Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  Clytemnestra closed her eyes, her will shattering against the rock of his resolve. “I do not want my son married to that whore.”

  “That whore,” Tyndareus said between clenched teeth, “is your niece. She shares my bloodline, as well as yours.”

  “I will not allow it,” Clytemnestra snapped, her eyes glittering with outrage. “He is my son not yours to command.”

  After setting his cup down, the king closed the gap between them. He took her shoulders in his rough grasp, squeezing her arms, and bent his face close enough Clytemnestra felt his beard brush her chin. “He is my grandson, and I am yet your father. You remain in power at Mycenae because it suits me. You are a disloyal, ungrateful bitch. You cannot stop this marriage except by war. Is that your intent? To go to war with Sparta?”

  Clytemnestra’s arms burned under his grip, and hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She croaked weakly, “No.”

  Tyndareus released his hold on her, shoving her back. “Then we understand one another.” He picked up his wine and drained the cup dry. As he left, he said, “I almost pity you should Agamemnon ever return from Troy.”

  Clytemnestra stood in shocked silence for a moment before moving to shut and secure the door. She hated her father with every sinew in her body. Her blood boiled with rage against his control on her life. She was determined to stop Orestes from marrying Hermione. She is a child yet … there is time. Tyndareus is old. He might die, if the gods show me any mercy at all.

  Tyndareus carried a small lamp into the darkened chamber he shared on occasion with Leda. He lifted heavy linens and slipped quietly beneath the covering, careful not to disturb his wife. In the beginning, his passions for her had cooled, because he believed her words that Zeus had raped her were in fact truth. He allowed her to believe that she yet repulsed him, but that was far from the truth. There had been many nights when he lay awake and alone thinking about Leda’s soft flesh pressing against him. But his fear of Zeus always outweighed his desire for his wife. If the god should become jealous that he enjoyed the sweetness between Leda’s thighs … no, he had no wish to call the wrath of the god down upon his household. They suffered enough.

  When Leda had told him of Zeus’ sympathy for their sons and how the god had cast their twin spirits up into the heavens, Tyndareus had allowed his defenses against his wife to wane. She had not been receptive to his many overtures, but he was her husband and had every right to encourage her lust. And he was determined.

  He moved closer to her warm body, feeling the rise and fall of her quiet breathing. His hand found the rounded curve of her hip and he pulled her closer, pressing his hard cock into her backside. His hand traveled lightly up her side, finding and gently cupping a breast. She was older now, yet still he found her beautiful. The passing years had only slightly marred her face. Tyndareus had often thought the gods had blessed not only his daughters, but also Leda, with unearthly beauty and had cursed them all to misery because of it.

  “I am awake, Tyndareus,” Leda said, sleepily.

  He moved his lips to her ear and whispered, “So am I.”

  Leda pushed him away from her. “Why do you seek me out at this late hour?”

  Tyndareus turned to his side next to her. “One day you will accept me. By the balls of Ze―” He stopped himself before the name escaped his lips, accidently calling the god down against him. “Be grateful I do not take you against your will, as is my fucking right.” He quit the bed abruptly, leaving the oil lamp behind and the chamber door wide open in the storm of his fury.

  “I would rather all the gods take me against my will than allow you to spill your seed within me ever again,” she whispered into the dark. Leda knew better than to confront her husband or to curse the gods too loudly.

  THIRTY FOUR

  OLYMPUS

  1245 BCE

  Clouds circled around the citadel temple of Olympus, and the cold light shining above cast rays of silver across the land of crystal and glass and the immortal’s steel. Zeus sat immobile on his throne of polished marble wrought with intricate patterns of immortals’ metal by the deft hands of Hephaestus. His far-reaching mind was bent on Themis’ plea for aid. Was it right we entered into this pact, she and I? How many seasons have passed? The game of men now bored him, as the tensions between members of his household grew into a deep divide. Hera was ever pleading for the western tribes of wild men and her voice was joined often by Athena. He groaned, if it can be said a god groans at all. Then, there was Aphrodite interfering on behalf of the walled city and its heroes. He found that his immortal days, governed by the rise and fall of Apollo as was the world of men, had begun to fill him with desire to break his bond with Themis, the daughter of Gaia, Goddess of Earth.

