Lord of the Silver Bow (21 page)

She had been astonished by the treasures she had seen in the king’s
megaron
and in the queen’s apartments and the gold and jewels that Laodike thought normal daily wear. Laodike was always festooned with gold, her wrists and throat sporting an assortment of bracelets, bangles, and necklets, her corn-colored hair intertwined with gold wire, her gowns weighed down with brooches. None of that made her more pretty, thought Andromache. The jewels only served to draw attention to her small hazel eyes, her long nose, and a slightly receding chin. What she had, though, to compensate was a smile of dazzling beauty and a sweet nature that made her lovable.

“Poor Andromache,” Laodike had said, putting her arm through her new sister’s. “You have no jewelry, no gold at all, only a few cheap beads and a little silver. I shall make my father give you gold, amber, and carnelian necklets and earrings to match your eyes and gold chains to adorn your dainty ankles . . . and,” she said, laughing gleefully, “your big feet.”

“Big feet are said to be very beautiful,” Andromache had replied gravely. “The bigger the better.”

She smiled to herself now, looking down at those feet encased in the clumsy rope-soled sandals Axa had borrowed for her. Then she looked up. The great tower of Ilion, standing proud at the south wall of Troy, was almost twice as high as the main city walls and was by far the tallest building she had ever seen. As she walked down the hill toward it, she could see the ever-present guards on its roof. They looked like tiny insects, the rising sun glinting off their helmets and spear tips.

When she had asked Axa about her summons to the great tower, the maid had been strangely reticent. “It must be a great honor,” she had said doubtfully. “King Priam sometimes goes there to look over his city and to scan the sea and land for invaders. He is watchful for his people.”

“Does he usually greet visitors on the great tower of Ilion?”

Axa blushed and refused to meet her eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know what the king does. It is the highest point in the city. It must be a great honor,” she repeated.

Andromache caught a look of dismay on her maid’s face, and she put her arms around her and hugged her close.

“I have a head for heights,” she reassured the woman. “Don’t worry.”

They entered the huge square tower at its base, just inside the Scaean Gate. The stone wall was very thick, and inside the tower it was cold and damp. Andromache saw a narrow flight of stone stairs spiraling up into the darkness. She looked up and saw that the tower was merely a dank square shaft of empty air illuminated at intervals by holes punched through the thickness of the walls. The stairs hugged the inside walls in a series of sharp inclines, followed by horizontal walkways to the next rise, until they reached a tiny square of light high above. There was no handrail. Torches flickered in wall brackets, and one of the soldiers lit a brand to carry up the steps.

“Do you wish me to come with you, my lady?”

Andromache saw that Axa’s eyes were huge and frightened in the torchlight, her hands straying unconsciously to her swollen belly. “No. Stay here. Wait for me,” Andromache replied.

“Do you want the water?” Axa started to unsling the water skin she held on her hip.

Andromache thought for moment and then told her, “No, keep it. I might want it later.”

She realized the two soldiers were preparing to escort her up. She held out her hand. “Give me the torch,” she demanded.

The torch carrier, unsure, casting an eye at his fellow, passed the brand to her.

“Stay here,” she told them curtly, and before they could move she set off swiftly up the stairs, stepping lightly on the shiny stone.

On and up she climbed, her legs, strengthened by her many hours of walking or running on Thera, pushing her up the steep flights. Each step was nearly knee-high, and she felt her body enjoying the exercise, her thighs and calves thrilling to be worked so hard. She had never suffered from the sickness sparked by heights, but she was not tempted to look down to see how far she had climbed. She looked up instead, toward the small square of light.

She felt she had the measure of the old king now. He had asked her to the tower to daunt her, perhaps to humiliate her, hoping she would collapse in tears at the foot of the tower and have to be carried up like a child. She was amazed that a king with such power, such riches, should feel the need to prove his superiority over a young woman. Petty bullies I can deal with, she thought.

