The Return of Odysseus: Book Six of the Osteria Chronicles: The Osteria Chronicles, #6

By Tammie Painter

The Return of Odysseus takes you on a journey of mythic proportions in which allegiances are tested, relationships are challenged, and the true meaning of leadership is called into question.

 

The war may be over, but the fight for Osteria's future has just begun.

 

With the immortality of the gods resting in the hands of the titans, all of Osteria is at risk of annihilation. As their powers fail and their allies fall, the gods must put their trust in the unlikeliest of heroes in the unlikeliest of places.

 

As the weakened gods limp their way toward a final battle against the titans, one man simply wants to return home from the war in Demos. But getting home may just be the toughest challenge Odysseus has ever endured.

 

Captured by a vengeful foe who makes the brutality of war seem like child's play, Odysseus faces torture, indignity, and despair. His only hope proves to be a cunning sorceress, but even she has tricks that keep Odysseus's goals impossibly out of reach.

 

With Odysseus's world about to fall apart, with Osteria teetering on the edge of ruin, and with titans on the verge of supremacy, can the gods band together and intervene before it's too late? 

 

For both gods and mortals, it's a race against time for survival, for love, and for Osteria in this emotionally-charged final installment of the Osteria Chronicles.

 

If you crave the mythological adventure of Clash of the Titans and enjoy the blend of history and fantasy in books by S.J.A Turney, Bernard Cornwell, and Madeline Miller, you'll love the Osteria Chronicles, the series that brings myths to life as you've never seen them before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tammie Painter
• Release date: May 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393713746

Tammie Painter

Short Version:  I turn wickedly strong tea into historical fantasy fiction in which the gods, heroes, and myths of Ancient Greece come to life as you've never seen them before. When I'm not creating worlds or killing off characters, I wrangle honeybees to add a little adventure into my non-writing life.  Long Version:  Tammie Painter grew up in the creative world of Portland, Oregon, and she continues to call the City of Roses home. Although she spent years working as a chemist in a behavioral neuroscience research lab, she could never quite tame her passion for writing. Tammie has a knack for delving into and bringing life to history and mythology in her novels. Her fascination for myths, history, and how they interweave inspired the Osteria Chronicles series.  The current titles in the six-book series include *The Trials of Hercules *The Voyage *The Maze *The Bonds of Osteria (coming soon) When she isn't (but probably should be) writing, Tammie can be found digging in her garden, planning her next travel adventure, creating art, or persuading her hive of backyard bees to share some of their honey with her. Find out more about Tammie on her website at TammiePainter.com

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The Osteria Chronicles

Hundreds of years ago, North America experienced The Disaster. In what was once the Northwest, the survivors built a new world, Osteria, which was then divided into twelve city-states.

To this world came the gods formerly worshipped by the Ancient Greeks. The gods have not changed—they are still powerful, petty, and consumed with rivalries and jealousy.

And as before, the gods do not play fairly with those they despise.

Book Six: The Return of Odysseus

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

Zeus

AFTER WITNESSING TYPHON ripping my wife’s life force straight out of the ground, I return as hastily as I can to the common room on Olympus.

When I appear, Poseidon’s head snaps up and he flinches. Flinches! I don’t want to believe my own eyes. This bold brother of mine who could once cower a thunderstorm with a single scowl is now flinching at an unexpected arrival? When he sees it’s me, his body relaxes, but his eyes remain troubled.

Along with him in the common room are Hermes, Artemis, Dionysus, Athena, and Hephaestus who stands looming over Apollo. Of these six, only Apollo and Hermes still appear vibrant, full of the godly glow of vitality. The others— I can’t describe it. They retain the hum of immortality, but they look worn down, like mortals who have indulged in too much wine the night before.

After a brief glance at me, Hephaestus resumes shouting at Apollo. Something about betraying Aphrodite to the titans. Apollo shouts back that she betrayed them all. She has. My daughter has done more than steal a bit of bedsport pleasure from Ares; she tricked me into abandoning my duties by taking me to the nymphs of Hera’s Garden. There’s punishment coming, but I can’t deal with her right now.

