Briseis’ chin quivered and she slowly shook her head. Grudgingly, she released the smallest truth, hoping it was enough. If she allowed the entire story to spill, she would die of heartbreak. “I had a daughter once. She died of a fever. There’s nothing more to tell.”
She has lost so much, because of me. “This is war, Briseis. You know I had no choice.”
Achilles’ lover scoffed at his thin regret. “There’s always a choice, Achilles. War leaves only the bitter ones to swallow.”
“When I’m gone, perhaps Patrok―”
“Say no more, Achilles.”
He reluctantly released her knees. “As you wish. I am for bed. Come. Join me.”
✽✽✽
In the darkness of the tent, Briseis lay facing away from her lover whose gentle breathing told her he truly slept. Now, she was free to weep. Weep for the daughter she lost years ago. Weep because she would never feel another child inside of her. Weep for the life she had all but forgotten. However, her true torment lay in a truth burning inside of her heart whenever she looked at Achilles. One so private and painful, she dared only to dwell on it during the deepest, darkest hours of the night. She loved Achilles as she’d never loved Mynes. She loved him more than she’d loved anyone, save Phila. Why do I love him? She rolled to her back. He calls me wife, yet I am not. And that was the bitterest portion of her current existence to swallow.
BAY OF TROY
THREE, dust of grief
1238 BCE
The Great King reclined behind a huge trestle table of heavy timber. Menelaus, scowling deeply, sat to his right, while Nestor, enjoying the personal attention of his slave woman, Hecamede, reclined easily at his left. The lesser kings and princes—Odysseus, Diomedes, Ajax of Telemon, and Ajax the Lesser—sat on either side of Agamemnon’s brother and chief counselor. Achilles and Patrokles, enjoying the company of each other and already into their second cups of spiced wine, sat at the far end of the table. Piles of fresh bread, platters of split figs drizzled in honey and dusted with ground almonds, and bowls of dates stuffed with soft cheeses lined every table. Torches burned brightly against the growing night. Slave women danced bare breasted with golden chains jangling about their waists. The men grabbed at their flesh as they swirled by, scenting the air with jasmine and roses. Men hungered for the honeyed treasure between their legs. The whores’ tents would be full when the stars’ brilliance waned in the purple dawn.
When Chryses, flanked by Apollo’s priests bearing staffs wound with wreaths and fluttering golden ribbons, approached Agamemnon in the royal pavilion, the horde’s silence was so heavy the crackling sound of the spits roasting fatted meat could be heard carrying on the soft wind. A sea of Greeks surrounded Apollo’s chief priest, enough men to drown him in his own blood, yet he’d walked without fear as those with the Shining God’s favor did.
The priest bowed deeply to Agamemnon. “I have traveled far, Great King, to speak with you on my daughter’s behalf.”
Agamemnon nodded. A thin slave boy whispered into the Great King’s ear. “Indeed you have. Chryse is far to the south.” The king swept his hand across the assembly. “What do you wish from me, priest of Apollo?”
“I ask only for the return of my daughter, Great King.” He bowed more deeply than before. “She is precious to me, as are all daughters to their fathers.”
The priest’s words stung the old wound of Iphigenia’s sacrifice. In a flash, her blood soaking the sand at Palamedes’ feet, her frightened eyes begging him for mercy, and her final glance of resignation rose up as a ghastly reminder of the price of war. She knew my iron will would not be moved. She knew me, in the end. Who I am in the darkness of my heart. “You ask a great deal.”
Chryses indicated to the chests laden with treasures that his subordinate priests carried. “I have brought the ransom of a princess to prove my good will and that of the god, Apollo. I swear by the god’s silver bow that I will pray and sacrifice daily on behalf of you, Agamemnon, and your brother, Menelaus. That you will bring the city of Troy to its knees and reap the harvest of gold within her vaulted, shining walls … sailing safely home to your own lands.”
“All this for a woman?”
“My only daughter, my lord. Returning her honors Apollo, son of Zeus.”
