Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “What then? How will my freedom be gained? I don’t expect I should walk from here unnoticed?”

  “I will find you when Apollo once again makes his round about the heavens and see you safely from here.”

  “This poor bastard must have dealt you a grievous injury.”

  Odysseus’ mouth curved in a cunning smile. “Grievous, indeed.”

  When the thin, golden fingers of dawn stretched across the sky, Odysseus donned his purple cloak and made haste to Agamemnon’s tent. The Great King’s royal guards, standing like stone sentinels in polished bronze with crimson capes flowing to the sand, halted Odysseus from entering.

  “What business do you have with the King of the Greeks?” asked the one on the left.

  Odysseus, stifling his sarcasm, said with urgency, “Athena has given me a warning. I must speak with Agamemnon. Our fates depend on it.”

  The guard bowed into the tent, and a roar of inconvenience soon followed. “What does he want?”

  The guard reappeared. “You may enter.”

  Agamemnon sat on the edge of his bed, staring at Odysseus. “Apollo’s light is yet approaching. What message is so urgent to wake me before I have broken my fast?”

  “Forgive me, Agamemnon. Athena spoke to me in a dream. She urged me to seek you out at first light. I am here, as she commanded.”

  Intrigued, the Great King rose, pulling on a robe of red wool weft with silver. “Palamedes! My honeyed wine!” He walked to the washing basin, pulling fresh water to his face, washing the sleep from his eyes. “What does Athena say?”

  Palamedes entered, stopping short at the sight of Odysseus. “My lord, apologies. I was not informed you required hospitality’s cup.”

  “Fetch another cup. Why do you stand there? Go,” Agamemnon grumbled. “This dream … is it a welcomed portent? Or do the gods have more humility to ram up my arse?”

  “The outcome is uncertain,” Odysseus replied, shrugging his shoulders. “When do the gods reveal all at once?”

  Agamemnon sighed deeply, draining his cup. Palamedes returned with more wine, a cup for Odysseus, and a platter of cheese and bread. He poured the wine and then disappeared again. “The gods seem to be at odds in our regard. Continue. What does Athena say, for surely she is on our side?”

  “She warned that you should move the camp for one night.”

  The Great King scoffed. “For what purpose?”

  “Only that the safety of your army is at stake. I saw smoke and fire, if we do not.”

  Agamemnon shook his head. “Smoke and fire.” He poured himself more wine. “Those omens together never amount to good in any prophesy. But, to move our camp? That is no small undertaking.”

  “True, your army is spread wide along the bay. However, if you do not heed Athena’s warning, there may be no camp to return to.”

  The Great King considered Odysseus, a known favorite of the Goddess of Wisdom, and decided prudence the wiser course. There was already dissent among the men, and should another mishap occur, he might face a bloodier mutiny than the mutiny of wind and words. “We will move the camp to the far side of the bay.”

  “Wise, very wise, my lord. It is a smart commander who considers his men as you do,” Odysseus flattered.

  “I will have Palamedes call the captains. We will move by mid-day.”

  Diomedes, traveling silently through the dark, found the mark he’d left to remember where Palamedes’ private tent was usually staked. He pulled the satchel from his shoulder before digging into the sand, hitting the colder layers beneath the warm soft layer. When the hole was wide and deep enough, he opened his satchel and pulled out a box. He lifted the lid; the gold coins glinted, even in the dark. Diomedes was impressed with Odysseus’ wiliness, and truth be told, the man’s ruthlessness. Before now, he hadn’t thought the warrior king had it in him. As Diomedes buried the wooden box containing a small treasure, he knew he was securing a death sentence for Palamedes. But, when Odysseus explained how Palamedes had endangered Telemachus, Odysseus’ newborn son, Diomedes came to the understanding that the servant of Agamemnon deserved it. As for the Trojan prisoner, he didn’t give two shits about him. Slitting his throat was the easy part of the plan.

  When dawn ushered in the new day, the Greeks broke their fast and began the move back to their original encampment. Amid the rolling, tying, and trudging through soft sand and the re-staking of tents, loud grumbling and cursing could be heard from across the hosts of men.

