Lord of the Silver Bow (32 page)

The dawn breeze was cool with the promise of rain. It had been a long time since she had walked this path. Aphrodite’s Leap, they called it, though the words had been whispered behind the old king’s back. His first wife had thrown herself from this cliff onto the unforgiving rocks hundreds of feet below. Halysia had heard the tale many times.

Wandering to the cliff edge, she peered down. Mist was heavy on the sea, and she wondered how it would feel to let go, to plummet down and end the agony of her life.

Thoughts of the past stirred in her. She remembered the bright days of her childhood in Zeleia when she and her brothers rode with the horse herds in summer, taking them from water pastures beside the dark river Aesipos to the cities of the coast. For days her feet would barely touch the ground as she traveled wrapped in a warm blanket on a gentle mare, listening to the night sounds across the plains.

Dio was already a fearless rider, and she planned to take him on a night journey, to camp out under the cold stars . . .

The sky was lightening, but the fog grew darker on her mind. She faltered to a halt and fell to her knees, her strength running out like water from a cup. She thought she heard a sound, running steps behind her, but she could not move to look around.

Her tortured mind returned again to the past, to comforting thoughts of her first arrival at Dardanos. True, she had not been happy then; she was just seventeen and homesick and frightened of the gray old man she was to marry. But now she always thought of it as a good time because she was quickly pregnant with Dio. Anchises was not a bad husband, not unkind, and once Aeneas had been banished from his thoughts, she was the mother of the son in whom he placed all his hopes. He gave Dio a toy horse, she recalled with a smile, that he had carved himself from pale wood. It was a crude thing, for he had little skill with his hands, but he had decorated it with gold leaf on mane and tail, and it had sky-blue chips of lapis lazuli for eyes.

She remembered the blue eyes of Garus, her personal bodyguard. He had soft blond eyelashes that lay gently on his cheek as he slept. She liked to wake him to see the pale lashes open, to see his eyes rest on her in love and wonder.

He had fallen in the last desperate struggle, a spear through his chest, a sword in his belly, still trying to protect her and her son. He was dead before they all raped her. She was glad of that. He was dead before they flung Dio from the high walls.

She heard a thin keening sound. It was her own voice, but she knew no way to stop it.

“Halysia!” Another voice in the fog. “Halysia!”

She thought back to her childhood and her father holding her in his arms, smiling down at her. He smelled of horses, of the pungent hides he always wore. She reached up and pulled the greasy braids of his beard. He laughed and clutched her fiercely to his chest.

She felt his arms around her now, gentle and tender.

“Halysia. It is Aeneas. Come back to me.”

Aeneas. They called him Helikaon. There were many Aeneases, many Helikaons in her mind. There was the shy frightened youth she had barely noticed, consumed as she was in her love for her baby. He disappeared one day on a foreign ship, and Anchises said he would not return. But he did, on a day of great terror. With Anchises dead she was sure Aeneas would have her killed or kill her himself and her son with her. But he did not. He sailed away again after a few days, leaving Dio king and herself safe under the protection of Garus and old Pausanius. Those were the happiest years. . . .

“Halysia, look at me. Look at me!”

She looked up, but it was not her father who held her. His eyes had been brown, these were blue. She remembered blue eyes. . . .

“Halysia!” She felt strong hands shaking her. “It is I, Aeneas. Say ‘Aeneas.’ ”

“Aeneas.” She frowned and looked around at the treacherous cliff edge and the gray sea far below their feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Your maid saw you walking here. She feared for your life.”

“My life? I have no life.” He pulled her into his arms again, and she rested her cheek on his shoulder. “My son was my life, Aeneas,” she said calmly. “I have no life without him.”

“He walks in the green Fields of Elysia now,” he said. “He has your bodyguard . . . was it Garus? . . . to hold his hand.”

“Do you believe that?” she asked, searching his face.

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you believe also in the power of dreams?”

“Dreams?”

“When I lay . . . as I thought . . . dying I had many dreams, Aeneas. And all but one of them were terrifying. I saw blood and fire and a city burning. I saw the sea full of ships, carrying violent men. I saw war, Aeneas. I saw the fall of kings and the death of heroes. Oh . . . so much death.” She looked up at him. “Do you believe in the power of dreams?”

He led her away from the cliff top, and they sat on a green slope. “Odysseus says there are two kinds of dreams, some born of strong wine and rich food and some sent by the gods. Of course you dreamed of blood and war. Evil men had attacked you. Your mind was full of visions of vileness.”

