Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  Achilles sat staring out to sea, his mind bent on grief and his heart torn by lamentation. My days will end without peace. I was a fool to love. The thin line of moonlight shimmered on the water, catching Achilles’ eye. He wiped his tears on the back of his hand. Mother …

  Thetis rose, shrouded by a mist from the gleaming sea.

  The nymph walked serenely from the gentle waves to bend her knees at Achilles’ side. “What a wretched man you have become, my son. This world is too harsh for one with so short a life.” She stroked his cheek with a cool finger. “Your pain pierces my heart. What has happened? Is it the woman?”

  “I can hide nothing from you, Mother.”

  Thetis smiled sadly. “I would hear your grief though you were on the highest mountain top. And I would find my way to you. Tell me, my son, what troubles you?”

  “Agamemnon has taken Briseis from me.”

  “Why would you allow it? She carries your love, does she not?”

  A flicker of hot rage rose in Achilles’ chest. “I did not allow it,” he snapped. “Hera forbade me to interfere.”

  Thetis sat back, stunned by the unexpected and unfortunate revelation. “Hera,” she whispered. “What does Hera care for your woman?”

  “A priest of Apollo came to camp, begging Agamemnon to return his daughter. A woman called Astynome. We took her, by right of victory, at Thebe. Gave her to the Fat King when we rejoined the main army. The men would have given her to me, but … I have no need of other women. And Odysseus …” Achilles shrugged. “His queen can say he is a faithful man.”

  “Agamemnon refused Apollo’s priest?”

  “He did, and Apollo laid waste to us. With each dawn more death. With each dawn more bodies to burn. The stench … the living cannot escape the smell of rotting flesh and shit. Hera came to me unexpected. She commanded that I encourage Kalchus to speak. That he had some reprieve for us. I did all the goddess commanded. The seer spoke, angering Agamemnon with his words.”

  Thetis traced a circle in the sand. A shield. “And what did the son of Atreus demand?”

  “He relented to the old man’s words. What could he deny standing there before the assembly? Yet, he raged he would not remain without his share, even though everything of worth has been awarded. I interceded on behalf of the men, vowing to pay him many times over once Troy falls. But he would have none of it. He said he would take my woman as compensation, so I drew my sword—”

  “The goddess held you back.”

  Achilles nodded. “She told me to save my wrath for another day.”

  Thetis wiped the shield sketched in the sand with the palm of her hand. “You cannot disobey Hera. You were right to do as she commanded. She is ruthless in her revenge.”

  An angry tear skidded down Achilles’ golden cheek. “What am I to do then? How am I to win her back?”

  “My son, my sweet son. Even in grief you are too beautiful for this world of mortals. Did I bear you to endure agonies of the heart? To weep the last days of your life away? I am a wretched mother.”

  Achilles laughed then. “Sweet. There is a word I do not recognize.”

  “I see you as the babe at my breast as clearly as I see the man before me … despite the passage of time, despite the blood you have spilled.”

  Regret filled Achilles. “My days are quickly leaving me.”

  “I cannot change Agamemnon’s mind. And I cannot persuade Hera. What would you have me do, my son?”

  “Persuade Zeus instead.”

  The nymph brushed her hands together, the sand catching in the wind. “If Hera should discover me …”

  “All my life you have told me how you saved him when all the other gods turned against him. He will hear you. Take his knees. Beg him to avenge your only son, whose days are swiftly winging him to Hades. Beg him to show Agamemnon who is lord of all. Beg him to inspire the Trojans’ courage and beat the Greeks back to the sea. Only then will the Fat King see that he cannot disgrace me.”

  Thetis searched her son’s face, shifting between his grief and his rage. “If I do this, my son, it cannot be undone. Thousands will fall to satisfy your pride.”

  “So be it. Only then will they see Agamemnon for who he truly is. A wretched coward, undeserving of song.”

  “Careful you do not lose your way with the son of Atreus. This war will take everything from you.”

  “Do not fear, Mother. I will not lose my way. What more could this war take from me?”

