"Go, there," Achilles whispered and nodded at the low table at the back.
Relta looked around: Agamemnon had turned the deck of his boat into a large hall, tented over with canvas. Beneath her feet the wooden planks were covered with sumptuous rugs and a throne was set beneath a canopy at one end of the room. To the left and right of it were lesser chairs, and on either side of the boat was a long table with space for four more men. A fire in a small brazier burned brightly in the middle of the improvised room, to take the chill out of the night air, and at the far end of Agamemnon' hall was a low table, around which a small group of women had arranged themselves, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"I can't stay with you?"
"No," he said, lowering his forehead to touch hers, "you sit with the women. Go. Be pleasant. They're nice."
Relta gathered her cloak and pushed her way gently through the throng of people gathered, waiting for Agamemnon's entrance. She caught Odysseus' eye and he grinned at her; Phoenix saw her and inclined his head regally.
"Who are these women?" she hissed to Dunni in their mix of Gaulish and island dialects.
"They are the concubines of the kings," the slavewoman replied. "They left their proper wives in Greece, you see, so these are their camp-wives. Like you," she added helpfully.

Relta's stopped in front of the women's table and her breath caught, unsure, shy, stared at by the small group of enquiring faces.
"I'm Relta," she said, as the women looked at her expectantly. "I'm ... with Achilles."
"You're Achilles'?" one of the women repeated, the subtle correction was greeted with nodding from the other women. Relta considered contradicting her, but knew it was neither the time, nor the place to assert any semblance of the independence she thought she was entitled to.
So she nodded, tried to look humble.
A woman with high, arched brows and a long nose that dominated her narrow face moved and made space on the cushion next to her.
"I am Elida, wife of King Patenos, now I am Phoenix' woman," she said.

And, to Relta's disquiet, each of the women around the table, all noble-born, introduced themselves by referring to their status in their previous lives – daughter of Prince This, wife of Lord That, Sister of the Governor of There – before naming the king they currently called master.
It was no wonder they saw her as Achilles' property, she thought. There are no freewomen in this camp. They're all slaves.
"And Agamemnon?" she asked. "Does he have ... have a consort?"
They looked at her with embarrassment. One of the women, a young girl wearing a blond wig probably from the hair of the shorn head of some northern slave, tittered behind her hand.
"He would only take a queen," Elida said kindly. "But there aren't too many of us in camp."

A trumpet sounded and everyone hurried to their places, except Achilles, who sauntered across the room, reaching his chair just as Agamemnon entered.
The women stood with bowed heads.
"He wanted you, you know," Elida whispered. "He had you lined up, even though you were only from a paltry kingdom and not of noble lineage. Lucky for you, Achilles claimed you first."
She raised one of her beautiful brows even further, giving Relta a knowing glance.

"Sit, sit," Agamemnon roared. "Tonight we celebrate the beginning of the end. Tomorrow my brother will launch an attack that will drive that pup Prince Hector back to his bloody gates – and it won't be long before we bloody those bloody gates!"
There was some polite laughter at his little pun, but Relta had the feeling that this boasting of victory had been promised and heard far too often by the assembled kings and generals.
"We drink to victory!" he bellowed angrily, annoyed by the lack of enthusiasm. "Are you with me, my friends? Are you with me?"
Relta saw Achilles glance at Odysseus, suppressing the grin that played about his lips.
The Myrmidon raised his goblet with the others and shouted "To victory!" before sitting down and pretending to straighten his robe.

They all sat and the room was soon filled with the hum of chatter. Looking around, Relta saw that many of the men were weary, hiding yawns behind their fingers and picking at the dishes in a desultory fashion. From her vantage-point on the floor, she saw Odysseus' leg, stretched awkwardly out under the table, wrapped in a bandage that had a small streak of blood seeping through. His face was lined with care as he tried to make polite conversation with Nestor.
He caught her eye and smiled, exhausted.

The food was served – to the men first. Platters of meat and fish were passed around; fruit and vegetables cut into elegant slivers were brought to the tables by slave girls. The women at the low table were served lesser cuts of meat and those vegetable slices probably not considered good enough for the men. Relta picked a few pieces for her plate, watching Agamemnon as she did. How would she, without attracting notice, get from her place on the floor at the back to the hall to his table at the front? She discreetly patted the band of cloth around her ribs and felt the hardness of the little vial of poison.

"You're not hungry?" Queen Elida asked.
"No, I don't have much of an appetite," Relta said.
"Upset stomach?" Elida asked. "Or ... in the family way?"
She smiled at Relta, winked at her. "They say northerners are good breeding stock. The slaves certainly produce many children. I'm sure Achilles' sons with you would be strong: great warriors."
Relta felt winded.
"I – I –" she began, and she was rescued by another woman, who leaned over and slapped Elida playfully on the wrist.
"Naughty Elida! Leave her be!"

