Shield of Thunder (20 page)

Red walked back down to where Ipheus was standing silently, his expression tense.

“You’d think the god of the dead was arriving,” she said.

“And you wouldn’t be far wrong. Those are Mykene vessels. Agamemnon is here.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Agamemnon, a long black cloak over his thin shoulders, his black chin beard jutting like a sword blade, stood on the prow and gazed up at the golden city of Troy. His dark, brooding eyes scanned the high walls, his expression unreadable. Beside him stood the fleshy, dissolute Peleus, king of Thessaly, and his son Achilles, a huge black-haired young warrior dressed in a white knee-length tunic edged with gold thread.

“See how they fear you,” Peleus said enviously. For a moment only Agamemnon had no idea what he meant; then he realized that the crews of the waiting ships had fallen silent and no one complained as the galleys of Mykene eased through to the beach. He was not uplifted by the knowledge. It was no more than he expected.

On the beach Agamemnon saw courtiers waiting to greet him, but he did not move or acknowledge them.

“Strong walls,” Peleus said. “Impressive. You’d lose men on a ratio of ten, maybe fifteen to one trying to scale them. Better to breach the gates, I think. You have been here before?”

“My father brought me when I was a child. We walked the walls. They are weakest in the west of the city. That is where Herakles breached them.”

“He had the war god Ares in his ranks, they say,” Peleus remarked.

Agamemnon glanced at him but said nothing. Always men spoke of gods walking among men, but Agamemnon had never seen such a miracle. He believed in the gods, of course, but he felt them distant from the affairs of men or at least indifferent to them. His own armies had conquered cities said to be protected by the gods, and none of his men had been struck down by the lightning of Ares or the hammer of Hephaistos. His own priests were, in the main, dissemblers. If the army suffered a reverse, then it was the will of the gods. If a victory, then the will of the gods. It seemed to Agamemnon that the gods favored the men with the sharpest swords and the greatest numbers. Even so, he sacrificed to the gods before every battle. He had even taken to following the old Hittite practice of human sacrifice before particularly important conflicts. Whether this aided him supernaturally he neither knew nor cared. What was more important was that such disregard for human life caused fear and panic among his enemies, as indeed did the practice of slaughtering the inhabitants of towns and cities that resisted his ambition. Other cities then surrendered without the need for lengthy sieges, their lords pledging undying allegiance to Mykene rule.

On the beach the courtiers were still waiting, their long white cloaks fluttering in the faint breeze.

“Are you feeling strong, Achilles?” Agamemnon asked the young warrior beside Peleus.

“Always,” Achilles answered. “You think Hektor will take part in the games?” His dark eyes gleamed as he asked the question, and Agamemnon saw the longing in him for combat and glory.

Agamemnon thought about the question. It was an interesting one. King Priam would be seeking to impress the kings of the west with the power of Troy. How better to show that power than to have the mighty Hektor humble the champions of those kings? And yet…what if Hektor did not prevail? What if the ultimate champion of the games was from the west? He looked at Achilles. The man’s strength was obvious, his shoulders broad, his muscles finely honed. He had proved himself in battle and in bouts, where his massive fists had pounded valiant opponents to the dust. Could Hektor defeat Achilles? Would Priam risk such a bout?

Would I? he wondered.

But then, I am not Priam, he reasoned. The king of Troy was addicted to risk, and he wondered if Priam’s vanity would dictate that Hektor would stand with the athletes. He saw that Achilles was still waiting patiently for his answer.

“No,” he said, “I do not think Hektor will take part. But it could be we might engineer it. We will see.”

“I pray that he does,” Achilles said. “I tire of the stories of Hektor the man killer, Hektor the hero. Whom has he fought? What men of worth? A few skinny Gypptos, a handful of Hittite rebels. Thrakian renegades, ill armed and poorly led. His legend is built on straw. I will tear it down for him.”

“Ha!” Peleus said with a broad smile. “There speaks a prince of Thessaly! By the gods, Agamemnon, my son will humble that proud Trojan.” As he spoke, he clapped Agamemnon on the shoulder.

