Lord of the Silver Bow

by David Gemmell

  The soldier paused. “Well, carrying that amount of blubber, you can’t run,” he said. “Do you want to beg for your life?”

  “I would ask nothing from a Thrakian goat shagger,” Antiphones said coldly.

  The man’s eyes narrowed, and with a snarl of anger he leapt at the prince. Antiphones stepped in to meet him, his huge left arm parrying the knife blow, his right fist hammering into the man’s jaw. Lifted from his feet, the Thrakian hit the wall headfirst and slumped to the floor. The remaining two soldiers drew their swords and rushed at Antiphones. With a bellowing shout he surged forward to meet them. A sword cut into his side, blood drenching his voluminous blue gown. Grabbing the attacker, Antiphones dragged him into a savage head butt. The man sagged, semiconscious, in his grip.

  Pain lanced through him. The other Thrakian had darted behind and stabbed him in the back. Wrenching the sword clear, the assassin pulled back his arm for another strike. Still holding the stunned man, Antiphones twisted around, hurling him at the swordsman. The Thrakian sidestepped. Antiphones lurched forward. The Thrakian’s sword jabbed out, piercing Antiphones’ belly. Antiphones’ fist thundered against the man’s chin, hurling him against the wall. Dropping to one knee, Antiphones picked up a fallen sword. Heaving himself upright, he blocked a wild cut and then drove his blade toward the man’s throat. It was a mistimed thrust, for he had never been skilled with the sword. The blade lanced through the man’s cheek, slicing the skin and scraping along his teeth before exiting through the jaw. With a gurgling cry he stabbed at Antiphones again. Stepping back, Antiphones drove his sword against the man’s temple, and the assassin staggered to his right and half fell. Antiphones struck him three more times, the last blow severing his jugular.

  The last assassin was struggling to rise. Antiphones ran at him. Flipping the short sword into dagger position, he plunged it through the man’s collarbone, driving it down with all his considerable weight. The Thrakian let out a terrible scream and fell back, the sword so deep inside him that only the hilt guard protruded from his body.

  Blood was soaking through Antiphones’ gown. He could feel it running down his belly and back. He felt light-headed and dizzy. Slowly he walked back to the first Thrakian. Scooping up the man’s dagger, he knelt by the unconscious assassin. Grabbing him by the collar of his breastplate, he heaved him to his back. The man groaned, and his pale eyes opened. Antiphones touched the dagger blade to his throat.

  “This fat man,” he said, “is a prince of Troy, and his blood is the blood of heroes and kings. When you get to Hades, you can apologize to Thoas. You can tell him the fat man thought highly of him.”

  The Thrakian’s eyes widened, and he started to speak. Antiphones plunged the blade through his throat and then ripped it clear and watched the blood spray from the awful wound. Then he dropped the knife and sagged back against the door frame.

  Farewell, Brother, Agathon had said. Antiphones knew he should have read the meaning in that last chilling look. Agathon had gone from the house and sent his Thrakians to murder him. And why not? Most of the other brothers were marked for death.

  Blood continued to flow. Antiphones closed his eyes. He felt no terror of the dark road. In fact he was surprised at the sense of calm that had settled on him. He thought of Hektor and smiled. Would he have been surprised to see me defeat three killers?

  Then he thought again of the murder plot against Priam and his sons and counselors.

  With a mighty effort he made it to his feet. Staggering through to the back of the house, he donned a full-length cloak of gray wool, drawing it about him to disguise the bloodstains. Then he moved slowly out into the rear gardens and into a side street.

  He could not see the stones of the street clearly. A haze seemed to be lying on them like the mist on the Scamander at daybreak. They wavered and shimmered, and with every jarring footstep they threatened to vanish into darkness.

  As he bent forward, the pain in his side and back redoubled, but with a soft cry he pushed forward another step. Then another.

  Blood was still flowing freely, but the cloak disguised his injuries, and the few people who passed him in the street merely glanced. They thought him drunk or just too fat to walk properly, and so they looked away, amused or embarrassed. They did not notice the bloody footprints he was leaving.

