Lord of the Silver Bow (26 page)

Helikaon stood very still, and Habusas saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. Habusas hoped the man might be angry enough to kill him with a single sword thrust through the throat. It was not to be. Helikaon stepped back, sheathing his blade.

“And now you burn me, you bastard?”

“No. You will not burn.” Helikaon swung around and beckoned two soldiers forward.

Habusas was hauled back to the stockade gates. His bonds were cut. Immediately he lashed out, knocking one soldier from his feet. The second hammered the butt of his spear into Habusas’ temple. Weakened by the loss of blood, Habusas fell back. Another blow sent him reeling unconscious to the ground.

Pain woke him, radiating from his wrists and feet and flowing along his arms and up his shins. His eyes opened, and he cried out. His arms had been splayed and nailed to the wood of the gates. Blood was dripping from the puncture wounds, and he felt the bronze spikes grating on the bones of his wrists. He tried to straighten his legs to take the strain from his mutilated arms. Agonizing pain roared through him, and he screamed. His legs were bent unnaturally, and he realized that his feet, too, had been nailed to the gates.

He saw that Helikaon was standing before him. All the other soldiers had gone.

“Can you see the ships?” asked Helikaon.

Habusas stared at the man and saw that he was pointing down toward the beach. The galleys of the invaders were drawn up there. Helikaon repeated the question.

“I . . . see . . . them.”

“Tomorrow at dawn all the women and children of this settlement will be on those ships. They are slaves now. But I will not single out your family or seek any vengeance upon them. They will live.”

With that he walked away. The wind picked up, catching the open gate and swinging it gently. Habusas groaned as the nails tore at his flesh. As the gate continued to move, he saw that the bodies of his men had been moved. They had been dragged to houses nearby, their corpses nailed to doors or fences. Some had been spiked to walls, others hung by their necks from ropes strung from upper windows.

Then he saw the body of his son, lying on the ground, his arms laid across his belly. His head had lolled to one side. In the bright moonlight Habusas saw a glint of shining metal in the boy’s mouth. Someone had placed a ring of silver there to pay the Ferryman.

Even through his pain Habusas felt grateful for that.

Fresh waves of agony ripped through him as a cramp struck his twisted legs, causing them to spasm. The weight of his body then sagged against his pierced wrists. Habusas cried out. He tried to close his mind against the pain. How long, he wondered, will it take me to die?

Sometime tonight? Tomorrow? Would days pass? Would carrion birds feed on him while he writhed? Would he be forced to watch wild dogs feast on the flesh of his son?

Then he saw movement to his right. Helikaon was walking back across the open ground, a sword in his hand.

“I am not Kolanos,” he said. The sword lanced forward, spearing through Habusas’ chest and cleaving his heart.

And all pain faded away.

XXII

THE PHRYGIAN BOW

I

The autumn months drifted by with appalling lack of speed. Gloomy skies of unremitting gray punctuated by ferocious storms and driving rain dampened even Andromache’s fiery spirit. She endeavored to fill her time with pleasurable activities, but there were few opportunities for the women of the palace to enjoy themselves. They were not allowed to ride horses or attend evening entertainments in the town. There were no revels, no gatherings to dance and sing. Day by day she missed the isle of Thera more and more and dreamed of the wild freedom she had enjoyed.

For a little while her boredom had been allayed by the arrival of a new, temporary night servant, a Thrakian girl, Alesia. She had been willing and compliant, but the closeness of her body in the wide bed only served to remind Andromache of how much she missed Kalliope. When Alesia returned to her regular duties, Andromache did not miss her and made no attempt to seduce her replacement.

Just before the year’s end Andromache acquired a Phrygian bow from the lower market. It was a fine weapon with a heavy pull that even she found difficult at first to master. It was cunningly contrived from layers of flexible horn and wood, and with it she had bought a heavy wrist guard of polished black leather.