  The nymph rose, her pale skin shimmering in the moonlight. She reached a hand to smooth her son’s tumbled hair. “In twelve days, Zeus will return to Olympus. I will press his favor then. Promise me to stay far from the fighting until I send you word.”

  Achilles stood also, embracing his mother in gratitude. “I will do as you wish.”

  With the promise secured between them, Thetis returned to the sea, sinking beneath the tide. Her caution rang in Achilles’ ears. “Do not lose your way in this war with the son of Atreus.”

  CHRYSE

  far south of Troy

  SEVEN, reunited

  1238 BCE

  Odysseus stood mid-ship, watching the jagged coast line of Chryse loom before the bow with its wide-painted eyes now faded with the years. White foam sprayed along the hull as the wind bore the galley swiftly toward its destination. His brow furrowed as he contemplated how best to beg the priest’s forgiveness and gain Apollo’s as well. Athena, give me the words to persuade him. Odysseus had no intention of returning to a camp mired by a wasting sickness. Even the salty sea mist couldn’t wipe the stench of the dead and rotting flesh from his nose. Seeing a thin curl of smoke rising skyward on the distant shore, he pointed the spot out to his crew. “There is where the priest has made his altar. Antilochus, ready the girl.”

  The youngest of the Greek warriors leapt from the rail, swinging down from the rigging with a single hand. “Aye, my lord!”

  “Make haste,” Odysseus shouted after him. He could see why Achilles had taken an interest in Nestor’s son. He was eager and strong, noble enough to know his place among his betters. “We land there. In the bay, below the smoke.” He scowled into the wind whipping about his face, for he knew the gods to be fickle and cruel. Athena was the only steadfast deity he held in esteem. Her guidance had never failed him. Casting his eyes skyward, he squinted for a god-sign and called upon the goddess. Athena, help me.

  The blue expanse remained … blue. Odysseus then commanded, “Pull in the sails. Ready the bow stones.”

  “My lord?” asked Eurylochus. “We don’t row for the beach?”

  Odysseus stood firm. “I’m not certain of the dangers that lie ahead. I won’t beach our ships in this strange place. We may have need of a swift retreat.” Before Eurylochus stepped aside, Odysseus grabbed his arm. Pulling his second close, he whispered harshly into his ear, “If you believe our blood ties give you leave to question my command, well, think twice. Never overstep with me again.” Odysseus released his iron grip on the man’s arm.

  Eurylochus bristled at the rebuke, but bore his indignation silently. “As you command, lord Odysseus.”

  “Then, we understand one another. Gather some of the men and bring the cattle up from below. We will have to lower them into the water and swim them to shore.”

  “Would it not be easier to—”

  Odysseus bellowed, “Do as I command!”

  At the captain’s raised voice, men scurried to tie down the sails and hurled the bow stones over board, securing the ship in swallow surf. One by one the cattle brought to Chryse as sacrifice for penance owed Apollo were lowered and guided carefully to the sandy shore.

  Antilochus brought Astynome to Odysseus. The captain bowed to her. “My lady, our deepest apologies for your rough treatment. Soon, you will reunite with your father. You should never have been kept from his side.”

  The young woman, her wheat-colored hair a ratted mess falling about her shoulders, stood defiant before Odysseus. “I will not forget you.” She
spat on the wooden deck. “You with that Achilles brought me to my shame. You handed me to the crude king, who defiled my body. You made a slave of me, as much as did he. No, I will not forget you. The gods will curse you for what you have done.”

  “Take her to shore,” Odysseus said quietly. I am already cursed. He recalled the days, years ago, when the oracle warned him that when he left, he would not see home for many years. He hadn’t believed her. Now, as each year passed, the weight of her truth stung not only his pride, but threatened to bury his heart as well. Briefly, his mind flashed to Penelope’s graceful hips swaying—

  “Aye, my lord,” Antilochus said, looking to his captain. “My lady, Achilles is not at fault. Agamemnon is rough with all who defy him.”

  Astynome laughed icily. “You think Achilles is not already cursed among mortals? His fate will be the cruelest of all.”

  Antilochus escorted her in silence to the railing, before securing her by a rope and lowering her into a smaller boat and the waiting hands of the soldiers below.

