Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity. And so we ask ourselves: will our actions echo across the centuries? Will strangers hear our names long after we are gone, and wonder who we were, how bravely we fought, how fiercely we loved?”

History shall always remember the name of Achilles, son of Peleus, lord of the Myrmidons, the lion of Phthia, and the foremost warrior among the Greeks. Death came for him at Troy, born on the flight of a swift arrow, just as the oracles said would happen, just as my mother said would happen. So too shall history never forget Patroclus, son of Menoetius, my cousin, who fell on Troy’s sandy beaches leading the Myrmidons in Achilles’ place so that Hector and his men would not drive us into the sea. Eternal honor and glory ours theirs and everlasting renown. Their names shall never be forgotten even long after our bones have all turned to dust.

After that terrible war that saw so many souls flying swiftly to Hades, the Myrmidons sailed home, but without glorious Achilles as our leader, we shall soon fade into legend, the last of a passing heroic age.

My name shall not be remembered throughout the ages to come not like Achilles, not like Patroclus, not like Odysseus, not like honorable Hector, not even like Paris, that stupid boy, whose love and desire brought about the fall of his city and the deaths of all whom he loved among his family. Yet, through the memory of that glorious wall and the Sack of Troy, mighty was its fall, through the memory of Achilles my brother and Patroclus, my brave but foolhardy little cousin, the echo of my own glory shall still survive throughout the long years.

I am Alkippe, daughter of Peleus. Some say that I was in truth the daughter of Ares, who blessed my arms to fight. I am Queen of Phthia, now that Peleus sleeps beneath the green turf. I am the Queen of the Myrmidons.

I will be the Forgotten Queen.

History shall not remember me, so hear me, O listener, let me tell my story to you just this once.

“Men rise and fall like the winter wheat, but these names will never die. Let them say I lived in the time of Hector, tamer of horses. Let them say I lived in the time of Achilles.”

Chapter Text

1196 BC

After decades of warfare, Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, has forced the kingdoms of Greece into a loose alliance.

Only Thessaly remains unconquered.

Agamemnon 's brother Menelaus, King of Sparta, is weary of battle. He seeks to make peace with Troy, the most powerful rival to the emerging Greek nation.

Achilles, considered the greatest warrior ever born, fights for the Greek army.

But his disdain for Agamemnon 's rule threatens to break the fragile alliance apart.

The broad and fertile plains of Thessaly stretched across the north-eastern portions of mainland Greece from Mount Olympus in the north to and the Spercheios River in the south, from the Pindos Mountains in the west as far as the Aegean Sea to the east. Many cities and petty kingdoms and peoples inhabited this land. The Magnetes, the Perrhaebi, the Pelasgians, and the Phithians, of whom the Myrmidons were most famous, all dwelt in these green plains or the surrounding mountains as far as the sandy shores. Each had their kings who claimed lordships of their lands and their districts. In these days, however, Triopas also claimed lordship over the entire breadth of Thessaly. Still claimed lordship, although Agamemnon, King of Mycenae and the self-claimed King of Kings over a now almost entirely united Greece, had subsumed most of Thessaly under his rule. Only a few districts and the remainder of Triopas' army still opposed the might of Greece.

But not for long. Not for long, if Agamemnon had his way.

In the hill country to the north, a broad and desolate plain pockmarked the sprawling green fields of Thessaly that supplied so much grain to the rest of Greece in the spring months. It was summer now, and the blazing sun shone down from a cloudless sky, baking the land below and studding it with cracks. Only weeds and small scrub brushes grew here. With every marching foot, stomping horses, or rolling chariots, clouds of dust flew into the air, staining shining armor and parching the tongue.

As far as the eye could see, signs of a recent battle were clear. Spears piercing the hard earth. Pools of congealed or dried blood staining the earth crimson. Helmets and shields, lying cracked and abandoned. Horses, their once glorious coats, now pierced with arrows, lay dead by overturned chariots. And the bodies! So many bodies lay on the dry ground, stripped of their armor and weapons, now only food for the circling carrion birds, no more to return to their homes and those that they loved and those who loved them.

The day was bright and cloudless, and a little further south along their valley, past these scenes of destruction, a new battle was brewing. Two armies marched towards one another, one the last remaining forces of Triopas, the other the forces of 'united' Greece. The ground quivered under the march of their feet. The sun glinted off of bronze armor and flashing spear points. A handful of horseman and several chariots preceded the front ranks of both armies.

Towards each other, they marched until only two bows' shot separated them, and then they stopped. If one had stood on the heights of the cliffs above or had the wings of the crows who circled above waiting for new feasts, one would have more easily seen the striking difference between the two armies, differences not so easily visible on the ground below. Both armies were large, but the Mycenaean forces were by far the larger. The Mycenaeans moved smoothly and in good order, while the Thessalians bore obvious signs of the previous day's fierce conflict. Uneasiness and wariness rippled through their ranks.

The dust cloud began to settle a little as the armies stopped their march. Two chariots drove forward into the intervening space between the front lines, and Agamemnon and Triopas came to parley. In the beauty of his horses and the richness of his dress and armor, Agamemnon was by far the greater for all of his other … failings. Triopas and his men had fought bravely, but few could withstand for long the might of Agamemnon's forces.

Back at the Mycenaean lines, a mere stone's throw away from where Agamemnon's chariot had just stood, were a large group of soldiers—usually some 300 or so men strong, but now reduced slightly by the previous day's battle—that stood out from all those around them. They stood in a long line, several ranks deep, though the line bulged outward just slightly at the center. The rest of the Mycenaean troops around them eyed them with both awe and fear, leaving a small gap all around between these fearsome warriors and the rest of the Mycenaean lines.

These were the Myrmidons, the followers of great Achilles, the godlike son of Peleus, who were said to be the most fearsome warriors in all of Greece. Their spears were longer than those the other soldiers carried. Their shields were round, not oblong, and the entirety of their armor was black: their shields, helmets, breastplates, greaves … everything.

At the head of the Myrmidon ranks stood two other figures, also fully armored. One was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a shaggy black hair and a short scruff of beard. His dark hair was held back from his face by a length of black cloth wrapped around his head. His heavy shield was propped against his legs, resting in the dust, his spear driven into the earth beside him within easy reach. His helmet was tucked underneath his right arm. The other figurer was shorter by a little and much the leaner. Black armor also adorned this warrior, though the shield and helmet were embossed with silver. Golden tufts of hair protruded from underneath the helmet's reach, and when it was drawn off, a woman's face was revealed! A woman! Her skin was bronzed darkly by long hours in the scorching sun. Her eyes were blue like a cloudless spring sky, and her hair was golden save for the thick red streaks that adorned it, red like fresh blood.

Achilles led the Myrmidons, but this woman was Alkippe, his right hand.

Alkippe, daughter of Peleus, sister of Achilles.

Alkippe, who was said by some to be the daughter of the war-god Ares himself.

Alkippe watched silently as the two chariots crossed the dusty ground and then stopped, as Agamemnon and Triopas climbed from their chariots and began to speak. The two kings stood too far away for her to hear what was being said, but her eyes were keen. She could see the play of emotions of across Triopas' face as words were exchanged.

After a few seconds, she shifted her grip on her helmet, tucking it beneath her left arm, leaving her right arm free within reach of her sword hilt. Her heavy black shield hung by its strap across her back. From time to time, she shifted her weight in small, barely visible movements, trying to find a position that kept her weight best distributed and supported by the bones of her legs. Though her eyes were keen and bright, her face was weary.

Alkippe was the favored champion of Ares himself and said by some to even be his daughter in truth.

His favor, however, came at a heavy price. The Myrmidons were the greatest fighting force across Greece, and Achilles was the greatest fighter across Greece. In terms of skill and strength, on a normal day away from the battlefield, Alkippe was very skilled and quite strong for her size, but her gender gave her a natural disadvantage, and while she could beat many, if not most of the Myrmidons, in natural skill, her guard could be beaten down by strength alone.

However, on the battlefield, Alkippe was second only to Achilles as it was there that Ares' favor fell most heavily upon her in what she only could call a "blood rage." In their own ways, both Athena and Ares were deities of war. While Athena embodied the intelligence and cunning of strategy, Ares represented the brutal physicality, the savage and untamed violence, the blood-lust, the destruction of war. When the "blood rage" took her, it required the strength of many men to have a hope of overpowering her, if they could even strike her weapons from her hands. Alkippe would fight until she dropped or no one else stood on the battlefield to oppose her. In this madness, anyone, anyone who crossed her path, friend or foe, would be struck down.

Alkippe had fought valiantly the previous day, cutting her way through the ranks of the Thessalians time after time in hours of combat that she could not and would never remember. Only once the madness left her, the blood rage and battle fury burnt its way from her blood would sanity and clear memory return. And those hours of combat had left her spent. She had slept like the dead that night, retiring early and rising as late as possible before the army marched. Still her body ached down to her very bones with weariness. Even as she stood there on the dusty plains, she had to lock her knees to keep herself from trembling with weariness. Ares' favor, as ever, was not without a price.

Eudorus—her brother's oldest and most faithful commander among the Myrmidons—shifted a step closer. "My lady …" he began, eying her with clear concern. The effort it took for her to be on the battlefield two long days in a row was concerningly evident. He had been as little pleased at needing to wake her a few hours before as the army readied to march, but no one, not even Alkippe herself, wanted to deal with Achilles in a foul mood after being woken with a sore head after a night of drinking.

Alkippe shook her head sharply, guessing what he was about to say. "No, Eudorus. One of us must be here. Our 'High King,'"—those two words were full of quiet scorn, for she thought as little of Agamemnon as Achilles did—"will notice if neither I nor Achilles take the field."

