Shield of Thunder (29 page)

Whether it was true or merely wishful thinking made little difference. Agamemnon knew that such a belief would stiffen the resolve of Priam when the war came. It followed, therefore, that if the woman of the prophecy were to die, then great would be the grief and despair that followed her death. It would also show to Troy, its citizens, and the world that Priam could not protect his own. The games and the wedding celebrations would turn to ash, and the coming war would fall upon a people cowed by disaster and tragedy. It was perfect.

Sitting on the rooftop, he made a decision and summoned Kleitos to him. The tall warrior came immediately.

“Pull all men back from the Palace of Stone Horses. We will not attack Helikaon.”

“But lord, we are almost set.”

“No, the time is not right. Instead have the woman Andromache followed. Find out if she sleeps in the king’s palace or in Hektor’s. How many guards attend her? Does she wander in the marketplaces, where a stray dagger can cut her down? I want to know everything, Kleitos. Everything.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Back in the great courtyard of Hektor’s palace, where the crew of the
Penelope
had made camp, the mood was somber. Bias, though through to the final of the javelin, could scarcely lift his arm, and there was a tingling in his fingertips that did not bode well. Leukon was nursing a swelling on his cheek and a small cut over his right eye. His left fist was bruised and swollen, all those wounds coming from a grueling victory over the Mykene champion, a tough and durable fighter with a head made of rock. Leukon’s hopes of becoming champion in the boxing contest were shrinking fast, especially as he had watched Achilles demolish opponents with gruesome ease. Kalliades had lost in the short race, taking an elbow in the face from a canny sprinter from Kretos who had gone on to win. And even the usually cheerful Banokles was downcast, having lost in a savage bout the previous afternoon.

“Could have sworn I had him with that uppercut,” Banokles told Kalliades as they sat in the moonlight. “Big Red said she thought I was unlucky.”

“It was a tight contest,” Kalliades agreed. “However, look on the cheerful side. Had you won, we would have been once more bereft of wealth. As it is, we have fifteen gold rings, thirty-eight silver, and a handful of copper.”

“Not sure about
that
at all,” Banokles said. “You bet against me.”

“We agreed to follow Leukon’s advice,” Kalliades said wearily. “He would tell me when you were facing an opponent you couldn’t beat. And I would wager on him.”

“Doesn’t feel right,” Banokles grumbled. “You might have told me.”

“If I had told you, what would you have done?”

“
I’d
have bet on him.”

“And that would certainly not have been right. Anyway, did you really want to come up against Achilles? That’s who your opponent faces in tomorrow’s semifinal. As it is, we have wealth and a roof over our heads, and you have no broken bones.”

Leukon strolled over to them, bearing a jug of wine and filling Banokles’ cup. “A few more weeks of training on your footwork and you would have had him, my friend,” he said, slumping down beside the bruised warrior. “You kept walking into that looping left.”

“Felt like being struck by an avalanche,” Banokles said. “Looking forward to seeing Achilles taking a few of those blows. Wipe the smug smile off his face.”

Leukon shook his head. “Achilles will finish him in a few heartbeats,” he said gloomily. “And that looping left won’t touch him. Never seen a big man move so fast.”

“You’ll beat him in the final,” Banokles said. Leukon did not reply, and the three men sat quietly, drinking their wine.

Odysseus, with his five bodyguards in tow, came through the gates and crossed the courtyard without speaking to anyone.

“I’m going to visit Red,” Banokles said. “Hand me a few of those silver rings, Kalliades.”

Kalliades opened the bulging pouch at his side and pulled out several rings, which he dropped into Banokles’ outstretched palm. “Not like you to offer your favors to only one woman,” he observed.

“Never was a woman like Red,” Banokles replied happily, draining the last of his wine and setting off for the gates.

They watched him go, and then Kalliades turned to Leukon. “Banokles is a man without cares. Unlike you, it seems.”

Leukon said nothing for a while, and the two men sat in silence. Finally the blond sailor spoke, his voice almost a whisper. “Achilles has no weaknesses. He has speed, strength, and enormous stamina. And he can take a punch. I saw him demolish an opponent yesterday. I fought the same man last summer. Took me an afternoon to wear him down. Achilles finished him in less time than it takes to drink a cup of wine. The truth is I do not have the skill to take him, and that is hard for me to admit.” Filling his cup, he drank deeply.

Kalliades clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, my friend. With luck you won’t win the semifinal, and your opponent will have to face Achilles.”

“Why would I not win the semifinal? I have fought the man three times. I have the measure of him.”

“I was jesting.”

“Leukon is not the man to jest with,” Odysseus said, joining them. “How is the fist?” he asked the big fighter.

“The extra day’s rest will help, as will the strapping for the fight.” Leukon glanced across the courtyard to where Bias was rubbing olive oil into his shoulder. “The same cannot be said for Bias. His shoulder is aflame and swollen badly.”

