"I shall send that woman a present," Agamemnon said. He clapped Odysseus on the shoulder, a broad grin across his face.
"Which woman?" the king of Ithaca asked, momentarily confused.
Patroclus, at his side, looked at him horror-struck, and Odysseus had to nudge him sharply to get the young man to control his features.
"His woman, the one he has taken up with," announced Agamemnon.
Odysseus looked at him, his face purposely blank and enquiring. "My king?"

Agamemnon leaned in and Odysseus got a whiff of the rich oils the king perfumed his skin and hair with.
"Nestor said he has taken a woman of late and we attribute this change in attitude to the influence of ... whoever she is."
"You think his attitude has changed?"
"Indeed. He was worse than a sulking youth and has been so a twelve-month now, at least. In the past few days, though ... laughing, joking, taking an interest in the men's training again. And this: look at this."

He pointed discreetly at Achilles, who was down on one knee, studying a sketch that Eudorus had made in charcoal on the floorboards. The walls of Troy had been sketched roughly, the towers and outlooks represented by uneven rectangles and squares. He was discussing it intently with Eudorus and Monkey, his brow furrowed, his entire focus directed at the drawing on the floor.
"This is the Achilles of old. The killer, the warrior. My dog of war. See?"
Agamemnon smiled in satisfaction and Odysseus looked at Patroclus, whose gaze was fixed on his feet.

He did see, indeed. Achilles was a man who needed constant challenge and once the siege of Troy had ground to a stalemate, the Myrmidon had quickly become bored and restless. Their successes on the dusty battlefield did little but gain them a couple more metres of Trojan sand, which their enemy eventually won back in one of the following battles. While Agamemnon countered his troops' boredom by insisting that they train rigorously – and death to anyone who refused – he could not make Achilles do it, nor, by extension, could he make the Myrmidons do something their leader refused. The black warriors trained when Achilles felt like it or saw fit, sometimes not for weeks on end. The Myrmidon prince drank too much, slept with any woman that took his fancy, including other men's slaves, and was barely civil to Agamemnon: he addressed him with studied politeness, hardly making an effort to mask the smirk that seemed to permanently hover on his lips. How Agamemnon itched to strike his handsome face with the butt of his whip, but he held himself back with great effort. The Achaeans mightn't have the capacity or the resources to win an outright battle against Troy, but Agamemnon knew they could pick, pick, pick away at them till they capitulated.
And for that he needed the Myrmidons and the insolent Achilles.

Then, lo, a miracle: Achilles had returned from Kalios like a different man. After their scuffle on the beach, during which Agamemnon had put the dog in his place, Achilles had suddenly regained some of his appetite for the campaign. He'd turned up for training the next day, his men trudging reluctantly behind him, and he'd listened respectfully – or as respectfully as a man like Achilles could – when Agamemnon had shouted his orders. Nestor had been sent to see what had changed and reported back that the man had taken a new woman ... and finally seemed to have found some measure of contentment.

Agamemnon beamed at the Ithacan king.
"A good woman," he said in satisfaction. "All he needed was the love of a good woman to calm him down and renew his ... vigour. We could've told him that, eh, Odysseus? I remember the ne'er-do-well you used to be, till Penelope tamed you."
He offered Odysseus a comical wink, circling his large stomach with his hands.
"So who is she? Some Kalion wench, no doubt. Frisky like their damn goats, those women."
"He does like them frisky," Odysseus agreed, looking to Patroclus for help.
The boy looked at him, agonised, shaking his head minutely.
No, he mouthed.
"I'll send her a robe," the king of Greece said decisively and then let out a bark of a laugh. "I'll have my Lysana pick her out one of the robes they sent from that witch queen of theirs. His woman will surely get a kick out of wearing one of her own queen's chitons!"
By the gods, Odysseus thought, this is my punishment for our deceit. Now he will send the queen one of her own stolen dresses as a reward for Achilles stealing her. How much worse can it get?

Much worse, it turned out.

xXx

"What do you mean, she is gone?" he hissed, his back turned to the assembled kings. Achilles was still on one knee, quickly explaining the plan and where he wanted their troops to assemble. Odysseus had moved closer to hear, but Patroclus had grabbed his wrist and through gritted teeth whispered, "The she-wolf is gone."

