Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3)

by Janell Rhiannon

  Briseis just stood there, waiting. “I have brought you a basket … for—”

  “His bones,” Achilles finished for her.

  “Aye.” Briseis’ chin quivered. She pressed her lips together. “And wine.”

  “I always believed it would be him gathering my remains. Take them back to my father.” Achilles turned to her, his face pained and pale. “I never dreamt this …”

  “I will help you,” Briseis said.

  “As you wish.”

  Side by side they walked to the center of the smoldering ashes where Patrokles’ bones would be. Briseis handed the wine jug from the basket to Achilles. He pulled the wax plug, tossing it into the charred rubble of cinders. It wasn’t long before they found the skeletal length of their beloved. Achilles poured the wine over the hot white bones, cooling them to the touch and tinting them faintly rose. He plucked the skull first, examining the eye sockets. “Do you recall how gray his eyes were?”

  “And fierce when crossed.”

  “That he was. He was never afraid to stand up to me. Others cowered at my demands. But never him.” He glanced sideways at Briseis. “Nor you.”

  Achilles brushed the charred ashes from the rib bones and shoulders. He placed them in the basket with the skull. He picked up the bones of Patrokles’ hands. “His fingers were strong. Graceful.”

  “He had no equal,” Briseis said, quietly.

  “We were fortunate to know him. Love him. Though, I am not sure which of us loved him more.”

  Skirting the topic, she asked, “What will you do with Patrokles’ remains?”

  “He asked to be buried with me, when the time comes.”

  “I see.”

  “For now, I will have rocks piled here to mark his passing. Funeral games. I intend to give my geras away. Soon enough, I will have no need of any of it.”

  Briseis touched Achilles’ arm. “I am not ready to lose you, so soon … so soon after …”

  His eyes softened, and for a brief moment the old Achilles returned. “I will provide for you, Briseis. I promised him.”

  “Gratitude, Achilles.” She had no idea what he intended, and she hadn’t the strength to ask.

  “Take the basket to the tent. I will see his remains properly stored when I am finished.”

  ✽✽✽

  Briseis stared at the basket on the table for a long time. The sounds of mourning filtered through the tent, as did the muted light of day. She gathered the courage to touch the stacked remains. Her fingers caressed the smooth side of his skull. “It is just us, now.” She lifted it to her lips and kissed the cool flatness of his cheek bone. “Farewell, Patrokles. Know I did love you, even if it was not enough.”

  A blood-curdling scream rent the air. Briseis fumbled the skull in her hands, before placing in back in the basket. She rushed from the tent.

  “By all the gods,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand in disgust and fright. Circling the Myrmidons stacking stones for Patrokles’ monument was Achilles in his chariot. He’d lashed Hektor’s body to the platform again and was dragging it through the dirt. “What madness is this?” she whispered. “What curse?” She turned back to the tent, having no wish to witness Achilles unraveling like a thread violently tugged from a tapestry.

  ✽✽✽

  TROY

  THE PALACE

  The horror of Hektor’s death ran through Andromache’s mind. She could not stop the dark and bloody images from haunting her. She wept silently in her chambers. The bed linens were in disarray from tossing and turning into the night. An oil lamp burned low on a side table. A sliver of light touched the stone tiles. The agony of Hektor’s loss was blissfully lost on Astyanax, who slept sweetly across from her. Her worst fears unfolded moment by moment, paralyzing her to do anything other than sit, weep, and stare. A knock at the door startled her. “Enter.”

  Queen Hecuba swept into the center of the room in a cloud of dark linen. She paused before taking a seat next to Andromache. “This is a loss none of us can bear, my dear, but we must.” She brushed a messy curl of hair from Andromache’s face. “For your son, you must find a way.”

  Andromache’s face contorted in agony. “I don’t know how to go on, Mother.” She sobbed, as Hecuba held her close. “It is too much. We are alone, now.”

  “You are not alone, Andromache. You are a true Princess of Troy. Never forget that.”

  “How will we defeat the Greeks without Hektor? Who will rise up to replace him?”

