Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  When night descended on Olympus, the gods drifted to their private chambers and abodes. Hera followed a drunken Zeus to his bed chamber carved into the crystal walls of the mountain.

  As the Thunder God fell into his bed of furs and linens, he caught sight of his sister-wife. “I have no will to argue, Goddess. Go. Sleep elsewhere.”

  Slyly, Hera enticed him, “I have no desire to sleep, lord husband.”

  “What do you wish then?” he asked, propping his enormous frame up on his elbow.

  Hera pulled the golden broaches from her shoulder seams, and her gown fluttered to the marble floor. She stood in her naked glory before her god. “To make love to you until the mountain quakes with your pleasure.”

  Zeus’ hunger for Hera grew, his divine cock swelling with his need to possess her. “You are a temptress, Goddess. Beguiling in your beauty.”

  She approached him, swaying her slim hips provocatively as she went. Her delicate hand slipped to her sacred cross as she walked. She slid a single finger down the center of her glorious slit, bringing it up to her lips before licking it. “Would you taste me, lord husband?”

  Zeus roared his desire for her. He reached out a hand, yanking her roughly before him. Positioned at the side of his bed, Hera stood, legs slightly apart as Zeus’ tongue explored her. He licked and sucked her sweet inner lips, finding the engorged bud of her center. He caught it delicately between his teeth, teasing Hera with the tension of pain and pleasure.

  The goddess’ hand gripped Zeus by the head, pinning his face against her. As his tongue brought her to a raging climax, her legs gave way beneath her.

  Catching her fall, Zeus laughed at her weakness. “I command you to stand. I am not finished with you, Goddess. Your insolence and meddling will be punished.”

  Hera obediently stood, her legs still shaking. She felt the wetness of her desire drip down her inner thighs.

  Zeus spread her legs once again, slipping a warm finger inside of her. “You shall not challenge me, Hera,” he said, as he pressed another finger into her willing body. He slowly pumped his fingers in and out, slipping them out far enough to circle her sensitive bud. Hera moaned under his expert touch.

  “Please, lord—”

  “Do not speak, Goddess,” he warned, menacingly. Hera rubbed her center against his hand. “Not yet.” He slid his hand from her, and pulled her to his bed, bending her over the edge. He stood, now, taking position behind her. The goddess’ round buttocks beckoned for his attention. He punished her snow white skin until it shone red with his wide palm prints. Then, Zeus gave into his own pleasure, plowing his enormous cock into her. He groaned loudly with the sensation of her glistening cave, engorged and wet, wrapped around him.

  “You will obey me,” he commanded.

  “I promise,” Hera gasped between thrusts.

  Zeus grabbed Hera by her hair, tilting her head back as he pressed his entire length into her. It was true that he loved the flesh of mortal women, but they were incapable of receiving his divine form. Always with them, he had to hold back, descend in a lesser form to take them. But with Hera, he could unleash all his passion and power. As Hera’s body once again shook with her pleasure, Zeus spilled his silvery seed into the goddess.

  He broke their sacred union abruptly, pushing her to their bed. “You will sleep next to me this night.” When he wrapped an iron arm around her supple frame, Hera turned her head and kissed his chest. As they both drifted into the sleep of deities, he whispered, “I know you lie.”

  ✽✽✽

  Zeus lay staring into the deep purple sky twinkling with silver stars. Thoughts of Thetis had woken him from his slumber. Stroking Hera’s side, he plotted against the Greeks she loved so much. He sighed. Pathetic that I should love a nymph more than my own sister-wife. Thetis could never receive me as I am, but she …

  He kissed a lock of Hera’s silver hair. Bedding his wife brought him pleasure, but his heart remained unmoved. Thetis. It will always be Thetis.

  He thought of the shining boy, Achilles. Watching him fight alongside Ares thrilled him. Achilles’ blade glinted like a god’s, his beauty among men and women unquestioned and unparalleled. He could have been mine. The mighty Lord of Gods rolled to his side, facing away from Hera. Mine. What if he had been mine? Would I have been as Cronus, slaying him before he came of age? Would he have challenged me? Would his mother’s love have tempered us both and we ruled the high mountains as father and son? These fucking mortals force us to play these games as if we gods have no hearts.

