quite an agreement, but not a dismissal either. “We are friends, right Eurylochus?”

The second-in-command sighed with an exasperated fondness. “Yes, of course we are. You know that.”

By the fire, Odysseus cast about furtively, making sure no one was paying him any attention. He completely missed the watching eyes of his two friends, who were not even trying to be subtle about their blatant staring.

Their king got to his feet, kicked over the goblet on the floor, and started walking away. Not in the direction of the Greek tents though, but in the direction of the city gates.

His two friends exchanged a look. Polites gave a shrug and stood.

“Remember, just talk to him.”

His friend gave a lazy wave of dismissal as he followed after Odysseus.

Eurylochus treated himself to another deep sigh. Those two idiots would be the death of him.

Odysseus snuck away from the party once more. Anxiety about the baby being discovered was gnawing away at him, making it impossible to focus on any of the celebrations. He had intended to only check on the baby a few times throughout the night, but each time he turned his back on it, he was plagued by thoughts of it crying out, or drunken soldiers stumbling into its hiding place, or the cold freezing it to death whilst he drank wine by the fire. Each time, he found himself returning quicker than the last, and staying for longer, lingering in the shadows.

He was being bad company, he knew, and would no doubt get some pointed comments in the morning from the other generals. But at least nobody had noticed him sneaking off, so caught up in their own revelry.

Besides, no one was following him. He’d made sure of that. He was a professional at this, after all.

Shifting aside the crates, he let out a breath of relief as the baby’s face came into view, still hidden, still quiet. He settled himself against the cold wall, out of sight of the main path, and cradled the baby in his arms. It stirred for a moment, before settling against him, curling into the warmth of his body.

By the Gods, what have I done?

It was becoming increasingly obvious to Odysseus that he might have miscalculated how easy it would be to sneak the baby onto the Ithacan ships whilst keeping up appearances with the men. It was too young to leave alone in the cold night, and Troy was too busy with errant soldiers. Sooner or later, someone would chance across it, and then…

He didn’t allow himself to finish the thought.

Looking down into its sleeping face, all he could see was a young Telemachus. The weight of his vow to Zeus felt heavier with every passing hour.

After a decade of war, Odysseus never imagined that he could feel so alone, despite being surrounded by his men. It was an unwelcome feeling. He didn’t regret his decision though, no matter how spontaneous it had been. He couldn’t afford to regret it, not when so much was at stake. If the other generals discovered what he’d done, at best they’d dispatch the infant themselves. At worst, they’d dispatch the infant and accuse him of treason, executing him or breaking their treaties with Ithaca. Either consequence was unconscionable.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked the baby. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t respond. “You better appreciate all the trouble I’m going to on your behalf. I only save well-behaved enemy princes, after all.”

He looked up at the stars, eyes tracing the unfamiliar constellations that had become familiar after so many years on Trojan soil.

He huffed a laugh. “The famed Odysseus, wily, cunning, and a gods-damned bleeding heart. I’m told they’ll write stories about the horse; the ‘trick that ended the Trojan war’. If only those bards knew what was going on behind the scenes, eh? They’re composing their legends, and I’m sitting in the dark, holding you, a baby that should have died this afternoon.”

He waggled a finger at the sleeping face conspiratorially. "Let’s just focus on keeping you out of their stories, okay?"

“Who are you talking to, Captain?”

Odysseus sat bolt upright as if electrocuted. He cast about wildly, but it was impossible to see anything amongst the shadows. His heart started hammering in his chest as one hand went to the sword at his side. The other, slowly, painstakingly, lowered the bundle to the floor.

Silently, he rocked forward into a crouch, moving in front of the baby. His muscles tensed, ready to strike. He held his breath.

There was a scuffling sound to his right, like someone had just walked into a wooden crate.

His eyes picked out a shadow separating itself from the mass of darkness in front of him.

The shadow took a step closer.

Odysseus lunged.

Before the shadowy figure could react, he barrelled into it, knocking it to the ground. He barely processed the surprised exhale as he knocked the breath out of his adversary. Instinctively, he kicked away a flailing arm in case it was armed, and brought the tip of his sword under the figure’s chin.

“Captain?!” The figure cried.

Wait-

He recognised that voice.

“Polites?!” Odysseus said in disbelief.

The gangly figure of his friend lay on the floor, winded from the sudden fall.

Odysseus stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck, before his senses returned to him and he hastily sheathed his sword. Fear turned to embarrassment as he extended a hand and pulled his friend to his feet.

Polites swayed, and readjusted his glasses. “What did you do that for?!”

“You snuck up on me!”

“I didn’t mean to!” his friend said, incredulous.

