Lord of the Silver Bow (2 page)

PART ONE

THE GREAT GREEN

I

THE CAVE OF WINGS

The twelve men in ankle-length cloaks of black wool stood silently at the cave mouth. They did not speak or move. The early autumn wind was unnaturally chilly, but they did not blow warm air on cold hands. Moonlight shimmered on their bronze breastplates and white-crested helmets, on their embossed wrist guards and greaves, and on the hilts of the short swords scabbarded at their waists. Yet despite the presence of cold metal against their bodies they did not shiver.

The night grew colder, and it began to rain as midnight approached. Hail fell and clattered against their armor, and still they did not move.

Then there came another warrior, tall and stooping, his cloak flapping in the fierce wind. He, too, was armored, though his cuirass was inlaid with gold and silver, as were the helmet and greaves he wore.

“Is he inside?” he asked, his voice deep.

“Yes, my king,” answered one of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, with deep-set gray eyes. “He will summon us when the gods speak.”

“Then we wait,” replied Agamemnon.

The rain eased, and the king’s dark eyes scanned his Followers. Then he looked into the Cave of Wings. Deep within he could see firelight flickering on the craggy walls and even from there smell the acrid and intoxicating fumes from the prophecy flames. As he watched, the fire dimmed.

Unused to waiting, he felt his anger rise but masked it. Even a king was expected to be humble in the presence of the gods.

Every four years the king of Mykene and twelve of his most trusted Followers were expected to hear the words of the gods. The last time Agamemnon had stood there, he had just interred his father and his own reign was about to begin. He had been nervous then but was more so now, for the prophecies he had heard that first time had come true. He had become infinitely richer. His wife had borne him three healthy children, though all were girls. The armies of Mykene had been victorious in every battle, and a great hero had fallen.

But Agamemnon also recalled the journey his father had made to the Cave of Wings eight years previously and his ashen face on his return. He would not speak of the final prophecy, but one of the Followers told it to his wife, and the word spread. The seer had concluded with the words: “Farewell, Atreus King. You will not walk the Cave of Wings again.”

The great battle king had died one week before the next summoning.

A woman dressed all in black emerged from the cave. Even her head was covered by a veil of gauze. She did not speak but raised her hand, beckoning the waiting men. Agamemnon took a deep breath and led the group inside.

The entrance was narrow, and they removed their crested helmets and followed the woman in single file until at last they reached the remains of the prophecy fire. Smoke still hung in the air, and as he breathed, Agamemnon felt his heart beating faster. Colors became brighter, and small sounds—the creaking of leather, the shifting of sandaled feet on stone—were louder, almost threatening.

The ritual was hundreds of years old, based on an ancient belief that only on the point of death could a priest commune fully with the gods, and so every four years a man was chosen to die for the sake of the king.

Keeping his breathing shallow, Agamemnon looked down at the slender old man lying on a pallet bed. His face was pale in the firelight, his eyes wide and staring. The hemlock paralysis had begun. He would be dead within moments.

Agamemnon waited.

“Fire in the sky,” said the priest, “and a mountain of water touching the clouds. Beware the great horse, Agamemnon King.” The old man sagged back, and the woman in black knelt by him, lifting and supporting his frail body.

“Offer me no riddles,” Agamemnon said. “What of the kingdom? What of the might of the Mykene?”

The priest’s eyes blazed briefly, and Agamemnon saw anger there. Then it passed, and the old man smiled. “Your will prevails here, King. I would have offered you a forest of truth, but you wish to speak of a single leaf. Very well. Mighty still will you be when next you walk this corridor of stone. Father to a son.” He whispered something to the woman, who held a cup of water to his lips.

“And what dangers will I face?” Agamemnon asked.

The old priest’s body spasmed, and he cried out. Then he relaxed and stared up at the king. “A ruler is always in peril, Agamemnon King. Unless he be strong, he will be torn down. Unless he be wise, he will be overthrown. The seeds of doom are planted in every season and need neither sun nor rain to make them grow. You sent a hero to end a small threat, and thus you planted the seeds. Now they grow, and swords will spring from the earth.”

“You speak of Alektruon. He was my friend.”

“He was no man’s friend! He was a slaughterer and did not heed the warnings. He trusted in his cunning, his cruelty, and his might. Poor blind Alektruon. Now he knows the magnitude of his error. Arrogance laid him low, for no man is invincible. Those the gods would destroy they first make proud.”

