Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  She made no attempt to pull away from him. “I wished to know what sort of man you are. If you truly are a god as they say in my city.”

  Achilles threaded his fingers through her curled hair, clutching a handful. He gently tugged her head back, forcing her to look at him. “I am a god among men, beauty.”

  “Prove your worthiness,” she whispered desperately.

  He wasted no time pulling her down into the dry grass and sand. His mouth found her ears, and then traveled down the side of her neck before it sought the narrow space between her breasts. Her hands clasped his head, urging him lower. He kissed her quivering belly through her gown. She squirmed beneath Achilles’ experienced touch. “Could you love a man such as I? Calloused by war?”

  “Yes …”

  Achilles pushed her gown up over her hips and lay between her spread legs. The princess clawed his back and shoulders, kissing him wildly. “You are no innocent,” he laughed, aroused by her roughness. He lifted his chiton, pressing his nakedness against her and took her in that moment, hard and quick. When her legs wrapped around him, and her body trembled beneath his, he drove his need deep into her belly.

  Moments later they both lay exhausted, staring up at the endless stars pricking the sky with points of light. “You are satisfied, Princess?”

  She kissed his shoulder. “More than you know.”

  “Is your husband so poor a lover?”

  Peisidike laughed. “I have no husband, yet.”

  “You are betrothed?”

  “I am to marry the commander of my father’s army.”

  Achilles’ words were calculating and deliberate, like a lion stalking a fat gazelle through tall dry grass. “If we were not at war, I would make you my queen.”

  The princess raised herself on her elbow. “You are a king?”

  Achilles could hear the greed in her voice. “I am the Prince of Phthia. One day, I will sit as king.” A lie, he knew, but this was war.

  “If only you were Hypsipylos. I would marry without hesitation.”

  Pulling the princess closer, he kissed her hair. “If we win this battle … I could, perhaps, take a foreign princess to wife.”

  Peisidike clapped her hands gleefully. “You would marry me?”

  The lion crouched for the kill. “I would … but first I must win this war. The city is tightly defended. The gate holds fast. The walls are too high. If I could but discover a way to take the gates …”

  The princess whispered eagerly, “I could help you, if your intentions are honorable.”

  “Do not doubt me, Peisidike. What man could refuse your beauty, my princess?” He kissed her gently on the mouth.

  “I could open the gate from inside,” she offered.

  “You would do such a thing, for my hand in marriage?”

  “I would.”

  “Your love for me is strong enough to withstand the abuse you will take at aiding the enemy?”

  “I will be your wife. Your queen. It will not matter what any of Methymna say.”

  “So be it. If you help me capture the city, I will claim you as my own.”

  Peisidike felt the heat rise up her neck and stain her cheeks. “I-I do not even know your name.”

  “Achilles.”

  “Do you have a plan, Achilles?” the princess asked.

  “Listen for the call to arms after Apollo rises to his peak. When you see me and my men advancing, make sure the gates can be breached.”

  Peisidike blushed. “I will do as you ask, Achilles. My husband.”

  He kissed her one last time before he stood up, lifting her to her feet as he rose. “You should go before your maid begins to worry. Now, off with you, Princess.” He watched her blend into the night like a ghost.

  When Achilles finally reappeared at his campfire post, it was all but deserted, the men lost to their dreams of geras and women. He found Patrokles waiting patiently. “I thought you would have been long ago to bed.”

  His cousin stabbed at the fire with a long stick. “And miss the tale you have to tell?” He looked up suddenly. “By the balls of Zeus, this is a tale worth hearing, is it not? Otherwise, I have lost sleep for nothing.”

  Achilles clapped his thighs, laughing heartily into the air. He plopped lightly into the soft sand just beyond the light of the dying flames. “I have secured our entrance to the city.”

  Patrokles nodded. “Now, my lord cousin, tell me the story from beginning to end. War is a hungry business.”