His words flowed over her, and she clung to the hope they were true. They sat in silence for a while. Then she sighed.

“Garus loved me. I was going to ask if you would object to our marriage. They took both of my loves that night, Aeneas. My Dio and strong-hearted Garus.”

“I did not know. And, no, I would have offered no objection. He was a good man. But you are young still, Halysia, and beautiful. If the gods will it, you will find love again.”

“Love? I do so hope not, Aeneas. Yes, it was the only part of the dream that was bright and joyful. But if what I saw does come to pass, does it not mean that the other visions, of war and death, will also come true?”

“I have no answers for such fears,” he said. “What I do know is that you are the queen of Dardania and the people love you. No one will supplant you, and while I live no one will ever threaten you again.”

“They love me now,” she said sadly. “Will they love me still when the monster is born?”

“What monster?”

“The beast in my belly,” she whispered to him. “It is evil, Aeneas. It is Mykene.”

He took her hand. “I did not know you were pregnant. I am sorry, Halysia.” He sighed. “But it is not a monster. It is merely a child who will love you as Dio did.”

“It will be a boy, dark-haired and gray-eyed. I saw this, too.”

“Then he will be a prince of Dardania. People are bred to evil, Halysia. I do not believe it is born in them, no matter how they are conceived.”

She relaxed in his arms. “You are a good man, Aeneas.”

“My friends call me Helikaon. I would hope you are my friend.”

“I am your friend,” she said. “I always will be.”

He smiled. “Good. I will be leaving for Troy in a few days. I want you and Pausanius to continue meeting the leaders and resolving disputes. They trust you, Halysia. And now that they have witnessed my harshness, they will be more amenable to your wisdom. Are you ready to be queen again?”

“I will do as you ask,” she said. “For friendship.”

Then the vision came back to her, bright and shining. Helikaon was standing before her in a white tunic edged with gold, and in his hand was a bejeweled necklet.

Closing her eyes, she prayed with all her strength that he would never bring her that golden gift.

IV

The young Hittite horseman rode at a gallop across the plain, bent low over the horse’s neck, his imperial cloak of green and yellow stripes flowing behind him.

He glanced again at the dying sun and saw it closing on the horizon. He could not ride after dark in this unknown country, and he leaned forward on his horse to urge it on. He was determined to reach Troy before sunset.

He had been on the road for eight days and had used five horses, at first changing them daily at imperial garrisons. But in this uncharted western end of the empire there were no troops stationed on a regular basis, and this horse had to last him until he reached Troy. Since leaving Salapa, the last civilized city in the Hittite empire, he had followed the route he had memorized—keep the rising sun warm on your back, the setting sun between your horse’s ears, and after four days you will see the great mountain called Ida. Skirt this to the north and you will reach Troy and the sea.

The messenger Huzziyas had never seen the sea. He had lived all his nineteen years in and around the capital Hattusas, deep in the heart of Hittite lands. This was his first important commission as an imperial messenger, and he was determined to fulfill it with speed and efficiency. But he was eager to gaze upon the sea when the emperor’s task was done. His hand crept to his breast again, and he nervously touched the message hidden in his leather tunic.

He was riding now across a flat green plain. He could see a plateau in front of him, the sun falling directly toward it. The last sunlight was shining off something on the heights of the plateau. Troy is roofed with gold, they had told him, but he had scoffed at that.

“Do you think me a fool?” he asked. “If it is roofed with gold, why do bandits not come and steal the roofs?”

“You will see,” they replied.

It was almost dark by the time he rode up to the city. He could see nothing but great shadowed walls towering above him. Suddenly, his confidence evaporated and he felt like a small boy again. He walked his tired horse around the south part of the walls, as instructed, until he reached the high wooden gates. One gate had been opened a little, and six riders awaited him, silent men clad in high-crested helmets and seated on tall horses.

He cleared his throat of the dust of travel and called out to them in the foreign words he had been schooled in. “I come from Hattusas. I have a message for King Priam!”

He was beckoned forward and rode slowly through the gate. Two horsemen rode in front of him, two at his sides, and two behind. They were all armed and armored, and they said nothing as they made their way through the darkened streets. Huzziyas looked curiously around him, but in the torchlight he could see little. Steadily, they climbed toward the citadel.

They passed through the palace gates and halted at a great building lined with red pillars and lit with hundreds of torches. The riders sat their horses and waited until a man clad in long white robes hurried out. He was gray-faced, and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery. He peered at Huzziyas.