  “Father?”

  Zeus looked up to find his stunning daughter, draped in the flowers of the field and stars, standing before him. “Aphrodite.”

  Aphrodite glided forward, smiling and bright. “May I ask a favor?”

  A slight thread of guilt pulled through him. “You may ask anything you desire, except that I end the war for Troy.”

  “But, Father, Achilles must be stopped. He decimates city after city like a divine plague. He is poised to lay waste to yet another city of innocent mortals. Look below the clouds. See Lyrnessus.”

  Zeus waved his hand, clearing clouds until the blue and green of the world of men was revealed. He could see the Myrmidons pulling their long oars in the cold water of the Edremit below, their plan to attack Lyrnessus clanging loudly in his ears. His eyes scanned to the northeast, observing the campfires of the Greeks flamed in greater number than usual. Zeus grinned at their ingenious stealth to trick their enemies. Neither Trojans nor their eastern allies would know the invaders had divided forces for attack until it was too late and the war cry of mighty Achilles filled the air. He could not help but admire the wild people of the west.

  “The raids and battles are not fair, dear Father, for who can stand against the golden son of Thetis? Demi-mortal that he is.”

  “Why such concern, daughter? Because you favor the men hiding behind the god-hewn wall of Troy, sheltering the shepherd Paris?”

  “Your words sting like Apollo’s light piercing my eyes.” She sat at his feet, wrapping her arm around his leg in supplication. “I beg you for―”

  “Mercy. Mercy for the Trojans.”

  Smiling sweetly, Aphrodite said, “You know my heart before I did speak it, truly.”

  “I have told you, I will not end this war before its appointed hour.”

  Aphrodite pouted. “Will you not give reprieve then, to Troy and her allies?”

  “How do you envision this reprieve? It is not yet Achilles’ time,” Zeus stated, sadly. A single silver tear formed in his eye on account of Thetis’ son, the son he wished were his own.

  “Let his violence be tamed.”

  “How is that possible? Not even Chiron could tame that boy.”

  The goddess’ laughter rang as silver bells spilling across the marble hall of gods. “As all mortal men eventually are.”

  Zeus chuckled and the mountain trembled. “You believe Achilles can be tamed by a woman?”

  “By love.”

  Zeus roared with laughter, shaking the root of the mountain. “So be it,” he thundered.

  THIRTY FIVE

  LYRNESSUS

  1245 BCE

  Having spilt from the main army, Achilles and Odysseus led a huge force against the south. Odysseus has the ingenious idea to light extra campfires at night to confuse the Trojans into thinking the strength of the army yet remained on the beach. As the Golden Warrior leapt from the ship into the water, Achilles sprinted straight up the sand followed immediately by his Myrmidons. The men startled as the ground shook beneath their feet. Their captain, golden hair braided and twisted beneath his gleaming helm, scanned the heavens for ominous signs or thunder bolts. The sky was a sea of blue without even a cloud to shade them from Apollo. With heavy shields hoisted over their shoulders and
across their backs, the invaders pressed up the beach, through the sparse grass and rocky shore. Lyrnessus was not far, and if the gods favored them they would have the city by nightfall.

  Achilles, fastest among his ranks, took a small group of his most skilled Myrmidons and broke ahead of the main horde. Patrokles, dark and beautiful, was fast at his side. They ran with the stride of lions through shrub and into a thin forest of trees, never once feeling the sting of nettle or thorn. The commander halted, holding up a clenched fist. His men fell into a silent line along the perimeter of a meadow. A herd of fat cattle grazed contentedly. A man sat upon a rock at the meadow’s edge, oblivious that death was stalking him. The Golden Warrior signaled his men to circle. Several head of cattle raised their heads.