  He sat up, sliding quietly from his bed. His nude form glistened in the cold starlight, as he stepped to the edge of his chamber without walls, staring down at the world of men. How do I keep my word to Thetis and raise Achilles’ honor among the Greeks? Gazing through the clouds into the Greek’s encampment, he knew what he must do.

  ITHAKA

  FOURTEEN, abandoned and alone

  1238 BCE

  “Your mother tells me you do not wish to marry that girl from Mycenae.”

  Telemachus reached for a cluster of olives over his head. The ladder shifted precariously. “Erigone. She’s Agamemnon’s daughter.”

  Laertes clicked his tongue and scoffed. “Hold tightly. Agamemnon’s she says?”

  Telemachus narrowed his eyes, hearing the disdain in his grandfather’s tone. He plucked the olives from their silver-green stem and stuffed them into the satchel at his hip. “What’s wrong, Grandfather?”

  “He’s been gone too long to father those brats of hers.”

  Defensively, Telemachus said, “Erigone wasn’t a brat.”

  “The girl is not Agamemnon’s. He’s been gone as long as your father. Your mother, faithful as she is, isn’t breeding children in his absence.”

  “Then who is her father?”

  The old king brushed at the leaves on his chiton. “I have no idea.”

  “I did hear the servants whispering about it...”

  “What did you hear?”

  “That Zeus fathered them all, including Erigone.”

  Laertes laughed out loud. He laughed until reason once again settled on his usually stoic face. “That’s the story of all the whores of Sparta. That Zeus chooses them over all other women.” He snorted. “Ridiculous. Lies. No wonder the gods curse the House of Atreus. I won’t allow this marriage to take place.”

  Telemachus’ eyes brightened at the thought. “Truly? You can stop it from happening? When? How?”

  “When the time is right. But say nothing to your mother. Be agreeable when she speaks of it.” Laertes playfully rattled the ladder. “Perhaps, if the gods allow, your father will return and intervene before I must. He knows better than any man the joy of marrying a woman he loves and who loves him equally in return.”

  Telemachus’ smile quickly faded to a frown. “Grandfather, do you believe the gods will send my father home?”

  Laertes squinted up at his grandson, as Apollo’s light hit his eyes through the silver leaves. “Hand me that cluster,” he said, pointing just beyond Telemachus’ head.

  Obeying, Telemachus clipped the tender stem with the blade of his pruning knife. He tossed the olives down to his grandfather. “Do you?”

  “Youth is persistent, if nothing else.” He smashed one of the darkened fruits between his fingers. He lightly tasted the purple juice, then spat it out. “These are perfect. Not too soft.”

  Telemachus smiled, wryly. “My mother says as much. About being young, not the olives.”

  “Is that why she sent you? Come down from there.”

  Telemachus climbed down the rickety ladder, jumping to the ground, skipping the last two rungs. “You should get a new ladder.”

  Laertes laughed out loud and put his arm around his young grandson. “There’s nothing wrong with that one.”

  “It creaks. It wobbles.”

  “As I said, there’s nothing wrong with it.” He bopped his grandson on the nose. “Perhaps, it’s you who wobbles.”

  Telemach
us brushed his grandfather’s hand away, annoyed. “One day it will fall apart when I’m on it.”

  “Well, then, that will be the day for a new one.”

  “What about my father?”

  Sighing, the old king said, “Are you hungry? I am famished for bread and wine.”

  “Will you never answer me, Grandfather?”

  “Let’s go back.” Together they walked beneath the shade of ancient cypress trees lining the narrow road. “What do you know of war, Telemachus?”

  “Only the stories. How men fight with honor. Kill their enemies.”

  “My son, war is … war is so much more than that.”

  “How can I learn when Mother refuses to let me truly train? Achilles went to Chiron when he was younger than me. And his son is there, I could train with him. I’ll never become a man if I can’t fight.”

