Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  The physician eyed his inquisitor closely. “He is doubtless among them.” He pointed toward the center of the camp. “I would see to the surgeries.” He glanced down at the boy. “Better to leave him here.”

  “We are searching for his father. Whatever truth there is, he must know it,” the king said gravely. He touched his thigh where his own wound throbbed dully beneath the binding.

  The physician pursed his lips and shook his head. “If that is what you wish.”

  “It is.”

  “Follow me.”

  They walked down several rows of wounded being treated in tented communities, some sitting while others lay abed, some talking quietly while others stared at nothing, the drone of agonized moaning inescapable. The boy’s hand clung ever tightly to the king’s, so much so his fingers whitened. Soon, they came upon a physician hunched intently over a gory mess of a patient’s chest, his blue robe smeared with old and new blood, feces and vomit, and his shaved head sweaty and smudged with dirt and soot. The physician straightened and wiped his brow with his tunic sleeve.

  “Eurypylus,” the king said.

  Recognizing the voice, the man turned around and smiled grimly. “Father, I did not expect you here. This is a dreadful place.” He eyed the boy wedging himself firmly against his father’s side. “And who is this young fellow?”

  The physician who directed them to the prince immediately bowed and scraped his apologies. “Forgive me, my lord. I did not know. Your clothes … I thought—”

  “Peace, master healer. I did not intend for you to know who I was. I would have announced my arrival otherwise.” Realizing he hadn’t asked his small companion’s name, King Telephus looked down at the boy pressed to his hip. “Go on, tell us your name.”

  In a voice hoarse with fear and grief, he said, “My mother called me Valparun.”

  “There is a foreign name,” the prince said.

  Valparun wrinkled his nose at the prince. “My mother came from across the sea. Father traded for her. Married her before I was born. It is a good name.”

  “Aye, so it is, Valparun. So it is. Father, what are you doing among the wounded and the dying? You should be resting your injury.”

  “I cannot rest while my city is under siege.”

  “Understandable. But I am curious about your guest here.”

  “Valparun is searching for his father. He did not return from the battle. His mother was lost in a raid. Can you direct us through the camp?”

  “Certainly. Tell me, Valparun, what did your father do in the army? What weapons did he carry? What is his name?”

  The boy straightened with pride. “He had a mighty sword.” He raised his hand over his head. “The blade was this long. Korei. He is called Korei.”

  Eurypylus shot a concerned look at the king. “He would have seen heavy fighting with a sword like that. Come, I will take you to the infantry camp. I must warn you, Father, many of the wounded are gravely ill and hover at the Gates of Hades.”

  “We will know the truth if Valparun wishes to continue.”

  The young boy set his chin square. “I will find my father.”

  The prince led them through a maze of platforms and makeshift beds, down paths slick with blood and dirt. Fat, hungry flies buzzed around their heads and over the soiled bandages of the wounded. Every breath of air, rank with the bitterness of fouled blood, stung their nostrils and their eyes. The God of Death spread his wings wide above them, taking men with a final sigh or cough as they passed into the next life.

  Valparun, his brow furrowed in dismay, asked the king, “What if my father …”

  “We will find him,” the king assured the boy. He hoped they’d find him alive, wounded most likely, but still on this side of the living. If anything could motivate a man to fight for breath it would be the sight of his son’s face.

  Prince Eurypylus stopped and bent down to talk directly to the boy. “Valparun, you will have to look over each body in this tented quarter if you wish to find your father. Many of the men brought here could not speak, or have yet to awake fully. Can you do that?” The young boy nodded. “Good.”

