Two chapters in the one go! Be sure to start with Chapter 29, the previous chapter, and please leave me a comment to let me know what you think.

There was no fighting the next day.

The wind whipped the rain through the camp, blowing roofs off their tents and knocking down the pens that kept the animals in. Terrified goats ran down the beach, knocking over pots, as little boys tried in vain to round them up again. Thunder rumbled across a sky that was as dark as dusk all day long and lightning lit up the sky as Zeus seemed intent on throwing everything he had into the sea before Troy.

The battlefield became a mud bath; there would be no more battles till the ground was dry and the wind had died down.

Achilles and Relta lay in the bed, which they'd had to push into a new position after the tent had sprung another leak. Achilles had pulled her furs out of the chest that had come from Kalios and they'd spent most of the day huddled together listening to the small fire crackling and hissing in the middle of his tent. Relta had pulled the leather strips covering the door aside a little to let in some air and out some of the smoke; through the gap they watched the rain spill down from the slate-grey sky, as though the gods were emptying buckets.

"Will Agamemnon be pleased with me, do you think?" she'd asked playfully.
Achilles nodded.
"For sure," he replied, mock-solemnly. "I'd say he's very well-disposed towards you now."
She'd laughed and snuggled closer so he could kiss the top of her head. He'd been trying to initiate more intimacy, but whenever he moved too quickly, he hissed through his teeth, writhing in pain.
"We have time," she'd said, pushing him gently away.
"But if you just – you know, like this - "
"We have time," repeated Relta. "You will survive without sex for another couple of days, believe me."
Achilles shook his head reproachfully.
"I mightn't. And if I don't survive," he said in a mock-sorrowful tone, "It'll be your fault."

Relta laughed.
Lying under the furs – even unpleasant wolf furs – in Achilles' tent – even if it was smoky and it leaked – with his good arm underneath her shoulders and her fingers splayed across his flat stomach, she had an unfamiliar feeling in her chest. Something warm that crept up under her ribs, up her throat and spread across her lips.
Wait now: she was happy.

The realisation made the happiness disappear, like a candle snuffed.
Her child was half-way across the world without her and she had a vial of poison in the pouch she had retrieved the morning before, a potent poison waiting to be administered to a petulant king.
And then what?
Then, if she did not die or was not killed, she would have to beat a hasty retreat to Troy and watch while Hector slaughtered them all before boarding a Trojan craft, bound for Carthage.

When she looked up, Achilles was looking at her, observing her.
"What were you thinking about?" he asked. "And don't say nothing."
"I was thinking that I was happy," came her careful answer. "And then I tried to remember when I last felt this way."
It was an answer that seemed to work.
He rolled carefully, wincing, on his side so they lay face to face, noses touching.
"I'm glad you're happy," he said.

xXx

By evening, the rain had abated and the thunder was just a distant rumble, the occasional grumble of a disgruntled god. Someone had reported seeing a light on the horizon; a single flicker, quickly gone. Was it lightning, a trick of the eye?

No, Timon reported, Agamemnon was convinced that his much-longed for troops were on the way. Boats full of strong and eager Mycenaean warriors, reinforcements to beat that Trojan devil back behind his father's walls.
Despite the fact that the entire camp swam in rivers of wet mud, despite the collapsed tents and lost goats, the mood among the Achaeans was quietly optimistic.

That evening, Dunni and Ahma turned up bearing the large jugs of wine and the basket of goblets. As the rain slowed to a light drizzle, Relta kicked out the fire, knowing the tent would warm up quickly under the press of bodies. Timon and Echepolus, who was responsible for the repair of the ship's sails, had quickly sewn and patched the roof, making it watertight for the evening ahead.

Odysseus, as always, was first, shaking the rain off his cloak as he came in. He was followed by his generals, who brought gifts of wine and cheese, then some of the other kings. By the time the rain had completely stopped and darkness had set in, the tent was crammed and some of the men were sitting on upturned pots in the damp sand outside the doorway.

Relta and Ahma picked their way carefully among the men, refilling cups and passing around plates. Dunni ran back and forth fetching more food when their stocks ran low, directing drunken men towards the latrines with a push. Achilles sat upright on his divan, his broken leg stretched out before him, laughing loudly at Phoenix's wry recounting of a battle lost in his father's time.

Relta, her back to the door, was watching him, admiring the healthy colour that now replaced that yellow pallor she'd found him with. Next to her, Ahma was smiling, nodding in satisfaction at the sight of her golden boy talking animatedly with Odysseus.
She only realised Agamemnon was behind her when the tent went silent. Then all the men, except Achilles, scrambled to their feet.
Slowly, she turned around.
"King of kings," she said, bowing.

