There was nothing to do now but continue praying to Athena. Penelope sat on the edge of her bed waiting for someone to return her son and explain what was happening. Her stomach grumbled. She had missed the midday meal. Her bustling household now hushed to mere whispers. The very air seemed to stop moving. Worry exhausted her and she fell into a deep sleep.
FROM HIGH ABOVE in the cloud kingdom of Olympus, Athena looked down on this daughter of Ikarus, wife to Odysseus, her beloved patron. Athena was furious that Paris had made the choice he did, but angrier still that Aphrodite had cheated her way to victory. She was annoyed that a mortal, a mere shepherd at that, regardless of his bloodline, had been chosen by Zeus to decide who among her, Hera or Aphrodite was the most fair. His impulsive decision and Aphrodite’s desire for complete adoration had set a course for a great battle. The prospect of war had drawn the attention of the other Olympians who delighted in the prospect of setting their patrons against each other. Athena decided to aide Odysseus whenever possible, keeping a watchful eye on Penelope as well. She would comfort the queen with peaceful bouts of long sleep when needed, to protect her from the pain and grief to come.
FROM THE BOW of his anchored ship, Menelaus could see the king of Ithaka. He hit the elbow of Thalpius and pointed to the shore. “What is he doing? Look. There. Is that not Odysseus?” Menelaus asked incredulously.
Thalpius, mouth agape, asked, “Is he plowing the beach?”
“What an idiot.” Menelaus said flatly.
“The gods must have stirred his mind to madness,” Thalpius concurred. A small group of curious rowers began crowding around Menelaus to watch the lunacy on the beach. Menelaus grabbed Thalpius by the forearm. “Look! Palamedes is coming. What’s that in his arms?”
“It looks like a bundle of cloth.”
“He’s laying it on the ground in front of Odysseus’ plough. What in Hades is he up to?” All the spectators were riveted to the scene. They all watched intently as Palamedes walked clear of Odysseus’ next pass with the plough.
“Whatever it is, Odysseus is going to turn it under the sand with his next row,” Thalpius said.
Menelaus held his breath and then shouted, “He stopped! By the balls of Zeus! He’s stopped the oxen!”
“Why is he just standing there?” Thalpius asked, confusion wrinkling his brow. The onlookers murmured amongst themselves.
“Gods! I wish I could hear what they are saying!” Menelaus said.
ODYSSEUS HADN’T ANTICIPATED this maneuver. He’d heard the thin cries of a newborn baby coming from the gift Palamedes ceremoniously placed in front of him. He’d recognized the purple trim on the weaving and knew instantly it was his son, Telemachus. So, Agamemnon was putting him through a test of his own. The choices were plain enough to Odysseus. He could kill his son and remain with Penelope, losing everything he held most dear forever, or he could reveal his sanity, save his son, and save his family only to lose them for twenty years.
He pulled the seed bag off his shoulder and let it sag to the ground spilling the precious salt. He dropped the reigns of the oxen, their hooves sinking into the soft sand. The heavy beasts snorted and threw up their noses to sniff the tangy sea breeze in unison still being yoked together. Slowly, Odysseus approached to the swaddled bundle and gently scooped it up in his arms. With a hand calloused by war and fighting, he gently lifted a corner of the blanket. His new son’s face squinted in the bright light. The babe wailed loudly. Odysseus left the salt bag, the oxen, the plough and his hopes of avoiding war on the shore behind him.
As the young king walked up the beach, cradling the baby with one strong arm, he locked eyes with Palamedes, who stood with arms crossed over his chest in smug satisfaction. When Odysseus was shoulder to shoulder with him, he stopped and turned to him. “You have cost me my wife and my son. Watch yourself, my friend. I might be gone for years, but you will not ever be coming back. By Athena, I will make sure of that.”
Palamedes saw the iron truth in Odysseus’ eyes and was glad for once that Agamemnon was his king.