My eyes graze the room once more. Searching, desperately searching while the argument grows more heated and claws at my ears.

Where’s Hera? My shout rumbles the walls of the common room.

Hermes, who I notice has added a chin strap to secure his winged helmet to his head, points toward Hera’s favorite of the many gardens that perch on the edges of Mount Olympus. I hurry to her, telling myself that my wife is the strongest among us.

But I stop short when she comes into view.

Like a withered old woman, she has a blanket wrapped around her even though we gods never feel the cold.

Despite my initial shock, I can still sense the immortality on her. A wave of relief pounds the shore of my mind. Her life force hasn’t been destroyed. Stolen, yes. In the hands of a titan, yes. But not destroyed. If Typhon destroys the tree that contains her life force, she will lose her immortality.

I go to her and fall to my knees before her. This is my fault.

Yes, I suppose it is, she says. Her voice remains strong and the words are a slap. I had expected some denial, some reassurance. Had you taken your duties seriously, you would have heeded the warnings instead of going off to play with whatever female decided to spread her legs for you.

If she only knew where I’d been. If she knew I’d been there, that I was within shouting distance of Typhon when he somehow found her hidden garden and tore her golden apple tree from the ground, how much angrier would she be? I swallow hard, my throat dry with the very idea of her wrath.

What warnings?

Just then, Herc Dion and Prometheus step out to the cliff side garden with Hermes close behind.

The warnings I tried to give you, Prometheus says.

When? Surely I would have listened if I’d been warned about the gods being under attack.

You were distracted, Herc says curtly. First my wife and now my son. Don’t I garner any respect up here these days? No, perhaps I don’t. Perhaps I don’t deserve it.

What’s happening? I ask, standing up and resting my hand on Hera’s shoulder.

How can you not know? Hera says, pushing my hand away. You saw what happened to Demeter before the war.

But that was only a trick by Ares to start a fight. Wasn’t it? Four sour faces look at me like I’m an idiot. Inside the common room, the argument between Hephaestus and Apollo has grown louder. Was it Aphrodite who took Demeter’s life force?

It wasn’t Ares. He only profited from Demeter’s weakness, Prometheus explains. The titans are gathering your life forces.

We would have noticed, I say.

We, says Hera emphatically, have been noticing.

How can the titans know anything about them? I mean, of course they know we have objects that contain our life forces just as they do, but surely they can’t know what those objects are. Someone would have had to tell them.

Has Aphrodite betrayed us to that extent? There’s the sound of fist on flesh from the common room. We all rush in to see Apollo flat on the floor and the others pulling Hephaestus back.

Who told them? I ask, gritting my teeth and hoping the traitor isn’t my own daughter.

Besides this bastard who betrayed his own sister? Hephaestus asks as he glares at Apollo.

It was only hers, Apollo says. Blood drips from his nose and his voice is nasally. And she deserved it. I didn’t reveal any of the others.

Accusations begin flying around the common room.

Enough! I bellow. Who did betray us?

Helios, Prometheus says and a boulder of angst falls from my chest. Hera and Hermes tried to bring him back to your side, but when Jason killed Medea and then Aeetes took his own life, Helios took it personally. He saw no point in letting the mortals live. He felt they didn’t deserve life, so he sided with Typhon.

But if the titans want the mortals dead, why take our life forces?

Are you so blind? Hera asks. I cringe at the severity of her tone. The titans know we protect the mortals, for our own vanity if nothing else — although you’ve found plenty of uses for the females. If the titans destroy us, it will take nothing but a snap of their fingers for them to rid the world of humans. We always think we’re so clever, that bad things won’t happen to us. Well, bad things did happen. In quick succession, the titans have taken nearly all of our life forces.

But they aren’t destroying us. You’re weaker, but I can tell you’re all still immortal.

