Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  A new slave came to pour his cup. He missed Palamedes’ ability to anticipate his needs and wants. He scowled into his wine. Even if he could prove Odysseus masterminded the entire affair, his hands were tied. He couldn’t risk a mutiny this far into the journey. He would let Palamedes’ father return home. There was nothing the old man could do to any of them, as long as he wasn’t in Troy to stir up trouble.

  TWENTY FOUR

  PHTHIA

  1246 BCE

  A shaft of moonlight shone through the narrow window, illuminating the floor with a thin pool of silver. The paleness was the one bright spot spilling into the surrounding darkness of the room. The boy twitched in his sleep, his eyes flickering wildly beneath closed lids. Flashes of a city, a great city, set high upon a hill … burning to the ground. Flames licked the sky, as columns of black smoke filled the air and grey ash fell like rain. The mournful sound of wailing and screaming filled his ears. The boy screamed and screamed …

  “Neo! Neoptolemus, wake up!” Deidamia shook her young son’s shoulders until his groggy eyes focused on hers. “You are dreaming again,” she whispered soothingly into his ear.

  The boy reached for his mother in the dark. “I saw it again. The city on fire.”

  “Shah, my son. It is not real.”

  “It is real. I know it.”

  “Troubled dreams need not mean anything other than … what they are. Go back to sleep. I am here. Nothing can harm you.”

  Neoptolemus settled back into his pillow. “Do not leave me, Mother. Stay.”

  “I will stay,” Deidamia said quietly. As her young son snuggled against her, she stared through the darkened room until his breathing slowed in renewed slumber. In the dark, she allowed her memories of Achilles free reign. His laughter was rich gold in her ears now. His smile the sun she must shield her waking eyes from. His kisses distant flames with power yet to scorch her heart. She doubted he recalled her with such affection. The princess knew that love and war roared through his blood and he could not live without either. She had begged him to stay on Skyros, hoping that their son would keep him bound to her forever. War called louder, and in the end, proved the more seductive mistress. She knew that when he’d taken her and Neoptolemus to Phthia that he would likely not return. He’d hinted enough that only in battle would he find peace. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes. She missed him and the loneliness had become unbearable. She prayed that the gods would bring him back to her.

  King Peleus bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Neoptolemus, get back here!” But his grandson was long gone, quick as lightning he ran through the gate and out into the streets. “Curse that boy’s swiftness. He is just as his father.” He turned and walked backed into the hall, grabbing the arm of an unsuspecting slave. “Fetch me Deidamia. And send a messenger to Chiron.”

  The man stammered, “T-the c-centaur?”

  “Yes, the centaur! Did my words falter? Are your ears full of wax?”

  “No. No, my lord!” The slave ran off.

  Peleus paced on the balcony. His lands spread out in a peaceful vista of muted greens and browns, and far beyond the thin, pale line of Poseidon’s deep. A day’s ride to the shore, he thought. Or perhaps, a long trek to the secret pond of … Thetis. He wondered what she would say of the boy, their grandson. He had not seen nor heard from her since Achilles left for Troy. He hoped she was, in her way, watching over Achilles. Peleus wondered if the whispers he’d heard of his son’s ruthlessness and cunning were exaggerated.

  “My lord, Father,” said a soft voice behind him.

  Peleus turned. “Daughter.”

  Deidamia placed a warm hand on the aging king’s arm. “You are troubled, Father? About Achilles?”

  The king sighed, noticing the dark circles under his daughter-in-law’s eyes. He knew she must suspect what was to come. “Come, sit with me.” They settled onto a couch of soft pillows draped with blue and yellow blankets. A servant brought wine. Peleus began, “Have you given thought to Neoptolemus’ future? Here, as prince, if his father should not return.”

  The princess clasped her hands in her lap, staring at her intertwined fingers. “It is hard to think that Achilles will not return. But as the years pass, and the rumors that reach the palace … he does not seem the man I once knew.” She cringed at the story about Achilles ordering his Myrmidons to stone a young princess as her father watched helplessly from the city’s rampart above.