PENELOPE AWAKENED TO familiar footsteps in the hall. She hurried to unbolt the door. There stood Odysseus with Telemachus cradled securely in the crook of his arm, sleeping peacefully with his little fingers in his mouth. Nothing could have pleased her more. She stood on tip toes to kiss his sweating temple and gently took the child from his arms and placed him in his proper bed.
Odysseus watched his wife’s graceful white arms as she laid their son to bed. He could make out the line of her hips through her chiton, as she bent to kiss the child on his forehead, her golden hair spilling to one side. He had failed Penelope. And now, he must tell her everything. Odysseus opened his arms to her. “Penelope, come sit by me.”
“What is happening? How did you get Telemachus? Eurycleia took him and told me to lock the doors. I feared you had been given some direction from the oracle to…to kill our son.”
Odysseus reassured her. “Even if Zeus himself had given me such an order, I would not obey.”
“Why was I locked in our room with only Athena’s company?”
Odysseus sighed deeply. “Penelope…I am leaving for Troy.”
“Troy? Why are you going to Troy? We have no business there, do we?”
“No...and yes. I have business there.”
“Is this why Spartan ships gather in our harbor?
“Yes. I will be joining the fleet with my own men. We sail to Aulis, then for Troy,” Odysseus confirmed.
“Aulis? What will you do in Aulis? Odysseus, it sounds more like a gathering of soldiers than a trading expedition…,” her voice trailed off, as she began to piece together what her husband was trying to tell her. “You have not mentioned a word of trading.”
“We are going to war with Troy.”
Penelope gasped, for even she knew about the futility of war against the mighty Asian kingdom. “The Trojan walls have never been breached. By any enemy.”
“True. That is the account given by Trojans.”
Penelope placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Tell me, what army has defeated them? Breeched their god protected walls?”
He pointed to his shield hung over the hearth. “I have been in many battles, my beloved. The bronze is well-polished.” He brought her hands up to his lips. “It is time to test it for yet another season.”
Telemachus woke with a gentle whimper that quickly turned to hungry wail. The warrior king stood to pick up his distraught son and laid him in his mother’s arms. Odysseus laughed. “That is a familiar cry. You had better feed him before he runs out of breath.” Penelope opened her chiton and her son’s hungry mouth turned towards her soft flesh and found what his little belly ached for. Odysseus brushed his hand gently along his son’s face. I will miss his journey to manhood. It wasn’t long before little Telemachus was again asleep with milky droplets hanging at the corners of his round mouth. Penelope wiped them away with the corner of her gown.
“Why do you have to go, Odysseus?”
“I took the oath before Tyndareus, promising to protect Helen and now I must honor it.”
“Why would you do that? You did not wish my cousin for your bride, naming me your second choice?” A hot tear escaped down her burning cheek.
“I did not take the oath for Helen’s sake. I took it for you.” He tilted her chin to face him. “Did you think your father would hand you over to me so easily? Tyndareus aided me, for aiding him.” He pulled his wife into his arms, smashing the baby between them. “Put him down for a while...”
“Odysseus…” she asked, as he secured all the iron slides on the door. “Why has Helen gone to Troy?”
“That question is without clear answer. Menelaus claims she was kidnapped by Paris a Prince of Troy. There is rumor he won her by his charm and she left willingly. I was told that Helen also took half his treasury.”
“Menelaus does not need all the best captains of Greece.”
Odysseus took her shoulders in his hands and faced her eye to e
ye, “Beloved, I have already tried to secure release from this commitment and failed. Only by killing our son could I prevent my departure. I would have a promise from your lips.”
“I can deny you nothing.”
“It will be difficult to hear,” he cautioned.
“Ominous words, my husband, you frighten me.”
“I mean not to frighten you, my lady,” he smiled, running the back of his hand against her cheek. “If I should not return before—”
“Stop. I will not hear it.”
He placed his fingertips lightly on her trembling lips. “If I do not return by the time Telemachus has grown the beard of a man, you must remarry and let our son claim his rightful place as king.”
