Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “Then, you will fight with Menelaus sooner or later. And he will kill you, Paris. My love for you cannot spare you that.”

  “I know I must face Menelaus … someday. And when that day arrives, I will be ready. And I will be victorious.”

  “If you marry his wife, his need for vengeance will increase, giving him advantage. Have you gleaned nothing of men’s souls? Vengeance is a thirst that cannot be quenched.”

  “I can see there is no way to earn your blessing, Mother.” He leaned to kiss her cheek. “I will marry her with or without it,” he said, sadly.

  Hecuba watched her son pass through the gate and from her view before she let her tears fall. The gods have their hands in this misery. Paris brought the western invaders on his heel years ago, when the skies were clear and blue. Now, the storm clouds gather as Paris passes. Hecuba shivered, dust and gold flashing before her waking eyes. What will become of us? If we cannot keep Troilus safe … if Hektor cannot stop Achilles, we will all perish.

  When Helen entered Aphrodite’s temple, the assembled guests gasped at her beauty. Her gleaming white gown was embroidered with gold and silver stars, glistening as she walked beneath the glow of a hundred oil lamps. Covering her head was a sheer veil of golden threads. Her honey blonde hair cascaded down her slender back like a waterfall. In all of Troy, there was no woman who could compare to Helen. Men could not blame Paris, and women found it reason enough to hate her.

  Helen spied the guests from beneath her veil. Their stares chilled her almost as much as the cold river water the women had dumped over her in the ritual bath. But there had been no frostier glance than Hecuba’s. The queen stood silent during the entire cleansing ceremony, not a single word to anyone. The young princess shivered, as Priam handed her off to Paris before the towering marble statue of Aphrodite.

  Paris poured the scarlet wine into the bowl at the goddess’ feet. He then took a small blade, and reaching for Helen’s hand, he whispered, “Forever.” He drew the sharp edge across her delicate palm, leaving a thin, red line. The prince tilted her palm, letting a single drop of her blood fall into the wine, before he cut his own palm.

  Paris spoke the prayer, “Goddess, we ask that you grant us many healthy children.” The wine in the bowl began to ripple, slowly at first, then with greater force, spilling over the rim. Startled, the marital pair stepped back from the altar. The bowl bounced to the floor. A woman screamed. Then, the statue of Aphrodite shimmered and shook before their eyes.

  “Aphrodite,” Paris whispered in awe, bowing his head in deference.

  The goddess, arrayed in all her glory, shone as brightly as a silver sun with silver stars flashing at her feet and a rainbow of light her crown. “Paris.” She tilted her head, acknowledging the mortal. “Ever faithful.”

  Helen had fallen to her knees before the shining goddess, trembling with fear and expecting the worse. Paris had told her the story of the golden apple, but she had not truly believed him until this moment. She expected to be struck down for her doubting heart. Surely, she knows.

  Aphrodite spoke quietly, “Arise, daughter. Doubt the gods no more.”

  Helen scrambled to her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks. She could hardly speak. “Gratitude, Aphrodite. Gratitude.”

  Then, the gleaming goddess spoke again, her voice like water crashing upon rocks, “I have given my blessing to Paris and his Helen of Sparta. From this day, she will be called Helen of Troy, for she is now one of you. See that they are protected and honored here, or it will go ill with you all.”

  Aphrodite disappeared into mist, until only her still statue remained once again.

  A hundred prayers went up at once. Men and women fell to their knees, but not Hecuba. She would never bow to this union. Not even for a goddess.

  BAY OF EDREMIT

  Beach Camp between Lyrnessus and Pedasus

  Achilles reached for Briseis’ hand as they walked alone on the beach. Since taking her into his tent, he’d observed many things about her that he hadn’t known. He worried that perhaps she, too, had made observations, but if she did, she’d never commented one way or the other. “You are often quiet.”

  Briseis smiled. “I am not Patrokles.”

  The surf slid up the beach, wetting their bare feet. Mother. “No. His mouth is full of words.” Again, the foaming water washed over their feet. I hear you, Mother. “Do you find no love in my tent?”