“What more have you seen?” said Agamemnon. “Speak now! Death is upon you.”

“I have no fear of death, King of Swords, King of Blood, King of Plunder. Nor should you. You will live forever, Agamemnon, in the hearts and minds of men. When your father’s name has fallen to dust and whispered away on the winds of time, yours will be spoken loud and often. When your line is a memory and all kingdoms have come to ashes, still your name will echo. This I have seen.”

“This is more to my liking,” said the king. “What else? Be swift now, for your time is short. Give a name to the greatest danger I will face.”

“You desire but a name? How . . . strange men are. You could have . . . asked for answers, Agamemnon.” The old man’s voice was fading and slurring. The hemlock was reaching his brain.

“Give me a name and I will
know
the answer.”

Another flash of anger lit the old man’s eyes, holding back the advancing poison. When he spoke, his voice was stronger. “Alektruon asked me for a name when I was but a seer and not blessed—as now—with the wisdom of the dying. I named Helikaon, the Golden One. And what did he do . . . this foolish man? He sailed the seas in search of Helikaon and brought his doom upon himself. Now you seek a name, Agamemnon King. It is the same name: Helikaon.” The old priest closed his eyes. The silence grew.

“Helikaon threatens me?” the king asked.

The dying priest spoke again. “I see men burning like candles, and . . . a ship of flame. I see a headless man . . . and a great fury. I see . . . I see many ships, like a great flock of birds. I see war, Agamemnon, long and terrible, and the deaths of many heroes.” With a shuddering cry he fell back into the arms of the veiled woman.

“Is he dead?” Agamemnon asked.

The woman felt for a pulse and then nodded. Agamemnon swore.

A powerful warrior moved alongside him, his hair so blond that it appeared white in the lamplight. “He spoke of a great horse, lord. The sails of Helikaon’s ships are all painted with the symbol of a rearing black horse.”

Agamemnon remained silent. Helikaon was kin to Priam, the king of Troy, and Agamemnon had a treaty of alliance with Troy and with most of the trading kingdoms on the eastern coast. While maintaining those treaties he also financed pirate raids by Mykene galleys, looting the towns of his allies and capturing trade ships and cargoes of copper, tin, lead, alabaster, and gold. Each one of the galleys tithed him its takings. The plunder allowed him to equip his armies and bestow favors on his generals and soldiers. Publicly, though, he denounced the pirates and threatened them with death, and so he could not openly declare Helikaon an enemy of Mykene. Troy was a rich and powerful kingdom, and that trade alone brought in large profits, paid in copper and tin, without which bronze armor and weapons could not be made.

War with the Trojans was coming, but he was not ready to make an enemy of their king.

The fumes from the prophecy fire were less noxious now, and Agamemnon felt his head clearing. The priest’s words had been massively reassuring. He would have a son, and the name of Agamemnon would echo through the ages.

Yet the old man also had spoken about seeds of doom, and he could not ignore the warning.

He looked the blond man in the eye. “Let it be known, Kolanos, that twice a man’s weight in gold awaits whoever kills Helikaon.”

“Every pirate ship on the Great Green will hunt him down for such a reward,” said Kolanos. “By your leave, my king, I will also take my three galleys in search of him. However, it will not be easy to draw him out. He is a cunning fighter and cool in battle.”

“Then you will make him less cool, my breaker of spirits,” said Agamemnon. “Find those Helikaon loves and kill them. He has family in Dardanos, a young brother he dotes on. Begin with him. Let Helikaon know rage and despair. Then rip his life from him.”

“I shall leave tomorrow, lord.”

“Attack him on the open sea, Kolanos. If you find him on land and the opportunity arises, have him stabbed, or throttled, or poisoned—I care not. But the trail of his death must not end at my hall. At sea do as you will. If you take him alive, saw the head from his shoulders—slowly. Ashore, make his death swift and quiet. A private quarrel. You understand me?”

“I do, my king.”

“When last I heard, Helikaon was in Kypros,” said Agamemnon, “overseeing the building of a great ship. I am told it will be ready to sail by season’s end. Time enough for you to light a fire under his soul.”

