Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “Come,” Agamemnon commanded to his captains of war. “Sacrifice with me to Father Zeus.”

  They followed their king, Idomeneus and Nestor close behind Agamemnon with Telemonian Ajax and the Lesser, then Diomedes son of Tydeus rounding out the entourage. Odysseus and Menelaus walked in silence behind them all.

  Odysseus brooded about how the battle would go without Achilles, knowing how the men depended on the Golden Warrior for courage in the field. When limbs tired and hearts fell, one glance at Achilles dancing in the gore and blood with his golden helm glittering in the sun could encourage even the faintest of hearts.

  Menelaus scowled knowing that soon he would have to face the woman who cuckolded him before an entire world.

  Priests prepared the fattest bull for Agamemnon’s offering to Zeus. They each grabbed a handful of barley from the bowl passed between them, as they circled the sacrifice. Agamemnon prayed, “Hear me, Lord Zeus, Father of all gods. Command Apollo to slow the day, keep his light high above us as we fight the Trojans to the death. Let there be light enough so we can finish them off and I have shredded Hektor’s corpse on the field before his father’s eyes.”

  But Zeus’ ear was deaf to his prayer. The god was secretly bent on keeping his word to Thetis.

  A slender priest approached, holding aloft his sharp blade, ready to honor the gods. With Telemonian Ajax on one side and Diomedes on the other, the holy man slit the wide neck of the bull and its crimson blood spurted onto the ground, some catching in a silver basin. The beast’s eyes rolled into its head and it crumpled to its knees. Within moments, the bull collapsed completely. The commanders stepped back as the sacred work of cutting the sacrifice and burning the fat began. Lesser priests skewered the fatted strips of meat wound in lengths of fat and roasted them. Agamemnon and his captains filled their bellies with the sacred meal.

  When the final call for battle rang out, and the men marshaled into clan cohorts, shields and spears readied, Odysseus’ keen eye caught the golden glint of Athena’s shield and helm, as she strode between the men, whipping them to bravery with her cold whisper. The men marched proudly now for war, their earlier cowardice forgotten as the thrill of battle filled them. The ground shook beneath thousands of feet marching to the Scamander plain and to the Gates of Troy.

  BAY OF TROY

  Myrmidons’ Camp

  SIXTEEN, ash of betrayal

  1238 BCE

  Thousands of black shields rimmed with hammered bronze lay idle, stacked against sandy ridges and quiet tents. Tall spears tipped in bronze glinted in Apollo’s light. A blanket covered Achilles’ chariot, and his mighty horses, Balius and Xanthus, chomped the thin sea grasses along the camp’s border, their tails swishing at biting flies. The sacred beasts gifted by Zeus to Peleus and then to Achilles longed for battle, as much as the Myrmidons.

  When the Greek horde marched from their base camp, a dust cloud spiraled up, nearly blocking Apollo’s light from the sky. The Myrmidons, accustomed to leading the forces, remained unhappily behind with their prince. Although they understood Achilles’ rage at Agamemnon, their hearts longed to join the fight. Some mused that the Great King was fortunate his head was still attached to his neck. Others wondered why their captain, the greatest of the Greeks, would allow his woman to be taken. But the whispers of the rift between Achilles and his second on command, Patrokles, troubled them the most.

  Why were these two, as close as brothers, at each other’s throat? Every morning for years, they walked along the ships and rows, greeting the men and planning strategy. Since the taking of Briseis, they passed as strangers to one another. Whispers of Achilles’ drunken days spoiled their morale.

  As the Myrmidons waited for final orders, they busied themselves packing up their ships and idling in the surf. Although Achilles had promised they’d sail for Phthia, he’d made no real attempt to do so. With the rest of the army marching out to face the Trojan forces, they passed the time with wine and women, secretly hoping Achilles would change his mind.

  ✽✽✽

  Achilles preferred the company of no one, keeping to his ship and temporary tent. Swaying with too much wine, he gripped the dry deck railing and stared out across the sea. “I have been a mother to my men. Given the best of myself on the field. Yet, here I am, the mighty Achilles. Empty handed. With nothing I desire.”

