Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

With one last charge, Hektor broke the ferocious line. The Greeks fled in all directions of the melee.

  AGAMEMNON’S CAMP

  THIRTY, the shield of Achilles

  1238 BCE

  Achilles paced the deck of his ship, the sun-faded planks warm beneath his feet. Three empty amphorae lay scattered about, yet even deep into his wine solace eluded him. Thetis’ warning echoed in his ears. Was I wrong to let Patrokles go? He recalled his cousin’s eagerness to fight in his stead. How long has it been? He scanned the distant horizon where a dust cloud hung like a dark omen. The battle continued, he knew, as long as men could kick up the dirt. What if Patrokles—

  No! He pushed the thought down. What if—

  “My lord.”

  Startled from his thoughts, Achilles glanced below the railing to see Antilochus standing there wringing his hands. “What news from the field?”

  Antilochus choked. “My lord, I …”

  Dread fingered its way up Achilles’ spine. He inhaled sharply. “Where is Patrokles?” He narrowed his eyes. “Where are my Myrmidons?”

  “They continue fighting.”

  “And Patrokles with them?”

  Antilochus dropped to his knees, tears streaming clean lines down his dirty cheeks. “He … he … fell, my lord.”

  Achilles leapt from his ship to the shallow surf. He grabbed Antilochus by the neck, squeezing his fingers into his flesh. Antilochus’ face reddened, and then purpled. “You are mistaken. He had my armor. My shield. My blessing. Where. Is. Patrokles?”

  Antilochus shook his head. Achilles roughly tossed him to the sand where he gasped for breath. He choked out, “Menelaus sent me. The battle rages. He thought you should know.” Antilochus wept bitterly. “Hektor stripped him of your armor.”

  Achilles stiffened. “He went beyond the ships?”

  “Aye.”

  Fear flooded Achilles. He whispered to himself, “That was the only order I gave him. Not to go beyond the ships. Not to challenge Hektor man to man.”

  “Patrokles was glorious in battle, my lord. He fought as you. The Trojans never knew, until the end.”

  The truth tore through Achilles’ heart. His voice broke when he asked, “Then, he has truly fallen?”

  Antilochus nodded, wiping blackened snot from his nose. “Aye. Menelaus and Ajax fight to keep the Trojans from stealing his body. Hektor … Hektor stabbed him over and over again.”

  For the first time in his life, Achilles weakened and fell to his knees in the sand. He murmured bitterly, “I have killed him.” The weight of Patrokles’ death built in his chest. “Who am I without him?” The grief of war rattled his bones. He looked to Antilochus. His voice cracked once again as he said, “I have killed him.” He stood abruptly and walked to the nearest fire pit with Antilochus anxiously trailing behind him.

  Kneeling before the cold ring of blackened stones, Achilles released a mournful wail. A wave of grief so deep shook his body that his teeth chattered. “I have killed him,” he cried out again. After scooping up handfuls of the gray ash, he smeared it over his head. “I have sent him to his death.” Tearing out several ratted braids, he made a bloody mess of his scalp. He ripped the front of his tunic open and wept like a lost child.

  Antilochus ceased weeping at the sight of Achilles’ in such a state. “I never—” Quickly, he leapt to Achilles’ side, just as the flash of bronze gleamed at Achilles’ throat. “No!” He grabbed Achilles’ wrist. “No!” He clung to the Myrmidon commander, refusing to let go.

  Achilles mourned aloud against Antilochus’ shoulder. As tears streamed down his cheeks, Patrokles’ image rose before him. His dark eyes dancing with mischief and scolding. His tender hands sewing an open wound. His shoulder pressed next to his in battle. His hardy laughter when deep into his wine. “What have I done? What have I done?”

  With a stinging pain, his mother’s veiled words returned to haunt him. “This war will take everything from you.”

  “I never thought to see a day without him, Mother. Half my heart has been torn from my chest.”

  Antilochus said, “My lord, you must save what remains of Patrokles. Give him all honor.”

  Sinking heavily into the Myrmidon, he said, “I have no armor.” Achilles screamed up at the sky, “Why do you curse me? Why? You’ve taken the better part of me. He wasn’t supposed to die here.” He wept until his voice was hoarse and his eyes were dry. “He wasn’t supposed to die before me.” Antilochus held his commander until the initial grief abated. Slowly, Achilles got to his feet. Surveying the empty camp, he said, “Now, I’m dead, before I die.”