“What are you doing out here?” Odysseus was aghast, that someone had found him so easily. He was lucky it was just Polites, but if it had been another general’s soldier…

“What am I doing out here? What are you doing out here?! I was following you!”

“Following me? Why?”

“Because you kept sneaking off to mope!” his friend exclaimed.

“I’m not moping!”

“Well, Eurylochus said you were moping, and that I needed to come and talk to you.”

“I’m not moping, Polites!”

“Then why do you keep sneaking off?”

“I’m not sneaking off!” This conversation was going in circles. Belatedly, Odysseus realised that that was a lie, he very much had been sneaking off.

He wasn’t going to admit that, though.

He took a deep breath. “Why exactly were you following me, my friend?”

Polites scowled at the ground. “Eurylochus said I should come and apologise. But I’m not going to apologise! I stand by what I said!” He met his King’s gaze defiantly. “I don’t care how much Eurylochus doesn’t want us fighting on that tiny ship - I’m not saying sorry, I was right!”

Odysseus supressed a sigh. Sometimes getting a coherent story out of Polites felt like fighting the war all over again; it took forever.

“Right about what?”

Polites gaped at him. “That killing the baby was wrong, Captain! You can’t even remember that? When you threw that tiny child off the wall this afternoon?! Or are you so blind to violence now that it wasn't worth remembering?!” His friend was shouting, clearly annoyed that he had apparently been harbouring one-sided resentment all afternoon.

Ohh, that argument. Odysseus had temporarily forgotten their little spat, in the midst of his private pity party. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over him.

“Shh! Keep your voice down!” he hissed, grabbing Polites’ shoulder.

“Why? So no one hears the great Odysseus being chided, like a child?!”

He growled in frustration. “You forget your place, Polites. I am the general, not you. I don’t have to listen to this, nor explain my actions.”

“Ugh! I can’t believe I came to talk to you! Well, Captain, you can have the honour of explaining to Eurylochus why I’m not sailing back on the same ship as you then! I’ll trade places with a nice, biddable soldier with no personality to keep you company, if all you want is blind obedience from your friends.”

He flounced around, ready to storm off, when there was a sniffle from the bundle on the floor, which had so far gone unnoticed.

Odysseus froze.

“What was that?” Polites asked.

“Nothing,” he lied.

Polites looked around suspiciously, taking in his hideout for the first time. “What are you doing here, Captain?”

“Nothing,” he lied again, less convincing this time.

There was another sniffle.

“There - I swear I heard something!” His friend tried to peer into the gloom, the ends of his bandana flicking over his shoulder.

Shifting uneasily, Odysseus tried to angle himself between the baby and his friend’s line of sight.

“I think there’s something down there, on the ground!”

“Ahh, no I don’t think so! It’s probably just a trick of the light. Let’s head back to the party, my friend, and put all this behind us,” he tried to suggest, intending to steer him away from the baby.

The baby started to fuss. Why do the Gods hate me so? They are not making it easy for me to fulfil my vow.

Polites took a step forward. Odysseus raised his hands up in faux innocence, prepared to bodily drag him away. He reached towards his friend, but Polites was faster, ducking under his outstretched arm and elbowing his king to the side.

He squinted in the gloom, and felt around with his hands until they touched the bundle. How he’d survived the war with eyesight as bad as his, Odysseus didn’t know. But for someone who couldn’t see six feet in front of him without his glasses, Polites was annoyingly perceptive sometimes.

“It’s a baby,” Polites breathed, stunned, his previous anger evaporated. “Where did you get a baby from, Captain?”

Odysseus stared at him. Perceptive sometimes.

“Wait- this isn’t? Is this the baby….” Realisation spread slowly across his friend’s face. It was followed by a smile so radiant it made Odysseus feel guilty all over again for his deception. “Oh Captain, you did have a plan!”

The King of Ithaca crouched down next to his friend, and they both considered the restless infant, and the implications of it being alive.

“I couldn’t do it,” Odysseus admitted at last. “I looked down at him, and all I saw was Telemachus.”

Polites hummed. “I’m glad of it. When I saw… I thought you’d finally been consumed by the violence of this war.”

“I nearly was.” He wasn’t proud to admit that, but it had to be said.

His friend placed a hand on his shoulder, offering a comfort Odysseus felt he didn’t deserve.

“Just so we’re being completely clear Captain, this is the Son of Hector?”

Odysseus tensed. “Do not speak of Hector, my friend. It is a dangerous name to be associated with. But yes,” he hung his head. “That is the prince of our mortal enemy.”

Polites startled him with a hug, and then punched him in the arm. Hard.

“Hey! What was that for?!”

“For lying to me, you idiot! I’ve spent the whole afternoon thinking you hated me, that you’d become a monster!” From Polites’ tone, it was clear that he equated the last few hours with an unbearable torture.

