Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  Penelope put a hand to her face, feeling the rising heat, and suddenly wished to be anywhere else but under this man’s hot scrutiny.

  “It is natural to feel as you do. By Athena, Helen’s golden beauty pales next to yours. Her beauty will burn all men in her wake to ashes, bringing many sleepless nights and turmoil to the man she chooses. I seek a more peaceful, loyal woman for my queen.”

  “You are a king?” she asked, surprise bright in her eyes.

  Odysseus smiled down at her. “I am. It is a small island, but it is prosperous and beautiful.”

  “What is it called?”

  “Ithaka. My home is called Ithaka.” As he said the word, he leaned his face into her hair, inhaling her sweetness. “Would you consider me for husband?”

  “It is not my choice. I am not Helen. My father will choose for me.”

  “If he were to grant consent, would you be disappointed?”

  Penelope turned to scan his face. He was handsome, no doubt. His eyes seemed sincere, his smile genuine. “If he made the match, I would not be an unhappy bride.” She glanced at the ground, hiding her nervous smile.

  “Then I shall endeavor to win his favor and yours in return.”

  A lone sea bird’s cry brought her back to the sacred room. She sighed. Three years had already passed, and she’d only received a few brief messages from Odysseus. Every sunrise, without fail, she prayed to Athena to hasten the dreaded war and return her husband to her. Below she watched as the women, with empty baskets cradled in their arms, headed to the orchards to pick figs. Perhaps, I should go …

  A whimper from behind her drew her attention. Telemachus struggled to wakefulness and began to cry.

  “There, now, my sweet boy,” she said, as she scooped him into her arms. “You are a heavy one.”

  The boy nestled his face against her chest, rubbing his eyes, and with his chubby hands groped for her breast. She opened her chiton. Telemachus grabbed his comfort and suckled. The milk brought him to full wakefulness. His eyes looked up, searching his mother’s face, as she gazed down lovingly at him. The babe smiled as he nursed. Penelope’s heart swelled with love for the little prince, even as her eyes shimmered with tears. The longing for her husband’s comfort and strength weighed heavily on her tender heart.

  “If not for you, my little one, I should have died from loneliness,” she whispered.

  Antikleia observed the servants in the kitchen while they prepared the day’s bread, olives, and fish. “Eurycleia, how many baskets of fruit were brought to the kitchen?”

  “A dozen of figs and the same for the olives. The olives are especially plump and dark this season,” Eurycleia said, delighted by the bounty. “Tomorrow we harvest the southern orchards.”

  The queen mother stepped down into the working area and plucked a fresh olive from a basket. She smashed it between her fingers and smelled the bitter flesh. “Set half the haul to cure in heavy salt. The rest send to the grindstone to extract the oil.” She wiped the olive residue on a cloth. “What of the figs?”

  “My lady, they are sweet, fat figs.” Eurycleia smiled proudly, knowing that the women had tended the orchards well in the king’s absence.

  “Have the cooking women prepare honey-glazed figs stuffed with crushed walnuts with this evening’s meal. I wish to cheer my daughter-in-law.”

  Eurycleia bowed her head. “As you wish, my lady.”

  Antikleia pulled the maid close. “Has there been any word from any man who followed my son to Aulis?”

  “None, my lady.”

  The queen mother sighed heavily, leaving the servants and slaves to their work. She never spoke of her fears to Penelope, because the young queen needed her iron guidance and support. But, in prayers to Athena she asked for Odysseus’ swift return. She worried for her grandson, a babe-in-arms yet, too young to ascend the throne if the unspeakable should happen. Penelope would be forced to take another husband, and if children came from that union, Telemachus would never rule Ithaka—and the line of Laertes would vanish from memory. In the deepest part of the night, she wept quietly for the king, who had been her little son. If he should perish in Troy, she didn’t think her heart could stand the pain of outliving him. No, she would rather death claim her before she had to draw a single breath in a world absent Odysseus.

  “Mother? Are you well?” Penelope inquired behind her.

