“How do you fare, old mother?”
The woman smacked Agelaus’ hand with a rolled mat of skinny reeds. “You expect a bargain with that greeting, old man?” her voice cackled, matching her wizened face.
“I could move to another stall?” the herder suggested.
“Your wife prefers her dates plump,” the fig-peddler said, crossing her arms across her ample bosom. “Move along, be my guest.”
Agelaus laughed loudly. “And risk Lexias’ wrath? Never! I prefer my own bed, not the stable.”
The peddler wrapped the dates in a rough spun cloth and handed it to the herder. “Tell Lexias it has been too long. Her face would be welcomed reprieve from yours.” She winked at Corythus, whose mouth was stuffed with the sticky fruit. “Where are you two headed?”
Agelaus shrugged. “The citadel.”
“What business there? More bulls to sell?”
“Not this time.”
The peddler leaned forward. She grinned mischievously. “He does have the look about him. Another long-lost son, perhaps?”
“Mind your dates, woman,” Agelaus snapped. “My business with the king is none of your concern.”
She sat back on her stool. “Suit yourself.”
Agelaus grabbed Corythus by the elbow and ushered him down the street. Once they were far enough away from the nosy merchant, he stopped. “I hadn’t considered that your face would give you away. I should have guessed. Pull your himation up around your head.”
“Why does it matter if I am recognized as Paris’ son?”
“Not everyone in the city accepts your father as a true prince of Troy. Some have even begun blaming him for the war.”
Corythus pulled the garment up into a deep cowl. “Was it a mistake to come, Agelaus?”
“We won’t know until we speak with Paris.”
“What if he refuses to see me?”
The herder clapped the young man on the back. “He’ll see you. Of that I’m certain. Claiming you as his son … only he knows what he will do.”
“Are you certain he is the one?” Helen asked Agelaus. “I was unaware that Paris had sent for him.”
Agelaus shifted under the newly proclaimed Princess of Troy’s gaze. “He did not send for the boy, my lady.”
“Then, why has he come?”
Corythus pulled out the letter his mother bade Agelaus write down. “My mother sends this message.”
“No, Corythus―”
Before Agelaus could stop the boy from handing the message over, Helen had it in her hands.
Helen scanned the letter. My dearest Paris, it began, is it you reading my letter? Or has the golden-haired woman prevented it? Helen looked at the young man, the shadow of a beard just beginning. I suffer because the gods have united against me. What did I do to deserve this punishment? Helen quickly shoved the papyrus into her girdle.
“What do you think of the citadel?” she asked.
“It is bigger than I imagined,” he replied, shyly.
Helen took in his height, noting his broad shoulders and the royal mark upon his chin … but his eyes swam with blue and green. The eyes of the nymph, she thought. “Your mother is Oenone?”
Corythus nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
Whenever Paris spoke of Oenone, his voice reflected the shame he carried for betraying the nymph, and in compromising his honor on Helen’s account. Although under direction of Aphrodite, a thin justification, Paris’ guilt yet haunted him. Now, seeing the boy grown to manhood, and her shameful barrenness, Helen’s jealousy sparked anew. What if Paris proclaims the boy his heir, shaming me and my dusty womb?
“You are welcome here, Corythus. Agelaus, I give you thanks for delivering him safely to the palace.”
The herder stood firm. “I will wait until I speak with Paris myself. Introduce the boy.”
Helen smiled wryly. “There is no need. I will see to all my husband’s affairs.”
Agelaus didn’t like the sly look she gave him, but he was in no position to argue with the wife of Paris. He embraced Corythus. “If you ever wish to return, I will see you safely back to your mother.” He glanced at the Spartan woman. He didn’t trust her, but had no choice except to leave Corythus in her care.
Once Agelaus was away, Helen steered Corythus by the shoulder into an alcove. “May I ask you a question?”
The boy nodded, intoxicated by Helen’s beauty and nearness.
“What do you hope to gain by coming to Troy?”
“I wish to know my father. And why this city had the power to take him from our world.”
