Diomedes nodded, his dark eyes narrowing as he silently considered Achilles' argument. Like his collected appearance and short-trimmed beard, Diomedes espoused care and reason in all his actions. Over the years of his kingship, he had earned a reputation for fairness. He was not one easily manipulated. If Diomedes found merit in Achilles' concerns, perhaps others would as well.
"Convenient, isn't it?" he pressed on. "The Trojan takes the one woman we all swore to defend? The only person who could unite the Hellas."
The prince had to have known about Tyndareus' oath. It was common knowledge throughout the Hellas. To have taken Helen smacked of either arrogance or idiocy, neither of which were words he'd ever heard describe Troy.
Perhaps Troy didn't care whom they offended. Perhaps they hungered for war and thought shaming the West good sport, that the death toll sure to follow would earn them infamy the bards would sing about for all the Ages. But Achilles doubted it. There was only one man he knew who fit that description, and he was standing in this room.
"Who's to say the Trojans even have the princess?" Now given ear, Achilles could not stop his restless thoughts from flowing. "Agamemnon is hiding something, Diomedes. Mark my words."
"Have you something to say, Son of Peleus?"
Achilles lifted his gaze to meet Agamemnon's, the spark of fury on the Mycenaean's face taunting him to speak his mind—a temptation Achilles could not answer without causing the people of Phthia to suffer the consequences.
The other kings of Greece did not allow Agamemnon to claim Phthia as a vassal state, but he might as well have. After the Mycenaean host spread across southern Thessaly, a great famine followed in their wake. The "peace" treaty between kings only further strained Phthia's dwindling resources. Their once mighty nation withered like grapes left on the vine. Those who survived were grief-tested, hardened by their struggles, and the Myrmidon soldiers who emerged from the ashes were as fearsome as they were few.
Achilles gripped the hilt of his sword, those dark days of battling a foe who had no face made him itch to thrust his sword into someone's gut. Unfortunately, the man he most wanted to gut was also a king. He buried those dark memories away, determined to show no sign of weakness before this detestable man. "We did swear an oath," Achilles grit his teeth, allowing his defiance to ooze through every pore of his skin, "to defend Menelaus against wrong done to his marriage, but how do we know he has been wronged? You were gone when the Trojan envoy left your shores. What proof can you offer the other kings that Helen is even with them?"
A long moment of silence greeted his words, the king glaring at him all-the-while with hate-filled, inky black eyes filled. "I have never known you to back away from a fight, Achilles." Agamemnon seethed. "Have you grown craven during the quiet years of peace?"
"If you think me craven, then you are blind enough to believe the other kings will hand you an army to do with as you please." Achilles' hand strayed down his side to the hilt of his sword. He prayed the king was fool enough to challenge him publicly.
The nobles broke out in angry rumbling, shocked by his brazen words. In theory, he outranked the commanders at his side, but many of those grizzled veterans considered Phthia a conquered territory and treated its prince with similar disregard.
"They will hand me an army." Agamemnon waved down the courtiers. "And when they do, you best be careful that I don't march on your homeland first, Son of Peleus."
"Which is precisely why they will never hand you those reins."
The shouting became deafening. Achilles did not respond to it, standing silent as their empty threats rained down around him. There was one voice in the din, however, that gave him pause. The dulcet cry of a child...
"STOP IT!" Iphigenia shouted out over the megaron.
Achilles turned to the princess, stunned by the breathtaking vision of beauty that awaited him. This was no child. While new to her maidenhood, Iphigenia was every bit as regal as her mother. Her honey-brown hair was braided with ropes of pearls, and her elegant chiton clung to her curves. A gentle innocence, as fresh as dew on a spring morning, surrounded her. She seemed a pure creature in a world surrounded by darkness. How could something so beautiful come from a man so detestable?
"Stop it!" Iphigenia pleaded again. The princess trembled with unspoken panic, her soft brown eyes teeming with unshed tears.
Achilles flushed, ashamed of his conduct before the royal woman. "Princess?"