The assembly rose up in cheer, each man thinking not so much of his share of the gold, but more so the blessing. Perhaps, with this priest on their side, the war would soon end and they could return home. For home had become more alluring than gold to men weary of a war without end, and the passing years had turned their true wives into goddesses in their memories—their beauty and voices growing softer as the desire to sail home grew stronger.
“Take the gold!”
“Accept it!”
“We can sail for home.”
“Defeat Troy!”
“Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!”
The men pounded their eager fists on their tables, jostling wine cups and bouncing bread from platters. Their unified voices rose up, shaking the quiet fury of their king.
Agamemnon, flushing crimson with anger, stood slowly from his seat. He gazed out at his men. Traitors, all of them. They abandon me on the thin promises of a stranger. Far across the pavilion, he caught sight of a pale saffron gown fluttering in a ghostly breeze. Iphigenia?
Her silver voice rang in his ears. “Will you let me die for nothing, Father?”
He froze, as his hardened eyes stung with unshed tears. He ground his jaw tightly shut, blinked, and looked again. The specter had vanished. Raising his rough hands, ringed with gold and gemstones, he quieted the assembly.
“Who are you, Chryses, priest, tempting me and my men with your honeyed words? You would pray for our demise once your daughter was returned to you. I know you hate us, as much as we despise you Easterners. I will not return Astynome. Why should I? Every father would beg every one of my men for return of their family. It is our right to take as slaves those we capture. You wish my men to give up this right? Take their prizes from them? She was given to me by right of my valor.”
The priest stepped back, astonished by Agamemnon’s refusal. “But, my lord, she … Apollo—”
“Where was your god when she was taken? If he intended to save her, he would never have allowed her capture.”
Nestor squirmed uncomfortably, visibly shaken by the king’s blasphemy against the shining god. “My lord, perhaps, caution—”
The Great King wheeled on his advisor, his crimson cape swirling about his waist, and roared, “You take the side of this priest over me?”
“No … no, but the gods—”
Agamemnon spat. “Speak no more on my behalf, Nestor. And as for you, Chryses, get out of my sight with your beggar’s words and your dull god. I will never give up the girl. She will die an old maid in Mycenae in my palace far from this pitiful place, weaving my cloth and wrapping her legs around my thighs.” He took his seat, staring intently at Chryses, who’d paled whiter than sea foam. “And leave your gold,” he sneered. “I have need of it.”
The priest signaled his acolytes to set the ransom chests down. They eyed him with suspicion and surprise. “Do as he commands.” Without a word Chryses backed away from the royal dais, until he and his entourage faded into the darkness beyond the feasting Greeks. He was in no position to challenge the Great King. Retreat and plead his case to Apollo were now his only recourse
✽✽✽
Since Queen Mira’s ransom and return by Achilles, she’d been guested in King Priam’s palace, attended by the royal physicians and priests. The horrors of the day Achilles sacked Thebe tormented her, and she could find no peace in wakefulness or sleep. Her son-in-law, Hektor, had ordered guard hounds to protect her at all times, giving her some measure of security. Standing there, on her balcony, with ragged-furred beasts lazing at her feet and Apollo’s light warming the air, the echo of death coming for her lost city haunted her. The rows of rooftops and refugee tents stretched out as far as her eye could see, a
nd beyond that she imagined the swirling dust to be Achilles’ Myrmidons. She shuddered in the bright light of the new day.
A gentle knock at the door stirred the hounds to growl and saunter into the main chamber. Queen Mira turned. “Who is there?”
“It is I, Mother,” Andromache answered.
The queen called the hounds to her side. “Enter.”
Andromache entered quietly, careful not to startle the beastly guards camped near her mother’s feet. “It is good to see you up and about your day.”
The queen embraced her daughter, cupping Andromache’s cheeks in her thin hands. “It is always good to rest my weary eyes on your lovely face. You’re all I have left tethering me to this world. You and this child.” She placed her hand on Andromache’s belly. “He is healthy and fat.”
“The midwife says it will be soon. But, for the rest, do not speak such dark words, Mother. You will call down the gods’ wrath. You frighten me.”