  ✽✽✽

  SILVER CAVE OF THETIS

  The strand of pearls in Thetis’ hands dropped, sending the beads bouncing along the rocky cave floor. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. The wail was unmistakable, though she’d never heard it before. It was Achilles. Without second thought, she raced to the sea and dove into the surf, swimming as a flash of light beneath the waves to the shore of the Myrmidon’s camp. Emerging from the water, she saw her son—a wretched heap of rags and with a bloodied scalp. Behind him a half-circle of Myrmidons stood, watching and waiting. They fell to their knees in her presence.

  She approached Achilles, her feet barely impressing on the soft sand. Kneeling beside him, she tenderly caressed his temple. “Achilles, I am here.”

  “Mother,” he cried out in a tone foreign to her ears. He reached for her. “Mother, he is gone.”

  Pulling her son’s head into her lap, she thought of the small child she’d tried to burn in the sacred fire. Burn him to save him. Save him from all that would ever pain him. But, she’d failed. Her precious son was now sprawled in the sand, weeping like a little boy. She carefully stroked his head, avoiding the bloodied spots where he’d mutilated his head.

  “What has happened, Achilles?” For the first time in her immortal life, she feared the words he would say. Her heart cracked with a pain she’d never felt before. She wept quietly, tears spilling like liquid pearls down her cheeks. She knew this was the beginning of the end. The end of her son. The boy she’d loved above all things in this mortal world. She tried to protect him, but clearly, she realized now, she could not. His mortal shell would pass and she would live an eternity with the growing ache of his loss. “Achilles,” she whispered softly. “My sweet boy.”

  “He’s dead, Mother. Patrokles is dead.”

  She bent her graceful head to his and kissed his filthy cheek. “I am sorry, Achilles.”

  “Hektor stripped my armor from his body. It is my fault he has died.”

  All the moments leading to this terrible scene crashed into Thetis’ mind. The dual fate of her son was always meant to be a curse. The gods would never allow a mortal so beautiful and terrifying to survive long in the world. Fate always beckoned him down the shorter road. She realized now that Achilles never really had a chance at the long life she so desperately wanted him to grasp. Thetis cried aloud to the heavens, knowing Zeus would hear her, “You have betrayed me. You restore his honor, only to take his life.”

  “I want to die, Mother. Take me beneath the waves.”

  “Once you kill Hektor, the gods will take you.” The words fell from her lips like rocks tumbling down a mountain. How long ago had fate spun this web of grief? Achilles was made for war, yet he had been allowed to love. And it had destroyed him. Love for a woman had cost him his honor, and love for a man would cost him his life.

  “I can hardly remember my life before Patrokles. Everywhere I turned he was there. Now, he is gone.”

  Thetis resumed stroking Achilles’ cheek. Words failed her.

  “I drank myself into oblivion for the sake of my honor. How cheap did I hold Patrokles’ life? I have done nothing but drink. Feel regret. Drink more.”

  “Shah, Achilles. In your heart, you already know what you will do. As do I. Hektor may have your armor, but he won’t have it for long. His death is coming for him. I see it in your eyes. I will go to Hephaestus myself. Beg
him to forge you new armor and weapons. Do you have your father’s ash spear and his horses?”

  “Aye.”

  Taking her son by the chin, she sought a promise in his eyes. “Do not seek your revenge, until I return at dawn.” She could hear the God of Death approaching and she was helpless to stop what was coming.

  “I will wait, then,” Achilles said, tears breaking anew down his cheeks. “What else can I do?”

  Thetis disappeared into the sea.

  Achilles collapsed to the sand again, his limbs too heavy to walk to his ship. His heart too heavy for life. His mind bent on Patrokles and his regrets. “I am lost.”

  Above him the sky swept by. Before him the surf crashed. Behind him war raged on without him still. And he did not care. He closed his eyes, empty of tears, willing the darkness to fill him.

  “Achilles.”

  “Leave me be, Athena.”

  “I cannot. Hektor is chasing Menelaus who carries Patrokles’ body. He is calling for Patrokles’ head on a spike.”

