Lord of the Silver Bow (35 page)

“Help me,” he said, unsure if he was speaking the words or just saying them in his head.

He sank into unconsciousness, then felt hands pulling at him, trying to lift him. They could not. The weight was too great.

Opening his eyes, he looked up and saw a powerful, black-bearded man with wide shoulders looming over him.

“We have to get you inside,” said the man, his accent Egypteian.

“Helikaon . . . I must speak to . . . Helikaon.”

“He is not here. Give me your hand.”

Antiphones raised his arm. Several servants moved behind him. Then the Egypteian heaved, drawing Antiphones up. On his feet again, Antiphones leaned heavily on the Egypteian as they made their slow way into Helikaon’s palace. Once inside, Antiphones’ legs gave way, and the Egypteian lowered him to the floor.

The man knelt beside him, then drew a knife.

“Are you going to kill me?” asked Antiphones.

“Someone has already tried that, my friend. No. I have sent for a physician, but I need to see your wounds and staunch that bleeding.” The knife blade sliced through Antiphones’ gown. “Who did this to you?”

Antiphones felt as if he were falling from a great height. He tried to speak. The Egypteian’s face swam before his eyes. “Traitors,” he mumbled. “Going to . . . kill everyone.”

Then darkness swallowed him.

II

Argurios sat quietly in the temple gardens, burnishing his breastplate with an old cloth. The armor was old, and several of the overlapping bronze disks were cracked. Two on the left side were missing. The first had been shattered by an ax. Argurios still remembered the blow. A young Thessalian soldier had burst through the Mykene ranks and killed two warriors. The man had been tall, wide-shouldered, and utterly fearless. Argurios had leapt at him, shield high, sword extended. The Thessalian had reacted brilliantly, dropping to one knee and hammering his ax under the shield. The blow had cracked two of Argurios’ ribs and would have disemboweled him had it not been for the quality of the old breastplate. Despite the searing pain Argurios had fought on, mortally wounding his opponent. When the battle was over, he had found the dying man and had sat with him. They had talked of life, of the coming harvest and the value of a good blade.

When the short war was concluded Argurios traveled up into Thessaly, returning the man’s ax and armor to his family on a farm in a mountain valley.

Slowly and with great care Argurios polished each disk. Tonight he planned to approach Priam, and he wanted to look his best. He had no great expectation of success in this venture, and the thought of being banished from Laodike’s presence caused a rising feeling of panic in his breast.

What will you do, he wondered, if the king refuses you?

In truth he did not know, and he pushed his fears away.

Finishing the breastplate, he took up his helmet. It was a fine piece, crafted from a single sheet of bronze. A gift from Atreus the king. Lined with padded leather to absorb the impact of any blow, the helmet had served him well. As he stared at it, he marveled at the skill of the bronzesmith. It would have taken weeks to shape this piece, crafting its high dome and curved cheek guards. He ran his fingers lightly down the raised ridges over the crown that would hold the white horsehair crest in place for ceremonial functions. He would not wear the crest tonight. It was weather-beaten and needed replacing. Carefully he burnished the helmet. Had he not been a warrior, he would have enjoyed learning the craft of bronzemaking. Swords needed to hold an edge yet not be too brittle; helmets and armor required softer bronze that would give and bend and absorb blows. Greater or lesser amounts of tin were added to the copper to supply whatever was required.

Finally satisfied with the shine of the helmet, he placed it at his side and began to work on the greaves. They were not of high quality. They were a gift from Agamemnon King and should have indicated Argurios’ steady fall from favor.

He was still working when he saw Laodike approaching through the trees. She was wearing a sunshine-yellow gown with a wide belt embossed with gold. Her fair hair was hanging free, and her smile as she saw him lifted his heart. Putting aside the greaves, he stood, and she ran into his embrace.

“I have such a good feeling about today,” she said. “I woke this morning, and all my fears had vanished.”

Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her. They stood for a moment, unspeaking. Then she glanced down at his armor. “You are going to look magnificent tonight,” she told him.