  Twelve days had passed, leaving him to wonder what plan Thetis had devised with Zeus that he might win back his honor. And Briseis. The dark surf, stretching out as far as his eye could see, glittered under the sun, yet his mother failed to appear. Strange. I cannot even hear her.

  The sting of losing Briseis remained a fresh welt across his pride and heart, his rage kept in check only by wine followed by more wine. His Myrmidons arrived periodically in small groups seeking his audience, yet he refused them all. The only one he wished to see was the one who stayed away. Patrokles. His cousin’s words, sharpened by truth, cut more deeply than any sword. Only he would dare speak with such honesty.

  “I do not deserve her,” Achilles said into the wind. He hung his head, dizzy from wine. A single tear escaped his eye, before he rubbed it away with the back of his hand. “I do not deserve her.” Stumbling back to the deck of his galley, he collapsed in a wretched heap, reaching for yet more wine. “How can I live without my honor? And without her love, and Patrokles? I am empty.” Achilles cast his gaze to the heavens. “Patrokles was right. You have cursed me.” After pulling the wax plug from the jug, he took a huge swig before falling flat on his back. “Briseis, forgive me. Patrokles, forgive—”

  Achilles closed his eyes against the brightness, his heart burning to ash knowing that Agamemnon would delight in claiming Briseis as his own. Athena! Why not let me slit the Fat King’s throat? In his stupor, he half expected Zeus to hurl a thunderbolt, a welcome mercy to this agony. He threw the amphora across the deck, shattering the pottery against the opposite rail, splashing wine in all directions. The dry, wooden planks drank the crimson liquid like a thirsty beast. Will Briseis understand? His cousin’s words haunted and hacked at his soul. In this miserable state, he passed into a black and dreamless sleep.

  ***

  As he slid the linen strip down his blade, Patrokles thought of the soft curve of Briseis’ hip. His memory drifted to the dip at the base of her neck and the erratic pulse beneath his lips. The gentle touch of her fingers as she cupped his face in her hands tortured him. The honeyed kisses and sweet moans that escaped her lips while they lay together echoed in his memory, breaking his heart. Exhausted by the memories, he laid his sword across his knees.

  Outside of his tent, Myrmidons walked passed, leaving him to his peace, perhaps fearful of him. Since Achilles had retreated to his ship in a perpetual drunken stupor, he’d become a recluse himself. He knew the men likely thought it was grief at losing Achilles’ constant companionship. They would never guess the truth of his absence.

  “Patrokles? Are you in there?”

  “Leave me be, Knaxon.”

  “I have fresh bread and wine.”

  “Enter then. But I’m in no mood for company.”

  Achilles’ servant pushed through the tent flap carrying an amphora under one arm and a loaf of bread under the other. “I’ll put them on the table.”

  Patrokles didn’t look up and remained silent.

  “Will you go to see him?”

  “No.”

  “But he needs—”

  Looking up, Patrokles’ gray eyes smoked with anger. “Why should I care what he needs? Why should any of us care? He deserves whatever misery he’s heaped upon his own head.”

  Knaxon backed up toward the tent opening. “I only thought—”

  “I know what you thought. You think I can bring him back to us. To you. I’ve seen the way your hungry slave eyes watch him. You think I don’t know you desire him?”

  “I-I never—” Nax stumbled to escape Patrokles’ growing rage.

  “He gave away his woman! Do you think he would
treat you so differently? No.” Patrokles scoffed. “He has forsaken all of us. He’s cursed by the gods. Be thankful he’s not among us. We deserved better from him. Especially Briseis. Now, get out of my tent.”

  Nax ran.

  A moment of silence passed, before Patrokles put his weapon aside. He sat at the table, poured a cup of wine, and broke the crust of the bread. A thin cloud of steam rose from inside of it. Eating held little joy since his world had scattered to the winds. “She was mine for a moment,” he whispered quietly.

  Confessing his love to Briseis hadn’t freed him of the burden he’d not-so-secretly carried. The moment of ecstasy between them now burned him to ash. She is right. We are not destined for one another. Achilles would always be the man she carried in her heart, not him.

