“The unwelcomed word of a herald cannot stop me from appealing to Achilles. I will try, and pray that Apollo changes his mind and returns Briseis to us.”
Within the span of days, Achilles’ grim reply was carried on horseback to Pedasus. The king’s council received the message first, drawing lots to see who had the misfortune of informing the king. The bad luck fell to Hippokratides, a thin man with no wife or surviving children to mourn him.
When the lot designated him, he shrugged. “It is for the best.” He began mentally preparing for death. “The king will want this news straightaway.” Hippokratides pulled his slender frame from his chair and excused himself from the council, making for the king’s chamber. As he walked, he counted each step. Each one is my last.
The passageways passed by in a blur. When he reached the king’s chamber, he had no recollection of having walked there at all. His hand trembled as he knocked on the door.
“Enter,” the king commanded, his voice ringing clearly through the heavy timber.
Hippokratides wrung his hands behind his back, as he bowed his head to King Briseus. “My lord, the envoy has returned.”
“What is Achilles’ demand? Whatever it is, we shall exceed it.”
“My king, the Sacker of Cities has returned your envoys … in pieces. Without their heads. He said―”
King Briseus whirled to face his councilman, screaming, “What barbarism is this? Has Achilles no heart for family? No honor for tradition?”
“My lord, words fail me,” Hippokratides stammered, nervously. His fingers ached from squeezing them together.
The king threw his kylix of wine across the chamber where it smashed, scattering a thousand shards across the floor; the wine splashed like blood along the hem of his robe. He smashed jars of perfume on the floor, bitter and sweet mixing together in a nauseating pungency. “The gods abandon me!” He hurled a lit oil lamp passed Hippokratides’ shoulder. It spewed droplets of fire as it clattered across the polished marble.
By Zeus, let him spare my life.
King Briseus, red-cheeked and wild eyed, screamed, “Get out! Get out!”
Hippokratides tripped over the hem of his long robe trying to get to the door. A cup slammed against his back as he stumbled for safety. As he pulled the door shut behind him, he heard another piece of pottery smash into the door. In gratitude for his life, he ran all the way to the main hall, not stopping until he’d cleared the palace steps and headed for the safety of the bustling market place.
When King Briseus was alone, he wept for his daughter. In a daze, he pulled a silken cord from his bed drapery, walking calmly to his terrace. Perhaps Priam will hear this message above the din of war and save my daughter when I cannot. He tied one end to the stone balustrade, tugging on the cord to ensure it would hold fast. Then, slowly he knotted a noose and slipped it over his head. With the warm afternoon air gently sweeping across the balcony, King Briseus leapt. His body dangled, his throat burned and ached, bearing the full weight of his body. He gasped and choked as the noose tightened around his throat. His bowels opened up, spilling filth down his legs. He jerked. His body fought for life, but it was too late. The shadow of death hovered above his convulsing form. Within moments, the King of Pedasus was dead.
THIRTY SIX
LYRNESSUS
1245 BCE
Apollo’s light warmed Achilles’ skin as he lay naked sprawled out across a large rock. The heat radiated through his bones, easing the ache of battle and fatigue. He spoke little of his weariness, choosing to keep his mortal aspects tightly tucked away from his men. The only one among them all who was privy to his one weakness, as Achilles considered his human blood a weakness, was Patrokles.
With one hand as a cushion behind his head, Achilles closed his eyes. He pulled a leg up, resting his bare heel against the opposite knee, cupping his cock, soft and warm in the sun, in the other hand. “What price was fetched for the Trojan prince?”
Patrokles, dozing alongside Achilles, asked, “Do you ever stop thinking of war?”
“Never,” Achilles answered, dryly.
“I sold him for one-hundred head of cattle and a polished silver bowl rimmed with lapis lazuli.”
Achilles raised his head slightly, impressed by the bargain his cousin had struck. “A generous price. The Myrmidons will not be hungry for quite some time.” He lay back down, settling into a comfortable position against the hard rock. “The bowl is pure silver?”
