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The Gift

A Troy fanfiction

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Homer and Warner Brothers.. This story is solely for fun, not profit. The characters of Tydeus and Xuthos are mine.

Summary: Eudorus has a chance at redemption for a past crime. Eudorus & OFC.

Chapter 1

Sand was sand, and Eudorus thought there was damned little difference between the shores of Troy and those of Phthia. Perhaps the Trojan sand captured the light and heat of the sun more than the rockier seaside terrain of home, but he was of a mood to not consider that an advantage. His eyes had already been blinded by the unrelenting rays of Apollo, and his legs ached from the brutal stamina he had been forced to maintain during the beachhead assault. This wretched sand had fought against him with every step he took, but to allow it to gain the upper hand would have meant losing a limb or his life to a Trojan spear or sword. His feet burned, and the hellish heat that radiated from it now was not lessening that pain in the slightest.

He scratched at the drying patch of gore on his arm, the action making the blood on his neck itch as well. As he walked along the shore, he kept his eyes turned towards the sea, glimpsing the beckoning blue-green waves every time he passed a grounded ship. Hundreds of vessels were lined up with only the barest distance between them, looking like a fearsome phalanx that dared the Trojans to try to break the formation.

Even if the Achaeans cannot hold ranks in friendship, Eudorus thought, at least the ships seem capable of it.

He heard a familiar chuckle and looked up to see Odysseus striding through the sand as though it were air. His arms were unbloodied, his armor only bearing marks from the spray of the sea voyage. White, even teeth were set within a charming, expansive smile that was in turn framed by a sunset-gold beard that looked newly groomed for greeting a mistress in a bedchamber rather than an adversary on a battlefield. Despite this fresh, unsullied appearance, Eudorus did not despise him for it as he would other, lesser men. Achilles liked him, trusted him.

For Eudorus, that was enough.

"I saw that long, lingering look, Eudorus. Are you thinking of a bath? Or heading for home?"

"A bit of both, my lord," he replied, his blunted fingernails now working on his stiffening beard. "I knew the Trojans would bleed, but didn't expect this much. Ajax might have to take his hammer to me to get it off."

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"Consider it the first spoils of war, but I don't recommend you wear it for long. The flies will find you soon enough." Odysseus pointed the way he had come. "I just met Agamemnon's own fly, your commander. He insulted my honor terribly by implying I deliberately held my ship back and let you do all the work."

The broad smile on the Ithacan's face told Eudorus that no offense had been taken from Achilles' jibe. Yet he did not return the smile, and Odysseus' eyes glinted in eager suspicion.

"This should be a glorious day, my friend. The Myrmidons took the field and won!"

"Would that you had been with us," Eudorus said, his weariness overcoming prudence. "You could have prevented it. Achilles dared Apollo's wrath by sacking the temple..." Even now, he could see the sun god's head, cleaved from the statue with but one strike of a sword. His spine shivered as he imagined all possible violent consequences of blasphemy.

Odysseus surprised him by laughing heartily. "Yes, he would have done that, wouldn't he? Goes for the throat, he does! When Troy hears of it, that pious old king will waste precious time waiting for the gods to retaliate for him."

Eudorus shifted in discomfort, as much from the drying, itchy blood on his skin as from his proximity to Odysseus. He glanced up at the sky, as though expecting one of Zeus' bolts to come hurtling through the brilliant blue vault.

This only made Odysseus laugh harder. "You worry too much, Eudorus! The day is ours and our arrogant Achilles is alive today to kill tomorrow. The gods have seen fit to leave him to us for awhile longer." He clapped Eudorus on the arm, then flicked a sticky clot of blood and bone from his fingers. "I'm off to listen to old kings fart praises through their mouths as they lick Agamemnon's sandals like ambrosia. Tell no one I said that!"

"Of course, my lord," Eudorus replied.

"You're a good man, Eudorus. Achilles could not be better served. Well, except perhaps by my wits. But loyalty and discretion count for much, and you possess that more than anyone." He surveyed Eudorus from head to toe, giving a sad shake of his head. "You need to clean yourself and make ready for the feast tonight. There's some foraging parties already spreading out to relieve a farm or two of their stock. Should be some girls among the spoils. They might not turn up their nose at a dung-eating shepherd, but reeking soldiers are another breed altogether. Take a bath, I implore you. You're wearing a Trojan's brain on your left shoulder!"

He departed with a breezy salute and left Eudorus to ponder what to do next. He ached to see to his own needs, but if Achilles was already prowling along the shore, it meant that there were matters to attend to. The slaves they had brought with them had no doubt already erected a makeshift tent and were at work on more sturdy structures made of reed mats now that the beach had been secured. Despite the first quick success, everyone prepared for a long siege. Already, men were at work digging ditches and fortifying them with pikes to prevent the Trojans from mounting a full, unimpeded offensive.

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"Eudorus!"

He turned to the voice behind him and groaned at the tug of dried blood on his neck. "What is it?" he snapped, fingers again working at his throat. Even in the chaos of erecting the various camps, he could not find anonymity.

A group of five Myrmidons were sauntering towards him, parting the milling Achaeans simply by the sight they presented. Their arms were weighted with temple treasure, rightfully gained by their audacious vanguard action under Achilles' command.

Eudorus blinked in confusion, however, when the men drew closer and he saw what he thought was a sack of loot transform into the lifeless shape of a woman slung over the shoulder of a Myrmidon whose arm was sporting a bandage that had begun to seep blood. Despite the wound, he was grinning.

"Where did you find her, Xuthos?" Eudorus asked.

"Cowering under the statue of Apollo inside the temple," was the reply. "The looting became too much for her devoted little priestess spirit to bear and she stupidly showed herself. We thought she should go to Achilles by rights, since he left with nothing. The first piece of sweet Trojan flesh going to him'll make Agamemnon spit in envy, eh?" He bounced the prize on his shoulder with a laugh and smacked her rump for good measure.

"It looks like angering him is the order of the day," Eudorus muttered to himself as he rounded Xuthos. A tangled mass of curls shielded the woman's features, and he held them aside to gain a better view. As he did so, he detected the scent of myrrh.

She was thankfully unconscious, her face slack and oddly at peace, although he could see where tears had coursed their way through dirt on her cheeks. She seemed harmless enough; never had he encountered temple virgins to be otherwise.

"You didn't mark her up any," he said approvingly. He gave one of the other Myrmidons a stony look. "Must be you were never close enough to her, Tydeus."

"I consider myself duly warned, Eudorus," the towering soldier replied with a smirk. "Any women I win will be treated like lilies, just so you have no cause to complain...ever again."

Eudorus looked down, shaking the sand from his sandal to mask the burning discomfort that poked at him. He let the woman's hair fall. "I'd rather we kept ourselves to gold and jewels, but that's not possible. Yes, I think she will please Achilles. He's gone further upshore. I was heading there just now."

