Andromache walked in a daze to the home she shared with Hektor, the Prince of Troy and Breaker of Horses. Crossing the threshold where he once carried her as a young bride, a profound loneliness struck her. Her chest heaved with an ache she’d never experienced until now. The once joyful and bustling halls of her home were now dark and filled with the sound of weeping. Desperation hung in the air like a foul order.
She walked to her weaving chamber and stared blankly at the crimson cape edged with an intricate design of interwoven shields. It was to be a masterpiece welcoming the peace Hektor promised to bring. A peace that would now never be. She crossed the chamber and sat before her work. Her fingers touched a stray thread. She tugged at it, unraveling a tiny section of her work. Andromache stared at the handful of threads in her palm. Without any clear thought, she savagely assaulted the garment on the loom. Threads flew in all directions.
As Andromache lashed out at her loom, a servant, hearing her cries, came running. “My lady! Stop. What are you doing?”
“My husband is not coming home. I don’t even know if I will be able to wash his body and offer a sacred farewell.” She brushed the yarn from her lap. “What use are his fine garments to me or Astyanax, if he is not garbed within them? And burn his clothes so I don’t have to look on them. Burn everything belonging to your master. Take what you want and run if you dare. It will be less for the Greeks to take. They will have my life as well as my son’s in their hands. That will be enough.” Andromache collapsed in a sobbing heap on the floor. The maid left her there, shutting the door behind her. The prince was dead and so, too, were the dreams of all Trojans.
MYRMIDON CAMP
THIRTY-FOUR, the shade of Patrokles
1238 BCE
Achilles stood on the platform of his chariot before his Myrmidons. He was still covered in the dried blood of Hektor and the Trojans he had slain earlier in the day. His eyes flamed with rage, as he scanned their weary faces. “You fought bravely. All of you.”
Behind him, the twelve Trojan captives from the river wept and begged for their freedom or a quick death. They’d been stripped of their garments and lashed to posts. Achilles was oblivious to their suffering.
“Tonight we feast and mourn Patrokles. He was the best of us. Of me.” He snapped the horses’ reins and his chariot exploded forward, dragging the mutilated body of Hektor behind it.
Three times Achilles circled the camp with his men standing there, watching with wide, horrified eyes. Yet, not one of them had the courage of Patrokles to speak against what their commander was doing to offend the gods. When Achilles tired of dragging the corpse, he returned to Patrokles’ body. Stepping down from his chariot, he yanked Hektor free from the leather straps binding his heels so hard the tendons popped. The body was hardly recognizable as a man. Achilles dragged Hektor’s corpse by the leg and kicked it face down next to Patrokles’ altar. Looking down into Patrokles’ cold, ashen face, he said, “I did what I said I’d do. Hektor is dead. His body belongs to the dogs. I have Trojans for your funeral pyre. Their blood will not restore you to life, but will make my life more bearable until I am dead.” A company of Myrmidons kept a watchful vigil over Patrokles body as the day faded to night.
Briseis met Achilles as he entered the tent. She’d lit the oil lamps to chase some of the gloom away. “Drink, Achilles.”
Achilles brushed passed her without even a glance. The wine in Briseis’ hand sloshed over the cup’s edge. He tossed his shield to the corner and let his spear fall to the ground, then took a chair at the table. “I don’t want any wine. Why have you lit the lamps?”
“It was dark—”
He brushed her words away in the air. “I am beyond consolation, Briseis.”
“You are filthy.”
“I don’t care.” He stood and stripped his garments off, tossing them across the tent. For a brief flash the old Achilles returned … the man who didn’t care who saw him in his naked perfection. He splashed some water on his face at the basin.
Briseis stepped toward him, uncertain if he would strike her or not. Some aspects of him were the same, but he was not the Achilles she had known. It was as if her captivity had reset to begin again.
“My lord, please.” She offered the cup again. “I mixed some herbs to ease your sorrows. True nothing can take away the pain of losing …” Briseis couldn’t even say his name. Patrokles. “Please.”
