Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  As the guards argued, Briseis processed the news Achilles so gravely and unexpectedly delivered. She wanted to deny it, scream to the heavens that it wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. She stumbled again and the guards dragged her until she found her footing. The nightmare of Patrokles’ death unfolded with each step. Patrokles. My sweet, dear Patrokles. What will become of me without you? For endless days her anguish over Achilles’ betrayal had haunted her, broke her in ways she had not thought possible. Her grief over Achilles’ absence now paled against this sudden ache for Patrokles. She wept freely, hopeless now of happiness in any form.

  Agamemnon’s slaves carried the extensive wealth he’d gifted Achilles, while the female prizes trailed behind, huddled in a little group for protection. The walk to Achilles’ tented ship lasted an eternity. She wondered what would happen to all of them and if her life with Achilles was nothing more than a lie she believed to survive. Achilles had barely acknowledged her presence since she’d been returned. Now, she knew why, but also worried it might be more than that. If he discovered what she’d done...she shuddered to think what might happen then.

  Over the last crusty sand dune, the entourage came to a halt. The jolt pulled Briseis back to the world she wanted to forget. Not far off, she saw him. Patrokles. A glittering gauze shroud covered him. Fires burned in massive bronze basins circling his body. Lit oil lamps and flowers littered the ground. And Achilles was already at his side, head bowed and shoulders sagging. Dozens of Myrmidons gathered around their commander, openly weeping. Briseis noted that many had torn out locks of their long hair and ripped their tunics, as Achilles had done.

  “Briseis, come,” Achilles commanded.

  The guards released her. Fear seized her. Finally, a guard pushed her. “You heard Achilles. Move.”

  Briseis approached slowly, her eyes focused on Achilles’ back. Who would he become without Patrokles at his side to temper him? Who would she be to him now, if anything? Did he suspect their betrayal, because she knew he would see it that way?

  In a few steps, she stood looking down into Patrokles’ face. Gold coins on each dead eye. She raised a trembling hand to touch his chest. It was cold and hard. She inhaled sharply. “How is he so beautiful even in death?”

  In a voice hoarse from weeping, Achilles said, “Thetis protects him.”

  “Patrokles … Patrokles,” Briseis whispered over and over. “How can you be dead?” The anguish of all the days since Lyrnessus washed over her, as new grief pulled the old to light. “Only you thought to comfort me when I was alone and frightened. The day Achilles claimed me, and I had lost my husband and brothers … my entire life. You saw me. You knew.” She wiped angrily at the tears she could not stop from falling like rain. “You promised you would make Achilles take me for a proper wife. That we would finally have peace in Phthia. Look at you now. How will I endure without your true kindness?” When she leaned to kiss him, her warm lips touching his cheek, the raging storm within broke free of its chains. She threw her head back and screamed at the gods until her sorrow was a silent spasm stabbing beneath her breast. She wept, and the other women wept, though not for Patrokles, for they had never known him. They wept for their own husbands and brothers and fathers lost to them because of war.

  Achilles took her hand and led her to the tent they had shared together. It was dark and smelled of soured wine. She stood in the center, taking in the dank surroundings. She tried to remember that not long ago she was content beneath this cover. “What do you want of me, Achilles?”

  He stripped Hephaestus’ armor off and set it on the table. “I don’t know.”

  “What will happen now?”

  Achilles sank into a chair covered in the fur of a mountain lion. “I will kill Hektor.” His lips settled into a grim line. “And then I will die.”

  Briseis fell at his knees. “Then, do not fight, Achilles. Let us flee to Phthia. Live.” Despite the current agony, she did not want to lose Achilles or be forced to serve another man.

  His fingers pushed her chin up and searched her eyes. The blue fire within them was dimmed and cold. “You deserved love, Briseis. He deserved to be loved.” Achilles released her face. “I always knew he loved you, but I would not give you up to love him.”

  Briseis’ chin quivered with the truth. “What?” She was confused. He knew Patrokles loved her? He knew? A new question burned inside her mind and heart. The truth she was only now beginning to understood. “Did you never love me?”

