Deidamia rushed to him. “Neo! Neo!”
Chiron quickly followed.
Neoptolemus turned in her direction. “Mother.”
She embraced him warmly, but his cool reception confused her. “I’ve missed you. All these years. You were just a boy—”
Neo’s look of distain spoke volumes. “I do not miss the boy I was.”
“What has Chiron done to you?”
“Prepared me for my destiny.”
“What destiny? Surely, you intend to come back with me to Skyros. Or … or remain here with your grandfather in Phthia.” All the fears she had about Achilles never returning flooded her. The rumors that he’d taken another wife in the camps. I can’t lose my husband and my son to this war.
Peleus approached just then, greeting his wayward grandson with a hearty embrace, oblivious to Neo’s coolness. “Of course he will remain here. Become commander of the Myrmidons as we await his father’s return.”
Neo squared his shoulders. “You are both wrong. I will join my father when the time comes. Chiron has seen it.”
“But, surely the war will soon end.” Peleus looked to Chiron for answers. “What is he saying?”
The centaur squinted an eye at Peleus. “Old friend, where’s the wine? The good wine. Neo, I trust you will regale your mother with stories of your training. You may not miss the boy you once were, so let her know the man who have become in his stead.”
“Very well, Chiron.”
As Neo led his mother to a table, Peleus signaled his personal slave to bring the good wine.
Once they’d quaffed a cup of the god’s nectar, Peleus pressed for an answer. “What have the gods revealed to you of this Trojan War that the rest of us do not know?”
“It will be over soon, but not before great losses are doled out to both sides.”
“What kind of great losses? Ships? Treasures? I hate when you speak in circles. Get to the point.”
“I can say no more. Enjoy your time with Neo. He’s not long for Phthia.”
“You steal my joy, Chiron.”
“I’ve been told that many times. The truth is rarely pleasant. And deception so convincing.”
TROY
Camp of Agamemnon
TEN, wine over water
1238 BCE
Thin fingers of fog coiled around the quiet tents in Agamemnon’s main encampment. Odysseus dreaded meeting with Agamemnon. He shivered beneath his wool cloak, thinner now than when he’d left Ithaka years ago. Penelope had woven it, so he’d refused to discard it for a newer one. Dogs scavenging for scraps around burnt fire rings scattered, as he made his way toward the king’s pavilion. A few babies cried for feeding. A few women piled wood beneath cook fires. Colder days are upon us. Gods help us if we must see another winter here.
Royal guards crossed their spears before Agamemnon’s tent, barring him from entering. “The king has commanded that he not be disturbed,” said the helmed man on the left.
The King of Ithaka scowled, recalling Achilles’ stinging words hurled at Agamemnon about how the Great King ordered his captains around like slaves. He flexed his jaw and bit the truth on the tip of his tongue. “Tell him Odysseus has returned with news from Chryse.”
The guard quickly ducked into the tent, returning moments later. Without word, he stepped aside, allowing Odysseus to enter.
Agamemnon stood, hair unbound with his disheveled robe hanging open, leaning over several scrolls and charcoal-sketched leather maps scattered across his table. “Our supplies run low. If we do not breach that fucking wall before the cold sets in, we will have to wage another southern campaign to replenish our supplies.”
Odysseus helped himself to the wine on the table. He sipped from the silver cup, again thinking of Achilles’ insults. There was much truth to what he said, even if in anger. Agamemnon did take the largest portion, but he was the high king, and it was his due. Or is it? Odysseus brushed the question away for the time being. The camp was on the verge of a civil war and all he wanted was to go home. He secretly wished he could leave with Achilles and his Myrmidons and quit Troy altogether. “Ask Achilles to raze another city—”
“I’ll ask that miserable dog for nothing.”
“He’s the Sacker of Cities. He and his Myrmidons can secure supplies more readily than—”
Agamemnon’s fist crashed down on the table, sending marking stones flying in all directions. “Achilles has abandoned us,” he said angrily. “He’s chosen to turn his back on the entire army … the entire campaign because of a slave woman.”
