Lord of the Silver Bow

by David Gemmell

  “Mother is sleeping,” Paris told him, setting aside the parchment he held. “She had a troubled night.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. I was seeking Andromache.”

  “She was here yesterday with Laodike. Today everyone is in the city, preparing for the feast.”

  “But not you?”

  Paris gave a shy smile. “I was not invited. Agathon knows I am uncomfortable in crowds. I am much happier here.” His pale eyes flickered toward the young woman. “Oh, I am sorry, Cousin,” he said. “This is Helen. She has been staying with us.”

  “I am Helikaon,” he told her.

  “I have heard of you,” she said softly, meeting his gaze. She swiftly looked away, her face reddening.

  “Helen shares my interest in matters historical,” said Paris, gazing at her fondly.

  “Do you read?” Helikaon asked her in an effort to be polite.

  “Paris is teaching me,” she told him.

  “Then I shall disturb you no longer,” he said. “I must go home and prepare for the feast.”

  Paris rose from his chair and walked with Helikaon back through the silent palace. “Isn’t she a joy?” he said excitedly.

  Helikaon smiled. “It seems you are in love.”

  “I think I am,” the young man said happily.

  “When is the wedding?”

  Paris sighed. “It is all too complicated. Helen’s father is at war with the Mykene. I do not understand the mysteries of battles and strategies, but Antiphones told me that Sparta will lose the war. So, either her father will be killed or he will be forced to swear allegiance to Agamemnon. Either way Helen will be subject to Agamemnon’s will.”

  “She is Spartan? Paris, my friend, she is not for you.”

  The young prince was defiant. “Yes, she is,” he protested. “She is everything to me!”

  “That is not what I meant.” Helikaon took a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts. “The Spartan king has no sons. If Sparta falls, then Helen will be married off to one of Agamemnon’s generals in order to provide a claim to the throne. And even if by some miracle Sparta wins, then the king’s daughter will be wed to a highborn Spartan, who would then be named as heir.”

  Paris looked crestfallen. “What if Father intervened for us?”

  Helikaon hesitated. He liked the quiet young prince. Of all Priam’s sons he was the least like his father. Paris had no interest in war or combat or political intrigue. He had never taken part in athletic tourneys or even attempted to become proficient with sword or spear or bow. “Paris, my friend, you said yourself you do not understand strategies or battles. Whoever weds Helen will have a claim to the throne of Sparta. Can you imagine that Agamemnon would allow a Trojan prince to have such a claim? Even Priam, with all his power, could do nothing to alter that. Put it from your mind.”

  “I cannot do that. We love each other.”

  “Princes do not marry for love, Paris. I fear disappointment awaits you,” said Helikaon, taking hold of his horse’s white mane and vaulting to its back. Touching heels to his mount, he rode back toward the Scamander bridge.

  The conversation with Paris had unsettled him. He had ridden to Troy convinced that he could win Andromache, but was he, too, blinded by emotion? Why would Priam allow such a match? Why indeed would he not merely wed her to Agathon? Or bed her himself?

  That last thought brought a wave of anger, and with it an image that sickened him. As he rode back toward the city, his mind began to conceive plans of action that became increasingly absurd. As he rode through the Scaean Gate, he was even considering abducting Andromache and fleeing back to Dardanos.

  Are you an idiot? he asked himself.

  His small, mostly militia army could never withstand the might of Troy. Such an action would bring disaster on the realm. Forcing himself to think coolly, he considered all that he could offer Priam in terms of wealth and trade. Lost in his calculations, he rode slowly through the city to the House of the Stone Horses.

  He saw some twenty soldiers in the courtyard and, as he approached, noticed blood smeared on the stones.

  “What is going on?” he asked a young Thrakian officer.

  The man recognized him. “Someone was attacked, Lord Aeneas,” he said. “Your servant has refused us entry.”

  Moving past the officer, Helikaon hammered his fist on the door.

  “Who is it?” came the voice of Gershom.

  “Helikaon. Open the door.”