“I don’t hate you, my friend. And I didn’t want to lie to you. But no one was supposed to know!”

His friend stooped to pick up the baby, cooing as he rocked it. It immediately settled down. Odysseus watched him with no small amount of jealousy. Of course the baby would respond better to Polites.

“Have you been hiding him here all afternoon? I’m surprised no one has found him, even accidentally.”

Odysseus coughed. “I left it in the horse for a bit.”

“Oh, no one would think to look in the horse, what a great idea Captain!” his friend paused as he remembered something. “Did you hear that someone did their business in the horse?”

“No?”

“Yeah, apparently it smelt awful. You must have already moved the baby though; you’re lucky you missed whoever it was. Someone that depraved wouldn’t have taken kindly to a stray baby lying around in there.”

“Yeah, really lucky,” Odysseus said weakly. No way was he owning up to that.

“So what’s his name?”

The King of Ithaca paused. “I… actually don’t know.”

“You didn’t name him already?”

“It slipped my mind, what with everything else going on.”

“Captain!” Polites admonished.

Odysseus bristled. “I’m sorry that I didn’t stop to flick through a book of baby names whilst trying to hide it and also leading an army to victory against its parents.”

His friend looked down at the baby. “Well we can’t have that, now, can we? You need a name little one, and I think ‘son of Hector’ might attract too much attention. But what should we call you?”

He looked up at Odysseus suddenly. “Did you tell his mother that he’s still alive? She must be going crazy thinking that he’s dead!”

Odysseus faltered. “I…” Like the baby’s name, he hadn’t even given it’s mother a second thought. Gods, I really am bad at this parenthood thing, aren’t I?

“Captain!”

“What do you expect me to do? She’s a prisoner of war. She's been claimed as a war prize.”

“The poor woman needs to know, Odysseus! Her husband is dead, her kingdom has fallen, and now she thinks you killed her baby like a savage!”

“Polites, no one can know that the baby is alive, especially not its mother.”

His friend glared at him. “That would be very cruel of you, to let her believe the worst. Has she not suffered enough from Greek hands?”

The twinge of guilt was back.

“It’s too dangerous,” he said. Out loud, the excuse sounded especially lame after a decade of war.

“And I’ve never known you to be a coward, Captain,” Polites challenged. “When you have the opportunity to be kind, what do you have to lose?”

Odysseus sighed. This was one battle he wasn't going to win. “Fine. I’ll speak with the baby’s mother.” As much as he disliked the idea, he knew Polites was right.

He normally was.

Chapter Text

They had decided to take the baby back to Odysseus’ war tent to keep him warm. Or rather, Polites had insisted that leaving him exposed to the elements for another minute would be highly irresponsible, and that Odysseus really needed to take his vow to Zeus seriously.

The king of Ithaca had gritted his teeth and responded that he was taking his vow seriously, thank you very much, and that it would be dangerous if anyone in the encampment heard the baby’s wails.

Polites had simply smiled down at their little charge like he was just a baby, rather than a political time bomb, saying ‘but you’re such a good boy, aren’t you? You’re not going to make any noise, I’m sure of it.’ The baby had had the audacity to simply gurgle back in contentment, and that had decided the matter.

Odysseus, who had been exposed to the entirety of the decibel range the baby could use, privately seethed with resentment.

Finally, the war tents came into view. They had tried to skirt around the celebrations as much as possible, but now it was impossible to dodge the groups of drunken soldiers spilling out across the plain. Whilst Odysseus knew returning to the tent was a more sensible decision than braving the open night, he was getting more and more tense with every shadowy figure they passed.

They gave a wide berth to a collection of Diomedes’ and Menelaus’ men who were arguing over who were better fighters, detouring around a tree. As they turned back to their previous path, another group of men cut across in front of them. Odysseus saw a flash of Ithacan blue against the flickering torchlight.

Oh Gods, we don’t need this! He made to grab Polites and hide back against the tree, but his soldiers had seen them.

“Polites, that you?” one called out. “We can see your glasses!”

They exchanged wary glances, Polites’ tinged with an apology. No doubt his glasses had reflected their torchlight, making him instantly recognisable. It was too late to avoid them now. His friend carefully pulled the swaddling clothes to obscure the baby’s face, and adjusted his grip to make it less obvious that he was cradling an infant.

“You got me, friends! How are you enjoying the party?” he called, his tone jovial, as he stepped forward to meet them.

The Ithacan soldiers stumbled to a halt in front of them, various bottles and goblets hanging from their hands. Odysseus recognised them all - Elpenor, Antilochus, Lycaon, Amphidamas. He never thought he’d be so nervous to see his loyal men, who’d fought and bled beside him for 10 long years.

