Lord of the Silver Bow (31 page)

“Indeed, lord. Three times.”

“Extraordinary. Where did you acquire it?”

“It is from my own cloth and my own dye, lord.”

“Even better. We shall find time to talk. A cloth of jet will earn gold in every country around the Great Green.”

He smiled at Cthosis and walked away.

The soldiers filed out after him, and the doors closed. For a moment no one said anything. Then the Phrygian horse breeder walked to the dais, dropped to his knees, and laid his hand on the severed head.

“You never learned how to listen, little brother,” he said. “But you were a good lad always. I shall miss you greatly.”

He picked up the sack and then stood by, uncertain. Cthosis approached him.

“I do not believe the king would object if you removed your brother’s head,” he said.

“You think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

The man sighed. “He paid a heavy price for a few ill-spoken words.”

“Indeed he did.”

Cthosis left the hall and strolled out to the courtyard. Many of the leaders had gathered together and were talking quietly. Cthosis eased his way through the group, heading out toward an open area overlooking the cliff path leading up to the fortress gates.

A line of men was moving through the gates, carrying baskets of food, ready for the feast.

Idly he watched them. Then his interest quickened. A big man was coming through the gate, carrying a sheep on his shoulders.

Cthosis walked swiftly down toward him, fully expecting to be wrong in his identification. As he came closer, his heart began to beat rapidly. He was heavily bearded now, but there was no mistaking those magnificent eyes. It was Prince Ahmose.

What wonder was this? The second in line to the great pharaoh was working as a servant in the fortress of Dardanos.

The big man saw him and smiled. “It seems you have done well for yourself, eunuch,” he said.

Cthosis lowered his head and bowed. “Oh, no need for that,” said Ahmose. “As you can see, I am no longer the pharaoh’s grandson. I am, like you, a man with a price on his head.”

“I am sorry, lord. You were kind to me.”

“No need for pity. I am content. Do you serve here?”

“No, lord. I am a merchant. I make and sell cloth. It would be an honor to fashion you a tunic.”

“You may stop calling me ‘lord’—Cthosis, isn’t it?”

“Yes, lord. Oh . . . I am sorry.”

Ahmose laughed. “I am known now as Gershom.”

“How strange,” said Cthosis. “A long time since I heard that word. My people use it to describe foreigners.”

“That is why I chose it. You are one of the desert folk?”

“Yes . . . well, I was once. Before my father sold me to the palace.”

“A curious race,” said Gershom. “However, I cannot stand here talking of old times. There is work to be done for your feast.” He clapped Cthosis on the shoulder. “Rameses was furious when he found out I freed you. It cost me two hundred talents of silver and my best warhorse.”

“I will always be grateful, lord. If ever you need anything . . .”

“Don’t make promises, my friend. Those who are discovered to have aided me will face a harsh reckoning.”

“Even so. Should you ever need anything, you have only to ask. All that I have is at your disposal.”

II

Helikaon left the assembly and strode through the palace. The old general Pausanius tried to intercept him, but he shook his head and waved the man away. Climbing the worn steps to the battlements, he tilted his head to the sky, drawing in deep calming breaths. His stomach began to settle.

Noticing a sentry watching him, he moved back inside, making his way through to the old royal apartments and his childhood rooms. Dust lay over the floor, and there were cobwebs across the balcony entrance. Brushing them aside, he stepped out. The ancient rickety chair was still there, the wood paled and cracked by the sun. Kneeling down, he traced his fingers over the carved horse in the backrest.

This was the throne he had sat on as a child, king of a pretend world in which all men were contented and there were no wars. He had never in those days dreamed of battle and glory. Moving back from the chair, he slumped down to the cold stone and rested his head on the low balcony rail. Closing his eyes, he saw again the severed head on the table. It merged with that of Zidantas.

He could almost hear Ox speak.
You think that boy in the hall deserved to die so that you could make a point? Could you not have won them over with the conviction of your words, the power of your mind? Does it always have to be death with you?

Helikaon stared at the chair, picturing the little boy who had sat there. “Sometimes,” he told him, “such deeds are necessary. I once saw Odysseus cut open a crewman’s chest to pull out an arrowhead that had lodged there. Sometimes the evil needs to be cut free.”

