“They have chariots,” Odysseus said.
“I have eyes,” Menelaus countered, defensively.
The King of Ithaka shifted on his horse. “I hope she is worth all the blood that will be spilled in the coming days.”
“You would not understand,” Menelaus said quietly.
“On that we agree, Menelaus. I will never understand a man’s desire for a whore.” Odysseus dug his heels into his mount and left the King of Sparta behind him in a cloud of dust.
Achilles stood in the entrance of a healing tent watching Patrokles stitching up a deep gash in a soldier’s shoulder. “Your skill is improving.”
“I learn quickly.” Patrokles didn’t look up from his patient; his eyes remained focused on the evenness of each threaded pull. “Cannot have his arm swelling with foulness.”
Achilles stepped into the dimly lit tent, letting the flap close behind him. “No. We will need the combined hosts of Agamemnon and the Myrmidons to defeat the Trojans on the plain.”
“I was not expecting them to retreat, after such a fierce engagement,” Patrokles said, as he wrapped the man’s wound. “The army, not just the Myrmidons, would have followed you after the fleeing Trojans. Why not chase the cowards down?”
“I thought it prudent to leave some of the fight for the Fat King,” Achilles said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “It is his war after all.”
Patrokles grinned widely at his cousin. “Up, man. Try not to use the arm, if you can. You will tear the stitched flesh apart.”
“Gratitude, Patrokles. I will not forget the care. A word to you, Achilles?” the man said.
“Speak, for apparently you fought bravely this afternoon. You deserve at least that much.”
“Do not underestimate Hektor. Nor the allied Trojan forces.”
The Golden Warrior eyed the man carefully, now noticing the ribbons of fresh scars across the man’s chest and legs. “Who are you? You are no Myrmidon. I know each of my men by name.”
“No, my lord. I am Korei, my lord. I fight for King Telephus. Not that long ago, I faced you and your Myrmidons on the fields of Tenedos.”
“You must have fought bravely indeed to still be standing. Very well, then. You know these Trojans?”
“I do.”
“What should we fear the most?” Achilles asked.
“Their chariots, my lord. I see you westerners have but a few. On the plain, their chariots will cut through your army as a farmer swinging a scythe to wheat.”
“My Myrmidons will be prepared,” Achilles said
Korei nodded. “Then, I will take my leave, my lord. Patrokles, you have my gratitude.”
Achilles studied the man as he left and crossed his arms over his chest. “He could be a Myrmidon, unless I miss the mark.”
Patrokles, cleaning up his work, remained silent but nodded agreement.
Achilles walked across the tented area. “Cousin, I would ask you something in confidence.”
“By the balls of Zeus, he addresses me with the blood tie! You have a gambling debt to pay?” Patrokles laughed.
Achilles clasped his hands behind his back. “In that respect, you and I are not alike. I want to know about Helen.”
The humor in Patrokles’ voice faded quickly to seriousness. “What of her?”
“I am the only captain here who has not laid eyes on her. I was too young when the call for suitors went out.”
Rising, Patrokles stretched his limbs. “You are the better for it. Do not wish for curses. Every man having beheld her countenance or inhaled her essence will eternally ache for that sweet treasure between her thighs.”
“No woman has that power over Achilles.”
“I warn you, cousin, do not be tempted by such desires. It will only bring you pain and suffering.”
“Life is only pain and suffering,” Achilles replied. “I want to see with my own eyes what it is we fight for. Why we spill the blood of good men. My men. Our brothers.”
“I understand why you wish it so, but it is a dream, is it not? If Helen would come down from that high wall, just so you could inspect her treasures, then we could end the war in that moment.”
“I have a means to the end.”
Patrokles stood eye to eye with his cousin. “Thetis. You mean to ask your mother?”
“Yes, that is precisely what I intend to do.”
“And if she will not?”
Achilles unleashed his most brilliant smile. “She cannot refuse the wish of her dying son.”
“Your spirit is far from winging its way to the Gates of Hades, cousin.” Patrokles, with his physician’s eye, examined Achilles head to foot. “You bear not even a scratch from battle.”
Achilles shrugged. “We will see what the Fates have planned.”
