"The problem is, Agamemnon’s men are being killed,” Patroklos said abruptly. “Greeks are being killed.”

Achilles turned to his cousin. “Agamemnon knew the possible cost to the Greek people when he left our shores to attack Troy under the guise of rescuing a faithless woman. Many men have been killed during the past nine years.”

“The fighting was even when we were in it.”

“Cousin, I am not keeping you from the battlefield. You, as well as all of my men, are free to fight with the Greeks.”

“No!” Jacky said, standing up and grabbing Patroklos’s hand. “You can’t fight without Achilles, and Achilles has damn good reasons for not fighting. Agamemnon, the guy who’s supposed to be a great king and leader, is a liar and a cheat. He just tried to have a princess killed to get his way. He’s like a sneaky old harem bitch. Don’t let him get to you.”

Kat watched Patroklos caress Jacky’s cheek and was touched by the obvious adoration in the warrior’s eyes as he smiled at her best friend. “Don’t fret, my beauty. Fighting without my cousin is not something I want to do.”

“It doesn’t sound like Agamemnon knows you very well if he thinks the way to get you back on his side is to attack someone you care about,” Kat said.

“Agamemnon is a fool,” Achilles said. “I know. I recognize a fool. I have been one for much of my life. The king fights for glory, believing his immortality will be secured by the sword.” Achilles shook his head, looking several decades older than his twenty-nine years. “True immortality can only be found in your sons and daughters.” He smiled ruefully at Patroklos. “You would do well to remember that, cousin.”

“We would do well to remember that,” Patroklos said, moving to stand beside Jacky and resting his hand on her shoulder.

Kat expected Jacky to blanch and make a comment about “not birthing no babies for no one.” Instead she smiled up at Patroklos and looked young and completely happy.

“So you’re still not fighting,” Kat said. “Even though he had me attacked and almost killed.”

Achilles had begun to relax, so his instant return to steely self-control was doubly obvious. “Would you have me exact vengeance on your behalf?”

“No, I would not. But I was wondering if that was your intention.”

“My intention hasn’t changed.”

“You still want to change your fate?” Kat said.

"Y-your dinner, my lady.” Aetnia, clearly overhearing Kat’s last comment, almost spilled the bowl of stew she’d brought Kat.

“Leave the bowl and bring wine for all of us,” Achilles said with a growl.

Cringing, Aetnia hurried away to do his bidding.

“You have really got to quit scaring her like that,” Kat said.

“I like it. Scare away, Achilles,” Jacky said.

“Outside you are like the sword, my beauty, sharp and strong and deadly. Inside you are like a succulent peach, always ready for my mouth,” Patroklos said.

Kat’s brows shot up when, instead of smacking the crap out of him for the sappy comment, Jacky giggled, said, “You say the sweetest things,” and tilted her head back for his kiss.

Kat ate her stew in silence while Aetnia rushed around with another equally cowed servant giving everyone goblets and filling them with dark red wine. Kat was beginning to feel much more like herself physically. The weakness was leaving, as was the insatiable thirst and the sense of not really belonging to this world, which was, she realized, completely ironic. Of course she didn’t belong to this world. Neither did Jacky. But here they both were, undeniably drawn to these two men—unalterably tangled in their fates.

“Are you really okay?” Jacky’s soft but insistent question pulled Kat out of her introspection.

“I’m confused,” she said. Achilles and Patroklos had gone over to the campfire to retrieve a tray of bread, olives and cheese, and—at Jacky’s insistence—another pitcher of red wine without calling Aetnia back to wait on them, leaving the two women alone for a few moments.

“Confused about?” Jacky asked.

Kat met her gaze. “I told Achilles who we really are.”

“Is that all that’s buggin’ you? I already told Patroklos.”

“You what?”

“Look, I had to do some serious bossing around when your boy carried you back here half dead. They wanted to bleed you and rub bull piss and pig snot or some such nonsense all over you. Being the good girlfriend I am, I insisted they fuck themselves.”

“That didn’t go over well?”

“No. Not till I explained to Patroklos exactly who we are and why I know more about treating the sick and wounded than the ridiculous killer quacks associated with the Greek army.”

“How’d he take it?”

