Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “As all men do,” Clytemnestra said, leaning up to bite his bottom lip. “Let us see how you intend to conquer me this time.” Her arms came up around his neck, and he pressed his mouth hard against hers, kissing her tenderly then roughly. Water splashed over the edge of the tub, as he pulled her from the bath, and spilled across the marble. Wet and naked, they fell into her bed. Aegisthus took her hands in his, pulling them firmly above her head, and kissed down her neck. She tilted her chin up, giving him full access. His lips traced down her collarbone, his hot breath sending shivers through her entire body. She had thought her heart would never feel joy again, until he had taken her the first time. He had been gentle at first, then wooing her without tenderness or affection. And it was in the forcefulness of their union that she felt something within her spring to life. She no longer had sweetness to offer anyone, only her pain, and he took that as well, molding it with his hands and his mouth into exquisite pleasures she’d never experienced before.

  Aegisthus’ tongue swirled a path beneath her full breasts before capturing a nipple in his mouth. Clytemnestra arched her back as Aegisthus bit and kissed her there. Her hands still captive in his, she was helpless to stop the onslaught of his mouth over her nakedness. He released her hands and turned her over, pulling her hips up to his. Without a tender word, he entered her. He buried his cock deep inside of her as she cried out. Aegisthus rammed her until he could feel her shake with release; only then did he drive his own desire hard and fast into her pliable body. His release was violent and silent, a groan barely escaping his lips.

  They fell together, sweaty and tangled in the linens. Aegisthus kissed Clytemnestra’s swollen lips. No words passed between them. He had come to conquer her, and again, he had lost. “Your heart is iron.”

  “My heart is ashes,” she whispered.

  Aegisthus reached for her hand. She always allowed this simple touch, but rebuffed his embrace and loving gestures. There was nothing else to say. He accepted his lover as she was. Broken. Aching. Cold. It was not love that bound them, but their need for vengeance and a black hatred for a common enemy. He loved the queen in his own way, and he knew tender, sweet words would never find a welcomed landing in her breast.

  TWENTY TWO

  TROY

  1247 BCE

  Apollo’s light cast its golden glow across the vast green of the meadow Oenone tended. She glanced up into the blue heavens, as she did most days, and thought of Paris. She could recall his face smiling into hers and his eyes, blue and piercing, gazing on her with lust and love. No matter how she filled her days, her heart remained tender and raw from his absence. Love had stolen from her all the things she thought belonged to her alone: her joy, her laughter, her love. But these had all become tangled into Paris, and without him, she could not reclaim herself. Their son brought her the greatest happiness as her immortal days lingered. If only he would return … The thought crossed her mind like a wind whistling through the forest’s canopy, eerie and mournful as it passed over. He will never leave that golden woman they call Helen of Sparta. She stooped to pluck a white flower from its stem.

  “Mother!”

  Smiling, Oenone turned. “I am here, Corythus!” She saw he held up his catch of fish for the day. “Your grandfather has been generous with you, I see.” She walked to greet him.

  Corythus laughed. “He pooled them easily enough, but they are slippery and quick. We are fortunate we eat.” He stuffed the dead fish back into the basket at his side. “I have gathered the wood already.”

  The nymph smiled warmly at her son. His black hair, a wild mass of curls, was like his father’s. And the dip in his chin the unmistakable mark of Paris. “You are a good boy.”

  Corythus scoffed, “I am almost a man.”

  “There is time enough to become a man, Corythus.”

  “Why does my father stay away?”

  The question pierced Oenone’s heart. She had no answer that would satisfy the youth. How could she explain that his father had abandoned them for a foreign woman he now claimed as lover? The rumors of Helen had reached her, and she had done her best to shield the boy from hurt. “His duties as prince keep him away.”

  “When can I go to Troy?” he asked.

  She never wanted him to leave the meadow and the river lands they watched over. “Why would you wish to go to the citadel?”

  “I want to see the world … and my father.”

  Oenone wrapped an arm around his slender shoulders. “I can take you to the father who raised him, if you wish.”

  Corythus nodded happily. “Yes, when can we go?”

