Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  As the light dimmed, Achilles’ men lit a towering bonfire on the shore and roasted a goat on a spit. The flames reached for the stars, and the sea crashed against the shore. The spell of the day had touched everyone. The ease of leisure relaxed tired bones and hearts. Before the blazing fire, Briseis crowned each man for his efforts, while Achilles presided over them from a reclined position on the sand. Each man knelt for his turn and rose, grinning. A few winked at Achilles. Soon, the wine flowed as did bawdy talk and stories of home. The only thing missing was Patrokles.

  Taking her place nestled at Achilles’ side; Briseis dug her bare feet into the sand. She noticed Achilles’ eyes slipping to the silver path of light on the water. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t take your eyes from the sea. Are you so eager to return to war?”

  “It isn’t that. I look for a sign of my mother is all. Did I ever tell you why she left me in Phthia?”

  “No.”

  “She wished me to be immortal. She tried to burn me in a sacred fire with her magic, but Peleus stopped her. My father believed she was trying to kill his only son. He cursed her, and then banished her.”

  “What a sad story.”

  “It is the reason I am here now. At war and mortal.”

  Briseis kissed Achilles’ chin. “Will she be pleased with our marriage?”

  Pulling her tighter into the circle of his arms, he said, “It was her wish that I find joy with a woman before—”

  “Don’t say it.” He’d promised her peace from war, but the thought of it was never very far from the edges of her mind. It was as if the camp, the constant skirmishing was all life had ever been. “I wish we could sail to Phthia from here. Never go back to Troy.”

  “That is a dream, Briseis. One which will never happen. No more talk of Troy.” He lifted Briseis in his arms. “Men, I am off to take my wife to bed.” They cheered their commander on with wine-drunk words. Throwing his head back, he laughed. “Make camp on the beach. I have need of the ship until sunrise.” Then, he carried her off.

  With the stars sparkling overhead, Achilles and Briseis climbed over the side railing. The deserted deck would be their wedding chamber. Oil lamps were already lit. Achilles pulled several furs from a basket and spread them out. “Your bed, my lady.”

  Briseis settled on the makeshift mattress, running her hand across the soft furs. “Bear?”

  “That one, yes. The other is stitched rabbit.”

  From another basket Achilles procured an unopened amphora of wine. He pulled the wax plug and drank from it, before handing it to Briseis. “A gift from Odysseus. He had the lamps lit, as well.”

  “He was very quiet this evening.”

  “The nights have always made him … darker. I believe thoughts of home haunt him when he is alone.”

  “Is it true he tried to trick Agamemnon, so he wouldn’t have to come to Troy?”

  “It is.”

  “He must love his wife very much.” She extended her hand. “Come lay with me.”

  Achilles knelt beside her. Briseis caught the slight trembling of his ever steady hand, as he slipped the shoulder pins from her chiton. The plain, bleached linen fell to her waist. He bent his head to her breasts, kissing each mound with tender lips. “What is it, Achilles?” she whispered near his ear.

  “Come the dawn, I will no longer be yours. I will belong to war and death.”

  Briseis embraced him, fiercely kissing every part of his face. She had known a confident, arrogant lover. Passionate. Eager. With every word, with every touch, with every kiss, he fulfilled his promise to her. But knowing it would all burn to ashes broke her heart in ways she was unprepared for. Their love was doomed, as was everything that crossed Achilles’ path. Her future depended on his victory, but his victory demanded his death. “The gods are cruel, my love,” she said quietly. “Cruel to keep the pleasure of old age from you.”

  “Did I ever tell you I once asked Odysseus for advice about you?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I wanted to conquer your heart, but he told me a man can’t take what should be given freely.”

  “He was … is right.”

  Achilles took her hands in his, leveling his eyes with hers. “My words have been hurtful to you. Patrokles would have been a better husband to you. From the beginning, he loved you. We fought about that once. That is when I knew for certain.” Achilles smiled sadly. “I think he wanted to kill me that day, but of course, I could not allow that. And we forgave each other. Now, I wonder if perhaps in his heart he never truly did.”

