Thirty-Nine

Never once did I ever imagine myself caught in the middle of a war, especially not a war that happened centuries ago. And yet, as the Grecian army surged forward, I was caught in their tide, their war cries exploding with the horses' grunts. I quickly lost sight of Menelaus and Hector as a blur of leather and bronze devoured them, and Agamemnon had all but forgotten me as he plowed ahead. A relief, I was being honest, but I had more pressing matters to worry about—like the war raging around me.

Thankfully, I moved slower than most of the Grecians, who were driven by blood lust and revenge. I lagged behind them, missing the moment where the two armies clashed, giving me a window of opportunity to crouch, making myself as small as possible next to a large rock. Disoriented, that was how it felt. I wrapped my arms around my head, willing myself to breathe, to focus. I needed to get out of there, to regroup—

With a gasp, I lifted my head. I was free. There were stragglers and the fight would no doubt spill towards me eventually, which meant I had to act now.

I climbed to my feet and, without hesitation, darted away from the battle, only to discover, once I was among the now abandoned tents, that I'd run back to the Grecian camp.

Sand slipped between my heel and my sandal as I moved between the corridors of tents. There were pockets of charred fire pits and curing meat hanging on lines, gently swaying in the breeze. The stench of hundreds of unwashed men and old smoke lingered in the salty air. The sounds of the battle, though distant, trailed behind me and, despite the heat, I shivered.

I didn't make it far before someone wrapped an arm around my waist and hoisted me off my feet.

"Where do you think you're going?" came a sneering voice against my ear. "Agamemnon's not done with you. He asked that I escort you back to his tent."

I kicked and flailed and when I tried to scream, he clamped a hand over my mouth. I didn't recognize him, but his armour indicated that he was one of Agamemnon's men. The fact that Agamemnon thought to take me back in the middle of a literal war was laughable and pathetic.

"I was disappointed when I was picked to remain behind and guard the camp. Until, that is, I see someone lurking through the tents and decide to follow them. Who should it be but the pretty slave Agamemnon took from Achilles. Returning you will help me, so thank you for this opportunity.

Agamemnon's woman. Oh, like hell I was his woman. I clawed at the guard's arm, my nails digging into the tough leather. My dagger...if I could just get my dagger—

Agamemnon's tent loomed into view, the sight dropping a stone into my stomach. No, no, no, there was no way I was going back—

"What do we have here?"

The guard stutters to a halt and it takes a wild moment of panic to see who was standing in our path. The old man from the meeting Agamemnon called. Agamemnon had called the commander Nestor.

"Commander Nestor—sir," the guard stuttered, "I was just bringing the woman back to Agamemnon's tent. She had escaped."

"I see." Nestor's pale eyes studied me, his lips pursed. "I will take her from here, soldier."

The guard looked doubtful and, though I didn't say anything, he had every right to be. Nestor looked like he'd seen better days, I could easily take him down if necessary. I didn't want to, but I would. As if reading my thoughts, Nestor raised an eyebrow before waving a hand at the guard with brisk impatience.

"I said you are dismissed, soldier," Nestor said, his words clipped.

The guard dipped his head and retreated. Once he was out of sight I moved, unsheathing my dagger, ready to use it on Nestor.

A weathered hand gripped my wrist and squeezed it until I gasped. The dagger fell from my hand and my eyes met Nestor's who had moved with surprising speed and agility.

"There's no need for violence," he tutted.

"I'm not going back to Agamemnon," I spat. I tried to pull away, but Nestor's grip was like iron.

"There are rules we all must follow," he said as if that solved everything. "Agamemnon insulted Achilles but we are here fighting under the Agamemnon, not the Phthian prince. And, the king's claim on you is between him and Achilles, not the rest of us."

"Great," I mumbled. Everyone was fighting together, but each army was minding their own business. That didn't help me at all. "You could always look the other way. Pretend that you didn't see me."

Nestor sighed as we approached the tent. "I am too old to get involved in the dramatic affairs of the young. I am sorry, my dear, but we are all here for battle. Achilles has proven what happens when we upset our General."

