Lord of the Silver Bow

by David Gemmell

  He was riding now across a flat green plain. He could see a plateau in front of him, the sun falling directly toward it. The last sunlight was shining off something on the heights of the plateau. Troy is roofed with gold, they had told him, but he had scoffed at that.

  “Do you think me a fool?” he asked. “If it is roofed with gold, why do bandits not come and steal the roofs?”

  “You will see,” they replied.

  It was almost dark by the time he rode up to the city. He could see nothing but great shadowed walls towering above him. Suddenly, his confidence evaporated and he felt like a small boy again. He walked his tired horse around the south part of the walls, as instructed, until he reached the high wooden gates. One gate had been opened a little, and six riders awaited him, silent men clad in high-crested helmets and seated on tall horses.

  He cleared his throat of the dust of travel and called out to them in the foreign words he had been schooled in. “I come from Hattusas. I have a message for King Priam!”

  He was beckoned forward and rode slowly through the gate. Two horsemen rode in front of him, two at his sides, and two behind. They were all armed and armored, and they said nothing as they made their way through the darkened streets. Huzziyas looked curiously around him, but in the torchlight he could see little. Steadily, they climbed toward the citadel.

  They passed through the palace gates and halted at a great building lined with red pillars and lit with hundreds of torches. The riders sat their horses and waited until a man clad in long white robes hurried out. He was gray-faced, and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery. He peered at Huzziyas.

  “You are an imperial messenger?” he snapped.

  Huzziyas was relieved he spoke the Hittite tongue.

  “I am,” he answered with pride. “I have traveled day and night to bring an important message to the Trojan king.”

  “Give it to me.” The man held out his hand, gesturing impatiently. The Hittite took out the precious paper. It had been wrapped around a stick and sealed with the imperial seal, then placed in a hollow wooden tube and sealed again at each end. Huzziyas ceremoniously handed the tube to the wet-eyed man, who almost snatched it from him, merely glancing at the seals before breaking them and unrolling the paper.

  He frowned, and Huzziyas saw disappointment on his face.

  “You know what this says?” he asked the young man.

  “I do,” said Huzziyas importantly. “It says the emperor is coming.”

  XXVII

  THE FALLEN PRINCE

  I

  In the days after her first meeting with Argurios, Laodike had found herself thinking more and more of the Mykene warrior. It was most odd. He was not good-looking like Helikaon or Agathon. His features were hard and angular. He was certainly not charming and seemed to be possessed of no great wit, yet he had begun to dominate her thoughts in a most disconcerting manner.

  When he had been beside her on the beach, she had experienced an almost maternal longing, a desire to help him regain his physical strength, to watch him become again the man he had been. At least, that was how it had begun. Now her thoughts were more obsessive, and she realized she was missing him.

  Xander had told her of the soldier who had walked Argurios to the beach, saying that he had treated him with great respect. Laodike knew Polydorus and had called out to him one afternoon when the blond-haired soldier was off duty and walking through the palace gardens.

  “It is a fine day,” she began. “For the time of year, I mean.”

  “Indeed it is,” he answered. “Is there something you need?”

  “No, not at all. I wanted to . . . thank you for your courtesy toward the wounded Mykene. The boy Xander spoke of it.”

  Now he looked bemused, and Laodike felt embarrassment swelling. “I am sorry. I am obviously delaying you. Are you going into the lower town?”

  “Yes, I am meeting the parents of my bride to be. But first I must find a gift for them.”

  “There is a trader,” she said, “on the Street of Thetis. He is a silversmith and crafts the most beautiful small statues of the goddess Demeter and the babe Persephone. It is said they are lucky pieces.”

  “I have heard of him, but I fear I could not afford such a piece.”

  Now Laodike felt foolish. Of course he could not. He was a soldier, not a nobleman with rich farms or horse herds or trading ships. Polydorus waited, and the moment became awkward. Finally she took a deep breath. “What do you know of the Mykene?” she asked.