“It’s amazing!” Elpenor grinned.

Amphidamas hiccupped. “I’ve been dreaming of being this drunk -hic- since we set sail for Ithaca- who’s that with you? Is that -hic- our mighty fine leader?”

Odysseus raised his hand in a stiff wave.

“Captain!” The soldiers cried drunkenly, smiles plastered on their faces.

Lycaon tipped forward, intending to clap his commanding officer on the shoulder. He succeeded on the third attempt.

“I am glad you’re all enjoying the celebrations. This day has been too long in coming,” Odysseus steadied the man and passed him back to his friends.

“Polites, what are you holding?” Elpenor asked as he took another swig from his bottle.

Odysseus froze. His soldiers gathered around curiously, unaware of the sudden tension.

“A baby,” Polites said innocently, surreptitiously taking a step back before they could reach for the bundle.

For a moment, no-one said anything. The soldiers turned to look at their captain as one. The king of Ithaca felt his palms grow clammy as the seconds stretched out, painfully long.

Then, they burst into laughter. Polites laughed too, but Odysseus noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ha! Yeah right!”

“That was a -hic- good one, Polites!”

“Man, the look on your face!”

Odysseus managed a weak smile. His legs felt like jelly. Making the most of their comrades’ mirth, Polites grabbed his arm and began dragging them away from the soldiers.

“I’m afraid we’ve got to dash now, we’re trying to find a wall high enough to throw it off! The Captain’s promised to show me how it’s done. But have a nice night, friends!” He said, with his usual brand of self-effacing charm.

They turned their backs on a chorus of whoops and laughter that carried after them on the night air. Once the soldiers had vanished back into the darkness, both men quickened their pace.

Polites let out a breath once the coast was clear. “Hopefully they’ll be too drunk to remember they even ran into us, come sunrise.”

“Why in Hades did you tell them we had a baby?!” Odysseus hissed. “Are you quite mad?!”

“If we tried to deny it, it would have sounded suspicious. Sometimes, it’s better to be so overt, it’s covert” his friend replied sagely. “Isn’t that the principle you used for the horse? No one thinks about what’s right in front of them.”

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Odysseus let out a sigh. “Fine. But next time you decide to start appropriating my tactics, I’d appreciate a warning. It’ll be a lot harder to fulfil my vow to Zeus if I’ve died of a heart attack.”

Despite the severity of the situation, Polites gave him a smug grin. “No can do, Captain. No can do.”

After leaving Polites in the tent to guard the baby, Odysseus had wound his way back through the celebrations, towards the tents where the captive women were being kept. He hadn’t properly seen the baby’s mother before, Hector’s widow, his brain unhelpfully supplied, but it was obvious who she was. She had the most guards outside her tent, wore the finest silks, and had clearly been crying her eyes out for most of the day. Odysseus tried not to think too hard about the fact he’d been responsible for most of her pain.

That Andromache had not been happy to see him was an understatement. Her blond hair was in disarray, and the glare she turned on the king of Ithaca was full of the deepest, ugliest hatred. The maidservants trying to attend to her shrank back as he entered the tent, while she stood, defiant, fists clenched, looking every bit a Trojan royal.

Ordinarily, Odysseus would have bribed the guards for their silence. Today, however, he could offer no treasure that the guards could not have looted for themselves. Instead, he drew himself up to his full height, and swaggered past with the authority of a Greek general, barking out ‘General Neoptolemus wishes to speak with the lady’. None of the guards had questioned why Neoptolemus hadn’t come himself.

Outside in the chill night air, Odysseus had tried to be subtle about the fact he was removing Andromache from her temporary cell, but she fought him every step of the way, spitting curses so swiftly and hatefully that he was surprised he hadn’t spontaneously combusted.

‘May Poseidon curse you with waves that lead you far from Ithacan shores, and feed you saltwater until your lungs burst!’

‘I wish every nail in every plank in every ship of your fleet rusts away to nothing, and you fall, man by man, into the cold embrace of Scylla.’

'I curse the Gods to drag you down to Hades, where you shall face the vengeful dead!'

Her anger was justifiable, but Odysseus still winced at each proclamation. They needed as much goodwill from the Gods as possible to smuggle the baby safely back to Ithaca, and he hoped fervently she wasn’t undermining their luck.

As they approached the Ithacan tents, Andromache renewed her struggles, tears falling between her cries. “Is it not enough that you slaughter my baby, my husband, leave my city in ruins, and still expect to take yet more from me, knowing full well what my fate is?!”

Odysseus spun her around, cutting off her cries in surprise. “You need to keep your voice down!” he hissed.

“Why? So that brute Neoptolemus does not come for you? I’d let the whole world know where you’re dragging me if it means he’d cleave your head in two!”

