Lord of the Silver Bow (18 page)

“What isle is that?” he asked, thinking it must be a magical place.

“Not one but two islands,” said Odysseus. “The first you can see is Imbros, but the great peak beyond is Samothraki.”

Xander stood entranced. The sky darkened, blood-red streaks and clouds of gold and black forming before his eyes. “And there?” he asked, pointing to the north and the dark hills overlooking a crimson sea.

“That is the Hellespont, lad, and the land beyond is Thraki.”

Andromache laid her hand on the boy’s shoulder, gently turning him toward the south. Far away, across a shimmering river and a wide plain, Xander saw a mighty mountain. “That is the holy mount of Ida,” whispered Andromache, “where Zeus has his watchtower. And beyond it is little Thebe, where I was born.”

It was now so hot that Xander could hardly catch his breath. He looked up at Andromache, but her face seemed to shimmer before his eyes. Then the ground shifted beneath his feet, and he fell. Embarrassed, he tried to rise, but his arms had no strength and he slumped down again, his face resting on the cold stone. Gentle hands turned him onto his back.

“He has a fever,” he heard Andromache say. “We must get him inside.”

Then blissful darkness took away the heat, and he tumbled down and down into it.

XVI

THE GATES OF HORN AND IVORY

I

The mist was growing thicker, and Xander could see no buildings or trees, merely tendrils of white that floated before his eyes, obscuring his vision. He could not recall why he was walking through the mist, but he could hear voices close by. He tried to move toward the sound but could not make out the direction.

“He is fading,”
he heard a man say.

Then the voice of Odysseus cut in.
“Xander! Can you hear me?”

“Yes!” shouted the boy. “Yes! Where are you?”

And then there was silence.

Xander was frightened now, and in his panic he began to run, his arms held out before him in case he crashed into a wall or a tree.

“Do you have rings for the ferryman?”
he heard someone ask. Xander looked around, but the mist was thick and he could see no one.

“Do not speak of death just yet,”
he heard Odysseus say.
“The boy has heart. He is still fighting.”

Xander struggled to his feet. “Odysseus!” he called out. “Where are you? I am frightened.”

Then he heard voices, and the mist cleared. It was night, and he was standing on a wide beach, the
Xanthos
drawn up on the sand. He could see Helikaon and the crew standing around a large fire. The men were chanting:
“Hear our words, Hades, Lord of the Deepest Dark.”
Xander had heard that chant before. It was a funeral oration. He moved toward the men, desperately needing to be no longer alone.

He saw Oniacus at the outer edge of the circle and could hear Helikaon speaking about the greatness of Zidantas. Then he remembered the awful sight of the head being drawn from the sack. Reaching the circle, he called out to Oniacus. “I don’t know how I got here,” he said. The man ignored him. Xander crouched down in front of the seated man, but Oniacus’ eyes did not register his presence. “Oniacus! Please talk to me!” Stretching out his hand, he tried to touch Oniacus on the arm. Strangely, he could not feel anything under his fingers, and Oniacus did not notice his questing hand. So Xander sat quietly as Helikaon spoke on. Then Oniacus rose and began to tell stories about Zidantas and Epeus. Xander looked around.

Four men were standing outside the circle, quietly watching the orations.

One of them was Zidantas. Xander ran over to him. “Please talk to me!” he said.

“Be calm, boy,”
said Zidantas.
“Of course I will talk to you.” He dropped to one knee and put his arms around Xander.

“Oniacus wouldn’t speak to me. Have I done something wrong?”

“You have done nothing wrong, son of Akamas. He cannot see you.”

“Why? You can see me.”

“Aye, I can.”

“I thought you were dead, Zidantas. We all thought you were dead.”

“What are you doing here, boy? Were you hurt in the fight?”

“No. I went to Troy with Odysseus. That’s all I remember. I was sick. I am better now.”

“His heart is failing,”
said a voice.

“Did you hear that?” Xander asked Zidantas.

“Yes. You must go back to Troy. And swiftly.”

“Can’t I stay with you? I don’t want to be alone.”

“We are walking a dark road. It is not for you. Not yet. Listen to me. I want you to close your eyes and think of Troy and where you were. You understand? You are in a bed somewhere or lying on a beach. There are people with you.”

“I keep hearing the voice of Odysseus,” said Xander.

“Then close your eyes and think of him. Think of Odysseus, Xander. Do it now! Think of life! Think of a blue sky and a fresh wind off the sea.”

