Two chapters in one go – make sure you start with Chapter 29! And don't forget to leave a comment.
You know you want to ;-) ...
"And so," Nestor concluded, his gazing moving from one person to the next, "as you can imagine, our King of Kings is praying for rain."
His eyes landed on Relta and he smiled at her benignly.
She smiled back, not sure what he was getting at.
"That bloody Hector!" Menelaus roared. "Three days in a row he batters us down! Where is he getting those men from? Where? If those bastard Phoenicians are sending him reinforcements behind our backs –"
The kings had seen three days of fighting; they had spent three nights meeting in Achilles' tent, dissecting their battles and wondering where the Trojan Prince had suddenly found the wherewithal to wage such relentless war on the Greek forces. He was pounding them; driving them back to the sand. Already some of the lower men were sending their wives back to the villages they had come from, while some of the kings had discreetly packed their choicest treasures on their boats, ready to flee when Hector finally broke their defences.
On the third night, Menelaus had turned up at the door of the tent, his ruddy face flushed and defensive.
"All hail," he said to the assembled men. "So this is where my brother's generals find themselves of an evening?"
"You do us an honour, King of Sparta, with your visit," Relta said quickly. "Does he not, Achilles?"
Menelaus had looked her up and down with a sneer.
"She speaks for you now, Myrmidon?" he said.
"She speaks not for me but she is certainly a better hostess," Achilles replied drily. "Come in, man, and take a seat. Tell us what Hector got up to today."
Relta noticed a look of relief flit over Menelaus' face as he pushed in among the men to find a place to sit.
She pressed a goblet of wine in his hand and signalled to Ahma to come forward with a platter. Menelaus, already mid-anecdote, barely paused as his fleshy hand tore off some bread and dipped it crudely in the oil. Chewing and bellowing, his ruddy face grew redder and he made expansive hand gestures to underscore all the punishments he, personally, would inflict on Hector as soon as he got his hands on him.
Warmed by the wine, the food and the atmosphere of camaraderie amongst the kings and warriors in Achilles' tent, Menelaus began to mellow and soon his loud laugh could be heard ten paces away outside. As the night drew in and the darkest hour approached, the exhausted men took their leave in ones or pairs and departed the tent. Soon only Phoenix, Nestor and Menelaus were left and Relta had a suspicion that she would be pushing Menelaus out the door when his fellow kings had gone. For now, she knelt in the sand behind Achilles, almost hidden in the shadows thrown by the candles, her hands folded demurely in her lap. She tried to keep her head down, but she couldn't help but watch the kings before her: Nestor and Phoenix upright and alert, Menelaus fighting sleep and the effects of too much of Achilles' good wine.
Nestor glanced around, made eye contact with Phoenix - who inclined his head a fraction – and tried again.
"King Agamemnon feels our troops need respite from the fighting," he said, staring at Achilles. "And some strong winds to push the Mycenaean ships towards the shore."
Achilles smiled and wordlessly picked up an olive, popped it in his mouth.
"Hector seems to have been kissed by Apollo," Phoenix ventured. "His troops march onto the battlefield with a renewed ferocity – day after day. As though they might never tire."
"Hmm," Achilles said. He leaned back on his elbow so his bare shoulder was almost touching Relta. She raised her hand and touched his skin, brushing the clean pink scar that crossed ran half-way down his back to the nape of his neck. She watched a tiny shiver run down his back at her touch and she dropped her hand back into her lap.
"Truly, we would be blessed by rain," Nestor said.
Achilles nodded.
Menelaus could bear it no more.
"For fuck's sake, man! Get that witch of yours to conjure up a damned storm!"
Achilles turned his head to look at her, his face split into a broad grin.
"Hear that, witch? Agamemnon wants a storm. Get to it."
Appalled, she glared at him, but he shifted his weight and moved aside, so she could be seen better by the three kings sitting across from them.
"My lady," Nestor began, "we have heard of your ability to summon storms. They say you were released from Troy when you opened the heavens and it poured rain – "
"No, no, no," Relta began. "I was released from Troy and then it rained. That's something entirely different – "
"When we were outside the bloody gates of Kalios, you called down a tempest on us!" Menelaus roared. "A damned tempest! Nearly washed us all away!"
