Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “Of what?”

  “What the war might take from Troy … from me.”

  Hektor nodded his head. “You are afraid I will die fighting Achilles.”

  She hadn’t dared utter the words, and hearing him speak them aloud she could no longer stay the tears welling in her eyes. “Do not give the gods cause—”

  The prince tilted her chin up, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “My fate is already cast. Long before this war began. I will die when it is my time, and not before. I want the gods to pit Achilles against me. He is a worthy opponent. There is no better way to die.”

  Hektor pulled her close to him, wrapping his strong arms around her. “You are the fire that burns within my heart. There is room for no other. When I die, it will be your name upon my lips.”

  Andromache wept freely now, pressing her soft cheek against his hard chest. And when she calmed, Hektor kissed her gently on the mouth, whispering of his love and loyalty.

  THIRTY NINE

  PHTHIA

  1242 BCE

  Mount Pelion

  Cave Hall of Chiron

  The hot wind whipping across the tall grass carried the scent of smoke. Neoptolemus crouched even lower, remaining out of Chiron’s sight, but keeping the centaur in his. He narrowed his clear blue eyes.

  Chiron paused at the edge of the grass sea. “Neo!” he roared. “I tire of this game!”

  Sweat trickled down Neo’s neck, as he watched his mentor turn and gallop up the hill and out of view. He will kill me in my sleep this time. He was afraid to stand up. What if he comes back? Neo hadn’t meant to make the fire burn so high, and he certainly never intended to get caught, but Chiron had seen the flames and rushed to douse the growing inferno.

  Neo slowly rose from his hiding place in the grass. He considered running all the way back to Phthia, but was uncertain he’d make it all the way down before Chiron or one of the less friendly centaurs caught him. He cursed his fortune and longed for the day when he could join his father in battle. Neo kicked a rock in the path. How can the gods be against me, when my father is already a great hero? Lost in self-pity, he failed to hear the hooves softly treading behind him.

  “I knew you were hiding in that grass!” Chiron bellowed, as he grabbed Neo by the arm.

  “Ouch! Let me go!”

  “Let you go so you can burn down my house?” Chiron’s lip curled, as he scolded the boy. “You should know better, little Neo.”

  “I hate when you call me that,” Neo spat. “I hate it!”

  Chiron’s jaw ticked and he hastened his pace, forcing his ward to run or risk being dragged back to the cave hall.

  Achilles’ son was as frightened of Chiron as much as he admired him. That fear kept him in strict obedience … ...most days. His heart was restless for adventure and war. Approaching the hall, Neo could clearly see the scorched earth and ash where the fire had been. He looked to the entrance of the cave, this time noting the position of the large entrance. What was I thinking? Of course he could see me.

  “Not a strategic move on your part, little Neo,” the centaur said, hauling him through the threshold. Once inside, Chiron finally released Neoptolemus’ arm.

  Neo stammered out an apology. “I-I was only t-trying―”

  “It matters little what you were trying to do, but what you did. You do as you please thinking not at all of consequence,” Chiron chided, folding his arms across his chest. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Do I remind you of my father?”

  The centaur stomped a hoof against the tile floor. “Your father was headstrong as well.” Chiron scruffed Neo’s wild blond curls, “But he reflected on his deeds … mostly.”

  Neo laughed. “I am like him, am I not?”

  Chiron twitched his tail stiffly. “In countenance, young Neo, you are the same.”

  “Why did you swish your tail like that? Are you angry I am like my father? Are you not proud of me?” Neoptolemus frowned, disappointment creasing his forehead.

  The mask of mentor slid slowly down Chiron’s face. He wished to calm the boy’s wildness with strict training. Neoptolemus was in many ways like Achilles, yet a murky shadow chased the boy. There was only one shadow that had ever given Chiron the same chill, and that was the darkness trailing Ares like a cloak flowing in a winter’s storm. If the boy had a touch of the War God’s will, Neoptolemus would not only rival his father’s brutality and skill in battle, but would lack the temperance of any compassion. Ares danced in blood, and if Neo found the same revelry …

  The centaur shuddered.