“I will speak to him later,” Odysseus said, “but now you and I need to talk. Come with me.”

Kalliades watched the Ugly King and the fighter move into the palace, then strolled across to where Bias was kneading his injured muscles. “Here, let me,” he said, taking the phial of oil and pouring it into his palms.

“Thank you,” Bias said. “Can’t reach the point by the shoulder blade.”

Bias’s skin felt hot to the touch, the muscles around the shoulder inflamed and swollen. Gently Kalliades kneaded them, easing out knots and adhesions.

“I saw Banokles heading out,” Bias said. “Gone whoring again?”

Kalliades chuckled. “It is what he does best.”

“That’s what I miss about youth,” Bias said. “That and the fact I could throw a damned javelin without ripping every muscle in my back.”

“Even so, only three men outthrew you.”

“They’ll
all
outthrow me tomorrow.”

“Perhaps not,” Kalliades said. “We’ll soak some cloths in cold water and take some of the heat from those muscles.”

Later, as the two men sat in the cool of the night, Bias asked: “Have you thought what you’ll do when the games are over?”

“Head south, probably. Down to Thebe Under Plakos and then perhaps on to Lykia. Join a mercenary regiment.”

“Will you be taking the girl with you?”

“No. She will be staying in Troy with a friend.”

There was no one close by, but even so the black man leaned in close, dropping his voice. “She may not be welcomed by this friend. You know that?”

“They are more than just friends,” Kalliades answered.

“I know that, lad. The crew does not know who Piria is, but Odysseus tells me that you do. The temple on Thera was built with Trojan gold. Priam is its patron. You think he will allow a runaway to live free in Troy? As long as she is here, she will be a danger to any who give her shelter.”

“What are you suggesting, Bias?”

“I know you are fond of her. Take her with you. Far from the city, where she will never be recognized.”

Kalliades looked into the black man’s broad face. “And this concern is purely for Piria?”

“No, lad. It is for me and the other lads on the
Penelope.
If she’s captured in Troy and questioned, then we will be implicated. I have no wish to be burned alive.”

Kalliades fell silent. In his recent conversations with Piria she had spoken of Andromache with enthusiasm and love, her face shining with happiness and anticipation. What would be the effect if she was rejected by her? Or, worse, if Hektor’s guards took her into custody? The thought of such an outcome left him sick with fear. She had great courage, but her personality was fragile. How many more betrayals could she take?

“She will not be captured,” he said at last. “I will keep her safe.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A GATHERING OF WOLVES

Priam sat alone in the queen’s apartments, the shrouded body of Hekabe laid out on a bier at the center of the main room. The scent of heavy perfumes rose from the linen, masking the stench of death. Priam could not approach the body. He sat on the far side of the room, a half-empty wine cup in his hand. As was the funeral custom of the house of Ilos, his white tunic was rent at the shoulder, and gray ash had been rubbed into the right sleeve and sprinkled over his hair.

Priam drank the last of the wine. He was aware of the presence of Hekabe in the room, standing there, staring down at him. He could feel her disapproval.

“I should have come to you,” he whispered. “I know that. But I could not. It was more than I could bear. You understand that, Hekabe. I know you do. You were once the most beautiful of women. I wanted to remember you that way and not as some cancer-eaten hag, all yellow skin and gleaming bone.”

He gave a furtive glance toward the body and closed his eyes, seeing again the glorious days of youth, when it seemed they were both immortal. He recalled when these apartments had been finished and he and Hekabe had stood on the balcony, looking out over the city. She had been pregnant then, with Hektor. “There is nothing we cannot do, Priam,” she had told him. “We are the mighty!”

“We
were
the mighty,” he said aloud. “But now you are gone from me, and the wolves are gathering. They are all in the
megaron
below, waiting for your funeral feast. They will come to me, offering their condolences, their fine wishes. They will stare at me through hooded eyes, and they will sense my weakness. Agamemnon will be jubilant. The ghastly Peleus, the greedy Idomeneos, the wily Nestor, and the cunning Odysseus.” He rose and walked back and forth, not looking at the shrouded body. He gazed into the depths of the empty wine cup, then hurled it against the wall. “Where are you now that I need you?” he shouted. Then he sagged back into his chair. An image flickered into his mind of Andromache disrobing before him, turning her back to him as the gown fell to the floor. He saw himself stepping forward, his hands sliding over the soft skin. The same image had been haunting him for days now. He woke to it, walked with it, fell asleep to it.

