Living Legend

By Mark Stone

The Trojan War is over and the Greeks have lost, returning home to a country fractured by defeat while Prince Hector of Troy dreams the dream of Empire.
For Odysseus, the Fates have rewritten his epic tale of adventure that lasted twenty long years and the man the world has come to know as its greatest traveler/adventurer has arrived home to the tiny island kingdom of Ithaka to lick his wounds and reassemble his life. Glad to be shut of war, he begins the process of rebuilding only to have his plans upset by rumors of political unrest and the death of a tyrant. Forced to travel to the mainland to attend the funeral games for a fallen king, he is plunged into a murder mystery that could set Greece on the path of a brand new, devastating war. Can Greece's most clever hero outsmart a villain who knows him quite well? Can he defy legendary monsters, the spirits of vengeance and even the Gods to solve the world's first whodunnit?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Stone
• Release date: Dec 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781494791933

Mark Stone

Mark Stone writes M/M erotica about older men and forbidden attraction.

Book preview

DESCRIPTION

Greece: 0, Troy: 1

The Trojan War is over and the Greeks have lost, returning home to a country fractured by defeat while Prince Hector of Troy dreams the dream of Empire.

For Odysseus, the Fates have rewritten his epic tale of adventure that lasted twenty long years and the man the world has come to know as its greatest traveler/adventurer has arrived home to the tiny island kingdom of Ithaka to lick his wounds and reassemble his life. Glad to be shut of war, he begins the process of rebuilding only to have his plans upset by rumors of political unrest and the death of a tyrant. Forced to travel to the mainland to attend the funeral games for a fallen king, he is plunged into a murder mystery that could set Greece on the path of a brand new, devastating war. Can Greece's most clever hero outsmart a villain who knows him quite well? Can he defy legendary monsters, the spirits of vengeance and even the Gods to solve the world's first whodunnit?

Book One of the

Histories of Odysseus

Mark Everett

Stone

Smashwords Edition December 2013

Living Legend

Copyright © 2013 MEStone LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

www.RuneWright.com

Published by

MEStone LLC

Denver, Colorado

Contents

Description

Title Page

Dedication

Special thanks go out to …

Also by Mark Everett Stone:

Author’s note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

More to Come

About the Author

DEDICATION

As always, this one is for Dad

SPECIAL THANKS GO OUT TO …

My fans who have shed their hard earned money to purchase my books. Thank you. And I have to tip my hat to Quincy Allen, thanks for the help, Mia Kleve, a wonderful beta reader and M, who also beta-read and offered encouragement. To my other half, Brandie … she gave me the space I needed and the gentle push to keep going in the right direction. To Paul Anderson for his excellent document on ancient Greek costumes. To the good people of Like-Minded Authors Seeking Publication: James, Vivian, Travis, Tonya and Guy, David, Lou, Julie, Peter, Kathryn, and Kronda. There are more, but I’m running out of room. Thanks guys.

And, of course, any mistakes are my own. Don’t hate me.

ALSO BY MARK EVERETT STONE:

The Judas Line, ForWord Magazine’s Book of the Year Nominee

The Judas Codex (forthcoming)

The BSI Series:

Things to do in Denver when you’re Un-Dead, a ForWord Magazine Debut Book of the Year nominee

What Happens in Vegas Dies in Vegas

I left my haunt in San Francisco

Chicago, the Windigo City

Omaha Stakes (forthcoming)

AUTHOR’S NOTE

A little explanation of some ancient Greek clothing:

Exomis: This is a rectangular piece of cloth a couple of yards long and one wide. It is folded in half to form a tube and the wearer steps inside, drawing the cloth under the right arm and fastening it over the left shoulder. It is then secured with a belt. The length varies from just above the knee to above the genitals.

Chiton: Roughly two to three yards long and one wide and sewn into a tube. It is fastened front to back over the shoulders with enough room for the arms to move freely. Belted at the waist, it varies from full-length to mid-thigh.

Peplos: A cloth four yards wide and two long, it is folded in half and sewn into a tube, which is pinned front-to-back over the shoulders allowing full freedom of movement for the arms. The garment runs from shoulder to ankle and is belted at the waist. There are several variations in style in this garment.

Himation: This is a long piece of cloth of roughly five yards and is about yard-and-half wide. One end is tossed over the left shoulder to hang down between ankle and calf. The leftover material is pulled under the right arm, across the back and runs over the left shoulder to hang along the arm, over the hand down toward the left foot. There are a couple of variations on this theme.

