Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1)

by Janell Rhiannon

  Menelaus pulled on his red beard. “She has humiliated me, brother.”

  Agamemnon placed a firm hand on his brother’s arm. “But she has left you the kingdom.”

  “How long before Tyndareus rescinds his abdication as a result, naming one of his own sons as king to replace me?”

  “He will not...not as long as he desires peace with Mycenae.”

  “You will help me, then, brother?”

  “I will. But not for Helen’s sake. Once a dog has run away, the only way to keep it is to leash it. The bitch, if returned, will bring you nothing but agony.”

  “I care not. I will not be humiliated in my own house. I will invoke the oath.”

  Agamemnon nodded his head. “Yes, the oath. Clever. Almost as if Tyndareus knew this would eventually happen.”

  Menelaus bent his head to his brother in deference. “You have my gratitude.”

  “Brother. My love for you is true. But, have no doubt I will take the lion’s portion we reap along the shores of Asia. If I travel at your side, I go for plunder not Helen. Besides, the coastal cities hang like ripe figs ready to be plucked of their sweetness. And Troy...”

  Menelaus laughed heartily. “The fattest fig of all!”

  ODYSSEUS STOOD BEFORE the entrance of the cave to Ithaka’s oracle. Ground water seeped along the walls in soft cascading sheets puddling in low depressions along the pathway, eventually disappearing into the crevices of the stony floor. The wetness glittered in the flickering torch light, like the noon sun flashing off the tumultuous sea far below. From here, he could still smell the salty air. He was tired and hot from the long morning hike through brush on the dusty path to reach her.

  A young woman wearing a thinly spun sun-bleached chiton approached. A crimson stripe of dye bled unevenly into the whiteness of her dress. The hem at her feet was damp and ragged from dragging along the ground. She stood as pale as a nymph might be. She kept her eyes diverted and focused on the earth beneath her bare feet. Her dark hair long hung undone around her shoulders.

  “Remove your sandals,” she said. Her hand gestured delicately toward the ground at his feet. “And lay down your sword. You do not need it here.”

  Odysseus complied because in this cave he was not the young king of Ithaka, but simply a man who had been summoned by the gods. He knelt to undo his leather lacings and held his sandals out to the waiting attendant.

  “Your sword. I will keep it until you return.”

  Odysseus began to protest, but reconsidered. He didn’t want anything to be used against him, perhaps causing an ominous prophecy from the oracle. He undid the clasp that secured his short sword to the leather belt and handed that to her as well.

  “She will see you now.” The young lady bowed her head deeply and stepped to the side.

  The coldness of the rock path chilled his feet and his toes went numb. He looked around waiting for something to happen. He could hear birds singing in trees and shrubs somewhere behind him, the ocean a distant gentle crashing. The girl just stood there with her head bowed. “Where is the oracle?” he asked.

  “Follow the torches. She is waiting.” Never once did he catch the color of her eyes or the line of her face.

  As he walked through the cave, careful not to lose his footing on the slippery path, he wondered where the water came from. There was no natural stream that he knew of that could possibly feed these walls. The cave smelled of earth and rust. Yet there was more than just the smell dirt and rocks hanging in the air. He inhaled deeply trying to discern the exact essence. It was bitter and he coughed. He could not place the aroma. Shadows twisted and curved on the cave walls casting their dark forms magically about in the torch flames.

  The path widened, eventually opening into a large antechamber. The light dimmed to near blackness and then he heard...the humming. It echoed in his ears until he was dizzy with the weight of it. Odysseus closed his eyes to the sound of a thousand female voices chanting his name. A great sleepiness washed over him. As quickly as it had begun, the humming subsided leaving his body feeling heavier than before. A light grew and pierced the veil of his eyelids.

  When he dared open his eyes, he saw that he stood in a circular room surrounded on all sides by smooth rock. A single boulder, chiseled from the rock served as a natural altar. The oracle sat on the altar, her legs and bare feet dangling over the rock. Her head was bowed and her long red hair completely obscured her face. Each palm rested flatly against the altar’s surface. She wore nothing but the shadows. Odysseus looked nervously at the ground.

