Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “Achilles!” Odysseus yelled desperately. “Nooooooo!”

  Surprise crossed Achilles’ face. Never had he known the despair of disadvantage. Never had he lost. His body stilled. There was nothing left to fight anymore. He was no match for Apollo. And it was the god who lured him here and guided the Trojan brothers’ weapons.

  Paris held his bow at his shoulder, nocking the arrow at Achilles’ heart. Apollo stepped behind him, placing his arm over Paris’, and pulled the bowstring back … the bow curving dangerously close to snapping in half. Paris held Achilles in his eye. His arm shook.

  “Loose,” Apollo whispered in Paris’ ear. “Loose the arrow.”

  With a loud twang the arrow flashed like a small sun, its path a thread of gold suspended in the air, then shimmering to dust. By bringing down Achilles, who’d slain his brothers and defiled Hektor, Paris hoped his personal failings would fade. Now, at least, his mother’s vengeance was complete. His life was more than just a story of doom. But Paris hated Achilles not just for the atrocities against his family, but because he was everything Paris was never meant to be. Achilles was never a coward in life or death. Paris hated Achilles, because he feared to face him without a god at his side. As he lowered his bow, Apollo’s power faded quickly from his aching arm.

  Odysseus caught the flash of golden light as Paris let the arrow fly. He knew a god hovered at Paris’ side, but he was powerless to intervene. “Achilles!” he shouted over and over until his voice was raw. By now a large group of Greeks and Myrmidons crowded behind him. With weapons drawn, they stood in shock as Achilles dropped to his knees. Paris loosed several more arrows at Achilles, before being whisked away in a mist with his brother and sister.

  Achilles’ fingers fumbled at the golden shaft lodged in his chest. Blood ran in thick streams down his breastplate where it pooled on the floor. He could feel his strength ebbing away. Until now, he’d never known the searing truth of a fatal injury. He’d sent thousands of men to the Underworld without a second thought, but as he toppled over, he wondered what awaited him there.

  Apollo’s heavy hand squeezed his shoulder. Achilles groaned. Cold words hissed into his ear. “Did you think I would let the death of Troilus, my son, go unpunished?”

  Achilles’ voice strangled in his throat; blood gurgled up instead of words. His eyes fixed ahead of him. Gathering all his strength, he struggled awkwardly to his feet.

  “Your song is over, Achilles.”

  With defiance in his eyes, Achilles sputtered, “It has … just … begun.”

  Odysseus and the men leaning on him tumbled forward without warning. He rushed to Achilles, catching him as he fell backward into his arms. “By the gods! Ajax! Where is Ajax?” With disbelief on their faces, men crowded Achilles and Odysseus. The same terrifying thought ran through all their minds. If Achilles died, would they all be doomed? In anger, they tossed the golden statue of Apollo to the floor where it clanged and tumbled face down. They ripped the sacred curtains to shreds, forsaking their beliefs, daring the god to stop them.

  “Ajax,” Odysseus screamed. He broke off the arrows in Achilles’ legs and the one in his chest. And he plucked the one sticking out of his heel. “Hold on, Achilles. I will get you to the camp. The physicians will heal you.” He pulled Achilles from the floor, hefting him over his shoulder. “They must heal you.”

  Achilles groaned, “It is … too late.”

  Odysseus held Achilles’ legs tight behind the knees and ran as if the wild hounds of Hades nipped at his heels. They were behind the enemy’s gate without their hero to see them through. Without Achilles, Odysseus knew they must retreat. Word spread quickly of Achilles’ fall, and with it, the Myrmidons backtracked through the city, abandoning their bloodlust. The Greeks also succumbed to the growing confusion, because Achilles was supposed to conquer Troy. If he died, every man knew he himself was lost. If he died what did any of their suffering and sacrifice mean? If they returned home empty handed or rotted on the Trojan plain, their lives will have held no purpose. They would have no legacy. They would have no songs. Men cried as they raced to retreat for the camp.