“My mind is clouded, Hekabe,” he said, trying to push it away. “I took Andromache to my bed, as you knew I would. I thought that would end the constant need for her. It did not. It fired my blood in a way I have not known since…since you and I were young. Is that what you hoped for? Was this your gift to me? She is so like you, my love. I see you in her eyes, hear you in her voice.” He fell silent, then staggered across the room to where the wine jug stood on a small table. Hefting it, he drank deeply, red liquid swilling over his cheeks and dripping onto his tunic. “Now she will not come to me. She reminds me of the agreement we made. Once in every rising moon. She reminds
me
! Am I not the king? Is it not for me to make, or break, agreements?” He rubbed at his eyes. “No, I cannot think of her now. I must consider the wolves. They are becoming a pack, and I must break it, separate them. I can bribe Idomeneos and some of the smaller petty chieftains. Nestor may still be reasoned with. The rest I must find a way to intimidate. And Odysseus must die.”

He heard the door and swung around to see his son, fat Antiphones, enter quietly. “What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Can’t you see I am talking to your mother?”

“I can, Father, as can others, but I fear
she
cannot hear you.”

Priam swung toward the body, lost his balance, and began to fall. Antiphones grabbed him, hauling him upright, then half carried him to a couch. “Get me wine,” the king ordered.

Antiphones shook his head. “You have enemies coming to your hall. This is not a time for such maudlin behavior. I will fetch you water, and you will drink it and piss away this weakness. Then you will come down to your guests as the mighty king of Troy and not as a drunken sot bleating for his poor dead wife.”

The words cut through Priam’s grief, and his hand snaked out, grabbing Antiphones by the tunic and dragging him across the couch. “You dare speak to me in this way? By thunder, I’ll have your tongue ripped out!”

“And
that
is the Priam we need to see now,” Antiphones said softly.

Priam blinked, his anger fading. Drawing in a deep breath, he released Antiphones. His son was right. The room began to swim, and he leaned back into the couch.

“Fetch water,” he mumbled.

Antiphones took hold of his arm. “Let us get out to the balcony. The air will help clear your head.”

Priam managed to stand and, supported by his son, staggered out into the moonlight. Once there, he leaned over the balcony rail and vomited. His head began to pound, but he felt the effects of the wine weakening. Antiphones brought him a jug of water, which he forced himself to drink. After a while he took a deep breath and pushed himself upright. “I am myself again,” he said. “Now let us walk among the wolves.”

∗ ∗ ∗

The kings of west and east sat at the great table in Priam’s
megaron
beneath flickering torches, in the shadows of gilded statues of Trojan heroes. Servants bearing golden trays on which stood golden cups brimming with wine moved along the huge horseshoe-shaped table. Priam still had not appeared, and the kings were growing restive. The Athenian king, Menestheos, was the first to complain. The stocky red-bearded Athenian had a notoriously quick temper. “How much longer will he keep us waiting?” he growled. “This is intolerable!”

“Be calm, my friend,” Agamemnon said from across the table. “The man is in despair and not thinking clearly. He does not intend to insult us, I am sure. In his grief he has merely forgotten his manners.”

Alongside him the golden-haired Hektor reddened. “I thank you for your courtesy, Agamemnon,” he said coldly, “but my father needs no one to apologize for him.”

Odysseus was sitting quietly, close to the great doors. He had no wish to be at this feast and had felt no affection for the queen. She was, he knew, a poisonous mixture: the smile of a siren, the eyes of a leopard, and the heart of a snake. Odysseus did not mourn her passing, nor had he any desire to offer platitudes to Priam. However, courtesy dictated he be there for the oration. So he would listen politely as the high priest of Athene extolled the queen’s countless virtues and watch as they sliced the throats of seven white doves, which would then, so fools believed, fly to distant Olympos and regale the gods with the story of Hekabe’s life. What kind of gods would not already know of Hekabe’s life and all the deceits and treacheries that stained it? Such a stupid ritual, Odysseus thought.

A servant placed a golden goblet before Odysseus, but he ignored it. He glanced along the table to where Helikaon sat between Agapenor, the young king of Arcadia, and Ektion, the middle-aged king of Thebe Under Plakos, father to Andromache. Helikaon did not once look in Odysseus’ direction.

The doors at the far end of the
megaron
opened, and six Royal Eagles entered, clad in armor of bronze and silver, with white cloaks and white-crested helms. Stepping aside, they clashed their spears on their round shields, announcing the arrival of King Priam.

He entered, followed by his large son, Antiphones. Odysseus watched the king with a cold gaze. Priam was still tall and broad-shouldered, but age sat upon him like a crow, picking at his strength. His face was flushed, and he had obviously been drinking heavily. Even so, he walked steadily to his place at the head of the horseshoe-shaped table and sat without a word to his guests. Then he gestured for the priest to begin the oration.

The man was tall and spindly and younger than most high priests. Probably another bastard son of Priam’s, thought Odysseus. But his voice was rich and deep, and he spoke movingly of the life of Hekabe. He told of her strength and her loyalty and her love for Troy. He spoke of her sons and her pride in the achievements of her hero son Hektor. The performance was excellent, and when he had concluded, the kings hammered their hands on the table in appreciation. Then Priam heaved himself to his feet.