  “First light.”

  Lexias sat on her stool, alternating milking the goats and jamming her fist into her aching hip. “I refuse to be old,” she said to the nanny goat patiently waiting to be milked. As she set to her chore, a breeze blew passed her, swirling up a cone of dust and dry hay. Strange. If Agelaus were here, he’d say it was a god-sign. She brushed her hair from her face with the back of a wrist, and the thought with it. Lexias began to pull the milk, and … again, the breeze and swirling dust. Rising, she wiped her hands on her apron and went to the doorway of the stable. She stared off down the pathway leading into the fields of wheat. As she turned to resume her chores, shaking the strange feeling from her bones, her eyes caught the dark smudges of visitors in the distance. “Who in the world?” She stepped into the light with her hands knuckled into her hips. As the pair came closer, she could clearly see a tall and elegant woman and a dark-haired boy. “It looks like … it can’t be … Agelaus! Agelaus!”

  Her husband came running from the courtyard. “What is it Lexi? What are―” He caught sight of the woman and the boy. “It can’t be.” He blinked. “He’s the very image of Paris.”

  Oenone approached slowly, unsure if she’d be received warmly or if the bull herder would send them away. She nodded her head. “I am Oenone.”

  Lexias smiled widely, tears welling up in her eyes. “My lady.”

  The nymph allowed a cautious smile then. “I am no lady, Mother of Paris.”

  “I am no longer his mother, my la― Oenone. He has left us as well.”

  Agelaus asked, “Is this the boy? His son?”

  Oenone nodded. “He is Corythus, son of Paris.”

  The bull herder knelt before the young boy, whose sparkling blue eyes reminded him of the boy he’d loved years ago. “I would’ve been your grandfather had your father remained with us.” Behind him, Agelaus heard Lexias stifle a sob. He knew losing Paris had broken her heart. For all of her complaints about the boy, she had loved him fiercely.

  Corythus asked, “What is a grandfather?” He only knew the river god, a presence he felt but never saw in flesh and blood.

  “Why, he is the father of a father. Like a second father to a boy.”

  “I see.” The boy smiled. “You should be my second father, since my father has gone to Troy.”

  Agelaus stood. “Why have you come now, Oenone? Years have passed, we thought―”

  “We thought you’d taken Paris’ son to some far off place. We didn’t know where to look. We dared not hope,” Lexias blurted out.

  The nymph took her son’s hand, gently brushing his thumb with hers. “We have remained in our home. I had hoped my husband would return … someday. But, I hear whispers from the citadel, as do you. Paris will not return to us. We are forgotten more so with each moon rounding to fullness. My grief is only deepened for my son, who must grow without his father’s guidance.”

  “Is that why you’ve come after all this time? Do you wish to leave the boy with us?” Lexias asked, hopeful.

  “No, I have no wish to be parted from my son. But he desires to know about Paris, and since I cannot take him to Troy …”

  “You honor us, Oenone,” Agelaus said.

  She pulled Corythus closer to her side. “Where are your other sons? They were cruel young men.” She could still recall the brutal injuries they inflicted on Paris the night they raided their sm
all camp. “I would keep my son safe from their taunts and jests.”

  Lexias shivered remembering a bloodied Paris attacking Tymon in her kitchen. “They have grown and moved away. They’ve families of their own now.” Neither Tymon nor Harmon had gotten over the betrayal they felt when Paris’ lineage had been revealed to them. She had realized only then the extent of their cruelty to Paris. They lived in fear palace guards would come and take them away on a word from the new-found Prince of Troy. After a time, Paris had secured for them lands of their own, sealing a peace between them. Agelaus no longer needed to tend the fields; hired herders did the hard labor so his aging years could be lived in peace. Lexias refused the house slaves. After so many years of toiling alone, she found she’d grown used to her work. “Come, take a cup of wine with us and eat. I’ve fresh baked bread and soft goat cheese.”

  “What is bread?” Corythus asked.

