Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Page 19

  “He was your second-born. More important than your bastards.”

  With an old, wrinkled hand, Priam took his vibrant son’s hand in his. “I have always loved all my children. I am glad you are here. And will fight alongside Hektor tomorrow or the day after. As for Paris …” His voice trailed away to silence. “Kebriones?”

  “My king?”

  “This city is as much yours, as it is any of my sons. Fight bravely when the time comes. You will be rewarded.” He turned to go, and then unexpectedly embraced the tall warrior. His tired eyes filled with tears. How strong Kebriones felt against his growing weakness. The years had worn him down, the prolonged siege war sapping what little vigor he had left. Priam patted Kebriones’ shoulders. “Call me Father from now on. I’ll go now. Your mother asked to speak with me.”

  Kebriones watched King Priam leave. He wasn’t certain how he felt about the overdue acceptance into the royal family. Priam had mostly ignored him his entire life, until he needed him. He would fight, because he was a Trojan warrior. He was honored to fight with Hektor, because there was no one braver in battle that he’d ever seen. “Father,” he whispered into the night. The word tasted bittersweet on his tongue.

  ✽✽✽

  Melita nervously picked at the embroidery on her linen belt, while she waited for Priam, uncertain he would even show. Life as a wife to King Priam was little different than when she was a lowly concubine. Queen Hecuba marginalized all Priam’s women at the edges of palace life, clearly wishing no interaction, except for the children as they grew.

  “Greetings, Melita.”

  She stopped fiddling with her belt. Her stomach lurched. “Husband.”

  “Our son has grown to be a fine man. You have raised him well.” Priam took a seat next to her on a stone bench. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Kebriones has your blood.”

  “The seasons have come and gone more times than I can count. But these last, with the enemy banging against the gates, beached on our shore … this is not how I envisioned my final days.”

  “I feel the same.”

  Priam took her hand in his. “The gods.”

  “The gods.”

  “What did you wish to say to me, wife?”

  Melita blushed like a young woman. Since she’d returned to the palace, long buried feelings for Priam clawed their way to the light. She’d sworn to never resurrect them, but they had a life of their own. She bit her bottom lip.

  “Do you ever miss the time we spent together? When we were more … youthful.”

  Pulling her close, he said, “I do.”

  “Would it be wrong to ask …” Melita examined her hands in her lap. “Do you find me too old?”

  Guessing at her question, Priam shook his head. “No, you are as lovely as when I met you.” When Melita remained silent, he asked, “Is that what you wanted to ask me? If I find you too old?”

  Her eyes searched his in the dark. “May we lay together, Priam? Like we were young once more? Unless, the queen—”

  “Hecuba prefers to sleep alone.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “But I do not.”

  ✽✽✽

  GREEK CAMP

  Under the stars, Agamemnon’s army feasted. Musicians played. A singer sang songs of the day, of Ajax and the Trojan Prince. The boisterous sounds of drunken men rose to the heavens. Nestor drank deeply from his cup, the wine warming him as it traveled down to his full belly. To his right, Odysseus and Ajax sat. Opposite him was Diomedes. And to his left, the royal brothers of the House of Atreus. He sat back, taking in the rare moment of peace.

  “He hits like a bull. I hadn’t expected such strength,” Ajax said, holding his cup up for more wine. “I must be twice his size. A god had his back no doubt.”

  Diomedes laughed with a mouthful of bread. “The Trojans believe Hektor to be their Achilles.”

  Silence. Not even the slightest breeze brushed against the tented walls.

  Diomedes glanced around the table. All eyes were fixed on him. “What? It’s true.”

  Odysseus raised his eyebrows at Diomedes. “We almost made it one evening without speaking his name. Was that too much to ask?”

  Agamemnon’s face turned sour. “We don’t need that traitorous bastard or his fucking men.”

  Odysseus muttered to Ajax, “Here we go.”

  Diomedes sounded in his own defense. “I was only saying—”

  Nestor stood abruptly. “We must collect the dead.”

  The ripple of quiet spread from the commanders’ table to the entire army. Banners snapped in the crisp breeze. Torches flickered. The silence deepened.

