The King of Colonae spun to face Achilles just as the Golden Warrior’s sword, like lightning, arched above him, heralding his death. But Cycnus, imbued with Poseidon’s strength, dove to safety with Achilles’ sword drawing only a thin line of blood on his ankle.
“You will not escape Hades so easily,” Achilles seethed, his anger pulsing red behind his eyes.
Cycnus, gripping the hilt of his sword and positioning his shield with his left hand, sneered at Achilles. “I do not fear you!”
Without retort, Achilles sprang into the air, heavy sword leveled at his foe. They clashed, the metal of Achilles’ blade singing sharply as it hammered Cycnus’ bronze shield. Achilles spun, swinging wide his own shield until he was at his enemy’s side. Again, he brought down his blade with lethal force, and once more Cycnus absorbed the blow. Sparks flew as each ferocious blow, quick as lightning, sought to end the life of the other.
Achilles, hair flying about his shoulders, threw down his shield and pulled a second sword from the chest of a corpse at his feet. He began the deadly onslaught against Cycnus, raining blow upon blow on the Colonaean’s shield, until finally his enemy’s arm began to tire. He circled like a mighty lion, and found his enemy’s weakness. Striking swiftly, Achilles swept Cycnus’ feet from under him; he landed heavily on his back, losing his shield with his footing. The Golden Warrior fell on his foe, straining muscle and bone as they grappled on the sand. Cycnus twisted under Achilles’ lethal grasp. Finally, Achilles’ fingers found the thin space between Cycnus’ helmet strap and chin. He pulled back with all his might, stretching his opponent’s neck until he heard it snap and crack. He pushed the body roughly from his grasp.
The Captain of the Black Shields stood surveying the carnage on the shore. Bodies floated face down, trapped in the shallow surf. Corpses lay strewn across the sand as far as his eyes could see. He turned toward the sea as a fresh wave of Agamemnon’s troops leapt from their ships to reinforce the battle at the Trojan Harbor. As the newly arriving Greeks roared their battle cries into the wind, the Trojans and their allies were in fast retreat. Agamemnon’s men shouted after them.
“You fucking cowards!”
“Trojan cunts!”
“Run home and suck your mother’s tit!”
“They run like women!”
But the men covered in the blood and gore of battle shouted for their captain. A chant of, “Achilles!” rose above the clamor, growing louder and louder until his name turned into a deafening roar. “ACHILLES! ACHILLES! ACHILLES!” Spears and swords hammered against shields, adding to the thunderous noise.
Aboard his ship, with its wide hull barely breaking the sand, Agamemnon seethed. The first word winging through the wind and falling on his ear, in his mind, was an omen of things to come. Achilles. Always that fucking Phthian.
Hektor wheeled Ares around, looking back toward the harbor, as the cry of his enemy’s victory carried on the wind. He’d heard the songs about the Golden Warrior, and for the second time that day, his eyes forced him to believe the impossible. He didn’t know if he possessed the strength to defeat Achilles, but he knew that to save Troy, he must. He reached a hand to pat Ares gently on the neck. “Together, my old friend, we will conquer Achilles.”
Hektor’s body shivered with vision.
A sliver of light, a shimmering sword arched high, a cloud of golden dust and blood …
FIFTEEN
TROY
1248 BCE
The sky darkened with clouds as Apollo’s trail faded, stretching thin, golden fingers across the heavens. Standing above the city on the rampart of the Great Wall, Priam could see the campfires of the allied troops scattered across the Trojan plain like orange stars. He stood in silence, hoping that his army’s efforts would soon drive the Greeks back to the sea, back to the accursed lands they sprang from. As messengers arrived through the gates, one by one, the news of fallen men reached their families. The wailing of the women had begun hours ago, and continued to grow with the deepening of night.
King Priam sighed heavily with the strain of knowing this would be no easy victory. They had not defeated the invading host at the beach, and in all likelihood, the battle on the plain would be worse, the casualties more numerous than he cared to consider.
“Father.”