  Briseis stopped, pulling her hand from his. “Love? In the midst of war?”

  “I bed you every evening. You wrap your legs around me, begging for release. I feel you shake with your pleasure. Why do you never speak of it?”

  “That is not love, Achilles. We use our bodies seeking reprieve and distraction from this war, from loneliness. That is fucking. That is not love.”

  He could feel the wall she built around herself, even though he could not see it. The distance between them confounded him. Women had always spread their legs for him, eager for his love and affection, their desire hardly veiled from his eyes and ears. If they could impregnate themselves in a single night, they would all happily take the risk of bearing his child, if it meant he would love them forever. Yet, Briseis didn’t seem to care for his affection.

  The crash of the surf grew louder, drawing Achilles’ gaze to the farthest breaking line of waves. A silver path stretched toward the shore. I know you are here, listening … watching. I should not love her, Mother. Can you hear me? I should not love her.

  I hear you, Achilles. Why not?

  Because I will die, leaving her alone to suffer more.

  Death will take us all. Your spirit has not yet flown to the Underworld. Live, my Golden Warrior. My beautiful, shining son. Live. I could not burn your mortality from your body, so live before your days are gone and regret fills your heart.

  Yes, Mother.

  Is she the one?

  Yes, Mother.

  Then live, Achilles.

  With his mother’s words echoing in his ears, Achilles knew what he must do. He must lay siege against Briseis’ walls and conquer her. Love would be his sword and he would break all her chains. He would speak the words. He would … need advice from Odysseus. No man loved a woman more than the King of Ithaka loved Penelope.

  “I must speak with Odysseus.” He walked away, leaving Briseis alone looking out across the sea.

  From beneath the waves, Thetis watched the woman, Briseis, collect shells and smooth pebbles from the shore. There was a great sadness surrounding her. Thetis knew this woman had conquered the unconquerable, without knowing she had done so. With a mother’s gratitude, she cast a handful of pearls into the water. They washed up at Briseis’ feet, carried by tiny blue crabs.

  Briseis startled at the little scurrying creatures.

  Take them.

  Briseis’ eyes scanned the water, seeing only waves of pale green. The crabs circled in front of her, each holding a single pearl in its claw. She plucked each proffered jewel, gathering an entire handful. The crabs scurried back with the tide. Briseis marveled at each gift before she made her way back to camp and the drudgery of never-ending war.

  Achilles found Odysseus in the war tent, scanning maps for supply trains and strategy. The cunning tactician glanced up from his scheming. “Achilles, greetings. Have you come to offer council so early in the day?”

  “I wake when I am needed.” Achilles brushed the admonition aside. “In truth, Odysseus, I seek it.”

  Odysseus offered Achilles a cup of pale wine. “There is little I can tell you of war, I think. Sit.”

  Achilles sipped his wine, before setting it down. “It is difficult … to ask …”

  “What else is there but war, for Achilles?”

  “I wish to conquer a woman, as you have conquered Penelope.”

  “Ah,” said Odysseus thoughtfully, raising a brow. “Briseis.”

  Achilles grumbled, “What has my cousin been telling you?” His jaw ticked, annoyed his second would betray him on so intimate a mat
ter.

  “I have heard nothing from Patrokles.” He leaned forward, guessing at Achilles’ concern. “Achilles, it is obvious to all. If she were not important, you would have cast her aside like you do all the others.”

  The Golden Warrior scowled. “Yet, it is not enough.”

  The King of Ithaka poured more wine for both of them. He rolled up the map he’d been studying. “No, it is not. Understand, I did not conquer my wife. I won her over. There is a difference.”

  “I do not see it.”

  “Have you never loved a woman? What of Deidamia?” Odysseus asked.

  “I have loved many women.” Achilles grinned. “Too many to count. As for Deidamia, I had to consider my son, her honor … I was young. She was soft, willing. I did not crave her affection as I do Briseis.”

  Odysseus rubbed his rough chin. “Lying abed with a woman is not love.”

