Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “And yet it is enough.”

  “There is life after grief subsides.” Achilles’ face softened, but Thetis marked the pain in his blue eyes.

  “I have lost enough of myself with war. With Patrokles gone … what remains longs for vengeance and death. Peace eluded me in life, perhaps in death I will find it.”

  Thetis took his face in both of her hands and looked deep into his eyes. “You have been my entire life. I have loved you as I have loved no one else. Happiness can be yours, Achilles.” She brushed a hand gently over his bruised and scabbed scalp. “Why not take Briseis as wife before the end? Don’t push away the joys of life, even though your days are short. Enjoy what you can, while you can.”

  Achilles smiled wanly. “I am content. Tell me about Peleus.”

  “He wishes you to return home. Take his place as King of Phthia. But, he knows that is not to be.”

  “After I am gone, you must not abandon him. Promise me, Mother.”

  “I promise.” Thetis sighed. “There is something else. A message from Zeus.”

  Achilles’ eyebrows shot up. “Zeus?”

  “He came to me in the garden with a command for you.”

  “I am almost afraid to hear it.”

  “You may not like it, but you must obey. It is about your desecration of Hektor’s body.”

  A shadow crossed Achilles’ face. The desperate anger returned. “What does he say?”

  “He demands you return Hektor’s body to King Priam. The gods are angry that you continue to … drag the body. That it is improper and stirs the Olympians to contend with one another. Zeus commands that your grief be satisfied.”

  His rancor was visible in his clenched jaw. “If that is Zeus’ will. I will obey. What choice do I have?”

  She took Achilles’ hands in her own. “Before the war is over, find some happiness in this life. However small and short-lived it may be.”

  PRIAM’S PALACE

  THIRTY-SEVEN, the beggar king

  1238 BCE

  Queen Hecuba listened to every word Priam said with disbelief. Surely, it was a ruse to strike the fatal blow at Troy. If Priam’s plan went awry, there would be no second chance. “Are you certain, Priam?”

  “Hermes spoke to me directly. The vision was very clear. Take a ransom, face Achilles myself, and ask for our son’s body.”

  “Have your wits abandoned you? You’re no match for Achilles. You will put all our lives in jeopardy if you do this. No one wants Hektor’s body returned more than his own mother, but not at the expense of the living. If you die, all is lost within the day. There must be some other way.”

  “Hecuba, I must do this.”

  The chamber grew cold. A shadow passed between them. Hecuba shivered, pulling her himation tightly about her shoulders. Each day since Hektor’s death was colder than the one before. “You’re inviting more senseless deaths. Hektor should have listened and stayed behind the wall. He would still be alive. Andromache would not be a widow. And Astyanax would not be fatherless. Why do the gods curse us so?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How different our lives would’ve been if Agelaus had obeyed you. If we’d never known about Paris. Because of his fate, we’ve all suffered more loss than one lifetime should yield. If I could tear Achilles’ heart from his chest with my bare hands, well, perhaps then I would have some small vengeance.”

  “I will return with our son. And if I am wrong and do not, I will have Hektor in my arms and can pass to the Underworld in peace. Help me into this tunic.”

  Hecuba lifted the soft, white garment over his head and smoothed the neckline and shoulders with her shaking hands. She picked up a golden belt, but Priam pushed it away. “No adornments.”

  “If you are leaving in secret, under cover of darkness, why have you called all your remaining sons to the Great Hall?”

  “Come, my wife, and you will hear.”

  ✽✽✽

  The sons of Priam gathered at the south end of the Great Hall, waiting impatiently and murmuring amongst themselves. When Priam entered with Hecuba on his arm, an uneasy silence settled on the assembled group. They glanced left and right at one another with worried eyes and faces.

