Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “He is no more,” Achilles said. His eyes stone cold. His voice certain. “Only vengeance remains.”

  ✽✽✽

  TROJAN CAMP

  Across the plain, in the temporary safety of their camps, the Trojans dreaded the dawn. For when the pink fingers of the day raked the sky, Achilles would be leading the enemy. God-like. Shining. Murderous. The boisterous talk of the day was silenced. A cloud of doom settled over their tents and fires. Men talked of abandoning the battle and fleeing to the far south. Some gathered around fires, wringing their hands. Others took to wine and women.

  In the center of the main encampment, Hektor paced with his racing thoughts. His brothers and commanders waited. “Did you see him standing there like a god?” Hektor groaned. “Kebriones. What Achilles’ second did to our brother …”

  Paris looked at Hektor. The other men shifted their weight. They all feared the gleaming image on the hill.

  Hektor asked aloud, “Which god favors him now?”

  Paris’ brow furrowed. “Why does it matter? He has returned to the war. We knew that one day he would. Now, that day is here.”

  The Prince of Troy shook his head in disbelief. “If we sacrifice to the right god, the favor will once again be ours. We were so close to final victory.”

  Paris spoke the words no one else dared utter. “You killed his companion. We all know what he will become. We have all seen it happen before.”

  Hektor’s face soured. “I had to do it. Kebriones may have been our father’s bastard, but he had our blood.”

  Paris’ voice was somber when he replied, “There will be no mercy now. We should retreat to the city. As long as Achilles was angrier at Agamemnon than us, we had hope of victory. But after what happened, he will not be satisfied with victory on the plain. He will want our city; take our women and our children. Rape them. Make them slaves. Tonight, he weeps for his companion, but make no mistake his wrath will be unstoppable come the dawn. It’s best we defend ourselves from the ramparts.”

  “Those are the words of a coward,” Hektor said. “Haven’t you all tired of sitting behind the wall? Hiding like small children behind their mothers?”

  “Do you mock me on Helen’s account? Aphrodite took me—”

  “Shut up, Paris. We will have Zeus’ favor once again. I know it. I will order the sacrifices. We can’t retreat now. I will face Achilles come the dawn. Only then will we know who the better man is.”

  “This is the beginning of the end,” Paris said quietly.

  “It has been long enough,” Hektor said. “Go, the rest of you. Spread the word. We fight at first light.”

  ✽✽✽

  OLYMPUS

  Thetis arrived at Hephaestus’ forge on Olympus. She knew the way inside. The stone floor was cold under her silent feet. She brushed her hand along the glittering walls, smooth to the touch. Above, the purple sky was dotted with stars. She’d always marveled that in Olympus the halls of all houses had no ceiling but the deep heavens. The clang of metal on metal drew her inward toward the forge chamber.

  “Thetis, I knew you were coming,” Hephaestus said, not bothering to look up from his handiwork. “It is not safe for you to be here.”

  “I was careful.”

  The god looked at her now, wiping the soot and sweat from his brow. “No one is careful enough where Hera is concerned.” He stepped toward Thetis, limping on his bent leg. “I should know.”

  “Apologies, Hephaestus. I had to come.”

  “Charis, we have a guest.”

  A woman of dark skin and eyes appeared. An aura of golden light surrounded her, enhancing her beauty. She reached for Thetis’ hand. “What has happened that you would take such a risk coming here?” Charis ushered the nymph to a silver chair. “Please, sit. Ambrosia?”

  “If it pleases you, my lady Charis.”

  Charis clapped her hands, and three mechanical maidens appeared. Smooth gold was their skin. Their bodies were shaped with the modest curves of women. Their heads were bare of hair and their eyes were sparkling sapphires. They wore no garments and walked without shame. “Bring the ambrosia and cups. Help my husband prepare for his guest.”

  “Yes, lady Charis.” The maidens spoke in unison with voices as rich and as smooth as their exteriors. They moved with unexpected grace. Forged of gold by Hephaestus’ own hand, he’d endowed them with the gifts of speech and presence of mind.

  “They are exquisite,” Thetis said.