“Give her back. Apologize. Blame it on too much wine. We need Achilles and you know it. I know it. The men know it.”
Agamemnon roared back, “And let Achilles lord it over me that he controls the army I command? Who will follow me after that?”
“But you took Briseis—”
“She is a camp whore. Nothing more. I liberated him from a distraction. He never made her a proper wife, but now he is free to find one.”
Odysseus shook his head. “All these years you two have been at one another’s throats. Each denying the other his due. Now, it’s your pride that’s doomed us. Have you forgotten Kalchus’ prophesy? Without Achilles we will lose the war and our way home.”
Agamemnon’s cheeks quivered with his growing irritation. “I will not be second guessed by a—”
“A king?” Odysseus asked. “Perhaps, Achilles was not entirely wrong after all.”
“You tread dangerously close to treason, Odysseus. Do not force me to make an example of you as well.”
“If truth is treason, then we are already lost.” Odysseus set his cup down. “You have more women than any other man and a proper wife waiting for your return. Yet, you take the only woman of your greatest captain? To what end? Give her back unharmed.” Odysseus swallowed hard. “You … you have not defiled her, have you?” Achilles will slit his throat if he has, king or not. Then, we are lost for certain.
“I have not touched the girl … yet,” he said. “But I will take her for all the trouble she’s caused me.”
Odysseus stared unflinchingly into Agamemnon’s eyes. “My lord, you have brought this upon yourself.” He turned and left Agamemnon to his maps.
I must find Patrokles. He will know Achilles’ mind.
*
Odysseus walked among the Black Shields’ camp, searching for Patrokles. He found him in the healing quarter, hovered over a sick child. “It would seem Apollo has accepted our offering.”
Patrokles looked up, his eyes dark and deadly. “Agamemnon’s offering.”
“Either way. The plague has slowed its course.”
The physician turned back to the child. “Here, drink this, little Molus.” Patrokles lifted the boy’s head to the rim of the bowl. The patient drank slowly, sinking back again to the bed. “Those who were afflicted yet suffer. The plague takes its toll, although your words are true enough. I haven’t been called to attend new victims of Apollo’s wrath.”
“Whose son is this one?”
“There are several possibilities, but it doesn’t truly matter does it? Not unless a man was brave enough to accept him as his own. Or desperate enough.”
“I’ve heard what Agamemnon did … to Achilles.”
Patrokles’ scowled. “Again, your words lighten the deed. What Agamemnon has done to Achilles?” He spat on the hard sand. “What he has done to Briseis. She suffers most.”
“Why did Achilles let her go?”
“His pride? His glory? What does it matter? He let her go. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”
“Did you expect him to fight a war within the very heart of our camp? So near the end of this campaign?”
Patrokles stood, towering over Odysseus, wiping the grime of sickness from his hands on a scrap of linen at his belt. “Achilles is Achilles. Who among these many captains, yourself included, could stand against him? Who would wish to stand against him? You have seen him striding, sword in hand, cutting m
en down as a farmer cuts his wheat. With ease. Precision. Briseis claims she saw Ares side by side with Achilles that day in Thebe. And yet, he let her go. He alone could have prevented her humiliation.” He poured fresh water into another basin. “I tire of this war, Odysseus. If you seek Achilles, then look to his ship. No doubt he’s sulking there blaming everyone else but himself for his loss.”
Odysseus left Patrokles to his work. The rift between the two men surprised him, but then, he recalled their dispute at Thebe. At the time he’d believed Patrokles had been simply goading his cousin to marry the woman. Now, he realized the truth of it. Patrokles was in love with Briseis, perhaps more so than Achilles. How did I miss that?
Walking to the far side of the bay, Odysseus headed for the galleys farthest from Agamemnon’s fleet. Achilles’ hull rested high above the rest, even buried partially in the sand. Its dark hull faded. The round, menacing eyes gracing the prow had recently been repainted. Keeping busy. Odysseus called out, “Achilles!” But the Myrmidon captain gave no response. “Achilles!” He looked within the modest tent spiked along the side, but the Myrmidon commander wasn’t to be found.
