Rage of Queens
Homeric Chronicles
Book Three
by
Janell Rhiannon
Rage of Queens
Copyright 2021 © Janell Rhiannon
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any format
without the express permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction based on mythology. All characters are fictional. Any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
✽✽✽
For all the women I love.
And these most of all:
Amber
Anni
Bree
Miss Macy
Vandy
Verni
Cover design and photography by MaeIDesign and Photography
Book design by Inkstain Design Studio
Edited by Melisa at There For You Editing
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Only the dead have seen the end of the war.
—Plato
PART TWO
The Last Days
The Rage of Achilles
War.
How do you begin?
Envy and greed.
Prophecy.
Rage.
War.
Where is your mercy?
Blood and bones
washed it away,
winging it to the heavens.
War.
Where is your victory?
Spears and swords
mutilated bodies bloom like spring flowers,
glistening guts sparkle in the sun.
War.
What is your legacy?
Death and destruction.
Memory.
Song.
War.
Who is your champion?
Death dropped a single name:
Achilles.
TROY
ONE, vengeance
1238 BCE
Priam stood in the gray light of early morning, staring with red-rimmed and swollen eyes at his youngest son’s lifeless form on the funeral pyre in the central court of his palace. The physicians had sewn Troilus’ head and body parts back onto his beaten and bruised body. “My son. My precious son,” he whispered to the gentle breeze sweeping along the stone. His raw grief dusted his eyes, squeezing his chest of breath. “Why have you allowed Achilles to defile my son? Innocent as he was of this war?” He tilted his head back, scanning the gloomy skies for a sign, but the gods gave no answer to the king. Troy is now doomed.
He closed his eyes, willing the sharp pain tearing his heart from his chest to stop. But, instead of relief, the past haunted him with images and sounds long forgotten. Hecuba’s wretched sobbing when he ripped the newborn babe from her arms. The child’s wrinkled, purpled face screaming up at him. Agelaus’ wide-eyed disbelief upon hearing the royal command to expose the child. And worst of all, the seer’s menacing and angry scowl that the babe wasn’t being discarded quickly enough. The gods curse me. Task me with killing one son, to save another. Where is the true choice in that? Priam sighed heavily, his fists balled at his side, while a sliver of anger at the gods slipped to clench his jaw.
Hecuba, moving as a living wraith, whispered behind him, “This is all Achilles’ fault.”
Priam’s head sank to his chest. “I do not know what else we could have done.”
The queen’s black gown trailed behind her like smoke, her veil a dark curtain behind which her icy voice cracked with new rage. “Achilles’ life is forfeit for the pains he has brought to our household. The gods will not protect a defiler. The son of Thetis will not escape the wrath of Apollo’s silver bow. Or my vengeance.”
“Apollo does not care what Achilles has done. Look around you, wife. Do you see the god striding across the sky to smite the cursed Greeks at their beached ships? Does flame and smoke rise from their camp? There …” he pointed with a shaking finger at the pyre, “there lies our son! Dead. Defiled. Desecrated. Even at Apollo’s feet, Troilus was not safe from that murdering, blood thirsty cur.”
Hecuba stepped next to her husband’s side, taking his weathered hand in her cold one. “Do not lose hope that the gods will deliver Achilles into our hands. Their ways are mysterious, unknown to us. Their will is whispered as a wind passing our ear … Do not lose hope.”
Priam stared down at his wife. Her dark eyes were unusually calm. Lifting his free hand, he touched her pale cheek. “Strange words of comfort fall from your lips. Why do you think Apollo would help us now? Do you forget his will was the root of our sorrow? What scheme is brewing in your iron heart?”
“Justice. You may be king, but you do not possess knowledge of all things.”
“Only the gods may weigh justice.” The king shook his head. “You will bring more grief on our heads.”
Hecuba’s laughter rang shrilly against the stone. “Death and grief are the pillars of our threshold, or have you not noticed? Death and grief drink our wine and eat our bread, unwelcomed guests at every meal. I do not fear them. I intend to stop them.”
“Please, Hecuba, I beg you—”
The queen slipped her hand from his, disgust dripping from her tongue when she said, “Do not beg. It is … unkingly.” Turning abruptly, she walked away.
Priam watched her, floating like a cloud of doom across the courtyard until she disappeared into the shadows of the palatial pillars. He knew Achilles was to blame for Troilus’ death, but he could not escape his guilt for bringing the war in the first place. What if he had not let Hesione go that day long ago? What if he had forced Paris to give Helen back instead of allowing her to stay? What if he had just killed Paris in the first place? The gods fuck me with my lots. I cannot have vengeance or peace.
