Fall of Kings (13 page)

“It is oar six, lower starboard,” Oniacus said.

“Yes,” Helikaon replied. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Hatch cover slammed on his finger. Nothing serious. Probably lose the nail.”

Gershom, who had joined them, stared over the side. “I can see nothing wrong
with oar six,” he commented.

“Look harder,” Helikaon told him.

The Egypteian narrowed his eyes. “I cannot see what you see,” he admitted at
last.

“The rhythm is fine, but the oar is not biting as deeply as it should. There
is a slight imbalance in our forward motion. If you close your eyes, you will
feel it.”

Helikaon saw Gershom staring at him disbelievingly. “It is not a jest, my
friend.”

Gershom swung to Oniacus. “You could feel this… this imbalance from one oar in
eighty? Speak truly now!”

Oniacus nodded. “The pain in his hand is causing him to jerk slightly as he
dips his oar. I told him to rest it today, but he is a proud man.”

Several black-headed gulls appeared overhead, swooping and diving. “Did you
feel that?” Gershom said suddenly.

“What?” Oniacus asked.

“One of the gulls shit on the deck. Wait while I adjust my stance to take in
the new weight distribution.”

Oniacus laughed. “We are not mocking you, Gershom. If you had spent as many
years as we have aboard ship, you, too, would feel every small change in the
performance of the
Xanthos.
As our supplies dwindle and we ride higher in
the water, or if the sail is wet, or the oarsmen weary.”

Gershom seemed unconvinced, but he shrugged. “I will take you at your word.
So where are we heading tonight?”

“Perhaps Naxos, perhaps Minoa. I have not yet decided,” Helikaon said.

“A good trading settlement on Kronos Beach,” Oniacus put in.

“And a Kretan garrison,” Helikaon replied.

“True, but local militia. I’ll wager they wouldn’t object to a little profit.
And I am tired of dried meat and thin broth. You will recall there is a fine
baker there.”

“Oniacus has convinced me,” Gershom said. “Where is Kronos Beach?”

“On the island of Naxos,” Helikaon told him.

“The largest island of the Great Circle,” Oniacus added. “A place of great
beauty. It is where I met my wife.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Then Helikaon spoke. “Oniacus is right,”
he told Gershom. “It is a beautiful island, but Minoa may be the safer
alternative. The king there has not yet declared himself in the war. He is a
canny man and will wait until he is sure which side will be victorious. More
important, he has only five war galleys and will be in no hurry to attack the
Xanthos.
”

Moving away from Gershom, Helikaon signaled the men standing by the mast to
raise the yard and unfurl the sail. Once the black horse fluttered into view,
Oniacus called out the order to ship oars.

The rain began again, lightly spattering the deck. Helikaon stared down
toward the prow. The small tent had been repaired, and he could see Andromache
and Kassandra standing by the rail.

“Has Andromache done something to offend you?” Gershom asked.

“Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“You have hardly spoken to her on the voyage.”

It was true, but he did not wish to speak of it to Gershom. Instead he
strolled down the central aisle toward the two women. As he came closer, he saw
they were watching a dolphin. Andromache looked up as he approached, and he felt
the power of her green eyes. But it was Kassandra who spoke.

“Cavala is still with us,” she said, pointing at the dolphin.

“Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” he asked her.

“No. Gershom caught me. He is very strong.” She shivered. “I wish we had a
fire. It is very cold.”

Helikaon saw that her lips were blue. Shrugging off his heavy cloak, he
draped it over her shoulders. She drew it tightly around her.

“Sit in the tent for a while, away from the wind,” he advised.

She smiled up at him. “Are you worried about me? Or do you want to speak
privately to Andromache?”

“I am worried about you, little cousin.”

“Then I will,” she said. “For you.”

Ducking her head, she disappeared into the small tent. Helikaon was suddenly
nervous. He met Andromache’s gaze. “I have rarely felt this awkward,” he said.

“Is this why you have avoided me since the voyage began?” Her gaze was cool,
and there was suppressed anger in her voice.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I do not know how to…” His voice tailed away. What could
he say? That all his life he had dreamed of finding love and that she was the
embodiment of that dream? That every day since he had met her she had been in
his heart? That upon falling asleep at night her face shimmered in his mind, and
upon waking his first thoughts were of her?