  Achilles donned his golden helm, securing his black cape over his shoulder as he pushed through the tent flap into the damp morning light. Patches of mist lingered throughout the camp like the breath of a god. He’d sent a messenger late last night, at Patrokles’ urging, to the fat king requesting a meeting of the generals at first light. Now that the dawn had arrived, he wished he’d ignored his cousin’s caution regarding protocol and had just slipped away with his Myrmidons and marched directly to the Methymnaan gates.

  He scanned the camp from his tent. It remained quiet; a few fires burned here and there with embers from the previous night. The Golden Warrior scanned the camp of his Black Shields. All good men, he thought. How many will return to Phthia after my death at Troy?

  “Pardon, my lord, but you’re up before I’ve secured your morning meal,” Knaxon said behind him.

  Achilles turned. “My mother’s eyes and ears.”

  “I am that, my lord.”

  The commander waved him off. “Facing the fat king steals my appetite. You need not concern yourself regarding food. Wine. Perhaps wine would suit me.”

  “My lord, forgive me, but it’s early … wine may sour your stomach without bread.”

  “Do as I request. Fetch me wine.”

  Knaxon disappeared inside the tent and reappeared with a cup brimming with red nectar.

  After draining it, Achilles tossed the empty vessel into the sand. “War is a thirsty business.”

  “Is that my lord cousin? Up so early?!”

  Achilles laughed. “You decided to accompany me after all?”

  Patrokles, his black helmet nestled in the crook of his arm, his black cape hanging over his shoulder, sweeping the sand as he walked, replied, “I know the pleasure you derive in the presence of the Great King.”

  “Let us get this over with so the battle can begin,” Achilles said. “Nax, have my horse readied. We ride for Methymna when I return.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the young man answered, rushing to do his master’s bidding.

  As Achilles and Patrokles made their way through the Myrmidon camp to Agamemnon’s, men were beginning to wake. When they caught sight of the Golden Warrior, they waved and greeted him as they would a king. They bowed their heads in awe and fear; the rumor of his short temper and god-like prowess had been proven early in the journey. None dared contradict him, none except Agamemnon, who pushed and pulled rank and diplomacy to control the beast that was Achilles. “You are unusually quiet, cousin,” Achilles said, dryly.

  Patrokles cast his cousin a grim look from the side. “I beg you to reconsider your judgment of the girl.”

  Achilles spun, his elbow knocking Patrokles momentarily off balance. “The true reason for your company now emerges to light. My mind is set. We share a grandfather’s bloodline. In that regard, we are the same, but do not forget,” he leaned his helmed face close to his cousin’s, “which between us is prince and commander.”

  “So be it,” Patrokles hissed between clenched teeth, his lips a tight line of restraint. They walked the remaining distance through the Mycenaean camp without words passing between them, each hardly acknowledging the other until they reached Agamemnon’s pavilion at the center of the western encampment.

  Agamemnon’s guards stood menacingly on either side of the entrance like Egyptian sphinxes. Mute. Motionless. The signature deep red of Agamemnon’s house, the shade of old blood, draped across their shoulders and across their polished bronze and leather cuirasses. A black ridge of horse hair cres
ted each bronze helmet. The polished metal caught Apollo’s light, reflecting like gold when the pale rays pierced through the grim overcast of morning. As Achilles and Patrokles approached, the guards crossed their heavy ash hewn spears, blocking them.

  “Stand aside,” Achilles commanded gruffly, annoyed at the display of status.

  The guards considered Achilles, but made no effort to move. One spoke, “You must wait until the Great King summons you.”

  “I did not come all this way to be denied audience. You tell your king that Achilles waits for no man. He can see me now, or not at all. I care not.” He sneered, catching Patrokles’ glance from the side. “Fucking Mycenaeans.”

  The silent guard slipped quickly into the narrow opening, and after harsh cursing from within, reappeared moments later. “The king will see you.”

  The Prince of Phthia shouldered passed both of the king’s guards and stepped into the bright lamp light within the palatial tent of Agamemnon.

  “Greetings, Achilles,” the Great King said, his voice rough from his sudden rising.

  “We are on the eve of battle, and you lay about on your furs and blankets,” Achilles sneered, making no attempt to hide his disgust of the Mycenaean general.