  Priam’s disapproving eye looked them all over, each and every one. “You are all worthless.” His sons shuffled their feet and looked down in shame at the insult, but no one said a word. “Hektor’s death but preceded our own. Troy will fall without him. I wish that any of you had died instead of him, you worthless cunts. He was a true warrior, ready to be a king.” Priam spat on the floor. “Look at the lot you! Not one of you compares to the son I have just lost.” His angry gaze landed on Paris. “And you … you most of all. If knew what my city would suffer at your hands, I would have ripped you from your mother’s womb and fed you to the dogs. And Helen. I was blinded by your beauty and soft words like everyone else around you, but you are nothing but a worthless whore cowering behind my son. I wish you’d never stepped foot in my city, or that I’d sent you packing back to Menelaus years ago. Now, ready me a wagon with a ransom fit for a king. I will face Achilles myself. I might be an old man, but I have more courage than any of you cowards.” The brothers, except for Paris, dispersed to quickly carry out their father’s commands.

  Hecuba saw Priam now, for the first time as the old man he was. She realized that she, too, was old. Sorrow and time had ground her spirit into dust. Paris stood back, waiting for her. She approached him with heavy steps. Her eyes slowly met his. It was difficult knowing she’d been wrong all along, and that her weakness in obeying the god was partly to blame for Hektor’s death and the shadow hanging over the city.

  “Mother, I—I will do all in my power to bring Achilles’ down.”

  Hecuba placed a hand on Paris’ cheek. “Defying the gods only brings suffering. They revel in our misery. You, my son, were never meant to live a peaceful life. You also lost a son, your only son, because of her.”

  “More so than you will ever know.”

  Hecuba kissed his cheek. “Do what you can to save us, for as long as you can. As for Achilles’ death, I pray Apollo brings it swiftly.” She watched Paris walk away and sighed.

  Priam touched her shoulder. “Hecuba, it is time.”

  Inhaling her grief, Hecuba said, “Bring my son home.” Not until she was alone in the hall did Hecuba weep. She pulled her dark himation closely about her head and face and made her way through the palace to the streets overflowing with refugees to Apollo’s temple. She knew the way to the inner sanctum. Not a single priestess moved to stop her. The black marble was cool beneath her feet. She stripped her garments and knelt before the god until her knees ached. She prayed for the return of her son and her vengeance against Achilles.

  ✽✽✽

  Priam urged the oxen pulling the heavy wagon on with measured snaps of the reins. The uncollected dead of both sides littered the ground. Putrid fumes filled the night air. He pulled his cloak around his nose to ward off the stench. By midday it would be unbearable. He could make out the shadowy form of scavengers moving like wraiths among the bodies, taking what little treasures as they could. The sorrowful song of women and children weeping for the fallen stirred his old, aching heart. The war had taken everything he held most precious from him. He was about to put his life in the hands of his mortal enemy, and he was fully prepared to die before dawn.

  Out of the gloomy, early morning, a young man appeared in the middle of the road. Priam pulled up the oxen. “Easy. Easy.” The wagon creaked to a halt. “Who are you?” The hairs along his arms stood on end. “Where did you come from?”

  “I am returning to the Myrmidon camp.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Why are you going in my direction? You are not one of us.”

  “No.” Taking a chance, Priam said, “I need to speak to Achilles.”

  Raising an eyebrow, the stranger replied, “There’s a risky deed.”

  “If you help me, I will give you a
gift from this ransom.”

  The stranger glanced around Priam at the wagon piled high with baskets and chests. He shook his head. “A ransom intended for Achilles? Misfortune follows anyone who dares take from Achilles what is his by right.”

  “Can you tell me if Hektor’s body still lies by the ships?” Priam’s heart pounded wildly against his ribs. His voice quivered. “Or have the dogs devoured him?” His shaking fingers touched a scabbed-over patch on his scalp.

  “You must be King Priam.” The stranger bowed his head. “I can tell you Achilles continues to defile the body. The dogs refuse to go near it. It is strange that the body does not rot. Almost as if a god protects it.”

  Priam exhaled without realizing he’d been holding his breath. “I am grateful, then.”

  “Come, then, king. I will take you to Achilles myself. Keep your eyes down and speak not a word to anyone, but Achilles. If anyone were to recognize you—”

  “I give my word.”

