Shield of Thunder (16 page)

Breakfast fires had been lit, and Piria wandered across to a stall, where she was given a wooden bowl filled with a nameless stew and a hunk of dry bread. The stew was greasy, brimming with lumps of stringy meat, yet the taste was divine. She wondered idly whether this stew would have seemed inedible back on Thera and decided it probably would. Yet here on this chilly morning it was delicious.

The meal finished, she stood and returned to the stall, collecting two more bowls to bring to Banokles and Kalliades. The idea of doing it made her smile. How amazing it was, she thought, to be growing fond of two men.

Kalliades was sitting up when she returned, and he thanked her for the stew. Banokles groaned as he awoke and took the stew without a word. He ate noisily, complaining of a loose tooth.

Men were stirring around the
Penelope
campfire, and farther on, the crewmen of the
Xanthos
were preparing to depart. She saw Hektor sitting alone, and her thoughts darkened as she gazed upon him. This was the man who would chain Andromache’s spirit, who would plant his seed in her, who would pin her down and invade her body. In that moment all the old hatreds sought to rise. They had no power over her now, and she pushed them back. Even so, she felt uneasy watching Hektor.

Rising to his feet, he stripped off his tunic, waded out into the sea, and dived forward into the blue water. He swam with long, easy strokes almost to the edge of the bay, then turned and headed back toward the shore.

“Tell me,” she heard Banokles say behind her, “did a herd of cattle stampede over me last night?”

“Not that I noticed,” Kalliades told him.

“I am trying to find some part of my body that doesn’t hurt,” Banokles grumbled. His right eye was swollen badly, and there were dark bruises on both cheeks.

Piria glanced at him. “Perhaps your feet,” she said. “He didn’t hit you in the feet.”

Banokles grinned, then winced. “You are right. My feet are fine.” He looked over at Kalliades. “I woke last night and saw you talking to Leukon. Does he hurt as much as me?”

“No.”

“I thought not. Bastard! So what
were
you talking about?”

“He has agreed to train you for the games.”

“Ha!” Banokles snorted. “Like I need to be trained by a man I beat?”

“Yes, you do, idiot. He is a skilled fighter, and you know it. You beat him with a lucky punch. You know that, too. If you are going to win wealth in Troy, his training could prove vital. So I have promised him that every night, when we beach, you will do exactly as he tells you.”

“Won’t hurt to practice, I suppose,” Banokles agreed. Then he glanced across to where Hektor was emerging from the water. “I remember him as far more frightening,” he said. “Very strange. Here he just looks like a big friendly sailor. Even Leukon is more chilling. And bigger. Back in Troy Hektor looked like a giant—a war god.”

Banokles suddenly leaned forward, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Trouble looming,” he said. Piria glanced across the beach. Hektor had pulled on a linen kilt and was standing bare-chested, toweling himself dry. Some twenty sailors were walking toward him, led by a massive man with a red forked beard. Piria knew what Banokles meant by trouble looming. The expressions on the men’s faces were set and hard, and they were grouped together as if on a hunt rather than strolling along a beach.

“That is Hakros, the Rhodian champion,” Kalliades said. “Leukon told me of him last night.”

“By the balls of Ares, he’s a monster right enough,” Banokles said. “Come on, I don’t want to miss this.”

The three companions made their way across the sand. Others had spotted the group, and men began to gather, watching intently.

The huge man with the red beard halted before Hektor and stood there, hands on hips, staring at the Trojan prince. Hektor toweled his golden hair, ignoring him. Piria saw the newcomer redden. Then he spoke, his voice harsh.

“So, you are the mighty Hektor. Will you be taking part in your wedding games?”

“No,” Hektor said, draping the towel across his shoulder.

“Just as well. Now that I’ve seen you, I know I could break your skull.”

“Lucky for me, then,” Hektor said softly.

Piria saw the Rhodian’s eyes narrow. “I am Hakros.”

“Of course you are,” Hektor said wearily. “Now be a good fellow, Hakros, and walk away. You have impressed your friends, and you have told me your name.”

“I walk when I choose. I am minded to test your legend, Trojan.”

“That would be unwise,” Hektor told him. “Here on this beach there is no gold to be won, no acclaim.”

Hakros swung to his comrades. “You see? He is frightened to face me.”

When Hektor spoke, there was no anger in his voice and his words carried to all the watching men. “You are a stupid man, Hakros, a dullard and a windbag. Now you have two choices. Walk away or be carried away.”