Do not seek to fool yourself,
said the voice of Ox.
Do not rationalize your evil and seek to make it something good. Yes, the men will follow you now. Yes, the realm is safe from discord. Yes, you are a king. Your father would be so proud of you!

Helikaon’s anger rose. It is not Ox talking to you, he told himself. It is your own weakness. The man was warned and chose to ignore it. His death achieved more in one blood-drenched moment than a torrent of words could have. And that is the truth of it!

The truth is a many-costumed whore,
came Odysseus’ voice in his mind.
Seems to me she will offer a man valid reasons for any deed, no matter how ghastly.

A rumble of thunder came from the distance, and a cold wind began to blow.

Helikaon pushed himself to his feet and took a last look around the home of his childhood, then walked out and down to the lower apartments, where the wounded men of his crew were being cared for. He stopped and spoke to each man, then went in search of Attalus.

He found him in a side garden, his chest and side bandaged. Sitting alone in the shadows of a late-flowering tree, he was whittling a length of wood. Helikaon approached him. “The surgeon says you were lucky, my friend. The knife missed your heart by a whisker.”

Attalus nodded. “Lucky day for you, too,” he said.

“It always helps when good friends are close by. It surprised me to see you there. Oniacus tells me you had decided to quit the crew.”

“Surprised me, too,” admitted Attalus.

Helikaon sat alongside him. The man continued to whittle. “If you want to leave for Troy when you are well, I will see you are given a good horse and a pouch of gold. You are welcome, though, to stay in Dardanos and enjoy my hospitality for the winter.”

Attalus put down his knife, and his shoulders sagged. “You owe me nothing.”

“I owe any man who chooses to fight alongside me, most especially when he is no longer a member of my crew.”

“I just got drawn in, that’s all. Had my own reasons for being there.” Attalus sat silently for a moment. Then he looked at Helikaon. “It is not over, you know.”

“I know that. The assassin Karpophorus has been paid to end my life. They say he is the finest killer on the Great Green. He was also the man who murdered my father. Here in this very fortress.”

“Oniacus told me no one knew who killed Anchises.”

Helikaon sat down opposite Attalus. “I only found out recently.” He gazed around the garden. “This is a peaceful place. I used to play here as a child.”

Attalus did not respond and returned to his whittling.

“Rest and regain your strength, Attalus. And if you need anything, ask and it will be supplied for you.” Helikaon stood up, ready to leave.

“I am not a good man,” Attalus said suddenly, his face reddening. “Everyone treats me like a good man. I don’t like it!”

The outburst surprised Helikaon. Attalus had always seemed so calm and in control. Resuming his seat, he looked at the crewman. He was tense now, and his eyes looked angry. “We are none of us good men,” Helikaon said softly. “Today I had a man killed merely to make a point. He may well have been a good man. We are all flawed, Attalus. We all carry the weight of our deeds. And we will all answer for them, I think. All I know of you is that you have proved a loyal crewman and a brave companion. I also know you were hired by Zidantas. The Ox was a fine judge of fighting men. Your past means nothing here, only the deeds of the present and the future.”

“Past, present, and future—it is all the same,” said Attalus, his shoulders slumping. “They are what they are. We are what we are. Nothing changes.”

“I don’t know if that is true. My life has changed now three times: once when I was a small child and my mother died, once when Odysseus came and took me aboard the
Penelope,
and then when my father was murdered. That still haunts me. I left here as a frightened boy. My father told me he loathed me. I came back as a man, hoping that he would be proud.” Helikaon fell silent, surprised at himself for sharing his thoughts with a relative stranger. He saw that Attalus was looking at him. “I don’t usually talk like this,” he said, suddenly embarrassed.

“A man who tells his child he loathes him,” said Attalus, his voice trembling, “isn’t worth rat’s piss. So why care whether he would have been proud or not?” Sheathing his dagger, he threw aside the whittled wood and rose to his feet. “I’m tired. I’ll rest now.”

Helikaon remained where he was as the slim sailor returned to the fortress.

Not worth rat’s piss.

The simple truth of the words cut through years of hidden anguish. The weight of regret suddenly lifted. Anchises had never been a father to him, had cared nothing for him. He was coldhearted and manipulative and had spent years tormenting a lost and lonely child. Attalus was right.

And the dark shadow of Anchises melted from his mind like mist in the sunlight.

