Lord of the Silver Bow (11 page)

“Then you are, as you say, fortunate. But then, I expect sailors only marry for love. It makes them far richer than kings.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it does. I should point out, though, that I
am
a king.”

“Who shoots arrows into the moon?” she said, smiling.

“I know I don’t
look
like a king, but I truly am. My kingdom is the isle of Ithaka, and Penelope is my queen. And before you ask, no, we did not marry for love. My father arranged the match. We only met on our wedding day.”

“And you fell in love the moment your eyes met, I suppose?”

“No. I think she loathed me on sight. Not hard to see why. The first few months were . . . shall we say, scratchy. Then I fell ill with a fever. Almost died. She nursed me. Said I talked in my delirium. She never told me what I said, but somehow, after that, things were different. We started to laugh together, then take long walks along the cliffs. One day . . .” He shrugged. “One day we just realized we loved each other.”

Andromache gazed at the ugly man, seeing him anew. There was a touching honesty behind the tall tales and a charm that slipped almost unnoticed past her defenses.

“You saw the attack on Helikaon?” he said suddenly.

For a moment she did not know what he meant, then remembered the knifeman rushing forward. “The fight, yes. Helikaon is the man with the long black hair?”

“He is a close friend of Hektor. He could tell you far more about him than I could.”

“Why did the assassin want him dead?”

Odysseus shrugged. “Too pleasant a night to spend telling boring stories about traders and pirates and old grudges. Ask me something else.”

“Was Helikaon the friend who said I looked like a goddess?”

“Yes. Never seen him so smitten. Having met you, of course, I can understand it.”

She leaned toward him. “Let us not play this game any longer, Odysseus. I know what I am: tall and plain and a breeding cow for a Trojan prince. I need no false flattery.”

“And I offer none. You are not pretty, it is true. But for what my opinion is worth, I agree with Helikaon. You are beautiful.”

“He said that?”

“He said you were a goddess. I am just adding a little color to the mural.”

She noticed he kept glancing back up toward the cliff path. “Am I boring you, king of Ithaka?”

He chuckled and looked embarrassed. “No, not at all. It is just . . . I am waiting for Helikaon to return.”

“You think there will be another attempt on his life?”

“Oh, almost certainly.” She saw him take a deep breath and then relax. Following his gaze, she looked up to see a group of men carrying a body down the path. “They didn’t succeed, though,” he said happily.

“Is he your son . . . or your lover?” she asked.

“My son died,” he said. “And, no, Helikaon is not my lover. My tastes have never strayed in that direction. Which, when I was young, annoyed me. I felt I was missing something vital that all my friends enjoyed. No, I think of Helikaon almost as a son. Or perhaps as a younger version of the man I would like to have been, if that makes any sense.”

“You would like to have been handsome?”

“Indeed! Like a young god!”

“And would Penelope have loved you any more?”

He sighed. “You are a shrewd woman. Will you tell me your name?”

“Andromache of Thebe.”

“Ah! I know your father, Ektion. Can’t say that I like him much.”

Andromache’s laughter pealed out. “No one likes Father. There is nothing in his life of worth except that which can be traded for silver.”

“You’ll meet a lot of men like him. Your new father, King Priam, is such a man. Don’t you find it odd that such men can sire wonderful children? Hektor is generous and brave. Young Paris is gentle and studious. Even strange little Kassandra has no meanness of spirit. And your father sired you, Andromache, and I see in you a great soul.”

“Perhaps you mistake intelligence for spirituality, Odysseus.”

“No, lass, I don’t make mistakes about people. I have two gifts that have served me well. I can spin a yarn, and I can read the hearts of men and women. You are like my Penelope. You are, as you say, intelligent. You are also warm and open and honest. And you have courage and a sense of duty. My father once said that if a man was lucky he’d find a woman to ride the storm with. You are such a woman. Hektor is very lucky.”

“His luck is not my concern,” she said. “What of mine?”

“Let us find out,” he said, rising to his feet.

“And how will we do this?”