“I have no doubt of it,” the Mykene king replied, masking his irritation at the touch. One day, he thought, I will take great pleasure in having hot irons thrust through your eyes. His loathing of Peleus was absolute, though he never allowed it to show. Peleus was important to his ambition, and that was all that mattered at this time. The attack on Troy, when it came, would need huge numbers of warriors, and Peleus had eight thousand fighting men under his command and a son worth a hundred more. For those men Agamemnon could bury his hatred beneath smiles of comradeship and promises of alliance. He could ignore the gross excesses of the man, the rape of children and the casual murders of female slaves, tortured and throttled. Peleus was a brute who killed for pleasure. Agamemnon would wait. When Troy was his, Peleus would be the first to die. The first of many. For a moment only the festering hatred he felt for his brother kings surged to the surface: the spindly Nestor, the braggart Idomeneos, and the ugly storyteller Odysseus. And more. He swallowed hard, licking dry lips with a dry tongue. All enemies will be dispatched, he told himself, but each in his day. Today was not the day to think of the vile Peleus or any of the other kings of the west. Today was about Priam.

Once more he glanced up at the golden city. A chariot decorated with gold and drawn by two pure white horses emerged. It was being driven by a broad-shouldered man in a tunic of pale blue and a white cloak embroidered with silver thread. His long golden hair and close-cropped beard were streaked with white. Priam was growing old, but still he radiated authority. Crowds drew back, and many cheered as the king rode his chariot down to the beach. Agamemnon felt his emotions surge, a heady mixture of hatred and admiration. Even strangers to this city would be in no doubt they were in the presence of a king as Priam steered his chariot through the throng.

Agamemnon was well aware that he himself did not look mighty, with his rounded shoulders, slim frame, and ungainly gait. Nevertheless, despite this drawback he had made himself the most famous warrior king in the western world. He knew exactly why. What he lacked in physical majesty was more than compensated for by his utter ruthlessness. Enemies died. Their families died. Their mothers, their fathers, their uncles, and their friends died. Agamemnon engendered fear. It enveloped his opponents like a sea mist. And he could plot a campaign or a battle and wage it mercilessly and brilliantly until it was won.

He gazed up again at the mighty walls of Troy. It was a prize worth taking, he thought.

Cold dread struck him, causing an involuntary shiver. Troy was no longer merely a prize, a city to be plundered. The conqueror of Troy would have immortal fame and the opportunity of empire. To fail here would be to lie in a forgotten grave in the middle of a ruined nation. Pushing such dark thoughts from his mind, he turned to his companions.

“Now we go ashore,” he said as the Trojan king’s chariot drew up on the beach below the ship. “The fox has come to greet us. We will stroke his ego and smile at his jests. And as we smile, we will picture the day he is on his knees before us, his city in flames, his sons dead, his life a few heartbeats from its end.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE EAGLE CHILD

Antiphones stood on the beach, his brother Polites beside him, with several courtiers in attendance. He was there to greet the Mykene king but soon realized Agamemnon would not leave his ship until Priam deigned to make an entrance.

The heat was strong, and Antiphones began to sweat. His vast bulk was bearing down on his knee joints, which were beginning to ache. Beside him the skinny Polites was dabbing at the bald spot on his crown with a piece of embroidered linen. Neither man spoke, and Antiphones wished he could be anywhere but there.

He looked up at the prow of the black galley, where he could see a round-shouldered man with a black chin beard. Was this the dreaded Agamemnon, butcher of cities? Antiphones sighed. Though he was losing weight fast, he was still grotesque in his own eyes, a soft, plump creature other men looked upon with either scorn or pity.

That he had become a hero during the attack on the city the previous autumn meant little to him, for when men referred to his slaying of the assassins and his warning of the raid on Priam’s palace, they spoke of the “fat hero.”

Even in that they were wrong, he thought darkly.

He remembered the day Father had come to his sickbed, where he was recovering from the stab wounds he had suffered, wounds that would have killed a thinner man. The blades had been defeated by the wealth of flesh guarding his body.

Priam had walked into the room and stood by the bed, regarding his son with eyes that shone with both contempt and concern.

“Well, boy, I am told you acted with courage. I must say I am surprised.”

“Why would that be, Father? Am I not the son of Priam and the brother of Hektor?”

Priam had shrugged. “Let us not argue, Antiphones. Let us merely say I misjudged you. Helikaon tells me that without your warning we would not have been able to shut the gates in time. Then the Thrakians would have been upon us before we had a chance to muster a defense.”

“That was all he told you?”

“Is there more?”

“There is always more, Father.” Anger had ripped through him then, making his wounds burn. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Well, I am here, so I might as well,” the king answered, sitting down on the bed. “Will there be more surprises?”

“I plotted with Agathon to kill you. I only turned away at the last because he planned to murder all my brothers and their families.” Antiphones had expected rage and then that soldiers would be summoned to drag him from the bed and murder him. Instead, Priam merely shrugged.

“I knew that,” the king said. “No other way you could have learned of his plans. I take it you were foolish enough to confront him, hence the assassins?”