For a moment there was stillness, then the Rhodian hurled himself at Hektor. The Trojan stepped in to meet him, dropped his shoulder, and sent a thundering right cross into Hakros’ jaw. There was a sickening crack, and Hakros cried out as he fell. Gamely he surged to his feet—to be met by a straight left that shredded his lips against his teeth and an uppercut that smashed his nose and sent him hurtling unconscious to the sand.

“Oh, yes,” Banokles said. “Now,
that
is the man I remember.”

Men gathered around the fallen champion, but Hektor was already walking away.

“His jaw is broken,” Piria heard someone say.

Leukon walked over to stand alongside Banokles and Kalliades. “Now, that man is a fighter,” he said. “The speed of those punches was inhuman.”

“Could you beat him?” Kalliades asked.

Leukon shook his head. “I doubt there’s a man alive who could.”

“There is one,” Piria said before she could stop herself.

“And who might that be?” Leukon asked.

“The champion of Thessaly. Achilles.”

“Ah, I have heard of him but never seen him fight. What is he like?”

“He is bigger than Hektor but just as fast. But he wouldn’t have tried to talk the man out of a fight. The moment the fool stood before him, Achilles would have destroyed him. He would have been left dead on the sand.”

“And he
will
be taking part,” Leukon said. “Not a comforting thought.” Swinging around to Banokles, he clapped him on the shoulder. “Just as well we’ll be practicing together,” he said.

“Don’t you worry, Leukon,” Banokles told him. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”

Piria walked away from the men and stared out to sea. Somewhere in the far distance was the Golden City and Andromache. Closing her eyes, she pictured her lover’s face, the reddish gold of her hair, the glorious green of her eyes.

“I will be with you soon, my love,” she whispered.

CHAPTER TWELVE

GHOSTS OF THE PAST

The sky above Troy was heavy with rain clouds, and to the west Andromache could see the distant lightning of a summer storm. Thunder rumbled in the cool afternoon, and she pulled her green woolen shawl closely around her against the cutting wind the Trojans called the Scythe. Her toes were cold in close-fitting leather and wool sandals, and she stamped her feet to keep them warm.

In the Bay of Troy far below she could see a ship closing fast on the city from the north. It was racing to beat the coming storm, oars beating rhythmically, sail stretched taut by the wind.

Andromache’s thoughts flew back to her own journey on the
Penelope
the previous autumn. Her heart had been heavy then, the future dark with foreboding. It seemed impossible that only a single winter had passed since she had last seen Kalliope, since together they had performed the calming rites for the soul of the Minotaur. The island of Thera now belonged to a different age, passing somehow into dream. So much had happened since then. In that moment she wished that Kalliope could be with her on this bleak hillside. A selfish thought, she realized, for Kalliope was unsuited to the world of men. Thera was where she belonged, where she was happy and free. Thoughts of Kalliope caused confusion in her now. Unlike her lover, Andromache had never hated men, nor had she ever yearned to be free of them. Her time with Kalliope, especially the nights, tasting the wine on the other’s lips, stroking her soft skin, had been wondrous and fulfilling. Yet equally wondrous were the feelings Helikaon had inspired in her.

Her emotions torn, Andromache sighed and turned toward the newly built tomb. It was elaborately carved with bright warriors and fair maidens and stood facing west toward the lands of the Mykene. No grass yet grew around it, and the marble was white as swan’s down. Within it lay the bones of Argurios and Laodike, forever at rest together.

Andromache felt the familiar ache in her heart, the dead weight of guilt on her soul. If she had realized the gravity of Laodike’s wound, could she have saved her friend? She had asked herself a thousand times. She was sick and tired of the thought; it was an evil demon lying in wait in the corner of her mind, ever eager to leap out and torment her. Yet every day she made her pilgrimage to this tomb and fed the demon anew.

Laodike had been stabbed when the renegade Thrakians had attacked the palace. Andromache had half carried her to the deceptive safety of the queen’s apartments while Helikaon and a company of Royal Eagles had fought a rearguard action against the traitors. The wound had seemed slight. Not a great deal of blood had flowed from it, and Laodike had appeared strong. Later, as the dreadful siege had worn on, she had become listless and sleepy. Only then had Andromache summoned the surgeon to her. The spear had gone deep, and the wound was mortal.