The king turned, facing Hektor. He opened his arms wide, tears filling his eyes. “My son.”
The Golden Prince, still covered in the grime and gore of battle, embraced his father. “Apologies, I did not come sooner. The men―”
“No apologies. I am told you fought bravely. All my sons fought bravely.” The king held his son at arm’s length, taking in the measure of his wholeness. “These Greeks have left a wake of destruction and fear behind them. They will not do the same here. Troy will not fall before the likes of them.”
“Not as long as I have breath,” Hektor said.
Priam looked his eldest son in the eyes, seeing the blue fire burning brightly in them, and knew the truth of it in his heart. “I have no doubt that with you leading our army; Troy will be victorious in the end.”
Hektor joined his father on the rampart walk. Night had fallen, bringing the darkness and the silent fears that follow in its wake. The mourning songs continued, sending the sound of hearts cleft by grief to the stars above. The prince wiped a tear on the back of his hand. “We lost many brave men. I saw Achilles …” Hektor’s voice trailed into the night.
“The rumors are true, then?” Priam asked, cautiously.
“Aye, they are true. He fights like a god possessed. His spear flies with a will of its own.” I will have to face him. Defeat him.
“Do you fear him?”
“I would be a fool not to,” Hektor said, quietly contemplating such a fight. “He has the gods on his side as much as we do.”
The king placed a trembling hand on his son’s shoulder. “Troy is at your command, Prince Hektor, Guardian of the Wall, Defender of the City.”
Hektor carried a small lantern as he made his way through the winding streets of the upper city, crowded now with people forced from their lands by the onslaught of Agamemnon’s raids from the east and Achilles’ forays in the south.
Is nowhere safe? The familiar paths he’d taken since his youth, streets packed by market stalls draped with colorful banners and a thriving commerce of Trojan subjects, were now obscured by makeshift tents housing forlorn families. The sound of weeping woman and children filled the air—the sound of men conspicuously absent. Small fires burning in clay urns cast a dim and dreary light on the streets. What has become of my city? How have I defended it? He stopped an old man carrying a basket of bread in the crook of his arm. “Do you know where the sick are tended?”
The old man’s vacant eyes, rimmed red and swollen, squinted at him, sizing up his unkempt armor. He finally pointed a shaking finger behind him. “Did you fight in the battle this morning?” he asked, not recognizing his prince shadowed by nightfall.
“Aye, I did,” Hektor answered.
“It will only get worse,” the old man stated in a voice utterly devoid of hope. “War brings death. There is no glory there for men.” He walked on his way, slow, steady steps, planting one foot in front of the other into the darkness.
Hektor sighed and walked on in the direction the man pointed. Before long, the street opened into an agora crowded with the injured and sick. He passed through, unrecognized in the filth of battle and shadows, listening to the people and their woes. He noted their weary state, their desperation for food and clothing, and their whispers of hope that the Prince of Troy would save them from the madness gripping the land.
My people …
When he finally made it to the private residence he shared with Andromache, away from palatial eyes and ears, he pulled the heavy iron bar across the thick-timbered courtyard gate shut behind him. Home. He wished to lock out the unrecognizable world for a brief moment. Hektor could hear his wife singing softly from inside. He closed his eyes, committing the
sound of her sweet voice to memory, knowing that some day soon she would have nothing but the bitterness of ash on her tongue.
The old man’s words haunted him. There is no glory there for men. He glanced around the garden. Olive trees with silvery tipped leaves canopied the courtyard from the heat of the day. Large urns of vines and flowers lined the inner walls. A ring of stone benches circled a huge fire pit. How many evenings have we laughed beneath the stars? A private fountain provided their water and soothed the air with its soft cascade. No glory, only death. He sank onto a stone bench beneath an arbor covered in verdant vines.
He heard a clay pot hit the crushed stone behind him with a soft thud, and turned in time to see his wife leap the few steps between them and into his arms, sobbing and smiling. Andromache kissed his sweaty face and neck and his grimy hands, ruining her gown against the dried blood and filth of his armor. Tears fell like rain down her cheeks.
