Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  When Paris left on his quest to redeem his aunt’s honor and return her to Troy, his soul stormed with great sadness. He’d known as he left Oenone standing there, barefoot and beautiful, her dark hair flying about her shoulders in the breeze, that he would never truly belong with her again. She was of the rain and sky, the trees and wind, and she would never follow him to a city of stone and mortar.

  He also had not known the power of Aphrodite’s promise until he’d seen Helen for the first time in the stable, then again in Menelaus’ great hall. The very essence of her drew his soul from his chest and he’d been helpless to fight the overwhelming desire to take her as his own. His love for Helen drowned out all other duties and desires. He knew that now, as war floated somewhere out past the horizon, storming upon another city’s shore, that he must say farewell to his first wife and son, sealing his past behind him to face his precarious future in Troy with Helen. He must prove that the Forgotten Prince did not bring the doom of Troy on his heels.

  A small voice called out, “Father?”

  Paris turned to see the sweet face of his son. He knelt and opened his arms to the boy. “Corythus,” he said. His son bounded into his arms, black curls bouncing, and blue eyes shining. Paris inhaled the earthy scent of him. My son, forgive me. He released the boy. “Where is your mother?”

  “She is in the Meadow of White Blossoms.”

  The prince smiled down at his son. You should have been a prince of Troy. “It is her favorite. I should have guessed.”

  Corythus took his hand. “I will take you, Father. Will you stay with us this time?”

  The innocence of the question speared Paris’ heart. He loved his son, but how could he explain that his love for Helen and Troy called to him with a ferocity he couldn’t ignore? “No, Corythus. I cannot.” Corythus’ hand slipped from his, falling limply at his sides. “I must become a Prince of Troy in all ways, now. I cannot be torn between two different lives. War is on the horizon and I must do my part. Do you understand?”

  “What is war, Father?”

  “War is where men fight other men … like bulls in the arena.”

  “Do they fight to the death like the bulls?”

  “When men go to war, it is always to the death,” Paris said, sadly.

  Corythus took his hand again. “Are you going to die?”

  “I do not intend to, my son. That is why I must stay in Troy with my other family. They need my help fighting off the enemy.” To fight the enemy I brought to the gate.

  Father and son walked through the edge of ash trees lining the meadow where Oenone tended the sea of white flowers. The blossoms grew in scattered clusters across lush green grasses and moss, like stars blinking in a heavy night sky. Paris saw his wife pluck a plant by the base, taking it gently from its cradle in the earth. She was examining the roots when she noticed her husband standing with their son. She flew across the meadow and into Paris’ arms. He held her briefly, and then gently pushed her away, sadness darkening his eyes.

  “You have come to say farewell,” she said.

  Paris couldn’t lie to her, not now, not after all this time. “I have.”

  “The war is coming, my mortal,” the nymph said, trying to sound brave.

  Paris kissed her forehead with the tender lips of sorrow. “It is, Oenone. Just as you foretold years ago. The western tribes ravage the Troad lands, and in time they will stand before the Great Wall. I should have listened to you.”

  “And what would you have done differently? You would have left on Priam’s quest. You would have brought the golden queen home. Nothing would have changed, if you had believed me. How long until they reach Troy?” she asked, casting her eyes to the ground.

  “They should have reached us by now. Hektor believes they are overdue. Perhaps they are lost. Regardless, they are gathering supplies. Agamemnon’s army is pillaging every southern town and is making its way up the coast. Hektor is certain the war is coming.”

  Oenone looked up into her husband’s eyes, placing a soft hand against his cheek. “What of this life we built together? Is it so easy to leave us behind?”

  “You will not live in Troy. I cannot stay here. With war looming over the city—”

  “A war you brought with that whore from Sparta.” The sharp edge of the nymph’s words nicked his pride and his heart.

  Paris studied the curl on top of his son’s head. “True. Helen’s passage here will not come without a price.”

  “A price? You speak the word lightly. The blood of thousands is not worth the beauty of one mortal woman.”