She took it out on the practice fields to the north of the city, where many of the Trojan archers honed their skills. It was a day of rare sunshine, and Andromache, dressed in a thigh-length white tunic and sandals, had enjoyed herself for most of the morning. The Trojan men had at first been polite but patronizing. When they saw her skill, they gathered around her, discussing the attributes of the bow.

The following day Andromache had been summoned before Priam in his apartments. The king was angry and berated her for appearing before men of low class.

“No highborn Trojan woman would walk seminaked among peasants,” he said.

“I am not yet a Trojan,” she pointed out, trying in vain to keep her anger in check.

“And you might not ever be! I could send you home in disgrace and demand the return of your bride-price.”

“What a tragedy that would be,” she retorted.

She had expected an explosion of rage. Instead the king suddenly burst into laughter. “By the gods, woman, you remind me of Hekabe, all spit and fire. Aye, you are very like her.” She saw his gaze move to her breasts and flow down over her body. The thin blue gown she was wearing suddenly seemed flimsy and transparent. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You cannot flout the customs of Troy,” he continued, his face flushed but his tone more conciliatory. “Palace women wear full gowns when in public. They do not shoot bows. You, however,
may
shoot your bow. The men were impressed by you, which is no bad thing. The families of ruling houses should always be impressive.”

“It was easy to impress them,” she said. “The bows you supply them with are inferior weapons. They do not have range or power.”

“They have served us well in the past.”

“It would surprise me if a shaft from a Trojan bow could pierce even a leather breastplate. More and more warriors these days are better armored.”

The king sat quietly for a moment. “Very well, Andromache. This afternoon you will attend me in the palace gardens, and we will see how well the Trojan bows perform.”

Back in her own apartments, overlooking the northern hills, she found Laodike waiting. She had been less effusively friendly of late, ever since, in fact, the meeting with Hekabe. Andromache put it down to the shock of seeing her mother so weak and ill. But today she seemed even more sad. Usually bedecked in jewelry, she was dressed in a simple, unadorned ankle-length chiton of pale green. Her fair hair, normally braided with gold or silver wire, hung free to her shoulders. In a curious way, Andromache thought, the lack of extrava-gant gems actually made Laodike more attractive, as if the glittering beauty of the gems served only to emphasize her plainness. Greeting her with a kiss on the cheek, she told her of Priam’s challenge.

“He is seeking to shame you, you know,” Laodike said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

The young woman shrugged. “He does that. He likes to make people look foolish. Mother is the same. That is why they were so well suited.”

Andromache sat by her, putting her arms around her friend. “What is wrong, Laodike?”

“I am all right.” Laodike forced a smile. “Have you heard from Helikaon?”

Andromache was surprised by the question. “Why would I hear from Helikaon?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wondered if he had sent a message and I hadn’t heard about it. Nobody tells me anything.”

“No. As far as I know there have been no messages from Dardania.”

Laodike seemed a little happier. “They say he killed twenty Mykene at the temple square. He was like a young god. That’s what I heard. He had two swords, and he killed all the assassins.”

Andromache, too, had heard the obviously tall stories about Helikaon’s prowess, and she had watched the
Xanthos
sail into the dawn with a heavy sense of loss. She looked at Laodike and understood then that the young woman was infatuated with Helikaon. Sadness touched her. She had seen Helikaon greeting Laodike at Hekabe’s palace, and there had been no sign that he found her attractive. Yes, he had paid her a compliment, but there was no hint of passion in the comment. Then she realized why Laodike had thought he might have been in contact. He had made no secret of his desire for Andromache. “What did you mean about your father shaming me?” she asked, seeking to change the subject.

“He plays games with people all the time. I don’t know why. He doesn’t do it with Kreusa or Hektor, but everyone else suffers at some time.”

Andromache laughed. “He cannot shame me with a bow, Laodike. I can assure you of that.”