  Valparun walked by each man, fearing and hoping that he would find his father. The warriors lay wounded, moaning pitifully or in agonized silence. His young eyes took in the bloody gashes, the bodies lying strangely askew missing limbs, faces mutilated by slashing blows taking ears, marring cheeks, or slicing through eye sockets. His stomach churned sourly with his desperate search. Nearing the end of a particularly long row, he stopped suddenly, dropping his hand from the king’s. A sword, leaning against a low cot, caught his attention. It was covered in the filth of battle. He cautiously moved forward. He reached for the hilt, his hand wiping the mud from the pommel. Tears filled his eyes. He knew this sword; the blue stone crowning the pommel was his father’s for certain. He knew the forged weapon, but didn’t recognize the man it was lying next to at all. The warrior’s face was swollen and bloody. He had deep wounds to his shoulder and chest that had yet to be cleaned and dressed.

  King Telephus’ hand again went to his own leg, placing pressure on the dull ache, hoping the pain would subside. “Is this your father, Valparun?”

  “It is his sword, but his face … I don’t know. I hope … but no …”

  The king placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulders. “A warrior is rarely without his sword.” He hollered across the small makeshift aisle at another physician. “Does this sword belong to this man?” He indicated the body in front of them.

  “That one? Yes, it was gripped in his palm when they brought him here this morning. That blade would be his.”

  Valparun inched closer to the unmoving man. Taking in his grievous wounds, the boy reached trembling fingers to touch the warrior’s bloody hand hanging over the edge of the makeshift bed. He moved closer and stared down into the battered face, eyes swollen shut. “Father,” he whispered hoarsely. “Father? Is that you?” His small voice was choked with tears.

  The wounded man stirred from the depths of his agony, a low moan escaping his parched lips. Valparun wiped the tears from his eyes on the back of his grimy hand. The man moaned once more, a single word slipping from his lips, “Son.”

  Valparun’s face twisted with relief, his tears falling freely now. He didn’t care who saw him weeping like a girl child. He turned to find the king and the physician prince looking down at him. “Will my father recover?”

  The king smiled, sadly but with hope. “I will see to it that your father returns to you, young Valparun. You are brave to have made this journey alone to find him. Eurypylus, see that his father is moved to a private chamber within the palace. And send a physician to tend him until he is fully healed.”

  “As you wish,” the prince replied. Eurypylus then excused himself to carry out his father’s bidding.

  “Now, young man, you will have to be strong for your father. He will suffer much as his body recovers. Can you be strong for him?” The boy nodded. “Then it shall be. Come, I will take you ahead of your father to the palace. You will have to live there and help care for him.” Valparun’s smile told the king all that words could not.

  King Telephus stood on his balcony overlooking the city. The golden glow of fires and lanterns dotted the landscape below. He knew many of his people would suffer through the night from hunger or cold, and from the general agonies of war. His own leg continued to worsen. The wound oozed a mucky darkness mingled with his blood, forcing him to change the dressing several times to keep from fouling his tunic and robe. He sighed, thinking about the boy and his father. War always exacted a heavy toll whether it was survival or death. He wondered if he could rally the army to victory against the enemy. Will the western invaders abandon their efforts before we are decimated as Methymna was? Every word relayed to him of these marauders spoke only of their ruthless determination to conquer and establish supply lines stretching back across the Aegean to their western kingdoms in the uncivilized lands of Greece. A knock at his cham
ber door pulled him from his thoughts. “Enter.”

  The prince entered, followed closely by a man in dark robes with silver chains around his neck, silver bangles hanging from his ears, and silver bells braided into his long, curled beard.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the king asked his son, suspiciously eyeing the stranger.

  “Forgive me, Father. I have taken liberty of bringing the healing seer to consult over your wound. It does not congeal as it should, despite the cleansing and herbs I have applied,” Prince Eurypylus apologized.

  “If you believe this is necessary, I will allow it.”

  “I do.”

  The seer set out a wide-rimmed, shallow, silver bowl, a vial of black liquid, and a small, sharp surgeon’s knife. He gestured to the king. “Your majesty, if you would sit so I may examine your wound.”

  King Telephus felt a shiver of premonition at the seer’s touch. The healer’s hands were cool against his hot, inflamed skin. The seer poked and prodded in and near the wound, examining the flesh from every angle. Then he took the small knife in his hand. “I will need to cut a piece of rotted flesh. It will sting for a moment.”