  The extended silence unnerved him. I am the king damn it, speak! “Why have you called me here?” Odysseus finally questioned.

  “It is not your place to question why you are called by the gods, Odysseus. It will be your downfall,” the oracle’s voice was a raspy whisper.

  “I assure you I can endure whatever the gods chose to lay at my feet.”

  The oracle looked up and met his gaze with eyes as black as onyx. Her thin lips spread in an uneasy smile. “Pride, Odysseus, your pride will bring you to your knees. Do not tempt the gods with your arrogant boasts. It is not for you to say what you can or cannot…endure.”

  “I am a king. I have been blessed with a strong son. A faithful wife. Athena herself keeps watch over me, guides me. What do I have to fear?”

  The oracle stood up. Her tangled hair covering her sacred nakedness. He could see her face by the flickering light. She must have been beautiful before the gods invaded her, he thought.

  Her black eyes bore into his. “You have hollow ears king of Ithaka. You should practice humility and reverence for the winged world above your head.”

  “What news, oracle? I have business to attend to. The hour grows long, the message?”

  The oracle lifted a slender golden arm pointing directly at his chest. “Here it is, as plainly as it can be spoken,” she closed the small gap between them resting her finger tip on his chest. “You will travel far for the sake of a king much greater than yourself…you will go to war.”

  “I have gone to war many times. I have no fear of battle. My sword and spear are able enough. My shield hangs upon my hearth.”

  She dropped her arm and stepped closer. Her eyes glittered with knowing things beyond this world, things of ether and dreams and fears. He couldn’t hold her gaze, the intensity burned through him forcing him to look away.

  “This war will launch a thousand Greek ships across the blue Aegean. Fair winds will carry you and your men to Troy, but they will not favor your return.”

  “Troy? Ithaka has no complaints against the Trojans. What could the Trojans possess that all the Greeks should go to war?”

  “The most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “Trojan women cannot compare to our women. The most beautiful? Helen, Menelaus’ wife? Impossible.”

  The oracle laughed at his ignorance. She narrowed her eyes and stood so close he could smell the bitter prophetic sweat glistening along her limbs. “Yes, Helen.”

  Immediately, Odysseus recalled the oath he’d spoken. He’d pushed it from his mind after returning triumphantly to Ithaka with a wife of his own. “You have my ear, Oracle.”

  “You will be called upon this very day to fulfill what you have sworn.”

  “Who has taken Helen this time?” Odysseus asked.

  “Paris, son of Priam. You will fulfill your oath before the sun sinks into the edge where purple night trails Apollo’s glory. Mycenaean and Spartan ships are already anchoring at your shore. You are being summoned even as I speak.”

  “Can I avoid this war? Give me some trick or magic to release me.”

  “I can endure whatever the gods lay at my feet. Did you not just moments ago make such a boast? See now what lies at your feet? There is no magic I can offer to void the contract that you made. There is no magic for honor, as you know, only a shield...your spear...your word.”

  Odysseus spat out his anger. “Menelaus should have kept a tighter leash on his wife! That
unfaithful bitch will undo us all. He should have kept her out of sight.”

  “There is more, king of Ithaka.”

  He clenched his jaw bracing for the next revelation. “Speak.”

  “You will not return for twenty years, once you step foot off this island.”

  “But what of Penelope and my newborn son? I cannot leave them now.”

  “You made a promise. You gave your word.”

  “I will not go.”

  “You would risk war with Sparta by breaking your word? Where would your honor be then? Or your family? Olympus watches over me. Athena herself keeps watch over me, guides me. What do I have to fear?” Her words mocked his arrogance.

  Odysseus challenged her proclamation, “I will not be gone for twenty fucking years. Athena will not allow it!”

  “We shall see king of Ithaka. Learn to respect the will of the gods. They control your fate. Athena alone cannot save you. Heed my warning: remember your place in our universe. Mortal.” The oracle backed into the shadows and disappeared.

  Her words rang in his ears…you are mortal, you are mortal, you are mortal. He turned on unsteady legs and ran. He slid up to the motionless attendant who was still holding his sandals and sword. He grabbed them roughly from her hands, clasping his sword in place and then his sandals. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. He had to make a plan. He had time. It would take him nearly three hours to get back down the hill and to his palace.

