Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) (36 page)

“Menelaus does not need all the best captains of Greece.”

Odysseus took her shoulders in his hands and faced her eye to eye, “Beloved, I have already tried to secure release from this commitment and failed. Only by killing our son could I prevent my departure. I would have a promise from your lips.”

“I can deny you nothing.”

“It will be difficult to hear,” he cautioned.

“Ominous words, my husband, you frighten me.”

“I mean not to frighten you, my lady,” he smiled, running the back of his hand against her cheek. “If I should not return before—”

“Stop. I will not hear it.”

He placed his fingertips lightly on her trembling lips. “If I do not return by the time Telemachus has grown the beard of a man, you must remarry and let our son claim his rightful place as king.”

Tears filled Penelope’s eyes at the thought. “Athena would not keep you away so long.”

“You must promise this,” the warrior king insisted.

She nodded. “When will you leave?”

“At dawn. First light.”

“Then, let us not waste time, my lord husband. Come to bed. I want to make certain you remember me.” Penelope smiled, as she lay back against the pillows and soft linens. Odysseus needed no more invitation than that.

In the morning, Odysseus didn’t wake his wife or his son as he readied for departure for Troy. He wanted to remember her sighs, the way her hair tangled in his hands, the soft slope of her hip, as she lay on her cradling their son. He hadn’t been able to tell her it might be an entire lifetime, before he saw them again. He hoped the oracle was wrong on that account, or that he’d find favor with the gods to steer the direction of his own course. The king took his shield off the wall and his spear from the corner. He whispered a silent prayer to Athena and then slipped quietly out the door, but not before turning to take one last look at his family.
I will be back soon. I promise.
Then, he was gone.

AGAMEMNON SCOWLED AS
Kalchas spoke. His thick fingers laced tightly behind his back. He wanted to stuff his fist into the prophet’s flapping lips speaking words he’d rather not hear.

“The signs are clear, my lord. You will gain much from this raid against Troy. Whether the Spartan queen returns cannot be seen.”

The great king cleared his throat. “She will return dead or alive to Sparta.”

Kalchas added, “You must take Achilles, the Golden Warrior, if you intend to sack Troy and return.”

“Return?” Agamemnon questioned. It hadn’t occurred to him that he wouldn’t return. The word troubled him. “Return? You mean without Achilles we will not take Troy or return? Who will not return?”

Kalchas’ dark grey eyes found Agamemnon’s hardened face. “Without Achilles, no king who now sits upon a throne will return to claim it. No prince will live to succeed his father.”

Agamemnon’s fist slammed the table. Bowls and platters clanged against the wood. “Such words, Kalchas! I believed the gods favored us, now I see they only wish to fuck us.” Agamemnon stood up quickly sending his chair flying behind him where it broke into pieces against the heavy tent wall. “You could not have handed this prophecy before we left Mycenae? You had to wait until this fucking moment? When we are far from home, between Charybdis and Scylla?”

Kalchas bristled at the insult to the gods. “It is the gods who speak when and where they will.”

The great king was pacing now. “Yes, the fucking gods. Spreading ass cheeks and fucking us.”

Kalchas grew nervous because the final portion of the vision revealed an even more heinous act that must be performed. But he chose to keep that to himself until the proper time, or Agamemnon might turn back now. And that would interfere with the greatest destiny of all.

“DO YOU TRUST
Kalchas that much?” Menelaus questioned his brother. “Are you sure the prophecy is about Achilles?”

“We cannot win this war if Achilles and his Myrmidons are not with us,” Agamemnon stated flatly. All the captains, fulfilling their oaths, stood silently regretting they’d ever considered Helen as a bride in the first place forcing the oath binding them to this expedition of war. They all feared the final outcome if Agamemnon’s words proved true. And if that were the case, they were all dead men and they knew it. It was no secret that the ancient city of Troy was nearly impossible to over run. Hector, guardian of the great walled fortress was rumored a fierce combatant, a warrior whose only rival was Achilles himself. How were they to defeat a city protected by a man who rivaled the gods? Rumors of Hektor’s stealth and skill with a blade caused doubt to creep into the assembled captains’ minds.