  The sharp sounds of Trojan horns heralded the imminent return of her army, pushing Odysseus beyond a mortal’s pace. His feet pounded the winding stone street, his knees ached, and his shoulder was on fire under the hero’s weight. Myrmidons, catching sight of Odysseus carrying their wounded commander, sped to surround him with their strength and black shields. They flew like a cloud of dark-winged birds swirling this way and that until they cleared the Trojan gate. Three of the swiftest runners broke off from the group and sprinted ahead to the beach camp.

  Odysseus prayed to Athena for a sign of hope or a plan, while his lungs burned for breath and his legs grew tired. As he rounded an uphill curve in the path, Ajax and a contingent of ruthless fighters flew from behind the hill. A splinter of the Trojan army was in pursuit. Not the fucking sign I wanted. His lungs still burned. He heaved for each breath. Fucking Trojans.

  “Odysseus!” Ajax shouted, startled to find Odysseus along the fringe of battle. He had planned to pull the enemy deeper into the chaparral, swing around and take them by surprise. But, the pursuing Trojans, recognizing the Black Shields of Achilles’ forces, turned tail and bolted for their lives. Shoving Myrmidons out of his way, Ajax raced beside Odysseus. Crimson stripes covered Odysseus’ arms and back. “By the gods, it’s true! Is he alive?”

  Achilles’ blood mixed with his sweat beneath his tunic and breastplate. The open wounds oozed crimson, making it difficult to hang on to the dying man. Odysseus grunted, “I hope so.”

  “My legs are fresh. Give him to me.” Ajax reached for Achilles, and Odysseus reluctantly surrendered his burden without breaking stride. If Achilles was to survive, they could not stop. The Myrmidons circled protectively around Ajax, Odysseus, and their fallen prince, and on they ran. Only the God of Death could stop them from reaching the beach, and even he they would fight for Achilles’ sake.

  MYRMIDON CAMP

  FORTY-TWO, the farewell

  1238 BCE

  The dark clouds swirled above camp, and a mournful breeze stirred sand and dust. When the Myrmidon sprinters arrived carrying the grim news of Achilles’ fall, Briseis refused to believe it. The whisper of despair swept like a wild wind through tall pines, before the storm breaks from the skies. Men were already tearing out their hair, renting their garments, and weeping. Briseis had survived worse, she reminded herself, much worse, and so refused to bend under the weight of this fresh anguish. She toyed with the gold bangle at her wrist that Achilles had gifted her on their wedding night. He had warned her that this day was coming and to be prepared, but she had prayed until her soul ached that Thetis was wrong, or that Achilles was wrong, or that the gods would change their fickle minds. Her thoughts would not calm. What would happen now? Would the Greeks depart empty handed? Was she truly a Princess of Phthia, or just a spear-won prize? She crossed her arms over her chest, willing herself to remain on her feet, and waited.

  Briseis’ heart leapt against her ribs at the sight of a mob of Myrmidons moving quickly down the beach. They have him, she thought. By the gods, they have him. Her world fell away. Sea birds cried shrilly above her. Waves tumbled against the shore. They had spotted her and shifted in her direction. “Achilles,” she whispered. “Oh, Achilles, what wicked games the gods play with us.”

  The circle of Myrmidons halted before her, some falling to their knees, like petals of a dying flower. Having reached their destination, their fierce hearts broke and they wept their first tears. From their midst, Ajax emerged with Achilles draped over his shoulder. The giant gently laid Achilles on the sand and sea grass at Briseis’ feet. “My lady,” he said miserably.

  The once dazzling armor of Hephaestus was dulled by Achilles’ dried blood. His arms and legs were covered in it. His skin was pale. His lips were gray. “Briseis …” His voice cracked.

  She knelt beside him. The storm of grief was building, but she he
ld it tightly to her chest, refusing to unleash it for fear she would lose herself completely and irrevocably. “What are you waiting for? Take him to the physicians’ tents,” Briseis commanded the Myrmidons.

  “No. It is over,” Achilles said weakly. His hand trembled to find hers. She took it in her own, covering it with kisses. She frantically searched the faces of Odysseus and Ajax for hope, but they only shook their heads. Briseis recognized the shocked look of despair and sadness that had settled there.

