Achilles eased back into the sand. “Why are you risking your life here and now? I could kill you as you stand, or call for my men to do it for me.”
“May I sit with you?” King Telephus asked. Achilles indicated a place across from him. The king folded painfully to the ground, his wounded leg extended in front of him. “I have come to offer you a trade.”
“Now we come to it. What have you to trade that I cannot already take from you?”
“I was told you are in need of a guide to Troy.”
The Prince of Phthia scoffed at his reply. “You think we are lost? That a city like Troy can remain hidden forever? You think we will not happen upon it at any moment?”
“The gods have done well to keep it outside your grasp thus far. The shining ones do as they will.”
Achilles laughed out loud. “Now, we are in agreement.”
“Our seer has warned that you will not land in Troy without a guide.”
The Golden Warrior arched a single eyebrow. “And you are to be that guide?”
Smiling thinly, the king shrugged his shoulders. “So it seems.”
“What do you ask in return?”
“It is a small favor. Only a mixture of herbs and bronze from your blade will heal my injury.”
“A balm from the very blade that inflicted the wound,” Achilles mused. “I have never heard of such a medicine.” He recalled the dark liquid that Chiron had mixed to grow new eyes for Phoenix when they’d been roughly plucked out. “But my early tutelage in the healing arts revealed many secrets about the mortal humors and what can restore a man’s flesh.” The Myrmidon captain spat into the cooling embers. “Agamemnon will want his say.”
“He is your king?”
Achilles stood. “He is no king of mine. You should leave the way you came. I cannot guarantee your safe return, if you are captured in my camp. I will get word to you.”
King Telephus nodded and stood with difficulty. “Do not linger in your negotiating. If I die, and I have been told I will, you risk an endless and futile quest.” The stranger hobbled off into the shadows.
Achilles stared after the king as he disappeared into the darkness, the words of King Telephus ringing in his ears. If he didn’t provide his part for the remedy of the king’s wound, the Greeks would never find Troy, but would wander aimlessly about the Troad lands. He contemplated his future in that event. If he did not make it to Troy, the battle from which he was to earn his immortal glory would never happen. What then? Would he live until old age, a nomadic pirate, stumbling into a soft death? He scowled. He had no desire to die in a bed. Again, when confronted with his fate, he realized the choice was his to make. He could keep the news heralded by King Telephus a secret, forcing the Greek tribes to certain mutiny. Eventually, circumstance would force them home again in disgrace for there would be no geras or victory. He could return to Phthia, rule after his father, and Neoptolemus after him.
Achilles lay back on the cool sand and stared at the stars blinking in the heavens. Even as he gazed above him, he knew what he must do. Fate always found its mark, one way or another. I know who I am and who I am not. Agamemnon would have to be consulted; he would send Nax with a message in the morning. Achilles knew he must make the journey to Troy.
He chose the life of glory for the second time.
NINE
MYSIA
1249 BCE
City of Tenedos
When Nestor entered Agamemnon’s tent, he’d already been informed that Achilles had requested audience with the high king. He’d been summoned because Achilles had never requested anything of Agamemnon before … quite the contrary. Odysseus, the most cunning of the captains, deemed it wise to enlist the aide of older, wiser council than the war hungry men who usually camped around the Great King’s table. The King of Ithaka had reasoned with Nestor that the men of all camps grew restless for home and were discouraged by the recent military blunder; therefore, his council was much needed by the Great King.
Nestor, his sea blue cape draped over both shoulders clasped with a pin of silver, bowed before Agamemnon. “My king.” The years had grayed his hair and beard, but his mind was sharp as the blade resting easily on his hip. “How may I serve you?”
Agamemnon scoffed, “You know why you are called to my table. I am certain Odysseus has enlightened you.”
“My king, I have been told Achilles wishes an audience with you, and you are apprehensive of the request.”
“What does that cur wish from me? What dark news will he bring to dampen the spirits of us all?”
Nestor soothed the king, “Likely he will ask a favor of you.”
