Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  He left for the row of whores. Hooded by his dark himation and the inky night, he walked without concern to the tents housing the comfort of the women. He saw men slinking about silhouetted by the camp fires. Soon, Menelaus stood before a woman sitting near a fire before a dark tent. He could see her long black hair and glittering dark eyes in the firelight. Opposite Helen. Good. “Come.”

  The woman stood as Menelaus opened the tent flap waiting for her to follow. In the dark, he disrobed. “Take off your clothes.”

  She obeyed and lay down on the low bed of worn furs and a thin woolen cover. “My lord?”

  “Do not speak to me,” he commanded.

  “Apologies, my lord. I must.”

  Menelaus fought the urge to slap her face for insolence. He had no wish to talk to the slave woman, only take his pleasure and leave.

  She spoke shyly. “I knew you would come.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “The gods told me.”

  Menelaus scoffed. “The gods—”

  “They speak to the high born as well as the low, my lord.”

  “Tell me, then, what you have been told.”

  “I will conceive a child from our union.”

  The thought of a child had never occurred to him. “You are certain?”

  “I am, my lord. Perhaps, you wish another woman?”

  His cock hardened at the thought of this woman’s belly swelling with his seed. “No. You will do.” Menelaus hefted his heavy body on top of her plump frame, thrusting his cock as deep as he could into her. He plowed her fertile field with iron determination until his warm seed spilled.

  When he finished groaning and pulsing within her, he rolled over and placed a hand on her belly. “I had not thought to find a fertile vessel in this place.”

  The woman lay still beside Menelaus’ hulking form, breathing heavily. “It will be a son, my lord.”

  “We shall see,” he said. Getting up abruptly, he dressed, pulled his himation up close around his face, and left. A son. Pray the gods give me a son.

  THIRTY TWO

  ITHAKA

  1245 BC

  Penelope hiked all morning up the small, winding mountain path leading to the oracle. She walked through the cold mist, rising slowly as Apollo mounted the sky. Sweat trickled down her temples and neck. She wiped her face on the edge of her chiton sleeve. The smear of dust mingled with her perspiration, soiling the fine-spun linen. How much farther can it be? She trudged on, knowing that only the gods could provide the answers she needed. High above, hidden by clouds clinging tenuously to the rugged mountain side, the screech of a hunting hawk was unmistakable. Penelope searched the patchwork of blue and white for the bird. Show me the sign. She rounded a boulder, walked past a towering bush, and saw the cave, just as Eumaeus had described it.

  The queen, having walked until her feet bled, halted in her tracks. The cave opening, round and black and ominous, looked like the gaping, toothless mouth of the mountain itself. What if it consumes me? What secrets does it hold for me? Something light brushed against her sandaled foot and she looked down. She screamed as a golden snake slithered in the dust ahead of her, disappearing into the black hole of the cave. Iron-fingered fear gripped her, squeezing the breath from her chest. She fought the overwhelming urge to run back down the trail to the safety of the world she knew in the hall of Odysseus.

  Just inside the entrance to the cave was a young woman standing serenely as if waiting for her. The woman’s long, pale chiton, ragged at the hem, scarcely covered her bare feet. She lifted a hand in greeting, before gesturing for Penelope to continue down the damp path of the cave.

  “Is she far?” Penelope asked.

  The attendant bowed her head. “She is not, Queen of Ithaka.”

  “Is she expecting me?”

  “She has known that one day you would come to her.”

  “Does she know when my husband―”

  “I can tell you no more,” the woman said. “You must ask her yourself.”

  Penelope nodded in understanding and continued along the dank hallway of earth and stone. The humming began softly, like a distant hive of bees working in an orchard. Her body felt heavier the deeper she walked into the mountain. As the darkness threatened to overtake her senses, a golden light appeared at the end of the pathway and she walked toward it.