  In an instant, Achilles leapt into view, startling the herdsman who jumped to his feet. The huge, lumbering beasts scattered left and right, trampling grass, desperately trying to avoid the ropes and capture by the warriors. As the cattle were subdued one by one by Achilles’ men, the Myrmidon commander himself sped through floating dust and grass, chasing down the lone herdsman.

  “Run! Run, you fucking cunt!” Achilles cried, as he laughed and bore down on his target. As he ran, Achilles’ black cape fluttered behind him like a dark sail of a swift-moving galley. The hero’s hand itched to hurl the ash spear from Chiron at his frightened prey. But the pursuit was futile. Achilles, who could out pace even Chiron, couldn’t close the gap. He runs with the wind of an immortal at his back. Achilles blinked against the brightness, and the man vanished into nothingness. He broke off the chase, as a breeze whispered passed his ear. Aeneas … Aeneas …

  Achilles sneered, his war-voice calling after the fleeing man. “You will not escape me forever, Aeneas! I will hunt you down, pull your heart from your coward’s chest, and feast on it while I wash it down with the wine of your blood!”

  Aeneas’ chest burned as he sucked in each breath. He’d never run so swiftly in all his life. The sight of the giant Golden Warrior leaping toward him was as if a god himself had sprung to life against him. He ran through the forest and down into the foothills of Lyrnessus. Glancing behind him and finding no one, he finally slowed. His breath was ragged and sharp against his ribs, his throat burned, and his legs felt heavy.

  A cold, strong hand pulled on Aeneas’s shoulder. He tried to look behind him but he couldn’t. A force with greater strength than he could resist held him. “Who are you? What do you want?” he asked, frightened.

  A deep voice, thunderous and musical, sounded against his ear. “I am Poseidon.”

  Aeneas’ knees quaked under the weight of the god and his own mortal fear. “Wh-what do you want with me?”

  “You have no need to fear me, Aeneas. It was I who sprang to your side, carrying you away from murderous Achilles.”

  “Achilles,” Aeneas whispered. He’d heard the name and the terror that followed the god-warrior’s raids. “Gratitude, mighty Poseidon, for saving a mortal’s life.”

  “It is not your time, Aeneas. Warn the people of Lyrnessus that death is coming for them,” Poseidon said. “I cannot help them as I have helped you.”

  The grip on his shoulder released and the herdsman turned, finding no one and nothing behind him. He made straight for the city to seek out the king and council. As he walked, the red earth beneath his feet clouded each footstep. Aeneas thought of all the stories he’d heard about the western warrior armored in gold, the fearless and blood thirsty enemy of the eastern allies of Troy and the great-walled city ruled by his Uncle Priam and his cousin, Hektor, Defender of the City.

  It was common knowledge by now that the man who’d chased him nearly to death was determined to slaughter every kingdom in the Troad and beyond, until he could raze Troy to the ground. He knew he must get the elders to listen to him if there was any chance of survival for the people of Lyrnessus.

  Aeneas grabbed a grey-haired man in the street. “Where is the palace? Tell me where I might find King Evenus?”

  Wary of strangers and rumors that war was coming, the old man yanked his arm away. “What stranger enters a city asking for the king in days like these?”

  “A desperate man carrying an unwelcomed message,” Aeneas replied, cautiously.

  The old man eyed him carefully, taking in his strong build, disheveled hair, and burnt skin. He sniffed deeply, and then wrinkled his nose. “You are a cattle herder, then?”

  “I am,” Aeneas replied, only telling what sliver of truth he must. “Please, I must see your king.”

  The old man lifted his thin arm, pointing toward a raised hill topped with a five-towered wall in the distance. “There is the palace of Lyrnessus. The jewel of the city. You will find the king there, if he will receive a filthy traveler.”

  Aeneas looked down at himself, taking an honest measure. He was covered in the grime of sweat and dirt. “I have no time to bathe. The matter is of grave import.” Aeneas considered the old man. “You best run for your life for you are too old to fight. Death is coming for you all. You must run while you have breath to save yourself.” With that warning given, Aeneas turned on his heel, making his way quickly through the markets and peddlers’ stalls to the palace.