"All your squabbles of oaths and allegiance! Where is your honor? He took Aunt Helen. What horrors is he subjecting her to while we fight over petty nonsense?" Her voice cracked and a tear trickled down her cheek. "We have to save her. Please. She needs our help..."
The men fell silent following the princess' impassioned plea. Even Agamemnon watched his daughter with a new appreciation. "You require proof, Achilles? It so happens I have some." He turned to his wife and Clytemnestra stepped forward, leading a curvaceous raven-haired maiden out of the crowd of women behind her.
"Astyanassa is one of Helen's handmaidens. Tell them." The queen stroked the woman's back. "Tell them what you witnessed that night."
Astyanassa took a timid step forward, the gentle prodding of the queen seeming to buoy her confidence. "That night the prince was lurking around the palace grounds. My mistress was suspicious of his odd behavior and demanded we follow him, her elderly matron and I. Despite my protests, she insisted on accompanying us. They broke into the treasury. The princess was outraged, and she confronted the Trojans, demanding they stop their theft."
The maid shivered, evoking murmurs of sympathy from the gathered men. Only Achilles was not fooled. The vixen feigned coy, yet in her eyes was the quiet control of a warrior who knew precisely what she was doing. "He mocked her, claiming her courage naive. He then bound her hand and foot, bragging he would claim another treasure of Mycenae, taunting her with claims of all the horrible things he would do to her once they left. Placing a gag in her mouth to silence her screams, he took Aethra and my mistress captive, leaving me locked inside the treasury to 'tell the Mad King what happens when he thinks himself better than Troy.'"
A stunned silence followed the maiden's words. Achilles stood as one struck. Had he heard the woman correctly? "Aethra? The disgraced queen?" He turned to Agamemnon. "They took her captive as well?" Lusty, treacherous thieves left a tasty morsel like Astyanassa behind while taking a woman well into her third score of years?
The lie was writ all over the king. He glared at Achilles with the heat of Hephaestus' furnace. In the absence of his response, other voices filled the hall. Palamedes strode forward, grabbing Menelaus by the forearm. "Nauplia stands with you, Menelaus. Invoke the Oath. The other kings will come, or I will make them come. All of Troy will pay for this insult."
The announcement was met with applause from the court, a palpable air of relief spreading amongst those gathered. The peace that presided over the Hellas was tenuous at best. No one looked forward to shedding Grecian blood. None, that was, save the king.
"Achilles," Agamemnon descended from the throne. "A word in private, please."
Against his better judgement, he joined the king. Agamemnon led them out the portico where the earthy musk of rain-soaked soil greeted them as they walked down a set of stairs to the courtyard beneath. The rain had stopped falling, but the pooling water made the steps slick. Achilles never wavered. He had long learned how to stay on his feet.
"You do not like me," Agamemnon spoke as they stepped off the landing. "No, do not deny it." He waved down Achilles' protests. "You are a mighty warrior, Achilles. The other kings rightly fear you. But I do not."
The king's sudden change in tone took Achilles by surprise. Lightning fast, Agamemnon gripped him by the throat and slammed his back against the foundation of the palace. It took little effort to withdraw the dagger at his hip and press the tip into Agamemnon's side.
"If you value your manhood, you will release me," Achilles hissed. It was an empty threat. Achilles could not harm his h
ost without Phthia suffering the consequences, and by the callous glint in Agamemnon's soulless eyes, he was well aware he had nothing to fear.
"You are no king," Agamemnon hissed back. "You are a mixed blood mongrel. Why your father would take a barbarian as wife is beyond me, but I see the wrath of her tribesmen in you, Beggar Prince." Spittle foamed at the king's mouth and he spat on the ground. "If you ever question my leadership in front of another man again, I will leave Phthia without an heir."
Rage clouded Achilles' sight. The blood-vision, he called it. The world tinted red, and he twisted his blade, placing enough pressure on the massive king to make him relinquish his hold. He dropped into a crouch, a lethal energy tensing his muscles.
"Others have tried," he growled. "None have succeeded. It will take a mighty warrior to grant me Death's final blessing. Are you that man, Agamemnon?" He jostled the sword at his hip, praying the king was that foolish.
