“I speak only what all men know,” the boy said, trying to sound strong.
“Is that what all men know?” Korei asked, raising his brow.
Valparun hesitated. “Yes.”
“What did your mother do, when the invaders overran our lands?”
The boy remembered how his mother had picked up an old sword …
Taking in the boy’s glazed look, he asked again, “What did she do, Valparun?”
The boy remembered how his mother swung the blade with all her might as he hid beneath a bench, unnoticed by the enemy.
“Answer me,” his father demanded.
His mother fell in a bloody heap, he recalled, her neck opened, blood spurting from the gash, and seeping from her mouth into the dirt floor... “She … she—” He couldn’t finish the words; couldn’t obey his father’s command.
Korei beckoned his son with an open arm. “Come.” Valparun fell willingly into his father’s strong arms. “She was a woman. Not a warrior. She may have lost her battle, but she saved you. There is no greater good any warrior can do but keep safe those who are weaker.”
Valparun wept freely now. He loved his mother and had, without meaning to, disparaged her when she should have been honored. “Apologies, Father.”
“There is no greater warrior than a mother protecting her children. No greater heart.” He thought of his wife now—hair as dark as raven’s wings flying about her shoulders, eyes glittering like polished obsidian, her copper skin, and her delicate feet. He whispered her name, “Veronika.” He remembered the taste of her mouth, her full lips on his. “She is for the gods now.”
Valparun remained folded in his father’s healing embrace. “Are you going with the king when he guides that warrior-god to Troy?”
After slowly releasing the boy, Korei stood with a groan. “I intend to do just that. I do not trust that Golden Warrior. His heart is iron … his words coated with too much honey.”
ELEVEN
TROY
1249 BCE
Prince Hektor paced the torch-lit hall. Andromache’s cries pierced the early morning darkness. His heart ached for her. I beg you, Apollo, let the child live. His wife had labored from morning to morning, and still there was no child. Finally, he collapsed into a chair outside the door that a servant had brought for him. “My queen requests you sit, my lord,” the man had said. Hektor had never known fear before, true fear, until Andromache’s labor had begun. She had lost other children early into her condition, but had never carried one this far.
If I should lose her … He’d seen the look of concern in the midwives’ faces, concern they masked in the presence of his wife. If you gods are merciful…
Andromache’s voice silenced. The Prince of Troy held his breath, waiting for a child’s cry. The silence stretched his nerves. He heard the torch flames licking at the dark. Hektor stood, expectant and hopeful, until Andromache’s anguished wail shattered the moment.
The midwife opened the heavy wooden door slowly, her face ashen and her eyes brimming with tears. She shook her head. “My lord,” she whispered hoarsely, “the child …”
A familiar ache threatened to rip Hektor’s chest wide open. “What?”
“It was a son, my lord,” she said quietly. “He was beautiful, perfect …”
Beyond the midwife, Hektor could see his wife curled on her side. He knew she was weeping. Why, Apollo? Why do you punish us so? “Can I see her? Will she speak with me?” He remembered his mother, weeping for endless days when Paris had been taken from her. He knew firsthand the depth of a mother’s grief. His mother had never fully recovered, and he hoped his wife wouldn’t fall to the same darkness.
“I believe so.” The midwife’s eyes were kind and warm. She dared to touch Hektor’s arm lightly. “Speak softly, my lord. Her grief is coupled with great despair.”
“She is my heart. I lay no blame at her feet.”
“I didn’t think you would, but … she is not the only one who grieves.” The woman stood aside, allowing Hektor access to his wife.
He rushed to Andromache’s side, kneeling beside her bed. Gazing down at her disheveled hair, he smoothed a damp lock from her pale cheek. “My love?” he whispered gently.
Andromache’s turned her head toward his comforting voice. Hektor saw the torment in her eyes, and it pierced his soul. “Why, Hektor? What have I done that the gods punish us so? I have failed to give you a son … again. My arms are again empty. My heart is broken, Hektor. I am worthless to you.” Andromache wept into her shaking hands. “I am worthless.”