  Antikleia startled slightly. “My mind was on my son.” She stretched an arm, beckoning her daughter-in-law to her side, wrapping her in a comforting embrace. “You grow thin. You must eat more.”

  “Food holds no pleasure for me. Neither wine. Sleep. I crave sleep,” Penelope said.

  “Come, let us walk to the shore. The warmth of Apollo’s light will ease your troubles.”

  Together they walked the worn, narrow path to the Bay of the Oracle. Sea birds cried, sweeping their wide wings overhead, and the sand, damp from the receding tide, crunched softly beneath their feet.

  Antikleia reached for Penelope’s hand. “I see that you are sad, especially of late.”

  “I did not expect Odysseus to be absent for so long. It is much harder without him. I weep far more than I should.”

  “My daughter, there is no shame in that. Odysseus is a man worthy of your tears and your heart. But the wars of men often take our husbands and sons far from us, when we need them most.”

  “I pray for his speedy return a hundred times a day,” Penelope confessed.

  “I do as well.”

  They walked on in silence, their hands entwined and their gazes fixed before them. The queen mother broke the quiet between them. “There is something I would know from you, if you would answer.”

  “Speak, Mother.”

  “What did my son tell you before he left regarding his son, my grandson, Telemachus?” Antikleia asked, seriously.

  Penelope gazed out across the green-blue sea. “He bade me take a new husband if he had not returned before our son had the beard of a man.”

  “That is not for many years to come.” She thought it curious Odysseus would set such a wide gap of years. Why? She knew her son would not speak such a mystifying command without purpose. Why so many years from now? Her thoughts plowed into the darkness. Did he foresee his own death? Antikleia immediately pulled away from the abyss and back to the world of light. “Surely, he will return before that.”

  “I miss him, Mother,” Penelope said.

  Antikleia smiled. “My son could not have chosen a more suitable wife. Your grief is genuine. I see the pain of it in your eyes, my dear.”

  “I do not wish for another husband. I will never desire a man other than my true husband.”

  “Penelope, you are a woman with title, your choices will never be simple. It is not enough to say you will not desire another. If Odysseus does not return, and by Athena and all the gods I beseech them to grant him safe passage home, you and my grandson will not be safe.”

  The young queen appeared confused. “What do you mean, Mother? If Odysseus does not return, our son will take his father’s place as rightful heir, when he is of age.”

  Antikleia placed a warm hand on her daughter-in-law’s forearm. “Men will seek you for a wife, if the council declares Odysseus dead. For in you, they will inherit all of this.” She swept a hand gracefully about the bay. “And there will be no need of Odysseus’ heir.” The elder woman let the weight of her words sink in before continuing, “Whoever challenges for the throne of Ithaka will never allow Telemachus to reach manhood. You are yet young enough to bear another son.”

  Penelope gasped at the thought. “Odysseus will return before … long before that happens.”

  Antikleia shook her head. “In war, death follows like the ravens and wild dogs.”

  “He will return,” Penelope stated, tears threatening to spill down her pale cheeks. “He will … he must.”

  “Let us pray to all the gods that it is so.”

  For the first time, Penelope was fearful for her life and he
r son’s. As the years had passed, she’d never allowed the thought of Odysseus dying in battle to surface. Now, Antikleia had forced that frightening consideration to life.

  Athena, bring him home. Bring him home.

  FOURTEEN

  TROY

  1248 BCE

  The blue green of Poseidon’s realm reached beyond sight. The cloudy skies and quick breeze heralded a soft day of sailing for the united Greek fleet. Agamemnon’s ships, and those of his captains, followed Achilles’ Myrmidons with the favorable winds of Aeolus billowing in their black sails. A thousand hulls plowed the waves, leaving trails of foaming white behind them. If the gods were on their side, they would catch sight of the Trojan Harbor before Apollo’s light began its descent into the world’s edge.

  “Do you believe King Telephus will lead us to Troy?” Menelaus asked Agamemnon.

  The Great King tugged on his beard. “If he does not, I will kill him myself.”

  “A just punishment. But would that not cause war behind us, as well as before us?”

