The Chef's Apprentice

A young cook gets a mysterious visitor on the day of a great feast celebrating the peace between Troy and Greece, motivating him to take his place in the greatest war the world had ever seen.

The Chef’s Apprentice

“Master, I don’t understand” he said, bemused.

“Ah, but look closer Mikhail. What do you see? Think on it a while”. Amphitrion was patient as always. “You have been spending too much time around the open fires I think. Go and see the healer when you leave, perhaps he’ll have some herb or other to help with your throat”.

Mikhail grumbled something about the remedy likely tasting vile and that’s he’d go and see the healer if and when he feared his life was in danger, not before. It was the end of the day. The evening meals were prepared and were being kept warm in the oven, so most of the people had already gone home.

“What say you Mikhail?” Amphitrion asked. He was aging, yet for a man of his years he retained the vigour and energy of a man half his age. When asked, he would always say his love of the kitchen kept him young. He looked on at his young apprentice, awaiting an answer.

“I……You don’t put the meat where the heat will be, but……there is nothing to ventilate this oven, so…the smoke?”

“YES!” the old man’s eyes lit up as he gestured into the smoker “the smoke will cook the meat as fine as any bonfire”. He caressed the strange stone oven fondly.

“But master, won’t that take a long time?” Mikhail was still confused. Whoever heard of cooking the meat in the smoke and not the fire? He hadn’t even realised such a thing was possible.

“What do we say in this kitchen, Mikhail?” Amphitrion asked pointedly.

“Patience, yes master” the same answer to a question often asked.

“That’s right. Now, off with you. Your mother will be worried.” Thanking his teacher and hurriedly packing a few loaves to take home, the young man left the kitchen, leaving Amphitrion musing to himself as his mind conjured up meal upon dish upon delicacy he could create with this new marvel.

Athens at night was a beautiful thing. The torches lit the streets and cast long shadows over the stones giving the city itself a closed off yet homely feeling. The streets were full, as people made their way home after a long day’s work. Things were good in Athens. Food was plentiful, so the people were happy. Mikhail hurried home, his thoughts with the cooking master and his new toy. Mikhail had been working as a cook’s boy for some time, and was slowly but surely inheriting the old man’s love of food, and was looking forward to the next day.

 

“Mikhail! Come! I have work for you!” Amphitrion called. It was mid-morning, and the kitchen was hot and busy, as they prepared the midday meal for the nobles and politicians. The entire city had been awake with whispers and conjecture since the Trojan retinue arrived, surely heralding a new era of peace and trade. This would mean more coin in every Greek citizen’s pocket. Amphitrion never bothered himself with such mutterings. As long as whomever he followed had a stomach that could be filled, he was satisfied. He appraised his young apprentice as he approached; sweating from helping the men haul in the wild boar for the spit later.

“Have you energy, still? Or has the piglet proved too much for you?” he laughed, knowing the boar they’d brought in could feed most of a regiment by itself.

“Of course, master. It’s only the steam from the shellfish”. Mikhail panted, causing his teacher to laugh even harder,

“Good man. We have been offered a great honour today. We are to help prepare the farewell feast for the prince of Troy. The king and his brother shall be in attendance, and I would use the opportunity to try out my new smoker!” he exclaimed gleefully. Mikhail liked seeing his teacher like this, strange as it was. He was as a child with a marvellous new toy to play with, already picturing the adventures, trials, tribulations, and celebrations he’d have with it. “We shall both prepare a cut of meat, to be presented at the feast, at the King’s table no less!” the chef patted the smoker, “And we shall do it in this!”

The chef decided that he would cook a rack of beef in the smoker. Mikhail decided on Pork. He was nervous but he wanted to impress. Seventeen years old but already taller, and burlier than most, Mikhail had never seen the appeal of joining the army. He saw it as robbing a family somewhere of a father, a son, a brother, a lover, a husband. He had no appetite for that. Neither did he see politics as his calling. Corruption within Athens was no secret, where most politicians’ favour could be won with sufficient coin or the right “favours”. On top of that there were those all too willing to be creative with the truth if it but meant they could pour lies into the King’s ears, telling Menelaus and Agamemnon what they thought they wanted to hear.

Mikhail couldn’t envision himself engaging in such. It was by pure chance he one afternoon smelled Amphitrion baking his somewhat famous honeyed buns. After that day, Mikhail had made the kitchen his second home. He had two days until the feast, and the Trojans would be on their way the morning after that.

Mikhail started at the port. The smell of salt and the sounds of crashing waves were strangely satisfying, especially in the early morning sun. He had learned to recognise the ships that made the journey from Athens to Troy, and among them, he had learned to recognise by name or feature, the ones carrying silks, or, what he was after, the ones carrying spices. He knew a ship had arrived, laden with silks and spices.

He knew exactly which he wanted and his movements were swift and purposeful. He carried with him a small bundle. The nobles and politicians constantly ordered too much from the kitchen. The chef never complained about them sending food back, in fact, he had an analogy that described it well, “Everyone who eats, be they man, woman or child, eats with their eyes first. Well, the food doesn’t go to our eyes does it? And well, between the eyes and the stomach, our friend the stomach is outnumbered. So it is likely for one to order more than they can finish. I think it better for someone with a full stomach to push the dish away while there is still food upon it, than for a hungry man to pull a dish toward him only to discover it empty”.  Thus on days when the politicians convened, argued, berated, and deliberated, food was often sent back with thanks.