“I wish I could see myself through your eyes. The last time I saw my reflection, it showed a man past his prime with a hard angular face and graying hair.”

Reaching up, she stroked his cheek. “I never saw a more handsome man. Not ever.” She smiled at him. “It is very warm out here. Perhaps we should go to your room, where it is cooler.”

“If we go to my room, you will not be cool for long,” he told her.

Laodike laughed and helped him gather his armor. Then they walked back through the gardens.

∗ ∗ ∗

Later, as they lay naked together on the narrow bed, she talked of the coming feast. “There will be no women there,” she said. “The high priestess of Athene is holding a separate function in the women’s quarters. She is very old and very dull. I am not looking forward to it. Yours will be much more exciting. There will be bards singing tales of Hektor’s glory and storytellers.” Her face suddenly crumpled, and she held her hand to her mouth. Tears fell. Argurios put his arms around her. “I still can’t believe he is dead,” she whispered.

“He was a hero. The gods will have welcomed him with a great feast.”

She sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Kassandra upset everyone by saying he was going to come back to life, rise from the dead. Hekabe was so angry, she sent her away to Father’s palace so she could listen to the priestess and learn to accept the truth. Do people ever rise from the dead, do you think?”

“I never knew anyone who did,” said Argurios. “Orpheus was said to have entered the Underworld to ask for his wife to be returned to him, but she was not. I am sorry for your grief, Laodike. He was a warrior, though, and that is how warriors die. I expect he would have wanted it no other way.”

She smiled then. “Oh, not Hektor! He hated being a warrior.”

Argurios sat up beside her. “How is that possible? Every man around the Great Green has heard of the battles fought by Hektor.”

“I cannot explain the contradiction. Hektor is . . . was . . . unusual. He hated arguments and confrontations. When in Troy he would spend most of his time on his farm, breeding horses and pigs. There is a big house there, full of children, the sons of fallen Trojan soldiers. Hektor pays for their tutoring and their keep. He used to talk with loathing about war. He told me even victory left a bad taste in his mouth. He once said that all children should be forced to walk on a battlefield and see the broken, ruined bodies. Then, perhaps, they would not grow to manhood filled with thoughts of glory.”

“As you say, an unusual man.” Argurios rose from the bed and put on his tunic. Pushing open the window, he looked out over the temple courtyard. Crowds had gathered before the offertory tables, and priests were collecting the petitions.

“An odd thing happened to me today,” he said. “I went down into the lower town, seeking a bronzesmith who could repair my breastplate. I saw Thrakian troops there. Many had been drinking. They were loud and ill disciplined.”

“Yes, I saw some on my way here. Agathon will be angry when he hears.”

“One of them staggered into me. He said: ‘You are supposed to be in hiding.’ I am sure I didn’t know the man. Then another one dragged him away and told him he was a fool.”

“I don’t know why they are back so soon,” Laodike told him. “Father is very careful about rotating the regiments. Yet the Thrakians were here a week ago. They should not have been assigned city duties for some while yet.”

“You should get back to the palace,” said Argurios. “I need to prepare myself.”

Laodike donned her gown, then walked to a chest by the far wall. On it was a sword and scabbard, a slim dagger, and two wax-sealed scrolls.

“Have you been writing letters?” she asked.

“No. I never mastered the skill. I was given them back in Mykene to deliver to Erekos the ambassador.”

Lifting the first, Laodike broke the seal.

“What are you doing?” asked Argurios. “Those are letters from the king.”

“Not your king any longer,” she said. “He has banished you. I am curious to know what he writes about.”

“Probably trade tallies,” he said.

Laodike unrolled the scroll and scanned it. “Yes,” she told him. “He is talking about shipments of copper and tin and telling Erekos to ensure supplies are increased.” She read on. “And something about supplying gold to ‘our friends.’ It is all very boring.” She opened the second. “More of the same. There is a name. Karpophorus. Gold has to be assigned to him for a mission. And Erekos is thanked for supplying details about troop rotations.” She laid the papyrus on the chest. “Your king writes dull letters.” Moving back across the room, she kissed him. “I will not see you tonight, but I will be here tomorrow to hear how your meeting with Father went. Remember, he is a very proud man.”