  “They deserve proper rites. We must burn them and wrap their bones.”

  Agamemnon leaned back in his chair. He rubbed at his beard. “What do you suggest? Call off the battle in the morning?”

  “Aye. The Trojans will want their dead carried home, as well.”

  “Do you agree, Ajax?” Agamemnon asked. “It was your agreement to finish the fight with Hektor in the morning.”

  Worried that Ajax would disagree, Nestor spoke quickly. “We must also build a wall surrounded by a ditch deep enough to keep the Trojans from advancing into our camp.”

  Eyeing Nestor, Agamemnon asked, “The gods have spoken to you?”

  Nestor slyly answered, “If we do not, the Trojans will run us into the sea.”

  Agamemnon scowled. “Very well. With Apollo’s light, we send word of a truce to gather the dead.”

  Ajax inquired, “What about Hektor?”

  Odysseus gripped Ajax by the shoulder. “Better not to tempt the gods into handing you death. Hektor may kill you. As you said, a god backs him.”

  ✽✽✽

  When Apollo’s light stretched broad fingers across the blue sky, Agamemnon gathered his commanders still reeling from the festivities of the previous night. The king signaled for watered wine to be served with bread and honeyed figs. “I see you are all in fine form.”

  Odysseus groaned. “We need better wine.”

  Ajax said, “Or more. Bring me a cup of wine, boy.” A young servant boy scurried to the giant’s side and poured a full measure. “A man can never have enough wine.”

  Diomedes openly mocked Odysseus. “The King of Ithaka appears to have had enough.”

  “Can we please not speak of wine?” Odysseus stuffed warm bread into his mouth. “Water, boy. Bring me water.”

  “While you recover your wits, I have news from Troy,” Agamemnon said.

  Menelaus scoffed. “They offer a pittance of what we can take.”

  Odysseus raised his aching head. “What do they want?”

  “A day’s truce to collect the dead,” Agamemnon said.

  Leary of a Trojan initiated truce, Odysseus probed, “How convenient. By Menelaus’ face, I should think something more.”

  “Our immediate departure … for the return of the gold taken from Sparta with Helen.”

  Menelaus growled, “Everything but the surrender of my rightful wife.”

  “We should take the deal and sail for home, before we are too old to make the journey. Or our families forget our faces,” Ajax said.

  Diomedes eyed the elder commanders around the table. He clanged his cup noisily as he slammed it down. “By the gods! Don’t even consider taking the treasure. It’s clear the Trojans know they are going to lose. Why else would they make such an offer?”

  Agamemnon asked, “Do any of you wish to return home without taking Troy?”

  “Even if they offered to double Menelaus’ gold, it would not be enough to satisfy each man. If we take Troy, our reward will be much greater for all the efforts we have made,” Odysseus said.

  Menelaus had sat the entire conversation sulking, because the one thing he wanted could not be shared. So, his complaints always went unheeded. “I want my wife returned.”

  Agamemnon asked, “We agree to a truce to collect and prepare the dead, and refuse the offer of gold?”

  A collective, �
�Aye!” sounded around the table.

  “So be it,” Agamemnon said. “Odysseus, I task you and your men to build a barricade around our camp. We may need it once the fighting begins anew. The Trojans have come too close for us to believe victory will come easily or without great cost.”

  “That will take days,” Odysseus complained.

  “You don’t have days. You have one.”

  Odysseus groaned. “Fuck my lots.”

  To ease the burden, Agamemnon said, “I will have … better wine this evening.”

  “How did you manage that?” Ajax asked.

  “It’s from Lemnos. Euneos, the son of Jason, sent it. He was very pleased with the last shipment of slaves.”

  ✽✽✽

  Under the toiling heat of day, both sides collected their dead. Men slipped through slick, bloody earth and gore to carry their dead to their respective sides. Women wept and washed the corpses of countless men. Men gathered what wood they could to build great funeral pyres, sending flames and ashes shooting into the lengthening day.

  In the Greek camp, when the fires burnt low, they gathered the warm bones in bundles, marking each one. When they returned home, if they returned home, the dead could finally rest.