“It will be a contest,” said Laodike. “You’ll see. It will be Dios or perhaps Agathon. They are superb bowmen. And Father will fill the gardens with people to watch you beaten by one of his sons. You’ll see.”

“They will need to be very, very good,” Andromache told her. “And I am not cowed by crowds.”

“I wish I was like you,” Laodike said with a sigh. “If I was . . .” She hesitated and gave a soft smile. “Ah, well, I am not, so it doesn’t matter.”

Andromache took Laodike’s hands in hers. “Listen to me,” she whispered. “Whatever it is that you see in me is in you also. You are a fine woman, and I am proud to have you as a friend.”

“I am a fine woman,” repeated Laodike. “But I am twenty-three, with no husband. All my pretty sisters—save Kreusa—have wed.”

“Oh, Laodike! You have no idea how alike we are really. I was the plainest of my family. No one would have me. So Father sent me to Thera. It was only when my little sister died that Priam accepted me for Hektor. And you are not plain. Your eyes are beautiful, and your smile is enchanting.”

Laodike blushed. Then she looked Andromache in the eye. “I remember when Paleste came to Troy. I liked her, but she was very shy. Father took to her, but Mother didn’t like her at all. She said she was unworthy to marry Hektor. I remember Mother saying that the wrong sister had been chosen. She knew of you even then, you know.”

“I didn’t know. Poor Paleste. She was a sweet girl.”

“Do you like Helikaon?” asked Laodike.

Andromache did not want to talk about it and feared her friendship with Laodike might be damaged by the truth. But she could not lie. “Yes, I do,” she said.

“And he is smitten with you. I could see that.”

“Men always adore what they cannot have. I am to marry Hektor, so let us not allow thoughts of men to come between us. You are my friend, Laodike. I love you like a sister. Now, will you come with me to the gardens later? It would help to have a friend close by.”

“Of course I will. Then I must go to the temple of Asklepios. Mother needs more opiates.”

“I shall come with you. I have a little friend who helps there. His name is Xander.”

∗ ∗ ∗

It was midafternoon when the two women emerged into the largest of the palace gardens. As Laodike had predicted, there were at least a hundred people present. Andromache had met many of them, but even now there were many names she could not recall. Priam was seated on an ornate gilded chair set on a stone dais. Beside him was his daughter Kreusa, a dark-haired beauty, slim and regal. Her eyes were cold, and she looked at Andromache with undisguised disdain. The soft-looking, round-shouldered chancellor, Polites, was also with the king, as was fat Antiphones and the slender Dios. Once again Andromache was struck by his resemblance to Helikaon. There was another man with them, tall and wide-shouldered, his hair red-gold. Andromache had not seen him before.

“That is my half brother Agathon,” whispered Laodike. “I told you it would be a contest.”

At the far end of the gardens, some sixty paces distant, Andromache saw a small cart with large wheels. On a tall spike at the center a leather breastplate had been fastened. There were long ropes attached to the front and rear of the cart.

“Have you ever shot at a moving target?” asked Laodike.

“No.”

“You will today. Servants haul on the ropes, dragging the cart back and forth.”

Priam rose from his seat, and all conversation among the crowd ebbed. Agathon and the slender Dios both took up bows and walked out to stand alongside Andromache. Laodike faded back a few steps.

“Today we are to witness a contest,” said Priam, his voice booming out. “Andromache, of Thebe Under Plakos, believes Trojan bows are inferior weapons and is going to entertain us with her redoubtable skills. My generals, Agathon and Deiphobos, stand for the pride of Trojan craftsmanship. And there is a fine prize to be won.” He held out his hand, and Kreusa stepped forward, offering him a wondrously crafted battle helmet embossed with silver and bearing a motif on the brow of the god Apollo drawing back his bow.

Priam lifted it high, and the afternoon sunshine glinted on the burnished metal. “May the Lord of the Silver Bow bring victory to the most worthy,” cried the king.

Andromache felt her anger swell. It was a warrior’s prize, a
man’s
prize, and the offering of it was a less than subtle insult to a female archer.