  “Your words echo Briseis’ own,” Achilles said sourly.

  “I assume you have mastered the art of … her body?”

  Again, the Golden Warrior nearly smirked. “Of that, I know every part.”

  “You must speak to her heart, then. But first, you must open yours, then hers will follow.”

  Achilles glanced down at his chest. “How do I do that?”

  “Let your words caress her. Let her speak from her heart without fear of reprisal. You have done much to shatter her world, and expect a great deal in return. You are asking her to accept the destroyer as healer. Did Chiron not teach you as much? If you truly hope to win her over, be as honest with yourself as with her.”

  “You have given me much to consider.” The Golden Warrior set his cup down. “Gratitude.”

  “May the gods assist you.”

  “The gods have nothing to do with it.”

  Achilles sat silently as Briseis poured the wine into their cups, his thoughts bent on Odysseus’ words. He watched her as she moved about their shared tent, filling the water basin and lighting the oil lamps before darkness fell.

  “Sit, Briseis.”

  “I have mending―”

  “You will do as I command.”

  Briseis obediently sat opposite him. Her folded hands across her lap were a sign of subservience, but her eyes flashed her defiance.

  Achilles knew immediately he shouldn’t have commanded her, but simply made a request. “I am used to ordering men about.”

  “You are their prince,” she said with indifference. “Is there something you would have me do?” She stood and began unpinning the clasp at her shoulder.

  “No,” Achilles said. “I would … speak with you.”

  “Speak?” Briseis refastened her gown and sat back at the table. “Are you selling me at Lemnos? Have you finally grown tired of me?”

  The Golden Warrior shook his head. “That is not possible.”

  “Tiring of me or selling me?”

  “Either.”

  Briseis shrugged. “I have accepted that one day you will sell me.”

  “I am not selling you at Lemnos, Briseis, or anywhere else.”

  “Small comfort for a slave.”

  Achilles tensed his jaw. “You are more than a slave to me.”

  Briseis folded her arms on the table. “How am I more? I lay with you when you command. Prepare your meals. Mend your garments. No, my lord, I am a slave.”

  “You have attended me in many ways. Gratitude.”

  “Attended you. Yes. I have attended you.”

  Achilles rubbed his chin, and then his azure stare captured Briseis’ eyes. “I would have the truth.”

  Briseis stomach turned. “What truth?” She’d told him of the pearls already, and he’d laughed, saying his mother had sent them as a sign. But he’d refused to discuss the meaning. “There is nothing I possess that you cannot freely take.”

  “Can you find contentment here?” he asked suddenly. “In my tent? Even if it is for a short time longer?”

  Briseis blinked, shaking her head in disbelief. “You have taken everything from me. My husband. My brothers. My father. You have given me no word of my mother. There is nowhere else for me to go.”

  “I expect too much,” he stated.

  “Their faces fade from my memory,” Briseis said, quietly. “Without them, I have nothing.”

  Achilles could see her tears. He walked to a basket brimming with a portion of his geras, pulling a silver circlet from the tangled mass of gleaming treasure. He placed it on Briseis’ head. “Come, my princess,” he whispered softly, taking her hand and leading her to his bed. “The night beckons. Let me worship you with kisses.”

  FORTY TWO

  TROY

  1239 BCE

  Apollo’s light rose on the lower city, revealing the dusty layers floating above the crowded streets that meandered through the city like drab grey rivers. Hektor and Andromache stood on the balcony of their chamber, facing the rise of Apollo.

  “I tire of war,” Hektor said, quietly, as if the stillness of the early morning could wing his words straight to the god’s ear.

  “We all tire of this war,” Andromache replied. “If only we could give Menelaus what he desires, and be done with it.”

  “We should have, when we had the chance. Now, under command of Aphrodite, we cannot.” Hektor leaned to kiss his wife on the temple, as his hand sought the heavy mound of her belly. “I pray to the gods …”

  Andromache pressed her hand on her husband’s. “I had not dared to hope. I am past the prime of childbearing.”

  “It is a gift, my love. From the gods.”