Achilles searched her face, his blue eyes now revealing his agony. “If I could but sleep, however briefly …” He took the cup, drained it dry, and set it loudly on the table. “I am for bed. Come, lay beside me.”
Together they found comfort. Briseis pulled Achilles’ head to her chest and she gently swept the side of his cheek with her fingers. The wine took effect, and Achilles’ breathing slowed. She kissed the top of his head. “Sleep well, my love.” Briseis closed her eyes. Nothing would ever be the same. Love and the war had killed all three of them. She willed sleep to take her away from the truth of her waking world.
***
Sweet and restless slumber pulled Achilles’ eyes shut. He was slightly aware of Briseis’ fingers brushing against his face. His scalp throbbed where he’d pulled his hair out. He inhaled her essence, salt and honey. His shoulders relaxed. He had missed her, but found that now he hadn’t the strength to voice any tender words. He was not even angry she had shared her body with Patrokles. They had found each other while he had raged against Agamemnon, drunk and mindless on his ship. If only I had killed Agamemnon then …
“Achilles.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Achilles, open your eyes.”
“I am too tired.”
“I am here.”
Across the darkness of a dream, Achilles recognized the voice calling to him. “Patrokles? Is that you?”
“Aye.”
A strange heaviness held his eyes shut and he struggled to open them. “How?”
Finally, Achilles’ eyes fluttered awkwardly open. There he was. Patrokles shimmering like a god. He could only stare at the specter.
“I haven’t known you to be at a loss for words.”
“You are beautiful. How did I not see before?”
Patrokles’ smile was so bright that Achilles had to shield his eyes. “Your light dims all those who stand beside to you in life.”
“I loved you.”
“And I loved you.”
Achilles’ eyes filled with tears, melting slowly down his cheek. “Why did you follow Hektor? Why? I should not have let you go.”
“Peace, cousin. I do not blame you. But you must live a while longer without me.”
“I do not wish it.”
Patrokles’ face darkened with a shadow. “You will join me soon.”
“Take me with you, now.”
“Bury me, Achilles.”
“I cannot.”
“You must. I am wandering in the gray and can’t reach the dead. I am denied the peace that only comes with death. Rest our bones together.”
“We have shared everything I have ever valued in life. I will not deny you in death.”
“I loved her.”
“I know.”
“Promise, you will not leave her without means for a life we ruined for her.”
“I promise.” Achilles reached for Patrokles, but embraced only a cold mist. He sat up with a start. His tent was cold and dark. Briseis stirred beside him. Patrokles was gone. A hard lump tightened in his throat.
“Farewell, Patrokles.” He lay back down, pulling Briseis into his chest. Her breath was warm on his bare skin. He and Patrokles had both loved her in different ways for different reasons. Patrokles was right. She deserved a life other than the one he’d forced on her as his war prize. He would make certain she had gold and treasure. And her freedom. Patrokles’ visit gave him a small comfort knowing that he would live after death, that the stories Chiron told him were true. He fell back to an uneasy sleep.
Another red dawn broke. Achilles dra
gged himself to Patrokles’ resting place with a company of Myrmidons following him. Hektor’s body lay as he had left it the night before—mangled, bloodied, and covered in dirt and sand. Achilles laid his hand on Patrokles’ thigh. Death had yet to mar his flesh. His countenance was one of a peaceful sleep despite the violence of his final breath. After his vision, it was clear what he must do.
With a heavy heart, he turned and addressed his men, “We must build a great funeral pyre as a message to the gods that we will not forget what they have allowed.”
As the men moved to obey without question, Achilles resumed his vigil by Patrokles’ side. Briseis joined him. An uneasy silence passed between them, as he slipped his hand in hers. All around them, the Myrmidons worked, stacking hundreds of tree trunks and branches together until they raised a mountain in the midst of their camp. And as the men labored under Apollo’s heat, the groans of Achilles’ prisoners from the river could be heard. They knew they were not long for life, yet their pitiful prayers stretched skyward.