✽✽✽
For twelve days the Trojans feasted and held games to honor the youngest prince of Troy. And on the twelfth night the funeral pyre was lit. Hecuba stood alongside Priam as they watched the orange flames lick at the piled wood, growing into a roaring wall of fire, consuming the body of their beloved son. Neither the queen nor the king took their eyes from the horrific sight of Troilus disappearing into ash. The song of mourning flew from the lips of old women, floating into the dark night like a thousand cawing ravens. The shrill sound shivered up the spines of all who could hear their cries.
As the f
lames died, and the grieving crowd dispersed, Hektor watched his long-suffering parents reluctantly walk away, fading into the surrounding night. He wrapped his arm around Andromache’s waist. Feeling the roundness of their child secure within her belly filled him with as much joy as fear. Theirs had been the lot of grief and sorrow regarding children, and now in the shadow of their youths the gods had granted them a final blessing. Let it be, Apollo. Let me fade into song with a son to hear. Let him grow strong …
Squeezing her tightly, Hektor asked, “How is your mother, my love?”
Andromache leaned into her husband’s embrace. “As good as she can be for having lost everything.”
“She has not lost all, my love. She yet has you.”
The princess sighed deeply, her sadness evident. “I do not know if it is enough. Achilles murdered my entire family before her eyes. It haunts her still.”
“In time, the horrors of war will fade. Trust me. She will heal and find joy again.” He tenderly kissed her forehead. “We will find joy again.”
“I hope these Greeks tire of war and leave us all in peace.”
Hektor looked out in to the night, watching the dying embers fade. “That they will never do.”
As they stood, surrounded by the growing silence, Hektor caught a glimpse of Paris and Helen behind a pillar. They were locked in a passionate embrace, oblivious to anything but themselves. He sneered into the dark. As the bloody war had consumed most of the Troad lands, he found that in his heart he blamed Paris most of all.
✽✽✽
LEMNOS
Lykaon wiped his hands on his rough-spun chiton, and then picked up the tray of fat figs and plump dates. He carried them to Euneus, a portly man with a puffy face and a permanently pursed mouth.
“Hurry up, boy,” Euneus demanded. “You move too slowly for my taste.”
Lykaon cringed. Euneus’ tastes leaned toward the despicable and depraved. Since he’d been in Euneus’ service, he’d suspected many barbaric rituals. The rounded, dead eyed stare of slaves being led from mysterious chambers haunted him. Shrill screams and desperate pleading floated in his mind, even in the quiet of the day. And the blood he’d scrub away would discolor his hands for days. Some days, he worried that Euneus was plotting some nefarious deed involving him. Why else pay so much for a royal hostage?
“Apologies, my lord.” The deference bittered his tongue. He silently cursed Patrokles and Achilles both for his current situation. If not for them, I would be safe in Troy by now. Why? Why did I have to go at that moment for the branches?
“I told you to clean yourself up, did I not?” Euneus growled angrily.
Lykaon looked down at his clothes. “Apologies, my lord. It is the only chiton I have without stain.”
“Pour my wine. I expect my guest will be arriving shortly.”
Ever a diligent servant, Lykaon did as he was bid, praying to the gods that he would remain unblemished and unsoiled by this man.
Do not let me die in this place, Apollo. Zeus. If either of you has ears to hear me. If any of you gods hear me. Lykaon recognized the name Eetion, and wondered what an ally of King Priam was doing traveling this far west. He’d been bought and sold several times between Thasos and Samothrace before landing in the house of Euneus back on Lemnos where his nightmare had begun years ago.
Before the quiet of morning turned to the bustle of mid-day, the expected guest arrived, a small caravan trailing behind him. Through a narrow window, Lykaon spotted Eetion. He was a thin man wearing the heavily curled beard of lower Mysia.
What does he want with Euneus? The bell rang for his service. These fucking western barbarians.
“I see your journey brings you well-endowed with … ransom.”
Lykaon’s ears rang. Ransom? He stepped behind a tall, blue marble column at the chamber’s entrance. A surge of hope heightened every sound in the room; the clatter of trays of fruit being passed between guests, the shuffle of the women’s soft leather sandals on the marble floor. Could he be here on account of me? By the gods, if he is I swear―
Euneus cleared his throat grotesquely. “Lykaon!”
Lykaon hurried into the chamber. With his head bowed, he tried discretely to catch a closer glimpse of Eetion. “My lord?”
“So, this is Priam’s son?” Eetion asked, plucking a date from a tray and plopping it into his mouth. A servant girl proffered the Imbrosian guest another cup of pale wine. “How do I know this is not some trickery?”
“I assure you, my lord Eetion, he is Lykaon.”
“I have been chasing imposters of Priam’s son around the Aegean. I must be sure.”