  “You have more faith than I,” his wife whispered, careful the gods couldn’t hear her doubting them.

  Hektor cupped her breasts with each hand, weighing their heaviness, before letting his hands stray to her wide hips. “Look at you, round and fat with my child.” He dared not speak for a son, for fear it would displease the gods and they should lose another child. How many chances will the gods give us?

  Andromache slapped her husband’s hand away. “The gods have left this joy to our old age.”

  “Old?” Hektor pulled his wife closer. “You, my love, will always be that blushing young woman from our wedding night.” He kissed her sweetly. “Do I still seem so old to you?”

  “My lord, you are silvered at the temples. But your arms are stronger, and your kisses,” Andromache pulled his head to hers, “are sweeter. I would not trade one day of our life for all the gold in the citadel.”

  Amber light with rose-gold fingers stretched across the sky, when Agelaus saw them coming. At first, he’d not believed it. But as they drew closer, he shouted, “Lexias! Lexias!”

  “What are you hollering about now, old man?” She came from the stable, wiping her hands on her chiton.

  “We have guests,” he said, pointing down the road.

  Lexias squinted, trying to clear the blur from her eyes. “Is that … the nymph?” She shook her head. “That cannot be … the boy?”

  In a gown of sheer pale green strewn with flowers and her head adorned with a crown of butterflies and acorns, Oenone stood before Agelaus and Lexias in all her immortal glory. “Greeting, father and mother of Paris.” She bowed her head slightly.

  “We are glad to receive you, Oenone. It has been a long time.”

  “Is it true what I hear whispered on the wind?”

  Agelaus furrowed his brow. “What do you hear?”

  “That Paris has taken the golden-haired woman to wife.”

  “It is so.”

  The nymph’s eyes watered, and a single crystal tear slid down her cheek to the dust at her feet. “Then, it is time for my son to join his father.”

  Corythus spoke up. “But, I do not want to go.”

  “Neither did your father, until he saw the citadel for himself,” Agelaus said.

  Lexias could not help herself. “You look just like him, when he was of an age. Dark curls and all.”

  Oenone held Corythus by the shoulder. He was tall like Paris, broad of shoulder a
nd square jawed, with eyes of blue-green like his mother, and the undeniable royal dip in his chin.

  “There can be no doubts about his lineage,” Agelaus confirmed. “How many winters have passed?”

  “Seventeen, as you mortals count,” Oenone replied.

  “A man.” Lexias smiled. “Come, it’s been a long time since you’ve eaten bread. Hot bread! You’re fortunate. I’ve been baking, as well as milking these silly goats.”

  The young man looked to his mother. “May I go with Lexias?”

  The nymph nodded. “I would speak to Agelaus a moment.”

  When Lexias and Corythus were out of earshot, Oenone pressed a cool hand to Agelaus’ arm. “I require a favor.”

  “Anything, my lady.”

  “Can you make the marks upon a scroll? So that Paris may read them?”

  “Aye. I can.”

  “You must go with Corythus to Troy. See him safely to his father. And give him also a message from me, for I will never set foot in Troy.” The nymph sighed. “And now that I have been cast aside, and from his memory … well, I have no choice. The Forgotten Prince has taken everything from me.”

  In three days passing, Agelaus and Corythus arrived at the Southern Gate of the lower city as Apollo’s light shone directly above them. The watch towers flanking the heavy timbered gate reached into the clouds. Guards walked the high rampart, capes of blue and green billowing behind them, bronze helmets and spears flashing in the sun.

  Corythus stood in awe. “Never have I seen such a structure.”

  Agelaus laughed. “And this is just the gate, my son. Wait until you see the citadel, shining in the Apollo’s light. Truly a magnificent sight.”

  The guards waved them through, Agelaus being a recognizable and frequent visitor of the king for many years. Corythus’ mouth hung agape as they walked. He’d never laid eyes on towering structures of stone and mud brick. The colorful canopies of the market stalls snapped in the breeze and children darted in and out of the crowd. Agelaus pulled Corythus into the shade of a canopy, beneath which sat an old woman.