“We’ll seek out Aklides. Best soothsayer in Lykia. Well . . . when he’s not drunk or drugged. He’s from the desert country beyond Palestine. Lot of soothsayers come from the desert. He’ll read your future.”

“Yes, and tell me I’ll have nine children and be rich and happy and live long.”

“Are you frightened of a soothsayer, Andromache of Thebe?” he chided.

“I am frightened of nothing, Odysseus of Ithaka.”

“Then come with me.” He held out his hand, and she allowed him to draw her to her feet.

Together they walked through the stalls and along the beach, past fornicating couples and drunken sailors, past campfires around which men were singing lusty songs. At last they reached a small tent below the cliffs. There was a long line. Odysseus suggested they wait a little while longer and perhaps find something to eat. Andromache had no wish to return to the palace yet and agreed. They moved to a series of food stalls, Odysseus piling a prodigious amount of meat and bread onto a wooden plate. Andromache chose a small pie filled with honey-soaked fruit, and together they returned to sit on a small wall near the water’s edge.

They chatted then. Andromache talked of Thera and the Temple of the Horse, though she did not mention Kalliope or any of her friends there. Instead she explained to him the rituals that were said to keep the sleeping god calm.

Odysseus was as good a listener as he was a storyteller, prompting her with questions that showed his interest. “I was on Thera once,” he said, “long before it was decided that only women could placate the Minotaur. Strange place. All that rumbling below the ground and the hissing of acrid steam from vents in the rock. I was glad to be back on the
Penelope
. Tell me, do you believe in the Minotaur?”

“An odd question from a man who has seen so many monsters and demons.”

“That would be my point, lass. I have never seen a single one. But in my travels I have seen hot springs and lava pools. Not one of them boasted a Minotaur. Have you ever glimpsed it?”

“No one sees it,” said Andromache, “but you can hear it rumbling and growling below the ground, pushing up, trying to escape. The older priestesses swear that the island was smaller years ago and that the straining beast is lifting it out of the sea.”

“So you
do
believe in it?”

“Truly I do not know. But something makes that noise and causes the ground to tremble.”

“And you placate it with what?”

“Songs to calm its troubled heart, offerings of wine. Prayers to the great gods to keep it calm. It is said the Kretans used to sacrifice virgins to it in the old days, forcing them to enter the deeper cracks in the rock and walk down to its lair. They did not appease him, for the Minotaur almost broke free many years ago.”

“My grandfather told me of it,” said Odysseus. “How the sun fled for many days and how rocks and ash fell from the sky, covering many of the eastern islands. There is an old sailors’ legend about the sea rising up to the sky and the sound of an army of thunders. Like to have seen it. Great story in that. Did you know that your new mother spent three years on Thera and that part of her bridal dowry was a massive donation to build the Temple of the Horse?”

“Yes. They speak of Hekabe with great reverence there.”

“Strong woman. Intelligent like you. Beautiful as a winter morning and terrifying as a tempest. I think you’ll like her.”

“You sound a little in awe of her, king of Ithaka,” Andromache said with a smile.

He leaned forward and gave a conspiratorial grin. “She has always frightened me. Don’t know why. I think she even frightens Priam.”

The sky began to pale. The night was almost over, and Andromache could hardly believe she had spent hours in the company of a stranger. She yawned and rubbed at her tired eyes.

“I think you are getting a little weary of waiting,” said the ugly king, pushing himself to his feet and walking back to the shrinking queue. Approaching the men in the line, he said: “Now, lads, I have a beautiful woman with me who needs her fortune told. Would any object if we stole in next?”

Andromache saw the men turn to stare at her. Then Odysseus dipped his hand into the pouch by his side and produced copper rings, which he dropped into their outstretched palms.

After a short while a man came out of the tent. He did not look happy. Odysseus beckoned Andromache and stepped forward, lifting the tent flap and ducking inside. Andromache followed him. Inside the tent a middle-aged man was sitting on a threadbare blanket. Two lamps were burning, and the air was stiflingly hot and acrid. Andromache sat down and looked at the seer. His right eye was like an opal, pale and milky, his left so dark that it seemed to have no pupil. The man’s face was strangely elongated and thin, as if his head had been crushed somehow.

