Shield of Thunder (32 page)

“I am sorry to have missed your victory,” she told the young soldier.

He grinned at her. “I was lucky that Meriones did not have his own bow. I have practiced with mine for almost a year. Yet he came close to beating me with a weapon he had never handled before. And as for regret, nothing can match mine, for I was in the
palaistra
being massaged when Hektor defeated Achilles. You must be very proud.”

Andromache did not reply, but the question echoed in her mind. Was she proud? Was that the feeling she had experienced as the two champions had pounded their fists against one another, splitting skin and spraying blood? Was it pride that had caused her stomach to turn so that it required all her will to prevent herself from vomiting? She had turned her eyes away during much of the contest, watching instead the reactions of the men surrounding her. Priam had at first seemed unconcerned, merely waiting for the inevitable victory. Slowly she had watched his confidence fade. The man seemed to age ten years in a matter of heartbeats. Only at the end, as Achilles fell for the last time, did he surge from his seat.

Yet despite her revulsion at the brutality of the fight, Andromache was elated by the outcome, especially as she gazed upon the stricken face of Peleus, the Thessalian king. This was the man who had raped Kalliope, ripping her childhood from her. This was the wretch who had left his daughter damaged beyond repair. Even in the sanctuary of Thera, where men were forbidden, Kalliope would wake screaming, her body bathed in sweat. Then she would fall into Andromache’s arms, weeping at the awful memories.

With the fight over, Andromache had returned to the king’s palace with Hektor. He had said little during the walk. His breathing was labored, and he held his left arm to his side. Andromache had been with him when the physician came. Three ribs were broken, and several of his teeth had been loosened. She had sat with him for a while, but then he had patted her arm.

“Go back to the farm,” he said, forcing a smile. “I will rest here awhile.”

“You fought well,” she told him, “with great courage.”

His reply surprised her. “I hated it,” he said. “Every brutal heartbeat of it. It hurts me to think of what Achilles must be feeling at this moment, his pride in the dust.”

She gazed at him, at his bruised face and his bright blue eyes. Without thinking, she lifted her hand and gently stroked the golden hair back from his brow. “We are what we are, Hektor. You need have no sympathy for Achilles. He is a brute, from a family of brutes. Come to the farm when you can.”

His huge hand reached out, and he took her fingers gently and raised them to his lips. “I am glad you are my wife, Andromache. You are everything I could ever have desired. I am sorry I cannot be—”

“Do not say it again,” she said, interrupting him. “Rest now and come to the farm when you can.”

Leaving the room, she had walked out onto the gallery beyond, her eyes misting with tears. Sadness clung to her. It struck her then that Hektor and Kalliope were not so unalike. Both had been damaged. Both, in different ways, had been cursed by the Fates.

Servants moved by silently, and she could hear the sound of raised voices from the
megaron
below. Priam’s voice suddenly boomed out.

“Are you insane? She is the wife of my son.”

Andromache moved away from the balcony to the gallery rail, staring down into the columned
megaron.
Priam was seated upon his throne, facing the Mykene king, Agamemnon, and some of the kings of the west. Andromache recognized the vile Peleus and Nestor, Idomeneos, and Menestheos. Helikaon, Antiphones, and Dios were standing alongside Priam.

“You must understand, Priam King,” said Agamemnon, “that there is no intent here to cause undue offense. You sanctioned the marriage of Paris to the woman Helen. This was not your right. Helen is a princess of Sparta, sent here by her father during the recent war. My brother Menelaus is now king of Sparta, and Helen is his subject. He has decided, in the interests of his people, to wed her.”

Priam’s laughter was harsh. “Menelaus led a Mykene army into Sparta and killed the king. He seized the throne and now faces insurrections. In order to bolster his fabricated claim to the crown he seeks to wed someone of royal blood. You think I would send Helen home to rut with the man who murdered her father?”