  The oracle’s chamber was a hollowed-out cavern of rock. The thin sheen of water cascading down the walls glittered in the flickering light of ensconced torches. The oracle sat serenely on a stone altar in the center of the room. Pale patches of skin shone through the long, damp, auburn tresses hanging loosely around the oracle’s shoulders and down her body. Her eyes shone like sparkling obsidian jewels set perfectly in an oval face.

  “I know what you fear,” she said, her words echoing against the shimmering rock.

  “I have only one fear,” the queen admitted quietly. Feeling the oracle probing into the guarded recesses of her heart, she added, “That he will never return to me.”

  “You fear that he will no longer find you beautiful. That his love and loyalty are not enduring. Is your faith in your husband so shallow?”

  The oracle’s words stung her pride and her heart. Was that the truth? That she feared Odysseus’ love was fleeting? “He has been gone for so very long. I am afraid he … that he may find—” She couldn’t even finish the thought without the words choking her to tears.

  The oracle slid gracefully from the altar. She cupped Penelope’s cheek with a cold hand. “Look,” she said in a voice that cracked with warning. The oracle filled a round basin with crystal clear water. “Come, look for yourself.”

  Penelope gazed into the clear black water. She barely recognized the image looking back at her. The pervasive sadness had marked her face in subtle ways. Her eyes did not shine. Her skin did not glow. I am yet young. She touched her cheek. Will he return before I am old and grey? The surface rippled …

  Penelope sat trembling on the edge of the enormous bed as Odysseus approached. Shyness kept her from looking up, so she stared down at his bare feet. She noticed the thick veins across the top of his foot, how wide and solid they were. Her breath caught in her chest when he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes in the growing darkness. Slowly, the king pulled her to her feet and against his chest. Penelope felt small and fragile against his strength.

  “You have no need to fear me, Penelope,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkled in kindness as he smiled down at her. “I will be gentle.”

  A shiver shook her body, tears filled her eyes. “I … have never—”

  Odysseus bent his head to hers, and slowly kissed her lips as he pulled her closer. When her arms wrapped around his neck, he pulled her closer still. “I have loved you since the very first moment I saw you.” He kissed her softly down her neck and shoulders.

  The young bride’s fear began to fade as her body warmed beneath his touch. She squealed when he easily lifted her onto the bed and laid her back against the linens and plush cushions. His hands were warm against her bare skin and his kisses burned through her inexperience.

  Odysseus undid the jeweled pins holding her chiton at the shoulders, sweeping the sheer gown away, exposing her naked breasts. His mouth descended on each one, using his tongue to bring each nipple to a firm bud, before kissing her again. Penelope arched her back against his onslaught, wanting a fulfillment of their love making, but not understanding what it was her body yearned for until her husband slipped his hand between her legs. Odysseus pressed a finger into her and Penelope cried out.

  Slowly, his hand moved within her, bringing warmth and wetness with every stroke. Penelope’s hips rose up to meet his hand and tears slid down her cheeks in a sweet embarrassment. “I am sorry,” she whispered breathlessly.

  “How so, wife?” he asked against her ear.

  “I do not know what I am supposed to do …” She continued to writhe in pleasure beneath his touch.

  “No nee
d for you to worry. We will learn between us how best to find pleasure together. As husband and wife.” Odysseus climbed on top of her and spread her knees wider apart with his thighs. Pushing his hard cock in between her legs, he sought the pleasure and joy of her. He groaned as he slowly entered her, his cock throbbing with the need to spill his seed deep inside of her.

  Penelope writhed beneath him; the pain of his entry into her body sheered through her core, yet she wanted it to fill her.

  “It burns sweetly,” she said. “I feel …I—”

  Odysseus thrust fully into her. Her eyes widened and she wrapped her legs around his thighs, pain and pleasure mingling. He thrust deeper and harder until his wife clawed his back in a fit of passion.

  Penelope’s moaning nearly drove Odysseus to the edge of madness. He could no longer stay his desire and thrust harder into her body, until they were smashing rhythmically against each other. As her moans reached a fevered pitch, his pace quickened and he roared his release just as Penelope’s legs shook with her first pleasure.