“The gods have already unleashed the worst on our family. You did not witness … with my own eyes …” Queen Mira’s face contorted in agony, but she spilled no tears. My grief is dust in my mouth and in my eyes.
Andromache took her mother’s hand in hers, leading her to the couches set near the hearth. “Let us not speak of that day. Of Achilles. Or anything unpleasant. Shall I pour you a cup of wine?”
“It is the only pleasure left to us, is it not?”
“Mother,” Andromache laughed nervously, “that is not true.”
Taking the cup of pale honeyed wine mixed with cinnamon from her daughter, Queen Mira drank deeply. “Then, you have more gratitude for this life than I.”
Andromache shook her head in concern. “You trouble me with your heavy words. What have the physicians revealed regarding your illness?”
“That only time and the gods would still my racing heart.”
“Small comfort, their words.”
“Small indeed.”
The two sat sipping their wine in silence. Joyful times of extended feasting had long since faded into memory. The city had grown too poor caring for the ever-growing numbers of refugees to host extravagant events. Mournful ballads replaced the boastful songs of the glorious deeds of heroes. The sound of weeping and wailing swept through the air most days as word inevitably wound its way to the citadel of recent deaths at the hands of the Western invaders.
“Do you have any word from Hektor about when the war will end?”
Andromache sighed into her now empty cup. She pressed a palm to her temple to still the mild dizziness. “No.”
Queen Mira shivered as thunder cracked and the lightning flashed above her. “Did you hear that, my daughter?” she asked, her voice shaking with fear.
Andromache strained to hear anything out of the ordinary. “I hear only the fire crackling in the hearth.”
But the lost queen stared with glazed eyes at her daughter. Why does the shadow of death swallow my beautiful girl? Who wields the bloody blade? Her wine cup slipped from her fingers, clanging loudly against the tile.
“Mother!” Andromache screamed, as the guard hounds rushed to their mistress’ side. “Mother!”
Within moments, Hektor’s men filled the chamber.
Andromache commanded sharply, “Get the physicians! Call Hektor to me!” She cradled her mother’s head in her lap, freely weeping. “Mother, don’t leave me. I beg you stay with me.” She gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her mother’s pale cheek. In that moment, Andromache became once again a young girl desperate to remain at her mother’s side, frightened of a world without her. “Stay with me.”
OLYMPUS
FOUR, Apollo’s silver bow
1238 BCE
As Apollo pulled his sacred chariot across the sky, breaking a new dawn with streaks of rose and gold, a clamor of prayer assaulted his ears. Apollo, I pray most ardently for your revenge. He cast his glittering eye down through misty clouds to the blue and green sphere below. Focusing his godly sight, he landed on the priest, Chryses, slaughtering fat rams and cattle on an altar trimmed with fresh olive branches. Beyond the altar, he saw a hundred spits roasting the rich offerings of the priest. Hear me, Lord of the Silver Bow. If ever my sacrifices pleased you, I pray you hear me.
The god focused closer on the priest, seeing his face clearly now in his mind. “Chryses, I hear you.” Apollo, having set his blazing orb aloft and freeing the mighty stallions from his chariot, flew down the high rampart of Olympus, through the downy layers of the heavens and over towering pines, to the south of Troy.
He found the priest bent over a bloody altar, sweating and weeping as he pulled his blade across another goat’s throat. “I hear you, Chryses.”.
The hairs on the back of Chryses’ neck stood on end, as a heavy presence pressed his shoulder down, forcing his eyes to remain shut. “My lord,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Speak, mortal, for I am pleased with your offering.”
“I wish the return of my daughter, Astynome.”
The Shining One dug heavy fingers into the priest’s neck. “Astynome, yes, I have seen her. Who has taken her?”
“The Great King, Agamemnon.”
The god laughed against his ear. “He will not appear so great when I am done with him. He will beg for mercy and return your beloved daughter.”
Apollo released Chryses, disappearing into the night.
The priest collapsed at the altar, rubbing his neck from the shooting pains down both arms. “Gratitude, my lord, Apollo.”