Helen narrowed her eyes. “He is a prince, Corythus. With obligation and duty.”
The boy bowed his head. What could he answer? He knew nothing of ruling a city or being a prince.
Leading Paris’ son by the shoulder, she whispered in his ear, “Come, Corythus. I will find you accommodations.” She stopped suddenly, pulling him closer. “But … I think it best we do not tell Paris of your arrival … just yet.”
Corythus furrowed his brow. “Why not, my lady?”
“The survival of our city rests partly on his shoulders. He must not be distracted from his duty. It would lessen his esteem in the people’s eye.” And in Hektor’s eyes. If Hecuba finds out, she will have Paris cast me aside. She would risk Aphrodite’s wrath to be rid of me. “In fact, do not tell anyone who you are. Do you understand, Corythus?”
“But will I meet him? Will you help me?”
“I will.” She smiled, taking the only son of Paris off to a distant wing of the palace.
FORTY THREE
CHRYSE
1239 BCE
Behind the blue veil of the adyton, Chryses offered the sweetest wine before the sacred shrine of Apollo, and then pricked the blue vein at his wrist with the sharp tip of a silver blade. He let several fat drops of blood fall into the offering. “She is my only daughter, Apollo, whose glory outshines them all. Faithfully, I have served you all my days. I beg you, give Astynome safe passage to Troy.”
The priest, head bowed and garments shining, waited in stillness for the god’s reply. The black marble beneath his feet was cool. The god was absent. Chryses bent his mind on the god, knowing that Apollo could provide for his daughter’s safety, if that was the god’s will. The siege against Troy had exacted a heavy toll on all the cities and minor kingdoms under the shining citadel’s protection and her allies suffered starvation and slavery. When the people came to Apollo’s temple seeking aid and comfort, sometimes revenge, they asked him why the god allowed such atrocities against the faithful. He had no answer.
The smooth stone beneath his feet warmed. He is here … The god’s weight pressed on his shoulders.
Apollo’s hot breath whispered passed his ear, prickling his skin from head to toe. To Hypoplakia Thebe send her, faithful priest.
The god’s presence lifted and Chryses fell to his knees, exhausted. “Gratitude, Apollo.” The black marble cooled and the priest gathered himself. Outside, Astynome waited for his blessing before her departure. His knees crackled as he stood, his back ached. I am growing old.
Chryses pulled the veil aside and walked into the public reception hall. He squinted in the bright light streaming down from the open ceiling, pooling on the floor. Men and women milled about the temple, offering their tithes and pleas for Apollo’s protection. Astynome caught his attention and waved.
He reached for his daughter’s hands. “The god has spoken.”
“All is well? I am to go?”
“You will sail across the Edremit keeping to the south until you reach Mysia, then travel north to Hypoplakia Thebe for the festival of Artemis. I have secured for you a caravan to join from Thebe. I will not rest until you are safely behind the walls of Troy.”
Astynome kissed her father’s hands still held within her own. “You worry too much, Father. The Greeks are camped far to the south. And when they return to Troy, they will take to the sea. They will not pass through Thebe.”
The
priest lifted a lock of her dark-honey hair to his lips. “Who knows why the westerners do what they do.” Chryses shook his head. “It is Achilles, Astynome, who I fear more than all invaders combined. He has the protection of his mother and is favored by Zeus. He may be mortal, but the blood of the divine flows through him.”
“Do not worry. I will journey in safety. I trust in Apollo, Father. You have taught me that much, have you not?” Astynome smiled reassuringly, her dark brown eyes softened by a daughter’s love. “Troy’s walls have stood the test of ages. Even the threats of gods were repelled by the Great Wall. The Greeks will find no entry.” Astynome gently pressed her father’s hands to her lips. “Life must carry on despite the threat of war. If we spend our days in fear of Achilles and the rest of them, they have won.”
“How have I raised such a wise daughter?”
Astynome looped her arm through her father’s, leaning slightly on his arm. “You have loved me well. Protected me. Taught me to respect the gods. I will wait for the day we are reunited after this cursed war is over and the strangers polluting our shores like vermin scurry back to their lands.”