“And what have you brought me this time, Odysseus?” he asked, his voice low and deep.

“A young woman who wishes to know her future.”

Aklides sighed deeply. “I am tired. Dawn is approaching, and I have no time to count babies and offer platitudes to maidens.”

“Then do it for your old friend,” said Odysseus, opening his pouch once more, this time producing a ring of bright silver.

“I have no friends,” Aklides muttered. His one good eye fixed on Andromache. “Well, give me your hand and let us see what there is to see,” he said.

Andromache leaned forward, placing her slender fingers in his greasy palm. His hand was hot, and she flinched as his fingers closed around her own. He closed his eyes and sat silently, his breathing shallow. Then he jumped, and a low groan rattled from his throat. His face spasmed, and he jerked his hand back, his eyes flaring open.

“Well?” Odysseus asked as the silence lengthened.

“Sometimes it is best not to know the future,” whispered Aklides.

“Come, come, Aklides! This is not like you,” Odysseus said, an edge of anger in his voice.

“Very well. You will have one child. A boy.” Aklides sighed. “I will volunteer nothing. But ask me what you will.”

“Will I know love?” Andromache asked, her voice betraying her boredom.

“There will be three loves. One like the Great Green, powerful and tempestuous; one like the oak, strong and true; and one like the moon, eternal and bright.”

“I like the sound of tempestuous,” she said, her tone sarcastic. “Who should I look for?”

“The man with one sandal.”

“And the oak?”

He gave a thin smile. “He will rise from the mud, his body caked with the filth of pigs.”

“I shall look forward to that with great anticipation. And the moon?”

“He will come to you with blood and pain.”

“What nonsense,” snapped Andromache. “Take back your silver, Odysseus.”

“I speak only the truth, priestess of Thera,” said Aklides. “I was content tonight, but now your visit means I shall never be content again. Through you I have seen the fall of worlds and the deaths of heroes, and I have watched the ocean touch the fire-red sky. Now leave me be!”

Andromache stepped out into the night. The stocky figure of Odysseus joined her. “He is usually more entertaining than that,” he said.

Ahead on the sand she saw one of the Fat King’s sentries making his rounds, his wooden club on his shoulder, his conical, bronze-edged helmet and cheek guards gleaming in the moonlight. Suddenly he stumbled as the strap on one of his sandals broke. Angrily he kicked it off, then strode on.

“Such a pity,” Andromache said drily. “There he is, the tempestuous love of my life, and we never met.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “Should I call out to him, do you think?” She swung toward Odysseus. “I thank you for your company, king of Ithaka. You are a fine friend on a starry night. But now I must return to the palace.”

“I would be happy to walk you there,” he said.

“No, you wouldn’t. Save the lies for an audience, Odysseus. Let us have a pact, you and I. The truth always.”

“That will be hard. The truth is often so boring.” He grinned and spread his hands. “But I cannot refuse a goddess, so I will agree.”

“You want to walk me back to the palace?”

“No, lass. I am dog-tired now and just want to wrap myself in a blanket by a fire.”

“That is better, and how it should be between friends. So good night to you, tale spinner.” With that she looked up at the distant fortress and, heavy of heart, set off for the cliff path.

X

THE FAT KING’S FEAST

I

As he walked slowly up the hill road toward the fortress town, Helikaon could not stop thinking about the tall woman he had seen while Odysseus performed: the way she stood, elegance and confidence sublimely in harmony; the way her eyes met his, defiant and challenging. Even her expression as she saw the man attack him had not shown fear. Her eyes had narrowed, her face becoming stern. Helikaon’s heart beat faster as he conjured her face in his mind. Beside him Zidantas trudged on in silence, his huge, nail-studded club resting on his shoulder. Argurios and Glaukos were a little way back.

