Lord of the Silver Bow (24 page)

Perhaps now that she is ill she will be less harsh, she had thought as the two-wheeled carriage crossed the Scamander bridge.

“What is she like, your mother?” Andromache asked.

“Very nice,” answered Laodike.

“No, I mean, what does she look like?”

“Oh, she’s tall and her hair is dark. Father says she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She is still very attractive. Her eyes are gray-blue.”

“She is revered on Thera,” said Andromache. “Part of her dowry built the Temple of the Horse.”

“Yes. Mother spoke of it. Very big.”

Andromache laughed. “Very big? It is colossal, Laodike. You can see it from the sea, miles from Thera. The head is so large that inside it there is a great hall in which fifty of the senior priestesses meet and offer prayers and sacrifices to Poseidon. The eyes are massive windows. If you lean out, you can pretend to be a bird, so high are you in the sky.”

“It sounds . . . wonderful,” Laodike said dully.

“Are you ill?” Andromache asked, leaning in to her and placing an arm around her shoulder.

“No, I am well. Truly.” She looked into Andromache’s green eyes, seeing the concern there. “It is just . . .”

“Hera’s curse?”

“Yes,” she said, happy that it was not a complete lie. “Don’t you find it strange that it was a goddess who cursed women with periods of bleeding? Ought to have been a capricious god, really.”

Andromache laughed. “If all the tales are to be believed, the male gods would surely prefer women to rut all the time. Perhaps Hera was just allowing us a little respite.”

Laodike saw the shoulders of the carriage driver hunch forward as if he was trying to move himself farther from the conversation. Suddenly her mood lifted, and she began to giggle. “Oh, Andromache, you really do have a wonderful way of seeing things.” Settling back in her seat, she glanced ahead at the walls of King’s Joy, her fears melting away.

Laodike had not seen her mother for several months, and when Paris led them into the garden, she did not recognize her. Sitting in a wicker chair was a white-haired ancient, frail and bony, her face a mask of yellowed parchment drawn so tightly across her skull that it seemed that at any moment the skin would tear. Laodike stood very still, not knowing how to react. At first she thought the crone was also visiting her mother, but then the ancient spoke.

“Are you just going to stand there, stupid girl, or are you going to kiss your mother?”

Laodike felt giddy. Her mouth was dry, her mind reeling, just as it had been during those awful lessons. “This is Andromache,” she managed to say.

The dying queen’s gaze moved on. Laodike felt a surge of relief.

Then Andromache stepped forward and kissed Hekabe’s cheek. “I am sorry to find you in such poor health,” she said.

“My son tells me I will like you,” said the queen coldly. “I have always loathed that phrase. It instantly makes me feel I am destined to dislike the person. So
you
tell me why I should like you.”

Andromache shook her head. “I think not, Queen Hekabe. It seems to me that in Troy everyone plays games. I do not play games. Like me if you will, dislike me if you must. Either way the sun will still shine.”

“A good answer,” said the queen. Then her bright eyes fixed Andromache with a piercing look. “I hear you stood on the high parapet with Priam and refused to kneel.”

“Did you kneel for Priam?”

“Not for Priam or any man!” snapped the queen.

Andromache laughed. “There you are, then, Queen Hekabe. We have something in common already. We don’t know how to kneel.”

The queen’s smile faded. “Yes, we have something in common. Has my husband tried to bed you yet?”

“No. Nor will he succeed if he tries.”

“Oh, he will try, my dear. Not just because you are tall and comely but because you are very like me. Or rather as I once was. I, too, was once a priestess of Thera. I, too, was strong once. I ran through the hills and bent the bow and danced in the revels. I, too, had a sweet lover, full-lipped and heavy-breasted. How did Kalliope take your parting?”

Laodike was shocked at this news and glanced at Andromache. She thought her friend would be crestfallen and shamed.