“It is. And heavy. Worth at least fifty head of cattle.”
Achilles sighed. “Good. Take it.”
Patrokles turned his head toward his cousin. “For what purpose?”
“None, but your own. Take it as my gratitude for your loyalty.”
“A generous gift, cousin.” Patrokles smiled sleepily. “What of the woman … Briseis?”
“What of her?”
“You refused her father’s ransom. You never keep a woman for long before giving her to the camp. Why refuse a ransom?”
Achilles opened his eyes, squinting into the blinding blue above. “She is like no other woman I have known. She is proud. Afraid more of life, than death.”
“She is old.”
“She is a woman, no mere girl. I have always preferred women. Their breasts are fuller, their hips rounder.” His cock jerked to life. “Look what you have done. I will have no rest until I bed her.”
“So bed her,” Patrokles said, folding an arm across his eyes.
Achilles frowned. “Briseis will not have me.”
“That has never stopped you before, cousin.” Sweat trickled down his neck. Suddenly, Patrokles sat up on his elbows, shock furrowing his brow. “By the balls of Zeus! You have lost more than your―”
Achilles sat up. “Love has no place in my tent.” He grabbed his chiton and slipped it over his head. Then, he stood, stretching lazily in the sun, shaking life into his arms and legs before jumping from the boulder.
“Where do you go, cousin?”
Achilles shouted over his shoulder, laughing, “To find a willing woman.”
Patrokles lay back against the hard, dusty boulder, smiling to himself. So, he can love after all. He laughed out loud at his cousin’s dilemma, startling a lizard at his feet. It skittered down the face of the rock into the grass. Achilles is in love. Those are two words I never thought to utter in one breath. He brushed another curious lizard away with a quick flick of his hand, sighing in the heat of the afternoon, letting sleep wash over his weary body.
TROY
Bay of Troy
Greek Camp
The Great King’s war pavilion, ringed by a thousand tents of discontented troops, stood as an opulent reminder that the war continued without an end in sight. Rumors of mutiny echoed in his ears. The men griped of inadequate food supply, while their commanders feasted; they longed for the comforts of home, and tired of chasing after the wayward Helen. They all complained … save the Myrmidons who reveled in every raid, in every battle, following their commander into fray after fray, singing of their triumphs each night around their campfires.
Agamemnon scowled at his younger brother across the table. “We have wine, gold, slaves, women … but no fucking victory against the Trojans.”
“Our army has overrun Lyrnessus. The strategy to take Pedasus already decided. Why are you not rejoicing?” Menelaus asked, stuffing a handful of salt-cured olives into his mouth. He loosened his belt, sighing.
The Great King spat his wine out. “Achilles took Lyrnessus, or have you forgotten?”
Menelaus shrugged at the reproach. “I forget nothing, brother. You lead the army, not Achilles. Let him have his glory. The songs will tell of you, the great Agamemnon, and his defeat of mighty Troy. No one will remember the raids to secure supplies.” He shook a roasted lamb’s leg at his elder brother. “Achilles is just another captain under your command.”
The war against the Trojans had turned to pillage long ago. Agamemnon longed to go home, a truth he kept to himself.
He tired of living in a tent no matter how luxuriously his servants laid it out. Sand always beneath his feet, sweltering heat and chaffing cold, the stench of latrines wafting through the camps, all these discomforts he preferred to do without. When the air was particularly putrid, he found he even missed the cold concern of Clytemnestra. I could get accustomed to those long legs wrapped behind my thighs again. Agamemnon wiped that thought quickly away; he would likely never bed her again, except by force.
His thoughts once more turned to the continuing war. When they’d begun years ago, vowing to redeem Helen for Menelaus’ sake—By the gods what a whore—invoking the dreaded oath to build his army, he’d imagined the gods would drink their fill of war and death within a year. Then, tiring of the mortal game, send the survivors home blessed with the geras won by blood and bone. Surely, the gods held some regard for poor mortals weaving through the divinely inspired maze. But the years had passed with only bloodshed and discomfort their reward. How much longer must I endure that fucking Phthian?