"At least let us take your shield for you, my lady."

"Very well."

Eudorus turned, beckoned a soldier from the first row behind them forward, and Alkippe swung her shield off her back and passed it over. The relief from the burden of its heavy weight was immediate.

Suddenly, as her eyes flicked back to Triopas' face, she saw it change from weary and wary to strangely hopeful. A few more words were exchanged between the two kings, and then the shout of the Thessalian king broke the stillness of the morning.

"Boagrius!"

Immediately, the Thessalian army broke into a raucous chorus of cheers and shouts. Seconds passed. Then a giant—terribly scarred, marks visible even from such a distance, and towering head and shoulders above the other Thessalians—muscled his way through the ranks, shoving other shoulders aside as he passed, until he emerged in front of the front ranks of the army.

Alkippe raised an eyebrow. "They choose to settle this war in the old manner," she scoffed in almost disbelief, "and this is whom King Triopas chooses? It is madness." Boagrius was barely armored and was armed only with two spears and a medium-sized shield. Visibly, he was only a brute with no sign of finesse. "An archer could take him down! A slinger even!"

Her words, not modulated in the slightest, were easily audible to the Myrmidons standing near, and a low laugh-scoff rippled through their ranks.

"Let us see for whom Agamemnon calls as his champion, Achilles or myself," Alkippe mused, assessing eyes fixed on Boagrius. So little armor, almost any hit could kill him. And his lumbering size, he will be so very slow. With Ajax and Odysseus absent on this campaign, the two children of Peleus were the only reasonable possibilities for a champion. Picking Achilles would be the most obvious and likely choice. Picking her was a possibility but a risky one for Agamemnon, who was no fool … as much as I hate him, he is no fool. Sending her against a champion could easily send her spiraling into a rage, and against a single man, Alkippe was just as likely to cut through Boagrius or any other champion and keep on going into the front ranks of the army as to stop. Not that it would take such lengths for me to defeat him, even as weary as I am.

As soon as the shouting from the Thessalian ranks died down, Agamemnon turned back toward his own lines and bellowed, "Achilles!"

All eyes turned to the ranks of the Myrmidons from whose company the gleaming golden armor of Achilles was noticeably absent. There was no echoing shout, no cheer among the Mycenaeans, as there had been among the Thessalians when Boagrius came forth. The Thessalian troops began to laugh and scoff, and the men around the Myrmidons began to shift and mumble among themselves uneasily.

A rider on horseback who had been waiting beside another chariot further down the line—Nestor's, I think—galloped across the plain toward the Myrmidons, puffs of dust rising from every beat of his horse's hooves. He drew the horse to a swift halt before Alkippe.

"My lady, where is your brother?" he asked.

"Not here, obviously," Alkippe retorted with an exasperated glance at him. "Check his tent in camp. I would presume that Achilles remains there." Drunken headache and foul mood notwithstanding, it was rather unlikely that if he had awakened since their departure, he would not have then joined them.

The rider ground his teeth at the answer and, turning his horse, galloped first to another rider, who bolted toward camp after a brief exchange of words, and then rode forward to Agamemnon's side. What the rider said to Agamemnon was not heard by the Myrmidons, but his bellowed reply was, "Where is he?!"

(Alkippe smirked, taking delight in the fury and the discomfiture of the so-called 'High King of the Greeks.')

Eudorus, beside her, seemed more uneasy, however. "Perhaps we should have awakened him before we marched," he wondered aloud. "Agamemnon is furious."

Alkippe gave him a look of disbelief. Battle weariness had drawn her to bed quite early, long before the feasting in camp had begun in earnest, long before her brother would have retired to his tent with his wine and his women, but she knew his habits and knew that there was only one reason Eudorus would have woken her after yesterday's battle, instead of letting her rest, even without him ever actually stating a reason. "If I would not want to enter my brother's tent and you would not after his carousing last night, I will not send anyone else," she replied in a low voice. "It is Achilles' own fault for overindulging. Besides, there is no honor to be gained in fighting our own countrymen for a king such as Agamemnon. I could deal with that brute and save us the time and trouble and the anger of both Agamemnon and my brother for being roused."

Eudorus said nothing in reply.

Nearly half-an-hour passed in uneasy silence. The troops on both sides waited to see if the offer of battle between the two champions as a final conclusion to the war would collapse and a second day of open fighting would begin. Only the Myrmidons seemed unbothered by the delay. Eventually, Triopas and Agamemnon returned to their own lines to wait. The latter passed the time fuming and speaking with his generals, including old Nestor. Alkippe watched the King of Mycenae's face apart from checking the progression of the sun above them. As much as she enjoyed baiting Agamemnon at times, it was simultaneously risky. It was unlikely that Achilles would refuse to come when summoned, but if he even took too much longer to appear, she would step forward to deal with the challenge. Well, offer to. We would see if our 'High King' would actually accept.

The tension in the air grew thicker and thicker until it seemed a very knife could cut it. The heat of the sun grew stifling as the time passed, and that did little to help tempers either. Finally, finally, a cheer rose among the Mycenaeans as Achilles finally appeared, making his way on horseback through their lines. The great warrior surveyed the battlefield and the champion awaiting him and then slipped from the back of the black stallion he rode when not on foot or not in his chariot.

(At a sign from Alkippe, one of the Myrmidons slipped forward and snagged the horse's bridle and drew the steed back to their lines.)

Achilles stalked forward, like a lion on the prowl, past the Greek commanders, past Agamemnon and Nestor and their messengers, and toward the dusty plain that separated him from Boagrius.

Then Agamemnon made the risky mistake of opening his mouth, and drivel poured forth. "Perhaps we should have our war tomorrow, when you're better rested?" The words were loud, hostile, and very sarcastic. (Achilles kept walking, silently staring ahead, ignoring the High King.) More drivel poured forth, words that would nearly condemn the sides to further open war. "I should have you whipped for your impudence."

Furious at the insult and threat to their leader, the Myrmidons began to murmur among themselves and shift angrily, sending burning looks toward Agamemnon as they grasped their sword hilts in hand. At a sharp word from Alkippe, they quieted.

There was a long pause. Achilles turned to Agamemnon and said bluntly, "Perhaps you should fight him." Then he turned fully and began to return to the Mycenaean lines.

Nestor intervened at that point, trying to stop the situation from worsening further. He called Achilles' name twice until finally the great warrior stopped. The two conferred together in quiet voices, too low for Alkippe to make out the words. Whatever Nestor said was successful, however, and Achilles turned back toward the Thessalian army, pulling his spear from the holder that attached it to the back of his shield.

As Achilles passed Agamemnon, he slammed his spear into the dry ground and said with disgust, "Imagine a king who fights his own battles. Wouldn't that be a sight?"

The fight between Boagrius and Achilles ended as quickly as it begun, as quickly as Alkippe had expected it to end. Boagrius was the type of fighter—big and scarred and imposing—that most any soldier would shudder in fear to face. Achilles was not most men, though, and was much too fast for the lumbering Thessalian. His spear-throws either were caught on her brother's shield or missed entirely, and finally he drew a sword that Alkippe had missed before. Yet, lacking armor almost entirely, Boagrius was dangerously exposed. It took Achilles only one swift leap and mighty thrust down through his shoulder, and Boagrius fell face down into the dust of the field with a crash.

The Thessalian was dead.

The fight had lasted less than a minute.

The Mycenaeans roared their approval and shouted his name in an echoing chorus. Achilles continued on, never looking back as his opponent fell, but continued across the plain until he stood before the Thessalian lines. His bellow could be heard across the whole battlefield, "Is there no one else?"

Alkippe watched as the defeat king of Thessaly approached her brother. For a few moments the two spoke, their words unheard across the plain, before finally Achilles turned and headed back across toward the Mycenaean lines at an unhurried pace, prowling like a sated lion that had defeated its chosen prey.

"Lead the men back to campus, Eudorus," Alkippe said quietly, glancing across at Agamemnon who still looked unhappy but more … mollified for the moment. "I will wait for my brother." Relief and fury mingled in her heart. Relief that the war was over, that no more Greeks needed to die in Agamemnon's quest for domination, and fury that he had even led Greece to this point, Greek pitted against Greek, that even Phthia had come under his sway.

"Yes, my lady," Eudorus replied with a nod of respect. He turned, calling to the men, "Back to camp!" They lifted their shields and pulled their spears from the dust and turned back to camp, Alkippe passing off her helmet to one as he passed and receiving in return from another the reins of her brother's warhorse.

Behind them, the army parted, making a wide path for the Myrmidons to pass through. The Myrmidons in general and Alkippe and Achilles in particular (and most greatly) were widely respected and revered for their prowess in battle and just as greatly feared. No one wanted to anger them for any reason or impede them. Soon Alkippe stood alone on the battlefield, the Mycenaean troops standing at a respectful distance well behind her.

Agamemnon had not yet given orders for the army to return to camp. The Myrmidons, however, followed Achilles' orders or, in his absence, Alkippe's. Achilles stooped to pick up his shield, which he had cast aside after Boagrius' first spear had pierced it and ripped out the shattered staff still stuck fast in it. As he did so, Triopas' scepter was carried across the field and given to Agamemnon, now once again visibly furious, probably at the Myrmidon's disrespect of his leadership by dismissing themselves without his by-your-leave.

Finally, the order came for the rest of the Mycenaeans, "Back to camp!"

Several more minutes passed. Achilles' pace was slow and unhurried, serving, whether he intended it to or not, to rub in his victory and anger Agamemnon, who had boarded his chariot but not departed, who watched them with anger in his smoldering eyes.