  “What is wrong,” young Neo asked. “Are you cold? Shall we practice war?”

  There it is. The shadow. Chasing him and he is unaware. “Tell me, when was the last time you dreamt of the burning city?”

  The boy laughed heartily. “When do I not see that city burning before me? Do not worry, Chiron, it frightens me not at all now.”

  The centaur sighed. Yes, Ares has touched you. Why? “I have a lesson in music for you.” Music to calm the boy’s growing appetite for blood.

  Neo groaned. “I hate the lyre.” When he saw Chiron reach for the flute instead, he blurted out, “And the flute most of all.”

  “You wish to match your father in all things, do you not?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then you must master music.”

  Narrowing his eyes at Chiron, Neo grabbed the flute from his teacher.

  “And medicine. And poetry,” Chiron added, smiling as Neo scowled.

  “You steal my joy, Chiron.”

  The centaur’s laughter echoed through the stone hall. “Now, where have I heard that before? Play, Neo. And when I am satisfied, we will practice … war.”

  The boy’s brilliant smile reminded Chiron of Achilles. He will slay many hearts as well …

  PHTHIA

  Inlet Pond of Thetis

  Long dormant memories of Thetis slowly awakened in Peleus’ mind, as he walked the unmarked path to the nymph’s secret dwelling. Has it been so many years? He recalled her wet beauty, her hair swirling about her like tame seaweed, her delicate feet and shimmering gossamer gown clinging to every curve. I was so young then. He glanced down at his hands, darkened and wrinkled by war and work. What have the years given me, but grief? He wondered about Achilles now, hoping the nymph could give him news of their son.

  Peleus pressed on under the rising heat of day, beneath the glorious gold of Apollo until he came to the willow-lined pond. A cool breeze fluttered through the branches and feathery leaves bowed low to the vibrant verge. The glassy pond, a salty concoction of the sea and a fresh water spring, was deep and dark before the king. He couldn’t see beyond his own tired reflection on the surface.

  He slipped his dusty sandals from his feet and tossed his sweat-ringed chiton to the grass. And he dove into the abyss. The water was cool like liquid silk passing over his body. He surfaced to find a familiar pair of eyes watching him from above the waterline. “I knew you would come,” he said.

  “Where else should I be, King Peleus?” Thetis said, her voice a song skipping across the pond.

  Peleus swam within an arm’s reach of the nymph. “I suppose nowhere else, wife.” Her hair floated about her like a cloud, the pale rise of her breasts just visible in the murky water. “You are beautiful still.”

  “And you are still grey,” she said, smiling warmly. “Do not think that you can catch me again, Peleus.”

  “I would only want you willingly, or not at all.”

  The nymph swam closer. “So, you have missed me?”

  “Since the day we fare-welled our son to Troy.”

  She glided close enough that Peleus could feel her hair wrapping around his arms and legs. “That was a long time ago.”

  Peleus caught a glimmer in her chameleon eyes. He reached a hand to her, expecting her to brush it away, but instead she embraced him. Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her deeply on the mouth.

  Thetis entwined h
er long legs around his waist, granting him permission for the pleasure he desired. Peleus guided them to the edge of the pond, pulling their bodies up onto the grass. Then, he grabbed her buttocks, gently sliding her onto his hard cock, setting a slow and languid pace.

  The nymph moaned and shook with pleasure, and Peleus pulled her down to his mouth, kissing her with the urgency melancholy and regret demand. Their passion spent, they lay quietly for a long while—Peleus gently tracing his wife’s spine, and Thetis nuzzled into his neck.

  “Why did you really come to me, Peleus?” the nymph whispered wistfully. “Surely, you can have any woman you desire. You have no need to travel this far for love.”

  The king’s fingers ceased their caress. “I would know about our son.”

  Thetis rolled to his side, draping one leg over his waist. “What would you know?”

