Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  Apollo’s skin shimmered in the golden light. Curls of silver-veined crystal tumbled about his shoulders. His eyes shone with azure and orange flame. Hecuba gazed upon his naked form, as his seed oozed between her thighs.

  “You gods have your wars, as mortals do. Let me be our son’s avenger.”

  “Achilles is chosen by Zeus. Protected by Athena. Only Aphrodite hates Achilles … perhaps, because he is more beautiful than Ares and she cannot bed him.” He laughed. “Even we immortals have our weaknesses, it seems.”

  “Help me, Lord Apollo. Help me be the instrument to bring Achilles to his knees. He has killed our son. Your son.”

  “I had no hand in raising the boy. Priam believes him to be of his flesh and blood?”

  Hecuba nodded. “I spoke to no one of our union, as you commanded.” She recalled the sadistic ritual Apollo performed with her. The dancing flames of blue and gold, entwining limbs with strangers, and the pulsing cocks of hooded priests building within her a great need, until the final ecstatic union with Apollo. Her belly had swelled with Troilus after the encounter, for only a god could have stirred her withering womb to life. The child had been her last and greatest joy, even more so than the return of Paris. Over the years, since Paris’ return, she’d come to realize why Apollo had commanded the child be killed. The abandonment of her babe had marred her very soul, yet his return brought only bitterness and a different regret. But Troilus, he was a gift from the Shining One and didn’t deserve the cruel death inflicted by Achilles.

  Apollo sighed, if a god can sigh. “I will do as you request. But come no more to my temple. What we conspire is against the Father, and that is a war I cannot win.”

  Hecuba rose from the altar and approached the god, his silvery seed still dripping between her thighs. Kneeling, she kissed his bare feet. “Gratitude, Lord Apollo. I will hold you forever in my heart.”

  Apollo laughed, taking her head in his hands, and lifted her face to his. “Hecuba, your heart is iron. Go. Speak of this no more.”

  The chamber light flickered to darkness and the god disappeared from sight. Hecuba stood, naked and used and grateful. Achilles will be mine. She laughed as the priestess cleansed her body. Achilles will be mine.

  ✽✽✽

  Paris admired the wide expanse of clay roofs and bustling streets winding around the lower city. He had never imagined such greatness when he was merely a bull herder. Idle thoughts of the golden city with towering walls were nothing more than that. “Perhaps, I should bring the boy here. I don’t even remember how many seasons have passed since his birth.”

  Helen’s eyes widened slightly. “Why would you bring your son here? Is he not like his mother? A child of the woods and streams?”

  Staring out at the golden glow of Apollo’s light spreading across the city below, Paris shrugged and hung his head. “He’s my only child.”

  Helen clenched her jaw. “Are you blaming me for not giving you more sons and daughters for Troy?”

  Paris turned to face her. “I’m not blaming you for anything. But have you never wondered if this isn’t a curse from the gods?”

  “Hektor and Andromache have no―”

  “You compare us to them?” Paris scoffed, “By the gods, my brother has no great love for me, but how can I blame him? Look at us, Helen. Look at what we are. What has Hektor ever done to the gods that he and Andromache should suffer so much?”

  Angry tears stung Helen’s eyes because the truth couldn’t be denied. Their love was tainted by the goddess. Her entire life had been tainted by Aphrodite’s gift of beauty. And her beauty had only wrought misery and death. If only I could bear a son for Paris.

  “I’ll send a messenger for Oenone in the morning.”

  “What? And drag her to the city with the boy in tow? Have you forgotten we are at war? Do you really think your son is safer here, than under the protection of the woods? The Greeks care nothing for the empty forests and meadows. However, if they should discover you have a son, his life … wouldn’t it be in jeopardy?”

  “Troy won’t fall to the Greeks, Helen. Ever.”

  “Yet, how many years have passed and still they remain. More ruthless. More vicious. More hungry for home.” Helen laughed softly. “If you believe Agamemnon will leave before Troy is looted of its treasures and smoke fills the skies, you are more ignorant of war and the Greeks than I supposed.”

  “Behind your beauty, Helen, you are the cruelest woman.”

