Wherever you are, I hope you're staying safe and healthy. As you can probably guess, this story is slowly winding to a close. If you like the way I write – and what I write – let me know. Maybe this needs a prequel. Or a sequel. Or we'll go somewhere else entirely... What do you think?
Oh, yes, and this is not safe for the kids.
Ahma was buried without much ceremony. The slave women responsible for laying out the dead washed her carefully and wrapped her in a plain white cloth. Relta was led to the old woman's cot in the slave quarters, ignoring the curious stares of some women and the downright hostile glares from others who thought she was little better than one of them – just lucky to have landed in the right bed. She did not look at them, just pulled out the piece of cloth under Ahma's pillow and unfolded it slowly. It contained a small braid of coarse black hair and a coin that bore the likeness of a man, a coin chipped and worn. It wasn't even gold.
Relta turned it over in her hands.
"That's Peleus of the Myrmidons, that is," said a voice.
She looked up. Sitting on the cot across from her was an older woman with a small child on her knee.
"Peleus?"
"Father of Achilles," the woman said. "I think she thought it was Achilles' picture on there."
Relta's heart felt like it would break: she knew instinctively that the braid was all Ahma'd had left of one of children and she had treasured what she thought was the likeness of her other. She nodded wordlessly, smiled a weak smile at the child and left the tent, her head ducked low so she would not have to look at the other women.
Before Ahma was placed on the low pyre, Relta slipped the coin and the braid under the tight cloth, pushing them into the corpse's hands. Then she took her place a step behind Patroclus, who stood on Achilles' right. When the small gathered group – some slaves, Achilles, Patroclus and herself - had fallen silent, he stepped forward and lit the pyre. They watched the flames take hold, then Achilles turned on his heel and left. Patroclus looked at her. She shrugged and nodded for him to follow his cousin; she stayed with the women till the flames made her face burn and the timbers started to shift and fall.
On the way back to Achilles' tent, Odysseus fell into step beside her.
"He is walking," he said, à propos of nothing.
"Yes," Relta said. "Since Ahma was murdered, he has become very ... determined."
"Determined to do what?" Odysseus asked.
She shrugged. "Determined to recover. Determined to walk."
"Determined to kill Agamemnon?"
She stopped and faced him.
"Does he have reason to do so?" she asked carefully. "More than usual, that is?"
"Come on," Odysseus chided. "We both know Agamemnon had his little woman killed. He wanted to strike him in his heart and he could not kill you, so he took the Abyssinian. Surely you don't believe Agamemnon's story – that some black-hearted rascal stabbed the old woman to steal a few dirty gold goblets?"
Relta looked at him. Despite herself, she liked Odysseus. He was smart, he was funny. He was loyal but she was never sure to whom. That he was Achilles' friend was undeniable; but so was the fact that he was Agamemnon's servant.
"Are you trying to ask me whether he will kill Agamemnon to avenge the death of his slave?" she asked. "The answer is no; no, he will not. He is a Prince of Phtia, he will not start a war on the King of Greece because he may or may not have had his slave killed."
"This is the official line, then?" Odysseus asked.
She shrugged coolly. "There is no official line," she said. "It is what it is. It would be beneath Achilles' dignity to get himself involved in a skirmish with his king for this reason."
Odysseus stared at her and she stared back at him. He covered his chin with his hand and stroked his beard thoughtfully. Patroclus appeared at his side and looked from one of them to the other. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again promptly.
"See, with every passing day she speaks more and more like a Greek, my young friend," Odysseus said, draping an arm around Patroclus' shoulders. "Yet with each day that passes, she looks less and less like a Greek. What is happening here?"
Relta stiffened.
"Dunni has been doing my hair," she said casually. "She is a northerner, this is how we braid hair."
"Is she of your tribe?" Odysseus asked. "I hear you talking together."
Stupid Greek, Relta thought. Anything north of Illyria was savage territory, as far as they were concerned.
"She's from the mainland," she said. "I'm from the islands. But we're of the same mother tribe, our languages have many similarities."
"All of this: the braids, the way you are wearing your cloak, the ink on your neck – what does it mean?"
Relta stiffened.
With a small horse-hair brush, Dunni had painted the three tiny circles on the nape of her neck, just where her hairline began. They marked her as a child of Danu and no one had even noticed, not even Achilles.
But it had not escaped Odysseus' eagle eyes.
She looked at him coldly.
"I didn't realise you were so interested in women's fashions," she said.