  Odysseus was reorganizing the prisoners, when he noticed his count was off by … one. “Eurylochus!”

  Odysseus’ faithful second appeared within moments. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Search the area between here and the temporary camp. We are missing a prisoner.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “The Trojans, like lost dogs, will seek out home no matter how far away it is.”

  It wasn’t long before Eurylochus raised the alarm. Word that a prisoner had been slain in the dead of night spread quickly. Odysseus himself searched the body as his men looked on. He pulled a tightly wound scroll from the folds of the dead man’s clothes. “Fetch me a Trojan who can read.” Within moments, an unnamed man stood nervously before the King of Ithaka. “Can you read well?”

  The man’s dark eyes darted between the foreigners glaring at him. “Aye,” he said, his voice cracking with thirst.

  “What does this letter contain?” Odysseus asked, shoving the papyrus under the man’s nose.

  The prisoner’s eyes scanned the document, growing big as he read the sprawling charcoal.

  “Well? What does it say?” Odysseus’ impatience with the man was evident, but also covered his slight uncertainty that the dead man had actually written what he was commanded.

  The prisoner fell to his knees before the foreign commander. “The letter is from my king, my lord. He offered gold to a man by name of Palamedes, if the man should betray Agamemnon.” He held his breath, waiting for the expected blow that would sever his head from his shoulders, but it didn’t come. He slowly opened his eyes to find his captor staring down at him.

  “That is a lie,” Odysseus said between clenched teeth. “I hate the man, that is well known, but he would never betray Agamemnon. He grovels at the Great King’s feet, licks his ass clean for all I know.” He spat in disgust.

  “I swear by Apollo! That is what the letter says. Please, I have a family,” he begged.

  “I am not going to kill you, at least not yet. I need you as witness.”

  Eurylochus asked, “Shall I inform Agamemnon?”

  Odysseus nodded grimly. “It will be unwelcomed news. Keep your distance.” His plans of revenge defied the will of the gods, but he was beyond caring. The Oracle of Ithaka had warned that a lifetime would pass before he would feel the warmth of Penelope’s embrace. The events of the years already spent abroad engaging in futile battles against Asian kingdoms, while the Great Wall of Troy yet towered above them, had begun to rob his heart and mind of hope. His reasoning counseled caution and patience to bear his suffering in silence, but his heart—darkening with the weight of his anguish—grew stronger, compelling his reckless notions to life. Now, the very plot his passions ignited burned as hottest flames that only Palamedes’ death could douse.

  From across the camp the horns sounded the call of the generals to Agamemnon.

  “It has begun,” Odysseus said to no one.

  The gathering throng of men from every tribe and kingdom pressed in as close as they could to the war tent of the Great King. Inside, the council of Agamemnon heard the accusations leveled against a shaken and distraught Palamedes. The assembled captains grumbled amongst themselves.

  Nestor, older and more cautious, lifted his wrinkled hand. The men quieted. “What do you have to say in your defense?”

  Palamedes, his eyes rounded in disbelief and shaking his head, spoke, “I would never betray my lord, Agamemnon. All here know that this is a falsehood.”

  “How then do
you explain such a letter surfacing on the body of a dead Trojan?”

  The servant sputtered, “I-I do not know.”

  Odysseus interrupted, “I believe there is a way he can prove his innocence.”

  “Why would you help me?” Palamedes asked, suspiciously.

  “For the security of the armies under all of us,” he replied, motioning around the tent. “If you are not cleared of this treason …” His voice trailed off to silence, as he feigned serious contemplation. “I do not believe anyone could keep you safe. Or halt a mutiny, if it came to that.”

  Palamedes wept and begged, wrenching his hands until his fingers ached. “Please, what must I do? What must I do?”

  “The letter says you accepted gold in exchange for betraying your king, which you deny.”

  “Yes, yes! I deny that completely!”

  “Then, let us see if this gold is hidden in your quarters.”

  Palamedes’ distress turned to optimism. “I have no gold. Yes! Go! Look for yourselves!”