Instead Andromache smiled broadly. “What a city this is,” she said. “Everywhere there are spies and whispers, and no secrets are safe. I had not thought the royal court would know so much of the happenings on Thera.”

“The royal court does not,” said the queen. “I do. So, did Kalliope weep? Did she beg you to run away with her?”

“Was that how you parted from your lover?”

“Yes. It tore my heart to leave her. She killed herself.”

“She must have loved you greatly.”

“I am sure that she did. But she killed herself twenty years later, after a vileness grew in her throat, draining the flesh from her bones and robbing her of speech and breath. She threw herself from the Eye of the Horse, her life dashed out on the rocks far below. Now I have a vileness in my belly. Do you think the gods punished us both for our lustful ways?”

“Do you?”

Hekabe shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“I do not,” said Andromache. “Angry men stalk the lands with sword and fire, burning, killing, and raping, yet the gods are said to admire them. If this is true, then I cannot see how they would punish women for loving one another. However, if I am wrong and the gods do hate us for our pleasures, then they do not deserve my worship.”

Hekabe suddenly laughed. “Oh, you are so like me! And you are far more suited to my Hektor than your insipid sister. However, we were talking about Priam. He will not rape you. He will seek to seduce you, or he will find some other means to force your acquiescence. He is a subtle man. I think he will wait until I am dead, though. So you have a little time of freedom yet.”

“How could anyone love such a man?” said Andromache.

Hekabe sighed. “He is willful and sometimes cruel, but there is greatness in him, too.” She smiled. “When you have known him a little longer you will see it.” Her eyes turned back to Laodike. “Well, girl, are you going to kiss your mother?”

“Yes,” Laodike replied meekly, stepping forward and stooping down. She closed her eyes and planted a swift peck on her mother’s cheek, then moved back hurriedly. The queen smelled of cloves, the scent sickly and cloying.

Servants brought chairs and cool drinks, and they sat together. Paris had wandered off and was reading a scroll. Laodike did not know what to say. She knew now that her mother was dying, and her heart ached with the knowledge of it. She felt like a child again, miserable, alone and unloved. Even on the verge of death Mother did not have a kind word for her. Her stomach was knotted, and the conversation between Andromache and Hekabe seemed like the intermittent buzzing of bees. Mother summoned more servants to raise a set of painted sunscreens around them, and though the shade was welcome, it did nothing to raise Laodike’s spirits.

And then Helikaon came, and once more Laodike’s spirits lifted. She rose from her chair and waved as the young prince came striding across the pale grass of the cliff top, young Kassandra beside him. He smiled when he saw Laodike.

“You are more lovely than ever, Cousin,” he said, taking her into his arms and hugging her close. Laodike wanted the hug never to end, and she clung to him and kissed his cheek.

“By the gods, Laodike, must you act the harlot?” demanded her mother.

The harshness of the tone cut through her. She had committed the most awful breach of protocol. A guest must first greet the queen. Helikaon leaned in and kissed her brow. Then he winked and mouthed the words: “Don’t worry!” Stepping forward, he knelt beside the queen’s chair. “I brought Kassandra as you requested.”

“No one brought me,” said Kassandra. “I came to make you happy, Mother.”

“You always make me happy, my dear,” said Hekabe. “Now sit with us, Helikaon. I am told you have been battling pirates and setting them ablaze, no less.”

“It is too beautiful a day,” he said, “to be spoiled by tales of bloodshed and savagery. And the lady Andromache already knows of the battle and its aftermath. She was there on the beach.”

“I envy you,” said Hekabe. “I would like to have watched those Mykene burn. Heartless dogs, every one of them. I never met a Mykene I liked—nor one I trusted.”

“Tell Mother about the disguise,” said Laodike. “One of my servants heard it from a crewman.”

“Disguise?” Hekabe echoed, her brows furrowing.

“To escape assassins on the cliff,” said Laodike. “It was very clever. Tell her, Helikaon.”