  ODYSSEUS PASSED THE outlying edges of his land. In the northern orchards, he had planted red pomegranates and apples. Their miniature fruits were just visible. In the western orchards, he had set sweet purple figs and silver tipped olive trees into the soil. On the eastern rockiest side of the royal lands, grape vines were painstakingly terraced with hand laid rock walls, when acre by acre, the land had been cleared for orchards or vines. Fields of barley and wheat covered the low lying southern lands. His father, Laertes, was right about planting the land in this strange way. Something was always ready for harvest, as the next crop was beginning to push into bloom or fruit. The aging king had abdicated his throne to his son to pursue his love of agriculture. He had told Odysseus he liked the smell of the damp earth on his hands, the feel of sweat on his brow and took pride in drinking wine or eating fruits that he himself had nurtured from stem to harvest. Laertes had said he was tired of the smell of blood and men.

  Since leaving Ithaka in the hands of his son, Laertes had spent many days on his own plot of land on a neighboring valley. The only person not entirely pleased with this new found love of the land was Anticlea, his wife and Odysseus’ mother. She had remained with her son and Penelope, maintaining a matriarchic hold as the queen mother of Ithaka. She’d reasoned with her husband that Penelope was young and would need her guidance to raise the future kings of Ithaka. But still, Laertes preferred the rough countryside to his former palatial life. Stone by stone with the help of loyal and knowledgeable servants, Laertes built a farmhouse of his own. Odysseus thought that maybe it was the solitude and peace of mind his father sought more than anything else. Being a king meant constant worrying about everything and everyone.

  As Odysseus passed the last row of olive trees with their roots like arthritic fingers gripping the dry earth, he stopped to survey what he was up against. He could see the Mycenaean and Spartan ships sailing into his harbor, the white water breaking against each hull. The bright sails and insignias of the royal brothers were unmistakable even at this distance. Agamemnon’s All-Seeing-Eye blinked as the main canvas sail billowed in the breeze. The sail of Menelaus the Red King shone bright red trimmed with black against the surrounding blue. These brother kings lorded their wealth over the tribes. The wedding of Helen to the younger had solidified their position and rank among the mainland and the islands. Together they commanded the most powerful kingdoms in all of Greece.

  As Odysseus approached the outer wall of the furthest courtyard, where he could look down into the bay, his caution heightened. He didn’t want anyone to discover him, forcing his hand before he was ready. Ithaka was no match for a united Mycenae and Sparta. The oracle had been right. Twenty years? Can she be right about that, too? He realized a messenger had most likely been dispatched to the palace and he had to move quickly.

  The young king went straight to the barn staying close to the wall. It was quiet and he was thankful Eumaeus wasn’t around. That old man would’ve questioned him to death. He was fairly certain he’d taken the sheep out to clean the recently harvested barley fields. Odysseus robbed his own storage hut of a bag of sea salt and picked up a seeding bag, which he slung familiarly over his left shoulder. In the barn, he pulled the oxen yoke down from the wooden posts where it had hung since spring time planting was completed. He hefted it onto his other shoulder and carried it to the oxen pen.

  The huge beasts were grazing contentedly on remains of the barley brought in by donkeys and stored just for them. This pair was necessary and spoiled by that fact, being treated practically like horses. They were reluctant to leave their comfort but followed their master’s lead. He hooked them with deft hands into the yoke. Odysseus picked up a plough and stepped to the edge of the stable peering around ensuring he remained undetected. All was quiet, almost too quiet. The servants must be in the hall. Then, it occurred to him that Agamemnon or Menelaus might both be within the palace not out on their ships. He needed at least one of them to see him put his plan in motion or it wouldn’t work. He cursed Athena silently for allowing this to happen. He wondered why she’d abandoned him

  With his seed bad full of salt crystals and a planting team hooked up in front of him, he set the plough to the ground and commanded the oxen to move. The well-trod pathway was hardened by years of foot and animal traffic. The plough scored a shallow groove in the ground all the way down to the beach head. Once down on the sandy shore he set about planting his field of salt. He set his oxen to pulling rows the entire length of the shoreline, casting salt as he went along. The sun beat down on him; the heat burned his skin a deeper shade of bronze. Sweat spiraled down his black ringlets and stung his eyes as it dripped. He kept on plowing and planting.