“You are an imperial messenger?” he snapped.

Huzziyas was relieved he spoke the Hittite tongue.

“I am,” he answered with pride. “I have traveled day and night to bring an important message to the Trojan king.”

“Give it to me.” The man held out his hand, gesturing impatiently. The Hittite took out the precious paper. It had been wrapped around a stick and sealed with the imperial seal, then placed in a hollow wooden tube and sealed again at each end. Huzziyas ceremoniously handed the tube to the wet-eyed man, who almost snatched it from him, merely glancing at the seals before breaking them and unrolling the paper.

He frowned, and Huzziyas saw disappointment on his face.

“You know what this says?” he asked the young man.

“I do,” said Huzziyas importantly. “It says the emperor is coming.”

XXVII

THE FALLEN PRINCE

I

In the days after her first meeting with Argurios, Laodike had found herself thinking more and more of the Mykene warrior. It was most odd. He was not good-looking like Helikaon or Agathon. His features were hard and angular. He was certainly not charming and seemed to be possessed of no great wit, yet he had begun to dominate her thoughts in a most disconcerting manner.

When he had been beside her on the beach, she had experienced an almost maternal longing, a desire to help him regain his physical strength, to watch him become again the man he had been. At least, that was how it had begun. Now her thoughts were more obsessive, and she realized she was missing him.

Xander had told her of the soldier who had walked Argurios to the beach, saying that he had treated him with great respect. Laodike knew Polydorus and had called out to him one afternoon when the blond-haired soldier was off duty and walking through the palace gardens.

“It is a fine day,” she began. “For the time of year, I mean.”

“Indeed it is,” he answered. “Is there something you need?”

“No, not at all. I wanted to . . . thank you for your courtesy toward the wounded Mykene. The boy Xander spoke of it.”

Now he looked bemused, and Laodike felt embarrassment swelling. “I am sorry. I am obviously delaying you. Are you going into the lower town?”

“Yes, I am meeting the parents of my bride to be. But first I must find a gift for them.”

“There is a trader,” she said, “on the Street of Thetis. He is a silversmith and crafts the most beautiful small statues of the goddess Demeter and the babe Persephone. It is said they are lucky pieces.”

“I have heard of him, but I fear I could not afford such a piece.”

Now Laodike felt foolish. Of course he could not. He was a soldier, not a nobleman with rich farms or horse herds or trading ships. Polydorus waited, and the moment became awkward. Finally she took a deep breath. “What do you know of the Mykene?” she asked.

“He is a great warrior,” answered Polydorus, relaxing. “I learned of him when I was still a child. He has fought in many battles and under the old king was twice Mykene champion. You have heard of the bridge at Partha?”

“No.”

“The Mykene were in retreat. A rare thing! They had crossed the bridge, but the enemy was close behind. Argurios stood upon the bridge and defied the enemy to kill him. They came at him one at a time, but he defeated every champion they sent.”

“Why did they not all just rush at him in a charge? One man could not have stopped them all, surely.”

“I suppose that is true. Perhaps they valued his courage. Perhaps they wanted to test themselves against the best. I do not know.”

“Thank you, Polydorus,” she said. “And now you must go and find that gift.” He bowed his head and turned away. On impulse she reached out and touched his arm. The young soldier was shocked. “Go to the silversmith,” she said with a smile, “and tell him I sent you. Pick a fine statue and instruct him to come to me for payment.”

“Thank you. I . . . do not know what to say.”

“Then say nothing, Polydorus,” she told him.

That afternoon she walked down to the House of Serpents, ostensibly to collect more medicines for Hekabe. In fact, though, she wandered the grounds until she caught sight of Argurios. He was chopping wood. She stood in the shadows of a stand of trees and watched him. He had put on weight, and his movements were smooth and graceful, the ax rising and falling, the wood splitting cleanly.

She stood for a while, trying to think of what she might say to him. She wished she had worn a more colorful dress and perhaps the gold pendant with the large sapphire. Everyone said it was a beautiful piece. Then grim reality struck home, and her heart sank. You are a plain woman, she told herself. No amount of gold or pretty jewelry can disguise it. And you are about to make a fool of yourself.

Turning away, she decided to return to the palace, but she had taken no more than a few steps before the healer Machaon came around the corner of a building and saw her. He bowed deeply.

“I did not know you were here, Laodike,” he said. “Has your mother’s condition worsened?”

“No. I was just . . . out walking,” she replied, reddening.

