King Mikares watched in horror as his only daughter was dragged into view. “What is the meaning of this? She is blameless in this war.”
The Captain of the Black Shields roared with laughter. “You surely must have angered the gods for them to curse you with a daughter such as her.”
The king’s eyes widened. He gripped the edge of the rampart. “I beg you, let her go. She is my daughter …”
His words crashed against the rock that was Achilles’ heart.
“She betrayed you, King of Methymna, because you wished her to marry against her base desires. I thank you for that command. She sought my bed as her revenge. And for that, I gained entrance to this city of yours. Do you yet wonder if I am a god?”
The king stood mute, tears rolling down his face, catching in his beard. His torn tunic hung from his slumping shoulders, his feet were bare and bloody, and his pride brutally ripped from his chest. “You are truly a ruthless man, who will see no peace in the afterlife.”
The Golden Warrior slammed his hand against the wall. “There is no peace for warriors. Not now, not in the afterlife. Not even the gods of Olympus have peace.” The men below pushed their royal captive against a stone barrier of the lower citadel. Peisidike’s mournful sobs carried on the air, filling their ears. The soldiers began picking up rocks and the king threw himself at the rampart, screaming his daughter’s name. She reached out her arms to her father, her grief breaking no hearts among the western tribes. As the rocks flew at her, she cried out in agony. The princess fell to her knees, covering her face and head with her arms, and still the rocks came at her with the ferocity of war-induced rage. It was not long before she lay still in the dust, blood pooling beneath her smashed skull.
The soldiers abandoned her mangled corpse as they would an empty feasting table. They had gorged on death and destruction enough for one day. Looting and fucking were the respite they now sought with the insatiable appetite of predators.
SEVEN
LESBOS
1250 BCE
City of Methymna
Menelaus paced the heavily carpeted floor of his brother’s tent. It secretly annoyed the King of Sparta that Achilles’ accusations against Agamemnon’s ostentatious displays of wealth were truth. Achilles had accused them both on more than one occasion, by his actions and his words, that they cared more for their royal vanity than for warfare. As his feet fell on the thick comfort of the flooring, he cursed the Golden Warrior for his observation and his brother for allowing it. Achilles’ brutal victory, sweetness for the united western armies, served only to deepen the existing animosity between the leaders of Mycenae and Sparta and the Myrmidon captain.
As Menelaus stewed in his anger, the Great King burst into the tent spewing curses, his face blotched by anger. He ranted. “By the balls of Zeus, I swear,” he bellowed. “I will rip his lips from his face and feed them to my hounds!”
Agamemnon’s spittle dampened Menelaus’ face. He wiped it without mention on his sleeve. “Let me guess, brother … Achilles once more?”
“That insolent bastard has the gall to designate the geras to the men.”
“He had that right by virtue of leading the army. And defeating the commander of Methymna. You knew this when you authorized his generalship of the battle.”
Agamemnon seethed. He growled, “He has also taken it upon his high and mighty self to designate my portion. My. Portion.”
“Certainly, he over reaches his position,” the Spartan king agreed. “Has he cheated you?”
The Great King smashed his clenched fist on the wooden table between them, sending a pile of gold and silver coins flying. “No! His generosity was publicly noted.” He roared, “They praised him. They fucking praised him for his generous gift to me. I stood in front of my army, appearing pleased, as he rammed his cock in my ass.”
Menelaus realized the reason for his brother’s fury. Agamemnon couldn’t refuse the humiliation disguised as a generous gift and risk demoralizing the troops. He hesitated, but asked, “What did he offer?”
“Women. Seven of them. All the most beautiful in the kingdom.”
“I see your dilemma. And why you could not refuse.”
“I cannot even bed all the women I have. I have more women than I need to fuck me to sleep. I will never make it home with this harem. Clytemnestra will murder me in my sleep if I dared.”
“That is the least of your concerns when you return,” Menelaus mumbled without thinking.