He supressed a growl. He didn’t have the time or patience to deal with this, not when they were supposed to be stealthy.

“I’m doing this for your own good, my lady.”

She laughed hysterically. “Oh yes, I’m sure of that, Odysseus of Ithaca. All those stories of your devotion to your wife would be ruined, wouldn’t they?” She sucked in a deep breath, before screaming at the top of her voice “I curse you that your loving wife finds you detestable upon your return, that she takes runs into the embrace of every man of every station, bearing you many, many bastards, and that those bastards grow up to all be a foot taller than you!”

He clamped a hand over her mouth. She tried to bite at him, but he tightened his grip, and began frogmarching her towards the tents.

“If you would just give me a minute to explain,” he hissed, “then you would find this display rather pointless,” he forced his tone to soften, very aware at what she thought was happening. “Although I can understand why you feel this way, and I promise you this is not what it looks like.”

They were nearly upon his tent. Andromache was a deadweight, still struggling against him, although she had mercifully stopped trying to shout. In a move undignified for either a general, or a lady, he bodily hauled her through the tent flap, dropping her to the ground as she levelled a well-placed kick to his shins.

“You’re a monster, Odysseus.” She got to her feet, eyes filled with nothing but hate. “I pray the Gods see fit to turn you into the worst creature from Tartarus, that they boil you alive in pitch for a thousand years, that your soul never finds rest!”

“Hey, that’s not very nice!”

She whirled around to find Polites standing awkwardly in the corner of the tent, one hand outstretched placatingly, the other holding a bundle of rags.

Normally, Odysseus would have considered Polites to be one of the least threatening people you could encounter, with his floppy curls, glasses, and open expression a far cry from the grizzled countenance most soldiers wore.

Andromache didn’t see any of that though. From her perspective, two well-trained enemy soldiers had hauled her off to a private place. From her perspective, this signified only one thing.

“You intend to share me with your men?” she dropped to her knees, the fight leaving her body. “After all this, is there no end to my suffering and humiliation? Why have the Gods forsaken me so?”

“What?!” Polites squawked. “No, uhh, Lady Andromache, that’s not what we want!”

She raised her head, confusion filtering through her despair. “What?”

“I’m sure you’re very pretty and all,” Polites floundered, “but I, we, wouldn’t do something like that, umm… we wanted to, ahh, speak to you…”

“Speak to me,” she said flatly.

Odysseus pinched his brow, “I have been trying to tell you that - I only want to talk.”

She turned a glare on him, “then why bring me out here just to talk? There was nothing stopping you from talking to me in my cell.”

“We needed somewhere private. And, well, we wanted to show you something as well.”

She immediately bristled.

“Not like that!” Polites interjected. “Uhh, there’s no good way to do this, but here.”

He shoved the bundle of rags at her.

She looked confused, and then she looked down, and then-

She gave a strangled cry. “Is… this is… oh!”

Her baby blinked up at her sleepily.

“Yes, it is,” Odysseus said simply.

Andromache started to shake, one trembling hand pulling back the layers of cloth to inspect her son. All of a sudden she clutched her baby tightly and let out a wail, sobbing over the bundle.

Odysseus and Polites exchanged a panicked look.

“Ahh, I’m sorry, your Highness, we didn’t mean to upset you.”

If anything, Polites’ words only made her cried harder. He awkwardly patted her on the shoulder, in a vain attempt at soothing her.

“Captain, what do we do?”

“I don’t know!” Odysseus was at a loss. Complicated battle tactics, cunning schemes, and thinking on his feet were all things he knew how to do very well. Dealing with women on the other hand, not so much.

“But you have a wife!”

“Penelope has never done anything like this before!” The only time he could remember his wife losing her composure was when she gave birth to Telemachus, and that had been understandable, because even watching the scene had been traumatising for the younger Odysseus.

“Well, you need to do something!”

“Why should I have to?”

Polites played his trump card. “Because you’re the Captain!”

Odysseus winced. Sometimes he really wished he wasn’t in charge. Steeling himself, he approached Andromache. “Would you like some wine? Are you ill? He is unharmed, I can assure you.”

He got no response. By know, the baby had fully woken up and also joined in the crying. The two men winced as the sound bounced around the tent.

“Captain, we need to stop them crying, someone could hear!”

“I know Polites, but I don’t know what to do!” May Athena grant me wisdom, he thought. He heard a faint ticking in his head, a trickle of laughter, and then the ticking stopped. So much for divine intervention.

He knelt down, and shook her shoulders. “Please, Andromache, you need to be quiet. You both need to be quiet! Do you want Neoptolemus or one of the other generals overhearing?”

