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In another life, Odysseus would say that his meeting with Diomedes was not that of legend. He would say it was another of the many in-between moments of his life, the stitches which hold together the tapestry of his life; unmistakable, necessary, though invisible when seen from afar. A king meeting a king, with all the respect that Athena’s favour brings. Only they could understand what the other went through to earn her respect, her favour, to carry that title upon his shoulder.
In another life, Odysseus would return home to Penelope in months, with a few wartime stories to tell her and no worries upon him. He would raise his son, too young to even remember his absence, and the three of them would be happy. Perhaps Telemachus would even grow up to be an older brother.
But that is in another life. One which only exists in some far-off corner of Odysseus’ mind in which he does not allow himself to wander often; unsafe, unseeming, those sorts of daydreams are not befit a king. A tactician knows better than to allow himself the distraction of wanting. It leads to dreaming, to longing, to telling yourself little lies to make things feel better until you do not know how to tell yourself the truth any longer.
Instead of the lies Odysseus tells himself, instead of the other lives he may live in some other universe in which he is not a hero of old, and is just another warrior, here are the truths of Odysseus, King of Ithaca, and so much more.
The first truth is this: Odysseus and Diomedes meet not as kings, but as warriors; for what is a king in a war but another warrior on the battlefield? What is a king when it comes down to the blood and gore, the anguish and pain that seeps into the very soil they battle on? In the end, they are just men. The soil beneath their feet will blossom into bright blooms someday, grown from the very blood that spills bright and red from their veins.
They meet first in Aulis as the war began, Achaean warriors coming together to fight for a cause they all swore themselves to long ago. This, at least, was not something of legend. This, in itself, was calm. A meeting of kings amongst kings, and warriors ready to send themselves off to war.
Odysseus and Diomedes’ first work together is to trick a young girl into her own death for her father’s mistake. Iphigenia is led to an altar believing it to be a wedding, a joyous affair, to a hero, no less! To the hero Achilles, second to none, a godlike warrior unlike any other seen in the Trojan War. What an honour it would be, were any of it true.
What an honour it would have been, had Odysseus’ silver tongue not brought the lie to life. Her blood spilled across the floor of the altar like wine from an overturned bottle, thick and red, an unwilling sacrifice to appease the gods and their righteous fury. It was here, watching the girl bleed for her father’s mistake, that Diomedes began to understand Odysseus.
A tactician, certainly, but far more than that. Quick, cunning, ruthless. Dangerous in a way Diomedes could both understand and not. The two of them may not have slit her throat, may not have held the blade that cut through her skin, but they were bloodied nonetheless. Diomedes could kill. Diomedes could lie. He could lie and steal and outwit if absolutely necessary, and yet never had he seen someone do it so smooth, so easily as Odysseus.
Odysseus, King of Ithaca wove a story for Iphigenia like a tapestry fine as silk. Beautiful as the works created in Arachne and Athena’s contest of old— unknowing to Diomedes, beautiful as the very tapestries Penelope, Queen of Ithaca herself, would weave. His words dripped like wine off his tongue, honey-sweet, carrying with him the soft siren melodies a girl like her would only dream of.
Odysseus, King of Lies, wove a story for Iphigenia he knew she wanted to hear.
Iphigenia would find out it was only a dream in time. She would scream and cry and sob and beg, pleading on her knees to her father for her life. That he spare her. That there must be another way. But the girl’s cries fell upon deaf ears, for the god’s demand was all they could do if they wanted to continue on their journey. Unluckily for her, she was not more important than the war.
Before any warrior’s blood had been spilled, her blood was upon their hands. It did not phase Diomedes, used to the bloodshed and horrors that war brought upon them all, innocent or not. Odysseus seemed different, though the man hid it well. But Diomedes was close enough to see the way he stiffened at Iphigenia’s cries, the way his throat bobbed and his eyes shone a little differently in the light.
Some time would pass before Odysseus spoke to Diomedes about it. He hadn’t expected Odysseus to speak of it again at all; it seemed they’d all had a silent pact never to mention it. Some of the men spoke in hushed whispers of hearing her scream in their dreams. Diomedes had seen so many deaths since such a young age nothing could haunt him anymore. The thought didn’t even come to mind until he overheard the men.
Odysseus came to Diomedes the night after they stopped at Troy. Far behind them, away from the sandy shores, the men lay in their tents sleeping. Here, on this breeze-swept beach, it was only them. King of Ithaca and King of Argos; King of Wasteland and King of War.
When he approaches, Odysseus’ footsteps are just loud enough for Diomedes to hear him. Diomedes turns, looking up at the king. Perhaps the respect gained the day of the sacrifice was not one-sided after all.
“Is this seat taken?” Odysseus’ smile always looks a little crooked, as if there’s something he knows that you do not. Perhaps there always is, with a man like this.