  Reaching the gate of Helikaon’s palace, he stood for a moment in the shadow of the stone horses. He saw a servant crossing the courtyard toward the main entrance and called out to him. The servant recognized him and ran to where Antiphones was now leaning against the base of one of the statues.

  “Help me,” he said, unsure if he was speaking the words or just saying them in his head.

  He sank into unconsciousness, then felt hands pulling at him, trying to lift him. They could not. The weight was too great.

  Opening his eyes, he looked up and saw a powerful, black-bearded man with wide shoulders looming over him.

  “We have to get you inside,” said the man, his accent Egypteian.

  “Helikaon . . . I must speak to . . . Helikaon.”

  “He is not here. Give me your hand.”

  Antiphones raised his arm. Several servants moved behind him. Then the Egypteian heaved, drawing Antiphones up. On his feet again, Antiphones leaned heavily on the Egypteian as they made their slow way into Helikaon’s palace. Once inside, Antiphones’ legs gave way, and the Egypteian lowered him to the floor.

  The man knelt beside him, then drew a knife.

  “Are you going to kill me?” asked Antiphones.

  “Someone has already tried that, my friend. No. I have sent for a physician, but I need to see your wounds and staunch that bleeding.” The knife blade sliced through Antiphones’ gown. “Who did this to you?”

  Antiphones felt as if he were falling from a great height. He tried to speak. The Egypteian’s face swam before his eyes. “Traitors,” he mumbled. “Going to . . . kill everyone.”

  Then darkness swallowed him.

  II

  Argurios sat quietly in the temple gardens, burnishing his breastplate with an old cloth. The armor was old, and several of the overlapping bronze disks were cracked. Two on the left side were missing. The first had been shattered by an ax. Argurios still remembered the blow. A young Thessalian soldier had burst through the Mykene ranks and killed two warriors. The man had been tall, wide-shouldered, and utterly fearless. Argurios had leapt at him, shield high, sword extended. The Thessalian had reacted brilliantly, dropping to one knee and hammering his ax under the shield. The blow had cracked two of Argurios’ ribs and would have disemboweled him had it not been for the quality of the old breastplate. Despite the searing pain Argurios had fought on, mortally wounding his opponent. When the battle was over, he had found the dying man and had sat with him. They had talked of life, of the coming harvest and the value of a good blade.

  When the short war was concluded Argurios traveled up into Thessaly, returning the man’s ax and armor to his family on a farm in a mountain valley.

  Slowly and with great care Argurios polished each disk. Tonight he planned to approach Priam, and he wanted to look his best. He had no great expectation of success in this venture, and the thought of being banished from Laodike’s presence caused a rising feeling of panic in his breast.

  What will you do, he wondered, if the king refuses you?

  In truth he did not know, and he pushed his fears away.

  Finishing the breastplate, he took up his helmet. It was a fine piece, crafted from a single sheet of bronze. A gift from Atreus the king. Lined with padded leather to absorb the impact of any blow, the helmet had served him well. As he stared at it, he marveled at the skill of the bronzesmith. It would have taken weeks to shape this piece, crafting its high dome and curved cheek guards. He ran his fingers lightly down the raised ridges over the crown that would hold the white horsehair crest in place for ceremonial functions. He would not wear the crest tonight. It was weather-beaten and needed replacing. Carefully he burn
ished the helmet. Had he not been a warrior, he would have enjoyed learning the craft of bronzemaking. Swords needed to hold an edge yet not be too brittle; helmets and armor required softer bronze that would give and bend and absorb blows. Greater or lesser amounts of tin were added to the copper to supply whatever was required.

  Finally satisfied with the shine of the helmet, he placed it at his side and began to work on the greaves. They were not of high quality. They were a gift from Agamemnon King and should have indicated Argurios’ steady fall from favor.

  He was still working when he saw Laodike approaching through the trees. She was wearing a sunshine-yellow gown with a wide belt embossed with gold. Her fair hair was hanging free, and her smile as she saw him lifted his heart. Putting aside the greaves, he stood, and she ran into his embrace.