Agamemnon eyed his brother with disdain. “And if you had not lost your wife to another man, none of us would be here. And the death of my daughter would not have been required.” He stepped to within a breath of space between them. “If ever you bring up the sacrifice I had to make for your sake, I will rip your throat out with my bare hands myself.”
Menelaus opened his mouth in defense, as he usually did, but closed it without response. He was well acquainted with his brother’s rage, and decided against provoking it further. “My apologies, brother.”
“Leave me, Menelaus. Leave me alone for now,” the Great King said between clenched teeth.
“By your leave then,” Menelaus said, as he bowed out of the tent.
Once alone, Agamemnon sat heavily in his chair. His brother had stirred up the memories of his lovely Iphigenia against his will. In his mind, he saw her smiling sweetly in the sun, picking a basket of figs in the garden.
“Father, you cannot eat them all!”
He’d laughed. “How do you expect me to stay fat, if I do not?”
Iphigenia had smiled at him. “Father!”
The Great King’s heart had melted under the innocent gaze of his eldest daughter. He had not respected fatherhood until he’d become a father. He hadn’t realized until the day they set the tiny, wiggling girl child in his arms that he could truly love anyone. Her little fingers had reached for his, their thin grip around his tough calloused fingers had pulled forth his desire to protect her at all cost.
“It is a good match, Peleus,” he’d said when the match between Iphigenia and Achilles was brokered.
“Indeed, an alliance between Phthia and Sparta is desirable,” Peleus had agreed.
They’d drained a common bowl of sweet wine to seal their agreement. Agamemnon recalled the joy he’d felt when making the marriage arrangement for his beloved daughter. The son of Peleus was widely known for his ferocity and his beauty, and Phthia was a kingdom of renown, so his daughter would rule as queen one day of a polis worthy of her.
Then, he recalled her walking the short distance to the altar at Aulis, the joy in her eyes when her veil was lifted. He closed his eyes to the image of her horrified face when the truth had dawned on her. It had taken all his strength to hold back his grief as she lay bleeding in the sand at Palamedes’ feet. He was secretly grateful he wasn’t the one to wield the fatal blade, because he knew the moment Achilles had launched at him that his will to carry out the deed was faltering. Thankfully, Artemis had immediately released the winds. The irony that he should be warring with the very man who he should be calling son was not lost on Agamemnon. The gods truly enjoyed fucking him, he was certain.
Knaxon helped Achilles strip off his war gear. Splatters of blood and bits of gore had already dried on the polished armor, dulling its shine. “Fighting is filthy work, is it not?” the Golden Warrior said.
“It is, my lord,” Nax replied. “Shall I take the armor now? Wash it before you take your meal?”
“Bring me my wine before you go. Hunger is more easily set aside, than my thirst for wine,” Achilles said.
Nax hurried off to the ship where his master kept his stores of wine. When he returned, Achilles was already dressed in a fresh tunic, his braids dripping wet. The shoulders of the tunic were soaked through to his skin. “Would you care for a dry chiton?”
“No, but I will take that amphora.” Nax handed it to the Captain of the Black Shields. He drank deeply before setting it down on the table. Nax just stood there, rooted to
a single spot in the center of the tent. “Is there something you wish to say?”
Caught off guard, Nax blurted out the question burning in his mind. “I heard you had a woman stoned to death. In front of her father.”
“She was the Princess of Methymna. He was the king.”
“Is it true, then? What you did to her?” Nax asked, never taking his eyes from his master’s face. He had trouble reconciling the lord he knew with the stories he heard whispered around the camp, until now.
Achilles assessed the question. “You believe my action harsh?”
Nax shrugged his shoulders. “What did she do?”
“She betrayed her city.”
The young man picked up the cuirass and greaves. “I hear we sail for Troy within the day.”
Achilles reached a hand to clap Nax on the shoulder. “True. Our supplies have been secured.”
