Achilles stood up, lifting a fresh cup of wine in his hand. “Drink up, men! For tomorrow, we break this miserable camp and journey back to Troy! It is time to raze that city to the ground!”
The men cheered and yelled, toasting their shining commander, as he stepped down into their midst.
Patrokles leaned back, catching Odysseus’ eyes. “It is a good plan. I will speak with him when he wakes, in the morning, after the haze of too much wine.”
“You are an excellent second, and a loyal companion.”
“Aye. Shall we drink to finishing our meal and this war? I long for familiar lands.”
“As do I,” Odysseus muttered. “As do I.”
The morning broke with blinding light, and the bright sliver cutting through the tent flap sliced through Achilles’ aching head. “Nax!” He rolled over, facing away from the torment splitting his head. “Nax!”
Briseis entered with a jug of fresh water. She poured Achilles a cup. “Drink.”
“Where is Nax?”
“He is helping the others move the drunken men to their tents.”
Achilles groaned as he sat up. He drained his cup, holding it out for more. “Tell him to clean my armor when he is done. I am yet for bed.”
Briseis smirked. “You are always for bed.”
“Woman, do not tempt me.”
“You will not be breaking camp this morning, I take it?”
The Myrmidon commander pulled linens over his head. “No. When you leave, pull the flap tightly shut.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Briseis said, bowing out quietly.
Just as Achilles exhaled, seeking blissful dreams, the light mercilessly woke him. “By the balls of Zeus! Briseis, I told you―”
“You are a pitiful sight, Achilles,” Patrokles said, taking a seat at the table. He picked up a cluster of sweet purple grapes, and plucked one from the stem. “They have good grapes here in Thebe.”
“What do you want, cousin?”
“An agreement,” he replied, tossing several more grapes into his mouth.
Shoving the bed linen aside, Achilles sat up. He wrapped his hair in a tangled knot behind his neck. “Is this about the girl, Astynome?”
“Aye, it is. Odysseus’ suggestion would go a long way in bridging the gap between you and Agamemnon.”
The Myrmidon captain spat the wine-sour bitterness from his mouth. “He is a pompous fool, who claims more than his fair share of geras as it is. He does not deserve more.”
“Think of the men, Achilles. They get far less than any noble. Can you not hear them grumbling when you pass by? It has been far too long since they have seen their families. They are tired and long for home more than anything. If they see that the great Achilles would sacrifice such a prize as Astynome, it would pacify their tempers and calm their mutinous whispers.”
Achilles walked across the hard-packed sand to a wide-rimmed bowl filled with cool water and splashed it over his face. “Agamemnon brings the dissention on himself.”
“Cousin―”
“You always entreat me by our blood-ties when you wish to persuade me you are right, and I am wrong.”
“Because you are wrong, and more stubborn than a centaur.”
Achilles scoffed. “You stretch the truth.”
Patrokles shrugged. “Agamemnon does not need to know you do not care for the girl. Let him think he has won a greater prize than he has. Let him fill his chest with pride.”
“My men will think me weak.”
“They will not. They will see only a commander moved by generosity. We cannot afford division of the army’s loyalty. We will never conquer Troy if we stand divided.”
Achilles poured himself a cup of wine and mixed in more water than usual. He gulped it down with relish, smacking his lips together. “Let it be done. Now, I am for bed until this pounding in my head ceases. Wine does not agree with me as it used to.”
Patrokles laughed. “Then, do not drink it.”
Achilles lay down on the bed of fur, easing back into a pile of crumpled linen. “There is no such thing as war without wine. Now, go. Leave me be until Apollo has climbed high above.”
“As you wish.”
Achilles opened his eyes. “Wait. I will take the king’s lyre. I saw it leaning against his throne. And a weight made of iron. Ready the men to sail north. Let the herders prepare the livestock for the migration north as well.”
“Aye. Sleep well, cousin.”