"I'm not, per se," Odysseus answered. "You just seem very out-landish."
Patroclus laughed nervously. "I think you look very pretty, my lady."
"Out-landish?" she repeated, ignoring the boy.
"Yes, an outlander. I thought that is what you northerners call anyone from outside your territory – outlanders?"
"Yes," she admitted. "Maybe it looks a bit out-landish. But I am the outlander here, after all."
"And as an outlander, do you feel called upon to kill the King of Greece?" the Ithacan king asked. "Perhaps it's not beneath your dignity?"
Pick your words carefully, she thought.
"Why would I feel moved to kill Agamemnon?" she asked. "Ahma was not my woman."
Odysseus smiled at her. Stared at her for what seemed like an age.
"I hope you remember that," he said finally. "Or Achilles will pay the price."
xXx
"He wants to fight tomorrow," Patroclus said. "Now that he can walk again."
They were hurrying towards Achilles' tent – she didn't know why.
There was no rush, except to get away from Odysseus' curious gaze.
"He can't," she said shortly. "He can't fight and he certainly can't walk. He can limp."
The fact that he could even limp was a miracle. Seeing Achilles coming out of his tent that morning had sent a ripple around the camp. The Myrmidon had demonstratively ripped off the splint Phoenix had so carefully tied and gingerly moved his leg, before walking on it – carefully, slowly.
But walking nonetheless.
"Well, he thinks he's fighting," Patroclus said, a tad proudly.
The young man clearly worshipped his cousin, to the point that he seemed willing to support him in his foolishness.
They were at the entrance to the tent.
"We'll see about that," she said grimly.
Patroclus made to pull back the curtain, but she shoo-ed him off and went inside.
Achilles stood, naked, in front of the wooden cross upon which his armour hung. He was testing the straps, his back to her.
"I'll need it tomorrow. Get your woman to polish it," he said without turning around.
"I will not," she said.
He paused, turning his head a little. She saw the muscles in his jaw work.
"That was an order, Queen," he said.
"And I said no," she replied.
He turned to face her, raised his chin, his hands on his hips.
He had lost weight, his body was leaner and the veins on his arms ran like rivulets down his skin. Relta tried to fix her eyes on his, but it was hard not to let her gaze drift downwards.
"Get. Your. Woman. To. Polish. It," he repeated.
"You're not fighting," Relta countered.
"Yes, I am. I can walk."
He took two steps toward her, shrugging his shoulders. "See?"
She jumped forward and kicked his bad leg, watched him crumple to the ground.
"See?" she said.
"Fucking witch," he roared.
"It's not witchcraft!" she shouted in return. "It's common sense!"
He grabbed her arm and she pulled him up.
"I will fight tomorrow," he said. "I will show Agamemnon what I think of his war, his troops. If he rides past me, I might accidentally gut him with my sword."
He leaned on her, moving his bad leg, gasping as he did.
"Or," she said, "Or, instead of charging into battle like a wounded bull, you wait a couple more days until you have completely recovered. You wouldn't want to show weakness in front of your men, would you? Imagine how it would look – and all it would take is one ill-timed kick or shove and you'd end up on your knees at Agamemnon's feet."
Achilles looked away, shook his head. A slow grin crossed his face.
"You are truly a manipulative witch," he said. "Has Odysseus been giving you lessons?"
She laughed.
If only he knew.
Achilles looked down at her and pushed back one of her out-landish braids.
"So why don't you ever end up on your knees at my feet?" he said, bending his mouth to her ear.
Relta hesitated, then turned to face him, traced a line down the middle of his chest, into the dip in his ribcage. She pulled her robe up around her ankles so she could sink downwards, planting kisses on his taut stomach as she did.
He groaned, gently took a handful of her hair to guide her head where he wanted it.
"Now," he said hoarsely. "On your knees."
She took him in her mouth, her head rising and dipping as he stroked her hair.
She closed her eyes, concentrated on the feel of his skin on her lips, his taste. She held herself steady, splaying her hands on his thighs. The only sound she heard was his ragged breathing, his murmured encouragement. She felt him grow, harden and she moved faster.
Then, suddenly, he stopped her, holding her skull still between his fingers.
"What on earth - ?" he began and rubbed her nape with his thumb.
She pulled back and looked up at him.
"Who drew on your neck?" Achilles asked.
She wrapped his cock in her fist and smiled up at him.
"Do you really want to know now or can I tell you later?" she said, and slowly licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue.
The Myrmidon grinned and his large hand guided her head back to where it had been.