“You are returned from Chryse,” Nax said from behind him.
“Aye. Young Nax. Where’s your master?
Nax cast his eyes at his feet. “My lord is best … left alone.”
“He’ll see me, one way or the other.”
A shadow fell over Odysseus and Nax from above. They looked up against the sky to see Achilles, shrouded in light, standing naked on the rail. His eyes were dulled with too much wine and his hair a wild mane about his shoulders. His cape hung askew. “Achilles is not here,” he called down. “He has left this miserable place.”
“I will come up,” Odysseus said, grabbing a jug of water from Nax. “He will need this.”
Achilles jumped onto the wooden deck, shouting over his shoulder, “Do as you wish, King of Ithaka. You are not my slave to command about. I am no Agamemnon.”
Climbing the rope ladder up the galley’s side, Odysseus found Achilles in a crumpled heap of linens and furs, surrounded by empty amphorae. “I see Nax has kept you well supplied.” He proffered the container in his hands to Achilles.
The Golden Warrior took it and drank deeply. Instantly, he spat it out, showering the deck with the clear contents. Achilles bellowed, “What swill is this?”
“Water. Drink it.”
“I enjoy being drunk.”
“You are a wretched drunk, Achilles. It doesn’t suit you.”
Achilles laughed bitterly. “You’re wrong, Odysseus.” He tossed the water aside, reaching for a fresh amphora of wine. He pried the lid off with a small blade and drank the crimson liquid until it ran in thin rivers down his neck. “If I am to die in this unhappy place, I refuse to remember it.”
“That is the wine speaking, not the Sacker of Cities.”
Achilles’ eyes narrowed to slits. “You are mocking me, King of a Rock.”
“Peace, Achilles. I haven’t come to mock you.”
“Why have you come, then?”
“To see the truth with my own eyes.”
Achilles slammed the clay container against the wood, sending shards flying across the deck. “What truth?”
“That you’ve withdrawn your Myrmidons from the fight.”
“Aye. That I have done.”
Odysseus squatted next to Achilles. “Why, Achilles? Why take your men from battle?”
“Because Agamemnon has humiliated me, or do you believe I prefer to stay away from the song of swords clashing?” Achilles grabbed Odysseus’ arm with fingers as strong as iron bands. “Because he took her.”
“It was his right.”
Achilles sneered, jerking his hand away. “It is my right to sail home. I took no oath like the rest of you fucking goats.”
Odysseus bristled at the insult. “You should’ve married Briseis properly, as you said you would back in Thebe. None of this would have been possible. This is your fault, Achilles.”
“Get. Off. My. Ship!”
“As you command,” Odysseus said, annoyed by the entire conversation and turn of events. He stood and made for the railing. “We can’t win the war without you. Think of all the men depending on you.” Not waiting for an answer, he leapt down into the soft sand.
What do the gods wish from us? Maybe they seek to fuck us as Agamemnon claims. He immediately thought of the Oracle and her haunting words. I cannot be gone for twenty years. It has been too long already. He thought of Telemachus. Almost a man. Then, he thought of Penelope. Her radiant smile was almost all he could clearly recall. The exactness of her face was fading. He recalled her tears as he made her promise to marry another if he didn’t make it back before Telemachus reached manhood. I must make it back to Ithaka before my world is lost to me. Despite Achilles and Agamemnon.
✽✽✽
PHTHIA
Neoptolemus woke before Apollo set the new day on fire and began his ritual training. His years with Chiron had honed him to be hard and unforgiving, even in regard to his own comforts. He took no pleasure in sleep, wine, or the tenderness of women. His heart longed only for battle and blood. The centaur promised it would be soon, but refused to say more.
He heard his mother’s foot falls before he saw her approach. He relaxed his sword at his side. “I am here, Mother.”
“Did you sleep well, Neo?”
“Yes.”
“You’re no longer plagued by troubling dreams?”
“The dreams remain.”