The steps became narrower as she neared the top, and they seemed much more worn and slick with damp. She became conscious of the dark abyss to her right and placed her feet more carefully as she climbed. She wondered why the stairs would be most worn at the
top
of the tower. Then she realized and laughed. She stopped and held her torch high. Thirty or so steps below her, on the other side of the tower, was a dark recess. In it there was a narrow door. She had not seen it as she passed. It must be a door leading to the battlements of the south wall. The old man would have come that way, leaving her to climb the full height of the tower. Priam, she thought, already I do not like you.

When she emerged at the top, it was with a sense of relief. The brightness of the low sun hurt her eyes and the wind buffeted her hair, and for a moment she was disoriented. She looked around slowly, steadying her breathing.

The wooden roof was half the size of the king’s
megaron
yet empty except for four guards, one at each corner of the tower, motionless and staring outward. A tall, wide-shouldered man was standing on the battlements of the southwest wall, the wind blowing through his long silver-gold hair.

He was powerfully built and deeply tanned. He wore a blue full-length tunic, and despite the coolness of the dawn, his tanned, muscular arms were bare. He was in profile to her, and she saw a high beaked nose and a strong jaw. He did not appear to have seen her, and she stood uncertainly.

“Well, are you going to stand there all day, girl?” he said, not turning.

Andromache walked over to him and stood, head bowed. “I am Andromache of Thebe—”

The king turned suddenly. She was surprised at how young and vital he was. His height and the width of his shoulders dominated her, and his physical presence was colossal.

“Have you not been taught how to address your king, girl? On your knees.”

He loomed over her, and she was almost forced to her knees by his presence alone. Instead she straightened her back. “In Thebe Under Plakos we do not bow the knee to anyone, not even the gods.”

Priam leaned in close so that she could see the yellowish whites of his eyes and smell the morning wine on his breath. He said quietly, “You are not in little Thebe now. I will not tell you again.”

At that moment there was a clattering on the staircase and a Royal Eagle climbed onto the roof. His helmet bore the black-and-white crest of a captain. He strode quickly to the king.

“Lord.” He glanced at Andromache and hesitated. Priam gestured impatiently for him to go on. “Lord, we have him! Someone must have warned him, for he had almost made it to the Egypteian ship. He is being questioned now.”

“Excellent! I shall attend the questioning later.” The king was still looking down at the bay. “Is that monstrosity Helikaon’s new ship?”

“Yes, sir, the
Xanthos.
It arrived late last night.”

Andromache’s interest quickened. She watched Priam closely but could not see from his expression whether he considered it good news or bad. After a moment he dismissed the captain and turned to regard Andromache again.

“Let me show you my city,” he said, then sprang lightly up onto the high battlement wall before turning and holding out his hand to Andromache.

She did not hesitate, and he took hold of her wrist, drawing her up to stand alongside him. The wind buffeted her, and she glanced down at the awesome drop.

“So you will not kneel to me?” he said.

“I will kneel to no man,” she answered, preparing herself for the push that would send her toppling to her death and ready to haul him with her.

“You interest me, girl. There is no fear in you.”

“Nor in you, apparently, King Priam.”

He looked surprised. “Fear is for weaklings. Look around you. This is Troy.
My
Troy. The richest and most powerful city in the world. It was not built by fearful men but by men with imagination and courage. Its wealth grows daily, and with it the influence that wealth brings.”

Suddenly, to Andromache’s surprise, the king reached out and weighed her left breast in his hand. She did not flinch.

“You will do,” Priam said, taking his hand away and waving his dismissal. “You will breed strong children for me.”

An icy worm of fear slithered into her heart. “For your son Hektor, I think you mean, my king,” she corrected, her voice harder than was wise.

More quickly than she could have expected, he stepped toward her, looming over her again. “I am your king,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot and wet. “And Hektor is not here. He may well not return until the spring.”

The prospect of being confined to Priam’s palace through the long weeks of winter filled Andromache with dismay.

“You may go now,” said Priam, turning away from her and staring out over the bay.

Andromache leapt lightly down to the ramparts and walked to the stairway. Then Priam called out to her. She turned toward him.

“You are still a virgin, I take it.”

“I am who I am, King Priam,” she replied, unable to keep the anger from her voice.