CHAPTER ONE

Odysseus

Nothing quite keeps you on your toes like a wife who’s trying to plant a spear in your guts.

I raised my battered practice shield and blocked a thrust, the blunt spear tip clattering harmlessly to the side.

Pen squinted her eyes and whirled the spear back, spinning it in her hands. It hummed angrily, like a living thing.

I grinned at her from behind the marginal safety of my shield. Now, Pen, that was sloppy. Keep that up and you might as well go back to weaving tapestries. I hoped that would garner a reaction.

It did.

Snarling, my wife’s heart-shaped face twisted into a mask of fury and she brought the business end of the spear flying around so fast that a slower man would have been looking at his entrails decorating the dirt. As it was, had I been thicker, I’d have lost my belly button. Sighing inwardly, I leapt forward and slammed my sword (a splintered practice blade) edgewise into her stomach, knocking her head-over-heels onto the rocky ground with a solid thump. I fancied I could feel the shock of it in the soles of my bare feet.

Do that again, Daddy! My son’s words rode on a high-pitched shriek.

Sweaty and tired, I shook my head. Not now, son. Lesson’s over. I leaned over my wife’s writhing body and held out a hand. She glared hot death at me as she gasped for breath, hands folded over her battered leather armor. Finally, the promise of murder still in her eyes, she rose unsteadily to her feet. If looks could kill, I’d have been reduced to a red paste.

Hey, don’t blame me, I said, hastily withdrawing my hand before she could bite fingers off. I told you to concentrate. You can’t let anything distract you and you’re not good enough yet to fight angry. At this point, getting mad will get you dead.

Her gaze didn’t soften. "That wasn’t fair!"

It always came back to fairness with beginners. Past time I disabused her of such silly notions. "What? You expect the people trying to kill you be fair? No, they’ll pull every dirty trick ever invented to win, so get used to not fair and do it quickly."

Still huffing, she racked her practiced spear and removed her leather breastplate, crossing her arms under her breasts. This had the effect of lifting them saucily so they almost spilled out of her exomis. A dirty trick that usually works pretty well.

But not today.

Tearing my eyes from her tits, I grinned at her. You’ll face dirtier tricks. Remember, as a woman you won’t be afforded the same honor as a man. Unfair, but that’s the way it is. If this had been a real fight, I’d be washing your blood off of my sword.

Her glare softened to something less flesh roasting and her lips quirked to one side. It was a good trick, she conceded. A small concession, indeed, but us husbands had to take what we could get.

I laughed as I removed my breechclout, tossing it to an attending servant. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I ambled over to where Telemachus sat munching on a fig and tousled his curly brown hair. The boy sprang to his feet and gave me a ferocious hug, all skinny arms and legs with oversized hands and feet that made the promise of a size much greater than my own.

You’re getting real good, he said brightly to my huffy wife. Almost as good as me.

Pen brought out her best mom-glare. I’m still good enough to swat your little behind, young man. The words carried no heat and the smack to his ass barely connected. The little imp grinned wider and scampered off toward the palace.

Letting my gaze linger on her lithe body I said, Tomorrow I’ll take on both of you at the same time. It’ll help teach you two how to fight well with others. And I’ll work you until you can’t walk. I stretched, letting the muscles in my shoulders unkink. Until then, let’s eat.

Pen stared after the appetite wrapped in skin known as my son then gave me a look that carried a lot of promise, as did the sway in her hips. Thank you, love.

For what?

The boy will be so excited to train with us both at the same time. It’ll be a treat.

Tell him that after the session. He’s going to be the most bruised eleven-year-old on the island before I’m done with him.

She almost pulled off looking shocked. Odysseus! How can you say such a thing? A playful slap landed on my arm.

Better bruises than a skewered body. Peleus taught me that, and I agree. The king of Phthia had taught me much more, like honor, valor and loyalty. I hoped I could teach my son the same.

With a small sniff, she pulled the leather cord that bound her hair and let loose the long, dark-honey colored locks that fell to the middle of her back. I suppose so, she muttered, biting her lower lip, a sight that made me want to chew on it for hours. Despite my fatigue, I felt myself becoming aroused and clamped down hard on the emotion. Walking naked into the palace with a giant erection might be a little off-putting for the servants. Even when you’re the king.

A perverse part of myself still took in her bright blue eyes, the color of the shallows at midday, her generous hips and her small, but oh-so-pert breasts.

Mentally slapping myself, I looked away.

