Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  As she quieted, Zeus gently said, “Pollux’s laments are daily heard. He wishes to be with his brother, side by side, as you say.” Zeus knelt before her, and the god never bent his knee. “He takes no joy in immortality.”

  Leda sobbed quietly.

  “Is that your wish, Leda? That they are united?”

  “It is.”

  Zeus stood, and in a voice booming with power said, “Cast your eyes to the stars then, daughter! Far to the north!” He waved his hand toward the heavens, and a streak of sparkling light flashed above, as the Father of the Gods set a series of flaming points into the inky black sky. “They are there!” He pointed high above them. “The Dioscuri. Gemini, they will be called. Two brothers, never to be separated again,” he looked down at the mortal weeping at his feet, “because of the tears of their mother and the pity of a god.”

  Suddenly, he disappeared in a silver mist, leaving Leda to marvel at the blinking stars.

  “My sons,” she whispered, stretching her hand out to the heavens. Fresh tears blurred her vision. “My sons.”

  TROY

  “Read this, brother,” Menelaus said, as he shoved the crumpled papyrus into Agamemnon’s hand. “That fucking bastard thinks to unseat me while I fight for his daughter’s return!” Menelaus seethed at the insult.

  Agamemnon quickly scanned the message, nodding his head, before finally tossing it onto a nearby table. “Pay it no mind, brother. What can you do? We are here, facing thousands for the geras of gold and slaves. How many summers have passed Hermione?”

  “Three.”

  “And Orestes is but a step from manhood. Do you think he will consent to marry a child? Having to wait his lifespan to bed a wife?”

  “What if Clytemnestra agrees? Tyndareus is her father after all.”

  The Great King laughed heartily at that. “You do not know Clytemnestra. She has little love for her father. She is devoted to our children.” His wife’s voice, horrified by what he’d done at Aulis, pierced the veil of his memory. Her curses, her grief, and her cry for revenge when Iphigenia’s body collapsed in the sand had surely faded by now, he hoped. She had forgiven him after he’d stormed the palace years ago, killing the usurper and his issue. “It is a minor irritation. We have more pressing concerns. We must defeat these fucking Trojans first.”

  “My lord,” Nax shook Achilles’ shoulder more vigorously. “My lord, your mother summons you.”

  Achilles slowly opened his eyes. He recognized his mother’s spy in the dark. “What is it now?”

  “She says it’s time.”

  “The moon yet hangs high above. Can she not wait until Apollo graces us with his light?”

  Shifting his feet, Nax scratched his arm nervously. “Apologies, my lord. My lady Thetis insists. She told me to say this: Your eyes shall be filled with reason.”

  Achilles sat up. “Reason, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  The Captain of the Myrmidons rose from his mat, mindless of his nudity, to don a chiton carelessly tossed across a stool. “Where is my cape?”

  Nax scrambled to pull it from a chest and handed it to Achilles.

  “I do not recall putting it in there,” he said absently, as he clasped it around his shoulders.

  “You didn’t,” Nax replied.

  Achilles smiled slightly, pulling part of the draped linen as hood over his head. “You annoy as much as Chiron, in that regard. Even worlds away, I hear his admonishments regarding my habit of letting clothes drop where they may. What are you waiting for? Take me to my mother.”

  They hurried across the camp, avoiding campfires and keeping to shadows. Nax led his master beyond the beached galleys of the Myrmidons, passed the outer edge of the camp, and around a curve of rocks. When the young servant turned north, away from the water, heading up a narrow trail of sand through sea grasses, Achilles stopped. “Hold. How much farther, Nax? Thetis is rarely far from the sea.”

  “Aye,” Nax nodded. “I know.”

  “Of course you would know.” He narrowed his eyes. “Yet, the question remains between us?”

  “The goddess only said to bring you. I’ve no knowledge of the purpose, my lord.”

  They walked on until they came to a small clearing on a high cliff overlooking the jagged rocks; the pale foam of the crashing waves below flickered silver under the moon’s glow.