Mikhail took advantage of this. Taking roast beef left over from the meeting, he had laid it out, added a little bit of salt, pepper, chives, and cardamom, then pounded and stretched it repeatedly. Leaving it near an oven to dry, the finished product was rigid, dry strips of salty beef, perfect for a seafaring diet and wouldn’t be ruined by seawater. The men on the ships grew tired of hardtack and fish, and today, Mikhail would offer them a rare treat, at a price of course.

Success! The bored sailors were all too glad to trade this strange Athenian four day’s rations worth of dried meat for a handful of this spice, a little of that, and a few stalks of herbs. Mikhail carefully wrapped his bounty and made his way back to the kitchen. He’d only seen his master use it twice since showing him, but he believed he had grasped the concept. The meat was meant to cook slowly. This would ensure it did not dry, and at the same time soften the flesh enough that it would be relatively easy to separate it from bone. Returning to the kitchen just after sunrise, Mikahil was shocked to find his master awaiting his arrival with a knowing smile on his face,

“Ah! There you are. So, which did you take? I’m betting some of the ones from the HinduKush”, ignoring Mikhail’s stammering attempt at explanation, the cook helped himself to his bag, rooting through it before raising his eyebrows appreciatively “Good choice my boy! These would go well with Pork. I wouldn’t use too much of the orange red powder. It will ignite a fire in one’s mouth the likes to make Hades himself sweat”, then, chuckling, he returned the bag to his now thoroughly confused apprentice.

“You’re not angry, master?” Mikhail asked, surprised.

“I must admit, I thought some of the nobles must have been starving themselves or had increased their appetites twofold. They’d never finished the entire platter of roast beef before. I was flattered at first but…I knew better”. He looked fondly upon Mikhail. The boy was ambitious for his age, but what ambition he possessed seemed equally at odds with an almost belligerent stubbornness about what he did and didn’t wish to do. The old master saw something of himself as a younger man in Mikhail. He would never admit it, but Mikhail could get away with all but murder in his kitchen, “Quick now!

Prepare what you need, and use caution, I have already began cooking my cut, so mind your fingers”.

“Yes master”. The boy hustled into the kitchen and set about his task. He was adamant. The King himself would want to know his name after a taste of his food.

 

Taking two racks of ribs from the meat store, Mikhail began first by brushing honey over the meat and leaving it to soak in. Then he began working with his spices. Heeding his master’s advice, he at first used the orange red powder sparingly. Taking a small pinch, the curious would be chef tasted a tiny morsel of it, only to rush for the nearest well with his tastebuds screaming their discomfort. After thoroughly dunking his head, Mikhail realised something. While his mouth was on fire, the powder itself actually bore a distinct flavour. Savouring the aftertaste, Mikhail went back and tried another pinch, this time resisting the urge to drain the nearest jug of water. Yes! There it was. A delicious flavour he’d never experienced, yet almost didn’t notice because of the heat. Apologising silently to his master, he added a generous amount to his mix, before adding, thyme, a few stalks of coriander, and some sage. Pounding the mix until he had a powder-cum paste, he then applied it generously onto the rack of Pork ribs, ensuring every inch of the meat was well spiced.

That evening Mikhail stood before the strange oven. Already, his master’s cut of beef was beginning to brown slightly on the outside. He had insisted upon burning wood from an apple tree to produce the smoke, and Mikhail had helped him in carrying the thick stumps and branches into the kitchen.

Mikhail decided, he’d leave the meat marinate until morning, and cook it in Amphitrion’s new oven on the day of the feast itself. As Mikhail left the kitchen that day, a sense of excitement overtook the young man. No wonder his master always had such a light in his eyes.

The day of the farewell feast came, and with it, one of the busiest days the young apprentice had ever experienced. He carefully placed his two racks of ribs inside the smoker, and went about his day. At least once every hour, he would open the smoker to check on the meat, sometimes adding another layer of honey mixed with the spices. When the time came, he carefully sliced the ribs and placed them on the serving tray, ready for the banquet. Exhausted, and with his job done, he sat outside the kitchen with Amphitrion, listening to those going for the banquet,

“………The most beautiful woman in the world, it’s said……”

“……I bet the Trojans have never beheld anyone her equal”

Mikhail knew they meant the queen of Sparta, Menelaus’ wife. He’d only ever caught a glance from afar and didn’t know if the rumors were true or not. As exhausted as he was, Mikhail wanted to use the smoker again. Amphitrion advised that they’d already made enough food to feed an army for a week, but Mikhail was insistent. His master relented with a shrug and left his young apprentice in the kitchen on his own. He couldn’t help but smile. Amphitrion was immensely proud of Mikhail.

