Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “He should have cast me aside and taken a fertile woman to wife.” Another pain gripped her hips, changing its course and purpose like a river running rampant over a flat field. “I feel him coming.” She wept, but not for joy. She wept for fear the child would be born without breath. “Eleithyia, Goddess, I beg you—” Andromache tilted her head back, groaning with the effort to bring the child to light.

  Across the chamber, a breeze fluttered the privacy curtains at the balcony. The midwife turned, catching the flash of silver and bronze. Her eyes widened as the specter grew larger, moving silently into the center of the chamber. The other women attending fell to their knees before the goddess towering before them.

  In a voice of honeyed silver she commanded, “Bring me the blade.” She turned to Andromache. “Long have you suffered in fruitless labor, my daughter. Your womb carrying its precious burdens only to end in blood and empty arms. No longer will your bed be one of sorrow.”

  “Goddess,” Andromache whispered. “I’m grateful.”

  Eleithyia pulled the linen covering from Andromache and lifted the princess’ gown. She placed her hands on the mound of child, pushing and pulling gently. “Your discomfort should be less. Now, daughter, push. Push because his life depends on it.”

  Hearing that her son’s life hung in the balance, Andromache roared and pushed with all her might.

  The goddess smiled, encouraging her. “Aye, daughter, that is the way. Push like a warrior locked shield to shield against a common foe.”

  Again the princess bore down, her legs shaking with her effort, tears streaming down her face.

  The goddess knelt between Andromache’s bent knees. “His head is crowned in your glory. He will be blessed for a short time. Now, push him to the light.”

  Andromache gripped the back of her knees with her hands, bearing down with what effort she had remaining. She felt a burning, then a quick tug, and quite suddenly, relief as the babe slid from the birth canal into Eleithyia’s waiting arms.

  Deftly, the goddess took the sharp blade, slicing the life cord. “The water basin,” she commanded sternly.

  The midwife gasped. “He’s purple.”

  Andromache panicked. “He’s not crying. What’s wrong?”

  The goddess calmly swept the child’s mouth with her finger. She placed her lips over his nose and mouth and blew a gentle breath of air. The child threw his hands out, stretching to life, screaming at the top of his lungs. His skin color turned a healthy pink. Eleithyia gently scooped fresh water over the tiny body, cleaning away the muck of birth. She cradled the boy, now quiet in her arms, and handed him to the princess.

  “Gratitude, Goddess,” Andromache whispered, feeling the weight of her love with Hektor in her arms for the first time. “We are truly blessed,” she beamed. All of the pain she’d suffered over the years, all the children she’d buried with their small malformed bodies, all the humiliation she’d carried suddenly faded. The warm bundle in her arms was her salvation, her most ardent prayer come to life. She looked up at Eleithyia, her sparkling eyes and gown of stars, and nodded. “I will not forget.”

  “Blessings fade in time,” the goddess said, before her glittering image disappeared into thin air.

  Hektor burst through the door. “I heard the cry!” He rushed to his wife’s side, pushing the astounded women aside, and then stopped for shear joy when he beheld the sight he’d longed his entire life to see—Andromache cradling their child as it suckled at her breast. He wept without shame.

  Andromache was glowing with pride and sweat. “Astyanax, this is your father.”

  Hektor’s tears washed into the crease of his wide smile. “A son.” He laughed softly, then louder with joy. “A son.”

  “Our son.”

  The Golden Prince bent to kiss his wife on the lips. “The gods favor us, even into our late age.”

  Andromache kept the veiled warning in Eleithyia’s words to herself. Nothing would make her steal her husband’s joy. She’d learned, over the drawn out years of the western invasion, that war was fought one battle at a time, and a man’s heart must have something to fight for, that he mustn’t despair too often. No, she would keep the warning to herself, giving Hektor his happiness without blemish. She owed him that much at least for all the years of his faithful devotion to her and to the city. She would be his strength from this day forward, bearing the burden of her secret silently, so that he could continue to fight valiantly for Troy.