  The stranger hopped into the wagon and took the reins. With a quick snap, the oxen strained to start the roll of the heavy load. The compacted sand gave way to softer patches, causing the wagon to sway, jostling the treasure. The clinking of gold, armor, and bronze bowls reminded Priam of the first time he’d tried to ransom a son. He hoped he was more successful at reclaiming Hektor’s body than he was at appeasing Apollo for the life of Paris. In his heart, he doubted he would return home. He was prepared to die with his efforts. A fight with Achilles would surely bring a quick and easy death. The years had left him an old, frail man. He hadn’t held a sword aloft in years, let alone headed into battle, since Hektor assumed his place as the head of the Trojan forces.

  Before long, they passed by rows of black shields lined in the sand, leaning against tall spears. Behind the shields were scattered groups of tents and low-burning campfires. A few dogs roamed around, sniffing for scraps of food. The cries of children pierced the quiet. They kept moving toward the center of the camp, nearer the shoreline. Priam prayed it wasn’t a trap.

  The stranger pulled the reins up tightly, slowing the oxen to a halt. He jumped down and slapped the side of the wagon. “This is Achilles’ tent. Choose your words wisely. He’s known for his quick temper these days.” He disappeared into the shadows.

  “By the gods,” Priam whispered, for he had no doubt one of them had just helped him in his quest. He got down with some difficulty and stood for a long time at the entrance of Achilles’ tent contemplating his words. A thin line of light edged the gap where the tent flap overlapped the siding.

  “Who’s there?” a deep, gravelly voice called out from within.

  Priam swallowed hard, reaching a trembling hand to part the entry. He slowly stepped into the darkened interior. A single oil lamp burned against to gloom. “I have come to beg your mercy, Achilles, Prince of Phthia.”

  “Briseis, get up and light the lamps.”

  The silhouette of a woman rose from the bed. Priam could see her outline as she pulled a chiton over her head. She took the oil lamp from Achilles’ hand and lit the other lamps. A golden hue filled the tent. For the first time, Priam clearly saw the face of the man who’d terrorized his lands for so many seasons; he’d almost forgotten what peace was like. He looked into the blue eyes that were the last thing Hektor would have seen. Achilles was the biggest man he’d ever encountered. Priam realized how terrifying it would be to face him on the battlefield. He stole a glance in Briseis’ direction. She was much older now than when he’d seen her last. After Achilles had sacked Lyrnessus, he mourned the passing of Briseus, her father. He’d heard that princess Briseis had been made Achilles’ prize. The irony of the gods wasn’t lost on him. He remembered that she was destined to be the wife of the greatest warrior who ever lived, and that he knew now was Achilles, not Hektor.

  “I have come for my son.”

  Achilles took a seat at the table. “Briseis, wine.” The woman filled two cups and handed one to Priam without saying a word. Achilles pulled her close, whispering something in her ear. “You may leave us, Briseis.” The woman nodded and bowed out of the tent, leaving Priam alone with the man whose name was synonymous with death throughout the Troad. “I am surprised you’ve come without a guard. It would be an easy thing to take your life.” Achilles fingered a space between the wooden planks of the table.

  Priam shrugged. “It would be, but little honor in killing an unarmed, old man. Even a king. As for a guard, why risk another man’s life, when mine clearly hangs in the balance?”

  “You are either very brave, or foolhardy.”

  “Broken. I am broken by the loss of my sons. I am a desperate man, not a brave one.”

  “I vowed your son would never see proper burial. You expect me to break my sacred word?”

  “When your word goes against the gods, aye, I do. The gods do. They can forgive folly, but not blatant disregard.” Priam fell at Achilles’ feet, taking his knees in supplication. “Look at me, damn you. Do you not see your father’s pain reflected in my face? It is an agony for a father to bury his son. I have laid more sons than any father should have to on their funeral pyres.”

  Achilles studied Priam’s wrinkles and deep-set eyes. “I can scarce recall my father’s face.”

  “He waits for your return, I am certain. What father would not?” Priam grabbed Achilles’ hands and kissed them. “These hands have robbed me of my legacy. Soon, I fear, of my entire city. Yet, I kiss them with humble lips and beg you think of your own father’s pain. Please, return my son to me.”