The Myrmidons proceeded along the beach, their burdens of cold metal and soft flesh proclaiming the first victory of what all hoped would be a short, profitable war.

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Chapter 2

That night...

Eudorus had no idea if the ring he now wore was some temple offering or if it had been stripped from the hand of one of the slain priests. He didn't much care, blasphemous thought or not, nor did he care that it glinted attractively on his finger in the light of the campfire. There were other, weightier matters on his mind.

Achilles was a generous leader. As was the practice since the formation of his Myrmidon force years ago, everything plundered from the temple had been distributed through time-honored means. No man lacked for spoils that complemented his valor, nor did the highest-ranking commander in the field receive anything less than what was honorable. In this instance, despite the rancor between he and the Mycenaean king, Achilles had no qualms about giving Agamemnon a fitting portion of his hard-won treasure to the greedy king who sat in state on his boat. A group of Myrmidons had raided nearby farms, sacking the storehouses and stables. Several women had been captured as well. None could deny the day had yielded much.

However, Agamemnon had seen fit to take what was offered in good faith as well as something else entirely. In a deliberate act of malicious arrogance, he had selfishly taken the captive priestess for his own, as well as some of the fruits of the Myrmidons' raid. He claimed that it was within his right, but everyone knew that it had been for one purpose, and one alone. Ever since this campaign began, it seemed to have been both Achilles' and Agamemnon's missions to rile the other with some barbed comment or slight. Even had Eudorus not been Achilles' second-in-command and bound to him by many measures, he would have seen Agamemnon as the more grievous offender in this battle of wills.

During any other battle or raid, the priestess would have disappeared amongst Achilles' other loot, there to be used and tossed aside as so many had been. Eudorus was well aware of that, expected it despite the bitter taste that had begun to rise in his throat at the thought of it. But this girl was uncomfortably special, bizarrely unique.

It was odd; Eudorus was no stranger to Achilles' overweening pride, but never had he expected the loss of the girl to affect his commander so, unjust seizure or not. Achilles had spoken with her for no more than a few minutes in the tense air of his quarters, but when Agamemnon had flaunted his theft aboard his ship, Achilles had flared into a rage and retreated to his tent, consoling his wounded pride as one undeservedly wronged. The anger had a real wounded edge to it. Achilles was not simply enraged; he was in pain. Eudorus could not recall ever seeing the Phthian Lion in such anguish, but he knew with wretched conviction what thoughts tormented Achilles: what was happening to her this moment, this instant? Will I recognize her if, when, I see her again? The girl had strangely touched a chord within one famously untouchable.

It gave Eudorus hope, hope that Achilles' passions might be tempered by a fire other than the love for battle and bloodshed. There were rumors that it had been said Achilles would not live to see the end of the war, that his final glory would be here on the sands of Troy. But surely the seer

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or doomsayer had not anticipated the chance capture of a meek little priestess? Surely this one, unseen event could change everything?

Although he was no stranger to submerging himself in long, tortured reflections on things past and present (where copious amounts of wine made the process either a game or a trial), Eudorus asserted his role as pragmatic captain and had attempted to turn his commander's mind towards a more pressing matter. Patroclus was growing more discontent by the hour, burning to fight and pestering him as well as others for details about the day's skirmish. After each bothersome plea, Patroclus always proclaimed that he was ready for the next day's certain battle, that it didn't sound like the task was beyond his skill. Achilles' refusal to allow him to fight alongside the others had rankled, his overprotective denial a humiliation in the company of experienced, blooded men.

Although the petulance irritated him, Eudorus understood the boy's frustration. He had hinted as broadly as he dared that Achilles needed to tend to his cousin's impatience and threat of reckless action, but it fell on deaf ears. Finally, he had left Achilles to himself, left him to his silent contemplation of the cut bonds that had only that day been around the slender wrists of a girl whose name he barely knew.

Briseis. Eudorus knew the name well enough. Anything, or anyone, that affected Achilles so demanded attention. Achilles' fears for her safety were thus his fears and here, on this hard-won beachhead with almost the full content of a wineskin churning in his stomach and the heat of a campfire irritating his flesh and rubbing his nerves raw, he began to feel the shades of battle-aftermaths past start to swarm around him.

No one came to sit with him or looked to share his fire. He commanded them in the field, had their respect, even their friendship, but his failure to indulge in unbridled gloating about this killing strike or that conquest of a cringing captive marked him as an unwelcome check on harmless celebration. The others went about their joy around him and he heard them, but there was nothing to distinguish this night from any other after a battle. It was unrelentingly the same, futilely and maddeningly unchanging. This could be the night after his first battle so many years ago, or his tenth, or his fortieth. The sounds: a round of roaring laughter from the fires that flickered near every ship, an encouraging night-before speech by a scarred veteran to a group of younger recruits fighting that peculiar nausea borne of excitement and dread, a woman weeping loudly from some dark, tragic corner. Names changed, but nothing else. Joy and misery cohabited the same ground, breathed the same air.

He looked up at the cloud-laden night sky and cursed Artemis for her modesty. Show yourself! he thought. Give me some other light besides this blistering, bloody flame.

Eudorus started when he heard a shuffle behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Patroclus hanging back diffidently.

"You must be starved for company if you're coming here," Eudorus said sourly, the venom surprising him. When Patroclus stepped backwards in surprise, he waved quickly towards the driftwood that served as a crude perch. "Sit down, sit down."

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Patroclus settled next to him with a wary glance and Eudorus saw that he was as unmarked from battle as Odysseus had been earlier that day, but whereas the Ithacan wore his clean armor and tunic with a careless swagger, this boy could barely contain his resentful shame.

"I'm surprised you invited me," Patroclus said. "You usually keep to yourself on nights after a battle. For as long as I can remember, you've done that."

The wineskin nearly to his lips, Eudorus paused. "It was either invite you or know you were staring at my back," he said patiently. "Your eyes are one pair too many."

Patroclus shook his head. "I was hoping you would hear me out, but apparently the wine has made you think you're surrounded by enemies rather than friends."

More laughter from the nearby fire, the tenor punctured by a faint, distant sob. "Fine, then. Talk. As long as talk of battle is not on your mind."

Each word stabbed at Patroclus, the older man's ill-humor not unfamiliar, but surprising him all the same. "I've been told to shut my mouth enough tonight, Eudorus. You needn't worry I'll force you to say it, too."

Eudorus noted that the rigid, sullen expression Patroclus had sported all day had diminished somewhat. He wondered if Patroclus had intentionally tried to mimic his cousin's intense demeanor. Earlier in the day, he had been struck by the similarity between them. If that had indeed been Patroclus' intent, the derision of older men had made it clear to him that it was a foolish tack and he had ceased.