The walk was perilous at night despite the many lamps that had been lit and left in crevices in the rock wall. The drop was sheer to the left, the path rocky and pitted. Helikaon gazed out over the bay below, his heart swelling as he looked down on the sleek lines of the
Xanthos.
From there he also could see the distant, now tiny form of Odysseus. His mentor had walked to the water’s edge and was digging away at the sand with his dagger. Helikaon knew what he was doing. He had seen it often during the two years he had spent on the
Penelope.
Odysseus was shaping the face of his wife in the sand.

Behind him Helikaon heard Glaukos mutter an oath as he tripped over a rock.

The Mykene warriors had seemed surprised when he had invited them to meet the king. The courtesy evidently had been unexpected, and Argurios had almost thanked him. Helikaon smiled as he recalled the moment. The Mykene’s tongue would have turned black, he thought, if forced to utter a pleasantry.

Argurios moved alongside him, moonlight gleaming on the elaborately embossed bronze disks of his cuirass. “This king is a friend of yours?” he asked.

“All reasonable men are my friends, Argurios.”

Argurios’ expression hardened. “Do not bait me. It would not be wise.”

“Why would I bait you?” Helikaon answered coldly. “All reasonable men
are
my friends, for I seek no enemies. I am a trader, not a plunderer.”

Argurios looked at him closely. “You are a man who has earned the hatred of all Mykene. You should understand there will be great joy when your death is announced.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Helikaon replied, pausing in his stride and turning toward the warrior. “There is great joy in Mykene when
anyone
suffers or is dispossessed. You are a people who thrive on murder and the sorrow of others.”

Argurios’ hand grasped the hilt of his sword. For a moment Helikaon believed he was about to challenge him. Then Argurios spoke, his voice shaking with suppressed anger. “The law of the road forbids me to rise to that insult. Repeat it on the beach and I will kill you.” With that he strode off, Glaukos running to catch up with him.

Zidantas moved alongside Helikaon and sighed. “What merry company you have chosen for us,” he said.

“I didn’t choose them, Ox. Odysseus suggested we bring them.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps because somewhere ahead on the road will be Mykene killers seeking my blood.”

“Oh, that makes wonderful sense,” Zidantas muttered. “We are facing murderers, so Odysseus gets us to bring them reinforcements. Let’s just go back to the beach. We can return with more men.”

“You know, Ox, in some ways you are just like the Mykene. You take no interest in other cultures. No, we are not going back to the beach. We will walk on and see what transpires.”

“This is not a good place for a fight,” Zidantas pointed out. “One wrong step and a man would be pitched over the side. It is a long way down.”

Helikaon did not answer. Increasing his pace, he kept close to the Mykene. Up ahead the path twisted to the left. Steps had been cut into the stone. At the top, Helikaon knew, the road widened. There were several caves there where armed men could hide.

“Soon?” Zidantas whispered.

“At the top of these steps, I would think. Do not attack them, Ox. Wait and see what happens first.”

Keeping close behind the two warriors, they climbed the steps. Up ahead Argurios reached the top and suddenly paused. Helikaon came alongside him. Standing before them were six warriors, all clad in leather breastplates and carrying short swords. They did not rush in and seemed confused and uncertain.

One of them looked at Argurios. “Step aside, brother, for our business is not with you.”

“I would do that gladly, idiot!” snapped Argurios. “But you know the law of the road. If a man walks in company with other travelers, then he is obliged to face dangers alongside them.”

“That is a Mykene law for Mykene travelers,” the man argued.

“I am in the company of Helikaon,” said Argurios. “Now, I loathe him as much as you do, but attack him and I will, by the law, be obliged to fight alongside him. You know me, and you know my skills. All of you will die.”

“We have no choice,” said the man. “It is a matter of honor.”

Argurios’ sword rasped from its scabbard. “Then die as a man of honor,” he said.

“Wait!” said Helikaon, stepping forward. “I wish for no blood to be shed here, but if a fight is necessary, then let us settle it with single combat.” He pointed at the warrior standing before Argurios. “You and I, Mykene. Or any of your comrades you care to choose.”