FORTY FIVE
TROY
1239 BCE
The wide blue of Poseidon’s realm stretched before the fleet of Myrmidons and Ithakans on their way to rejoin Agamemnon’s garrison at the Bay of Troy, their black sails gathering a following wind and their fearsome hulls plowing the sea like a farmer tilling good earth. When the look-out called that land had been sighted, Achilles took his place mid-galley. The closer they came to land the more sullen the Myrmidon commander became.
Patrokles clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Agamemnon will be pleased with his portion.”
Achilles sneered, crossing his arms across his wide chest. “A tribute he did not earn.”
“It is his right.”
“Speak not of his rights to me, cousin. I have taken Odysseus’ advice, despite the bitterness of it. Be satisfied.”
Patrokles steadied himself against the mast, shielding his eyes from the bright sky. “Pleasantries can be brief.”
“Aye. They will be,” Achilles said. “Where is the girl?”
Patrokles pointed port-side. “That galley there. I gave orders she be held with the tribute meant for Agamemnon.”
“And the queen, mother of Hektor’s wife?”
Patrokles crossed his arms over his chest. “She is with the girl. They are close. I thought it a comfort for them both.”
Achilles scowled darkly at his cousin. “I leave the arrangements to you.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Patrokles said.
Achilles sat sullenly at his end of the feasting table, watching Agamemnon over the silver rim of his wine cup. It galled him to relinquish any of the hard won spoils of war to the Fat King. What has he ever done for me?
Suddenly, the hair on Achilles’ arm rose and he grinned. He glanced around him, silently observing his comrades regaling one another with their battles and drinking their wine as if at festival for Dionysus. “I know you are here.”
A hand brushed across his broad shoulders, sending a chill down his back. Clever Achilles.
“Athena,” he whispered. “Again, you come to me instead of your favorite.”
Silver laughter filled his ears. Mortals.
“What do you wish from me?”
The prophesy regarding Troilus is close at hand. The boy must be killed, or the war is lost.
Achilles drank his wine. “Why not let Odysseus gain the glory himself? You have no need of me.”
I wish to send a message with his death.
“What message?” Achilles asked.
That Troy is doomed. That you Greeks are the plague that will wipe the Trojans from the very sands of Gaia.
Achilles drained his cup, tossing it into the sand, scowling.
You will find the boy at the well outside the safety of the wall in Thymbra.
Achilles nodded.
Slit his throat. Then …
“Speak, Goddess.”
Silence him even into the next life.
Achilles shook his head. “I will not.”
You will.
“Only the dishonored perform such a thing.”
Do you wish your son to carry the stain of all your actions? Do you imagine your deeds done in the name of war will bear no consequence?
Achilles growled, “You gods are all the same. Using even the best of us for your own pleasure.”
Careful, Achilles. Your mother cannot save you from all …
“You know my fate. I am bound for the shadows.”
Athena’s laughter sliced sharp against his ear. Ther
e are a thousand ways to die … and not all of them worthy of immortal song.
Achilles’ fury burned through his azure eyes. He hadn’t traveled all this way, abandoned his father and son to die ignobly, his name a whisper on the wind. Thetis’ words held sway with Zeus, but she wasn’t powerful enough to directly challenge Athena. He would have to obey the goddess, bear the shame of it, and pray the deed faded from his song. “Tell me your will, Athena.”
In the morning, you will find Troilus at the Thymbraen well, as I have said, near the Temple of Apollo. Take him there. Send my message.
Achilles nodded. The divine presence evaporated, leaving the son of Peleus brooding as dusk darkened to night. Obeying the goddess troubled his spirit. Could the deed itself call a curse down upon me? My son? Bloodshed and violence were required elements of war. He’d done unspeakable things he could justify when he reached the Underworld. But now Athena’s words cast doubt on everything he believed righteous.
Warriors killed their sworn enemies. It was the way of the world. The Trojans had injured the House of Atreus. Such an injury called for retribution. All the captains, gathered from the western kingdoms, simply honored their oaths, however distasteful the war or serving Agamemnon became. What Athena asked of him was an act of desecration, performed solely to prevent the dead from returning to haunt the living. And so near Apollo. What will be the cost?