There was a strangled cry from behind them. Agamemnon swung around. The old priest had opened his eyes again. His upper body was trembling, his arms jerking spasmodically.

“The age of heroes is passing!” he shouted, his voice suddenly clear and strong. “The rivers are all of blood, the sky aflame! And look how men burn upon the Great Green!” His dying eyes fixed on Agamemnon’s face. “The Horse! Beware the Great Horse!” Blood spurted from his mouth, drenching his pale robes. His face contorted, his eyes wide with panic. Then another spasm shook him, and a last breath rattled from his throat.

II

THE GOD OF THE SHRINE

I

The gods walk in times of storms. Little Phia knew this, for her mother often had told her stories of the immortals: how the spears of Ares, god of war, could be seen in the lightning and how the hammer of Hephaistos caused the thunder. When the seas grew angry, it meant Poseidon was swimming below the waves or being drawn in his dolphin chariot across the Great Green.

The eight-year-old tried to quell her fears as she struggled up the muddy slope toward the shrine, her faded threadbare tunic offering no protection from the shrieking winds and driving rain lashing the coast of Kypros. Even her head was cold, for ten days earlier her mother had cut away her golden hair in a bid to free her of the lice and fleas on her scalp. Even so Phia’s thin body still was covered in sores and bites. Most of them were just itchy, but the rat bite on her ankle remained swollen and sore, the scab constantly breaking and fresh blood flowing.

But those were small matters and did not concern the child as she pushed on toward the high shrine. When mother had taken sick yesterday, Phia had run to the healer in the center of town. Angrily he had told her to stand back from him. He did not visit those the gods had cursed with poverty, and had barely listened as she explained that her mother would not rise from her bed and that her body was hot and she was in pain.

“Go to a priest,” he said.

Phia had run through the port to the temple of Asklepios and queued there with others seeking guidance and help. The waiting people all carried some kind of offering. Many had snakes in wicker pots, some had small dogs, and others had gifts of food or wine. When at last she was allowed through the high doors, she was met by a young man who asked her what offering she had brought. She tried to tell him about her mother’s sickness, but he, too, ordered her away and called out for the person next in line, an old man carrying a wooden cage in which two white doves were cooing. Phia did not know what to do and returned home. Mother was awake, and she was talking to someone Phia could not see. Then she started crying. Phia began to cry, too.

The storm came at dusk, and Phia remembered that the gods walked in harsh weather. She decided to speak to them herself.

The shrine of Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow, was close to the angry sky, and Phia thought the gods might hear her better if she climbed to it.

She was shivering as the night grew colder and was worried that the wild dogs roaming the hills would catch the scent of the blood on her ankle. She stumbled in the darkness. Her knee struck a rock, and she cried out. When she was small and hurt herself, she would run to Mother, who would hug her and stroke away the pain. But that was when they lived in a bigger house with a flower garden and all the uncles were rich and young. Now they were old and grubby, and they did not bring fine presents but only a few copper rings. They no longer sat and laughed with Mother. Mostly they did not talk at all. They would come in the night. Phia would be sent outside, and they would leave after a short time. Lately no uncles had come at all. There were no gifts, no rings, and little food.

Phia climbed higher. On top of the cliff she saw the jagged stand of rocks that surrounded the shrine. Apollo’s Leap, it was called, because as Mother had said, the golden-haired god of the sun once had rested there before flying back into the sky to his chariot of fire.

The child was almost at the end of her strength as she forced her way up the steep slope. Dizzy with fatigue, she stumbled into the rocks. Lightning lit the sky. Phia cried out, for the brilliant light suddenly illuminated a figure standing on the very edge of the high cliff, arms raised. Phia’s legs gave way, and she slumped to the ground. The clouds broke then, the moon shining through. The god lowered his arms and turned slowly, rain glistening on his naked upper body.

Phia stared at him, eyes wide and frightened. Was it the Lord of the Silver Bow? Surely not, for this god’s hair was long and dark, and Apollo was said to have locks fashioned from golden sunlight. The face was striking and stern, the eyes pale and hard. Phia gazed at his ankles, hoping to see wings there, which would mean he was Hermes, messenger of the gods. Hermes was known to be friendly to mortals.

But there were no wings.

The god approached her, and she saw that his eyes were a bright, startling blue. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Are you the god of war?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He smiled. “No, I am not the god of war.”

