Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “Where else would you be?” A deep voice spoke behind her.

  “My Lord Agamemnon,” the queen said. She quickly wiped a stray tear with an elegant finger and turned to flash her husband a brilliant smile. “I speak only to comfort this child.”

  Agamemnon reached between them and placed his hands on either side of her belly. “Our child, my love. My son.” Since she’d revealed her pregnancy to him, he’d softened and become quite loving. Although his affection sickened her, she promised herself she would endure it not just for her own sake but for her children, the heirs of the Mycenaean throne. She would rule her world and the kingdom, that she’d swore to the gods of Olympus in the quiet of her heart.

  “We can only hope, my lord.” She could never bring herself to return his love greeting. It turned her stomach to hear him speak with love’s tongue to her. Never, she thought, never will I love you. “Has word come yet from Sparta?”

  “It has. Your mother and her entourage arrive within the week.”

  “And the child? The girl?” she asked.

  Agamemnon grimaced. “The girl child comes with her.”

  “Helen,” murmured the queen. “I shall like to meet my youngest sister.”

  “Unfortunately, the rumors proceed her,” Agamemnon scowled.

  Clytemnestra playfully slapped his arm. “She is but a baby yet. Surely, you can hold no grudge against such an innocent?” She remembered all too well how he regarded the innocence of youth not at all. To soften the chastisement, she reached up to kiss his rough cheek.

  The king smiled as he shook his head. “How you lead me by the cock woman.”

  “Is there any other way to lead a man, my dear?”

  “Woman...” Agamemnon whisked her up in his arms. “You will pay for that remark.”

  Clytemnestra laughed sweetly, “As you wish.”

  The king laid her gently on the bed. She watched him disrobe revealing his huge muscled chest covered in dark curls of hair. She couldn’t help but compare him to her love, the husband of her heart, Tantalus. He was smooth with little body hair and smelled of salt and honey...

  Agamemnon lifted her gown, exposing her bare stomach and naked flesh. She closed her eyes and conjured up the face of Tantalus as Agamemnon pressed firmly into her wet flesh. With her dead husband’s dark eyes looking down at her, behind the veil of her eyes, she endured the act...and she found her body more willing with child. She climaxed quickly and Agamemnon rammed her until he shook with his own release and collapsed next to her.

  CLYTEMNESTRA ROSE TIRED and achy from her bed. She rubbed the dull ache in her back with a knuckled hand. “Neola!”

  As if from air, her maid appeared. “My lady?”

  “Draw a hot bath.”

  Neola eyed her queen suspiciously. “How long has your back pained you?”

  “All night. After Agamemnon and I...he left and I have been unable to settle comfortably.”

  Neola clapped her hands together. “My lady, have you not guessed?”

  “At what?” the queen asked irritated. “Guessed at what?”

  “Perhaps your labor has begun.”

  Clytemnestra blinked and shook her head. “No. That is not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “It...I...am not ready,” she said. Memory of the pain and work of childbirth filled her with dread. “I am not ready.”

  “My lady, perhaps the child is? You are strong. Delivered of a healthy babe already...” Neola’s voice trailed into silence. She sighed slowly. “Apologies...I intended no—”

  Again a reminder of the past. The heartache of losing her young son ripped open the tender scar she bore in silence to keep him always with her. “I know. It is the truth.” Suddenly it occurred to her that she hadn’t considered she might lose this child before it was born, or that she herself might lose her life. Death would not be so horrible, she thought. I could escape this wretched place...a sharp pain low under her belly pulled her from her morbid thoughts. “Neola, you are perceptive. The child is coming.”

  The maid clapped her hands again in excitement again. “To your bed then, my queen. I will fetch the women to ready your chamber and inform the king.”

  Clytemnestra obeyed the maid. “I trust in your hands, Neola.”

  The maid bowed her head. “Too high is your praise for me.”

  “It most certainly is not. Go, now, fetch your women.”

  Neola left quickly and returned before Clytemnestra had settled into the bed. The gaggle of concerned women followed the queen’s personal maid. Two male servants carried in the birthing chair and promptly left the sacred work of delivering the heir of Mycenae to the women. The birth attendants shook freshly bleached linens open, refolded them across the foot of the bed. They poured water into waiting basins and stoked the hearth fire in the chamber.