  Hecuba held Andromache’s eyes in her own. “Rage, my darling. The rage of queens.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What Achilles did to Hektor—” Hecuba’s voice sharpened. “For all the sons he has taken from me … Troilus, my beautiful boy … for so many tragedies of the Trojans. Achilles will pay. I have assurance.”

  Andromache sensed the darkness behind Hecuba’s words. She was a cold and sharp woman, one who should never be crossed. Andromache believed Hecuba capable of slitting a man’s throat in his sleep, and had often wondered if that’s why Priam chose to sleep elsewhere most nights. It was hard to imagine the warm and sad mother Hektor assured her she was. “How? How do you know?”

  “Apollo has promised me.” The god’s visit had reassured her.

  “Apollo,” Andromache whispered with a hint of fear. “He is—”

  “Our means to ending the war. And ending Achilles’ reign of terror over our city.” Hecuba clicked her tongue. “You must get up, Andromache. Wash your face.”

  “I would rather throw myself from the wall.” She looked to her son. “But, of course, I cannot.”

  “No, you cannot.” The queen extended a hand to Andromache. “Daughter, don’t give up.”

  Andromache brushed the queen’s hand from hers. “I … it is not so simple for me.”

  Hecuba stepped back, taking the measure of her son’s widow. She folded her arms, hoping Andromache possessed the will of iron she would need in the days to come. “Nothing about this war has been simple. Revenge will not be simple. There will be a time to mourn, but it is not this moment. However much your heart is breaking, you must find the strength. If not for yourself, then for your son.”

  “But you … you are—”

  “What? The cold queen who haunts Priam’s palace? I hear the stories. Do you think that because I am old, the pain of Hektor’s loss does not rip my heart in half? He was my first born. The Golden Prince of Troy. He was to inherit all of this. He understood me, as no other ever has.” Hecuba’s face darkened; her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “And Achilles took him in the most brutal way. Defiled him.” Her voice cracked. “Keeps him from proper burial. Yet, with every loss, I have remained steadfast in my duty as queen. I promise you, when the day arrives as Apollo has promised me it will, Achilles will fall, and we will be free.”

  “What of Astyanax? His future?”

  “He will be king someday. So get up and be his strength, as Hektor was yours.”

  ✽✽✽

  Helen paced her chamber; turning over the reality she’d grown certain of with each passing day. Hektor’s cruel passing days ago only made the news she had to deliver more tragedy than joy. In the beginning, she never expected Paris to discover her plan, but now that he knew the underlying truth there would be no denying it.

  “You wished to speak with me?” Paris said from the threshold of their room. “You have been avoiding me since Achilles … since Hektor—”

  “Do you think we have a chance to win the final battles to come? I mean without him. Who will take his place?”

  “The duty falls to me. May I enter?” He crossed the space without waiting for Helen’s permission. “Is that why you asked for me? To speak of war?”

  Helen wrung her hands together. “Yes. No. So many things.”

  “Which is it, then?” Paris poured himself a cup of wine from the table. He drained the contents and poured a second before he sat on the couch near the fire. “Well?”

  “I d
on’t know how to begin.” She rested a hand on her lower abdomen. “I … you know we talked of children …”

  “It is too late for us to speak of making a family. Too many things have passed between us. What you did to my son …”

  Helen stopped pacing, frozen by insinuation. “What I did?” she scoffed and shook her head. “Oh, Paris, what I did was … reprehensible, but you … what you did surpassed anything even the gods could forgive.”

  A shadow crossed Paris’ face. When he looked up at Helen, he sneered. “You slept with my son, Helen. You’ve bewitched me with a longing for you that disgusts me. Even now—”

  “Even now, what?” She let her hand stray toward her sex. “You want this? Despite the fact your son plowed the fertile fields you could not?”

  Paris’ cock began to stiffen. “No! No, you can’t fix this with …” Paris groaned miserably. “By the gods you arouse me against my will. Wait? What are you saying, Helen?”

  “I have only recently confirmed it. But I am with child. His child.”

  “By all that the gods hold sacred, how can you be certain of that? We are fucking every day.”