Achilles sat at the shore far from the beached ships, the tide washing gently over his bare feet with his thoughts bent on his mother. The sky purpled with the rise of the moon and the blinking of stars before he saw the ripples heralding the arrival of Thetis. As a silver mist, she rose from the deep blue and frosted waves, gliding effortlessly to the shore. She moved through the shallow surf, elegant and shimmering, her long black hair slick and shielding her nudity. When she walked, her feet left the slightest impression on the wet sand. She smiled warmly at her magnificent golden son.
“Had I not birthed you, my son, I would mistake you for a god.”
Achilles stood, extending his hand to Thetis. “Shah, Mother. You wish to bring the wrath of the Olympians upon my head?”
“They are not listening.”
“You should know better, my sweet mother. They are always listening, waiting for the moment to strike some plan or other into motion.”
Thetis ran her hand across her son’s handsome face, the squared jaw, the strong bridge of his nose. “That you have chosen to leave this world …”
“I cannot live an inglorious life … have my name fade into nothingness. You know I was meant for war. For glory.” He held out his hands, spanning his fingers wide. “These were not meant to guide a plow, but to grip a sword and kill.”
Thetis pulled his hands to her lips, softly kissing the backs of her son’s knuckles. “No, they are the hands of a warrior. I know what you were born for, but it does not lessen the pain in my heart, my fear of living in a world without you.”
“Return to Peleus, Mother.”
Brushing aside the suggestion, Thetis asked, “What troubles you, that you call me so soon into the war?”
“I wish to see this Helen of Sparta. I want to hold the face that launched an entire world across the sea with my own eyes.”
“That is a request not so easily granted, even for a son so loved.”
Achilles shrugged. “Perhaps, Patrokles was right. It is an impossible request.” Then, he smiled at his mother. “But, nothing stands in the way of Thetis.”
The nymph narrowed her eyes at her striking son. That his days on earth were numbered so short, she felt she could not refuse. “I will speak with Aphrodite. She favors Helen of Troy for some reason.”
The Golden Warrior kissed his mother on the forehead. “Gratitude. You have never failed me.”
Thetis’ joy faded slightly from her lips. “I failed you when I did not complete the ritual.”
“Shah, Mother. Immortality of flesh matters not to me.”
The nymph released her son’s hands and returned to the sea, the water slowly enveloping her shimmering form until even the ripples faded to nothing beneath the silver of the moon.
SIXTEEN
SPARTA
1248 BCE
Queen Leda stood on the west-facing balcony of her chamber, watching the slow descent of Apollo’s glory. The wispy fingers of clouds beneath the heavens passed from rose to rust as the god’s light bathed the world before her in a golden glow. Her heart ached for her daughters—strong women, cast into the labyrinth of men’s lies and machinations of power. She prayed to no gods on behalf of Clytemnestra or Helen. To pray for m
ercy, for aid, for justice would only call down their divine attention, and that she feared would be far worse.
The gods had provided no protection for her family, she reasoned silently, why would they begin now? She appeared, as was expected, with supplications and offerings at the temples of Athena and Apollo, avoiding the house of Zeus. Whispers of the divine blood of Pollux and Helen continued, yet she remained silent, holding her head proudly in the public eye. The god had taken enough of her mortal flesh, raped her body and her heart of joy, and she would not offer more. She did pray, however, that if Zeus should ever desire her again, that Gaia would open up and swallow her whole.
Her thoughts turned to her granddaughter, Hermione, abandoned by Helen for that foreigner, the Prince of Troy. For the very breath of her, she couldn’t understand what Helen had hoped to gain from such drastic measures. From her observations, her daughter had mastered her world, learning early and easily how her beauty was both a weapon and a shield. Menelaus practically fell over himself in her presence, giving in to Helen’s every desire.
But what of the child, the Princess of Sparta, whose father, busy with war, had also abandoned the girl? Tyndareus was already plotting, she knew, to reposition the bargain he’d struck with Agamemnon years ago that placed Menelaus on the throne of Sparta.
Tyndareus had raged and roared, when word came to him that Menelaus had sailed for Troy. “That fucking weak bastard! He could not even keep Helen safe from herself! He would let the whole of Sparta fall into ruin, or worse, to chase that pretty cunt across the sea. No woman is worth so much!”