  Achilles’ eyes rolled open. “We knew … Briseis,” he groaned, as he heaved his broad chest.

  She unbuckled the breastplate, careful of the gaping hole still oozing his life away. He struggled for each breath, and that broke her resolve. She had lost everything because of him, and more of herself than she’d ever intended. She no longer knew who she was without Achilles at her side. He had become her entire world in this war, and the only thing that anchored her. And Patrokles. Fierce, sweet Patrokles. She’d lost him, too. She couldn’t bear the unknown, and grabbed Achilles by the shoulders, shaking him with all her desperate fears. “Don’t leave me, Achilles. I beg you, don’t leave me alone.” She collapsed against his chest, weeping uncontrollably.

  With great effort, Achilles touched her salt-stained cheek. “Shahhh.”

  Odysseus knelt beside her, placing his strong hand on her shoulder. “Briseis,” he said, gently. “Say farewell, before it is too late.”

  With her scarred heart ripped open, she cupped Achilles’ face and leaned to kiss his lips. Lingering above his bloody mouth, she tasted the bitterness of war and loss. As Achilles’ breath grew more ragged, Briseis realized that only the brightest, sharpest truth would honor his passing. They had nothing left to hide from one another. “You are a difficult man to love, Achilles, but I have loved you.”

  Achilles closed his eyes. “He could not help but love you. We could not help but love him. Remember, the ashes.”

  “Together,” she whispered. It was their most private moment he called forth at the end. Not war, not glory, but a single night of passion that bound the three of them together. “Forever.”

  Gathering the last of his strength, Achilles cried out, “Myrmidons!”

  His men roared like thunder, “Achilles!”

  And then he was gone.

  ✽✽✽

  A thousand Myrmidons gathered around Achilles’ pyre draped in their black cloaks with their shields on their backs. Even the wounded limped from their beds to pay their respects. They numbered so many that those in the back were pressed to the sea’s edge. Many held their glittering helms in the crooks of their arms, because their scalps bled with fresh wounds. They’d tossed their locks of hair upon Achilles’ pyre to honor him.

  Briseis wore an unadorned, dark blue chiton with simple gold pins at the shoulder and the gold bracelet from Achilles on her wrist. In her hand, she gripped Achilles’ great ash spear. She woke to find her hair almost entirely silver now, so she wore it unbound as a sign of her sorrow. Drums beat a lament into the air. Odysseus stood ready with the torch to send the fallen prince to the Underworld.

  Achilles was laid out on the pyre’s flat altar fitted in the scratched and dented armor he’d stripped and reclaimed from Hektor. It had been worn by Patrokles, and so seemed a fitting shroud. Thunder rumbled above them through heavy, dark clouds.

  Odysseus shouted, “Here lies Achilles. Fiercest among us. May he be greeted in the Underworld by the companions he lost along the way.” He lowered the torch to the wood pile. Small flames caught and crackled to life, weaving between the dry stacks. Briseis braced herself, as the fire licked toward Achilles’ body. She would never be ready to watch him burn.

  Out of the gloomy sky, a giant sea gull swooped and screeched above the gathering. A wave washed high up the beach, sending men scrambling to find their footing. When the water retreated, it pulled farther out than it should have, stranding small crabs scurrying for shelter, octopuses slipping from exposed rocks, and silver fish gasping for breath. Confusion rippled through the crowd. Poseidon’s name fell from the lips of some, but Briseis knew in her heart which immortal had come. The only one who could never have stayed away.

  The surface of the ocean dimpled with thousands of tiny bubbles as the fifty Nereids rose in a salty, shimmering mist. Achilles’ men fell to their knees in awe and reverence. They whispered her name, “Thetis,” as she passed through them followed by her sisters. The Nereids wore gowns of glistening gossamer and sea foam. A crown of pearls and shells and treasures rescued from the sea sat upon each of their heads.

  Thetis and her sisters circled the pyre with joined hands, and raised their faces to the sky. They called down the rain to douse the offending flames with their silver voices singing in the gods’ tongue. The heavens opened and the rain fell. The assembly stood in amazement of the miracle. The flames sputtered, smoked, and died out. A sliver of sun pierced the gloom surrounding Achilles alone in its light. “Zeus,” some whispered.