Xander closed his eyes. He could still feel Zidantas’ arms around him, and a great warmth settled over him. Then Zidantas spoke again. “If you see my little Thea, tell her she brought great joy to my heart. Tell her that, boy.”

“I will, Zidantas. I promise.”

“Can you hear my voice, lad?”
he heard Odysseus ask.
“Listen to my voice and come back to us.”

Xander groaned and felt a weight upon his chest. His limbs were leaden and his mouth dry. He opened his eyes and saw the ugly face of Odysseus leaning over him.

“Ha!” shouted the Ithakan king. “Did I not tell you? The boy has heart.” He looked down at Xander and ruffled his hair. “You had us all fearful for a while.”

Odysseus helped him sit and then lifted a cup of water to his lips. Xander drank gratefully. He looked around and saw sunlight streaming through a window, down onto the bed in which he lay. Beyond Odysseus was a tall, thin man in an ankle-length chiton of white. His hair was dark and thinning at the temples, and he looked very tired.

He approached Xander and laid a cool hand on the boy’s brow. “The fever is breaking,” he said. “He needs to eat and rest. I shall have one of the helpers bring him a little food.”

“How soon can he travel?” Odysseus asked the man.

“Not for a week at least. The fever could return, and he is very weak.”

After the man had gone, Xander looked around the small room. “Where is this place?” he asked.

“It is a House of Serpents—a healing house,” Odysseus explained. “You have been here five days. Do you remember any of it?”

“No. All I remember is seeing grandfather and Zidantas. He told me to come back to Troy. It seemed so real, but it was just a dream.”

“Did you see any gates?” asked Odysseus.

“Gates?”

“My Penelope tells me there are two kinds of dreams. Some come through a gate of ivory, and their meanings are deceitful. Others come through a gate of horn, and these are heavy with fate.”

“I saw no gates,” said Xander.

“Then perhaps it was just a dream,” said Odysseus. “I am going to have to leave you here, Xander. The season is almost gone, and I need to get back to my Penelope before winter.”

“No!” Xander said fearfully. “I don’t want to be alone again. Please don’t go!”

“You won’t be alone, lad. The
Xanthos
is in the bay, and Helikaon is here. I shall get word to him about you. For now, though, you must rest and do everything the healer tells you. Your strength needs to return.”

As he spoke Xander realized how weak he felt. “What was wrong with me?”

Odysseus shrugged. “You had a fever. The healer said you might have eaten something bad or breathed foul air. You are better now, though, lad. And you will be strong again. I can read the hearts of men, you know. I know the difference between heroes and cowards. You are a hero. You believe me?”

“I don’t feel like a hero,” Xander admitted.

Odysseus tapped the cheekbone under his right eye. “This eye is magical, Xander. It is never wrong. Now, I ask again: Do you believe me?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Then tell me what you are.”

“I am a hero.”

“Good. When doubt comes, as it always does, remember those words. Say them to yourself. And I will see you again in the spring, if the gods will it.”

II

Argurios of Mykene was not a man given to introspection. His life had been one of service to his king and his people. He did not question the decisions of the ruler or wonder about the rights and wrongs of war and conquest. For Argurios life was stark and uncomplicated. Powerful men ruled; weaker men became servants or slaves. It was the same with nations.

Yet within that simple philosophy he also had absorbed the code of Atreus King, Agamemnon’s father: power with conscience, strength without cruelty, love of homeland without hatred for one’s enemies.

Hence Argurios had never tortured a foe, raped a women, or killed a child. He had burned no homes, nor sought to terrorize those he had defeated.

The events leading to the horror of Bad Luck Bay continued to haunt him. The murder of Zidantas had been brutal and sadistic. He wanted to believe that Kolanos was merely a savage, a monster who stood apart from the fine men of the Mykene race.

But was he?

He had pondered this on the voyage with Odysseus but had not found an answer. Now, as he walked up the long hill toward the Scaean Gate, he did not marvel at the beauty of the city or notice the glittering gold of the palace roofs. He was thinking of other generals who had gained favor with Agamemnon King, cruel and ruthless men whose atrocities were a stain on the honor of the Mykene. He had heard stories during the past months that had chilled his blood.

A village had been massacred, the men tied to trees, their ribs cut open, their entrails held in place by sticks. The women had been raped and murdered. The Mykene general in charge of the attack had been Kolanos.

Argurios had gone to Agamemnon with the tale.

The king had listened intently. “If all is as you said, Argurios, the guilty men will be harshly dealt with.”

But they had not been. After that Argurios rarely had been invited into the king’s presence. Indeed, when Agamemnon last visited the Cave of Wings, Argurios was not one of the twelve, though Kolanos was.