“But they no longer bother you?”
Facing his mother, he decided to smile. “I’m not afraid of anything, anymore.”
“I see.”
“I must thank you, Mother.”
“For what, Neo?”
“Sending me to Chiron.”
“You were just a boy—”
“Aye. A boy who needed to become a warrior.”
“You’re not angry, then? That I allowed Peleus to send you away? The things you told me of your training …”
Neo softened, uncharacteristically. Wiping sweat from his brow, he said, “It was best. I was unruly. Undisciplined. Without Chiron’s guidance, I’d not be ready for my fate.”
“You mentioned that last night. Can’t you tell me more? Of what Chiron has foretold?”
“Only what the gods allow.”
Deidamia looked to her son for an answer. A chill shivered through her heart. “Your dream of a burning city … was Troy?”
“Aye. It was.”
“It all makes sense, now, I suppose.” She wanted to cry for all the lost time. It seemed that it passed more swiftly with age and that was certainly a curse of the immortal gods for whom time made no difference. In Deidamia’s mind it was only yesterday Achilles had smiled sweetly at her and had played the lyre, making songs of love for her. Neo, a nearly-grown man standing before her, was a virtual stranger. All her memories of him were simply that: hers. Likely, Neo recalled other things more important than a mother’s hugs and kisses. Thetis’ pain struck her like thin lightning. The nymph had missed most of her son’s life. How had she managed to live with the pain of not knowing and always wondering? Thetis had unsuccessfully tried to prevent Achilles from going to war, and here she was wishing to do the same for her son. “May I watch you train?”
Flashing his mother a brilliant smile, he said, “As you wish.”
Neo slashed and parried with his sword, swinging his shield lightly about him. His feet moved like an elegant dancer. The resemblance to Achilles was striking. A wave of longing and dread washed over Deidamia. Yes, her little boy truly belonged solely to her memory now. She’d been sitting long enough on the hard marble for the pain in her hip to throb. I am becoming an old woman. How long has my husband been gone? She tried to recount the years in her mind, and realized she couldn’t even keep the memories made in Achilles’ absence in order. Then, it struck her with horrifying certainty. He’s never coming back for me. I have lost my entire li
fe to this war.
TROY
Palace of Priam
ELEVEN, beguile and betray
1238 BCE
The cool air chilled Helen’s skin, as she made her way down the dark hall. She walked alone and without a torch, for secrecy required stealth and quiet. After several turns, she came to the simple wooden door. She tested it to see if Corythus had obeyed her command to leave it unbarred. She smiled as she softly pushed it open.
Corythus lay on his side sleeping in the dimming lit of a sputtering oil lamp. The chamber was small and dank compared to hers, but it had been too risky to provide him with a more sumptuous accommodation. She had no desire to give her secret away before she was ready.
Helen walked to his bed. Standing there for a moment, she silently contemplated how like Paris he appeared. Handsome. She undid the clasps at her shoulders and her sheer gown slipped to the floor before she slid into the bed next to him.
Corythus moaned in his sleep as he turned over, draping a heavy arm across her breasts. Helen wriggled her hips into his soft cock, rubbing him until it sprang to life. While Corythus slept, she gently rolled him onto his back. She took his swollen cock in her mouth, expertly twirling her wet tongue around the hard ridge of its head. He moaned against the linen and furs; a stray hand found her head, pressing her face closer. Helen sucked and stroked him. A few short pulses told her Corythus was on the verge of releasing his seed, so she straddled him.
His eyes fluttered briefly as she sheathed him within her. A few wet strokes and his eyes flew completely open. Though darkness shrouded Helen’s face from his full view, he knew her by the smell of honey and myrrh. “What are—” He groaned and grabbed her hips, grinding his cock into her as the warmth of their union shot through his entire body.
Helen covered Corythus’ mouth with hers, keeping the roar of his pleasure from echoing across the chamber. She swept her tongue across his teeth, tangling it with his. He reached for her waist, and with his arm expertly pulled her beneath him.
Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Page 8
