Achilles pulled his chiton over his head, tossing it onto the sandy floor. “I am for sleep, Patrokles. Best you find your own woman to harass and leave mine in peace.”
Patrokles, unfazed by his cousin’s gruffness, shrugged. “As you wish.” He smiled. “I have a plump and willing woman warming my bed as we speak. Her sweetness equal to your sourness.” He drained his cup. “Briseis, I offer my gratitude. As always. Cousin.” As he pushed through the tent flap, proclaiming over his shoulder, “I promise to give you both a wedding feast upon our return to Phthia!”
In the silence between them, Achilles and Briseis could hear Patrokles singing as he made his way through the camp. Briseis snuffed the oil lamps and came to bed, hugging the edge as far from her lord as she could. She lay in the darkness, eyes open, heart racing. What is Patrokles saying? Achilles loves me, a slave? An angry voice in her mind reminded her: You were a princess worthy of any prince before Achilles murdered your world. You cannot take him into your heart. Not ever.
“Do not listen to him,” Achilles said quietly. “He speaks when he should hold his tongue. He does not know all.”
“It was the wine, my lord. I am certain,” she whispered, even as silent tears burned hot tears down her cheeks. It is too late. Forgive me, Mynes. I have tried to remember, but the years are lonely, bleak … I will never let him know I love him. It is the best I can now do.
“Yes, the wine,” Achilles muttered, staring up into the shadowy space above them. “In the morning, I begin the campaign against Thebe. Then, we march north to Troy.”
Poor Troy. Briseis recalled the day Achilles had sacked Lyrnessus. His enormous figure, covered in gleaming bronze and leather, his polished helm, crested with the long black hair of a horse’s tail, and his giant shield, raised and flashing in the sun. She also recalled the shadowy Ares marching beside him, storming over her people in revelry of death and destruction. She shivered with fear and sadness for all those who would lose their lives in Thebe, as Achilles’ mighty blade hacked them to dust and bones.
FORTY FOUR
HYPOPLAKIA THEBE
1239 BCE
Achilles stood before the Myrmidons, his black cape catching the gentle breeze, his bronze shield hefted across his back, his father’s ashen spear in hand. He towered over his men like a god. Patrokles, his dark-haired companion, stood resolute beside him. They did not speak. To the west of them, Odysseus stood at the ready with his men. The unified horde waited impatiently for the command to march.
The Golden Warrior cast his azure gaze across the hills and flatlands they would cross, the walled city of Thebe rising in the distance. His life was meant for glory. Zeus had refused his mother, because he, the son of Thetis, would be mightier than his father. From the beginning, his life had taken the joy of others. He’d been trained since boyhood in healing and killing. He could have easily become a physician under Chiron’s tutelage, but war called louder. The lust of blood always called loudest in his ear, the clash of bronze the only music he craved. He’d been satisfied that a shortened life, dying at Troy for immortal glory, was what he desired above all else. And then Briseis came.
Briseis …
Looking toward Thebe, he knew that death was coming for him. And for the first time in his life, the length of his days weighed heavily upon his shoulders. I will die. All that will remain are songs. What will they sing of me? He thought of his time with the centaur, carefree days laughing and fighting beneath the hot sun. I had no cares. Only life stretched before me. I did not dwell on death. He recalled the day he beat Chiron in a foot-race, running with the swiftness of a god, the wind whipping through his hair. I wish I could go back, Mother. But, even as he thought it, he knew there was no turning back. He’d embraced war to fulfill his destiny, hardening his heart to mercy and to love. He could feel his humanity slipping from him, as the seasons passed. The darkness of Hades’ cold fingers wrapped around his heels in every battle, as the lust for blood and bone pumped through his veins. Did I choose this life?
He was caught between the path he’d begun long ago, young and eager, and the unexpected one presented by Briseis’ arrival in his world. The hardness he’d maintained, honed like the sharp blade of his killing sword and lethal spear, softened inexplicably in her presence. What will become of her when I am gone? He couldn’t admit he loved her, not to anyone—not to her, not to himself. Such an admission would breach the wall he’d built around himself so he could revel in making war and drinking sweet wine and fucking beautiful women until his death. Love was a weakness he could not afford. Not now. He would die soon. It was foretold, written above in bright blinking stars scattered across the dark night of death. I cannot turn back.