"Does he know?" he nodded at Achilles, who was arguing with Phoenix.
Patroclus gulped. "Yes. He let her go."
"For gods' sake! Why?"
"She wanted to go and he let her."
His young cousin shrugged.
"Is he ... is he ... ?"
"He seems fine," Patrolus whispered, a little confused. "Just different. He's more – "
"Focussed," Odyseus finished.

They both looked over at Achilles, who stood up when he caught their stares. He nodded coldly, slapped his thigh impatiently and cut through the gathered kings. Unlike the other men assembled, Achilles wore his black armour, while the other lords and their servants stood about in their embroidered robes. He faced Odysseus and said curtly, "The Ithacans will be ready to attack when I give the signal?"
"Of course," was the smooth reply.
"Good," Achilles said. "Because we end this tonight. I have had enough of this fool's campaign. I want to burn that damned city to the ground and go back home."

xXx

She was free.
Free!

After Achilles had stormed out of the tent, Relta had repacked her pouch, her heart thumping. The realisation made her head reel and it took her only seconds to realise how painfully unprepared she was. She checked the little bag that contained the gold, counting the coins, even though she knew their number without checking.

Then she unwrapped the thick black cloth that held the runestones and turned them over: they were ivory, the runic symbols had been carefully carved out by Kalion craftsmen and inked in black. She'd had them made as a gift for her mother when she had married Kalios: she thought she had found something her mother would appreciate and treasure. But her mother had unwrapped them and laughed out loud: what magic could these runes possibly hold, made out of this godless bone? Runestones had to be made of elkbones or ash-wood, Relta should know that. She'd pushed them back at her daughter, who'd wrapped them back up in their black cloth and tucked them away in the purse with the gold Kalios had given her on their wedding, her beautiful present suddenly rendered worthless. Achilles had not found them when he emptied her bag and Relta did not know what he would have made of the little discs with their strange symbols scratched into the smooth white bone.

She rolled the thick cloak she'd taken from the trunk on the ship and tied it with leather strips into a fat sausage, which she slung over the strap of her pouch, then tied up her hair in a grubby cloth and fixed her chiton.
At that moment, the leather curtain was briskly pushed back and she froze, expecting Achilles. Instead it was Ahma, who screeched when she saw her.
"Yes, I'm leaving," Relta said briskly. "And he knows. He knows," she repeated, thrusting her face into Ahma's. "He let me go."
"Where you go?" the woman asked suspiciously.
Relta paused.
Where, indeed?
Kalios was south, so not south.
Troy was east, so not east.
Greece was west – but unreachable without a boat.
All that remained was north; but what was north of Troy? Her map didn't cover the lands north of Greece because she'd never expected to cross them.

Ahma shook her head sorrowfully.
"Achilles, no," she said. "Achilles, no, no."
"He let me go," Relta repeated briskly and tried not to think of him.
When she blinked, she had a flashing image of his blue eyes, the small scar on his cheekbone, the inquisitive look on his face. His quick laugh, his long fingers, his broad back.
She shook her head to clear the images from her mind.
Enough of that sentimental nonsense.
He'd been a good lover, a pleasant interlude, but she had a path to follow and he was not on it.
She swallowed. That was that.

"Goodbye," she said and pushed past Ahma. "Thank you for the baths. I've never been as clean in my life."
The older woman grabbed her wrist. Relta made to shake her off, but the Abyssinian squeezed it tight.
"There," she said, pointing. "Go there. Over hill, small village."
"A small village?"
"Yes, maybe also boat."
Relta stared at her, not sure whether she was being tricked. Ahma nodded at her and jabbed her finger in the same direction.
"You gold?" she asked and it took Relta a minute or two to figure out what she was asking.
"I have some gold," she replied cautiously.

Still holding her wrist, Ahma led her over to a small casket and flipped it open. Inside were Greek coins; the little woman grabbed a handful and stuff them into Relta's pouch.
"But won't Achilles - ?" she began in alarm as the old woman closed the casket firmly.
Ahma snorted and Relta understood what she meant: the floor of Achilles' tent was littered with loot picked up from various sources; he would not miss a clutch of gold coins.
"Much fortune," Ahma said and smiled, showing a toothless grin, her gums dark and stained.
"Thank you," she replied simply.

She paused at the door of the tent to smile her thanks at the older woman. Ahma nodded her head, an expression on her face that looked a little like envy.

- - - - -
Thank you for your comments! I appreciate your reading along and if you are reading this during the holidays, I hope you're enjoying some time off and are with the people you love. However you celebrate (or don't), be kind to others ... and to yourself ;-)