“I am unharmed,” he said, reassuringly. “Dry your eyes, my love.”
“Is it over? Have they gone? What happened? Hundreds are streaming into the city. Why did you not come sooner?”
Hektor took both her hands in his, kissing her fingertips. “I promise. I am fine.”
“But what of the invaders? Have they fled back to their ships? Back to their kingdoms across the sea?”
“No, my love. They did not.”
Tears spilled from Andromache’s eyes once more. “So, war continues?”
“Aye.” He kissed her forehead. “But do not fear. We will drive them from our lands one way or another. Pray the gods make it soon, my love. No more talk of war.”
Lifting his wife from her feet, Hektor carried her inside like he did the day they wed. He passed down a long hall flickering with fresh torches, until he reached their chamber. After setting Andromache down, he presented his shoulder to her. With deft fingers, she unbuckled one strap then the other. Hektor held the heavy bronze cuirass against his chest, as he slowly lowered it until it clanged dully against the floor. The prince moved to the edge of their bed and his wife knelt before him, undoing the straps of his greaves, slipping them one from his chiseled calves. She pushed them aside, then unlaced his leather sandals and tossed them aside as well.
Standing between his thickly muscled thighs in her ruined gown, she gazed up into his face; even sitting he towered over her. “Where is your helmet?” she asked, brushing a lock of dark curls from his face.
“Destroyed.” He shrugged. “I left it in the royal armory.” Hektor placed a finger beneath her chin, tilting it up. He kissed his wife softly, tasting the salt of her dried tears on her lips, inhaling the jasmine of her hair.
Home. She is my home. The day had been long and his spirit heavy with the loss of men. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he needed her sweetness to balance the horror of the day.
Hektor wrapped his arms around her waist. Smashing her slender frame into his chest, he let his hands drift to her rounded buttocks and squeezed them with his aching fingers. He kissed her more deeply and with greater urgency. “I need you, Andromache, as I need no other.” His tender words brushed against her ear.
“And I you,” she said.
The prince pulled his chiton over his head, dropping it to the floor. Andromache tenderly kissed his chest, carefully avoiding the fresh bruises.
“Woman …”
“Shah, my lord,” she whispered, as her lips brushed the dark curls of his chest. Placing a hand on his chest, she pushed him gently back into their bed, smiling down at his surprise. She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, her gown flowing across the bed. Andromache reached a hand to her hair, pulled the pins holding her curls, and tossed them to the floor without care. She smiled back at her husband’s knowing grin, and leaned down to offer her love in a passionate kiss. The long, dark waves of her hair fell about them like a veil, blocking out the tumultuous world of war.
The sound of metal singing and men and horses screaming faded from Hektor’s thoughts, as his wife’s presence filled him with longing. His hands, rough from battle, caressed her hips through her gown. There is no glory there for men. Andromache’s lips found his ears, the side of his neck. As she rained soft and tender kisses on his bruised chest, hot tears slid from the corners of his eyes. He wiped them with the palm of his hand.
“My lord?” Andromache asked, quietly.
“It is nothing,” he said, huskily. I am home.
Andromache undid the silver pins at her shoulders and her gown fell away, exposing her breasts. Then she pulled it over her head and tossed it to the floor with all their other clothing.
“You are glorious, my love,” Hektor said, taking in the curve of her breasts and hips with hungry eyes.
“As you are to me.” She leaned down to kiss him once again, as she guided his hardness into her soft flesh. Moved by her gratefulness for his safe return, she made love to her husband with abandon. Her sweet groans enflamed Hektor’s increasing passion.
Andromache, hair flowing about her shoulders, sat up, leaning back into their union. Hektor reached up to touch her breasts as she rode him to ecstasy. When she collapsed against his chest, he rolled her over, taking his own pleasure. Together they fell back into their marital bed, legs tangled and toes touching.
Hektor cradled his wife in the crook of his arms, and kissed her forehead. “You are my safe harbor,” he whispered against her hair, as they fell asleep. There is only glory in her arms.