  “Neola, I am too warm already. Please, put the fire out.”

  “My lady, soon enough you will shiver with cold and pain and ask for flames. We must keep the fire stoked and the water warm. For the child.” Neola pulled the coverlet down and folded it neatly at her queen’s feet. “Mira, come.” A rounded woman with kind dark eyes appeared at the bedside. She motioned the woman toward Clytemnestra. “How much longer will the queen labor?”

  Mira looked into her queen’s eyes, nodded deference. “Forgive any discomfort this may cause. I will be as gentle as I can.” A painful spasm took Clytemnestra by surprise. She sat up as the sharpness increased pulling a tight ring of pain beneath her navel. The queen screamed out her agony. The mid-wife pressed her hand gently against the queen’s abdomen and inside her once the pain passed. “I can feel the child’s head. It will not be much longer if the goddess Eleithyia wills it.” Another woman rushed to the mid-wife’s side with a basin of water. She washed her hands clean of the birthing muck.

  A few short hours passed before Clytemnestra felt the urge to push the child to the light. The pressure built and her eyes flew wide open with surprise and exhaustion. She grabbed Neola’s arm in fright. “It is time!” The mid-wife and her attendants rushed to the queen’s side and helped her to the edge of the bed. Neola assisted Clytemnestra the short steps to the birthing chair. The mid-wife shifted the queen’s gown up over her waist. Another searing pain ripped down the queen’s back and her thighs. She grunted with the urge to push the child to the light. A small gush of water mixed with blood splashed on the tile. The queen threw her head back and cried tears of exhaustion. “I cannot...”

  “You can my queen...and you will,” Neola assured her.

  “I am so tired—” another overwhelming urge gripped her body. Her legs shook with the effort to birth the baby.

  “The head! You are close little one!” the mid-wife cried aloud. And quietly to herself she whispered, “Eleithyia, beloved goddess, bring him swiftly if it pleases you.” Just then, the hearth flames flickered. The women turned to witness a breeze fluttering through the curtain at the balcony window. A pale dusty ray of light spilled into a circle on the floor in the center of the chamber. The women ceased all movement and bowed down in awe as the goddess materialized before them. She towered over them. Her gown’s shimmering folds flashed silver and bronze. Stars flashed at the hem as she walked toward the queen. The women whispered her name in awe, “Eleithyia...” Clytemnestra’s eyes met the goddess’s gaze.

  “My daughter,” the goddess of childbirth’s honeyed voice soothed the laboring queen. “You have suffered long with this pain.” She knelt before Clytemnestra and placed her cool hand on the queen’s arm. “You have suffered much in silence. I have been watching you. Rest easy, daughter. I will finish the work for you.” The gleaming goddess reached her hands beneath the queen and without pain or crying out; the queen delivered the baby into the welcoming arms of Eleithyia. The goddess extended a long pale arm toward the astounded maids. “Bring me the blade and the linen,” she commanded in a hushed voice. Neola scrambled to obey. Eleithyia cooed softly to the babe as she cut its life-cord and
wrapped it securely. The goddess looked up, smiling, “It is a girl.”

  “May I see her?” Clytemnestra asked.

  “She is yours...for a time. Treasure your days with her,” Eleithyia said solemnly.

  The queen shivered with the veiled warning, tears filled her eyes. “I promise.”

  “Do her no harm, my daughter. She is an innocent.”

  “My word, goddess.”

  Eleithyia laid the swaddled babe into her mother’s eager arms, then turned and walked to the balcony, disappearing from sight. A joy so deep filled Clytemnestra that she cried and smiled. She didn’t believe it possible that her broken heart could ever love anyone or anything again. Her ruined soul rejoiced in the little hand griping her finger. She undid the covering to kiss the baby’s tiny toes and fingers.

  Neola wept to see her queen so obviously filled with happiness. “Praise Eleithyia,” she whispered.

  Clytemnestra looked up at Neola. “She is perfect, is she not?”

