Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  When Achilles finally entered the war tent with Patrokles on his right and the boy Nax trailing behind them with an amphora of wine tucked under each arm, the crowd quieted. The Captain of the Black Shields took the empty seat across from Agamemnon, and Patrokles pulled a vacant chair alongside Achilles. The god-like cousins sat directly across from a seething Agamemnon and his anxious brother.

  Palamedes approached Nax and whispered into his ear. Nax’s eyes rounded with fear, as he shook his head. Palamedes grabbed his arm, whispering again. Nax, moving slowly, stepped behind his master, his presence immediately acknowledge by his lord. “What is it, boy?”

  “Palamedes says Patrokles is to stand with the other seconds-in-command, my lord.”

  “Does he now?” Achilles’ tone was low and sharp. “And who is Palamedes? A slave, a dog that licks his master’s sandals?”

  Nax stood motionless, caught between his station and his lord.

  Agamemnon, already watching Achilles out of the corner of his eye, ceased his discourse with Nestor and turned his full attention to the developing uproar, his hatred of the Golden Warrior glinting clearly in the dark of his eyes. The captains hushed their conversations, while only Odysseus dared to laugh out loud.

  Achilles said, “Of all the seconds here standing, Patrokles alone is worthy of taking a seat among princes and kings. Our blood is the same.” He looked to Ajax of Salamis, daring a confrontation or objection. “Patrokles is as much cousin to me as that giant there.”

  Ajax nodded acknowledgement of that fact. “Indeed, our blood ties trace to Aeacus, who is brother to Actor and grandfather of Patrokles.”

  With that, the Prince of Phthia stood, addressing the entire gathering, “Is there a man standing who can boast of such a royal claim? Kin to Achilles and the mighty Ajax?”

  Ajax of Salamis grinned widely that his cousin would so publicly align himself with him, even if it was only to drive a point into Agamemnon’s brow.

  Sensing the rising conflict of power between the Great King and the headstrong Captain of the Black Shields, Nestor intervened. “We all acknowledge that Patrokles deserves a seat next to his lord, Achilles. It is well known throughout the camp that these two are rarely separated.”

  Odysseus said, “Exactly! Now, shall we turn our minds to purpose? We plan for a major battle. If we are not victorious, we will be forced to lay siege against Troy.” Thinking of the prophecy given him by the Oracle of Ithaka years before, he grit his teeth before adding, “And only the gods know the time it will take to accomplish a feat such as that. It has already been too long for most of us.”

  In the center of the table, a large square of fine sand was set with military markers representing the allied forces of Greece and Troy. It was clear to see they were largely outnumbered.

  Ajax of Locris was the first to speak on the size of the armies. “How will we defeat such a large army? They look to match or overwhelm us by sheer number.”

  “They have a host of Macedonians and Thracians!” Idomeneus said. “Never thought to see any westerners, although from the uncivilized north, to lay in with the Trojans.”

  “Our best scouts have counted no less than twelve kingdoms joined on the field behind Priam and Hektor. Abydos, Arisbe, Mysia, Phrygia. Caria. Lycia. And with the Hittites adding their sea of war chariots to Troy’s … they have even pulled a host of Paphlagonians from across the Euxine Sea,” Agamemnon stayed. “Their combined forces equal ours at roughly fifteen thousand.”

  “It is their numbers of chariots we need worry most about,” Ajax remarked, rubbing his chin.

  Achilles nodded his head. “Agreed. Chariots give them advantage. My Myrmidons are quick, light enough on their feet to leap and catch the charioteers by surprise, after the archers have done their best.” Achilles moved the black stones in the sand representing his Myrmidons. “You see, we will eliminate their chariot rows here and here on their left and circle around them. If Odysseus and Diomedes take the right and do the same, the remaining forces can push forward. We will pull them into the center, flank them on both sides.”

  For once, Agamemnon had no disagreement with Achilles’ proposal. “It is settled then. Let Achilles and his men take the chariots. We will follow his plan.” The words bittered his tongue even as he said them. “And take prisoners if you are able.”

