Longs for peace and security

[gwenchan]

Fandom: Iliade

Prompt: Due personaggi che si trovano ai lati opposti di un conflitto trovano un punto in comune.

Scratching his chin, Odysseus looks critically at the two tunics laid out onto the bed. He’s been pondering on which one to wear for hours by now. The yellow one is newer, actually woven there at camp by the girl-slaves, but also much simpler in its craft. It is the tunic of a commoner.

The other he brought from Ithaca is a rich blue with both the hem and neckline richly embroidered in a geometric pattern. Normally it would be Odysseus’ choice without a second thought, but despite all the precautions taken moths have eaten holes all over the fabric. They are small, hardly noticeable, but they are there and showing up to the Trojans with mothballed clothes would not seem a good starting point.

“And the access to the river. That is not-negotiable.”

Then, there’s Agamemnon. The King of Men has been pestering Odysseus with his recommendation ever since this morning, Menelaus coming to take his brother away to discuss some urgent matter the only moment of reprieve.

“I know, son of Atreus,” he sighs, picking up the yellow tunic to examine it more closely. Maybe paired with a richer belt and cloak it would make a better impression. “And if I am not mistaken it was I to remind you of the point.”

“And no new troops are to be called or arrive during the truce,” Agamemnon continues, unrepentant.

“Yes. You said that already. Three times, to be precise.”

On closer examination the holes don’t seem to be too big. Odysseus could order them to be quickly repaired before heading to the Trojan gates. 

“And the gifts.” Agamemnon again stops his thinking. “Did you check that there is  something from each king?”

“Yes. I did. You were there too, remember?” Some gifts he even ordered to be sent back and changed because they were deemed not suitable. “Look, I get you are nervous, but this fretting is not going to  help anyone.”
“I—I know,” Agamemnon grumbles, a bit offended at the reprimand. He pinches his nose, massaging the root.  “You should fix your hair, too. You look like a beggar.”
“Uhm. You think so?”
Odysseus walks to his polished cuirass, the closest thing he has that is similar to a real mirror. Talking about the cuirass, he should consider wearing it as well. He discards the idea immediately after. He’s going to discuss the basis of what they all hope will be a long truce, better to keep any battle-gear to the side.
He looks at his distorted image. This time, Agamemnon is right. He hasn’t cut his hair in quite some time and it has started to grow all over the place. He’s also in need of a good shave, if he wants to present the image of a solid army who could camp outside the walls for another decade. Reality couldn’t be more different and it’s imperative the Trojans don’t know.

Or maybe they should. They would be moved to pity and return Helen. Odysseus shakes his head at his own thoughts and how ridiculous they are. 

