by Kate Quinn
“We do need it!” Diomedes roars. “The negotiations for that witch were tied to our demands on the tin trade! We were finally going to break all this open, get inside the city, and take the treasures we’re all here for. I thought we were close to the end! And now Priam’s princeling prances out here and announces the bitch has remarried? You cannot expect me not to beat the shit out of him!”
I put myself between Hellenus and my now purple-faced friend. Somehow I’m going to have to get Hellenus down the mountain and into camp without Diomedes knocking him out.
“We need information to understand exactly what is happening and what we need to do about it,” I say over my shoulder to him. “Control yourself.”
Turning back to Hellenus, I add, “I don’t understand. Why did Priam allow this? And why would you want to marry her? Nothing makes sense.”
“My father has been a shell of man since Hector’s loss and humiliation,” Hellenus says. “He does nothing but stare into space. The queen still has the wherewithal to meet with advisers. She advised casting Helen out but was overruled. Deiphobus was determined to claim her as his prize as he is now heir to Troy. I suspect Helen was the one to put the idea of marriage in his head.”
“Well then, why did you want to marry the witch?”
“Because if she were mine, I would’ve thrown her over a mule, marched her down to your camp, dumped her on her royal ass at her husband’s tent, and ended this accursed war. Instead, my older brother thinks I covet his new wife and that I am conspiring against him. The fool.”
Diomedes makes another feint at Hellenus, and I swing our prisoner out of his way like a dancer. “Agamemnon and Menelaus need to hear this,” I tell my companion. “This changes everything. Keep your hands off him for now, and I promise you’ll get first beating rights after the interrogation, but not before, got it?”
Hellenus has to know more about his elder brother’s plan of attack now that both Achilles and Paris are dead. He’s hiding something. With a little persuasion, we might be able to manipulate this princeling’s anger at his brother to gain the one piece of information we need to break this open. But not too much persuasion. Finesse is what’s needed here.
“Come with me, friend,” I say to Hellenus, using a calm, warm tone, remembering that I’d rather liked the princeling once. I’d even offered him a place in Ithaca, I recall.
When Diomedes refuses to budge, I reiterate my promise. “You’ll get your chance to use your fists later.”
Reluctantly, Diomedes nods, and I’m tempted to say “good boy” like I would to my loyal hound at home. I’d named my favorite dog Argos for the golden one’s own kingdom, which Diomedes took as a compliment and not at all as a reflection of my true opinion of him. Swallowing a smile, I signal with my head that he should take the lead as we head down the path toward camp, dragging a princeling of Troy with me.
My wariness stays high throughout because, although it appears Hellenus indeed set forth unaccompanied by guards, we can’t take the risk that some may be hiding or watching his back on the path. So I make Diomedes, spear in hand, walk before us. If there are attackers, let the fur-cloaked hero handle the lion’s share. It would be only fitting.
As we journey down the side of the mountain, I keep the conversation light and easy with Hellenus. There is an art to interrogation. To get the truth, one must gain trust first. So I chatter with our man, ignoring the looks of murder Diomedes throws my way.
“At my wedding, you wished me happiness and many sons. Do you remember? There wasn’t time to sire many, as it turned out, but I did manage one. He is nearly ten years old now... ”
Hellenus remains silent, but I soldier on. “You’re still welcome to visit Ithaca, you know. I remember extending the invitation to you all those years ago, and I never go back on my promises.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. Good. I want him to relax and lower his guard, to remember that we had once talked at my wedding and liked each other. When we reach camp, I’ll send Diomedes to confer with the high king while I invite the captive to my tent, where I will undo his bonds and pour wine for us both until his tongue is loosened. Subtlety and good humor will win words faster than force.
But my heroic allies have other plans. As soon as Diomedes announces our arrival in camp, Ajax and Menelaus and gaunt, vicious Agamemnon surround us in a circle of glowering faces.
“If I might take charge of our guest—” I begin, looking meaningfully at High King Agamemnon, but Ajax steps forward and flattens Hellenus with a massive blow. I hear the crunch of a broken nose, and soon the Trojan prince lies curled on the ground, trying to protect his vitals as the heroes of the Achaean army rain their frustration and rage down on him.