That was encouraging; the boy would not relentlessly pursue tactics that gained little ground. Yet, at the same time, Eudorus wondered what else was brewing in his mind and he felt a distinct unease. Shutting his ears to the sounds that surrounded them, he focused on the problem before him. Achilles relied upon him to help shepherd Patroclus, one of the most stubborn lambs ever to sail under the black sail of the Myrmidons. The ties of blood and depth of affection between the two cousins complicated matters greatly, but Eudorus was intent on following this mission to success. Before Troy fell, Patroclus would be a calm and honorable warrior. He might not be blooded in tomorrow's battle or the next, but Troy would not crack soon. There would be plenty of time.

"You don't talk much," Patroclus said.

Eudorus laughed suddenly. "Just now you're discovering that? I've known you since you barely reached my knee, and you're just now discovering that?"

"No, of course I knew that," he said quickly, insulted. "But if anyone could talk to Achilles, it would be you. Make him see sense."

"I've tried, my boy. He won't, so I'll leave him be. Best you do the same."

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Patroclus was silent for only a moment before kicking at the sand in frustration. Enough went onto the fire to make it dim and sputter before flaring to life again. "We came here to fight Trojans, not each other. But that's exactly what Achilles is doing. This falling out with Agamemnon could hurt us all."

"Falling out? He and Agamemnon were never in, Patroclus. There was nothing to fall out of. It's always been an uneasy truce, and that's being generous."

"Agamemnon stealing that priestess didn't help matters. Achilles acting like Agamemnon had defiled his mother has only made it worse." He paused, then added, "Tydeus said that if this girl is that powerful over men, we should hand her over to Troy's forces and they'll be fawning over her rather than seeing to their defenses."

"Enough!" Eudorus hissed. "You're tattling like a spoiled child. What do you want me to do? Run to your cousin with that bit of gossip?"

"You have no love for Tydeus," Patroclus persisted, affecting the tone of a wounded innocent. "I thought you'd like to hear what he'd have to say."

"I know what he'll say and when he'll say it and the look on his face when he does so," Eudorus shot back. "Believe me, Patroclus, I know Tydeus. Being up to your arms in blood with the man tends to create an understanding."

Patroclus watched his cousin's trusted captain upend the wineskin and drain it with angry determination. He knew the moment the wine began to suffuse its power; Eudorus' hard expression began to soften and his eyes, which had only moments before sparked as brightly as the fire before them, became hooded with either pleasant, drunk thoughts or sleep.

"That's a bond I wish to have," Patroclus ventured. "Bound by blood and glorious deed on the battlefield, to men who will fight for me as I will for them."

Eudorus bent his head, running one hand through his hair. "Oh, I told you too many tales of heroes when you were a child," he groaned, ground his palm into his eye. "If all your bonds are on the battlefield, then consider yourself the luckiest of men. War has a tendency to hold you down when you least expect it, and there it is with a knife at your throat and you wonder how it ever reached that point and if you can ever go back."

Patroclus listened to these ramblings, uncomprehending. "Eudorus," he finally said, "you must sleep. I wasn't there today, but I know you fought hard and well. Take some food from what was gathered on the forage raid, and one of the women, too. Agamemnon took some of both, but not everything."

"I'll not take Tydeus' leavings," Eudorus muttered, leaving Patroclus utterly bewildered. He had not mentioned the fearsome Myrmidon again.

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Patroclus shook Eudorus' shoulder gently. "Please, get some sleep," he whispered. Eudorus had never seemed less than the strongest soldier among a company of peerless warriors. Despite his anger throughout the entire day that he was being treated as a child still wet behind the ears, Patroclus felt young and afraid right now, almost eager to be told that all was well with the man he so greatly admired.

"I'm going to fight tomorrow," he said, hoping that it would jar Eudorus from his mood and get him angry with him again. "Achilles will agree."

"You're confident, I'll give you that much," Eudorus replied, but there was no interest behind the praise. He held out the wineskin. "Here, drink some of this. It'll get you ready for tomorrow."

"I'll leave the pounding heads to others," Patroclus said. Then added quietly, "Besides, it's already empty. You drank the last of it."

Eudorus looked down at the slack wineskin and gave a bemused laugh. "Why, so it is." He stood up.

"Where are you going?" Patroclus made to restrain him when Eudorus moved away from the fire.

Eudorus shrugged him away and held up the empty skin. "To refill this. I think I know someone who would oblige me."

To his relief, Patroclus did not follow. His mind was more lucid that what appearances suggested and he feared that he had said too much, had piqued the boy's interest to the point where any further discussion would compel complete honesty.

He didn't know why he had said what he had, why he had strayed so close. As he staggered through the sand, wineskin slack in his hand, he told himself that if Patroclus was to never fall into the same pit, he had to be the one to serve himself up as the warning.

Still, he thought, there could be no need. Patroclus is not me, will never be what I was. There is no need for that particular lesson.

"If thoughts could kill, flies would be crawling on Agamemnon's eyes right about now!"

This, followed by a smug laugh, jolted Eudorus from his sluggish trek. He turned towards the voice, the thick wool in his ears from the wine's effects distorting something that should have been recognizable. He was still among the Myrmidons encampments and knew most of the men by name or sound.

"Eudorus! Would you like to share?"

He stared uncomprehending towards the campfire until the fuzzy figure slowly adjusted into the thick, trunk-like form of Tydeus. He was smiling in triumphant invitation. He wasn't alone; Ajax

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sat to his left, the two of them nearly alike in stature and forming a formidable earthly incarnation of the celestial twins that sometimes appeared in the night sky. Beside Ajax was a woman who had apparently reached her capacity for wine and forced company. She was leaned against Ajax's arm, eyes closed, mouth curved in an exhausted smile.

As unusual as it was to find any captive so calmly resigned, with a glimmer of contentedness no less, it was the girl half-reclined across Tydeus' lap that drew Eudorus' attention. Tydeus' arms were wrapped around her waist, possessive in victory. When the Myrmidon bent his head and buried it in her neck with a chuckle, Eudorus saw the dull, defeated stare from eyes that had a disconnected mind. He had seen that look many times before.

"Hmm, Eudorus?" Tydeus asked, running his hands up the woman's torso, cupping and squeezing his prize's flesh. "She's not nearly as tired as Ajax's one over there."

Eudorus turned away. "Get some sleep, Tydeus," he said tightly. "If you're not up before dawn, I'll kick you out of bed myself."

He strode away, hoping to get out of earshot before Tydeus could say his inevitable parting mockery. The sand hindered him, but it did not come. Instead, he heard Ajax say, puzzled, "What's wrong with him?"

The sound of other celebrations and the lapping of the sea swallowed up Tydeus' reply, but Eudorus didn't pause. He didn't know what his antagonistic brother-in-arms said, but he was certain that it was a bluff, believable lie. Anything would serve: hatred of Agamemnon would do nicely. More than half of the campfires were being fueled by the anger that circled them. It was already raging like a contagion.

These mounting pressures made Eudorus' temples throb. He had to get away from it for awhile. There was one man who he believed hadn't succumbed to the discontent. His was the company Eudorus sought. His wine-soaked head told him that he would not be intruding or deemed presumptuous.