  Paris had never heard a word of harshness fall from his wife’s lips until now, and he knew there was no way to soften the sting of his final departure. He knew the entire truth of his abandonment, and now, having lived as a prince of the shining citadel, he understood why his parents had obeyed the gods. His death was meant to save the lives of thousands, but he had survived. For many years, after his return, no harm had come to the Troy. The list of Trojan allies had grown, and the city thrived until now. The dusty whispers of the dreadful prophecy staining his birth had reemerged with the fierceness of a mighty storm. If he failed to gain the favor of the gods for Troy’s sake, Agelaus should have let him die. If he had known that his love for a western queen, the gift from Aphrodite, would begin the fatal spiral toward war, he would never have agreed to travel across the dark sea. He told himself he would’ve risked the wrath of the goddess rather than become the curse that was prophesied.

  It was not lost on him that he was now abandoning his own son. Paris sighed heavily. “It was not my intention to bring the threatening shadow of war before the Great Wall.”

  “Had you remained in my arms, none of this would matter. Troy would yet be at peace. And my heart would not be breaking,” Oenone said quietly. “Remember what I told you. You will be wounded. You will need me. Send for me, my mortal, when your time comes.”

  “I loved you, Oenone.”

  “Yes, for a time. Now, your heart flies to another.” She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with tears she refused to shed. “You did not feel the depth of my wretched grief when I saw you with her on your ship. You left me to weep alone with only our son for comfort, reminding me that you had loved me, that we had lived a true life. Now, after all this time, you seek my forgiveness as you bid me and our son farewell forever? You will not have it.”

  “Oenone, I―”

  “Shah, Paris. There is nothing left to say between us. You are right. I will not go, and I cannot make you stay.”

  “I only wish―”

  “Shah. Go. Leave. No more words, I beg you. My heart will shatter completely if you do not.”

  Corythus, confused by his parents’ talk, cried out, “Father! Do not leave me!”

  Paris knelt, embracing his son as the boy’s tears turned to sobs. Despite his own aching heart, his mind was iron against the grief. He knew he was destined to fight, perhaps die, in the war that was coming. He could not stay, and he could not take the boy from Oenone. Paris pulled his son’s slender arms from his neck and tenderly held his chin so their matching eyes could meet. His thumb brushed the small royal dimple of Corythus’ chin. “Always will you be in my heart, my son. Always.”

  Paris remained resolute, his heart iron against his grief. He stood, smiling sadly at the nymph and the boy, and walked away from the first place he’d ever felt loved and accepted. He would not look back. Not ever. If he failed to save Troy, Oenone and Corythus would be all that would remain of his legacy.

  SIX

  LESBOS

  1250 BCE

  City of Methymna

  The mood was solemn around the king’s table, as each advisor, draped in silks and dripping in jewels, looked to the other. That war would come to them from across the dark sea had not been a plan previously strategized for, and their alliance with Troy across the narrow water held no provision against such an attack. Fears of eastern marauders and conquest kept their eyes forever at the ris
e of Apollo, never at his fall into the line of the west.

  Hapeshet was a tall, skinny man who wore his heavily curled beard long and beaded. When he shook his head in disagreement or laughed, the silver and gold beads clinked together like tiny bells. Grey, wiry eyebrows framed his dark, piercing eyes. Hapeshet had served the former king prior to sitting in King Mikares’ council.

  When he placed both wrinkled hands on the table and stood, all heads turned in his direction. His ancient voice quivered slightly with his years. “I have lived long enough to know our city’s defenses can withstand most attacks. However, I fear these western tribes bring with them a challenge we have never faced before. They have in their midst a god-like warrior armored like the sun. They overran Lemnos, stationing their ranks within the city. Have you asked yourselves why they have done this?”

