Page 146 of Where Darkness Bloomed
Above Troy, a banner snapped in the wind. A blue flag marked with a white horse, stark against the night sky.
It was Hector’s insignia, flown in honor of the slain prince. The Breaker of Horses, a nickname earned by Hector’s mastery of the chariot.
Ironic, Odysseus mused bitterly, that a horse—the emblem of the dead prince—was also the sacred animal of Poseidon. The god who had once blessed this city, only to abandon it.
Then a whisper, soft as wind through reeds.
“Devotion can be a weapon, if wielded correctly.”
Athena’s words curled through his mind.
Odysseus’s gaze sharpened, tracing the shape of the horse emblazoned on the banner. A thought rooted itself then—spreading slowly in his mind, dark and sinuous as smoke.
Like a blade sliding into its sheath, the pieces snapped into place.
The sentries on the ridge watched, bewildered, as the king of Ithaca suddenly turned on his heel and sprinted toward the beach, sand spraying behind him, a sandal lost in his wake.
Chapter 54
Three days crawled by without an order of attack.
Greek soldiers sprawled across the beach beneath the scorching sun, patience wearing thin. Grumbling rippled through the camp on a restless wave, tempers rising with the heat.
Among them, Achilles prowled like a caged panther. He did not speak, his restlessness hanging in the air like a hurricane bearing down.
In Agamemnon’s pavilion, the council of advisors convened in furtive deliberations.
Finally, Odysseus emerged from the tent, firelit purpose pounding in his veins with every heartbeat.
He strode through the camp and gave the order. The Ithacan soldiers were to move their camp to a secluded grove of oaks, away from the shoreline. Apart from the army.
There, under the heavy green canopy, their toil began.
Days blurred into nights. Hands blistered. Shoulders ached. Still, they worked—the scrape of metal against timbers rising on the wind rustling the leaves overhead.
At last, it stood.
Odysseus stepped back, arms streaked with sawdust and sweat. His gaze climbed the towering creation. An arched wooden neck melded into a massive, ribbed torso supported by thick, sturdy legs.
Not bothering to change his sweat-soaked tunic, Odysseus returned to the beach and strode into the war council to inform them.
Silence gripped the pavilion like a drawn breath.
Finally, Nestor leaned forward, both hands gripping his carved staff. “How large is it?”
“Large enough for thirty-five men.”
A murmur stirred the tent.
From his seat of honor, Agamemnon eyed him. “You are certain of this plan?” he asked shrewdly. “Would this ruse work if the same creature appeared on Ithaca’s shores?”
Another round of murmurs stirred the tent—this time skeptical, distrustful. Odysseus ignored them.
“This will work.” His voice cut through the chatter, firm with conviction. “Priam seeks to regain Poseidon’s favor, lost by his father. If this plan is followed to the last detail, Troy will accept the offering as tribute.”
The weight of indecision cloyed the air. Council members shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances as Agamemnon scratched his beard.
“Who will remain behind?” the high king asked at last, voice heavy with doubt.