✽✽✽
TROY
The Greek Encampment
The shining god bore down on the beachhead stacked with rows of bleached hulls resting idly along the sandy shore. His blazing eyes scanned the camp on the verge of waking. Men wiping the dullness of wine-induced sleep from their eyes stumbled from tents to relieve themselves, pissing away the night’s wine. Women bustled about cook fires, roasting fish and foul and stirring steaming pots of gruel. Children darted from tent to tent, waking the men still abed.
Apollo knelt against the firmament, removing his mighty bow from his sacred shoulder, and pulled three stinging arrows from the quiver at his hip. With icy fingers, he pulled the first of thousands of fatal strikes taut against his glorious cheek. He unleashed his plague on mortals and beasts alike. The god’s laughter shook the ground; boulders tumbled down the craggy cliffs before the Greek’s camp, while the ocean churned in chaos behind them.
Death and darkness waited for them all like a coiled snake ready to strike from the shadows. Agamemnon! Your pride and doom walk hand in hand! All shall know me and fear me.
✽✽✽
Queen Hecuba entered Apollo’s temple, her veil of black gauze fluttering behind her like smoke trailing from a fire. With bare feet, she stepped into the sacred chamber of the god. The queen stood before the golden statue of Apollo. “I pray you hear me, Apollo, the Shining One. Cause of my misery and my joy.”
An old priestess appeared. Her wrinkled hands reached for the queen’s garments. “Prepare for the ritual.”
Hecuba stepped back from the altar, extending her hands at her sides. The priestess silently undressed her. She folded the queen’s clothes, placing them at the statue’s feet. The attendant sprinkled myrrh into a basin of warm water, then bathed the queen with it, covering her entire length with the fragrant liquid.
“He will hear you, my lady,” the priestess said, as she finished.
Hecuba shivered in the empty chamber. “Gratitude.”
The old woman smiled wryly. “Apollo provides what he will, and takes with equal relish.” She indicated to a section of black marble floor. “Lie down. Close your eyes and keep them closed, unless he commands you otherwise.”
The queen obeyed without argument. As she settled into position, a sliver of fear chilled her heart. What if he refuses me? Will he remember what he sowed within me?
Flames leapt from the silver bowl at the statue’s feet, catching on the queen’s gown, burning it to cinde
rs and filling the chamber with thin, gray smoke. The ground beneath her vibrated and shook, until slowly Hecuba’s body rose into the air. The heat of a thousand burning tongues licked her flesh, and heavy hands pressed into her soft flesh. She felt her thighs being pried open, as a warm presence shifted between her legs.
The god’s silken voice enticed her. “You seek the pleasure of my pain a second time?” He slid a hot hand between her legs, slipping his fingers inside of her. “Not a virgin, but still beautiful to behold, Queen Hecuba.” He tasted her nectar on his fingers. “As sweet as I remember.”
Hecuba fought to keep her eyes closed against his blinding presence. Her voice croaked with the smoke and heat when she replied, “I am grateful for your favor.”
“As you should be.” The god bent his head to Hecuba’s sacred flesh, dragging his tongue through the delicate folds. Hecuba moaned, arching her hips to meet his touch. “Your husband should not have abandoned you for his whores and concubines.” Apollo yanked her body to the edge of the altar and plunged his full length into her.
Hecuba screamed in ecstasy, as she wrapped her legs around his buttocks, his skin burning hers, and pulled him into her. “Fuck me, Lord Apollo.”
The god growled his pleasure, plowing his sacrifice until her entire body shook with pain and pleasure, and her love flow spilled against his cock, dripping onto the altar. Only then did he release his fiery silver seed into his willing vessel. “You have pleased me, once again, sweet queen.”
Hecuba lay before the god, sweating, aching, and exhausted. Her voice a mere whisper, she pleaded, “Help me with my revenge. For our son.”
“Troilus,” the god said. “I regret that I could not save him from Achilles. That was Athena’s doing. I could not risk open war with her.” Apollo extended a hand. “You may look upon me, Hecuba.”
Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Page 2