“Then remember who you are and what you are,” he advised. “You are the property of Priam until he decides you should become the property of another.”

XVIII

THE HOUSE OF SERPENTS

I

The House of Serpents was larger than Xander had first imagined. There were four immense buildings set in a square with an open garden area at the center in which an altar had been erected to the god Asklepios.

There were people everywhere: women in long green gowns, men dressed in white tunics, priests in flowing robes of blue and gold. Then there were crowds of supplicants lining up before three tables set close to the altar. Everyone in the lines carried an offering, some holding caged white doves and others bearing perfumes or gifts of copper or silver. Xander saw that all the supplicants were given a small square of papyrus, which they held to their lips before dropping it into a large copper container beside the priest at the table.

Mystified, Xander moved through the crowd, wandered around the garden, and then decided to return to his room.

Except that he had no idea where it was. All four of the buildings looked exactly the same. He entered one, followed a corridor, and found himself in a huge round chamber. There were statues of the gods set into alcoves. At the foot of each statue was a deep cup of silver and a small brazier filled with glowing coals. He recognized the statue of Demeter, goddess of fertility, for she carried a basket of corn in one hand and the babe Persephone held against her breast. Others he could not identify. The air was full of incense, and he saw two priests moving to the statues. The first poured libations of wine into the silver cups, and the second sprinkled papyrus squares onto the fires in the braziers.

Then Xander understood. The supplicants’ squares were being offered to the gods. He wondered how Demeter would know from the ashes exactly what each worshipper had asked for.

Moving out of the temple area, he saw Machaon, the healer-priest who had tended him. Xander called out, and Machaon turned his head. He was tall and stoop-shouldered, with short dark hair thinning at the temples. His eyes looked tired.

“I see you are feeling stronger, Xander,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Do not overexert yourself. You are still recovering.”

“Yes, sir. Can you tell me where my room is?”

Machaon smiled. “The house is like a labyrinth. It takes time to find your way around. Do you read symbols?”

“No, sir.”

“You are in Fire Seven. Each building here is marked by a different symbol, and each room has a number.” He pointed to the closest door. “The first symbol on the door represents the element after which the area was named.” Xander peered at the symbol carved into the wood. “What does it look like to you?”

“Like a bow,” Xander answered.

“I suppose it does,” agreed Machaon. “In fact the upturned half circle is a cup. So this building is Water. The mark below it is the number of the room. To the north is Earth, and the symbol there is a full circle, for all things come from the earth and return to the earth. Fire is directly across the garden from here, and on each door you will see another half circle, resting downward on a straight line. This represents the rising sun. Air is the building to your left. On its walls you will see another half circle standing upright like a sail in the breeze.”

“Thank you, sir. How do the gods know who kissed the papyrus?”

Machaon smiled. “The gods see all, Xander. They know what is in our hearts and in our minds.”

“Why, then, do they need the papyrus at all?”

“It is a ritual of worship, an indication of respect and adoration. We will talk about that tomorrow when I visit you. And now I must continue my work.” Machaon rose. “You may walk around for a while. But try not to get in anyone’s way.”

Xander crossed the now-deserted gardens and found his room. He was feeling dreadfully tired and weak. On trembling legs he made it to his bed and lay down. The room seemed to be moving as if it were on a ship. As he lay there he heard his door open, and a figure came into sight.

It was Helikaon. Xander struggled to rise.

“Stay where you are, boy,” said the Golden One, sitting down on the bed.

“Thank you, lord.”

“The
Xanthos
is sailing for Dardania soon. Machaon believes you should stay here for the winter. He says it will take time for your strength to return.”

Xander did not reply. He was both relieved and disappointed. He had loved being part of the crew, but he dreaded another battle and still had nightmares about burning men.

Helikaon seemed to read his thoughts. “I am truly sorry that your first voyage should have seen such tragedy. Odysseus tells me you saw Zidantas while you were in your fever.”

“Yes, lord. Everyone was on the beach, and he was standing with some other men close by. One of them was Epeus.”

“Epeus died in the battle,” said Helikaon. “Did Zidantas speak to you?”

