12. Odette

12

Odette

“ Y ou must wake!” I said, louder this time, trying to shake Odysseus from his nightmare.

He continued muttering incomprehensible words, caught in the grip of his terror, his hands clenching and unclenching, grappling with unseen adversaries.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, wild with confusion and fear as he jerked upright. His movement almost knocked me off the side of the narrow bed, but I grabbed the edge just in time to steady myself. His strong, calloused hand instinctively reached out, grasping my wrist tightly, as if anchoring himself to reality. For a moment, his grip was almost too tight, but then he blinked again, recognition dawning in his eyes as he realised who I was and where we found ourselves.

“You’re awake, you’re okay.” I rested my now released hand on his arm, stroking it gently, hoping to calm him.

His wild panic, near-silent though it was, slowly faded and he nodded, his body falling back on the bed and his breath coming in ragged gasps. When they eventually evened out, I asked the question on my mind, my eyes searching his for the truth.

“Who were you screaming for?”

“I was screaming?” His voice was so hoarse that he answered his own question. He swallowed, as if trying to reconcile reality with whatever had happened in his head. I held a cup of water up to his lips, and waited.

After taking several small sips, he answered me. “My son, Telemachus,” he rasped.

I paused, considering my response, the rapid beat of my heart against my ribs. “How did he die?”

Odysseus struggled back up into a sitting position, removing my hand from his arm, which, for some reason, made me feel less than.

“He didn’t.”

I didn’t press, though I wanted to know, and somehow he must have sensed that. Or he needed to get it off his chest, which I could understand. So he continued.

“The men came to fetch me for the war, and I didn’t want to go. I pretended to be a madman, but they saw my ruse for what it was. They placed my son in front of my plough, where I’d been sowing salt instead of seed, forcing me to choose between killing my son or going to war.”

He paused, watching me closely, as if expecting to see horror or disgust. I worked hard to keep my expression passive, refusing to let him see the turmoil inside me.

“I swerved at the last minute,” he continued. “But in the dream, I didn’t. I wonder if it is a message that something has happened to my son.”

As he said it, the flickering light from the lone lantern in the medical tent cast ghostly shapes on the canvas walls. The scent of medicinal herbs and the faint, metallic tang of blood filled the air. The rest of the injured men slept soundly around us; the only sounds were their soft breaths and occasional sleep murmurs. Otherwise, we were undisturbed.

“You should not say such things.” I reached for the cloth beside the bowl on the small table. Dipping it in water, I wrung the cloth and gently applied it to his brow. “Rest.”

“How can I rest when I do not know the fate of my boy?”

I could see the tension in Odysseus’ muscles, his body still rigid with fear and anguish that the nightmare had conjured. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each exhale a whispered plea. This anguish, this torment, I realised was worse than anything I had planned for him.

“My husband told me that you would come and bash our babes’ heads in. That it would be better if we died in our sleep as a family, the night before you raided my village.” I hesitated on the next part. “It was I who mixed the hemlock for us that night.”

I sat on the edge of Odysseus’ bed, watching him. His face was twisted, his brow already damp with sweat again. At first I thought it was disgust that shaped his face, even though he too had just admitted to terrible intentions of his own.

He hadn’t acted upon it, I supposed.

“You had a child.”

I nodded, reaching for the cloth again, anything to keep my hands busy.

Odysseus frowned. “But I killed your husband.”

“I … I got the doses wrong,” I whispered, choking on those last words. I had buried the admission so deep within myself that I did not have to look at it. It had curdled like soured milk and turned to venom in my heart, making it cold, hard, black; and it burnt the back of my throat as it all came back up now.

A horrible silence filled the air afterwards.

Eventually he spoke. “That is a cowardly thing to ask of the mother of your child.”

“It is a thing no true mother would ever have considered doing.”

“Is that why you looked at me with such ire the day you watched us burn your village to the ground?”

I was momentarily thrown. “You remember me watching you?”

My heart started hammering wildly against my chest.

“I remember every look you’ve ever given me.”

I was waiting for him to confess he had seen my looks of murderous rage, that he knew what I had plotted. Yet, he surprised me once again.

“I thought you were just proud, vengeful for losing your home,” he continued. “Now I know that by killing your husband, I stole something from you. Something more than just his life.”

That statement stole the air from my lungs.

I had never thought of it in the way Odysseus worded it now, but the words landed true. I felt my soul vibrate in agreement. I had not just lost everything; I had been stripped of my power to do anything about it. To hold anyone else to account. Except Odysseus.

But the war had taken him from his family, too.

As he passed back into sleep, my thoughts continued. I had wanted him dead for so long, blaming him for everything I had lost. Yet, seeing him tormented by his own demons … He was also a victim of this war, in a way. And if he died, I would simply be handed over to another lord, and who knew what fate would await me then?

Whether I liked it or not, my survival – my only hope to reclaim some semblance of control over my life – was now intertwined with Odysseus’ life. It was a truth I was still uncertain I wanted to accept.