Jacky smiled. “With only a minor amount of freak-out. I did have to promise to draw a picture of a car for him, though.”

“A car?”

Jacky shrugged. “You know how boys are. I was just mentioning stuff from the modern world… one thing led to another… and poof! He wants a car.”

“Makes sense in a Twilight Zone kind of way,” Kat said. “You love him, don’t you.”

“Sadly, I do believe I might. You love Achilles, don’t you?”

“I think I might.”

“We are well and truly fucked, aren’t we?” Jacky said.

“Yep,” Kat said.

“He’s really getting upset about staying out of the battle,” Jacky said, her eyes following Patroklos to the campfire. “I’d say I wished the Greeks would hurry and lose, but things are so different now. I just don’t know what to wish for, let alone what to do.”

“I know what you mean. Before they were going to lose and we were going to be zapped home. But now I’m, well…” She faltered.

“I’m not sure if I ever want to go back,” Jacky finished for her.

“Exactly.”


Odysseus felt old. His shoulder pained him constantly. He’d been wounded earlier that day during the battle. Leading a wave against Troy’s damnable walls he’d gotten within an archer’s range. He’d been lucky. The arrow had only scraped the length of his outer thigh and not embedded itself in his body. Still, it was a painful nuisance, causing him to sit heavily on a gnarled old driftwood log. Absently he pressed a hand against the bloody linen that he’d hastily wrapped around the leg wound. At least he had this stretch of beach to himself. Odysseus stared out at the moon-soaked sea and raised the wineskin to his lips.

“You look tired.”

Odysseus closed his eyes and let her voice wash over him. When he opened them the goddess had materialized in front of him. She was wearing robes the color of a dove’s wing, which matched her unusual eyes perfectly. She hadn’t brought her war helmet and shield, nor did she carry any other symbolic image of her power. He thought she looked like an exquisite maiden in the bloom of beauty and youth. Odysseus bowed his head.

“Your presence rejuvenates me, great Goddess.”

Athena waved away his flattery. “Aren’t you sleeping well? I’ve told you before—” Noticing the bloody cloth on his thigh she broke off with a little gasp. Then, as was typical for the Goddess of War, she schooled her face back into a stern expression. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been wounded?”

“It’s just an arrow scratch—it is nothing,” he said.

“I’m your goddess. I decide what is and isn’t nothing.” She stepped forward and sank to her knees beside him. “Let me see it.”

“Athena, no! You shouldn’t be—” Odysseus began, grasping the goddess’s elbow and trying to lift her to her feet.

Athena pressed her hand against his chest. “It is my wish to see for myself how badly my warrior is wounded.”

Her touch made his chest contract. With a sigh he released her arm and sat back, stretching his leg out so that she could see the wound. When he started to unwrap the bloody bandage, her soft hands stopped him.

“I will do this. You just need to be still.”

Odysseus sat there, frozen, breathing in Athena’s unique scent. She was so close that as she bent over his leg her long golden hair brushed his body, causing him to feel aroused and breathless, yet afraid she would notice and disapprove. Did she realize how much he loved her? Of course she did. She was his goddess. She knew everything.

“This could fester. Why have you not cleaned and dressed it properly?” Athena looked up at him, a frown causing her smooth brow to wrinkle slightly.

He started to fabricate a story about being too busy to notice it, but the words that came from his lips were much different than those his mind had planned. They were, instead, from his heart. “I was too weary to bother with it, Goddess. I almost wish it would fester and take me. Then, at least, I could rest.”

Her eyes narrowed in what an unknowing person would see as anger. But Odysseus understood Athena’s every expression and what he saw was the shock that his words caused within her.

“You will not die. I forbid it.” The goddess placed her hand gently against his wound. She closed her eyes, obviously gathering her power. Then she whispered, “Flesh obey your goddess’s demand. Knit blood and skin, now, at my command.”

Athena’s hand began to glow and Odysseus sucked in a sharp breath as her power surged into him. Her heat was a fire blazing in his blood, and he could feel his very flesh obeying her whispered command and healing itself. When she lifted her hand and opened her eyes, there was nothing but smooth flesh on his thigh and a small, pink scar.

“See,” he said softly, smiling into her gray eyes. “I told you your presence would rejuvenate me.”