“Yes. Foolish Antiphones. I thought I could reason with him. Just kill the old man, Agathon. No need for innocent people to die. Just one ghastly old man.”

Priam laughed then, his manner changing. “Agathon would have made a terrible king, Antiphones. You would have been better. You have a sound mind and a fine grasp of the intricacies of trade and the acquisition of profits.”

“Really? And that is why you made Polites your chancellor? A man who needs to kick off his sandals to count to twenty? That is why you chose me to be your master of horse, a fat man who could not ride? You are a monster, and I hate you.”

“Nothing wrong with hate, boy,” Priam said indifferently.

“So what now, Father? Banishment? Death?”

“I considered death—had you not admitted to me your part in the plot. As it is, I am rather proud of you. Which, as you can imagine, is a rare thing where you are concerned. I am giving you command of the Ilos regiment.”

“Why?”

Priam stood and stared down at him. “I am a king, boy. Kings never have to explain. You want the command?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Well, you rest and recover. We’ll talk more when you leave the houses of healing.” He walked to the door, then swung back. “I take it there will be no more plots from you?”

Without waiting for an answer he was gone.

Back at his own house some weeks later, Antiphones had found that his servants had prepared a feast for him, loading the tables with his favorite sweetmeats and pies. He had stared at them with no longing, which surprised him.

Little Kassandra had been there. The twelve-year-old had looked at him with serious eyes. “I did tell them, Antiphones, but they didn’t believe me.”

“What did you tell them, sweet girl?”

“That you would have no taste for such food again.”

“And how did you know that?”

“Xidoros told me. He said you had spent years eating your pain, and you could never be filled. Now the pain is gone, and you are no longer hungry.”

Antiphones had kissed her on the brow and questioned her no further. Xidoros had been her first teacher, and he had died four years before.

The imaginary spirit had been correct, though. His taste for sweetmeats had vanished. However, years of excess would take more than a few months to overcome. He stood now on the beach, his joints aching, sweat coursing down his face, wishing that he could sit down.

Then, thank the gods, his father’s chariot came into sight.

Now there was movement on the ship, and several men lowered themselves to the beach. The first was the man with the black chin beard; the second a florid-faced middle-aged man, clean-shaven. The third was a god!

Antiphones stared at the young warrior in the white, gold-edged tunic. His body was lightly tanned, his muscles sleek and well defined. His face was the most beautiful Antiphones had ever seen, deep dark eyes over high cheekbones, full lips above a strong chin. Antiphones could not stop staring at him. His mouth was dry, and all thoughts of pain in his joints disappeared in an instant. Other men, officers of Agamemnon, climbed down to join their lord. Antiphones tore his gaze from the beautiful young man and tried to concentrate on the meeting of kings.

“At last you return to Troy,” Priam said, stepping in and throwing a powerful arm around Agamemnon’s shoulder. “When last I saw you here, you were no taller than a jackrabbit and clinging to your father’s cloak. Welcome back, Agamemnon. May your visit be a happy one and rich with the company of friends.”

“It is always good to be among friends,” Agamemnon said. “It is good to be here and to be able to tell you in person of my sorrow that Mykene renegades should have joined your son in his revolt. You should know that I had them put to death upon their return. I take it that is why you freed them, so that justice could be served by my own hand.”

“I freed them because they weren’t worth killing,” Priam said with a wide smile. “They fought like children. Quite the worst fighters I’ve ever seen. By Athene, I’d be ashamed if they were part of my army. No wonder they were renegades. No king worth the name would have such men under his command. But enough of chatter in the sunshine.”

Antiphones listened to the exchange and suppressed a smile. The Mykene invaders had been the elite of Agamemnon’s forces and had fought like lions.

“Let me introduce my sons, Antiphones and Polites,” Priam said. The introductions went on until Antiphones stood before the godlike Achilles.

“I have heard wonderful tales of your bravery,” Antiphones said. “It is a great honor to have you in our city.”

Achilles smiled at him, seeming to appreciate the warmth of the greeting. “I, too, have heard of the wonders of Troy,” he said. “Where is your great hero, Hektor?”

“At sea, hunting pirates. He should be here within the next few days. At least I hope so, or he will miss his own wedding celebrations.”

“Will he participate in the games?”

“I do not believe that he will.”

“Ah, that is a shame,” Achilles said. “Now my victory will not be as sweet.”

“But it will be wondrous to see,” Antiphones said. “I shall look forward to it.”

Achilles seemed puzzled and leaned close. “You are so sure of my winning?”

“I cannot believe any man could ever defeat you,” Antiphones answered.

“Not even Hektor?”