"Eudorus!"

Odysseus held back the curtain that covered the door, allowing the light within to shine more fully upon his visitor's face. The appearance of Achilles' trusted captain had surprised him, an emotion he didn't often betray. Surprise was quickly replaced with concern when he noticed Eudorus swaying on his feet, ever so slightly.

"You're drunk."

Eudorus held up the wineskin. "I thought maybe you had some more."

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"I do, but none for you. It looks like you've had enough." Odysseus took him by the shoulder and guided him into the tent. "Well," he laughed as he steered Eudorus to the floor, "I see you washed yourself of Trojans. You smell much better, that's for certain. Did you swim around with Poseidon's daughters for a spell?"

"No time," Eudorus mumbled. "Maybe tomorrow after the battle." He shook his head. "If there is one. Achilles refuses to fight for Agamemnon."

Odysseus sat opposite him, smiling broadly. "I was there, my friend, so I'm well aware of your commander's current disinclination to fight for our self-appointed lord. It was…well, Agamemnon's taking of the priestess was expected, but Achilles' reaction wasn't. I admit I wasn't clever enough to see that coming our way. It could push our ships back into the sea more than any Trojan assault."

Eudorus nodded miserably.

"Oh, come, Eudorus. Rest tomorrow if you're kept away from the field." He looked at the wineskin that dangled from Eudorus' loose fingers. "Actually, I think two days might be called for, but are you game for a bit of adventure tonight? You're just in time."

"What is it?"

"I was about to go to that palace Agamemnon has created for himself aboard his ship. My presence is required, naturally, but I've been dragging my feet like a boy going to a whipping. I was waiting for a deliverance of any sort, and I think you might be it."

Eudorus stared at him dully. "Me?"

"Well, Agamemnon is feeling quite shunned by Achilles and his men, who have followed suit. I think it might improve relations if one of the Myrmidons sat at his table."

"I'm not so drunk to be talked into that," Eudorus said. "Achilles will have my hide, should he find out."

"I, for one, won't tell him, but does it matter? Has he given you orders to avoid Agamemnon?"

"No. He doesn't need to."

"But it's not an explicit order."

"You're ever one to find the hole through which to escape and yet have truth completely on your side," Eudorus said.

Odysseus laughed. "Oh but I do like your honesty, born of wine or not. The truth is, I'd rather have you there to help pass the time. It's either sit beside you, or beside Nestor, who will be

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talking in my ear the entire night. I value words and treasure a tale as much as any man, but when that old relic starts, it's nigh impossible to shut him up."

"Agamemnon would not suffer me long," Eudorus protested. "It was to be the kings joining him tonight."

"True. Achilles had quite a few things to say today about the value of soldiers compared to kings, so Agamemnon might not be, er, overwhelmed by your appearance. However…" Odysseus got to his feet and helped Eudorus to his, grunting a little as the soldier staggered into an upright position.

"However, what?"

Odysseus grinned. "He's also going to be dividing the spoils and it's a foolish man who won't lose himself in the crowd and hold his hand out for something. If you get nothing, I'll give you a portion of mine. Don't act like a drunken lout and all will go well."

Eudorus allowed himself to be prodded out of the tent but began to back away from where Odysseus indicated Agamemnon's ship lay.

"I'll not be made sport of by vicious kings," he said, throwing his arms wide in loud declaration. "This day has been foul enough already and tomorrow bodes worse if Achilles doesn't get his prize back."

"You call me vicious?" Odysseus asked coolly. "That wounds me, Eudorus."

"Not you, my lord. Not you." The protest was spoken hastily, but not in an attempt to cover guilt. He seemed honestly surprised that he had to assure Odysseus of such a thing. "You accord me honor I sometimes wonder is my due."

Odysseus shook his head and approached the addled Myrmidon. He took the wineskin from his hand and tossed it to the side. "Come," he said, putting an arm around Eudorus' shoulders and steering him firmly in the direction of the Mycenaean ship. "Forget what I said. You need fear nothing. Agamemnon needs my brains more than he needs to hate Achilles. He's flush with treasure and victory and bound to be in a quite forgiving mood tonight. I'm sure that if Achilles scraped on his knees, he would give your commander the sun if he so wished. That will never happen, but Agamemnon's anger does not extend to everyone. He would not rule so many men if that was his way." He gave Eudorus an encouraging shake. "Come. Let's stuff ourselves with food and laugh like we'll die tomorrow."

To his amusement and pleasure, Eudorus nodded in surrender and fell into step beside him.

Chapter 3

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"What's the meaning of this? Have you apologies to extend, Myrmidon?"

Eudorus glanced at Odysseus, who had quickly abandoned him by removing his comradely arm and moving away, if only a few paces.

"My lord Achilles told me nothing, King Agamemnon," he said, consciously trying to keep the words clear from the slurrings of wine. "He still remains in his quarters."

It occurred to him to look for signs of Achilles' stolen priestess and he let his gaze flit around the room, but it yielded nothing. His vision had already become blurred from the wine, but he could see that many men were gathered in the robes of their vaunted stations. The deck, covered by a vast canopy, had been arranged with low benches and pillows upon which to sit and lounge. He felt his knees begin to wobble and had to curb the urge to sit down without leave.

"Then why bring him here?" Agamemnon demanded, his query directed at Odysseus. "Just what trick were you plotting, Ithacan fox?"

"No trick," was the solemn reply. "This man did spill his blood today in the first step towards total victory. I merely sought to honor him with the means at my disposal, an invitation to sit beside me."

Agamemnon tapped his scepter in thought and narrowed his eyes at Eudorus. He was not overly displeased to see him. If Achilles was unreachable through direct means, then perhaps another tactic was required. He had been inwardly gnashing his teeth once the flush of power had ebbed. It had been satisfying to take that priestess from Achilles, immensely satisfying, and while he told himself that he would do it again if given the chance, he recognized that perhaps he had been a little bullish about it.

"Do you know your commander well?" Agamemnon demanded, his thoughts lending his voice a gruff edge.

The question, in all its ignorance, poked Eudorus out of his fermented stupor. "I am his Captain," he answered in bald surprise. "There has not been a battle where I haven't fought on his right hand. My life has been in his service." He told himself to ignore any sour feelings that his loyalty to Achilles, so prominent and encompassing in his own mind, had been so inconsequential in the eyes of another.

Agamemnon cleared his throat and looked to an elderly man in the royal ranks assembled around him. "From what you tell me, Nestor, it's Achilles and only Achilles who eats enemies for breakfast. At no time did you mention that good men like this…"

"Eudorus," Odysseus prompted from behind a hand that masked a smile. His amusement was only heightened by the frustration on Nestor's haggard face at being publicly remonstrated to deflect Agamemnon's own discomfort.