Lykaon touched the slight dip in his chin, and lifting his head brought his full face into view. “I bear the mark,” he said quietly.
Eetion set his cup down, and came forward. He examined Lykaon’s jaw, turning it this way and that. His eyes widened, not so much because he knew he’d found the prince … more so because of the wealth he stood to collect upon safe delivery of the young man. “It is the mark of Priam. All princes of Troy bear it, whether birthed by the queen or not. Who is your mother?”
“Laothoë, daughter of Aletes. Ruler of the Leleges people north of the Simoeis River.”
Euneus clapped his meaty hands together, licking his thick lips in anticipation of extending his wealth. His ponderous weight rolled with his giddy laughter. “What is your offer, then?”
“Three hundred head of cattle.”
Euneus sputtered. “That is all? No gold? Silver? Surely, Priam will pay handsomely for his return.”
“He will. But my wealth is not inexhaustible. If you desire more, return him to Priam yourself.”
“Fine!” Euneus grumbled. “Fine. Take him. He eats too much.”
Eetion stood up. “Your hospitality grows thin, Euneus. Come, Lykaon. It is passed time you are reunited with your father.”
As they walked from the courtyard of Euneus’ home into the streets, Lykaon could scarce believe his fortune. “How long until we reach Troy?
“We must sail north and make our way to the Sea of Marmara, then south to Arisbe. If the gods are with us, we will make it to Troy unscathed.”
“Why not sail straight for Troy? It is but a short distance from Lemnos.”
Eetion shook his head vigorously. “Although the Black Shields and their commander remain in the south, Agamemnon has returned to the main encampment at the Bay of Troy. Their warships patrol the Dardanelles in the north. We must travel farther north. On land. Anything else is too risky. If they discover us …”
The hope Priam’s son felt dwindled. “We will die.”
Eetion laughed. “If we are fortunate, that is all that will happen to us.”
TROY
Myrmidon Camp
TWO, truth in silence
1238 BCE
Achilles eyed Briseis over the rim of his cup, as she pulled a slender thread through the soft wool of his tunic. He’d torn the hem sparring with Patrokles. “Your fingers … they’re graceful.”
“Callused.”
“Did your mother instruct you to work the linen, or some other woman?”
Briseis didn’t bother looking up, but continued mending. “I’m an expert weaver.” She stopped, then met Achilles’ gaze. “Was an expert weaver.” She resumed stitching the seam.
“Why, then, do you not weave for me?”
“I do everything for you, Achilles.”
The Golden Warrior sipped quietly at his wine. Her words rang true enough, but her tone pricked his heart. His instincts told him she hid some truth from him. He would flush it out, as a hound does a bird. “Why do you never speak of your life in Lyrnessus?”
Briseis bit her bottom lip. Achilles watched as her shoulders rose and fell. A brief silence spread between them. “Why do you care now, after all these years, about my life … before all this?”
“What is ‘all this’ to you, Briseis?”
“You. Here. All of it.”
Setting his cup do
wn, Achilles leaned back in his chair. Of all the women he had know, she intrigued him most. She shared very little of her thoughts with him. Her body most willingly, but never her full heart.
“I’ll fetch more wine.”
“No. I’ve no desire for more wine.”
Briseis laughed softly. “Are you certain you’re my Achilles?”
Achilles came around the table and stood before her. After taking the tunic from her hands, he set it in her basket. Then, he knelt, taking her knees in his hands. “Tell me, Briseis. Tell me everything.” How do I tell her that soon I will die?
Tears filled her eyes. “I can’t.”
“You must.”
Briseis pressed her lips tightly together, as a solitary tear escaped her eye. It streaked down her cheek, pooling at the corner of her mouth. “No,” she whispered.
He brushed the tear from her mouth with his thumb. “I will begin for you.” Reaching a hand to her face, he cradled her check as much in love as control. “I’ve kissed your entire body.” His hand slid down the side of her neck, over her breasts, and then to her stomach. “I know you’ve carried children, yet my seed has never taken hold. I’m fairly certain I’ve fathered more sons than Neoptolemus.”
More tears trailed down Briseis’ stoic face.
Achilles whispered roughly, but not without tenderness, “I wish for there to be no secrets between us.”
Briseis’ body shook as memories she’d buried struggled to free themselves to the light. “When you took me from that life, you took the memories as well.” Growing angry, because it was both a lie and the truth, she asked, “Isn’t it enough?”
“No, it isn’t.”
Wiping her eyes, she said, “Tell me your truth first. Why now? You’ve never cared before, yet the past was there to probe. Why now?”
The fire in his blue eyes softened. Truth. Tell her the truth. “Because, Briseis … Death is coming for me.”
Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Page 1