  And although he disapproved of how Achilles handled Agamemnon’s demand, he knew in his heart that Achilles loved Briseis however roughly and ineptly. How can I look him in the eyes knowing what I have done? He will know I have betrayed him. How can I return to Briseis now?

  He ate and drank as his mind raged with regret, grief, and longing

  ✽✽✽

  Briseis languished in her tented prison, fearful that at any moment Agamemnon would burst through the opening and take her by force. I will not be his whore! Yet, she studied her sparsely furnished tent. The piss pot in the corner. The thin furs and linens on a mattress. The small, wooden table with a single stool. I am a whore. Her memories of the time before the Greeks came to Lyrnessus had faded as her life with Achilles overshadowed the world she’d known before. The world where her father had lived and her mother sat at her weaving were lost long ago. Only Achilles remained. He was her anchor in the swirling storm of blood and war. And now, he also had abandoned her. I have nothing left except Patrokles. And even he stays away.

  She lit an oil lamp next to her mattress. Shadows danced gingerly on the tent wall. “Patrokles,” she whispered. “I don’t deserve your devotion.”

  Making love to him was a moment of reprieve for them both. It seemed the only way to make sense of Achilles’ decision to discard her and abandon the war. When Patrokles tenderly confessed his love for her, as a woman, she knew that if they made it from this war alive, he’d never leave her. He would wed her in Phthia as he promised long ago. Maybe that was enough to live for. A tear slid down her cheek, and she brushed it away with a dirty hand.

  Earlier, she heard the distant rumble of thousands of warriors leaving the camp. Perhaps, all will be over soon.

  Death lurked in every corner and dishonor loomed before her. An uncertain future loomed before her, as she sat in the dank, dark tent of a lowly slave.

  TROY

  SEVENTEEN, brazen and bold

  1238 BCE

  Before Apollo pulled the light into the heavens, Hektor had called for the army to assemble safely behind the wall. A sea of polished bronze filled the lower streets and alleys. Men waited nervously for orders, thinking about death, and praying that today was not their time to greet the dead. Polites, son of Priam, took his watch on the lower ramparts with his men. Apollo’s ascent into the heavens split the sky with gold and blue. He inhaled the salt and jasmine of the cool, morning air. As the plain brightened beneath the renewed light of day, he stared hard toward the Greeks’ encampment. In the distance, a thin trail of dust rose as a lone rider raced into view. “A scout,” he called down to the tower watchmen. “Open the gate.”

  Moments later, the wide-eyed scout panted his warning out. “They’re coming. The Greeks are coming.”

  “How many?” Polites asked.

  “All of them, my lord.” He bent to catch his breath. “All of them.”

  “The Myrmidons?”

  “There were too many, my lord.”

  “Pray the gods are not against us. If the Myrmidons take the field, the worse the battle … for us.” Polites called down to the guards, “The Greeks are coming! The Greeks are coming!”

  The alarm sounded throughout the sleepy city. Women wailed and children cried. They knew it was only by the gods’ graces that their loved ones would be spared or killed or worse, butchered and maimed.

  Helen rose from bed and walked to the balcony overlooking the city. She swept the linen curtains aside. “Do you hear, Paris? The cries of a city going to war grow louder.”

  Paris rolled over, blinking as the harsh light of morning stung his eyes. “The Greeks must be on the move again.” He pulled the blanket over his head. “Close the curtains.”

  “You should get up,” Helen said brusquely. Paris’ lack of urgency annoyed her. The people grew to resent her and Paris by the day, why would he not take action to protect them from hurtful rumors? He was a pale comparison to Hektor.

  “One more fuck, then I will rise to my duty.”

  Helen wrapped her himation tightly around her shoulders. The pull of Aphrodite dissolved her growing resentment. “I hate myself for all of this.”

  Removing the covers from his face, Paris asked, “For what?”

  She lay beside him, desire filling her and clouding her mind. She fought to cling to her own thoughts, not give in to Aphrodite’s curse. “That I would lie with you, fucking, when I know you should be gathering with the army.”