Agamemnon was no fool, however. He backed off, a twisted smile pulling at his lips. "I don't want you dead, Myrmidones. I want you fighting at my vanguard. Honor your oath, or Zeus help me, every street brat in the Hellas will know you for craven, Achilles, just like your dear, dead father."
Achilles holstered his blade, his racing pulse still thundering in his skull. He would not let this hated man bait him. It was clear the Mycenae king longed for an enemy to test his prowess, a military target to prove his worth to the other Grecian rulers. Phthia could not afford to draw his wrath again. He stood down, his gut twisting with the sour grip of bile. Agamemnon got precisely what he wanted, and some part of him smarted over that fact.
"I am glad we have an understanding." Madness laced through Agamemnon's eyes, the menacing brute gloating in the humiliation Achilles was forced to bear. "And one more thing."
Achilles whipped his head up, defiant.
"Stay away from my daughter. She is the Crown Princess of Mycenae, a far greater prize than you will ever enjoy."
The king spun on his heel and raced back to his throne room, taking the steps of the portico two at a time. In his haste to return, he failed to see Iphigenia standing at the base of the stairs.
"I..." she stuttered, a flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks a rosy red. She carried a plate filled with berries and fresh bread. "I brought these for you." Her eyes darted in every which direction save at him.
Humiliation flooded Achilles that someone would see him so debased and incapable of defending himself. Not incapable, but unable. The futility of his position frustrated him all the more.
But to the princess, his prolonged silence signaled something else: that she was unwelcome. She placed the plate on the ground for lack of a better solution. "I should go..."
Achilles grimaced. This was all wrong. He shouldn't even be here, kowtowing to that arrogant piss of a king. But standing before the princess, her beauty the crisp colors of a spring morning, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. It took all his strength to muster his voice. "Stay."
Iphigenia hesitated but obeyed, her desire to remain overwhelming the impulse to flee. He took the princess by the hand, leading her to a bench beneath the viewing window off the throne room. Should anyone choose to catch a fresh breath of air, they would not see the two of them together.
"My father should not speak to you like that." Her face creased with unease. "You are our guest. He should not disparage a man so greatly admired."
"Please, Princess, do not speak of it."
She bit her lip, "Of course not. I mean, I won't. I wouldn't want to shame you further." She yelped, turning her head away and hiding her face in her long tresses of honey-brown hair.
Her words were innocent, but they made him relive those bitter moments. Achilles clenched his jaw, a fire burning within him. "It does not matter how greatly admired a man might be. Your father cares only for the amount of swords he can command. In that endeavor, Princess, I have little to offer him."
And little to offer a wife, in that Agamemnon was correct. A first born princess of the wealthiest kingdom of the Hellas was far beyond his reach.
Iphigenia smiled sweetly, as though those trifles mattered not at all. "'A shepherd who defends his flock, knowing the odds are against him, is far more courageous than a captain leading a great host,'" she chimed. "A large army does not make one great."
He could not help but smile. It was precisely what he needed to hear. "Not one of yours?"
"No," she gulped, her eyes dropping to her lap. "My aunt Helen's. Or Grandfather's. Most of her lessons were really just his in disguise."
He wondered about the missing princess. He had met Helen of Sparta just once, back at her betrothal. She seemed an honorable person, one who inspired great loyalty. A quality her niece had inherited, he supposed. "You miss her, don't you?"
"Yes." Her voice cracked with the admission. She twisted her hands as though she wished to say more, and when Achilles did not interrupt, she continued on. "When I was little I fell ill. Mother was thick with child, with my sister Electra, and could not care for me. Even our maids refused to enter my rooms, claiming the malady was inflicted by the Immortals, recompense for Father's latest conquest. I was only four and knew the cold grip of certain death." Her eyes swelled with unshed tears making them shine all the brighter.
Achilles restrained an urge to reach for her, to comfort the princess against that dark memory. What horrors had she endured from her kinship to that hateful man?
Iphigenia smiled, mistaking his movement for encouragement to speak on. "Aunt Helen was the only person who did not fear. She moved into my quarters to see to my recovery and did not leave my side for two months. When someone saves your life, you are bound to them, are you not?"