A wave of relief swept over her. The mighty Ares would not have healed Mother. He hated humans.

“My mother is ill, and I have no offerings,” she said. “But if you heal her, I will work and work and will bring you many gifts. All my life.”

The god turned away and walked back through the rocks.

“Please don’t leave!” she cried. “Mother is sick.”

He knelt down and lifted a heavy cloak from behind a rock, then, sitting beside her, wrapped the garment around her shoulders. It was of the softest wool. “You came to the shrine seeking help for your mother? Has a healer visited her?”

“He would not come,” she told the god. “So I went to the temple, but I had no offerings. They sent me away.”

“Come,” he said. “Take me to your mother.”

“Thank you.” She tried to rise. Her legs gave way, and she fell awkwardly, mud spattering the expensive cloak. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said.

“It matters not,” he told her, then lifted her into his arms and began the long walk back into the town.

∗ ∗ ∗

Somewhere during that walk Phia fell asleep, her head resting on the god’s shoulder. She woke only when she heard voices. The god was speaking to someone. Opening her eyes, she saw a huge figure walking alongside the god. He was bald but had a forked beard. As she opened her eyes, the bearded one smiled at her.

They were approaching the houses, and the god asked her where she lived. Phia felt embarrassed because these were nice houses, white-walled and red-roofed. She and her mother lived in a shack on the wasteland beyond. The roof leaked, and there were holes in the thin wooden walls through which rats found their way in. The floor was of dirt, and there were no windows.

“I am feeling stronger now,” she said, and the god put her down. Then she led the way home.

As they went inside, several rats scurried away from her mother.

The god knelt on the floor alongside her and reached out to touch her brow. “She is alive,” he said. “Carry her back to the house, Ox,” he told his friend. “We’ll be there presently.”

The god took Phia by the hand, and together they walked through the town and stopped at the house of the healer.

“He is a very angry man,” Phia warned as the god hammered his fist on the wooden door.

It was wrenched open, and the healer loomed in the doorway. “What in Hades . . . ?” he began. Then he saw the dark-haired god, and Phia saw his attitude change. He seemed to shrink. “I apologize, lord,” he said, bowing his head. “I did not know . . .”

“Gather your herbs and medicines and come immediately to the house of Phaedra,” said the god.

“Of course. Immediately.”

Then they began to walk again, this time up the long winding hill toward the homes of the rich. Phia’s strength began to fail again.

The god lifted her. “We will get you some food,” he said.

When at last they reached their destination Phia gazed in wonder. It was a palace with a high wall surrounding a beautiful garden, and there were red pillars on either side of a great entrance. Inside they walked upon floors decorated with colored stones, and there were wall paintings in vivid colors. “Is this your house?” she asked.

“No. I stay here when I am in Kypros,” he answered.

He carried Phia to a white-walled room at the rear of the house. There was a woman there, golden-haired and young, dressed in a robe of green edged with gold thread. She was very beautiful.

The god spoke to her, then introduced her as Phaedra. “Give the child something to eat,” he said. “I shall wait for the healer and see how the mother is faring.”

Phaedra smiled at Phia and brought out some fresh bread and honey. After she had eaten, Phia thanked the woman, and they sat in silence for a while. Phia did not know what to say. The woman poured herself a goblet of wine, to which she added water.

“Are you a goddess?” Phia asked.

“Some men have told me that I am,” Phaedra replied with a wide smile.

“Is this your house?”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“It is very big.”

“Indeed it is.”

Phia leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I do not know which god he is. I went to the shrine and saw him. Is he the Lord of the Silver Bow?”

“He is a lord of many things,” said Phaedra. “Would you like some more bread?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Phaedra told her to help herself, then fetched a pitcher of cool milk and filled a cup. Phia drank it. The taste was sublime.

“So,” said Phaedra, “your mother was ill and you went to the shrine for help. It is very high up there and treacherous. And there are packs of wild dogs.”

Phia did not know how to respond, and so she sat silently.

“That was very brave of you,” said Phaedra. “Your mother is lucky to have you. What happened to your hair?”

“Mother cut it. I have fleas.” Again she felt shame.

“Tonight I will have a bath prepared for you. And we will find some ointments for those bites and scratches on your arms.”