Gentle Laodike, plain and plump, had discovered love in the days before the siege. On that one ghastly night her dreams and her hopes bled from her. Andromache would never forget the moment Laodike’s lover had come to her. The mighty Argurios, who had held the stairs like a Titan, was also dying, an arrow buried deep in his side, the point cutting up close to his heart. Helikaon and Andromache had helped him to his feet, and he had made his way to Laodike’s side.

Andromache had not heard the words that passed between them, but she had seen Argurios draw a small white feather from the blood-smeared pouch at his side and place it in Laodike’s hand. Then he had covered her hand with his own. Laodike had smiled then, a smile of such joy that it had broken Andromache’s heart.

So much glory and so much sorrow on that one night.

King Priam had built the white tomb as a tribute to Argurios. Andromache wondered again at the contradiction that was Priam. A lascivious man, sometimes cruel, selfish, and greedy, he had nevertheless built a marble tribute to a warrior who had come to the city as his enemy and to the daughter he had had little time for when she lived. They were together now in death, as they would never have been allowed to be in life.

“May your souls be together always,” Andromache whispered, then turned and walked away.

Swiftly she crossed the fortification ditch that surrounded the lower town and started to climb the hill toward the city walls. After the palace siege Priam had speeded work on the ditches. Although hardly more than waist-deep, they were wider than a horse could jump and would effectively halt any cavalry charge on the lower town. They were crossed only by three wide wooden bridges that could be set ablaze if necessary.

But the real defense of Troy was the great walls. Towering above her, they were gray on this cloudy day and seemed as impregnable as the sheerest cliff face. There were four great gates piercing the walls: the Scaean Gate to the south, the Dardanian Gate to the northeast, the East Gate, and the western gate called the Gate of Sorrows, as the city’s main burial ground lay in its shadow.

Andromache strode up through the Scaean Gate, which was guarded by the Great Tower of Ilion, and into the city itself. Her gloomy mood lifted a little, despite the weather, at the sight of the golden city, its carved and decorated buildings and green courtyards. It had been her home for half a year, and she loved it and hated it in equal measure.

In this cool afternoon the stone streets were teeming with people. Andromache turned to her right, then climbed the wooden steps to the south battlements. There she paused, feeling the wind more keenly on the high place as it buffeted her and plucked at her long red hair.

She looked to the south, to the verdant slopes of Mount Ida, the sacred mountain where Zeus had his watchtower. Beyond the Ida mountains, unseen, lay Thebe Under Plakos, where her father was king.

Andromache reached the end of the walls at the great northeast bastion. The tower, wider and more massive than the others, faced the northern plains and the lands of the Hittites. Beyond it were horse pastures and the fields of grain that fed the growing population of Troy.

At the moment, in the meadows close beneath the city, rows of sturdy benches were being built and areas of ground paced, measured, and roped off to form running tracks and horse-racing circuits for the imminent wedding games. Andromache watched the preparations thoughtfully, then turned and looked to the south of the bastion, where other teams of men were still working on the fortification ditch around the lower town. Not for the first time she thought how odd it was that the western kings who had been invited to the games were the same warriors the ditches were designed to keep out.

The light was beginning to fade, and Andromache headed for Hektor’s palace.

As she walked past the House of Serpents, the temple to Asklepios, the god of healing, a young man ran out. Andromache smiled as he approached her. “Xander, I scarcely recognized you. You’re so much taller. I thought you would have returned to Kypros by now.”

The youngster seemed to have grown a handbreadth since she had seen him last. His chest and shoulders were starting to fill out, and she could see the man he would become. But when he grinned, his freckled face still showed the near child he had been on the voyage to the city.

“Machaon is teaching me the craft of healing. It is very difficult,” he confessed. “He told me that the lord Helikaon was wounded and that you are nursing him.”

Andromache’s smile faded. “The wound does not heal, and the fever will not subside.”

The youngster was undismayed by the news. “He is strong, Andromache. A great warrior. He will recover. They say he stood with Argurios and killed a hundred Mykene. Such a man will not let a small wound slay him.”

“It is not a small wound, Xander,” she said, holding back her anger. The boy worshipped Helikaon but had not seen him since the attack, the flesh melted away, bones jutting from fever-hot skin. Death was close, and when it came, something in Andromache would die with him.

“What happened?” Xander asked. “Machaon said he was stabbed by a crewman from the
Xanthos.
That seems impossible.”