Tears filled Penelope’s eyes at the thought. “Athena would not keep you away so long.”
“You must promise this,” the warrior king insisted.
She nodded. “When will you leave?”
“At dawn. First light.”
“Then, let us not waste time, my lord husband. Come to bed. I want to make certain you remember me.” Penelope smiled, as she lay back against the pillows and soft linens. Odysseus needed no more invitation than that.
In the morning, Odysseus didn’t wake his wife or his son as he readied for departure for Troy. He wanted to remember her sighs, the way her hair tangled in his hands, the soft slope of her hip, as she lay on her cradling their son. He hadn’t been able to tell her it might be an entire lifetime, before he saw them again. He hoped the oracle was wrong on that account, or that he’d find favor with the gods to steer the direction of his own course. The king took his shield off the wall and his spear from the corner. He whispered a silent prayer to Athena and then slipped quietly out the door, but not before turning to take one last look at his family. I will be back soon. I promise. Then, he was gone.
AGAMEMNON SCOWLED AS Kalchas spoke. His thick fingers laced tightly behind his back. He wanted to stuff his fist into the prophet’s flapping lips speaking words he’d rather not hear.
“The signs are clear, my lord. You will gain much from this raid against Troy. Whether the Spartan queen returns cannot be seen.”
The great king cleared his throat. “She will return dead or alive to Sparta.”
Kalchas added, “You must take Achilles, the Golden Warrior, if you intend to sack Troy and return.”
“Return?” Agamemnon questioned. It hadn’t occurred to him that he wouldn’t return. The word troubled him. “Return? You mean without Achilles we will not take Troy or return? Who will not return?”
Kalchas’ dark grey eyes found Agamemnon’s hardened face. “Without Achilles, no king who now sits upon a throne will return to claim it. No prince will live to succeed his father.”
Agamemnon’s fist slammed the table. Bowls and platters clanged against the wood. “Such words, Kalchas! I believed the gods favored us, now I see they only wish to fuck us.” Agamemnon stood up quickly sending his chair flying behind him where it broke into pieces against the heavy tent wall. “You could not have handed this prophecy before we left Mycenae? You had to wait until this fucking moment? When we are far from home, between Charybdis and Scylla?”
Kalchas bristled at the insult to the gods. “It is the gods who speak when and where they will.”
The great king was pacing now. “Yes, the fucking gods. Spreading ass cheeks and fucking us.”
Kalchas grew nervous because the final portion of the vision revealed an even more heinous act that must be performed. But he chose to keep that to himself until the proper time, or Agamemnon might turn back now. And that would interfere with the greatest destiny of all.
“DO YOU TRUST Kalchas that much?” Menelaus questioned his brother. “Are you sure the prophecy is about Achilles?”
“We cannot win this war if Achilles and his Myrmidons are not with us,” Agamemnon stated flatly. All the captains, fulfilling their oaths, stood silently regretting they’d ever considered Helen as a bride in the first place forcing the oath binding them to this expedition of war. They all feared the final outcome if Agamemnon’s words proved true. And if that were the case, they were all dead men and they knew it. It was no secret that the ancient city of Troy was nearly impossible to over run. Hector, guardian of the great walled fortress was rumored a fierce combatant, a warrior whose only rival was Achilles himself. How were they to defeat a city protected by a man who rivaled the gods? Rumors of Hektor’s stealth and skill with a blade caused doubt to creep into the assembled captains’ minds.
Ajax shoved a stick into the dying flames of the fire and shifted the sputtering driftwood around. “How can we get Achilles to fight for us, when we do not even know where his nymph mother has hidden him? He has all but fallen off the edge of the world.” They all stared into the campfire as the flames reignited and shot into the darkness. Red hot cinders floated up into the black night like fiery moths, ending their lives as black specks dotting the sand.