"Enjoying yourself, my brother?" asked Alkippe, once her brother's broad-shouldered form crossed between Agamemnon and herself and hid her face and its expressions from view.

Achilles' smirk was his only reply … so long as they were in earshot of the High King, though even now, he was turning his chariot back toward camp and thundering away. Achilles slung his shield across his back and let it hang by its carrying strap. He patted his sister's shoulder with the other hand and then took his mount's reins. "Very much," he replied, now that they were alone.

Used to her brother's ways, Alkippe smiled. "Would you object if I claim his sword and take it as a trophy to my father's temple?" she asked, gesturing towards Boagrius' fallen form. Though she held no belief in the widely held rumor that she was the daughter of Ares himself, as being the daughter of Thetis and Ares would make her more than a demigod, the moniker did prove useful on many occasions. Alkippe had overtime slipped into referring to herself as such when it proved useful or at other times, as well. And since he has not struck me down for blasphemy yet …

"Do as you wish."

Alkippe crossed the plain to the side of the fallen Thessalian champion, now lying in a pool of his own blood, batted aside with a kick several carrion birds already eying the fresh feast, and claimed the bronze sword from his slack grip. The sword would make a fine addition to all the rich booty that she had collected on this campaign, the best and choicest of which would be granted to the temple of Ares, which she had built in Phthia ten years prior at great expense, as thanks for the war god's continued favor.

First, Achilles moved as if to pass his shield and spear across to his sister so that he could mount first, retake his weapons, and then help his sister up. Then he studied her for a long moment, cataloging with penetrating accuracy the way she was standing and the weariness in her face, and changed his mind. Wordlessly, he stabbed his spear into the dirt and then boosted her up onto his horse's back. The thing was a veritable monster, several hands higher than Alkippe's own horse back in camp, and on a day when she was well-rested, she would not have wanted to attempt to leap onto its back in nearly full armor. Achilles passed up his spear for her to hold and then mounted behind her, taking the reins from her and wrapping his free arm around her waist to steady her. And together, they began to make their way back toward the Mycenaean camp two diaulos[1] away.

Alkippe relaxed as much as she could in her heavy armor and let her head lean back against her brother's hard shoulder. Now that she was seated, the weight of her exhaustion, the ache of muscles pushed beyond their limits in battle, the pressing weakness of her muscles, the heaviness of her armor, it seemed all the more apparent.

The knowledge that the war was over

That the Myrmidons could finally return to Phthia was a great relief.

This war was over.

Do we really expect Agamemnon to stop with Greece?

Ares would have his share of treasures, more than enough to please him, from the fruits of this campaign.

He would rule the whole world if he could.

And for now they could return to Phthia to its high cliffs and sandy beaches, to Patroclus and his beaming smiles and exuberant boyish energy, back to mother and her wisdom, back to the lack of Agamemnon's odious presence despite the looming shadow of his power, back to peace and lazy mornings and the smell of salt in the air …

"You should have woken me," Achilles' voice broke through the tumbling thoughts in her mind.

If her back had not been to him, Alkippe would have given him an exasperated look. With her face hidden from view, an expression of annoyed disgust twisted her features. She shook her head, setting her red-gold hair dancing for a moment, even as limp as the strands were. (That movement, the wet-stickiness of her skin underneath where her hair was resting made her feel the trickles of sweat all across her body, itching as they dried, all the more, made her feel the sand that had wormed its way into her boots. I need to bathe.)

Aloud, Alkippe said, "If you had not drunk yourself into a stupor while entertaining yourself with your bedmates, as I presume you were, given that I retired early and that Eudorus actually roused me despite the fact that I could barely walk under my own power by the time the battle ended yesterday and we returned to camp, I would have. The last time I attempted to wake you after such a night of pleasure, I found myself on the floor of your chambers with your dagger at my throat. The last time Eudorus tried, you threw a cup at his head because that was closer to you than an actual weapon. And Patroclus … he knows better than ever trying, and aside from the three of us, I do not think that any would have the courage to try."

I have no wish to see you with your women or actually get my throat cut this time. His blade, well-honed, had just barely nicked her skin before Achilles had roused enough to realize who had woken up and draw back with a look of horror that Alkippe would remember for as long as she walked the earth, perhaps even after she crossed the Styx.

To that, Achilles said nothing, immediately letting the subject drop. However, leaning up against him as she was, Alkippe felt the flinch that raced through him at her words, felt the subtle tightening of his steadying arm around her waist.

Achilles did everything to extremes:

Fighting

Hating

Drinking

Loving.

Whoring

Training.

Brooding.

Everything.

No one who actually knew him well could say that he did not love his sister, did not love their mother, did not love Patroclus, but even his love for them did not shield them from his other … foibles.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

The Mycenaean camp was set in the low rolling 'hills' some distance from the plain where the two Greek armies had met in battle. The Myrmidons had made their camp on the outskirts of that camp, somewhat separated from the tents of their compatriots. Achilles had kept his horse's pace slow, and the Myrmidons had apparently marched quickly, for their men were already nearly settled in camp, tending to their many duties—cleaning weapons, attending to the wounded, packing supplies, tending the fires, beginning to fix food—by the time their two leaders returned.

The largest tents in the Myrmidon camp were those of Alkippe and Achilles set in the center of the camp, with somewhat smaller tents of their unit commanders surrounding them, and with the tents of their soldiers around those. Eudorus sat waiting for them in front of Achilles' tent as they rode up but rose immediately and took the reins of his lord's horse. Achilles dismounted first, retook his spear, and then Alkippe slid to the ground.

"My lord, my lady," Eudorus greeted them with a respectful nod of his head. "What are your orders?"

"We burn the dead tonight," replied Achilles, "and leave in the morning." That was addressed to Eudorus. To his sister he added, "Go. Rest." And with that, he disappeared into his tent.

Alkippe resisted the urge to huff in annoyance and turned to her brother's oldest and most trusted commander. "Set the able-bodied to gathering our supplies together and preparing the funeral pyres for the dead. Make sure, also, that there are enough carts for bearing the wounded who are unable to walk or ride and transporting our spoils back to Phthia." This was not the first time that Achilles' orders required elaboration.

"Yes, my lady." Eudorus bowed deeply to Alkippe and then departed to carry out their commands.

Alkippe returned to her own tent, though not with the intent to follow her brother's direction … not yet. He never specified when. In so many words. The next three closest tents were those of her commanders of 50: Menesthius, Peisander, and Phoenix, the latter of whom was still under the care of the healers after catching an arrow in the meat of his thigh the previous day. The door hangings of Peisander's tent were swaying gently, as if he had just entered or departed. A soldier was moving to take up his position before the entrance to her tent, even as she entered. His face was quite familiar, but his name escaped her. There were too many men within the Myrmidons for her to remember all their names. Even within her own subset of troops, those Achilles had placed under her direct command, there were too many for her to keep the lengthy list of names fixed within her mind. That his face was quite familiar probably meant that he was one of her men and not one of those within Achilles' forces.

Her brother had instituted the practice of having a Myrmidon guard her tent during her first campaign with the Myrmidons eleven years earlier. Drinking after a battle made men stupid, and stupidity led to foolish decisions. At times, foolish decision making coupled with a lack of recognition of her face among the other Mycenaean troops in those early days sometimes led to the very mistaken belief that she was a camp whore. When I wasn't in my armor. Alkippe had rarely been without a Myrmidon by her side in those days, whenever I wandered outside our camp, and between the sword she carried with her always and her guard, such drunken fools were easily dealt with. It was the one and only time that one had ended up in her tent that had caused the problem and led to her brother keeping her tent under guard whenever she was present. The incident had taken place after one of the early battles on that campaign. Alkippe had done what she did best under Ares' influence and, exhausted, had promptly and early retired to her tent to rest after the day's fighting had ended. Some hours later, she had awoken to find a Spartan soldier on top of her, attempting to paw off her clothes. I bit his hand, and I screamed and then … Achilles was there. Though at times he could seem impossible to wake after a night of drinking, insensible to noise alone, her scream or shout … or Patroclus' now, too … would have him up and moving before he even seemed fully awake and aware of what was happening. If we cry out, he's there.

Menelaus, that next morning, had been quite … taken aback, so the camp stories said, when he emerged from his tent and found the head of that hapless soldier impaled on a Myrmidon spear in front of his tent.

Inside, Alkippe stripped off her armor piece by piece and to set it aside in a neat pile to be cleaned, revealing the dark knee-length chiton underneath that was stained with dust and sweat from the morning's march. She quickly stripped that off, putting it aside to be washed, grabbed a somewhat clean rag, and wiped down her body with water from a basin that one of the camp slaves had refilled in her absence. Feeling somewhat cleaner and less sticky with sweat, Alkippe pulled a longer black chiton that fell half-way between her knees and ankles from a chest and bound it around her body.

A sharp dagger, polished until the bronze shone in the sun, went into a leather sheath hanging from her belt. Her sword in its sheath she took in hand, for these days she rarely went anywhere without it, and then Alkippe left her tent. The bright glare of the sun after the darkened shadows of her tent forced her to pause outside for a few moments, squinting against the dazzling of her eyes until they adjusted. Then she went her way, threading her way through the sea of tents, men, animals, cooking fires, and stuff. There was much to be done before the Myrmidons could depart the next day for Phthia the next day and the coastal city of Alope, which they called home. Alkippe was at least going to check on the wounded before she sat down to rest.

The open-air platform shared by a broad canopy in which the wounded lay in the care of the healers lay on the outskirts of the camp by necessity because of the putrid odors but was still heavily defended by able-bodied soldiers. The freely moving air served to lessen but in no ways to remove the dreadful smells of blood, festering wounds, the acrid smell of burned flesh from cauterized wounds, which combined with sweat and other bodily fluids into a nauseating miasma if the wind was still. All the Myrmidons who had been injured in the previous day's battle lay here under the watchful care and stern gaze of the healers.