  ✽✽✽

  Above the wailing and honoring of the dead, Poseidon scowled at Odysseus’ work. He complained to Zeus, “Look at their disrespect of us.”

  Zeus leaned over the edge of night to see what his brother moaned about. “I see tired men and fires. What is so disrespectful?”

  Poseidon pointed. “The wall surrounding the Greek’s camp.”

  “A defensive move. It is war, brother. No gods intervened.”

  “You sent Apollo and me to toil, among the Trojan mortals for an entire season building their sacred wall. We earned our honor back with the task.”

  Growing annoyed with Poseidon’s complaining, Zeus snapped, “How does the Greek wall offend you?”

  “They offered no sacrifices. Asked no permission or for god-signs. They disregard your will with their arrogance. They believe their flimsy structure will protect them. That we will protect them because of it.” Poseidon leaned closer to his brother. “There will be fighting among us, if you do not even the field for both sides.”

  Zeus leaned back in his crystal chair, thunder rumbling across the sky as he contemplated the fate of the men below. “The wall must fall.”

  ITHAKA

  TWENTY TWO, Oenone’s lament

  1238 BCE

  The winds whispered to Oenone of her son’s death and that his body was being carried back to her. Standing in the field filled with white blossoms, she waited for him. It would not be the reunion she dreamt of … sweet embraces and gentle kisses. It was a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake. Memories of Corythus’ boyish smile and joyful laughter filled her heart, breaking it over and over. Yet, she could not stop the onslaught of beauty mingled with the pain. Crystal tears slid down her cheeks like glittering ice.

  With the rising light of Apollo, Oenone caught sight of the Trojan party bearing Corythus. She recognized the man leading them across the field. It was Agelaus, stooped and gray, but it was him. My beautiful boy is coming home.

  As they neared her, her hands tore at her gown of flowers. “Father, I do not know what to do. I cannot bear the pain.”

  The river god answered on the wind, “You must, daughter.”

  Oenone straightened, her eyes brimming with agony. Her chest heaved and her breath caught in her throat. Her shoulders shook. How could I have let him go?

  Agelaus greeted her with dark and sunken eyes. He bowed his head and took to his knees. “I never dreamt of this day, fair Oenone.”

  “Agelaus,” Oenone managed a weak whisper.

  The men set the golden litter down at the herder’s signal. The flowers bent toward Corythus’ body like women weeping for their sons. Bird song ceased. A cloud of pale-winged butterflies whirled past.

  Oenone took one tremulous step closer to her son’s body, before collapsing next to it. She pulled the fine linen from his face. Corythus’ eyes were closed and he appeared to rest in serene sleep. Lifting a trembling hand to his cheek, Oenone brushed her thumb across it. “Death is colder than I imagined.” She looked up at Agelaus. “Quieter.” Leaning down to kiss her son’s forehead, her grief rose in a raging wave. The ancient pain of mothers who bury children rose in her chest, unnatural and primal. She clawed at the flower crown on her head, flinging it to the ground. An anguished howl escaped her throat and she yanked out locks of her dark hair in bloody clumps.

  Agelaus fell to his knees, weeping for her loss and the memories of a young boy he’d raised, years ago, who now had caused such disaster. He wept and beat the ground with closed fists. The Trojan litter-carriers backed away from them and made their way across the field, disappearing from sight.

  Oenone’s voice rose with her agony. “Our life was sweet and simple, my beautiful son. Your father’s love sheltered us. The world outside of the three of us did not exist. There was only love. Tenderly, I watched over you, keeping you safe beneath my wings like a mother bird. Until the day arrived when the fledgling must fly away from her. I watched you go with pain in my heart, knowing one day your father’s blood would call you to fly from me. I accepted you would grow apart from me as children do, seeking their own path. With a heavy heart, I released you. I always believed you would return to me, but not like this.”

  Once her sobbing eased, she asked in a ragged voice, “How did this happen, Agelaus? Why did Paris not keep him safe?”

  Agelaus kept his eyes to the ground. “P-Paris,” he choked. “Paris killed him, fair Oenone.”

