Chapter Text
There is a storm brewing on the horizon.
You can barely see the dark clouds gathering in the distance, for the sun is so bright. It looks so out of place against the expanse of blue sky, ink blotting a fresh sheet of parchment. You block the light with your hand to better see the severity of the storm. You think it may be here within the day.
This is not ideal, as you were set to leave today. After ten long years in Troy, everyone is eager to return home. Your twelve ships have been packed up with all the riches they can carry, and then some. Some of the men have been nagging you about taking the Trojan women as slaves, but this is a situation you have yet to decide on. After all, more people aboard the ships means more mouths to feed.
You hear someone approach behind you. Strong steps. You know who it is before he speaks.
“Your Majesty,” Eurylochus says. He is your second-in-command and your brother-in-law, and you two have fought many battles alongside each other over the past ten years. “The men are ready to depart.”
“Gods know I am, too,” you say, looking at the horizon one last time. “Unfortunately, there are some things that must be done first. I am meeting with my fellow kings to discuss the sacrifices we shall make before we depart.”
“When?”
You look up at the sun. “Soon.”
There is a lull in the conversation, and you sense that Eurylochus is tense. You don’t fill the silence, hoping that will prompt him to speak his mind.
“...I doubted your idea,” Eurylochus eventually says. “With the horse. But it worked out. And I feel…” he pauses, searching for the right word. “...pride. That it was my king who thought of it.”
If anyone should feel proud, it’s you. You came up with the idea, after all, and it took a load of convincing to get the rest of the kings on board. And now you, Odysseus, have won a war.
“Double check the water stores on our ships,” you instruct Eurylochus. “And let no man pour wine. We don’t need drunkenness as we depart.”
For a moment, Eurylochus looks as if he is about to argue, but instead he responds, “yes, sir.”
« ☆ —⋆——꒰ঌ·☆·໒꒱ ——⋆— ☆ »
The tent you were told to meet in is new, a hastily constructed thing of cloth and sticks, rather than one of the mud huts that had been built over the last ten years. Some soldiers, you were told, found joy in destroying them, as a reminder that they could now return home. You open the flap of the tent door and see many of your fellow kings already standing around a table.
“Odysseus, my friend!” Menelaus greets you. “So nice of you to join us!” After watching him mope around the camp for years, it was nice to see him jovial again. You haven’t gotten a chance to talk to Helen since she was rescued, but you hope she carries a similar joy.
Diomedes stands in the corner, one hand resting on his sword. Locrian Ajax, by contrast, leans on the table, his guard fully down. Agamemnon is sketching what appears to be rudimentary cows with charcoal, stroking his beard like he considers himself genius.
“I find great joy in meeting with you all again,” you lie, an easy smile finding its way onto your face. “I hope I have not caused you to wait for too long.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Menelaus chuckles. His cheeks are a bit red. Perhaps he has spent too long under the Trojan sun.
“You’re not even the last one here,” Diomedes says. To many, he would sound blunt, maybe even annoyed, but after many late nights spent talking with him, you recognize the hint of amusement in his voice.
Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, is the next to arrive. He says nothing as he steps into the tent. He is not required to be here. He leads no armies, wears no crown, and yet joins the table of kings like he belongs without question. And no one does question him.
“Achillides,” Menelaus says, “how nice of you to join us.” This time, he sounds like he means it quite less.
You understand why. Though you have been able to make good conversation with him in the past, Neoptolemus is strange in the way you have only seen in soldiers too soaked in blood to be recognizably human underneath it. He never meets anyone’s eyes, and rarely speaks unless he has to. He fights even his allies, with a tongue sharper than the sword he always carries. You are sure that, even know, at his first turnings of manhood, that he only thinks of war. These next few years will not be kind to him, you imagine.
“I was wondering about the sacrifice,” he says, the gap between his front teeth giving him a bit of a lisp.
“We were preparing to discuss just that,” Agamemnon says. “We are simply waiting for the advice of our elders.”
“I am not so old,” Old Nestor cuts in, pushing in behind Neoptolemus. You laugh, apparently the only one that understands he is making a joke. He is so old, grey-haired and wrinkled with a thinness starting to hollow out his cheeks. Old enough to know best what gods need to be pleased.
“Well, now that we are all accounted for,” Agamemnon says after clearing his throat, “we may begin the preparations. Thanks to Troy, we have cattle to spare. We shall waste no time performing the rites—”
“Must we make the sacrifice here?” Menelaus asks, almost a whine. “I have spent too long in this dreadful place, and I do not wish to spend a minute more.”
You, too, are eager to get home, but do not voice this thought yet. Instead, you wait to see how this will play out. No use diving into a battlefield if you do not know who your opponents are.
“Why should we wait?” Neoptolemus asks. He looks so out of place here. His face is yet beardless, and he stands shorter than all of you, his muscle thin and underdeveloped. Only fourteen, and yet standing among kings. He did help you win a war, after all.
“There is a storm brewing,” a voice said from behind. Every man in the room turned to look. It was Calchas, the Achaean seer, who had greatly aided the Greeks during the war. Like all seers, he was strange, speaking plainly at times and in riddles at others. You always tried your best to be polite to him, though at times it was infuriating to speak to someone who knew so much more than you.
“I am aware,” you say. “Do you foresee troubles as we depart?”
“That storm will sink every ship you have,” Calchas says, his eyes lazily drifting over the room full of kings. “It is sent by the gods. They are not happy.”
Unease wafts through the room like bad air. The wrath of the gods is something no man wants to incur. You wrack your brain for any atrocities you and your fellow men may have committed recently. You have always kept up on your praise and sacrifices, and you trust kings to do the same. Perhaps you bragged too much about the Horse, though it was such a great idea.
“What displeases the gods?” Agamemnon asks. His voice is sturdy, but you can tell by the way he leans forward that he is nervous. You prefer Agamemnon when he’s doubtful. He gets arrogant when he’s too sure of himself.
“I assume Ajax did not tell you what he did to Cassandra of Troy?” Calchas’s gaze drifts to Ajax the Lesser, until his eyes are boring holes into Ajax’s vulnerable throat. “In Athena’s temple?”
It does not take the full magnitude of your intelligence to figure out what happened. A rage fills you as you turn to face Ajax. He does a bad job at hiding his guilt, and the act is written all over his face. To defile the temple of your goddess, Athena Parthenos, is surely a crime that deserves punishment.
“The storm will brew,” Calchas continues, “until Locrian Ajax is dead. I’ve heard the gods are not picky about how.” He laughs, just once. It is a dry thing that gets caught in his throat on the way out.
Diomedes is the first to point his sword in Ajax’s direction. He is furious about the mistreatment towards Athena’s sacred temple. He, like you, takes his devotion to the goddess very seriously.
Ajax puts his hands up, but whether in surrender or prayer, you cannot tell.
“Ajax,” Agamemnon demands. “Does the seer speak the truth?”
Calchas tilts his head. “What an odd question. You have given him the opportunity to lie.”
Opportunity or not, Ajax doesn’t take it. “She was Trojan,” he says. “She deserved it.”
“My goddess deserved it?” Diomedes baits, his voice taking on an edge not unlike a roar.
“Please, brothers, we should not fight amongst ourselves.” Menelaus puts his hands up as if to push Diomedes and Ajax away from each other. He glances at you. You are cunning Odysseus, and you could incite a riot or pacify all these angry kings in just a few words.
What will you do?
Ajax disrespected Athena. For this, he must die. (Go to 2)
You have just ended a war. You are not in the mood for more violence. (Go to 4)