  “Nothing can feel worse than this,” the king replied. “Proceed.”

  The seer lifted the knife, expertly slicing a sliver of blackened flesh from the oozing wound. He placed it in the silver bowl, pouring the black liquid over the offering, then handed the prince a tied bunch of short rushes. “Eurypylus, light these.” The seer set the small torch to the black liquid. It sizzled and smoked, sending up a tall, swirling flame. The smell was acrid and filled the air with bitterness, burning their eyes. The healer watched as the flame spread in a ring of fire inside the bowl, eventually extinguishing itself in a wisp of red smoke.

  “What do you see?” King Telephus asked.

  “My king, prepare to hear the revelation. It is worse than I expected,” the healing seer said gravely.

  “Is it worse than death?” the king asked.

  “It may be.”

  The king looked to his son, then back to the seer. “What can be worse than death? You speak strangely.”

  “The only cure,” stated the seer, gazing into the fire bowl, “will be at the hands of the spear bearer.”

  King Telephus shuddered at the words. Worse than death. Even now, the vicious roar of the Golden Warrior’s attack made the hairs on his entire body stand on end. The vision of the lion on the field, hair the color of honey, long and braided, flying against the wind yet remained behind his eyes. The killer’s sword flashed in the sun as it cut through flesh and bone, leaving a wake of dead behind him. He had never before felt panic screaming through him as he had the moment he saw the golden lion level his spear at him across the sea of the dead. That he came away from the carnage intact was a miracle he thanked the gods for, and now this proclamation? The king had no desire for another bloody confrontation. “I do not even know who he is,” he finally said, keeping his fears private.

  The seer spoke the words with great heaviness, “He is called Achilles. Master of the Myrmidons.”

  “I must defeat him in battle?” the king asked, as he steadied the rising dread in his veins.

  “The signs are clear. You must gather shavings from his spear blade. The same one that wounded you.”

  The king laughed heartily. “And how do the gods suggest I request this?” He shook his head. “I do not understand how shavings from his spear will heal me.”

  “They must be mixed with healing herbs and placed directly into the wound itself. Or …”

  “Your words are ominous seer. Speak the entire tale.”

  “If you do not do this, you will die a horrible death. Your flesh will rot on the bone and your blood will curdle like sour milk within your veins.”

  King Telephus grimaced. “Sounds painful.”

  The healing seer confirmed, “It will be.”

  “Your words are more a curse than not. It appears I have no choice but to face this enemy and beg this favor. Why should he do this for me, his enemy?”

  “They are lost, my king. The gods keep the course to Troy hidden from them. Only your intervention can guide them to their destination.”

  “The gods truly test us beyond endurance,” King Telephus said, already strategizing a plan to accomplish the task before his leg worsened and his city was lost. “Leave me. Eurypylus, stay. I would speak to you.”

  Once they were alone, the king sat heavily in his chair. It was a simple, straight-backed wooden chair without ornamentation or gilded craft. It was the seat he used for reflection, facing unwelcomed truths and deciding dark fates. Now, in the deep of the night, it was the fate of Tenedos and his very life that he must save.

  Eurypylus sat across from him at the small table. He reached a hand across the space between them, touching his father’s arm, his concern clearly etched on his face. “What are you going to do?”

  “I must find a way into the camp of this Achilles. Make him hear my words.”

  “You know the lands better than any other, surely you will find this warrior-god.

  The king placed a warm hand on his son’s. “And pray to the gods he values my directions to Troy enough to exchange scrapings of his spear’s blade.”

  Achilles stared into the fire as it licked the cool night air and spiraled into the open sky. Battle and killing pulled the beast within to the surface; and afterward, when he’d washed the blood and gore away, his temper remained heated and short. The fire crackled, sending specks of red cinders into the dark. Behind him the rhythmic crashing of waves against the beach soothed his hot spirit. He stood and walked to the water’s edge where the tide washed the sand from beneath his feet. The water beckoned Achilles like a waiting lover he was powerless to deny. He lifted his tunic over his shoulders, tossing it onto a patch of sea grass.

