Page 147 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“Sinon,” Odysseus answered without hesitation.
“Why him?”
“He was the only volunteer.”
A scoff escaped the king’s lips. “Hardly inspires confidence.”
Odysseus’s eyes narrowed. “There are no other options, High King,” he bit out, arms folding over his chest. “We can sit on this beach until Apollo sends his next plague, or we act. Either way, there’s no other path into Troy.”
His words faded into a thick, crushing silence.
Finally, Agamemnon rose. “Menelaus,” he barked, “take your ships around the bay—wait beyond the cliffs. Diomedes, follow at dawn. Idomeneus”—he turned to the Cretan king—“move your men to the western cove. You’ll strike from there when the signal is given.”
Grave nods were exchanged. One by one, the warlords rose, cloaked in purpose and grim resolve, slipping from the pavilion.
Agamemnon’s eyes were hard as he turned back to Odysseus. “You know your place in this. You have until the moon stands at its peak.”
Odysseus didn’t flinch. “I need every horse this army can spare. To move it into place.”
“They are yours.” Then, after a beat, he growled, “Do not be late.”
Harsh sunlight stung Odysseus’s eyes as he stepped from the pavilion, the air sour with brine, sweat and unwashed men. Near the entrance, a familiar figure leaned against a timber post, deceptively at ease.
“You have been busy,” Achilles observed.
His arms were folded, his posture languid. But his gaze, sharp and clear, missed nothing as it tracked Odysseus.
“You haven’t,” Odysseus replied dryly, striding past him.
Achilles pushed off the post with the ease of a lion rousing from slumber. “You wish to keep your plans secret, even from your allies?” he asked, falling into step beside him. “Is that why the Ithacans vanish into the trees each night, toiling far from camp?”
Odysseus ignored him.
“If we march to our deaths,” Achilles drawled, “I’d prefer to know now.”
“I’d prefer to be home,” Odysseus retorted, “with my wife and son. But the gods have not willed it.”
He stopped abruptly then and turned, facing Achilles. He studied him, marking the still-shorn hair that accentuated the exceptional brutality of the face beneath.
Finally, he spoke, the words low and solemn. “The end is at hand, Achilles. On my life, I cannot say more.”
Achilles studied him, impassive. “And what will your great plan cost?”
Much.
The answer rose to Odysseus’s lips, pressing heavy and inevitable. But he swallowed it, forcing it down.
“Agamemnon will never end this siege. The men are beasts, gorged on blood and driven mad by revenge. Even the gods are sickened by Agamemnon’s butchery.” His voice turned cold, bitter as seawater. “This must end.”
Achilles didn’t blink. “You’ve spoken with them—the gods.”
It was not a question.
“You think you’re the only one they guide?” Odysseus countered, voice edged like flint. “I seek their counsel because theirs is the only judgment not rotted by pride. Agamemnon lusts for power. You fight for your own cause. But me?”
He swept a hand toward the sprawl of tents stretched across the shore, where smoke curled above dying fires and soldiers sat hunched in weariness.
“I fight for them. They should be at home, breaking horses and fucking their wives. Not wasting away on this cursed beach.”