“It is true. A crewman named Attalus. Helikaon took a liking to him. He was standing close by when Helikaon walked out to announce his marriage to Queen Halysia. Suddenly he darted forward and plunged a knife into him.”

“Attalus stabbed him!” Xander’s face was aghast. “Attalus helped rescue me from the sea. And he saved Helikaon’s life in battle.”

“Does the world of men ever make sense?” Andromache snapped. The sharpness of her words surprised the youngster. Andromache reached out and drew the boy to her in a warm embrace. “It is good to see you, Xander. It gladdens my heart.”

They stood together for a moment in silence. Then she stepped back. “Helikaon was stabbed twice,” she said. “First in the chest, although the blow was turned by the reinforced shirt he wore. That wound has closed well. Then Attalus stabbed him in the armpit. The blade bit deep.”

“Was the dagger poisoned?” Xander asked.

“Machaon says not. But the bleeding inside will not stop. Queen Halysia sent him here to Troy in the hope of a cure.”

“Can I see him?”

“You will need to prepare yourself, Xander. He is not the young god you remember.”

They walked together to Hektor’s palace and climbed to a high chamber on the east side of the building. It was light and airy and overlooked the Street of Bright Dancers and the barracks and stables of the Heraklion regiment. Machaon had told her it was good for recovery to face the rising sun, and he believed the sounds and smells of the horses and the daily commotion of soldiers arriving and leaving would be stimulating to the stricken man.

They were met at the doorway by a powerful black-bearded man who grinned widely when he saw the boy. “Xander!” He reached out and grabbed Xander in a crushing embrace. Xander, red-faced and pleased, said, “Gershom! I thought you would be on the
Xanthos.
”

Gershom shook his head. “No, boy. Helikaon needs a guard, and I never liked rowing, anyway. Have you come to visit him? He will be glad to see you.”

The bed was wide and draped with white linen. Beside it sat a pregnant young woman working on a piece of crumpled embroidery.

Helikaon was deathly pale and asleep. Andromache glanced at Xander. His face, too, had gone pale as he saw the true condition of his hero. Sweat glistened on Helikaon’s thin face, and the closed eyes were sunken, the skin around them dark. There was a smell in the room of putrefaction and decay.

Xander stood silently, and Andromache saw there were tears in his eyes. The young pregnant woman was staring up at the youngster.

Andromache said, “Xander, this is Helen, a princess of Sparta who is now the wife of Prince Paris.” For a moment he seemed not to have heard her; then he took a deep breath and tore his gaze from the stricken man.

Helen smiled shyly. She was a plain girl with fair hair and warm brown eyes, and her smile lit up the sickroom.

Just then the sick man cried out. “Argurios, to your right! Good man! Dios, another sword!” He sat up in bed, his stick-thin arm waving at unseen enemies. Gershom and Andromache pushed him gently back, and he was instantly asleep, the shadows under his eyes dark against the white sheets.

As they walked out of the chamber, Andromache said, “The nights are bad, when the dead parade before his bed. Zidantas, and Argurios, and his brother Diomedes. And others whose names I do not know.”

She saw Xander staring at her and regretted speaking so openly. “You look tired, lady,” he said gently, and the kindness in his tone almost made her weep.

When he had gone, escorted from the palace by Gershom, Andromache returned to her own chamber and threw herself on her bed, her body gripped with dread, eyes dry and staring at the ceiling.

She thought back to the day on the beach after the siege. It had been the last time she had seen Helikaon well and whole. They had agreed they must part, that Andromache must stay and marry Hektor, that Helikaon must return to Dardanos and take up the burden of kingship.

He had said to her,
There is nothing on earth I want more than to sail away with you, to live together, to be together.
They both had known it was impossible then. Now she wished they had left together at that moment, throwing the call of duty to the four winds and sailing far from the woes of the world.

She rested there for a while, then rose from the bed and returned to the sickroom. Helen stood as she entered and hugged her briefly. Helikaon was asleep, his breathing ragged.

“I must go,” Helen said. “I will return tomorrow.”

Alone now with Helikaon, Andromache sat by the bed and took his hand. The skin was hot and dry. “I am here, Helikaon,” she said. “Andromache is here.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Gershom bid a cheerful farewell to Xander and watched as the youngster ran off toward the House of Serpents. Only then did the appearance of good humor leave Gershom’s face.

Helikaon was dying.

There was no doubt now in Gershom’s mind. The wound would not heal, and only the last vestiges of the man’s enormous stamina were holding him to life.