“That I could not say,” answered Antiphones honestly. “Hektor is not a man. He is like you—a young god. Mere mortals cannot make judgments on such matters.”

Achilles laughed. “I like you, Antiphones. Come dine with us one evening.” Then he moved away.

Priam took Agamemnon in his chariot, while the other officers and dignitaries walked up the slope toward the great gate.

Antiphones remained where he was, lost in the wonder of the moment.

∗ ∗ ∗

“They hate each other,” Kassandra cried, pointing from the high wall down toward the chariot carrying her father and the Mykene king. “Look at all that red mist flowing around them and behind them like a great cloak.”

Andromache smiled down at the fey child and stroked her dark hair. Kassandra looked up at her and grinned. In that moment Andromache saw that Kassandra’s childhood was passing. She was in her thirteenth year, and already there were tiny breasts showing under her thin tunic and her hips were no longer quite as thin. “I don’t see any mist,” Andromache said.

“Of course you don’t. Silly of me.” She leaned far out over the wall, trying to see as the golden chariot passed through the gates beneath.

“Be careful,” Andromache said, reaching out and taking her arm.

“I shall not fall,” Kassandra told her, then ran back across the battlements to watch the chariot moving on toward the upper city. “Helikaon is unhappy,” she said suddenly.

“He has been ill. He is recovering now.”

“Helen says he asked for you but you would not go to him.”

“Then Helen says too much,” Andromache snapped. The sunshine was bright, and Andromache felt a sudden nausea. It was the third time that day.

“Oh, look, there is fighting on the beach again,” Kassandra said. “Lots of men whacking each other with fists and sticks.” She laughed. “And there go the soldiers, dragging them apart. What fun!”

Andromache moved into the shade of the high gate tower and sat down, breathing deeply and slowly.

Kassandra came and sat beside her. “You are looking very pale,” she said.

“I ate smoked fish yesterday. It must have been bad.”

Kassandra moved closer, laying her head on Andromache’s shoulder. “Your bodyguards are very handsome,” she whispered. “I like Cheon.”

The nausea passed. Andromache sighed and looked up at the tall young soldier standing some ten paces distant with his comrade Teachos. As Antiphones had foreseen, Priam had ordered all the royal family to be accompanied by guards during the games and the wedding celebrations. Cheon and Teachos were pleasant enough company, though Andromache would have preferred the more gregarious Polydorus. His conversation was always bright and engaging. However, he had been assigned to Helen.

“You like Cheon because he winks at you,” Andromache said.

Kassandra giggled. “He has beautiful forearms,” she said. “I love the way the muscles ripple on them.”

“You sound like a girl in love,” Andromache said.

“Oh, no, I don’t love him,” Kassandra replied with great seriousness. “Anyway, there wouldn’t be any point. Cheon will be dead long before me, and I won’t live very long.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Andromache admonished her.

“Why does everyone become so agitated about death?” asked Kassandra, sitting up and looking into Andromache’s eyes. “Everyone dies.”

“Not everyone dies
young,
Kassandra.”

“Laodike did.”

“Laodike was killed by evil men. I don’t want to talk of it.”

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. She was dying from the moment the spear struck her.”

Andromache pushed herself to her feet. “It is too hot out here. Let’s go back to the palace. We can sit in the garden.”

“Will you show me how to use your bow?”

“Yes.”

The child smiled happily, but then her expression changed. She cocked her head as if listening to someone. Then she nodded and sighed. “You won’t be able to,” she said. “When we get to the palace, a messenger will tell you Father wants to see you.”

“Whom are you listening to?”

“Xidoros.”

“Has Xidoros nothing better to do than haunt small girls?”

“I suppose it would be very tedious for him,” Kassandra said, “if it was just me. But he has lots of other spirits to talk to.”

Andromache asked no more questions. Conversations with Kassandra were always difficult. The child had been struck down by a brain fever when very young and since then had heard voices. Sometimes she seemed almost normal, as when speaking about Cheon. Mostly, though, her thought processes were unfathomable.

Together they walked down the gatehouse steps, emerging into the shadows of the Scaean Gate. Crowds were moving through, and Andromache waited for Cheon and Teachos to move ahead, clearing a way. Then they slowly strolled back through the upper city and on to the palace of Hektor.

Andromache left the guards in the main entrance and took Kassandra through to the garden. Fetching her bow and her quiver, she called the girl to her. “You see, there is no messenger from Priam, and I am going to teach you the bow.” She notched an arrow to the string, then handed the weapon to the child. “Draw back upon the string as far as you can and then sight it toward the straw deer.”