I awoke to the pitch black of night in the medical tent. It took a moment to register where I was. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep beside Odysseus, but here I was, my head resting against his shoulder, his hand gently stroking my arm. I burrowed my head, confused, trying to remember climbing into bed beside him. Perhaps I had sought comfort in my sleep, drawn to the warmth and presence of another.

I shifted slightly, and Odysseus’ touch stilled. When I looked up at him, his eyes were open, watching me with a tenderness so at odds with the warrior I had come to know.

“You still have nightmares, too,” he murmured. “It kills me that you won’t let me touch you, let me hold you, when they come. And when the dawn rises, I know the only thing that dulls the ache of how much I want to, is the violence of the battlefield. It’s the only outlet for all this energy.”

I glanced at the bandages around his ribs. They were bloodied, but dry. I ran my fingers over them gently, waiting for him to flinch. He didn’t. My heart ached for him. Gods curse this wretched war they had thrust us into … and for what?

“I don’t think you’re going to be on the battlefield any time soon.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “No, not any time soon.”

His hand began stroking my arm again.

“So what are you going to do with all that energy, then?” I whispered, my voice trembling with something I couldn’t quite name.

He lifted my hand from his ribcage and kissed it. He stilled, as if waiting for an attack, waiting for me to slap him away. But for the life of me, I couldn’t. Instead, my breath skittered as his hand moved to cup my cheek and pull my face closer to his own.

Our lips cautiously brushed at first, but then the collision crushed us together, his tongue desperately seeking mine, and mine meeting his. Again and again and again. We met each other’s fervour with an intensity equal in tenderness and fierceness. The world around us dissolved, leaving only the sensation of his lips on mine, the warmth of his body against mine, and the unspoken understanding that, in this moment, we were each other’s refuge. It was a kiss that promised nothing but the present, a brief respite from the pain.

I pulled back when it got too much, too intense, burrowing myself in the space where his shoulder met his collarbone. His hands continued to skim my body until they slid under my chiton and stilled, right over the entrance to my sex.

“I need you,” he breathed against my skin.

“I’m here,” I whispered back. “I’m here.”

I had never heard such a want before. Alcander had never said such things. He had not listened to me or heeded my instruction, instead wanting our final act his way – an act that stole both him and Lykas away from me. Meanwhile, here was a man who listened to me, who had taken action on my advice, who was still listening to what my body was telling him now.

Odysseus’ kisses trailed down my neck. His hands moved more desperately now, over my waist, my breasts, up into my hair and down my back, over my butt. I felt him lengthen against me, and the heat that pooled there made me want to whimper.

The outside world faded once again, and for a moment we were no longer enemies thrust into this pit of death together, no longer slave and master, spear-wife and Odysseus. We were just two people, desperate for some sliver of comfort, of solace, in a world that continued to demand more from us than we wanted or were able to give.

Then, three things pulled us from our stupor. First, Odysseus’ fingers slid between my thighs, drawing a sharp gasp from me as a jolt of pleasure surged through my body. Next, a sudden guttural snore erupted from the man beside Odysseus’ bed. And lastly, Odysseus’ wound started to bleed through the bandage again, the dark spreading stain the reminder we both needed that our actions were bound to reality.

In the following days, Odysseus’ strength returned. By the eighth day, he sat up straighter, though he still winced as he did so and could only hold the posture for so long before breaking a sweat. Beside him, Agamemnon still lay in his bed, his colour pale, though behind his back the medics said there was nothing wrong with him. Diomedes, too, appeared on the mend.

I could hear him and Τ?ιλορ?α having a conversation between the partition divides that gave each man some sliver of privacy, when Nestor, one of the only remaining generals in prime health, broke the quiet atmosphere of recovery as he burst past the tent flap, his expression grave.

“Sire,” he said, walking past Odysseus, myself, Diomedes, and Τ?ιλορ?α, heading straight for Agamemnon’s bed.

“What is it, Nestor? Can’t you see I need rest?” Agamemnon snapped.

“The losses for the day have been recorded, my lord.”

“And?”

“They are … significant,” Nestor said, his voice almost trembling.

“How many?”

Nestor hesitated, and the air grew heavier in his silence.

“HOW MANY?!”

“Thousands, my lord.” The words fell like stones into a still pond, sending ripples of shock through the tent.

The silence that followed was potent, suffocating. Since the war began, the daily numbers of losses had been in the hundreds, but never in the thousands. We had now crossed a line that we might not be able to come back from. The Greeks, I reminded myself. Not us .

“We should set sail for home, then,” King Agamemnon declared, though ‘declared’ was too strong a word for the strangled, garbled word that tumbled from him.

“No,” Odysseus growled, rising once again, his hand pressed against his wound as he pointed at Agamemnon. “This decision no longer lies solely with you. We have all bled, sacrificed, and endured too much to abandon this cause now. We stand on the precipice. Victory is within our grasp if we can find the strength to persevere. We must endure a little longer, for the dawn of our triumph is near.”

“My eloquent friend is right,” Lord Diomedes added as he too sat up and looked over at Agamemnon. “This is not just your war anymore. It is all of ours, and I do not wish to be remembered as the king or the general that sacrificed so much for nothing.”

