Page 37 of Odette's Vow

“We ask Poseidon for his assistance,” Diomedes suggested.

“No,” Odysseus said firmly. Then he looked at me. “We ask Patroclus.”

The men turned to look first at Odysseus, then at me. I saw the movements of their heads in my periphery, but my view was focused solely on those dark eyes boring into me, no longer cold, buttrusting.

“Go, Odette. You know what to say.”

He squeezed my hand, but I could not move. To do this now was to forever acknowledge I had aided the Greeks and abandoned my heritage. It was one thing to acknowledge I no longer wanted Odysseus dead. It was quite another to do this bidding.

Odysseus squeezed my hand again, tighter this time, as he noted my hesitation.

I could not be seen to disobey him, not in front of other generals and kings. To do so right now would be to sign myown death warrant, and I could not go to the Underworld. For how could I face my husband and son, and tell them I had not planned on avenging them after all? That I had, in fact, sullied their honour. Even if I was still mad at Alcander. For what I had done at his bequest.

I was trapped. Another decision taken from me. And as I nodded to Odysseus and backed out of the tent, gods damn me, I knew what I must do.

Alcander, Lykas … forgive me.

If this war had taught me one thing so far, it was that pride loses wars.

Men believed pride was a burning sword, the feeling in their gut that told them to right wrongs, that demanded justice. They believed serving that justice would give them a smug sense of satisfaction from their own achievement. That other men would admire them for acting on it, for holding onto their honour.

There was no honour in such pride.

It was pride that cost me Lykas. Pride that cost me Alcander.

Pride had driven these men to these shores; not indignation at Helen, the blood vow, or a sense of justice.

And it was pride that had Patroclus leading the army of the Myrmidons through the Greek camps in Achilles’ armour. Patroclus, who had never been on the battlefield. Some whispered that he was not skilled enough to even lift a spear, and given the little meat on his bones, even less than my own, I could believe that gossip. Though, perhaps he did not go because Achilles preferred to keep him safe.

No matter, because the light that sparked in his eyes when I passed on the generals’ message that they needed him was all that was required. That someone, anyone, would think he was worthy enough to be influential in the great Trojan War was the encouragement that stoked the fire of his pride. A chance to put the whispers that plagued him to rest.

As the Myrmidons rallied, running to grab their spears, swords, and shields, quickly attaching their armour and joining the rallying war cry, I headed against the stream of them. Back to the secluded section of the camp where I had sought out Patroclus yesterday. The tents were all but deserted. It was quiet and barren, as if the men had left and would not come back.

Only one man remained: Achilles. His arms were folded, his form stock-still, as he surveyed the men in the distance.

It was pride that kept Achilles from joining Patroclus on the field right then. In that moment, the great warrior turned and looked at me. My blood froze. Achilles was not a dumb man. I was probably one of the last to speak to Patroclus, before this morning when he went off in Achilles’ armor. With or without the soldier’s blessing, I did not know. But it would not take a genius to put two and two together. I wondered if he would stalk toward me, slap me, hurt me, for taking something precious from him. Looking around, no one would stop him. Most of the camps had gone with Patroclus. Even the women had gone to see what all the fuss was about. We were on our own.

But he simply gave me a nod and turned back to watch the men, now a smudge of colours in the distance.

It was then that I realised why Achilles made no move against me. He too had made an oath, a vow with the gods themselves, just as I had. One he could not break. So he had to continue to pretend to be okay with what Patroclus was doing. Right then, he had to pretend to be something other than he was.

Yes, I understood that well. To know what others must think of you when you stick to your convictions, how it ate you up inside until you weren’t sure which parts were you and which were the vow. Which parts were the truth, and which were fabricated from outside sources. You just had to get on with life anyway.

Until you didn’t.

Patroclus did not return with the men that evening. The whispers that night around the campfires were that Hector had mistaken him for Achilles and killed the poor boy.

The next morning, I stood on the same spot I had the day before and watched as this time Achilles broke the vow he had made between himself and the gods and went to war once again, his pride forgotten.

Hector died next.

For the nine days that followed, the Trojans prepared Hector’s funeral pyre. Achilles had apparently declared a reprieve from battle, much to Agamemnon’s displeasure. I saw the declaration for what it was: the chance for him to grieve the loss of Patroclus, and to grieve his own betrayal – his word – of himself.

On the tenth day, we watched from our side of the plain as the pyre was lit and the smoke carried into the air, up towards the gods. Artemis instructed the wind nymphs to blow the ashes towards us and into the sea. But the weight of the ashes fell short across the Greek camp, as if we were all being marked for death.

Ash tasted like burnt sand. That is what I remembered thinking as I stared up into the sun that beat down on us mercilessly, the smoke swirling in the sky, the ashes sprinkling down. The twins Apollo and Artemis had picked their side: they were with the Trojans.

Which is why, when news returned that Achilles had been shot and killed with an arrow – guided by Apollo and executed by Paris – I thought again of pride.

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