Page 32 of Odette's Vow

It was late afternoon before we got any news. King Agamemnon returned on the arms of two soldiers, carrying him while he moaned about the pain, though I could see no blood or wound to speak of. Limping, they carried him to the medic.

Another two hours passed before we heard anything else. This time, Lord Diomedes returned, carried by his men on a stretcher made of two wooden poles and a strip of dirty linen that was once an off-white. Τ?ιλορ?α and I both rushed to his side, but the questions we had died when we saw what had caused Τ?ιλορ?α’s patron to be carried so.

There was a giant arrow splintered in his thigh. Either an incredibly unlucky shot, or a perfectly calculated one.

“Paris’ handiwork,” Diomedes barely murmured to Τ?ιλορ?α, who ignored the men who attempted to push her aside, and gripped her lord’s hand. Her face was a picture of worry, and a sharp pang in my stomach told me that would be my face soon, too.

Why should I have cause to worry?I scolded myself and focused back on Diomedes’ words.

“I managed to spook Hector enough to force his retreat, but I left Odysseus with a pack of remaining Trojans. I’m sorry.” This last he said to me before he, Τ?ιλορ?α, and the men marched into the medical tent.

I fumbled for a seat and fixed my attention on the camp’s entrance, watching the men return from the battlefield. And, I waited.

Eventually, the Great Ajax appeared. From a distance, he looked more than formidable, a giant of a man with shoulders the size of boulders. The closer he got, though, the easier it was to see that the boulders on Ajax’s shoulders were not muscle, but a body he carried in his arms.

Odysseus.

Struggling to stand on legs as weak as a newborn deer’s, I pushed myself up and stumbled towards him. There was blood dripping from Ajax’s chest, down the hair on his torso and onto his thick thigh. I searched for the injury, though Ajax was a good foot taller than me, but saw no wound. And if he was walking, with that serious look on his face as he peered down at me, that meant …

“Where is he hurt?” I demanded.

“Socus wounded him with a sword through the ribs,” Ajax replied in that low deep rumble of his. He spoke so seldom that I always forgot how deep his voice was, how it vibrated through your bones. Odysseus groaned in pain. His ribs must have vibrated at Ajax’s words, too.

Following the giant into the tent, I heard another groan from Odysseus as he set him down in the third bed, one along from Diomedes and two along from Agamemnon. The generals’ line.

There were other men, in other beds, on the other side of the tent. I didn’t care to look at them. My gaze was solely on Odysseus and the pale, pale clamminess of his skin. I had never seen his bronzed body so white and sickly.

I watched as the physician worked on Odysseus’ wound, my stomach churning at the sight. The wound to his ribs was deep, the flesh torn and raw, and I could see bones exposed at every short breath. The physician, a wiry man with wiry hair and a serious expression, applied a thick paste of crushed herbs and honey to the wound after stitching the flesh together with a needle and thread, a procedure I could not watch. Odysseus winced, his eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again in pain.

“Fetch me the milk of the poppy,” the physician ordered, and the young apprentice beside him hurried off to retrievethe potent painkiller. When the milk of the poppy arrived, the physician poured a small amount into a cup and handed it to me.

“Pour this down his throat,” he instructed, nodding at Odysseus.

I hesitated, feeling a pang of reluctance. This is what I had prayed for. This is what I wanted. So why had fear suddenly skittered across my skin? Still, I had to be seen playing the part, even now. Gently, I lifted Odysseus’ head and carefully poured the milky liquid into his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, and within minutes, a look of relief washed over his face. He relaxed slightly on the makeshift bed, his breathing becoming more even.

As the physician finished his work, binding the wound tightly with clean linen strips, I settled back into my seat, watching over Odysseus as he drifted off into a drugged sleep, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he was still alive.

11

Odysseus

Istood with a white-knuckled grip on the prow of my ship as my men rowed in uneasy silence. Their faces were pale in the dim light of the cave we now found ourselves in. I had no recollection of how we had gotten here. All I knew was that my every instinct was screaming at me to turn the ship around, yet no words came.

Our ship continued through murky waters, the mist surrounding us thickening, the air violently cold. I shivered, despite my resolve, and the men continued with their steady, measured strokes, though I knew they did not want to.

We were approaching the edge of the living world, closing in on the gateway to the dead.

I gripped the hilt of my sword tightly, the leather-wrapped handle cool and firm against my palm. I traced each ridge and groove of the intricate design with my forefinger until my breathing evened out as we crossed the threshold. An unsettling silence blanketed the world around us. The scent of decay and freshly turned soil hung heavy. As we reached the pebbled shoreline, I disembarked first, my boots sinking into the cold, damp ground. The landscape was barren, a wasteland ofshadow and sorrow. Then came the distant, mournful wail of the spirits.

We had prepared offerings, of course – black sheep for the dead and libations of honey, milk, and wine. The sheep bleated woefully behind me.

I led my men with determined steps to a suitable spot and drew a trench in the earth with the hilt of my sword, a channel through which we would pour the blood of our sacrifices. The ground beneath our feet was unyielding, a reflection of how the dead treated those of us still living. I could tell from the long shadows cast by the eerie glow of the Underworld’s twilight that others were watching us. The men could sense it, too; their movements were stilted at best.

Exhaling sharply, I called upon the gods of the Underworld, invoking Hades and Persephone, and began the ritual. The names felt heavy on my tongue, filled with ancient power, and the darkness around us seemed to deepen in response, as if the very air was waiting on us – on me. Tugging the restless animal to me, I slit its throat, letting its rich blood flow into the trench, a river of crimson seeping into the earth, the scent of it overwhelming as it permeated the smell of decay.

More of the dead began to gather.

Next, I poured the honey, milk, and wine into the trench, the libations mixing with the blood. The dead lurched forward, pale and indistinct at first, becoming more corporeal as they drank from the trench. I steeled myself, knowing that among them would be those I had known and lost, that there might be some who blamed me for their early arrival in this place.

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