Agamemnon shook his head. “You have no choice. All of us here are allies, and we are allies because we have agreed to respect each other’s rights and borders and internal laws. Without such respect there can be no alliance. Let us suppose that one of your daughters was to visit a kingdom of the west and that the ruler there suddenly married her to one of his sons. What would be your reaction? And what would you expect when you demanded her return?”

“Spare me the clever words, Agamemnon. You desire a war with Troy, and you have been seeking allies in that venture for years now. I tire of your duplicity, the fair speeches that cloak foul deeds. Let me make it simple for you. Helen remains in Troy. The alliance is at an end. Now get you gone from my city.”

Agamemnon spread his arms, and his reply was full of regret. “It saddens me to hear you speak in this way, Priam King. However, as you say, the alliance is at an end. You may come to rue this decision.” With that he turned and strode out, followed by the other kings.

Back in the present the voice of Cheon cut through her memories. “Do you wish to stop by the shrine to Artemis?” he asked as the chariot neared the little stream.

“Not today, Cheon. Take me home.”

The journey seemed interminable, and the afternoon sun blazed brightly in a cloudless sky. By the time they reached the old stone house, Andromache felt weary beyond belief. They were greeted by Hektor’s housekeeper, the elderly Menesthi, a Hittite woman, whose true age was a mystery. Cheon maintained she was the oldest woman alive, a claim Andromache could well believe, for the old woman’s face had the texture of pumice stone.

Inside the main building Menesthi’s husband, the equally ancient Vahusima, prepared a bath for her. Shedding her yellow gown, she stepped into it, laying her head back on a folded towel. The feeling of the cool water on her overheated skin was exquisite. She called Menesthi to her to remove the gold wire that bound her hair, then ducked her head below the surface.

Menesthi brought her fresh clothing, a simple loose robe of white linen. Rising from the bath, Andromache stood naked, allowing the warm air to dry her body. Then she moved to the rear window and stared out over the fields toward the wooded hillside.

In that moment she saw two men duck into the trees. It seemed to her they were acting furtively. She stared out, seeking another glimpse of them, but there was no further sign of movement. The first of the men appeared familiar, but she could not place him. He must be one of Hektor’s woodsmen, she thought.

Donning the robe, she walked back through the house. Cheon was sitting on the porch in the shadows, watching two youths leading a powerful gray stallion around the paddock. The beast was high-spirited and nervous, and when one of the boys tried to mount him, he reared and threw him to the grass. Cheon laughed. “He has no wish to be ridden,” he said. “Those lads will have some deep bruises by this evening.”

Andromache smiled. “I see you are still wearing your laurel crown. Are you intending to sleep with it on?”

“I think I will,” he said. “I think I will wear it until it rots and falls off.”

“Does that not seem a little vain, Cheon?”

“Entirely,” he agreed with a grin.

Andromache seated herself beside him. “The farm seems deserted.”

“Most of the men went to the city for the last day. They’ll be getting drunk about now. I doubt we’ll see them until tomorrow, when they will drift in looking sheepish and bleary-eyed.”

As the light began to fade Andromache moved back inside. Menesthi brought her a simple meal of bread and cheese and a dish of sliced fruit. Andromache finished it and stretched out on a couch, resting her head on a thick cushion.

Her dreams were confused and full of anxiety, and she awoke with a start. Suddenly she remembered where she had seen the man in the woods before. He was not one of Hektor’s men. She had noticed him as she had stood with Kassandra on the day Agamemnon arrived in Troy.

The man was a Mykene soldier.

Fearful now, she rose and went toward the main rooms. Perhaps they were assassins come to kill Hektor, not realizing he had remained at the palace. She needed to find Cheon and warn him.

As she neared the front of the house, she saw a red glow through the window. Pulling open the door, she saw old Vahusima and the two boys running toward a blazing barn. From within the building she heard the sounds of terrified horses and ran out to help them just as Cheon emerged from behind the house.

One of the boys suddenly stumbled and fell. Vahusima reached the doors of the stable and struggled to lift clear the locking bar. Then he cried out, and Andromache saw an arrow jutting from his back.