  “They are quite helpful,” Charis replied, as the maidens returned with the god’s nectar and cups. “Hephaestus, come. I believe Thetis is in need of your services.”

  The golden women washed the forge god and dressed him in a fresh tunic. He wrapped a simple belt of leather with a silver clasp about his waist. Joining his wife and Thetis, he took his seat. “You are not yourself. I can see it in your eyes. What has happened that you require my aid?”

  “So many things ….”

  “You alone cared for me when I was cast down from this place. You showered me with motherly affection when I had none. Whatever you ask, I cannot refuse.”

  The nymph fingered a gem-encrusted pin in her long, black hair. “I kept all your lovely gifts.”

  Hephaestus leaned forward in his chair, resting his massive forearms on his thighs. “Thetis, why have you come?”

  “You know the hardship I endured married to a mortal man. Forgotten by Zeus.”

  “I do.”

  “Peleus resents me. His anger toward me festers. He did not understand immortal ways. Our ways. Our reasoning.” Tears threatened to spill. “I was blessed with a son, Hephaestus. A son whose fate is now set—”

  “In the war below that Zeus has forbidden us from interfering in.” Hephaestus chair creaked under hsighed. Charis placed her hand on her husband’s. “The love I bear you cannot set me at odds with Zeus. I cannot intervene.”

  “Achilles will never return home to his father. Or to me. His days grow shorter now because he is my son. He has offended no gods.”

  “What has happened to Achilles now?”

  “Agamemnon took his woman. Achilles was angry. Who could blame him? He has wallowed in grief and wine, staying away from battle. Forbidding his men to fight. But Patrokles, his most beloved, convinced Achilles to let him wear his armor and fight in his stead.”

  “A deception for the Trojans.”

  “Hektor killed Patrokles and stripped his armor as a prize. Now, when Achilles’ grief moves him to fight, he has no protection. No armor to guard his mortal flesh.”

  Rising from his chair, Hephaestus said, “Have no fear, Thetis. Achilles shall have the most splendid armor ever forged for a man.”

  Hephaestus worked the entire evening and into the night without rest, hammering and shaping the shining armor. In the morning as the stars faded, he brought the armaments to Thetis. She held up the great shield with its images immortalizing the war and Achilles’ fate. Circling the outer edges were the earth, the sky, and the sea. The sun and moon and stars symbols of Achilles’ fate foretold by prophecy and set in motion by Zeus’ hand. Two great cities. A wedding. Thetis thought of Peleus. The apple cast by Eris. Fields and orchards ready for harvest. A peaceful life Achilles would never know. The legacy of two houses and the battle between them. The war that Achilles now fought.

  Thetis’ trembling fingers traced the image of one man standing, with a dead man being dragged by the feet. “Which one is Achilles?” Until this moment she hadn’t thought about how he would die.

  “Does it matter, Thetis? In your heart, you have always known it would come to this.”

  “If only he’d remained in Skyros.”

  “Achilles was not made for the quiet life you wished for him.”

  Brushing the rim of the shield, Thetis sighed. “I don’t know if I can live forever without him.”

  “No matter his choice, Thetis, your hands were always meant to bury him.”

  “It is a final cruelty, is it not? Giving me a mortal so
n? Being a childless mother to mourn forever.”

  AGAMEMNON’S CAMP

  THIRTY-ONE, the best among us

  1238 BCE

  A restless night broke to a red cloud dawn. Thetis moved swiftly through the Myrmidon camp. Their fires smoldered with blackened wood and ash. The drone of anguish had hushed. Dogs stirred as she swept in a magical blur. Men lay awake, contemplating their mortality. How swiftly mortal life moved at the end of all things.

  Thetis found Achilles by his ship, weeping over Patrokles’ body. She approached with caution. She laid Hephaestus’ sacred gifts at his feet. “Achilles?” She touched his shoulder. “Achilles, I have returned as promised.”

  Achilles’ breath hitched in his throat. He lifted his gaze to her. His eyes were clouded and unrecognizable. His face swollen.

  “My poor, sweet son.”

  Achilles picked up the shield first, admiring the intricate work with his eyes and hands. He leaned it against the table beneath Patrokles. Then, he hefted the glittering helm. “These are more than I hoped for.”