“Then what do you suggest I do?” Agamemnon practically whined.

“We ask Poseidon for his assistance,” Diomedes suggested.

“No,” Odysseus said firmly. Then he looked at me. “We ask Patroclus.”

The men turned to look first at Odysseus, then at me. I saw the movements of their heads in my periphery, but my view was focused solely on those dark eyes boring into me, no longer cold, but trusting .

“Go, Odette. You know what to say.”

He squeezed my hand, but I could not move. To do this now was to forever acknowledge I had aided the Greeks and abandoned my heritage. It was one thing to acknowledge I no longer wanted Odysseus dead. It was quite another to do this bidding.

Odysseus squeezed my hand again, tighter this time, as he noted my hesitation.

I could not be seen to disobey him, not in front of other generals and kings. To do so right now would be to sign my own death warrant, and I could not go to the Underworld. For how could I face my husband and son, and tell them I had not planned on avenging them after all? That I had, in fact, sullied their honour. Even if I was still mad at Alcander. For what I had done at his bequest.

I was trapped. Another decision taken from me. And as I nodded to Odysseus and backed out of the tent, gods damn me, I knew what I must do.

Alcander, Lykas … forgive me.

If this war had taught me one thing so far, it was that pride loses wars.

Men believed pride was a burning sword, the feeling in their gut that told them to right wrongs, that demanded justice. They believed serving that justice would give them a smug sense of satisfaction from their own achievement. That other men would admire them for acting on it, for holding onto their honour.

There was no honour in such pride.

It was pride that cost me Lykas. Pride that cost me Alcander.

Pride had driven these men to these shores; not indignation at Helen, the blood vow, or a sense of justice.

And it was pride that had Patroclus leading the army of the Myrmidons through the Greek camps in Achilles’ armour. Patroclus, who had never been on the battlefield. Some whispered that he was not skilled enough to even lift a spear, and given the little meat on his bones, even less than my own, I could believe that gossip. Though, perhaps he did not go because Achilles preferred to keep him safe.

No matter, because the light that sparked in his eyes when I passed on the generals’ message that they needed him was all that was required. That someone, anyone, would think he was worthy enough to be influential in the great Trojan War was the encouragement that stoked the fire of his pride. A chance to put the whispers that plagued him to rest.

As the Myrmidons rallied, running to grab their spears, swords, and shields, quickly attaching their armour and joining the rallying war cry, I headed against the stream of them. Back to the secluded section of the camp where I had sought out Patroclus yesterday. The tents were all but deserted. It was quiet and barren, as if the men had left and would not come back.

Only one man remained: Achilles. His arms were folded, his form stock-still, as he surveyed the men in the distance.

It was pride that kept Achilles from joining Patroclus on the field right then. In that moment, the great warrior turned and looked at me. My blood froze. Achilles was not a dumb man. I was probably one of the last to speak to Patroclus, before this morning when he went off in Achilles’ armor. With or without the soldier’s blessing, I did not know. But it would not take a genius to put two and two together. I wondered if he would stalk toward me, slap me, hurt me, for taking something precious from him. Looking around, no one would stop him. Most of the camps had gone with Patroclus. Even the women had gone to see what all the fuss was about. We were on our own.

But he simply gave me a nod and turned back to watch the men, now a smudge of colours in the distance.

It was then that I realised why Achilles made no move against me. He too had made an oath, a vow with the gods themselves, just as I had. One he could not break. So he had to continue to pretend to be okay with what Patroclus was doing. Right then, he had to pretend to be something other than he was.

Yes, I understood that well. To know what others must think of you when you stick to your convictions, how it ate you up inside until you weren’t sure which parts were you and which were the vow. Which parts were the truth, and which were fabricated from outside sources. You just had to get on with life anyway.

Until you didn’t.

Patroclus did not return with the men that evening. The whispers that night around the campfires were that Hector had mistaken him for Achilles and killed the poor boy.

The next morning, I stood on the same spot I had the day before and watched as this time Achilles broke the vow he had made between himself and the gods and went to war once again, his pride forgotten.

Hector died next.

For the nine days that followed, the Trojans prepared Hector’s funeral pyre. Achilles had apparently declared a reprieve from battle, much to Agamemnon’s displeasure. I saw the declaration for what it was: the chance for him to grieve the loss of Patroclus, and to grieve his own betrayal – his word – of himself.

On the tenth day, we watched from our side of the plain as the pyre was lit and the smoke carried into the air, up towards the gods. Artemis instructed the wind nymphs to blow the ashes towards us and into the sea. But the weight of the ashes fell short across the Greek camp, as if we were all being marked for death.

Ash tasted like burnt sand. That is what I remembered thinking as I stared up into the sun that beat down on us mercilessly, the smoke swirling in the sky, the ashes sprinkling down. The twins Apollo and Artemis had picked their side: they were with the Trojans.

Which is why, when news returned that Achilles had been shot and killed with an arrow – guided by Apollo and executed by Paris – I thought again of pride.

Pride had cost the Greeks the war.