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"…men like this Eudorus have as much right to the glory as that raging—" Agamemnon paused and inclined his head towards Eudorus in affable apology. "I hold nothing against you, Myrmidon, but understand that your commander has foolishly vexed me and all the kings assembled here." He held his hands out to encompass the assembly. "We all want Troy to fall and I tried to make Achilles see the reason in a mutual alliance of force and interest, but I was spurned. In fact, we have been discussing how best to return Achilles to the fold. I want him to fight for me, but gladly."

Eudorus found himself unable to speak, but not because he could not find the words. He knew what to say, wanted to declare that it was entirely within Agamemnon's ability to set matters right simply by handing over the priestess. But that privilege was denied him, was only given to a few who had the status to advise the King of Kings.

"You look as though I'm sitting in judgment," Agamemnon said, less genial than before. "Odysseus vouches for you and I welcome you to the festivities. Sit."

When the soldier had said nothing, Agamemnon wondered if he was indeed wasting his time with this strategy. The man was obviously Achilles' dog, trotting at his heels into and out of battle. If the loyalty ran that deep, there was little chance he could persuade him to play upon that loyalty for his sake. The damnable Phthian commanded allegiance to a degree that Agamemnon could only aspire to. While he often found himself in a tangle of politics and maneuvers, Achilles simply stood at the forefront of his men, told them they were great warriors, and those men broke themselves to please him. This easy exercise of power irked him all the more, made him suspicious.

He did not spare Odysseus from a stormy glare, and their eyes met as the Ithacan assisted the Myrmidon towards a cushion on the floor. Odysseus had presumed to extend hospitality that was not his, yet Agamemnon did not wish to make a petty argument of it. If, on a stray chance, goodwill on his part sowed dissension within the Myrmidon ranks to make them more biddable, then that was worth wasting a chunk of meat and a handful of grapes on a lowly mercenary. It was a small sacrifice. If nothing else, this Eudorus might think more kindly of him the next time his name was profaned among the Myrmidon ranks.

"Eat, brave Myrmidon," he said from his throne, his voice now infused with warm cheer. "Within the turn of the moon, we'll be feasting at Priam's own table and one cask of wine shall be yours."

Eudorus bowed his head jerkily in thanks and looked to Odysseus in perplexed embarrassment. The fuzzy sound of many men in many conversations swarmed around his ears. Agamemnon shouted for more wine and the merriment resumed from its interruption by Eudorus and Odysseus' arrival.

Odysseus laughed softly and shoved towards him the laden platter that sat on a low table between them. "He's been promising all manner of things once Troy's walls have been breached," Odysseus whispered. "I believe Triopas has the honor of walking through Priam's gardens and Nestor has the privilege of some other unique and meaningful thing."

14

"My lord…"

"Don't be so anxious. All of us know it's pure ceremony. No one actually expects each and every promise to be granted." He tapped his temple. "Remember, my gifts up here are worth more than a few disrespectful words on my tongue."

This assurance did not put him entirely at ease, but Eudorus' attention was turned by the appearance of slender hands tipping a wineskin to fill his cup. Although his head had begun to pound, the scent of it was too enticing to ignore.

"Enough, girl," Odysseus said, tipping up the neck of the wineskin. "This man's head is already up among the clouds."

The girl departed, leaving the scent of myrrh in her wake. It punctured the haze that had tenaciously clung to Eudorus and he straightened, suddenly alert. He looked in her direction, but could not determine if it was Achilles' stolen priestess. All he could see was a slender form in a plain white gown. He fought to recollect what the girl had looked like as she was draped over Xuthos' shoulder. Was her hair brown or more reddish? What had she been wearing?

He shook his head in impatience, frustrated by the grip the wine had over his mind. No, it was not her, could be anyone. He had no intention of seizing the girl, even if she did appear, but he hoped that this foray of his into unknown and dangerous territory would yield some information to temper Achilles' inevitable wrath at his captain taking company with the hated Mycenaean king.

"It's not her," Odysseus said from around a large olive. "She's elsewhere."

"Briseis? Where?"

Odysseus smiled. "You're such a straightforward fellow. It's almost enough to charm pure honesty out of me."

Eudorus grimaced. Surely Odysseus could put aside his usual banter for this serious matter. It wasn't simply the girl, but the fate of an army that hung on the clashing wills of two men.

"Achilles will want to know if she's safe," he said.

"That I don't know," Odysseus replied, genuine regret pulling at his lips. "Agamemnon paraded her about earlier this evening and the girl looked unmarked. Any damage seems to have been done by herself. Oh, not that she tried to take her own life," he amended upon seeing Eudorus' eyes widen, his body freeze. "She's fighting mad and hasn't quite learned the art of survival amongst one's enemies. She's had no need to, I imagine, petted and protected in a temple by fussy old priests."

"I must go," Eudorus said miserably. "I can't remain here." He grabbed the cup of wine and drained it.

15

"If you must, you must." Odysseus watched Eudorus avidly as the Myrmidon set down the cup. "Your head looks ready to lift from your shoulders, my friend."

"As you said, I'm drunk."

"And you have every reason to be." Odysseus nudged a piece of roasted beef towards him. "Eat something. It'll make the puking that much more pleasant. Nothing worse than just bile and wine." He laughed when he saw Eudorus' face pale, but his humor was only fleeting.

"Go tell Achilles that you saw her," he said, "and that she's well and untouched. Tell him that I gave you my word. That should forestall any rash action on his part. If he discovers later that she was harmed, then he's free to thrash me the entire way home." He lowered his voice and, despite Eudorus' state, he was glad to see the urgency was not lost on him. "Eudorus, you must understand we cannot have this anger between he and Agamemnon getting the upper hand. There's too much to be risked on such a little matter."

Eudorus nodded. He did understand, had had the same thought every time he passed Achilles' dark, silent hut.

"I regret that this Trojan girl might need to be sacrificed," Odysseus went on. "But consider, one girl who outweighs the needs of the entire Achaean army? In my mind, it is no different than that fop Paris deciding his lust for Menelaus' wife mattered more than the needs and safety of his father's kingdom. A fine decision that was, eh? With all of Achaea amassed on his doorstep?"

"I won't tell Achilles that you likened him to Paris," Eudorus said with grim humor. "But what you say makes no convert out of me because I already believe it."

"As long as someone near Achilles can see reason."

Eudorus slowly got to his feet. The din did not stop, no attention seemed to be paid him. Just as well. He wanted to leave. The air was stifling, despite the burning of incense. Eudorus' nostrils burned for the healing night breeze.

He stumbled towards the exit, ignoring the guards who held the canvas aside for him.

Odysseus watched Eudorus leave and turned to Agamemnon who, although leaning towards Menelaus in close counsel, had one eye trained on his Ithacan ally. A brow rose in question: So, are your fox's tricks as keen as ever?

Odysseus nodded, then shrugged with a humble smile. Just keep the wench safe, King, he thought. If you don't, you will surely regret it.