Dark figures came rushing from the shadows, swords in their hands.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

BLOOD FOR ARTEMIS

The moon was perfectly round, its edge sharp as a knife, as the three companions made their way out of the twilight city.

They left by the East Gate and crossed the fortification ditch in the shadow of the great northeast bastion, then headed north. The way was easy, a gentle walk through rolling hills and meadows, and they traveled quickly. They carried with them all they possessed, for they did not expect to return. Kalliades had the sword of Argurios at his side. Banokles was carrying a small sack of provisions on his shoulder, including a heavy pottery jug that glugged a little as he walked. Piria, in her hooded cloak, carried only Andromache’s bow and quiver.

Her thoughts were in chaos, and the easy walk did nothing to calm them. Had she been still on Thera, she would have run on the black sandy beach or across the barren hilltops until her body hurt, exhaustion purging her fears for a little while. Or she would reach for Andromache, who could always calm the turmoil in her heart.

Yet now it was thoughts of Andromache that caused her fear. For the past season her only ambition had been to reach the woman she loved. Her entire will had been engaged in achieving that one goal. But now, at the end of her journey, she was overwhelmed with doubts.

What if Andromache no longer wanted her?

Her treacherous mind played out possible scenes. She saw Andromache standing at a farmhouse door, her face stern, her eyes cold. “What are you doing here?” she would ask. She would reply: “I have traveled across the Great Green to be with you.” Andromache would say, “That life is ended. You are not wanted here,” and the door would close firmly in her face.

She tried to recall the joyous scene she had nursed in her heart for so long: Andromache running into her arms, confessing she hated her husband, Hektor, begging Piria to take her away from Troy to a life of quiet bliss together in a small village overlooking the sea. But black doubts now assailed that pretty picture. How would you live in this village? they demanded. Raising goats, or sewing garments for peasants, or making bread? The pair had no such skills. Two princesses, hunted by their families and by the great powers of Troy and Thera, living unrecognized in a quiet country retreat? She knew now that it was impossible. So what would they do? The thought brought fresh despair, and she sighed.

“You seem troubled.”

Kalliades had dropped back to speak to her as Banokles strode ahead. She could find nothing to say. He did not press her, and they walked on in silence, following Banokles’ long moon shadow up a gentle hillside.

The two years she had spent on Thera with Andromache had been the only truly happy time she could recall. I should have stayed on the Blessed Isle, she thought, seeing again the farmhouse door closing on her and her dreams.

She realized that she had stopped walking and that the two men were looking at her curiously.

Her breathing was shallow, and she felt the beginnings of panic, a trembling in her hands, a tightness in her belly. They had reached the brow of a low hill, and ahead by the roadside she could see a small white shrine shining in the moonlight. Not wanting her companions to see her distress, she walked over to it. The bones of small creatures lay at its base, and the statue of a woman with a bow had been placed in an alcove.

The statue was of the huntress goddess Artemis, who despised men. On Thera there was a temple to her on the highest point of the island, a spur of limestone rock standing proud of the rest of the isle. She and Andromache had often climbed to that temple to walk the sun-drenched corridors and hear the wind whistle among the white columns. They both felt safe in the halls of the moon goddess, who welcomed men only as sacrifice.

Piria looked at the bow in her hand, feeling the leather grip smooth against her hand, just as it had nestled in Andromache’s hand perhaps days before.

There were many small offerings on the shrine: wooden figures of pregnant women carved without skill but with great care, bronze arrowheads, colored pebbles painted with images of the goddess, and many clay animals: deer, hounds, and quail.

“O Lady of the Wild Creatures,” she whispered, “I have nothing to give you.” She had only her shabby tunic and her sandals. She held the bow of Andromache and the dagger of Kalliades. She had nothing of her own. Even her blond hair she had hacked away.

She stood before the shrine with its offerings of wood and clay and bright bronze. “I have nothing to give. I have nothing to give,” she repeated.