“It was a small matter. I knew the killers were waiting for me, so I bribed one of Kygones’ guards and borrowed his armor. Nothing dramatic, I fear. I merely walked past the Mykene.” He suddenly chuckled. “One of them even called me over to ask if I had seen Helikaon.”

“You were dressed as a guard?” said Andromache. “Did you perchance lose your sandal on the beach?”

“Yes. The strap broke. How odd you should know that.”

“Not at all. I saw you.”

Laodike looked at her young friend. Her face seemed very pale, and for the first time since she had known her Andromache seemed tense and ill at ease.

“It was a cheap sandal,” said Helikaon.

“Tell me of the ship,” demanded Hekabe. “I have always loved tales of ships.”

Laodike sat quietly as Helikaon spoke of the
Xanthos
and the Madman from Miletos who had designed and built her. He talked of her seaworthiness and how she danced upon the waters like a queen of the sea. He told them of the storm and how the ship had weathered it. Laodike was lost in the wonder of it all. She dreamed of sailing far away from Troy to live on a green island where no one would ever call her a stupid girl or demand that she recite the names of lands she would never visit.

Toward dusk Hekabe complained of tiredness, and two servants were summoned to carry her back into the house. Helikaon left soon afterward. He had intended to sail that day for Dardania but now would have to wait for the dawn.

He kissed Laodike and hugged her again. “She does not mean to be cruel,” he said.

Oh, yes, she does, thought Laodike, but said: “I am sure you are right, Helikaon.”

Kneeling beside Kassandra, he said: “Do I get a hug from you, little friend?”

“No.”

“Very well,” he told her, and began to rise.

“I have changed my mind,” she said haughtily. “I will allow you a hug because it will make you happy.”

“That is gracious of you,” he said. Kassandra threw her thin arms around his neck, and hugged him tightly. He kissed her cheek. “Friends should always hug,” he added. Then he stood and turned toward Andromache.

“It was good to see you again, lady,” he said. Laodike expected him to step in and take her in his arms also, but he did not. The two of them looked at each other. Andromache’s normally stern face had softened, and there was color in her cheeks.

“Will you come back for the wedding?”

“I think not. I wish you every happiness. I have always known Hektor was lucky, but now I know the gods have blessed him.”

“But have they blessed me?” she asked softly.

“I hope so—with all my heart.”

“Are you going to hug her?” asked Kassandra. “You should.”

Helikaon looked uncertain, but Andromache stepped in. “I think we should be friends,” she said.

“We always will be, Andromache. You have my oath on that.” His arms swept around her, drawing her close.

Laodike felt a sudden chill in her belly as she watched them. She saw Helikaon’s eyes close and heard him sigh. Sadness flowed through her. For several years now she had entertained the fantasy that her father might arrange a marriage between her and Helikaon. She knew he did not love her but believed that if such a match was completed, she could make him happy. When she had heard he had refused to be wedded to the beautiful Kreusa, she had been jubilant. He had told Priam he would marry only for love. Laodike had held to the faintest hope that he might come to love
her
. That hope had shone like a spark in the lonely nights. Now it was extinguished. He had never held her like that.

And she knew in that moment that he never would.

You will never know love, whispered the dark fear of her heart.

Andromache broke the embrace. She was flushed and seemed unsteady on her feet. Swiftly she stepped back from Helikaon, then knelt by the slim Kassandra. “Can we be friends, too?” she asked.

“Not yet,” said Kassandra. “I am going to swim again. The dolphins are waiting for me.”

XX

THE TEMPLE OF HERMES

I

Karpophorus was uneasy as he sat on the rooftop, staring across the Scamander at the distant cliff-top palace. Tonight, as the sun set, the feast of Demeter the corn goddess would begin. People would give thanks for the harvests of the summer. There would be strong drink, fine wines, platters of food, and huge roasting pits. People would dance and sing and throw off their cares and worries for a day. In nine months there would be hundreds of new babes born into the world, screaming and crying. Karpophorus loathed feast days.