"The men all look very tired," Relta said quickly, changing the subject.
"And why wouldn't they be?" Elida replied. "The only ones with any energy to feast are the ones who did not fight."
The woman who had come to Relta's aid hissed in warning: "Elida!"
"What?" the queen said. "I speak the truth, do I not?"
And she nodded at the dias, where Menelaus and Agamemnon were tucking into their plates of meat, ripping the flesh from the bones with their stubby fingers.

The hum of conversation continued as the people at the banquet ate their fill. Some of the men pushed their plates away, rested their cheeks in their hands, trying to stifle their yawning as the tent grew warmer and the hour later. Luckily Elida's attention was drawn away by the woman in the blond wig, who had started complaining bitterly about being robbed by her maid.
"The problem is," she said in a low tone, "those wenches do not respect my authority. I am Ajax' woman, he is the greatest warrior that ever lived. And what do they do? They steal my bangles!"
The slavewomen gathered the dishes and started to clear away.
"And you, do you have problems with your woman?" Elida asked Relta, startling her from her thoughts.
"My slave? No, no, she's fine. I think. I don't know if she's robbed me – I don't have much to rob!"
Her attempt with humour was met with blank stares from the other women, as though this were not something one boasted of in public.

Agamemnon stood and clapped his hands.
"This, my friends, is no ordinary feast. We cannot celebrate victory before Zeus has granted it, but we can celebrate our unity as a great army – the greatest our world has ever seen."
There was polite applause.
"So there is no music, there are no bards, for this is a breaking of bread before we go to our beds and beat those Trojans back tomorrow. But for a little entertainment I am sure we have time."
He looked around, peering through the brazier smoke.
"Where is the Queen of the Kalions?" he said loudly.
Elida elbowed her and Relta rose slowly, a sense of dread filling her.
"Here."
"Step forward, woman!"

She stepped forward, moving close to where Achilles sat.
He was upright in his seat, one hand on the backrest, ready to jump up.
"Well, what is your skill, witch?" Agamemnon boomed, his voice brittle with fake bonhomie. "Apart from your ability to conjure up storms?"
"My skill, king of kings?"
"They say you were a fortune-teller before Kalios fell in love with your pretty face. Do you tell fortunes?"

She glanced at Achilles and he frowned. She couldn't tell what that frown meant so she looked back at Agamemnon's smug face and stammered,
"Yes, sire, my mother and I read, used to read the runestones, sire."
"What are runestones, pray tell?"
"They are stones, sire, with special markings. Symbols."
Agamemnon raised a sceptical eyebrow, but a germ of an idea took hold inside her.
"Each symbol represents something and what a person picks usually tells their fortune, their future," she said in a louder voice. She looked around. "My people, we can divine the messages of the gods."
"The messages of the gods!" Menelaus roared with laughter. "Aye!"
"Of her gods," Achilles said quickly. "Not ours."

She looked at him again, he shook his head, a tiny shake, but she ignored it.
"Of my gods," she confirmed.
"Well, throw your little stones down on the table, woman, and tell me what your gods think of the king of kings," Agamemnon said.
"I don't have them with me," she said.
"Tell your woman to fetch them," Agamemnon countered.
"I hid them for safekeeping."
"Then go get them. We can wait."
There was an unsubtle groaning among the men.
"My king," she said, bowing her head low. "I hear that your men would rather be in their beds, preparing for tomorrow's battles, than listening to the ramblings of a northern seer. But tomorrow evening, after your next victory, my skill will be at your service."

Achilles cleared his throat loudly but she didn't dare look at him.
"At my service!" Agamemnon said in delight. "Well, I like the sound of that. In that case, good witch, let us repair to bed, for victory tomorrow is sure. Your little stones can tell me whether we will storm Troy before the eve of Chronos or Helios so my slaves can prepare the appropriate sacrifice."
She bowed. "Of course, king of kings."

They were dismissed.
Achilles marched her back down the sand, through the whipping wind. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders, glad of its warmth.
"Have you lost your mind?" he shouted, pushing her through the door. "I'm at your service, Agamemnon," he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "Why not serve yourself on a platter, woman?"
"I thought it best to get on his good side," she said placatingly. "We will have to share a beach with him for some time to come."
Achilles laughed hoarsely.
"Share a beach with him ... So your little stones aren't going to tell him of a great victory, then, my witch?" he asked sarcastically.
"My little stones are going to give him a very ambiguous prognosis of victory," she replied. "There will be victory, but the gods aren't sure when."
"And if he wants more than your forecast?" Achilles frowned. "If he calls for you and you alone, what will you do then?"
"I can take care of myself," she said. "He wouldn't be the first man I held off."
Achilles stared at her. She often wondered what he was thinking, his blue eyes serious, and face immobile.

"What?" she said finally, annoyed.
"You are up to something," Achilles said. "I know you well enough. Do you plan to kill him? Run away again?"
"Achilles!" she said.
She didn't have to feign shock; she was unable to deny it and lie to his face – he would know, that much she was sure.
He sat at the edge of the bed.
"It's true, isn't it? You want to kill him and run away again. You think you can traverse half the world to find your child and go back to your homeland. Do you even know if the girl is alive? Children die all the time – and a girlchild is weak."

