Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  When the Greeks first arrived, Priam believed the incursion would be short-lived, and that the Greeks would soon retreat for easier prey. But, as each season stretched to the next, his confidence began to wane. No siege war had ever lasted so long. Those who dared in the past had given up and left empty handed. Then, there was Achilles. No warrior had ever fought like he did, like a god. At first, he’d brushed tales of Achilles aside as soldiers’ exaggerations. He had been wrong. They had all been wrong. For every decision they had executed, the Greeks countered with an exceptional strategy of their own. However, it was Hektor who paid most dearly for his failings as King of Troy. In his indignation and grief, he wanted to kill Paris and Agelaus, as well, for disobeying a direct command. It was too late for his regrets.

  “Achilles is everything you have heard. And worse. He fights without honor and defiles the dead.”

  “I am the daughter of Ares. I will not fail you, King Priam.”

  ✽✽✽

  The mood of the city was as gloomy as the sky, as King Priam and Queen Hecuba led Hektor’s funeral procession through the winding streets of Troy. Behind them, Andromache—veiled in the blackest gossamer—walked with Astyanax clinging to her neck in fear of the noisy crowds. Paris and Helen followed after, then Deiphobus, Cassandra, and Helenus, and the remaining royal household. Five hundred Trojan soldiers followed in their shining armaments and tall spears knotted with silver and blue ribbons. Thousands of mourners cast flowers and garlands at the golden litter bearing Hektor’s body as it swayed by. Women wept without shame and bared their breasts. Men rent their garments and tore out their beards. Children cried because they were afraid and hungry. Dogs howled. Not a living soul was immune to the sorrow of the passing of Hektor and what it meant for all of them.

  The procession wound its way to the lower central square where the marketplaces and bazaars were usually erected with colorful tents and long carts pulled by fat oxen and strong horses. Hektor’s family gathered around the pyre, while Paris and Deiphobus, their brother’s successors, led the litter bearers to the pyre’s peak. The litter was carefully secured on the wooden altar. They laid Hektor’s spear beside him and his great shield at his feet. In the days it took to erect the giant structure, the grieving had stuffed bits of embroidered cloth, oranges, chiton pins, and garden flowers into the stacks. The war had robbed most of them of their wealth and possessions, but they would not leave their prince without some tokens of their affection and sadness.

  As Apollo pulled the sun to the sea, the torch bearers lit the bottom of the pyre stack. Weeping and moaning grew louder, as the fire climbed higher. Fingers of flame reached for Hektor’s body. A gust of warm wind whipped ’round and ’round the great stack, until the fire became an inferno. The ritual flames crackled and roared as they consumed Hektor, the Golden Prince of Troy.

  The gray of the day had given way to a deep purple sky blinking with silver stars. The pyre still burned, but less eagerly now. The grieving crowd had returned to their homes and tents to lay down their weary heads. It was a lonely place, now, the pyre where Hektor had been. A solitary figure remained, her long gown fluttering from time to time in the night air. Hecuba. She had brought him squalling and pink into the world of men, and she would see him to the bitter end, a stack of wine-tinted bones laid in a box. She sweetly caressed every memory of Hektor. A mother’s song for her son is mostly the quiet joy she shares while he lives. When he no longer needs her hand to hold. When he finds enduring love. When he presents her with a child of his own. All this she sings in her heart, forever.

  Hecuba prayed to Apollo with her aching soul and heart of ash, until the new dawn broke. “Hear me, Apollo. For my son. For our son. Be my instrument of rage and vengeance.”

  Apollo’s icy tongue licked at Hecuba’s ear. “Is your desire for revenge deep enough, I wonder?”

  “I will do whatever you ask of me, if Achilles suffers as Hektor did.”

  “Promise that on the day I command, send Polyxena in a yellow gown to my temple. I will do the rest.”

  “I promise.”

  Apollo burned her lips with a kiss. “It is done.”

  TROJAN PLAIN

  FORTY, a growing madness

  1238 BCE

  Achilles towered as a god before the ranks of Myrmidons. His black cloak snapped in the breeze behind him. An angry scowl was fixed on his lips, as he gnashed his teeth. His eyes blazed ice. His Myrmidons were uneasy facing an army of mostly women, but Achilles commanded them to fight them as they would men, because they were warriors who had come to fight and risk death for their efforts. The black horsehair on his helm crest shook, as he shouted across the distance between the armies, “You have come to die, Queen of the Amazons.”