  How many times she’d prayed for a different life, Helen had lost count. Hoping that she and Paris would have a family of their own would have made the sacrifices they both endured sting less. Perhaps, a family would bind them with something natural. As the years passed, it became more obvious to her that Aphrodite would never allow their union to be blessed. The goddess had no desire to grant them peace or joy.

  Helen stepped closer to Paris, close enough to feel his mounting desire pressed against her thigh. She looked up into his stone blue eyes. “You have been taking me for years and my womb has never quickened. He is the father. I am carrying your grandchild.”

  Paris stumbled backwards. “I despise you,” he screamed like an injured animal.

  Helen’s voice was ice. “Then we are well-matched, indeed.”

  They stood staring angrily at one another, frozen in their mutual contempt. Then, Paris reached a hand to her arm. “Even still,” he pulled her into his embrace, and she melted into his hungry kisses, “I cannot stop myself.”

  Tears spilled over Helen’s lower lashes. “Neither can I.”

  In an angry tangle of loathing and longing, they took each other like wild beasts rutting in a field. Gone was the pretense of love. All that remained was the curse of desire and the regret of giving into it. They grunted to their climaxes and fell sweating on the floor, when a distant scream pierced the air.

  Helen brushed her hair from her eyes. “What was that?”

  Paris sat up on his elbows. “It can’t be.”

  “What?”

  “Achilles.” Paris scrambled to his feet, grabbing at his chiton. “Get up. Get dressed. We must go to the wall.”

  As they raced to the ramparts, the cries grew louder. Dozens of citizens were already lining the wall. Some crying out to the gods, others openly weeping and wailing. The crowd near them parted, so they could reach the edge. Helen looked down to see Achilles dragging the mutilated body of Hektor around the city fortress. “By all that is sacred,” she whispered, and then fainted.

  PHTHIA

  THIRTY-SIX, the tasks of Thetis

  1238 BCE

  The light of Apollo stretched golden across the heavens, as Thetis approached Peleus in his gardens. “Peleus,” she said softly, “I have a message from our son.”

  The king froze. Closing his eyes, he slowly turned around. When he opened them, he sighed loudly. “I never thought to see your loveliness again.”

  Thetis’ message strained her smile. “Greetings, husband.”

  “Husband. I had almost forgotten,” Peleus said quietly. “I have lost track of the time.” His eyes lingered on her face. “You are unchanged. As always.”

  “What did you expect?” Thetis held out her hands. “Come. I have much to share.”

  “Is the war over? Does Achilles live?”

  “No, the war rages its last days. Achilles lives—”

  “Thank the gods. He will come home. He must come home.”

  Sweeping to Peleus’ side, Thetis lifted a graceful hand to her husband’s bronze and weathered cheek. “Shah, my love. That is a dream we must release to the Fates.”

  Peleus grimaced, his chin quivering against his will. “No.” A stray, hot tear breached Thetis’ hand. “No.”

  “Peleus … he will never return. I knew it years ago. It is why I …” Thetis sighed. “No matter now. The past cannot be changed. Knowing one’s fate only encourages a futile struggle.”

  “Why?” Peleus broke down after a lifetime of fighting wars and keeping the peace. The legacy he’d crafted his entire life now hung in the balance. His son was soon to be bones wrapped in a dusty shroud. “Why now when I am helpless to save him? I cannot bear his loss.” He melted against Thetis’ chest.

  When his grief slowed, she said, “No one can save him, Peleus.” Thetis gently stroked his gray beard. “I do bring a message from him. Would you hear it?”

  Peleus lifted his head, his face but a short distance from hers. He nodded. “Tell me everything.”

  “There is no way to soften the blow of this. Patrokles is dead.”

  “How?”

  “He donned Achilles’ armor. Hektor slew him thinking it was Achilles.”

  Peleus stumbled as comprehension swept over him. “Has he taken revenge?”

  Thetis steadied him, steering him to a nearby bench. They sat silently for a moment. “He has taken revenge beyond what is reasonable, Peleus. He … defiles the corpse. Drags it behind his chariot. Even as I left his side, he was determined to let Hektor’s body rot, denying Hektor’s family the privilege of proper rites.”

