Trying to roll out updates as fast as I can to make up for being the worst for so long. I hope that you are still enjoying following this story, I'm finding myself becoming more and more emotionally invested in my characters and that's making me sad knowing what happens in the end. Thanks for all of the comment so far, and thanks for being here and happy reading:)
Chapter 29
Menelaus surveyed the men seated around the table. They had been in Agamemnon's tent for most of the night, and each one of the leaders was bleary eyed and becoming despondent, all except Agamemnon himself, who had grown a deeper shade of red with each passing hour. Odysseus, who sat across from himself at the table, looked like he had swallowed something sour; Diomedes and Idomeneus as if they might fall asleep at any moment; Nestor, Phoenix, and the large majority of the remaining lords looked more frightened than Menelaus had ever seen them. Who would have thought the loss of one overgrown child could make such a difference he groaned to himself. Yet even Menelaus could not deny that the idea of facing the Trojans in the morning without Achilles and his Myrmidons leading the charge was a daunting one.
The real reason that they were gathered here was because each and every one of the kings wanted Agamemnon to return the Lyrnessian queen to Achilles at once and have it over with, but not one of them was brave enough or stupid enough to say something. Ironic that the only person who can face my brother is the person who is not here. Menelaus' brother had become more and more flustered as the night pressed on and the kings became more and more restless, realizing slowly that their leader had no intent on healing the rift between himself and their best fighter and his contingent of battle hardened soldiers.
"So we go to battle as normal tomorrow," Odysseus finally spat after a long bout of silence in which Diomedes began to softly snore. The Ithacan was struggling to hide his disgust, and Menelaus found it amusing. "And then what happens the day after when half of our forces are either dead or wounded? This sickness may have gone, but we have other ways to die now."
"No one knows, Odysseus, that is what we have been discussing for the past several hours, or have your ears been blocked?" Menestheus, the King of Athens, spluttered. Menelaus buried his face in his palms. "Aren't you the one with all the clever ideas? I seem to recall one of you sowing salt on the beach so that you would not have to journey to Troy."
"And had I been lucky enough, it would have worked, Menestheus," Odysseus countered, giving his usual wry smile which did not extend to his eyes. "It has been ten years. We have lost thousands of men, and we are no closer to reclaiming Queen Helen or tearing down the walls of Troy than we were when we arrived. Even if we were to sail home within the hour, it is likely that all of our kingdoms will have proclaimed us dead and had us replaced, perhaps each of us gathered here is King of nothing but his plot of sand here on Trojan soil." Again he gave a wry smile. "Now, to complete the picture, we have angered our most skilled warrior who was our best hope for defeating his city, and lost his force of over two thousand battle hardened soldiers. So you will forgive me, Menestheus, if I would like a more definite plan of what is going to happen to us the day after tomorrow."
Menelaus had not said one word during the meeting, all along the image of Adara's tear stained face hovering in the back of his mind. He could not decide what he thought of the girl. She seemed kind, and intelligent enough. She was strong, and bore herself well, but he would not call her recklessly brave like Achilles. Their conversation in his tent had been interesting, she had gotten him to open up about Helen for the first time in years, a topic which he avoided speaking on at almost all costs. There was an openness about her that made her seem like she could be confided in.
But while Menelaus found her attractive enough, her beauty could not hold a torch to Helen. Hair like woven gold, a voice like birdsong, skin like fresh cream – Helen was said to be the daughter of Zeus, and one look confirmed this. She had been regal, and quiet, perfect at matters of state and welcoming to all visitors to Sparta. Adara, however, was proud. She hid it behind a servant's demeanor, but Menelaus felt certain that if she had been raised to speak her own mind as princesses or daughter of a leading family, then she might have ended up much like Achilles. Another with an ego such as his is not needed he thought with a grimace.