The god returned then. He had changed his clothes and was wearing a white knee-length tunic edged with silver thread, his long black hair pulled back from his face and tied in a ponytail. “Your mother is very weak,” he said, “but she is sleeping now. The healer will come every day until she is well. You may both stay here for as long as you wish. Phaedra will find work for your mother. Does that answer your prayers, Phia?”

“Oh, yes,” said the girl. “Thank you.”

“She was wondering if you were Apollo,” Phaedra said with a smile.

He knelt alongside Phia, and she looked into his brilliant blue eyes. “My name is Helikaon,” he said, “and I am not a god. Are you disappointed?”

“No,” Phia replied, though she was.

Helikaon rose and spoke to Phaedra. “There are merchants coming. I will be with them for a while.”

“You still intend to sail for Troy tomorrow?”

“I must. I promised Hektor I would be at the wedding.”

“It is the storm season, Helikaon, and almost a month at sea. That could prove a costly promise.”

He leaned in and kissed her, then walked from the room.

Phaedra sat down with Phia. “Do not be too disappointed, little one,” Phaedra said. “He
is
a god, really. He just doesn’t know it.”

II

Later, with the child bathed and in bed, Phaedra stood under the portico roof, watching the lightning. The wind was fresh and cool, gusting over the garden, filling the air with the scent of jasmine from the trees against the western wall. She was tired and strangely melancholy. This was Helikaon’s last night in Kypros. The season was almost over, and he would be sailing his new ship hundreds of miles to Troy and then north to Dardania for the winter. Phaedra had been anticipating a night of passion and warmth, the hardness of his body, the taste of his lips upon hers. Instead he had returned to the house with the half-starved, flea-bitten child of the toothless whore Ox had carried in earlier.

At first Phaedra had been angry, but now she was merely unsettled.

Sheltered from the rain, Phaedra closed her eyes and pictured the child, her shaven head covered by bites, her face thin and pinched, her eyes huge and frightened. The little girl was asleep now in the room next to her mother’s. Phaedra had felt the urge to hug her, to draw her close and kiss her cheek. She had wanted to take away the pain and fear from those large blue eyes. Yet she had not. She merely had drawn back the coverlet to allow the skinny girl to clamber into the wide bed and lay her head back on the soft bolster.

“Sleep well, Phia. You will be safe here.”

“Are you his wife?”

“No. He is one of my gift givers. I am like your mother—one of Aphrodite’s maidens.”

“There are no gift givers now,” Phia said sleepily.

“Go to sleep.”

Of course there are no gift givers, thought Phaedra. The mother was ugly and thin and old before her time.

As you are getting old, she thought. Though blessed with a youthful appearance, Phaedra was approaching thirty-five. Soon her gift givers would fall away. Anger touched her. Who cares if they do? I have wealth now.

Yet the sense of melancholy remained.

In the eighteen years since she had become a Follower of Aphrodite, Phaedra had been pregnant nine times. On each occasion she had visited the temple of Asklepios and swallowed bitter herbs to end the pregnancies. The last time had been five years ago. She had delayed for a month, torn between the desire to increase her wealth and the growing need to be a mother. Next time, she had told herself. Next time I will bear the child.

Only there had been no next time, and now she found herself dreaming of children crying in the dark, calling out to her. She would run around blindly trying to find them and then wake in a cold sweat. The tears would come then, and her sobs would echo the emptiness of her life.

“My life is
not
empty,” she told herself aloud. “I have a palace and servants and wealth enough to live out my life without the need of men.”

Yet was it true? she wondered.

Her mood had been fragile all day, and she had felt close to tears when Helikaon had said he was going up to the shrine of Apollo. She had walked there with him once, a year ago, and had watched as he stood on the very edge of the cliff, arms raised, eyes closed.

“Why did you do that?” she had asked him. “The cliff could give way. You could fall and be dashed on the rocks.”

“Perhaps that is why,” he had answered.

Phaedra had been mystified by the answer. It made no sense. But then, so much of Helikaon defied logic. She always struggled to understand the mysteries of the man. When he was with her, there was never a hint of the violence men whispered of: no harshness, no cruelty, no anger. In fact, he rarely carried a weapon when in Kypros, although she had seen the three bronze swords, the white-crested helmet, the breastplate, and the greaves he wore in battle. They were packed in a chest in the upper bedroom he used when on the island.