  “If the gods keep Troy hidden behind a fog, there will be no geras except what we have already gathered. I am not concerned about Tenedos.”

  “If I were the King of Mycenae, I suppose neither would I.”

  Agamemnon laughed at his younger brother’s lack of confidence. “Do not let Helen’s actions diminish your pride, brother. She is a whore who has already caused the death of thousands. If I were Menelaus, I would slit her throat as soon as I laid hands on her again.”

  Menelaus nervously rubbed his hands together. He thought of Iphigenia. His brother had been willing to open up his own daughter’s neck for this expedition, watching without obvious regret what his servant did in his stead. He doubted he was made of the same iron will as Agamemnon. He cursed himself for his weakness where Helen was concerned. All his thoughts were bent on bringing her back to Sparta, fucking her into submission, and reclaiming by right his property.

  A thin, rugged line emerged on the horizon in front of them. Men began pointing and shouting.

  The Great King bellowed, “Troy! Agamemnon comes for you!”

  The men standing nearby cheered and heralded their king’s name into the wind.

  “It is there,” King Telephus said, pointing to a rugged line in the far distance. “The Trojan Harbor. And just beyond that, across the eastern plain, you will see Apollo’s light flashing off the Great Wall of Troy.”

  Achilles gripped the railing with both hands, his blood pounding at the thought of imminent battle. “We will knock the Trojans from their lofty citadel and drag their women before their wall in chains.”

  “Will you not negotiate with King Priam for the Queen of Sparta?” King Telephus asked.

  “If the Fat King wishes to send an envoy, let him. I came for blood and glory. And I will have it.” Achilles’ eyes remained fixed on the shoreline slowly growing larger with each passing moment. “Are you certain this harbor is preferable to the bay?”

  “The harbor will likely be heavily defended by their stronghold. The Trojan plain stretches miles to the east, rising to greet the citadel and palace. It is likely the Trojans and their allies will be waiting there as well.”

  “You are certain we avoid sailing up the Hellespont and into the Bay of the Citadel?”

  “The headwind and strong current will require rowers the entire way. If they have any naval defense positioned there, you will be at a great disadvantage.”

  A clear, strong voice rang out, “Ships! Trojan ships!”

  Achilles, shielding his eyes from the sun, assessed the dark specks in the distance. “Aye, ships. So, Priam seeks to engage us on the water.”

  “Can you blame him?” Telephus asked.

  “If I were Priam, I would do the same. Patrokles, tell the archers to ready their bows. We row directly ahead. We will show Priam what the Myrmidons can do.”

  Achilles’ second-in-command nodded, disappearing to carry out his lord cousin’s orders.

  “He is quiet, that one,” King Telephus noted.

  “Patrokles?” Achilles laughed. “He is never quiet. His words are forever buzzing in my ears.”

  The King of Tenedos clapped Achilles on the shoulder. “I suppose a good second should be honest with his lord. My son has plenty of words for me. Many of them I wish he would keep to himself. But, alas, he is right on occasion.”

  “So, too, is Patrokles. On occasion.”

  Telephus shrugged. “Have you considered what you will do if you cannot take the city behind the wall?”

  “No.”

  “You have no contingency plans? No plans for retreat?”

  Achilles’ eyes, burning deep blue ice, bored through Telephus. “I will take Troy. By fire, by blood … I will not leave this land until I have razed that fucking city to the ground, or I am burned to ashes before its Great Wall.”

  Hektor watched from the stronghold as the Greek ships with their black sails loomed larger and larger on the horizon. He had been told the united navies would storm their shores with a thousand ships, and he had not believed it, until this moment. A sliver of dread threaded through him. He remembered his mother’s soft voice; she had kissed the top of his head …

  “Someday you shall be a great warrior, my little Hektor, breaker of horses, my golden prince.”

  Pulling tightly on the reins of Ares, the black warhorse he’d trained with his entire life reared up, shaking his mighty head. “Again, we ride into battle together, my faithful friend.”