  “Try them on,” Thetis said. “You can mourn for Patrokles when the day is done.”

  Achilles’ dull eyes now sparked with rage. “I will kill them all, Mother. Every last one. May I ask one last favor?”

  Thetis’ heart grew heavier with the word last. “Ask what you will.”

  “Keep his flesh from rot and worms … and the flies, until I can send him properly to the Underworld.”

  “I will do as you request,” Thetis said, then slipped beneath the water in a mist.

  With that, Achilles fastened his newly forged armor on. Each piece fitted with perfection. He donned the mighty helm and unleashed a terrifying war cry, startling the entire camp awake. Men ran from their tents, thinking the battle had begun without them, only to glimpse Achilles followed by a contingent of Myrmidons heading toward Agamemnon’s camp.

  Outside of the Great King’s tent, two guards nervously faced Achilles. “Let me pass,” he demanded. One guard slipped inside. “Agamemnon! I come to make terms with you.”

  A young slave boy appeared and held the tent flap open. He put his head down as Achilles’ enormous frame passed him. Agamemnon was already seated at his table. Achilles sat opposite him.

  “Wine?” Agamemnon offered.

  “I’ve had my fill of wine. I thirst only for blood.”

  The king held up his cup in salute. “Achilles has returned.”

  “I see now that my absence caused much suffering among the men. Something they are not likely to forget. And over a woman.”

  “I should never have taken Briseis from you. Zeus made me too bold.”

  “It would have been better if some sickness had taken her.” He told himself that if Briseis had died long ago, then he would not have loved her. In his mind, he could hear Patrokles scolding him. Lies, Achilles. Lies.

  “We can’t change what burdens the gods have already bestowed on us. They have played us both for fools. I will give you all I promised before, and … I will return your woman untouched by my hands. Let us feast before we fight.”

  “I will feast once I have satisfied my revenge.”

  ✽✽✽

  The tent flap opened, startling Briseis who was huddled in a wretched heap on her mattress. She’d hardly slept all night, waking several times to piercing cries and the drone of mourning. With swollen and bloodshot eyes, she squinted into the torch light, lifting a hand to shield the glare. Three of Agamemnon’s men stood before her in their faded and frayed crimson capes with their helmets in the crooks of their arms.

  The stockiest one commanded, “Get up, woman.”

  Briseis froze. Her throat squeezed tightly around words. Slowly, she rose from the bed. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Agamemnon has called you to a private assembly.”

  Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Why?” It didn’t matter why. She knew why. She’d dreaded this day since they dragged her from Achilles’ tent. Patrokles had warned her that eventually Agamemnon would claim her as his proper prize. Enough time has passed. He’s given me no word. Not responded to my letter. Even Patrokles has abandoned me. Briseis slowly rose from the bed. “I’m ready.” Agamemnon will never know that I’m frightened. I will not scream and weep for his pleasure.

  The king’s guard led her through a maze of tents to the great pavilion in the center of camp. Fire cauldrons burned brightly at its entrance. Smoke from spits roasting meat filled the air. Briseis’ eyes darted about the camp. Women busied themselves at cook fires and soldiers polished and sharpened their weapons. She was surprised to see Myrmidons among Agamemnon’s men. Myrmidons had gathered around fires, speaking softly to one another and some openly weeping. He means to take me with an audience? Her knees quaked, and she stumbled in the soft sand. One of the guards caught her by the elbow and steadied her. Despite her resolve to be brave, a hot tear escaped down her cheek.

  Two century guards opened the pavilion’s draping, pushing her through the entrance. She tripped on an edge of carpet and stumbled into the center of the gathering. Agamemnon sat at a large table laden with bread and cheese and wine, maps and stratagem pieces were scattered about the platters. Menelaus stood across from him drinking a cup of wine. All eyes were on her as she stood shaking under their scrutiny. She saw Odysseus, Diomedes, Ajax, Nestor … and Achilles sat alone, apart from the rest. She did not see Patrokles.

  She dared another glance at Achilles, who looked as wretched as she did. His scalp was a dark, bloody mess of raw skin where chunks of his hair were missing. His golden face was swollen and filthy. He gave no sign of acknowledging her.