  Achilles’ face softened. “Not the way Patrokles did.” His eyes begged her to understand. “I never meant to hurt you, Briseis. I wanted to love you more than I could. You gave me comfort.”

  Briseis crumpled at his feet. If Patrokles had taken her, none of this would have happened. He would have always been kind. Protected her. Kept her from Agamemnon. He would have lived and returned with her to Phthia. Married her. Grown old with her. She could have endured a life with him. Loved him with a whole heart, because Achilles would never have taken root inside her. “You have truly taken everything from me.”

  “Did you let him love you, Briseis, when he came to you?”

  Briseis stared dumbfounded back at Achilles.

  “I go to die. I need to know if he … if he …”

  “Aye,” she whispered hoarsely. “He loved me.” She no longer cared if Achilles plunged his sword into her chest or hacked her head from her shoulders in a rage, because then all her pain would end.

  Achilles said nothing. He sat still as stone. She sensed his mind turning over his thoughts. “There is nothing more I require.”

  Briseis could not help but pity him. “You don’t have to die in this war. Go home. Raise your son. Take me with you. We can live as Patrokles would have wanted us to.”

  “War and glory are a siren’s song to me, Briseis. You have always known this. I will find Hektor on the field. Rip his head from his shoulders and feed his body to the camp dogs. Then, I will burn Troy to the ground.”

  Briseis placed her cheek on his knee. She closed her eyes. The burden of war and death had exhausted her. “What will happen to me, when you’re gone?”

  He stroked Briseis’ hair, as he stared off into his own thoughts. “You will go with my treasure back to Phthia.”

  “What if I do not wish it?”

  “Where else would you go? You have no other place, but here.”

  “Aye. I have nowhere else.”

  “Vengeance is a desert, empty of love, Briseis. I will send word to my father before the end that you are not to be hurt in any way. Once, I had hoped you and Patrokles would sail home. Foster my son, so he would know some small part of me through you both. But that dream has been stripped away by Hektor and this war over Helen who doesn’t even want her husband. Patrokles was the best among us, not me.”

  “Aye. He was.”

  ✽✽✽

  In the middle of the night, Briseis woke to the sound of wretched sobbing. She reached for Achilles in the dark, but his side of the mattress was cold. The weeping continued. She rose from the bed, wrapping one of the blankets about her shoulders, and walked outside. It was Achilles.

  A ring of Myrmidons surrounded the makeshift altar where Achilles had lay Patrokles’ body. The men parted, opening a gap like a narrow river for Briseis to wind her way through to their leader. Standing at the rim of the inner circle, she froze. Never in her life had she thought such a scene possible. Not even if Zeus had pinned this to the stars could she have imagined it.

  Achilles had pulled the body from the table. He sat in the sand, wretched and weeping, his face blotched with grief, clutching and rocking Patrokles like a mother cradling her limp child to her breast. “See what I have done?” he cried out, his mouth a gaping hole of grief. With one arm flailing to the sky, he screamed, “Look what you gods have made me.”

  Briseis realized then that it wasn’t just Patrokles’ death haunting him; it was all the deaths he himself had caused. The heartache of a thousand mothers and wives w
eighed on him here in the end.

  Briseis stepped toward him, unsure of her safety. Achilles’ eyes were wild and dark. He is not himself, now. He is someone else. Something else. “Achilles?” she whispered.

  He reached his hand to her and she fell to her knees beside him, clasping her arms around them both. Achilles’ warm frame against one arm and Patrokles’ cold one against the other.

  “How can this be happening? Only I was supposed to die in this fucking war. Not him.”

  “Shah, Achilles.” She leaned her cheek against his head, careful not to press against the bare wounds. Briseis knew words held no power against the sting of a loved one’s death. Time would lessen the pain, but the scar would remain. And after years of war, she’d begun to wonder if they weren’t all held together by scars with only patches of unblemished skin. His agony broke her heart all over again.