“Men!” cried Odysseus to the carefully selected assembly warriors. “It is time to present our Great King his portion!”
The men cheered wildly, knowing that after Agamemnon’s portion, theirs would soon follow. Some stood clapping hands to thighs, others hollered to the heavens above.
Odysseus raised his arms, signaling for quiet. “We have been away from home for too long. We miss our women, our children, and our lands.”
The assembly rumbled with agreement.
“But the time to return home in upon us!”
Again, the army of men cheered Odysseus’ words.
“Achilles and his Myrmidons and I with those under my command have spent these long years in the south, fighting our enemies and amassing the necessary supplies of armor and food to sustain us as we make the final assault on Troy. It will be a war worthy of memory, worthy of songs for us all. No mortal will ever forget the Greeks who took Troy!”
The assembly jumped to their feet, yelling their support for this commander or that, but above them all a chorus cheering Achilles’ name drowned them all with its power.
Odysseus signaled the tribute to be carried in. Servants hefted baskets overflowing with exquisite pottery, fine linens, and threads. There were elaborately painted amphorae filled with sweet and spiced wines and precious oils. Boxes of gold and silver coins and jewels were carried in and laid at the Great King’s feet. And last of all, Astynome was ushered in, draped in sheer white spun with silver threads, her train dragging behind her like royalty. The men quieted as she walked the long aisle to Agamemnon. Her hair was curled and braided with sparkling beads highlighting the rich wheat color of it. The captured prize for Agamemnon was crowned with a simple silver circlet. Her eyes were dark and frightened, yet her beauty was undeniable.
Once before the Great King, Astynome was forced to bow. Agamemnon stepped down from his table to inspect his prize more closely. He tilted her chin up and nodded. “I think I will much prefer you to that cold bitch waiting for me back in Mycenae.” He grabbed the woman and kissed her roughly on the mouth. “My cock has been itching for a woman of your worth to plow.”
Those closest to Agamemnon chuckled. Only Odysseus and Achilles did not. Odysseus because he believed Agamemnon deserved his vile reputation and Achilles because he blamed Agamemnon for using him to lure Iphigenia as an unwilling sacrifice. The feasting continued long into the night. The merriment died down only when the stars faded from the night sky. Then, drunken men stumbled and wove through camp to their tents, sprawling out where they landed to sleep off their wine.
Achilles lay tossing and turning in a black and dreamless sleep. Not even the warmth of Briseis could shelter him from the torments of his soul. And Astynome lay in darkness after Agamemnon took what he wanted from her body, praying for Apollo to rescue her from the horror of war.
Before dawn burst across the sky in its brilliant glory, Athena exhaled a cold breath across Achilles’ body. His eyes flew open in the dreary light. He rose silently from his bed, careful not to disturb his woman, and donned his armor with Athena attending to every strap and lacing. He secured his sword at his hip, his shield upon his back, and grabbed his great ash spear, a gift from his father, as he pushed through the tent out into the cold grey of morning. Camp hounds slept near dying fires and tent thresholds. Birds sang calling the light of Apollo. Poseidon’s voice crashed softly onto the shore in the still of morning.
Alone, Achilles hiked the distance to Thymbra. He’d told no one of his divine mission, especially not Patrokles. He preferred that his men were not witness to what he was about to do. He took untraveled paths along tree lines and chaparral, keeping far from the well-traveled roads and Trojan patrols. With each step, he hardened his heart to the youth Troilus. He is a Trojan. He deserves death.
By the time Apollo filled the heavens with golden light, Achilles lay in wait not far from the Thymbraen well. He could see the red and gold temple of Apollo rising in the far distance. Stay the hand of Apollo’s silver bow, Athena, if you wish this to be so.
He heard them, before he saw them. And soon a young man and woman on horseback emerged into view. The young man had long blond hair, curling like hyacinth blossoms about his shoulders, his chin the first blush of a beard. The woman’s face was obscured by a curtain of dark wavy hair. Their voices were cheerful and unburdened by war.