Adara had also asked him of Paris. It was strange to Menelaus, but he held almost no grudge against the Trojan prince. Of course there had been fury inside him when he originally discovered the betrayal, but as time passed, this cooled to nothing but bitterness and resentment. Menelaus knew why Helen had left – he had always known. Helen, the light of his eyes even now. If he thought hard enough, he could still smell the rosewater that she wore on her wrists and neck and chest, and feel the feather soft touch of her lips on his own. She had hoped that he would prove to be a great warrior, he looked like he might be upon a first appearance, and his typically quiet demeanor hinted at a more passionate underbelly – or maybe it would have if Menelaus was any other man. No, Menelaus knew that he had been a disappointment to his wife; boring, brooding, and opinionated. For ten years they had lived together and he had given Helen her every heart's desire, only find that she left him while at the funeral of his mother's father.
Paris on the other hand had this swagger about him and a smirk that seemed to gloat about passionate nights under the stars and distant travels – sword fights against Egyptians and archery contests against the Amazons. Menelaus had not been surprised when Helen ran away with him, she had always wanted more spark in her life, but in her hurry for passion she failed to recognize the Trojan prince's vapid interior. Menelaus had seen the moment he met Paris that the child was airheaded, and that the passion he seemed to hint at was nothing more than dirty whoring and womanizing. The most exotic thing Paris had ever done was being born in Troy. Helen, it seemed, had the knack for choosing just those men who would be the most disappointing in the end to her.
There was one idea, however, that had stood out during his conversation with Adara. He spends most of the fighting days behind the walls with a bow and arrow. Quite good at it too, but he is a coward. I could best him easily in a duel. Menelaus had not mentioned this idea yet at the council, but it was becoming clear to him that another option was necessary.
"If I might," he spoke lightly. He, unlike his brother, had never been one for dramatics. "We have spent the better part of this night under my brother's roof, and come no closer to solving the issue. We are all prepared to fight tomorrow, yes?" All of the heads around the table nodded, albeit somewhat grudgingly. There were many kings of Greece who did not respect Menelaus because of his blood shared with Agamemnon, but he rarely made his voice heard, and so they always tolerated him to speak.
"The morning following is a day of rest, and I will make this offer. I will send forth an emissary to challenge Paris to one on one combat for the hand of Helen. If I should win, which I feel confident in, then the Trojans are entitled to twelve days of funeral rights, which may give our Myrmidon friends the time they need to rejoin the battle."
It was the closest Menelaus had ever gotten to insulting his brother in the present company, and it was the closest he would ever get. His proclamation was met by hurried muttering, ripples of conversation growing louder and louder. Menelaus said nothing, only shifting in his chair to wake up his sleeping left foot; they would tell him what they thought of his plan. Finally, one voice echoed above the others.
"And if you do not defeat Paris?" Diomedes asked, his face contorted into a grimace.
"Then I hope you will make my funeral into a lavish affair, and that my death may be the spark which encourages our Pythian friend to return to battle. But unless you have a better idea, Diomedes, I think that this will suit for now."
There was no one else that spoke up in an attempt to dissuade Menelaus. It had been ten years on the Trojan shores, and the sons of Atreus were responsible; no one would mourn him if he died in combat against Paris. Of course Agamemnon would throw a glorious funeral for him, and use his death to re-motivate the men, but no, even his own brother would not mourn him.
When at last the gathering ended and the kings shuffled back to their own camps to collect a few dusty hours of rest before the army marched in the morning, Menelaus staid behind, leaning against the table and nodding at the few kings who bothered to meet his gaze. When at last Ajax had disappeared through the tent flap, Agamemnon slouched in his chair, burying his face in this hands.
"I should just send the army after him," Agamemnon spat. Menelaus knew who he spoke of, and it took a great deal of restraint not to laugh at his brother's suggestion.
"No, you should not, unless you want to get yourself and the rest of the army killed," Menelaus said. He stared at his brother, waiting for him to look up from his hands. "Achilles and his Myrmidons make up less than one tenth of the army and yet I am convinced that they could hold off the entirety of the Achaean forces for as long as possible."
"One man, Menelaus. He's one man!" Agamemnon was whimpering now. Menelaus wondered if his brother expected him to have sympathy for him.
"One man that the Fates decreed we must have to conquest in Troy. One man who has killed more Trojans that the rest of our forces combined. We lose him, and it was ten years for nothing."