He glanced beyond her to where Argurios was still working. “His recovery is amazing,” he said. “His breathing is almost normal, and his strength is returning at a fine rate. Would that all those I treated showed such determination. How goes it, Argurios?” he called out.

The Mykene thunked the ax into a round of wood and swung to face them. Then he walked across the grass toward them. Laodike tried to breathe normally but felt panic rising.

“Greetings,” said Argurios.

“And to you, warrior,” she said. “I see that you are almost well.”

“Aye, I feel power in me again.”

The silence grew. “Ah, well,” Machaon said, with a knowing smile, “I have patients to see to.” Bowing once more, he went on his way.

Laodike stood very quietly, not knowing what to say. She looked at Argurios. His cheeks were shaved, the jutting chin beard trimmed, and sweat gleamed on his bare chest. “It is a fine day,” she managed. “For the time of year, I mean.” The blue sky was streaked with clouds, but at that moment the sun was shining brightly.

“I am glad you came,” he said suddenly. “I have been thinking of you constantly,” he added, his tone awkward, his gaze intense.

In that moment Laodike’s nervousness vanished, and she felt a sense of calm descend on her. In the silence that followed she saw Argurios becoming ill at ease.

“I never did know how to speak other than plainly,” he said.

“Perhaps you would like to walk for a while in the sunshine. Though first I suggest you put on your shirt.”

They walked through the gardens and out into the lower town. Argurios said little, but the silence was comfortable. Finally they sat on a stone bench beside a well. Glancing back, she saw that two men had followed them and were sitting on a wall some distance away.

“Do you know them?” she asked, pointing.

His expression darkened. “They have been hired by Helikaon to protect me. There are others who come at night and stand beneath the trees.”

“That was kind of him.”

“Kind!”

“Why does it make you angry?”

“Helikaon is my enemy. I have no wish to be beholden to the man.” He glanced at the two bodyguards. “And any half-trained Mykene soldier could scatter those fools in a heartbeat.”

“You are proud of your people.”

“We are strong. We are unafraid. Yes, I am proud.”

A group of women carrying empty buckets approached the well. Laodike and Argurios moved away, up the slope toward the Scaean Gate. Passing through it, they climbed to the battlements of the great wall and strolled along the ramparts.

“Why were you banished?” asked Laodike.

He shrugged. “Lies were told and believed. I can make little sense of it. There are men at the royal court with honeyed tongues. They fill the king’s ear with flattery. The old king I could talk to. Atreus was a warrior, a fighting man. You could sit with him at a campfire like any other soldier.”

Another silence grew. It did not bother Laodike, who was enjoying his company, but Argurios became increasingly uncomfortable.

“I have never known how to talk to women,” he said awkwardly. “I do not know what interests them. At this moment I wish I did.”

She laughed. “Life,” she told him. “Birth and growth. Flowers that bloom and fade, seasons that bring sunshine or rain. Clothes that mirror the beauty that is all around us, the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the gold of the sun. But mostly we are interested in people, in their lives and their dreams. Do you have a family back in Mykene?”

“No. My parents died years ago.”

“Not a wife at home?”

“No.”

Relieved, Laodike let the silence grow once more. She gazed out over the bay. There were few ships now except for some fishing boats. “You were very rash with Dios,” she said.

“I did not like the way he spoke to you,” he told her, and she saw anger again in his eyes.

The sun was low in the sky, and Laodike rose. “I must be getting back,” she said.

“Will you come to me again?” His nervousness was obvious, and it filled her with a confidence she rarely experienced in the company of men.

“I might be here tomorrow.”

Pushing himself to his feet, he smiled. “I hope that you are,” he told her.

For the next ten days, she came every day and they walked the great walls. There was little conversation, but she enjoyed the days more than any she could remember, especially the moment she slipped on a rampart step and his arm swept around her before she could fall. Laodike leaned in to him then, her head upon his shoulder. It was exquisite, and she wished it could last forever.

II

Andromache thought she had never seen as tall a man as the Hittite emperor. Hattusilis was even taller than Priam and of much the same age, but he stooped as he walked, and Andromache was sure he had bad feet, for he shuffled a little as if anxious not to lift them far from the ground.

He was thin to the point of emaciation, his hair oiled black and partly covered by a close-fitting cap. He glanced around Priam’s great gold-filled
megaron,
looking strangely out of place in his simple, unadorned leather riding clothes. He had ridden into the city, but Andromache knew that the Hittite force had been camped out on the plain of the Simoeis overnight while the emperor rested and that he had traveled much of the way from his capital in a rich and comfortable carriage.