  Briseis sat stunned by Achilles’ revelations. He was speaking her private thoughts into existence. Loving Achilles had taken her by surprise. She’d hated herself for it. A life with Patrokles would have given her security, and love as well, but he was gone. Even so, Achilles would have always been between them. Now, on the verge of losing Achilles forever, she knew Patrokles would always be between them. The only cure was for Achilles to consume her very essence.

  “My regrets are many, Briseis, but a mortal cannot undo what has been done.”

  “Can your mother persuade the gods—”

  Achilles placed a finger on her lips. “Shah. Do not call the gods down to spy on us. I would take you without their prying eyes.” He pulled her chiton over her hips and tossed it to the deck. His eyes lingered on her naked skin. “You are so beautiful.” He kissed her softly on the mouth, nipping her bottom lip in his teeth. “I have wronged you. Forgive me.” He kissed her cheeks. “Forgive me.” He kissed down her neck. “Forgive me,” he whispered, before his mouth came up to devour hers.

  His confessions tore every wall down. There was nothing to fear anymore. They both knew what the next few days would bring.

  Achilles disrobed, revealing his glorious perfection. Briseis gave in to his embrace and kisses. As he swept his tongue into her mouth, she melted into knowing they were bound to one another if only for a short time. Pressing her face to his, she inhaled the salty, smoky scent of his skin.

  He ran his fingers lightly down her spine. “Let me love you both.”

  Briseis pulled her head back. “What do you mean?”

  “You and Patrokles were bound, when I abandoned you for pride. I would touch him one last time by loving you the way I never loved him in life.” Achilles eyes lingered on her lips, before his mouth descended on hers. Her body trembled under his desire, a hunger she’d never known him to possess. “Do you trust me, Briseis?”

  “Aye,” she said in a shaky voice. She regretted not speaking the words to Patrokles that he wanted to hear, and now Achilles presented a way to honor him that could only happen between them. “Let us both love him one last time then.”

  Together, they entered into an unspoken dream world. Achilles gently flipped Briseis over, pulling her hips into his. “Trust me,” he whispered over her shoulder, as every hair on her body rose in delight. He pressed his cock between her buttocks and thrust into her tightness.

  Briseis cried out. Achilles moved slowly, easing into her. A thin sheen of sweat covered her body, as the exquisite pain turned to intense pleasure. One of Achilles’ hands held her hips steady, while the other traced each nodule of her spine. She filled her mind with images of Patrokles. His beauty. His kisses. His sly glances. Soon, her body craved what she had only held for a brief night. Her entire body shook with her release.

  As Achilles’ pleasure mounted, his thrusts quickened until finally he cried out their lover’s name, “Patrokles.” He collapsed against her back, weeping with ecstasy and sadness. “I loved him, Briseis. I loved him.”

  Twisting gently beneath him, she gingerly broke their physical bond. She pulled him down to her, bare chest to bare chest. Achilles wrapped his arms around her, cradling his head against her shoulder. He wept quietly like a child needing a mother’s comfort. “Shah, Achilles. Shaaah.” Briseis kissed the top of his head. “We have had our peace. And it was enough.” It was a lie, she k
new it as soon as she said it, but it was all she could think of saying. As Achilles’ breathing slowed, she knew sleep had taken him. In the coming days, he would be stripped from her and there was nothing left to do but accept it. Closing her eyes, Briseis pressed her cheek to Achilles’ head. He mumbled in his sleep, trapping her beneath a heavy leg, but he didn’t wake.

  Briseis whispered, “It was all either of us could do not to love him.”

  ✽✽✽

  Sailing back to Troy, the mood of the entire crew grew somber, as Achilles withdrew from all conversation. Odysseus grumbled and brooded in his wine. The men rowed in silence. The spell of the past few days was broken. The war awaited their return.

