“He would understand your mercy … you dole it our so sparingly.”
Achilles scoffed, rebuffing the sharp honesty. “I see Patrokles taught you how to sharpen your tongue.”
“Among other things.”
“I am restless.”
“As am I.”
“He will always be between us.”
“Aye,” she said. They walked to their tent, letting the day begin without them. As they lay wrapped around one another, Briseis asked, “How will you die?”
“Only the gods know.”
“Are you sure you will … die, I mean?”
Achilles pulled her closer to his chest, inhaling the sweet and saltiness of her. “I will miss this, I think.” He kissed the top of her head. “Thetis has said so. And I believe her. She would never speak of such a painful thing if she was not certain.”
“I wish there was a way—”
“Shah. Let us not waste the time I have left.” He kissed her softly, his tongue lazily sweeping through her mouth. “Our time is short.”
Briseis gently held the back of his head, pressing her forehead to his. “You are right. Let’s not waste it.”
TROJAN CITADEL
THIRTY-EIGHT, three laments
1238 BCE
Apollo stretched a gloomy dawn with a bitter sun across the sky, as Cassandra paced the ramparts, waiting for a sign of her father’s return. Every moment of uncertainty was an agony. She couldn’t help but wonder, now, when Troy’s fate hung in the balance, how different the world would’ve been if she’d pleased the god. Her prophecies would have been heeded and the war avoided. She squinted into the distance at a small, dark dot. Cassandra held her breath, sending up a prayer. As the image drew nearer, the spark of the divine filled her. She blurted out, “Priam returns with Hektor’s body. Gods, have mercy on us.”
Cassandra’s call brought Hecuba and Andromache to her side, along with Helen and Paris. In the belly of the citadel, mourners spilled into the streets, sending the song of sorrow skyward. When Priam drew near, Paris commanded the gates be opened. Priam’s head hung low to his chest as he crossed the threshold of the mighty gate. At the sight of their king, the crowds parted like water over a boulder and grew so quiet the creaking of the wagon wheels filled the silence. The oxen pulled their burden to the citadel’s center, through the inner gates, and into the palace grounds.
Paris and Deiphobus lifted their brother’s body from the wagon and solemnly placed it on a litter draped in bleached linen edged with purple. They carried their brother to a waiting altar adorned with wildflowers from the Trojan fields and delicate garlands of laurel and olive from the city’s gardens. Frankincense burned in silver bowls, perfuming the air. Every citizen, highborn and the lowly, struggled with Hektor’s farewell. He’d been the strength and security Troy had clung to these many seasons. The Defender of the City had fallen, been brutalized before their eyes, and now, every man and woman feared their world would crumble.
Andromache’s stoic face cracked with grief. She handed Astyanax to his nursemaid, steeling herself for the gruesome figure she was certain she’d see. The babe reached for his mother, squalling for the comfort of her arms. The crowd of onlookers blurred. There was only Hektor. With each step she recalled a moment compelling her to love him. When his fingers gently pulled the pins of her chiton on their wedding night. When he sought the comfort of her arms after Ares died. When he laughed with joy once presented with their son. Her last memory was her beloved being dragged behind Achilles’ chariot. She stumbled, as tears stung her eyes. Raw grief tugged at the thin thread of her strength and she unraveled. Nothing would be the same. No one could save her or her son, their son, from what would come. A thought pricked her heart that she had somehow caused his death with her own worry, so in despair, Andromache grabbed a lock of her long, dark hair and violently yanked it out with a mournful scream. She tossed the bloody mess to the ground. Astyanax cried louder, but his mother was lost in her anguish.