Agamemnon sneered. “Or demand a fucking ransom at my expense.” Palamedes slid into the tent and to his master’s side. He whispered into the king’s ear, and then disappeared. “He is coming.”
Those of the assembly who were standing took their seats. When Achilles strode in, followed closely by Patrokles, all eyes were fixed on the Golden Warrior. Odysseus raised his cup to Achilles, acknowledging the Captain of the Black Shields. Ajax, Nestor, and Diomedes did the same. Only the royal brothers abstained from such a greeting.
Achilles took in the somber faces of the council. “If I had not been the one who called for this gathering, I would think this a funeral.”
Nestor chuckled, “You are right, Achilles. We are a rather somber group.” The old sage shrugged his shoulders. “It is not often the Captain of the Black Shields calls upon the King of Mycenae.”
The Golden Warrior took his place at the table with Patrokles sitting next to him on the right. Servants scurried to put trays of hot bread and roasted meat on the table, and then they filled every man’s cup to brimming with honeyed wine. “Indeed. That I do not.” He lifted his cup to his fellow commanders and drank deeply. “The Tenedosians know how to make good wine.”
Odysseus laughed. “No disagreement on that count.” As his amusement faded, the table guests grew quiet. “Word has come from Lemnos. Philoctetes has recovered from the snake bite. He did not lose a leg as feared.”
Ignoring Odysseus, they all watched Achilles heap meat and bread into a shallow bowl. He signaled for more wine. The Captain of the Black Shields, resting his forearms against the table, leaned across to Diomedes. “How many men fell by your sword in the Battle of Tenedos?” He shoved a warm, fat hunk of bread in his mouth.
Diomedes only half smiled as he replied, “The dead swam before me by five and fifty.”
“Impressive,” Achilles said, continuing to eat.
The lethal competition between Diomedes and Achilles grew with every battle, and now wrapped the gathering in increasing tension. Odysseus interrupted them. “You have a gift for Nestor, do you not, Agamemnon?”
“Yes. There is a gift I wish to bestow on our wise councilor.”
Nestor put his cup down. “But I have given no council. How do you gift a man for a thing he has not yet done?”
Achilles met Diomedes’ stare and grinned widely. “Seven and seventy. But worry not. Few men can count your numbers. And none can count mine.”
Odysseus said, “Agamemnon, perhaps now is the time?”
Diomedes narrowed his eyes at Achilles sitting smugly victorious across from him. “Your hubris is within arm’s length of you, and will likely slay you before a foreign enemy can touch you. There is no shield between you and your fate.”
Agamemnon signaled Palamedes to bring the gift for Nestor.
“And what do you know of my fucking destiny?” Achilles replied angrily.
Diomedes deliberately rose from his seat. “Enough to know—”
Palamedes burst through the tent flap with a woman in tow. Her honey-gold hair fell about her shoulders in a smooth curtain, sweeping down the length of her back. Her green eyes sparkled with rebellion. She held her chin proudly and pressed her lips into a hard line of defiance. All eyes gazed at her striking beauty. Diomedes sat back down, shaking off his rising anger at Achilles’ insults.
Od
ysseus took note of Diomedes’ clenched jaw, and knew that losing his temper with Achilles had annoyed him. The warrior king liked Diomedes for his confident disposition seemingly devoid of arrogance. He also knew the frustration a warrior such as Diomedes would feel when always placing second to the shining son of Peleus. In the end, they all knew Achilles was not wholly mortal and that sharpened the edge of his dominance in all things, especially battle. Blood and carnage followed the Golden Warrior wherever he stepped, and his mere presence caused women to spread their legs for him. Odysseus considered Patrokles, sitting on Achilles’ right, laughing and drinking without concern. There was no doubt he had accepted his place, a place one step behind the Golden Warrior.
Agamemnon stood at the head of the table and addressed the men, “This, my friends, is a gift for our eldest, most respected advisor. His long years gave him reason to stay in Messenia and send only his strong sons, Antilochus and Thrasymedes. Yet, he donned his armor and followed us without hesitation.”