Some would recover in days or weeks, or perhaps longer.

There were several fewer pallets than there had been the previous day, several more souls fled down to Hades, their bodies waiting to be burned together with their brothers when the pyres had been prepared. A few more had the pall of death upon them.

Those who were conscious or just asleep began to rouse at the sound of Alkippe's approaching footsteps. "How went the battle?" "Did we conquer?" "Is the war over yet?" "Did Lord Achilles fight?" Those questions and a multitude of others greeted her. Their brothers had returned to the camp long enough ago that it was unlikely that some news of the day's events had not already reached their ears, but they always seemed to enjoy hearing her recounting of the fighting.

The Myrmidons were a tight-knit group, closely bound by loyalty to each other and to their leaders after years—for some, even ten or more years—of fighting side-by side. Their inability to fight rankled them, and only Achilles' explicit orders had kept the wounded who could still walk from at least joining the rear guard.

Alkippe smiled and wove her way among the cots until she reached the side of Phoenix, one of her three commanders, who had taken an arrow to the thigh. His eyes were clear, and his voice was strong when he greeted her, though there was a concerning sheen of sweat on his forehead. Fever perhaps, or just the pressing heat of the day, or maybe both. He was one of the oldest among the Myrmidons but still possessed enough of the strength of those many years his younger that the fever, if that was what this was, would hopefully not be the death of him.

If the gods be good.

(Phoenix was the son of Amyntor, who ruled in Ormenio far, far to the north. After sleeping with his father's mistress many years before, Phoenix had been cursed by his father and then exiled from his homeland. Traveling south, he had eventually come to Phthia and to Peleus' court. Phoenix, an exiled prince without standing or home, had sworn himself to Peleus' service and had served with the Myrmidons for as long as Alkippe could remember.)

Uncaring of the dust that would stain her garments, she took a seat on the ground between his cot and the next. Lycidas, one of her newer soldiers, had the pall of death in his face, and the scent of a festering wound was especially strong around him. Alkippe wet the rag lying beside a basin of fresh water, wrung out the access, and laid the damp cloth across his forehead. The young man, even in the depth of unconsciousness, a mercy that, turned his face slightly toward the coolness, and Alkippe imagined that the lines of pain in his face smoothed just slightly.

Then Alkippe began to spin the tale of the morning's events, pitching her voice to carry across the confines of the covered platform. "Yes, we won today, my brothers. Thessaly now belongs to our 'High King' Agamemnon." There was a low groan from the men at the mention of the hated king's name. "And it is all due to our Lord Achilles." That drew a cheer. "Unwilling for more bloodshed and loss of life that would feed the crows yet further and lessen the number of his future servants, Agamemnon chose to settle the war in the old manner: the greatest man on our side against the greatest champion the Thessalians could field. King Triopas was pleased at this suggestion, and I could see hope enter into his eyes. He called for his champion: a great hulking brute of a man—Boagrius was his name—and yet so foolish in his pride as to his own strength and skill at arms that he wore almost no armor." Alkippe's voice was scornful.

There, she paused for a few seconds until the jeers died down. "Agamemnon called for my lord brother, but Achilles was not with the army. By the time a boy was sent to fetch him and Achilles arrived, Agamemnon was furious, and in his anger, he threatened and insulted our lord with his words. Offended and insulted by Agamemnon's dishonorable insults, my brother turned back and might not have fought if wise old Nestor had not convinced him to continue. The battle was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Boagrius was no match for god-like Achilles. With one simple leap and thrust of his word down through Boagrius' unprotected shoulder into his chest, my brother ended our campaign through Thessaly. For want of a good champion and a lack of armor, the Thessalians lost it all."

That drew cheers for Achilles' victory and boos at the foolishness of the Thessalians.

"The war is over," Alkippe concluded. "Achilles has given orders that we will burn our fallen brothers tonight and depart for home on the morrow."

The injured Myrmidons all thanked her for bringing them news of the battle, and Alkippe stayed with them for several hours, making her way around and speaking with each man in turns. Once the afternoon had worn on and her own weariness had grown to a familiar level that she could not ignore through sheer stubbornness, Alkippe finally rose and prepared to leave. Stepping to the edge of the shade from the hangings and back into the warm rays of the sun, Alkippe beckoned to Aristobulus, the chief healer. She had seen Eudorus pass by the healers' pavilion earlier but wanted to hear the status of the wounded with her own ears and not just from Eudorus' report later.

The two walked a circuit of the pavilion as they spoke together.

"How are the men? And how many still remain under your care, here or in their tents?" Alkippe asked. "My lord brother has ordered that we be prepared to depart tomorrow. We will need to know who can walk, who can ride, who must be transported by cart."

Aristobulus inclined his head. "There are twenty-eight left in my care, mostly here, but a few in their tents whose injuries were minor and would benefit from the quiet and better air away from here. Four of those I believe will pass before the day is over. Of the rest, eleven can probably walk, and seven can probably sit a horse, though that is dependent on Lord Achilles choosing a moderate pace. The rest will need the carts."

"And Phoenix?"

"If he does not worsen in the night, he can probably sit a horse."

"Very well. Thank you."

Aristobulus bowed deeply to Alkippe and then returned to his charges. Alkippe threaded her way back through the sea of men and tents back to her own tent. Eudorus, Menesthius, and Peisander were all sitting by the cooking fire nearest to their tents as she approached. They waved for her to join them, to which Alkippe assented, and she sank down beside Eudorus and gladly accepted a cup of wine from a slave who hurried forward. Peisander passed across a bowl of lentil stew with a hunk of dry bread that had been keeping warm by the hot coals at the edge of the fire.

"How goes the preparation of the funeral pyres and for our departure tomorrow?" Alkippe asked once she had eaten.

"Quickly," Peisander replied, looking up from his own food, his dark eyes flashing in the firelight.

"We all want to be gone from this place," Menesthius replied, draining the dregs from his cup. "We should be ready to depart by dawn."

Eudorus nodded his agreement.

"Good," Alkippe responded with a tired sigh. "I am ready to return to Phthia. Being under Agamemnon's thumb, this constant campaigning, it grows tiresome. Perhaps now, with all of Greece at his beck and call, we might have some peace for a time to let the men heal and regain their strength."

That drew snorts of agreement.

"You should rest, my lady," Eudorus finally said.

Alkippe nodded. "Wake me when it is time to lay our dead to rest." With those words, she rose and returned to her tent. Her pallet was on the far side of the tent from the door, a soft mound of furs and blankets. Her sword she left within reach as she lay down on the soft coverlets. Her weariness was great, and Hypnos quickly cast his blanket of sleep upon her.

[1] A diaulos is a Greek unit of measurement which equals approximately 2.2 km or 1.36 miles.

Chapter Text

The Myrmidons were, depending on whom you asked and when, either renown or infamous for the amount of ground that they could cover in a forced march under normal weather conditions. Here and now, returning from Thessaly, their pace hampered by carts full of spoils of war and more carts and horses carrying their wounded who could not bear neither long days nor days of fast marching, the trip back to Alope on the coast of the Malian Gulf was slow. Very slow.

From the plains just beyond the shadows of Mount Olympus where the final battles with Triopas had been fought, the Myrmidons curved south-east through the mountain passes until they reached the plains in which Larissa was built a little distant from the shadow of Mount Ossa. From Larissa, the most direct route home was to travel almost straight south around the base of Mount Othrys until one reached the coast. That route, however, required the most changes in altitude, which was not suited to a large baggage train and many injured comrades. Thus, the Myrmidons took the long route home, curving east from Larissa toward the coast of the Aegean Sea and then traveling along the coast until finally they reached Alope.

The journey took 16 days with a distance traveled of about 86 diaulos^[1].

The Myrmidons gave a shout as finally, about high noon, they reached the gates of the lower city, which stretched from the ports back to the foothills of the mountains, while the citadel and the palace of Peleus were built on the heights above. Shouts of joy and acclaim echoed back from the city walls at their coming, taken up first by the city guards and echoing back into the city streets as the residents took up the cry. The great gates began to swing open, and some of the Myrmidons quickened their pace to greet friends and family that were quickly starting to assemble inside the walls, though they were careful to never surpass Achilles in his chariot, leading the procession.

(Alkippe, riding at the back of the procession with the wounded, watched as her brother leaned over and said something to Automedon, his charioteer, and as Balius and Xanthus, his two glorious chariot horses, then increased their pace.)

Home at last.

Alkippe kept the pace of her horse moderate, matching his pace to that of Phoenix, who had greatly recovered during the journey home but not enough to keep pace on foot, and most importantly of Antikles, who had also received a deep wound to his leg, more severe than Phoenix’s, and it was being slow to heal, leaving his face frequently clammy with sweat from pain or fever or both. The reins of his horse were in her right hand, and she kept the pace of the horses slow and steady, not willing to risk a stumble on the uneven ground.

The clamor from the city only grew as the minutes passed and as the marching column grew ever nearer to the city, rising even further as Achilles and the front lines entered the city. With that noise ringing in her ears, Alkippe glanced up toward the heights, toward the citadel and her father’s palace. Was Patroclus up there watching from the palace walls beyond the reach of her sight? It was too late in the day, judging by the position of the sun, even for one young and without pressing responsibilities, for him to be still abed unless he was ill. A small smile flitted across her face at the thought of her cousin. It was good to be home.

Antikles’ groan tore Alkippe’s attention away from her home and back to the journey ahead, short as it was. The injured Myrmidon was deathly pale even beneath his sun-bronzed skin and was starting to list heavily toward his left (injured) side, and the bandages wrapped around his leg were blood-stained: the wound had reopened.