I take a couple of punches to my own body as I try to stop them before they do too much damage. “We need information, not his death!” I shout again and again, eventually getting through. Agamemnon gives the signal, and the heroes back away, sweating and huffing like mindless beasts.
“Let me question him,” I say. “I can get the truth without—”
“Shut up, Odysseus,” Menelaus growls. “All you’ll do is just get drunk together and go on forever about your wife and the good old days. Well, fuck that.”
In a blink, they have dragged Hellenus’ bloodied form into Agamemnon’s warping wooden quarters. When I step forward, Ajax stops me, hulking in the doorway.
“Not you,” he says, putting a hand to my chest. I look at his hand and then up at his bull’s neck and face.
“I am part of this council,” I say through gritted teeth, shoving his arm off me.
But again he stops me. “Only Menelaus, Agamemnon, and Diomedes allowed. They will report their findings to us lesser kings and princes when they are through.”
“I captured Prince Hellenus—“
“No, Diomedes did,” says the stupid ox.
I will kill Diomedes. Slowly, I swear. And although hot blood pounds in my ears, I gain control of my rage, knowing that I will only make things worse for Hellenus if I push this issue now.
“Just don’t kill him!” I yell into the tent before I stomp away. “He is a guest-friend of mine, and Zeus’s laws of hospitality forbid it!”
I hope that is enough to save him.
A few hours later, a priest marches through the camp blowing a ram’s horn and pronouncing a prophecy proclaiming Achaean victory if only we bring the Palladion—the sacred statue of Athena—out of Troy and into our camp.
Air leaves my body as if I’d been punched in the chest. By the gods, he has to be joking. Stealing the Palladion is impossible. It’s Troy’s most sacred object, tucked safely within the great walls of the city and likely on the citadel’s highest point! The impossibility of it staggers me.
And I am not alone. Most of the men exchange disbelieving, despairing glances before slinking back to their tents with heads low and shoulders slumped.
“Ach, it’s all bullshit, boys!” I yell out, trying to lift the darkening mood. “Remember when our own fat priest, Calchas, swore on his balls that Troy would fall if we killed Prince Troilus? Well, we dispatched Troilus years ago, and yet here we are. And then there were the bullshit prophecies about Philoctetes and Heracles’ bow and Achilles’ son? We fulfilled them all, yet Troy still stands. So obviously they mean nothing. And this one holds no power either... ” I trailed off when all I got from the men were scowls and spitting into sand.
If Hellenus intended to demoralize our armies, then he succeeded, the bastard. How could Agamemnon have let this get out? If we can’t storm the city, how in Hades are we supposed to go in and steal their most sacred object right from under their nose? Hellenus played us. A trickster always knows when he’s been tricked.
I find Hellenus tied like a dog to a post outside Agamemnon’s quarters. It is all I can do to not go inside and give the high king the thrashing he deserves for allowing himself to be manipulated this way.
“Here,” I say to Hellenus, bringing him a cup of watered wine. “Dr
ink,” I tell him, forcing myself to sound calm and disinterested when what I really want to do is throw the vinegary swill in his face instead. But even I’m not that cruel. His eyes are so swollen he can’t even open them, and his skin is cut and bleeding everywhere. He groans with even the smallest movement, but at least he drinks deep.
“What kind of bullshit prophecy did you make up, my friend?” I say, sitting heavily beside him.
“The one that made them stop beating me, of course,” he says in a thick, scratchy voice.
Gods help us. This is why I wanted to approach him with subtlety. But no, that would not be manly or heroic enough, so now we are left with this mess.
“Take it back,” I tell him. “Admit you made it up.”
He snorts and then winces. “Now why would I do that? The prophecy has already spread among all your warriors, and they rightfully despair. The Palladion will always be ours; the most sacred relic our city possesses, other than the vessels that carry Troy’s spirit itself. And if you decide to leave in the face of this insurmountable challenge, all the better.”