XXVI

APHRODITE’S LEAP

I

That autumn and winter in Dardania were the worst in living memory. Fierce storms lashed the coastline. Swollen rivers burst their banks, bringing down bridges. Several low-lying villages were washed away in the floods. Into that chaos came bands of outlaws and rogue mercenary groups, preying on the populace.

Helikaon traveled the land, leading troops to hunt them down. Three battles were fought before midwinter. Two were indecisive, with the mercenaries escaping into the mountains. The third saw a mercenary force of some seven hundred men routed. Helikaon had the leaders executed and the hundred or so survivors sold into slavery.

Messengers from Troy brought no good news. Hektor was still missing even though the brief war between the Hittite empire and Egypte was over. The last anyone had seen of the Trojan prince, he had been facing impossible odds with no escape route. Helikaon did not believe Hektor was dead. The man was vibrant with life. If a mountain fell on him, he would burrow his way out. If the sea rose over him, he would emerge riding a dolphin.

Hektor was invincible.

Even so, as the weeks went by, a gnawing worry gripped him.

What if the inconceivable proved to be true?

Priam was hated by most of his sons and many of his followers. If he was toppled, civil war would follow. All alliances would be voided. The war inevitably would spread to encompass all the lands of the eastern coastline as Priam’s warring sons forged new alliances. Trade would suffer, the flow of wealth drying up. Merchants, farmers, traders, and cattle breeders would see their profits tumble. Without markets for their goods they would release workers. More and more people would find themselves without the means to buy food. That in turn would lead to unrest and the swelling of outlaw bands. Agamemnon and the Mykene would be jubilant. How much more simple their plans would become if the armies of the east tore into one another in a great bloodletting.

As the first cold winds of winter blew in from the north, Helikaon was back at the fortress of Dardanos. The queen, Halysia, had recovered from her physical wounds but rarely ventured out into the public eye. Helikaon tried to draw her into the running of the realm, but she refused.

“Everyone knows what was done to me,” she said. “I see it in their eyes.”

“The people love you, Halysia. And so they should. You are a caring queen. The works of evil men have not changed that.”

“Everything has changed,” she said. “The sun no longer shines for me.”

He left her then, for he had no words to pierce the walls of her sorrow. That afternoon Pausanius came to him, telling him a Mykene ambassador had arrived from Troy.

“You want me to send him away?” The old general looked nervous.

“Why would I do that?”

“He may have learned of the attack on Pithros.”

“I am sure that he has.”

“You do not fear war with the Mykene?”

“Bring him to me, Pausanius, and then remain, but say nothing.”

The ambassador was a slender redheaded man, who introduced himself as Erekos. He entered the
megaron
and offered no bow.

“Greetings, King Helikaon. I hope I find you well.”

“Indeed you do, Erekos. How may we assist you?”

“We have received disturbing news from the island of Pithros. A ship beached there recently and found hundreds of corpses. All the houses were empty and plundered, and most of the women and children removed.”

“Consider it my gift to King Agamemnon.”

“Your gift? The island of Pithros is Mykene land.”

“Indeed it is, and so it remains,” said Helikaon. “It had also become a pirate haven, and from its bays their galleys attacked merchant vessels or raided coastal settlements. You will know that my own fortress was attacked and my brother slain.” Helikaon paused and watched the man.

Erekos looked away. “Yes, the news of the . . . atrocity . . . reached us. Appalling. But you had no right to bring troops to a Mykene island without first seeking the permission of Agamemnon King.”

“Not so, Erekos. My father, Anchises, forged a treaty with King Atreus. In it both nations pledged to support the other against pirates and raiders. What greater support could I offer the son of Atreus than to expel pirates from a Mykene island and to make the Great Green safer for Mykene trading ships?”

Erekos stood silently, his face pale. “You wish me to convey to my king that you invaded Mykene lands as a gift to him?”

“What else could it be but a gift?” asked Helikaon. “Two hundred dead pirates and an island returned to Mykene rule. And you can assure your king that come the spring my fleet will continue to hunt pirates and kill them
wherever
they find them.”

“You will not again invade Mykene lands, King Helikaon.”

“Mykene lands?” responded Helikaon, feigning surprise. “By the gods, have pirates conquered even more Mykene territory? This is grim news.”

“No territory has been conquered,” replied Erekos, his voice becoming shrill. He took a deep, calming breath. “What I am saying, King Helikaon, is that the Mykene will deal with any pirates who might seek to hide on Mykene lands.”