***

He goes for the older tunic in the end. Penelope made it herself and for a man who prides himself for his wit and rationality, Odysseus can be extremely sentimental.
King Priam's hospitality is exquisite, if a tad overwhelming, but only if Odysseus wants to find something to criticise at all costs and he doesn’t.
When he isn’t sitting in the assembly of the Trojans to discuss new details of the truce he is overall free to roam the palace and the city as he pleases, as long as he doesn’t linger too much near the walls. Sometimes he thinks a similar trust borders on stupidity and wonders if it isn't to compensate what Prince Alexander did, to show the Achaeans most Trojans aren’t like him and they all take hospitality extremely seriously.
The negotiations take a long time. Before Odysseus knows it a week has already passed.
The Trojans are polite but unyielding, as firm as mountains on their positions, and there is always one to bring forth an issue or a detail they didn’t previously considered, which inevitably sparks a whole new discussion till the matter is inevitably referred to the following day.
The possibility to access the river is surprisingly what causes more problems.
Odysseus finds himself dwelling on the matter all night, staring at the ceiling till he has it memorised and unsure if praying Hypnos for sleep or Athena to show him a solution. Just in case, he prays to both and probably offended by his half-assed invocations they both deny him their help.
Odysseus tosses in bed, feeling more awake each passing moment, as each possible scenario plays in his head.
Eventually, at the umpteenth time his eyes snap open, sleep slipping even more from him, he gives up. A walk will help clear his mind. It is an old trick and it has yet to fail him. Back on Ithaca he would often roam the island for hours, covering miles of coast, till he came back home exultant with the right fix to the problem.
Grabbing his new cloak—a gift from his hosts—he tosses it rapidly over his shoulders and slips on his sandals. He wouldn’t dare to walk the city at night—even the best of hospitality has limits—but Prince Hector’s chambers in which Odysseus is currently a guest overlook a courtyard. A pear tree grows at the centre and today, just before dinner, Odysseus caught what he believes must be Prince Hector’s wife gathering some fruit in a basket.
Stepping outside, he is immediately made aware of someone else's presence. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who thought about a night stroll. Though difficult to discern the person’s features in the feeble light of the crescent autumn moon, from his built Odysseus has a pretty good guess who the other may be.
Prince Hector doesn’t notice his presence, busy as he seems pacing the courtyard perimeter while muttering something unintelligible under his breath from time to time.
Taking another step, Odysseus clears his throat, loud enough to be heard. Last thing he wants now is to give Troy’s Crown Prince a heart attack, though that would favour the Achaeans immensely. But it brings bad luck to kill one’s host, if only by accident.
“Can’t sleep either?” he calls, casually, hands interlaced behind his back. As expected, Prince Hector jolts.
“Son of Laertes,” he exclaims, turning toward Odysseus. “Not quite. Actually it is not for lack of sleep I’m kept away from my bed.”
Odysseus’ next question receives an answer the moment the prince shuffles closer to a small puddle of silvery light. He is holding something to his chest, a bundle of cloth Odysseus guesses before correcting himself a moment later as the bundle shifts and a small head pokes out.
“I see,” he says, simply, watching Prince Hector gently bouncing in his arms what must be his baby son. The prince gives Odysseus an unexpectedly apologetic look, while, much to the father’s chagrin, the baby stirs a bit more in the swaddling.
“Andromache was exhausted,” Prince Hector explains. “My wife,” he adds a moment later, in case Odysseus didn’t know already. Odysseus nods in understanding.
“Yes, I am familiar with that. Newborns can be a greater and more fearful challenge than facing a whole army sometimes.” He chuckles at his own joke, a little too loud probably as the next moment a cry pierces the air.
If Prince Hector wants to murder him now Odysseus wouldn’t even blame him that much. Instead Prince Hector heavies a long, despondent sigh that deflates his whole form.
“No, no, no,” he whispers, urgently, rocking in place. “It’s nothing. Hush, go back to sleep. Daddy’s here. Hush.”
The baby’s wailing only becomes louder. Odysseus speaks without really thinking. “Can I try?” He holds out his hands in a half-hearted gesture.
Prince Hector hesitates. It is understandable. Despite having momentarily set aside the hostility in the name of hospitality, Odysseus is still the enemy and one famed for his danger.
“I suppose,” Hector surrenders in the end. There’s a bit of shuffling as the baby is carefully passed from one man to the other. It has been years since he last cradled Telemachus to sleep, but Odysseus’ whole body immediately adjust. He rubs soothing circles on the baby’s upper back.
Slowly but surely, the crying subsides.
“You seem more expert than me in this,” Hector comments. His whole body is taut, eyes trained on Odysseus’ every move. “You have a son as well, if I remember correctly.”
“You do. Telemachus. Approaching his tenth year.”
And if the prophecy that was told to him once is true, Odysseus won’t see him for a long time still.
“Ten years?” Hector repeats, slowly. “Which means…”
“Yes,” Odysseus confirms. “He was born only a few months before I joined the war.” He pauses, not sure of how much to reveal. He has never been one to expose himself more than necessary. Nothing good ever comes to those who do. But he has a feeling the things said tonight will be set apart and forgotten as soon as dawn comes.
“Not that I didn’t try avoiding it. I was quite satisfied with continuing to take care of my affairs at home.”
“I see.”
Hector doesn’t ask him for the details or why he changed his mind. Odysseus guesses it doesn’t matter now.
“My wife would approve,” Hector adds. “She… she would rather have me stay inside the walls.”
”I can’t say I don’t agree. It would make things a lot easier for us.”
He chuckles again. Hector doesn’t. Thinking about it, Odysseus hasn’t hear him laugh a single time in the entire week. The baby snuggles closer to his chest.
“What’s his name?”
“Scamandrius. Yes, like the river,” Hector anticipates Odysseus’ following question. “Though Andromache and I are the only ones to call him that, actually.”
“How so?”
“The other Trojans… my siblings too, really, they like to call him Astyanax.”
“Lord of the City,” Odysseus muses. “I guess it is to honour the father.”