  “My mother told me I will never see home again, nor rest my eyes on my father. He already mourns my passing, for it is imminent.”

  Priam’s grief broke and his shoulders shook violently. He wept on Achilles’ bare knees. The weight of war had won, finally, in the end. He didn’t care for his power or glory, just the body of a man whose life meant more to him than anything else. This time, he would be a father before a king. Perhaps, if he had to do it all over again, being a father instead of a king may have saved everything and everyone he’d ever loved. He would never know now.

  A tear trailed down Achilles’ cheek. “I think you are brave to come. Your pain has made you so. We must accept that the gods are the needle and fate is the thread of our lives. We exist to live out the design they weave in the stars for us. The life I had before … with a father, with Chiron … is no more than dream with bits of fleeting light shining on one memory, then another. Do not weep, old man, I will return your son to you.”

  ✽✽✽

  Briseis prepared a table in a vacant tent to cleanse Hektor’s body as Achilles had directed her. It took four women to heft his dead weight inside. She placed a cloth over his privates. Once he was laid out, Briseis called for the water basins. Pouring water over his head and face, she gently cleansed the dirt and sand from his skin and hair. It surprised her that for all the desecration Achilles had inflicted, that Hektor’s face sustained only a few minor scratches. “You were once so handsome,” she whispered. “And kind to a young girl.” Her hands worked with grace and tenderness as she continued the sacred ritual, wiping the grime of defilement away. She winced as she passed the cloth over each cut and bruise on his torso, still not as horrific as she’d expected. When the body was cleansed, the women anointed Hektor with scented oil, pulling a freshly bleached tunic over his nakedness and wrapping him like a newborn babe in a deep blue himation.

  One by one, the women left the tent, until Briseis stood alone with Hektor’s corpse. She leaned to kiss his cheek. It was cold and stiff. “You deserved better. I pray you enter the Underworld in peace now.”

  The tent flap flew open. It was Achilles. “Is he ready?”

  “Aye.”

  Priam pushed passed Achilles’ shoulder. His breath caught in his throat when he saw his son. “Hektor. Hektor.” Rushing forward, he threw himself over Hektor’s chest and wept fiercely. “My son. My son.”

  Achilles just stood there, watching; his face resigned, cold.
“You must leave before dawn. I have been generous with you, but if Agamemnon discovers you in camp, he will show you no mercy.”

  Priam wiped his eyes and nodded. Achilles scooped up the body, and Priam followed him to the cart. Together, executioner and father, pulled up a gray blanket and covered the Golden Prince of Troy, who was no more.

  “How many days will you require for his burial?” Achilles asked in such a matter of fact voice, Briseis thought he sounded more like a farmer bartering for wheat than a man handing over a dead prince to a king.

  “We must gather wood for his pyre. If your men would not attack our efforts. Nine turns of Apollo. Trees have grown scarce since …” His voice trailed off. Briseis sensed his mind gauging how much to say and if Achilles would care. “We need time to prepare a feast. Bury his ashes in a tomb. At least twelve days. If you still wish to fight, we can resume the war.”

  Achilles simply nodded. “Twelve days. So be it.”

  Priam climbed up the wagon and took the reins. “Farewell, Achilles. You have my gratitude. And the city’s, as well.”

  A cloud of thinly veiled anger colored Achilles’ face. Briseis knew his patience was waning. “Offer no gratitude to me. When your mourning is complete, I will raze your city to the ground.” He slapped the haunches of the ox closest him, and the cart jolted forward, taking Priam from view.

  Briseis stood staring after the cart long after it had disappeared. She wondered how different her life would have been if Hektor had chosen her. She knew all too well what the Trojan women would face once the Achilles decimated their city and killed all their men. “Achilles?”

  He glanced down at her. “What is it, Briseis?”

  “It’s almost like he was never here, isn’t it?”

  “I pray Patrokles will forgive me this. I promised to let Hektor’s bones bleach in the sun, after the dogs and birds had gorged on his flesh.”