Leda had cringed at the words and the sentiment behind them. She partially blamed herself for keeping Helen at arm’s length, for not being a more doting mother, for fearing Zeus’ continued interference more than loving her daughter. In truth, she kept all her children a safe distance from her heart. She loved them, but was fearful of showing her devotion for fear the gods would strike that joy from her life as well. To them, she appeared cold and iron-hearted, but beneath she burned with passion and love for all her children, those by Zeus and Tyndareus.
“I will undo what I have done with that imbecile,” he’d said, as he prepared the letter to Menelaus. “I will tell him what will be done in Sparta. Let him try to stop me.”
“What of Agamemnon?” Leda had asked.
“What of that fat prick? He is no better. Taking the whole of his army and navy to bring back a whore.”
“She is our daughter,” Leda had defended Helen.
Tyndareus had ceased his pacing at that, turned and stared into her eyes, anger and loathing clearly evident. “No daughter of mine would abandon Sparta.”
Leda had remained silent at that, for she had no defense—Zeus had fathered Helen. Tyndareus loved Helen as a pawn in his game of thrones, but he did not love her as flesh of his flesh, as she did.
She sighed. Time changed nothing. If her husband was successful, he would reclaim Sparta and unite it with Mycenae under his name, usurping the thrones of Agamemnon and Menelaus with a single maneuver. She smiled to herself, knowing Clytemnestra would fight her father to maintain her grip on Mycenae.
Caster, eyeing the cattle in the distance, tapped his brother on the shoulder. “Idas and Lynkeus will soon be short a few head of their herd.”
“They will be insulted,” Pollux smirked. “Reduced to less than women. We will be richly rewarded by father.”
“What do we wait for? The moon casts light enough to guide us, and there is shadow enough to hide us.”
The brothers moved stealthily from bramble to tree line, following the herd settling in for the night. Just then, the whoosh of an arrow passed Caster’s ear, as it landed firmly in a tree behind him. “The balls of Zeus!” he cursed between clenched teeth. “They know we are here.”
Pollux pulled a dagger from his belt. “Fuck them both.” And fearing no arrows in the dark, he stood, rushing the short distance between their position and the direction of the projectile. Caster followed suit, not wishing to be left behind or miss any of the fighting. The brothers leapt into the shadows and wrestled their opponents to the ground. In the darkness, hands grabbed and punched at air and cracked bone. Soon, each brother was tangled with an adversary. Blood sprayed the night’s breath, curses flew to the heavens, and death hovered silently above them unseen, but waiting.
“I know you by the stench! I will have you, Idas!” Caster spat, as Idas’ fingers frantically searched the ground.
“Not if I can help it, thief!” He laughed as his fist closed over a rock, and he slammed it against Caster’s temple, stunning him to his knees. Idas quickly grabbed for an arrow from the quiver at his hip, but it was empty. “Gods!” He realized instantly the arrows had fallen to the ground in the fight. Idas could see Caster’s outline rising slowly, as he frantically searched for a weapon in the darkness. As Caster rushed him, Idas touched an arrow shaft, quickly clenching it in his fist. He spun from Caster’s charge and shoved the arrow deep into Caster’s back, pushing with all his strength past the rib bones and into the muscle.
Caster, dizzy from the blow, gasped, looking down in surprise at the bloody tip sticking out from his chest. “Pollux,” he said, as his legs buckled beneath him. Then he laughed. “I am run through by an arrow.” Blood gurgled over his bottom lip. “A fucking arrow.”
Pollux turned to see his brother falling lifeless to the earth, his blood staining the dirt blacker than the surrounding night beneath him. “Noooooo!” he screamed, as the dormant rage of Zeus ignited in his blood. Behind his eyes, lightning flashed and then he saw only red death before him. In a breath, he rushed Idas like an enraged bull, dragging Lynkeus, futilely kicking behind him, by the hair.