He sighed. “I cannot say what is in my heart,” he said at last. “Not to the
wife of a dear friend and the mother of his son.”

“Yes,” she said, “the son of the man I love—and love with all my heart.”

The words, spoken with such intensity and passion, tore into him. He stepped
back from her. “I am glad for you,” he managed to say. He saw there were tears
in her eyes.

Swinging away from her, he returned to the rear deck.

Gershom looked at him closely. “Are you all right? You are ashen.”

Helikaon ignored him and turned to Oniacus. “Southwest to Minoa,” he ordered.

Alkaios the king was not an ambitious man. The island of Minoa, with its rich
fertile soil, supplied enough wealth to keep him and his three wives happy.
Regular income from trading cattle and grain enabled him to maintain a small
fighting force: five war galleys to patrol the coast and five hundred soldiers
to defend the land. Neither the galleys nor the small army was strong enough to
make the kings of neighboring islands fear invasion or so weak that they
encouraged the same kings to consider attacking Minoa.

At twenty-eight years of age Alkaios was content with his life.

Success, as the king had discovered many years before, lay in harmony and
balance. That path had not been easy for Alkaios. As a child he had been
passionate and outspoken, much to the chagrin of his father, who had impressed
on him the need to control his emotions. All decisions, his father had
maintained, had to be based on rational thought and careful consideration. His
father continually had mocked him for his inability to think clearly. At the age
of twenty Alkaios finally had realized that his father was right. The
understanding that followed freed him, and he went to his father, thanked him,
plunged a dagger into his heart, and became king.

After that no one mocked him, and harmony and balance abounded. On the rare
occasions when someone put that harmony under threat, he found the dagger to be
a source of instant relief.

Not today, though, Alkaios thought irritably. Today there was little balance
to be found.

The previous day he had been preparing to move to his summer palace on the
western coast, away from the harsh northern winds of winter. Two of his wives
were pregnant, the third delightfully barren. The trading season had been,
despite the war, more profitable than last summer. The gods had, it seemed,
smiled upon Alkaios.

Then the Mykene galley had returned, and now, his journey to the southwest
delayed, he was forced to play the genial host with two of Agamemnon’s
creatures, one a snake and one a lion. Both were dangerous.

The pale-eyed Mykene ambassador Kleitos was pointing out how greatly
Agamemnon King would appreciate it if next summer’s Minoan grain could be used
to feed the armies of the west once the invasion of Troy began.

The voice of Kleitos droned on. Alkaios was barely listening. He had heard it
before. Minoan grain was shipped all over the Great Green, and the profits were
high. Supplying Agamemnon would be, as Kleitos so disingenuously put it, an “act
of faith.” The profits for Alkaios, he maintained, would be handsome, and paid
from the sacked treasury of Troy. Alkaios had suppressed a smile at that. As his
father once had said, “You don’t pull a lion’s teeth until you see the flies on
its tongue.” At the thought of lions Alkaios flicked a glance at the second
Mykene, the warrior Persion.

Powerfully built, with a black forked beard, Persion stood silently by, one
hand on his sword. Alkaios knew his type. The arrogance in his dark eyes spoke
of victories. This was a warrior, a killer, and probably at times an assassin.
Persion stood unblinking and statue-still, his presence a mute warning: Those
who went against Agamemnon’s wishes did not survive very long.

Alkaios leaned back in his chair and called for more wine. A servant crossed
the floor of the
megaron
and filled his cup. A cold breeze was blowing
through the old building, and Alkaios strolled to a burning brazier set near the
north wall. Kleitos followed him.

“This war will be won in the summer,” he said. “The greatest fleet ever seen
will bring seventy thousand men to the walls of Troy. The city cannot withstand
our might.”

“Interesting,” Alkaios mused. “Do I not recall a similar comment from you
last year?”

“There have been unexpected setbacks,” Kleitos answered, his lips thinning.
“There will be no more, I can assure you.”