Hattusilis carried two curved swords, one at his waist and the other unsheathed in his hand, and Andromache wondered at the frenzied negotiations that had taken place between the two sides since dawn to agree to that. He was attended by a retinue of eunuchs and counselors, all wearing colorfully patterned kilts clasped at the waist with belts of braided gold wire, some attired in bright shawls and others bare-chested. All were unarmed, of course.

One huge half-naked bodyguard, so muscle-bound that Andromache decided he was more ornamental than useful, stood close to the emperor’s shoulder.

Hattusilis III, emperor of the Hittites, advanced halfway down the
megaron
and then stopped. Priam, standing in front of his carved and gilded throne, walked forward to meet him, flanked by Polites and Agathon. There was a pause while the two men locked eyes, then Priam bowed briefly. Had the Trojan king ever bowed to anyone before? Andromache doubted it. It was only his concern for Hektor that persuaded him to make this gesture, she guessed, even to his emperor.

“Greetings,” Priam loudly said, but without enthusiasm. “We are honored to welcome you to Troy.” Each courteous word seemed to cost him effort. He added flatly, “Our people rejoice.”

A small bald-headed man wearing striped robes of yellow and green spoke quietly to the emperor. Andromache realized this was the translator.

The emperor smiled thinly and spoke. The little man said, “Troy is a valued vassal kingdom to the great Hittite empire. The emperor takes a kindly interest in his subjects.”

Priam’s face grew red with anger. He said, “This
vassal
is honored to fight the emperor’s battles for him. We are told the Trojan Horse won a great victory at Kadesh for the emperor.”

Hattusilis replied, “The greater Hittite army has crushed the ambitions of the pharaohs for generations to come. We are grateful to Troy for its brave cavalry.”

Priam could contain his impatience no longer. “My son has not returned from Kadesh. Do you bring news of him?”

Hattusilis handed the unsheathed sword to the muscle-bound bodyguard and then placed both hands upon his heart. The
megaron
fell silent. The bald translator said, “We regret Hektor is dead. He died a valiant death in the cause of the Hittite empire.”

The emperor spoke again. “Hektor was a good friend to us. He fought many battles for the empire.” His dark gaze rested on Priam’s stricken face, and Andromache saw genuine concern there. “We grieve for him as if he were our own son.”

Andromache heard a soft sigh from beside her and put her arm around Laodike as the young woman sagged against her. Hektor is dead, she thought. Hektor is really dead. Her mind buzzed with possibilities, but she ruthlessly pushed them away to listen to Priam’s words.

The king looked straight into the black eyes of the emperor. “My son cannot be dead,” he said, but there was a tremor in his voice.

Hattusilis gestured, and two unarmed Hittite soldiers struggled forward with a heavy wooden chest. At a nod from the emperor they unbarred it and flung back the lid, which clanged hollowly against the stone floor.

The emperor said, “His body was discovered with those of his men. They had been trapped, surrounded and killed by the Egypteians. By the time he was found his body had decayed, so I have returned his armor to you as proof of his death.”

Priam stepped forward and reached into the chest. He took out a huge bronze breastplate decorated with silver and gold. From where Andromache stood she could see that the pattern represented a golden horse racing across silver waves.

Laodike said in a small breathless voice, “Hektor. It is Hektor’s.”

Hattusilis stepped forward and took from the chest a heavily decorated gold urn. “Following the custom of your people, we burned the body and placed Hektor’s bones in this vessel.”

He held it out. When Priam did not move, Polites darted forward and took the golden urn from the emperor’s hands.

Never in her life had Andromache felt such a confusion of emotions. She grieved for Laodike’s pain at the death of her brother, for the loss on the faces of the people gathered around the
megaron,
the soldiers, counselors, and palace servants. She even grieved for Priam as he stood there holding the breastplate, a stunned look on his face, desolation in his eyes as he stared at the funeral urn.

Yet in her heart joy welled up irresistibly. Her hands flew to her throat for fear she would cry out for gladness. She was free!

Then Priam turned away from the emperor and walked with halting steps to his throne. Hugging the breastplate to his chest, he slumped down. A gasp of shock came from the Hittite retinue. No one sat in the presence of the emperor. Andromache glanced at Agathon, expecting the prince to step in and ease the situation, but he was standing, almost mesmerized, staring at his father, his expression torn between sadness and shock. Andromache felt for him.