“A little farther, soldier,” she encouraged quietly. “It will not be much longer until we reach the city and the healers’ care. A rest and some fresh bandages will do you good.”

“Yes, my lady,” Antikles replied. His voice was weaker than it had been, weaker than she liked. The sun was warm and bright, quite warm, which would not help either.

At last, the entire column of Myrmidons and their baggage train had made its way within the walls of Alope, and the gates shut with a thud behind them. The cheers of their people were almost deafening, as they greeted their triumphant return with great acclaim. With Achilles’ permission, the column began to scatter as the Myrmidons passed through the city, all those living in the city by the shore scattering to their homes, while those elite troops, 25 from among Alkippe’s men and 25 from among Achilles’, who stayed within the citadel, along with Eudorus and the baggage train of spoils wound their way up the heights to the citadel. There, the wounded were entrusted to the care of the healers, whose halls were located just inside the gates of the citadel. Achilles dismissed the remaining Myrmidons, except for Eudorus and Menesthius, and the soldiers leading the pack animals and carts with the captured spoils for the palace.

My spoils for the temple are here, too. I ’ll need to make sure they are set apart and sent ahead.

On the stone portico outside the great carven doors that lead into the palace, the whole royal family was waiting as Alkippe and Achilles walked up the stone steps that lead to the palace. Peleus stood leaning on a wooden staff, his white hair shining in the sun, the picture of the wise old ruler. Two steps behind him, on his right hand, stood Thetis, glorious in her unfaded beauty. A ways behind them, standing under the shadow of the portico roof, was Patroclus, her young cousin of 17 years. Alkippe smiled softly when she saw him: from the look on his face, only sheer force of will was keeping him flying down the steps to greet his cousin as if he wore Hermes’ winged shoes, instead of his regular sandals.

Not that he would appreciate me calling him young, she thought, yet I am thirteen years the elder. He will always seem young to me.

Achilles stepped forward to greet their father first, Alkippe a few steps behind him in her usual place. When it was her turn, she stepped up beside her brother and bowed deeply to her father and king, saying simply, “My lord father.”

“Daughter, welcome home.” Peleus greeted his younger child and only daughter with a curt nod and equally curt words. Their relationship was complicated, strained almost to the breaking point by her shameful lack of filial piety and submissiveness to her father and king by being a daughter of 30 years—who should have been married half a lifetime ago—who refused to marry against her will. Alkippe was the daughter he had never expected to have, and instead of a submissive girl useful for a marriage alliance with another Greek kingdom, Ares had seen to bless her and make her his champion on earth, and Alkippe had become a warrior, breaking every social norm of Greece for women at that time.

Peleus’s attention shifted to his favored, golden son, and Alkippe bowed again and stepped away to greet her mother much more warmly, though with restraint since they were still visible to the eyes of all those in the courtyard. Their greeting was warm. Alkippe greeted Thetis with a warm smile and a deep bow and let her own rough, calloused hands be clasped in her mother’s cool, smooth hands.

Thetis studied her daughter with her piercing eyes, a gaze that could still make the other woman, grown to adulthood, a warrior bloodied and successful, almost squirm like a naughty child. “Are you well, my child?”

“Yes, mother,” replied Alkippe, keeping her voice low so as to not disturb her father’s conversation with Achilles or draw his attention. “My lord Ares remains pleased with my devotion and blessed my sword. I escaped all injury and return with many gifts for his temple.”

“And the Myrmidons?”

“We returned with 24 injured. We burned 17 on the pyres before departing Thessaly.”

The Queen of Phthia nodded sharply. Her glance went to her husband, then her son, and then back to her daughter. “Go and greet your cousin before his patience runs out. He has been most eager for your return.”

Which will be soon.

I’m surprised he’s managed to restrain himself this long.

Taking the queen’s words as tacit permission, Patroclus bounded forward down the steps, a beaming smile lighting up his face. It had been ten years since he had come to Alope after his parents had drowned in a shipwrecked, and yet he still seemed so young to Alkippe. A naturally talented fighter, Patroclus had learned well from the tutelage of the Myrmidons and of his older cousins but understood little of the real cost and burdens of war, as he had never been on campaign, and neither Alkippe nor Achilles were inclined to let him near a battlefield anytime soon. His loss, it was too great a risk. Even the thought of it made her feel sick.

“Welcome home, cousin!” Patroclus exclaimed, sweeping his older but shorter cousin into a bear-hug, tucking his face into her shoulder. His words were only modulated to a more appropriate level half-way through.

Alkippe returned the embrace just as fiercely. “It’s good to be home,” she replied, voice just a little rough. After several long seconds, she pulled away, keeping her hands on his shoulders, and studying him with due consideration. “Are you well? Have you been keeping up with your training in our absence?”

“Yes, and of course!!” Patroclus replied, looking slightly offended that she even had to ask. “I’ve been training with the palace guards and practicing on my own.”

Alkippe smiled. “Good. You must train with me tomorrow then, and we will test how far your skills have improved.”

Patroclus beamed. Even after living in Alope for ten years, he still idolized both of his cousins and relished any and all chances to train with them. Even just to spend time with us, to tag along at our heels. That has never changed. It was all the more reason that she never wanted to see him come to harm. Glory and honor might come on the battlefield, but there were benefits to a quiet and safe life, too.

Alkippe patted his shoulder and then turned back towards the courtyard. Her glance first landed on one of the older male slave, and she caught his eye and beckoned to him, and then her eyes went to Menesthius, her commander, and she beckoned to him as well.

To Menesthius, she said, “Have my gifts for my father’s temple left in the courtyard under guard. I will return for them soon.”

To the household slave, she added, “Have five of the best bulls that can be found purchased and taken to the temple before the sun sets. Have the herdsman sent to the palace in the morning for his payment.”

“Of course, my lady,” said Menesthius, bowed and turning to his appointed task.

“As you command, my lady,” the slave replied, giving an even lower bow. He stepped backwards, not turning his back until several steps away, and then turned and hurried at a quick pace towards the citadel gates.

With those commands given, Alkippe left the portico and the courtyard with her family and the soldiers and slaves there and swept into the palace. Winding her way through its stone halls, she eventually came to her own large chambers set towards the rear of the palace near the private training yards used by the royal family and the commanders of the Myrmidons. Her rooms overlooked a small, private garden, and while close to Patroclus’ rooms, they were somewhat separated from Achilles’ chambers and those of her parents, which made this area somewhat quieter.

As Alkippe entered her chambers for the first time in months, she gave a sigh of relief and appreciation both at the fragrant scent of bath oils wafting from the bathing room attached to her sleeping chambers. At the sound of her footsteps and the creak of the door from the corridor shutting, a tall but slight woman with olive skin and sharp features, dressed in simple but fine and clean garments, appeared in the doorway of the bathing room.

“Welcome home, mistress!” exclaimed Xanthe, Alkippe’s personal attendant, with a broad smile of greeting, coming forward to clasp and kiss her mistress’ right hand. “Your bath is almost ready.” She had been in Alkippe’s service for a little over six years after being captured as a young girl during a previous campaign in Agamemnon’s war to conquer all of Greece. Good fortune had had her falling into Myrmidon hands, and it had been easy for Alkippe, pitying the girl, to take her into her service to save her from a far worse fate.

After many years at Alkippe’s side, Xanthe knew her mistress’ habits well. After each and every campaign and return to Phthia, Alkippe, as long as she was not injured so badly for her to be unable to reach Ares’ temple under her own power, would always bathe quickly after greeting her family and then make her way to the temple to present to the god the bounties she had gathered in his name during that name and to offer rich sacrifices on her altar in thanks for Ares’ aid, her safe return, and the victories granted to the Myrmidons.

“Very good, Xanthe. Thank you,” replied Alkippe with a small smile, and she turned aside to begin taking off her armor.

Untying the straps that bound her armor to her body, Alkippe removed her armor piece by piece and hung them on a wooden, human-shaped stand that stood next to her clothes-chests. Her shield, she propped against the wall nearby. Her sword went by her bed, and her spears against two carved rest on the walls that were designed to keep them from falling over and clattering to the ground.

As Alkippe worked, she called to Xanthe who had returned to the next room to finish preparing the bath, “No one made trouble for you in my absence, I presume?”

“No, mistress,” Xanthe called back over the sound of her bustling about. “The other slaves know well the consequences of touching me, and no nobles have visited in your absence.” Even as a child, Xanthe had been pretty, drawing the eyes of many men—admiring and lustful glances—from slaves and guests of the king alike. But after once finding her with a torn dress and a bruised cheek, Alkippe had threatened any and all with dire consequences if they ever touched her and kept the girl away from visitors; Xanthe had slept in her quarters on a pallet by the end of her bed and not in the slaves’ quarters ever since. Ever since, she had lived a peaceful life with little risk of molestation from men with wandering hands and lustful thoughts, yet Alkippe still asked her the same question after each and every absence.

A minute later, Xanthe called from the other room, “Your bath is ready, mistress.”

Alkippe made her way into the other room and, after shedding her chiton, slid into the cool water with a grateful sigh and rested her head on the edge of the tub for a few seconds, relishing in the chance to sit and rest for a moment, relishing in the feel of the cool water on her warm and sweaty skin. Then, with Xanthe’s help, she quickly washed and annotated her body with fragrant oils, and, after climbing from the bath and being dried off, Alkippe dressed in an ankle-length black chiton and then sat down at a table in her sleeping room on which stood a mirror of polished bronze, an expensive commodity in those days.

“How do you wish me to do your hair?” Xanthe asked, picking up a comb.