The mention of Neoptolemus seemed to snap her out of her hysteria, and she met his gaze, her sobs slowly quieting, although tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said emphatically. “Now, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

She sniffled again. “I-I thought my baby dead! And now he is in my arms, and he is alive.”

Odysseus smiled, confused. “That was very much my intention.”

“Your Highness, I thought you would be happy?” Polites asked.

Andromache cast a baleful look at the two men. “I am happy. These tears are relief, and joy, at a miracle I thought I would never be granted. A mother’s love runs so deep, that I had committed to giving up on life. And now I find that commitment was premature, for my son is alive.”

Oh. Odysseus and Polites exchanged another glance, one that said, why are women so complicated? and I think we’ve done the right thing?

“I’m sorry,” Odysseus said, “but no one could know he was still alive. Even telling you is a big risk - perhaps the biggest risk. If anyone finds out…” he trailed off.

Andromache looked down at her son like he was made of the finest gemstones. “I understand. You needed me to make it look convincing.” She fixed her gaze on the two Greeks. “Thank you, for telling me. You have saved two lives today.”

They shifted uneasily at the implication. Polites mouthed I told you so at his friend. Odysseus, ever the benevolent king, ignored him.

Something seemed to occur to Andromache. “But if my son is alive, then who’s baby did you throw from the wall?!”

After Odysseus had finished explaining what happened, there was silence in the tent.

Polites looked at Odysseus like he was a genius, albeit a mad genius who had grown an extra head and had tentacles for arms.

“That simple?” was all Andromache could manage.

Odysseus coughed, embarrassed. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of time.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t use an actual baby for a decoy,” Polites decided.

Unsurprisingly, none of them had any follow-up questions.

“What’s his name?” Odysseus asked softly.

The baby had mercifully settled down, dozing contentedly in his mother’s arms whilst Andromache pressed gentle kisses to his forehead. She looked up at him in surprise. “You don’t know? I assumed the Greeks would have heard the public announcement.”

Odysseus wracked his brains for any memory of the announcement. He came up blank. “We knew that you had borne Hector a son, but anything else would have been deemed irrelevant intelligence.”

“Irrelevant intelligence. Yes, I suppose it would have been, to you. Just another enemy, not a person. Well, he was announced to the public as Scamandrius.”

“Scamandrius.” Odysseus repeated.

“Captain? I’m not sure he should keep the name,” Polites fidgeted. “It’s a lovely name, of course, but wouldn’t it be a little… obvious?”

“I know, he can’t. But I still wanted to know, so that I may help him understand this mess when he gets old enough.”

“What do you mean, when he gets old enough?” Andromache broke in.

Odysseus pursed his lips. “I intend to take him back to Ithaca with me, and raise him as my own.”

She gaped at him. It was unclear whether she thought this was a good idea or not, but Odysseus knew there wasn’t many paths open to the royal son of a conquered land. It was a slim choice between immediate death and concealment. If the Greeks thought that the boy lived, and that one of the Trojans had taken the child and fled, they would have put considerable resources into finding and killing him. A dead enemy couldn’t exact his revenge, after all.

The only two things in the baby’s favour currently was that everyone believed him dead, and that no-one believed a Greek general would harbour a Trojan prince, much less the King of Ithaca. They all thought him much too clever for that, which, Odysseus thought, was a trick in and of itself.

“That’s why we’re leaving as soon as possible in the morning,” Polites helpfully chimed in. “We don’t want to wait around and risk him being discovered.”

“You- you’re taking him with you?”

Odysseus smiled awkwardly. “I may have made a vow to Zeus, to spare his life. Scamandrius of Troy died this afternoon, when I 'threw' him from the wall for everyone to see. As far as the Gods are concerned, you’re now holding a prince of Ithaca, who will be raised as my own flesh and blood.”

Fresh tears started to well up in Andromache’s eyes. “I don’t know what to say, I don’t even know what to think,” she cried. “You have spared my baby, but now you’re taking him away from me. I know this must be some miracle I am witnessing, and yet all I feel is anger that it must be this way.”

“I know,” Odysseus said simply. “This isn’t the outcome I wanted, either. But I have not been struck down by lightning, so it seems the Gods are in agreement, and now I must honour my vow.”

“Yes, I suppose you must,” she said, resigned. “But if Scamandrius died this afternoon, then what identity will you give my son?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, your Highness. I would not know where to begin with choosing a name. That honour should go to a mother.”

She thought for a moment, stroking her baby’s head lovingly. “I always called him Astyanax in private. My lord of the city. The son of Troy’s great defender, and all my hopes and dreams.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” Polites smiled.

“Would anyone recognise the name? No-one from the palace, none of the servants?” Odysseus asked.

