Mourned by Men by Katie Frendreis

Author:Katie Frendreis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
Published: 2023-06-11T05:13:36+00:00

Chapter 11 - πόλεμος

THE WAR

The tent of Achilles arched behind the smaller tents and structures of his Myrmidon soldiers. The Myrmidons stood apart from the other Argives, more disciplined than the wilder men carousing through the camp. I wondered again at how these apparent bumblers could have brought Ilium to its knees for so long. Ilium, the greatest city in the world. Ilium, the home of heroes.

But, of course, the Argives had their own men they called heroes, and here was one of them now.

I spat in the sand. Achilles was no hero. He was a man—no, he was less than a man, more animal, more beast than a human creature. He was lawless, godless, and worthless. My mind spun with unsworn obscenities.

But no, I was here to follow Priam. And so I forced down all my thoughts of revenge and murder and turned back to my chosen task. The king of Ilium crept like a sneak thief past the Myrmidon tents, staying as far out of the light of the men’s bonfires and torches as possible, becoming nothing more than a slinking beggar. I wrapped the darkened cloak tighter around me, transforming myself into a shadowy wraith at the heels of the king. Apparently, supplicants were a usual sight at the tent of Achilles, and the Myrmidons barely spared us a glance as we approached.

Just to the right of the entrance to Achilles’ tent lay the unholy reminder of Priam’s woe: the body of Hector.

Naked but for blood and sand and the passing blade of grass, Hector sprawled before the tent. Here was no corpse prepared by priests to face the gods. Here no robe or winding sheet wrapped the body. Here no oils had been pressed into the once-supple skin. Priam’s son was twisted, discarded like an old cloak, dropped to the floor and forgotten. His hair was matted, and abrasions on his face and body were black and horrible. At the corpse’s heels, two slices had been made, and a line of rope fed through them so that Achilles might drag his fallen foe through further indignity.

Priam saw his son and blanched. He nearly collapsed at Hector’s side, and I still thought he might fall there to die himself at the side of his son. The king breathed deeply, and he stared hard at Hector. Where was the Hector who’d impressed me all those years ago with his bright, shining honor and his loyal friendship? Where was the Hector who had shown me and Lyta respect, even though we were women? Where was the Hector who I had known? Where was Priam’s son? Surely, he could not have been brought down so easily. Surely, the warrior I’d befriended would never die at the hands of some contemptible Argive. Surely, my friend could not be this small, mortal corpse slumped on enemy sands. Surely, Hector still lived. Surely, surely.

I, who had seen corpses before—I, who had won battles before and strewn numerous bodies upon the battlefield—I could not stand to look at the corpse of Hector.

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