I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The atmosphere in the Greek camp was tense, a far cry from the elation they’d felt after the fall of Lyrnessus. Despite their recent conquest, the Greeks were now faced with a challenge far greater than any they had anticipated—Troy. This was no ordinary city; it was a formidable stronghold, a fortress whose walls and defenses seemed almost invincible. The Greeks hadn’t even managed to reach the outer walls, repelled time and again by Troy’s powerful army, whose discipline and resilience had surprised even the most seasoned Greek commanders.

The Greeks had gravely underestimated the Trojans—not just their physical strength, but also their unwavering spirit and resilience. Even as the Greeks cut off neighboring Trojan towns, isolating Troy, the city stood defiant, its high walls casting long shadows over the Greek encampments below. Each passing day tested the Greeks’ resolve, and as the siege dragged into its third month, their initial fervor began to wane. Victories came only in minor skirmishes, while the main siege saw little to no progress.

To make matters worse, the Greeks were demoralized by the exploits of Hector, Troy’s greatest champion. In every clash, Hector seemed unstoppable, cutting through the Greek lines with a terrifying ferocity that sent chills through even the bravest warriors. His strength and tactical prowess made him a force on the battlefield, and his presence alone left the Greeks wary of engaging too closely. Whispers spread among the soldiers; some even admitted to fearing Hector more than the walls of Troy itself. Each defeat at his hands cast a growing shadow over the camp, and slowly, despair crept in.

Meanwhile, Agamemnon, their leader and King of Kings, had sunk into a dark and brooding mood, clouded by a string of recent losses that felt as personal as they were strategic. It had all begun with the dreadful sacrifice of his daughter, Iphigenia, to appease the gods for a favorable journey to Troy. While the decision had left him tormented, he’d tried to focus on the war, finding a temporary distraction in the beauty of Astynome, a priestess of Apollo and a prize he had seized with triumph. She was stunning, a symbol of his conquest, and he had relished the thought of claiming her fully.

But just as he was on the verge of enjoying his reward, Astynome was snatched from under his nose by a brazen intruder, an audacious act that left him seething. The insult was worsened by a calamity that struck the very same day—a prized ship, loaded with weapons meant to reinforce his troops, was set ablaze and sunk to the ocean’s depths. The fire lit up the night sky, and Agamemnon could do nothing but watch as flames consumed the vessel and its precious cargo.

It was the worst night Agamemnon had ever known. It had started with the humiliation of being cursed publicly by Astynome’s father, who had vowed that Agamemnon would meet a vile and bitter humiliating end. Then came Astynome’s disappearance, and finally, the devastating destruction of his ship.

Agamemnon’s gloom was contagious, casting a shadow over the Greek camp that only deepened with each passing day. His soldiers, once fiercely determined, now sensed their king’s lack of enthusiasm, and it was wearing on them. Though Agamemnon was far from depressed, the loss of his prize had dimmed his spirits. Everyone else seemed to revel in small victories or moments of joy, but he, the King of Kings, felt only bitterness. How could his soldiers celebrate while he, the leader of all Greece, sat in this quiet misery?

“Agamemnon,” came a familiar voice, heavy with concern. Nestor, the wise and seasoned advisor, regarded him with a sigh as he found the king seated, motionless, his gaze lost in the distance. The camp was quiet today, a rare pause in the relentless struggle. The Greeks and Trojans alike needed moments of reprieve, for neither side could fight without rest. But it wasn’t the first time Agamemnon had chosen to sit idle, retreating from the duties that once energized him. He had even missed several battles, an absence felt keenly by his men, who looked to him for guidance and strength.

“I had a vision, Nestor,” Agamemnon said abruptly, his voice tense. “Athena herself appeared to me, proclaiming that Hera stands behind me, that this war is my path to glory. She said this siege of Troy was my destiny, my moment to carve my name into history.” His eyes gleamed with a flicker of hope, but it quickly faded. The vision of Athena had initially rekindled his resolve when he’d hesitated to join the war for the sake of his brother’s stolen honor. Yet now, that promise of glory felt distant, obscured by frustration and insult. “But what glory do I see now? Only shame and dishonor,” he muttered, his fists clenching in quiet fury.