  The seers’ question was met with silence. He met each man’s eyes as he spoke. “They have laid the groundwork for their purpose. These western tribes seek a larger prize than our Methymna. We are but a stone to step on. The conquest of Troy is their desire. And how long will such a siege last against the god hewn walls of shining Troy, I ask? In all my days, I have never heard of a mortal enemy taking that mighty hall sitting like a temple on the sacred mount. Herakles took that city years ago, but he had his father, Zeus, at his back.” Confusion whipped like a wind around the table. “Years of siege lay ahead for these western invaders. And for us that is an ill tiding, for they will be in constant need of resupply as they try to force their way into Priam’s impenetrable fortress.”

  King Mikares had been thoughtful as his councilors debated the western threat. His eldest advisor’s words weighed heavily on his mind. “Your words bring no comfort, Hapeshet. Do you offer wisdom for this council, or only words of doom?”

  The advisor warned, “If we are to survive, we must defeat them. Give such a fight that they will not think to come at our walls a second time. For if they do, we will all perish.”

  A councilor with fingers ringed in gold said, “I heard their warrior-god plucked the beating heart from a foe, and devoured it while the poor man watched. Who is fool enough to lead the defense against a man such as that?”

  Hapeshet answered, “Who indeed.” Then he sat down; his peace was spoken. War was for young men, not the old.

  At the far end of the table, Hypsipylos, having remained silent since the council began debating, stood up. He towered over the table, his presence demanding their attention. His long, black hair grazed his shoulders, shimmering with the royal shades of a raven’s wing in the torch light. Silver hoops hung from his earlobes and a thick silver rope circled his strong neck. His hands, unadorned with precious metal or stones, were browned by Apollo’s light and veined with strength. He set them on the table, signaling he wished to speak, and the ancient men gathered around the hall grew silent. The air stilled, his voice a baritone instrument shaking the ribs of those nearest him.

  “I am such a fool for I fear no man in battle. God or no.” A murmur of questions went round the table. “I have fought many battles, faced many enemies upon the sand.” He opened his arms wide, revealing his powerful form. “Let me embrace this Golden Warrior so I may crush him and end the threat of these western invaders.”

  King Mikares folded his arms across his chest. “The danger they bring to our walled city is grave indeed. We may last for a time against their assault, but if our gates should fail, I have no doubt we will perish, as Hapeshet has spoken.” His hand stroked his heavy beard. His eyes found the warrior’s. “You are our mightiest commander. Our hopes lie with you, in your strong hands. If you are able to defeat the enemy, I will give you the hand of my daughter, Peisidike, in gratitude.”

  Hypsipylos bowed his head. “You honor me beyond my station. I am not worthy of such a prize as the princess.”

  “If we do not survive this assault, our birthrights will matter very little as we wing our way to the next life. If you save our city, Hypsipylos, you will have the gratitude of tens of thousands and my daughter is the greatest gift I have to offer.”

  The giant bowed his head again to the king. “So be it, my lord.”

  King Mikares stood. “I have spoken. Our champion is chosen. Let it be done.”

  Peisidike sat stunned by the news that her father had promised her to the beast Hypsipylos. Women swooned in his presence, but he repulsed her. His dark features frightened her. The thought of him bedding her turned her stomach. “No, I will not marry him. I would rather die.”

  Her handmaid smoothed a lock of her black hair, twisted it into a tight curl, and pinned it into the mass of curls framing her mistress’s face. “The warrior is very handsome, my lady. Perhaps you are only frightened of marriage?”

  “He disgusts me. I cannot believe my father would force me into such a lowly bond. He dishonors me, Lateke.”

  “My lady, you must be the only woman in all of Lesbos who would not marry a man of his make.”

  Peisidike fingered a delicate spiral tumbling down her pale cheek. “Then I stand alone.” In the distance, a war-horn sounded. She sprang from her stool, clapping her gleefully. “The battle has begun! Hurry, Lateke, or we shall miss it.”

  From the rampart high above the melee, Peisidike watched in fascinated horror as the Golden Warrior’s armor flashed in the sun. He lay waste to her countrymen one by one with such ferocity that she wanted to look away, but found she could scarcely pull her eyes from the bloodbath below. The warrior danced with his sword and shield, he reveled in the blood spraying from wicked wounds, and he challenged danger with every step as if he’d spent all his days and none remained. Peisidike had never beheld anyone as ruthless and as beautiful as that shining warrior fighting against her own people.