  They lay together, still joined in sacred union, gazing into each other’s eyes.

  “I hope we will have many children,” she said.

  “You wish to practice often, then?”

  Penelope’s cheeks and neck blushed crimson under his intense scrutiny and the implication of his words.

  The surface of the water in the basin rippled, and suddenly Penelope realized she was still in the oracle’s cave.

  The queen stepped away from the bowl. “I remember everything as if it was only yesterday.”

  “So does Odysseus. Those who wish to steal the joy from your world have yet to come. Their words will sound like bitter truth, but they speak only poison. Do not listen to them.”

  “When will Odysseus come home? He is coming home, is he not?”

  “I cannot say more. If the gods allow his return, he will come for you.”

  “Will he die in battle?”

  “I have not seen that he dies in battle. Mortal life fades, and so will memories. If the gods grant him long life, he will return.”

  “But―”

  “Now go, Queen of Ithaka. Guests will arrive by nightfall.”

  Penelope turned and walked back down the same illuminated pathway she’d taken to reach the oracle. Who could it be? Why now?

  Laertes stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow, and surveyed the row of newly planted saplings. His young grandson, Telemachus, toiled near him, digging the soil for the next one. The boy’s dark curls reminded him of another. Am I so old? How many years have passed? He could not remember.

  But he could recall the day Odysseus had married the lovely Penelope. His heart rejoiced in the tender looks that had passed between his son and his new bride. He knew their marriage would bring the required strength to the reign of Ithaka in Odysseus, a strength he had grown weary of shouldering. The burdens of ruling and responsibility had begun to creep through him with bitterness. In that moment, long ago, he’d turned his back on power and war, seeking solace in the fields of this island.

  The old king bent to help the boy. “Like this, Telemachus.” He took the spade, placing it at the edge of the hole to move more dirt. “Get the tree, my boy.”

  Holding the sapling gently by the small root ball, Telemachus offered the plant to his grandfather. “I like this one.”

  Laertes examined it. “Straight trunk. Full of life. Just like you.” He took the plant, and holding it in the center of the hole, signaled his grandson to cover the roots. “Pat the earth to hold it in place.”

  Telemachus stood back, admiring their work. “We did it.”

  “We did.” Look at me. Weepy like an old woman. He wiped away a tear on the back of his hand. “Life is to be tended like these trees and those vines.” He pointed across the field to the vineyard hanging with ripened fruit. “Be mindful the words and deeds you plant, for they will root and grow whatever you intend. It can be a blessing or a curse. And prune away the dead and sick from your life, making way for the new.”

  Telemachus smiled up at his grandfather. “I do not understand.”

  Laertes placed a hand on his grandson’s slender shoulder. “Someday, you will. Now, let us finish this row.”

  Before Penelope made her way into the great hall, she stepped into the household shrine of Athena, saying a quick prayer for Odysseus’ safe return. The oracle was clear that if the gods allowed him to survive the war, he would return to her. He must survive, Athena. I could not bear it if he did not. What will become of me and Telemachus if he does not? I pray you return him to me, Goddess. The promise she had made against her will haunted her. She did not want to honor it, even though her husband had insisted. She glanced up at the image of Athena, so still and brightly painted, golden helm nestled in the crook of one arm and spear held firmly in the other. Bowls of olives and figs were carefully set before the statue in offering. A small oil lamp burned a dim yellow light. Allowing another man into her bed … No! She closed her eyes against the unwanted thought. Penelope wished for a sign from the serenely posed goddess, any sign. But the air was still, no breath against her ear.

  She’d scarcely removed her head covering and stepped from the alcove, before her maid servant entered the holy space. “My lady,” Stefani whispered urgently.

  Penelope’s blood ran cold at Stefani’s ominous tone. “Speak. What has happened?”

  “My lady, a man has arrived requesting hospitality and lodging.”