The long shadows of the night brought comfort to Achilles, cooling the day’s passions and growing rage. A blazing fire, crackling and spitting red specks into the black, warmed his bare feet as he lay back on the sand contemplating the stars, the comforting sounds of the sea gently crashing on the shore behind him. “What do you wish to ask? I feel questions in your silence. Words are forever on the tip of your tongue.”
Patrokles sat up then, wrapping his arms loosely around his knees. “Where is Briseis?”
“She is free to do as she will. War requires my vigilance. My woman does not.” He asks of Briseis with war surrounding us. Yet, the question pricked his patience. He’d grown used to seeing his second walk with Briseis on her water rounds, helping her with the largest jars. Patrokles was beyond reproach, yet his ease with Briseis stirred the restless shadows in his heart. His days were numbered, but he would not die until he saw Troy again. She said I will not see the city fall. How can that be so? And why can I not reach her as Patrokles has? Do I not consider her? Have I treated her more liberally than a proper wife? Wife … I could marry her. Achilles frowned. I will leave her a widow weeping in the streets.
“What are you thinking about, Achilles?” Patrokles yawned and scratched the stubble on his chin. “I am surprised Briseis does not leave.”
Achilles grunted, stretching the length of his body. “What purpose would that serve? She has nowhere to go.” I made certain of that.
Patrokles scoffed, “Certainly, she holds that in gratitude.”
Quick as lightning, Achilles reached for Patrokles ankle, yanking him down into the sand. “You go too far.” He tells me what I do not wish to hear.
“Apologies, but you deserve the truth. Would you have me speak double? One word in your ear, another when your back is turned?”
“No.”
Brushing sand from his arms, Patrokles asked, “Have you discovered where her mother was sold?”
“The tidings bring no comfort. She was taken into Macédoine,” Achilles said flatly.
Patrokles, his dark eyes glittering against the flames, shook his head in dismay. “They are barbarians that far north.”
“I cannot tell her.”
“No. I would not either.”
Achilles sat up now, pulling a burning brand from the fire. “You speak freely with my woman … and often.”
“Briseis is kind. Gentle.”
The Golden Warrior grumbled, “You seek to remind me of what I already know, Patrokles.”
“Peace, cousin. You must accept that the wounds inflicted on her, by your hands, may never heal. You ask for her love and that cannot come without forgiveness.”
Achilles threw the charred stick into the night. “Your truth is sharp, as always.”
“Tell me, cousin, if Apollo rolled back the sun to that day, would you spare Pedasus? Or would you do the same again?”
Achilles sighed. “I was meant to conquer, Patrokles. You ask what you already know.”
“Then, let the gods decide.”
Achilles sneered. “Yes, the gods …”
“I leave you to your stars, cousin.” Patrokles strode off into the darkness, leaving Achilles alone, his thoughts bent on Briseis.
The fire crackled and sparked, sending red cinders floating into the shadowy night. The flames reached higher and more cinders flew. Achilles smiled. A god-sign. “Who are you? I know you are there.”
A sweet laugh surrounded him. “Achilles, I cannot hide from you. You are no ordinary mortal, are you?”
“I do not know your voice, Goddess, you must forgive me.”
From the flames a twinkling smoke emerged, finally revealing a tall woman draped in a gown of shimmering gold, the fabric so finely spun that Achilles could see the muscled strength beneath the gentle folds. Her golden helm …
“Athena.” Achilles bowed his head.
“I have been watching you, Achilles. I know your fate.”
“Why have you come to me and not Odysseus?”
“There has been a new prophesy regarding the war you fight against the Trojans.”
“I have heard none,” Achilles said.
“It was not given to Kalchus, or any other on this side of the war.”
“The prophesy is for the Trojans?”
“I am telling you, so that you may see it … undone.” Athena smiled, as her shimmering gown fluttered in the night breeze.