Pen’s people had migrated to Greece from a far northern land over a century ago, bringing with them fair skin, blue eyes and blonde hair. The Greeks at the time immediately welcomed the northerners, finding them exotic, beautiful. A few generations of marrying the traditionally short, stocky, and swarthy southerners (of which I’m a prime example) produced offspring that outshone both sides in the looks department. Pen was the best example of that. At least to me she was. Others would say her slightly fairer cousin, Helen of Sparta, was the epitome of loveliness, but, for me, ten years of war took the shine right off of Menelaus’ wife.

Our practice spot was a trampled circle of stony earth on the highest hill on the tiny island I ruled. It rested a spear’s throw from the walls of my home, the house my father built when he was a young man, the same house in which I drew my first breath, dripping with birth slime. I broke an arm falling off its walls, had my first woman in the small bedroom where my son now rests his head. It was as familiar to me as my fingers and more comfortable than any feathered bed.

Far below the town clung to the hillside, clinging like barnacles to a ship. Rugged and harsh, the slopes of my island offered hard purchase for the houses thereon, but the people of Ithaka were just as stubborn as the island they inhabited. Cut white stone sparkled under the noonday sun and, far below upon the waters of the harbor, successful fishermen returned to docks formed from the same white rock as the town.

As my eyes drank in the view, high-pitched screams echoed down the corridors of my mind, their owners long since having crossed the River Styx. My hands clenched of their own accord, nails almost piercing the heavy callouses of my palms.

What takes you far away, love? Pen’s voice almost drowned out by the screaming and I knew that if I let myself go, just surrender to the noise of the unquiet dead, I would never again hear my wife say my name.

Nothing, love. I tried to sound reassuring, but even to me my voice was hollow. Let’s go inside.

A soft hand caressed my arm and found my fingers, intertwining. I sensed her hesitation and desire to know more, but she merely led me away from the cliff’s edge.

We strolled arm in arm to the house. Entering the courtyard we were greeted many of the servants who performed the daily routines of maintaining my household. If they felt any alarm at seeing a naked man saunter in, they hid it well. Why they would, I couldn’t say. We Greeks are fairly informal when it comes to nudity, although I’ve heard the Egyptians and the Phoenicians have a taboo against it. Silly, really, since we are all born naked into this world and naked we go to the underworld.

Through large double doors into the great hall, we entered to the sight of my father, Laertes, and my greedyguts son stuffing their faces at supper. Both had small tables on their laps as they took their ease on reed-stuffed couches, a constant flow of food streamed from dish to mouth.

Somewhere on Ithaka someone is going hungry, my wife observed dryly.

I nodded to Eurykleia, my boyhood nurse and now chief of my household staff, as she trotted forward to hand me a clean, bright green chiton. Since my mother (a shy, quiet woman) passed away a few months ago in her sleep, Eurykleia had taken up the job of surrogate parent. That suited me just fine. All my life she had been there, had taken care of me when necessary and kept house. A more loyal and loving person didn’t exist.

Thank you, I said, shrugging into the garment. She offered me a gap-toothed smile and adjusted the fit as if I were still a little boy, then scurried away before I could object.

My grandson tells me that my daughter suffers, father said around a piece of goat that could have choked a lion. He tells me that she fell so hard that she’ll most likely have to sleep on her stomach. Pen shot him a dirty look, which he took merrily and continued to gorge.

I was constantly amazed that a man so skinny tucked away enough food to feed two warriors. Large ones.

A couple of inches taller than me, he seemed so slender that if he were to turn sideways, he would disappear. Every rib was visible on his hairy, tanned chest and his arms and legs looked like sticks haphazardly stuck to the trunk of his body. Topping this all off was a forehead making beeline toward his butt. As if making up for the lack of hair up front, he had a ridiculously long ponytail in the back, the dark brown hair liberally shot through with gray.

Shaking my head, I signaled a servant to bring food for Pen and me and began to let the day bleed away. I looked at my family and was content … happy. A far cry from when I was at Troy, fighting a war that had drained Greece dry for ten years.

Before I could take a second bite of my food, Argos, my hound, nudged my hand with his cold nose.

Irksome mutt, I said affectionately, rubbing behind his ears. He had been a yearling pup when I left and now he was far past his prime, a touch of gray around his muzzle. But the spirit of a much younger dog shone from his soft, brown eyes. I tore the bone from my mutton chop and gave it to him. He disappeared under my couch with a wag of his tail.