  “I hear the rumors of his growing brutality, his conquests.” He hesitated. I have committed heinous crimes in the act of war. Lost my way in the blood lust. “The years drag on … and I have begun to fear he will never return to Phthia. Will he return, Thetis?”

  The nymph brushed a black curl streaked with silver from her husband’s forehead. “I can give no answer that will bring you joy or hope.”

  Peleus sighed deeply. “He will be lost to us.” My son is a warrior in blood and bone.

  “He will live forever, my love, in great songs. The deeds of Achilles will never be forgotten.”

  “Small comfort that,” Peleus said. “You have always known. You warned me years ago, yet I am only now allowing myself to believe it.”

  “We did our best to intervene, but the Fates will have their game.”

  Peleus tilted his head to kiss Thetis softly on the lips and whispered, “I wish it were not so.”

  “As do I, husband.”

  TROY

  Bay of Troy

  Greek Camp

  The boy and his mother stood before Menelaus. He scarcely recalled the night of passion he’d buried into the camp whore, but the dark auburn curls framing the boy’s round face were identical to his. He knew without doubt that this was his bastard son.

  “How old is he now?” Menelaus asked.

  “He has seen four summers, my lord,” the slave woman replied.

  “Come here, boy,” Menelaus commanded.

  The boy stepped closer with prompting by his mother’s hand between his shoulder blades. He stared at the ground, afraid to meet the stranger staring down at him.

  “What does your mother call you?”

  He looked to his mother for reassurance. She nodded. “Megapenthes,” he answered shyly.

  “Do you help your mother about camp?”

  Megapenthes nodded.

  Menelaus scruffed his wild red locks. “Good.” He looked to the boy’s mother. “You have raised him well.”

  The woman pulled her son back to her, fearful of what Menelaus wanted. “I’ve done my best, my lord.”

  “He is obviously mine.” He thought briefly how different the boy was from Hermione. His daughter by Helen was golden splendor like her mother, baring no trace of the house of Atreus. “I will not have a bastard of mine work as a camp slave.”

  Tears filled the woman’s eyes. “But, my lord … you can’t take him from me. He’s all I have.”

  She is but a slave and cares more for her child than Helen did for hers. Ungrateful cunt of a wife. A sliver of compassion filled Menelaus. “I will have a tent raised near my own. I will have him raised as my own, and you …” He assessed her rough beauty and rounded hips. “You will both remain in my household.”

  “G-gratitude, my l-lord,” she stammered, because she must.

  “Gather your things and return to me―”

  “My lord, we have nothing.”

  Menelaus sighed. “Very well, then. I will see to that as well.” I will not have the men mock me on account of my bastard and his mother. “What is your name, woman?”

  “Teridae, my lord.”

  “Teridae,” he said. Teridae. “Your tent will be ready by Apollo’s setting.”

  “My lord?”

  Menelaus raised an eyebrow.

  “What would you have us do, until then?”

  “Take the boy to the beach. Collect shells. Do what mothers do with their children.”

  Teridae’s mouth fell open. “But the work … the other women will―”

  “I will not have the mother of my bastard slave away for other men. Go, do as I command,” Menelaus growled more roughly than he intended.

  Teridae grabbed Megapenthes by the shoulder and scurried off, disappearing into the tents.

  FORTY

  TROY

  1241 BCE

  Camp of Refugees

  Hektor walked among the refugees streaming into the lower city—men and women with blank, staring eyes, their faces stained with tears and dust, and their voices shrill with their lamentation. They carried few belongings across their backs and small bundles on their heads. A fortunate few pulled small carts. Some walked without shoes, others with wounds yet bleeding, still more were carried on makeshift stretchers too injured or too old. They were walking wraiths, defeated and disoriented by war, fearful of the next raid on their livestock, terrified of being burned out of their homes and villages where survivors were sold for gold or handed to the western army for rough use. Hektor knew Agamemnon was amassing great wealth through the slave trade he’d established on Lemnos. And with nowhere to turn, these people from across the Troad came to Troy, seeking refuge in the shadow of the shining citadel. These are now my people. War has taken everything from them, their peace. I must find the strength to face Achilles, and if the gods favor … defeat him. Facing such an enemy as that would likely mean death, but a sacrifice well made.