They were hoping their scheme would go unnoticed, Prometheus says. And for the most part it has. You were all so distracted by the war and by arguing with each other—

And other things, Hera adds, giving me a sidelong glance. Hermes snorts a laugh.

And other things, Prometheus continues, that you didn’t notice. You felt a little off, your powers a little shoddy, but you wouldn’t dare admit that to any of the others. Maybe you even considered that your spells were being undermined, undone by one of the other gods. How else to explain how you could do so little to influence a war in which you dared to take sides, a war in which half of you didn’t even support your own polis. I glance at the others and notice several sheepish faces. Over the past months, the titans have been able to collect the majority of your life forces. When they have them all, they will destroy them in one fell swoop. Then they will destroy you.

Who’s left? I begin answering my own question before anyone else can. Hermes, obviously. Apollo?

Hades’s is also still safe, Prometheus adds, but he thinks the titans are his friends. They’ll betray him soon enough.

And Aphrodite?

Hermes shakes his head. She pulled a mean trick on a mortal Apollo loved and he got his revenge by handing over her life force to Typhon. Hephaestus just learned what Apollo did. That’s what that little show was all about.

And Ares?

All heads turn to Aphrodite. He seemed different last time I saw him, but that could have just been his side losing the war.

Someone needs to bring him in, Athena says. Aphrodite didn’t act alone to start the war. If she’s to face trial, Ares should too.

That’s another matter and it’s not urgent, I say. If we’re right about the life forces, then it’s only me, Hermes, Apollo, and an unreliable Hades. A sudden fear grips me that I haven’t done enough to protect my own life force. My legs shake with the desire to run to my bedchamber to check on it. But I made it here by god travel without any difficulty and I feel as strong as ever. It must still be here. It has to be. What’s being done to stop the titans?

On the part of Olympus? Very little. I scowl at Prometheus’s judgmental tone.

But you will help us, I say. You’ll alert us to what Typhon and the others are up to while we try to figure this out? You’ll warn us if they try to act?

You insult me, chain me to a rock, let an eagle peck out my flesh for centuries, and you think I’ll help you?

Yes, I say matter-of-factly.

Prometheus pauses. From the common room I hear the slap of tiny feet on the marble flooring and childish giggles. In the next moment, two tow-headed children launch themselves at the titan and he catches them.

I suppose you’re right. But it’s not to help you, Zeus. He scoops the children into his arms, then seats them on his shoulders. His hair turns into bouncing pink springs and his face beams as the kids play with them. It’s to protect these two.

CHAPTER TWO

Odysseus

DESPITE THE SMOKE of Achilles’s funeral pyre still permeating the air and the flurries of snow dancing around our heads, the Demosians and the Osterian camp dwellers can’t restrain their joy over the war’s end.

Flags from all the poli, except Aryana, fly from the walls of Troy, colorful streams of cloth hang from the ramparts, and flaming arrows are being shot in the direction to which the straggling remains of the Arean legions have fled. Jugs of wine and tankards of beer find their way into many thirsty hands, and musicians start up impromptu tunes full of trilling notes and soaring sounds. They march around, attracting followers in ragtag parades that soon turn into dancing. Even the giants show off their traditional celebratory dance that involves a ground-rumbling series of jumping and stomping.

Several Minoans try to pull me into a circle dance around a trampled Arean flag, but I smile and make my excuses that I’m needed elsewhere. That’s not to say I don’t gladly accept the mug of beer and hunk of fresh bread and cheese that’s shoved in front of me. After being near to starving for the past weeks, it seems like a meal fit for a king.

As an Illamosian drinking song starts to play and a familiar line dance begins, I feel a small tug to join in, but my heart’s not in it. Jason is gone and so is Achilles. I couldn’t bear the braggart, but there was still something I couldn’t help but like in his swaggering confidence. Now, it’s time to go home before the snows of eastern Osteria do more than just dust the ground. My duty to Agamemnon is done, I have no worry about needing to clear Jason’s name any longer, and it’s well past time for me to get to Penelope. If she still wants me.