  “She is, my lady. What will you call her?”

  “Iphigenia,” she said. “My strong little one.”

  “SHE HAS ACCEPTED my last payment,” Hektor said.

  Hecuba continued weaving. She let a moment pass as if she had not heard the announcement. In the corner of her eye, she saw her grown son toe the floor with the tip of his sandal. She smiled to herself and pulled the blue weft thread through the width of the warp threads. She combed the new weft tightly against the others. Without stopping her work, she said, “My son has found for himself a wife.”

  “Her name is Andromache.” Hektor waited for his mother’s reply.

  “She is the dark-haired beauty from the lower Troad...Hypoplakia Thebe, is she not?”

  “She is,” Hektor affirmed.

  The queen put down her work and turned to her eldest son. Tears glistened in her eyes. Her smile was sad. “Where has all my time flown? I sit here weaving and time steals my world from me. My son, my golden warrior, it was only yesterday that you sat next to me telling me that one day you would take a wife, and I told you we would find you one most beautiful...”

  Hektor took a seat next to his mother on her bench, taking her hand in his. “I remember Mother. Do not be sad. I do not wish my joy to bring you sorrow.”

  “Then truly you are happy?” Hecuba asked.

  Hektor looked at his mother sitting at her weaving as she had done his whole life. “I cannot imagine my world without her. There was a time I did not know Andromache and my life was full. I laughed. I fought. I broke horses and many bones.” He paused to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Now, I feel as if I have been looking my entire life for her. Only her.”

  Hecuba squeezed Hektor’s hand. “Do not mistake my tears as having displeasure. On the contrary. I am quite pleased.” She looked her son in the face. “It is no easy task letting go...one day, if the gods are on your side, you will experience the ache of releasing your own children to a life of their own. Then, you will know it is mingled with pride and joy. And the sadness.”

  “You will not be hurt that I wish my own household?” Hektor asked.

  “On that account, yes, I will be hurt,” she answered truthfully. She’d relied on his steady presence as an anchor against the storm of the ever present darkness that lurked around every corner. He’d been her only true light in the shadows that haunted the recesses of her heart and mind. She pulled her hand gently away from her son’s and resumed her weaving. “It is natural to desire your own dwelling. Raise your family apart from the palace.”

  “Then it is settled. You give me your blessing?” he asked.

  “It is your father’s blessing you must acquire.”

  “For the sake of tradition, yes. But for me? Your grace is all I ask for.”

  “And you have it. Now, go and leave me to my loom. This is a difficult pattern. I would work in silence.”

  Hecuba watched her son turn and leave the chamber. When she was certain he was gone and would not return, she let her tears fall freely. She would never let him know that his presence had saved her all these years and kept her grief from consuming her even after so many years had passed.

  KING EETION SMASHED his bronze kylix on the table splashing wine everywhere and clattering the platters and shaking the nerves of those seated near him. “I would say something!” he bellowed. The conversation and laughter died down to an expectant silence. “When pale dawn pierces the morning sky, we make for Troy. The city of Titan walls. The city where men are breakers of fine horses. The palace where I will leave my daughter, Andromache, forever.” The assembled family and servants waited. King Eetion was known for his lengthy, boring orations. “King Priam and I have struck the bargain for her hand. And Troy pays fine tribute for our princess. She will be well received. If I am not mistaken, she has already won the heart of Prince Hektor.” The assembly cheered and clapped their free hands to their thighs.

  He continued to the dismay of several who groaned out loud. “What?! What is this? Tired of an old man speaking for his daughter? Disgraceful!” A few voices mumbled. “Daughter, may your new life bring you as much joy as your mother has brought me.” The king winked at his wife, who shook her head in mild embarrassment. “True! We have had troubling years. Quit your gossip!” his grin widened, knowing that rumors of their tempestuous relationship had certainly reached the ears of everyone assembled for the farewell. “There is none as fair in form or heart than my Andromache. I would have agreed to nothing less than a royal prince for her.” The gathering cheered again. “It is time to make your offerings my girl.”