  “I have such a good feeling about today,” she said. “I woke this morning, and all my fears had vanished.”

  Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her. They stood for a moment, unspeaking. Then she glanced down at his armor. “You are going to look magnificent tonight,” she told him.

  “I wish I could see myself through your eyes. The last time I saw my reflection, it showed a man past his prime with a hard angular face and graying hair.”

  Reaching up, she stroked his cheek. “I never saw a more handsome man. Not ever.” She smiled at him. “It is very warm out here. Perhaps we should go to your room, where it is cooler.”

  “If we go to my room, you will not be cool for long,” he told her.

  Laodike laughed and helped him gather his armor. Then they walked back through the gardens.

  Later, as they lay naked together on the narrow bed, she talked of the coming feast. “There will be no women there,” she said. “The high priestess of Athene is holding a separate function in the women’s quarters. She is very old and very dull. I am not looking forward to it. Yours will be much more exciting. There will be bards singing tales of Hektor’s glory and storytellers.” Her face suddenly crumpled, and she held her hand to her mouth. Tears fell. Argurios put his arms around her. “I still can’t believe he is dead,” she whispered.

  “He was a hero. The gods will have welcomed him with a great feast.”

  She sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Kassandra upset everyone by saying he was going to come back to life, rise from the dead. Hekabe was so angry, she sent her away to Father’s palace so she could listen to the priestess and learn to accept the truth. Do people ever rise from the dead, do you think?”

  “I never knew anyone who did,” said Argurios. “Orpheus was said to have entered the Underworld to ask for his wife to be returned to him, but she was not. I am sorry for your grief, Laodike. He was a warrior, though, and that is how warriors die. I expect he would have wanted it no other way.”

  She smiled then. “Oh, not Hektor! He hated being a warrior.”

  Argurios sat up beside her. “How is that possible? Every man around the Great Green has heard of the battles fought by Hektor.”

  “I cannot explain the contradiction. Hektor is . . . was . . . unusual. He hated arguments and confrontations. When in Troy he would spend most of his time on his farm, breeding horses and pigs. There is a big house there, full of children, the sons of fallen Trojan soldiers. Hektor pays for their tutoring and their keep. He used to talk with loathing about war. He told me even victory left a bad taste in his mouth. He once said that all children should be forced to walk on a battlefield and see the broken, ruined bodies. Then, perhaps, they would not grow to manhood filled with thoughts of glory.”

  “As you say, an unusual man.” Argurios rose from the bed and put on his tunic. Pushing open the window, he looked out over the temple courtyard. Crowds had gathered before the offertory tables, and priests were collecting the petitions.

  “An odd thing happened to me today,” he said. “I went down into the lower town, seeking a bronzesmith who could repair my breastplate. I saw Thrakian troops there. Many had been drinking. They were loud and ill disciplined.”

  “Yes, I saw some on my way here. Agathon will be angry when he hears.”

  “One of them staggered into me. He said: ‘You are supposed to be in hiding.’ I am sure I didn’t know the man. Then another one dragged him away and told him he was a fool.”

  “I don’t know why they are back so soon,” Laodike told him. “Father is very careful about rotating the regiments. Yet the Thrakians were here a week ago. They should not have been assigned city duties for some while yet.”

  “You should get back to the palace,” said Argurios. “I need to prepare myself.”

  Laodike donned her gown, then walked to a chest by the far wall. On it was a sword and scabbard, a slim dagger, and two wax-sealed scrolls.

  “Have you been writing letters?” she asked.

  “No. I never mastered the skill. I was given them back in Mykene to deliver to Erekos the ambassador.”

  Lifting the first, Laodike broke the seal.

  “What are you doing?” asked Argurios. “Those are letters from the king.”

  “Not your king any longer,” she said. “He has banished you. I am curious to know what he writes about.”

  “Probably trade tallies,” he said.