  As the captains left for their respective camps to inform their armies of the plan, Odysseus pulled Palamedes stealthily a side. “I see how you stride about thinking you are above the rest of the servants because you serve Agamemnon. Do not think I have forgotten why I find myself across the world and already years parted from my wife and son. If I die tomorrow, have no doubt I will find a way to take you with me.”

  Palamedes met Odysseus’ hard glare, and although the young warrior king terrified him, he did not flinch. “Your threats do not frighten me. When I see you, I see only a man who sought to dishonor himself by breaking a sacred oath.”

  Apollo’s light pricked the dawn sky with gold and rose as the warring sides took position against each other. Agamemnon had exchanged his blood red cape for a lion’s skin, the great beast’s mane spread across his broad shoulders. He looked the regal, empowered king of the united western tribes standing in a gilded chariot, his charioteer a copper-skinned Egyptian by birth. He had command of the center infantry, archers and slingers. Glancing to his far left, he saw Achilles, his gold-helm plumed with black horse hair, standing a full head above the sea of black capes softly billowing in the cool morning breeze. He scowled knowing the Golden Warrior would lead the charge of his men, running and shouting alongside them. He would never be the equal of his men in such a way, nor revered. On his right, Odysseus in his purple sat astride a great grey war horse, his men braced shield to shield behind him. Alongside the king of Ithaka, Diomedes, young and fierce stood with the men, as Achilles did. Agamemnon knew that no king could ask for a better army than the one he had command of this morning. Even Achilles, that brazen cur, could not be faulted in warfare. He had no wish to be on a field opposite the ruthless Phthian.

  Hektor sat astride his faithful Ares, long in years, knowing this would be the last battle they would ride into together. The allied forces of Troy had brought their thin numbers to par with the western invaders. His many brothers had command of Trojan contingents, slingers, archers, and cavalry. But it was to the host of foreign chariots that he looked for victory. The invaders numbered few war-chariots among their combined hosts, and he knew this was Troy’s singular advantage. He could clearly see the Black Shields of Achilles, from his mounted position, lined in rows opposite the charioteers. We will cut them down before they have a chance to dig into our lines.

  The wind blew warmer and stronger as Apollo’s light rose. A murder of ravens, black specters against the pale blue, winged high above the impending melee. Banners snapped crisply in the air. Horses whinnied and nervously pawed at the earth. All the world of men was shrouded with an unnatural silence filling the wide space between the opposing armies, until Achilles began the call to war. Hektor watched as the golden giant hefted his great ash spear, a gift from Peleus, above his head and rode his grey and silver warhorse back and forth the front line of his men. His words were lost on the wind, but with their spears raised in answer the Myrmidons’ shouts carried across the chasm. Their voices, fierce and terrible, met the sky in a mighty roar, inspiring the entire host of western tribes to shout for victory and beat their swords and spears against their bronze shields blinking in the hot sun. Hektor held the reins of Ares tightly in one hand, cursing his fortune as he realized his men’s position was too close … and it was too late to reposition them.

  With blood pounding in his ears, the Trojan prince watched Achilles wheel his mount, geared in shining bronze and leather, to face the Trojans and their allies. It was an impressive and terrible sight to behold, the Myrmidons draped in black, wooden shields rimmed in bronze with spears hefted over their shoulders. The war chant rose. The infantry, under com
mand of Agamemnon, suddenly stepped back while archers, three lines deep, stepped forward, notching their arrows toward the heavens. In the blink of an eye, the song of arrows filled the sky. A second and third wave of deadly arrows followed closely, each barb a missile seeking to tear flesh from bone. Hundreds of startled Trojans fell screaming, pierced and bleeding, as the Myrmidons began their charge, their battle cry the thunderous roar of a thousand lions. Raising his arm, Hektor signaled for the war chariots; he would not release his arrows on his own men.