“The usual, please.”

With firm but gentle strokes, Xanthe combed out Alkippe’s hair, golden like sun-fire, liberally streaked as if with blood. When not braided and pinned up beneath her helmet where it would not make an appealing handhold to an opponent, her hair fell slightly below her should-braids. Xanthe worked in silence, letting her mistress enjoy the silence that she had lacked on campaign. She dried her hair with a cloth as best she could, getting the majority of the water out so that it was not dripping—the sun will do the rest—and then braided it, leaving the plait to fall down her shoulders.

“Your fingers are as nimble as usual, Xanthe!” Alkippe said, admiring her hair for a moment in the mirror. “I must go to the temple to take my father his offerings, but I shall return before dusk.”

“Of course, my lady,” Xanthe replied, stepping back with a little curtsy. “Shall I turn to your armor while you are gone?”

Alkippe rose from her seat. “No. I shall deal with it myself when I return or find one of the serving boys to do it for me. Just take my clothes down to the washer-women once my things are brought up.”

Leaving her chambers, Alkippe strode back through the winding halls until she reached the courtyard, which she had left only an hour or so before. The courtyard was much more crowded now, filled with slaves and soldiers and animals and carts being unpacked of their spoils. Yet, seeing her, all immediately made way for her to pass with low bows and murmured words. By the gate stood Menesthius himself, leaning against the wall. Beside him was parked the two carts with her captured spoils for the temple, a slave boy holding the leads to the donkeys.

Alkippe arched an eyebrow at her waiting commander as she slowed her walked and stopped a short distance from them. “When I said to leave someone to guard my gifts for the temple, I did not intend that you were the one to be doing the guarding. I am sure your lady wife would welcome your return and your children, also.”

“My lady wife is a patient woman,” he countered, “and my duties to you, my lady, as always, come first. I will be home soon enough.”

Alkippe nodded sharply. “Very well. Let us depart.”

Ares’ temple was set upon the heights of a hilltop some distance from the outer-walls of Alope. On foot and slowed by the carts, the journey took about two hours. The temple was a grand thing, large and magnificent, built upon the heights so that it could be seen from a distance from the east, from the west, and from the sea. Its white stone shone in the sun, drawing the eyes all around. Alkippe had spared no expense years earlier in financing its construction, and it was the largest temple to Ares in all of Greece by far, and the temple received in a year more offerings from Alkippe primarily but also in more recent years from many of her Myrmidons than all the other temples to Ares in Greece combined.

An old, dour priest, robed all in white, stood awaiting them upon the steps of the temple. The creak of the carts, the braying of the donkeys, the rattling of the cart’s contents, it made for a cacophony that would signal their arrival well in advance.

“Praise to my lord Ares for your safe return, princess,” said the priest.

Alkippe bowed deeply to the high priest. “My father blessed my sword and protected me in battle, as he has done for many years. I have brought many rich gifts for him, won in my campaigns in Thessaly, including the sword of the Thessalian champion my brother defeated to win us the war. I hope they will be pleasing to Ares. I have ordered that bulls be brought as well to be offered in thanks for our victories and safe return. If there is ought else, my lord Ares would wish for, you have but to tell me, and it will be done.”

“The bulls have already been driven to the temple, my lady,” the high priest replied. “You will be told of anything else our lord requires.” With a shout, he then summoned two young acolytes from within the temple, who came and led away the donkeys and the carts full of spoils.

“Will you stay for a time?” The high priest asked.

“No,” Alkippe replied. “The hour grows late, and I am weary from our journey home. I will return tomorrow to pay my respects further.”

“Safe journey then.”

The journey from the temple back to Alope took a little less time than the journey out. The sun was growing low in the sky by the time Alkippe made her way through the gates of the citadel, having dismissed Menesthius to his home and the slave boy back to his duties. Patroclus was sitting on the steps up to the palace as she entered but bounded to his feet immediately as he caught sight of her.

“Cousin?” Alkippe asked aloud, surprised at his presence, surprised at him sitting there waiting for her. Sometimes she spent hours at the temple, notwithstanding the journeying time, so unless he had been watching for her from the citadel walls, he would have been hard pressed to know when she would return.

“Aunt Thetis wished for you to dine with us—Aunt Thetis and me—this evening, if you are not too tired, that is,” Patroclus replied with a slightly sheepish grimace that puzzled Alkippe.

“Of course.” Her brow furrowed. “What about my brother?”

Patroclus made a face. “Achilles is to dine with the king and his advisers to tell of the campaign in Thessaly and to speak of relations with the High King.” These words explained his sheepish expression of a moment before.

Alkippe ground her teeth, annoyance sweeping across her features, at her father’s blatant snub of her role with the Myrmidons. She took one deep breath and then a second, forcing composure through strength of will. “Let me wash the dust from my feet and change clothes, and then I will join you both. In Mother’s chambers, I presume?”

Patroclus nodded. “I’ll let her know.” And with that, he turned and dashed away, the vitality of youth giving wings to his feet.

In some ways, Alkippe thought to herself as she made her way back to her chambers, it is good to be home. Dealing with Father, that I did not miss, but mother and Patroclus, I missed their company.

Ares’ champion, though I am, I still miss the peace and quiet of life here. I wonder why he chose me. No matter the wars I fight, this will always be my home.

Little did Alkippe know that night that she would have only weeks left to enjoy her quiet life with her family in Alope before the rash actions of a foreign prince would bring disaster upon Greece and would change the fate of her family forever. A story that would go down in history and make the names of her kin endure forever … but at a terrible cost.

^[1] A diaulos is a Greek unit of measurement which equals approximately 2.2 km or 1.36 miles.

Chapter Text

The following weeks passed slowly and quietly in the same familiar routine, day after day. Rise early—before dawn, many days. Train with Achilles and the Myrmidons for several hours. Eat the morning meal. Check on the conditions of the remaining wounded soldiers from the Thessalian campaign. Attend to any matters with the palace guard. Help the Queen with any palace affairs. Eat the mid-day meal. Train with Patroclus and sometimes Achilles before the heat of the day was greatest, if there was time, or after the punishing heat waned, if there was not. Rest inside during the heat of the day. Go riding on the beach or walk around Alope in the early evening, as it did good for the people to see her interested in their affairs and well-being. Eat the evening meal. Retire to rest. Get up in the morning to repeat the cycle.

Usually, Achilles and Alkippe trained with Patroclus in the private training grounds that stood within the citadel itself. But there was also an old, ruined temple, once dedicated to Poseidon, on the heights an hour’s ride down the coast that the Myrmidons frequently used for training. It had long ago—multiple generations ago—been abandoned when the worship of the god grew too great for its small size, necessitating the building of another, much larger and more elaborate temple to be built nearer Alope. The old structure, now falling to ruins, and the heights it stood on provided a great variety of terrain, useful for training, closer to what could be encountered on campaign compared to the flat ground of the arena within the citadel.

Almost four weeks after the Myrmidons returned from Thessaly, Achilles and Alkippe had a quieter day than usual with fewer duties at court and in the city to be accomplished. Those duties were finished by midday, and after eating the midday meal, they gathered up their armor and sought out Patroclus, and together the three cousins rode for the cliffs and Poseidon’s former temple. If all went according to plan, they would have the afternoon to train and still be able to return to Alope before nightfall.

The three made good time to the cliffs, and after they discarded their heavy shields and weapons and took up their wooden practice swords, they set to training. Their sparring was good-natured and competitive. Sometimes they sparred one on one: Achilles against Alkippe, Alkippe against Patroclus, or Achilles against Patroclus. At other times, they went two against one: Achilles and Patroclus against Alkippe, or Alkippe and Patroclus against Achilles. To their cousin’s loudly and somewhat exaggeratedly expressed relief, Achilles and Alkippe had not teamed up against him that day, as they occasionally did to remind him of how much he still had to learn.

By late afternoon, Alkippe’s strength began to flag under the heat of the sun, and she retreated to a seat on the stone steps with a water skin in hand to watch the continued sparring. In contrast, Patroclus was still somehow abounding with youthful energy and continued training with his eldest cousin. Alkippe watched with a small smile on her face, as her brother and cousin ranged across the whole length and breadth of the temple. She always found it interesting to note the differences in their fighting styles. Patroclus tended towards a flashier style of fighting, with less interest in conserving all his excess energy. Achilles, on the other hand, moved like a prowling lion, watching for any mistake so he could strike. No wasted movement. No needless strike.

The thwak, thwak, thwak of the wooden swords impacting each other at random intervals and the bantering of Achilles and Patroclus drifted across to Alkippe on the warm, afternoon air. Drowsiness was trying to creep its way over her, and she blinked several times and shook herself bodily to fight it off.

“Never hesitate,” she heard Achilles say. More sounds of swordplay ensued, though since they had moved around a corner, blocking her sight-line with stone columns and overgrown trees, the move that had prompted his comment was not clear.

A few moments passed, and Achilles’ voice came again, light, teasing, “Fancy swordplay. The girls must be impressed.^[1]” The sound of their dancing footsteps and the thwaking of swords grew closer again, and they ranged back through the temple towards where she was seated.

Alkippe laughed, a grin lighting up her face and dancing through her eyes. As they reached where she was lounging on one set of stone steps, she jerked her feet back to keep either her brother or cousin from risking tripping over her legs. If the ground had been soft, she would have considered tripping one of them, just to add a new dynamic to the math, but that was too risky here on the sharp stones. Then once they were safely several paces away rose to her feet and moved up the steps to lean against a pillar to keep watching.

“Nervous?” asked Patroclus, his voice dancing with mischief, after a particularly long exchange of blows.