Is there anything like the loyalty of a good dog?

As I ate, those echoing screams pulled me back to the day I came home, a home where I thought I could find peace.

***

I can hardly believe it, milord. The voice rose barely above a whisper. I looked over to Euchalos, my second, and saw tears streaming down his seamed, weather-beaten face. My own beard had soaked up its fair share as well.

I nodded, unable to speak because of the mule-sized lump in my throat. We had just made the turn into the shelter of Ithaka’s harbor. Soon we would be home for the first time in ten years. The lump got bigger and the docks blurred as my tears flowed faster.

Ten years is a long time to be away from home, from family. Ten years of listening to men die, smelling roast pork as their bodies burned on the pyre, gold for the boatman shoved into their cold, dead mouths. Feeling blood/mud slide between my toes in the midst of battle, the stench of voided bowels and piss hitting my nostrils like a hammer. The fields of Troy were watered by the life of heroes. Brave men on both sides who died for the honor of a Spartan queen and the amusement of the Gods.

But I lived where so many had died and counted myself lucky to have done so. Too many of my men didn’t make it back, and I had every one of their names etched into my mind. Eurybates, Eurylochus, Orsilicus, fat Polites, Pero, Ceyx, and Butades … and on, and on, and on. I closed my eyes as grief threatened to overtake the joy of homecoming.

Before I knew it, my feet touched down upon the docks and a cheering throng of Ithakans (my people!) surrounded me. The whole thing felt … surreal, detached from the norm as thumps and slaps from my wildly citizens hammered my back, enthusiastic hugs near cracking my ribs. Someone pressed a skin of wine into my hands and I gratefully took a long swallow.

As if by magic the crowd around me parted and there she was, more than lovely in her green peplos, bluer than blue eyes wide and face slack with shock. Pen’s mouth worked for a moment, maybe saying my name, maybe not, because all I knew is that the space between us disappeared as if by magic and the wife I loved more than anything I could think of filled my arms with a warmth I hadn’t felt for far too long.

Gods, woman, I choked into her shoulder as she graced me with a rib-cracking squeeze. I missed you something awful. Next time I won’t be gone so long.

Her answering breath tickled my ear. There won’t be a next time. You’re not leaving my side again and if you try I’ll cut your balls off. There was the delicate flower I remembered and longed for.

We stood there as one, lost in our embrace for a small eternity as the rest of my ships docked, my soldiers and sailors screaming for friends and family. I gritted my teeth at each wail of grief as, here and there, a wife or mother learned that a loved one would never come home. Once again the faces of all the men I’d lost flashed through my mind. Not many in the grand scheme of things, but a crippling blow to my tiny island kingdom.

A firm, bony hand gripped my arm. Odysseus, son, you have someone else who wants to see you. The hand pulled me away from Pen’s embrace and there stood my father, ten years older and looking exactly the same except for some additional gray in what was left of his hair. Beaming at me with all thousand of his pearly teeth he pulled me into a quick hug then spun me around. I felt my heart lurch and begin a trembly sort of beat at what I saw.

My son.

I blinked a few times, not quite sure I was seeing what I was seeing, fearing it might be a vision from Morpheus, but I wasn’t asleep, so I couldn’t be dreaming. Father gently prodded me, Say hello to your son, Odysseus. And the greatest merchant I’d ever known backed away and slung an arm around my happily weeping wife. As for me, I could barely move. Telemachus. Eurykleia held his hand tightly and he gripped her’s like a lifeline, his face taught with fear. It took me a moment, but I realized that he’d never seen me before, not really. The last time I’d looked at his face he was almost a year old and he would have no memory of me except for the tales his mother had spun. More tears blurred my sight as I dropped to my knees.

Eurykleia let go of his hand. Say hello to your father, Telemachus.

He almost balked, but finally took a couple of hesitant steps toward me. I thought my heart was going to shatter. Hello, my lord. I could barely hear the words through the noisome crowd.

Slowly I spread my arms. Hello, son. It’s been a long time. My voice cracked. You got so big.

A heartbeat, two … three … then, with a rush. he flung himself into my arms and hot tears fell onto my neck. It’s okay, boy, daddy’s home and I ain’t never gonna be gone so long again. He sobbed even harder, trembling as if palsied. I stood, still hugging my boy in a grip the Gods couldn’t break. Slender arms encircled the two of us as Pen joined the two main men in her life. Now we can go home, she breathed.

Heart heavy, I shook my head. Not yet.

She threw me a puzzled look.