  Penthesileia stood unflinching as his words rolled like thunder over her head. Her army stood brave and bold at her back. Since she arrived in Troy, she’d heard the stories of how Achilles slaughtered his enemies, how he relished the bloodbath of war. She knew he was made for combat and that made him a worthy challenger. Her sword was deadly, for in her chest beat the heart of a lion, not just a queen. The bones of her victims adorned her helm’s crest and clattered as beads against the bronze. She wore paint of grease and ground, bleached bones smeared across her face and arms. Her breastplate gleamed in Apollo’s light. “Your words do not frighten me, Achilles. I am the daughter of Ares,” she roared. “We shall see who my father favors this day.”

  She held her sword aloft, unleashing a fearsome war cry. The Myrmidons leaned forward, trembling with their need to fight. Penthesileia’s army flew behind her as they charged the Myrmidons at breakneck speed. Once more, shields clashed on the Trojan Plain.

  Penthesileia and Achilles crashed into each other like storming waves against a rocky shore. Grace and death danced for blood and victory. Each strike brought one of them closer to the Underworld. The Amazon gripped her sword in both hands, ready to strike a fatal blow, but instead her chest heaved her breath. She stumbled one step, and then two. Her sword clattered to the hard ground. Looking down, her shaking fingers touched the bloody spear point protruding from her middle. Penthesileia’s surprised eyes met Achilles’; he poised, ready to strike, but he made no move to do so. Neither of them had heard the fatal song of the spear until it was too late.

  Thersites, an ignoble and undistinguished Greek, thrilled at his triumph. “I have felled the Amazon queen. Her armor is mine.”

  Achilles’ blood boiled at being denied his fight. “You are a fucking fool, Thersites.” Quickly, he moved to Penthesileia’s side, removing her helm. “You deserved better. A champion’s death.”

  Penthesileia tried to speak, instead blood gurgled at the edges of her mouth. Achilles held her upright, as she closed her eyes and died in his arms. His days were growing shorter; he knew it, felt it in his bones. Each victory so close to his last. He lay the queen gently down on her side and turned with fury in his eyes to the thief of his glory. And unexpectedly, the haunting grief of Patrokles’ death crept into his chest, and his new rage blinded him to reason.

  “Her armor is mine by right,” Thersites goaded from behind Achilles. “I killed her.”

  Achilles seethed at Thersites’ arrogance. “You won’t have it. She was meant to die at my hand, not yours.”

  Wiping his filthy hands on the hem of his chiton, Thersites replied, “I suppose the god’s thought otherwise.”

  “You. Won’t. Have. It.”

  Thersites’ temper snapped. “You aren’t so different from Agamemnon.”

  The old indignation rose from Achilles’ dead soul, mixing with the raw grief of Patrokles’ death. A voracious lust for blood flooded through Achilles’ veins. He drew his sword without second thought, attacking Thersites. In three swift strokes, the man lay in pieces with Achilles breathing heavily over him. His anger blinded him to all else. As if in a cave, Achilles heard a muffled voice calling his name.

  “Achilles! Achilles! What have you done?”

  Achilles�
�� senses cleared and he found himself face to face with Odysseus. He glanced down at Thersites, whose dead eyes stared blankly into the sky from his severed head. Achilles felt nothing. The rage was gone.

  “Why did you kill him? He’s one of us. What madness grips you?”

  Stabbing his sword into ground, Achilles surveyed the aftermath of his wrath. “Whoever I was, I am that man no longer.”

  “Your defilement of Hektor was barely tolerated in the end, but he was our enemy. He’d cut down many of us over the years. I could argue he deserved most of your … punishment. However, you can’t expect to kill one of us without impunity. You must purify yourself, Achilles, before your mind is lost completely.”

  Achilles’ jaw clenched as he turned over Odysseus’ advice. Since Patrokles’ death, he’d lost his way. He could feel his soul drifting directionless on an endless sea. He no longer cared about anything. Only the brief slivers of light Briseis cast shone through the growing darkness. “Where should I go? Who will stand for me before the gods?”

