Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  Penelope quickly added, “How does he fair? Is he well?”

  “He does very well, my lady, under Agamemnon’s command. His portion of geras will make him a very wealthy king upon his return. His treasury and household will fair brim with riches.”

  “He has that many captives already?” Penelope wondered if their modest household could sustain a larger faction of servants and slaves. Perhaps, her husband meant to sell his portion of captives at Lemnos or elsewhere for gold and silver. “How is that possible? Troy has not been sacked.”

  “No, my lady, Troy has not been sacked. Truth be told, the army has yet to set one foot in Troy. They make war along the Troad coast and island citadels, missing the jewel completely. It would seem the gods are against them in this endeavor.”

  Anticlea huffed, setting back in her chair. “This is unfortunate, indeed. For all of us who await their return. How much longer must we wait, if they have not even approached the walls of Priam’s kingdom?”

  Nauplius shook his head. “That is anyone’s guess, my lady.” He ripped a hunk of bread from a loaf. “Your husband has been awarded many beautiful slaves in his portion of the geras.” He watched the color drain from the queen’s face. “Odysseus is truly a remarkable man. He remains faithful to you. I am afraid the same cannot be said of the other captains, or the sons of Atreus.”

  His words pricked through Penelope’s veil of propriety. It had not occurred to her until this very moment that Odysseus might seek the comfort of another woman’s arms in her absence. But now her uninvited guest had planted the seed of fear and doubt in her heart. Had he meant to do that? What reasoning would he have? She realized suddenly that Nauplius had not yet revealed his purpose for venturing across the sea. “What business took you to Troy?”

  “Yes,” Anticlea chimed in, her irritation audible to Penelope’s tuned ear. “Why were you in Troy?”

  Nauplius shifted uncomfortably in his seat and scratched at the neckline of his tunic. “I went … to retrieve the ashes and bones of my son.” He carefully withheld the name Palamedes for fear he’d be immediately driven from the hall.

  “That is unfortunate for you and your family,” Penelope said. “You are welcome to stay until you are ready to resume your journey. You are heading home, I presume?”

  “Yes, eventually.”

  The queen stood. “Stay and feast as long as you will. You must excuse me; I am tired and wish the solitude of my chamber.”

  “I will accompany you, daughter,” Anticlea added, getting up from her seat.

  Nauplius stood as the women left. He decided in that moment that he would leave as soon as Apollo’s light graced the sky. If he stayed longer, he feared his true identity as the father of Palamedes who’d tricked Odysseus years ago would be discovered. Yes, better to leave before that could happen.

  Anticlea followed close on Penelope’s heel all the way to the royal chamber. She knew the words of Nauplius had shaken her daughter-in-law’s faith in her husband. It would do so in any woman’s heart for the duration of any war, but the Trojan expedition had turned into siege warfare. Wives would begin to feel the weight of their loneliness and the tension of longing for their husbands would prove dangerous to loyalty and fidelity in the years to come. For Anticlea had read the truth in what their guest had said as well as what he’d omitted. The army wouldn’t be returning soon, and likely many of the men would not return at all. She must prepare her daughter-in-law for that eventually.

  As the queen rounded a corner, Anticlea caught her by the shoulder. She turned Penelope around, forcing the queen to face her. “You must listen to me, daughter.”

  “You cannot comfort me, Anticlea,” she said sadly. “Nothing but his swift return can comfort me.”

  “I understand why you are distraught. This stranger plants doubt in fertile soil. Years have passed with barely a whisper from Odysseus, but not because he doesn’t love his family and home. I know my son better than some stranger we feed out of duty.”

  “Why then?” Penelope’s chin quivered with uncertainty and grief.

  “He is at war, Penelope. His days are filled with rough thoughts and actions. A man cannot be both hardened warrior and gentle husband. He must wear the mask of one or the other. Likely, his thoughts of you are private, or boastful. But to spill them into words would only weaken his resolve. Pray to Athena he remains strong. For only a strong and cunning warrior will survive this protracted siege.”