My men, I explained through the pieces of my shattered heart. I must talk to the families. Understanding dawned on her face and she nodded reluctantly, extricating Telemachus from my arms with a soft, Daddy has some duties to perform. Laertes gave me a knowing look and escorted them from the crowd.

The hardest and most spirit-numbing obligation came less than an hour later as I visited the homes of the men I lost during the War. Ithaka is a small kingdom and we all knew each other well, an extended family of robust, stubborn, emotional people. Father often said he couldn’t take a crap without someone on the other side of the island knowing what color it was. So I made my sad way across my kingdom and even sailed to Kefalonia, the much larger sister-island that was part of my kingdom. Although three times as big as Ithaka, it had a sparse population of shepherds and farmers. Nevertheless, quite a few of the 150 men I had lost came from there.

To a man, they faced the War bravely, putting faith in their young, untried ruler; sure that the training I’d received from the king of the Myrmidons would see them through. For me, far too many now rested in the bloody soil of Troy. Each family received half a grasp of silver knuckles for the loss of loved ones. While those three rods of silver were more than they’d see in five years, it would never be enough to stem the tide of relentless grief.

Nighttime didn’t come quick enough to suit me, but eventually I slogged back home to the palace, shedding my himation and chiton the second I breached the doors. Naked, I staggered into my bedroom.

Pen greeted me with another rib-creaking hug. She could tell by the look on my face that I was thoroughly dispirited. Come to bed, she murmured sadly.

Silent tears dripped into her honey-blonde hair as I nodded.

Later, we lay in the deepness of the bed, all fucky and warm, limbs entwined, exhausted by our ferocious rounds of sex. I twirled a strand of Pen’s sweat darkened hair between thumb and forefinger admiring its silkiness. Her soft snores told me she’d finally succumbed to sleep. Funny, I usually fell asleep first. I stared up at the headboard that gleamed in the lamplight.

Inlaid with silver and ivory, it was part of an olive tree that grew in the center of our bedroom. Before we married, I had the room built around the mature tree and began to fashion the bed from it. Carefully I trained the lowest branches to form the headboard while taking an adze to the trunk to form one of the posts, making the bed a living thing, like our marriage. On our wedding night I presented it to my new wife and vowed that our love would outlast even the tree.

During the ten years of my absence, Penelope tended the headboard, making sure the branches stayed trained and trimmed. It looked even better, thicker than it did when first I fashioned it.

Sleep finally overtook me and I was grateful for Morpheus’s touch. That was end of my first day back home.

For the next two weeks everything seemed fine, leisurely breakfasts followed by an hour’s worth of training with sword and spear to keep fit. Although the War had ended, I’d made plenty of enemies and luck favors the prepared. Another lesson from Peleus.

Sweat streamed from my body and my lungs pumped like bellows when I left the practice yard feeling pretty good and even my old wounds didn’t seem to bother me. Much.

Very impressive.

A lecherous grin stretched my face as I turned to my wife, hoping that she’d come for bit of horizontal practice. The full force of my lusty look met rolling eyes and an exasperated snort.

"Please, husband, it’s much to hot for that. My smile wilted at the edges. However, she continued. Maybe tonight … The grin was back full force. After you start my warrior training." And it wilted again.

A shake of the head and a stubborn look I knew so well. Yes, warrior training. I wish to learn and none of that ‘oh women can’t learn to fight’ crap! I heard all about that Amazon queen Penthesilea defeating Diomedes, so I know women can be fierce warriors. A hard, unforgiving look was attached to her face by chains of obstinacy.

At the mention of the Amazon queen I once again saw Diomedes, King of Argos, my best friend, sprawled in the dust, dagger buried in his throat as his life’s blood pumped onto thirsty earth. After Achilles death at the hands of Prince Hector of Troy, Diomedes became the hero that every Greek looked to for hope. That hope was shattered when he charged the Amazon queen. Although better with spears, she was faster and the dagger she plunged into his throat was proof of that.

That memory was plagued with sorrow and shame, and not because of his death. When I had seen that dagger take his life I had jumped into the fray and slaughtered the Amazon, splaying her intestines across the dirt like so much garbage. Every now and then I’d remember the sight of her guts and feel my stomach start to heave. What I’d done was just plain savage, bloody murder that must’ve warmed the black heart of Ares himself. No honor, no battle among equals. More like an execution and the disgrace of that haunted me. Perhaps all of us who survived Troy were scarred with such memories.

But- I began.