Mikhail hadn’t meant to stay as long as he did, but before he knew it, the sounds of merrymaking from the feast had died down, and the low fire under the smoker was the only light beside the torches lighting the streets. Mikhail had decided to cook beef this time, and he was just finishing when he jumped in surprise as he realised he wasn’t alone in the kitchen. A hooded figure was curiously studying the smoker, head cocked to one side as though it would give some insight.

“You shouldn’t be here! Leave before I call the…..” Mikhail’s words stopped in his throat as his visitor lowered their hood. It was Queen Helen of Sparta herself. Mikhail’s tongue failed him as his eyes marveled. Fair haired, she had green eyes, high cheekbones, and a smile that bewitched Mikhail more than any siren song ever could. The rumors didn’t do her justice. If anything, they were but a shade of the truth. Mikhail found his wits, and quickly dropped to one knee and bowed his head,

“My Queen” Mikhail bowed his head, despite his brain screaming at him for another second to look at her. She came closer upon seeing him kneel, casting a glance around to make sure no-one was looking,

“Rise, please. I am not your queen tonight, just a curious friend”. She put a hand under Mikhail’s chin and raised his head. Mikhail got up, suddenly feeling self conscious, still in his work tunic and covered in flour dust. He quickly fetched a stool for her. She thanked him and sat down, fanning herself,

“Wine, my lady?”

“No, just water, Thank you”. She smiled gratefully as he gave it to her and left the jug within arm’s length. As he checked on his beef she cocked her head again and asked him quietly, “Is it an oven?”

“Oh, well, not quite. It is designed for a similar purpose, but it is the smoke and heat that cooks the meat, not the fire”

“Oh. I’d never heard of that before. What are you making now?” She leaned forward, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“I am preparing a cut of beef with basil and pepper my lady. It should be ready now, in fact”.

“May I have some?” Her eyes gleamed with curiosity and excitement at trying something unknown. Mikhail already found himself hotter than usual. His words weren’t forming themselves properly for some reason,

“Yes, of course, just let me remove it from the smoker”. She was on her feet and next to him before he knew it, watching carefully.

She was sweating slightly from the heat, but Mikhail caught a whiff of her perfume. It was a sweet fragrance, some kind of wildflower, but not one Mikhail was familiar with. Mikhail forgot himself for a moment and put a hand in the wrong place, causing him to pull it back quickly in pain. He removed the meat and left it to cool. She took his wrist and looked at his hand in concern but he shrugged her off, “It’s no trouble my queen, I am used to it” it was true. After countless mistakes learning his craft, his hands were covered in scars from old scratches, cuts, and burns.

She fixed him with that green eyed gaze. There was something else in those eyes this time, “What is your name?”

“Mikhail.”

“Mikhail. For as long as I am here, you are to address me as Helen. Not My Queen or My Lady. Are we clear?”

“Yes my……yes, Helen”. Mikhail stopped himself just in time.

“Good,” she smiled widely and walked over to the counter where he’d laid the meat to cool, “You’re the one who made the meat in the feast aren’t you?”

 “There was a lot of meat at the feast, Helen” Mikhail replied.

She blushed at this but Mikhail didn’t know why. She composed herself before continuing, “I mean the ribs, the ones that tasted like fire”.

“You tried them?” Mikhail asked, his voice betraying his hopeful tone. Helen looked at him, and smiled sadly,

“I’m sorry to disappoint you Mikhail. I never eat much at such things. Menelaus….He insists that I….I act a certain way at events”.

“Then you must be hungry, here, the beef is ready. Have some.” Mikhail hurriedly cut the beef and separated some of it onto two dishes, continuing to speak as he did, “who said my meat tasted like fire?”

“Menelaus, he loved it. Agamemnon didn’t have any. Prince Hector supped half a jug of water after the first piece but wouldn’t stop eating it. Those two finished half of it between themselves. The King of Ithaca, I can never remember his name, the storyteller, said it would make for a great tale to tell, and Paris,” she blushed again, “he tried it and his face went bright red and he looked like he couldn’t breathe.” She giggled and picked at the beef, taking a small piece and trying it. Her face lit up, “It’s good, and the meat is so soft yet still juicy at the same time”.

Mikhail took a handful of his beef and tried it. More bay leaves next time, he thought to himself. Mikhail had never understood nor had need to the intricacies of fine dining. After watching him for a second, Helen abandoned picking at the meat and ate with gusto, rolling her eyes appreciatively and sucking her fingers. Mikhail was glad she was enjoying it and couldn’t help but watch her eat. He must have been staring for she cocked her head and laughed quietly when he blushed and looked away. She finished her helping of meat before Mikhail, and he realised she must have eaten next to nothing at the feast, so he served her more, which she took gratefully.

“You have a gift Mikhail. I envy you. I’ve never been much help in the kitchen, or anywhere else for that matter”. Her tone had changed. She sounded wistful, and she was staring into the distance. Mikhail finished his meat and fetched a cloth for her to wipe her hands. She looked at him again and seemed to be deciding something. Mikhail was so bewitched by her eyes, which seemed so open, yet gave nothing away. Placing the dish aside, she rose suddenly and came closer to him, “can you keep a secret, Mikhail?”