“Will you honor us by shooting first, Andromache?” asked Priam.

“It would hardly be fitting, King Priam,” Andromache replied sweetly. “It is, I am assured, a woman’s place to follow in a man’s world.”

“Then it shall be Agathon,” said Priam, settling back into his seat.

The wide-shouldered prince stepped forward, noching an arrow to his bow. At his command servants at the far end of the garden took up ropes and slowly drew the cart across to the left. Then the men on the right began to haul the cart swiftly across the paved stone.

Agathon let fly, the shaft striking and piercing the leather breastplate. The crowd cheered. Then Dios stepped forward. He, too, sent a shaft into the leather. Both arrows drooped after they struck, showing they had not penetrated far.

Andromache noched a black-feathered shaft and curled her fingers around the string. As she had watched the two men, she had gauged the time it took for the arrows to fly to their target and the speed of the cart. Even so, it would have been pleasant to be allowed a few practice shots. Calming herself, she drew back on the bow. The cart lumbered across her line of sight. Adjusting her aim, she loosed her shaft. The black-feathered arrow slammed into the breastplate, burying itself deep.

Each archer loosed six more shafts. Not one missed, and the breastplate began to resemble a porcupine. The crowd was less attentive now, and there was a short break while servants removed the ruined breastplate and recovered the arrows.

Andromache glanced at the two princes. Both seemed tense and expectant. She saw Priam speaking to a soldier, who then ran off through the crowd. “What is happening?” she asked Prince Agathon.

“The competition is about to begin in earnest,” he said, a touch of anger in his voice. He drew in a deep breath. “It might be as well, Lady Andromache, for you to withdraw now.”

“Why would I?”

“Because we will not be shooting at targets. My father has other plans, I fear.”

As he spoke, soldiers emerged from buildings to the rear of the gardens. They were leading three bound men, each wearing a leather breastplate. The prisoners were taken to stand before the target cart. Then the soldiers, their spears leveled toward the prisoners, formed two lines in front of the crowd.

The king rose. “These wretches,” he said, “are plotters. They were arrested yesterday. Stubborn, rebellious men who have refused to name their confederates.”

Andromache stared at the prisoners. They were in a sorry state, their faces smeared with blood, their eyes swollen. Knowing now what was to come, she walked away from the princes.

Priam saw her. “Not to your liking, girl? Ah, well, this is
man’s
work.” He turned back to the crowd. “These traitors deserve death, but I am a merciful man. Their bonds will be cut.” Taking a spear from a Royal Eagle standing close by, he hurled it out onto the grass some sixty running steps from the prisoners. “If any of them can reach that spear, they will suffer merely banishment. Loose the first! And let Deiphobos represent my honor.”

A soldier drew a dagger from his belt and walked to the first prisoner, a slim, middle-aged man. The soldier slashed his blade through the ropes binding the prisoner’s wrists. The man stood very still, staring malevolently down the gardens at the king. Then he took a deep breath and broke into a swerving run. Dios raised his bow. The running man increased his pace. The arrow took him through the throat, punching through to the back of his neck. He staggered on, then pitched to the right. He began to choke, his face growing purple. Andromache looked away but could not shut her ears to the grotesque sounds as the dying man fought for breath. Finally there was silence.

“Now the second!” roared Priam.

This prisoner was a powerful man with a heavy beard. He also glared at the king. When they cut him loose, he did not run but strode down the garden. Prince Agathon took aim. Suddenly the man darted to his right, then raced for the spear. Agathon loosed his shaft. It took the man in the chest but did not pierce the breastplate fully. Without pausing in his run, the prisoner sprinted for the spear. Dios let fly. His arrow also thudded home, but the prisoner reached the spear and swept it up. Then he swung toward Priam and charged. The move surprised everyone. A Royal Eagle leapt to bar his way, but the prisoner shouldered him, knocking him from his feet.