Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) (3 page)

THE RAMPARTS OF
Troy shot skyward like the blunted teeth of a Titan snarling its way up from the center of the earth. Legends sang the praises of Apollo and Poseidon and their labors to reinforce each heavy block with divine precision and plumbed the great walls with their perfect celestial eyes. They piled the massive blocks set in perfect rows stretching around the great seafaring city as far as the eye could see. The brother gods planted its foundation deep into the shifting Asiatic sands of Troy. This sacred barrier protected the inhabitants from dragons, sea beasts and foreign invasion.

Indeed, the city’s ramparts towered so high and so wide that only the gods themselves could scale them. When mood struck, they entered by holy mist or by raping mortals’ thoughts and dreams. Despite these occasional interruptions of mind, Troy slept peacefully behind an impregnable fortress teeming with trade and wealth. The knowledge that divine forces protected them from the outside world lulled them into false security.  Inside the mouth of this giant city, complacency slipped easily into the hearts of its people.  Rumors of the western tribes’ raiding ambitions had faded to ghostly whispers heard by a fearful few. Trojans feared no man, no ships, nor war and fell into a long easy peace worried only about appeasing their gods and goddesses with holy sacrifice and required homage.

Storytellers recited songs recalling the glorious construction of the wall eons before the time of King Priam, forgetting that a weak link existed. A third pair of hands set the colossal stone blocks erect in the white sands of the Dardanelles. The mortal king, Aeacus, labored alongside Apollo and Poseidon. His labor, although beautiful to mortal eye, contained the poorest stone and cheapest mortar. Ancient hymns that warned of doom with every chisel strike and every drop of sweat Aeacus leaked into the good earth, in time, lay silent. His glorious section served only to seal the doom of Troy. The curse of Aeacus’ craftsmanship, decreed by Fate before time began, lay as a dormant asp that would one day rise to flare its cheeks and strike the city to its knees. Aeacus’ section of the protective stone contained no magic, no special invocation against attack from sea or sky. But, the pompous western tribes of Greece, the Argives, the Achaeans, and the Danaans, with their golden courage would stumble upon that tiny piece of forgotten lore. The foreign pirates would bring war to the infamous wall of Troy and breach it with their cunning and bleed Troy to death.

Behind the legendary stonework lay a giant maze of adjoining royal palaces, markets and households bustling with life. Roads paved with sun baked bricks connected the city like an orderly spider web. In the center of the labyrinth, the palace of king Priam towered over everything set high on its own hill. The polished limestone walls of the palace flashed in the sun like the Egyptian pyramids. Traveling merchants regaled how the celebrated Trojan horses were not the only commodity exchanged between the Trojans and the outside world converging through the narrows of the Dardanelles. The Trojans desired knowledge and innovative ideas, and above all else, beauty. They paid no attention to the portents that war was coming...

KING PRIAM BUILT
his royal headquarters into the marble ruins of his ancient grandfather’s palace. Like the never-ending curves of the plumbed stone around his city, Priam’s lineage extended far beyond the memory of any living Trojan. Heroic deeds of the proud ancestral line Priam worshipped richly decorated every carved relief and every brightly painted wall.

In the king’s private chamber, murals of brilliant azure blue, deep-sea green and coral red depicted Olympian and Trojan heroes tangled as one family. Gold hammered panels covered the entire ceiling and silver tiles veined with lapis lazuli edged the room at the seam of the floor and the walls. The royal windows reached beyond the highest point of an Indian elephant’s back and stretched as wide as seven men standing shoulder to shoulder. In the summer, the dry cool breath of the gods swept the floor licking white silk curtains into smoky swirls of fabric. In the winter, heavy drapes weft with unbleached wool and warped with golden threads sealed the king and queen in warm slumber.

Queen Hecuba awoke drenched in the sweat of a nightmare.
What have I done to offend Artemis? Maybe, Apollo?
The image of the burning log wedged between her thighs made her gasp. Her hands protectively caressed the swollen mound of her belly. The linen sheets, woven of the finest flax, lay heavy and suffocating on her skin. Her back ached with the child’s weight pressing against her lower spine. She could still hear herself screaming into the black void of the dream world. Hecuba awkwardly slid her legs over the bed’s edge trying not to wake her sleeping husband. Even as queen her body’s use and value lay in her ability to produce healthy sons for Troy.

Being with child made her feel less regal. The last weeks of pregnancy reminded Hecuba that she was like other mortal woman. She vomited at the sight of figs, her body swelled beyond recognition and she tired from just sitting in front of her weaving loom. Hecuba’s limbs lacked the royal grace she’d cultivated over time and with much practice. Waddling side to side, attempting to delicately balance her posture with a slight backward arch certainly bore no semblance to her imperial station. Her gait was womanly. Customary. Expected. Pregnancy made Hecuba acutely aware of her ordinariness as a woman and less like the Queen of Troy.