Hektor gently kissed her forehead. “You are the sun to me. The sun that warms my heart. You will never be worthless in my eyes.”
She reached up, circling his neck with her aching arms, sobbing into his neck. “You will take another wife now that I cannot give Troy an heir.”
“Shah, Andromache. Why would you think such a thing? I am not my father.” For a moment, his mother’s anguished cries echoed in his mind. “I give you my word.”
“I want to hold him,” she cried.
“I-I do not think—”
“I must. I must know the weight of him in my arms.” She cupped a swollen breast with her hand. “I will never suckle him. Yet, my breasts ache with his first milk. I beg you, bring him to me.”
Hektor’s eyes filled with tears. He looked to the midwife, his eyes rounded with fear. I beg you, gods, do not break her completely. “Bring our son to us.”
The midwife ushered her attendants from the chamber, before walking to the silent cradle far from Princess Andromache. Tenderly lifting the tiny bundle, swaddled in a royal purple blanket, she cradled him in her arms as if he yet lived. She laid the baby in his mother’s arms. “My lord and lady,” she choked. “I will take my leave.”
Andromache brushed the child’s cold cheek with a tender finger. Her tears fell freely, anointing him into the world with her grief. Her finger touched his chin. “The king’s mark … and your dark curls.”
Hektor smiled sadly. “He is beautiful, my love.” How can I protect her, when the gods destroy her heart before my eyes? “We will give him proper rites.”
“Send his ashes to the stars and the moon,” she whispered, “so he will always be with us.”
“Aye, my love.
“Seleukos. The bright light of the stars.”
Hektor kissed his wife’s cheek, and the crown of his departed son’s black hair. “Seleukos.” Another son for the gods …
Hektor sought solace astride Ares. He stared out across the northern Bay of the Citadel, where the Scamander and the Simois washed into the salty sea. Gentle waves crashed up the shore. “I need to ride, my old friend. Ride until I can feel no more.” He stroked the horse’s powerful neck. “It seems the gods have no wish for me to father sons or daughters for Troy.” The aging, yet still mighty stallion pawed the crusty earth beneath his hooves, nickering to his master.
The prince pressed his heels into Ares’ sides. “Run, Ares! Run like the wind!” The horse headed into a strong gallop, stretching hard into the breeze. Ares’ heavy hooves dug into the shore, sea spray splashing over rider and horse. Ares’ wide chest heaved, his powerful legs stretching their full length, gathering speed. Hektor leaned over Ares’ neck and the horse’s black mane whipped about his face. “Like the wind, mighty Ares!”
The warhorse flew down the beach, his hooves kicking showers of sand and water behind him. The vision blurred before Hektor again …
A shimmering sword arched high, a cloud of golden dust and blood, a voice like a raging lion in his ear. Hektor! Hektor! Hektor! He kicked deeper into Ares’ sides, gripping the reins tighter in his hands. My son … my son! Seleukos! Only now could Hektor release his anguish into the wind, freely weeping with grief and anger at the gods. Only now could he admit his pain and his fear of failing. Only now could he see that the gods were against Troy, that they might die and his beloved world might fall to dust and ruin.
TWELVE
MY
CENAE
1248 BCE
Three years had passed since her beloved daughter flew to Hades as ash and cinder. Staring out across the stone balcony into the golden rays of Apollo’s chariot as he set it to rest, she gently pulled the memory of Iphigenia’s warm smile to her mind. She smiled sadly to herself. I miss you, my sweet daughter. My dove. She closed her eyes to capture the image more intensely, its brilliance already fading with time. I cannot truly live now that you are absent from my arms. Without intending it, the sweet memory twisted into the horror of watching her beloved’s throat gape open, her precious life bleeding into the ground. Tears slid down her cheeks, curving around and down her chin. I should have fought Palamedes harder. I should have saved her. Clytemnestra clenched her teeth in anguish, her private grief and guilt filling her with darkness and revenge.
“My lady, forgive me. I meant not to disturb you.”