Suddenly she took the knife from her belt and stepped toward the shrine, arm raised. “Accept my blood, moon goddess,” she whispered. “Accept this offering.” She felt a hand on her arm and spun around, eyes wide and angry.

Kalliades said gently, “Artemis does not seek the blood of women.”

“I have nothing else,” Piria said, tears flowing.

He stood for a moment, then slowly lifted his left palm toward her. She looked into his eyes, her brow furrowed.

“The goddess will accept
my
blood,” he said softly. She hesitated for just a moment, then made a small cut in the flesh of his hand. Moving to the shrine, he clenched his fist above the statue. Crimson drops splashed down, dark against the white stone. He moved back and glanced at Banokles.

Mystified, the big man looked from one to the other, then shrugged and stepped forward. Gently, Piria nicked the side of his left hand, and his blood joined that of Kalliades.

Piria spoke. “Artemis, virgin lady, moon goddess, I give you this offering of the blood of men. Give us your light in the darkness and bring us to our hearts’ desire.”

Suddenly the woods and fields around them were plunged into silence. The small breeze dropped, and all sounds—the rustle of leaves and bushes, the night noises of small creatures—suddenly ceased, as if the world were holding its breath. The moon seemed huge in the still, dark sky.

For the first time in days Piria’s heart calmed. She smiled at the two men. “Thank you,” she said. “I am ready now.”

Banokles cleared his throat and said gruffly, “If you find you are not welcome…well…you could always come with us, you know. With Kalliades and me. We are going south. To the mountains.”

Her vision misted, and she nodded her thanks to him, not trusting herself to speak. Kalliades leaned toward her. “Let us find your friend, and then you can decide where your road will lead.”

They returned to the road. As they approached the crest of the hill, Piria glanced at the two warriors beside her. A sense of peace and security, lost to her since she was twelve years old, flowed over her. She was with men whom she trusted and in whose company she felt safe.

They stopped at the brow of the hill and looked down into the valley beyond. They could see a fierce red glow, and the acrid smell of smoke assailed their nostrils. As their eyes adjusted, they could see flames leaping from a group of buildings. The sounds of animals in distress reached their ears.

“Fire!” Kalliades shouted. “The farm is on fire!” Dark figures moved across the flames, and they could hear the clash of swords and the cries of wounded men.

Piria started to run down the hill. “Andromache!” she cried.

Unsheathing their swords, her two friends followed.

∗ ∗ ∗

For a moment only Andromache froze. Then she heard a voice call out: “There she is! Kill her!” She saw a bearded swordsman pointing at her. Cheon, sword in hand, ran at the first of the killers, swaying aside from a sword thrust and plunging his blade into the attacker’s face. The man fell back. Cheon followed in, but an arrow ripped into his side. Other dark-garbed men rushed in, hacking and slashing at the dying Trojan.

Another arrow flashed past Andromache’s face. Leaving Cheon’s body, five men ran at her. Spinning around, she raced across the open ground toward the hillside. Then she heard a woman’s voice cry out.

“Andromache! Come to me!” Even through her fear she recognized the voice and glanced up.

There was Kalliope on the steep hillside above her, a bow in her hand. There were two warriors with her, one tall and dark, the other powerful and blond, wearing a leather cuirass covered with gleaming bronze disks. “Look out!” the tall man shouted. Andromache spun away once more. A bearded assassin was closing in on her, a dagger in his hand. “Got you now, bitch!” he snarled.

Andromache leaped at him, her foot cracking against his chest, knocking him from his feet. More attackers were close behind. An arrow from Kalliope’s bow lanced into the throat of the nearest, then the blond-bearded warrior ran past Andromache, blocking a sword thrust before sending a backhand cut into the face of an assassin. Blood sprayed from the wound. He shoulder charged another man, then rushed in to the following group, his sword hacking and cutting. The tall warrior raced in to fight alongside his comrade. Andromache saw more assassins, some nine in all, converge on the two men, and it seemed they must be overrun. Beyond them one of the youths who earlier had been trying to tame the stallion staggered to the doors of the blazing barn and managed to raise the locking bar. Terrified horses came thundering out, racing in panic away from the flames.

