6. Οdysseus

6

Οdysseus

G reek women, slaves or not, didn’t defy men. They didn’t show anger. They didn’t make the circumstances around them about themselves. A good woman was a reflection of a good man.

I had no reason to suspect Trojan women were any different, until that little outburst of hers.

It had forced me to look at the situation with an outsider’s eyes, and indeed – though I’d admit it to no man – my suspicion had coloured my judgement. Odette had been attentive to Diomedes, but no more than any other slave would have been. Knowing what I know now, that attentiveness born of being bred as a good wife, coupled with her undoubted hatred towards me, would have made it easy for her to be so lavish in her attention with Diomedes.

I was right. She had been trying to get one over on me, but not for the reasons I had initially suspected.

Her confession had thrown me. I would have thought a woman who’d watched her husband killed in battle would be fearful, cowering, quiet – secretive, even. Not defiant and loud about such a thing. It was obnoxious during a civilised meal.

It unsettled me, this behaviour, until my suspicions morphed into something deeper. A mere mortal woman wouldn’t dare challenge a general like myself; it just didn’t happen. So, if she wasn’t a spy, she had to be something more – something otherworldly. She must have been a goddess in disguise. Which one, though? If she bore the essence of either Aphrodite or Artemis, she was a formidable adversary for the Greeks, her presence here more dangerous than I had thought. With that swan-like neck of hers, Aphrodite seemed the most likely contender.

Then again, with those eyes like a hawk, perhaps it was Athena disguised in a mortal woman’s body. Everyone knew the goddess was grey-eyed, but the gods could morph however they saw fit when they wanted to walk among us. If it was Athena, who had sided with us Greeks, then perhaps she had come to guide my men to victory and cement my place in the history of it all.

I had killed a mortal man she’d obviously cared about and she was displeased. Regardless of which goddess inhabited the form, I was not about to anger her further. Instead, I had cleaned up as she had taken her leave. I hated the flies getting in. They reminded me of the battlefield.

Tidiness, order; those things were necessary for me to rest. Penelope had known that and indulged my need to check everything was as it should be, however unorthodox it was.

I had hoped that mentioning my wife to the goddess inhabiting Odette’s body would prompt her to reveal her decree – a typically risky endeavor designed to fulfill her purpose while ultimately granting my human desires. I knew how the gods loved to bargain.

But, the goddess hadn’t chosen that moment.

The last time I was in the presence of a goddess, I’d been certain. It had been an age since Athena had appeared to me in Ithaca. I wondered if my memory had morphed such an event, coloured it with nostalgia, and called it accurate. As I laid in my pallet bed, one arm stretched out over my head, one leg cocked outside of the rich red blanket – one of the only treasures I’d brought from home – I wracked my memory.

It had been a still night, the sky a deep purple velvet as it settled over the sky, Orion’s star a shining beacon that seemed to blink at me. Perched on the rocks that led down to the Ionian Sea, the water lapping gently at the rocks, I searched the sky for the star cluster of the Pleiades – the seven daughters of the titan Atlas that Orion had pursued obsessively – but they were nowhere to be found on this night.

I continued searching, breathing in the sea breeze that carried salt and the subtle promise of something to come, when there was a shift in the air. Barely perceptible, it was so subtle that had the night not been so still, I would not have noticed it. I knew a god now stood behind me, and I knew they would not let me see them unless they wanted to be seen, so I continued looking out towards the horizon.

“Odysseus,” a female voice began, as clear and commanding as the wind itself. “Son of Laertes. You know the Fates call for you beyond these shores.” She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle in the cool air before continuing. “The assembly of Greeks prepare for an expedition unlike any seen before. One that shall be etched in the memories of men for generations to come. They seek to reclaim Helen and restore the honour of Menelaus.”

I had known this was coming. I’d heard word that Agamemnon was gathering an army to rally and defend the rights of his younger brother. A convenient excuse to go to war over a trade route Agamemnon had long wanted access to. I wondered if Paris making such a move against Menelaus was truly for love, or convenient propaganda.

“Lady Athena, you honour me with your presence.” There was no other goddess that would speak to me of such things . I bowed my head, still refusing to face her .

She stepped closer, and from the periphery of my vision I saw an ethereal figure in full battle regalia glowing faintly under the moonlight. “This venture will require not just the brawn my brother Ares seeks, but a leader of intellect.” Another pause. “Your cunning is famed far and wide, Odysseus. None can weave strategies and tactics as you can. Troy’s walls, mighty as they are, will yield to your schemes.”

Another pause, though now I knew she expected an answer. I hesitated, knowing to do so was a dangerous move . “My son …” I began. Penelope had given birth only months ago.

“Your heart longs for the peace of Ithaca, I see that. It is what makes you such a wise king. But think of the legacy you wish to leave for your son, Telemachus. Will he not grow prouder knowing his father was a key architect in the greatest siege known to all?”

I felt a feminine hand rest on my shoulder as she turned me to face her. The full effect of the goddess punched through me with such power I had to fight my knees not to buckle.