Agamemnon stood quietly, his hand skimming the war council table as he walked around it. The crisp air of morning nipped at the bare patches of skin beneath his crimson cloak. He pulled the edges of it around his arms, scanning the camp for signs of mutiny. What greeted his eyes were the mundane activities of any war camp: men polishing their weapons and repairing armor, camp women tending the fires and their cook-pots, and now, small children, born of war, ran wild through their temporary homes staked in sand.
Still, it is not enough.
“How much livestock was appropriated from Lyrnessus?” the Great King asked.
“Odysseus’ report stated enough cattle, goats, and wine to last the winter.” Menelaus cleared his throat nervously. “Achilles and his Myrmidons brought in the lion’s portion.”
Agamemnon gripped a rope staked firmly in the ground, his chin sagging to his neck. He exhaled a heavy sigh. “At every turn, Achilles and the gods mock me.” Silently he blamed himself for the disfavor the gods showered down upon him for killing his daughter. What choice did I have?
“The men will not go hungry, and full bellies soothe restless spirits,” the Great King’s brother said, leaning back giving his widening girth a hearty smack. “Hold a feast tonight.”
The Great King returned to his chair. “An excellent suggestion. Palamedes!” As soon as he’d spoken the name, he remembered.
Menelaus’ eyes widened. He said nothing.
Agamemnon balanced the lapse of memory. “I called on him for many years … Sometimes I—”
“Ennomus. The servant replacing … is Ennomus.”
“By the balls of Zeus. Ennomus!”
A young boy appeared, wide-eyed and shaking, his dark hair a tangled mess. The short blue robe was clean but leather cuffs on each wrist were well-worn. “M-my l-lord,” he stammered, clearly jolted by the summons.
“By the gods, you are young.” Agamemnon shook his head. “I suppose you know nothing of calling for a feast?”
“No, my lord, I don’t,” he said.
The king shook his head. Palamedes would know. “Do you know where Nestor is camped?” Ennomus nodded. “Good. Find him and tell him that tonight I would have a feast for all the men. Ask his assistance.”
Like a wisp of smoke, the boy disappeared into the throng of the camp.
Menelaus hid his grin behind the rim of his cup. “See if you can keep this one longer than the others, rather than slit his throat because he is not … someone else.”
BAY OF EDREMIT
Beach Camp between Lyrnessus and Pedasus
Achilles’ armor glinted in the golden glow of the oil lamps lit about his tent. The glittering spoils of Lyrnessus lay scattered haphazardly about, and the Princess Briseis sat alone weeping for her father. Why are the gods so cruel? Why take my father? They leave me no comfort in my captivity. Her eyes burned and her cheeks were salted with old tears, even as new tears fell. Her arm ached where she’d been yanked by Achilles’ men all the way through the camp and roughly tossed into his tent, forgotten and humiliated. I hate these Greeks.
A dusty ray of light pierced the gloomy gold of Achilles’ tent as his man-servant pushed into the make-shift chamber. He carried a large basin with fresh, dry linens, and setting them down on the table, spoke softly, “My lord Achilles asks that you bathe. He prefers his women clean before he arrives. There is water in the jars there.”
Briseis arose, slowly, her body aching all over with grief and resistance. She pressed a hand to her throbbing temple. So this is how it is to be a slave. Orders and obeisance to a master.
“I am called Knaxon. Or Nax.” He hesitated before leaving her in her misery. “My lord asks also that you cease crying. He … he won’t appreciate your tears.”
“He is cold and heartless,” she murmured, pouring water from a pitcher into the bowl. I will never be clean and whole again.
“No, my lady, he is anything but cold. Take care his passion doesn’t consume you.”
Briseis dipped a cloth in to the cool water, wrung it dry, and wiped her face. “I am a lady no longer. Tell me, Knaxon, how long before your lord throws me to his men?”
Nax shrugged his broad shoulders. He’d watched Achilles discard many women to his Black Shields once they no longer pleased him, and some he sold into slavery at Lemnos. Achilles never kept any of them for long. “I don’t know. A full moon cycle at best.”