Agamemnon walked the perimeter of his camp, observing the line of trenches being dug and the palisades being erected to protect their beachhead position at the Trojan Harbor. Menelaus, ever his shadow, grimly walked beside his elder brother. Campfires burned close to the shoreline, and soldiers gathered around them drinking strong wine and bragging about the fight. The Great King knew the war was far from over and hoped the united host had the stamina for a gruesome battle, or a bitterly long siege.
“The wounded are being tended?” Agamemnon asked.
“They are,” Menelaus answered.
“I want an envoy sent to Priam to demand the return of Helen.”
Menelaus reached for his brother’s arm, his fat ringed fingers digging into Agamemnon’s flesh. “Do you think it wise?”
“It is the proper course.”
“Who will you send?” Menelaus asked, dread already knotting in his stomach. He feared for his life.
Agamemnon halted, narrowing his eyes at his younger brother. “You will go, of course. Your honor demands it. And Odysseus. His tongue is honeyed. Priam’s rusty ears may hear him over your whining. When you return, I will call all the captains to council. We need clear strategy for the next battle and the taking of geras.”
“What if Priam returns Helen?” Menelaus asked, confused that his brother would send an envoy and plan for siege with the same breath.
“Even if Priam was weak enough to send Helen back to us, do you think this army, my army, will be satisfied? Already men have lost too much to return home with empty palms. No, we will raid the Troad lands until our ships fair sink with gold and slaves.”
“As you wish, brother.” Menelaus knew he was in no position to argue.
Odysseus and Menelaus sat astride their horses, wiping the sweat from their eyes as Apollo’s light beat down upon their heads. Sweat trickled and itched beneath their finely spun woolen chitons, the only padding between their skin and the hot bronze cuirasses strapped across their chests. The sea below the cliff violently surged and crashed against jagged rocks, filling the air with a faint salty mist that provided no relief at all. Beside them, two soldiers stood holding aloft the blood red banners of Agamemnon.
The Trojan entourage arrived well passed the appointed hour. King Priam, with his brilliant azure and gold threaded cape billowing behind him, maneuvered his silver stallion between a dozen heavily armed cavalry and chariots. Hektor sat tall and proud at the king’s right. They halted a short distance from the Greeks.
“You have found my harbor,�
� King Priam said tersely.
“It is our harbor now,” Menelaus replied, irritated at the lengthy wait to parley.
Priam looked to his men, then back at Menelaus. “What negotiation are you here to discuss, King of Sparta?”
Before Menelaus could reply, Odysseus interrupted, “King Priam, we only wish to see a wrong set right.”
The King of Troy leaned forward, gently running his hand across his stallion’s strong neck. “And who are you to address me so?”
“Odysseus, King of Ithaka.”
Priam said, “Speak, then.”
“My lord, Menelaus wishes that his wife be returned to him. She was taken from his palace while he was away attending a funeral.” Odysseus carefully avoided the name of Paris.
Priam straightened. “To hear Helen speak, she came of her own volition.”
Odysseus nodded, but countered, “She may have. We will give you that. But her marriage vows bind her to Menelaus and Sparta. We only ask for her return. That she serves her rightful place as Queen of Sparta.”
“I suppose you wish the gold returned as well?” Priam sneered.
Menelaus, his face red and blotched with rising anger, roared, “It is my gold! She stole it from my treasury. That bitch had no right to take anything from Sparta!”
“Herakles had no right to claim my sister, Hesione, all those years ago. Kill my entire family. Helen is just reparation for those Greek offenses.”
“Is there any offer we can make that you would accept?” Odysseus asked.
“None,” Priam answered.
Poseidon’s fury sounded below them while the piercing cries of sea birds filled the sky above them. Odysseus responded carefully, “Your refusal means war.”
“So be it.” Priam wheeled his silver, shouting over his shoulder, “Break your bones and spill your blood against the Great Wall of Troy.”
Odysseus and Menelaus stared after King Priam and his men riding off at a hard gallop back to their encampment. For a long moment neither man said a word.
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 11