Eudorus trudged down the gangplank, his heavy limbs seemingly intent on sending him careening down into the sand. His lungs were almost incapable of sucking in the suddenly fresh

16

air and he ran a hand over his face in a bid to rub away the stench of gluttony and waves of nausea that threatened to consume him.

He nearly sighed when he felt the sand sink up around his ankles, a pleasant warmth now rather than the searing pain of earlier in the day. Better than sand, however, would be the embrace of the sea. He had promised himself a swim on the morrow, after the next battle, but things were becoming more uncertain all the time. If he was ever to do it, it would have to be now.

Rather than retracing his steps towards the Myrmidon camp, he turned to walk between Agamemnon's ship and the one beside it. He ducked under the wings of the canopy draped over the hull, walking deliberately to avoid tripping on any of the ropes that staked it to the ground and hoping desperately that no refuse lay in his path. Some slaves were careless about where they chose to empty this pot or that.

The moon was shy, lingering behind a dense cloud and offering little in the way of illumination. Large shapes that loomed blacker than the darkness were his only means of navigation, so it took him completely by surprise when he walked into a loose rope dangling from above on the sea-facing side of the canopy.

He grasped at it in alarm, and froze when he heard feminine whispers above him.

"You must hurry!"

"My hands are slipping."

"Only a bit more, then let go. The sand will break your fall," said the first woman, the measured tone trying to maintain calm.

"No, I'll break something!" was the hissed, agitated response.

A man's voice intruded, first in surprise, then in anger. Eudorus did not recognize it and assumed it was one of Agamemnon's guards.

"Thought you could escape, could you?" he barked.

One of the women gasped in panic and there was a flurry of activity above him. The rope hissed through his hands as it was yanked upwards.

"My lady, please let go!"

Feet thumped hollowly against the hull above him, but no one fell. Instead, he heard the sound of a body landing on the deck above as whoever had been on the rope was pulled back aboard her prison. However, the scuffle intensified and he could hear blows being rained down on armor, accompanied by a furious barrage of insults from an angry tongue.

17

The assault was suddenly terminated by a roar of frustration, soon followed by a guttural choking sound and, then, a cry of terror.

The next thing Eudorus knew, he was being knocked into the sand as the full weight of one of the women landed on him. He blindly clutched at her and fell backwards under the protection of the canopy, out of sight of whatever feeble moonlight could pierce the clouds. His ears rang and bursts of light momentarily blinded him from the force of the impact. Despite this disorientation, when the woman began to kick in renewed panic, he recovered quickly. He clapped a hand over her mouth and locked his legs around her flailing ones.

"Shhhhhh!" he hissed in her ear. "You're safe."

This assurance was reluctantly accepted, but only after a few more punches landed on his arms and sides. He held her tighter until she relented. They lay rigid in the sand and he knew that she was listening as attentively as he to what passed on the deck above them.

"You will regret this, you pig!" he heard the recaptured woman spit. "My cousin will split you open from top to bottom on the morrow!"

"If I could, there would be nothing left of you for your cousin to avenge," was the low, irritable reply. "You're fortunate to be valued so highly. King Agamemnon…"

Eudorus heard no more. The voices vanished and he slowly loosened his hold on the woman, who flung herself off of him in desperate escape. As she tried to scramble to her feet, he grasped her around the ankle and she went sprawling into the sand again.

"Let me go!"

He said nothing and doubled his grip with his other hand. "Please, listen to me." When she didn't struggle further, he pulled himself up alongside her. He could smell the faint scent of myrrh again and briefly wondered if it was she who had served his wine earlier that night, or if it had come from Achilles' lost prize. "Was that the Trojan priestess taken by Agamemnon today?" he asked.

"Yes." He heard the wary tone in that single word.

"Come with me," he said. "There is someone interested in what just happened. You will be well-treated, on my honor."

Either she was trusting - unlikely - or she had no illusion that she could flee a beach swarming with Achaeans. After only a brief hesitation, she murmured in agreement and remained tightly beside him as they scurried away from the Mycenaean enclave towards the Myrmidon camp.

Chapter 4

18

When Achilles emerged from his hut, Eudorus noticed that his expression was pinched.

"She still lives, my lord," he offered, feeling a need to reassure him. "And untouched, if Odysseus speaks true."

Achilles sat down heavily on the ground beside Eudorus and ran tense fingers through his hair. Over the crackle of the fire, Eudorus could hear faintly strike against each other the clay beads that adorned his twisted locks.

"Odysseus has a crooked tongue," Achilles said, giving Eudorus a weary look. "But for all that, I trust him. I suppose I have no choice. Your woman also swore to me that she had not been forced to submit to Agamemnon. Unless someone else comes forward to say differently, I have two assurances that the girl is safe."

He clasped his hands around his knees and rocked back and forth in agitation, but only briefly, for his eyes flickered with sudden recognition of his visible turmoil. He did not look guilty or offer any shrug or gesture in excuse for this display. It was simply gone, and he turned to his captain with his customary rigid bearing and dispassion.

"You did hear me, Eudorus?"

"My lord?"

"The woman. She is yours now. I think it is time you had one of your own. You've been turning them aside for longer than is healthy."

Eudorus fumbled at words, not a clumsy thank you for a sudden gift, but a protestation.

"She is another's, perhaps even Agamemnon's, my lord," he said. "I was going to return her to his ship after she spoke with you."

Achilles shook his head. "She claims that she was taken by the Myrmidons today, along with all of the food in her storehouse and stables, and later taken by Agamemnon. It looks like you had one of our stolen prizes thrown right into your arms tonight by an obliging, ignorant guard. You've done exceedingly well tonight, my friend."

He rose to his feet in seamless, fluid motion. Eudorus never failed to marvel at how his commander could move like those exotic, prowling felines he had once seen displayed in an Egyptian bazaar.

"I will send her to you and you can do with her what you will," Achilles said, turning towards his hut. "If Agamemnon, or whoever was given her, desires her return, they will have to pay a like price."

The cold tone in Achilles' voice implied he cared little about this woman's well-being, only saw her as a potential bartering tool. Eudorus suspected that it would never come to that.

19

Agamemnon would not desire something that Achilles did not, would not surrender the priestess for a farmer's wife. Achilles' other choice would have been to give the woman back to his men to share, to those who had taken her by rights of conquest. But he had not done so, instead giving her to one he trusted utterly.

"She will be safe with me, my lord," Eudorus said weakly to his retreating back. "Would that your Briseis was here as well."

Achilles paused, but didn't turn. "Do not mention that name again until she stands here with me. Understood, Eudorus?"

Achilles' words were ice and it chilled Eudorus to the bone. Although he sat close to the fire and he knew his skin must be hot, he did not feel it.

"Yes, my lord."

He watched Achilles disappear into his hut and set about poking at the fire with undue concentration on the glowing embers. When two sandaled feet appeared beside him, peering from under the hem of a long, white gown, he gave them a quick glance and returned to tending the fire.