  “My son,” called a sweet, familiar voice from the shadows. Thetis emerged into view, her beauty highlighted by the night’s soft light. Her dark eyes glistened with anticipation.

  “Why have you brought me so far from camp, on the eve of battle, when sleep is what I crave?”

  “What? No greeting? Does war grow old so quickly in the heart of Achilles that is sours his manners?”

  “It does neither.” Embracing his mother, he gently kissed her shining cheek. “You have my apology.”

  Thetis placed her hands on her son’s forearms. “I bring you a gift, my son.”

  “A gift that requires the cover of night? I am intrigued. Armor? Sword?”

  The nymph’s amusement rang like bells through the salty breeze. “I bring you what you desired to see for your own eyes.”

  Achilles paused. “Helen?”

  Thetis nodded. “Yes, I have made the way. With Aphrodite’s aid.” Just then, a golden light appeared behind Thetis, growing larger. Nax fell to his knees, bowing his head. Achilles remained standing. His eyes rounded in surprise as a goddess materialized from the mist. She stood taller than any woman he’d ever seen, with golden hair flowing around her like a silken curtain; her gown of finely spun gold shimmered and billowed behind her.

  “Aphrodite,” Achilles murmured, bowing his head finally.

  “You wish to see Helen for yourself?” The goddess’ voice sounded as honeyed song.

  “If it is possible, Goddess.”

  “I will make it so.” She beckoned Achilles with a long, tapering finger. “Come with me.”

  “Where do we go?”

  “To Troy.” A thick mist spread from the goddess’ fingertips, curling its way around Achilles like a serpent, surprising him by its coolness and strength. Then, he was gone.

  Nax stared after the very spot his master had been standing. “Will he come back?”

  Thetis nodded, sighing softly, “He will. His time is not yet come. You may go back to your tent. The goddess will not return him here, but to his bed in the slumber that eludes him.”

  When the mist cleared, Achilles found himself in a large chamber, the golden walls softly glowing in the dim light of oil lamps. His eyes gradually adjusted to the light. He turned, expecting to find Aphrodite, but she had vanished with the mist. Achilles surveyed the foreign room. An enormous bed, veiled with thin panels, sat in the center of the enormous space. He cautiously moved forward, not knowing if it the goddess had landed him in the dream world of vapors and visions or if he was in the world of men and flesh. As he drew nearer, he could see long, golden hair peeking from the coverlet and the rounded curve of a woman’s hip. Carefully, he parted the privacy veils and the women rolled over, facing him with eyes as green as a spring meadow.

  “Come to bed, Paris,” she murmured, and patted the pillow next to her.

  Achilles said not a word as he slid into the bed with her. She smelled of jasmine and warm sun. As she wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him close, he thought of Menelaus. A trick of the Fates to give a woman of her likeness to a fat, old man. The heat of Helen’s body pricked his desire for her. His cock swelled with lust. “Helen,” he whispered.

  “Make love to me, Paris. I must have you inside of me.” The princess’ honeyed voice washed over him, urging him to rush his pleasure.

  Achilles, realizing the goddess had lent him the visage of Paris, leaned his head down to hers, his lips brushing softly against hers. “I intend to take you slowly.” It gave him immense satisfaction to be fucking the woman Menelaus claimed and his brother, Agamemnon, strategized for. A just compensation for using my honor
to lure Iphigenia to slaughter.

  Helen moaned luxuriously. “Less words, my lover.”

  The warrior’s mouth descended on her lips, red like sweet wine, crushing them with his raging passion. He slid his hand down her side, reaching around her hips and grabbing the rounded flesh of her buttocks. Achilles’ mouth worked slowly, kissing softly, then roughly; biting her bottom lip, and then tangling his tongue with hers. When her body arched toward his, he moved his hand to her center. She spread her thighs to receive his hand, as he plunged his fingers into the wetness of her sacred cross. Breaking the bond with Helen’s mouth, he moved his lips down her neck, his warm breath raising the fine hairs all over her body. His mouth found the soft rise of her breasts, as his hot mouth covered a pale nipple. He sucked and nibbled her there until her hands grabbed his head in her ecstasy. His tongue traced a lazy trail to her other breast, the nipple already hard with want, and he sucked it like a sweet fruit as he plunged his fingers deeper and harder into her willing center. Helen’s moans grew louder, echoing into the darkness. Achilles, feeling her legs quiver, pulled his hand from her.