“He came to me, Briseis.”
“Who?”
Achilles didn’t answer. Briseis didn’t ask again. The end of their beloved had ushered an understanding between them they hadn’t shared while the war raged. As Troy’s demise grew nearer, somber more quiet voices grew stronger. After a time, Briseis returned to their tent to mourn in private.
✽✽✽
PATROKLES’ FUNERAL PYRE
MYRMIDON CAMP
All day the Myrmidons had heaved and sweated on account of Patrokles, completing the pyre by nightfall. Without being called, the warriors of Phthia gathered around the great hill, donned in their armor with their shields proudly hanging from their shoulders. Briseis was among them. Some men cast her disparaging glances, but most ignored her and for that she was grateful.
As stars blinked against the darkness, they waited on Achilles standing beside his companion with his head bowed low. A gentle wind stirred, as he reached to lift Patrokles’ body from the altar. He cradled him in his arms as a mother carries a sick child. Agony etched Achilles’ golden face. The Myrmidons parted before him, as he walked with the body to the pyre. Before their eyes, their leader had transformed into a man they had never seen before. Darker. Angrier. Ethereal. The blood of his mother shone through him, transforming him before their eyes into a god. Unfeeling and remote.
Achilles gently laid Patrokles on the pyre’s peak. With the tenderness of a long-lost lover or a bereaved mother, he arranged Patrokles’ hair about his shoulders. He leaned his head down and kissed Patrokles’ forehead.
“Farwell, beloved,” he whispered loud enough for only the dead man’s ears to hear. He pulled a small knife from his belt and cut a long lock of his remaining hair and placed it on Patrokles’ chest. “Until I see you once more.” He descended from the pyre, his broad shoulders wider, his eyes wilder, and his mood darker. The change in him was palpable by those he passed by. He lifted his hand and signaled for the sacrifices to begin.
While his men slit the throats of untold thrashing sheep and cattle, Achilles raised his blade to the frightened horses. One by one he grabbed their manes in his hand, as he pulled his blade across their thick necks. One by one they snorted and screamed, then stumbled and crashed to the ground in pools of gory crimson. Their black eyes wide and glassy. He slit the throats of two dogs who fed from the Myrmidons’ tables; one had been Patrokles’ favorite. A brown, short-haired hound whose head reached a man’s hip. It had come to Achilles tail wagging, head slightly bowed, but instead of a rough scratch to his ears, he was met with a cold blade. Achilles eased the hound to the ground, its blood running through his fingers. It tried to raise its head to him before dying. He turned to the Trojan captives with red and sticky hands.
Briseis watched in horror and disbelief as one by one he killed each man, nearly severing their heads from their bodies. They fell at his feet in sharp, awkward poses. There was no hesitation or joy. The strength of his need for revenge increased as the blood flowed. A sinister shadow passed over Achilles’ face. In all the years of war, she’d never beheld the blackness she saw in this moment. Tears melted her cheeks, because in her heart she knew that the Achilles she had loved was gone. Perhaps, forever. She feared nothing could stop him in his quest, not even the gods. Only death held that power now. When the last prisoner laid a mutilated corpse at his feet, Achilles surveyed the assembly. His flaming blue eyes were a sharp contrast to the blood smeared across his face. “It is done,” he said.
The Myrmidons watched in mortified silence as their commander pulled a torch from its staff in the sand and set it to the bottom of the wood stack. Achilles stood alone as the flames slowly licked up the wood. Soon, in was a raging inferno against the dark night.
“Farewell, Patrokles. Part of me is already with you. Keep it well until I join you.”
One by one the Myrmidons left the funeral site, seeking the shelter and comfort of their own tents and beds. Achilles chose to bed beside the burning pyre. Briseis left him there. It was no use trying to persuade him to rest in comfort. She could see he preferred the torture of his pain as his new companion.