However, this one was special.

When he had first been called to his ministry of death he had traveled to the island of Samothraki, to seek the wisdom of a seer who dwelled there. The man was famous across the Great Green. He lived in a cave, eschewing wealth in the search for spiritual perfection. There were always scores of people thronging the hillside below the cave, offering gifts and making entreaties. The seer would sit silently in the sunshine and occasionally call someone forward. Then he would speak in low tones, and the supplicant would listen before walking away quietly through the crowd. People would call out to the supplicant, “What did he say?” But always there was no answer.

Karpophorus had waited for nineteen days. On the morning of the twentieth, as he stared at the old man, he saw that the seer’s eyes were upon him. Then he was summoned. He could scarcely believe it and glanced around to see if anyone was standing behind him. Finally he rose and walked up the hillside.

The seer was less old than he had thought. Though his beard was white, his face was unlined.

Karpophorus sat cross-legged before him.

“What wisdom do you seek?” asked the seer.

“I have been called to serve the Great Father,” Karpophorus told him. “But I need guidance.”

“How did this call come upon you?”

Karpophorus told him of the death of his coworker and of his realization that he was to serve the great god by sending souls on the long journey.

“You think Hades requires you to kill people?”

“Yes,” Karpophorus answered proudly.

The man looked at him, his face expressionless, his large blue eyes holding Karpophorus’ dark gaze. “How many have you killed now?”

“Nine.”

“Wait while I commune with the spirits,” said the seer, then closed his eyes.

So much time passed that Karpophorus began to think the man had fallen asleep. Then his eyes opened.

“All men choose to follow one path or another, Karpophorus. If I were to tell you that you were deluded and that the Lord of the Dead did not call upon you, would you believe me? Answer honestly.”

“No. The Great God has made me his servant.”

The man nodded. “Tell me, do you believe he would want you to kill children?”

“No.”

“Or women?”

“I do not know. Does he want women slain?”

“There will be no children or women. And you will kill no one between the feast of Demeter and the feast of Persephone. When the land sleeps between the seasons, you also will rest. And for each mission you undertake succesfully you will offer half of your fee to benefit the poor and the needy.” He pointed to the knife at Karpophorus’ side. “Give me the blade.” Karpophorus pulled it clear and offered it to the seer. It was a fine dagger, the hilt embossed with silver thread, the pommel shaped like a lion’s head. “You will use only this dagger for your missions. Never poison, nor sword, nor rope. Not your hands, not a spear, not a bow. And when this dagger breaks or is lost, you will serve the Great God no more with death. If any of these instructions be broken, then your life will end within seven days.”

“It will be as you say, holy one.”

Over the years Karpophorus had followed each instruction without complaint. In three cities there were houses of care for the poor and the destitute funded by Karpophorus. Not one woman or child had fallen to his dagger, and the weapon was lovingly tended and used only for his missions lest the blade be damaged. He carried two other knives for general use, and those he had used in the battle at Blue Owl Bay.

Tonight was the feast of Demeter, and today the lion-pommeled dagger would end Helikaon’s life on this earth.

He had watched the lord ride across the Scamander bridge that morning on a horse borrowed from the king’s stable. The chances were that he would return it around dusk and then walk down through the town to the beach. He would pass through the square of the Hermes temple. There would be crowds there.

It should not be difficult, Karpophorus thought, to kill him there. I will merely walk up, the dagger hidden in my sleeve. Helikaon will greet me with a smile. Then, swiftly and surely, I will let slip the dagger and slice it across his throat. Then I will merge with the crowds and be gone. Helikaon will be free to find the Elysian Fields and enjoy eternity in the company of gods and heroes.

Karpophorus sighed.

It should not be difficult to kill him there
.

The slaying of Helikaon had proved far more difficult than any of his recent killings. The Golden One was a wary man and sharp-witted, a thinker and a planner. Worse than this, though, Karpophorus realized, he was in fact reluctant to go through with the contract. Odd thoughts had been occurring to him lately, doubts and concerns. It had never happened before. Karpophorus loved his work and felt immense pride that Hades had chosen him. But joining the crew of the
Xanthos
had unsettled him.