  Achilles’ grief broke like a stormy sea against her shoulder. She held him as he wept like a child in her arms. “Shah,” she whispered over and over until he calmed. “Come, my love,” she finally said. “You must rest. At dawn, you go to war.”

  Slowly, Briseis guided them both to their feet, Achilles leaning heavily on her. The Myrmidons silently parted for their commander and the woman who’d pulled him from the war. Not a single man uttered a word, but their angry eyes bore into her. She knew many blamed her for the events that led to Patrokles’ death and the death of hundreds more. Had she not existed, Agamemnon would never have found a way to insult Achilles. Then he would never have left the war. And Patrokles would still be alive. She understood them, because she blamed herself, too. She allowed her heart to be captured by Achilles. Had she never given in, he would not have risked so much and Patrokles would still be alive.

  They walked back to the tent where she lay him down on their bed. She curled up beside him, cradling his wounded head in her arms, and his wounded heart in hers.

  Achilles whispered hoarsely, “He loved you most.”

  Sighing, Briseis kissed Achilles’ head. There was nothing to say. She pulled him closer, and he wrapped his arms around her tighter, clinging to her comfort as he had done countless times before. Her tears for a lost life fell in hot trails down her cheeks. The man who truly loved and desired her as a woman, who wanted her for a wife, and who respected her was dead. The end brought more clarity in a single moment than years of living had done.

  When the sun broke the sky opened with a new day, Achilles rose with murder in his eyes. Without speaking, he donned the gleaming armor of Hephaestus, slung the mighty shield over his shoulder, and picked up his father’s great ash spear. Briseis knew he would kill every Trojan who was unfortunate enough to cross his path. She watched his broad back disappear through the tent flap. She wept quietly for everything she’d lost and had yet to lose.

  PRIAM’S PALACE

  THIRTY-TWO, the red river

  1238 BCE

  Hektor’s messenger arrived just before dawn. His words brought Andromache great relief. He promised to be in her arms by nightfall and that he’d put an end to the Greeks and the city’s suffering once and for all. Standing at the threshold of Astyanax’s nursery, hope surged through Andromache. The young prince stirred in his little bed. She crossed the room and scooped Astyanax up in her arms. His weight filled her arms and heart with joy. The babe nudged her breast. She opened her gown, and his hungry mouth found her nipple. “You will never have to worry about wars, little prince.” Andromache gently stroked a silky lock of black hair at her son’s temple. She swept her thumb over his cleft chin. “So much like your father.”

  “My lady?” a voice came from the doorway. “Shall we fill the bath?”

  “Aye. I’m certain my husband will want to soak the aches and pains of the day away.”

  “And for the food, my lady?”

  “Bring up the best wine. Slaughter the fattest goat. Bread. Olives. Something sweet.”

  “As you say, my lady.” The servant woman disappeared to carry out her chores.

  Andromache sat on the soft couch near the window overlooking the courtyard below. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. Soon, life will be all we desire. Peace. Prosperity.

  “I thought I would find you here,” Queen Hecuba said, gliding into the chamber. “You’ve heard from Hektor?”

  Andromache opened her eyes. Hecuba always moved with unnatural grace; it was unnerving at times. This morning she was wrapped in a himation of dark purple wool. She looked every bit the cold queen people whispered her to be behind her back. “He promised he’d be home by evening. And the war would be at its end.”

  The queen sighed heavily, rubbing her arms to ward off a chill. “I pray to the gods he is right.”

  “Are you a well, Mother?”

  Hecuba shrugged. “As well as I can be.” Her hand smoothed over Apollo’s growing gift. She took a seat next to Andromache. Astyanax glanced at his grandmother, smiling up at her with his mother’s nipple still in his mouth. The queen tugged his little foot. “What were you thinking about, Andromache?”

  “Hoping really. That the gods might bless us with more children once the war is over.” Andromache looked at Hecuba. “Do you think it possible?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I am … getting older. Perhaps, too old. Maybe Hektor will need to find another—”

  “Think no more of that. I bore children into my later years. As long as you flow, you can conceive. With the stress of war behind us, I have no doubt you and my son will have many blissful years ahead.”

