Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  Corythus’ voice was a husky, desperate whisper, “Helen—”

  “Shah,” she said, pressing a silky finger against his swollen lips. “It is best not to speak.” She moved her hand to the wetness between them, feeling his renewed readiness. “Take me once more.” Her thoughts flew to the first time she laid with Paris in Sparta years ago. They’d been overwhelmed by desire and fucked in a filthy stable. The sting of Paris’ confession that Aphrodite had somehow spurred their unnatural passion had never left her. Resentment crept like a fog around her heart. Often, she found herself weighing the life she had in Troy against the life she left behind in Sparta. Although mothering felt foreign to her in her youth, now, as age began to settle her beauty, her thoughts turned more and more to legacy. For a time, she hoped the goddess would grant them children, but that had not happened.

  As Corythus kissed her neck, a sweet pleasure filled her belly. This is pure and real. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, urging him to plant his seed deep inside of her. She moaned as her release shook her legs, and quickly Corythus followed.

  “I love you,” he whispered against her ear.

  “Do not love me.”

  “It is … too late.” Pulling her into his embrace, he threw a leg over her hip. He kissed the side of her neck, before drifting off to a contented sleep.

  When Corythus’ breathing slowed, Helen slipped from the bed. After picking her chiton up from the floor, she fastened the shoulders together. She smoothed out the gentle pleats, and then slipped quietly from the chamber, disappearing into the dark hall.

  ✽✽✽

  King Telephus signaled for his army to march ahead. Troy was but one more rise of Apollo away. He was relieved they’d avoided any interference from Agamemnon’s army so far. And Achilles. Especially Achilles. The rumors of the Golden Warrior’s ruthlessness chilled him to the bone. Although a skilled healer, which he knew first hand, Achilles was merciless and cruel. Telephus massaged his thigh, running his finger along the raised scar. “This war should have been finished years ago.”

  Korei, the king’s faithful second, nodded. “It would seem the gods love these Greeks.”

  Telephus scowled. “Precisely what I’m afraid of.”

  “Do you think the whispers of the Spartan Helen true?” Korei asked.

  “That she’s bewitched them all?”

  “Aye.”

  “It’s possible. The tales of her beauty persist. If I were Priam, I’d have thrown her back to Menelaus the moment she stepped foot in my kingdom. No woman is worth so much death and dishonor as she has brought.”

  Korei wasn’t so sure. “I would have killed a thousand men to save my wife.”

  “That was different. She was a faithful wife. A valiant woman.”

  “We should march all night. The moon is full. We won’t be safe until we reach the walls of Troy,” Korei said.

  “Agreed. Where is Eurypylus, my son?”

  “A camp woman has given birth. He attends her.”

  “Find him. Remind him not to fall behind. I’ll not have my son butchered by Achilles because he worried over a slave’s child.”

  ✽✽✽

  Patrokles waited until darkness descended on the camp before making his way into Agamemnon’s rows. He knew where Briseis had been taken, and so far, the Great King had denied his requests to visit Achilles’ prize, claiming the woman was his by right. No doubt a punishment meant to hurt Achilles. When the campfires burned to embers and the men stumbled off to their tents, Patrokles moved as a wraith. Keeping to the shadows, he found Briseis’ quarters, nestled among the other tents spiked for Agamemnon’s women. A single guard sat on a stool outside the entrance, his head nodding in a dream. One less death this night. Without a sound, the dark cousin of Achilles slipped behind the tent and beneath it.

  An oil lamp glowed thinly in the dark. He squinted into the shadows, finally finding Briseis. Patrokles’ heart ached to see her huddled and frightened and alone. He knew her heart, as well as his own, broke with Achilles’ betrayal. “Briseis,” he whispered, stepping into the view.

  She sat up, startled by the sound of a familiar voice. She pushed a lock of tangled hair from her face to see better in the dim light. “Patrokles?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  Briseis leapt from the rumpled bed and into his arms. “Patrokles,” she whispered desperately into his neck.