Ajax shoved a stick into the dying flames of the fire and shifted the sputtering driftwood around. “How can we get Achilles to fight for us, when we do not even know where his nymph mother has hidden him? He has all but fallen off the edge of the world.” They all stared into the campfire as the flames reignited and shot into the darkness. Red hot cinders floated up into the black night like fiery moths, ending their lives as black specks dotting the sand. 

Odysseus knew that Achilles was not only the key for their victory, but also his best hope of returning home before his family could forget him. As he stared into the fire, a silence fell over the royal assembly each lost in his own thoughts and worries. Odysseus heard a distant humming in his ears. He looked around the camp circle. No one else seemed aware of the distinctly feminine droning growing louder by the moment. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.  The hum pulsed through him like the heat of too much red wine. The weight of his body pulled him down to the earth. His limbs refused to obey his commands. And then he remembered feeling a similar sensation in the presence of the oracle. He thought it strange to sense the oracle so far from Ithaka.

...It is not the oracle, my loyal Odysseus.

Then who are you?

...Do you not recognize me?

A sparkling light filled Odysseus’ waking eyes and he caught a glimpse of a helmet crested with shimmering golden horse hair. He closed his eyes against the burning image.

Athena.

...Go to Skyros.

Why, my goddess?

...Always questioning. Trust me
.

What will I find at Skyros?

...Your golden warrior hiding among the women
.

“Odysseus, are you well?” Diomedes asked. “Look at him!” All the captains turned to watch Odysseus. “As still as a corpse he is. Look! His eyes appear as two sparks of coal.”

Suddenly, the king of Ithaka shook his head. “At first light, I leave for Skyros.”

“Have you forgotten you are not the commander of this army?” Menelaus sneered.

Agamemnon purposely avoided looking in Odysseus’ direction. “What duty draws you to Skyros? Your own interests or mine?”

“I go so that I may fulfill my oath.” Odysseus stood up and walked into the night, leaving the Greek captains and the brother kings in surprised silence.

“He must have a plan,” Ajax offered.

“I hope so,” Agamemnon warned. “Palamedes…”

“Yes, my lord?” The king’s servant stepped forward with his head forever bowed.

“In the morning go with Odysseus. Make sure it is the shores of Skyros he sails for.”

Palamedes remembered the look Odysseus flashed him on the beachhead and the promised threat the Ithakan king had made. He would obey Agamemnon, but keep a safe distance from Odysseus. He planned to make it to Troy and back alive.

NOTHING WAS AS
blue as the wide open Aegean Sea, reflecting the depth and mystical powers of Poseidon. When the god was angry the sea churned and thrashed swallowing ships whole, burping up splintered twisted timbers and burying the dead and their belongings in the ancient muddy basin. Sometimes, the sea god sent the sirens out to sing unsuspecting sailors to their deaths. Their sensual suppli-
cations drove men mad enough to race on speedy winds to save them. Instead of becoming saviors, they dashed their ships on rocky reefs never realizing until the very end that they’d been enraptured and sung to their deaths.

Dozens of islands dotted this region of the Aegean like the very knuckles of Poseidon’s own hands. In the midst of a string of Sporades rocks, the island of Skyros rose like citadel, punching its presence from the undulating azure like a hand reaching for the empty sky. Mount Olympus stretched high into the living clouds in the north with lush forests disappearing into its thunderous heights, while Mount Kochila, barren and rocky, scratched its loftiness from hard volcanic earth in the south. The two-day trip from Aulis to Skyros passed uneventfully with fair winds to fill the sails. Odysseus prayed a silent thanks to Athena.

Many years had passed since he’d laid eyes on the boy, Achilles. He hoped he would recognize him now. Even as a youth, Achilles was clearly blessed with the golden beauty of the gods themselves, something he inherited from his mother. From his father he’d inherited strength, broad shoulders and his noble bearing. Achilles, even in his youth, was what every man feared and loved all at once. Rumors abounded of his speed and agility as a warrior. He fought without fear. Loved as fiercely as he fought. Moved as the wind. In hand to hand contest, while still a youth at his father’s court, he remained undefeated until his disappearance. One day he would become a king of Phthia, if he ever returned to Peleus’ court.