“That is not a seat.” Diomedes’ gaze goes back to the wine-dark sea, lit only by the moon, bright in the starry sky above them. “Though I suppose it is not, no.”
“Excellent.” Odysseus sits down next to Diomedes. He is closer than Diomedes had anticipated.
They watch the waves in silence, the sound of the currents which brought them there constantly fighting for attention with the wind which swept through the shore. In one such gust, Diomedes looks over at Odysseus to find the king with his head tilted back, breeze running through his hair. He looks at peace. He looks so vulnerable, throat exposed, head tilted back. Like Iphigenia, when she was finally killed.
He brushes the thought from his mind as he does all the others which float through it unbidden. Pretends it never happened. And yet, a thought Odysseus has no way to hear seems to make it into his mind anyway. He turns to Diomedes, opening his eyes lazily. In this moment Odysseus looks like a cat slowly waking from a nap in the sun, eyes barely open, and yet still looking at Diomedes with the utmost attention.
“I still think of Iphigenia.” His voice is a whisper on the wind, a secret for only her and Diomedes. “Her screaming, that is. I hear her in my dreams.”
“It had to be done.” Diomedes repeats what he tells himself the times he lingers upon it, few and far between as they are. “It was not the kindest outcome, but it was the only one which allowed us to continue, which was all we could do.”
Odysseus nods, falling silent once more. It washes over Diomedes like a wave in the sea, cool and refreshing, a soft lull in the tides.
“Do you think me weak?” Odysseus’ voice is quiet. No longer a whisper, though there is something about the way he speaks. These words are still for Diomedes’ ears alone. “Do you think that her screams echoing in my mind, in my dreams, make me a lesser soldier?”
“No.” Diomedes doesn’t need to think about it, not even for a moment. “You have empathy. She was innocent, and died for someone else’s mistake. A death being necessary does not mean it was not a life worth mourning.”
“My hand never held the blade.”
“And yet your words, sweet as syrup and just as hard to let go, guided her.” Diomedes turns now to look at Odysseus as he speaks. “We did not hold the blade. We did not slit her throat ourselves. And yet that day we were a shepherd of Death, guiding Iphigenia into his arms.”
“Guiding her early.” Odysseus brings one knee up, resting his chin on it. He looks away from Diomedes, unable to stand his piercing gaze any longer. “She was still so young. Barely ready to be wed.”
“Perhaps.” Diomedes tilts his head slightly. “Did we guide her early, if we followed the Fates’ command? And, truly, do we have any ability not to follow what the Fates have woven? We cannot see the tapestry we are subject of, all we know is what is in front of us. We do what we must. They have already decided.”
Odysseus reels as if struck, sitting back and turning more fully to Diomedes, whole body facing him rather than just his head. “Do we have no say? Are our actions truly so far out of our hands, even as we decide each step we take?”
“We do. I could decide that if the Fates weaving our tapestry means nothing, then truly nothing I do matters and I should simply lay on this beach until I die.” Diomedes turns, too, giving Odysseus the same attention being given to him. “But just because I cannot decide it all does not mean I will not do something. Perhaps I cannot turn the tide of the war—“
Odysseus snorts at this, and Diomedes raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“You are said to be rivaled only by Achilles, son of Thetis and greatest of the Greeks. You are rivaled only by the ichor which runs through his veins. If any of us can turn the tide of the war, it would be you, Diomedes.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps. And yet my point still stands. I would say this even if I were an insignificant soldier who barely changed anything at all. I have a say in what I do, even if the Fates decide what I fight for will not win. We cannot know what influences their choices.”
“I suppose we cannot, no.” Odysseus seems satisfied with this answer, nodding as he turns back to the sea. He looks less tense than he did when he’d first approached.
Diomedes realizes in their silence that Odysseus has likely never spoken to him as much as he has today. Looking back on it, he doesn’t think they’ve had a conversation last long like this, just the two of them. Even before Iphigenia, Odysseus summarized his plan quite succinctly. There was no time to waste, after all.
They sit like this, in silence, for longer than Diomedes cares to admit. Eventually, as the moon slowly shifts in the sky, higher and higher, Odysseus turns to Diomedes, sand shifting beneath his hand as he draws nonsensical patterns in the shore.
“I believe I will be able to rest well for the rest of tonight, little time as that may be.” Odysseus’ smile is soft, barely there, but it is just as crooked as always, filled with secrets and lies and truths that Diomedes may never tell apart. “Thank you for your time, friend. I enjoyed our conversation.”
“As did I.” Diomedes looks up at him when Odysseus stands, taking his hands when offered and pulling himself up. “Thank you for coming to me. Perhaps I will rest as well.”
Odysseus nods. “I will see you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
They walk together in silence to the camp, going their separate ways to their tents when their paths split. Perhaps they will see one another on the shoreline soon, perhaps they never will again. Only the Fates know what they have woven, no matter how small the detail.