  Only a chosen few were ever allowed entry into royal bed chamber. Odysseus himself had sketched out the exact placement of the walls, the single door and inner sanctuary. He’d kept the secrets of the room closely guarded, sharing only the most intimate details with his new bride and queen, Penelope. They never spoke of it to anyone. It was a sacred room Odysseus wanted only for himself and his bride. Outside the room, they were the reigning couple of Ithaka. But within their chamber, Odysseus could be simply a man who loved his gentle and elegant wife. None but Eurycleia and Penelope’s maid, Eurýnomê, had ever seen the interior. Not even Anticlea.

  Odysseus had laid the room out on the lower floor so that Penelope could see the ocean from her windows and catch the breeze when it favored this side of their island. The outer walls of their room were laid close to the hillside for protection and privacy. He planted masses of wine colored roses below the windows. It was the queen of flowers and grew hardily in the hot summers of Ithaka. Odysseus favored the roses because they added additional security. This exquisite variety, born from a lifeless nymph, had thorns the size of a fingertip and could rip exposed flesh to shreds.

  He’d built the heavy double entry doors himself. He had hewed and smoothed the wood to his liking and hammered out a pair of matching olive trees in brilliant bronze to adorn each door. Simple round handles allowed entry from the outside, but Odysseus had placed three heavy iron latches to secure the door from the interior. Once it was locked from the inside, no one could enter. An intruder would have to tear off the entire roof to drop in from the sky.

  Completing their sacred space was a bed hand-made by the king in secret. It dominated the center of the chamber. What appeared as a simple design contained a secret known only to the king and queen. Three of the four posts of the bed frame were ordinary beams hewn from imported cedar trees. It was the
fourth post which contained the secret. Both husband and wife swore never to reveal what truth the final anchored post held.

  Penelope had been confused when one of her husband’s messengers arrived sweating and winded in the courtyard. He was speaking in spurts and fits about ships and Sparta. Nothing made sense. But something had definitely struck Eurycleia, because no sooner had the man opened his mouth, than she grabbed Penelope’s arm rushing her into her bed chamber with strict orders to shut the bolts, until she herself returned.

  She walked to her window overlooking the bay and saw the ships anchoring there. What do they want? What could Sparta want with Ithaka? Penelope looked around her room, silently grateful her husband had taken such pains to make sure she would always feel safe here. In the darkest corner of their room, Penelope had erected an altar for Athena with Odysseus’ help. It was smaller than the household shrine in the center of the main courtyard. This one was for their private thoughts and thanks. Odysseus believed that Athena would always protect them and it had sometimes, she noted privately, made him brash and overly daring. In public, she would never shed a tear. But in this sanctuary, in front of their Athena, she felt free to shed as many as she needed for comfort. She knelt before Athena in silence and waited. A rapid pounding drew her away from the shrine. Through the solid timbers she heard her maid pleading urgently, “Open up, my lady. It’s me.”

  Penelope quickly unbolted each iron slide and Eurycleia rushed in followed by two strange guards with swords drawn. “I’m sorry, my lady, but there is no other way.” The old woman walked to the cradle and picked up the new born prince swaddling cloth and all. Without a word of explanation, she hurried out shouting over her shoulder, “Lock the door!”

  The queen bolted towards her maid, but the guards roughly blocked her way. “Wait! Eurycleia! Where are you taking Telemachus?!” she screamed as the guards pulled the heavy doors shut. She slid the iron latches back into place. Penelope leaned against the door, confusion and fear overwhelmed her and she sank to the floor in tears. She recognized the Spartan armor and red capes of Menelaus. Why would her cousin’s husband come here? She had obeyed Eurycleia, a second mother to her, and now she regretted it. What was happening? Odysseus urgently summoned to the Oracle. Foreign ships in the harbor, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the distinctive sail of the great king Agamemnon accompanied his brother. But what had all this to do with her son?