“So am I,” said Argurios.

“Well, try not to anger him. If he refuses, merely bow your head and walk away. Nothing he can do can keep us apart for long, my love. If he sends me away, I will find a way to get word to you.”

“It is good to see your confidence growing.”

“I believe in the message of the swans,” she told him. Then, after another lingering kiss, she left the room.

Argurios walked back to the window. The sun was sliding toward sunset.

Turning back to his armor, he finished burnishing the greaves and then the bronze disks on the old leather war kilt. Lastly he polished the curved forearm guards given to him by the soldier Kalliades two years before. Kalliades had stripped them from a dead Athenian and brought them to where Argurios was resting after the battle. “Thank you for saving my life, Argurios,” he had said. Argurios could not recall the incident. “I was wearing a helmet embossed with a snake,” persisted Kalliades. “I was knocked from my feet, and a spearman was about to thrust his blade through my throat. You leapt at him, turning away his spear with your shield.”

“Ah, yes,” said Argurios. “I am glad you survived.”

“I brought you these,” he said, offering the arm guards. Some of Kalliades’ friends were close by, keeping a respectful distance. Argurios recognized Banokles of the one ear and Eruthros, who was renowned for his practical jokes. There were others, new soldiers he did not know.

Accepting the gift, he had said, “They are very fine. You may leave me now.”

The soldiers had backed away. As he remembered the moment, Argurios found himself wishing he had spoken to the men, drawing them in and getting to know them.

He glanced at the sword belt and scabbard. These, too, needed polishing, but he was not intending to wear a sword to the palace.

On the chest lay the papyrus scrolls covered with their indecipherable symbols. Copper and tin for the making of more weapons and armor. Gold for “our friends.” Those friends would be Trojan traitors. As to the troop rotations, that could only refer to the regiments guarding the city. Argurios could not read script or fashion his own armor. He knew nothing about the growing of crops or the weaving of linens and wools.

What he did know as well as any man alive was strategy and war.

If Agamemnon desired to know which troops were guarding the city at any time, it could only mean that an advantage could be gained if a
specific
regiment was in control. Otherwise it would matter little which force patrolled the walls.

You are no longer the king’s
strategos,
he chided himself. The ambitions of Agamemnon no longer concern you.

Unless, of course, Priam agreed to let him marry Laodike. Then he would, by law, become the king’s son and a Trojan. How inconceivable such an idea would have seemed as he set out with Helikaon on the
Xanthos.

The shadows were lengthening outside. Argurios strapped on his greaves and then donned his breastplate and kilt. He fastened the straps of the forearm guards and stood.

He walked to the door—and paused. Glancing back, his eyes rested on the sword and scabbard.

On impulse he swept them up and left for the palace.

PART FOUR

THE HERO’S SHIELD

XXX

BLOOD ON THE WALLS

I

It had been a frustrating day for Helikaon. He had walked to the palace in search of Andromache, only to find the gates closed. An Eagle on the walls above the gate had called down that no one was to be allowed entry until dusk on the orders of Agathon. He had returned to the House of the Stone Horses, thrown a leopard-skin shabrack over the back of his horse, and ridden across the Scamander to Hekabe’s palace, hoping to find Andromache there.

Instead he found the palace virtually deserted. Hekabe’s youngest son, the studious Paris, was sitting in the shade of some trees overlooking the bay. Beside him, poring over some old parchments, was a thickset young woman with a plain, honest face and pale auburn hair.

“Mother is sleeping,” Paris told him, setting aside the parchment he held. “She had a troubled night.”

“I am sorry to hear it. I was seeking Andromache.”

“She was here yesterday with Laodike. Today everyone is in the city, preparing for the feast.”

“But not you?”