Achilles could see the fire in the goddess’ eyes. “Ensuring Trojans do not win …”
“You want your immortal glory, and I want Odysseus to return with the other kings. To be reunited with Penelope, long suffering and faithful that she is.”
The Golden Warrior laughed heartily. “So, it is for Odysseus that you require my aide.”
Athena’s face hardened, and the fire sparked. “I require nothing from you, or any mortal. I could take care of the matter myself, but then I would have to endure the lamentations of thousands crying out that I was unfair.” Her face softened. “And perhaps, the wrath of Zeus. That I cannot have.”
Achilles nodded understanding. “What is this prophecy?”
“The youngest son of Priam is called Troilus. Should he live to his twentieth summer, Troy will be spared.”
“If he lives, then all these years will have been for nothing.”
“If the Trojans win, your war treasuries will be confiscated, and you will be killed or sold into slavery in the east. Perhaps a few will make it home? Who can say?”
“That cannot happen,” Achilles said, the lust for battle rising in his blood.
“No, it cannot.”
“How long until this Troilus is of age?”
“Soon,” Athena replied, stepping back into the fire. “Take Thebe and head back to Troy. Look for my sign before the great battle begins. Speak of my visit to no one, not Patrokles … and not your woman.” The goddess disappeared into the flames, sending a column of thin smoke and cinders into the night.
Achilles looked out over the calm sea, a sliver of moonlight reflecting on water. “So it begins,” he murmured.
Briseis reclined in Achilles’ chair while Patrokles regaled her with the most recent foray, and his observation of a patient in the sick camp with a terrible wound in the chest that had miraculously healed. As he rambled on about the medicinal herbs, her thoughts rested on Achilles. Her lord and lover had grown even more sullen than usual. He had hardly spoken a word to her, not even a command. What troubles him?
“Do you think it a portent?” Patrokles asked, cutting a hunk of goat cheese from a platter. “Briseis? Are you even listening?”
“Apologies. A portent?” she asked, shaking her mind free of Achilles.
“Your thoughts are obviously elsewhere. Perhaps, you should speak them aloud.”
Briseis shook her head. He knows Achilles best, perhaps … “I have wondered about Ach
illes. He is not himself.”
Patrokles bit into a hunk of roasted lamb, wiping the grease on his lip with the back of his hand. He held the meaty bone out to Briseis. “This is good.”
His cousin’s woman waved it away. “I do not favor lamb.”
Patrokles sighed. “Achilles is withdrawn, and Briseis starves herself.”
“I do not starve, Patrokles.” She deliberately reached for the cheese, cutting a small slice and eating it while her guest watched. “Why is he changed?”
“Have you not guessed, Briseis?”
“Apparently, I have not.”
“My cousin has found himself in an unfamiliar temple. And he does not know the way to the goddess.”
Briseis creased her brow in concern and surprise. “I had not thought his quiet due to contemplation of the gods. I thought some aspect of war, or a stratagem perplexed him. The gods, you say? Whose temple has he discovered? In which poor, misfortunate city?”
Patrokles laughed heartily at her questions. He laughed until tears filled his eyes, rolling down his sun-bronzed cheeks. His dark eyes flashed the secret. “The temple is no building, Briseis.”
“What do you mean? Has he burned it to the ground already?” she asked, sarcastically.
“In a manner of speaking, yes …”
Exasperated, Briseis folded her arms across her chest. “You jest at my expense.”
“I merely state what is obvious to all.”
“Not all,” she said, leveling her eyes at Patrokles.
The dark cousin of Achilles leaned forward in his chair, keeping his eyes on Briseis. “You are both temple and goddess.”
Briseis blinked, her face an impassive mask.
Patrokles pointed at her. “See! The look I have often seen you give my cousin. It is unreadable, unmoved.” He laughed again. “That is what turns a ferocious lion into a mewling cub.”
From behind Patrokles, a low angry voice growled, “I. Am. No. Mewling. Cub.”
“Achilles!” Patrokles said, turning to find his glowering cousin and commander. “Take some wine with us.”
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 31