  Her sobs wracked his body with a pain, tender and sweet, as he’d never known before. His heart pounded as though headed into battle, yet...yes, it is a battle and I will lose. For the first time, he held the woman he’d loved always from afar. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, feeling his arms press into her curves. He inhaled the salty honeyed essence of her skin. “I am here, Briseis.”

  “Why? Why has he done this to me?”

  Patrokles pulled back to see her face swollen with grief. He kissed her damp cheek. “I do not know this Achilles. I do not recognize this man. Are you hurt? Has Agamemnon—”

  “No. He has not touched me. Perhaps, I am safe?” she offered hopefully.

  “Perhaps, for now … but he did not risk the fury of Achilles to place a woman with camp whores and not use her.” Patrokles took her face in his hands, searching her eyes, and knew, in that moment, for the rest of his life he’d love no other woman the way he loved her. “If the gods had granted me such a prize, I would have fought a thousand Greeks to keep you at my side.” He leaned his head down, his lips hovering just above Briseis’ mouth. It is wrong to love her.

  Her lips parted, and he could hold back no longer. His mouth descended on hers, and he kissed her tenderly, years of yearning for her touch inflaming his body and soul. When her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, his heart leapt within his chest. A tear slid from the corner of his eye with the agony and the joy of the moment. His kiss deepened, and his tongue found hers. He breathed her air, tasting the salt of her tears at the corners of her mouth.

  Patrokles picked her up and took her to the makeshift bed. With her head resting against his pounding heart, they sank into the furs and linens. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, and her neck. “You hold my heart, Briseis.”

  She wrapped her legs around his thighs, pressing their bodies together as one. “Take me, my lord.”

  “If he should discover—”

  Briseis placed a tender finger against his lips. “He has discarded me for all to see. I belong to no one now.”

  It was enough. He sat up, pulling his chiton over his head.

  Briseis reached a trembling hand out to touch his chest. “Untie your hair,” she whispered.

  Without taking his gray eyes from hers, he reached a hand behind his head, sliding the knotted leather tie from his hair. His dark locks and braids spilled about his shoulders. Briseis’ eyes widened at the beauty of the man kneeling over her. “Patrokles,” she said, smiling.

  “My lady.” He undid the shoulders of Briseis’ tunic and slipped it from her body. “I never thought to see you as you are, so beautiful … and mine, if only for tonight.” Do not forget.

  “Come to me,” she whispered, needing the comfort of his body and his love.

  Patrokles lay beside his love, showering her body with kisses, his hands delighting in her every curve. How can I dismiss her?

  “Patrokles,” Briseis whispered against his ear. “Do not think on him. We both know we are not destined for one another, but we have this night. Our bliss amid betrayal.”

  He slid on top of her, spreading her thighs with his hips. “You know my mind so well, Briseis. You are right, my love.” He pressed his cock into her body, both moaning with forbidden desire.

  Briseis wrapped her legs tighter around the back of his legs, her heels digging into his buttocks, urging him to take her deeper and harder. “Patrokles …”

  He rode her in silence until he sensed her body stiffening before her climax, then he smothered the sound of their mutual release with a passionate kiss. He lay atop her, their mouth
s devouring each others, while his cock pulsed slowly inside of her, and their lovemaking spilled onto the furs beneath them.

  Patrokles rolled to Briseis’ side, pulling her into his strong embrace. “I will keep you safe, even if he will not.”

  “If he …” she said, quietly into the shadows.

  “He will try to kill me.”

  “You must not—”

  Patrokles kissed her swollen lips. “Shah, my love. He will never know. I have no intention of dying by Achilles’ hand.”

  MYCENAE

  TWELVE, an ugly truth

  1238 BCE

  Orestes broke the seal on the thin scroll and opened it, scowling as he read the contents. “I wondered why Mother was so hasty in visiting Ithaka.”