  Agamemnon motioned her to come closer. “I’ve good news for you, woman.”

  Briseis remained mute. Every hair on her body rose in fear.

  “Don’t you want to know, Briseis? What’s in store for you?”

  Her eyes nervously darted from Achilles to Agamemnon then to her feet. How can he just sit there? Even if he chooses to discard me, he begged me to remember him that night. Why is his head a bloody mess? Has he been beaten? She brushed that thought away, for no one could lay a hand on him unless he allowed it. And that she couldn’t imagine was even possible.

  Agamemnon twisted a golden ring around his thumb. “Have I treated you poorly?”

  “I’ve been treated as any other slave.”

  “Have I defiled you? Harmed you?”

  Briseis looked up and folded her arms across her chest, painfully squeezing her fingers into her flesh, willing herself not to cry. Her mouth twitched. “Other than taking me from Achilles? No.”

  Menelaus coughed with a mouthful of wine. “You dare speak to the king with disrespect?”

  Agamemnon eased back into his chair, as he signaled a slave boy to clean up Menelaus’ wine. “If I was your master, I’d beat the sharpness from your tongue.”

  I’d rather be beaten than raped. Please, Athena, let him beat me. Don’t let him take me in front of all these men. She braved a quick glance at Achilles, aloof and uninterested in her plight. He is not the Achilles that I knew. Patrokles would never allow this. Maybe Achilles keeps him away on purpose, so Agamemnon could do as he pleases with me.

  Pushing away from the table, Agamemnon addressed the small gathering of men. “I’m sure you are all waiting to hear why you’ve been summoned under the … circumstances. I’ve reached an agreement with Achilles. He’s agreed to fight with us once again.” A small cheer echoed around the tent. “We begin the final assault after we fill our bellies and fuck our women. Boy!”

  A young slave, in a long line of nameless slaves since Palamedes, appeared from behind a partition. His squeaky voiced quivered in the king’s presence. “Yes, my king?”

  “Go to heralds and tell them Achilles has rejoined the fight. Tell them we feast before the battle. Tell the men outside to bring Achilles his gifts.”

  The boy nodded and darted off. It wasn’t long before the sound of cheering rose from the camp. Women
draped in little more than scarves with silver and gold bracelets lined up their arms were brought into the tent. Baskets of jewels and coins and shimmering fabrics followed. Amphora after amphora of wine was set before Achilles. Briseis could see that Achilles’ mind was elsewhere. Her mind reeled with reasons to explain Achilles’ behavior. He should be pleased to fight again. He is rid of her, as she always feared he would do. Nothing she conjured seemed that catastrophic. Maybe something happened to his mother. They were closely bonded. Or Patrokles?

  Briseis dared voice her question. “Achilles, where is Patrokles?” Achilles said nothing, but the assembly grew quiet. “Patrokles … Achilles, do you hear me? Where is he?”

  Achilles slowly turned his face to her, as if the very effort of lifting his head caused him great pain. His blue eyes had lost their fire. “He’s gone,” he said quietly.

  Patrokles would never leave Achilles’ side, not even for an army of his own. And the Myrmidons had not been to battle on account of her … and Agamemnon. But then she remembered the Myrmidons were in Agamemnon’s camp. “To Phthia?”

  “He’s dead.” Achilles looked right through her, before he cast his head down. “That is enough talk for me. Feast as you all see fit. Send my portion to my ships. My men will dispense with it there.” Achilles stood, and without looking back, headed out. Achilles stood, waving his hand for Agamemnon’s slaves to follow with his treasure.

  Two of Agamemnon’s guards grabbed Briseis roughly by the elbows, ushering her out behind the other women. “Wait! Where are you taking me?”

  “You crusty bitch. Back to Achilles you go,” one of the guards said gruffly.

  “I’d have thrown her into the whores’ tents and left her there to rot. It’s her fault Achilles left and so many of us died.”

  “No, it was Agamemnon’s. He shouldn’t have taken her in the first place. We all knew it. But still,” he tugged Briseis’ elbow, “so many of us did die on her account.”