  Penelope collapsed into her mother-in-law’s arms, tears freely streaming down her ashen cheeks. “He is the best part of me.”

  Anticlea held Penelope firmly by the shoulders. “You are the best part of him. Remember that. Your strength, your will honors him. Not this tearful mourning of time lost. Think of Telemachus. Soon, men will come to try and take what is his. You must be strong.”

  Penelope dried her tears on the corner of her chiton sleeve. “You are right, Mother. As usual.” A slight smile momentarily lit the queen’s face. “I will try. For my son’s sake.”

  “And for my son’s sake,” Anticlea added. “Forget Nauplius and his unkind manners.” She took Penelope’s hand and led her down the opposite hall.

  “Where are you taking me?” the young queen asked.

  “To find the good wine, of course,” she laughed.

  THIRTY THREE

  SPARTA

  1245 BC

  Hermione entered the hall holding her nursemaid’s hand. She’d been dressed in a pale blue gown trimmed in tiny silver stars, the golden shoulder pins encrusted with sapphires. Her golden mane was artfully curled and fastened with sea pearls and silver pins. Her blue eyes, pure and clear, lit up at seeing Clytemnestra. She broke away from her nursemaid and ran headlong into her aunt.

  Unaccustomed to displays of affection, Clytemnestra gently unwrapped the child’s arms from around her legs.

  Her niece, although a child of only six winters, was every inch the golden beauty Helen was. She noted her son’s surprise at how lovely she was … and how young she was. She leaned to whisper into his ear, “Do you really wish to wait that long?” She sensed his apprehension.

  Orestes stood stoically before his grandfather, barely daring a glance at his niece. He wondered if she’d been told of the proposed arrangement.

  Hermione tugged at his sleeve. “Are you Prince Orestes, my cousin?”

  He gazed down into her sparkling eyes, and against his resolve smiled genuinely at her. “Yes, I am he.”

  “Grandfather tells me we are to be married when I am older.”

  “So, they have told you.” He knelt down to look her in the eye. “Does it frighten you to know who your husband will be?”

  Clytemnestra cringed at her son’s words. He is already being won over by her! A mere girl. Will the gods ever cease their onslaught against me and mine?

  Hermione put a small warm hand to his cheek. “I was afraid, until I saw you. You will do.”

  Orestes laughed. “I will do?”

  “Yes,” she said confidently. “I will allow you to marry me.”

  Clytemnestra shook her head in dismay and concern. She whispered just loud enough, “Just like her mother.”

  “I am.” The little princess smiled sweetly up at her aunt. “Grandfather says so, as well. I do not remember her. Grandmother tells me you are a darker image of her. She must be beautiful then, because you are.”

  Clytemnestra fingered an inky curl of her own hair falling over her shoulder. Only because you have not seen us side by side. A sharp prick of guilt pierced her cold heart. She knew the girl played no part in Helen’s disgrace, yet she couldn’t look at the child and not feel disgust rising. “Gratitude, Hermione, for the compliment.” She waited for the girl to beg praise in return, as Helen had always done, but the little princess did not. This surprised Clytemnestra.

  Queen Leda swept into the hall, her gown of shimmering blue and green floating cloud-like at her feet. “My daughter! At long last!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing thr
ough the vast hall. With a grand show of affection, she grasped Clytemnestra by the shoulders, looking intently into her eyes. “How is it that you do not change? What secret do the gods share with you that they deny the rest of us?”

  “Mother.” Clytemnestra kept her lips pressed tightly to her teeth. No matter the passage of time, she could not reciprocate the affection of her mother’s greetings. Leda quickly moved on. “Orestes! You are grown!” She kissed his cheek. “Where is Elektra?” she asked, turning her attention to Clytemnestra once again.

  “She remains in Mycenae with Neola. One of us should always remain in the palace.”

  “I see,” Queen Leda said, thoughtfully. “You have met Hermione. Does she not remind you of Helen?”

  “The resemblance is stunning,” Clytemnestra replied.

  Leda, wishing for a private conversation, asked, “Shall we let the men speak?”