  “Can you not reason with him?”

  “He will hear nothing.”

  “Then, you are right. I will never see my son again. The gods will punish him.” Peleus patted Thetis’ warm hand. “I am old. I expect the gods will take me soon enough.”

  “He did send a message for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “He said to tell you, you were right to send Patrokles to guide him. He also bid me say farewell to you. And begs you take in Briseis, the woman who he loved second to Patrokles.”

  The king’s breath caught in his throat, as a small shudder of grief shook his chest. “I can deny him nothing. I will see it done.”

  Thetis kissed her husband on his cheek. “You are soft in your old age.”

  Peleus chuckled quietly. “We mortals tend to do that.”

  “It’s a pity there’s no remedy for that.”

  “Oh, but there is. Wine. Join me in a cup.”

  ✽✽✽

  In the dark hours of early morning, Thetis rose from the bed she shared with Peleus. He snored slightly with old age, but remained beautiful, like a rugged mountain, in her eyes. She wrapped a thin, shimmering cloak of silver about her nude body and walked out to the garden alone. The damp grass beneath her feet grounded her to a life she never truly wanted, but for love of Achilles, she’d accepted. In the beginning she abhorred Peleus’ mortal nature. After years of loving her son, Peleus’ mortal flaws seemed less so. It surprised her that she found their lovemaking oddly satisfying. She plucked a white flower from a bush, inhaling its sweetness.

  “Thetis, I have been searching for you,” a voice boomed behind her.

  She spun around. “Zeus! What are you doing here?” Her eyes scanned the sparkling skies for signs of Hera. A bird. A moth. A low hanging cloud. “What do you want? Quickly, tell me before Hera discovers you.”

  “I did not think to find you here among mortals.”

  “You mean with Peleus.”

  “I believed you content to be among your sisters.”

  “You have not answered my question.”

  The god approached her slowly, his power shimmering in the waning moonlight just beneath his skin. “You must stop him, Thetis. By any means. I cannot hold back the anger of all
the gods at once. Achilles has desecrated Hektor’s body long enough. He violates the sacred rites of the gods.”

  “He grieves deeply for Patrokles who Hektor slew.”

  “Apollo killed Patrokles, not Hektor. It was the god who unbuckled Patrokles’ armor, leaving his mortal joints exposed. If Achilles wishes revenge, he should take up against Apollo.”

  “That is impossible.”

  “Is it? Your son has lost control of his emotions. His anger now borders on madness.”

  Thetis worried that Zeus would strike Achilles himself if angered by her refusal. She studied his black, shining eyes. The universe reflected in his large pupil, but there was no hint of trickery. “What should I do?”

  “Twelve days have come and gone since he fought Hektor at the wall. Stop him from further desecration of the body. Persuade him to return Hektor’s corpse to his father. It is right that he do so.”

  “I will try. I cannot force him to listen.”

  Zeus stepped toward Thetis, and his face hovered above hers. His eyes stared hungrily at her mouth. “That is all I ask, Thetis.”

  “I must go.”

  “As must I.” Zeus disappeared in a flash of light.

  Thetis stood for a moment before returning to Peleus’ bed. Zeus’ visit confirmed that Achilles’ death was imminent. All her efforts had been in vain. Death chased her son with gods’ speed. She flew to Peleus’ side and kissed him lightly on the lips. He stirred, but did not awaken.

  “No time for farewells,” she whispered against his ear. Then, she was gone.

  ✽✽✽

  Thetis emerged from the sea mist gathering along the shore of the Myrmidon’s camp. The beach was deserted except for one man standing against the shadows of early morning. She pulled her shimmering dark veil about her shoulders and approached him on light feet. “Achilles.”

  “I heard your call, Mother.”

  She embraced him tightly with her elegant arms.

  “You needn’t worry, Mother. I am prepared to die.”

  Thetis released him quickly and grabbed his shoulders. “I am not prepared to lose you. You have just begun to taste the sweetness that mortal life can bring.”