“Come to me, my love!” Kalliope shouted.

Andromache ran up the hillside toward her. Kalliope was still shooting arrows at the attacking men. As she scrambled up toward her lover, Andromache caught sight of a bowman some fifty paces distant. He loosed an arrow. Andromache hurled herself to the ground.

But the shaft had not been aimed at her.

She saw Kalliope stagger back, her bow falling to the grass, a black-feathered arrow jutting from her chest.

Anger, fierce and cold, swept through Andromache. Surging up, she ran to Kalliope’s side, sweeping up the bow and notching an arrow to the string. The bowman loosed another shaft, which slashed through her white robe, scoring the skin of her hip. Ignoring the pain, she took aim. The man, suddenly fearful, dashed toward the protection of the trees. Andromache gauged his speed, altered her aim, and let fly. For a heartbeat she thought she had missed, but the arrow drove into the side of his neck. His legs gave way, and he fell.

Taking another arrow, she swung to see the two warriors standing back-to-back and fighting furiously. The bodies of four assassins lay close by. Another killer cried out as the sword of the tall man lanced into his chest. Then one of the assassins at the rear darted around the fighting men and sprinted toward Andromache.

She let him come, then sent a shaft ripping through his lungs. He staggered on for several steps, then, in a last desperate attempt to complete his mission, hurled his sword at her. It did not come close, and he pitched forward onto his face.

Below her she saw the blond warrior stumble, but his comrade stepped in to block a sword thrust and hauled him to his feet. Six bodies now lay around the pair, and the two surviving attackers suddenly turned and fled, heading out past the blazing barn. Andromache shot at one of them but missed. Then they were gone.

Hurling aside the bow, Andromache dropped to her knees alongside Kalliope, who struggled to rise but fell back with a cry. The two warriors came then, the tall man casting his sword aside and also dropping to his knees. Andromache saw his anguish.

A sense of unreality flowed through Andromache. This is a dream, she told herself. Kalliope cannot be here, and if she was, it would not be in the company of men. Assassins could not have attacked Hektor’s farm, so close to the city. I will wake, she thought, still on the couch. Just a dream!

Then, as she moved, pain lanced through her hip. She glanced down at the blood on the slashed white gown.

Kalliope’s hand touched her arm. “I came for you,” she said. “Don’t send me away! Please don’t send me away!”

“I never will!” Andromache cried. “Never!”

Once again Kalliope tried to rise. The tall warrior gently lifted her into a sitting position. “Rest your head on my shoulder, Piria,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Am I hurt?” she asked him.

“Yes, you are hurt, sweet girl.”

Kalliope’s left hand reached up, her fingers finding the arrow shaft. Her eyes flared wide with fear, then she smiled and sighed. “He killed me, didn’t he? Tell me the truth, Kalliades.”

Andromache saw the man’s head bow down. “I promised to see you safe,” he said. “And I failed you.”

“Don’t say that! You did not fail me, Kalliades. Not once. You gave me my life back. You and Banokles. Your friendship restored me.” Her gaze shifted to Andromache, who leaned in close and kissed her. “It was Melite,” Kalliope said, her voice fading. “She told me wicked men would come for you. I…I had to…be there.”

“And you were,” Andromache whispered.

Kalliope fell silent. The huge blond warrior leaned in close, and Andromache saw there were tears in his eyes.

“You are all so sad,” Kalliope said. “I am not sad. All the people…I love…are with me.” Her eyes fastened on the bright moon above. “And there…is…Artemis…”

Then she was silent.

Andromache stared down at the pale, still face of her lover and heard again the words of Aklides. His vision had been true but misinterpreted. He had seen Helikaon with one sandal and Hektor rising from the ground covered in the filth of pigs.