Silver moonlight pooled on the marble floor below the high window beckoning Hecuba into its glow. A cool breeze fluttered the privacy draping around the palace balcony. She craved the cool night air on her face and against her damp skin.

Standing on the private veranda, Hecuba could see the outline of Troy all the way to the sea, reaching far into the blackness of the night. The orange glow of lit lamps dotted the palace windows, comforting her, reminding her of the peace Troy had enjoyed in recent months. The child stretched and kicked inside her, and her hands caressed the mound of her belly as the pull of the moon goddess stirred her unborn son to life.

The image of her dream flashed again, haunting her, etching its brutality into her waking memory and she struggled to shake it free. The dream had awakened her darkest and most dreaded fear. The loss of the two unborn children after Hektor had pained her heart and all but destroyed her. With each loss, she had prayed for mercy from the gods. But it wasn’t from the gods she reached for strength. Without Priam’s love, she knew she would’ve surely faded into the shadows and never recovered. Only recently had she even dared to hope that this child would come to the light as another proud young prince for Troy. She imagined Hektor, her eldest son, and his younger brother, the one kicking her ribs, striding side by side into golden fields...

“What is it my wife?” King Priam’s voice was rough with sleep and soothed Hecuba from across the room. She watched the dark outline of her husband’s body as he lit a bedside oil lamp, its glow a floating orb of light against the purple night as he walked to her side offering her the reassurance of his company.

“It is nothing, my love. The child is restless.”

“You and our son will catch a chill.” He stated matter-of-factly, as he stepped behind her, wrapping a shawl around Hecuba’s shoulders. Priam pressed his chest against her back encircling her roundness in the hollow of his arms, his hands reaching for the familiar curves of her widening waist and heavy breasts. The king’s lips brushed against the nape of her neck and his warm breath tickled as he spoke, “You are too tempting without a covering.”

“Surely, one of your concubines would please more than I.”

“None that I desire more than my sweet Hecuba.”

Hecuba slapped Priam’s arm. “Leave me be.”

“We are no strangers to these discomforts are we, my love?”

Hecuba reluctantly accepted the tradition that as Queen of Troy, she would never be the only woman in her husband’s life. The king’s councilors had urged him to take more wives and concubines after she’d lost the children after Hektor. Custom, after all, decreed that the king of Troy should have as many children as possible to secure the royal line and breed strong, valiant Trojan warriors. As king, Priam must father as many sons in his lifetime as possible. In these moments of weakness and self-doubt, she reminded herself that he’d chosen her for love, not simply lust. He proved his absolute loyalty by sharing his royal bed only with her, his queen, every night without fail. No concubines or other wives desecrated their private chambers. Priam never remained long in the arms of another woman after mating. He always returned to her freshly bathed. She had never caught the lingering scent of another woman on her husband’s skin or dress. He made sure her heart felt safe, and she returned his love in full measure without reservation.

“I had a dream, Priam. It frightened me,” she finally admitted.

“It is not unusual to have troublesome sleep when you are with child. You should know that. You worried incessantly when you carried Hektor.”

She knew he’d carefully avoided any reference to their shared loss. “This was different, Priam. This felt real. I could smell the smoke. I heard myself screaming, and the horrible wailing from below the palace.”

“Consult Iphicrates in the morning, if it will ease your mind. Now, come to bed, wife. I grow cold.”  Hecuba turned in his arms, catching the mischievous gleam in his eye. She smiled up at him. She couldn’t help herself. He may complain of chilled skin, but his cock throbbed with the heat of desire.

“You will keep me with child until I am old and gray.”

He stung her buttocks with a firm slap. “That would not be such a bad thing.” He lifted his pregnant wife in mock protest and carried her to bed. Despite her giant belly, she wrapped her legs around his still narrow waist. He growled into her neck, biting and kissing her. She responded with equal enthusiasm nipping the square of his chin. She grabbed his curly black hair at the nape of his neck pulling his head closer so her teeth could find his earlobe, then she kissed softly down his neck, surprising him with a rough bite on the shoulder. He untangled her legs from his waist and lay her down against the pillows.

“You are a playful woman,” he laughed. “And you will pay for assaulting your king so harshly.”

Hecuba laughed, “Take your payment.”

Priam settled several pillows behind her. He moved between her legs on his knees and pushed the silken folds of her gown passed her thighs exposing her sacred cross. He smiled down at her. Hecuba’s skin heated under his passionate gaze. Priam bent down and kissed the insides of her thighs, nibbling her soft flesh, moving his kisses to her center until she begged him to stop, squeezing her knees around his head.