“Yes.” Hector speaks quietly, not even the tiniest trace of pride for it, sounding rather shy and embarrassed instead. Without his armour and his habitual double-crested bronze helmet, dressed in a plain tunic, his hair dishevelled, he looks incredibly young. He must be at least ten years Odysseus junior, if not younger. With his usual fierce demeanour and the fury with which he normally fights on the battlefield it’s easy to forget.
“You are lucky.” Odysseus’ mouth formulates the words automatically. It wins him another side-glance half-way between weary and dubious. Then, good manners prevail over whatever snappy answer Hector could have for him.
“I don’t follow,” he says, the picture of propriety. They have moved to one side of the courtyard to a bench carved from stone. Odysseus sits gingerly, carefully to not wake up Scamandrius-Astyanax. Hector’s outstretched arms while he sits as well are a sufficiently clear request. The baby’s tiny fists immediately clutch onto his father’s tunic. It takes cunning Odysseus a single glance to understand: there is nothing in the world that matters to Hector more than his own son. This is the real reason why he fights.
He knows that look, he has seen it on his face in the mirror years ago, how he abruptly stopped the plough in the field before it could hurt Telemachus.
"You're home," he says. "You have your father, your mother, your wife. Your whole family. I am not even sure if my family is still alive."
Again Hector could tell him nobody forced him to come here,  though it wouldn’t be the actual truth. That it matters little to be at home when that home is under siege and constantly in danger. He could hold all his dead siblings against Odysseus and the other Achaeans. At least a couple must have fell by Odysseus’ sword.
But he doesn’t, not tonight. Tonight they are guests and grudges have no space in xenia. Yet even rightful Hector can’t help the trace of bitterness seeping into his voice
“If I was told they’d be safe if I leave and never see them again I wouldn’t hesitate a moment. I’d be on my way without further question. I wouldn’t look back once.”
Though a whisper so as not to wake up Astyanax, Hector’s words are fierce and sure. He brushes his lips against the top of the baby’s head in a light kiss. “If I knew it would take so little to—”
He trails off, suddenly aware of how much he’s exposing himself before the enemy. Sage move.
“You love them indeed.”
“More than anything. And If I dare, I’d say you can understand me in this.” Hector asks slowly, testing the ground. “Yes, I can admit that. There’s no day I do not miss Telemachus or Penelope. Or the whole of Ithaca, truly.” A pang of nostalgia cuts through Odysseus’ chest, but it’s dark and in years he has become a master of dissimulation.
“It must be a beautiful place.”
“They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Ithaca is no mellow paradise.”Immediately Odysseus' mind fills with barren stretches of land, dusty and rocky, yellowish tufts of grass sprouting between the stones like hair on the head of an old man.  He thinks about the salty air constantly blowing from the sea, the faded paintings on the houses.“We don’t have green meadows to nourish the horses your people so much love and we must be content with goats. But I wouldn’t change it for any kingdom, no matter how bigger and richer.”
If they weren’t a war, if Odysseus wasn’t too well aware the Achaeans could hope to win only with Hector down in the Hall of Hades, it would be easy to drop him an invitation to come and see Ithaca himself. Odysseus would return the hospitality the Trojans are currently providing aplenty. He guesses Penelope and Hector’s wife would get along.
He would think about possible treaties and newly found trade routes.
If things were different, he wouldn’t be reminded at each moment how the baby he rocked to sleep moments before has no future or hope.
“There’s an orchard not too far from the palace, where King Laertes, my father, planted trees in neat rows. The pear and the apple, the fig and the vine. He taught me how to care for each of them when I was a child, told me how each one is different. In the summer when the sun burns without respite, so hot it would break the rock, a person there can always find a little shade.”
He misses the apples the most. There at camp they are quite the rare luxury and their taste never compares to the ones he had on Ithaca.
“It does sound beautiful,” Hector says. “I admit I don’t know much about plants or how to care for them. I’m better with animals.”
“Especially horses-”
Not only it is rumoured in King Priam’s stables are horses given directly from Zeus, but all Trojans seem to have a connection with those animals.
“Especially the,. Sometimes I enjoy their company more than that of other men.”
Having so many siblings must be challenging on the nerves from time to time. From the little Odysseus could witness, Prince Hector disagrees with some of his brothers quite often. They still have a profound bond, though. That is undeniable. It is the greatest strength of the Trojans.
“I hope you forgive me if I don't keep you company further but I am quite tired and it's rare I get to sleep in my bed."
Then, as suddenly struck by a thought he didn't previously consider. "But I haven't asked you yet if you need anything. Whatever it is, do not hide."
It is sadly endearing how he worries for the comfort of a man who in a month or so will be back to killing his siblings and comrades.
“No reason to fret, son of Priam. I am not awake for a shortcoming in your or your family’s hospitality. But often my mind races and takes me away from sleep. I was thinking about how to find a middle ground between our people about the latest issues.”
“I truly hope for that. We can all use this truce and I will try to talk again with—”
Hector doesn't finish the sentence but there's no need. Odysseus knows. He will try again to talk with his stubborn younger brother and convince him to return Helen to her rightful husband. Odysseus has caught a glimpse of her in the past days, too fast to discern what she may think. Then, he is not risking the whole truce by trying to actually approach and talk with the fulcrum of the whole conflict.
Was he a bit more of a dreamer, Odysseus could even hope, hope this time Prince Alexander and the Trojans supporting him will come back to their senses and that he will be sailing home by the end of summer. He gives himself the luxury of a long second to indulge in how it could be, to dismantle camp, to put his twelve ships back into the waves and after a few days finally see the shores of Ithaca. He would get to hold Penelope in his arms and see Telemachus become a man.
But he left dreams behind years ago.
“Goodnight, son of Priam,” he says instead, one eye to the moon.
“Goodnight, son of Laertes.”