  Besides, she reasoned with herself, she had no clear idea what the goddess meant. Likely, it was another harbinger of doom regarding the shining citadel. And that, if it was true, couldn’t be stopped if she spoke the warning aloud. No, better to end the final days of life as if hope existed, as if the skies would again brighten, and as if Troy would once again be the shining, free city of the east.

  TROY

  SIX, losing love

  1238 BCE

  The feast, sparsely set upon the trestle tables, drew the few men able to stand and walk. Roasted meat and stale bread were passed around as the captains argued, sickness and fear gripping all in attendance.

  “Kalchus must be allowed to speak,” Achilles said.

  The seer shook his head vehemently. “I prefer silence.”

  Achilles plucked a plump fig from the tray before him. “Even when you know the gods give you the answer to ending this plague?”

  Kalchus shuddered. “I cannot.”

  Achilles popped the ripe fruit into his mouth, savoring the sweet, grainy texture on his tongue before addressing the thin assembly of Myrmidons and Greeks. “I vow to protect you, Kalchus, whatever your words reveal.”

  The seer, leery of the long days of war, slumped in his seat. “Words, always words, son of Peleus. Words that fall on deaf ears or worse bring the edge of a blade to one’s throat. If you vow on the life of your sacred mother, I will speak what the gods have hammered into my restless mind.”

  Achilles nodded. “On Thetis’ life.”

  Kalchus dared a sideways glance at the Great King. He pressed his shaking fingers to the base of his throat, imagining the blood tricking down, staining his tunic. He swallowed the bitter fear of death. “The gods have answers that our King Agamemnon may wish … remained unspoken, or said in private.”

  The Golden Warrior scoffed. “Who among us can choose what the gods wish or do not wish on our account?” He gestured to the gathering. They had all seen the bitter days of war and death. The camp sickness was heaping more agony upon those already suffering with no end in sight. Not even the physicians, not even Patrokles, not anything he’d learned from Chiron had worked to staunch the plague. “Who among you holds the sway of his destiny before the gods?” Death, will I chose death?

  The seer pressed his sweaty palms together, blurting out the vision Hera had burned into his mind. “Agamemnon has angered Apollo by refusing to return the priest’s daughter, Astynome.” Kalchus immediately bowed his head, uttering a quick prayer that Agamemnon wouldn’t sever it from his shoulders.

  Agamemnon slammed both fists onto the table. “You vile tongued cunt! Always prophesying by birds shitting on rocks and rotten entrails on altars. Your words never favor me. You only tell me how the gods will fuck me!” The Great King’s cheeks quivered with fury. “If I allow the return of one girl, how will we ever be victorious? Where would our honor be? I’ll tell you. We will have cast it to the winds of Aeolus. How is it right to allow foreigners to break hospitality oaths and steal our women? Our treasures are justly won, are they not? I hear you gripe and complain about my brother. But surely what happened to Menelaus could’ve happened to any of you had that fucking Trojan prince guested at your homes instead. Or are your wives too hideous for a prince to consider bedding?”

  The men sheepishly glanced at one another, each one thinking Agamemnon was right. It was a glaring truth they ignored, allowing them to blame Menelaus for the war in general. Agamemnon’s wrath, however, was nothing to trifle with and for that reason they re
mained silent. Only Achilles was brazen enough to goad Agamemnon. And he wished the men would rise up and slit the fat king’s throat.

  The Great King continued bellowing, spittle flying with his ferocity. “Now you tell me it’s the god’s will that I should return Astynome? You all know I prefer her to Clytemnestra. That cold bitch is probably plotting against me at this very moment. But if I must give the girl back to save all of you, I’ll do it. I only ask that I’m compensated. I am king of this army. I deserve my portion of geras.”

  Rage raced through Achilles’ veins. He stood slowly, gripping the table’s edge with war calloused hands. Disgust for Agamemnon dripped from every word. “You expect the men to simply give up their measly portions because you, the Great King, want more? You’ve already been given more than you deserve. How many battles have you won that were not aided by thousands standing beside you? Do you suppose these soldiers have hidden wealth beneath the sand like the treacherous Palamedes? All that we have won with our blood has been portioned out. Give back the girl, Agamemnon. Are you blind to the suffering of your army? I’ve fought alongside my men. Broke bread with them. I build no barriers between myself and them. I’ve protected them like a mother bear protects her cubs from predators. I’ve held their hands as death claimed them. What comforts have you ever offered your men? Let the priest have his daughter and I will see that you are given her worth three times over once we bring Troy to its knees.”