“That will never happen,” I say, He gives me a mirthless smile. Or maybe it was a grimace. It’s hard to tell with all his injuries.
“Prophecy is the string you’ve been chasing all through this war, my friend,” Hellenus says, closing his bruised eyes for a moment. “You know how many we’ve made up over the years and floated over the walls on the wings of rumor just to stymy you. You need the bow of Heracles, you need the bloodline of Achilles, you need the Palladion—sooner or later, you’ll break under all the godly disapproval we can make up and finally take your hateful black ships home.”
I shake him hard at that. “Tell the high king. Tell him.”
“No.” Hellenus does not flinch, and his eyes—despite the blood and bruising—shine with a flinty determination. “Let it be my contribution to your defeat, Ithacan.”
A new thought strikes me, making my stomach drop. “Is this your sister’s prophecy?” His twin, Princess Cassandra, appears to be a true seer, even to a skeptic like me—if she says we must obtain the Palladion, then we are truly and royally fucked.
Suddenly, I’m not so sure Hellenus is playing us. “Did this prophecy come from Cassandra?” I repeat.
But he does not answer. “My sister, the seer, spouts truth and is never believed. Perhaps only lies may be taken as truth these days.”
What in Hades’ hot breath does that mean? But I can get no more out of Hellenus. He has turned his face to the wall and refuses to speak.
As the days go on, the “prophecy” takes such deep root in the minds of all our men even I begin to wonder if some god actually took hold of Hellenus’ bitter tongue. Who am I to say that the gods do not or cannot speak truth through liars? Indeed, the gods regularly mock us with such tricks.
Which has always been my defense against the charge that trickery is unheroic, that outwitting an enemy is somehow less worthy of admiration and glory than stabbing him through the heart in combat. After all, the gods play tricks on us regularly and with much relish. So why should it be beneath us men?
It’s clear the only thing left to do is figure out how to do the impossible—sneak into the impenetrable city and steal their most prized and sacred possession right from under their noses. To no one’s surprise, the council elects me to figure out how. And, as usual, I prepare for them to disparage my strategy, even as they are forced to admit that I’m their only hope for getting the job done.
“What is our plan?” Diomedes says as he enters my tent after the evening fires.
“Our plan?”
“For stealing the Palladion,” he says. “We must act soon, or else the men will lose even more heart.”
“First of all,” I say, reaching for my goblet of wine, pointedly not offering him any. “It will be my plan, not ours. And second, I haven’t come up with one yet,” I lie.
For naturally, I have an idea. And it doesn’t involve him.
If it were up to our golden hero, he’d try to muscle his way in and end up skewered on the tip of some guardsman’s pike. Diomedes, like Ajax, may be strong and noble, but gods bless, he’s as sharp as a Myrmidon’s perfectly round shield.
Later, as night slides her cool arms around the camp, I lay on my back, staring at the creased seam on the ceiling of my leather tent, floating in the gods’ realm between dreaming and wakefulness. Soft footsteps approach, and I reach for my dagger out of habit and instinct. The flap slowly opens. A shrouded figure approaches. The banked campfire light creates a nimbus of pale orange around what appears to be the shape of a graceful young woman.
“Penelope?” I whisper.
And then I realize my dream mistake.
It is another one of Agamemnon’s “gifts”—a lithe servant whose beauty evokes my Penelope. I appreciate the sentiment, but I tire of these mute young women. They come to please me, and I take them with no complaint, but this silent coupling with the ghosts of my wife is wearing thin. Afterward, the sense of loss is too great, the loneliness too draining.
And so, when left to my own devices, I choose bedmates that look nothing like my copper-haired, honey-eyed nymph—the strong-jawed, short-haired Nubian, the long-haired, round-limbed Aegyptian, the raven-maned, pale-cheeked Cretan.
It matters not, as long she doesn’t look like my beloved.
This one is young. So young my heart—and my balls—squeeze in memory of our early days together. Of the creamy softness of Penelope’s skin, the long copper hair that covered my head and chest like a veil when she leaned over me, her light laugh when we lay in each other’s arms. The whispered attempts to outdo each other with lines from obscure songs and tricks of the tongue—both literal and figurative—in games of wit and pleasure.