With a balled fist, he crashed Idas on the chin, knocking him off balance. Bone crunched. Idas’ blood sprayed Pollux across the face. Pollux stepped forward and backhanded his brother’s murderer with the same lethal fist. Lynkeus, still struggling to find his footing, screamed as Pollux kicked him to the ground, ripping his hair from his scalp. Lynkeus shrieked in pain as the skin on his head flapped about, blood pouring over his eyes, blinding him. Pollux tossed the gory flesh from his hand and fell heavily on Idas now with both hands, reining crashing blow after blow until Idas’ head broke like an amphora spilling all its wine. With an arm raised and crimson fist ready, Pollux arched all his anger and then froze, his face contorting strangely. He fell back without a sound, Lynkeus’ sword point sticking crookedly from his chest.
Lynkeus, blood smearing his face and stinging his eyes, fell to his knees. “Fuck Sparta.” Then he, too, slid to the ground, his eyes wide open and his body unmoving.
SEVENTEEN
SPARTA
1248 BCE
Dusk spread out in darkness, stretching the grey beyond the line of Gaia, her heavy edge curving passed sight. Apollo’s descending light broke through the shadowy eve in thin golden streaks, as Leda’s grief weighed her heart to the ground. Yet she walked on aimlessly, one foot falling in front of the other. There was nowhere she wished to be, no breath she wished to take, no life she wished to live, especially not her own. The bright stars scattered across the heavens, sparkling in their glory, were less in number than the tears sliding down her ashen cheeks. She walked until her legs would carry her no more, and she collapsed mindless of the hard ground, scraping through her gown and bloodying her knees. She wept freely now, cursing life and death and all the gods.
Clouds circling the high peak of Olympus could not shield Zeus from the pitiful mourning of Leda for her sons, for Clytemnestra, for Helen. He knew the depth of her misery was at his hand, for he had used her to create Helen, fulfilling the plan of Themis. He had swept Pollux up at his death, breathing immortality into his decaying flesh. When the god could stand the wailing no more, he slipped quietly from the heavens to Leda’s side. “Daughter, why are you weeping?”
Leda’s eyes flew open. She scrambled backwards, fear clutching her breast, stifling her grief momentarily.
&nbs
p; The god stood, towering above the woman crouched at his feet, shivering with apprehension. His silver hair floated around his shoulders, his skin shimmering in the pale moonlight, and he reached to comfort the distraught mortal. With a cold finger, he lifted her delicate chin to his face. He recognized the awe and horror in her eyes.
Leda stammered, “Wh-what more d-do you w-want? You have taken all from me.” Her shoulders slumped with her wretchedness and weariness of doom, of treacheries and betrayals. “I can bear no more.” Leda turned her face away. “Do what you will to me. I care no more for anything.”
“I have not taken all,” Zeus replied, his voice gentled by his own regrets. He thought of Thetis, in that moment, gentle Thetis. Her long, black hair flowing about her body like a dark wave, and her red lips like pomegranates, her soft hands and delicate feet still haunted him. He knew loss and pain, for he loved the nymph who was forever denied to him. In his agony and anger, he had roughly taken this mortal for a second time in the guise of a giant swan, to satisfy his grief and the prophecies to come.
“I do not understand?” Leda whispered hoarsely, her misery clinging to every word.
“Pollux remains in this world, daughter, an immortal.”
Leda slowly shook her head, blinking disbelief from her eyes. “And what of Caster? Where is my other son?”
“Where mortals dwell when they pass through the flesh and bone of this life. Caster resides in the Underworld. Soon, his company will be the greatest heroes who have ever lived.”
Leda began weeping again, one beloved boy in the clouded realm beyond her embrace and one a wraith in the realm of shadows. “They have lived their entire lives side by side, from my womb to death, and now, you separate them in the afterlife for all eternity? You are the cruelest of all the gods.” The aging queen no longer cared if she lived or died, if the god struck her with blazing streaks of fire, cast her into Poseidon’s cold depths, or tore her limb from limb. “You have taken my entire family from me. Cursed my daughters into misery and shame. And now, deny my sons, my sons!” Pulling open her gown, she exposed her breasts now heavy with age, and raged and beat her chest. “I suckled them with life. I suckled them! My sons―” Her pain, choking her words, became a primal howl unleashed into the night.
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 12