The queen startled at the familiar voice, then turned. “I did not hear you enter, Neola.” She swept from the balcony into the chamber. “You have word, then?”
“Yes, my lady. Their ship has docked. Your family will be here very soon.”
Clytemnestra relied on Neola more than anyone else in her entire household—in truth, she was more mother than slave. Had it not been for Neola’s guidance many years ago, she would never have survived this long. And with the brutal murder of Iphigenia, her heart had plummeted deep into the abyss, and she’d relied on the matron more than ever. Following the ritual burning of her beloved daughter, Neola had sent for Queen Leda, who’d sent apologies and excuses. Clytemnestra had not expected anything from her mother then, and held no expectation now. She was curious, however, about her mother’s change of heart after so long an absence. There was likely a political maneuver on her father’s part that Leda would deliver, like all the tragedies that had befallen her and trapped her in this blindingly dark life of regret.
The queen faced the patient matron. “Have the women lay out the red gown and veil.”
“Red, my lady?”
“Red,” Clytemnestra affirmed.
Neola nodded and disappeared. Within moments, a dozen women spilled into the queen’s chamber, bustling about drawers and chests. The Queen of Mycenae stood regally as the women removed her pale gown and slipped the blood red silk over her head, fastening it at the shoulders with ruby encrusted golden pins. Then, they led her to a low seat where a pair of women worked the queen’s hair into curls, pinning them artfully about her head before crowning her with a simple golden circlet.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by a male voice. “They are here!”
The queen stood from her dressing stool, deliberately smoothing her dress. “It is time to receive my mother and hear whatever wretched news she brings from Sparta.”
The columns of Agamemnon’s grand hall towered above the Spartan entourage. Frescos, painted with yellows, blues, and reds depicted birds, dolphins, and fish, brightening each long panel lining the walls of the palace. In the center of the hall, a ring of fire burned orange and red, warming the chill from the air. At the far end of the great room, a pair of lions matching the city gate’s relief was carved into the stone wall. Beneath the giant lions, a tall chair, richly carved and adorned with gold, stood in isolated splendor upon a raised dais. Next to the ornate seat was a smaller one of similar design.
Leda signaled for a bench. The long journey from Sparta to Mycenae had tired her body … that, and she was unaccustomed to waiting. Servants scurried to set a couch behind her. She sat cooling herself with a richly painted Egyptian papyrus fan. That she was being received so formally only further irritated her. The air grew thick with her impatience and annoyance.
My daughter had ample notice of my arrival. As Leda questioned her daughter’s lack of hospitality, the far door opened and the Queen of Mycenae entered, followed by an entire staff of women and men in attendance. Leda watched as her daughter, back tall and head held high, bypassed the smaller chair meant for a queen, taking her place on the king’s throne. She has learned, then, to make her world. Leda smiled to herself. That was good to know, because the news she had to share would require the iron will of a king, not the tender heart of a queen.
“You may approach, Queen Mother of Sparta,” a herald announced into the cavernous room.
Leda stood. She approached her daughter, bowing her head slightly in deference and greeting. “It is good to see you are well, my daughter.”
“You are blind then, Mother, as well as cold.”
Leda flinched as each barbed word pricked her heart. “I meant not to―”
“What you meant matters little to me now. You abandoned me, not once, but twice to my fate. Leaving me to grieve alone, offering no mother’s comfort. Why have you come?”
“To inform you of Tyndareus’ plans for Sparta.”
“Why should I care what happens to Sparta? Your whore daughter stole the men of Greece and beyond to a war that called for the sacrifice of my innocent daughter.”
“The power of Sparta and Mycenae are yet entwined, or have you learned nothing sitting on that chair?”
Clytemnestra bristled. “I have learned to build my world, as you instructed years ago. I rule this kingdom as my own.”
“But you do not rule over the men entitled to it. And you, my darling child, are not meant to sit there forever.”
“What is your news then? Tell it and take your leave of me.”
Leda stepped closer, her eyes softening, “I beg you, my daughter, hear me in private. What I have to share is not for the court to know. At least, not yet.”