"Do not tell me of his strengths, I will not hear it," Agamemnon shouted, finally peeling his hands away from his face to show that his ruddy skin had grown a shade deeper.
"You must. This feud between the two of you will get half of our men killed, or worse, and it seems that the other kings of Greece have left the task to me to complete," Menelaus spat back. They had always bickered, even when they were children. And Agamemnon always won.
"He insulted my pride!"
"And so you incinerated his in return?" Menelaus' hands balled into fists. "You were foolish enough to anger Apollo by failing to return his priestess—"
"How dare you!" Agamemnon frothed, his eyes bugging out from the layers of fat on his face. Menelaus knew he was wading into dangerous territory, but if he did not voice his opinion now, there would be no later opportunity.
"You know I harbor no good will towards Achilles," Menelaus said, failing to keep the disappointment from his voice. The image of Adara, hair darkened by dye huddled in his tent flashed before his eyes briefly, but Menelaus shoved the image from his mind. "He is proud, and selfish, and has all of the tact of a piece of driftwood. But it can at least be said that his actions were in the service of his men and the men of Greece, however rash and rude his delivery may have been."
"He demanded I sacrifice a hecatomb, and then just hours prior to now ordered me to return my prize of war and drew his sword on me. It is a disrespect no king should tolerate," Agamemnon hissed.
"A prize that you did not lift a single finger for – a prize that Achilles collected for you," Menelaus reminded his brother. "And as for returning the girl, your army was dying while you bedded her every night just to spite them. Achilles was wrong to threaten you, but he was right about the return, and he has saved hundreds of lives from sickness."
"Hundreds of lives that will now be lost because the great hero is not fighting," Agamemnon countered, his eyes narrowing at Menelaus. Their conversation was growing tenser with each second that passed.
"You could return the Lyrnessian Queen," Menelaus said, endeavoring to keep his voice civil. This, however, had the opposite effect on his brother.
"The Lyrnessian Queen! I sent my men there to collect her handmaiden and they bring me back that raven-haired bitch. All the while Achilles is raving like a mad dog about his lost love," Agamemnon roared into life again, this time standing, his massive girth swaying with exhaustion and the effort it took his to reach his feet. "Threatened to kill me if she wasn't returned to him – I haven't touched the girl! I do not even know where he's hidden her, the rat!"
Menelaus did not speak – he hardly dared to breathe.
"I had soldiers go back this afternoon and search every inch of his camp and the forest and riverbed beyond. Nothing, not a hint! If they still have not found her by tomorrow, then we will begin searching the other camps. One of his allies must be hiding her."
"Why must you find her; you have already besmirched his pride for all of Greece to see by taking Briseis. Why must you find this other handmaiden? If Achilles truly loves her, then you endanger yourself by taking her," Menelaus reminded his brother.
Agamemnon swiveled on his throne to look at his brother, his eyes, which were so dark they could have been pits in his face, bore into Menelaus' own. Have I said too much? Does he suspect something of me? Suddenly, Agamemnon smiled, his face cracking as he chuckled softly under his breath.
"I see what this is," Agamemnon said. "She reminds you of your lovely Helen. You sympathize with his lost love, so horribly similar to your own situation," Agamemnon said with a nasty grin that made his face appear lopsided. Menelaus shrugged to hide his relief.
"You see through me brother, you always have," Menelaus responded, giving his brother a frown. Adara and Achilles could never compare to Helen and myself – there is love on both sides there.
"Get out of my camp, and tomorrow I expect several of your men present to help my own search the camps," Agamemnon commanded. "And as for why I must have her, the handmaiden girl? Because I want Achilles to fear me. I can never hurt him on the battlefield, nor in front of the other kings, but I have taken his pride, and now I will strike fear into his heart over when I will find his love and take her for my own." Menelaus bowed to his brother and then spun on his heel, walking as fast as he could without appearing like he was fleeing.
