Chapter Text
You know how the story begins—Μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεά, Πηληιάδεω Ἀχιλῆος, the singular rage of a singular man, the gods, the heroes, the tragedies. This is not quite that story.
This story begins with two men watching a pile of dead sheep and dogs burn.
“It’s spread to the soldiers,” one of the men says. He’s the younger of the two and the larger, though nowhere near as enormous as some of the men he fights alongside. His hair is unfashionably short and he’s clean-shaven. He’s never seen a reason why you’d want to give an enemy something extra to grab onto. He looks very tired.
“I heard. Two dead already,” says his companion. His hair, longer and as well-coifed as he can manage in a place like this, is shot through with grey at the temples. A half-burnt, sore-riddled ewe slides off the pile. He pokes it back in with the butt of his spear. He also looks very tired.
“Fuck. You got any clever schemes for something like this?” Diomedes asks.
“Try to not die and wait for the gods to tell Calchas what we did?” Odysseus suggests.
“Not much of a plan.”
“Trust me, Agamemnon feels the same. Very emphatically.”
That gets a laugh out of Diomedes, which is more than Odysseus has managed in a few days.
“You think it’ll get bad?” Odysseus asks.
“Yes. The plague and…,” he trails off, rubbing his chin. “And everything else, I think. Just instinct, but I feel like something worse is coming. Things are changing.”
—
Odysseus has never known Diomedes’ instincts to be wrong, annoyingly enough. It’s a surprise when, a week later, their commander and best warrior nearly come to blows over a girl, like a pair of beardless youths, but it honestly shouldn’t have been.
Diomedes manages to grab him before he sets out for Chryse.
“Travel safe,” he says.
“I thank you for your well-wishes, facing such a lengthy and dangerous journey. Now, I know you’ll struggle to be apart from me for one entire day…”
Diomedes rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder roughly. “You’re a bastard. See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Odysseus agrees. If he grasps his arm for a moment too long before heading to the ship, there’s no one left in this camp who gives a shit about that anymore.
—
They end up in bed the next night, as they often do.
“Anything happen while I was gone?” Odysseus asks Diomedes, who’s dozing on his chest.
“Not really,” comes the mumbled reply.
“Agamemnon didn’t relent, then?”
“Agamemnon is one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever known,” Diomedes says, propping himself up on his elbows. His hand rests on his collarbone, thumb stroking mindlessly.
“The other,” he says through a yawn, jaw cracking, “is Achilles. We’re fucked.”
“Pessimistic. We’ve still got more men. And Achilles isn’t the only hero beloved of the gods that we’ve got,” he replies, squeezing his side.
“Sure,” Diomedes says, “but our men worship him, and their men fear him, more than the rest of us. Shit’s about to get worse.”
“I know,” Odysseus says, sighing. His mind teems with half-baked schemes to reconcile Achilles and Agamemnon.
“Stop thinking so loudly. Go to sleep,” Diomedes interrupts, face already planted back on his chest. “You can figure out how to fix everything in the morning.”
—
He does not. Agamemnon decides it’s time for one of his little tests, telling the soldiers that the war’s good as lost and it’s time to go home, all so the soldiers will reassure him of their commitment. He’s done this before, like a child who pretends to be hurt so his mother will kiss it better. It’s a stupid time to pull something like this. The men are sick of war and sick of Agamemnon’s command, and Achilles’ departure is the only excuse they need.
Of course, it’s Odysseus who has to clean up his mess. He soothes the commanders and berates the soldiers, he beats Thersites and praises Agamemnon. Once, he thinks he would have sympathized with the men, both with their frustration and with their yearning to leave. Now, he’s only exasperated that they have not yet learned that there is no way out from this war.
—
Whether it’s from the absence of the Myrmidons or at the prompting of some bored god, something is different on the battlefield. The first wave of arrows and stones has barely been exchanged before Agamemnon calls for a halt. Apparently, Paris wants to fight Menelaus one-on-one, and to the victor goes Helen and her jewels. The soldiers murmur with hope, Danaan and Trojan alike. Odysseus does not.
He makes his way over to Agamemnon, who stands like a boulder among the milling of men disarming.
“Will this work?” he asks Odysseus, his voice low.
“Whatever happens, the peace won’t hold. Do you think the gods would let these ten years end with one death?”
“Perhaps they’ve grown as sick of it as we have,” he suggests. His voice does not reflect much optimism on that point. His eyes are fixed on his soft-hearted brother, preparing his arms.
“Paris is a decent archer, and nothing more. He’ll cut off his pretty head before he can throw a single spear,” Odysseus tells him.
“Aphrodite loves Paris.”
“And Athena loves the Achaeans,” he reminds him. “He’ll be fine.”
—
Priam himself comes down from Troy’s high walls to witness the oath. It has been several years since the last serious attempt at a diplomatic resolution, which have not been kind to the old king. His hair, still partially dark when they’d arrived, is pure white and thinning. His voice is shaky as he speaks with Agamemnon. He leaves as soon as the rams are slaughtered, and the oaths given—it seems he trusts this peace to hold no more than Odysseus. Frailer, then, but no less canny.
“I will mark out the space to fight, if that is agreeable,” Hector says.
Agamemnon nods his head in assent. “Laertiades will help you,” he says, none of his worry showing in his tone.
It is strange to see Hector up close like this, with no chariot or spear between them. This man, who has slaughtered dozens and kept a besieging army at bay for ten years, looks like any other man in this country. He removes his helmet to work and his hair beneath is frizzy from sweat and heat. The circles under his eyes are as dark as Odysseus’ own. He puts his horsehair helmet back on before they cast the lots to determine who will throw their spear first. He cannot trust this armistice much more than his father.
The first throw falls to Paris. Odysseus can see Hector’s face relax minutely, even as he knows, without turning around, that Agamemnon’s lips have pursed and his arms tensed.
—
The fight goes…well, the fight goes about as well as he’d have expected a fight between both armies’ most infamously mediocre fighters to go. The end is a bit of a surprise.
After all these years, it’s still strange to see Menelaus angry. Hector looks scarcely less furious than him as he whispers urgently to his men, sending them to search the gathered Trojans. Both armies seem to hold their breath, unsure of what this means. Agamemnon steps into the no-man’s-land between the gathered troops, voice booming out over the field.
“Hear me, Trojans: the victory clearly belongs to Menelaus. Surrender Helen and all the possessions that came with her. We’ll assess a suitable penalty as well, a tribute to be paid for generations to come.”
“I cannot deny your words, nor will I prove Ilium to be a city of oath breakers,” Hector says, cheeks dark with embarrassment or fury.
Infectious hope ripples through the ranks. Try as he might, Odysseus cannot prevent a sliver of it from piercing him. There will be no peace until Troy burns or every Achaean falls, he knows this, but perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps Agamemnon was right, perhaps the gods grow tired of this story, perhaps there is a way out.
—
A single shot hisses through the air. Menelaus falls.