My brilliant, funny girl. Are you safe? Has someone tried to take you from me?
Penelope’s cunning was so subtle most people never even saw it. I remember distinctly the moment I knew I was hers forever. It was at a feast celebration for—as always—Helen. One of her many admirers once again complimented the so-called daughter of Zeus for her extraordinary beauty.
“You are truly a goddess!” he’d said to the princess.
Even by then, young Helen had grown bored by the constant comment and adoration of her beauty. Distractedly, she asked, “Which goddess?”
“Aphrodite, of course,” said the forgotten man.
Helen turned to her cousin—my Penelope—for her reaction.
“Eris the absolute truth!” Penelope agreed quickly, so wide-eyed and innocent, the pun went right past the beautiful Helen and, it seemed, everyone else. They heard, “HERE IS the absolute truth,” but my mischievous bride-to-be had most definitely called her beautiful cousin Eris, the goddess of misery and discord. I’d almost spit out my wine. Penelope’s wink when Helen huffed at my barbaric laughter is seared onto my heart.
And of course, Penelope was right. Helen is indeed Eris, the goddess of discord. And chaos. And strife. She proved it again with her latest move, marrying another son of Priam before Paris even boarded Charon’s boat to cross the Styx.
My attention is brought back to the present when the girl steps out of her robe and slithers naked under the thinning blanket Penelope wove for me so many years ago. Then I lose myself in a different type of memory.
Despite my efforts to convince Agamemnon and the council, it was agreed that Diomedes would join me on the mission to acquire the Palladion. Athena, Diomedes claimed, is his protectress and patron, so he has to come. When I reminded everyone that she is my patroness as well, Diomedes announced—with a completely straight face—”Well, she loves and favors me more, so you need me.”
The others on the council nodded gravely.
I sighed. “Diomedes, the only thing I need from you is your absence.”
While that earned a small smile from Menelaus, I was still overruled. And once again we fight over my tactics. We meet at dusk between our two camps. I am in slave’s rags. He is not.
“What?” he asks, raising his chin at my growl of irritation. “I’m not wearing my lion cloak.”
“Diomedes, you can’t possibly think to go anywhere near our enemy’s city so obviously an Argive warrior.”
“Well, I’m not going weaponless.”
“Fine, but can you at least put on a dark tunic and wear unbuffed armor so that you don’t stand out like white Apollo in moonlight?”
He agrees, which only delays us more.
Silently, we circle the plains toward the east side of the city near the grove of figs where the wall is weak. I scoop up black earth and work it into my forearms and neck. I don’t bother asking him to do the same. He’d refuse anyway.
He does not refuse, I note, when I tell him to punch me in the face a few times. I can’t take the risk that someone inside may recognize me, so a couple of black eyes and a swollen nose and lip should help. In hindsight, however, I should’ve asked him to mar me before telling him he would not be entering the city with me.
He accused me of coming up with a plan that would “steal all the glory and rob him of honor.”
No, I came up with a practical strategy that will not bring down all of Troy upon our heads. One that just might work. I have to soothe his bruised honor by reminding him that I need “the best of men” to be ready to attack in my defense if I do not succeed in tricking the guard into allowing me through this entrance. And when I return with our prize, he has the most important job of all because I can then pass the sacred thing to him if I’m being chased. “With your long legs, you’ll fly as swiftly as Ares’ spear!” I say, loading up on the compliments, and he likes the idea. Especially the image of entering the camp with the Palladion in his own hands, reaping all the resultant glory.
Well, he can think he’ll be the one carrying Athena’s sacred statue into camp all he wants.
I have an idea about that, too.
When we are within sight of the crumbling section of the wall, we hide among the trees. Unsurprisingly, a guard stands before it. Over the years, we’d had countless conversations about charging into the city at this vulnerable point, but even with its clear weakness, its position facing an inner circle of impediments means that a force of any moderate size would immediately be trapped and slaughtered like pigs in a pen.