  “You cannot goad my ire this day. Come, let us not argue about the mundane. You sent word in the night that you had secured passage through the gate. Since you are not a man to speak lightly of warfare, I assume you are prepared to share your great strategy with the rest of us.” A half-dressed woman appeared with drink and fresh, hot bread heaped on a silver tray. She offered the guests cups and filled them to brimming with sweet, dark wine.

  Achilles and Patrokles both drained their cups and ate a loaf of bread between them. The hospitality meal satisfied their hunger, and sated the rage of Achilles, whose smile flashed brightly. “The gates will be opened from within.”

  Agamemnon coughed into his wine. “From inside the city? By the balls of Zeus, how did you manage such an arrangement?”

  The Golden Warrior grinned widely. “By the balls of Achilles.”

  “Has your arrogance no boundaries?”

  Achilles’ façade of good humor slipped from his face. An image of Iphigenia’s pale neck opening like a bloody mouth flickered behind his eyes like a silver flame. Hatred burned the back of his throat, bittering his tongue. In that moment, all Patrokles’ admonishments for deference in the Great King’s presence evaporated in the heat of his rage. “You fucking Mycenaean!” Achilles roared, reaching for his sword. Quick as lightening, Patrokles flew to his cousin’s side, gripping with iron strength the hand that itched to cleave Agamemnon’s head from its shoulders. The guards rushed into the center of the tent with weapons drawn and readied, followed by a half dozen others surrounding Achilles and Patrokles.

  “Do you intend to fight your way from my tent?”

  Achilles’ eyes narrowed to mere slits, his jaw clicked tight. Relaxing the grip on his hilt, he slid the partially drawn blade back into its leather scabbard with a metallic click. “We march after the men have broken their fast. You and yours can follow my Myrmidons, if you are able.”

  He turned on his heel, leaving Agamemnon standing mouth agape, mindless of the armed men ready to protect the fat king as he pushed passed them and into Apollo’s light.

  The battle cry, a thunderous roar of thousands, carried on the wind, warning the people of Methymna that death was coming for them. Those seeking safety within the city walls waited far from the gore upon the ramparts. From high above, fear gripped their bones and souls as they watched the soldiers with Black Shields move through their army like a plague. It was impossible to ignore the warrior-god, standing tall among his men, gleaming golden and ferocious in Apollo’s light. His menacing sword slashed flesh and cracked bones and split heads with every stroke; behind him, bodies fell like broken flowers crushed by a beast in the field. As the western tribes lay waste to the Methymnaan army, the princess pulled the pin from the knot holding the gate’s massive latch in place. The devastation could now consume the city for lust and gold and geras untold.

  Achilles stood amidst the carnage, blood dripping from his arms and face, as his eyes locked on the commander of the enemy. He watched as Hypsipylos smashed his blade and rammed his shield against his foes; he stood almost as tall as Achilles and almost as broad.

  A worthy opponent and a good day for the Methymnaan commander to die. The Golden Warrior’s roar rose above the din of battle and Hypsipylos turned, knowing instinctively who challenged him in mutual combat. He plunged his sword deep into an invader’s chest, pulled it free with fresh blood dripping down the blade, and bore down on Achilles like an enraged bull catching the scent of an enemy afield.

  The mighty warriors clashed. Shield against shield, blade against blade, Achilles and Hypsipylos unleashed their fury on each other. Dust clouded around them like a swirling storm. The harsh scraping of metal on metal sang through the air. Citizens from above watched in fascinated horror, while men on the battlefield ceased their fighting and circled the combating champions. The warrior-god of the west arched his sword in a flash of silver, smashing the pommel into Hypsipylos’ cheek. The Methymnaan hero stumbled back, dropping his shield guard momentarily. Achilles, lunging forward, used his shield as a battering ram and smashed its edge into Hypsipylos’ shoulder. The dark hero’s sword arm faltered with the blow. Achilles moved in for the kill with the strength and skill of a lion.