  Agamemnon stated, “I do not believe he would ever betray me. Let the search prove his innocence, as Odysseus has suggested.” The Great King ordered a dozen soldiers to task. They marched to Palamedes’ quarters intending to find the gold, or nothing. They tossed the accused’s world from his tent: a small table, an oil lamp, linens, and a few trinkets that sunk into the soft sand. When the tented chamber was thoroughly emptied, the soldiers emerged empty handed.

  Diomedes, standing nearby, offered, “Perhaps, he has buried it?”

  The soldiers, receiving the signal from the Great King, yanked the tent from its stakes, tossing it aside where it tumbled in the offshore wind. They began to dig through the area in earnest. Odysseus noticed the smug grin on Palamedes’ face, knowing that soon it would be wiped away forever.

  One of the men searching yelled out, “Here! Here is something!” He pulled a wooden box from the small pit he’d dug.

  “That is not mine! I have no box the likes of that!” Palamedes panicked at the thought of what was inside the box. It occurred to him suddenly that he’d been tricked, but who would do such a thing? Who would wish me dead? Then, he realized who indeed. Odysseus had promised years ago to kill him. The King of Ithaka had taken his time, set the trap well. Palamedes knew he had no defense against Odysseus, for who would believe a servant pitted against a king?

  A guard presented the unopened box to Agamemnon. The king did not want to open it, for he knew that Palamedes’ guilt was shining inside. He knew the penalty for such a crime was death, and not just any death … Palamedes would meet a brutal end by stoning. He slowly lifted the lid, forcing his fingers from trembling. The golden coins winked at him.

  Closing the lid, he simply said, “He is guilty.” Agamemnon couldn’t look his servant in the eye, as it occurred to him that Palamedes may have been positioned for the crime. Who would do such a thing? He wished to blame Achilles, but couldn’t. Odysseus hated the man, yet he was the one who stepped forward to defend him. Agamemnon narrowed his eyes, as he considered questioning his captain, but then thought better of it. If he were to accuse Odysseus, a king in his own right, of a treasonous crime he might set the entire army to revolt. No, he must sacrifice a loyal man for the sake of the war. Guilt burned through him as the shrouded memories of Iphigenia’s sacrifice surfaced. It was Odysseus he grappled with that day and Palamedes who’d actually taken Iphigenia’s life, allowing the winds to be released and the fleet to disembark. “Stone him.”

  Palamedes wrenched his arms to free himself from his captors. He cried out, “You know I am innocent, my king! You know!” his voice a shrill scream for justice from his king, who had abandoned him in front of the entire army. He watched in horror as the gathered assemblage pulled rocks from fire pits and picked up stones from the beach where the sand met the tall, grassy dunes. Soon, all hands readied to take the life of the traitor, who had been devoted to Agamemnon. Not a single man voiced dissent. They all waited for the Great King’s sign, and when it came they loosed their rocks with fierceness and fury.

  The stones smashed into Palamedes’ body, knocking him to the ground. His thin arms broke and shattered as he raised them in a futile effort to block the incoming blows. He screamed in pain, as his body absorbed the brutal onslaught. Mercifully, a stone caught him in the temple and he fell back, blood gushing from the deep gash, exposing the bone of his skull. His breathing slowed to nothing as the mob looked on, his body a twisted mass of flesh and bone. The sand crusted with crimson beneath Palamedes’ body. The men, one by one, dropped their stones where they stood and walked away, their passions sated.

  War, Agamemnon thought, had brought the best and the worst of men to the surface. He had Palamedes’ body removed for burning, but for the dead man there would be no feast, no celebration games. His ashes would be cast into the sea, his name forgotten for no one wished to remember a traitor.

  When the stable master had summoned him, Hektor knew that Ares was dying. The horse had lived well past the age of most, and in the past several days had grown weary of standing. Hektor knew it would not be long, so he’d kissed Andromache in her sleep, pulled on a robe, and made straight for the stables. Even though he’d been informed of Ares’ condition, he realized he wasn’t ready to say farewell to his faithful companion now that the moment was upon him.

  Hektor found the stable master, a lean and leathered man, pacing in front of Ares’ stall. “How is he?”