Achilles could not help but nod, amazed someone so young would know the complexities of a life's bond. Then again, he had not been much older than she when Patroclus pledged him fealty for a similar cause.
"Helen looked after me my whole life," the princess continued. "When things were... dark... at home, she was always a source of comfort." Her voice broke and a slight tremble shook her body. "I think of what the Trojans must be doing to her, to Aethra... It's just wrong. She deserves better."
Her heartfelt sorrow touched him, as it did in the hall. In all the rattling of swords it was easy to forget an innocent person stood at the heart of this tragedy. He lifted Iphigenia's chin, forcing her light blue eyes to meet his own.
"I do not question your father without reason. War without cause is never glorious. It is a bloody affair, a rampaging fire that burns the innocent and guilty alike." Bile burned in his throat. Achilles knew that cold truth intimately. While he hungered for battle like every true-born man of the West, he only took to field against a worthy foe, and certainly not for the purpose of enriching Agamemnon. "If I am to lead my men in battle, I need to know the cause is just."
"I understand." Iphigenia gazed up at him, her gentle expression evoking an unfamiliar ache in his chest. It was a shame she was so young. A few more years and Achilles might defy the wrath of her father for the promise of something so pure. It was for the best he did not. Iphigenia did not deserve the attentions of a man as brutal as he. The only maiden Achilles courted was Death, and one day She would come to claim him.
Though the story of his life might be writ in blood, it did not make him a monster. He raised the princess' hand to his lips, a courtly show of his respect. "I promise you this, Princess. If your aunt is truly in danger, the Hellas will unite. And there is no force on earth that will stop my armies from reclaiming her."
A hopeful smile spread across Iphigenia's face, and for a moment, he wished the matter were that simple. Something was brewing in Mycenae, something that stunk of lies and deceit, and Achilles had a feeling he knew its source. Before a single ship sailed, he was going to get to the bottom of the muck.
Chapter 23
In the Marshland
THERE WAS NOTHING quite as spectacular as the dawning of a new day over the Egyptian marsh. The perfectl
y smooth waters of the Nile reflected the pale-pink light like a plate of glass. River-land creatures stirred, waking with the sun. The melodic call of aquatic birds merged with amphibious croaks, and the air was filled with song.
Paris stood in the center of a papyrus boat, harpoon in hand, soaking in that majesty. The small craft was an ingenious design, some fifteen feet long and five feet wide, constructed of tightly bound reeds water-proofed with bitumen. He held his footing with relative ease, his years at sea having blessed him with an instinctual sense of balance.
Others on the small boat were not so skilled. Seti reclined comfortably on a set of cushions at the bow as though this excursion were nothing more than a pleasure cruise. Save for Glaucus and their pole-man, they were the only occupants on the boat, meaning Paris had been subject to the prince's incessant chatter since the first hint of light spread over the horizon.
"My father despised the hunt." Seti's fingers trailed the in river, the small waves rippling through patches of lily pads and blossoming lotus flowers floating on the surface. "He said the only sport worthy of a reigning monarch is that of expanding the realm. He reclaimed much of the land usurped by the Semites to the east."
Half a dozen other boats dotted the Nile around them, each one with a pair of hunters on board and a slave kneeling at the back steadily poling the craft deeper into the wadi. Setnakhte rode in the vessel closest to Paris and the prince, his steady gaze never far from his monarch.
The other huntsmen, however, were not so enamored with their liege lord. They cast anxious glances to Seti, a valid concern growing that his jabbering might scare off game. Fortunately, the thick patches of reeds and protruding palm trees reduced how far the prince's words carried.
"Yes, Your Grace." Paris lowered his voice and kept his attention on the thick cover, his spear gripped tight. Both he and Glaucus tensed with unease at the dangers it could hide. These shallow pockets of the Nile, with dense vegetation for cover, were favorite habitats for all manner of deadly creature, including the elusive hippopotamus. Working together, the hunters planned to channel the animals out of the water to a cove where they could not escape a bombardment of spears and arrows.
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