Nestor stood to accept his gift. “Surely, I am unworthy of such a prize. I am old. What need have I of a young woman to warm my bed?”
The gathered warriors laughed aloud, but it was Ajax who said, “Come, Nestor, even old men must wish for a tight cunt to fuck.”
Jerking her bound hands from Palamedes, Hecamede sneered at the dark warrior’s words. “I whore for no man.” Her words dripped venom. She looked directly at Ajax. “You will suffer at the god’s hands for your part to come.”
Ajax laughed out loud, slapping his hands to his thighs. “What is she seer now as well as whore?”
Agamemnon cleared his throat, placing his hands on the table before he spoke. “Calm, Ajax. The woman comes as healer and servant. She has never been in the service of men.”
“What a fucking waste of flesh. Her tits rise to her chin. Look at her! You would do well to keep her out of sight, old man, or you may find your woman’s legs wrapped around some other man’s thighs.”
Achilles spoke up, “You think she would favor you, Ajax? You hairy brute. We know your cock stands less than a hand’s width.”
“You are a fucking cur, Achilles,” Ajax spat in defense.
The Golden Warrior refused to relent at the attempted insult. “I speak the truth and he calls me a dog? That may be the only way a woman can feel his nub, if he takes her like a dog.”
The captains laughed again. Ajax remained silent, obviously fuming.
Odysseus, seeking to curb the growing agitation around the table, said, “She is fair. But cannot compare to my Penelope. She is—”
“We tire of hearing about your wife. We know. She is beautiful. She waits. Bring up some other conversation,” Menelaus, who had been quiet, finally spoke.
“You tire of hearing about a faithful wife?” Odysseus responded, sending stinging words at the Spartan king. “Of course, how would you even know the loss of such a woman?”
Menelaus slammed his clenched fist angrily on the table. A few men grabbed their cups, saving their wine from spilling. “You fucking cunt ravished king of nothing―”
Nestor spoke up, “Captains. Kings. Princes. Save your anger for the enemy, not each other. An army divided from within cannot rise in victory.” The warriors reluctantly settled. “I thank you, Agamemnon, for the gift. May my council be inspired by the gods and welcomed in your ear.”
Agamemnon sighed lightly, locking eyes with Achilles. “May it be so, Nestor,” the Great King said. “And now, we have yet to hear the reason the Myrmidon Captain requested an audience with me.”
Achilles stood, placing his hands on the table. “I have the way to Troy.”
The Great King shook his head in disbelief. “How have you discovered this?”
“King Telephus knows the way and has promised to take us there.”
“And when did you hold audience with the King of Tenedos, Lord Achilles?”
Agamemnon’s mocking tone stirred the Golden Warrior’s hatred. “He came to me in the night, making a request and offering the promise.”
The Great King’s eyes narrowed at the implication that the enemy granted more respect the son of Peleus than to him. It galled him that in raid after raid they gathered geras and slaves, yet failed to reach the citadel of Troy. Winds. Mists. It was as if the gods were against them. He realized he had no choice but to hear Achilles’ words. “Tell us what transpired. What was his request? Return of captives? Gold?”
“He asks only for a remedy to heal an injury I inflicted in battle.”
“What remedy?” Agamemnon was suspicious of such a simple request. “Surely, there is more behind his request?”
“None. He was told that without shavings from the spear that inflicted the wound, he would die. Horribly. Painfully,” Achilles said. “I would have killed him where he stood had he not offered the key to my future.”
“Our future. Make it so,” Agamemnon grunted.
Achilles nodded. “I take my leave, then.” He pushed away from the table. “Patrokles, we make our way to Tenedos.” The dark match to Achilles stood and followed his captain from the tent without raising a question. As he left, the men began talking amongst themselves about the treasure they would take from Troy and praised Achilles for his prowess.
Agamemnon grumbled to Menelaus, “Once again, that fucking Phthian usurps my place among my own army.”