All his life Karpophorus had been a solitary man, comfortable in his own company. More than this, he positively disliked being surrounded by crowds. He had thought the journey on the
Xanthos
would be tense and unpleasant. Instead he had found a kind of solace. Oniacus had even hugged him on the beach yesterday, after Karpophorus had told him he was quitting the crew. The sensation had been strange. Afterward he tried to think of the last time he had been embraced. He could not remember. He supposed his mother must have cuddled him at some point, but try as he might, he could not recall a single touch from her.

“You’ll be missed, Attalus,” Oniacus had told him. “I know the Golden One sets great store by you. He will be sorely disappointed when he hears you are no longer with us.”

That kind of parting was alien territory to the assassin. It amazed him that he had found himself close to tears. Not knowing what to say, he had trudged off, his copper wages in his pouch.

He had spent the night dozing in a doorway overlooking the palace entrance and was awake with the dawn, watching for Helikaon.

Below the rooftop he heard children laughing and playing. Easing himself up, he glanced down at them. There were five boys playing catch with a knotted ball of old rope. Then he saw another child, sitting apart from the others. He was thin and scrawny, and his face bore a sad look.

Don’t just sit there, thought Karpophorus. Go and join in. Do not set yourself apart. Make friends.

But the boy just sat and watched. Karpophorus felt a sinking of the spirits and toyed with the idea of walking down and speaking to him. Yet he could not. What would I say? he asked himself. And why should he listen?

Then one of the other boys, a tall, slim lad with long auburn hair, left the group and sat beside the smaller child. He put his arm around his shoulder. Then the child smiled. The taller boy pulled him to his feet and drew him to where the others were playing.

Karpophorus felt a great sense of gratitude. He sat watching them playing until they wandered off to their homes. The little boy was laughing. “Who knows now what you may become?” whispered Karpophorus.

And the sadness returned.

In the failing light he saw a horseman heading back across the Scamander bridge. It was too dark to make out his features, but he recognized Helikaon’s riding style, one hand holding the reins and the other resting lightly on his thigh.

Karpophorus watched him return the horse, talk for a while with the groom, and then enter the palace. A short while later, now wearing a tunic of dark leather, two bronze swords scabbarded at his side, he strode out toward the streets leading to the beach.

Slipping his dagger into his sleeve, Karpophorus climbed down from the rooftop and moved out to intercept him.

II

As he walked toward the harbor, Helikaon thought of Andromache. He could still feel the warmth of her body pressed against him in that hug, and the remembered scent of her hair filled him with longing. He wished now that he had sailed from Troy earlier and had not visited the dying Hekabe.

He glanced at the sky and the lowering clouds in the west and wondered if he had committed some sin against Aphrodite, the love goddess. Perhaps he had sacrificed less to her than to the other gods. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He had refused to marry except for love, and now that he had met the woman of his heart and his dreams, she was to wed another. Worse, she was to be married to his closest friend.

Now is not the time to dwell on it, he warned himself as the shadows lengthened on the streets of Troy.

He passed through milling crowds of brightly dressed Trojans thronging the marketplaces, seeking the best deals from traders eager to pack up their wares for the night. A whore smiled at him, cupping her heavy breasts and licking her painted lips. He shook his head, and her interest waned, her bright smile fading.

With the crowds behind him he moved more warily down the hillside toward the beach. Mykene spies would be well aware that this was his last day in Troy. They knew he would be sailing with the dawn. If another attack was planned, it would be now, as he returned to the
Xanthos.

A cool westerly breeze was blowing, and several drops of rain began to fall. Helikaon gazed at the buildings ahead. He was approaching a narrow street leading to the wide square fronting the temple of Hermes, the god of travelers. There would be many people there, sailors offering gifts for safe passage and others about to take journeys who would be seeking the blessing of the god.