“I thank you for coming tonight,” he told his guests. “Many here have been friends of Troy for longer than my life. Others may become friends. That is my hope. We all of us here have been men of war. Sometimes it has been forced upon us. Sometimes we have sallied out to engage in it in pursuit of glory or riches. War is a noble pursuit and ofttimes necessary to right wrongs against our houses or to deal a death blow to those who would wish the same upon us. Tonight, however, we dine as friends and mourn the passing of beauty. Eat and drink, my friends, and enjoy the entertainments my sons have organized. We have dancers from Kretos, jugglers from Miletos, singers and musicians. This night should be one of joy, in thanks for a life that meant much to me.” Priam clapped his hands, and music began. Servants rushed forward, placing golden platters brimming with food on the table.

Odysseus ate sparingly, and once the meal was over and the entertainments had begun, he stood from the table and made his way toward the door. He was surprised to hear Priam call out, “Leaving us so soon, king of Ithaka? No words of commiseration?” As the king spoke, the music died away. Odysseus turned slowly into the silence.

“What would you have me say, Priam King? That I am sorry for your loss? I am sorry for any man who loses one he loves. But I’ll offer no honeyed words to you. Honor and custom dictated I be here tonight. Honor and custom dictate I will attend the games tomorrow. Then I will sail from here without a backward glance.”

“You will sail from here as an enemy of Troy!” Priam thundered. “As a hirer of assassins and an oath breaker. And when we meet thereafter, be sure to have a weapon in your hand.”

“I will indeed,” Odysseus replied angrily. “And it will be Akilina and not some ruined twig your lickspittle judges place before me. I had no desire for a war with Troy. You remember that, Priam. You remember that when your sons die and your influence shrivels. You remember that when the flames consume your palace.”

“I feel my bones trembling.” Priam sneered. “Little Ithaka against the might of Troy. You have a weapon to throw down my walls? You have an army to defeat the Trojan Horse? No, you do not! Not you, nor a hundred like you gathered together, would make more than a flea bite on the body of Troy. A hundred thousand men could not take this city. You have a hundred thousand, little king?”

In that moment Odysseus realized Priam had engineered this clash in order to make exactly this point to the assembled kings. He stood silently for a moment, then laughed. “I want you to remember that boast, too, Priam,” he said. “I want all the men here to repeat it across the Great Green. Not I, nor a hundred like me gathered together, would make more than a flea bite on the body of Troy. Let the valleys echo to that boast. Let the mountains ring with it. Let the seas whisper it across the beaches of the world.” With that, he swung away and strode through the doors.

Hearing someone follow him, he glanced around and saw Helikaon. Odysseus felt a great sinking of the spirit. “Make your threat swiftly,” he said. “I am in no mood to tarry.”

“I have no threat, Odysseus,” Helikaon said sadly. “I did not desire any of this.”

“A consideration best remembered
before
you ran to Priam,” the Ugly King replied. “Did our friendship mean so little to you that you could not wait to hear what I might have to say before having me declared a rogue and an outcast?” Caught between sorrow and rage, he swung away from the young man, but Helikaon moved swiftly, taking hold of his arm.

“It was not as you believe!” he cried. “No man has a greater call on my affection than you, Odysseus. I have no recollection of Priam coming to me. I was delirious, poison in my blood. I scarce recall any conversation then. I drifted in and out of dreams, dreams of death and despair.”

Odysseus felt the rage seep out of him. His shoulders sagged, and a terrible weariness settled on him. “Best ask me now what you need to know,” he said.

“Did Karpophorus lie? Tell me that he did, and we can put all this right.”

Odysseus saw the need in Helikaon for that lie to be true. It shone in his eyes. “It cannot be put right now, Golden One. The assassin did not lie. I paid him a sheep’s weight in silver to kill Anchises.”

Helikaon stood silently, staring at him, his expression showing his disbelief. “I don’t understand. Why would you do it? You had nothing to gain. My father loathed me, but he had no enmity toward you. Tell me and put an end to the anguish.”

Odysseus sighed. “I fear it will only bring a different form of anguish, and I would willingly have surrendered ten years of my life rather than have you discover the truth. Even now I hesitate to tell you.”

“I need to know, Odysseus.” Helikaon looked at him closely. “Though even as I say it, I think I can guess the answer.”

Odysseus nodded. “On that last voyage, when we sailed to Dardania, we had three passengers: two merchants and a traveler. The traveler was Karpophorus. I recognized him, and I guessed the purpose of his trip. We spoke one night, away from the crew. I made it clear to him that I knew his target, and I made him an offer. He had no choice but to accept, for to refuse would have resulted in his death there and then by my own hand.”