  Such a request signaled no alarm, since the war travelers often sought the refuge of a night or two at the palace. Still, after her visit with the oracle, tender fears lingered, chasing her thoughts into dark places. “Who is he?”

  “He says only that he comes from Troy.”

  Penelope knew that it could not be other than the work of the gods that a man from Troy should land on Ithaka’s shore on the very day of her oracular visitation. “See that he is properly bathed. Tell him he dines with the queen for the evening meal. Inform Anticlea. Have Eumaeus keep watch on Telemachus away from the palace. I do not want my son approached by this visitor until I am certain of his news.”

  “Your word is done, my lady.”

  As she watched Stefani disappear into the hall, Penelope leaned against the wall for strength she did not have. What would this man reveal? Would his words bring comfort or heartache? Despite the queen mother’s chastisement against lying in her bed of sorrows, the sweet respite of isolation beckoned her. I will rest until it is time to be queen.

  Platters of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and fruits filled the king’s table. Oil lamps burned with golden light. Flames licked up freshly stacked wood in the central hearth, a warm air already filling the vast chamber. Olive branches woven into wreaths and garlands adorned the hall. And roses picked from the queen’s private gardens arranged in bowls and tall amphorae provided rich color and perfumed the air. Penelope smiled, noting the meticulous care that Stefani had taken for the reception of the guest from Troy. Such loyalty in a maid servant reflected richly on the honor of the absent king’s household.

  Penelope signaled for a cup of wine. A servant brought her honeyed nectar in a pale alabaster stemmed cup. Only the finest of wares for a Trojan guest.

  At the end of the hall Anticlea entered, her gown trailing behind her like a deep green sea. Penelope was comforted by the queen mother’s unfailing regal bearing; it lent her strength in a quiet, yet certain way. “Mother,” the young queen said, reaching her free hand toward Anticlea. “He may have news of Odysseus.”

  The elder woman took Penelope’s hand in her own. “Yes, let us hope his news is cheerful.”

  A small commotion at the end of the hall caught the attention of both women. They turned to see a stooped old man with a slight hobble entering the hall. He did not look like a man of war; in fact, his appearance was quite the opposite. His tunic was modest, his sandals new, and his beard was squared neatly at his chin. Penelope cast a wary glance to her second mother. Behi
nd her, in the corner of her eye, the queen could see Stefani directing a few maids about the platters and amphorae. Anxiety quieted as the wine warmed her cold fear.

  The guest bowed deeply before them. “My queen. My lady,” he said sincerely.

  “I am happy to serve you from my table and provide lodging when you are weary,” Penelope replied nervously.

  “I have traveled a long distance, that is certain.”

  The queen mother smiled serenely, practiced as she was at receiving foreigners in the hall. “Shall we sit?”

  “I am famished, my lady. And certainly weary.”

  The small company took to their seats. Penelope signaled wine for the palace guest. “You have yet to tell us your name and why you have come.” Hospitality dictated the guest’s needs were satisfied before formal inquiry should be made, but her impatience was stronger than her restraint.

  The guest slowly sipped his wine. “I am Nauplius, my lady.”

  Penelope repeated the name in her head. “I have not heard the name before.”

  “No,” he said, “I suppose you have not.”

  The queen pressed, “Where is your home?”

  “Euboea, in the east.”

  “I know the geography,” the queen said, wondering if this man was one of those who the oracle has warned her of. ‘Those who wish to steal the joy from your world have yet to come.’ “What brings you to the western kingdoms, far from home as you are? And what was your purpose at Troy? Clearly you are no warrior.”

  Nauplius smiled at the young queen’s quick tongue. “You waste little time between meat and wine and … interrogation.”

  “Apologies, Nauplius. I am beyond my wit’s end with worry for my husband.”

  “King Odysseus. Now, there is a true warrior and a wise man.”

  Anticlea set her wine down, leaning into the table. “You have word from my son?”