“Yes my…..Yes, Helen”

She bit her lip and looked down, before speaking, “Paris has asked me to run away with him, and I intend to leave with him tomorrow”. She seemed relieved. She must have been bursting to tell someone, anyone.

“To…to Troy?” Mikhail asked.

She nodded, and smiled again. This time her smile was so wide, so genuine, it was almost as though a light had ignited itself inside her, “Yes, Mikhail. Paris and I are going to run away together”.

“What about…” Mikhail stopped himself, “Sorry, never mind”.

He tried to look away, but again, she looked at him and seemed to read his mind. She backed away from him and stared into the fire under the smoker, looking wistful, almost melancholy, “For his faults……Deep down, Menelaus is a good man, but…”

 “You do not love him” Mikhail said quietly, staring into the fire as well.

Helen turned suddenly, “Do you think me selfish? To abandon him?”

“Milady, it is not my place……”

“I would have your answer” she sounded colder now. Her eyes burned with curiosity.

“My Quee….”

“What did I say to you earlier, Mikhail? Helen.” She walked closer to him. He got up. He was taller than her, her eyes level with the tip of his nose.

“Helen…….I…” Mikhail’s brain knew what he wished to say, but couldn’t form the words to say. She cocked her head again, and Mikhail found himself studying her eyes once more. They didn’t seem to look at him, but into him, through him. As if he weren’t flesh and blood, but some spectre or apparition, transparent. She sighed and drew her cloak around her, just then, Mikhail found the words,

“My father wanted me to enlist. He was a mason. Our family does not have much, but we were happy, and that was always enough. I was always good at sports; I could throw a javelin the length of a field without much effort. I would have made a good soldier, that’s what he thought. I have never wanted that. We had words about it, many times, sometimes we even came to blows. At one point I was actually on my way to the barracks, and then I smelled something. I followed the smell and I found myself outside a kitchen. An old man was removing buns from the oven. The children were waiting impatiently. A few of them took one straight away. It was funny to see, tossing the buns from hand to hand so they wouldn’t get burned, laughing and making a game of it. And he was there, just…..smiling. He looked so content, so happy. I wanted that. I wanted to know how he had that. So I came in here and I never really left. Yes, Helen, I think you selfish. But to be happy, sometimes we must be. I think you should do whatever you want to do. If you do not, you may regret it”.

Helen hadn’t moved as he spoke. As he finished, she stood there, saying nothing. Mikhail smiled, and turned away to pour water over the fire under the smoker. When he turned back, in a flash, Helen put her arms around him.

“I doubt we shall ever see each other again, but……..Thank you, Mikhail.” and with that she was gone.

Mikhail didn’t speak of his night time visitor the next day. He went about his business as normal. The Trojan ships had left at dawn. The town was in uproar the next afternoon. Mikhail knew exactly why, though he still acted as he thought he ought to, asking what the commotion was about. The Trojan prince had stolen King Menelaus’ wife away and taken her to Troy! Mikhail smiled inwardly, hoping that his new friend had found happiness.

“What are you grinning about, Mikhail?” Amphitrion asked.

“Me? What? No, I’m simply excited to use your new oven again, master”. Amphitrion said nothing, but Mikhail could tell he didn’t believe him. He shrugged anyway and didn’t pursue the matter. That was until the next morning.

The sun was almost at its highest when they came. They stormed the kitchen, forced everyone down to their knees and simply waited, silent and menacing, the King’s guard. Mikhail and Amphitrion waited on their knees. While Amphitrion seemed almost phlegmatic at the situation, Mikhail waited nervously, expecting the large and imposing figure of Menelaus, but instead, it was his brother.

Agamemnon was a little shorter than Mikhail had expected, but what came as the biggest shock was his presence itself. The man exuded an aura of sinister gravitas Mikhail had never experienced before. What made it worse was the prickling of the hairs on the back of Mikhail’s neck. Agamemnon walked casually into the kitchen like he had all the time in the world. He drifted about the kitchen with the air of a curious tourist. Taking a grape here, sniffing a pot there, he familiarized himself with the kitchen in

what, to Mikhail, felt like a year. Approaching one of the girls who helped in the kitchen, Agamemnon bent down and spoke quietly,

“What is your name?” He asked. He was close enough to smell her hair, and her sweat from being in the hot kitchens all day.

“Amelia, my King”. She was already nervous, and clearly intimidated.

“Amelia. That’s a pretty name, for a beautiful girl. It suits you. Amelia, tell me my dear, who is master in this kitchen?” He sounded jovial. One would assume from hearing him that he was merely shooting the breeze with an old acquaintance. However, no-one present held any doubt what would happen to anyone who didn’t give the answers he’d come for. She hesitated, and she looked towards Mikhail and Amphitrion in panic. Agamemnon caught her glance and turned towards Mikhail. He smiled and turned back to Amelia, “Thank you dear, now, one thing you can help me with. On a day like this, or shall we say on most days, who would be the last one in this kitchen?” his smile was not a pleasant one, akin to a snake smiling at the cornered mouse. Amelia was terrified and was doing a poor job of hiding it. Her lip quivered as tears began to form. Agamemnon noticed but kept his voice pleasant,

“What’s wrong my dear? There’s no need for tears. Simply tell me their name and point them out to me”

“My King, pl….” Her scream cut her short as Agamemnon hoisted her up by her short brown hair.