  One by one, the crew of the sacred expedition jumped into the surf, some swimming and some in smaller craft, making their way to the shore.

  Odysseus had marked a path in his mind from the beachhead to the trailing smoke above the shore. It was a difficult hike over rocks and shifting sand, herding cattle along the way. Streaks of violet and gold swept the heavens by the time the entourage reached the altar Chryses had erected for the God of Plagues.

  Apollo’s priest spoke, “I have been expecting you, Odysseus. Before your sails appeared on our horizon, Apollo told me you would come.”

  Odysseus narrowed his eyes, thinking of what the girl said to him. He could not shake the fear of more curses falling on his head now that he stood before the priest. “I have come at Agamemnon’s command to return your daughter and make sacrifice to Apollo so he will end his plague.”

  “All could have been avoided had your king bent his pride because of a father’s love for a daughter, but he murdered of his own flesh and blood for war, did he not?”

  Odysseus, cautious in response and not wishing to anger Apollo or the priest, answered, “He did only as Artemis bid.”

  The priest mocked the partial honesty of the wily tongued commander. “Only because he’d offended her first. You Greeks follow a fool.”

  “No doubt the Great King has erred more than once,” Odysseus said. “But this evening we seek to make amends on his behalf, if you will accept our offering of cattle for sacrifice.” He gave the signal, and a veiled woman was led from the rearguard forward.

  Chryses fell to his knees, overcome with relief and joy and dread. “Astynome,” he whispered desperately.

  At the sound of her father’s voice, Astynome tore free from Antilochus’ arms, her veil flying into the air as she rushed to her father’s side. “Father, Father!”

  Chryses wept openly as he embraced his daughter, his flesh and blood, returned because the shining god had willed it so. He kissed his daughter’s red-rimmed eyes and her swollen checks. “My beautiful girl,” he whispered over and over. He lifted a lock of her tangled hair to his lips. “That you are safe.” His hands shook with joy at the touch of a loved one returned as if from the dead. Slowly, the two rose from their knees to face the Greeks waiting nervously for a sign the sacrifices would be accepted.

  Odysseus stepped forward. “We offer these cattle, if it will move Apollo to pity us wasting away, burning our dead in foreign lands.”

  “Have your men line the beasts up before the altar. We will sacrifice them, sending your smoky offering to the shining god. We will know soon enough if he accepts,” he said solemnly. “But, if you believe Apollo is a god of mercy, then you surely do not know him.”

  Chryses approached his altar, sticky trails of blood staining the piled stones, and hefted a silver blade to the sky. “Lord of the Silver Bow, Shining God of Olympus, hear my prayer of thanks.” He signaled for the first beast to be led forward. With a swift slice, the priest slit the throat of the bull. It stood dazed, bleeding its life onto the earth. Its legs shook as it struggled to live, but death brought the animal to its knees. “Light the fires. Butcher the sacrifice. We feast tonight to Apollo’s glory.” Blood soaked Chryses hands and arms, as he signaled for the next bull and the next.

  The melting fat of roasting meat spat and crackled on a hundred spits set up in lines around the perimeter of the holy place. Songs praising Apollo rose with the smoke into the night. The wine jars hauled up the trail, gifted by Agamemnon, were emptied. The Greeks and priests drank deeply of the red nectar, and as the warmth spread into their blood and bones, their songs rose more boisterous and sincere. In wine, it was told, truth will flow.

  And far above the feasting, Apollo heard their winging words. Sitting upon a golden rock, fletching new arrows for the next bloody dawn to unleash more death on the retched Greeks, the shining god paused to listen. Warrior voices rose in songs of praise. Apollo. Apollo. Apollo. He swept his hand before him, clearing the scattered clouds from the sky. Clearly, he observed the spotted cook-fires and inhaled the essence of roasting meat. He rose like a mountain from a long sleep. Set down his arrows. It is finished, then. Let the Greeks live.