Achilles ducked a blow aimed for head, caught Patroclus by his wrist, and swung him around so he was pinned up against a pillar, a wooden sword to his throat, and answered dryly, “Petrified.”

Achilles released Patroclus a second later, and their young cousin immediately swung for his face, necessitating Achilles do a quick dodge to keep from being hit and possibly getting his nose broken, and the mock battle was back on. Then, in a lightning-fast move that Alkippe even had to watch carefully to see him do, Achilles ducked another blow, switching his sword to his left hand behind his back as he did so, just in time to place his sword now in his right hand at Patroclus’ throat.

The young warrior stared at the sword in half-amazement at his cousin’s skill and half-disgust at the trick. “You told me never to switch sword hands!” he exclaimed.

“Expect the unexpected in wartime, cousin,” said Alkippe in a friendly tone that still held a note of caution, “Your enemy will not follow the rules of the practice arena. You must be prepared for any trick, any strategy, lest you become yet another casualty of yet another war.” The rules that were sensible on the training field with a comparative novice did not always apply to the battlefield itself, either.

Patroclus lunged at Achilles again, but in several quick moves, the older warrior pinned his sword and kicked it away. You overextended yourself. Again! Patroclus! Focus. You know better. As Achilles moved back to allow Patroclus to rise, Alkippe noticed her brother staring off into the distance down the hillside and then cocking his head to the side. What’s wrong? Feeling uneasy, Alkippe edged towards her own weapons, even as Achilles moved towards his. Then, in another lightning-fast move that still confounded her despite the number of times she had seen him do it—a move that she had never been able to replicate—Achilles curled his foot around one of his spears, flipped it into the air, caught it smoothly with his dominant hand, and then hurled it down the hill away from the temple.

Alkippe caught up her sword, only now noticing what Achilles had: horsemen. A number of them, too. Attacks this near the city were rare but did happen. A red haze began to curl around the edges of her vision, and her hand spasmed around the hilt of her sword. No. No. Not here. Not with Patroclus here. Her young cousin had never seen the true effects of what Ares’ blessing in battle did to her, and she was quite happy to not begin showing him here and now. Or maybe ever.

The moment passed, and Alkippe had counted up to nearly thirty before footsteps sounded, and another man, fully armed and armored and bearing Achilles’ spear in one hand, joined them in the temple. “Your reputation for hospitality is fast becoming legend,” Odysseus said, removing his helmet. He tossed the spear to Achilles, chuckling to himself all the while.

Oh. The haze began to recede. It’s you. Only you. What are you doing here!?

(Alkippe liked Odysseus … sometimes. The rest of the time she wished to muzzle him for the way he ensnared people with his words, clever man that he was, though it was often for better ends than … Agamemnon or most any other king in Greece.)

Achilles had slowly been advancing up the steps toward Odysseus, Patroclus hovering a step or two behind. Suddenly, her brother turned, caught their cousin’s wrist, and playfully dragged him in front of him to introduce him to Odysseus. A type of introduction, Patroclus would, I’m sure, have been quite happy to forgo. Though, for the moment, he was too surprised to protest, his back bowed like a strung bow against the wooden sword-point at the small of his back. You’ll probably pay for this later, my brother. Their younger cousin was rather devious in terms of his payback when Achilles embarrassed him. (And Alkippe had more than once helped if she thought her brother especially deserved whatever cousinly revenge was coming his way.)

“Patroclus, our cousin,” was Achilles’ introduction. “Odysseus, king of Ithaca.” He removed his sword and tucked it over one arm, allowing Patroclus to relax his posture, though his face—Alkippe saw as she stalked up the steps to join them, nerves still on edge—was somewhat bashful, his gaze more on his feet than their lordly visitor.

“Patroclus,” mused Odysseus, switching his helmet to his other arm, “I knew your parents well.” He reached out and squeezed Patroclus’ shoulder. “I miss them.” The boy nodded and swallowed hard, his gaze still on his feet. The king’s focus switched to her brother. “Now you have this one watching over you, eh? Learning from Achilles himself — kings would kill for the honor.”

You want something.

You ’re not here to visit.

I know that look on your face.

“Are you here at Agamemnon’s bidding?” Achilles asked brusquely, sensing the same thing Alkippe was.

Now Odysseus looked slightly uncomfortable, and he rubbed one hand over his short-cropped beard. “We need to talk.”

Achilles and Alkippe exchanged a look of annoyance and mingled impatience as they turned to follow Odysseus back down the steps. Trying to be discreet, Alkippe also kept her brother’s gaze and flicked her eyes toward Patroclus and raised an eyebrow, trying to convey an unspoken question. Should I send him away while we talk? Achilles gave a minute shake of his head. No, let him stay.

(It was a decision they both would later regret.)

In broad strokes, Odysseus quickly laid out the reasons for which he had come. Paris, one of the king of Troy’s many sons, had seen fit to steal away Helen, Menelaus’ wife, after the very banquet that was supposed to solidify a peace treaty between Sparta and Troy. That little fool! This was, of course, a grievous slight against Menelaus’ honor, and he wanted his wife back. And, of course, Agamemnon, the power-hungry tyrant that he was, was quite happy to start a war with Troy, whose walls were said to be built by the gods’ themselves. To wage his war, Agamemnon was assembling the greatest fleet, the greatest army the known world had ever seen in all its history. And Agamemnon wanted Achilles and his Myrmidons.

I have no love for Menelaus. I would have slit my own throat before marrying him.

Better to escape in death, and have it done with. She has doomed herself and her lover if he catches up with them, doomed Troy if Agamemnon has his way.

Achilles and Alkippe listened in silence, and then Achilles spoke the words she was expecting. In many decisions, he often consulted her, but in a situation such as this, the final decision was his. And I have no more wish to set out upon another of our great High King’s wars than you do. “I will not fight for him. We will not fight for him.”

“I am not asking you to fight for him,” Odysseus countered immediately. And why must you come to do his dirty work, old friend? “I am asking you to fight for Greece.”

Which almost entirely bows the knee to Agamemnon.

“Are the Greeks tired of fighting each other?” snapped Achilles.

A distinction without a difference.

“For now,” replied Odysseus. His gaze, now amused, moved to someone or something behind them.

If peace lingers too long, I’m sure Agamemnon will invent a reason for war.

“For the Greeks!” came Patroclus’ voice out of nowhere. He had lagged behind up to that point, as they walked a circuit of the temple ruins, listening with half-an-ear, or so it appeared, and half-heartedly doing sword drills. Alkippe flinched, but Achilles just whirled to meet the oncoming rush, and it took only a few blows before he had Patroclus’ wooden sword in hand, their cousin disarmed.

“The Trojans never harmed me,” Achilles continued, turning back to Odysseus.

“They insulted Greece,” countered the clever Ithacan, his gaze interestingly not focused on Achilles but behind them towards Patroclus.

Now Achilles was growing exasperated. “They insulted one Greek, a man who couldn't hold on to his wife. What business is that of mine?”

“Your business is war, my friend” was Odysseus’ simple rejoinder.

Achilles’ eyes were blazing. “Is it?” he snapped, tossing Patroclus back his sword. “Am I the whore of the battlefield? Can my sword be bought and sold? I have no wish to be remembered as a tyrant’s mercenary. The man has no honor.”

“Let Achilles fight for honor. Let Agamemnon fight for power, and let the gods decide which man to glorify.” Odysseus’ mouth twitched up into a smirk. Amused at your own cleverness? “Forget Agamemnon. Fight for me,” he continued as Patroclus again tried his hand at defeating Achilles while his cousin was distracted. Considering that Achilles had half his attention on their guest as they exchanged blows and was still winning, you shall have to try harder than that, cousin. “My wife will feel much better if she knows you're by my side. I'll feel much better.”

That at least drew an amused snort from Alkippe, who was fast growing annoyed with Odysseus’ attempts to change her brother’s mind.

The sparring match paused for a moment, and Patroclus asked, shoulders heaving for breath, “Is Ajax going to fight in Troy?” (Alkippe grimaced at the very mention of that man’s name.) “They say he can fell an oak tree with one swing of his ax.” Who is ‘they’? We certainly have not told you such rubbish. His words were punctuated with the thwaks of the wooden swords, and his attempt at defeating Achilles ended as promptly as it had begun with him disarmed and hit soundly across the rear with his own sword.

“Trees don’t swing back,” replied Achilles and Alkippe almost in unison.

Odysseus had another of his clever looks on his face. “We are sending the largest fleet that ever sailed,” he said, stepping closer, “a thousand ships.” The latter piece of information was new, having gone unmentioned in his earlier summary of the situation.

Patroclus’ enthusiasm was bubbling over, and his eyes were alight. “A thousand ships!” he exclaimed. “Prince Hector, is he as good a warrior as they say?”

“The best of all the Trojans.” Odysseus’ words were slow, carefully chosen, with even his tone carefully modulated as if he was sharing something special with a friend and not just a boy. “Some say he's better than all the Greeks, too.” Those words were sly, given with a sideways glance at Achilles, who just smirked as he took a drink from his waterskin. We know the game you’re playing, old friend. We see it. Be careful. “Even if your cousin doesn't come, Patroclus, I hope you'll join us. We could use a strong arm like yours.”

Anger burned through Alkippe’s veins, and the familiar red haze darkened the edges of her vision. Keep your grimy claws off our cousin. She missed all that was said until Odysseus announced the fleet sailed in three days, adding, “This war will never be forgotten. Nor will the heroes who fight in it,” and then, returning to his horse, departed.

(She could have happily wrung the neck of Ithaca’s king like a pesky bird.)