"I am now yours, it seems." The voice was quiet, but he could hear the weary resentment in every word. The insolence, though muted, surprised him.

"So it seems," Eudorus said. "Sit."

He watched her sink to her knees and hold her hands up to the fire. Not until now had he seen her in a close light. His first contact with her had been a frantic struggle in the dark. He knew her voice when angry and suspicious, he knew the feel of her body against his when fearful and reluctantly trusting, but he did not know her face. It seemed so backwards, but he knew he should expect such strange turns in the midst of war. Nothing was ever predictable when men came together in the sole purpose of killing each other.

"What is your name?"

The woman curled her fingers against the heat and appeared to contemplate answering so simple a question.

"I'm Eudorus."

Her hands limply fell into her lap.

"Dianeira."

It came as a sigh, as though the giving of her name was only the latest in a long list of sacrifices she had already made.

20

She said nothing more, nor did he ask anything. He took the opportunity to study her, to put a face to what he had earlier heard and felt of this woman. Dark hair hung limp from a careless knot on the back of the head. Her nose had a pleasing slope, not too sharp or shallow, but a bump on the bridge of it made him wonder if it had been broken at one point. He wondered what had caused it, if it was from something serious or completely frivolous. Her mouth was full, but broad rather than sensuous. He imagined that if she laughed, the sound would be loud, but hearty. Though what could give this woman cause to laugh now? he thought. He suspected she had felt more pain today than in her entire life. She no doubt throbbed with misery.

"How many?" he asked.

She turned, though she did not look at him. Long lashes shielded her eyes, making him all the more curious as to their color. Her mouth trembled. She knew what he asked, perhaps was more wounded that he asked it than the fact itself.

"I don't remember," she said hoarsely through unshed tears. "Two…three…? You could be the fourth or the tenth. I don't know."

She lifted her gaze, and he saw that her eyes were of a paleness that mirrored his own, an icy blue or grey that he knew some found as frightening as others did fascinating.

"My husband—" she went on. "He is still unburied, left in the stables. They did not even wait for him to die before they…"

"I'm sorry," Eudorus said, knowing the words were inadequate, foolish. Insulting, even. "I did not lead the men on that raid. Had I, it might have been…different."

She stared at him in cold disbelief, gulped away her tears. "No. I would still be here, with you or someone else," she said. "Soldiers seem incapable of leaving a woman be. Take my livestock, take my harvest. That I understand, but no, you always want more." Her voice broke, trembled thinly. "What did we do to deserve any of it?"

"Your prince, Paris, he—"

She surprised him by emitting a sharp, derisive laugh. "Him! There's no man on this earth who has more luck and deserves it less." She swept her arm behind her, pointing in the direction of the silent, tense city of Troy. "Your target sleeps there, untroubled and unchastened. Take your argument to him."

The woman's vehemence, her reckless haranguing, seemed like an invitation for death. He knew of men who would make sure it came to that, who would not tolerate such a tongue, but he was not one of those men.

When the woman realized there was no punishment forthcoming, she fell into complete silence, utterly withdrawn from him.

21

Eudorus again turned his attention towards the fire. There was nothing more he could say, the feeble excuse for this war – one spoiled prince's uncontrolled lust – too ridiculous to argue convincingly. He had never believed it; no one had. The Trojan coward had only been a rich source for jokes and genial hatred, but no one truly believed that this war was for anything other than Agamemnon's personal enrichment and his brother's desire to punish his cuckolding wife. Paris was an afterthought. If he died, all the better, and more so if he suffered, but killing him was not counted among anyone's primary mission.

The sounds of the sea and the crackling fire surrounded them. Periodically, a drunken laugh would drift over the cooling sands from where others sat around their fires. Eudorus watched Dianeira hunch reflexively every time the brutish chortles became too loud, too coarse. He could only imagine what raced through her mind, what fresh and raw memories were stripped bloody by these stray sounds.

No, he told himself, you can imagine. There are women still alive who have you as that terrifying memory. You who, after those early battles and pillages, with lust for blood still pounding throughout your every limb, felt the need to take more, cause more hurt, more anguish. The need to thoroughly conquer was like a fever, and you went about it blindly, indiscriminately. Until…

He had lost track of how many years had passed since it happened. Perhaps fifteen or maybe twenty years, but it wasn't how long ago that mattered. He could still remember the morning he woke up, head pounding from too much wine. The morning he realized he had been too drunk and sated with sex to realize that the girl beside him, the girl who had repeatedly suffered his brutal attentions, had taken his sword and, rather than slay him, found it a better thing to slay herself.

Although he remembered not a bit of it, had not been stirred even by the blood that seeped around and clung to him as he snored his satisfaction, he knew she had died in the utmost agony. No one would have gutted herself as she had if she had possessed the knowledge to do it cleanly and quickly. As he stared at the pale, naked, eviscerated corpse through bleary, sleep-gummed eyes, he asked himself why he had not heard her tears, her prayers, her cries and gurgles as she clung to life even as she willfully threw it away. Above all, he asked himself what he had done to her, what horrible acts she had been forced to submit to, all to satisfy a conqueror's perverse pleasure. The bruises on her face, around her wrists, and on her bloody body told of things he was too frightened to know. Worse, Tydeus' lecherous grin as he had entered the hut confirmed his worse suspicions of a crime shared, a grin that immediately vanished as the horror dawned upon even that most vicious of mercenaries and took any knowledge of the night with it.

After a frantic protestation that he had not killed her, they had never spoken of that night, not that morning or at any time since. But it had marked both men. Eudorus noticed that Tydeus had tempered his more monstrous inclinations while he himself had sought to be content with gold and plunder that had no heart beating within and could suffer no pain. It was a bond of the most wretched sort, but an unspoken bargain was at the core of it: Eudorus would not condemn Tydeus for his continuing pleasure in rapine, and Tydeus would keep forever to himself knowledge of Eudorus' depravity that dark night.

22

Although they quietly disposed of the woman and the incriminating, bloodstained bedding, the deed hung heavily upon Eudorus. The image he forever remembered, that constantly visited his nightmares, was the girl's face as she stared unseeing up at the sky from her shallow grave. A fat globule of blood hung onto the corner of her mouth and he remembered regretting that Tydeus covered her with a spade of dirt before he could wipe it away. It was a pathetic thought, that one spot of blood should matter so much when she had been covered with it, but he never questioned anything that had chosen to haunt him from the ordeal.

It was generally believed that Eudorus was a superstitious man, more so than many of the men he lived and fought with. The reputation had earned him no small amount of jibes and affectionate ridicule, but Achilles knew that his captain's cautious, guarded nature had been forged not from an irrational, crippling fear of angry gods and a constant search for omens (although he had a healthy respect for the gods and their signs), but from a headlong rush into the worst and blackest pits a man could allow bloodlust to lead him.