  Agamemnon’s face quivered. Hatred poured from his eyes. “You always seek to cheat me of my due, Achilles. At every chance, you dishonor me by your absence at my table, your lack of greeting, and your stinging words. You think it fair I give up my prize, while the rest of you keep your own? The only reason you want me to hand over Astynome is so you can laugh behind my back as you fuck that dark-haired beauty, Briseis, every night.”

  Achilles roared, pushing his table over, scattering the men beside him who had no desire to be in the wake of his indignation.

  The Great King laughed wickedly, goading Achilles’ fury. “We all know how that camp whore keeps Achilles in check, don’t we? By the balls of Zeus, you’ll compensate your king for what he freely gives up to save you from Apollo’s lethal arrows. Why should I wait, Achilles?” Facing the warrior he hated the most, he said, “Maybe, I should take your woman, Achilles! Teach you your proper place in my army. Surely, you won’t mind if it means ending the camp sickness for the men you say you care for most? I will send Astynome back to her father and end this plague in our camp. Odysseus, take our fastest ship and our best rowers. Deliver the cursed girl to her father. Take sacrifices to please the priest and his god.”

  Achilles kicked at the broken table on the ground, sending a shower of sand into the air. “You can’t dismiss me with a threat.” His chest heaved. “You forget who I am, Agamemnon. Look at you, standing there high on your shrinking dais, commanding the King of Ithaka as if he were your slave, destined to do your business, righting the wrongs you inflicted on all of us. Did Odysseus offend Apollo? You’re a fucking coward of a king.” Sweeping his hands out before him, he said, “I ask all of you here: Why do we fight at all? To save the honor of a cuckolded dishonored King of Sparta? And what have the Trojans ever done to us? To me? Did they steal my land, my grain, my woman? Look where we are after years of war on account of your cursed family. What do we have to show for our efforts? Some pottery and a few sacks of gold? Surely, some god urges you on to threaten me. You believe you have the strength to take my prize? The woman who I love as much as any of you love your Greek wives? At least I fought for Briseis myself, you fucking coward. My men handed her to me for my valor on the field. How long did Odysseus and I wage war in the south for your benefit? Your head is bent with a crown of undeserved glory. The rest of us get the scraps after you take the lion’s share, you greedy cunt. I should take my ships and my Myrmidons back to Phthia and let you try to win the war by whatever means you can muster.”

  “Go ahead, Achilles. Get on your ships and unfurl your dark sails. Desert us if you feel you must. I will not beg you to stay, you ungrateful bastard! Why the gods favor you, I cannot fathom. I despise you. You won’t catch me begging you. You’re nothing to me. Your pitiful whining is unworthy of song. You always forget that I’m the king of this army, not you. I command the men, not you. I determine the portions, not you. I promise you this, by the balls of fucking Zeus, I will take your Briseis.” Agamemnon pointed an angry finger at the assembly. “Any man daring such brazen speech against me will see his prizes snatched from his tent just as I’m going to take Achilles’.”

  Those soldiers, who had stood in support of Achilles, quickly settled back to their benches. They were too sick and weary to fight back, even if Achilles was right. None of them wished to risk their own small gains for a woman, not even for Achilles’ sake.

  Achilles’ fingers itched to cleave Agamemnon’s head from his shoulders. As his hand gripped the pommel of his silver sword, partially unsheathing the lethal blade, Achilles was halted by a violent yank on his braids. He spun, expecting to find Patrokles or Odysseus, but was instead blinded by a golden light. He held a hand to shield his face from the glare. “Athena. Come to watch me slit his fat neck?”

  “Achilles, save your black vengeance for another time.”

  The Golden Warrior seethed. “I did not take you as a patroness for Agamemnon.”

  “I come at Hera’s request. She hates the Trojans, and so by default, must love all you Greeks equally. She would not have you kill Agamemnon, dooming her to lose the game.”