My shoulders fell. Achilles was made an example. The only people who would help me were on the other side of the Grecian camp, out of the way of the main army.

We entered the tent and, as Nestor rechained me to the tent's pillar, his expression was remorseful.

"I do apologize that you were caught in the middle of this battle," he sighed. "Agamemnon and Achilles both have terrible tempers, but they will come to an agreement."

"Yeah, well, you can tell both of them that if they get their heads out of their asses that would be great," I snapped.

Nestor laughed. "You are as feisty as they say. I will speak with Agamemnon and ensure that he brings you no harm."

"Oh, thanks, that makes me feel so much better," I grumbled.

Nestor sighed again and made for the entrance when I stopped him. "I hope the Trojans destroy you all."

It felt almost childish to say but I meant every word, and I knew Nestor could see it in my eyes. He gave me one small, sad smile before exiting the tent, and then I slumped back against the wooden pillar and buried my face in my arms. I felt as helpless as ever and now, no one was coming to save me.

***

"What in the gods' names was that?"

Hector came rushing into Paris's room, fresh off the battlefield. Exhaustion, anger and adrenaline fuelled his every move as he stormed over to the bed where Paris lay, staring at the ceiling.

Hector stormed up to the bed and towered over his brother. If he wasn't caught up in the blazes of war, he might have taken a softer approach, but seeing Paris lying on the bed, reeking of wine, Hector lost all patience.

"You ran from that fight. That could have been the end of it, but you ran with your tail between your legs. And then you get drunk. Pathetic."

Paris pressed a hand to his forehead before struggling to sit up. The bandage around his arm was rust coloured. "I didn't run. I...I can't explain it. Aphrodite, she—"

"Do not use the gods as an excuse," Hector growled, "she never would have shown up if you hadn't asked."

Whether that was true or not, Hector didn't care. He knew bringing Paris to Sparta was a mistake, and he had been proven right. Paris single-handedly brought down a tentative alliance and brought a war to Troy's doorstep.

No, that wasn't quite right...not single-handedly. His co-conspirator was nowhere to be seen since the fight between Paris and her husband. Helen was wise to stay away. Hector probably would not have been kind to her.

"I am sorry, I didn't know Aphrodite would make her presence known," Paris insisted, "please, brother, you have to believe me."

Hector wanted to throttle the younger prince. He wanted to shake sense into Paris's head. "That apology is too late. We have already lost men in this battle, one that could have been avoided if you had stayed out there like a man."

The change over Paris was instantaneous. His expression hardened, though the gloss of wine made his gaze unfocused.

"I am tired," Paris said, abruptly. "Leave me."

Hector dipped his head, trying to regulate his control, and failing. He wanted nothing more than to see his wife and child. If Paris wanted to act like a drunk fool then so be it. He would leave him be.

When Hector stepped outside, movement to his right caught his attention. Helen looked resplendent in a light blue gown, her fiery hair coiled intricately on top of her head. No veil covered her statuesque features. Even from within the safety of the shadows, Helen carried herself like a born queen, her blue eyes boring into Hector as he approached her.

"It seems you two were made for each other," he remarked, "you both like to hide from your problems."

"How is he?" Helen's blue eyes darted towards Paris's room. In that gaze Hector saw, for the first time, a trace of doubt.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" he sneered, "or have you grown bored of his company as well?"

Helen blinked and the storm that rolled over her was fierce. "How dare you—"

"I dare because it is your foolishness that brought war to my kingdom." Hector leaned in close, close enough to see the trace of gray in her eyes. "You might have my parents and brother fooled, Helen of Sparta, but I know you did all of this because you were bored. Perhaps Paris promised you some excitement, but he's nothing more than a coward and a drunk, and you are starting to see that."

Helen's defiance flickered, but she refused to back down. The smile Hector gave her was sharp and dangerous.

"The question that's probably running through that pretty little head of yours is where do you go from here? You are trapped by this war, just like the rest of us."

Hector stalked past her and didn't stop until he was in his room, with his wife and child in his arms. For now, at least, they had a moment of peace, but the days that followed would push all of them closer to their ends.