“Ah, I see,” said Helikaon, nodding. “It is a question of martial pride. I understand that and would wish to cause King Agamemnon no embarrassment. He has suffered so much of late. It must be galling for him.”

“Galling? I do not understand.”

“Two of his Followers turning rogue. First Alektruon, who I understand was a favorite of the king. Then Kolanos becoming a pirate. Oh—I almost forgot—then there is Argurios, who I understand has been declared a traitor and an outlaw. And now to discover that pirates had overrun a Mykene island . . .” Helikaon shook his head, adopting an expression of sympathy. “It will make him wonder what disasters are yet to befall him. However, you can assure the king of my friendship. Now, will you stay and dine with us, Erekos?”

“No, King Helikaon, though I thank you for your courtesy. I must return to Troy. There are matters there that need my attention.”

After Erekos had left, Pausanius stepped forward, a wide smile on his face. “I enjoyed that, my king. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.”

“Agamemnon will not laugh when he hears of it.”

“You think he will declare war on us?”

“I doubt it. How can he make war on a friend who has aided him?”

“But they were
his
pirates.”

“Indeed they were. We know it, he knows it, but other kings around the Great Green do not. If he makes war on Dardania following an attack on pirates, it will be an admission that he is behind the pirate raids.”

“I hope you are right, my king.”

II

One midwinter night another messenger arrived from Troy. Nasiq was a young Phrygian scribe employed by one of Helikaon’s merchant allies. He brought scrolls and messages concerning the needs of the coming trading season and accountings of the previous trading year. More than that, though, he was a raconteur and an outrageous gossip. Helikaon always enjoyed his winter visits.

“What news, Nasiq, my friend?” he asked as they sat down to eat in the king’s apartments.

The slender Phrygian lifted a small delicacy from a silver plate. It was minced lamb wrapped in a vine leaf. He sniffed at it, then took a bite. “Oh, my dear, there is so much to tell. Who would you like to hear of first?”

“What of Hektor?”

“No word. Many of the Trojan Horse have now returned to the city. Others remained around Kadesh with Hittite soldiers, searching for him. It does not look as if there will be good news. The last time anyone saw him, he and around fifty of his men were surrounded and outnumbered and night was falling.”

“What is the mood in the city?”

“Fractious. Two of Priam’s sons—Isos and Pammon—have fled the city. They were about to be arrested, I understand.”

“I know them both. Neither has the wit to organize a revolt or the following to inspire insurrection.”

“I agree. They would be serving someone else. Fat Antiphones has been stripped of his titles and ordered not to leave his palace. He was seen meeting in secret with the Mykene ambassador, Erekos.”

“I met him,” said Helikaon. “A cold and unpleasant man. It would surprise me, however, to learn that Antiphones was a traitor. He is more interested in food than power. Polites is a possibility. He is no warrior, but he has a sharp mind.”

“And Priam is said to enjoy riding his wife. Rumor has it that Polites’ two sons share an interesting trait. Their father is also their grandfather.”

Helikaon chuckled and shook his head. “You really are a dreadful gossip, Nasiq. It shames me that I am amused by it.” His smile faded. “However, Polites is a possibility, as is Agathon.”

“Agathon has always been as loyal as Hektor,” Nasiq pointed out.

“Largely
because
of Hektor. They are great friends. But Priam does not favor Agathon. Never has. He judges him against Hektor. I remember once the king saying publicly that Agathon and Hektor were like two identical statues, save that one was cast in gold, the other in copper.” Helikaon swore. “Priam is an unpleasant man and always finds exactly the right insult to wound the deepest.”

“Is there anyone in high position that Priam has not insulted?” queried Nasiq.

“Probably not. Let us talk of other news. What of Andromache?”

“Ah, wonderful stories!” Nasiq hesitated. “Are you friends with the lady?”

“What difference would that make to the stories?”

“I’m not sure. She is the talk of Troy . . . for many reasons. Some high, some low.”

“I want no low tales concerning her,” Helikaon said sharply. The wind blew in from the open balcony, causing a lamp to gutter. He rose and pulled the doors closed, then relit the lamp.

Nasiq sat silently for a few moments more. Then he gave a wry smile. “Rather a large difference, then.”

Helikaon relaxed. “Begin your tale,” he said.

“Very well. You heard she saved the king’s life?”