  Lexias put her hands on her rounded hips. “You’ve never tasted bread, little one?” When the boy shook his head and smiled, Lexias’ heart caught in her chest. He is the image of Paris. My son … “That is your father’s smile you wear.”

  Corythus put his fingers to his lips. “I miss my father.”

  Lexias held out her hand to the young boy. “How many seasons does he have?” Corythus took her hand.

  “Four,” Oenone answered.

  “I guessed as much. And no bread?”

  The nymph shook her head. “We have no need of mortal’s bread.”

  “Ah! Then, little Corythus shall have a treat. Come.”

  Agelaus watched the boy stuff his face with bread and cheese. Memories of Paris as a boy flooded behind his eyes—the dark ringlet curls and the crystal blue of his eyes; the lopsided grin and the royal cleft of his chin. In that moment, time ceased to pass and the little boy he rescued years ago sat before him again. Tears welled as the old pain resurfaced. He missed the boy, who’d grown to manhood and was called to a different life. “Will you ever take him to the citadel?”

  Oenone shrugged. “Perhaps, when he is of age I will send him. If his father has not returned by then.”

  Agelaus said, “The boy deserves to know his father.”

  “It was he who left us for a shining life of gold and stone.”

  “I hear the whispers,” the bull herder said, quietly.

  “As do I,” Oenone sighed. “I know that Paris and the Spartan queen have yet to bring forth children. As long as this is true, I believe Paris will welcome the son he has forgotten.”

  Agelaus’ heart ached at the truth of her words. He recalled how Paris’ hurt at not knowing his true family had pained the boy, always asking who they were and why they had abandoned him. Agelaus had sworn to keep King Priam’s secret, and kept from Paris the truth that he was in fact the Forgotten Prince of Troy. And now, looking at the sweet boy at his table, he saw that Paris had, for all his own pain at being abandoned, done the same. Agelaus never would have imagined that a second forgotten prince would cross his path. He knew it was a god-sign, but could not read the message.

  TWENTY THREE

  TROY

  1247 BCE

  Nauplius scanned the horizon as the Bay of Troy come into view; hundreds of galleys lined the beachhead, marking the landing base of the western tribes united under Agamemnon. The ocean broke rhythmically against the hull of his own ship. Above clouds filled the pale blue, and Apollo’s light warmed the following wind. After word had reached him that his son had been betrayed by Odysseus, he wasted no time making for Agamemnon’s camp. He sneered as he thought of the Great King, sitting on some wide-backed chair, smugly presiding over an audience of his captains as he pleaded for justice regarding Palamedes’ death. When he thought of the cruel way in which his son’s life was ripped away, how his mangled and broken body was burned on a pyre without honor, without words to wing his spirit to Hades, Nauplius wasn’t certain if justice would suffice. His heart raged for revenge.

  When his ship was securely beached at the end of the bay, Nauplius was aided through the shallow surf safely to the shore where he was met by a small contingent of soldiers draped in flowing scarlet capes. These, he guessed, had been sent as escorts from Agamemnon’s camp. “I seek audience with your king.”

  A nameless soldier, dark eyes visible through the slit of his bronze helmet, gruffly stated, “He is awaits you. We are to take you straightaway.”

  Nauplius walked in silence as he was escorted through throngs of men sitting around fire pits, in various states of undress or napping, or eating or playing at dice. They did not look the ferocious army he’d imagined; in fact, he thought they looked tired and ragged. The only exceptions were the hard-faced men positioned behind thousands of blackened shields. These men sat polishing and sharpening weapons. These men I would fear.

  As they neared the center of the encampment, Palamedes’ father caught a glimpse of Agamemnon’s tent towering above the rest of the camp, sprawling as wide as a small temple. Two sentries, shining in bronze and draped in the red of the Great King, stepped aside as Nauplius’ escort approached. He pushed through the opening into the amber light of dozens of oil lamps. Agamemnon sat enthroned in his gilded chair. The supplicant raised a brow at the accumulated luxury. Thick carpets and tapestries. Golden bowls and tall stemmed cups. Stores of wine. The tent glittered with the king’s portion of the geras. Despite his surprise, Nauplius bowed deeply before the Agamemnon. “My lord.”