Hours later, after the three cousins had returned to Alope, after Achilles had gone off to find the Queen, after dinner, a knock came at the outer door of Alkippe’s chamber. She was sitting by the fire, lost in thought after having finished sharpening and polishing her sword following the evening meal. Xanthe was bent studiously, dutifully over the sewing in the lap, mending by the light of the fire and the dimly burning oil lamp on the small table drawn up beside her. Alkippe flinched, jumped slightly at the unexpected noise.

Both women looked up. Xanthe moved as if she were going to put aside the mending and rise to answer the door, but Alkippe shook her head sharply. I’ll do it. In her father’s palace, she did not truly expect trouble, but it was still late for a visitor.

Alkippe moved aside the beam that barred her door at night and opened the door, only to find Achilles standing in the hallway, two wine-skins in one hand and two plain goblets in the other.

“Where have you been?” Alkippe exclaimed, with no little annoyance. “You missed supper. Patroclus was asking for you. Mother and I could barely get him to talk about anything but Troy and Ajax and this war and all Odysseus filled his head with.”

“We need to talk,” was all Achilles said in reply.

Alkippe arched an eyebrow. “Are you drunk? Because if you are, I’m going to bed, and we can talk tomorrow.”

Though … you don’t smell of wine, and those look full.

Achilles sighed, rolled his eyes, and repeated, “We need to talk.”

Alkippe huffed a sigh and turned back into her rooms. (Xanthe had risen, setting aside her mending, and was watching attentively, waiting for any instructions.) “My cloak, please.” That was quickly brought, and after fastening it about her shoulders and giving instructions for the door to be barred behind her, Alkippe departed.

The two siblings threaded their way through the halls of the palace of Peleus and through the gardens until they came to the walls that guarded the citadel and looked down from the heights upon the city below. The moon was shining, its rays glinting off the water past Alope. It was beautiful, and Achilles had picked a quiet section of wall. And what guards there were nearby would know to keep their distance. It wasn’t the first time the two had ended up on the walls or in the gardens or some other less well-traveled portion of the citadel to speak privately.

“What do we need to talk about?” asked Alkippe after she had taken a long sip from the goblet of wine her brother had poured for her. It was rather late to be drinking, but there was a feeling bubbling in her chest that this was a conversation that would require wine. And, perhaps, a lot of it.

“Troy.”

What?

Why?

Alkippe sent her brother a sharp-eyed, skeptical look. “Why? What is there to discuss? You already told Odysseus our decision: ‘I will not fight for him. We will not fight for him.’” A pause, as she studied his face. “Don’t tell me you’re reconsidering? Another war for Agamemnon?” She asked, almost in disbelief, spitting out the name like a curse. “Two days to gather supplies and prepare the ships? We have not even filled the ranks of those who died during the campaign in Thessaly.”

I know that face. You are thinking of taking the Myrmidons to Troy.

Are you mad? You cannot be serious.

“You actually are thinking of going!” Alkippe exclaimed, studying Achilles’ face. “You must be joking, and that would be a cruel jest.”

“What do you think … about going?” Achilles was in a strangely introspective mood. Maybe it’s the wine. Or who knows? He said he was going looking for Mother earlier.

Alkippe arched an eyebrow and gave her brother a long, hard look. She drained her goblet and held it out for a refill, saying sharply, “I think many things, brother, not at all relevant for the discussion at hand. I think that I am quite tired of fighting wars at Agamemnon’s whims. I think that Prince Paris is a complete and utter fool, ruled by his belly and not his head, and that I pity Prince Hector for having such a brother and King Priam for having such a disgrace of a son. I think that I pity Queen Helen, though my method of … escaping such a marriage as hers … would not doom so many of my own countrymen.” A sharp dagger or a cup of poison or even a tall cliff would free her from her prison, if she had the courage to take the step. “I think that if we are going to Troy, I wish that it was some months hence and not just two days. The empty places in the ranks of the Myrmidons cannot exactly be filled from the city guard.”

Silence fell. Achilles stared out into the distance for some minutes before finally saying, “Mother told me my fate.”

Alkippe arched an eyebrow. Her fate was bound to the whims of Ares for as long as his favor—and the madness that came with it—remained a heavy weight upon her shoulders. More specific, anything firm, those details she had no wish to know. I think I might not like the answer I get. Better to face it a day at a time. “And?”

“If I remain, I will live a long and happy life, a peaceful life, but when my children’s children are dead, I will be forgotten,” replied Achilles. “But, if I go to Troy, my glory will be the greatest among the Greeks. Songs of my triumphs will be sung for thousands of years, and I will never be forgotten.”

“And?” Alkippe repeated.

“To not be forgotten? To have songs sung of our victories for a thousand years? Do you not want to be remembered, sister?”

“From what you just said, Mother said songs would be sung of your triumphs for years uncounted,” she replied, giving her brother a sharp look. Achilles might consult her and do so frequently and sincerely, but in the end, the decisions were in his hands, and the Myrmidons as a whole rose or fell under his leadership. “I am a woman and not an Amazon. I have broken every social mores in Greece twice over. Thrice, perhaps, or more. I am a disappointment to the King. If the songs of this age remember me, I doubt it will, regardless of whether we stay or go, be for a reason I would desire to be remembered.”

Achilles scowled at that and had no answer for his words. Finally, he declared, “We sail for Troy. We will join the fleet when it passes us.”

Alkippe pointedly did not sigh or curse. “Very well. I will have the preparations for departure began in the morning.” There was no point, given the late hour, in waking up to gain a few extra hours of preparation time tonight. Better to let them sleep and get an early start on the morrow.

“Are you concerned,” Achilles asked after a few more minutes had passed, “about your matter with Ajax?”

Might you have asked that before declaring that we would sail?

There was no love lost between Alkippe and Ajax the Greater, the son of her father's older brother Telamon, King of Salamis. As a fighter, Alkippe greatly respected him. He was the greatest of all warriors in Greece save Achilles … or Alkippe herself in a blood rage, though she had no wish to put her skills or the war god's favor in keeping her alive to the test by crossing blades with Ajax.

In all other respects, Alkippe loathed the man. He was a brute, especially to women, as evidenced by the state of more than a few of the house slaves in the aftermath of his handful of visits to Phthia over the years. He was also one of the multiple warlords from across the closer kingdoms to Phthia to whom Peleus had attempted to make an alliance through marriage. My marriage, and I’d rather die first. Only Achilles’ intervention on her behalf and her own repeated vows to Zeus, Ares, and several others of the Olympians that she would slit her own throat first before being forced to marry Ajax or any other man against her will had kept Alkippe from long ago being forced into marriage by her father. At 30 summers, in almost any other circumstances, she probably would have been long ago wed half a lifetime ago. Her shameful lack of filial piety and submissiveness to her father and king had won her no favors in Peleus’ eyes.

And mother’s sympathy does me no good either.

Alkippe shrugged. “Each campaign that our cousin takes the field and is victorious is a campaign in which he could appeal to Agamemnon for his promised wife, who has long been denied him. But … the sands here or the sands there, it matters not to be me in such a case where my life’s blood is spilled. You will lay my bones to rest regardless and put upon my eyes the coins for the river-passage, and then, marriage and the matters of the living will matter no more to me.”

“It will never reach that point,” growled Achilles immediately.

“We have not the political or military strength to gainsay Agamemnon, especially not with almost all Greece behind him.” Alkippe’s voice was matter-of-fact. Death, whether by her own blade or by the hand of another, held no fear for her. Hers was not destined to be a long and happy life, of that she was quite sure. “The Myrmidons are one of the greatest fighting forces in the known world, and you, the greatest warrior. The High King needs us as long as we remain useful, but if we turn against him, Pythia cannot stand against the whole of Greece. Only death will set me truly free.”

Ares is not beloved on Mount Olympus.

Even his favor can only do so much for me.

There was silence for some minutes after that.

Not against all the other Olympians who favor the Greeks.

“Will you let Patroclus come with us?” Alkippe finally asked, her gaze fixed out over the water.

"Yes.” The answer was unsurprising, given Patroclus’ earlier excitement and all the seeds Odysseus had planted. Alkippe did not have to like it. Though we cannot shield him from our life on the battlefield forever, or he will grow to resent it. Resent us.

“Very well,” she replied. “Then he must be with your ships.” Her hand went tight around her goblet, her knuckles bone white. “I do not want him anywhere near me on the battlefield … just in case.” Her voice wavered just slightly. Ares’ gift was a blessing and a curse, and she always feared that when the battle-madness receded that there would be friendly blood staining her sword, her hands, her armor, her soul.

“Of course.” Achilles easily assented to that.

“And if we fall at Troy, what then for our cousin?”

“Mother will see to his care, and so will Eudorus.”

“And the Myrmidons, what of them?”

“Eudorus will lead them in Patroclus’ name,” Achilles replied, “until he proves himself a leader skilled enough to command such a force.”

Well planned.

“And if you die, my brother,” Alkippe asked, “and we remain?”

That question drew the smallest of flinches, but after multiple goblets of wine, the significance of it passed her by.

“In the event of my death,” replied Achilles, “you will lead the Myrmidons and no one else.” Good. Very good. “And Patroclus will be in your care. With them behind you, your fate will be your own.” Perhaps.

Alkippe nodded slowly. “Very well. One more war.” Her words were clear, though she was feeling the effects of the wine now. “One more war, and then we will tell Agamemnon no at last, yes? There have been too many years of relentless campaigning, one after the other, and our numbers have dropped very low. We have less than 300 now. Far fewer than I would like for a war against Troy, but it is what it is now. But after this, we need to rebuild our numbers.”

“One more war,” Achilles repeated, “that shall be remembered forever.”

One more war.

One more war.

^[1] This line is taken from the script, not the movie itself.