"Yes, but that storm had been brewing for days. The clouds, you often can't see them come in over the mountains if you are approaching from the beach – "
"The sky was cloudless," Menelaus growled. "And then you called down a storm."
The three men opposite looked at her expectantly.
"I didn't," she whispered helplessly.
She looked at Achilles for help, but he was still grinning at her.
"Agamemnon wants a storm," he repeated insouciantly. "Give the man a storm."
"Achilles, hush," she hissed.
"Do what you must do," Nestor said. "But for the sake of all the Greeks on this beach, we need the intervention of whatever gods you pray to. Otherwise Hector will be burning our tents before the week is out."
He rose and held out a hand to help Phoenix up.
The older man stood stiffly, then he grabbed Menelaus by the elbow.
"Come, Spartan, the boy needs his rest and the queen must prepare her magic."
"I really –" she began, but Achilles put a finger to his lips.
She accompanied them to the door.
Phoenix linked his arm through Menelaus', who set off with the rolling gait of a man who'd drunk too deeply.
Nestor watched them go.
"Well, if he must fight tomorrow, it will be fuelled by a hangover and that, if anything, seems to make Menelaus fight better. He fights well when he's angry," Nestor said mildly.
"My lord," Relta said anxiously, "I cannot control the weather. I swear it. The weather is in the hands of the gods, not mine."
Nestor said nothing, but he breathed deep.
"Do you smell rain?" he asked.
Relta hesitated and inhaled the night air.
"Yes," she said. "And the wind is restless. There will most likely be a storm, but it's not of my making."
"But you feel it?"
"Yes, but – "
"The White Queen senses a storm," Nestor said. "That is what I will tell King Agamemnon."
Relta felt a mixture of anger and frustration, an impulsive desire to stamp her foot.
"Listen to me," she snapped. "I can't click my fingers and magic up a storm for Agamemnon."
"But if you could," Nestor replied, lowering his head towards hers, "you would, because doing so might show Agamemnon that you were willing to show him obeisance. Am I right, my Queen?"
And Relta couldn't be entirely sure, but in the darkness she thought she saw him wink.
"Fine," she said resignedly. "Fine. If - If I were in a position to create storms, I would call one up as a gesture of deference to the wishes of our mighty King of Kings. Happy now?"
"Delighted."
Nestor beamed at her. "I will report our conversation back to Agamemnon. I am sure he will be delighted. He might even deign to come see Achilles himself, if we get a break from this fighting. Zeus willing."
"Zeus willing," she repeated wearily.
Nestor kissed her softly on the hand and set off down the beach in darkness.
Relta watched him leave and went back inside.
Achilles was lying on the bed. In the past few days he had started moving about more, paying little attention to the leg still bound in its splint. He was talking about taking his chariot to the battlefield, but the combined imploring of Ahma and Relta had persuaded him to wait a little longer.
"So?" he asked as she started to gather up cups and goblets to leave in a basket outside the door for the slaves to wash in the morning.
"So: your stupid king wants a storm. A nice big one. Enough to stop the fighting for a few days. And I'm supposed to make it with my supposed magic arts. And thanks for your help, by the way – "
She rounded at him and threw an empty cup at his head.
He laughed and deflected it with his arm.
"Idiot."
"Aw, give poor Agamemnon a storm," Achilles wheedled, barely able to stop laughing. "Just a little one. Don't be cruel, my Queen."
"Shut up," she said. "What will happen if there's no storm? What will become of me then? I'm just waiting for Hector to stop long enough to give Agamemnon a chance to come wobbling down the beach to run the blade of his sword through my – "
"Hush."
"Damn you, Myrmidon. I will not hush. It's all very well for you – why don't you trek up to Mount Olympus on your broken leg and ask Zeus for a storm? You're the one so well-acquainted with your ridiculous deities – "
"Quiet!" Achilles snapped.
He raised a finger and pointed at the roof.
Above her, Relta heard the patter of drops hit the canvas.
As she stood in silence, the sound became louder. Within minutes, the canvas roof was swaying under the deluge and she had to place some of the empty platters on the rug to gather the water that was dripping into the tent.
Achilles lay back on his pillow, his hacked hair standing up at all angles, blue eyes almost shut with laughter.
"Fuck you," she huffed.
He clapped his hands, still laughing.
"Well done, witch," he said. "Well done."