Paris gave a shy smile. “I was not invited. Agathon knows I am uncomfortable in crowds. I am much happier here.” His pale eyes flickered toward the young woman. “Oh, I am sorry, Cousin,” he said. “This is Helen. She has been staying with us.”

“I am Helikaon,” he told her.

“I have heard of you,” she said softly, meeting his gaze. She swiftly looked away, her face reddening.

“Helen shares my interest in matters historical,” said Paris, gazing at her fondly.

“Do you read?” Helikaon asked her in an effort to be polite.

“Paris is teaching me,” she told him.

“Then I shall disturb you no longer,” he said. “I must go home and prepare for the feast.”

Paris rose from his chair and walked with Helikaon back through the silent palace. “Isn’t she a joy?” he said excitedly.

Helikaon smiled. “It seems you are in love.”

“I think I am,” the young man said happily.

“When is the wedding?”

Paris sighed. “It is all too complicated. Helen’s father is at war with the Mykene. I do not understand the mysteries of battles and strategies, but Antiphones told me that Sparta will lose the war. So, either her father will be killed or he will be forced to swear allegiance to Agamemnon. Either way Helen will be subject to Agamemnon’s will.”

“She is Spartan? Paris, my friend, she is not for you.”

The young prince was defiant. “Yes, she is,” he protested. “She is everything to me!”

“That is not what I meant.” Helikaon took a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts. “The Spartan king has no sons. If Sparta falls, then Helen will be married off to one of Agamemnon’s generals in order to provide a claim to the throne. And even if by some miracle Sparta wins, then the king’s daughter will be wed to a highborn Spartan, who would then be named as heir.”

Paris looked crestfallen. “What if Father intervened for us?”

Helikaon hesitated. He liked the quiet young prince. Of all Priam’s sons he was the least like his father. Paris had no interest in war or combat or political intrigue. He had never taken part in athletic tourneys or even attempted to become proficient with sword or spear or bow. “Paris, my friend, you said yourself you do not understand strategies or battles. Whoever weds Helen will have a claim to the throne of Sparta. Can you imagine that Agamemnon would allow a Trojan prince to have such a claim? Even Priam, with all his power, could do nothing to alter that. Put it from your mind.”

“I cannot do that. We love each other.”

“Princes do not marry for love, Paris. I fear disappointment awaits you,” said Helikaon, taking hold of his horse’s white mane and vaulting to its back. Touching heels to his mount, he rode back toward the Scamander bridge.

The conversation with Paris had unsettled him. He had ridden to Troy convinced that he could win Andromache, but was he, too, blinded by emotion? Why would Priam allow such a match? Why indeed would he not merely wed her to Agathon? Or bed her himself?

That last thought brought a wave of anger, and with it an image that sickened him. As he rode back toward the city, his mind began to conceive plans of action that became increasingly absurd. As he rode through the Scaean Gate, he was even considering abducting Andromache and fleeing back to Dardanos.

Are you an idiot? he asked himself.

His small, mostly militia army could never withstand the might of Troy. Such an action would bring disaster on the realm. Forcing himself to think coolly, he considered all that he could offer Priam in terms of wealth and trade. Lost in his calculations, he rode slowly through the city to the House of the Stone Horses.

He saw some twenty soldiers in the courtyard and, as he approached, noticed blood smeared on the stones.

“What is going on?” he asked a young Thrakian officer.

The man recognized him. “Someone was attacked, Lord Aeneas,” he said. “Your servant has refused us entry.”

Moving past the officer, Helikaon hammered his fist on the door.

“Who is it?” came the voice of Gershom.

“Helikaon. Open the door.”

He heard the bar being lifted, and the door opened. The first thing he saw was a body on the floor, covered by two cloaks. Blood had drenched the rug on which it lay. Despite the fact that the face was covered, Helikaon knew the dead man was Antiphones. No one else in Troy was that size. The Thrakian officer entered behind him and gazed down at the covered corpse.

“We did not know what to do, lord,” said Gershom, bowing low. “This man staggered in here asking for you. Then he collapsed and died.”