At that moment, Odysseus entered the tent with his characteristic calm, his expression a mixture of empathy and determination. The other Greek leaders—Menelaus, Ajax, Diomedes—had noticed Agamemnon’s brooding, and they knew his despair threatened to unravel the unity of their forces. They sent Odysseus, the king of Ithaca and master of diplomacy, knowing his words carried weight even with Agamemnon.

“King Agamemnon, you’re too hard on yourself,” Odysseus began with a reassuring smile. “Your men look to you; they need your strength and guidance. This war—this is your war,” he said firmly, locking eyes with Agamemnon.

Agamemnon laughed bitterly. “My war? My men have reaped their rewards, found joy in the spoils of battle, while I am left with nothing but emptiness. I was robbed of my prize, my share of glory.”

Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head. “If rewards are the issue, I’ll give you all that I have—every piece of wealth, every treasure I’ve claimed in battle. And I’ll speak to the other kings; they would surely share as well.” Odysseus leaned closer, his voice softening. “I want to end this war, King Agamemnon, and return to Ithaca. My wife and son wait for me there. None of us need these treasures as much as we need victory, as much as we need you to lead us.”

“I don’t want money!” Agamemnon’s voice thundered through the tent as he stomped his foot, his eyes flaring with frustration. “I want Apollo’s priestess back. I want Astynome.”

Odysseus faltered, glancing at Nestor for guidance. The old man gave a slow, weary shake of his head, unable to comprehend the depth of Agamemnon’s obsession with this woman. But he understood one thing: perhaps Agamemnon was using Astynome as an anchor, a desperate way to channel the anguish he’d been harboring since he’d sacrificed his daughter, Iphigenia, for the sake of this war. Losing Astynome now had opened a wound he couldn’t ignore.

“Why her?” Odysseus ventured, his tone gentle. “You’re a king; you can have any woman you desire. True, there may not be another quite as beautiful, but there are others…”

But Agamemnon’s gaze sharpened, silencing Odysseus mid-sentence. There was no substitute for a woman like Astynome. She had Apollo’s blood, a beauty that seemed almost ethereal, and an unblemished purity as a priestess. She was a symbol, not just a prize, and she was irreplaceable.

Then, another name came to mind—another woman who held the same qualities, but one who belonged to a man Agamemnon detested among all the Greeks: Achilles. Agamemnon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes calculating. He turned back to Odysseus, his resolve hardening.

“I want Briseis.”

Odysseus and Nestor stared at him in stunned silence, both their mouths slightly agape.

“Briseis? Surely, you don’t mean the queen of—”

“The woman who was meant to be Queen of Lyrnessus, yes,” Agamemnon replied, his tone unyielding. “I want her to replace what was stolen from me. Bring her to me.” He nodded at Nestor, then leaned back in his chair, the flicker of power back in his gaze as he settled into his role as king, unshakable and imperious.

But Odysseus’s face paled. “King Agamemnon… Briseis is with Achilles. She is his reward,” he reminded gently, hoping Agamemnon had merely overlooked this. But Agamemnon’s face remained resolute, unyielding in the face of his advisor’s concern.

“Bring her to me, and I will march with my armies against Troy with every ounce of strength I possess. You have my word,” Agamemnon said, each syllable ringing with finality. His gaze bore into Odysseus, making it clear that further objections would be futile.

Odysseus struggled to hide his dread. The request would undoubtedly provoke Achilles, a man known for his fiery temper and fierce pride. Achilles would not take such a demand lightly. If Agamemnon persisted, he might ignite a conflict more dangerous than any they faced outside Troy’s walls.

But Agamemnon’s mind was set.

Odysseus looked at Nestor for help but the latter shook his head again.

He had tried to convince all this time Agamemnon but for the first time he reacted and asked for something which was a good sign but also the only solution to their predicament.

Of course if a choice had to be made between Achilles or Agamemnon the answer would be obviously the one leading all the armies, Agamemnon…