  “War changes men, Deidamia. It calls forth the caged beast, and for some, the beast runs wild and rejoices in its freedom.”

  She dared a glance at her father-in-law, and found his eyes softened with compassion. “Is it so with Achilles? I have heard … things. Brutal things …”

  “Best to push those thoughts aside. You cannot help him now, and he must do what a warrior must to stay alive and gain victory. War is for the iron-hearted, my dear. You are far too soft to concern yourself with whispers from Troy.”

  “Why have you called me here? I feared the worst. That something had happened to my husband.”

  “There is no word, daughter. We know only that the walls of Troy yet stand. They call my son the Sacker of Cities now, did you know that?” He waved thoughts of Achilles away with his hand. “But, I did not call you here on account of my son. It is your son, Neoptolemus, who concerns me now.”

  Dread turned her stomach, quickly wrapping around her chest. Breathing hurt. “What do you mean?”

  “He is a willful boy,” Peleus began. “More so than even his father was at the same age.”

  “Neoptolemus has been plagued by dreams. They come with greater frequency. These dreams frighten him.” She hadn’t intended to reveal everything to Peleus, at least not yet. However, her own concern pushed the words from her heart into her mouth. “I am frightened for him.”

  King Peleus sat back, his hand stroking his silver-honey beard, and nodded. “What does he dream of?”

  “A city set aflame.”

  “I wonder what city he sees. Surely, the war will not last as long as that.”

  Deidamia’s brow wrinkled in her confusion. “The war with Troy?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is but a boy of seven seasons. Achilles must return before—”

  King Peleus stood. His grandson’s dreams troubled him more than he cared to admit. If he dreamt of going to war, he would be old enough to go … and why? Why would Neo have to go to Troy? What would the united tribes want from my grandson that they could not get from Achilles himself? “There is but one place my grandson will be safe.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Mount Pelian. It is passed time he trains with Chiron.”

  Deidamia clutched her breast, crying out, “No! I will not allow it.”

  “It is not for his mother to say what will happen to the Prince of Phthia,” King Peleus said with the gravest sincerity. “.You must trust me when I say that Chiron may be the only one who can save him from himself, and keep him safe from war.” He recalled all too painfully Thetis’ futile efforts to defy fate and save their golden son. In the end, Achilles had chosen war. But, perhaps with Neoptolemus it would be different.

  “How long will Neo remain with the centaur?”

  “Until Chiron believes him properly trained.”

  Deidamia frowned. “That could be a very long wait.”

  The king nodded in agreement. “You may wish to return to Skyros. Years have passed since you were with your family last.”

  The princess stood, smoothing her chiton and pulling her himation tightly around her shoulders, as the impending loneliness pressed on her. “Yes, I think I would prefer to go home and await my son’s return. And see my sisters and my parents. Without Neo here, I should be very lonely indeed. I ask only a single favor.”

  “What is that?”

  “When Neo returns to the palace, I should like to be here to welcome him home.”

  “Granted, daughter.”

  “You have been as a true father to me, my
lord Peleus.” Deidamia hugged the king tightly. “I will miss you.”

  He returned his daughter-in-law’s affection, kissing her on the forehead. “And I you.”

  “Neo will not be happy about leaving you, or the palace,” the princess said.

  “Neither was Achilles.”

  TWENTY FIVE

  MT. PELION

  1246 BCE

  “Take your stance, little Neo,” Chiron said. “Hold your ground and do not back down.”

  “I never back down.” Smirking, the boy narrowed his fire blue eyes at his master, and added, “Ever!” He charged the centaur like an enraged bull, tilting his shield just so that it was part battering ram. He did not flinch, nor hold back the might of his assault. This was warfare. He crashed into Chiron’s side like a wave upon a wall; the centaur stumbled with the force and Neo fell straight back into the sand. “You are heavy.”

  “You, young master, have much to learn.”

  “I will not be fighting centaurs, only men. And I will break them all.”