“I will fight you, vile one!” said the man.

Helikaon drew his sword.

Raising his blade, the warrior attacked. Helikaon stepped in, blocking a thrust, and hammered his shoulder into the warrior’s chest, hurling him back. The Mykene charged again, his sword hacking and slashing. Helikaon blocked and countered with ease. The man was not skilled with a blade and tried to compensate with sheer ferocity. Helikaon waited for the right moment, then blocked a wild cut and grabbed the man’s sword wrist. Curling his leg behind the knee of his opponent, he threw him from his feet. The man landed heavily on his back.

Helikaon’s sword touched the fallen man’s throat. “Is it over?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man answered, hatred in his eyes.

Helikaon stepped back and turned toward the others. “You heard him,” he said, sheathing his sword. “It is over.”

A movement from his left caused him to turn sharply. The man he had spared had risen silently to his feet and was rushing at him, sword raised. There was no time to draw his blade. Then Argurios leapt between them, his sword slashing through the attacker’s neck. The man fell back with a gargling cry, blood spraying from his open jugular. As the dying warrior’s body spasmed, Helikaon turned to the five remaining men. “Return to your ship,” he ordered them. “There is only death here for you, with no hope of victory.”

They stood very still, and Helikaon saw they were preparing themselves to attack.

Then Argurios spoke. “Sheathe your swords! It would weigh heavily on my heart if I were forced to kill another Mykene. And carry this treacherous creature with you,” he said, pointing to the corpse.

Helikaon saw the men relax. They scabbarded their blades and shuffled forward, lifted the dead man, and made their way back to the steps.

Argurios, coldly furious now, marched to confront Helikaon. “Did you know they would be here? Is that why you invited me, Trojan?”

“First, Argurios, I am a Dardanian. As an ambassador to this side of the Great Green it might be worthwhile for you to understand that not all who dwell in these lands are Trojans. There are Maeonians, Lykians, Karians, and Thrakians. And many more. Second, is it likely that I would have walked this path with two Mykene warriors had I known there were six more waiting to kill me?”

Argurios let out a long sigh. “No, you would not,” he admitted. He looked into Helikaon’s eyes. “You have been blessed with luck twice tonight. Such good fortune cannot last.”

II

The contradiction that was Kygones the Fat King sat on a high-backed chair, his skeletal frame clad in a simple, unadorned tunic. He was picking at his meal, his wary eyes scanning his guests. The two Gyppto ambassadors had hardly touched the food and were locked in conversation, their voices low. The merchant from Maeonia was eating enough for three, shoveling the food into his cavernous mouth as if he had not eaten for weeks, gravy from the meat staining his several chins. The Dardanian prince, Helikaon, was sitting silently beside the fork-bearded Zidantas, and the two Mykene warriors with them had helped themselves to cuts of beef, ignoring the finer delicacies on display: the honey-dipped sweetmeats, the peppered sheep’s eyes, the seared kidneys marinated in wine.

Helikaon also ate sparingly and seemed lost in thought.

The king cast his weary gaze over the other guests, most of them merchants from outlying lands, bringing gifts of ivory, or glass, or—more important—objects of gold and silver.

Kygones scratched at his pockmarked face and eased himself back against the chair, wishing the time would pass. A servant moved alongside him, filling his goblet with clear water. The king glanced at the man and nodded his thanks. There was a time when Kygones would have sold his soul for the chance to be a palace servant, to be sure of at least one meal a day and sleep under a roof, away from wind and rain.

The interminable banquet finally came to a close. Servants carried away the dishes and replenished the wine cups, and Kygones clapped his hands for the entertainment to begin. Female dancers from Kretos moved across the mosaic floor of the
megaron,
swaying rhythmically to the music from several lyres, their bodies slim and lithe, their naked breasts firm. Oil glistened on their skin. The dance grew wilder, the women twirling and leaping. The guests banged on the table in time to the music. Kygones closed his eyes, his mind drifting back through the years. His father had assured him that hard work and dedicated service would lead to happiness for any peasant. Like most youngsters he had believed his father and had toiled on the small farm from dawn to dusk every day. He had seen his mother age before his eyes, watched two brothers die, seen his three older sisters sold into servitude, and finally witnessed his father being murdered by Gypptos during the third invasion. That was when Kygones discovered the real secret of success.