  Achilles’ mother approached Briseis, standing beside the pyre, head lowered. She slipped a cool hand to Briseis’ cheek. “I will not allow mortal fire to take my golden son.”

  Briseis dared to meet the deep pools of Thetis’ blue-green eyes with her own. “My lady,” she whispered reverently.

  Thetis smiled slowly, her elegant shoulders rising and falling with sadness. “You have the bones of Patrokles?”

  Briseis retrieved the golden box embossed with a star of many rays. It was heavy. She kissed it before handing it to Thetis, who handed it to one of her sisters. The Nereids slipped back to the sea, sending the water to glide gently against the sand.

  “Where will you go, Briseis?”

  When Thetis spoke her name, it sounded like music floating in the air between them. Achilles’ mother was mesmerizing in every way. The very air around her swam. It was no wonder Achilles’ beauty was flawless. “I don’t know, my lady. Achilles killed my first life. Paris has killed the second.”

  “Go to Phthia. Peleus will welcome you. You are a Princess of Phthia. No one else can sing the song you know. Not even Deidamia.”

  Thetis took Briseis’ face in both her smooth, cool hands. “If only Achilles had been gifted more time … an immortal blinks an eye, and a mortal’s life is dust.”

  “Where will you take him?” Briseis asked.

  “To the White Island.” Thetis turned to Odysseus. “It is time, King of Ithaka.”

  Odysseus climbed the pyre, lifted Achilles from his funeral bed, then placed him in his mother’s arm. Thetis did not falter under the weight of her son’s body, but cradled him effortlessly. With great tenderness, she kissed his cheek. “My beautiful boy.”

  The throng of Myrmidons watched silently as Thetis carried Achilles in her arms, as if he were once again the golden-haired babe seeking comfort at her breast. Off shore, her sisters waited with leaping dolphins. Thetis glanced back at the men whom Achilles led in countless battles, and at the woman he had loved at the last, and was satisfied his short life had brought him honor and happiness. It was all she could have ever hoped for a mortal child. She walked into the foamy sea and disappeared.

  Adult Historical Fantasy

  HOMERIC CHRONICLES

  Song of Sacrifice

  Rise of Princes

  Rage of Queens

  Song of the White Isle (coming 2021)

  LIVINGSTONE SAGA

  a 12th century Spain Historical Romance

  The Maker and the Gargoyle

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  Cast of Characters

  THE GREEKS

  Achilles: Phthia, son of Thetis and Peleus, Captain and Commander of the Myrmidons

  Aegisthus: Sparta, half-brother to Agamemnon and Menelaus

  Aethra: Aethra, mother of King Theseus, forced to serve Helen

  Agamemnon: Mycenae, King of Mycenae, husband to Clytemnestra

  Ajax the Great: Salamis, also known as Telemonian Ajax, he is son of king Telemon and the Prince of Salamis, cousin to Achilles

  Anticlea: Ithaka, mother of Odysseus, wife of Laertes

  Antilochus: Pylos, son of Nestor

  Caster: Sparta, son of Tyndareus, brother to Helen

  Chiron: Mt. Pelion, centaur, half-brother to Zeus, mentor to generations of warrior-kings

  Clytemnestra: Sparta, Mycenae, daughter of Tyndareus, widow of Tantalus, wife of Agamemnon and mother of Iphigenia

  Deidamia: Skyros, princess of Skyros, daughter of King Lycomedes, wife of Achilles, mother of Neoptolemus

  Demius: Gythium, friend of Patrokles, helped Patrokles escape Gythium murder

  Diomedes: Argos, king of Argos, immortal weapons granted by Athena

  Elektra: Mycenae, daughter of Clytemnestra and Agamemnon

  Eurycleia: Ithaka, nursemaid to Odysseus

  Helen: Sparta, daughter of Tyndareus and Leda, Queen of Sparta, wife of Menelaus and Paris

  Hermione: Sparta, daughter of Menelaus and Helen