Achilles lifted his spear above his head and unleashed the command, “Myrmidons! We march!”
A great rumble filled the air as a thousand men roared their battle cries into the early morning. They marched down the hill, shields and spears flashing intent on plunder and victory. They would show no mercy. They would accept no defeat. They would fight until they could fight no more.
King Eetion entered the hall armored in hammered bronze, his strong sword strapped at his waist and his shield in his left hand. “The day has come. I prayed that it would pass us, but the gods have turned a deaf ear to us.”
His wife grabbed his arm, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You are too old for this war. I beg you, husband, do not go down to meet them.”
The king lovingly placed his hand on his wife’s. “I must go down to face the enemy. If I do not, what manner of king am I?”
“One who remains alive,” she said, quietly.
“My dear,” he said, his head bowed with the weight of his sorrow, “that shining one has killed all my sons. My sons. Their crime? Tending their father’s cattle. I cannot let their deaths go without seeking vengeance. I have told you.”
Queen Mira, dark eyes already wet with tears, wept sorrowfully anew. “How much more am I to bear?” Her shoulders shook. “Have I not already lost everything?”
“You and Astynome should have left as planned. Joined our daughter in Troy. I see now that Priam’s Great Wall provides the only possible safety from these murderous Greeks. Why did you stay, Mira?” the king asked, distraught by her disobedience.
“How could I go? Danger lurked in all directions after our sons … our sons …” Her grief surged anew, and the queen collapsed with an anguished howl. The king caught her as she slipped to the ground.
“Guards!” King Eetion bellowed. Three heavily armored men rushed forward. “Take her to Astynome. Make certain they are safe. Let them pray to Artemis on our behalf.”
The stout one answered, “Yes, my lord.” And they whisked their unconscious queen to safer, quieter environs.
A horn blast sounded outside the palace at the inner wall’s gate. It was time to leave the safety of stone, and seek the favor of the gods on the battlefield. King Eetion stepped into the center of his modest hall—tall, sturdy walls of smooth stone; columns painted with vivid colors of sea and sky—and despaired. If I were a younger man, a different man … He recalled the day he took his Andromache to Troy. My sweet daughter. So young. Fearful of Hektor. You hardly spoke a word on the journey. I pray you are safe. Pray Hektor protects you.
The horn blast rang out again. Guards entered the hall fully armored and helmed for battle. The king donned his newly forged bronze helmet, crested with white horse tail, and strapped it beneath his chin. “It is time,” he bellowed. He led his men, for the last time, from his hall. Farewell, Thebe. Farewell, my heart. Farewell, my faithful wife.
From atop the outer wall, Queen Mira and Astynome watched the Theban army gather far below. She could see the mounted warriors, led by King Eetion who sat proudly astride his war-mount, restless and ready. Clouds of dust delicately swirled about the host. Spears flashed in the bright light of Apollo. Astynome pressed her cold palms together, squeezing her fingers until they turned white. Fear pushed tears to her eyes. Gods be wit
h them. Artemis. Zeus. Apollo. Ares.
The war-horn sounded, horses jumped and men roared, and finally the army pressed forward to the lower plain to meet the enemy rising over the last crest of hills beyond the lower city of Hypoplakia Thebe. The army rumbled on to war. Sweeping across the vast plain and hills, the watchers on the wall caught the enemy’s battle cry on the wind.
Astynome grabbed the queen’s hand. “Tell me we are not doomed, my mother.”
Queen Mira, her eyes dry and swollen, shook her head. She took her guest’s hands in her own. “Daughter, would that I could utter those words, but the comfort would be false. The army goes to certain death.”
Astynome shook with fear. “What will become of us?” Father, Father! You cannot hear me now. Apollo! Apollo! Hear me, lord Apollo. Spare the innocent. Draw your mighty bow on our behalf. Speak to Ares, your brother. Ask him, oh lord, to battle with the Thebans. Drive the enemy from the gate.