  “He is a great warrior,” answered Polydorus, relaxing. “I learned of him when I was still a child. He has fought in many battles and under the old king was twice Mykene champion. You have heard of the bridge at Partha?”

  “No.”

  “The Mykene were in retreat. A rare thing! They had crossed the bridge, but the enemy was close behind. Argurios stood upon the bridge and defied the enemy to kill him. They came at him one at a time, but he defeated every champion they sent.”

  “Why did they not all just rush at him in a charge? One man could not have stopped them all, surely.”

  “I suppose that is true. Perhaps they valued his courage. Perhaps they wanted to test themselves against the best. I do not know.”

  “Thank you, Polydorus,” she said. “And now you must go and find that gift.” He bowed his head and turned away. On impulse she reached out and touched his arm. The young soldier was shocked. “Go to the silversmith,” she said with a smile, “and tell him I sent you. Pick a fine statue and instruct him to come to me for payment.”

  “Thank you. I . . . do not know what to say.”

  “Then say nothing, Polydorus,” she told him.

  That afternoon she walked down to the House of Serpents, ostensibly to collect more medicines for Hekabe. In fact, though, she wandered the grounds until she caught sight of Argurios. He was chopping wood. She stood in the shadows of a stand of trees and watched him. He had put on weight, and his movements were smooth and graceful, the ax rising and falling, the wood splitting cleanly.

  She stood for a while, trying to think of what she might say to him. She wished she had worn a more colorful dress and perhaps the gold pendant with the large sapphire. Everyone said it was a beautiful piece. Then grim reality struck home, and her heart sank. You are a plain woman, she told herself. No amount of gold or pretty jewelry can disguise it. And you are about to make a fool of yourself.

  Turning away, she decided to return to the palace, but she had taken no more than a few steps before the healer Machaon came around the corner of a building and saw her. He bowed deeply.

  “I did not know you were here, Laodike,” he said. “Has your mother’s condition worsened?”

  “No. I was just . . . out walking,” she replied, reddening.

  He glanced beyond her to where Argurios was still working. “His recovery is amazing,” he said. “His breathing is almost normal, and his strength is returning at a fine rate. Would that all those I treated showed such determination. How goes it, Argurios?” he called out.

  The Mykene thunked the ax into a round of wood and swung to face them. Then he walked across the grass toward them. Laodike tried to breathe normally but felt panic rising.

  “Greetings,” said Argurios.

  “And to you, warrior,” she said. “I see that you are almost well.”

  “Aye, I feel power in me again.”

  The silence grew. “Ah, well,” Machaon said, with a knowing smile, “I have patients to see to.” Bowing once more, he went on his way.

  Laodike stood very quietly, not knowing what to say. She looked at Argurios. His cheeks were shaved, the jutting chin beard trimmed, and sweat gleamed on his bare chest. “It is a fine day,” she managed. “For the time of year, I mean.” The blue sky was streaked with clouds, but at that moment the sun was shining brightly.

  “I am glad you came,” he said suddenly. “I have been thinking of you constantly,” he added, his tone awkward, his gaze intense.

 
In that moment Laodike’s nervousness vanished, and she felt a sense of calm descend on her. In the silence that followed she saw Argurios becoming ill at ease.

  “I never did know how to speak other than plainly,” he said.

  “Perhaps you would like to walk for a while in the sunshine. Though first I suggest you put on your shirt.”

  They walked through the gardens and out into the lower town. Argurios said little, but the silence was comfortable. Finally they sat on a stone bench beside a well. Glancing back, she saw that two men had followed them and were sitting on a wall some distance away.

  “Do you know them?” she asked, pointing.

  His expression darkened. “They have been hired by Helikaon to protect me. There are others who come at night and stand beneath the trees.”

  “That was kind of him.”

  “Kind!”

  “Why does it make you angry?”

  “Helikaon is my enemy. I have no wish to be beholden to the man.” He glanced at the two bodyguards. “And any half-trained Mykene soldier could scatter those fools in a heartbeat.”

  “You are proud of your people.”