  Andromache shyly stepped forward. Such a large and noisy gathering on her behalf unnerved her. She longed for a simpler life. A quiet life. She had hoped to serve the goddess Artemis or even the god Apollo, but she had not been selected. The high priestess of Apollo informed her parents that her fate would lead her elsewhere and to a more public existence. When her father came to her expressing his desire that she wed this golden prince of Troy, she resisted at first. He reminded her that it was a daughter’s duty to obey and contribute to her family’s honor. Andromache acquiesced to his request before ever laying eyes on Hektor.

  When the Trojan prince arrived with the first gifts of betrothal, she’d barely spoken to him. He was a tall intimidating man. Dark curly hair hung to his shoulders, framing a perfectly chiseled jaw and his blue eyes sparkled like midnight stars. His skin was darkened from Apollo’s light. It was the look of surprise in his eyes when he was allowed to gaze on her unveiled face that warmed her to him. His face had softened, revealing a wide honest smile that reached his eyes. In that moment Andromache knew she could trust this man, perhaps even love him.

  “I am ready, Father.”

  She laid a small hand loom and a pair of her maiden sandals at the feet of the household shrine to Hera. “I apologize they are so worn,” she whispered. The princess pulled her himation over her head and spoke silently to the goddess. I have never lived on my own. And I am frightened. Help me to be a steadfast wife.

  As she knelt before a similar shrine to Artemis, a servant girl came up next to her carrying a small sharp knife on a bronze platter. Andromache took the blade in her hands and took a thin lock of her long black hair between her fingers. She cut the lock off mid-length and placed it at the painted wooden feet of Artemis’ statue. Help me to put aside my childish thoughts and become a woman my husband will respect and, if I do not ask for too much, that he will love me. Goddess, he will be my all in Troy. I will have no family, no friends except the ones I am able to make. Guide me in this passage from girl to woman. She pulled her himation closer over her head and remained in supplication. In the background she could hear her family talking and the wagons being loaded below. Artemis, I am frightened of marriage. I cannot tell my father or my mother. Their hopes are great that I will be a good wife, perhaps queen one day. Troy is...a great city. How will the nobles accept me? I have no desire to leave my family...I will be alone in Troy...a warm comforting hand weigh
ed on her shoulder. Andromache tried to open her eyes and turn to see who had approached her, but found her eyes and body would not obey.

  “Young daughter,” a golden honey voice sounded in her ear. “Calm your fears. Win the queen’s heart.”

  “What if I am unable? I am just a girl,” Andromache whispered out loud.

  “You are woman now. The way will come to you.”

  The pressure on her shoulder released. The presence vanished. She stood up on shaky legs. Artemis. The goddess had spoken to her. She rubbed her shoulder where the goddess’s hand had rested. It ached. Andromache decided to keep the words of Artemis private. She would share her fears with no one. She did worry about Queen Hecuba. It was widely rumored she was a cold woman since the loss of the Forgotten Prince. She had no idea how she would gain the acceptance of such a woman, but the goddess had made it clear that was the path she must follow.

  “Good! I see you are finished praying to Aretmis,” her mother said behind her.

  Andromache turned and flung herself into her mother’s soft bosom and loving arms. “I will miss you, Mother.”

  The gentle woman kissed the top of her head and held her close. “Not as much as I shall miss you, my sweet child.”

  “Must I go?” Andromache couldn’t help but say the words.

  Her mother grabbed both of her shoulders and pushed her back far enough to meet her eyes. “All women must go to their husband. But you, my little dove, go to the most handsome man in the Troad. He is beyond compare, is he not?”

  “He is old,” she said.

  Her mother laughed. “Yes. Yes to you he must seem old. He is a man, no mere boy.”

  “What if he will not love me?”

  “Daughter, you are a young flower, eighteen winters have you blossomed in this household. Have you not caught a glimpse of yourself? Have you not earned the love and respect of your family?”

  “But what—”

  “Andromache, listen to me. Hektor is just a man. He will be helpless at your feet soon enough. He will protect you. If I am not mistaken, he will love you, if he does not already. Come child, stop this worrying. The carts are loaded. We wait only for the bride,” her mother patted her cheek playfully. “You know your father hates waiting.”