Nax left the tent without another word. MYSIA
EIGHT
1249 BCE
City of Tenedos
The gathered generals stared at each other across the table, each lost in private thought, draining cup after cup of cinnamon spiced wine. Odysseus was the first to break the long silence. “It was likely the storm that blew the fleet off course, landing us here in Mysia and not Troy.” He reached for a hunk of goat cheese and tore a piece of soft bread from a freshly baked round. “We cannot be far off.”
Ajax scoffed at the ruined attempt at invasion of the famed walled city of Priam. “The Trojans will know we come for them. Our advantage is lost. They will be tightly packed behind the city gates by the time we arrive. If we ever arrive at this pace.”
“The gods seem displeased by your efforts. Perhaps our Great King can enlighten us as to why we are thwarted so far into our journey?” Achilles goaded Agamemnon over his wine, the rim of his cup poorly concealing the curve of his upper lip.
Agamemnon wished Achilles had maintained his usual absence at the general’s table after the day’s fighting. He supposed the Golden Warrior couldn’t resist an opportunity to gloat at his misfortune. The battle was far from a disaster; however, as they’d nearly taken the city after a single day’s fighting. It was the fact, learned too late, that it wasn’t Troy they warred against, but a more southern kingdom, the sister city of Tenedos. “Odysseus has hit the mark. The winds must have been stronger than we supposed. The gods delay us for their own purpose. We are not privilege to their plans.”
“Still,” Achilles continued, “have you not wondered what the gods have planned by allowing such miscalculation on your part? I wonder how much faith they wish to erode from your men regarding your leadership.”
The generals turned to Agamemnon as he slowly set his cup on the table. It was no secret that the Great King and Achilles had little affection or respect for each other. But they all wondered, secretly, if one wouldn’t kill the other over some hospitality slight. The Mycenaean king expected Achilles’ deference, and Achilles refused to bend a knee in the Great King’s direction. And who would make Achilles bend, except a god? No, none would dare command the Golden Warrior to do anything and expect obedience. He did as he pleased, regardless of protocol or expectation. Where Achilles was concerned, it was best to let him proceed as he saw fit.
Some had questioned, in the beginning, if Achilles was truly as mighty as his future foretold, for he’d spent many years training with only Chiron, and his reputation as a lover far outreached any word of his military prowess. But during the first incursion, in the bloody fury of battle, he’d proven without doubt that he held no equal. Not even the crazed Diomedes, with his flame throwing shield granted by will of the gods, would dare to challenge Achilles. No, to challenge Achilles was to ask Death for death.
The Great King rose from his seat at the head of the table. “The great Achilles has spoken. As usual his words would attempt to lead us into dissention. But, my fellow comrades in arms, we will continue to push forward as a united army, the tribes of the west under one banner intent on destroying Troy for honor and glory … and treasure.” He signaled for fresh wine. “I have kept the best for last.” The servants scurried to fill all the empty wine cups. Agamemnon raised his drink to toast the gathered generals. “To your future success and glory against Troy.”
Each man drank deeply, save Achilles for he knew that to drink to Troy’s destruction was to drink to his death, and that he refused to do.
He muttered to Patrokles, “Only a fool serves his best wine last, when the tongue can no longer taste the quality of grape.”
Word of the rampaging invaders from the far west had reached the city of Tenedos before the foreign army landed their swift-oared ships on their beaches. The initial battle had not gone as King Telephus had planned. The western Greeks had ravaged the countryside, looting and torching everything in their path to the ground before they even reached the city. The destruction they wreaked on the countryside gave birth to fear in the hearts of his people. Survivors flocked ahead of the marauders to the city, which now overflowed with hungry old men, women, and children, and the newly organized defense. King Telephus knew the supplies and resources necessary to sustain the burgeoning population surpassed what was stored within his city. He held no hope of surviving an extended siege by the ravenous enemy at the gate.
“Your majesty, if you would please hold still. Your leg. I cannot dress it properly if you continue moving,” the physician said, sternly.