  Astyanax squirmed in her arms, so Andromache shifted him to the other side. He held his mother’s heavy breast in his chubby hands and sucked the warm comfort of his mother’s milk. “Will you weave this afternoon?”

  The queen offered one of her rare smiles. A smile so rarely bestowed because of her grief, but it was capable of lighting the darkest corners of Hades. “Perhaps.” She patted her grandson’s foot and stood. “Perhaps it is a good day to weave. Hope is in the air.”

  ✽✽✽

  BATTLEFIELD

  Hektor rode through the camp on his chariot, inspecting the men and their weapons. They were ragged and tired, but he knew they would follow him to the Gates of Hades if he asked. He stopped here and there, exchanging greetings with his warriors, testing the sharpness of their spear points and sword blades. His mere presence uplifted the men’s spirits and determination.

  From his platform, Hektor addressed them. “We all witnessed Achilles last evening. Clearly, a god favors him. We know what we are up against. Just remember, we also find favor with the gods. I have sacrificed to Zeus. He will be with us. Of this I have no doubt. Remember, as well, that no man, not even Achilles, can defy what the gods’ will. All our fates were cast into the stars before this day. No one knows what the days ahead will bring. Nothing is certain, until the end. Take comfort and draw courage in that.”

  A heavy hand pressed down on his shoulder. “Apollo,” Hektor whispered. “You gods toil mightily on our behalf.”

  “That is why I have come, Prince Hektor. Zeus no longer restrains us. I come to warn you, the gods will be on afield, lending their aide to those they favor.”

  “Welcome news, Apollo. Gratitude.”

  “You do not understand. Achilles and his Myrmidons march on you already. Athena is beside him … and Ares.”

  “Are you with us, Apollo? Or do you only come to give warning?”

  “I am with you, but Achilles will not rest until he kills you.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “Stay away from him, if you can. His sword heralds the only clear threat to your life.”

  “I will obey.”

  As the sun rose in the sky, the rumble of a thousand pairs of feet filled the air. Achilles stood shining like a god on a small hill, opposite the Trojans, with a sea of Black Shields behind him. Hektor turned to his army and shouted, “We win or we die this day!”

  ✽✽✽

  Achilles stared
at the Trojans waiting across the gap. The helm pressed painfully on his head where he’d yank his hair out, but he didn’t care. Pain fueled his fury to fight. A line of thin trees and shrubs and rocks were all that stood between him and the revenge burning through his heart. He could see Hektor on his chariot barking orders at his men. He sneered to himself. Whatever Patrokles’ killer said would mean nothing in the end. By the time night fell, Hektor’s head would be on a spike and his armor at Patrokles’ feet.

  The Myrmidon commander unleashed a terrifying shout and his men charged down the embankment and headlong into the advancing Trojans. Achilles hefted his spear in one hand, and in the other he held his sword. He stabbed and slashed at the enemy as he ran, sending showers of blood in every direction. Over and over his crazed screaming sent even more Trojans fleeing for their lives. The terribleness of his grief only grew with the blood dripping from his blade. He had nothing left to lose or gain from war. Achilles wanted an end to everything.

  A young boy fighting with Hektor’s protection caught Achilles’ eye. Several times the boy dipped beneath the prince’s shield while he let loose his arrows. Achilles sneered with anger. “He protects him as I did Patrokles.”

  Honing in on the target, Achilles spear shaft sang through the air and pierced clean through the boy’s back. He watched the boy pause, uncertain of what had happened as he looked down at the spear protruding from his middle. The boy’s hand shook as he tested the sharp tip of bronze. His entrails slipped through the gaping hole. With wide eyes he reached out to Hektor as he thudded to the ground.

  Hektor turned just in time to see his youngest brother fall and Achilles bearing down on him. Forgetting Apollo’s warning, Hektor wheeled to meet Achilles face to face.

  Achilles’ eyes flared hatred. He screamed out, “I will kill you before the day is over.”

  Hektor shouted back, “You are but a spear tip from Hades.” With that threat, he hurled his mighty ash spear.