Helikaon looked closely at Gershom. The man had never before been servile, and not once had he bowed. Meeting his gaze, he sensed there was more to this than Gershom could say. Helikaon turned to the Thrakian officer. “The dead man is Antiphones, son of Priam. I suggest you send for a cart and have the body taken to the palace.”

“I will indeed, sir,” said the Thrakian.

He swung to Gershom. “Did he say anything before he died?”

“He tried, lord,” said Gershom, head bowed. “He kept asking for the lord Helikaon. I told him he wasn’t here. I tried to stop the bleeding, but the wounds were too deep. Then he died. I couldn’t save him.”

“Why did you not let us in?” asked the officer.

“I was frightened, lord. I am a stranger to the city. A man comes in and drops dead, and then other armed men are banging at the door. I did not know what to do.”

The answer seemed to satisfy the officer. “I will have a cart sent,” he told Helikaon, and went out.

As the door closed, Gershom knelt by Antiphones and pulled the top cloak away from the man’s face. Antiphones’ eyes were open. Helikaon saw him blink. The physician Machaon emerged from a side room.

“What is happening here?” Helikaon asked, mystified.

Gershom looked up. “He was attacked by Thrakian soldiers sent by his brother Agathon,” he said, all trace of servility vanished.

Machaon also knelt by Antiphones, drawing back the cloak further. Antiphones’ upper body was covered in blood, and Helikaon could see jagged lines of stitches applied to many wounds. Machaon examined the wounds, then placed his hand over Antiphones’ heart.

“He is a strong man,” said the physician, “and the depth of fat, I think, prevented the blades from causing mortal blows.”

“Why did Agathon do this to you?” Helikaon asked the wounded man.

“I have been such a fool. So much I did not see. I thought that, like me, Agathon wanted revenge on Priam for all the hurts and insults. But he is lost on a sea of hatred. Not just for Priam but for everyone who has ever offered him what he considers a slight. Tonight there will be a massacre. A thousand Thrakians and some two hundred Mykene will descend on the palace. Every man inside the
megaron
is to be killed: all the princes, the counselors, the nobles. Everyone. I tried to convince him of the madness of it. He sent three men to kill me.” Antiphones gave a weary smile. “I slew them. Hektor would have been proud of me, don’t you think?”

“He would. What of the women?”

Antiphones’ smile faded. “Our sisters should be safe. All others will be spoils of war,” he said. “I didn’t see all that hatred in him. I was blinded by my own loathing of Priam. You must get out of the city. Once Priam is dead, Agathon will send killers after you.”

“Priam is not dead yet,” Helikaon told him.

“You can do nothing. The great gates are guarded by a regiment controlled by one of Agathon’s men. They have orders not to leave their posts and to keep the gates shut until dawn. They will not come to Priam’s aid. And there are only a hundred or so Eagles at the palace. They cannot win against such odds.”

“What of the lady Andromache? Where is she?”

“Oh, she has joined his list of enemies. She refused him, Aeneas. He said he would enjoy watching her raped by his Thrakians.”

II

It was the afternoon of the funeral feast, and Andromache stood on the balcony of her apartment, staring out over the green hills to the north of the city. There were sheep grazing there, and in the far distance she saw two riders cresting a rise. How good it would be, she thought, to be free of Troy. How wonderful to be riding on a hillside without a care.

“You wanted a plain white garment today,” said Axa, moving onto the balcony and disturbing her reverie.

The maid held out two identical robes. Andromache pointed to one. Axa examined the embroidery on the hem and then, tutting, rushed off to her sewing box. Armed with needle and silver thread, she sat herself comfortably on a padded stool. She was now moving more easily and her bruises were fading, Andromache noticed.

“Kassandra is at the palace,” said Axa, peering shortsightedly at her sewing. “She returned yesterday. The gossip is that the queen lost her temper with her. She kept saying that Hektor will come back from the dead. Must be difficult for a mother to have a child with a blighted soul.”