The queen considered her mother. True, she has come all this way uninvited. She stood from her seat, descending the steps of the dais, and met her mother face-to-face. “As you wish. You may speak openly in my private quarters. Neola will attend us.”
The queen paced the tiled floor like a lioness hungry for the hunt. “He would not dare!” Clytemnestra seethed, rage filling her heart and soul with more blackness than she thought possible.
“He has already made the arrangement,” Leda said stoically. “Agamemnon may not be here, in his hall, but he is yet the king and may do as he pleases.”
Clytemnestra fumed at the idea. “Orestes is almost grown! And that whore’s child is a babe in arms, barely off her nursemaid’s tit.”
The queen mother grabbed her eldest daughter by the arm, yanking it roughly, forcing her listen. “You will remember that Helen is my daughter, your sister, and she was forced to wear the curse of beauty by the goddess. Her fate is no more her own than yours or mine. You dishonor our house by issuing such vitriol, and worse, tempt the gods to heap more blessings upon us. Have the women of house Tyndareus not suffered enough?”
Her mother’s words weighed heavily on her, sinking through the layers of grief and hatred for her husband. “I want revenge, Mother. Revenge for Iphigenia. Revenge for Tantalus. Revenge for my son. All taken from me by the man my own father chose for me. I will not let him take anything else from me ever again. Not Orestes. Not Elektra. Not my own grief. Nothing.”
Leda considered her daughter seriously. She could see that in her absence, Clytemnestra’s gentleness had given way to the iron will of a Spartan woman, and the Queen of Mycenae had sharpened the edge of her world with her betrayals and losses, wielding her power like a sword readied for war. No, she will not relent to Tyndareus’ will. Not now. Not ever. “There is only one thing left to do,” the Queen Mother said.
“Do not seek to dissuade me, I will―”
“You must send for Aegisthus.”
The queen was taken aback. She’d expected advice on forgiveness. “Why Aegisthus?”
Leda smiled wryly. “If your heart is set on vengeance, you will require assistance. And he has as much reason to hate Agamemnon as you do.”
Clytemnestra stopped pacing. It was rumored Aegisthus had killed Atreus, the father of Agamemnon and Menelaus, after being fostered by him since infancy. If that were true and she could discern
the reason, perhaps he could be persuaded to kill again on her behalf. The queen took her mother by the shoulders, gazing confidently into eyes so much like her own, and said, “You have given me a thin hope of securing Mycenae for myself and my children. A Mycenae free of Agamemnon and his wickedness.” She released her mother. “Neola, inform my guard they must find Aegisthus and bring him to me. Unharmed.”
“As you wish, my lady,” Neola replied, as she bowed and dismissed herself from the room.
Clytemnestra walked to a table near the balcony and opened an amphora. After poured the sweet wine into a bowl, she handed it to her mother. “Forgive my lack of hospitality upon your arrival.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Leda said, taking the wine. “You are my blood, Clytemnestra. Never forget. For I will not.”
THIRTEEN
ITHAKA
1248 BCE
Penelope stared out the window overlooking the wide blue of Poseidon’s domain. The scent of roses lingered in the air; the roses Odysseus had planted for her. She closed her eyes to the breeze, recalling the day Odysseus claimed her for himself. He’d stolen her heart with a few words …
Penelope stood hidden behind a large pillar watching her cousin, Helen, dancing for the suitors. All the worthiest men from more kingdoms than she could name had come to vie for Helen’s hand in marriage, and to perhaps gain a kingdom, as well as a wife.
“My lady, you are most beautiful,” Odysseus said softly near her ear.
Penelope startled. She hadn’t heard the man approach her from behind. “You do not come for Helen?”
“I admit, I came with expectations. But now, seeing you, it is not Helen I desire.”
It was the first time a man had chosen her over Helen. She was beautiful, or so her father told her, but compared to the shining Helen she felt dull and ordinary.
“Your cheeks flush. Has no one told you this before?”
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 9