“Find your tongue, girl” Agamemnon said in a low voice. His tone was chiding, as though Amelia were a foolish child. Amelia’s voice came in sobs, and she whispered something. Drawing her closer, Agamemnon turned his head to listen. He dropped her a second later.

“Thank you my dear. Now, wipe those tears, you aren’t very pretty when you cry. Now, who in this kitchen bears the name of Mikhail?” There was no response. Mikhail’s heart thundered in his ears. He had his head down but could feel eyes upon him. He said nothing and struggled to keep his breathing calm. How could they know Helen had been here? Agamemnon spread his arms as if in confusion, “No? No Mikhail here? Amelia, dear, it seems your tongue speaks false. If so, I don’t think you have any need of it.”

motioning to one of his guards, they came forward, held Amelia’s chin, forced her mouth open and drew a dagger. Amelia shrieked in fear, trying to cover her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face as the guard brought the dagger closer and closer to her mouth. Mikhail couldn’t bear it anymore. Despite the warning glance from his master, he rose,

“I am Mikhail”. He said it loud enough for Agamemnon to hear. The King raised a hand and the guard stopped. Bending down towards Amelia’s tear stained face, he smiled pleasantly,

“Looks like you weren’t lying! Good! Thank him my dear; he just saved your life. You! Boy! Come with me. The rest of you, about your business” tilting his head to the lead guard, Agamemnon left the kitchen at a brisk walk. He paused outside where he found a man sitting idly, having listened to everything that had transpired. Mikhail didn’t know who it was, but Agamemnon was thoroughly put out by his presence, “Must you do that?  Follow me around like some wayward shadow?” he remarked irritably. This drew a roguish smile from their visitor,

“I am simply hungry. I’m led to believe this is a place one goes when they are. I assume it’s why you’re here?” he asked curiously, raising an eyebrow at Agamemnon.

“You know very well why I’m here. I would have information about Helen and the Trojan curs who absconded with her”

Agamemnon snapped. Mikhail wondered who the other man was. Burly and well built, he dressed simply and carried himself with an air of calm confidence. The sword hanging at his waist was in easy reach, yet he made no move to draw it. Even the King’s guards looked intimidated. A few of them were nudging each other uncomfortably while looking between Agamemnon and him.

“What information is there to have? She is gone, considering who she left with, or rather who left at exactly the same time I would say we have a reasonably good idea where she’s gone. Seems to me like that’s all the information one would need. You already ransacked her quarters, threatened the life of her chambermaid yet there is nothing to suggest she did not leave of her own will. You’re not carrying any food, perhaps you’re here for more sinister reasons?” The smile never wavered, but the eyes changed. From warmth, they now sat as two shards of ice.

Agamemnon said nothing, so the stranger continued, “Well I can’t speak for anyone else, but were I to see the great Agamemnon assaulting and threatening citizens while the city still mourns the loss of its Queen, I can’t say with any certainty that I’d be overjoyed at that”.

As if to prove his point, a crowd was gathering to view the commotion. Amelia was still sobbing inside the kitchen. Agamemnon looked around, seemingly weighing his options.

Casting a vicious glare at his visitor, he bid his guards escort him back to the palace. Before he left, he muttered to Mikhail,

“Those ribs, the ones from the feast, bid whoever made them have another three racks sent to the palace tonight”, he locked eyes with the stranger one last time, “Of all the kings in Greece and beyond, none irks me as you do”.

The stranger grinned and laughed, “Well, coming from one such as you I would take that as a compliment! Good day, Agamemnon King. Leave the boy.”

With that, the King and his guards left, and the crowd slowly dispersed. Amelia had calmed down but was clearly still shaken. Mikhail stood outside the entrance to the kitchen. As he turned to make his way back inside, the stranger rose and spoke to him,

“One moment. Walk with me.”

Mikhail still wasn’t sure who this man was, but he’d heard Agamemnon refer to him as King, so it was probably wise to do what he said. They walked slowly down the street of Athens. Mikhail didn’t speak, expecting questions. His companion surveyed the busy street with something akin to nostalgia showing on his face, “Penelope and I would walk the streets in Ithaca some days. There is nothing she loves more than to see her people happy, my Penelope. Do you know who I am, young one?”

Mikhail shook his head, genuinely confused. Should he? The stranger laughed and winked, “Know me simply as a storyteller from a faraway land”.

“Thank you. For…before,” Mikhail said

“It is no trouble. Agamemnon is a predictable man, once one knows what to look for”.

“You seem to know him well” Mikhail posed this as a statement rather than a question.