  She groaned out loud. “No. Do not stop.”

  “I do not intend to stop,” he growled into her ear. His lips and tongue languidly traced a path to her sacred cross. Helen squealed with delight and impatience. Achilles smiled, knowing she was close to finding her pleasure, as he slowly kissed her center, letting his tongue circle and taste her. He slid two fingers inside of her, moving smoothly with purpose. And then, licking a single finger on his other hand, he slid it slowly between her buttocks, found the tight entrance, and pressed into it. She grabbed his head between her hands and screamed her pleasure as her belly shook and her thighs pressed against his temples.

  He continued sucking her sweet flesh until she begged for his mercy.

  When her body calmed, he pressed her legs open and lay on top of her pressing his hard cock deep inside of her body. “The lion has not finished with you,” he said.

  She gasped and her eyes flew open to meet his, her mouth opening in surprise. “Your size is doubled, my lover.” Pulling his head down to hers, she kissed him deeply, moaning and sucking his tongue.

  He plunged slow and steadily, and then hard and deep, helping her build renewed desire within her center.

  “We have never soared to this,” she moaned, tugging on Achilles’ long, braided, tangled hair.

  “No, we have not,” he replied between kisses, smiling slyly, silently thanking Aphrodite. His body offered his gratitude. He fucked the wayward wife of Menelaus with all the passion of a god. A warrior. A lover. He plunged everything he was into the unwitting sacrifice beneath him. Reaching for her knees, he wrapped his arms behind them, pulling her thighs up high and thrusting himself deep inside of her, quickening his pace until Helen called out for her lover, “Paris!” Her belly quivered with her second release.

  Only then, did Achilles allow his own pleasure. His roar of ecstasy shook the bed, as his cock pulsed and danced, spilling his seed deep within Helen’s belly.

  He laid his full weight on his elbows, sheltering her, as he whispered into her ear, “We are in the world of men and flesh.”

  They both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, their bodies still joined in union.

  EIGHTEEN

  TROY

  1248 BCE

  Apollo’s light slipped between the thin seams of the tent, slowly waking Achilles from the dark, unnatural sleep. His body ached with heaviness and a sense that something was not quite as it should be. Usually, upon waking, he had a strong urge to spill his seed. However…

  He lifted the edge of his coverlet, looking down at his yet sleeping member. He laughed quietly. Yes, that was no dream. Rest. You have earned it.

  As he rose from his mat to wash the sleep from his eyes and the sweet smell of Helen from his body, a clamor outside his tent called him to attention. Without dressing, he walked outside only to bump into Patrokles who was making his way inside.

  “My lord.” Surveying the state of his cousin, Patrokles added, “It is not like you to sleep until Apollo’s light is high above, while the men clamor for word from their captain.”

  Achilles grinned.

  Patrokles sighed. “A woman?”

  “Not just any woman, cousin.”

  “You do not mean …”

  The Golden Warrior nodded. “Helen.”

  “By the balls of Zeus! How did you manage such an encounter?”

  “Only with the aid of Aphrodite.”

  Patrokles shook his head disbelievingly. “It is a tale worth hearing for another time, my lord. As you can see, the men are in a foul mood.”

  Achilles crossed his arms across his chest. “What is the cause?”

  “May I suggest, my lord cousin, you dress before we discuss the politics of a mutiny?”

  “Advice I will heed, counselor.”

  “By the gods, he takes advice without argument for once.”

  While Achilles donned his armor, Patrokles surveyed the tent, expecting to find evidence of the night’s affairs. “How did you manage the events of last night? No coverlets tossed about, no wine bowls scattered … It is far too … untouched.”

  “I did not take the whore in my tent, cousin. The goddess took me in a mist to Troy.”

  Patrokles’ jaw dropped. “You were inside the city?”

