Disclaimer: Troy and the Iliad do not belong to me.

A/N: Thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews! I've decided this will probably be a five-chapter story (maybe seven, if I have some more ideas). Hope you like this chapter, and thanks for reading!

The Fox and the Lion

Chapter III: A Sword of Bronze

A ball of flame hurtled past Odysseus, setting his bronze sword alight with golden fire. The burning missile tore into a warrior's hut, spewing fire at those too slow to evade its path. Men screamed; the night blazed with the fury of Hector and the Trojans. The scattered huts were ill-suited to withstand direct assault. In fact, their distribution seemed to make them easy targets. Odysseus cursed Agamemnon's arrogance and admired Hector's daring with the same breath.

He leaped aside as another ball of fire tore through the ranks of running, desperate men. They had awakened to the fury of the gods. Sleepy, disoriented, caught off guard, they spilled into the night, only to be slaughtered by fire and arrows. The lines had not even met, and already the Achaean casualties littered the ground like so much driftwood, ready for the pyre.

Sweat stung Odysseus' eyes and shone on his arms as he crouched, sword in hand, shield on arm, peering from underneath his helmet. The ranks had begun to form, not in orderly lines, but as clumps of friends and relatives charging at the Trojans and howling for their honor. He must be among the first.

"Ithacans!" he roared, thrusting his blade toward the sky as a signal. Fire flickered down its shaft, pooling on the hilt and encapsulating his hand in a halo of war. Men crowded towards him. He did not know whether they were his own or not.

"To the fore!" The sword sliced through the air, and warriors leaped forward, incoherent battle-cries on their lips, exploding from their hoarse and seared throats. Their feet pounded on the sand, legs straining to carry them into the lottery of death. Odysseus led them, hurtling into a storm of black night, red blood, and golden fire. They cleared the small rise, meeting the Trojans on higher ground. Shields clashed and spears lodged in living flesh. Screams rose, singing a cacophony of rage and pain. Odysseus opened his mouth and. . . .

. . . "It is inopportune," Penelope said, forestalling him. "The crops are bad this year and there is a pestilence. The people need their king."

"But they do not need a war," he said, though he knew she was right.

"No," she agreed, softly, sitting in the window and brushing her dark hair. The sunlight streamed inside, silhouetting her slight figure. A light Ithacan breeze toyed with her curls.

"If I do not go to Agamemnon's war, he will bring one to me," Odysseus said darkly, watching his wife from the bed.

"True, husband," she agreed. She was circumspect, but he could hear the underlying emotion in her voice, surging like the river Styx, final and implacable. The wind's sigh was less mournful than the sorrow she kept hidden. "The crops will wither in your absence, and your son will grow to manhood without a father. Agamemnon will destroy them both if you do not agree to fight for him. All for the sake of my too-beautiful cousin! If only he could be convinced to let you stay. . . . If he did not want you to go. . . ."

Odysseus barked a grim laugh. "He would leave me behind only if I were dead or mad."

His wife turned her fathomless, blue gaze on him. Her eyes, bright without tears, shone with wisdom, love, and . . . expectation. A flicker of amusement stirred in their depths, and suddenly he knew.

His lip twitched in a half-smile. "I love you," he told her gleefully, springing to his feet. "Bring me a tunic!" he called to the servant waiting outside the door, "An old one! Filthy! Ragged! And some mud!" The man stared, but one look sent him running to do his master's bidding.

Odysseus turned back to Penelope. "The gods saw fit to bless me with a woman of my own mind," he teased, "Forgive my abrupt exit, my dear—I must see to the crops!"

Her laughter followed him out of the bedchamber. . . .

. . . . Ringing in his ears. Odysseus shook his head, attempting to clear it of confusion. A sword had grazed his helm, stunning him for a dangerous moment. His opponent swung once more, intending to finish the duel, but Odysseus ducked and thrust his blade into the man's abdomen. It happened too quickly for thought, and already he was facing a new adversary.

The battle raged. He did not know where his men were; all was darkness and confusion. Sweating bodies clashed and fell around him. He wove his way through the surging mass, clinging tenaciously to his composure, to life. One emotional mistake meant death, and the king of Ithaca intended to survive this foolish war.

Even through the turmoil of the battle, Odysseus could tell the Achaeans were not faring well. The Trojans had driven them back to their camp. Too many had fallen. Apollo was angry, and without Achilles, Agamemnon's force had lost its initiative.

"Achilles!"

Odysseus snapped around to follow the cry. Had the gods heard his thoughts? Had Achilles been unable to resist the temptation of battle?

More men took up the call, until three syllables thundered from the throat of every Achaean on the field. The Trojans faltered, uncertain, searching for the fearsome warrior whom no weapon could touch.

Finally, Odysseus' eyes found him. A tall man with muscles like bands of steel, he wore his famed helmet and armor. His feet flew as if they bore wings, and a tide of men rallied behind him. He might have been a living incarnation of Mars, his body sheathed in exquisite bronze. The metal flashed in the light of still-burning fires. . . .

. . . . as Odysseus arranged it carefully. The stone courtyard of Lycomedes' hold was lit even by night, though dimly. He thanked Athena for the shadows, which hid his face as the disguise did his body.