  Clytemnestra glanced at Orestes, then to her father. It was the first she’d been able to look him in the eye since entering the hall. His face had changed since she’d last seen him. It was lined with years and worry, but his eyes still offered no tenderness for her regard. He is as he has always been.

  The queen took her daughter by the elbow. “Come with me. A walk will ease your mind. Hermione, return to your nurse.”

  Hermione sighed in disappointment as she left the hall.

  Leda cheerfully steered her daughter through the palace and out into the fresh air of the garden. Once out of earshot of everyone, the façade of gentle concern fell away. “Why have you come to Sparta, Clytemnestra?”

  “To dissuade my father from forcing my son to marry against my wishes.”

  Leda shook her head in disbelief. “Have you learned nothing sitting in Agamemnon’s chair? Do you believe you possess such a will? A will strong enough to stand against Tyndareus? Your presence here only proves that you do not.”

  Clytemnestra clicked her jaw in annoyance. “How so?”

  “If he had no power over you, you would rule Mycenae, paying no mind to his machinations. That you are concerned he can force your hand only proves that your position is weak.”

  “He will work against me with Agamemnon. Steal my throne from me―”

  Leda laughed cruelly at her daughter. “You still do not understand what he wants, do you? He will unite Mycenae and Sparta under his command, stripping you and the bastards you are breeding with Aegisthus of a future.”

  Clytemnestra screeched, “You told me to use him for my revenge, to help me gain control of my world! I have only done as you suggested … no, merely commanded.”

  “I told you to use him, not be used by him. I did not tell you to bear his bastards! What were you thinking? You have disgraced yourself! What do you think Agamemnon will do when he hears of this … this boy child?”

  “He will not. I have taken great pains to hide my son as a ward of the palace. Nothing more than a queen’s prerogative.”

  Leda sighed. “Then how was Tyndareus able to discern the truth? Do you think your husband will not?”

  “Agamemnon is busy at his war with his whores and troops. He pays little mind to Mycenae, if at all.”

  “I suppose Aegisthus has told you his entire truth?” Leda asked, as she began to walk ahead of her daughter.

  “Yes, he has told me all.”

  “Then you know you have exchanged one son of Atreus for another.”

  Clytemnestra nodded. “I am aware.”

  “Daughter,” Leda said, her voice once again softening the truth, “he is as cursed as his half-brothers. Peace does not come without a price in that family.”

  “Nor in ours,” Clytemnestra countered. “Nor is ours.”

  “But, Grandfather, she is only a child,” Orestes complained bitterly. “You wish me to wait ten more years for a wife?”

  Tyndareus thought his grandson sounded more like a whining maiden than the man he was. No, he corrected himself, the man he should be but for a mother who was too soft on him. “I did not forbid you to bed concubines. Sate your passions with soft female flesh, but do not father bastards.”

  Orestes scoffed. “How is that possible?”

  The old man narrowed his eyes in all seriousness, leaning his face close to his grandson’s. “Withhold your seed from the vessel.”

  “Where is the pleasure in that?” Orestes asked, disheartened by the prospect of cutting short his pleasure.

  The congenial nature of a grandfather slipped from his face and the hardened glance of a king chilled him with a silent threat. “It is far better than producing bastards who will one day try to steal your children’s birthright.”

  Orestes knew his grandfather referred to the son his mother bore to Aegisthus. “No one will steal my birthright.”

  The king regent laughed, unnerving Orestes. “You have no experience with governing or war. What do you know of keeping power? Look at you! A man’s beard sprouts on your chin, yet your mother rules over you like a child.”

  “She only rules until my father returns,” Orestes said.

  “If he returns … And what if he does not? Will you allow your mother to sit in the hall? Rule as queen when you should be the rightful king?”

  Orestes fingered the golden belt around his waist. “I … she will not—”

  “Do not be a fool! She will never give you power unless you take it from her. Look how she whores behind her husband’s back, birthing bastards to take the place of Agamemnon’s line. Your birthright!”

  “But, I am her son. Why would she wish to deny me my rightful place?”