The king stilled his aching thigh. “It seems but a scratch. Why does it pain so much?”
The physician called for fresh water and linens. “The wound festers. It should not be so foul so soon.”
“Foul? I was just from battle but this morning,” the king said, annoyed. “I have a city to attend. Wrap it and leave it be. It will heal.”
“I beg pardon, your majesty, but are you skilled in the arts of healing?”
King Telephus turned his head to meet the dark gaze of Eurypylus. “If you were not my own son, I would flog you for your insolence.”
Eurypylus smiled. “Good that I am. You cannot flog the heir to your throne.”
“I promise I will seek your aid before evening meal.”
“Do as you will, Father. Do not blame the physician if your leg should give way beneath you.”
King Telephus grimaced as he stood, favoring his good leg. “There are others who have need of your skills more than I. Attend them.”
Eurypylus wadded up the spoiled linen. “Are the invaders as fearsome as they say?”
“I have never faced an army quite like these westerners. Wild. Ruthless. Fearless,” he sighed, disheartened. “And there is one among them, the one who gave me this,” he pointed to his thigh, “he moves as a god. His spear was balanced and true with every cast. He pressed through the battle, leaving a wake of dead men behind him.”
“You did not die. The gods must favor you.”
“We shall see,” the king said, somberly. “The war is not over yet.”
The dull ache in his leg plagued him as he walked the stone-lined corridors. He kept to the smaller passageways, making his way to the king’s hidden door. Waiting for him was the silent servant in grey. The man stood at his sudden appearance, nodded his deference, and helped the king disrobe from his gold threaded overcoat of blues and greens and soft under tunic of the purest white. The silent servant slipped a dingy and frayed tunic over his king’s head, and slipped a drab-colored coat over it, pulling a cowl up over his majesty’s head. He nodded again in deference, and opened a small door. King Telephus turned sideways, exiting through the narrow threshold, slipping out into the street.
The king shielded his face from the late afternoon sun as he surveyed his surroundings. The street was brimming with people. The king pushed his way through the throng of refugees, noting the numbers of women and children wandering aimlessly without destination with their belongings strapped to their backs or in small carts.
This will not do, he thought. His tunic snagged, and he turned to find a youn
g boy with large brown eyes staring up at him.
“Can you help me find my father?” the boy asked.
The king smiled, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s head. “Where did your father go?”
“He fought for King Telephus this morning. We can’t find him. There are so many people now. My mother fears he has fallen …”
“Have you searched the healing camp where the wounded are taken?” The king looked gravely at the boy. “Where is your mother?”
The boy cast his gaze at the hard-packed dirt street; when he lifted it up again, his eyes were filled with unshed tears. “My mother was killed by the invaders before they reached the plain. They torched our farm, killed our sheep. Stole the only horse we had. My father went to fight for the king’s army when the heralds came. If he’s fallen, then I have no one. I have nothing.”
Compassion for the boy sparked within the king’s heart. He refused to let his people suffer at the hands of these marauders. They attacked unprovoked like a plague of locusts swarming through their lands, destroying everything in their path. He took the boy’s hand. “Come, I will help you find your father.” They walked through the overcrowded maze of streets, through the bitter smelling butchers’ alley, the bakers’ shops, and the shaded markets of the farmers selling sun-ripened fruits and tangy herbs. They pushed passed the workshops of blacksmiths and armories. As they neared the newly erected encampment housing the wounded, the crowds thinned. “If your father has fallen,” he told the boy, “then he is here among these tents.”
Physicians with their shaved heads and short robes moved purposefully through the healing quarter, tending to the injuries of hundreds of men. The boy gripped the king’s hand with increasing fear. It was a gruesome sight to behold, all the blood and gore muddying the ground, fouling the air with the bitter smell of iron and vomit. “Do not be afraid,” the king said, reassuring the boy. The king grabbed the arm of a physician as the man brushed by them. “Where is Prince Eurypylus?”
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 6