As far as Eudorus knew, Achilles was unaware of the girl he and Tydeus had driven to suicide. What he suspected, however, was that Achilles had seen one of his best Myrmidons rescue himself before becoming a worthless, grasping monster that lived only for gore and glory. Promotion to captain had come shortly thereafter and, with it, a charge to shape and lead the men by example. Eudorus was superstitious enough to believe that it was not mere chance that he had been given this honor and responsibility. If it was a gift to redeem himself, then so be it. He would do what he could and accept anything else that came his way.

That this woman, Dianeira, had been delivered to him through such a tangle of circumstance and chance was not lost upon Eudorus. There were many other women who had suffered a fair portion of what that long-dead girl had suffered at his own hands, women who had seen his sorrowful eyes, leaped upon the hope of sympathy, and cried out to him to rescue them as they were carried off by their gleeful captors. Yet it was not within his power to seize another man's plunder, at least not to do so without risking his own neck. His conscience was not clear, by any means, but he resigned himself to the reality of it.

Now this woman was his, wholly his, and the power he held frightened him and summoned the horrible images of that doomed girl again. It was within his power to save her or ruin her.

"Again, I said I'm thirsty."

Eudorus looked down and saw that Dianeira had inched closer, but her expression quickly faded from irritation at having to repeat herself to wariness. He wondered how haggard he looked, how hunted. He knew he would look worse by morning. Sleep would come late, or not at all. If he slept beside her, he would be awake all night, waiting for the feel of sticky, hot blood against him.

He reached down and took up a discarded wineskin, shook it tiredly, and held it out to her. "I think there's enough in there, but I'll go find more."

23

"No need. This will do." She upended it, took a swallow, and grimaced as the thick, sour dregs coated her tongue. A fit of coughing seized her and she took another swig from the skin.

"There is other, better wine around here somewhere," he said. "Give me the skin and I'll refill it."

She turned to hand him the wineskin, but it slipped through Eudorus' fingers as he suddenly fumbled at it. Before it fell into the sand, she grabbed it and looked at him in utter confusion, a bewilderment that was intensified when she saw that his eyes were rigidly fixed on her. Or, rather, on her face. Her mouth.

She began to edge away from him, his glittering ice-blue eyes, ringed with dark shadows, so intensely focused on her that they had almost become sightless. She didn't move fast enough. One hand closed over her wrist, an anchor pinning her to the spot.

His other hand reached out to her face and she watched it with the terror of a child transfixed by a snake. The coarse pad of his thumb brushed her lips, at the corner, and she was suddenly aware of the wetness, that a drop of wine had lingered there. Her breathing became more shallow and rapid when he brought the thumb to his mouth, sucking away the dark wine.

"Please," she whimpered, his odd behavior filling her mind with fresh terrors. She leaned away, but his grip was iron. "Don't hurt me. Don't…"

She had seen all manner of smiles in her seemingly endless time as a captive of these brutal invaders. She had seen the shy, beaten smiles of other women who were glad only that yet another would share their misery. Hopeful smiles by the male slaves that the spoils would eventually make their way to them. Worst of all, broken teeth peering at her between lips contorted with grinning ecstasy, fetid breath scorching her face, would forever haunt her nightmares.

What she didn't expect to see was a smile of her dreams, looking upon her as a source of something completely beautiful and desired. Not something desired of the moment, to be used and then discarded to the next man waiting behind him, but something long thought lost, the excitement of rediscovery robbing one of speech and reason. His muteness did nothing to help her understand what was roiling inside the man before her.

He loosed his hold on her and she wrenched her arms away, holding them to her chest. "Don't hurt me," she repeated. "That's all I ask."

He looked up at the sky and felt his smile involuntarily widening. The clouds were clearing, the full moon no longer impeded. "Dianeira, would you like to go back to your home?"

Once she recovered from surprise at the unexpected question, she said, "I have no home. It is nothing but ashes and death. You brave soldiers took it from me, remember?"

"Can you lead me there?" he asked. "Can you find your way using the moon as light?"

24

Dianeira wondered if he had even heard her. "Yes, but what is there you could possibly want?" she demanded. "Everything of value I ever had is here. There is nothing left."

He stood and leaned over, hand held out in invitation. "We will be back before dawn. Come."

The fact that she had not yet been leaped upon by this man filled her with as much confidence as it could have possibly done, under the circumstances. She still hesitated before she put her hand in his and rose to her feet. She staggered from the pain of having knelt so long, but he caught her with a whispered encouragement.

"Please," she said, her fingers curling tightly around his arm, "tell me why."

"There are many answers to that," he said. "You'll never know some of them. I will tell you that we'll both sleep better if a matter is tended to."

"Such as?" she asked warily.

When the Myrmidon didn't answer, Dianeira led him from the fire, onto the path she knew led to her home, a ravaged husk that she felt she had herself become. She had lost much of her own will, passed from one Myrmidon to another and then ultimately seized by the Mycenaean king. The appearance of Prince Hector's cousin Briseis, a girl whose kindness and charity was as well known as her cousin Paris for his vanity, had shook her from her despondent state. She had tried to help the girl escape, had failed. Instead, she had been tossed back into the arms of those who had started her misery.

As she had sat in Achilles' quarters, the commander telling her she now belonged to yet another of his men, she pondered the worth of her life and decided on "Nothing." Nothing, except the wretched certainty of slavery and all the indignities that accompanied it until it finally sapped her of the last of her ability and will to live. She was no weakling; her life had never been marked by tremendous heights of happiness, but this, this… It had been too much to contemplate, too much to bear.

Yet now…

"What a difference one night can bring," she murmured, then realized she had spoken aloud. She decided to continue. He could ignore it if he liked, but she wanted to hear her own voice again, a voice speaking soft and plain, not tense from fear. "I was near death tonight," she said, "but not any longer. It's…brighter, somehow." She shook her head. "It must be finding an island of kindness and peace in a world of madness."

She looked up at Eudorus uncertainly, saw that his attention was firmly fixed on the dark horizon before them. There was distance between them, a respectful gap that she found welcome, yet intriguing. Apart from the baffling gesture of wiping that wine from her mouth, all contact had been unremarkable, proper, necessary. She wondered if he could be as tender as she glimpsed when she had stumbled and he had caught her. Though she swore she could still smell the blood

25

on him from battle and had no doubt that he was a rampaging killer on the battlefield, right now she found it hard to believe.

Her skin flushed hot and prickly, then shrugged in embarrassment at the thought. It was too soon to be pondering such things, despite the small comfort it gave her.

"Or it's just the moon," she finished hastily. "Yes, that. Something simple is best."

"No, it's never something simple," Eudorus said, thinking of the dead man who lay cold on a stable floor in a farm not far away. That farmer would be buried tonight, but he would not be in the grave alone. Eudorus was confident, finally confident, that his tortured conscience would lie beneath the earth before Apollo ascended in his fiery chariot.

THE END