I accept more beer and a folded piece of bread that I discover is stuffed with chicken in a tangy sauce. I eat it, then return to my tent to pack. The tent and other vigile belongings will fold into one pack when camp is broken, but my personal items will go into the satchel that once belonged to Jason, the satchel that could contain a horse and not show the slightest bulge or weigh any more heavily on my shoulder. I take a sorrowful look at the golden pelt at the bottom of the bag, then begin cramming in tunics, half-written letters, and whatever food I can find. I’ve just finished adding my final item to the satchel when someone pulls back the tent flap.

There you are, Iolalus says. Not joining in?

I’m not in a festive mood.

I know what you mean. It’s like they’ve completely forgotten how many have died in the war.

He abruptly goes silent and heads to his side of the tent to sift through his belongings. I cram my spare cloak into the bag.

Here, Iolalus says, turning to grab something from under his cot. Can you pack that into your magic sack? I can’t seem to fold it back into the tidy package Maxinia had it in. He hands me a white cloak that has a hood trimmed with fur. It’s the pelt of the Nemean Lion. I’d seen him wearing it in battle and watched with awe as arrows bounced off its surface. It’s certainly not an object I’d hand over to someone else.

You sure you won’t need it on the way home?

My woolen cloak is better for travel in this weather. And I’m sure the roads will be safe. I glance at his hair and am about to comment on the possibility of his having oracle blood when he adds, Hopefully, everyone’s lost their taste for fighting for a long time. Besides, I’m planning to ride with you, so if I do need the cloak it won’t be far. I assume you’ll be following the Col River to Portaceae City and then heading south to Salemnos from there? I nod. Or do you prefer to ride alone?

I had planned to, but I would appreciate your company. You at least know how to be quiet when told.

It’s thanks to all those years of Herc telling me to shut up. Now, if you’re ready, Priam wants to speak with us.

Shouldn’t it be Agamemnon he talks to? He was our fearless leader, after all, I say wryly.

Who knows, maybe he wants to offer you some grain.

I honestly hope to never see a wheat stalk again in my life.

The camp and the city might have been reveling before, but now it seems those festivities were just a warm up. It’s only late afternoon, but torches have already been lit, vendors have set up stalls, Demosian women are ducking into Osterian tents, and the music has grown into a cacophony of groups competing to attract the largest — and perhaps the drunkest — audience. Iolalus and I squeeze our way through, trying to get to the main gate. Within the barrier stones, grills have been set up for a feast. After so many funeral pyres, the smell of the roasting meat turns my gut. Thankfully, the scent doesn’t reach inside the chilly, hidden stairwell that leads up from the main gate to the upper floor of the palace.

When we reach the top of the stairs, I see Menelaus and Theseus emerge from Priam’s study. Instead of using the stairway Iolalus and I have just come up, they head the opposite direction down the hallway without seeing us and make their way toward the palace entrance that opens onto Troy’s main square.

Why those two? I ask.

Perhaps Menelaus is looking for Helen, Iolalus says, and it only just strikes me that I haven’t seen Helen since we lit Achilles’s funeral pyre. What will happen to her now? Obviously she will be forced to return to her husband, but Helen is not a woman to be told what to do. If she doesn’t want to go, what might she do to avoid it. And who might suffer for her stubbornness?

The very thought fatigues me. I exhale a heavy breath before stepping into Priam’s study.

I can’t thank you enough, Priam says, standing from his big wooden desk and coming around to grasp my hands with surprisingly fierce strength for a man who looks so frail.

I wish things could have turned out better for you. With Hector, I mean.

Yes, Hector, he says, his throat dry with emotion. Cassandra is being very strong. Priam swallows hard and angles his body away to wipe his nose with a cloth. When he faces us again, he offers a kind, yet cunning smile. Now, I must ask, do you trust me?