“Let me put it this way, young one. You know, I’m sure, what time certain people will visit your kitchen after learning what they like to eat. Men like Agamemnon hunger for something different I’m afraid” he sighed. The two were passing a small square. The stranger found a place to sit, inviting Mikhail to sit with him, “Now, were you the last one in the kitchen the night of the feast?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see her?” the stranger asked bluntly. Mikhail hesitated for a second before answering,

“No, I didn’t”. Mikhail looked him in the eye. He seemed curious. He smiled, more to himself than Mikhail, and turned to watch the people in the street,

“Good. Remember your answer should Agamemnon pay your kitchen another visit”. He chuckled and winked at Mikhail, “You’re a strapping lad, why not join the army?” Mikhail recounted his story as he had told it to Helen. When he was finished, his new friend rubbed his beard thoughtfully,

“It’s a calling isn’t it, and an honourable one at that. Wherever one goes, men will always be hungry. Food itself can lead to the best of times, but a lack of it will always herald discord and unrest. A hunger for food is simple to satisfy, but in my travels I have found, each man hungers for something more, something more difficult to satisfy. Men like Agamemnon hunger for power, for dominance. This is the most dangerous hunger the Gods cursed mankind with. For once a man has beheld and tasted power for himself, however much a man may have, it will never be enough”. The stranger’s face darkened as he spoke, as though looking into the distant future and seeing dark clouds heralding a storm. Mikhail still didn’t know quite what to make of him, but he seemed wise beyond his years,

“What do you hunger for my Lord?”

“What?” his face changed. Mikhail could tell his mind was far away in that moment. He smiled again and chuckled, “Me? I am but a rover, a wanderer, a sailor. I hunger for adventure, for the waves to take me where none have tread, to encounter man, beast, God or anything in between willing to test my mettle. I hunger for the will to overcome any tribulation or trial,” His face changed again, and he looked nostalgic, but so happy at the same time, “I yearn to return to the island to see her waiting for me at the dock, to tell her a new story. To hear her scold me and call my tales exaggerations, yet, she is the only one who never does, even when they are. I love adventure, young one. It is the second love of my life and it calls to me constantly”. His face darkened again, “I fear this affair isn’t over. Since she left, Agamemnon has a light in his eye that I don’t like the look of. When that man lights up like that, it likely bodes ill for any unlucky enough to know themselves as his enemies. No, we haven’t heard the end of this, I’m sure.”

“Something about him makes me uneasy, and afraid. I don’t know if I would want to follow a man like that” Mikhail said.

“Well sometimes, it’s the worst of us that rise to power, Mikhail. I feel the same way about Agamemnon”

“Then why not oppose him?” Mikhail asked pointedly. His new friend turned looked at him. It was almost the same way Helen had looked at him, except it was as if he was looking at someone who wasn’t there, and Mikhail was some sort of marionette, speaking for them.

“I have been asked, and asked myself that question more than once, my friend. Agamemnon is a brilliant tactician and general. Beyond that, I have my people to think of, and Agamemnon is not an enemy Ithaca can afford. Not if we are to survive.” He said it matter-of-factly but Mikhail could see, or rather sense he’d come to that decision after a few sleepless nights. Mikhail suddenly asked out of curiosity,

 

“How did you know I was lying about seeing Helen that night?”

After another grin and a chuckle, his new friend answered, “No one knows a lie better than a liar, Mikhail. You’re not a very good one, but this world will cure you of that soon enough.”

“You don’t seem like a liar. I thought you were a storyteller”

Mikhail looked forward into the street as he spoke, and turned to see the stranger appraising him, as if resolving some inner conflict. After a moment, he rose and made to leave, “I am a storyteller. Good liars make great storytellers, my friend. Never forget that. Caution around Agamemnon. Chances are he will be back for information about why she left. We haven’t heard the last of this. That I promise you” with that, he turned. Before he did, Mikhail chimed in again,

“What do I call you?” He turned and smiled again,

“My name is Odysseus. It was good to meet you, Mikhail. I’ll remember your name. Who knows, this may make for a good story one day.” And with that he left Mikhail in the square.

Meanwhile, in the palace, Agamemnon was pacing, his mind racing. Odysseus had seen through his plan, he was sure of it. Agamemnon would never admit it, to himself or any other, he was secretly glad he had never been at odds with the Ithacan, no matter how little each approved of the others methods. Sighing in frustration, he left his chambers and headed toward the throne room. From a long distance away, he could already hear the commotion. As he drew closer, he could smell alcohol and could hear the shattering of dishes and objects being thrown around. He walked towards the throne room, and made it to the door just in time to see three of Menelaus’ chamber maids fleeing the Spartan King’s wrath. Upon seeing him, one of them called out in panic,

“My Lord, please do something! He does nothing but demand more wine and beat his fists bloody upon the walls!”

Agamemnon sighed knowingly, “If he bids you bring him wine then bring him wine!” an empty jug flew out of the King’s chamber and shattered against the opposite wall as if to emphasise. The terrified servants clamoured to leave as fast as their legs would allow them. Agamemnon sighed again and entered the King’s chamber. It was a mess. It looked like a tropical storm had touched this room and nowhere else. Agamemnon took stock of the damage calmly. He noticed the jugs of water had been untouched. Pouring a mug and taking the jug with him, he walked over to what remained of his brother. Having railed, ranted, screamed, and drank enough to drown most men, Menelaus had destroyed the room, and torn most of the skin from his knuckles tearing down paintings and striking the walls, leaving bloody fist prints everywhere. He lay on the floor, exhausted. Tears of rage and hurt had soaked into his beard and his face was red, due in part to all the wine and due in part to his emotional state. Agamemnon stood over him and sighed, before looking over at a painting he’d hung in the room depicting Zeus. Menelaus had torn it down and ripped it to shreds.