“I would not think so,” a tear slipped down her cheek. “Hector knew, and the nursery guards, but they are all dead now.”

There was an awkward silence. Odysseus suspected that he’d probably been responsible for killing the nursery guards, and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him. It was much easier when they were nameless, faceless enemies. Confronting who the dead had been was something no soldier liked to do.

He took a breath to steady himself. “Then he will be Astyanax of Ithaca, if I have your blessing?”

“Astyanax of Ithaca. It is not the future I hoped my son would have, but I am thankful he now has a future at all. I can do nothing but provide my blessing.”

Odysseus met her gaze, trying to convey the weight of his emotions. “I promise you, your Highness, that I will love Astyanax as if he is my own. I realise that I am a poor substitute for his real parents, but I will endeavour to make sure he knows kindness and care every day that he is in my charge. He will be my son, and accepted as such by the people of Ithaca.”

“And what of your own wife, Penelope? Will she accept my son?”

Odysseus had been wondering this himself. Penelope had been many things; brilliant, pragmatic, sharp, principled. She had not been especially forgiving, and he knew all too well that returning with a random child would spark rumours of an affair. It would be the ultimate disrespect to her.

After 10 years though, he wasn’t sure if, or how, she might have changed.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. 

Andromache clutched Astyanax tighter.

“But she is fair and compassionate. I never promised the Gods that she would accept the boy as her own; that is not something I can force upon her. I can only trust that my wife will understand, given the circumstances. She might never love him as her own, but neither will she do him harm. I know this is not the reassurance you seek, but I hope it is enough.”

Andromache smiled thinly. “An hour ago I thought my baby dead. There are no words to describe the agony of that experience. Compared to that, even a chance at a safe life for him is enough.”

Astyanax squirmed closer to his mother, little fists bunched in the fabric of her dress.

Seeing the happy scene only made Odysseus feel guiltier. “I’m sorry that I cannot help you more. If I could, I would take you both back to Ithaca as wards of my kingdom.”

“Do not dangle false hope in front of me, Odysseus. You know very well that Neoptolemus has already… claimed me…” she tensed, and visibly swallowed. “And your famed fidelity proceeds you. It is better that he does not suspect my son lives, and your sudden interest in me would only arouse suspicion.”

Odysseus knew that she was right, even though he detested the thought. But then, what right did he have to be upset? He wasn’t the one staring down a grim fate in Neoptolemus’ bedchamber, and who wouldn’t get to hold his child again.

“… Just…” her voice broke. “Just make sure my son knows how much I love him.”

He settled a hand on her back, trying to offer comfort, knowing the gesture fell about a thousand miles short. “I will. You have my word.”

A tear fell onto the baby’s swaddling clothes. It was quickly joined by more.

“I guess you need to take me back now?” she asked, her voice thick.

He probably should. The longer Andromache spent in his tent, the more likely suspicions would be raised, the more likely Neoptolemus would come looking for his prize. It was too dangerous to indulge his feelings of guilt any more. He thought back to his earlier confrontation with Neoptolemus.

“No. You can stay till first light.” Screw him.

She blinked up at him in surprise.

“I can’t give you much, but I can give you this time, however short and insufficient it might be. You’ll be safe in my tent - you have my word.” He allowed himself a wan smile. “Just try not to let Astyanax make too much noise - the soldiers are drunk, not deaf.”

Andromache gave him a small smile. “I misjudged you, King of Ithaca. Perhaps you are not the monster told in stories. After all, why do you keep granting me gifts when I am the princess of your mortal enemy?”

Odysseus cast a sidelong look at his friend. “A wise man once told me that kindness is brave.”

Polites blushed, but he was also smiling. “I hear this wise man also has the patience of a saint, despite grievous mistreatment at the hands of his King.”

“Oh, that is a pity,” Andromache said.

“I hear that this nameless king had very valid reasons for his behaviour.”

“I hear that the wise man is owed one hundred apologies, yet has never complained nor held a grudge.” Polites waggled his finger.

“I think the wise man has an inflated sense of his own importance,” Odysseus muttered.

“Not true! This wise man is also far more good-looking and in touch with his emotions. I hear he’s a real catch.”

Andromache looked between them. “Are you talking about yourselves in the third person?”

Odysseus scowled. “Go and wait outside the tent, Polites. I will join you momentarily.”

His friend ducked through the flap, laughing.

“I will return to keep guard soon, my Lady. But first I must make an appearance amongst the other Greek generals.”

She inclined her head. “Of course. I will keep Astyanax quiet.” She regarded him shrewdly. “I will also make sure he is fed and changed before you leave. Will you require any advice for the journey to Ithaca?”

Was it that obvious? “I am a little… out of practice with caring for an infant, it is true.”

Andromache nodded. “Perhaps your wise man should learn as well.”