Sorry? The change of topic is so abrupt, I don’t know what to think.

Do you two trust me? Because I want you to witness me signing something.

Signing what? Iolalus asks.

Ah, that’s why you need to trust me.

I can only think he must be signing the change for the inheritance of Demos to go to Paris. Perhaps that’s why Theseus and Menelaus had been called here. Did they agree to witness or did they refuse? I hate the idea of Paris as heir. According to Demos’s rules of inheritance, Cassandra, as Hector’s widow, should be next in line, not Paris who has proven himself an irresponsible fool. Still, maybe he will have learned something from all this. Given time with his father as a mentor, he might make a fair leader once he settles down.

I glance at Iolalus. He shrugs with a Why not? look on his face.

Alright, I say warily.

Priam opens a leather folder and pulls out a sheet. It’s already been written on. The statement — even though I can’t read it — appears short, maybe two paragraphs long. Priam slides a blank piece of paper over the paragraphs, shows us Theseus and Menelaus’s signatures, then signs the bottom. He holds the quill out to me.

Only as witnesses, I say, reconfirming what I’m doing. After all that has just happened, I don’t entirely approve of this subterfuge, but I do trust Priam. He nods and I sign, then Iolalus does the same.

We both step back.

Care to share what this mystery is? I ask.

Not yet, but you can trust me to do the right thing, can’t you? I know this debacle may have worn away my credit, but I promise this is for the good of all Osteria.

I hold out my hand. If there’s anyone in Osteria I would trust, it would be Iolalus. Priam drops the hand he had been extending, but I smile and quickly clasp his hand in mine. And you would be a close second.

Thank you. And thank you for getting my city back.

I don’t know how much will be left of it after tonight, Iolalus teases as a popping noise, like a keg breaking open, echoes from below.

We say our goodbyes to Priam and head to the palace’s broad central staircase. Waiting at the top is Helen. She looks apologetic and tired, but she’s still beautiful. She greets us, then remains awkwardly silent.

I’ll leave you two to talk, Iolalus says. I’ll meet up with you at the tent. He grips my shoulder and gives it a tight squeeze before jogging down the stairs.

I have a message from Penelope.

This is so far from anything I expected her to say, that I only stare at her dumbly for several heartbeats. Finally, my mind processes the information. Why you? Why did she not write me herself?

I don’t know, but she’s in Salemnos.

Before I can stop it, the name Niko pops into my mind. The gossips said he and my wife had been close in Athenos. They also said he headed for Salemnos soon after Penelope did.

I’ve heard rumors—

Helen cuts me off. She’s waiting for you. She hasn’t forgotten you.

My heart soars. I suddenly share the joy of the people partying in the streets and beyond the walls. I want to run back to the tent and grab my stuff and get on the road this instant. I step onto the first riser, ready to trot down the stairs and into my future with my wife, but I remind myself how rude I’m being. I tame my excitement, my urgency, then ask, And you, what will you do now?

I plan to go back to Menelaus. If he’ll have me.

After all this, he better have you back.

I think we know this wasn’t entirely about me. I was just an excuse.

Beautiful and wise. I think of Castor and Pollux’s deaths in this war. It leaves Helen as the eldest child of Tyndareus. His heir. I surprise myself by thinking she will be an excellent leader. This war will have shown her what comes of not thinking things through, of acting too much with the heart and not enough with the head.

And Paris?

Is not who I thought he was.

I nod. There’s nothing else to say. Paris has revealed what kind of man he is and I’m glad it has cleared him from Helen’s head. I reach out to hug my cousin-in-law, say my goodbyes, and then hurry down the stairs, nearly tripping and tumbling halfway down in my ecstatic urgency. I grip the railing and force myself to go more carefully. How stupid would it be to survive a war just to end up dead from stumbling over my own toes?