  ✽✽✽

  As the last of the bulls was butchered and the fatted portions set to spits and the wine emptied into their bulging bellies, the pilgrims seeking Apollo’s pity made the long hike back to their ship. With torches held aloft in the dark of early morning, Odysseus and his men stumbled with wine-hazed eyes, cursing the entire way. Once they reached the shore, they waded into chilly water to reach the ship. There was little rest for all.

  A rosy dawn greeted Odysseus and his crew as they awoke bleary eyed, cold, and exhausted from feasting the night before. The captain surveyed the sky. Discerning an auspicious wind, he gave word to pull up the bow stones. The crew silently settled into their places, rowers to their well-worn benches, and riggers to their ropes and sails. If they were fortunate, they would return in a few days time to a camp without sickness.

  ITHAKA

  EIGHT, two queens

  1238 BCE

  The aroma of roasting meat wafted from the kitchens into the central hall of Odysseus’ palace. Servants scurried about, setting fresh greenery and blooming field flowers on tables. Penelope surveyed the hall with an eye to detail. “Eurycleia!”

  The faithful maid servant appeared as if from the shadows. “Yes, my queen?”

  “Have more wine brought up. Good wine. I’ve heard my cousin drinks wine like a king. Are there any roses blooming?”

  “I’ll send one of the maids to gather any that are.”

  Satisfied, Penelope said, “Good. You always know what needs to be done. What would I do without you?”

  Eurycleia nodded and disappeared to her tasks.

  Some fresh-faced slave girl pressed a glass of wine into Penelope’s hands. “Eurycleia,” she said aloud.

  “No. That is my doing.”

  Penelope turned to see Anticlea standing there with a cup of her own. “You startled me.”

  “You’ve made the hall a cheery place once again, if only for a short while.”

  “I’m having more flowers brought in … and more wine.”

  Anticlea scoffed. “I wonder how many will be in the queen’s retinue?”

  “The messenger said only the queen’s immediate family would be attending. They stay but a week. The hospitality won’t be over much.”

  “I’m curious about why she wishes to visit Ithaka.”

  “As am I.” Penelope sipped her wine. “This is an excellent quality, Mother.”

  “Laertes’ vines.”

  “I’m not surprised. Have you seen Telemachus?”

  “No. Perhaps he’s about his chores?”

  Penelope drained her cup and handed it back to Anticlea. “Only if the gods prodded him in the back.”

  “You must be firmer with the boy. Soon it will be too late to influence him at all.”

  ✽�
�✽

  Telemachus enjoyed his time with Eumaeus, the ancient sheep herder, because he didn’t nag him about chores or study or sword practice. The young prince preferred to accomplish his tasks as he saw fit. Eumaeus granted him the freedom to roam without guilt or pressure to be more than just a boy. Walking the hills, Telemachus could pretend he wasn’t the Prince of Ithaka facing a future looming with responsibility to fulfill.

  “Come on, Argo. Old boy. We’re almost there,” Telemachus said, stepping across a shallow stream. Argo’s muzzle was graying but his tail still wagged like a pup’s. He panted happily along behind his young master. They came to a meadow, its tall grasses swaying and winged bugs floating magically in the air. Apollo’s light beamed brightly against a cloudy blue sky. “Eumaeus told me that Pegasus comes here.” He scratched the dog behind the ears. “He swears that when he was a boy, he saw it here. It must be a special place … if it’s true. Eumaeus is old.”

  Pulling a wrapped hunk of bread and cheese from his shoulder bag, Telemachus said, “I bet you’re hungry.”

  Argo tilted his head to one side, drool dripping from his mouth.

  The boy laughed. “You’re always hungry.” He ripped a piece of bread off and tossed it to the hound. “We have guests this evening. Mother says I must play the prince to my cousins. I don’t even know them. More strangers.” He tossed another piece of bread to his furry companion. “Be polite. Hospitable. Charming. Like my father, she says.”

  Argo begged for more, pawing his young master’s thigh. Telemachus absent-mindedly tossed him more bread.

  “I hate when she says that. How am I supposed to be like a man I’ve never met? Be like my father. Do him proud. He left when I was a babe. How am I to know him at all? And this past week, Mother was constantly checking my chin for beard hairs. She’s like a fat fly buzzing around my head.”