Pushing aside such thoughts, Argurios entered the lower town of Troy, seeking the Street of Ambassadors. He soon became lost and was loath to ask directions. He paused by a well and sat down in the shade of a wall on which the figure of Artemis the huntress had been incised. It was a fine work. Her image had been captured in full run, her bow bent, as if she was chasing a quarry.

“I want you to go to Troy,” Agamemnon King had said on their final meeting.

“I am at your command, my king. What would you have me do there?”

“Study their defenses. You may explain your findings to Erekos the ambassador. He will send me your reports.”

“With respect, my king, he can already describe the fortifications. What purpose is served by my traveling there?”

“
My
purpose,” said Agamemnon. “And you know as well as I that fortifications alone are not the key to strength.
Men
win or lose wars. Study the soldiers. Look to their discipline and their weaknesses. Troy is the richest city on the Great Green. It has enormous wealth and even greater influence. No venture across the sea can succeed if Troy is against it. Therefore, Troy must fall to the Mykene.”

“We are to attack Troy?”

“Not immediately. It may not even be necessary. We now have friends within the royal family. One of those friends may soon be king. Then there will be no need to storm the city. However, as my father taught me, it is always wise to have more than one plan. You will travel with Glaukos. He is related to Erekos the ambassador. He can also read and write, a skill I believe you have not mastered.”

“No, lord.”

“He may be useful to you.”

“The boy lacks heart. I would not trust him in a hard fight.”

“You will not be in hard fights, Argurios.”

“Might I ask the result of your investigations into the massacre?”

Agamemnon waved his hand. “Exaggerated stories. A few people were killed to emphasize the futility of opposing Mykene rule. There is a ship leaving later today. The captain will be expecting you.”

The memory of that last conversation hung on him like a shroud. Agamemnon had been more than cool toward him. There had been an underlying feeling of hostility emanating from the king.

Rising from his seat, Argurios continued to walk through the city, becoming ever more lost in the maze of streets. Finally he was forced to seek help from a street seller.

Following the man’s directions, he found himself in front of a large but anonymous house in the lower town, tucked under the west wall of the city. There was an armed man outside the gate. He wore no armor—Argurios was later to discover that the wearing of breastplate and helmet was a privilege given in the city only to soldiers of Troy—but his demeanor told Argurios that he was a Mykene warrior. Tall, grim, with gray eyes, the soldier looked at the visitor but said nothing.

“I am Argurios, Follower to Agamemnon. I seek audience with Erekos.”

“He is in Miletos, sir,” the guard told him. “He is due back in the next few days. He has gone to meet the king.”

“Agamemnon is in Miletos?” The news surprised Argurios. Miletos was a large port city between Lykia and Troy. The
Penelope
had sailed that coastline. It was infuriating to have been that close to his king without knowing it. He could have informed him of the events at Bad Luck Bay.

The guard gave him directions to a house where visitors could find a bed and food. Argurios took his few belongings with him and was offered a small room with a tiny window overlooking distant hills. The bed was rickety, the room musty. Argurios did not care. It would be used only for sleep.

Every morning for the next six days he walked to the ambassador’s house to seek news of his arrival. On discovering that Erekos still had not returned, he would patrol the city, examining its defenses as Agamemnon had ordered.

He soon discovered that Troy was not a single city. Its burgeoning wealth meant it was growing fast, spreading out over the hills and the plain. At the highest point was the walled palace of the king. That had been the original citadel and contained many ancient buildings now used as treasuries or offices for the king’s counselors. There were two gates, one leading through to the women’s quarters and the second opening onto the courtyard before the huge double doors of the king’s
megaron.

Extending out in a wide circle around the palace was the upper city, containing the homes of the rich: merchants, princes, and noblemen. Here there were great palaces and houses boasting statues and flowering trees and gardens of extraordinary beauty. There were several large areas where craftsmen and artisans produced goods for the wealthy: jewelers, clothes makers, armorers, potters, and bronzesmiths. There were dining halls and meeting places, a gymnasium and a theater. The upper city was defended by huge walls and cunningly placed towers.

Outside those walls was the continuously growing lower town. It was largely indefensible. There were no walls, merely a series of wide ditches, some still under construction. Any large force could march unopposed through the streets, but there would be little plunder. Here there were few palaces. Mostly the area contained the homes of the poorer inhabitants: servants and lesser craftspeople, workers in the dye trade or the fishing industry. The air was in places noxious with the stench of lime ash and cattle urine used by cloth dyers and fermented fish guts processed for soups and broths.