“I liked that painting, you know” Agamemnon said quietly. Menelaus mumbled something. Agamemnon couldn’t make it out, but the tone sounded sheepish and apologetic. Putting down the water, Agamemnon threw one of his brother’s arms over his shoulders and helped him to a seat, “I think my chamber has suffered enough, brother. I think it about time you directed that rage toward those responsible for your pain.”

Menelaus glanced at his brother. As difficult as it was, even he felt, to truly know Agamemnon sometimes, on this occasion his motives were clear to Menelaus. He accepted the water and drank half the jug, slurring his speech,

“…….Very well brother. You get your war. I would have her back so I can wring her traitorous neck with my own hands. Do what you will with the city"

Three Weeks later

Mikhail could never remember feeling so helpless. A tingle of fear crept up his spine for his friend every time another ship docked with soldiers upon it. There were hundreds of them now, and from the rumors, even more set to arrive.

Mikhail was afraid for Helen. Menelaus’ rage over the matter was no secret, and Agamemnon seemed to have latched onto this hatred to start a war. If the ever filling docks of Greece were anything to go by, this would be a war to end all others. Mikhail almost regretted advising her to leave. He banished it from his thoughts as soon as it appeared. He’d seen it in those green eyes. She would have left no matter what he’d told her, the green eyed temptress who wouldn’t leave his thoughts now.

As the days wore on, Mikhail knew what he desired to do, what he wanted to do. He wished to find her again, seek her out somehow. He’d made his way back to the docks many times, with enough meat to bribe his way to Troy as a stowaway, only to lose his mettle at the last moment. Today would be different, though. He was down at the docks, with a bag full of dried pork, spiced the same way as before, but without the honey. He searched for a ship that he thought would take him. He beheld one he hadn’t noticed before. It must have arrived that day or the night before. It was a small vessel, only meant for about one-hundred men. A strange sight was the single black sail. Mikhail approached the ship. No-one seemed to be on board. The men must have gone ashore to restock food and weapons. Mikhail stood upon the deck and looked around. He saw armour he wasn’t familiar with, as black as the sail.

“Trespassing is an offence punishable by death upon this ship” a voice spoke right behind Mikhail. He started in shock, at having someone approach him without knowing, and the point of a sword at his spine. “You are either fearless or incredibly foolish to walk onto this ship without the permission of its captain. What is your business here?” Mikhail was breathing faster than he ever had. He was even more terrified than he’d been before Agamemnon, because he could sense the willingness, the intent to kill, without even seeing the man’s eyes.

Struggling to catch his breath, he heard a blade being sheathed, before a hand landed on his shoulder and turned him round. He was tall, imposing. His sword hung at his side and he carried it with the easy grace of one who could and likely had, taken a life without blinking. Mikhail couldn’t speak. He handed over the bag of meat. The man raised an eyebrow and looked inside it, taking a piece of meat and eating it. He seemed impressed, and threw the bag aside onto the deck, “Good meat, always appreciated. Why are you on my ship?”

“I need to go to Troy”

“Then enlist with one of your own armies”

“I will not fight for Agamemnon”. Mikhail said in a low voice. For some reason, as he said it, his fists curled in rage and he grit his teeth. This seemed to amuse the captain,

“Then you confess yourself a traitor, and now I have the right to take your life”

“You could have done that before, but you didn’t.”

The captain laughed, “My name will not be remembered for murdering some cook’s boy in cold blood. Besides, I have no desire to fight today. I’ll save that for the walls of Troy”.

“Take me with you. I will work. I can row; I will cook for the men. Please, I must go to Troy”

“That seems to be all anyone is saying around here. Strange that so many ships are needed to satisfy a lover’s spat. Agamemnon takes to war as a fish to the Aegean.” He said it normally, yet Mikhail could hear the scorn the captain had for Agamemnon.

“You don’t sound like you follow Agamemnon. Yet you swear allegiance to a man you hold such disdain for?”

“The only allegiance I owe is to myself, young one.”

“Then why fight?” Mikhail asked.

 

He was silent at this. Mikhail was reminded of Odysseus as he told of his thirst for adventure.

“My master, the man who taught me my craft, told me that all men possess a hunger. Not always one that can be satisfied with food. I have discovered that to be true of most I have met, even myself. I would see my friend again, even if it’s just one more time. What drives your hunger?”

The captain was quiet. He moved about the deck, circling Mikhail. He ran a hand through his long, unkempt hair and spoke, “Your name, boy.”

“Mikhail”

“You will help the ship’s cook. During the day you will drill with sword, shield, and spear. You will not fight with us, but I suspect it would be for the best if you can at least protect yourself.” He raised a hand as Mikhail began to speak, “Do not thank me yet, young one. Aspiring to become one of my myrmidons has cost a few young men their lives. Your friend must be quite a person, for you to risk your life to see them again.”