  Elektra watched her brother toss the scroll to the floor. She thought he looked like Agamemnon just then with piercing dark eyes and a wide jaw. So many years had passed since she’d seen her father that most of her memories of him were fading to the shadows. “Does it say when she will return?” Elektra asked, hesitantly.

  “She’s already well underway. My messenger had a faster ship. Better rowers.”

  “If she discovers you have been spying on her …” Elektra shivered. “She’ll … I don’t want to think about what she’ll do.” As the years passed, her mother had become increasingly secretive and withdrawn. She was less a mother and more a distant relative who wielded her fate. While she’d grown more fearful of her, Orestes had become quite bold.

  Orestes laughed. “I’m not afraid of her.” He picked up the scroll and tucked it away on a shelf behind him. “She has secured a betrothal for Erigone.”

  Elektra scoffed. “Erigone? But she’s only a girl of five seasons. To who?”

  “Telemachus, the heir apparent of Ithaka.”

  The news rattled her confidence even further. “That would make her a queen.”

  “And you have yet to have a suitor.”

  “I am aware,” Elektra snapped.

  “Don’t be angry with me, sister. I am not the one keeping you from a proper life.”

  Orestes’ words stung as much as angered her. She was already considered old by tradition. If her father returned soon, he could arrange a match. Any match is preferable, she thought, to being a lonely woman without children to comfort me. That was the way of a woman’s world. Voiceless in public, but around the hearth, a wife and a mother wielded some power. And that was far better than none or being under her mother’s eye for the rest of her life. Without her parents’ backing, who would want her, except an old man? She shuddered inwardly. “Why would she do this? Without father’s consent?”

  “That’s exactly why she did it. To usurp his part in it. Join me by the fire.”

  Orestes took the couch closest to the hearth, gesturing to his sister to take the one opposite. “I believe she’s planning something, when or if Father returns.”

  “Of course Father will come home.”

  “Dear sister, what do you know of war? The gods will dictate who returns and who does not. Mother is preparing for all possibilities. Which means, she’s preparing to push the true heirs of Mycenae, you and I, aside.”

  “What do you mean? ‘True heirs’?”

  “Tell me you don’t believe the whispers that our mother bears children by Zeus?”

  It was another stinging insult to her lack of suitors … that her mother remained fruitful, while she had yet to experience the joy of motherhood. “How else do you explain her being with child at her age?”

  “If a man plows a field often enough, some wheat is sure to grow.”

  “You hate her that much?”

  Orestes ran his tongue over his front teeth before he spoke, his mouth curving wickedly with poisonous words. “I hate her with good reason.”

  “The gods will curse you for such thoughts.”

  His laugh was sharp and cold. “Do you think the gods have not already cursed this family? I believed, and still believe, there was a purpose behind father killing Iphigenia. There’s also a reason the gods keep the war from ending. There is a truth echoing in these halls that you ignore.”

  “What truth?”

  “Aegisthus is the father of Aletes and Erigone.”

  Their mother had guested their uncle for long periods of time over the years. If it was true, then they were doomed by the gods. Their mother had made sure of it. Little by little, small things began to make sense in her mind. How Aegisthus was always here when her younger siblings … cousins were born. How could she have missed something so obvious beneath her nose? I am still naïve and stupid, she thought. “How could she do this to our family? She disgraces all of us.”

  “Why do you think she is aligning her bastard daughter with a true prince and not her eldest legitimate daughter?”

  Elektra fumbled for words, for connections, for answers. She had none.

  “She plans to push us aside, sister. Planting her children by that goat in our places. She hates Agamemnon—”

  “But she loves us.”

  “Not more than she hates our father. And because of that, she will put her children, not his children, in power. That is the only way she can maintain her control of Mycenae.”

  “Father will return. He can undo any harm she does.”

  “If he returns. If. I’m not sure what our mother has planned for our father, but her actions prove to me that she has a plan either way.”

  Elektra thought for a moment. “It won’t come to that, Orestes.”