It lay not in scratching at the land with sharpened sticks but in grasping a sword in a strong hand.

The music faded, the women moving gracefully away. Acrobats replaced them, and jugglers, and finally a bard from Ugarit, who told a tale of magical beasts and heroes. It was a dull tale, and Kygones found himself wishing he had invited Odysseus to the feast.

The two Gypptos rose as the bard was still speaking, bowed low to Kygones, and left the
megaron.
The bard’s voice faded away as the men walked past him, and Kygones saw that the display of bad manners had unnerved the man. Lifting his hand, he urged the storyteller to continue, his own thoughts straying to his departing guests.

The Gypptos were an odd pair. They had arrived with gifts: a gold-inlaid ivory wristband and a jewel-encrusted dagger. And though they spoke of trade and shipments of spices, they were not merchants. Kygones had waited to hear the real reason for their visit and had suppressed a smile when the older one finally said, “There is one small matter, King Kygones, that my master instructed me to make known to you.” He had spoken then of a criminal who had escaped justice in Egypte following the slaying of two royal guardsmen. There followed a description of the man—tall, wide-shouldered, dark-bearded. “He has no skills save that he is a fighting man, and so he may seek to join your army. My master, realizing that to apprehend him would put you at some inconvenience, has instructed me to say that there is a reward offered for his capture. Five gold ingots.”

“A big man, you say?”

“Indeed.”

“I shall instruct my captains to look out for him. He has a name?”

“He would not use it. We located a ship’s captain who sailed to Kypros with someone of his description. This man called himself Gershom.”

“Then perhaps you should be seeking him in Kypros.”

“Indeed we are, and in every other land.”

The bard concluded his tale, which was greeted by polite, if unenthusiastic, cheers. He bowed to the assembly and, red-faced, left the
megaron.

Kygones rose from his chair, thanked his guests for honoring him with their company, signaled to Helikaon and the Mykene to follow him, and walked back through the palace to his private apartments. There he wandered onto a high balcony and stared out over the dark sea. The night breeze was cool and refreshing.

“You seem a little weary, my friend,” said Helikaon.

Kygones swung to greet him. “Battles are less tiring than feasts,” he said. He looked at the two Mykene behind the Golden One. The first was lean, fierce-eyed and battle-hardened. The second was younger, and there was weakness in his eyes. He listened as Helikaon introduced them, then bade them sit. The room was large, with several couches, and two open balconies allowed the night breeze to dissipate the fumes from the lamps on the walls. “I have heard of you, Argurios,” he said as his guests settled themselves. “You held a bridge during the war with the Myrmidons. Seventeen men you killed that day.” He noted with satisfaction the surprise on the man’s face.

“I had not thought the story would have traveled so far,” said Argurios. “And it was only nine. The others were merely wounded and removed from the fighting.”

“Tales of heroes are often exaggerrated,” said Kygones. “You are a close companion, I understand, of King Agamemnon.”

“I have the honor to be a Follower.”

“You are the second Follower to grace my beach. The lord Kolanos is here also. You are friends?”

“Most friendships are forged in battle. I have never fought alongside him,” replied Argurios.

“I am told he is now considered the first of Agamemnon’s Followers and that the king places great trust in him.”

“All the Followers are trusted,” said Argurios. “They gain their positions through their loyalty to the king and their services to the land.”

Kygones nodded. “I understand,” he said. You do not like him, warrior, he thought. Is it jealousy or something else? The king sat down on a couch, beckoning his guests to seat themselves. Argurios and Helikaon moved to couches set against the walls, while Glaukos sat with his back to the door.