Mikhail was grateful, but still curious, “Thank you, captain..”

“Achilles.”

Mikhail was shocked. The Achilles? He hid his surprise and continued speaking, “Achilles. I would have your answer. What is it that drives your hunger to fight?”

Achilles turned toward the sea and spread his arms, as if to show the multitude of ships, “What drives anyone’s hunger to do anything? Nearly a thousand ships, a monument to one man’s greed and a legendary insult. Man will talk about this war for an age to come, even when the bones of our children’s children have reduced to sand. I want statues built with my name carved into the stone. I want people to speak my name and tell my story a thousand years from now. That is my hunger, and Zeus have mercy on any who would oppose me in satisfying it.”

Mikhail was awestruck. It must have been fate’s hand that guided him to this ship, of all the ones already there. If he was to follow anyone to Troy, he wanted it to be Achilles.

Bidding his new commander a swift goodbye, he returned to the kitchen to pack what he thought he would need. When he got there, however, he found the chef. Mikhail hadn’t planned how he’d say goodbye, but something in his gut said his cooking master knew exactly where he had been and what he was planning. Before Mikhail could summon the words, he brought the bags out,

“I haven’t used these in years, but, the steel was well made, so they’ll serve you well. The armour has been repaired. You’re a little taller than I was when I used it, but it should still fit reasonably well. The shield has a few dents in it, the best ones usually do, but no holes. That's how you know they work. Your new…..comrades favour black armour, it shouldn’t be too much for one of them to use the same dye they use on their hair to render the armour black. The sword was a gift. It’s the finest steel I’ve ever held. Take it, my boy, your new master has a mastery of blades most mortals only dream of. Be well, stay safe Mikhail. You have found your hunger to satisfy. She must be quite a woman”

The old man was almost in tears as he finished. Mikhail had a lump in his throat as they embraced,

“I….Thank you, Amphitrion. Thank you.” Mikhail choked out the words. It was all that needed to be said. Amphitrion, his master, no, his mentor, his second father, his friend, held his shoulders and nodded up at him. It was different this time. He embraced Mikhail not as an apprentice, a child, but a man. Mikhail took the armour, his armour, and left the kitchen for the last time. He held his tears as he walked and it was a herculean effort on his part not to look back. He walked the streets, not knowing if he’d ever see any of them again. He walked to the docks, his heart heavy yet beating fast at the prospect of seeing those green eyes, that smile, one more time. Before boarding his new commander’s ship, he gazed once more upon the armada, a thousand ships strong.

Author's Note

*This work is a different take on the events leading up to the Trojan war. It is a work of fiction and as such is not intended to be historically accurate*

Please let me know what you think of the characters and dialogue.

Reviews

[emilytamayomaher]

Hi there! You've re-created such an vivid and exciting world here. The style of your dialogue and description in your scenes is captivating. As a reader I fully enter the story. I also like that you are telling this classic tale from an unconventional point of view.

Mikhail seems to be a complex character, and he who will delve us into different themes and different sides of humanity than were explored in the Illiad. Furthermore this seems not to be a story, but the beginning of a much longer work, am I right? That said, I would like to get a better understanding of what exactly is driving Mikhail. I liked the theme developed near the end, where each of the classic figures were asked about their hunger, and it would even more compelling to delve deeper into Mikhail's psychology, and understand what he hungers for from this adventure. I understand that he met Helen and he's worried about her, but I don't see enough of how that would drive him to go to war. Of course she's the epitome of a bewitching seductress, but how does that relate to Mikhail specifically. What's at stake for him?

I think you've got a great character and amazing setting, and what will really dig your reader into the plot is defining the conflict and theme more clearly from the get-go.

Thanks for sharing this!
-Emily

[Anthony Wayne]

Hi!

Thanks for reading, glad you enjoyed it. Originally it was intended as a stand alone short story but when I finished it it seemed like it wanted more. I enjoyed writing Mikhail because as you said, he is a complex character. Thanks for your review, hope you can read some more of my stuff when you can

[barleygirl]

The mechanics of your writing & your storytelling are strong. This piece "sounds" right for the era & genre. Good dialogue thru-out. Here's my only drawback . . . the sequence of events felt too long & drawn out for me. Other people would love it this way, but for me, the story didn't move along with sufficient pacing or suspense. To be honest, I only read about 2/3 of it, then lost interest. Your writing is nearly professional & your leisurely pace is quite like a book might read in this genre . . . so it's just a personal preference of mine . . . I guess some of us get accustomed to everything being more fast-paced these days.

[Shannon]

This was well written. Your characters are realistic and believable. I have a few thoughts. If he is going to tell Helen his story maybe don't have him tell us as much earlier. Even though there is more information, it feels repetitive a bit.

Also, perhaps Helen can have a better reason to run away and start a war?

Other than that, glow was good, dialogue believable and your hero is compelling.

[MightyMouse]

This was pretty good. Congrats on the story.

[Mehameha]

Great subject and very believable. Nice point of view reference.

[Anthony Wayne]

Thanks for reading and reviewing. I was thinking of making it part of a longer story