  Her brother laughed angrily. He clapped for a servant. From the shadows, a young woman emerged with head bowed and hands clasped behind her. “Bring wine. And cups.” The girl nodded, disappearing as silently as she’d entered.

  “How old is Telemachus?” Elektra asked.

  “As old as the war is long.”

  The serving maid entered, poured the wine, then handed them each a full cup.

  Orestes dismissed the servant with his hand. Waiting until he heard the chamber door shut, he leaned toward his sister and whispered, “She secures a strong ally in Ithaka. King Odysseus has but one child.” Orestes rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We must discover her plan.”

  “Do you think we should tell grandfather?” Elektra could see Orestes’ mind scheming. She feared Tyndareus. He was even colder than her mother.

  “Not yet.” Orestes drank his wine thoughtfully. “It was prudent of him to arrange a betrothal between Hermione and I. Tyndareus is shrewd. He may see mother’s actions as working in his favor. No, I can’t go to him unless I have proof his daughter works against him. Better to wait.”

  “Perhaps, you should go to Sparta. Visit your future bride?”

  “She’s still too young to wed.”

  “True. But you could go on pretense of showing grandfather you honor his plans by gifting the girl a small token. Then discover what he’s thinking regarding our mother.”

  “You surprise me, Elektra.”

  She smiled wanly, shrugging her shoulders. “I have good ideas … from time to time … I think.”

  “I’ll make arrangements to leave before Mother returns.”

  They reclined on their respective couches, watching the hearth fire burn down to glowing orange embers. Elektra wondered how she would face her mother when she returned. Knowing now that her younger brother and sister were also her cousins disgusted her. When would the curse be lifted from her family’s house? If Agamemnon were to die at Troy, Orestes could become king by right. He was old enough. But she knew their mother too well. Orestes could only claim his birthright by civil war. We are as wretched as the Olympians themselves.

  ✽✽✽

  Clytemnestra, wrapped in a woolen himation, reclined on a small couch at the stern of the ship. The sails billowed with strong winds and rowers sat at the ready. The heavy gray sky threatened rain, or worse, a storm. She’d been pleasantly surprised that Penelope had agreed so quickly to her proposal. Although curious about the Ithakan queen’s agreement, she never pr
essed for reasoning. In the end, it didn’t matter. Mycenae and Ithaka would be united by marriage and eventually by blood.

  “Pardon, my lady.”

  Clytemnestra turned to face the nursemaid flanked by her children. “Yes?”

  Glancing at each child, the nursemaid said, “They wish to sit with you a while.”

  “Come, my darlings. Come.” The queen pulled a linen blanket over them as they settled next to her. “You may go … what is your name again?”

  “Sara.”

  “Sara. See that provision is made for their midday meal.”

  “What did you think of Ithaka, Erigone?”

  The little girl shrugged. “It was breezy. More breezy than Mycenae.”

  “It’s surrounded by ocean. I’m sure there is always wind to keep the air cooled.”

  Aletes asked, “Will we see our cousin again?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “How long is that? Don’t we have to go back so Erigone can marry Telemachus?”

  Erigone piped up, “What do you mean, brother?”

  “Mother and Queen Penelope promised to marry you to Telemachus.”

  “I don’t think I’m meant for that.”

  Clytemnestra reached for her daughter’s hand, wrapping it in hers. “You’ll be ready when the time comes.”

  “Who will you marry me to?” Aletes asked.

  The queen thoughtfully extended her other hand to her son. “One day you will rule Mycenae. That is when we will choose a bride for you.” Clytemnestra saw the questions in Aletes’ eyes. “That is our secret. Do you understand?”

  Aletes nodded.

  “Never speak of that to anyone. Not Neola. Not Aegisthus. And especially not Orestes or Elektra. No one. Do you understand?”

  Aletes nodded more vigorously.

  “Good. Now, go with your nurse …”

  “Sara,” Erigone said.

  “Sara. Yes. Go.”