  Agamemnon rose, extending a hand in friendly greeting. “Come, Nauplius, your journey was long. You must be famished. We both know provisions aboard a ship leave much to be desired.” The king led his guest to a table lavishly set with platters of ripe figs, dates stuffed with the sweetness of ground almonds mixed with honey, salt cured olives, rounds of fresh baked flat bread, and soft goat cheese. When Nauplius sat, the Great King signaled for the wine.

  As Nauplius took his drink, nodding his thanks, he couldn’t help but imagine his son as the figure shrouded in the shadow behind the king. How many times had Palamedes served the Great King and his guests over the years? He knew his son was an honorable man, carrying out the commands of his king and bearing the hatred of such loyalty. He knew it would never have occurred to Palamedes that his lord would betray him in the end by turning his back on years of faithful service. He sipped his wine.

  “I know why you have come,” Agamemnon said.

  “It is not a welcomed cause. At least not for one man.”

  The Great King sighed heavily. “There was nothing more to be done.”

  Nauplius set his bread down, pushing his plate away. “I have heard the whispers, as well, my lord.”

  “And what whispers do you speak of?”

  “That one of your mighty captains snared my son in a trap.”

  “Why would any of my commanders want your son condemned a traitor?”

  Nauplius drained his cup, slightly narrowing his eyes at Agamemnon. He knew the Great King had to be aware of rumors running rampant in his own camp. “Revenge,” he said simply.

  Agamemnon had expected this, but feigned surprise. “Revenge? For what cause?”

  Palamedes’ father met the king’s gaze with a hard certainty. “For obeying your commands without question.”

  The king signaled for more wine. The air grew suddenly warmer and a thin trickle of sweat dripped down Agamemnon’s back. “Which of my men do you accuse?”

  “Odysseus. His reputation for cunning is well-known.”

  Agamemnon’s face remained frozen. He himself had thought this a possibility. Years ago, he’d ordered Palamedes to take the infant son of Odysseus and place him in front of the plow, ultimately foiling the young king’s pretense at madness. He suspected Odysseus reviled Palamedes for that, but he’d reasoned that that had been long ago. Agamemnon did not pursue the possibility that Odysseus had masterminded the entire affair out of fear. How could he make Nauplius understand that accusing Odysseus, a king in his own right, of a treasonous crime would surely have divided the a
rmy against itself? And then, what others might be implicated? No, he’d had no choice but to punish Palamedes according to the tradition. It had been impossible in that moment to go against Odysseus. “There is no one to blame except for Palamedes. I had always considered him loyal. My heart was torn by his betrayal.”

  Nauplius could stand the falsehood no more. He’d traveled for weeks to plead for justice for his son, who had served his king well. His son who had been murdered. Nauplius stood abruptly from his seat, slamming his fists on the table, rattling the platters. A fig fell to the floor. “I demand justice for Palamedes. You know in your heart he would never have betrayed you! He had no access to these Trojan prisoners. You know this. I beg you, as only a father can beg for his son’s life, please punish the ones who caused my son to …” His voice cracked with grief. “My son.” He collapsed back in to his chair, tears falling unchecked down his face. “He deserved more than to be cast away like an animal. As if he was nothing. He was my blood and bone.”

  Agamemnon sighed heavily again, knowing that a father’s grief was a wound that never fully healed. His own guilt gnawed at him daily, yet he managed to push it aside for a greater cause. But what reason did poor Nauplius have to hide behind? His burden would crack his chest open again and again. “I will remember him, even if others do not.”

  Nauplius sneered. “It is not enough.”

  “There is nothing left for you to do.”

  Nauplius, his face shaking with righteous anger and unbearable sorrow, spoke words the weight of iron, “Until my last breath, I will discover some way to avenge my son and the injustice you and your commanders have dealt him.” The grieving father then stormed from the Great King’s quarters.

  Agamemnon pulled a round of cold, flat bread from the stack and tore a huge piece off, shoving it into his mouth. “More wine! By the balls of Zeus! Where is my fucking wine?”