  “One of us must remain level headed.”

  Stretching out his hand to her, Paris beckoned. “Come. Lay with me and I will show you a level head.”

  Reluctantly, Helen obliged his offer to once again fuck their miseries away. It’s how they resolved all their pain and frustrations. I can’t tell him about Corythus now. He will cast me aside for that nymph … send me back to Menelaus. I can never go back to Sparta. Ever.

  TROY

  FIVE, arrows of war

  1238 BCE

  Queen Mira reached a pale, fragile hand to her daughter’s cheek. “I still see the shy girl praying before Hera. Fearful Prince Hektor would not love her. How strong you have become since then.”

  “That feels a lifetime ago,” Andromache said softly. “So much has happened since then.”

  “I never thought to outlive all my sons and your father. Knowing his murderer burnt his armor with him gives me no peace.”

  Andromache placed a cool, damp cloth across her mother’s forehead. “Shah, Mother. Do not dwell on those dark days. The sadness saps your strength.”

  The queen placed her hand on her daughter’s. “It is more than sadness, my sweet girl.”

  “What do you mean, Mother?”

  “I pray the gods bring a quiet end to my days.”

  “No!” Andromache shook her head. “You must not ask for such a thing.”

  The queen caught sight of her pale reflection in her daughter’s eyes. “I have no desire to witness more death.”

  Andromache shivered with the faint flash of dust and glittering gold. “Troy will not fall.”

  Queen Mira’s eyes, gray and grief-stricken, filled with compassion for her daughter. She realized her prayer would lay the burden of heartache on Andromache. “You have suffered much, my sweet girl. Too much. We all have.”

  “I understand why you wish for death. But I am yet here. Troy stands strong. Hektor will prevail. He must.”

  “You have not seen this Achilles.” Queen Mira managed a weak smile. “I have lived long enough, my gentle daughter, to see that you have earned the respect and love of the Golden Prince. His love for you shines clearly in his eyes. That is enough for me.” The queen sighed. “Andromache, light the torches.”

  The princess glanced around the chamber. “Mother, they are all lit.”

  The queen shook her head weakly against the pillow. “I am coming! Some days he has no patience.”

  “Who has no patience, Mother?”

  Annoyed, the queen pulled her hand from her daughter’s. “Your father. Who else? Always pressing me to hurry. The wedding wagons are loaded. Are you ready, my girl?”

  “Mother,” Andromache said, cautiously, “that was years ago.”

  Reaching toward the foot of her bed, Queen Mira said, “You know how your father hates waiting.” The quietness of death settled over Andromache’s mother, the life-light faded from her eyes, and her hands slid slowly to her sides.

  The torch flames flickered wildly then stilled. Andromache sat silent for a moment, disbelief weaving through her. “No. No. No. Nooo!”

  Hektor found his wife draped over her mother’s body, weeping like a child. The royal physicians stood helplessly watching. The prince wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her tight into his embrace. Andromache’s tears wet his tunic and her sobs filled his own heart with tender sorrow. “Be at peace, my love. She suffers no more.”

  Andromache looked up at her husband, her face blotched with anguish. “How can I ever have peace? I am alone in the wo
rld now.”

  “You will always have me, my love, and our child. You will never be alone.”

  Andromache sobbed against Hektor’s shoulder, sinking fully into his embrace. “I pray the gods will it so.” Again, the flash of dust and gold burned behind her eyes. Her mother’s fear of Achilles unnerved her. If he was as terrifying as she said, then Hektor might not survive. I beg you gods keep my husband safe from Achilles. I beg you.

  A searing pain ripped through her belly. “No, by the gods, no. Not now,” she cried out. A warm gush of water splashed the floor.

  Without word or question, Hektor lifted his wife in his arms and carried her to their chamber. His voice boomed through the halls for the midwife and court physicians.

  ✽✽✽

  Corythus inhaled the sweet scent of Helen as she leaned across him, reaching for the wine on the table. His loins pulsed to life at the slight brush of her soft breast against his chest. Even through his chiton, he could feel the tip of a hardened nipple. He hated himself for being drawn to his father’s wife. He’d heard many whispers about her, and none of them flattering. The entire court knew that Queen Hecuba held her in disdain, as much as Paris loved her. But watching her full lips part over the rim of her cup made him wonder what kissing her might feel like. Taste like.