  “Because she sees you as his son, the spawn of a man she hates.”

  Anger rose in Orestes chest, his blood heated, his pulse quickened. He knew his grandfather was right. His mother made little effort to hide her disdain of Agamemnon since her return from Aulis and Iphigenia’s death, yet he couldn’t believe that his mother would deny him his rightful place should his father die in Troy. “The gods demanded the sacrifice. Had my father disobeyed the command, the wrath of Olympus would have descended on our house.”

  Exasperated, Tyndareus sat back on his throne. He knew all Clytemnestra had endured since going to Mycenae years ago. Her strength had surprised him; her will was more the iron of a man than a woman. “The wrath of the gods has shadowed the House of Atreus for generations. Heed my warning. She will never willingly give up her position.”

  Orestes shrugged his shoulders. “What do expect me to do then, Grandfather?”

  “Marry Hermione and secure Mycenae to Sparta.”

  Brilliant white stars scattered across the deepening black of night filled Clytemnestra with a sense of impending doom. She slowly sipped her wine wondering what Orestes had thought of the girl. Surely, he had seen reason clear enough to reject the preposterous proposal. Clytemnestra blamed Helen for everything. Helen had run away with the Trojan Prince, abandoning her rightful husband and daughter to ridicule and pain. Every step her younger sister had taken injured thousands of families, and her most of all. Because Menelaus had demanded Helen’s return and compensation for his grievance, Iphigenia had been slaughtered like an innocent doe. She was determined that she would not lose her son to Helen’s daughter. He should rule Mycenae, but not with the whore’s child by his side. That was too much of Tyndareus to ask of her. I have the power now to take what is mine.

  A loud knock at her chamber door startled her. She dropped her cup, splashing wine across the front of her gown, before the delicate vessel shattered against the tile floor. “By the balls of Zeus,” she murmured, wiping her hands on the ruined linen. She walked to the door, carefully avoiding the bleeding wet of the wine spreading on the floor. The knock sounded loudly again just before she could reach the door and open it. The stern face of her father greeted her.

  “I was not expecting you,” Clytemnestra said cautiously.

  “Yet, here I am.”

  Clytemnestra just stood there, staring at her father. The dread she experienced earlier coursed through her
veins once again. “What do you want?”

  “Are you going to leave me outside in the hall?”

  She lowered her gaze and stepped aside gracefully, yet reluctantly.

  Tyndareus pushed passed her, eyeing the ruby-red splotch and broken shards of pottery on the tile. “You will need a servant to clean that.”

  “I am aware. I will call for one as soon as you leave,” Clytemnestra said.

  The king regent scoffed at her attempted civility. “Your pretense at deference is unconvincing. I, too, am aware of many things, like the hatred you bear me.”

  Clytemnestra glanced up quickly. His greeting was too genuine, too calm, too matter-of-fact. He is poised to shatter me against a truth that he knows and I have yet to discover.

  “Why are you here, Father?”

  “Do I need a reason to be about my own halls?”

  “I meant now. Why are you here at this late hour? What could be so important you could not wait until Apollo graced us with his light?”

  “Indeed, what could be of such great import?”

  Clytemnestra took a new cup from a tray and poured herself more wine. “Would you care for refreshment?”

  Her father nodded. “Gratitude.”

  “You have met with Orestes regarding Hermione?” she asked, handing Tyndareus the cup.

  “Yes. We have spoken at length regarding my … proposal.”

  “What did he say? Did he agree?”

  Tyndareus walked to the balcony and gestured to the sky. “Do you ever look up and wonder if the gods are watching us?” He turned, facing his daughter. “Now, for instance. Are they watching us now? Here. Eavesdropping on this very conversation.” He took a healthy gulp of wine. “Do they only give heed to us when it suits them? Most of the time I am wondering about the silence.”

  “What does this have to do with Orestes?”

  The king shrugged his shoulders. “How is it that you have endured this life and not grasped at the truth? The gods pay us no mind for most of our lives. We must make what we will of this existence. And that, daughter of mine, means securing the kingdoms of Mycenae and Sparta.”