Pen raised an eyebrow, daring me to continue. But what?

Somehow the words dried on my lips and I took a good look at the woman who was kind enough to marry a man from a little backwater kingdom. Her mouth was set firm in a harsh line and a little crease in between her brows above her nose told me that no matter what I said, unless the answer was a ‘yes’ I could look forward to absolutely no peace in my house. I was king, but the true ruler of Ithaka stood before me.

Oh, why not?

You realize that when word of this gets out, and it will, the teasing I’m gonna get from the other kings will be brutal. The other kids don’t play nice.

The smile she showed me rivaled the sun. I’m sure you’ll be just fine, dear. She kissed me hard enough to prove that all would be fine. Better than fine, actually. I knew I married a smart man, she said against my lips.

Smart enough to know I can never really win an argument with you.

"Hmmm … you are pretty damn smart."

Her training started the next day.

***

Son? Son? Are you alright?

Snapping back to the present, I tried my best not to look confused. Mmm … what?

I said, father began again. That we’ve been harvesting more and more pearls. The oysters seem to do better off the sandy beaches of Kefalonia and it looks like this year will be a very good one for us. He tossed me a shit-eating grin. Looks like you owe me an apology.

Oh. He was referring to a wager made before the war. An Egyptian trader sold him some live oysters from the Reed Sea, convincing him that he could become rich by placing them in our waters and harvesting pearls. I’d been sure that the wool had been truly pulled over his eyes and had told him so. He told me I was wrong and demanded an apology if it proved so.

That’s great, father. How many gold knuckles have we made in ten years off these pearls?

My father bit his lips as he thought. Three, maybe three and a half.

I nodded judiciously. Well, you’re still in the hole a few knuckles. When we actually make a profit, I’ll say ‘sorry’. I hid my laugh as his face fell.

I may not always be right, but I’m never wrong.

CHAPTER TWO

Odysseus

Ten days passed without incident. Unless you count beating one’s wife and son black and blue with practice spears incidents worth mentioning. Every morning I woke them before the rosy fingers of Dawn colored the sky and we started with a leisurely run around the island.

Twice.

After that came spear training. Both did well, though I was an unmerciful teacher and a harsh critic. This went on for a couple of hours at which point I dismissed Pen and began the boy’s training with sword and shield. Pen objected once when I first started teaching the boy sword techniques, but when I had her lift a warrior’s shield, she shook her head in disgust and left. I love her to death, but she’s built for speed, not strength, and a full shield was something she’d never be able to use. Maybe someday I’d teach her the short sword, but I needed her to get proficient with one weapon and the spear proved to be perfect for her.

Some might say that I pushed too hard, forced fitness and capability onto them like shoving a fat man into a small exomis. My question to those people is: when it comes down to it, do you want your loved ones to be capable or dead? And when it comes to this kind of training, sore and alive beats comfortable and dead any day.

But I did enjoy myself.

A little.

Okay, a lot.

I ran with them every step of the way and pushed myself as hard I pushed them. Although I did have the advantage of years of constant warfare and training to keep me trim.

Ten days of inflicting torture gave me an idea of the kind of warriors my wife and son would turn out to be. I was heartened to see that they had real talent, Pen with the spear could turn out to be a force to be reckoned with and Telemachus was a natural with a sword and an absolute terror with a sling. He was putting paid to some straw targets at about fifty feet when I heard a commotion.

Lord Odysseus! came the faint cry from the direction of the palace. I looked toward the shout to see a young boy beating feet my way.

Looks like Kostos, said Telemachus as he stowed his sling in his belt pouch.

I squinted then shook my head. Think you’re right. Way he’s running, must be important. I winged a small prayer to Athena that the news would be good.

Kostos skidded to a stop in a shower of dirt and gravel. My lord, he panted. Ships!

Easy, boy. I put a reassuring hand on his sweaty shoulder. What kind, how many?

He took a deep breath through his nose. About a dozen. Blue and white sails, ours!

My face broke into a wide smile and I turned to my son. Grain from Troy, I’ll bet. Last one to the docks helps unload! Telemachus grinned and nimbly scampered off like a goat with me at his heels. I would’ve let him win, but I hate unloading.

Trying not to trip and tumble down the switchback trail from palace to docks, I noticed that a sizable crowd had started to gather. Not surprising, everyone knew that I’d been brewing something big for a while. They just didn’t know what.

During the War, thanks to Hermes, God of Inventions and Inspiration, I had come up with the idea of a footrest built