  “Which god favors you the least?” Odysseus asked.

  “Without a doubt … Apollo.”

  “Then, we head for Lesbos. Make your sacrifices to Apollo. I will sponsor you.”

  “Why the god who works against me for love of the Trojans?”

  Odysseus rested a reassuring hand on Achilles’ shoulder. “If you should win his favor, your good fortune is assured.”

  Achilles growled his discontent, but he relented. “We sail at dawn. On one condition.”

  “What is that?”

  “Briseis comes with us.”

  “As you wish.”

  ✽✽✽

  LESBOS

  Beachhead Camp

  Apollo’s light stretched gold across the blue sky, and a light wind scattered downy clouds as far as the eye could see. Achilles lay naked with Briseis at his side on the deck of his beached ship, the sea gently lapping at its hull. Achilles’ eyes were closed, while his fingers lazily twirled a strand of Briseis’ dark hair, streaked with silver since Patrokles’ burial. She shifted to face Achilles. “What was it like being purified? Why haven’t you spoken of it?”

  He opened his eyes and stared into the sky for a long while. Briseis could see his thoughts churning like the sea. “I know that look of concern on your face. What are you afraid to tell me?”

  “I sacrificed to the god. And Odysseus washed my body with the sacred blood. We went down to the beach. I scrubbed the blood off with sand. Then, we drank wine and bathed in the ocean.”

  “Is that all?”

  Achilles sat up, pulling her with him. A lone seabird cried above them. The sound of his crew talking carried on the breeze. He reached a hand to her cheek. “Briseis, what do you wish most?”

  “Peace from war.”

  “Even if it is for a short while?

  Briseis twisted to look at Achilles, eyeing him suspiciously. “Something has changed.” She reached for his hand. “I see it. Feel it.”

  Achilles smiled down at her and entwined their fingers, bringing her hand to his lips. “Purification has many benefits. What about peace? Would you have it, if only for a while?”

  “If war has taught me anything, it’s that nothing lasts forever. Aye, I would have peace, even if it was not everlasting.”

  “There are no words to tell you how … broken my soul has been since Patrokles—” Achilles’ voice cracked. “I cannot even bring myself to say the words aloud.”

  “I know,” Briseis whispered.

  “Marry me, Briseis. In Apollo’s temple.”

  Briseis sat up, stunned by his question. “Why now? Why this change of heart?”

  “We honor Patrokles by doing so.”

  “Because he would have married me, had he lived and you died?”

  “Isn’t that reason enough?”

  She thought of all her losses, her agonies, and her defeats. There was nothing left to lose anymore, except life itself. Everything she’d ever held in tender regard had been stripped from her hands and heart. “We will have peace?”

  “For a time.”

  “Aye. Then, I will marry you.”

  Achilles pulled her down to him. “Had I taken you as a wife years ago, Patrokles would still be alive. Whenever I contemplate why he needed to die, I find myself at fault.”

  “There is guilt enough for us both.”

  “He was under my protection, Briseis. I am the one who failed him. It was my pride that killed him.”

  They lay together in silence, for a long time.

  When the first star appeared in the sky, Odysseus called to them, “I’ve brought wine.”

  “Come up,” Achilles said, propping himself up on his elbows. He shrugged sheepishly. “I cannot pass up wine.”

  Briseis stood and stretched. “I know.”

  Odysseus hopped over the railing, balancing the amphora of wine. He’d tucked three cups into his belt. “What are you two lovebirds doing?”

  “Pour the wine and I will tell you,” Achilles said.

  Odysseus passed the first cup to Briseis, then to Achilles and himself. “They have good wine here.”

  “Do you remember the day you told me I should take her to wife?” Achilles asked Odysseus.

  Odysseus cocked an eyebrow. “Aye, but do you recall my advice?”

  “I am taking your advice. We will wed come the dawn.”

  “That calls for more wine.” Odysseus refilled their cups. “It’s about time you made her your proper wife.”

  “I had no idea you held me in any regard, Odysseus. You’ve rarely even spoken to me,” Briseis said.

