Between Lions and Men

8: they shall seek and they shall not find

Ithaca

I return to my tent in the dark. The wine is dry on my lips, and brings me no pleasure, though I drink it anyway.

I light a lantern, a small one, just enough for me to see by. And then I withdraw the two photographs from my pocket. I lay them on the rough rug, and sit cross legged, wine still in my hand. Tears slip unbidden down my face as my trembling fingers withdraw my wife's letter. The most recent. I'll lock it with all the rest. But for now it smells of roses. So I press it to my lips for it's as near as I'll get to my face against the smooth skin of her stomach, her stout hands finding their way through my hair as slowly I slip off to sleep.

I would stop crying for a moment to read the words. But I cannot. I've memorized them, though the letter came yesterday I sat up all the night through reading it. She fears her tales of home will bore me. I say nothing of home bores me. We write to the other everyday even though we can only send them once a week. Pages on my son's adventures in the summer heat. She says he is timid and won't venture into the woods on his own. I think she fears I'll be disappointed he's nothing like me. I don't care. He'll live a long life, being nothing like me.

The flame in my lantern flickers as a cool breeze drifts through the tent.

"Why are you here?" I ask, hearing my own voice crack through the tears.

"There's work to be done."

"I'm not your hero, goddess," I say, shaking my head and not looking up. She moves to sit across from me. Perfectly silent, as all gods are when they wish to be. Her grey eyes unnaturally reflect the flames in them, a reminder that while she may love cleverness, she loves war and cruelty most of all.

"Yes, you are, if I make you so," she says, a smile on her thin lips.

"You saw them in the council today. They won't listen to me long enough. Silver tongue or no if they don't listen when I speak there's little for me to do. And Mycenae and Sparta both know what they want and they're too full of their own stupidity to see that you and I can get it for them," I say.

"You know the son of Peleus was right. You would win the war single handed if you thought it would truly serve your purpose," she snarls. Of course she knows what was said. She is everywhere she wishes to be. By now I just assume she knows all that has happened in her apparent absence.

"You know the prophesies as well as I---I shall not see my homeland for many years, war or no. Though I'd gladly win it for you and earn your favor if I had—I don't know—possibly my bow—"

"Does the Commander still have that?" she asks, dryly, knowing full well what a sore point it is for me.

"Yes, thank you so for asking. He said it was a coward's weapon. I said a coward who would win the war and live to tell the tell the tale in which he was the hero," I say.

"You will that, Eulises," she says, amused at my annoyance as she always is. "You'll have your bow in due time. The city is not ripe to fall just yet."

"So you keep saying."

"So I continue being correct. We have other matters to attend to. There's a plague in your camp or were you too busy drinking and cheating the son of Menoetius at cards?"

"I thought we agreed there is no right or wrong way to win a game, goddess," I say, it is my turn to smile with no mirth. "That's why you chose me is it not?"

"I chose you because you amuse me," she says, standing and picking up my wine before I drink more. "For your sake, continue to do so."

"Fine. What is it you want me to do? Go and tell Sparta the plague is his fault? It almost definitely is but—," I shrug, "Is this what we get for an unjust war?"

"It is my brother who sent the plague, with his cursed arrows," she says, annoyed at my idiocy despite the fact that I was not to know that.

"Why? You said your father forbid all of you from taking part," and yet notice she is still here.

"One of the mortals must have offended him in some way. He wouldn't tell me," she says.

"So it's up to me to find out---?"

"So it's up to you to find out, yes. He wouldn't get away with it if something untoward weren't going on," she says, "Something is amiss in camp."

"But why the whole camp? That doesn't follow if one man offended your brother why not smite him alone? Inconveniencing all of us really only inconveniences---those in command," I realize as I say it. She nods.

"Someone has done something to dishonor or offend him. My brother is neither subtle, smart, nor observant. You're all three. You have tonight to discover what it is he did, and put it right, otherwise half your troops will be dead or dying by morning," she says.

"Right. I'll go find my usual suspects," I say, standing, "I'll call upon you if I cannot set it right."

"I'm sure you'll sort it before I return. I have other errands tonight," she says, wrapping her long purple cloak about herself as she prepares to depart, "I'll see you at the war council at dawn, we'll speak then but I will not appear as myself."

"I know you, goddess," I say, dryly.

She smiles a little, piercing grey eyes, flashing. Then she is gone.

I sigh, standing and getting my jacket. Looks like I'm not sleeping tonight. No rest for the wicked.