  Helen sipped her wine, wiping a small red drop at the corner of her mouth with a delicate fingertip. “How is your training going?”

  Corythus shrugged. “It is not easy, Helen.” Her name rolled smoothly over his tongue.

  “No, I should think not. But, your father needs a warrior for a son, not a flower gatherer.”

  He bristled at Helen’s not-so-subtle reference to his mother. “When will I be ready to meet my father?”

  Helen sighed. “Soon, my son. Soon.”

  Picking nervously at the leather cuff on his wrist, Corythus asked, “What if he refuses to accept me?”

  Helen smiled brightly, lifting a single eyebrow. “How could he not accept you? Handsome and strong as you are.” She placed a hand against her flat belly. “You’ll be his heir,” she said, reluctantly.

  “I don’t care for his riches.”

  “No,” she said, abruptly. “No, you would not.”

  Corythus hung his head slightly. “I must return to my training …”

  Helen stood, her gown falling like sheer water over her body. “Yes. Go. I’ll summon you again.” She extended her hand him, letting a delicate finger slid down his forearm. “Come, training is not as harsh as that.”

  He took her hand and stood. Before he realized what was happening, Helen leaned up and kissed him. Against his will, his lips parted and his tongue darted quickly into her mouth. He’d wanted this, but had resisted such thoughts by pushing them into the dark. He pulled back, flustered and embarrassed. “Apologies … I—” Corythus ran from her.

  Helen watched his chiton billow behind him in his haste. Maybe Paris was right. The gods cursed her womb. A single tear slid down her cheek. It’s not my fault the goddess filled me with false love. She wondered if Paris regretted leaving the nymph and his son behind. If only she could get with child. Pouring more wine, she walked to the sunlit balcony. With the rise of Apollo, her bloody flow had began, dashing her hope, once again, that Paris’ seed had at last taken hold within her. Recalling Corythus’ awkward kiss, she smiled coyly to herself. Perhaps, the son can do what the father cannot.

  *

  Achilles grunted to himself. I fight alongside them all. Worry over them as a mother worries over her children. Yet, I’m helpless to protect them against the gods. Achilles glanced up as the sky brightened, as Apollo spurred his horses at a furious pace, raking the sky with the blood-red fingers. Another deadly dawn. He scowled. For days, death had stalked man and beast alike. First, the dogs and then the mules and horses fell to a bloody flux, ending only when their eyes rolled back, revealing the yellowed orbs. After the first beasts laid yet unburied and unburnt, the men fell with the same illness. Fucking gods, Achilles thought as he piled wood into funeral pyres to burn the bodies. The stench of vomit, shit, and death fouled the air, sickening the living who stumbled about with fever and loose bowls. “Nine fucking, stinking days!” he roared, throwing the last of a few logs onto the most recent pyre. He shouted at men passing by, “Where is your Great King now? A bed? Asleep? Drunk on wine while we suffer, sending the dead to the Underworld?”

  A swirl of sand pelted him. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Achilles grinned wickedly, as he snarled, “What do you wish this time, Athena?”

  “I am not Athena, but Hera.”

  “You are all the same to me.”

  “Dangerous words from the mouth of a mortal.”

  “Look around you, Goddess. You have worse in mind? Better Zeus finishes us off with a flash of his lightning bolt, than let us suffer more of this.”

  “Apollo, not Zeus, sent this plague.”

  The Golden Warrior bellowed, “Why? What have we done that the Trojans have not?”

  “I have no desire to continue your suffering. Call the Myrmidons and the others to assembly. Call Kalchus to speak.”

  Achilles balled his fists at his side. “What prophesy can he give that you cannot?” He waited for a response, but none came. The fucking gods, he thought, storming off across the camp in search of Patrokles.

  He found his companion among the sick and dying, administering poultices for fevered foreheads and water for parched throats. “Patrokles. A word.”