  “I do not talk with many women, Briseis. I observed how Achilles changed after he’d taken you as his own. There had been no other women, after you. I am of a like mind. There is only Penelope for me.”

  Achilles groaned. “Everyone knows that.”

  Odysseus drained his cup. “A man cannot choose who he loves.”

  Briseis agreed, “Neither can women.”

  “Well, that settles it. In the morning, you and Achilles will marry.” He glanced between them. “I’ll leave the amphora. I’m sure you would rather have your privacy.”

  Achilles waved his hand at Odysseus. “In the morning, then. Sleep well.”

  Their guest stepped over the rail and was gone. They were alone once again.

  “Are you certain, Achilles, that you want this?”

  He answered by pulling Briseis into his arms and kissing her. “Let’s sleep beneath the stars.”

  ✽✽✽

  With the dawn, Achilles took Briseis to Apollo’s temple accompanied by Odysseus and the Myrmidon crew. A priest, draped in robes dyed saffron and trimmed in gold threads, led them to a sacred chamber of black obsidian and marble. A golden statue of the god had been erected on a bare, black marble altar. A silver bowl of wine had been placed at the god’s feet.

  “Remove your sandals,” the priest commanded.

  Everyone one stooped to untie their shoes.

  Achilles led Briseis to the altar, while the witnesses stood back and watched. Briseis’ eyes locked on Achilles’ face as he drew his blade across her palm. A thin, red line blossomed against her skin. “Your blood in exchange for his blessing,” Achilles said quietly.

  The priest took Briseis’ hand, tilting it so a single red drop fell into the bowl, sending ripples in the wine to the bowl’s edge.

  Achilles repeated the ritual on his hand. “We ask for the blessing of peace,” then added, “while my time remains.”

  Apollo’s priest stirred the blood and wine with a silver rod, and then set the bowl before the god’s statue. He spoke in the divine tongue, as he bound the bride and groom’s freshly blooded palms together.

  “You are once again a princess, Briseis,” Achilles said. “As it should have always been.”

  Briseis said nothing, but smiled.

  Achilles kissed her before his men and Odysseus. They cheered and clapped their commander on the back. For
the first time since Achilles’ had claimed her as a prize, they looked on her with true respect, bowed their heads, and called her “my lady.” The merriment continued at the beachhead and Achilles’ ship.

  The warm sun sparkled on the clear, blue water. Briseis and Achilles sat on the soft sea grass against the low bough of a twisted tree. Achilles’ men splashed one another and ran races. A few gathered wood for later. Their unbound laughter floated on the sea air. “Your Myrmidons are cheerful.”

  “As I am.”

  “What happens when we return?”

  “I go to war, Briseis.” Achilles stood up abruptly. “But this day is my gift to you. I wish to live as I have never lived before.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet and toward the beach. “I wish to see just how swift Odysseus actually is.”

  Briseis laughed. “You intend to challenge him?”

  Achilles’ eyes danced with joy, and his grin widened. “His pride won’t let him refuse. He believes Athena helps him win everything, since she helped him win his wife.”

  “How did she do that?”

  “She whispered in his ear, or so he says.” Achilles took off, sending up a shower of sand behind him. Briseis laughed again. She’d never seen him so lighthearted. It was a balm she didn’t know she needed until that moment. Odysseus was laughing and stripping his clothing, when Briseis caught up with Achilles. The men headed down to the hard, wet sand, waiting for their commander.

  Achilles kissed her cheek. “Wish me the speed of the gods, wife.”

  “You already have that, husband.”

  “When I was a boy, I raced Chiron and won, but don’t tell Odysseus.”

  “I heard that Achilles,” Odysseus shouted over his shoulder, tapping the side of his head. “What are you waiting for, Achilles?” Odysseus turned and ran, his heels kicking up to his bare buttocks.

  Achilles tossed his tunic to the sand and ran like the wind after him. Caught up in the merriment of sprinting, the Myrmidons cheered and stripped their clothes as well. They raced one another and swam in the clear blue water, until Apollo pulled the light to the ocean’s edge. Briseis wove a crown of sea grass for each man. For the first time since she’d fallen into Achilles’ world, her heart swelled with hope. The pains of war washed away.