Standing beside Hektor’s body, Andromache lifted the golden shroud to see his face. She was astonished to see only a few scratches, and he looked otherwise peaceful. “Oh, Hektor,” she whispered, taking his head in her hands. She kissed his gray lips. They were cold and stiff beneath her warm ones. “You’ve been taken too soon. There was so much more joy to share. Life to live. Love. However, the gods are cruel. Haven’t we agonized in life enough to satisfy them? What a blessing Astyanax is. With you by our sides, there was nothing to fear. Everywhere I look without you, all I see is danger and suffering. He will not survive the war … You know what will happen to him, to me. I will be forced to lay beneath a man, a master. I know he will be cruel, because I am the widow of the man the Greeks feared most. I will be raped, and if I am fortunate, killed mercifully.” She rubbed at her burning eyes. “We had no final words, Hektor. Did you think of me? Of our family? I would have comforted you, as you did for me so many times. I did not get to say good-bye … There are no loving words to comfort me in the long, dark days ahead.” Andromache threw herself on his body, weeping.
Hecuba put an arm around her son’s widow. Watching Andromache’s agony pulled her own ancient wounds to the surface. “He gave strength to all of us.” Andromache leaned her head into Hecuba’s shoulder, her sobbing catching in her throat. “He was my favorite son.” She looked each remaining son circled around Hektor in the eye. Her voice trembled with the sharp truth. “You all knew it was so. None of you could complain, because you loved him more than any of your other brothers.” Hecuba turned her gaze back to Hektor’s face. “Look at my poor son. Favored among us and the gods. Achilles sent many of Trojan princes to slavery, but you, he plucked from us with his murderous spear. Stealing your life to ease his guilt about his second in command. Your death did not bring back that other man.” She kissed his cheek as her tears flowed. “You have the look of peaceful slumber despite the ravages Achilles put you through.” Hecuba kissed Andromache’s head so close to her own. “You will never be alone, my dear. Ever.”
Andromache clung to Hecuba and sobbed anew.
To the surprise of everyone, Helen stepped forward to offer a lament on Hektor’s behalf. Standing at his feet, separate from his widow and mother, she said in a silvery voice, “You were the jewel in Troy’s crown, a prince among princes. Even above my own husband, your brother. I wish that I had died before I lived to see you struck by Achilles’ hand. All these years, you offered me kind words. Stood up for me for Paris’ sake.”
Hecuba hissed, “You lying bitch.”
“He was kinder to me than you have ever been, Queen Hecuba. Than the lot of you, save Priam. I am sad, Hektor, for it seems we are both doomed souls. There is no one left to comfort me. Everyone blames me. Hates me.”
Paris came forward and awkwardly pulled Helen behind the familial circle. She wept against Paris’ chest for her own sadness and burdens. His eyes cast his apology to his mother and father, but he dared not look at Andromache.
“Your honor has no bounds to spill such lies over my husband’s dead body, when he can’t rise to defend himself? He had only contempt for you. Blamed you for the war. For everything.”
Priam, in his grief and sadness, raised both arms for peace. “We have twelve days to prepare Hektor’s pyre and feast. I will not have us fighting amongst ourselves, when the true enemy remains a spear toss beyond our gates.”
“I will prepare the gathering of the wood,” Paris said.
“Aye. Go, Paris. See that it is done.”
✽✽✽
GREEK CAMP
Agamemnon’s grand pavilion was packed with his commanders around the heavy center table, while their seconds, with worried faces and darting eyes, lined the perimeter. The platters of bread and roasted meat were mostly untouched. Achilles’ news had stolen everyone’s appetite, except for young Diomedes. Agamemnon paced the carpeted floor, while Achilles reclined in a chair. “You had no right to release Priam without my consent.”
Achil
les leaned forward with his forearms against his thighs. He shrugged. “He came to me. It was my right to grant or deny his request.”
“I do not wish to cause another rift between our camps.”
“Then don’t. What more do you want, Agamemnon? My certain deference or victory?”
Agamemnon grunted.
“I will take the city,” Achilles said, indifferent to Agamemnon’s growing irritation.
Menelaus blurted out, “If we held the king, the city would fall by the time Apollo dragged the sun to the sea. I am sick of this place.”
Odysseus mumbled into his wine, “We are all sick of this place.”
A heavy silence settled over all the men. Achilles rose from his seat. “Consider this … they have twelve days to mourn. We have twelve days to rest our men and contemplate how we will divide the plunder of Troy’s treasury. I have given my word.” The tent flap snapped close behind him.