Alkaios smiled inwardly. “Forgive me,” he said mildly. “You are assuring me
you are
expecting
no further
unexpected
setbacks? If you had
expected
them in the first place, they would not have been
unexpected.
That is the very nature of surprise, Kleitos. That it is
always
unexpected. So, essentially, you are maintaining that Prince Hektor and his
Trojan Horse, and wily Priam, and deadly Aeneas have no capacity left to
surprise you. Bold assertions, if I may say so.”

Kleitos blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “I am a soldier. Word games do not
interest me. What I am saying, Alkaios King, is that Troy is doomed.”

“I expect you are correct,” the king responded amicably. “However, only last
year I was speaking to King Peleus of Thessaly. He told me how much he was
looking forward to destroying the Trojan Horse and forcing the braggart Hektor
to kiss the dirt at his feet. I heard only yesterday that they met at Carpea,
but I do not recall hearing of any dirt kissing.”

He could see that Kleitos was growing angry and knew it would not be long
before soft words gave way to hard threats. It annoyed him that he would have to
find a way to placate the creature. To irritate Agamemnon’s ambassador was
enjoyable but not wise.

The conversation was interrupted by a pounding on the wide door of the
megaron.
A servant swiftly pulled it open just long enough to allow a stocky
soldier to enter. Alkaois saw that it was his captain of cavalry, Malkon. A
strong breeze blew through the building. Cinders danced up from the brazier,
causing Kleitos to step back. Malkon advanced toward the king. He was a short,
wide-shouldered man wearing a breastplate of bronze. Thumping his fist against
the armor, he bowed his head to Alkaios.

“What is it, Malkon?”

“A large… galley, lord, has beached at Thetis Rock.” Alkaios noted the
hesitation before the word “galley” and looked closely at his captain. “They are
traveling to Thera,” the soldier went on, “bringing a new priestess to serve the
Minotaur. They request permission to spend the night on the beach and purchase
supplies.”

“I see,” the king replied, his mind racing. Malkon had full power to grant
such permission and would not have interrupted him if that had been the only
concern. He was a sharp, intelligent man, and therefore the interruption meant
the new arrival posed some threat or a complication beyond the capacity of a
captain to resolve. A king of a neighboring island, perhaps? He dismissed the
thought at once. Malkon would have granted permission instantly. No, it had to
be connected with the Mykene being there.

That meant it was a Trojan vessel or some ally of Priam’s. But why the
emphasis on it being a
large
galley?

Realization struck home like a lance, though the king’s expression did not
change. He looked into Malkon’s blue eyes. “A ship bound for Thera,” he said
slowly. “So late in the year. Ah, well, the gods demand we must offer them our
hospitality. Not so, Kleitos?” he asked suddenly, looking at the Mykene.

“We must always offer respect to the lords of the earth,” Kleitos answered.
“Otherwise they will withdraw from us their favor or curse our endeavors.”

“Quite so, and admirably put.” Swinging back to the soldier, he said, “Go and
tell the newcomers they are welcome to stay the night.”

Malkon nodded and strode back toward the door. As he reached it, Alkaios
called out to him. “Are there any among them known to us?”

Malkon cleared his throat. “Aeneas of Dardania, my lord. He is taking a
daughter of Priam to be a priestess.”

“The Burner is
here
!” Kleitos roared. “This is insufferable! He must
be held by your forces. Agamemnon King will reward you handsomely.”

“I cannot
hold
him, Kleitos,” Alkaios said. “The ship is bound for the
temple at Thera, and as you said yourself only moments ago, we must give respect
to the gods.” Turning back to Malkon, he called out, “Invite King Aeneas and his
passengers to the palace this evening.”

The soldier walked swiftly from the
megaron.
Alkaios turned to
Kleitos. “Do not be so glum, my friend,” he said, laying his arm over the
Mykene’s shoulder. “That man of yours, Persion, looks like a fighter.”

“He is. What of it?”

“Did you not say when introducing him that he was kin to a great Mykene
hero?”

“Yes. His uncle was Alektruon, a hero foully murdered by the man
you
are inviting to your table.”

“As a king and a man who worships the gods, I cannot, for profit or malice,
interfere with those engaged in serving them. However, Kleitos, the gods value
honor and bravery above all other virtues. Not so?”