  “Bold words from a boy,” Chiron huffed, and twitched his tail impatiently. “How did you become so insolent?” Neo was not as easy to like as Achilles had been, or even Peleus for that matter. Achilles’ son was stubborn and headstrong; willful and arrogant enough to call down the wrath of the gods at any moment. Chiron found himself searching the sky for signs of impending doom and punishments. But, so far, Zeus had seen fit to let the boy alone. “Again.”

  Neo brushed off the sand sticking to the side of his sweaty face, hiked his shield on his left arm, and hefted his sword in his right hand. “I am ready, Chiron.” This time, when Neo charged, he tilted his shield, aiming much lower. The centaur reared up, slamming his front hooves down heavily onto Neo’s shield, but not before the boy swung his sword arm around, landing a hard blow against Chiron’s shin.

  “Ahh!” The centaur kicked sand at Neo. “You are just as clever as your father.”

  Neo smirked. “I will be better than my father.”

  Chiron thought, No, you will not be fiercer than Achilles, but you will be feared among men. The centaur was troubled by a reoccurring vision—one in which he saw Neo, tall and strong, his golden hair flying like the mane of a lion, leading the Black Shields of his father’s against a burning city, which he guessed to be Troy. The troubling dreams began when Neo’s training had begun. He knew more about the gods than to dismiss the visions. He knew they were warnings, but warnings of what? That he couldn’t answer.

  “Chiron?” Neo asked suddenly.

  “What is it, little Neo?”

  “Is it true what my grandfather says? That you trained my father to be the best fighter in the entire west?”

  “I trained your father in many arts, fighting among them.”

  “Fighting is the only art worthy of study.”

  There it is, Chiron thought, the shadow surrounding the boy. “Young Neo, you will soon learn that to be a warrior of the highest caliber, as your father is, requires knowledge of many things. And most importantly, requires equal portions of passion and compassion.”

  “Compassion is for women. I hear the deeds of my father. I hear how he slays the enemy, cuts them down by the thousands. I know he stoned a princess before her own city walls.”

  Chiron narrowed his eyes. The boy’s tone was sharp as a blade, over-confident. He’d have to begin reining him in tightly … if it wasn’t already too late. “He is at war, boy. Best to remember that. Have no doubt, Achilles learned to balance his bloodlust with civility.”

  “I will have none of your civility, Chiron. I will go to war someday, like my father. And I will prove myself in battle.”

  “That is enough practice for one day,” Chiron said abruptly. “I have other matters to attend to. You may run. Run the mountain course I taught you, for if you are to match your father’s prowess, you will have to first run like the wind.” He cocked an eyebrow at his pupil. “He is the only mortal to ever win a foot race against me. Perhaps, you will be the second.”

  Neoptolemus laughed. “I may be the second, but I will be the fastest.” The young master threw down his weapons, running from the training pit to the narrow trail.

  Chiron watched after him, twitching his tail impatiently. “He should have been sent far earlier to me. He is more trouble than Achilles ever was.” Much more.

  The smoke choked and burned his lungs as he tried in vain to suck air and keep from falling where he stood. Spiraling flames of orange and red lashed out above him, spreading doom and destruction. He screamed as the smoke overwhelmed him in its blinding blackness and acrid smell.

  “Wake, little Neo.” Chiron nudged the boy’s shoulders. “Wake from the nightmare.” His voice, commanding and firm, pulled his ward from the world of sleep.

  Neoptolemus’ eyes flew open, and tears spilled down his cheeks. “I dreamt again of the city on fire.”

  “Tell me, Neo, tell me exactly what you saw,” the centaur said.

  “It is always the same.”

  “Tell me.”

  Neoptolemus sat up in his bed, sweat drenching his body. His voice shook as he spoke. “I am afraid if I speak it out loud, it will bring the words to life.”

  “Fate has already paved your path, young master, saying the words will not alter what is to come.”

  “Then why say them at all?”

  “Dreams and visions are sent as warnings. Warnings to be heeded. You cannot alter the message, but you can brace for the future.”