“Now, I will take your treasure,” he said, sliding his body up between her legs. He plunged his desire deep inside her. He moved with deliberate pace until Hecuba dug her fingers into his shoulders begging for him to quicken his love making. She wrapped her legs around his thighs urging him faster. When her pleasured moans echoed across the chamber, Priam quickened his pace roaring his pleasure over hers. They collapsed together, their legs tangled in the linen. With a content sigh, Priam collapsed on his side and fell back into an easy sleep.

IN THE MORNING
, Hecuba summoned the royal seer. Sleep had eluded her, even after engaging in rigorous love making with her husband. Any other night and she would have fallen quickly into a deep slumber, but the dream had chased her in the darkness, stirring up worry and concern with each passing hour.

Every day the routine remained the same. Her attendants brushed her dark hair arranging intricate curls or braids pinned with precious metals and pearls and gemstones to match her garments. They brought her fresh bread with olive oil, fruit and salted dried fish. She thought it strange how the mere smell of a fig could bring her to nausea yet salted fish made her salivate with hunger.

“My lady, he is here,” Tessa interrupted Hecuba’s silence. The maid servant had served in Hecuba’s father’s house, proving her steadfastness and loyalty. When she’d married Priam, Tessa had been sent to live with her in Troy. Hecuba decided long ago that only the most trustworthy of slaves should attend her as queen.

“Let him in, then leave us,” Hecuba said.

“As you desire, my lady.”

Iphicrates entered with the scent of incense trailing behind him. His robe swept the marble floor as he breezed through the doorway. This morning in particular his presence unnerved Hecuba. His divinations almost always came to fruition. Iphicrates’ ability as a dream interpreter had gained him to the king’s attention. After an extended period of trials, Iphicrates assumed the mantle as chief royal diviner. The smoky sweetness of temple incense nauseated queen, she pressed her palm against her stomach trying to calm the discomfort. Sweat dampened the nape of her neck as she recalled her dream. Hecuba began to doubt whether she should share the contents of her nightmare with anyone, let alone Iphicrates.
I don’t want to know. What good can come from knowing? Perhaps, I am better not knowing. It is most likely nothing.
But, even now she couldn’t deny the vividness of the dream. The blazing images frightened her.

“I am here to serve you, my queen. The king informed me you have had a troubling vision.”

“A dream.”

“Dreams rarely cause us to lose sleep if they have no meaning. What other purpose would the gods have to enter our dreams, if not to warn through vision?” Iphicrates replied.

Hecuba pressed her hands together. Her throat tightened around the words she feared to utter. Concerns for her unborn child’s safety filled her with dread. She couldn’t bear it if she lost another child. She didn’t want to hear the words. Her chest tightened painfully under her breastbone.

“Go ahead, my lady, release your dream from its cage.”

She inhaled, choking slightly on the stench of incense. She whispered hoarsely, “I lay on the bed. In labor.”

The queen’s chin quivered ever so slightly, but Iphicrates missed nothing and noted the small sign of panic and grief. He knew full well the trials Queen Hecuba had faced in recent years. “Go on. Tell me everything.”

“There was difficulty delivering the child. As if he lodged unmoving in the birth canal. A burning sensation began to fill me. I heard a woman crying for me to push. Push the child out.”

“Continue.” The seer’s brow knitted into tight rows of wrinkles. He contemplated his queen’s words carefully, the meaning emerging like a dusty cloud on a distant horizon. His mind tumbled one word over the other polishing an interpretation like a precious stone.

“I pushed the child out. But it was no child. I beheld a burning log…it was hideous. And I screamed myself awake.”

Iphicrates stood silent for many moments as the vision uncloaked itself layer by layer. He took in the smell of charred wood, then the stench of burnt flesh. Gray smoke clouded his vision, blurring his natural sight opening up his prophetic inner eye. As the hazy ethereal mist faded, Iphicrates’ eyes filled with tears that did not spill. The queen’s dream prophesied a dreadful future for Troy. The remedy pushed to the surface by Apollo’s golden hand called that a drastic rite be carried out. He wiped the unshed tears on the back of his hand with a quick flourish. He hoped his life would be spared when his revelation met breath.

“Well?” Hecuba inquired gently, fearfully.

“My queen,” he started and stopped. “This is best discussed in the presence of the king.”

Hecuba exhaled her exasperation. She narrowed her eyes contemplating the seer’s motives. She was angry at her earlier vulnerability and that she’d allowed him to observe it. Hecuba vowed to remember his shrewd manner. “Tessa! Fetch the king at once.” A small metallic click of a door latch told Hecuba her loyal chamber maid had heard and obeyed her command.
Bless that woman for her watchful ears and eyes
. “You may as well sit, Iphicrates.”