“Yes. He told me to think of life and to come back to Troy. I wanted to go with him, but he said he was walking a dark road. He asked me to tell his daughter Thea that she gave him great joy.”

Helikaon sat silently for a few moments. “I think it was not a dream, Xander,” he said at last. “I think it was a true vision. I will leave gold with the temple to pay for your keep. In the spring I will still have a place for you among my crew. There is something you can do for me, in return.”

“Anything, lord.”

“Argurios is here. He was stabbed, and I am told he is dying. I want you to visit him, see to his needs. I have hired other men to watch over him, to prevent the killers from returning. Will you do this for me?”

“Yes, lord, but Argurios does not like me.”

“It would surprise me to find that Argurios
liked
anyone.”

“What can I do?”

“He is refusing to eat or drink, so bring him food and water.”

“Why doesn’t he want to eat?”

“Evil men have taken away all that he has. I think a part of him does not want to live.”

“I can’t make him eat, lord.”

“Tell him you spoke to me and I laughed when I heard of his plight. Tell him I said that one less Mykene warrior in the world was a matter to be celebrated.”

“He will hate you for that, won’t he?”

Helikaon sighed. “Yes, I expect he will. Go and find him when you are rested. He is in Air, and his room is close to the portico entrance.”

II

Karpophorus the assassin followed Helikaon up the hill toward the palace. It had been almost twenty years since he had killed anyone in Troy. The city had changed greatly since then, expanding in almost every direction. His last assassination there had seen him escape across a pasture into a small wood. That pasture now boasted scores of small houses lining narrow streets, and the wood had been chopped down to make way for a barracks. The imposing house of the merchant he had slain also was gone. That was a shame, he thought, for it had been well constructed, with pleasing lines.

A little way ahead Helikaon paused beside a clothing stall and chatted to the owner. Karpophorus hung back, watching the exchange. The sun was bright over the golden city, and there were many people gathered in the marketplace.

How curious, he thought, that Helikaon should seem so relaxed here. He knew there were Mykene in the city, and at any time a killer could attack him. Karpophorus scanned the crowd with suspicious eyes, seeking out any possible attacker, looking for signs of tension in the faces. He was determined that no other assassin should claim his prize.

Then Helikaon moved on.

Karpophorus followed him up another hill toward the golden-roofed palace of Priam.

It was then that he spotted a young man emerging from between two buildings. He was dark-haired and slim, wearing a green tunic and sandals. There was a knife at his belt. Karpophorus had seen him in the crowd at the market. Increasing his pace, Karpophorus closed the distance between them. As Helikaon turned another corner, the newcomer slowly drew his dagger and stepped after him.

His own blade flashing into his hand, Karpophorus broke into a run.

When he rounded the corner, he saw the young man spreadeagled on the street, Helikaon standing above him.

“My apologies,” said Karpophorus. “I was a little slow.”

“Nonsense, Attalus. It was my fault for ordering you to hang back.” Helikaon grinned at him. “Let us hope that this fool is the best they have.”

“Indeed,” agreed Karpophorus.

The young man was still alive and conscious, though his knife was now in Helikaon’s hand. He glared up at the Golden One with a look of pure hatred. Helikaon tossed the knife to the street and walked on. Karpophorus followed.

They walked in silence to the palace citadel, and Helikaon approached the guards at the double gates. Then they passed under the shadow of the walls above and emerged onto a wide paved courtyard.

“I shall be some time in the palace,” Helikaon told him, “so go and get yourself some food. I will meet you at the entrance at dusk.”

Helikaon strolled toward the red columns of the palace entrance, and Karpophorus found a place in the shade. He sat on a stone bench alongside a sweet-smelling climbing plant with purple flowers. It was pleasant there, and he relaxed. It had been a relief to see the
Penelope
sail that morning. Ever since Bad Luck Bay, Karpophorus had been forced to plan his every step. Odysseus knew his face and no doubt would have guessed that he was stalking Helikaon.

As a passenger on the
Penelope
some nine years earlier Karpophorus had been surprised when the Ithakan king had approached him after they had beached one night. As was his style, Karpophorus had found a place to sleep away from the men and was sitting looking at the stars when Odysseus walked up. The ugly king had sat down on a rock close by.