Athena smiled one of her rare smiles. “Stubborn man. Will you always insist on flattering me?”

“As long as I am yours, my goddess.”

“Then I will be eternally flattered, for you will always belong to me, Odysseus.” Slowly, as if warring against herself, Athena pressed her hand against his thigh again. This time her touch was caressing instead of healing. Still kneeling beside him, the goddess stroked his skin. “How long has it been since first I appeared to you?”

Odysseus didn’t hesitate. “Just over twenty-two years, Goddess. You first appeared to me before I could even grow a beard.”

“You were a delightful boy—already showing signs of wit and wisdom, and such a sweet, smooth face.” The goddess’s usually sober expression softened into a smile of remembrance.

Odysseus thought his heart would break free from his chest at the sight of such loveliness. When his hand lifted to rub the stubble of his beard he hoped she didn’t notice how it shook. “Unlike now, my goddess. There is no sweet, smooth-faced boy here anymore.”

He expected her to agree with him, laugh and retreat back into what he thought of as her divine mask—the one that hid Athena’s deepest feelings and kept the goddess from flaring with rage or passion. Instead she completely took him off guard by lifting her hand to stroke his cheek.

“I still see the boy,” she said in a voice so low that Odysseus had to strain to hear her above his rapidly beating heart.

Odysseus stared down at his goddess—the woman he’d loved since he was an untried boy. She’d appeared to him many times over his life. She’d chosen him as her warrior, as the mortal man to whom she bestowed her blessings above all others. But she’d rarely touched him, and she’d never come close to fulfilling his secret desire for her.

“What is it, Athena? What has happened?”

She took her hand from his face and stood, turning her back to him. “Why must there be something wrong? May I not touch you for no other reason than because I wish it?”

He stood, too, and moved closer to her. “Of course you may touch me, and for any reason you wish!” Odysseus raised his hands, longing to take her into his arms, but stopped himself. Athena was not a mortal woman. He could never forget that.

Still with her back to him she said, “Did you know that even Achilles has found love?”

“He loves her, does he? I wondered if he would allow himself to.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Athena said, turning to face him.

Odysseus smiled and shrugged. “It seems to me that love is rarely predictable.”

“Do you love Penelope?”

At the mention of his wife’s name Odysseus’s smile faltered. “She is my wife and the mother of my son. I respect and honor her as such.”

Athena touched his face again. “But do you love her?”

Almost without conscious thought Odysseus pressed his cheek into her hand. “In my way, I do.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that I gave my heart to another just over twenty-two years ago. Since then there has been little left to give anyone else.”

“My Odysseus…” Athena whispered.

Before he could change his mind, Odysseus bent and pressed his lips gently against hers. When their mouths met a shock of desire sheared through his body with such intensity that it mixed pain with pleasure. Athena gasped, clearly feeling it, too, and her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled him down to her and opened her mouth to deepen the kiss.

They stood there for what seemed like a very long time, their mouths exploring, their bodies pressed together. Suddenly Athena broke the kiss. She was breathing hard and her perfect mouth looked swollen, her cheeks pink where the roughness of his beard had scraped her. The goddess gazed up at him, gray eyes wide with several different emotions. Achilles prayed silently that desire and acceptance were chief among them.

“Venus was right,” Athena said softly. “We should have become lovers years ago.” Without moving out of his arms, the goddess waved her hand over the beach around them, and a thick satin blanket materialized beneath them.

Very deliberately she stepped away from him, and then undid the ornate brooch that held her robes in place over her shoulder. The gray silk slid down her body to flutter at her feet and remind Odysseus, once again, of the delicate wings of a dove. She stepped out of the pool of cloth and gracefully lay down, creamy skin luminous and perfect in the moonlight as she reclined against the satin. Athena held her hand out to him.

“Come to me and prove the love you’ve had for me these past many years, my Odysseus,” she said.

Odysseus lay beside her, losing himself in his true love’s body. He knew he could not possess her as his own. He knew this might be the only time he would ever know her intimate touch, but he gave his body to her without hesitation and with utter, joyous abandon, much as he had given her his heart all those years ago.

It would have to be enough… he thought afterward as Odysseus held Athena and their tears mingled. Somehow it would have to be enough…