“Her soul is not blighted,” said Andromache. “Paris told me that Kassandra almost died as a babe. She had the brain fire.”

“Poor mite,” said Axa. “My boy will not suffer that. I have a charm. It carries the blessing of Persephone. Mestares bought it.” As she spoke her husband’s name, Axa ceased her sewing, her plain plump face crumpling in sorrow. Andromache sat beside her. There was nothing she could say. The arrival of the emperor had put paid to all hopes that Hektor and his men would return.

Axa brushed away her tears with a callused hand. “This won’t do. Won’t do at all,” she said. “Must get you looking nice for the gathering.”

“Andromache!”

A door slammed, and there was a rattle of curtains. Then Kassandra appeared in the doorway, her dark curls disheveled and the hem of her long blue gown dragging on the floor. “I want to go to the gardens. Laodike won’t let me. She keeps telling me off.”

Laodike appeared behind her. “Kassandra, don’t bother Andromache. This is a time of sadness. We must be quiet and stay in the women’s quarters.”

“You’re not sad.” Kassandra’s blue-gray eyes flashed at her sister. “You heart is singing like a bird. I can hear it.”

Laodike flushed, and Andromache gave her a quick smile. She had guessed there was someone in Laodike’s life. Her confidence had increased over these last few weeks, and her happiness yesterday had been wonderful to see. She had hoped Laodike would confide in her, but she had seen little of her, and when they did speak, the subject of love was not raised. Andromache guessed she might have formed an attachment to one of the soldiers, hence the need for secrecy.

“My heart is
not
singing, wicked child!” exclaimed Laodike. “You really are irritating! And I have so much to do. I am to greet the priestess, and she is a daunting woman.”

“Leave Kassandra with me,” said Andromache. “I enjoy her company.”

Laodike sighed. “That’s because you have not had to endure it for any length of time.” She gave a hard stare at Kassandra, but it softened as the child cocked her head and smiled back at her sister.

“I know you love me, Laodike,” she said.

“You don’t know anything!” She turned to Andromache. “Very well, I shall leave her with you. But be warned: by this evening you will have gray hairs and lines upon your face.”

After Laodike had gone, Andromache said, “I don’t see why we can’t take a stroll in the gardens. Come, Axa, give me the gown. A little fraying on the hem does not worry me. No one will be looking at my feet.”

Axa was obviously unhappy with the decision but passed the garment to Andromache, who stripped off the green robe she was wearing and donned the white. Axa brought her an ornate belt decorated with silver chains.

Leaving the apartment, the trio walked down the corridors of the women’s quarters and through the high oak doors decorated with gold and ivory. Beyond these was a staircase leading to the queen’s apartments, followed by another set of stairs that descended into Priam’s
megaron.
Servants were bustling about, making ready for the night’s great feast. Already guests were arriving, and Andromache spotted Polites and Dios, the latter giving her a scalding look. Dios still harbored resentment over the incident at the beach and had not offered her a polite word since.

“Why do people eat lots of roast meat when someone dies?” Kassandra asked, watching the servants toiling with huge slabs of beef.

Andromache shrugged. “It is tradition. When a hero like Hektor dies, the men like to sit together and tell stories of his greatness. The gods are said to take part, and they are invited to eat and drink in tribute to the warrior.”

Andromache looked around the
megaron.
She had been there several times but had never had the chance to study it. The walls were heavy with arms and armor. Axa, who searched now for every opportunity to please her, started explaining the pieces decorating the walls. “Those,” she said, pointing to the far wall, “are all weapons of Herakles. Those are his spears, and that is the great hammer he used to knock down the west wall.”

Andromache gazed up. Above their heads were five shields. Four were brightly polished, but the middle one was battered and untended, its style archaic. Wide at the top and tapering at the waist, it was intricately worked and plated with ten circles of bronze. Crowning the shield was a giant serpent with nine heads and a warrior armed with sword and flaming brand. The shield strap was edged and circled with a silver snake.