  Charioteers cracked their whips, spurring their horses into full gallop, clouds of dust rising behind them. The wheel wells whirled with long, wicked blades intending to cleave bone and flesh. With the charge before them, the Myrmidons roared headlong into battle. They flew with god-like speed, swords raised and voices booming, with capes flying and leapt at oncoming death. Achilles at full speed threw his spear with deft aim, striking the first charioteer through the skull. The warrior tried to grab the reins even as Achilles caught the wildly thrashing carriage at the sideboard, swinging himself into the platform. In one swift move, he plunged his sword into the chest of the wide-eyed man and pushed him to the ground where he was trampled by the tumult of war. Achilles grabbed the reins and brought the chariot under his command. Other Myrmidons would do the same and they would turn the war engines against those who’d sent them.

  Agamemnon rode his chariot into the Trojan horde. His giant sword slashed down on Trojan and foreign helms, cleaving heads from shoulders and arms from bodies. The agony of the dying filled the air behind him. Corpses littered the ground and the Great King crushed them beneath the heavy wheels of his chariot. The battlefield soon became slick with gore and blood. A Trojan speared the spokes of Agamemnon’s chariot, sending him into the air. The crimson-soaked earth quaked as he tumbled, losing his sword, but he would not be stopped. He rose with a bloodcurdling scream, a gash blinding him in one eye, and pulled a long blade from the chest of a corpse and began cutting a merciless path through the enemy. Bodies fell like sun bricks from a crumbling wall, as rage filled his chest and pounded behind his eyes.

  “You fucking cunts!” Agamemnon bellowed, crushing his enemy left and right. All around him, the infantry pushed and stabbed the Trojans and their allies.

  The battle continued even as Apollo’s light descended. Then, from the distance, the clear sound of horns blowing signaled the defenders to retreat. As the Trojans turned from the field, running back toward their camps, Agamemnon signaled his army to do the same. He knew the losses on both sides would bring prolonged mourning for all, and require days of funeral games set before the flaming pyres of the honored dead.

  The Great King looked to the heavens, now darkening with the pale purple of early evening. You deny us victory, condemning us to siege. His hopes of returning home within the season fell to dust.

  “Take the prisoners to the far edge of camp!” he ordered, climbing into his chariot and charging off the field.

  “My lord,” Palamedes said quietly.

  “I am awake,” Agamemnon growled, his body exhausted from battle but his mind allowed him no rest. “Bring me water.” He rose slowly, groaning with each movement. He walked across the soft, carpeted floor of his tent to his chair. He was aware that his men would not be waking with such sumptuous accommodations. Achilles’ sharp remarks hit their mark again. Silently, he cursed his envy of Achilles. His prowess as the Great King on the battlefield was not enough. He would never have the high regard of his men because he refused to live and eat as one of them.

  Palamedes returned with an amphora of water and poured his king a healthy bowl. “My lord.”

  Agamemnon took the proffered drink and drained it dry. “Another.” The dust of war had given him a terrible thirst. “Bring Odysseus and Nestor. Plans for slaves and supply must be made.”

  Palamedes shuddered thinking that he would again have to face Odysseus. But, when the war captains arrived, the weariness of battle yet evident in their eyes and on their faces, he served them fresh bread, roasted meat, and pale, honeyed wine as hospitality demanded.

  Odysseus asked Agamemnon straightaway, “You have called us here to plan for siege, have you not?”

  “Aye, I have,” the Great King replied. “The Trojans and their allies will not be defeated so easily … or so quickly.”

  Nestor drained his cup and set it down quietly. “My lord, the men across all our camps will not be pleased to hear such news.”

  “A fact I am aware of, councilor. We have come too far not to lay the siege against Troy. We must gather the wealth promised the men and establish our food supply.”

  Odysseus agreed. “We have nearly fifty captives who will fetch a good price back in Lemnos.”

  Agamemnon nodded. “That is a fair start. See that it is done. And, Nestor, you are charged with finding farms suitable for our needs. Seize whatever lands you must, make slaves of whomever you need. I will not have my army mutiny for lack of food and wine.”