  Laertes knew Chiron was an excellent trainer of young warriors, but he wasn’t sure it was the right place for Telemachus. The men trained by Chiron became hard, insensitive brutes. “You believe war makes a man, a man?”

  “Aye. A man must fight to protect his home. His family.” Looking up at Laertes, he asked, “Is that wrong?”

  “You’ve grown taller since last I saw you.”

  Telemachus laughed. “Mother says that, too.” Glancing at the ground as they walked, he timidly asked, “Do I remind you of him? My father, I mean?”

  “You miss him.” It was a statement, not a question. “I miss him as well.”

  They walked on in silence for a long while. Laertes mulled over the burning question in his grandson’s heart, for it was also a question haunting his mind these many days. Did the gods keep Odysseus safe? Would they return his son, the king, to Ithaka? Who could know? And what to tell a fatherless boy?

  “Sometimes, when you are laughing, I hear him.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly,” Laertes said, smiling at his grandson. “When you ask me a thousand questions without breath, you also remind me of him.”

  Telemachus laughed out loud. “Does it bother you? Mother groans when I ask too many. I’m just curious about everything.”

  “So was your father. There is nothing wrong with being curious. A good king must ask many questions, before he can make a wise decision.”

  “King? I won’t be king until …” Telemachus hung his head. “Until …”

  “Don’t worry. Your father will return, Telemachus. I have no doubt.”

  “When? When will he return? Why has he abandoned me for so long?”

  “War never follows a plan. No matter how strategic the commanders. Ares loves the blood and gore too much. The gods pitch men against one another. The winds blow or grow quiet. You father has not abandoned you, Telemachus. He is at war. That is what war is. To be separated from your family. Do you believe you’re the only boy who must grow up without a father?”

  “It feels that way.”

  “When your father left, he took many men with him. They left wives and families behind as well.”

  Telemachus kicked at a rock. It skidded ahead of them while they walked.

  “Loneliness and waiting are the hardest part of war. That, and not knowing.”

  “Mother weeps all the time.”

  “Can you blame her? She suffers more than you can imagine.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The love she and your father share is difficult to live without.”

  “Why do you live here, alone, without Grandmother?”

  Laertes laughed. “Too many questions indeed. But, when your father returns, you must be prepared for a … complicated man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “War changes a man.”

  “How?”

  “Death squeezes the best and worst from a man’s soul. War is death. Death to dreams. Hope. I live alone, Telemachus, because it’s the only way I find peace in living. Blood filled my hands, washing my mind with its curses. The sight and smell of it are never far from me. I’ve never been able to chase away the nightmares from behind my eyes. In solitude, here tilling the soil, I find peace. The nightmares are less. Only the shades of the dead haunt me now … but I am glad of them. They bring strange comfort that I, too, one day, will be able to return to their company.”

  “You make war sound like a burden.”

  “Because, it is.”

  “Why can’t King Agamemnon defeat Troy? Aren’t we better than the Trojans? We have Achilles and the Myrmidons.”

  “Don’t forget your father. And Ithaka’s finest. The army Agamemnon commands is the largest ever to go to war. But it would be wrong to assume the enemy is weak and unskilled. Clearly, they are not.”

  Growing tired of talking about war, Telemachus yawned. “I am hungry after all.”

  Laertes hugged Telemachus. “Good. We’re almost home.”

  ***

  SPARTA

  “I’m afraid to see Orestes, Grandmother.”

  “No need to fear him, Hermione.” How swiftly the false words fell from her lips. No woman was safe when her life could be bargained away for gold and power. Or lust. Not even the gods kept one safe. Leda feared for her granddaughter’s future. A future controlled by Tyndareus. The man who unflinchingly destroyed his own daughters’ lives, who married Clytemnestra to Agamemnon, who bargained Helen to Menelaus, and now designed a plan for young Hermione. How could she stop the inevitable? Her eldest grandson was a man capable of deciding if he would stand by his grandfather’s decision.