  “We are strong. We are unafraid. Yes, I am proud.”

  A group of women carrying empty buckets approached the well. Laodike and Argurios moved away, up the slope toward the Scaean Gate. Passing through it, they climbed to the battlements of the great wall and strolled along the ramparts.

  “Why were you banished?” asked Laodike.

  He shrugged. “Lies were told and believed. I can make little sense of it. There are men at the royal court with honeyed tongues. They fill the king’s ear with flattery. The old king I could talk to. Atreus was a warrior, a fighting man. You could sit with him at a campfire like any other soldier.”

  Another silence grew. It did not bother Laodike, who was enjoying his company, but Argurios became increasingly uncomfortable.

  “I have never known how to talk to women,” he said awkwardly. “I do not know what interests them. At this moment I wish I did.”

  She laughed. “Life,” she told him. “Birth and growth. Flowers that bloom and fade, seasons that bring sunshine or rain. Clothes that mirror the beauty that is all around us, the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the gold of the sun. But mostly we are interested in people, in their lives and their dreams. Do you have a family back in Mykene?”

  “No. My parents died years ago.”

  “Not a wife at home?”

  “No.”

  Relieved, Laodike let the silence grow once more. She gazed out over the bay. There were few ships now except for some fishing boats. “You were very rash with Dios,” she said.

  “I did not like the way he spoke to you,” he told her, and she saw anger again in his eyes.

  The sun was low in the sky, and Laodike rose. “I must be getting back,” she said.

  “Will you come to me again?” His nervousness was obvious, and it filled her with a confidence she rarely experienced in the company of men.

  “I might be here tomorrow.”

  Pushing himself to his feet, he smiled. “I hope that you are,” he told her.

  For the next ten days, she came every day and they walked the great walls. There was little conversation, but she enjoyed the days more than any she could remember, especially the moment she slipped on a rampart step and his arm swept around her before she could fall. Laodike leaned in to him then, her head upon his shoulder. It was exquisite, and she wished it could last forever.

  II

  Andromache thought she had never seen as tall a man as the Hittite emperor. Hattusilis was even taller than Priam and of much the same age, but he stooped as he walked, and Andromache was sure he had bad feet, for he shuffled a little as if anxious not to lift them far from the ground.

  He was thin to the point of emaciation, his hair oiled black and partly covered by a close-fitting cap. He glanced around Priam’s great gold-filled megaron, looking strangely out of place in his simple, unadorned leather riding clothes. He had ridden into the city, but Andromache knew that the Hittite force had been camped out on the plain of the Simoeis overnight while the emperor rested and that he had traveled much of the way from his capital in a rich and comfortable carriage.

  Hattusilis carried two curved swords, one at his waist and the other unsheathed in his hand, and Andromache wondered at the frenzied negotiations that had taken place between the two sides since dawn to agree to that. He was attended by a retinue of eunuchs and counselors, all wearing colorfully patterned kilts clasped at the waist with belts of braided gold wire, some attired in bright shawls and others bare-chested. All were unarmed, of course.

  One huge half-naked bodyguard, so muscle-bound that Andromache decided he was more ornamental than useful, stood close to the emperor’s shoulder.

  Hattusilis III, emperor of the Hittites, advanced halfway down the megaron and then stopped. Priam, standing in front of his carved and gilded throne, walked forward to meet him, flanked by Polites and Agathon. There was a pause while the two men locked eyes, then Priam bowed briefly. Had the Trojan king ever bowed to anyone before? Andromache doubted it. It was only his concern for Hektor that persuaded him to make this gesture, she guessed, even to his emperor.

  “Greetings,” Priam loudly said, but without enthusiasm. “We are honored to welcome you to Troy.” Each courteous word seemed to cost him effort. He added flatly, “Our people rejoice.”

  A small bald-headed man wearing striped robes of yellow and green spoke quietly to the emperor. Andromache realized this was the translator.

  The emperor smiled thinly and spoke. The little man said, “Troy is a valued vassal kingdom to the great Hittite empire. The emperor takes a kindly interest in his subjects.”