  NINETEEN

  MYCENAE

  1248 BCE

  Clytemnestra sipped her wine as she stared into the perpetual hearth fire Neola kept alive in her private chamber. She feared the cold that ran through her blood would never warm. Since Iphigenia’s funeral, she’d been unable to shake the constant chill from her bones. The image of the pyre flames licking the edges of her daughter’s gown, and then engulfing the lifeless body had burned Clytemnestra’s heart to cinders and with it her ability to express affection of any kind. Elektra suffered most, she knew. The child reached for her mother’s hand, leaned for sweet consoling kisses, things she could no longer give. What her youngest daughter, her only daughter, needed was her other mother, the woman who yet had heart and soul to spare. But the woman Clytemnestra used to be had long since disappeared into the abyss of despair and sorrow. It was a blackness from which she could not, would not, ever escape. She could risk no more grief and pain at Agamemnon’s hand, so she kept her daughter and her son by him a safe distance from her heart. Revenge was the only element giving her any peace at all. A tear slid down her cheek, curving to her lips. It tasted of bitter salt.

  She took another sip of wine, drowning her quiet sorrow. Shivering, Clytemnestra pulled the himation around her shoulders tight beneath her chin. She closed her eyes, conjuring Iphigenia’s face in her mind. The wide, bright eyes. The timid smile. “My sweet girl,” she murmured to the empty room.

  A knock at the chamber door startled the queen from her thoughts. “My lady, he has arrived!”

  She recognized Neola’s voice and wiped another stray tear from her eyes with a slender finger. “Enter.”

  Neola’s face, ever compassionate for her queen, sighed through a gentle smile. “My lady, have you been sitting all this time? I thought you in the great hall awaiting him!”

  “You worry over much, Neola.”

  “I beg difference, my lady,” the faithful servant tsked, as she approached her queen with a soft hand to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “You require my attention. Lost in your sadness, as you are.”

  The queen pressed her cool hand over Neola’s tender one and smiled up at the elder woman, whose hair was fully grey and framed a face now wrinkled with years. Neola’s eyes, however, remained unchanged and doting. “You are more mother to me than my own.”

  “I am the crone between us. Nothing more.”

  “You are much more than that, Neola. Come, help me dress. I will meet our guest.”

  Clytemnestra entered the great hall to find her visitor intently examining a mural. “Do you find it pleasing?”

  The man turned to face her, a brief look of shock passing over his face. He bowed. “My queen.”

  Clytemnestra nodded slightly, acknowledging his deference. “Aegisthus.”

  “Forgive me. I have heard rumors of your dark beauty, but I did not take them for truth. All queens are said to be most fair by their people.”

  “You mean in comparison to my younger sister, Helen? The whore who
has taken half of every kingdom in the west?”

  “I beg pardon, my lady, I meant no offense. You are not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  Aegisthus opened his hands in askance. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I have also heard rumors of the sad Queen of Mycenae. I expected to find a pale, wraith of a woman wasting away with her grief.”

  Clytemnestra was taken aback by his honesty. “I was unaware my sorrow traveled beyond my own house.”

  “That is the way of royal life, is it not? We believe our lives our own, our thoughts our own, only to find that everything we are has been debated in every household.”

  “Do you think my sorrow makes me weak?”

  “The exact opposite, my queen.”

  “Of this, you are certain?”

  Aegisthus nodded.

  “You do not even know who I am.”

  “I know who the sons of Atreus are. I know what Agamemnon has done. That is enough.”

  Clytemnestra raised her eyebrows, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “You have your own reasons for revenge I am told.”

  “I am the sworn enemy of the House of Atreus.”

  The queen stood, extending her hand to her guest. “Come, let us refresh ourselves with sweet wine and cheese. And away from this cold hall.”

  Neola poured the wine as Clytemnestra and Aegisthus sat in the ante-chamber of the queen’s quarters. “Will you require anything else, my lady?”

  “No. Gratitude, Neola. You may leave us.”

  The woman servant bowed and left quietly.

  “She is trustworthy?” Aegisthus asked.

  “Neola is the epitome of faith. I trust no one as I do her.” The unwelcomed recollection of the first time Neola had advised her … the morning she awoke from the blood … her son. Tantalus.