  He heard the bar being lifted, and the door opened. The first thing he saw was a body on the floor, covered by two cloaks. Blood had drenched the rug on which it lay. Despite the fact that the face was covered, Helikaon knew the dead man was Antiphones. No one else in Troy was that size. The Thrakian officer entered behind him and gazed down at the covered corpse.

  “We did not know what to do, lord,” said Gershom, bowing low. “This man staggered in here asking for you. Then he collapsed and died.”

  Helikaon looked closely at Gershom. The man had never before been servile, and not once had he bowed. Meeting his gaze, he sensed there was more to this than Gershom could say. Helikaon turned to the Thrakian officer. “The dead man is Antiphones, son of Priam. I suggest you send for a cart and have the body taken to the palace.”

  “I will indeed, sir,” said the Thrakian.

  He swung to Gershom. “Did he say anything before he died?”

  “He tried, lord,” said Gershom, head bowed. “He kept asking for the lord Helikaon. I told him he wasn’t here. I tried to stop the bleeding, but the wounds were too deep. Then he died. I couldn’t save him.”

  “Why did you not let us in?” asked the officer.

  “I was frightened, lord. I am a stranger to the city. A man comes in and drops dead, and then other armed men are banging at the door. I did not know what to do.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy the officer. “I will have a cart sent,” he told Helikaon, and went out.

  As the door closed, Gershom knelt by Antiphones and pulled the top cloak away from the man’s face. Antiphones’ eyes were open. Helikaon saw him blink. The physician Machaon emerged from a side room.

  “What is happening here?” Helikaon asked, mystified.

  Gershom looked up. “He was attacked by Thrakian soldiers sent by his brother Agathon,” he said, all trace of servility vanished.

  Machaon also knelt by Antiphones, drawing back the cloak further. Antiphones’ upper body was covered in blood, and Helikaon could see jagged lines of stitches applied to many wounds. Machaon examined the wounds, then placed his hand over Antiphones’ heart.

  “He is a strong man,” said the physician, “and the depth of fat, I think, prevented the blades from causing mortal blows.”

  “Why did Agathon do this to you?” Helikaon asked the wounded man.

  “I have been such a fool. So much I did not see. I thought that, like me, Agathon wanted revenge on Priam for all the hurts and insults. But he is lost on a sea of hatred. Not just for Priam but for everyone who has ever offered him what he considers a slight. Tonight there will be a massacre. A thousand Thrakians and some two hundred Mykene will descend on the palace. Every man inside the megaron is to be killed: all the princes, the counselors, the nobles. Everyone. I tried to convince him of the madness of it. He sent three men to kill me.” Antiphones gave a weary smile. “I slew them. Hektor would have been proud of me, don’t you think?”

  “He would. What of the women?”

  Antiphones’ smile faded. “Our sisters should be safe. All others will be spoils of war,” he said. “I didn’t see all that hatred in him. I was blinded by my own loathing of Priam. You must get out of the city. Once Priam is dead, Agathon will send killers after you.”

  “Priam is not dead yet,” Helikaon told him.

  “You can do nothing. The great gates are guarded by a regiment controlled by one of Agathon’s men. They have orders not to leave their posts and to keep the gates shut until dawn. They will not come to Priam’s aid. And there are
only a hundred or so Eagles at the palace. They cannot win against such odds.”

  “What of the lady Andromache? Where is she?”

  “Oh, she has joined his list of enemies. She refused him, Aeneas. He said he would enjoy watching her raped by his Thrakians.”

  II

  It was the afternoon of the funeral feast, and Andromache stood on the balcony of her apartment, staring out over the green hills to the north of the city. There were sheep grazing there, and in the far distance she saw two riders cresting a rise. How good it would be, she thought, to be free of Troy. How wonderful to be riding on a hillside without a care.

  “You wanted a plain white garment today,” said Axa, moving onto the balcony and disturbing her reverie.

  The maid held out two identical robes. Andromache pointed to one. Axa examined the embroidery on the hem and then, tutting, rushed off to her sewing box. Armed with needle and silver thread, she sat herself comfortably on a padded stool. She was now moving more easily and her bruises were fading, Andromache noticed.