Agamemnon was not much bigger than she was, he was wearing a robe that was hung with silver discs, his greying hair was tied back with silver thread. He was shared his brother's ruddy complexion, as well as his general air of disgruntlement.
"So this is she," Agamemnon said. "This is the woman who controls the weather. The witch from the Northern Isles. The one with the hair the colour of fire."
He grabbed one of her plaits and raised it to his nose, pulling her head roughly with it.
Relta bit her lip as a shot of pain crossed her scalp.
The Mycenaean dropped her hair and smiled at the assembled company.
"Well, well, well," he said mildly. "I thought I would see most of you in my tent this evening, as we have a lot to discuss - given that fresh troops are to arrive here any day. But how can I compete with the attractions of a witch?"

"She's not a witch," Achilles said in that insolent tone he seemed to save for Agamemnon.
"She should have been my witch," Agamemnon said. "You took my woman, Achilles. Without my permission."
The Myrmidon's eyes narrowed, and Relta saw Odysseus stretch out a toe to tip Achilles' leg, a nudge of warning.
Agamemnon smiled at the men in the tent and laughed loudly, his voice light.
"But let bygones be bygones," said the king expansively. "What does it matter, as long as the White Queen is making storms for us and not for the Trojans, eh?"
"To Greece!" said Odysseus and held up his cup.
Ahma thrust one at Agamemnon, who looked at her closely before he took the proffered goblet and held it aloft.
"To victory!" he bellowed. "Now that Achilles is on the path to good health, it is only a matter of weeks before Troy is ours!"

He downed his wine and flung the cup on the floor. The others in the tent followed suit and Relta winced at the noise of the metal goblets clattering onto the sand.
"Now get to bed, you dogs!" Agamemnon cried jovially. "Tomorrow I will see you in my quarters so we can plan our next attack."
He turned on his heel, making eye contact with Relta for a second, before he left the tent with his brother and his aides in tow.
"That's told us," Odysseus said drily. "Aye, well, I'd better take my leave then."
He shook Achilles hand, then left the tent. The mood soured, the others followed; it was quickly empty.

Ahma and Relta silently tidied up. Achilles was thoughtful, his chin in his hand. When they had finished, Ahma heaved up the basket with the dirty cups and plates.
"Good night," she said.
"Good night, old mother," he replied absent-mindedly.
She beamed at him, then Relta, before leaving the tent.
Achilles half-limped, half-hopped over to the bed, pulling off his robe. He rolled under the covers, his back to her, clearly not keen on talking.

She slipped outside, into the damp night air. The stars were behind a thick cover of cloud, so the camp was covered in pitch darkness. She made her way carefully to the latrine and picked her way back, bumping into a couple of urns, stubbing her toe on a rock before falling inelegantly over a tent peg and tumbling head first on to the sand. As she sat darkness, winded and disoriented, she heard an odd sound.
A gurgling sound.

Had she broken someone's water pot? Or chamber pot? She wasn't sitting in a puddle of piss, was she?
No, it was coming from nearby, now accompanied by a strange wheezing sound.
She began to feel a bit afraid – it could be a wild animal, they often crawled into camp, looking to scavenge scraps and leftovers.
The sound grew louder, faster, and something about it seemed at once so alien but somehow so familiar. Relta got on her hands and knees and crawled in the direction it was coming from.
"Ow!"
Her knee pressed on something sharp and hard – when she pulled it out from beneath her, she discovered it was a metal plate. Cautiously she stretched out a hand and hit something cold and hard.
A cup.
And another.
And another.

Then she knew.
"Ahma?" she cried. "Ahma?"
The wheeze was loud, like an animal dying and Relta found the woman's body in the darkness. She felt along her body, trying to find her head, but her fingers brushed against the hilt of a knife.
"Ahma," she cried hoarsely. There was wetness, stickiness, everywhere and Relta knew instinctively that the old woman had not just been stabbed; her throat had been cut as well.
"I'm here," she said, then turned away and shouted, "Help! Help! Achilles, help!"
He wouldn't hear her – how could he? But she knew that he was the one Ahma wanted to see, the last one she wanted to see.

A man rounded the side of the tent with a lamp, sank to his knees beside her.
In the darkness, the blood was black and it was everywhere.
Ahma stared up at her, drew a last, hoarse breath and was still, her eyes still open wide in terror.

Relta clapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself screaming.
"My lady?"
She turned, dazed, and found Eudorus at her side.
He looked down and, by the light of the lamp, saw the dead body, saw Relta covered in blood.
He looked at her in horror.
"It's Agamemnon," she said, starting to cry. "He said Achilles stole his woman. So the king of kings took his."
She wet her lips with her tongue and tasted Ahma's blood.