  “My lord, he can’t get up at all now. The fire in his eyes has dimmed,” the man said, wiping a tear from his eye.

  “I see,” Hektor murmured, embracing the man’s thin shoulders. “I know you have done everything you could.”

  The prince entered the stall and took a deep breath. There lay Ares, breath laboring quietly, his nostrils flaring with effort. The stallion nickered weakly, lifting his dark head to greet his master. “Easy, my friend. Easy.” Hektor knelt beside his lifelong companion, stroking his black mane with a tender hand. He let his fingers run beneath Ares’ jaw bone, feeling for the life pulse, then checked the horse’s mouth to see it was pale not pink. Hektor’s eyes filled with tears, as he sat down ready to wait out the night with his horse. He would not let Ares pass from this world alone.

  Ares nudged his leg with his nose, and Hektor moved closer, cradling Ares’ head in his lap. “Together we have fought many battles, my friend. I can hardly recall a time when you were not with me. When I was a boy …” Hektor laughed. “Do you remember when I was a boy? It seems another life. But, when I was young I believed you would live forever simply because I loved you.”

  Ares’ nostrils flared as he exhaled loudly.

  “Do you remember the first time I tried to break you in the ring? My father had tried to warn me not to trust you. He’d said to remember you were a warhorse and not to expect you to be anything other than that. I did not believe him, of course. You threw me halfway across the horse arena. I landed in a pile of dirt and dung. Pride bruised, and my arm,” he lifted his right arm so Ares could see it, “broken.”

  Ares’ whickered quietly.

  Hektor stroked the horse’s neck again. “You will not have to face Achilles again. That should bring you comfort.” Hektor sat silently then, his hand comforting his horse, and recalled the day Ares was born. A shining black colt on unsteady legs. As a boy, he’d leapt about the stable in joy because Priam had promised him this fine horse. His first horse. He recalled riding across the plain, his hair whipping about his face, as Ares found his stride running as fast as the wind. “I will never forget you, my friend,” he whispered, settling into the long vigil at his horse’s side.

  As night stretched to morning, and Apollo’s light filled the sky with rose and gold, Ares breathed his last breath. And Hektor wept.

  TWENTY ONE

  MYCENAE

  1247 BCE

  Neola poured the last clay jug of hot water in the bathing tub for her queen. Swirling plumes of steam danced above the water’s surface, as th
e queen lowered her weary body into the water. She laid her head back against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes. “You may leave, Neola.”

  “My lady, are you certain I―”

  “Yes.”

  It was unlike the queen to be so abrupt with her, yet she would not protest. “My lady.” Neola left the queen to her solitude.

  Clytemnestra craved the quiet, so she could think. Court life provided too many distractions, and the arrival of Aegisthus had given her much to contemplate. She conjured the scenario of poisoning Agamemnon’s wine and watching as he lay gasping for air, his eyes bulging, his mouth foaming at the corners until he ceased struggling. She smiled to herself. Yes, he will suffer. Her thoughts turned to Orestes and how her father was machinating for control of both Mycenae and Sparta through an arranged marriage. My father underestimates me. I will never allow my son to wed the daughter of a whore. Helen had betrayed Sparta, relinquishing control of Hermione to Tyndareus. Allowing the marriage to take place would usurp the power she wielded as the awaiting queen. I will never allow it. He will have to kill me first.

  She didn’t hear the door open behind her, but the pair of hands that brushed against her shoulders, running down the length her beneath the water had become familiar. “You should not be here.”

  “Where else should I be?” Aegisthus asked, leaning behind her, cupping her breasts.

  Clytemnestra arched her neck back, kissing his smooth chin. “I can think of nowhere else. Mycenae is not ready to receive you as my lover.”

  His fingers gently pinched her nipples erect. “The city will never be ready for a truly independent queen. You should take what is rightfully yours.” He came around the bath to face her, running his finger across the water’s surface. “As I am going to take what’s mine.” Aegisthus disrobed and slipped into the bath.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Conquering.” Sliding between her legs, he faced her, his mouth hovering just beyond her lips. He looked into her sad, dark eyes, “I always take what I want.”