  At last Achilles’ blade, glinting cruelly in Apollo’s light, caught the enemy’s exposed chest and slashed ferociously through Hypsipylos’ armor. The gash split his chest open, spilling his guts and blood on the ground. The commander of the Methymnaan army fell hard on his knees in the dirt, kneeling awkwardly at Achilles’ feet. He gasped as dark red blood oozed from the corners of his mouth down his chin and neck. “My city … Peisidike …”

  Achilles sneered down at the dying commander. “That whore gave up your city.”

  “No …” He grimaced, stiffened, and then fell over, blood still welling up from his throat and spilling through his open mouth. His dead eyes stared at nothing.

  A mighty cheer rose among the united Greeks. The enemy turned to retreat, finding escape impossible. Achilles wiped the muck of blood and dirt from his blade. The fighting left his throat parched, so he spat. The bodies of his enemy lay heaped around him. The entire city lay slaughtered and scattered in the dust.

  The Myrmidon captain signaled one of his Black Shields. “You are Hesperos, are you not?” He caught the soldier’s broad grin beneath the bloody nose guard. “Tell me, Hesperos, is there fight left in your blood?”

  Hesperos straightened to his full height. “Yes, my lord.”

  Achilles nodded. “Good. Take three of the best Myrmidons you know into the palace. Find the princess, Peisidike. Tell her I am waiting for her, and then bring her to me at the tall gate. Spread the word to gather the armor of the dead as well.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The soldier rushed to do his commander’s bidding.

  Finding a fountain, Achilles washed the blood and dirt from his face and hands. A breeze stirred the dust at his feet. He recalled the sacrifice at Aulis, and Patrokles’ words the night before.

  “Reconsider, my lord cousin, for such gruesome measures doled out by the hands of men rarely go unpunished by the gods,” Patrokles had said.

  He’d spat out the taste of Peisidike into the dying flames. “Fuck the gods and what they desire.” He’d told himself that his plan was justified, that betrayal deserved the penalty of death.

  “My lord.” Hesperos’ greeting jolted Achilles back to the recent carnage. In the midst of a dozen soldiers, a tearful and disheveled Peisidike stood utterly confused. Her pale green gown, embroidered with silver stars and moons, was torn and smudged with grime; the left shoulder was unclasped, shamefully exposing her bare breast.

  When the princess caught sight of Achilles, she wrenched from her captor’s grasp and threw herself into his stiff arms. “I tho
ught you had forgotten me,” she cried desperately into his chest, the blood of war smearing her dirty cheek. Achilles didn’t respond with loving words of comfort, but instead remained as unmoved as a rock. “My lord? Why such a cold and distant greeting? Have we not a promise between us?”

  “There are no binding promises between us, traitor of Methymna.” Achilles took her hand roughly and placed it on his cock. “What would I want with a woman who sacrificed a thousand men for a rigorous fuck?”

  Peisidike’s mouth fell open as she screamed her disbelief, “You promised! I did all for love!”

  Achilles slapped her face, leaving a stinging angry welt across her cheek. “I uttered words you wished to hear. Your lust was satisfied, and now, so too is mine. Wait for my signal from atop the wall,” he said to his men, as he made for the palace to confront King Mikares. Achilles caught Patrokles’ angry departure out of the corner of his eye. His cousin had warned him against carrying out the brutal act he had planned, but he refused Patrokles’ council, calling his cousin’s words weak and womanly. This was nothing like Iphigenia’s end, he had argued angrily. Agamemnon’s daughter was an innocent, Peisidike a traitorous whore.

  The Myrmidon commander waited for the king to be escorted to the rampart high above the carnage of the city below. Dead bodies littered the ground. Red gore pooled beneath them. “Have you questioned, Great King Mikares, how we gained access to such a fortress as this?”

  King Mikares, stripped of his fine robes and jewels, stared down at the butchery in silence, his eyes sunken and desperate for his people.

  The victorious commander whispered in his ear, “You were betrayed.”

  The king broke from his stupor, shaking his head. “I refuse to believe any words falling from your wretched lips.”

  Achilles leaned over the wall and signaled the princess to be brought forward. “Behold the conspirator who gave up your precious city.”