Menelaus clicked his tongue. “After everything we’ve endured on account of that man’s wounded pride—”
“That man is the key to victory,” Odysseus said. “Don’t you want to go home?”
“Of course I do. Achilles speaks as if he alone will take down the city.”
Odysseus narrowed his eyes at Menelaus, his lip curling angrily. “You open your shit mouth and words fall out … words no one wants to hear. If you had kept a better eye on your wife’s pleasure, none of us would be here at all.” He stood and stepped around the table. His temper shook. He squared his shoulders, daring Menelaus to challenge him. Odysseus scoffed, “Have you misplaced your courage, Menelaus?”
The other commanders sniggered; Menelaus roared in exasperation.
Agamemnon raised his voice above the disagreement, “We all know without Achilles we will lose. And what then? Those of us not rotting on the ground or being eaten by wild dogs return home empty handed? No. No one is more offended than I by what he did. But I agree with Odysseus. It’s time we go home.”
TROJAN PLAIN
THIRTY-NINE, the Amazonian princess
1238 BCE
Behind the Great Wall of Troy, masses of refugees gathered in the streets with more arriving, as word of the tenuous truce spread. Songs of mourning resounded throughout the city, as did the playfulness of innocent children. Stray dogs roamed free, sniffing out discarded morsels or a head scratch. Merchants shouted to sell their wares. The stench of urine and shit soured the air. The king’s counselors argued about how long the city could sustain the strain of so many inhabitants. They surmised that the stores of grain wouldn’t last long, and neither would fresh water. Starvation and disease would not be far behind a food shortage. When people became desperate, dangers of another kind would arise. King Priam reminded his counsel that refusing entry to refugees would be their certain death, because the Greeks were still out there waiting for their opportunity to strike on the twelfth day. He asked them what kind of king he would be if he just pushed their allies to their common enemy to be decimated.
Despite the masses, Priam designated the city’s lower central court for the building of Hektor’s pyre. It was the only area large enough to build and accommodate the crowds. For days, wood gathering parties scoured the hillsides for trees; felled them and dragged them back to Troy. A crew of several dozen men built the pyre stack. Dozens more children scavenged for kindling to stuff between the gaps. As the mountain grew, so too did the weeping and wailing of women. Hektor’s death was seen as a sign of Troy’s impending doom. Rumors of Achilles grew into tales of his invincibility and a growing belief he was actually a god disguised as a man. The remaining brothers of Hektor also heard these stories and fear took root in their hearts.
The somber days of funeral preparation dragged on, until on the fourth day, a lookout raised Troy’s alarm. A cloud of dust appeared on the horizon. It was no storm, but the telltale sign of an army on the move. Many cried, fearing the Greeks and Achilles had broken their promise. People cleared the streets, scurrying into shops, gardens, anywhere they could. The princes of Troy lined the wall to assess the imminent danger. Paris called to close the gates, while his brothers organized a defense from the parapets and ramparts.
With Hektor’s death, the command of the Trojan army fell to Paris and Deiphobus, who took their positions at the center of the wall. Paris gripped his bow in his hands. “Do you think Achilles would break the truce?”
“He could’ve killed our father. It makes no sense to break his word after such an act of restraint.”
“He is ruthless and untrustworthy,” Paris said.
“If it is Achilles, he comes with only his Myrmidons. There are not enough to be the united armies.” As they stood waiting, a small contingent pulled away from the main horde. “Look, Paris. They’ve sent heralds.”
Paris narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “We shall know soon enough who threatens us.”
Three tall riders approached on horseback, stopping just beneath the main gate. Their skin was sun-dark and their bearing regal. They wore short tunics and coverings about their legs. Their clothing was adorned with glittering bronze scales and beads of bone. “Queen Penthesileia sends her greetings. She heard of Prince Hektor’s death, and has come to join Troy’s fight against the foreign invaders,” a rider announced in a clear, commanding voice.
Paris looked at Deiphobus. “They are women, brother.”
