Chapter Text
Everyone knows the story. They know of Odysseus’ long journey home, of Telemachus going from boy to man, of the wrath of the Gods, and of the favor of those who look kindly upon them. It’s the story of The Odyssey, and everyone knows it.
But people don’t know the story of those who fought, of those who were in the belly of that Trojan Horse, who caused the Fall of Troy, who bled and died in the name of one man. And among them, they certainly don’t know of the woman, a warrior in her own right, who walked in the shadow of Agamemnon, Son of Atreus, King of Mycenae.
The belly of the Trojan Horse is not for the weak. It’s not the cramped space, nor is it being surrounded by men who reek of war. For Argeia, the worst part is the waiting, supporting her own weight within the horse, as the men pass reeds to the drowning men at the bottom.
The horse, Odysseus’ design, was crafted from the wood of a ship, but that also means water can easily get in. As such, the men at the bottom drown with the tide, their loss weighing heavily on those who can do nothing but hold the hands of dying men.
Argeia is pulled from her thoughts when light from the sun seeps through the cracks and warms her fingers. But the thunder in the distance contradicts the sun, and Argeia frowns. It’s not until a spear pierces the horse below, a sharp intake of air reaching her ears, that she understands. The Trojans are coming. The thunder gets louder, taking on the gait of war horses, as the men within the horse hold their breath.
There’s a rumble of voices that echo from the outside, the sound of Sinon’s voice fading as his life leaves him. Argeia’s heart aches for the young soldier, who wanted nothing but to follow his King to war in place of his brother, Antinous. She had little time to get to know the warrior; in fact, to get to know any of the men serving under Odysseus and Menelaus, or the other men in Agamemnon’s closest circle.
The thought of the King of Mycenae pulls wool over eyes, and even she knows it. Agamemnon, Son of Atreus. He is as intimidating as he is otherworldly, commanding one-hundred ships to Troy. Argeia is the one woman among the men he commands, having been found by Agamemnon when he was just a boy, when dreams were foolish, and the Prince of Mycenae wanted a companion as much as he needed a trusted protector; she was the one woman protected from the hubris of men.
Even into adulthood, Agamemnon protected her. When men suggested their king marry off his little assassin to their sons, Agamemnon had insisted Argeia stay by his side, in his shadow. After all, she had made a use of herself in the years between her coming of age and Agamemnon becoming king.
Argeia walks through the streets of Aulis. Her custom-fitted armor is adorned with a pair of short swords, several daggers, and a long sword at her hip. A bag hangs from her fingers, and people scramble out of her way as she passes, their noses scrunching up in disgust.
Mycenaean soldiers eye her warily as she approaches the port, where the winds have finally changed, the Goddess Artemis no longer angry at the King of Mycenae. She finds him before his ship, beside his brother Menelaus, the two speaking in low tones.
It is Menelaus who spots Agamemnon’s shadow first, spots the bag in her hand and the occasional drop of blood soaking through the bag. Agamemnon follows his brother’s gaze, his facial features cast in shadow by his helmet. But Argeia doesn’t need to see his face to feel the weight of his gaze on her, the man standing a good three heads taller than her.
“My king, King Menelaus,” Argeia bows and addresses each man respectively before depositing the bag at Agamemnon’s feet. “As you requested, my king.”
Agamemnon does not request anything of his shadow, of the woman who has learned to sniff out rats, walk in silence, and keep hidden until her services are required. No, Agamemnon commands, and only a fool would defy him.
“We leave tomorrow.” Her king’s voice is low, a baritone that rumbles through Argeia’s bones.
She doesn’t expect praise from him, not since he became king. But she leaves with a flutter in her heart, a feeling she’s been ignoring for some years now, and the scent of blood, sea salt, and the trees of Mycenae in her nose.
Argeia is shaken from her thoughts when the structure around her rumbles. When a hoard of voices echoes from outside, and suddenly the horse starts its slow journey from the shore to the Temple of Athena within the walls of Troy.
But Argeia isn’t expecting her story to be told, not when she walks in Agamemnon’s shadow and certainly not when she is a woman with her own commands to carry out. For she has known Agamemnon since she was young, and the King of Mycenae does not make requests. He commands, and betrayal is a treason of the highest order.