  “Kassandra is at the palace,” said Axa, peering shortsightedly at her sewing. “She returned yesterday. The gossip is that the queen lost her temper with her. She kept saying that Hektor will come back from the dead. Must be difficult for a mother to have a child with a blighted soul.”

  “Her soul is not blighted,” said Andromache. “Paris told me that Kassandra almost died as a babe. She had the brain fire.”

  “Poor mite,” said Axa. “My boy will not suffer that. I have a charm. It carries the blessing of Persephone. Mestares bought it.” As she spoke her husband’s name, Axa ceased her sewing, her plain plump face crumpling in sorrow. Andromache sat beside her. There was nothing she could say. The arrival of the emperor had put paid to all hopes that Hektor and his men would return.

  Axa brushed away her tears with a callused hand. “This won’t do. Won’t do at all,” she said. “Must get you looking nice for the gathering.”

  “Andromache!”

  A door slammed, and there was a rattle of curtains. Then Kassandra appeared in the doorway, her dark curls disheveled and the hem of her long blue gown dragging on the floor. “I want to go to the gardens. Laodike won’t let me. She keeps telling me off.”

  Laodike appeared behind her. “Kassandra, don’t bother Andromache. This is a time of sadness. We must be quiet and stay in the women’s quarters.”

  “You’re not sad.” Kassandra’s blue-gray eyes flashed at her sister. “You heart is singing like a bird. I can hear it.”

  Laodike flushed, and Andromache gave her a quick smile. She had guessed there was someone in Laodike’s life. Her confidence had increased over these last few weeks, and her happiness yesterday had been wonderful to see. She had hoped Laodike would confide in her, but she had seen little of her, and when they did speak, the subject of love was not raised. Andromache guessed she might have formed an attachment to one of the soldiers, hence the need for secrecy.

  “My heart is not singing, wicked child!” exclaimed Laodike. “You really are irritating! And I have so much to do. I am to greet the priestess, and she is a daunting woman.”

  “Leave Kassandra with me,” said Andromache. “I enjoy her company.”

  Laodike sighed. “That’s because you have not had to endure it for any length of time.” She gave a hard stare at Kassandra, but it softened as the child cocked her head and smiled back at her sister.

  “I know you love me, Laodike,” she said.

  “You don’t know anything!” She turned to Andromache. “Very well, I shall leave her with you. But be warned: by this evening you will have gray hairs and lines upon your face.”

  After Laodike had gone, Andromache said, “I don’t see why we can’t take a stroll in the gardens. Come, Axa, give me the gown. A little fraying on the hem does not worry me. No one will be looking at my feet.”

  Axa was obviously unhappy with the decision but passed the garment to Andromache, who stripped off the green robe she was wearing and donned the white. Axa brought her an ornate belt decorated with silver chains.

  Leaving the apartment, the trio walked down the corridors of the women’s quarters and through the high oak doors decorated with gold and ivory. Beyond these was a staircase leading to the queen’s apartments, followed by another set of stairs that descended into Priam’s megaron. Servants were bustling about, making ready for the night’s great feast. Already guests were arriving, and Andromache spotted Polites and Dios, the latter giving her a scalding look. Dios still harbored resentment over the incident at the beach and had not offered her a polite word since.

  “Why do people eat lots of roast meat when someone dies?” Kassandra asked, watching the servants toiling with huge slabs of beef.

  Andromache shrugged. “It is tradition. When a hero like Hektor dies, the men like to sit together and tell stories of his greatness. The gods are said to take part, and they are invited to eat and drink in tribute to the warrior.”

  Andromache looked around the megaron. She had been there several times but had never had the chance to study it. The walls were heavy with arms and armor. Axa, who searched now for every opportunity to please her, started explaining the pieces decorating the walls. “Those,” she said, pointing to the far wall, “are all weapons of Herakles. Those are his spears, and that is the great hammer he used to knock down the west wall.”