  The meadow spun beneath her. “What are you saying?”

  “He did not know it was his son. He discovered Corythus was Helen’s lover …”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Why would I lie, fair Oenone?”

  Her heart pounded as disbelief crumbled to rage. Each breath ached. “How?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “What power does the Spartan woman wield that would cause a father to kill a son? Was it not enough that she stole my husband from my arms, but to take my son as well? What curse is this from the gods?”

  “My lady, you should not speak of the gods this way.”

  “Who are you to question my wrath? Is it your son laid pale and lifeless before you? No, the son you raised sits safely behind the citadel’s tall walls. But, Paris knows that I have seen his end and that he will ask for me. He will need me in the end, and my ears will be deaf to his pleas. May the gods take all that he loves and burn it to the ground. Let the world forget that Paris of Troy ever existed.”

  Oenone turned to her beloved son. “But you, my beautiful boy, Corythus, let your song be sung until the gods abandon this world for another.”

  TROY

  TWENTY THREE, battle of the gods

  1238 BCE

  At dawn, Zeus gathered the Olympians. His patience had worn thin and his dark mood still rumbled through the sky below. “You have all taken great pains to follow the war below … Trojans and Greeks alike. However, they are mere mortals. Beneath us in all ways. At our mercy. At my mercy. You are all here at my mercy, or have you forgotten who rules these crystal halls?”

  The gathered gods and goddesses said nothing out of fear.

  “There has been bickering and dissension among us on account of mortals and their war. But no more. I forbid any of you from lending your skills or whispering strategies from this moment on.” Zeus’ voice lowered to a terrifying pitch. “For if you disobey me, I will bind you and drag you across mountains and oceans. And leave you in dark Tartaros forever.”

  Athena’s golden gown flashed with her movements. Her helm gleaming, she spoke up, “Father, we all recognize your dominion over us. We have no desire to quarrel with you. But, some of us pity the Greeks … far from home and loved ones. We hear their prayers. See their sacrifices. I beg you, Father, don’t take
away everything from us. Leave us the whispers, at least. If they listen, it is well. If they do not, then it will be as if we had remained aloof and silent.”

  Zeus gazed at Athena, then around at the hard, glittering eyes of his family. “My threat is only to keep us from tearing each other apart. Look what has happened already. Aphrodite has been injured and Ares, as well. I will not have us divided and at one another’s throats … over the war of men and gold.”

  “And Helen,” Hera muttered.

  “It is not my fault. How could I see Paris’ choice would start a war?” Aphrodite screeched.

  “Enough!” Zeus blasted the goddesses with his irritation. “It is as I have said. This war divides us almost as much as it does the mortals below.”

  In truth, Zeus had grown weary of the war, but he would honor his word to Themis. He strode to his golden chariot and leapt aboard the platform. With a roar, the horses flew to a high peak far from Olympus, their golden manes glistening in the wind. His foul mood misted about him like a shroud. Peace. That was all he desired. Peace and Thetis. Whenever he stole away for solace and solitude, his mind always toiled on the nymph. The heavens darkened and his turmoil rumbled through the gathering clouds.

  He cast his piercing gaze toward the war. He watched as the Trojans scattered across the plain like ants roughly disturbed from their mound. The fighting on the ground was fierce. The blood of hundreds poured into the sand. “A choice must be made,” he said to the clouds about him. “Fate must decide, for I alone cannot. I shall never have peace if the others think I have elevated one side over the other.”

  Apollo’s light burned through the mist, when Zeus manifested the Scales of Fate in his hand. Holding the golden instrument above the melee unfolding on the field, he bent his will on the outcome. The Greek’s portion hung low. “So be it. This day belongs to Troy.”

  ✽✽✽

  Odysseus scanned the rumbling heavens. Darkness crept into the clouds as lightning whips cracked overhead. The god-signs were ominous. He signaled his men to return to the camp, fearing nothing good would come of remaining afield. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nestor’s horse skid into the ground, Paris’ arrow piercing its eye. He ignored Nestor’s cry for help. All the other commanders followed his lead, except Diomedes.