For once, Menelaus cautioned peace. “If Achilles can find a way to that elusive god-protected city, let him. You will show your strength once you are standing at the head of all the tribes and all the captains soon enough.”
TEN
MYSIA
1249 BCE
Palace of Telephus
Achilles handed his spear to Eurypylus and watched as he scraped a small pile of shavings into a marble bowl. The physician prince returned the weapon with thanks, and then proceeded to add the liquid of three vials to the collected metal. The mixture hissed and smoked as Eurypylus stirred the medicinal concoction.
King Telephus reclined uneasily on a bed. “How much longer? The pain grows.”
Eurypylus dipped strips of clean linen in the bubbling reddish liquid. “Soon, Father.” He paused, looking over his shoulder. “I am certain this will burn.”
“I care not. Nothing could be worse than this constant throbbing.”
The prince carried the bowl to the king, setting it down on the edge of the cushion. “Hold him,” he commanded of the king’s guards. “Hold him no matter what curses he hurls at you.” The guards moved quickly at Eurypylus’ request. “You there, take his legs and you hold down his shoulders.” When his father was secured to his satisfaction, the prince went to work on the festering wound.
He unwrapped the bandages soaked in blood and pus, the king wincing with each pass around his inflamed thigh. Eurypylus then began to poke and prod the blackened hole in his father’s leg. He massaged and squeezed the sides of the gash with deft, firm hands. The king gritted his teeth and growled through the agony. Then, the physician prince washed the putrid ooze from the wound. The king fell back against the bed in exhaustion when the cleansing was over. “That was not much,” he said weakly.
“I have not applied the healing ointment yet,” the prince said, matter-of-factly. “Hold him steady. Achilles, lend me your assistance, if you will.”
The Golden Warrior stepped forward. His training with the centaur had prepared him for many things. “How may I assist?”
“I must cut away the decaying flesh before I apply the remedy. I need you to hold his thigh steady. I do not wish to cut away too much good flesh.”
Placing a hand on either end of the gaping hole oozing a mixture of blood and foul liquid, Achilles pressed his strength on King Telephus’ thigh. “He will not move.”
The king reclined against the cushions, his laughter echoing weakly across the chamber. “Nor will I have any leg remaining with that grip.”
Eurypylus set to work with his physician’s blade, a small, thin dagger with a blade as sharp as any
warrior’s weapon. The king flinched as the pieces of his body were sliced away and tossed into a bowl on the floor. The prince worked diligently until all the blackened skin and muscle were removed. He looked up at Achilles, then at the guards. “Do not let him move.”
The prince hesitated for a single moment before he placed the first bandage inside the wound. The reddish cloth hissed and bubbled when it met the king’s flesh. King Telephus’ body stiffened and he screamed while trying to fight off the men holding him down. The prince quickly filled the wound with the cleansing cloths and bound the leg with clean bandages. The king twisted in anguish. When the surgery and binding was complete, the king relaxed in exhausted sleep.
Achilles released the patient’s thigh. “It is good he has slipped to the dream world. He will heal faster for that.”
Eurypylus wiped a thin line of sweat from his brow. “You do have knowledge, then, of the art. I had heard you were skilled to some degree, but had no way of knowing the truth of such whispers.”
“Chiron taught me many things while I was under his care.”
“You are fortunate to have had such a learned teacher. His skills are legendary,” the prince said. “Even this far from your world.”
Achilles nodded agreement. “How long until Telephus is well enough to sail?”
“Let the moon round through its phases before you attempt to travel with him. Too soon and he may lapse into fever, or worse.”
“What is worse?” Achilles asked.
“Death,” the prince said.
Valparun’s father, leaning heavily on his son’s shoulder, walked across the room to strengthen his weakened limbs. The grievous wounds from the great battle had closed into jagged red and purple welts across his body, or in slight hollows of flesh. “I wish you did not see me laid so low, my son.”
“I am no woman, Father,” Valparun replied.
Korei sat heavily on the closest stool. “Do not speak so poorly of women.”
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 8