  Andromache gazed up. Above their heads were five shields. Four were brightly polished, but the middle one was battered and untended, its style archaic. Wide at the top and tapering at the waist, it was intricately worked and plated with ten circles of bronze. Crowning the shield was a giant serpent with nine heads and a warrior armed with sword and flaming brand. The shield strap was edged and circled with a silver snake.

  “That is magnificent,” she said.

  “That is the shield of Ilos, one of the great warriors of Troy,” Axa explained happily. “There is a legend that says only the greatest hero can take it down from the wall. The king offered it to Hektor, but he refused. Prince Agathon asked for it last year after winning a battle in the east. The king said that if Hektor did not consider himself worthy of it, then no man was.”

  “That may change now,” said Andromache. “I imagine Agathon will succeed Priam.”

  “Priam will outlive all his sons,” Kassandra said suddenly, her high voice cold and detached. Andromache felt the hairs on her arms stand up, and a shiver ran like sweat down her spine. The child’s eyes suddenly became wide and frightened. “There is blood on the walls,” she cried, then bolted away, back up the stairs toward the queen’s apartments.

  They heard her sandals slapping on the stone steps as she ran. Leaving Axa where she was, Andromache set out after the fleeing girl.

  But Kassandra was running fast, sidestepping the servants, twisting and weaving through the crowd. Andromache followed as swiftly as dignity allowed. She could hardly hitch up her ankle-length gown and give chase, and so she walked on until she reached the women’s quarters and her own apartment. The door opened, and Kassandra stepped out, carrying Andromache’s bow and quiver of arrows.

  “You will need these,” she said. “They are coming.”

  XXXI

  THE SIEGE BEGINS

  I

  A brisk wind had begun to blow as Argurios made his way up toward the palace of Priam. In the marketplace traders were struggling to take down the linen or canvas covers on their stalls. The cloths billowed, and one tore itself loose and lifted into the air like a sail. Several men ran after it, and there was much laughter from the many onlookers.

  The sun was setting over the distant isles of Imbros and Samothraki, and rain clouds were scudding over the city.

  Argurios walked on across the square before the temple of Hermes, the wind buffeting him. He hoped he would make it to the palace before the rain came. He did not relish the thought of standing before King Priam with water dripping from his armor.

  Truth to tell, he did not relish the thought of st
anding before the man at all.

  For as long as he could remember Argurios had found conversation awkward. Invariably he would say something that alienated a listener or at best gave the wrong impression. He had been able to relax with very few people. One had been Atreus the king, and Argurios still missed him.

  He recalled the night at the battle-site campfire. Argurios had been drawn into a furious row with one of Atreus’ generals. Afterward the amused king had sat him down, urging him to breathe deeply and find calm. Atreus had struggled not to laugh, and that had made Argurios all the more angry.

  “I do not find this amusing,” he snapped.

  “Of course you don’t,” Atreus agreed amiably. “You are Argurios. Nothing amuses you. You are a serious man and a compulsive truth teller.”

  “The truth should be valued,” Argurios argued.

  “Indeed it should. However, the truth has many faces. You told Rostides that he was an idiot for leading an attack against a position he had not scouted. You said the losses suffered were inexcusable.”

  “All true.”

  “I agree. However, it was I who ordered Rostides to attack. He merely followed my orders as any loyal soldier should. Am I an idiot?”

  “Yes,” answered Argurios, “for the situation remains the same. There was no reconnaissance, and therefore our men were caught in a trap.”

  “You are quite correct, my friend,” Atreus said, his smile fading. “I acted rashly and in this instance was less than wise. You acted no less rashly by insulting Rostides before you had scouted the situation. By your own terms of reference that makes you an idiot. Not so?”

  “I shall apologize to him.”

  “That would be wise. You know, Argurios, I have always valued your honesty. I always will. Kings tend to surround themselves with flatterers.” He laughed suddenly. “Indeed, I have gathered quite a few myself. There should, however, always be one truth teller. But try to remember that not all men think as I do.”

  “I cannot be anything but what I am, lord.”

  “I know. So let us hope we both live long, eh?”