  Laodike unrolled the scroll and scanned it. “Yes,” she told him. “He is talking about shipments of copper and tin and telling Erekos to ensure supplies are increased.” She read on. “And something about supplying gold to ‘our friends.’ It is all very boring.” She opened the second. “More of the same. There is a name. Karpophorus. Gold has to be assigned to him for a mission. And Erekos is thanked for supplying details about troop rotations.” She laid the papyrus on the chest. “Your king writes dull letters.” Moving back across the room, she kissed him. “I will not see you tonight, but I will be here tomorrow to hear how your meeting with Father went. Remember, he is a very proud man.”

  “So am I,” said Argurios.

  “Well, try not to anger him. If he refuses, merely bow your head and walk away. Nothing he can do can keep us apart for long, my love. If he sends me away, I will find a way to get word to you.”

  “It is good to see your confidence growing.”

  “I believe in the message of the swans,” she told him. Then, after another lingering kiss, she left the room.

  Argurios walked back to the window. The sun was sliding toward sunset.

  Turning back to his armor, he finished burnishing the greaves and then the bronze disks on the old leather war kilt. Lastly he polished the curved forearm guards given to him by the soldier Kalliades two years before. Kalliades had stripped them from a dead Athenian and brought them to where Argurios was resting after the battle. “Thank you for saving my life, Argurios,” he had said. Argurios could not recall the incident. “I was wearing a helmet embossed with a snake,” persisted Kalliades. “I was knocked from my feet, and a spearman was about to thrust his blade through my throat. You leapt at him, turning away his spear with your shield.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Argurios. “I am glad you survived.”

  “I brought you these,” he said, offering the arm guards. Some of Kalliades’ friends were close by, keeping a respectful distance. Argurios recognized Banokles of the one ear and Eruthros, who was renowned for his practical jokes. There were others, new soldiers he did not know.

  Accepting the gift, he had said, “They are very fine. You may leave me now.”

  The soldiers had backed away. As he remembered the moment, Argurios found himself wishing he had spoken to the men, drawing them in and getting to know them.

  He glanced at the sword belt and scabbard. These, too, needed polishing, but he was not intending to wear a sword to the palace.

  On the chest lay the papyrus scrolls covered with their indecipherable symbols. Copper and tin for the making of more weapons and armor. Gold for “our friends.” Those friends would be Trojan traitors. As to the troop rotations, that could only refer to the regiments guarding the city. Argurios could n
ot read script or fashion his own armor. He knew nothing about the growing of crops or the weaving of linens and wools.

  What he did know as well as any man alive was strategy and war.

  If Agamemnon desired to know which troops were guarding the city at any time, it could only mean that an advantage could be gained if a specific regiment was in control. Otherwise it would matter little which force patrolled the walls.

  You are no longer the king’s strategos, he chided himself. The ambitions of Agamemnon no longer concern you.

  Unless, of course, Priam agreed to let him marry Laodike. Then he would, by law, become the king’s son and a Trojan. How inconceivable such an idea would have seemed as he set out with Helikaon on the Xanthos.

  The shadows were lengthening outside. Argurios strapped on his greaves and then donned his breastplate and kilt. He fastened the straps of the forearm guards and stood.

  He walked to the door—and paused. Glancing back, his eyes rested on the sword and scabbard.

  On impulse he swept them up and left for the palace.

  PART FOUR

  THE HERO’S SHIELD

  XXX

  BLOOD ON THE WALLS

  I

  It had been a frustrating day for Helikaon. He had walked to the palace in search of Andromache, only to find the gates closed. An Eagle on the walls above the gate had called down that no one was to be allowed entry until dusk on the orders of Agathon. He had returned to the House of the Stone Horses, thrown a leopard-skin shabrack over the back of his horse, and ridden across the Scamander to Hekabe’s palace, hoping to find Andromache there.

  Instead he found the palace virtually deserted. Hekabe’s youngest son, the studious Paris, was sitting in the shade of some trees overlooking the bay. Beside him, poring over some old parchments, was a thickset young woman with a plain, honest face and pale auburn hair.