“We will likely be made slaves, or held for ransom. If Priam cares for his daughter-in-law’s family, he will see it paid.”
“But this Achilles … he is known to slaughter more than spare,” Astynome wept.
“My daughter, I would weep with you, but I have used all my tears. My grief is dust in my mouth and in my eyes.”
Above storm clouds gathered and lightning ripped through the gathering grey doom. Thunder cracked the air like a slave driver’s whip. The heavens broke open and fat drops of rain fell from the sky. Soon, the ground swam with mud.
Queen Mira collapsed. “It is a god-sign. We are finished, and will be wiped from the lands.”
“That cannot be,” Astynome whispered against the rising storm. “That cannot be.”
And as quickly as the darkness had gathered, the sky reined in its torment, and Apollo’s light poured down, warming the earth. Puddles glistened like small ponds, droplets of rain clinging to leaves sparkled like jewels, but the beauty of the land couldn’t distract the survivors of Thebe from the horror they knew was coming.
They could hear the boisterous song of the enemy host as they marched triumphantly for Thebe. A thousand roaring men filled with the destructive force of blood lust would show no mercy. Astynome panicked. She pulled her hands free of the queen’s grasp. I am no one. They will not ransom me. They will rape me. Sell me into slavery. I must hide until they abandon the city. She ran atop the walk, her wet gown sticking to her legs, tripping her as she flew down stairs striving for Apollo’s temple. I will seek sanctuary there … Apollo will protect me. As she ran, she slipped, falling hard to the ground, scraping her palms bloody against the stone. She untied her sandals, flinging them carelessly away.
Astynome finally stumbled into an abandoned side street slick with rain. Her breath clouded the air as she ran, mindless that her feet were now bleeding. And when Apollo’s temple rose in the distance, she wept again. I am saved. Her bloody footprints proof of her devotion to the god. She climbed the marble steps, now crying with relief. I am saved. She staggered breathless into the public sanctuary and collapsed at the altar, wrapping her arms around Apollo’s golden knees in supplication.
Achilles strode into King Eetion’s hall, flanked by Patrokles and Odysseus. Taking in the size and wealth displayed, he nodded. “There will be geras enough to appease our combined forces.”
Odysseus, tired and filthy, sat heavily on a fur-lined couch. “Agreed. But first, I am famished. Let us see what the dead king’s stores hold. A feast before we plunder.”
Patrokles laughed, “Feasting, fucking, then plunder.”
Achilles clapped his second on the shoulder. “You are truly ruthless, no matter what Briseis may say.”
Patrokles raised his brows. “She says I am not ruthless? Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because, if you will not take her to wife, then I will. And she would not have me if she thought me ruthless.”
Achilles’ blow struck like lightning. Patrokles flew across the room, sliding on his backside stopping only as his weight crashed into a table. Pottery and wine flew into the air, scattering across the floor. In the blink of an eye, the Golden Warrior was on his cousin. They exchanged blow for blow, Patrokles’ blood staining Achilles’ knuckles. But the dark cousin of Achilles twisted from beneath his commander, and landed a rain of heavy blows against Achilles’ cheek. Soon, both men, covered in the blood of each other, slowed their assault.
Achilles, on his knees beside Patrokles, leaned back, roughly pushing his cousin away from him. “You go too far,” he panted.
Patrokles answered defiantly, “What will it take for you to honor her?”
Odysseus’ sardonic laughter rang through the halls. He poured some wine from an amphora. “Are you two quite finished?”
The royal cousins, each still fuming, dusted themselves off and returned to the business of war. Achilles, annoyance evident in his voice, said, “We will hold the queen for ransom. She is the mother of Hektor’s bride. Priam will surely offer a treasury for her.”
“But, first, this feast …” Odysseus reminded them. “We have time enough for talk of gold and geras.”
Achilles laughed. “Pour me some wine, old man.”
“Old and married …” Odysseus joined Patrokles’ side of the argument.
Achilles grumbled loudly, “I am put upon by both sides! I will take your advice and wed her. But only to shut your fucking mouths.” He shook his right hand vigorously. “And spare my knuckles.”