A small flock of veiled maidens edged nearer the table where he had laid out his goods. A peddler's selection, it consisted mainly of trinkets: earrings, necklaces, rings, needles, cloth, household utensils. On his left rested a small pile of daggers and a sword, left there haphazardly, as if by chance—as if he expected no one to show an interest in them.

"Come, good maidens," he said ingratiatingly, bobbing his head in the manner of a typical peddler. "Look to your heart's content! Dyed cloth from Thessaly! Parchment from Egypt! Silver from Athens! Rings from Thrace! Bargains on everything!"

The women crowded to the table, murmuring in pleasure and excitement. They hovered about the jewelry, exclaiming over the necklaces and bracelets, the hair ornaments and anklets. The more practical ones examined the cloth, testing its quality, or mulled over the selection of needles and spindles. Only one seemed immune to the siren call of domestic pleasures. She stood by the weaponry at the end of the table, fingering the bronze sword.

"Excellent choice," Odysseus said, approaching her warily. "You have a unique taste, I see."

Familiar eyes gazed at him over the veil, at first startled, then brimming with recognition and laughter.

"When did you take up peddling, king of Ithaca?"

"The same day you became an Amazon, Achilles!"

The young warrior tore off his veil, revealing a boyish grin. "You've caught me, Odysseus. What shall I do?"

Odysseus' humor faded, replaced by heavy earnestness. "Come with me to Troy, my friend. . . ."

. . . but this was not Achilles, Odysseus realized with a squirm of horror. The likeness was almost perfect, yes, but something in the stance, in the way the hand gripped the sword, was—different. He watched the unknown warrior break into the Trojan ranks, the whole of the Achaean army cheering at his back and charging anew into the slaughter. No, not Achilles. Patroclus, the foolish boy! Even from a distance, he recognized the slightly gangly stride. Why did no one else see it?

Odysseus fought his way to the knot of men surrounding Patroclus. The truth was on his lips. He must unmask the child before a Trojan killed him. The sight of "Achilles'" death would shatter the Achaeans, and Patroclus' slaughter would drive the real Achilles into an immeasurable rage.

But by the time he arrived at the center of the battle, Patroclus and Hector were already engaged in a duel, and the two armies had drawn off to watch. They formed a circle around the combatants, intent on the clash of the greatest warriors of their lifetime: Hector of Troy and Achilles of Phthia. Ballads would be sung of this meeting for generations. Enemies forgot their disputes, pushed and maneuvered and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the making of a legend.

The cry of denunciation burned on Odysseus' conscience, but no sound escaped his throat. Patroclus would die, there was no question. Upon learning of his cousin's death, Achilles would fly into a blind rage against Hector. Whatever anyone else thought, Odysseus knew how that battle must end. No living man could best Achilles; only a god could achieve that feat. Achilles' sword would drink Hector's blood, and the Trojan army would fall to pieces. . . .

He watched the fight, silent still, weighing the options, teetering. Patroclus was flagging. He was only a child. . . .

. . . but Odysseus loved Telemachus with all the fierceness of a father for his only son. The sun beat upon his back; the bare field stretched behind him, sown with salt. His back ached from the hours of hard work at the plow. His hand curled around the leather halter of the ox seemed to have frozen in place. Man and beast trudged on, the dry soil crunching beneath their feet.

"King Odysseus?" the messenger asked, holding the infant Telemachus in his arms. "I have delivered King Agamemnon's command. What is your reply?"

"Four hundred and twenty seven, four hundred and twenty eight," Odysseus counted, dropping individual grains of salt onto the field, "four hundred and twenty nine, four hundred and thirty. . . . and the gods send us rain!" He spat upon the scattered grains, raised his arms to the sky, and proclaimed in a ringing voice, "Grant me a good crop, Demeter, and I will sacrifice a rat and a broken ladle at your altar!" He trundled on, his voice rising and falling as he muttered.

"Are you really so mad, king?" the messenger said, stepping closer. "Sow on, then!" And he laid Odysseus' baby son before the blade of the plow.

Telemachus!

Odysseus wrenched at the halter, turning the beast aside a bare moment before the plow would have taken the life of his son. The ox lowed, irritated at the sudden change of direction. Odysseus ignored it, falling to his knees and gathering up his squalling child. All traces of madness had vanished. He looked up at Agamemnon's messenger and bared his teeth in a grimace of defeat.

"Very well," he said coldly, "Tell Agamemnon I will go to war for him. But tell him also this: the sorrow he brings upon others will return to him tenfold!"

The messenger did not reply, stricken, perhaps, with the same foreboding that shadowed Odysseus' heart.

He held the crying babe to his breast, whispering, "For you, my child, I will sacrifice my own happiness, I will fight. . . ."

. . . Odysseus did not intervene as Patroclus fought. He did not intervene when the boy grew sloppy and bungled a stab. He did not intervene when Hector's bronze sword slashed the child's throat, but only partly. He stood and watched the death agony. He heard the breath rattle in Patroclus' throat, saw the blood oozing from the wound and the pain, the horrible fear in his eyes. He averted his gaze, making no move.

He had sacrificed his happiness, his kingdom, his wife and child, to fight for Agamemnon. Now Patroclus sacrificed his life to the same cause.

Odysseus turned away as the boy breathed his last. Instead of the choking gasp of death, he seemed to hear Achilles' bellows of anger. Patroclus was dead, and the Achaeans had won the war.