A perfect place to ambush a single man in sight of his ship.

He felt the tension rise in him as he entered the street before the temple. Ahead he saw a man, hooded and cloaked. The man turned away sharply and walked back toward the square.

A cold anger settled on Helikaon. This was the scout, then. His appearance in the square would tell the others that Helikaon was approaching. How many would be waiting? His heart began to beat faster. They would want to be sure this time. Eight or ten killers would rush him, certainly no more. A larger group would get in each other’s way. Ten, he decided, would be the maximum. At least two would run behind to block a retreat along the street he now walked. The others would circle him, then rush in.

Helikaon paused and whispered a prayer to the war god: “I know these Mykene worship you above all gods, mighty Ares, but the men in this square are cowards. I ask your blessing upon my blades today.”

Then he walked on.

At the entrance to the square he glanced to the left and right. As he walked on he saw two hooded men angling around behind him, blocking his retreat.

He saw Attalus moving through the crowd toward him.

At that moment four men threw off their cloaks, drew swords, and rushed at him. They were wearing leather breastplates and round leather helmets. Helikaon drew his two swords and leapt to meet them. All around, the crowd scattered. Other Mykene rushed in. Helikaon blocked a savage thrust, plunging his blade through an attacker’s throat. A sword blade hammered against his side. The pain was intense, but the hidden ivory disks within the leather tunic prevented his ribs from being smashed. Helikaon drove his sword against the Mykene’s leather helmet. The blade sliced down through the flesh of the man’s face, snapping the jawbone. Helikaon kept moving, cutting and parrying. Despite concentrating on the men coming against him, he was aware of Oniacus and the handpicked fighting men of the crew rushing from their hiding places and attacking the Mykene. The ringing clash of sword upon sword echoed in the square. The crowd had drawn back, leaving the central area to the combatants. Flipping his right-hand blade and holding the short sword as a dagger, Helikaon parried a thrust with his left-hand sword and plunged the right down through the attacker’s collarbone. The blade sank deep, and a ghastly scream tore from the Mykene’s throat.

Helikaon spun and saw Attalus ram a dagger through the eye of a Mykene. There was blood on Attalus’ tunic.

Now it was the Mykene who sought to flee. Helikaon saw a tall warrior cut down a crewman and run toward the narrow street.

Gershom cut off his retreat, the club of Zidantas thundering into the man’s face. The Mykene was hurled from his feet, his skull smashed.

Two other attackers threw down their weapons, but they were ruthlessly slain.

Helikaon saw Attalus tottering toward him, his dagger dripping blood. The man staggered. Dropping his swords, Helikaon stepped in to meet him. The injured man fell into his arms. Helikaon laid him down on the stone. Attalus’ hand flapped, the dagger blade scraping across Helikaon’s tunic.

“It is all right, Attalus,” said Helikaon, taking the blade from the man’s hand. “The fighting is over. Let me see your wound.”

There was a deep puncture just above the right hip, and blood was pouring from it. Then Helikaon saw a second wound in the chest. It was bleeding profusely.

Oniacus crouched down alongside Helikaon. “Eight dead Mykene, but we lost five, with three more carrying wounds.”

“You have a healer waiting at the
Xanthos
?”

“Aye, Golden One, just as you ordered.”

“Then let us get the wounded aboard.”

“Give me . . . my dagger,” whispered Attalus.

Helikaon laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You must rest, Attalus. Do not exert yourself. Your dagger is safe. I will look after it for you.”

“Looks like you are staying with us after all, Attalus, my friend,” said Oniacus. “Don’t worry. We’ll have those scratches dealt with in no time.”

Helikaon stood and gazed around the temple square. People were gathering now, staring at the bodies. A troop of Trojan soldiers came running into sight, spreading out, swords drawn. Helikaon strode toward them. The officer approached him. Helikaon did not know the man.