  Now, with the enemy in plain sight, Hektor methodically pushed all thoughts of family aside, calling forth the fierce commander the Trojan army expected. He barked orders to Paris, “Get the war-speakers. Tell the Mysian and Phrygian commanders to ready their archers with ours. Deiphobus and I will take the shield-bearers and spearmen, positioning them behind your lines. When the Greeks get passed our fleet, they will fly on their warships, plowing them into the sand. We will be waiting to greet them.”

  “Do you think we can hold them at the beachhead, brother?” Paris asked, never taking his eyes from the dark sails.

  “I do not know. They have burned and looted every city to get to us.” Silently, he thought, To get that whore, Helen. The Golden Prince refrained from uttering commentary about the Spartan queen because he needed his brother fully present for the immanent engagement, not muddled and conflicted by guilt. “We must hold to our strategy. The best way to secure our city is to defeat them before they gain a foothold on our land. If we must fall back, we must reach the plain. The rest of our army and the chariots, with our allied hosts, will be waiting. On the plain, our numbers are too great for these western bastards. Make sure the war-speakers understand.”

  Paris nodded, dug his heels into his horse, and wheeled toward his troops. “As you command, brother,” he hollered over his shoulder.

  After his younger brother was out of sight, Hektor turned his full attention on the enemy’s approach. A fervent whisper escaped his lips, “Apollo, be with us.” The Golden Prince watched the sun descending into late afternoon. He swore the blinding orb moved more slowly now with the impending battle.

  Paris set his archers, five lines deep, at the water’s edge. If their flaming missiles could reach the ships, killing the rowers as well as armed men before they could fully beach and disembark, they might gain an advantage. “Archers!” he bellowed above the sound of the crashing surf. “They will row their hard ships up to meet us. Their fearsome prows will drive into our shores. They will try to run us down. But we will not run! We will stand our ground! This is our land! Ready your bows! For Troy!”

  The archers’ voices rose in unison above the wind and sea, as they notched their arrows. “For Troy!”

  The first wave of ships, with their black sails unfurled in the following wind, bore down on the shore with the speed of the gods. White water foamed before each ship, the pointed bows plowing the water with ease. The tide pulled at the Trojans’ feet. “Archers! Hold!” Paris bellowed as he
charged down the line. He eyed the swift moving ships, marking their speed and distance, and calculated the wind’s direction and strength. “Steady! Hold! High!”

  The first row of archers leaned back, aiming their lethal points into the blue heaven. The crashing of the enemy ships through the waves was a deafening sound filling each man with dread.

  “Loose!” Paris yelled. And the air sang with a thousand arrows, curving toward Apollo and descending with deadly force ripping flesh from bone, tearing eyes from sockets, and spewing blood into Poseidon’s watery grave. “Loose!” Paris ordered. Again, the air sang the Trojans’ song of death.

  And Greeks fell into the sea, but still their ships plowed the water. The rain of arrows, a ceaseless cascade of death, did not stop Achilles and his Myrmidons. When the bows of their dark ships, painted with fierce lions and screaming falcons, reached the shallows the swordsmen with shields in hand leapt from the ships into the churning surf. The shore shook with the hulls beaching high into the sand. Wading through bodies and water swirling with blood, the Myrmidons charged the Trojans. Paris called his lines to retreat and Hektor’s troops emerged to greet the invaders with shields, spears, swords, and heavy horses.

  From the west flank, the Trojan allies charged. The mighty Cycnus of Colonae and his army bore down on the Golden Warrior’s host. Cycnus, beloved of Poseidon the Earth Shaker, moved with fantastic strength and skill. The Water God’s power surged through him as he swung his giant sword, slashing his foes with deft and deadly strokes. His blade flashed in Apollo’s light as he sliced through the Black Shields one and two at a time, his death strokes catching the eye of the Myrmidon commander.

  A wicked smile crept to Achilles’ lips before he launched himself over the dead, heaped in piles along the shore. His heels kicked up showers of blood and sand as he sprinted toward Cycnus. Achilles closed the space between them, and as he neared the foreign commander-king, he screamed, “It is your day to die!”