“Bring a dagger instead of a bowl when next you visit this tent.”
“You’re mistaken, my lady, if you believe I’ll help you kill Achilles.”
Briseis laughed hollowly, even as the question burrowed inside her thoughts. Yes, vengeance. “I am no fool, Knaxon. I do not intend to kill Achilles.”
“Why do you wish with a knife?”
“To slit my own throat.”
Nax hurriedly glanced around the tent, noting Achilles’ sword and ash spear lying across a wooden chest. He gathered them up in his arms before leaving Briseis alone. He knew Achilles would be angered by the woman’s death, a life taken in his own tent. No, he would rather be beaten for removing the weapons.
Patrokles found the Achilles’ prize huddled in an ornate wooden chair inlaid with silver and encrusted with gems. He recognized it as part of his commander’s recently acquired geras from the palace at Lyrnessus. “So, it is you who drives my cousin to distraction. Stand up, woman.”
The woman looked up, but remained sitting. “Briseis. My name is Briseis.”
Patrokles offered her a slight nod. “Briseis. Now, stand up. Let me have a look at you.” The woman stood and turned. He walked to the table, noting Achilles careless disregard of gold coins, silver bowls and bangles, and a ransom of jewels in the presence of a slave. He grabbed a handful of plump dates from a bowl. “Why are you weeping, Briseis?”
The question itself was enough to stir her indignation to the surface. “Have you ever watched your world burn? Lost all you held dear?”
“I have lost my fellow Myrmidons, men I love as brothers.”
Briseis sniffed. “That is not the same.”
“No, I suppose it is not.” Patrokles poured himself a cup of wine from Achilles’ private store. “Slaves do not ask questions of their masters. You should not question Achilles … just a warning.”
“I have never been a slave,” the princess mumbled miserably.
“You will learn, as all prisoners do. Learn or die.”
Only a cruel man would say such things to me. “Death is all you have brought since you and your people came across the sea.”
Patrokles sipped the wine slowly. Although past good childbearing years, her dark beauty was a just compensation. Achilles’ reputation for bedding only the unique and beautiful captives would remain intact by taking this one to whore. “We fight to restore the honor of the King of Sparta.”
“Honor? How can your Menelaus have honor with a wife such as Helen? She deserves no crown restored. Because of her, I have no people. No family. No home.”
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“Your home is now with Achilles.”
“When he tires of me, he will give me to his men. I would rather die.”
“Then, I will encourage him to take you as his wife. A just compensation for your loss.”
“You do me no favors. I refuse his hands upon my body.”
Patrokles laughed. “He has said as much. Do not think you will resist him forever. He has a certain way with the female flesh.”
“I am not most women.”
Achilles’ second-in-command rose. He closed the small gap between himself and Briseis and tugged her chin up, forcing her to meet his unblinking stare. “No, I can see that you are not. But brace yourself, Briseus, for he aims next at Pedasus.”
At that, Briseus sank to her knees, fresh tears streaking down her face. May the gods curse Achilles.
THIRTY SEVEN
TROY
1244 BCE
Palace of King Priam
Hecuba smashed her kylix of wine onto the floor, the alabaster shards scattering in every direction. “I lost my son, and you turned to her!”
Priam sighed angrily, as Tessa hurriedly moved to clean the mess. “I sent her away. Or have you forgotten your rejection of my comfort?”
“What did you expect after such a loss? Paris’ cries still ringing in my ears, haunting me at every step. And you … you wished to fuck me into complacency and contentment.”
“Paris has been returned to our household. All has been set right.”
Hecuba fumed. She reached for a silver bowl, hefting it above her shoulder. “Set right? You call Paris’ return after a lifetime, set right?” The bowl bounced, clanging loudly against the tile before rolling to silence. “How is it after all these years that you yet lack comprehension of the hurt you inflicted? He should never have been cast aside.”
King Priam sank helpless into a couch now. “I have to do this, Hecuba. You must understand.”
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 26