  “Do you think my mother left with that prince, or was taken?” Hermione asked.

  Leda shook her head. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Being taken?”

  Hermione shrugged nervously. “A little.”

  “I knew that one day you would ask about the rumors.”

  “It’s hard not to listen, when servants whisper.”

  “What have you heard?”

  Hermione avoided making eye contact with her grandmother. “Nothing … really.”

  Leda asked sharply, “Then, why are you asking now?”

  Hermione shrugged again, as children do when they do not have the words. “I was only wondering.”

  Taking her granddaughter’s chin in her hand, she admonished her, “We keep no secrets between us, Hermione. What did you hear?”

  “Apologies, Grandmother. I have no wish to upset you. It’s just that I heard someone say that my mother was seen with him … that prince, doing unspeakable … things.”

  “Lies,” Leda hissed. “Ill-tongued slaves speak too freely and unkindly of their queen. Mind you, when she returns, she will reign once again. And they will all be sorry.”

  “Why doesn’t she come back?” A tear slid from Hermione’s eye. “Why has my father not offered a ransom? Bring her home? Do you think she loves me?”

  Placing an arm around Hermione, Leda pulled her close. “It’s hard to understand why the gods allow these tragedies. Of course, your mother loves you. She was taken by that traitorous cur. The stakes are beyond what any ransom could purchase. The promise of wealth from war is too tempting for men to abandon. You know, it wasn’t the first time your mother was kidnapped.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “Unfortunately, your mother’s blessing of beauty has been more of a curse. Have I told you about Theseus?”

  “No. Who was he?”

  “The King of Athens.”

  Leaning into her grandmother’s side, she asked, “What did he do?”

  “He stole your mother away to Athens, when she was just about your age. His intent, marriage. But your uncles, Caster and Pollux, rescued her. The gods be thanked. Because of that, your grandfather decided to marry her to your father.”

  “Is that why I have to marry Orestes, then? So I’ll be safe?”

  “So Sparta will be safe. We’re merely pawns in his game for control and power. Never forget that truth. Our value lies in alliance building. Marriage. However, I’m not so sure your aunt will allow what Tyndareus propo
ses.” By the gods I hope she finds a way to halt this union.

  “Aunt Clytemnestra frightens me. She’s cold and never smiles.”

  Smoothing a stray lock of Hermione’s hair, Leda thought of the day Clytemnestra was forced to marry Agamemnon. “She has reason to be distant. Your grandfather has made her life … difficult. Learning the craft of ruling your world as a woman requires a heart of iron. A Spartan heart.”

  “What should I say to Orestes when he arrives?”

  “Be charming. Be sweet. Be guarded.” She brushed the tip of her granddaughter’s nose. “Observe him without him knowing. How he looks at others. Who he looks at. Listen to his words, but remain as silent as you can. And tell me everything. Between us, we may be able to discover his intensions. For a man of his standing is not here out of undying love for a girl, not yet a woman. Promised or not.” Leda’s heart screamed at the thought that Orestes, grandson or not, would take her beloved granddaughter from her. Abuse her under his weight. Violate her with his hands. Scar her with his unwelcomed tongue.

  ✽✽✽

  Tyndareus took the proffered cup of wine, dismissing the servant without a glance. Sipping his wine, he observed his grandson over the rim. “I was … surprised by your message wishing to visit Hermione.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  Narrowing his dark eyes, he tried to discern a deeper truth behind Orestes’ fixed smile. “How do you find life in Mycenae these days? How fares your mother?”

  “Mycenae prospers. My mother is … my mother.”

  Tyndareus laughed. “Clytemnestra should have been born a man. Tell me, has she indicated when, or should I say if she intends to relinquish the crown to you?”

  Under his grandfather’s scrutiny, Orestes squirmed in his chair like a small boy. “No, we rarely speak of it.” One of his grandfather’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “I mean, we never speak of it … really.”

  “Indeed,” Tyndareus said, rubbing his palms together. He grabbed an amphora of wine, pulled the wax plug, and tossed it on the table. “She’s plotting. I knew it.”