  He passed stranger after stranger, looking into the eyes of each, thinking that soon they would all be dead or sold as slaves. He wondered why the western army would not sack the city of Troy directly and leave the surrounding people in peace. They had no part in keeping the Queen of Sparta from her rightful husband. Aeneas wondered why Priam would allow such an insult against Agamemnon to stain his household and allow a foreign army to decimate his allies.

  The inner wall, smooth of stone, surrounding the upper palace came into view. He approached the guards flanked on either side of a tall, heavy-timbered double gate. The small contingent of armored men stood as unmoving as korai. “I have urgent words for the king.”

  A helmed guard moved, eyeing him suspiciously, his voice graveled thunder. “Who makes the request?”

  “Aeneas, nephew to King Priam.”

  The thunder-voiced guard signaled for another heavily armored soldier. “Send word to the king’s advisors that the nephew of the King of Troy desires audience with King Evenus.”

  The second guard nodded and disappeared through the high wooden gate.

  Aeneas stood waiting as precious time slipped by. He began to despair that the king had rejected his request, and he’d begun to think that he should abandon the city and save himself when the guard accompanied by six others returned with an answer.

  A man, previously unseen by Aeneas, gestured to the royal visitor and said, “The king and his council will hear you.”

  Aeneas nodded, and followed them up the wide stone stairs and into the palace.

  Queen Sidika and Princess Briseis stood atop the mighty rampart of Lyrnessus as the archers gathered below them along a lower wall and the army positioned itself for a full attack before the outer wall. The Trojan messenger had delivered the most fearsome news. In the passing seasons, all the Trojan allies in the Troad lands feared assault by the west, and most especially encounters by the Black Shields and their Golden Commander. They’d laid waste to every town they’d targeted and there was no reason to expect that Lyrnessus would be spared the fate of all the other vanquished cities and strongholds.

  Briseis watched as in the distant riders approached at break neck speed with dust curling into clouds behind them. They made immediately for the king’s chariot and his personal guard tucked safely in the rear of the assembled forces. She wondered what news they carried, if it be welcomed or despised. Surely the guest, Aeneas, had told the truth. That he’d been ambushed in a nearby meadow by the Sacker of Cities, Achilles. He’d spoken convincingly about being given a warning for her city, a warning that he would heed regardless of King Evenus’ decision.

  After the messenger dismounted, he approached the king who stood high above him in his golden chariot. Then, the king’s advisor stepped down from his own platform on th
e king’s right and pulled a gleaming curved sword from his side. The messenger sank to his knees, blocking his face with frantic arms. Briseis was too far above the throng to hear anything, but she saw clearly the advisor’s lethal stroke and the messenger’s head rolling to the ground. The word was unwelcomed and Aeneas had spoken truthfully. We are doomed. Death is coming for us.

  The princess squinted into the brightness below, searching the royal entourage surrounding King Evenus for her husband, Prince Mynes. She spotted his high black crested helm above the rest. Her heart broke in that horrific and splendid moment, knowing that death was winging its way to Lyrnessus with the swiftness of Hermes, realizing that their love-making the night before had been their last. Precious are the last moments when you do not know they are the last.

  From the distance the battle song of thousands carried on the wind. Briseis reached a hand to her mother-in-law, the queen. They spoke no words, but looked into one another’s eyes both filled with fear and tears. They would be helpless when the battle was over, subjected to rape and carnage and slavery if the invaders took the city. Their royal status would spare them nothing. They were women. Briseis’ other hand found her flat belly. I have never enjoyed the swell of child. Why, Apollo? Why have you cursed me so?

  Her mother, Queen Shavash, had been distraught that she’d married Mynes of Lyrnessus. The god Apollo through her uncle Chryse, Apollo’s own chief priest, had revealed her fate before she’d been born. Her entire life she’d been raised believing she would wed the greatest warrior who had ever lived. Her mother, and if she were honest, her father as well, had hoped to make a match between her and the Prince of Troy. She’d heard them whispering their secret plans and hopes often enough, but the prince had chosen a younger woman from Hypoplakia Thebe.