  Sighing, the boy searched for Chiron’s bright eyes through the darkness. “I am running through a street, high walls and stacked houses on either side of me. The city is burning. People I do not know are running passed me. Some of them are burning as they run. The smell sickens me. It is sweet, yet bitter. I feel my sword in my hands, heavy … not the practice sword we use, but a real sword. The roar of a lion fills my ears. I look for the warrior who sounds like a lion. I cannot see him.”

  Crossing his arms over his wide chest, Chiron sighed. “You cannot see him, Neoptolemus, because he is you.”

  The young prince flinched at the revelation. “Am I going to die in this city? Is it Troy? Where is my father, if it is Troy?”

  The centaur pawed the tiled floor and shook his head. “I believe it is Troy, young master. Beyond that, I have no answers. I, too, dream this dream of you. It is a warning, but of what, I do not know that either.”

  Neo pressed his mouth into a tight line. “What is the good of such dreams if their truth remains hidden until it is too late?”

  “The gods give what they wish, when they wish. It is not our place to question.”

  “The gods,” Neo sneered. “They exist to torment us.”

  Chiron smiled wryly. “On that, we can agree. Now, back to sleep. You will need all your strength.”

  “What do you have planned for us?”

  “You will see.”

  Laying his head back against his pillow, Neoptolemus closed his eyes. He tried to push the images from his mind, but all he could think about was dying in a burning city. His thoughts of slaying men by the thousands paled as he lay alone in the frightening darkness.

  TWENTY SIX

  SKYROS

  1246 BCE

  The rain fell softly, dimpling Poseidon’s smooth surface as the rowers pulled their long stokes against the tide. Sweat and rain mixed on their bare skin; mist fell from their mouths as they inhaled into every plunge of each oar, and exhaled each strong pull. The galley’s hull broke smoothly through the dark water. Grey clouds gathered above in an increasingly threatening sky. Nauplius smiled to himself as the hazy coastline of Skyros fell into view, its distant mountains rising against the pale green horizon. I will make them all suffer. Since departing the Bay of Troy, Nauplius could think of nothing else except making miserable the lives of all who did not halt the injustice of his son’s death. The imagined cruelty of how Palamedes fell only fueled a father’s desire … no, his need for revenge. He had decided to plant the
seeds of misery himself and watch it fester and grow into a destructive harvest. And he knew exactly how to plant that bitter crop in another man’s fields.

  The captain of the galley called for the men to row the hull up into the sandy shore, the pointed prow breaking the water’s surface through the white wash. The drum sounded the rhythm through the pouring rain. “Pull! By the balls of Zeus, pull!” Finally, the welcomed thud of wood through crusty sand signaled their landing. This was an unexpected visit, so there would be no escorts to the palace of Lycomedes. Nauplius wrapped a heavy himation of black wool across his shoulders, draping the excess folds into a hood. He would have to make his own way.

  “My lord, there is a traveler from Troy. He wishes hospitality and supply.”

  Lycomedes looked up from the scrolls scattered across the table. “Hospitality, of course. Set the food and wine. Prepare a room, if he wishes.” He rolled up a map. “You said from Troy?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The king stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Invite him to my table this evening. Perhaps he has news of my son-in-law. Of the war. Did he offer a name?”

  The servant shook his head, “No. He only made the request. I will deliver the invitation and have preparations made, my lord.” The servant backed out of the chamber and hurried to carry out his lord’s commands.

  Lycomedes wondered what this stranger’s business had been in Troy. Slaves? Armaments? Food? It was an unsettling time; violence prevailed along the entire coast of the Troad lands. He figured that King Priam, that ancient bastard, was probably holed up behind his great wall plotting against his son-in-law at this very moment.

  By early evening, the rain had stopped. The clouds hung low, blocking the stars from view. The silver moon, newly rounded, shone through the clouds as the winds of Aeolus blew above them. Lycomedes ordered all the hearths to be lit and stocked with wood to keep the damp chill from the air. The hall was decked with fresh laurels of olive branches and sweet lavender. Oil lamps had been hung from every corner and pillar.