“Your story is not finished, Odysseus. There is a reason you seek out Orion and his quest.” Her stare remained intense and unyielding. “I will be with you. With your wisdom and my favour, there is no fortress so impregnable, no enemy so formidable. Join this cause, Odysseus. Answer the call of the Fates. In the tapestry of time, let your thread shine with unmatched brilliance.”

Above her, Orion shone brighter. Even the seas of Poseidon seemed to fall silent, the lapping waves coming to a halt. I knew Athena would not be denied. My future had been mapped out before me, stretching out to the horizon. A path that would no doubt lead to glory. But would it also lead to death? As I gave my answer to the divine persuader, Athena, her grey eyes burned with the promise of one or the other . I just wasn’t certain of which .

I woke with renewed vigor the next morning, certain that Athena had come to me in Odette’s form. She had arrived to help me bring this war to its conclusion.

The thought was further enforced when the day’s battles unfolded with unexpected ease: the men fought with greater skill, their movements swifter and sharper, winning skirmishes with increasing success. Then each day after that, the Trojans were driven further back, retreating behind their walls as Greek cheers rang out across the camp. By the seventh day, as I made my way back through the bustling camp to the tent and to her, the echoes of victory lingered in my ears.

In the confines of the tent, the air was heavy, filled with a stench that made even me gag. I was aware I was no picture of cleanliness myself, my armour coated with mud, blood, and sweat. I could taste my own scent, sharp and acrid, yet it had nothing on the foul smell in here.

It had been a week, and still Odette’s form had not risen from the bed on which she slept, her back always to the canvas tent opening. It irked me. One should never have their back to where enemies could come in. Athena, even in a mortal form, would not be so foolish.

I’d had enough. The irritation that had been stretching from hours into days began to harden into something else – something slower, heavier. I had let it sink in, gnawing at me, until now begrudging acceptance took root. This wasn’t, as I’d first believed, a goddess inhabiting a mortal form. It couldn’t be. Even Artemis would not have allowed herself to fall into such a grotesque state. No goddess would.

That thought alone made my chest tighten, and the fact that I now had to accept it fanned the flames of my frustration.

And then the deeper sting followed – a bitter acknowledgment that I had allowed a mere slave to speak to me with such audacity, to challenge me. The truth of her actions, of mine, settled uncomfortably in my bones and crawled under my skin like a slow poison.

How had I been so blind?

Storming out of the tent, I grabbed the two largest buckets I could find and filled them with cold water before marching back inside. She had not moved when I returned and, as had become her custom, didn’t even shift to acknowledge my presence.

So I placed one bucket down and hurled the other over her.

There was a banshee-like shriek, her body instinctively recoiling from its position and into a protective crouch, huddled into the corner of the tent, facing me. Her skin was smeared with grime, her eyes defiant. Then, her survival instincts kicked in. With a snarl she lunged at me, her hands clawing, driven by a raw desperation like a cornered animal.

I shoved the second bucket of water into her outstretched arms with enough force to her chest that she physically stopped in her tracks, winded. “You’ll clean yourself, or by Hades, I’ll drag you to the river and hold you under until the mud dissolves.”

She spat a curse at me, something in that pig-language derivative of Greek that farmers used around the provincial parts, but her voice was hoarse, her energy sapped. She’d also decided not to eat these past days.

I crouched down, tossing her the rough cloth and bathing salts. “Scrub yourself clean,” I ordered. “Unless you prefer I do it for you?” I eyed her body deliberately.

Her response was a venomous glare, but she took up the cloth and the bathing salts, slowly beginning to rub them into her skin. Each motion was stilted, a silent ‘aπ?λοιο’? 1 , but at least she was washing.

I continued watching her, my expression deliberately blank. When she reached the parts not for my eyes, she stopped scrubbing. I debated for a moment planting my feet more firmly and insisting she finish the wash in front of me so that at least I knew it was done, but she equally stared me down.

“Do not make me drag you kicking and screaming into the river.” I pointed a finger at her. I surveyed Odette a moment longer, something in me stirring her spirit. It was a wisp of a thing, a flame on the precipice of extinguishing itself. But, it was there, fighting the complexities that came with the cruel hand the Fates had dealt.

I wondered if she realised that we both wallowed in the same predicament. That I also wished to not be here, in a war that had made me a dull blade. That if it were up to me, and not the societal expectations burdened upon me, I would rather see her walk free. But that was not the way of things.

The irony of war: it strips us all of our humanity in the end, no matter the role we play.

It was admiration, I realised, that stirred in my gut as Odette stared me down. I longed to have that fire, that spirit instilled in me, so that I might have turned a goddess down on that Ithican shore all those years ago.

When I returned, freshly washed from the ocean, I carried two bowls of goat stew that I had picked up at the feeding fires. Upon entering the tent, I sniffed the air first. Satisfied the smell was beginning to dissipate, I surveyed Odette next. Her hair, which had clung to her face in greasy matted strands, had now been brushed through. Her skin gleamed, like sunlight striking the surface of sand. I nodded in pleasure then held the bowls up.

“You will also eat tonight. This is not a crypt. I will not sleep in the same room as a corpse.”