“Perhaps he should.” The King of Ithaca turned to leave.

“Oh, and Odysseus?” she called after him.

“Yes, your highness?”

“When you return, please bring me the finest wine that you have looted from my palace. After the day I’ve had, I need a drink.”

“… Of course, your highness.”

Emerging from the tent, Odysseus clapped Polites on the back. “Come, my friend. Let us rejoin the party for a while, and give them some privacy.” He felt lighter than he had done all day. Maybe there was still time to save face with the other generals.

“Thank you, Captain, for listening to me,” Polites said sincerely. “It was the right thing to do. She needed to know Astyanax was safe.”

Odysseus sighed. “Yes, I think so too.” He thought for a moment. “I’m not going to apologise one hundred times, but I am sorry, for lying to you.” For making you think the worst of me. He hunched over until he was pretending to grovel. “If only the wise man would accept his king had good intentions, and forgive his foolish behaviour! What will it take for my dearest friend to accept that I have learnt the error of my ways?”

Polites thought for a moment. “If you truly think I am so wise, when we get back to Ithaca you must make me your official wise man.”

“Only if you are willing to remain my friend. I do not wish to promote you away from such minor things as my company.”

“It is a heavy burden, Captain, but I will graciously accept. Professional best friend, that’s me!”

Odysseus laughed. “Then it is done.”

“In which case - apology accepted!” his friend gave him a mock salute. “Can we get drunk now?”

That sounded like an amazing plan. Odysseus wasn’t sure if there was enough wine in all of Troy after the day he’d had, but he was willing to give it his best effort and find out.

He glanced back towards the tent, a little guiltily.

“We should not get too drunk. After all, their safety is still very much in our hands. But, there is no manner of beast or man that could keep me from at least one more goblet of wine.”

Polites returned with Odysseus trailing behind him. He was beaming. His face had practically split in two from the size of his grin.

Alarm bells started going off in Eurylochus’ head. He watched as Polites twirled over to the drinks, grabbed a whole bottle of wine, and floated back to the Captain, grinning like a lunatic. Odysseus still looked tense, but he smiled when Polites offered him the bottle, and took a long drink. Compared to before they left, it was like their little fight had never happened-

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no.

Rising stiffly to his feet, he approached them. Odysseus looked at his thunderous expression warily. Polites didn’t pay it any attention.

“Eurylochus, my friend, have some of this gorgeous win-”

“Where. Is. It?”

Polites’ smile faltered.

The Captain looked sheepish. “Where is what?”

He grabbed them both by the arm and hauled them bodily away from the party, out of earshot of anyone. The fact that neither protested at the rough treatment confirmed his suspicions.

Standing in the dark, in the cool night air, in a foreign city whose soil ran red with the blood they’d spilled, he lost it.

“I can’t believe you have been so stupid, Captain! Tell me where it is! And tell me the truth. This. Instant.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Eurylochus.”

Oh Gods, if Odysseus hadn’t been his king, he would have throttled the man.

“You will tell me, Captain, and then I will go and get my sword and end this nonsense ONCE AND FOR ALL and then we will forget this conversation ever happened!”

Odysseus inspected his fingernails. “And that is why I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The son of Hector! The child that everyone saw you throw off the wall! That one, small, ticking time bomb of a threat that should be this very instant on its way to the Underworld!”

“If you’re looking for a corpse, then I can point you in the direction I threw it.”

“But I won’t find the corpse of the son of Hector, will I, Captain? I’ll find nothing but another one of your tricks! So I’ll ask you again, WHERE. IS. IT?!”

Polites looked between them in alarm. “But Eurylochus, how did you know Astyanax was still alive?”

Odysseus closed his eyes at that, wincing. Eurylochus wanted to grab his friend and shake some sense - any amount of sense - into him.

“You could have at least tried to deny it,” the Captain sounded pained.

“It’s just that, I thought we were the only two people who knew.”

“Yes, but unluckily for you, you’re as easy to read as a child’s primer, and have about the same complete lack of tact!” Eurylochus turned to Odysseus. “Captain, why did you tell him?!”

He felt slightly vindicated at the bright red tinge creeping over his Captain’s cheeks. “I wasn’t going to tell him, or you, or anyone else! I was quite content to let everyone believe the worst, as you saw earlier. I wasn’t going to say anything until we were out at sea.”

Out at sea. On the ships that were leaving as early as possible.

Eurylochus felt his brain stop working. This couldn’t be happening. He’d been hit really, really hard on the head during the battle. Repeatedly. With a blunt object. It was the only way to explain the current madness he found himself in.

Both men tensed, waiting for his outburst.

“YOU ARE NOT BRINGING IT BACK TO ITHACA!”