  TROY

  FORTY-ONE, a golden death

  1238 BCE

  Under a gray and heavy sky, Achilles took his position at the edge of the plain. Despite the gloomy dawn, his armor gleamed and flashed with his every movement. He planted his feet shoulder width apart and stabbed the butt-end of his father’s great ash spear in the dirt, sending up a small cloud of dust. He waited. To honor Patrokles, Achilles chose to stand alone, for no other man could take Patrokles’ place in life or death. Behind him his Black Shields gathered ready to charge at his command. Odysseus and Ajax of Telemon positioned their troops on the left, while Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Diomedes would circle around on the right. Not since they’d landed in Troy had the full force of the united armies been poised to strike the Trojans and their allies.

  Achilles’ eye caught the panoply of armor glittering with a light of its own among the enemy’s ranks. “It is as you foretold, Mother.” Thetis came to him as he bathed in the ocean, after his purification. He had welcomed her in a joyous embrace, but her appearance brought a troubling revelation. She told him that on the day of his death, he would face a worthy adversary, the son of Eos, called Memnon. He would know this new adversary by the armor he wore, a set of armor forged by Hephaestus. They would meet as equals. Thetis had wept not knowing if Achilles’ death would come at this new foe’s hand or not, only that his appearance marked Achilles’ final day. With sadness swimming in the aqua pools of her eyes, she kissed him, before darting away beneath the waves. Achilles realized every step he took this day would be the last in that direction. He would not return to camp a victor, but as a dead man. Briseis had been right to question him in Lesbos, but he had caused her enough pain, so he kept this knowledge to himself. Death was a passage to reunite with Patrokles in the Underworld. And for that reason, he was not afraid to die.

  The war horns sounded as if the gods themselves held them to their holy lips. Achilles listened to the rustling of leather and bronze weapons and the angry breath of his men stirring restlessly at his back. One spear butt hit the earth, then another, and another. Soon, the pounding of their ash spears rolled like thunder across the plain.

  Achilles held his spear aloft. “Death is coming for you Trojans,” he roared. “Prepare to die.”

  Hundreds of frightened Trojans ran for their lives, because they secretly believed the rumors flying around the city that Achilles was a god. They knew no mortal could stand against a god.

  Memnon returned Achilles’ war cry with a challenge of his own. “One of us will die!” He held his broad shield before his chest and leveled his spear. “Come for me, Son of Thetis!”

  Achilles charged with all his speed, leveling his spear as he ran. He cocked his arm back, his muscles straining, for the lightning quick toss. He launched his spear like an arrow at Memnon. The bronze tip nicked the shield, bouncing off the center to the ground. Memnon threw his heavy spear, but Achilles dodged the wicked spinning shaft. Each man pulled his sword, circling one another, eyes seeking a vulnerable point of entry. Their blades sang, sliding against each other. They grunted with effort and blind determination. Achilles fought his fate, as much as he fought Memnon. He fought for every last moment of his life, determined his executioner would have no easy task. Achilles would die fighting, or kill until the end.

  Around the heroes, the two opposing armies clashed and broke into pockets of vicious struggle. War song filled the air. Men screamed. Men Grunted. Men fell over dead. Blood spilled into the dirt with the shit and the piss of the dying, turning the ground slick with putrid muck. The stench of death filled men’s nostrils, so they fought more desperately to keep the haunting darkness of the unknown at arm’s length.

  Achilles swung his sword in a wide arch, spinning to catch Memnon at the narrow gap between his belt and breastplate. Memnon stopped in his tracks, threw his sword to the ground, and reached for his innards spilling from his body. He looked to Achilles in confusion. “How—” Then, he toppled over like an old, mud brick wall.

  Above the fight, thunder rolled through the dark clouds.

  “To the bitter end,” Achilles yelled. “Myrmidons! To Troy’s gates!” He stormed toward the city with his troops close behind. Wild. They ran with the speed of gods, leaping over dead men and horses and overturned chariots. Wolves. War filled them with an insatiable hunger, and Achilles was their god. Beside him, the Myrmidons were invincible. They slashed every Trojan in their path, broken bones and guts littering the earth behind them. When they reached the city gates, no one was left to stop them. The lurkers on the ramparts fled in fear.

  “Take the palace,” Achilles ordered. “The truce is over.” The Myrmidons killed every man, woman, and child unfortunate enough to be standing in their way. As they moved through the winding streets, murdering helpless refugees, their untamed madness slowly cooled. Foot soldiers and chariots and mounted Myrmidons pushed toward the city’s center, passing the temples of the gods.