She said nothing, but her heart started beating rapidly in panic.
Achilles seemed to sense her fear and continued relentlessly: "What age were you when you left? Ten, eleven? It's no more your home than it is mine. You have been in Greece longer than you ever lived there. Who will you go back to? What will be there for you when you return?"
His voice was low and steady, but his eyes blazed.
"It's the home of my ancestors," she said weakly. "I need to go back."
"You'll go back to those stinking, damp shores and you will immediately realise that you miss Greece and all its beauty. Take my word for it."

He was right.
Of course, he was right.
"If you don't die on the way there, you will die there alone. Under your grey sky, in your green grass, in your cold rain," he spat.
"Achilles," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "My mother named me for the star of the north. I can't help me if it pulls me home."
"You have no home."
"I do. I have a home, I have my people. And I have my child. My mother walked out and left me to my fate and I won't leave my child to hers."

He was silent, leaning back on his elbows to look up at her as she stood by the bed,
"Who is her father?" he asked. "The child's? Was it the peacock king?"
"It doesn't matter – " Relta began but he interrupted her.
"It does to me," he said. "I want to know."
She licked her dry lips. "When we were on Crete, I met a man, a foreigner. He was married and he loved his wife, but we were... drawn to each other. I cannot explain it. We spent a night together and the next day he rejected me. He said I was a whore and I had bewitched him somehow."
Achilles raised an eyebrow as her voice faltered. "And then you became pregnant? And you didn't know who the father was?"
Relta laughed bitterly.
"Oh, I did," she said. "He was the captain of the guard of a visiting king. And when that visiting king took a fancy to my mother and me, the captain was charged with making sure we got to Kalios safely."

Yanis: standing upright, one step behind her, as she walked to the throne-room in her wedding finery, the robe hiding the small swell of her belly. Kalios had not minded, not one bit – he had no intention of impregnating her himself and a little one would give her something to do, he'd said when she had confessed her condition.

"Did this soldier know it was his child?" Achilles asked.
"I don't know. Apart from court pleasantries, we never spoke again. Until," she laughed abruptly at the memory, "he rode into battle after me and pulled me away from a Phoenician spear. Then I got an earful."
Achilles continued to look at her silently and she felt compelled to fill the silence.
"He never looked at me again, Achilles. He was scrupulously polite and obedient in every way, but he never once met my eye."
"Sometimes we can't do the things we want, in case someone realises how much we want them," the Myrmidon said.
Relta shrugged.
"He behaved as though my Ana was Kalios' child and maybe he was able to persuade himself that she was."

Achilles heaved himself up.
"To bed," he said. "We can discuss this in the morning."
"We are..." she paused, looking for the words. "We are at peace?"
"At peace?" Achilles repeated coldly. "With what? The fact that you intend to leave me at your pleasure and go gadding off to Carthage? Certainly, my lady, I am at peace with that."
"Achilles," she said, placing a hand on his arm. "I'm not going to run away, I promise. But the time will come when I have to go."
As in: soon, she thought. Tomorrow.
She looked up at his face, the broad jaw, full lips and the eyes that were the same shade as her own. The golden one, beloved of the gods.
He shook off her arm.

Did she love him? she wondered as he turned his back and stripped for bed. He back bore the indentations of her fingernails, marks of the love they had made.
So they'd made love – but did she love him?
She turned it over in her mind like a pebble: no, loving him had never been an option. It had never come into question. She could not love him. It was impossible.

"Do you love me, Achilles?"
The question popped out before she could stop it.
He wouldn't look at her, just flung his robe on the floor.
"I'm tired," he said. "I have no desire to discuss this further."

She crawled into bed beside him, hugging its edge. A gulf separated them and she knew from his breathing that he lay awake. She longed to turn and reach out a hand, touch his warm back, press her body against the length of his. But she couldn't; that would be a capitulation of sorts and she was doing her best to resist.
Sometimes we can't do the things we want, in case someone realises how much we want them, she thought and covered her face with her hands in the darkness.

xXx

Relta fell asleep in the inky black of night, long after Achilles' even breathing had signalled that he was sleeping. She didn't wake when he left the tent. Instead she stirred when she moved in her sleep and a shot of pain awoke her.

She sat up but her leg was gripped fast. She yanked back the cover and saw that her ankle was wrapped in a strip of cloth, around which was a shackle. She pulled the chain and found it was affixed to the leg of Achilles' heavy bed.
"The bastard!" she cried. "Achilles! Achilles!"
Dunni popped her head around the door of the tent.
"Yea," she said sympathetically. "I told him you wouldn't be best pleased."
"Where is he? Why did he chain me up?"
"They're at battle, queen. And he chained you up so's you wouldn't run away. Were you planning on running away?"
"None of your business, Dunni," she snapped.

The bigger woman approached the bed and sat down on the edge, settling her broad backside comfortably on the embroidered cover.
"If I help you," she said, "can I come, too?"