Getting from the palace and through the crowd of revelers to my tent proves to be a challenge. Not only because darkness falls quickly this time of year, but also because people keep shoving cup after cup of wine and beer at me. I down a couple of them, but pass the rest on to whoever is nearest to me. I don’t want a wine-fogged head or a sour belly when I ride out of here in the morning. When I finally make it to the tent, Iolalus is fastening the latch on his travel bag.

Still not joining in on the fun? Iolalus asks, pointing in the general direction of the loudest partying.

No, I want to get an early start, preferably before dawn. I don’t want to get stuck behind the baggage train or a bunch of hungover vigiles. Plus, I know I’ll be awake anyway. How can I sleep knowing Penelope is waiting for me?

I think Theseus and Bellerophon also plan to leave in the morning.

Does Bellerophon still have that flying horse? I ask, imagining myself soaring back to Penelope.

Hermes came to collect her soon after the truce was called. I’m a little hurt that the one god I share blood with didn’t bother to seek me out, but I’ve learned long ago how unreliable the gods can be. They’ll both be mounted on regular steeds tomorrow. Although last time I saw those two, they were wobbling on drunken legs. I’m not sure how steady they’re going to be in their saddles.

I thought they’d want to stick around here and revel in their glory for the next week.

Some plan to. Agamemnon probably does.

Agamemnon. I spit the name. Seattica would have been better off if he’d been cut down.

True, but I’m ready to go. I spoke to Briseis on my way back. She’s joining us as well.

How is she?

Well cared for. Much to her distaste.

What does that mean?

Thetis can be aggressively doting when she wants to be. Briseis knows Thetis will eventually track her down and never let her out of her sight again, but she wants to make a break for it and enjoy some freedom while she can. I’ll tell her to be ready before first light. She’ll be thrilled to learn we’re leaving so early.

Too bad the gods can’t just move us like they did after Theseus killed the minotaur.

Iolalus smiles. That’s the trouble with the gods. They’re really inconsistent.

Don’t I know it.

CHAPTER THREE

Helen

I LEAVE ODYSSEUS to join Priam in his study, but stop short when I see Cassandra, Paris, and Agamemnon are already there. Except for Priam, there’s many reasons I don’t want to meet with any of them. Cassandra because she must despise me for partially being the reason her husband is dead; Agamemnon for his brutish manner; and Paris because I have yet to speak with him about my change in feelings toward him. Still, avoiding the issue is no way to solve it. I take a deep fortifying breath and enter.

Agamemnon’s eyes, which had been intently trained on Cassandra, fix on me. The grin that curls his lips is wolfish, greedy, as he watches me take a seat on the opposite end of the couch on which Paris sits. Normally, Paris would be sprawling, lounging with arms spread across the back of the couch in his carefree, open way, but now he’s hunched over his knees, his head in his hands. I almost pity him. I do pity him, but I can’t let emotion rule me. Not anymore.

Ah, good, you’re here, Priam says warmly. I know everyone wants to get back to the celebrations, but I want to lay out the terms of our new peace.

We saved you, Agamemnon blurts. You have no room to dictate terms.

As I recall, says Cassandra, you arrived as an invading army just as the Areans had. The difference is that the Areans arrived with paperwork; you arrived with armed legions.

Agamemnon leers at the widow as if he would add her to his conquests right here and now. War did nothing to prevent gossip from reaching the palace, including the number of women Agamemnon has been bedding since he set up camp. His wife, my own sister Nestie, deserves not to be made a fool of. I remind myself to write to her about her lusty husband as soon I’m done here.

Your prince had offended my brother, Agamemnon says. Had Paris settled this issue man to man as we asked — asked several times, I remind you — then perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this, perhaps you wouldn’t be lacking a man in your bed.

Mind your tongue, Agamemnon, I say. She isn’t one of your camp followers.

Cassandra gives me a tiny smile of appreciation. We will never be friends, but I like to think at least maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as she once did.

