Chapter Eleven: One Devil Is Like Another

Cassandra bobbed her head to the tune of what Hecabe thought to be some private music but was really the shrillness of screams that only the mad child of Priam could hear. In her mind brave men prayed to the gods for death, for relief, for some end to the pain. Begging their dearest friends to kill them now and end their suffering as blood chokes from their gagging mouths, spilling down their necks in a watery gush crimson spit.
Rocking perpetually, the mad daughter of Priam stared out ahead of her at the green and white tiled wall, her confused musing whisper soft as if she were confiding to the air. Behind her, her mother talked about this and that, rumor and scandal, marriages and mistresses, new babies and unfortunate deaths. It was somewhere in this ramble of gossip and mild intrigue that Hecabe happened to mention that Hector had sent word ahead that negotiations with Sparta had failed rather horribly for some reason, and that explanations would surface upon his imminent return to Troy.
The seconds ago calm and serene Cassandra was burned away as a rabid, screaming, violent Cassandra burst up from the bed, knocking over the tray heavy table and throwing herself against the polished walls. Hecabe drew back against the bed, shocked and horrified by this dark turn in her daughter's demeanor. A guard outside could be heard unlocking the door and calling down the hall for aid. Before he managed his swift way in to escort the Queen from the cell and restrain the princess, Hecabe solemnly swore she heard Cassandra whimper pitifully, "Apollo has seen it. I have seen it. Now you will see it."
As Hecabe ran from the small room, Cassandra keened.

The massive wooden doors of king Agamemnon's audience room were thrown open by impassive guards who knew better than to question the man who swept by them into the hall, wearing such rage on his shoulders like a rancid burden. The nobles dressed in red and black, speaking quietly among stoic statues of solid, gleaming gold fell to a hush as the king's brother, Menelaus of Sparta, marched through to the dais.
The men he'd shed like a cloak at the doorway crowded there in obedient formation.
The two kings embraced.
"I want him back." Menelaus demanded churlishly.
"Well, of course you do." Agamemnon commiserated. "He's a beautiful boy and untouched I hear."
"I want him back," the Spartan king ground out, "so that I can ride him until he dies under me, begging me. For this I won't rest till I've burned Troy to the ground. They will not deny ME!"
"I thought you wanted peace with Troy," Agamemnon crooned, his opulently colorful and beguilingly intricate robe draping down his arms as he reached out to clutch his brother's amiably.
Menelaus admitted quietly, "I should have listened to you."
"Peace is for the women… and the weak," the King of Kings imparted, looking from the men waiting impatiently from all corners of the room back to his humbled brother. "Empires are forged by war."
"All my life, I've stood by your side, fought your enemies. You're the elder, you keep the glory." Menelaus stood back, pulling himself up. "This is the way of the world. But have I ever complained? Have I ever asked you for anything?"
"Never. You're a man of honor."
"Will you go to war with me brother?"
Agamemnon raised his left right hand. Menelaus clasped it in his left, the meeting a grip that sealed their contract. Sparta and Mycenae, and through Agamemnon all of the Greek powers, declared there in the audience hall, war on Troy. Over his brother's shoulder, cold eyes searched the faces of his allies and pawns, tools and impediments, thinking on how easily a few honeyed words, spoken with care at the opportune moment, could so sway his sibling. It near made him ill, thinking that his own blood could be so susceptible to suggestion and a pleasing turn of phrase, even while it served his purpose.
His brothers demanding cock had paved the way for his own ambitions.
Menelaus's reasons were prideful, certainly not righteous, but they were all the same when the outcome bore the desired fruit; fruit that he would pluck, ripe and swollen with possibilities. His uncomprehending brother was simply a means to an end. In his eyes, the Princes' had defied him by not allowing him his rut and this affronted his natural sense of entitlement. While morally, Troy had the justice of the God's, victory was predicated not on scruples but the strength of will to take the plotted objective at any cost.
His brother saw the perceived wrong done him, not what the consequences of retaliation could bring him, and that was why Menelaus would die in the winter of his usefulness and Agamemnon would own the Aegean by years end.

TBC...
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