  The world stilled. Then, the flame of rage slowly pushed Achilles’ grief aside, filling him with slow burning hate. He sat bolt upright. “He must not defile his body.”

  “Only you can stop Hektor now. Apollo’s power fuels his fighting.”

  Achilles scoffed, grabbed a handful of sand, threw it in the air, and then screamed aloud, “I have no fucking armor.” He held his head in his hands, defeated and frustrated. “I could borrow Ajax’s, but he is in the battle … wearing it. No one else is big enough.” As his mind strategized a way to fight, he remembered his words to Thetis. Achilles hesitated. “I promised my mother I would wait until dawn. Help me, Athena.”

  “Do you trust me, Achilles?”

  Athena’s words raised every hair on his body. He remembered every moment of his life when the gods aided or thwarted him. Every decision he’d made had brought him here. To this sandy spot. To this torment. To this grief. He stood, brushing the sand from his arms. “Men have no choice but to trust the gods.”

  The goddess whirled about Achilles in a golden mist. The nearby Myrmidons fell back in fear, murmuring protective prayers. “Go to the highest hill.” She turned Achilles’ head. “There. Show yourself to the Trojans.”

  Without question, Achilles strode through the camp, stepping over dead bodies and ignoring surprised Myrmidons gathered around their ships. Standing on the eastern edge of camp, Achilles hiked to the top of the hill made from the dirt the Greeks had piled up when they dug their massive ditch. The sky raged red and orange. Achilles watched the fighting for a moment. “They are losing badly, Athena. Hektor fights like a god. Why do you care about me now? Why not go to Odysseus?”

  “You are the key to defeating the Trojans. You have always known that truth.” Athena touched Achilles’ forehead. The goddess’ power filled him. “Speak.”

  Achilles spotted Menelaus running with a body draped across his shoulders, dodging spears and arrows. He saw Hektor bearing down on him in a chariot. He opened his mouth and his voice rose as a thunderous roar echoing over the heads of every warrior in the camp and beyond. Sparks of fire and gold shot from around Achilles’ head. Startled horses bolted, tossing riders and charioteers to the ground. Men fell to their knees, covering their ears, weeping that a god was among them. Hektor’s chariot careered dangerously close to tipping. Achilles shouted, “A storm of blood is coming!” He unleashed an anguished howl again and again. The Trojans and their allies fled from the ships back to the plain and their own camp.

  With the enemy hastily withdrawing from the camp, Menelaus was able to get Patrokles’ body to a waiting litter. The wild fire of Patrokles’ death had already spread through the army, but not a single tear could be shed while death hammered at them. Seeing Patrokles’ broken body laid before them was enough to break every heart. Men gathered around and wept like lost children. If Patrokles could be taken, then death was surely waiting for them all.

  A long, dark shadow fell across Patrokles’ body, and the gathering hushed. Achilles approached with heavy footsteps. He stopped, Patrokles just beyond his reach. His iron heart once again broke with the heat of his anguish. “I have done this to him,” he said in a whisper of shock. “It is my fault.” Achilles stepped up to Patrokles’ side, his eyes taking in the gory wounds. “I loved you above all men.” The once steady hand that had murdered thousands now shook as he brushed the black blood crusted with sand from Patrokles’ face and neck. “You are so pale.” He closed Patrokles’ dead eyes. Then, he passed his hand over Patrokles’ shoulder that was nearly cleft from his body. Blood and filth and shit covered the dead man’s thighs. Overwhelmed, Achilles fell over Patrokles’ chest. “I should have never let him go,” he sobbed, as a mother who has lost a child.

  Achilles’ grief shocked those standing nearby, and they could not help but cry watching the great warrior unravel before their eyes. Their tears fell unchecked for the fallen best of men, Patrokles, and for their own losses. The war had stolen their youth and robbed them of their families. It had also taken beloved companions of them all to the Underworld.

  Achilles lifted his head, his mouth a gaping black hole of misery. “I have done this to him.” Greeks and Myrmidons alike fell to their knees, keening and groaning with him. “I promised him he’d return home with glory and gold. Now, we will both die in this fucking place. Neither of us will ever see home again.”

  “You must, my lord,” whispered a dozen of Myrmidons.