The moment he was clear of his brother, Menelaus let all the air from his lungs rush out. It had always been this way between them. Agamemnon was older, he was manipulative, and he had always spotted a weakness from a mile away, like Achilles locating the thinnest spot to pierce armor. He was less sly than Odysseus, but he understood people in a way that someone black and white like Achilles, or even myself, could understand. Had Agamemnon not already succeeded in striking fear into Achilles, sending him thrashing in the sand as they searched for Adara. Agamemnon understood Achilles and his need for control, and like an artist chipping at a block of marble, he had chiseled and cracked until he had removed Adara from the circle of Achilles command, and look what had happened: Achilles had crumbled.
But things are not going as planned Menelaus thought with some smugness. He, who had never been able to stand against his older brother, got some joy from seeing all of the difficulties Achilles was causing. By refusing to fight, he was still maintaining control. But if Agamemnon finds Adara, Achilles will have to choose between returning to the battlefield and regaining Adara in return, or remaining his own master and declining to fight but allowing Adara to be raped by Agamemnon. Menelaus thought he knew which the warrior would choose, and the thought made him redouble his pace and race back to his camp.
When he finally reached his tent, he threw open the flap, scanning the interior. She was not in the antechamber, and with a mounting sense of dread, he threw back the linen curtains which separated his bed and found Adara curled in the corner of his bed, shaking slightly in her sleep. His relief was quickly replaced by confusion as he watched her tremble atop his bed of furs. Adara's body quivered and shook, and her face was damp with sweat. Nightmares? This was not something he had expected from the proud handmaiden.
As if she had somehow sensed that someone was watching, Adara suddenly sprung to life, sitting up and pushing her hair out of her face. Her golden eyes were wide as if she had just seen all of the monsters of Tartarus arrayed before her.
"Menelaus," she spluttered. "I did not mean… that is… I should not be sleeping here, but I did not know where else to go." He found this comment oddly amusing and he smiled at her despite his still racing heart.
"What did you dream of that has you in such a state," he asked, ignoring her embarrassment at being found in his bed. Her brow was damp with sweat, and she had wrapped her arms around herself in comfort.
"There was a fire," she murmured, her gaze staring at a spot somewhere off to his right. "The ships were burning, and the Greeks were screaming, and I watched him and the Myrmidons run straight into the flames and be destroyed."
There was no question to Menelaus who the "him" was that Adara spoke of. He wondered if she was always like this, proud on the exterior, but tender on the inside. She is more like Achilles than she knows, although she seems more self aware. She seems to recognize her own selfishness while as the pig does not recognize his own hubris.
"Do you often have nightmares?" He asked, taking the goblet of wine and pouring himself a glass before joining Adara on his bed. Her eyes did not show any shock, which amused Menelaus further. She has been sharing a bed with the deadliest man in Greece, why should she fear me? Sipping from his glass, he let the peppery taste of wine soothe his throat, his muscles slowly relaxing after the long gathering.
"I used to every night, but not for some time," she admitted.
"Is it always the same?"
"No, when I first arrived I dreamed of Lyrnessus, but the longer I spent here the more I dreamed of the Achaeans until now Lyrnessus is the one that feels like it was never mine to begin with, only something that was pushed into my thoughts one day by the passing wind."
"Do you feel more comfortable around war?" Menelaus asked with some surprise. This seemed to make Adara laugh.
"I cannot stand the sight of it, and blood makes me nauseous. Ironic, is it not?" She said with a smile, seeming to finally shake away the trailing fingers of her nightmare. "You know he smells of it, at all times. It has seeped into his bones, even sometimes his eyes glow crimson in his anger."
So this is where they differ Menelaus thought, watching her. He thrives in battle, and she despises it. He felt like a doctor studying a patient, curious as to how someone could possibly love Achilles, the man who was as unpredictable as the gods, who could kill with only one hand. Or, perhaps it is jealousy, that their love could grow on such unstable shores, and Helen could not love you after ten years of nurturing a stray voice nagged him.
"We must rest, myself in particular. I will send women from my camp to collect you tomorrow," he grunted, draining his glass and rolling over so that he did not face her, closing his eyes and settling into the furs. Beside him, he could hear Adara lay down, but without understanding how he knew, Menelaus knew that she would not sleep another wink that night.