Odysseus knew that Achilles was not only the key for their victory, but also his best hope of returning home before his family could forget him. As he stared into the fire, a silence fell over the royal assembly each lost in his own thoughts and worries. Odysseus heard a distant humming in his ears. He looked around the camp circle. No one else seemed aware of the distinctly feminine droning growing louder by the moment. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. The hum pulsed through him like the heat of too much red wine. The weight of his body pulled him down to the earth. His limbs refused to obey his commands. And then he remembered feeling a similar sensation in the presence of the oracle. He thought it strange to sense the oracle so far from Ithaka.
...It is not the oracle, my loyal Odysseus.
Then who are you?
...Do you not recognize me?
A sparkling light filled Odysseus’ waking eyes and he caught a glimpse of a helmet crested with shimmering golden horse hair. He closed his eyes against the burning image.
Athena.
...Go to Skyros.
Why, my goddess?
...Always questioning. Trust me.
What will I find at Skyros?
...Your golden warrior hiding among the women.
“Odysseus, are you well?” Diomedes asked. “Look at him!” All the captains turned to watch Odysseus. “As still as a corpse he is. Look! His eyes appear as two sparks of coal.”
Suddenly, the king of Ithaka shook his head. “At first light, I leave for Skyros.”
“Have you forgotten you are not the commander of this army?” Menelaus sneered.
Agamemnon purposely avoided looking in Odysseus’ direction. “What duty draws you to Skyros? Your own interests or mine?”
“I go so that I may fulfill my oath.” Odysseus stood up and walked into the night, leaving the Greek captains and the brother kings in surprised silence.
“He must have a plan,” Ajax offered.
“I hope so,” Agamemnon warned. “Palamedes…”
“Yes, my lord?” The king’s servant stepped forward with his head forever bowed.
“In the morning go with Odysseus. Make sure it is the shores of Skyros he sails for.”
Palamedes remembered the look Odysseus flashed him on the beachhead and the promised threat the Ithakan king had made. He would obey Agamemnon, but keep a safe distance from Odysseus. He planned to make it to Troy and back alive.
NOTHING WAS AS blue as the wide open Aegean Sea, reflecting the depth and mystical powers of Poseidon. When the god was angry the sea churned and thrashed swallowing ships whole, burping up splintered twisted timbers and burying the dead and their belongings in the ancient muddy basin. Sometimes, the sea god sent the sirens out to sing unsuspecting sailors to their deaths. Their sensual suppli-
cations drove men mad enough to race on speedy winds to save them. Instead of becoming saviors, they dashed their ships on rocky reefs never realizing until the very end that they’d been enraptured and sung to their deaths.
Dozens of islands dotted thi
s region of the Aegean like the very knuckles of Poseidon’s own hands. In the midst of a string of Sporades rocks, the island of Skyros rose like citadel, punching its presence from the undulating azure like a hand reaching for the empty sky. Mount Olympus stretched high into the living clouds in the north with lush forests disappearing into its thunderous heights, while Mount Kochila, barren and rocky, scratched its loftiness from hard volcanic earth in the south. The two-day trip from Aulis to Skyros passed uneventfully with fair winds to fill the sails. Odysseus prayed a silent thanks to Athena.
Many years had passed since he’d laid eyes on the boy, Achilles. He hoped he would recognize him now. Even as a youth, Achilles was clearly blessed with the golden beauty of the gods themselves, something he inherited from his mother. From his father he’d inherited strength, broad shoulders and his noble bearing. Achilles, even in his youth, was what every man feared and loved all at once. Rumors abounded of his speed and agility as a warrior. He fought without fear. Loved as fiercely as he fought. Moved as the wind. In hand to hand contest, while still a youth at his father’s court, he remained undefeated until his disappearance. One day he would become a king of Phthia, if he ever returned to Peleus’ court.
Odysseus and his crew rowed their ship along the northern shore and pulled its hull deep into the sand of the shallow bay. They would have to return before the tide swelled and loosened their ship back to sea without them.
Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) Page 31