  He reached out a hand to help a young boy who’d fallen down and scraped his knee. The boy flinched at his gesture.

  “I will not hurt you,” he said, reassuring the child. The side of the boy’s face was caked with dried blood. Hektor could see where a small gash had congealed in his hair. He pulled the boy up and dusted him off. “What are you called?”

  The boy stared at him, wide eyed.

  “Where is your mother?”

  Still the boy rubbed his swollen eye, but made no reply.

  “Have you no people?” Hektor asked, choking back his grief for the boy. My people now. I am Defender of the City. I must protect them all. He knew now that the burden of ruling was a blessing in times of peace, but in war, it weighed most heavily on both heart and mind. “You are a brave boy.” He smiled. “I will see that you are cared for. Will you come with me?”

  The boy placed a small hand within Hektor’s large one, and the Defender of the City led him to a section of the growing quarter of refugees, weaving about until he came to a blue tented pavilion with no walls. “Andromache,” he said quietly.

  His wife, princess of Troy, turned. “My love! I had not expected you so early.” She leaned down. “Who is this brave warrior?”

  “He will not speak.”

  With a gentle and caring hand, Andromache lifted the boy’s chin. She tenderly brushed a stray lock of hair from his face. “He will speak when he is ready.”

  Hektor smiled at his loving wife. The gods are cruel to her. He knew she would be an adoring and patient mother, if the gods would only allow her womb to carry a child to the end. It was a cruelty the gods inflicted, keeping her fertile, yet denying her the prize of motherhood. Seeking solace, Andromache had taken to tending the poor and suffering children of Troy. He saw that it brought her joy to be in service of the unfortunate. “I leave him in your capable hands then.”

  “I will see him tended. Has he family?”

  “None that I have seen. Perhaps, his people are lost as well inside this tangle of strangers.”

  Andromache nodded understanding. “Very well. I will likely be about the camp all evening.”

  Hektor noted the royal guards positioned around the princess, and sati
sfied for her safety, left without further word, his heart heavy for the city and her people. Hektor had begun to understand why his father had left Paris to die all those years ago. The fate of so many rested on a king’s shoulders, and as Defender of the City they had every right to expect Hektor’s protection as well.

  Cassandra’s strange warnings over the years had deafened Priam’s ears to her words. But, when Helenus spoke, that was a different matter altogether. How will I break this harsh and hopeful vision to Hecuba? They had rarely spoken since he’d brought his bastard into the palace. He made for the queen’s private chambers, knowing she would be about her weaving this time of day. Priam found the chamber door ajar.

  Hecuba was alone, staring out her window. “You have heard?” she asked, never taking her gaze from her view.

  “I have.”

  The queen now faced her husband. “Do you believe it the truth? Not some trick of Apollo?”

  “Do not criticize the gods so openly. Their retribution is harsh.”

  “I know full well the extent of their retribution. I require no warnings from you. Obedient or not, they punish our family.” The window drew her gaze once more. “They have taken all of Hektor’s children.” Her voice trailed into a whisper. “My son has no heir, yet remains a faithful husband.”

  The implication was not lost on Priam. “Hektor will one day hold a son of his own.”

  Hecuba sighed. “If only that were true.”

  “We are at the god’s mercy, wife. But, I come to speak of Troilus.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “You have heard, then, from Helenus?”

  “A messenger arrived shortly before you,” Hecuba said, returning to her loom. She wove a fine weft of scarlet wool through the taut warp threads. “What do you intend to do?”

  “He is our youngest son. I would keep him safe.”

  Hecuba said nothing. She pulled another weft through the warp.

  “We should keep him here, in Troy. If Helenus speaks truly, Troilus must see twenty summers if Troy is to be spared. Anywhere, out there, he will be vulnerable. There is nowhere safer from the wrath of Achilles than within these wall.”