“I know you,” he had said.

The shock had been great. Karpophorus’ main talent lay in his anonymity. He had the kind of face no one remembered, and merely tying back his dark hair or growing a chin beard could change his appearance dramatically. And he had not met Odysseus before this trip to Dardania.

He had hedged. “How so?”

The king had laughed. “A friend of mine hired you. I saw you leaving his house one day. It is said you are the finest assassin in all the world, Karpophorus. You never fail.”

“You mistake me for someone else.”

“I don’t make that kind of mistake,” said Odysseus. “And I would like to hire you.”

“It is said you are a man without enemies. Who would you possibly want killed?”

Odysseus had shrugged. “I don’t care. I just want to be able to say I once hired the great Karpophorus.”

“You don’t care who dies?”

“Not a jot.”

“You are suggesting I just kill anyone and then seek payment from you?”

“Hmm,” mused the ugly king. “I can see how that would be a little too random.” He sat silently for a moment. “All right, how about this: I will hire you to kill the next person who seeks to hire you.”

“I already know who seeks to hire me, and he is a powerful man and well protected. The cost of my services is in direct proportion to the risk I take.”

“Name a fee.”

“You don’t want to know who it is?”

“No.”

Now it was Karpophorus who fell silent. He glanced back along the beach to where the men were sitting around the fire. His gaze fell on the dark-haired young prince who traveled with Odysseus. Here was the difficulty. He had seen on the voyage so far that Odysseus was fond of the youth. Had the ugly king guessed that Karpophorus was being hired to kill him? If he had and Karpophorus refused to accept his offer, Odysseus would have him killed here on this beach. He looked up at Odysseus, meeting his gaze. The man was clever. He was seeking to save the young man by murdering his father, yet if Karpophorus was captured, there would be no blood feud, for the Ithakan king was, after all, only hiring Karpophorus on a whim to kill someone anonymous.

“How will you know the deed is done?” Karpophorus asked, continuing the charade.

“Cut off the man’s ear and send it to me. I will take that as proof of completion.”

“It will cost a sheep’s weight in silver.”

“I agree, but we have very thin sheep on Ithaka. One other thing. The man we are talking of may already have named the person he wants dead. Or he may name him before you fulfill your promise to me.”

“That is a possibility.”

Odysseus’ eyes grew cold. In that moment Karpophorus saw the briefest glimpse of the man legend spoke of, the young reaver who had terrorized settlements all across the Great Green. In the days of his youth Odysseus had built a formidable reputation as a fighting man and a killer. Karpophorus stayed very calm. His life at that moment was flickering like a candle in a storm. One wrong word now and it would be extinguished.

“I think,” said Odysseus, “it would be unwise to accept an offer from a man you are going to kill. You agree?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent.”

They had agreed on the manner of the payment. In the background the men of the
Penelope
were laughing. Karpophorus looked over to see the dark-haired young prince engaged in a mock wrestling bout with Odysseus’ first mate, Bias.

“A fine lad,” said Odysseus. “Reminds me of a young sailor who once served with me. He was murdered. It took me five seasons to find the killer. I left his head on a spear. My Penelope always tells me I am an unforgiving man and should learn how to put aside grudges. I wish I could.” He shrugged. “But we are what we are, Karpophorus.” Then he had clapped his meaty hand on Karpophorus’ shoulder. “I am glad we had this little talk.”

It had irked Karpophorus to have been outmaneuvered by the ugly king, and now, with the promise of Agamemnon’s gold, it seemed fitting that the original wishes of Anchises the king would be honored.

Helikaon would at last fall to the blade of Karpophorus.

∗ ∗ ∗

He had originally planned to kill him in Kypros and had followed him in the darkness to a high cliff top. The storm had come then, and Helikaon had walked to the cliff edge and stood, arms raised, as if preparing to dive to the rocks below. Karpophorus had moved silently between the great stones of the shrine. No need for a blade. Just a swift push and the man would plummet into eternity.