  “There will be no desecration of the holy,” Achilles commanded.

  His men marched on, eager for plunder and the soft thighs of victory.

  But the flutter of a saffron gown caught Achilles’ attention as it vanished around an ornate column. A girl with long, dark hair peered from behind it, laughing before running into the temple. With his waking eyes, he could not believe that it was … her. All those years ago, Agamemnon’s lie took her life and ended his innocence of war. Her death began the burden of killing in his name. Patrokles had warned him of Agamemnon’s plan. He never asked Patrokles how he knew, but he had been correct. Unfortunately, he’d been too late. All these years, her frightened eyes and red, gaping neck and the stains on her yellow gown haunted him. That he should see her, here, at the end surprised him.

  “Go to her,” a voice whispered passed his ear.

  “By the gods, it cannot be.” Achilles abandoned his men, compelled to follow her. He ran to the temple. “Iphigenia? Is it you?” His voice echoed through the sleek, black marble hall.

  The young woman’s silver voice rang out, “I am here.” But it sounded from all directions.

  Achilles ventured deeper into the center of the temple, and farther away from his men. He stepped through a curtain of dark silk floating above the floor and into a chamber built entirely of polished black marble. The god’s golden image rested on a black altar across from him.

  “Apollo,” Achilles whispered. Every hair on his body rose in alarm. “Why have you led me here?” he asked the god. “You purified me and blessed my union.”

  “So you would truly know regret,” Apollo whispered coldly.

  The shouting of soldiers skirmishing sounded behind him. Achilles spun to leave, but his feet were rooted to the floor. The scuffle of leather and the clang of bronze weapons drew nearer.

  “Achilles!” It was Odysseus shouting. “Achilles!”

  The woman in yellow glided into view from behind another curtain. She was smiling, but her eyes were dark and deadly.

  “You are not Iphigenia.”

  “Do you not recognize me, Defiler of Innocents?”

  “Should I?”

  “You killed my brother as he sought Apollo’s protection.”

  It was long ago and done in obedience to Athena, who threatened his son, Neoptolemus. Regardless, his reasons would not mat
ter now. He could still feel Troilus’ slender neck bent over his knee and his warm blood spilling over his thigh. He had not wanted to take his life. “The boy called Troilus,” Achilles said quietly. Surveying his surroundings with a soldier’s critical eye, he realized he held an undesirable position. “What is your name?”

  “Polyxena.”

  “A Trojan princess.” Peisidike’s face rose up before him. He’d used her to take Methymna. Patrokles had warned him against it, but he refused to listen in the name of war. He’d stoned her before her father’s eyes. Now, he wondered if a Trojan princess was being used to take him. “Are you here to fight me, Polyxena? Or fuck me?”

  “You disgust me,” Polyxena said, even as she admired his broad shoulders and the chiseled features of his face. “Never.”

  “You would be the first to refuse me.”

  Odysseus skidded into the chamber, tearing the sacred curtain from the wall as he scrambled to keep his feet beneath him on the slick floor. “Fucking Hades, Achilles! What are you doing? There’s no time for women! The Myrmidons have made it to the palace gate.”

  “Have you ever wondered, Achilles, how Patrokles fell so easily to Hektor?” Apollo’s wicked tongue sliced through Achilles’ mind. “It. Was. Me.”

  “We have to go, Achilles,” Odysseus bellowed. “Wait, is that—”

  “No, it is not Iphigenia’s ghost.”

  Deiphobus and Paris, who the god had concealed, stepped from thin air behind Polyxena. The truth settled on Achilles. His wide shoulders fell with a sigh. “So be it.”

  “By the fucking gods!” Odysseus yelled. “Achilles, fight!” Odysseus charged, but was repelled by an unseen wall. His spear and sword as useless as children’s playthings.

  Achilles pulled his shield from his shoulder, as Deiphobus’ spear, gleaming with unnatural light, struck like a bolt of lightning. Achilles’ shield spun away, and he stumbled backward.