  “My first duty is to love you.” Paris grabbed Helen by the shoulders, pulling her beneath him. He yanked her gown up over her hips and greedily plunged into her. His thrusting fully awoke Helen’s passion, and soon her body completely betrayed her. Sweating and moaning, they climaxed in unison.

  The curse slowly lifted, and Helen began to cry. Angry tears spilled down her cheeks. “Go. I’m sure Hektor has already sent a guard to find you.”

  “What do I care if the guards find me abed with my wife?” Paris kissed her forehead. “Don’t cry, Helen. Any other man would do the same.”

  “But you aren’t any other man. You’re a prince of Troy. You should be armed and at Hektor’s side. I won’t have word reach him that they found you in bed, after the call to arms sounded.”

  Paris flung the covers off. “You wish me to go to my death so quickly?”

  An urgent knock sounded at the door. “Prince Paris?”

  “I’m coming! Tell Hektor I’m on my way.”

  “My lord,” the voice behind the door sounded apologetic, “Hektor commands I bring you straight to him.”

  Helen glared at Paris. “I told you to give a care what your brother thinks. If you Trojans win this war, he’ll be king someday. Do not add kindling to his burning hatred of us.”

  Paris laced his sandals and then strapped on his greaves. “What do you mean, ‘you Trojans’?”

  “Nothing.”

  He picked up his breast plate and positioned it over his chest. “Help me with the shoulder buckle.”

  With nimble fingers, Helen made quick work of the task. She placed a hand on his arm. “Fight well and bravely, husband.”

  “I will fight to return to your side, my love.”

  With those parting words, Helen watched as he grabbed his bow and side-quiver, spears, helmet, and his leopard skin cloak before exiting their chamber. Only then did she dissolve into a heap on the floor. Years ago, she fled Sparta because she believed in her heart that a life with Paris, in Troy, would fill her with the love she desperately wanted. But, it had all been a lie woven into her stars by Aphrodite. Even the freedom from responsibility was bitter. No one loved her here. No one adored her. She was no cherished daughter of Troy, except to Priam. He alone accepted her. But that, too, was tainted by Hecuba’s loathing for her.

  Then, there was Corythus. His passion for her was real. Helen pressed her hand to her abdomen. Startled, she looked down. Her hand rounded over a slight swell. She counted back the days. A knowing smile spread across her face. The son had managed to do what the father could not. Paris will think it’s his. But so will Corythus.

  She pulled a small box from beneath her bed. Blowing dust from the lid, she opened it with trembling fingers. Oenone’s letter was undisturbed.
Helen clutched it to her breast. I can’t let either of them know the truth. I must send Corythus back to his mother.

  ***

  Hektor stood alongside King Telephus on a terrace overlooking the commanders below busily organizing the allied troops among the Trojans. The cacophony of many languages blended in a single song. “I owe you my gratitude for returning to help us, as you promised years ago.”

  Telephus clasped his hands behind his back. “The Greeks are a menace to this land. I will do my part to send them back into the sea. I am curious, however, if the rumors are true or not.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “That Achilles and his Myrmidons no longer fight for Agamemnon.”

  “It’s true.”

  Telephus stroked his beard, twisting the beads braided into the ends of it. “Why did he withdraw?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Why hasn’t he returned to Phthia?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I don’t like it. As long as he remains in the Troad—”

  “If Achilles rejoins the army, we will fight them all the same. Ah, my errant brother arrives.”

  Telephus turned his head to see Paris approaching. He was almost as tall as Hektor, and bearing a remarkable resemblance, except that Paris’ features were slightly more refined. “So, he is the one who brought Helen of Sparta.”

  Paris nodded to Hektor. “Greetings, brother.”

  Hektor’s face remained stoic. “What delayed you?”

  Paris said, “I was saying farewell to my wife.”

  From across the rampart, a lookout’s voice rang clearly with the dreaded warning. “The Greeks are here! The Greeks are here!”

  All heads turned toward the plain. A cloud of dirt and sand rose above the approaching enemy. The faint sound of thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “So, it begins again,” Hektor said. “Look to your army, Telephus.”

  ✽✽✽