Patrokles grinned widely and raised his cup, nodding to Odysseus. “To Achilles and Briseis!”
The King of Ithaka, raising his kylix, said, “May you have a long and fruitful marriage.”
The humor fell from Achilles’ face. There will be no long life for us. It is too late. I will love her openly, but she will suffer more for it. “Let us set the men to killing cattle and lamb for roasting, and find the women who are hiding and set them to work in the kitchens and at the pits. I am certain the starving King of Ithaka wishes fresh bread for soaking the grease on his platter.”
The song of princes rose with a hundred flames. Stars pressed against the deep purple of night, winking above the heads of men and beneath the gods’ feet. The sound of flutes and drums filled the air. The hard-fought victory tasted as sweet as the dark pomegranate wine flowing in each cup. Roasted lamb spiced with rosemary and lavender, blackened beef drenched in honey, and steaming loaves of bread were piled on every table. Men sat back with bulging bellies, laughing and singing, regaling one another with tales of valor.
Beyond the feasting, Achilles had a funeral pyre erected for King Eetion. He’d ordered the appropriate sacrifices and had the king cremated in his full armor.
Achilles swayed in his seat, satisfied that the men had packed the courtyard and gardens. He preferred dining outside with his men. He’d drunk more wine than he should have. Only Patrokles took notice. The Myrmidon captain leaned back against his couch. “Bring me that girl,” he said, his words thick on his tongue.
Patrokles raised a hand. “Are you certain? What of―”
“I know what I want,” Achilles growled. “You have interfered in my personal affairs long enough. You take Peleus’ instruction too far. Bring me the girl!” he shouted. A few men nearby rushed off, quickly returning with Astynome held tightly between them.
Achilles eyes gazed hungrily over her. Her hair was the color of ripened grain and her large eyes were as dark as cinnamon. Her skin was lightly bronzed, and delicate freckles highlighted her nose and cheeks. “You are a rare beauty,” he said, leaning forward. He held out his hand to her across the table. “Come. I would see you closer.”
The soldiers flanking her pulled her toward their commander. She struggled against their iron grip on her arms.
“It is futile to try and escape. Where would you go?” Achilles asked, gesturing to the feasting horde. “You are safer under my protection. What do they call you?”
“Astynome of Chryses,” the prisoner said defiantly.
; Odysseus, feigning disinterest, tilted his head to Achilles. “She was found in supplication of Apollo.”
Achilles shrugged. “I see Apollo has turned a deaf ear to your plight.”
Astynome held her chin up higher, even as it quivered. “My father is Apollo’s priest. Apollo will protect me.”
The Golden Prince tilted his head back with laughter. “The fucking gods.” He shook his head. “What of the gods, Astynome? Who is saving you in this moment?” Achilles paused, looking around the table. “I see no gods, save us.”
Odysseus sat up. “Are you trying to bring curses down upon our heads? Drink more wine. But, by the balls of Zeus, hold your tongue regarding the … gods,” he whispered the last word.
“You do not know everything, cunning Odysseus,” Achilles sneered.
Patrokles grabbed his cousin by the shoulder. “Peace! We are in celebration. Where would you like this woman sent?”
“Send her to the queen’s tent. She may find some comfort there before she is bedded and sold.”
“You are not taking her for yourself?” Patrokles asked, surprised.
Settling back against a cushion, he said simply, “No.” Briseis. I only desire Briseis …
“I would suggest an offering,” Odysseus said, shrugging as if his idea were trivial.
“An offering for whom?” Achilles asked.
“An offering that paves the way for peace.”
Achilles scoffed. “Listen, Patrokles, he talks of peace while in the midst of war. The only peace I will have is when I have flown to the Underworld and Troy is no more.”
“Cousin, you have had your share of wine, perhaps you should consider―”
The Myrmidon commander grabbed Patrokles’ arm, leaning heavily toward him. “I. Need. No. Guardian.”
“I speak only of the rift between you and Agamemnon,” Odysseus continued. “Would it not be a generous gesture to offer the girl to him? Since you have no desire for her, it would cost you … nothing. Although, he does not need to know that.”
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 32