“Amazons,” Deiphobus said. “Fierce fighters. We may win this war yet.”
Paris shouted down, “We welcome all allies committed to destroying the enemies of Troy.”
One of the riders removed her helm. Long, dark hair fell about her shoulders. “Is the one they call Achilles yet living?”
“Aye, he lives,” Paris answered.
“Our queen will be pleased. She wishes an audience with King Priam and Troy’s commander.”
“We are honored and extend our hospitality, but our city can’t hold your army. Our refugees are too many. You will have to set camp outside of the walls. Head northeast. Our allies’ encampment is nearby. It is the safest place outside of the city. We will send an escort for your queen at dusk.”
“Very well,” the herald said, refitting her splendid helm. The riders spun their horses around and headed back to their horde.
✽✽✽
Priam’s Great Hall warmed with the glow of oil lamps and blazing torches. Trestle tables were spread with platters of roasted boar and lamb and warm bread baked with rosemary. There were dipping pots of olive oil and bowls of sweet blood oranges. Household slaves hurried to pour fresh wine, while a lyre player struck soft notes in a corner. A fire burned brightly in the central hearth.
Queen Hecuba’s black garments wrapped about her like a winter storm, setting the tone for the somber reception. Andromache’s scalp had healed slightly, but she chose not to wear a head covering, preferring the world to know the depth of her grief. The other women of the royal family followed suit by donning dark attire. King Priam’s black tunic was unadorned by precious metals or jewels, and he’d ripped the front as an expression of his burdened heart.
Hecuba leaned to catch Priam’s private ear. The gold bangles on her wrist clanking against the table. “Paris and Helen are not here. It is disrespectful.”
“I will send someone to fetch them.” Priam signaled a thin slave with stooped shoulders standing in the shadows. “Find my son, Paris. Tell him his presence is expected at once.” The man nodded and limped away without as much as a scrape of his sandal on the stone.
The music of the hall hushed as Queen Penthesileia entered, flanked by a dozen women clad in dark leather tunics trimmed with golden scales and leopard skin capes. The queen was taller than anyone else in her entourage. The hem of her sleek, black leather cape swept the tile, and a collar of luminous raven feathers framed her chiseled features and golden eyes. Her long hair, black as the darkest night, cascaded in curls about her shoulders. A wide, flat circlet of gold set with an emerald adorned her head. She wore a ring on each finger, includin
g her thumbs. As she walked, the silver rings layered across her chest piece shook, sounding the music of war. She approached the dais where Priam and Hecuba sat, her head held high, and her neck unbending. “We come to grieve the loss of Prince Hektor, and to fight alongside you for his revenge.”
King Priam acknowledged her with a small nod. “We welcome you as our guest and as our ally.”
“Please, accept these gifts from my people.” She raised a long, elegant arm, and wide-shouldered men with bare chests brought forth stacks of seasoned ash spears and curved bows. “During war, a king may find well-made weapons more valuable than gold.”
“You have our gratitude, Queen Penthesileia,” Priam said. “You are most welcomed in our hall. I have reserved you a place of honor at my right.”
The queen took her place at the high table, while her commanders posted themselves strategically around the room. “One must be ready when the wolf paces outside of the door.”
“How fare your troops after the long march?”
“We are used to the hardships of war. We will be ready, when the enemy takes to the plain.” Penthesileia sipped her wine and ripped a hunk of soft bread for her trencher. She poured the olive oil over it. “I have heard stories of your son, Hektor, since before the invaders came. It is hard to recall a time when our lives were not burdened by their presence. The loss of Hektor is a tragedy for everyone who depends on Troy’s victory for survival. Who have you named as his successor?”
“No man could replace him. His brothers, Paris and Deiphobus, are now joint commanders of our forces.”
Penthesileia bit into her bread, licking the spicy oil from her fingertips. She wrinkled her brow. “Two commanders?”
“They each have their skills and strengths.”
“You know your men best. Tell me about this Achilles. Is he as ruthless as the stories say?”
Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Page 34