  Priam’s face grew red with anger. He said, “This vassal is honored to fight the emperor’s battles for him. We are told the Trojan Horse won a great victory at Kadesh for the emperor.”

  Hattusilis replied, “The greater Hittite army has crushed the ambitions of the pharaohs for generations to come. We are grateful to Troy for its brave cavalry.”

  Priam could contain his impatience no longer. “My son has not returned from Kadesh. Do you bring news of him?”

  Hattusilis handed the unsheathed sword to the muscle-bound bodyguard and then placed both hands upon his heart. The megaron fell silent. The bald translator said, “We regret Hektor is dead. He died a valiant death in the cause of the Hittite empire.”

  The emperor spoke again. “Hektor was a good friend to us. He fought many battles for the empire.” His dark gaze rested on Priam’s stricken face, and Andromache saw genuine concern there. “We grieve for him as if he were our own son.”

  Andromache heard a soft sigh from beside her and put her arm around Laodike as the young woman sagged against her. Hektor is dead, she thought. Hektor is really dead. Her mind buzzed with possibilities, but she ruthlessly pushed them away to listen to Priam’s words.

  The king looked straight into the black eyes of the emperor. “My son cannot be dead,” he said, but there was a tremor in his voice.

  Hattusilis gestured, and two unarmed Hittite soldiers struggled forward with a heavy wooden chest. At a nod from the emperor they unbarred it and flung back the lid, which clanged hollowly against the stone floor.

  The emperor said, “His body was discovered with those of his men. They had been trapped, surrounded and killed by the Egypteians. By the time he was found his body had decayed, so I have returned his armor to you as proof of his death.”

  Priam stepped forward and reached into the chest. He took out a huge bronze breastplate decorated with silver and gold. From where Andromache stood she could see that the pattern represented a golden horse racing across silver waves.

  Laodike said in a small breathless voice, “Hektor. It is Hektor’s.”

  Hattusilis stepped forward and took from the chest a heavily decorated gold urn. “Following the custom of your people, we burned the body and placed Hektor’s bo
nes in this vessel.”

  He held it out. When Priam did not move, Polites darted forward and took the golden urn from the emperor’s hands.

  Never in her life had Andromache felt such a confusion of emotions. She grieved for Laodike’s pain at the death of her brother, for the loss on the faces of the people gathered around the megaron, the soldiers, counselors, and palace servants. She even grieved for Priam as he stood there holding the breastplate, a stunned look on his face, desolation in his eyes as he stared at the funeral urn.

  Yet in her heart joy welled up irresistibly. Her hands flew to her throat for fear she would cry out for gladness. She was free!

  Then Priam turned away from the emperor and walked with halting steps to his throne. Hugging the breastplate to his chest, he slumped down. A gasp of shock came from the Hittite retinue. No one sat in the presence of the emperor. Andromache glanced at Agathon, expecting the prince to step in and ease the situation, but he was standing, almost mesmerized, staring at his father, his expression torn between sadness and shock. Andromache felt for him.

  Then the dark-haired Dios moved smoothly forward, bowing deeply to Hattusilis. “My apologies, great lord. My father is overcome with grief. He intends no disrespect. Priam and the sons of Priam remain, as always, your most loyal followers.”

  The emperor spoke, and the translator’s words echoed in the silent megaron. “There is no slight. When a great hero falls, it becomes men to show their feelings truly. Hektor’s courage did indeed turn the battle in our favor. I would have expected no less from him. That is why I felt it right to come myself to this far city so that all would know that Hektor was honored by those he served most heroically.”

  With that the emperor swung on his heel and walked from the megaron.

  III

  Shortly before dark a hooded and cloaked figure slipped out through the Dardanian Gate into the lower town. One of the gate guards caught a glimpse of the man’s face and turned to speak to his colleague, but the other soldier was partway through a good joke about a Hittite, a horse, and a donkey, and so the first guard laughed and said nothing. There was no reason to question anyone leaving the citadel, after all.