Odysseus and his crew rowed their ship along the northern shore and pulled its hull deep into the sand of the shallow bay. They would have to return before the tide swelled and loosened their ship back to sea without them.

“Where will you start, Odysseus?” Palamedes questioned.

Odysseus’ jaw ticked at the very sound of Palamedes’ voice grating in his ears like a screeching hag. “If Thetis has taken her son up the sacred mountain, we are doomed. The hospitality of King Lycomedes and his court is logical.” Odysseus hefted the water bladder over his shoulder and set off in the general direction of where he thought the palace might be. There was no trailhead from their landing site, but he was certain any palace built on this side of Skyros would have a clear view of this minor inlet. Odysseus reasoned that if he were king of this place, he would build his house where he could see every entry point from the sea. So, they traveled straight up the hill.

ACHILLES PULLED DEIDAMIA
into his arms and kissed her hard. When his mother brought him here, he was a beardless boy. The princess had been the first to befriend him, and became his first conquest on the island right beneath her father’s nose. Achilles’ reputation for combat rivaled his growing appetite for sex. He craved love-making and fucking almost as much as he craved battle. Blood sport would always be held in higher regard for there glory was won. Achilles desired that more than anything else. He was born to fight. As he kissed the soft body beneath him, he pushed the thoughts of war aside to concentrate on pleasing the woman.

“Do you remember the first time you kissed me, Achilles?”

He smiled into the face of the dark haired woman in his arms. The deep color of her skin intoxicated him. Her almond shaped eyes sparkled like polished obsidian, the pupil barely distinguishable from the iris.  Her enticing glances rendered him helpless. “Yes.”

“Well?” Deidamia asked.

“Well, what?” Achilles teased. He reached his hand through an opening in her chiton, cupping her full breasts in his hand, then rolling the nipples between his fingers, and pinching them until she squealed.

She slapped him. “Did you love me then?”

Achilles thought for a moment. Love. What did he know of love besides sex? He’d learned enough about women to know avoiding this question served his needs better, so he held her tighter in response. Deidamia eased his loneliness. But love?
Why do women always want to know about love?
He’d married her so as not to disgrace her or her father. In truth, he longed for open seas and war, not domestic life and its comforts.

Deidamia grew unsettled by his silence and avoidance of the question. She was the mother of his son and that was enough for now she supposed. “Will you ever return to Phthia?

Achilles brushed her chin with his hand. “Soon, I think.”

A commotion in the court yard caught their attention. The clattering of wheels over stone was unmistakable. Achilles’ smile disappeared as he moved quickly to the window. He saw a man, shoulders stooped with old age, wearing a frayed and thin robe with its hem trailing behind him guiding a rickety wooden cart brimming with brightly colored textiles and shiny baubles swinging from various pegs.

“What is it Achilles?” Deidamia asked.

“Just some poor peddler selling cloth and trinkets,” Achilles answered, turning in time to see his wife running out the door. He watched as Deidamia entered the courtyard below squealing with delight along with her sisters and cousins. They pulled at colorful lengths of cloth and held them up to themselves and each other, admiring this one then that. One of them picked up what looked to him to be a sword hilt and tossed it back into the pile of unbound cloth. He heard it clatter against the wood. Achilles wanted to examine this cart more closely.

When the golden warrior entered the courtyard dressed in a woman’s robe and veil, the old man looked up, motioning him to examine the contents of his wares. Achilles fingered an edge of purple cloth. Its softness and quality meant for royalty. He thought it odd that a dusty traveling peddler should carry such extravagantly dyed cloth. Purple was for kings and gods, not old men. He let his hand slip deeper into the pile of fabric and the point of a blade pricked his fingertip. He let his hand slide carefully along its edge until his hand curled around the hilt. Like a bolt of lightning, Achilles pulled the sword free, slashing the blade and checking the balance of the weapon.

The old man watched. His eyes narrowed with knowing. “Achilles,” the old man finally spoke, but his voice was deeper than the young prince expected.

Achilles watched as the old man’s guise magically fell away and in the peddler’s place stood an imposing figure of a man. Achilles leveled the sword directly at the intruder. “Who are you to dare entry into this court?”