his concubine continued in a whisper. “I knew she was mine the moment I saw her.”
She had indeed grieved, Diwoméde realized. The losses had stung her heart, after all. She had only hidden her thoughts from him all those years before. Without warning, his own eyes brimmed with hot tears and the salty liquid spilled over his cheeks. He clung to Dáuniya, pressing his face to her full breasts, shaking with sobs that he was powerless to hold back. “I helped kill a child once,” he wept, “a blue-eyed child like this one, in T’ráki.”
Dáuniya held him tightly. “I know,” she murmured, rocking him. “You did it at Agamémnon’s order. You did it for your king, for your true father. The blood-guilt is not yours but his.”
A cry of anguish escaped his lips, though he tried to hold it in. “I killed a child just like Flóra and I let my father die. I betrayed my king…” He could not go on. He wanted to tell her that he was cursed, that perhaps St’énelo was right and that his blood too should, indeed, be spilled.
“Hush,” the woman crooned, only clasping him more tightly to her bosom. “You did not kill the T’rákiyan boy. The Tróyan princess did that for the sake of revenge, and you served her at your king’s command. As for Agamémnon, you would have saved him if you had been with him when he was attacked. But you were a captive in Attika when he died. It was he himself who sent you there, on a hopeless mission. You could not help your father. You did not betray him. You did your best to avenge him, years later, after he was gone, when you had the chance. I know that you did. His spirit knows it, too. Be still, beloved, do not cry. Everything will be all right.”
Before, he had not doubted her words. But now, he was not so sure. “It will never be all right for me again,” he gulped. “I blight everything that I put my hand to. I always thought that I was doing the right thing…fighting at Troya…taking orders from Agamémnon…joining his son, Orésta…but the gods have always been against me. I only made enemies all around the Inner Sea. Why do you still want me, Dáuniya? Why?”
“Hush,” she soothed, rocking him, kissing his head, stroking his cheek. “The goddess loves you and so do I. Everything will be all right. You will see. T’érsite and I will take care of everything.”
To the astonishment of the gathered populace at the top of the hill, T’érsite found and sacrificed a young hind at the sanctuary of the goddess. No further proof was needed, even for St’énelo, that the goddess favored them. Diwoméde was a qasiléyu again in the charioteer’s eyes. Despite his odd appearance, the dark stubble on his head and limbs, the half-healed welts on his back, despite it all, everyone treated him with the respect and deference due his former high rank.
“Where do you think that we should go, qasiléyu ?” St’énelo asked him cordially, over the day’s single meal, the next evening. “Dáuniya says that we should go west, to her native land. But it is a long way and I have heard terrible stories. There are evil things out on the western edge of the world. There are huge, one-eyed giants that eat the flesh of men, monstrous goddesses that inhabit the seas, and suck down the largest ships into whirlpools, to drown mortal men in their cities under the waves.” His overly slender frame shook violently at the thought. “I do not want to meet the Divine Throat with her three heads.”
“Mm, sailor’s lies,” Diwoméde concluded quietly, with a wry face. It was enough for him that he was among friends and could rest. He volunteered no further opinion.
Peirít’owo was not so reticent. Taking a warped walking staff in hand, he stood by T’érsite’s hearth and addressed the others with an unnecessarily loud voice. “It is time we settled this, once and for all. Where are we to go? Now, I am an Ak’áyan and the son of a great wánaks ,” he reminded the
She had indeed grieved, Diwoméde realized. The losses had stung her heart, after all. She had only hidden her thoughts from him all those years before. Without warning, his own eyes brimmed with hot tears and the salty liquid spilled over his cheeks. He clung to Dáuniya, pressing his face to her full breasts, shaking with sobs that he was powerless to hold back. “I helped kill a child once,” he wept, “a blue-eyed child like this one, in T’ráki.”
Dáuniya held him tightly. “I know,” she murmured, rocking him. “You did it at Agamémnon’s order. You did it for your king, for your true father. The blood-guilt is not yours but his.”
A cry of anguish escaped his lips, though he tried to hold it in. “I killed a child just like Flóra and I let my father die. I betrayed my king…” He could not go on. He wanted to tell her that he was cursed, that perhaps St’énelo was right and that his blood too should, indeed, be spilled.
“Hush,” the woman crooned, only clasping him more tightly to her bosom. “You did not kill the T’rákiyan boy. The Tróyan princess did that for the sake of revenge, and you served her at your king’s command. As for Agamémnon, you would have saved him if you had been with him when he was attacked. But you were a captive in Attika when he died. It was he himself who sent you there, on a hopeless mission. You could not help your father. You did not betray him. You did your best to avenge him, years later, after he was gone, when you had the chance. I know that you did. His spirit knows it, too. Be still, beloved, do not cry. Everything will be all right.”
Before, he had not doubted her words. But now, he was not so sure. “It will never be all right for me again,” he gulped. “I blight everything that I put my hand to. I always thought that I was doing the right thing…fighting at Troya…taking orders from Agamémnon…joining his son, Orésta…but the gods have always been against me. I only made enemies all around the Inner Sea. Why do you still want me, Dáuniya? Why?”
“Hush,” she soothed, rocking him, kissing his head, stroking his cheek. “The goddess loves you and so do I. Everything will be all right. You will see. T’érsite and I will take care of everything.”
To the astonishment of the gathered populace at the top of the hill, T’érsite found and sacrificed a young hind at the sanctuary of the goddess. No further proof was needed, even for St’énelo, that the goddess favored them. Diwoméde was a qasiléyu again in the charioteer’s eyes. Despite his odd appearance, the dark stubble on his head and limbs, the half-healed welts on his back, despite it all, everyone treated him with the respect and deference due his former high rank.
“Where do you think that we should go, qasiléyu ?” St’énelo asked him cordially, over the day’s single meal, the next evening. “Dáuniya says that we should go west, to her native land. But it is a long way and I have heard terrible stories. There are evil things out on the western edge of the world. There are huge, one-eyed giants that eat the flesh of men, monstrous goddesses that inhabit the seas, and suck down the largest ships into whirlpools, to drown mortal men in their cities under the waves.” His overly slender frame shook violently at the thought. “I do not want to meet the Divine Throat with her three heads.”
“Mm, sailor’s lies,” Diwoméde concluded quietly, with a wry face. It was enough for him that he was among friends and could rest. He volunteered no further opinion.
Peirít’owo was not so reticent. Taking a warped walking staff in hand, he stood by T’érsite’s hearth and addressed the others with an unnecessarily loud voice. “It is time we settled this, once and for all. Where are we to go? Now, I am an Ak’áyan and the son of a great wánaks ,” he reminded the
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