  Patrokles glanced up from a patient whose mouth hung dryly open.

  Achilles noted the fat flies buzzing above the man’s face. Peleus’ voice echoed in his mind, “Close your mouth, Achilles, or flies will put worms in your belly.”

  “You should press his lips together with wine.”

  Patrokles returned to squeezing the greenish ooze from a cankerous sore on the man’s arm. “He does not need wine, cousin.”

  Achilles shrugged. “It’s the flies.”

  Patrokles grinned as he wound a strip of fresh linen over the wound. “Peleus had an aversion to flies, as I well remember. Are you here to put your training with Chiron to use, or have you come to lecture me on the finer points of flies?” He tied the split end of the bandage into a neat knot and laid the injured man’s arm gently at his side.

  “I come for advice.”

  “By the balls of Zeus, he comes seeking answers instead of barking orders.”

  Achilles pulled the tent flap angrily shut, blocking out the light Patrokles needed to see his patient. “Why so hot, cousin?”

  Patrokles wiped his sweating brow. “Apologies. I haven’t slept in two days.” He reached for a stale piece of bread on a wooden platter. “What troubles you? Is it Briseis?”

  “No, it is not Briseis. I have ordered her to remain inside of my tent until this sickness passes.”

  “Wise.”

  “Hera has spoken to me.”

  Patrokles sat back on his stool, and the sick man coughed, startling the flies communing on his chin. He wiped the man’s chin with a damp cloth. “Are you certain?”

  “I am.”

  “Prophesy or warning?”

  Achilles clasped his hands behind his back. “Is there a difference?”

  “What did she want?”

  “She told me to assemble the men and call Kalchus to speak.”

  Patrokles stood and poured two cups of spiced wine, handing one to his cousin. “I see your dilemma.”

  After draining the cup, Achilles wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I’ll have to call Agamemnon.”

  “Yes, yes you will. And risk widening the gulf between the men.”

  “Hera said it was Apollo who unleashed this sickness on us.”

  Patrokles sipped his wine. “Apollo? Hmm. That would explain much.” He drained his cup as well. “You mustn’t ignore the goddess.”

  “No, no I cannot. But still …”

  “Is there more?”

  Achilles remembered the last ti
me a goddess demanded his obedience. The pitiful sight of Troilus clinging desperately to Apollo’s statue’s feet in the temple yet haunted him. It mattered little that he’d been commanded to do what he’d done. In the end, it was his hand that drew the knife. He’d wrestled with the knowledge that he was little better than Agamemnon. It galled him to be on as low a plain as the Fat King. “This war will take everything from me.”

  Patrokles crossed his arms across his chest. “You have benefitted more than most. What has it truly cost you, beloved of the gods on both sides of the Trojan Wall?” His words were bitter. “You still have your freedom. Your family is safe. Your men revere you, though to hear you speak like a whining child, they might reconsider.”

  “You presume too much,” Achilles said, his anger seething beneath the surface. “Speaking with you was a mistake.” His footsteps showered sand as he abruptly turned and stormed from the tent, flinging it wide open.

  Patrokles watched his commander disappear into the rows of tents and men. He turned to his patient again. “Chiron should have forced him to play the lyre more often.”

  The half-dead man croaked, “Then we’d have been dead years ago.”

  Patrokles closed the man’s mouth. “Shah. The flies.”

  ✽✽✽

  Princess Andromache grabbed the midwife’s arm, her eyes pleading for the truth. She was old for childbearing, she knew it, yet the god’s had allowed Hektor’s seed to flourish. “Will he live?” Another pain shot through her, tearing a scream from her throat.

  “Calm, my lady. All is well,” the midwife said firmly, stroking the princess’ damp forehead. “You will hold your son.”

  A tear slid down Andromache’s cheek. “I could not … could not bear it, if—”

  The midwife placed her cool hands on either side of the princess’ belly. “Shah, my lady.”

  “I am old. What if …” Andromache’s fears refused to let her be. As each labor pain engulfed her body, her heart prepared for the worst. “Is Hektor nearby?”

  “Aye, my lady. He is. In the hall. Waiting.”