Helikaon was shocked, then he chuckled. “Is there some fine and witty line that ends this Odyssean fable?”

“No, it is true,” insisted Nasiq. Helikaon listened as the Phrygian told the story of the archery tourney and how Andromache had killed the assassin. “The traitor had reached the king and was poised to strike him down when Andromache’s arrow pierced his heart. The king praised her before the crowd, saying she was indeed a fit bride for his Hektor.”

“By the gods,” whispered Helikaon, “she is a woman to treasure.”

“Prince Agathon obviously agrees with you. It is said he has asked Andromache to marry him if Hektor does not return.”

“Has she . . . accepted Agathon’s advances?”

“I have no knowledge that she has or she hasn’t,” answered Nasiq. “Of course she would be a fool not to. He is young, rich, and . . . depending on circumstances . . . could one day be king.”

“What else can you tell me of Andromache?”

Nasiq chuckled. “She swam with a naked man in front of the royal princes.”

“Is this gossip or reality?” asked Helikaon, holding back his anger.

“Reality, my lord. A friend of mine was on the royal beach at the time. The king’s daughter, Laodike, had invited a wounded Mykene warrior to the beach. All skin and bone he was, apparently. Hardly able to breathe. Andromache went swimming with him.”

“Argurios,” said Helikaon.

“Yes, that was the man. Famous, they say.”

“Go on.”

“When they emerged from the water, Prince Deiphobos harangued her, and then the Mykene challenged him. It should have been amusing. A tottering skeleton demanding a sword. But he frightened Deiphobos. Agathon came to his rescue and calmed the situation. Who else would you like to hear of?”

“Was that what you meant by low tales?”

Nasiq leaned back. “Now you are drawing me into dangerous territory, Golden One. You have already made it clear the lady is a friend of yours and you want to hear no ill of her. So what would you have me say?”

Helikaon sat silently for a moment. “Tell me all,” he said at last.

“When I arrived here earlier, the palace servants were talking of a man who offended you at a recent meeting. They said his head was put on display. I am rather fond of my head.”

“Your head is safe, Nasiq. You are too good a gossip to kill. My winter evenings would be dull indeed without you.”

“Very well, but remember, you asked. Kreusa claimed to have discovered her frolicking naked with a female servant. This was reported to the king, who had the servant whipped and then dismissed from the palace. Andromache was furious and accosted Kreusa publicly. Kreusa slapped her, and Andromache hit her with her fist. Said to have been a fine blow. An uppercut, according to one witness. Kreusa was knocked senseless and had to be carried to her bed. Everyone expected Andromache to be sent back in shame to her father. Priam chose to ignore the incident, probably because he owed her his life. Now the palace is seething with rumors concerning the king and Andromache.”

“I have heard enough,” Helikaon said stiffly. “How is Queen Hekabe?”

“She continues to cling to life. She is even entertaining guests. The youngest daughter of the king of Sparta is staying at the palace. Ostensibly she is there to find a suitable husband. The belief, though, is that her father sent her away to keep her safe. Mykene armies are massing on Sparta’s borders. There is likely to be a war in the spring, and Sparta’s small army cannot stand against Agamemnon’s forces.”

Just then there was a soft knock at the outer door.

The old general Pausanius entered. “My apologies for disturbing you, lord,” he said. “I need to speak to you . . . privately.”

Nasiq rose. “Matters of state must always take precedence,” he said with a smile at Pausanius. Then he left the room.

“What is wrong?” asked Helikaon.

“The queen has left her apartments. Her handmaiden says she saw her walking toward Aphrodite’s Leap.” The old general paled. “I am sorry, my king. That was crass of me.”

“I will find her,” said Helikaon.

III

As she walked the high rocky path in the faint light of dawn, Halysia could barely distinguish between the mist rising from the crumbling cliff edge under her bare feet and the dark fog lying across her mind. People talked of broken hearts, but they were wrong. Broken was somehow complete, finished, over. The real sensation was of continual breaking, an everlasting wound, sharp and jagged, like claws of bronze biting into the soft tissue of the heart. The mind became a cruel enemy, closing off reality for brief periods. Sometimes she would forget that Dio had been murdered. She would look at the sunlit sky and smile and wonder—just for a moment—where he was. Then the truth would plunge home, and the bronze talons would sink once more into her wounded heart.