  Achilles spat and sheathed his sword. “The Fat King dishonors me with his threats. If he takes Briseis, he steals my glory and my honor.”

  “Do not fear, Achilles. You will be rewarded thrice over. Obey Hera. Obey me.”

  “By your command, I will do as I must. But I do not have to honor Agamemnon.” The muscle at Achilles’ jaw twitched. He turned to the king. “You lead an army with your perfect bronze plate barely scratched. I swear by all the Olympians, and on my sacred mother’s heart, that your men will beg for my return to battle, when Hektor cuts you down like so many beasts to slaughter. Then, you will regret disgracing the best of the Greeks.”

  Nestor rose quickly from his seat, raising his hands to quell the growing tension. “Calm your anger. Cease this arguing. We cannot defeat the Trojans if we have no peace within our ranks. Listen to an old man. I have seen many battles, many heroes … I speak from experience, if you will heed my words.” The wizened counselor faced Agamemnon. “My lord, think of the morale of your men. Achilles’ presence on the field gives them courage.”

  Agamemnon slammed his empty cup on the table. “Wine!” he bellowed, as a scrawny boy scurried to obey.

  The king’s counselor extended a hand to Agamemnon. “My lord, you do not need the girl. You have more women at your feet than your faithful wife will allow, once you are home again. And, Achilles, it is not fitting you should speak so disrespectfully to a king ordained by the will of Zeus. I beg you both, listen to me. End this feud.”

  Agamemnon leveled his eyes at Nestor. “Achilles speaks as if he is the king, not I. If he will yield—”

  Achilles laughed in Agamemnon’s face. “Look around you, Fat King! What do you see? Men half-dead and pale as wraiths? What chance do you and your ragged army have against the singing swords of Troy? Content yourself with commanding others, but by fucking Zeus, you will never again command me. You wish to take my rightful prize, take her. I will not fight the likes of you for her.” He took one menacing step in Agamemnon’s direction. “But if you dare take a single piece more of my stores …” Achilles smiled wickedly. “I will slit your throat.”

  The Great King roared and tossed his table over at the threat, but too late, for Achilles’ iron heart had turned against their common purpose even as he swiftly strode from the gathering. The assembly sat aghast. If Achilles left them, how could they win this war? How would they ever reach the safety of their homes? The men murmured a
mongst themselves, bewailing their now uncertain fates, fearing the worst now that the Myrmidon commander and his men had abandoned their ranks

  ✽✽✽

  In his fury, Achilles disregarded courtesy, flinging open Patrokles’ tent flap. “Cousin!”

  A woman moaned in the darkness. Achilles squinted into the shadows, spying long, black hair falling across a man’s arm. In a single stride, he was at Patrokles’ bedside, his anger and jealousy flaring.

  A hand shot out from beneath the linens, grasping Achilles by the wrist with a grip as iron as his own. “If you lay a hand on her, you will regret it, cousin,” Patrokles said icily.

  Achilles yanked his arm away and scoffed. “You can try. Everyone is full of challenges for me this day.”

  Patrokles slowly sat up; the woman now awake lay cringing against his body. The reason for Achilles’ rage dawned on him. “Did you suppose I would take what belongs to you, behind your back?” Rising from his bed, Patrokles handed the woman her chiton. “Dress and be gone.” The woman grabbed her clothing and ran naked from the tent into the night.

  Achilles sank heavily into a chair. “I have lost her.”

  Patrokles slipped on his chiton, taking a seat at his table and lighting an oil lamp. “Who have you lost?”

  “Briseis.”

  “Now, I know you are drunk, cousin.”

  Achilles clicked his jaw tight. “I am not drunk, but soon will be.” His words seethed over his teeth.

  “Has she escaped you, or left camp on her own accord?”

  “Agamemnon has taken her.”

  Patrokles’ confusion flared to crimson anger. “Fucked by the gods! Take her back! You know what that bastard will do to her. How could you let him take her?”

  “I did not let him take her, cousin. He took her by right in place of Astynome, who Kalchus swore must be returned before this plague kills everyone. When I pulled my sword to kill him, Athena’s hand held me back.”