I placed the two bowls down on the same table we had dined at with Diomedes and sat, watching and waiting for her to decide if she was going to join me. The offer of force-feeding her was on the tip of my tongue, when she warily got up from her spot and dragged herself to the table.

As we ate in silence, I noticed the rough cloth I had thrown at her had been rung out and was hanging on one of the tent poles. The scrub jar was empty, which meant at some point Odette had gotten up and used more of the salts to wash herself more thoroughly. Good .

It was then that I noticed she was wearing one of my chitons. Too big for her, she had used a torn strip of fabric as a zoster? 2 to secure it around her waist. The fabric fell in waves past it, as if that had been a purposeful design. It emphasised her thin waist, her wider hips. I had to force myself to look away.

It had been so long since I had truly looked at a woman. There were other spear-wives and bed-slaves around, but they scurried past, their heads down, trying not to attract attention. Beyond them serving food or providing necessities that kept the camp running, I’d had no cause to acknowledge them, to watch them, as I watched Odette now – with her delicate wrist holding the wooden spoon to her lips, her breath rippling over the stew, the small swell of her breasts as she took another breath …

Shaking my head clear of those thoughts, I addressed her. “We will need to find you some more clothing. You can wash that ratty one tomorrow, but it looks like it isn’t going to last long. You will need to speak to the women, organise an exchange of services to get them to make you something.”

She glanced up at me, and I could have sworn her eyes were calling me stupid for pointing out the obvious. I willed her to say something, anything, as she had on those first nights here. But she turned her focus back to her bowl and didn’t speak.

When I returned from battle the following day, she was up, dressed, and the tent had been tidied. Standing in the doorway of the tent, I surveyed Odette, assessing. “You’re up.”

Without a word, she pointed to the jug of water and the bowl of coarse sand she had freshly filled. There was also a small amphorae of olive oil, warm to my touch when I reached out for it. I laughed heartily, appreciating her efforts to maintain a semblance of civility in such a barbaric environment. The oil would warm and soothe my muscles after the cold water washed away the grime of the day.

“What is amusing?” she frowned.

“You, Odette, exist in extremes. And this—” I gestured to the collection in front of me, “is really rather excellent.”

She crinkled her nose and I could not tell if it was a reaction to the compliment or because now she could distinguish between a clean scent and the one I had returned with. “I am aware I smell like a dead Trojan. Or several.”

“I will wait outside.” Odette bowed her head, making for the opening.

“No, stay here. I’ll be right back.” I began stripping off my armour, before grabbing a towel and the bathing items and heading off to wash outside the tent.

Once behind the tent, I dropped the items as usual, draping the towel over a tent rope. I grabbed the water bucket, dousing myself in double quick time, gritting my teeth at its chill. I leaned my head back and tossed the rest of the water across my face.

Next, I reached for the sand mixed with salts, scrubbing it vigorously across my chest and into my chest hair. It scratched as it always did, but I had already moved on to another scrubbing area. Then it stung. I hastily ran my hands across my chest, and a sharp pinching sensation jolted through me, a distinct and unnatural sting that demanded attention. Peering down, I saw one tiny sand crab scuttle across my skin. Another followed. The stinging jolts made me jump back, my reflexes knocking over the rest of the water bucket. The precious water spilled uselessly onto the ground, leaving me with no way to drown the bastards out.

Cursing, I stumbled, trying to shake off the persistent crabs, and inadvertently staggered back into the tent.

“Oh!”

Furiously trying to dislodge the creatures, I blinked to find Odette staring, wide-eyed.

Accusations had been many in my years, but vanity was never among them, yet I found myself oddly pleased by the faint blush glazing her cheekbones as she studied my form. “You like what your eyes have found?”

Her eyes snapped up to mine. “I do not, I?—”

I let a slow smile tug at the corner of my mouth, the crabs forgotten as she continued to stammer. “It’s just a naked male body. You’ve seen one before.”

I moved past her, deliberately slowing as I reached for a fresh towel from the trunk, using it to shimmy away the rest of the crabs, before I shrugged on my tunic and turned back to her. A little v formed in a cute frown between her brows.

“Only my husband’s,” she admitted.

I see . “Well,” I inhaled sharply, then gave a casual shrug. “It’s of no matter to me.”

Odette went to open her mouth, then snapped it shut, as fishes do.

“Now, more importantly, would you care to explain how those crabs ended up in the bowl of salts you so diligently refilled?”

She blinked rapidly, and for a moment she hesitated, her gaze shifting nervously from side to side. It was a look I knew well – a familiar sign of evasion I’d seen countless times when my men tried to lie to me after I’d asked them a simple question.

“No, I have no idea,” she replied, her eyes wide in feigned innocence.

“Clever girl,” I muttered as she collected herself.

Such an audacious act of sabotage – placing those tiny, pinching crabs in my washing sand – was a subtle yet striking way to retaliate.

I stepped closer, until I could tip up her chin with the crook of my finger. “I always did appreciate spirit and wit. Perhaps, in another life, you and I might have been allies. For now, though, let us call it even, hmm?” My grip tightened ever so slightly. “No more surprises, spear-wife.”

1 ? “May you be destroyed.”

2 ? Also known as a belt or a cord, typically made of fabric or leather.