Which is exactly what we are here to discuss, Priam says brightly as if we just turned the conversation exactly in the direction he wanted. He pulls a long piece of parchment from his desk. One end is secured around an ornately carved wooden dowel. This is no mere contract. This is an official scroll that, once a copy is made for Priam’s keeping, will be sent to the Herenes for their archives. There’s more going on here than simply an exchange of terms.

First off, Helen, the Osterians have won. By rights—

I already intend to leave Demos and return to my husband.

Paris looks up for the first time since I’ve entered the room.

But I did as you asked. I fought for you. The gods promised me you.

The gods were mistaken. They used us to create this mayhem. I can’t blame you for falling victim to their games, but I am not a pawn for them to play with any longer.

He drops to the floor, kneeling before me and clasping my hands. "Then stay here with me. Don’t be his pawn." He gestures vaguely in Agamemnon’s direction.

Let’s discuss this later, I whisper. I was hoping to avoid this conversation until we were alone. I suppose the naïve part of me thought I could just bid him a friendly farewell in the morning, walk out of the palace tomorrow, and begin my married life. But that naïve girl is fading. I created this mess, I can’t just expect it to disappear because it’s awkward to clean up.

No, we’re here to discuss terms, Paris insists. So, let’s discuss.

The room falls silent except for the pounding of my heart. I take a deep breath, remind myself that I must be kind, that the words are harsh, but I don’t have to deliver them that way.

I don’t think we’re suited for one another, I say as calmly as possible. I have a husband. I agreed by contract to marry him. I cannot hide from that, playing like some rebellious child. I, we both, need to grow up. I’m sorry, but I have duties to see to. I can no longer stay here.

Paris lets go of my hands and drops his head. I almost expect him to flop on the floor and have a tantrum like an unruly toddler, but with a surprising amount of fortitude, he works to compose himself, glances up at me with those thickly-lashed eyes that drew me in so many times, then stands and takes his place at the end of the couch once more, holding himself rigidly erect as if forcing himself to look more mature.

I can feel tears burning behind my eyes. I nod to Priam to continue, to distract me before I give in and tell Paris I was only joking, that of course I’ll stay with him.

Then I suppose that clears up the first matter, Priam says. The second issue is the terms of surrender from the Areans. This does indeed distract me. Telamon fled soon after Odysseus wounded him. Did he send word of these terms or did his second-in-command, who Theseus captured, dictate them? The Aryana polis will exist no more. They liked to boast of their numbers, but it was propaganda. After the work of the giants and of Achilles, Priam’s pale blue eyes flick to his son then back to the document, there’s still a small fighting force, but not enough to stay viable, let alone to be a threat to anyone, and they realize this. The polis that was Aryana will become part of Demos. The territory will be cultivated, and the remaining people will agree to be trained as farmers or they’ll be exiled.

This is unbelievable. With Demos absorbing Aryana, the new Demos will become the largest polis in Osteria, nearly as large as the others combined. It will take a wise leader to manage it all, but Priam’s peaceful intelligence should be able to meet the challenge. He will choose sage advisors and Demos will flourish.

The third matter is to prevent fighting like this from ever happening again. Priam watches Agamemnon as he says this. Agamemnon, I am thankful that you and the other Osterians pushed the Areans out of my home, but you came here with aggressive intentions. We are all Osterian. You waged war against us for a matter that could have been solved diplomatically.

I tried, Agamemnon says, looking ruefully at Paris.

Not hard enough. You will agree to never start a war with any other polis unless they strike you first.

You can’t dictate terms like that.

Then I will have you put on trial for blood crime. You are, after all, responsible for the deaths of thousands of men, Arean and Osterian.

I never thought of Priam as shrewd before, but this is a brilliant move. It’s not without precedent. The ruler of Astoria once started a war with Tillaceae, hoping to take the polis for himself. It ended within days because the other poli came to Tillaceae’s defense, but the unprovoked war not only resulted in the Astorian’s title being ripped from him, but also his life when he was convicted of blood crime against over one