  “I was.” Achilles sat on a stool. “Nax!” The young servant appeared almost instantly. “Where are my sandals? My greaves? They are not―”

  Nax was already heading straight to a large chest and pulling the requested footwear. “My lord, they are here.”

  Achilles let out an exasperated sigh as he took them from Nax. “Again, you remind me of Chiron.”

  Patrokles’ slapped his thigh in amusement. “The great warrior cannot keep track of his garments. Some things never change, my lord cousin.”

  Annoyed, Achilles asked, “What of the men, Patrokles? Tell me what they clamor for.”

  “The unrest did not begin in your camp, my lord, but from across the other hosts. Men tire of fighting and long for home. Many have not gathered the geras that were promised. After the years spent fighting already, taking cities that were not Troy, and with the expectation of a long siege against the city now that we are here, many have been whispering of their desire to return home, to take meals with their families and fuck their wives.”

  “And whispers soon turned to talk of mutiny,” Achilles said matter-of-factly, as he donned his great crested helm.

  “Aye, that is the way of it.”

  Achilles reached for a bowl of wine, emptied the vessel, and threw it into the sandy floor. “We will address the men, then.” He strode from his tent, armored like a god, fierce and terrible.

  From across the camps cheers praising Achilles filled the air, drowning out the crashing surf. Agamemnon scowled into his wine cup. “That fucking Phthian.”

  Palamedes stood silently by, as his king cursed Achilles and Menelaus.

  “What do I care if my brother is a cuckold on a throne? He has Sparta! Fucking Sparta! At every turn, the gods bend me over a bench. I tire of this humiliation! Before I can address the army, I find Achilles has already done so. No wonder they turn to him for inspiration.” Agamemnon’s irritation at the morning’s events fueled his hatred of the Myrmidon captain. In one smooth stroke, he swept his cup and a plate of figs and cheese to the floor. “Who is commanding this fucking army, Palamedes?” he bellowed.

  “My lord, you are,” Palamedes finally spoke.

  “Call my captains to the table. We must settle the strategy for our next encounter with the allied Trojan hosts.”

  “Yes, my lord. And if I may speak?”

  “Are the words sweet or bitter?”

  Sighing, Palamedes shrugged his thin shoulders. “Bitter, I’m afraid.” He began collecting the figs from the carpeted floor.

  Agamemnon leaned against the wooden table, his weariness and frustration etching every line of his fac
e. “I have paid a heavy price to the gods for my offenses. What more can there be?”

  “King Telephus set sail for Tenedos at Apollo’s ascent. He will return, with his fleet … but, before he left, he declared to Achilles he would return and fight for Troy.”

  “I expected as much.”

  Palamedes, speaking above his station, said, “Achilles should have killed him. I would have.”

  “That is because you are loyal. That is why I trust you.” Agamemnon recalled very clearly just how loyal his servant was. It had been Palamedes who’d completed the sacrifice at Aulis after Achilles tried to prevent it. It had also been Palamedes who’d taken Odysseus’ son and placed the babe in front of the plow.

  “I am grateful, my lord. I will call the captains to the war tent.”

  When the leaders of the allied hosts of Greece sat around the great table, there was scarce room for them all. Agamemnon, in his high-backed chair, was flanked by Menelaus on his right and old Nestor, now a trusted advisor, on his left. Around the table the other kings and princes took their places. Odysseus, with his purple cloak fastened beneath his chin, slyly watched the others converse over the rim of his wine cup. Ajax of Salamis reclined against his chair, his hulking form sprawled out, pretending he had no care that a great battle was at hand. Ajax of Locris drank his wine with great gusto, splashing it about as he cursed the Trojans. The youngest captain, Diomedes, boasted his accomplishments and the deeds he had yet to achieve. And Idomeneus, rugged and silvered with age, yet still one of the most feared spearmen of the assembled armies, sat with his great weapon leaning against his chair. They all drank and ate cheese-stuffed dates and figs and rounds of freshly baked bread from platters as they waited for the one man they believed could bring them certain victory.