  As the cool waters rose around his naked body, the reoccurring thought emerged; I have always had an affinity for the sea. Thoughts of his mother flickered through his mind, how he loved her even though she was almost a perfect stranger. Her voice sounded as a sweet song in his ear, her kisses miracles upon his cheeks, her touch a soothing balm. Yes, the sea is good company for me. The Golden Warrior immersed himself in the churning, dark waters frosted by silver moonlight. The cold deep surrounded him like a gentle embrace, cooling his flaming blood and temper, quieting his soul. Gratitude, sweet Mother.

  When he returned to the shore, he felt himself restored and thought of Deidamia. Her soft, willing flesh pressed against his, her kisses sweet and lingering … and then, he allowed himself to think of his son. When he held the squalling newborn in his arms, it was the first time he’d known fear. He knew that the world of mortals and gods offered brutality and roughness; it was a hard world that broke men without strong guidance. He knew that he’d be long absent from his son’s life because his fate, as his mother had revealed in the cave, would take him far from Skyros, and his spirit would be forever restless in one place. Achilles recalled the thin finger of vulnerability that had crept up his spine when he realized his son would face this mortal struggle without him as a shield against it, and he’d wondered, ‘What chance did the boy have?’ It was almost enough to make him choose a different life. Almost.

  In his very bones, he knew he was forged for battle. The night the iron-spirited Peleus and the enchanting Thetis merged, planting him within the nymph’s womb gifted him a life not wholly mortal or immortal—a life with one foot in both places belonging to neither, a destiny that would not be caged by human bonds. He would never love just one woman, devoting his life to her, pining away for her arms, like that Odysseus for his Penelope, the woman the King of Ithaka droned on about at every meal. He would never be slave to what a woman held between her legs like the bloated Menelaus. Neither would he be kept by the ties of fatherhood, for as strongly as he loved his son, the call of blood and battle was stronger. He had known standing there with the babe nestled in the crook of his arm that he’d be more absent than present
. He wasn’t birthed for domestic life, of that he was certain. Achilles hoped that as Neoptolemus grew to manhood under Peleus’ protection that his son would nurture a measure of affection toward him, as he had done for Thetis.

  The flames burned lower until only charred logs remained, glowing orange against the growing darkness. As the Myrmidon captain sat in much needed solitude, a shadow stirred in the corner of his eye. His breathing slowed; his body tensed for action. The shadow grew larger as it approached him, undeterred and with purpose.

  Achilles called out, “Patrokles, is that you?” There was no answer as the shadow slowly manifested as a man when it entered the outer ring of the dimming light of the fire.

  “I am not the person you ask for,” the stranger said.

  “My native tongue falls awkwardly from your lips. That tells me you are not from the west.” The Golden Warrior took in the man’s height, broad shoulders, and hair wrapped neatly at his neck; his bearing and manner were that of nobility. Achilles’ curiosity was piqued, yet the lion remained alert.

  The stranger spoke slowly, concentrating carefully on his words. “I come from the city. Your army fought against mine.”

  “Your army?” Achilles’ eyes narrowed in his assessment of the intruder. He wondered if he should kill him now, or draw an alert. “How can it be your army?”

  The man nodded slightly, acknowledging what the warrior was asking. “It is my army because I am the king.”

  “King Telephus.” Achilles nodded. “I have heard the name. But the man, I would not have recognized.”

  The king pulled his drab spun tunic to the side, revealing the wrapped wound that had already bled through the linen dressing. “Would you recognize the wound made by your spear?”

  “I inflicted many injuries today.”

  “I watched you hurl the shaft with the force of a god. Your spear struck like a lightning bolt, slicing cleanly into my flesh.”