“You worry needlessly, Polyxena. Mother will make a fine match for you,” the youth with golden hair said.
“Clearly, you are not a woman.”
“Look at Hektor and Andromache. They are a fine match. And Andromache was not much older than you, when Hektor chose her.”
Achilles watched as they dismounted, leading their horses to water.
“There are not many men like our brother. War has taken most of the younger men, leaving only the wrinkled ones.”
“Take the veil of Apollo, then. Or Aphrodite.”
Polyxena leaned against a large rock. “I have no wish for sacred life. Why are we here, Troilus?”
“I had a dream, remember? A goddess told me to come here.”
“A goddess? Are you certain? How do you know?”
The beautiful prince patted the neck of his horse. “I know.”
“Dreams. Why would you be told to come to a well?” Polyxena pointed to the west of them. “Why not to the temple?”
“We do not question the gods, sister. We obey them―”
The peace between Troilus and Polyxena was broken as Achilles sprang from the shadows like a lion, startling the horses to bolt in opposite directions. Polyxena screamed as the warrior, with the might of an avenging god, pushed her out of the way, reaching for her brother who was already running. She flew in the air like a bird struck by a hunter’s arrow, thudding heavily to the ground, a small pool of blood forming behind her head.
Troilus bolted for the Temple, hoping for refuge from his attacker. His feet barely touched the earth as he ran for his life. He’d paused but a second, watching his sister’s limp form float in the air before it crashed to the ground. Troilus knew he was no match for this golden Ares. His chest burned from running. Fear pumped furiously through his limbs, carrying him to the safety of Apollo’s steps. He took them two at a time, scrambling frantically for the temple shrine. Troilus skidded and slid into the pedestal, wrapping his arms around Apollo’s hard marble legs as a supplicant. He prayed as he’d never prayed before.
Achilles followed slowly, allowing the boy to believe he could reach safety. “Run, boy! Run for your life! But you will never outpace Achilles.” The Golden Warrior walked leisurely up the steps
, he knew there was no escape for the boy. He found Troilus clinging to the shrine.
“You believe your god will save you?” Achilles sneered.
“If he is merciful,” Troilus said, his voice quivering with uncertainty.
Achilles was struck by the boy’s seeming innocence and youth. “Your father should have taught you better.” He took a few long strides toward the boy. “He should never have allowed you to leave the city. He knows the prophesy, as well as I do.”
“What prophesy?” Troilus asked, his voice uncertain and confused.
“The one given by Trojan seers to your father. The one regarding your life and the demise of Troy.”
“I have been told nothing. How can you know of Trojan prophesy and I do not?”
“Do you imagine the gods speak only to one side in war? They speak to us all, when it pleases them to use us.”
“I was told in a dream to come to the well …”
“So that you could meet your fate and seal the doom of Troy once and for all.”
“I do not understand.”
Achilles sighed heavily. You task me with dishonor, Athena. He is a boy, unarmed. Defenseless.
The lion hunts. He does not question, Achilles.
Achilles growled, shaking the very ground beneath him. He braced his heart in iron, and walked to the frightened youth. Each step sounded as thunder in Troilus’ ears. Achilles reached down with a strong hand and grasped a handful of Troilus’ honey-gold hair in his lion’s paw, yanking the young Trojan prince to his feet. “Death has come for you, Troilus.” The roar of war now pulsed behind his blazing azure eyes; no trace of mercy or remorse remained. Fuck the gods.
“My brothers will come,” Troilus rasped, as Achilles jerked him across the marble floor.
Achilles’ dark laughter chilled the air. “Not even the priests of the god will aid you. Let your brothers come. I will kill them as well.” With his free hand, he drew his sword from its sheath; its silver song cut the air. He yanked the boy’s head over his thigh, exposing his neck. He drew the edge along Troilus’ neck, cutting deep into the muscle. The thin red line dripped crimson. The Trojan boy gurgled; his eyes rolled in confusion, his hands flailed at his sides. Achilles pulled harder, ripping open the wound until the blood poured down Troilus’ neck, soaking the youth’s chiton red.
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 33