  “Now I understand what the gods intended all along.” He kissed Patrokles on the forehead. “I promise you, Patrokles, I will not hold the sacred fire to your bones until I lay Hektor’s armor and bloody head at your feet. I will drench the pyre wood with Trojan blood. Our tears will be unceasing until I do.”

  ✽✽✽

  Briseis startled as an anguished cry rent the night air, echoing across the camp. The hairs on her arm stood on end. She was certain it was a man keening not a woman. Earlier she’d heard the commotion of thousands of feet dragging through camp. She stole a glance through a crack in the tent flap. The guards remained posted on either side of the opening. The camp itself was strangely still. A few women and children walked here and there. Another wail ripped through the air. Braving the guards’ anger, she pushed her head through. “What’s happening?

  The guard on the left eyed her cautiously. “The Myrmidons have returned with the army.”

  “The Myrmidons? Achilles fights?”

  Annoyed, the guard hit at the tent flap with the butt of his spear. “No, not Achilles. Now, shut up and get back in the tent.”

  Retreating, Briseis stood alone in the middle of her prison. The shabby linens rumpled on the makeshift bed, the reeking piss pot in the corner, and the bare table all reminded her of who she really was. “I’ve been a fool all this time.” A third blood-curdling scream ripped through the night. She relieved herself in the piss pot.

  Something is wrong. Soon, the droning grief of hundreds of men’s voices hung in the air. She called out again, “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  One of the guards answered, “Someone has fallen.”

  “Who?”

  The guards shouted back, “Shut up.”

  When she lived in Achilles’ tent, she knew everything that was happening between Achilles’ evening talks and Nax’s gossip. Since she’d been taken as Agamemnon’s, she’d been isolated and was told nothing. She surveyed the shabbiness of her tent. It was hard to imagine she’d been a queen once, living with fine linens, gowns, and jewelry. It was truly another lifetime ago. She sat on the lumpy mattress, scratching at several sand flea bites.

  The war for the Spartan princess had lasted longer than anyone believed possible. It had changed all their lives, and as far as she could tell, mostly for the worse. The wailing continued for a while longer, and then faded into the distance.

  A breath of chill air brushed her cheek. She shivered, pulling the blanket to her chin. A shadow in the corner of her eye caught her at
tention. “Patrokles?” Briseis sat up, straining to see in the dark.

  A familiar voice whispered, “I could not help but love you.” But no one was there.

  “The gods wouldn’t dare …” Briseis pressed her hands together and beat her forehead. “Not Patrokles. By all the gods, not Patrokles.”

  ✽✽✽

  Achilles’ cheek was smeared with a mixture of Patrokles’ and his own blood, so he refused to wash. He tenderly scooped up Patrokles’ body in his arms like a mother carrying a sick child and walked in silence to his tented ship, each step a painful stride into the unknown. A fog clouded his mind. Patrokles’ cold weight in his arms. Patrokles’ face pressed against his chest. The truth was a nightmare from which he wanted to awaken, but the God of Dreams refused to release him. One step, then another. The women and Myrmidons trailed behind him like tears.

  Achilles gently laid Patrokles on the table that had been hastily prepared for his body’s final preparations. “You did not deserve this end. I should have been your shield against death, but …” he whispered, as he positioned his companion’s arms along the torso. His hand lingered on Patrokles’ bloody thigh. “The gods are cruel to take you in your prime.”

  Myrmidons wiped tears from their eyes. How many tragedies had unfolded? How many more were to come? If Patrokles could fall, perhaps they were all doomed. But no one uttered a word. Under a cloud of sorrow the women filled a bronze basin with scented water to wash the filth of war from Patrokles’ body. They moved with ritualistic grace. Their skilled hands purified Patrokles of dried shit and blood.

  Achilles startled the woman who’d begun to wash Patrokles’ hair. “Stop.” She stepped back and she handed him the water jug. He tipped it, spilling the water over Patrokles’ head. One by one his hands deftly worked the blood and dirt from each braid. He worked in silence, stifling his tears. Achilles kissed Patrokles’ cold cheek when he was finished. The women rubbed perfumed oil on his skin and filled his wounds with bittersweet rosemary. Finally, they wrapped him in a linen shroud.