  “He would be preferable to my father’s choice,” she whispered to herself. She dared a small wave when she caught him scanning the wall of her city.

  From below, Achilles saw the girl … or was it a woman? He couldn’t tell from his vantage point. He surveyed the lifeless bodies encircling him on the ground—they lay in grotesque, twisted heaps, leaking blood and gore while the dry earth greedily lapped it up.

  Ajax clapped Achilles on the back. “Even covered in blood and other men’s shit, the women open their legs to you.” He pointed to the dark-haired woman high above them.

  Achilles laughed. “Perhaps, I have found a way into this fortress after all.” He removed his helm, releasing his golden braids about his shoulders. He looked with hard purpose at his admirer before walking away. A woman as brazen as that would find him, he had no doubt. It would be easy work for him.

  While Apollo’s light faded from the sky, the Myrmidon’s began settling around fires and their banked ships. Achilles sat with Patrokles as his only company at the far perimeter of his camp where the firelight met the pitch of night.

  “I see Chiron did not temper your arrogance,” Patrokles said.

  Catching a glimpse of his cousin’s amused grin in the firelight, Achilles laughed loudly. “No, he did not. I believe he sprouted tufts of grey fur over the matter.”

  Patrokles laughed. “Training you might have killed a lesser beast.”

  Achilles scoffed. “I was not the worst apprentice— Hold, did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” A small rock landed at Patrokles’ feet. “Ah.” He peered into the surrounding night. “We have company it seems.” He flashed Achilles a knowing smile.

  Achilles’ mouth curled up at the challenge. “It begins.” He stood, stretched, and walked fearlessly into the dark, straight in the direction the rock had flown. In a few long strides, he reached a cluster of boulders. He glanced back over his shoulder. The outline of his cousin’s silhouette against the campfire grew dim. “Who is there?” he asked quietly.

  A distinctly feminine voiced replied, “I am Lateke, my lord, handmaiden to the princess Peisidike.”

  Achilles stepped closer to the voice. “Was it she who watched the battle so intently from the wall?”


  “It was, my lord.”

  “Has she sent you to find me?”

  “Yes. She asks if you will meet with her, my lord.”

  Achilles crouched down, leaning a long arm against the rock. “What does she wish from me?”

  “I do not know, my lord. I only do as she commands.”

  “Tell me, Lateke, what sort of woman is your princess?”

  “She is kind, my lord, and very beautiful.”

  Achilles smiled in the dark. “Where does your lady wait?”

  “She commanded me to take you to her, if you so desired.”

  The commander of the Black Shields touched the handmaid’s shoulder, feeling the shudder of desire run through her body. He knew how to obtain what he wanted, what he needed from any female. “Your lady’s beauty cannot be denied. I would see her for myself. First, swear to the gods that you are not leading me into ambush.” His grip on her shoulder tightened. “For if you do, yours will be the first throat I open.”

  Lateke’s momentary lust gave way to fear. She swallowed hard before she could answer. “No, my lord, I swear it. The princess has taken great care that no one should know of this visit.”

  “Lead me to her then.” Within moments, the night deepened into black. The light from the Myrmidon encampment completely faded from sight.

  Before long, a voice called out of the darkness. “Lateke, I am here.” Achilles and the handmaid stopped. A shadowy form emerged against the night. “Is this the warrior I saw?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good. You may leave us. Return to the horses. Wait for me there.”

  “But, my lady, you will not be safe. I must—”

  “Linger? And do what if he should prove false? Struggle against him? No. Do as I command.”

  The handmaid quietly walked away, vanishing from sight and sound.

  Peisidike hardly had time to turn her head, before Achilles reached for her, wrapping his bare arms around her, and smashing her soft body against his. His hungry mouth found her willing lips. He could feel her recklessness, and he would use it against her to defeat his enemy. When he finally released her, she was gasping for breath. “Is that what you have come for, Princess? For my love?”