✽✽✽
TROJAN PALACE
PRIVATE QUARTERS OF QUEEN HECUBA
The Same Evening
Hecuba stared into the hearth fire’s dancing flames. The crackle of wood burning to ash was oddly soothing. The groans and wails of the city mourning the brutal death of Hektor floated over her balcony into her chamber, but she remained numb. Her grief no longer had a voice, and her eyes had no more tears to shed. In all her days, she never thought to see the death of Hektor. She closed her eyes to ward off the image of him being dragged behind Achilles’ chariot. His death ushered her own and that of the entire city. Everything was lost.
She rubbed her aching abdomen. The loss of the holy child began at the wall with Hektor’s death. “It was best,” she whispered to the fire. The flames sparked higher, responding to her words. The hairs on her arm rose. Hecuba smiled in spite of herself. “Apollo.”
The god emerged from the fire like a specter, transforming into the image of a young Priam. “How do you fare, consort mine?”
Hecuba looked up to see the Priam she’d almost forgotten. “Of all the guises you are capable of, why choose his?”
“Did he never hold your favor once?”
“Years ago, perhaps.” She smiled wanly. Her hands drifted again to her abdomen.
“You have bled out the child.”
“I could not stop it from happening.”
Apollo poured Hecuba a cup of wine and added a pinch of the herbs from the pouch suspended across his chest on a golden rope. “It is as I thought. Drink this. It will ease your pain.”
“Nothing can do that now.”
“Drink, I said. The god does not ask twice.”
Hecuba drank the bitter brew. Slowly, warmth spread through her body. “I didn’t know I was so cold, until now.”
Apollo raised his dark brows. “It is working.”
“I am tired, Priam,” Hecuba said as her heavy eyes closed.
“So be it,” Apollo said. He scooped the queen up in his arms. Against his strength, she rested as light as a feather. As he laid her on her bed, he looked on her. She was as pale as death. Silver strands contrasted sharply with her dark tresses. Even the age of mortals had only slightly dimmed her beauty. “It is sad, Hecuba, that our children did not survive this war. I recall Troilus’ conception. Your unbridled passion. You raised my son in secret, as I requested.” Where most mortals disappointed him, Hecuba pleased him.
The queen moaned in her unnatural sleep. “Apollo, is that you?” Her whisper was barely audible. “Priam?”
“It is Apollo.”
“Why did you allow Hektor’s death?”
“I did not wish it. Athena tricked your son at the last.”
Hecuba sighed. “More is the sadness.”
Moved by her loyalty, the god asked, “What is your heart’s desire?”
Apollo’s smile curled wickedly up one side of his beautiful mouth. “So be it.” He brushed the side of her cheek gently. “I can heal you … if you wish.”
With her eyes still closed in a dream-like world, Hecuba nodded against her pillow.
The god stripped the clothes from his body and lifted Hecuba’s thin gown. Gently, as was not his custom, he mounted her. Within a few measured thrusts, Apollo released his silver seed within Hecuba, restoring her womb to health and staunching her flow. He kissed her forehead.
“Your lips are small fires.”
Apollo pulled the linen blankets up, tucking them in around her. He brushed his thumb across her lips. “I should have come to you more often.”
“Perhaps.”
“I give my word; I will come once more before the end.”
“Farewell …”
“Farewell, Hecuba,” Apollo said, then vanished into mist.
MYRMIDON CAMP
THIRTY-FIVE, the unraveling and the rival
1238 BCE
Ashes ceased falling by dawn. The air reeked sweetly of burnt human and animal flesh. Apollo’s light fought through the haze lingering near the ground like a gray fog. Achilles slowly opened his eyes. They were dry and burned. He rubbed them with his palms and rolled to his back in the sand. The deep ache beneath his ribs reminded him of where he was. “I wake only to walk in darkness once again.”
Achilles stood, surveying the remnants of the great pyre he’d built. Chunks of charred wood smoked in small piles on the ground. Tendrils of thin smoke fingered toward the sky. The gloomy day had begun. Drawing breath hurt. He knew the footsteps behind him before he turned around. “I wish it had been me.”
Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Page 31