Lord of the Silver Bow t-1

by David Gemmell

  ‘I must go. Think on what I have said.’

  ‘Oh, I shall think on it,’ she assured him, and watched as he walked away. He carried himself well, but as she looked at him her mind pictured another young prince, his hair dark, his eyes gleaming with suppressed passion.

  … unless there is another who holds a place in your heart…

  She thought again of the night at the Bay of the Blue Owls, and of the young man from the golden ship who had stepped away from the crowd. And then again, the following morning, when he had stood, heartbroken, holding the severed head of his friend in his hands. More than this, though, she remembered his arms enfolding her at the palace of Hekabe.

  ‘Oh,’ she whispered, gazing out over the wide, blue bay, ‘if Hektor is dead let the golden ship come for me.’

  ii

  For Helikaon the first few weeks after the raid on Pithros had been arduous and draining. The camaraderie he had enjoyed among the soldiers and officials of Dardania had been replaced by a cautious coolness that reeked of fear.

  He was no longer the Prince of the Sea, a merchant and a man of the people. He was Helikaon the Burner, the avenger, the ruthless killer. Servants averted their eyes when he passed. Even men he had known for years – like Oniacus, and the old general Pausanius measured their words, anxious to avoid causing offence. The atmosphere within the citadel was fraught and tense. Outside the fortress the storms of winter raged, lightning forking the sky, thunder rolling across the land.

  Everywhere there was disorder. The murder of the young king had created a feeling of unease and fear among the general populace in the countryside.

  The people of Dardania were from many diverse cultures: migrants from Thraki had settled the northern coasts; Phrygians, Mysians, and Lydians had formed scores of small farming communities in the once empty heartland east of the capital.

  Merchants – Egypteians, Amorites and Assyrians – had built trading centres to the south, linking with Troy. Even at the best of times, when harvests were good, and trade thriving, tempers flared and violent incidents erupted between the various ethnic groups.

  Since the death of Diomedes tensions had been running high. A small settlement of Mykene exiles had been attacked, and five men hacked to death by an angry mob. A riot had developed in a Phrygian community, following the theft of a sheep. Two women from a Mysian settlement claimed to have been raped by travelling Hittite traders. A revenge party had set out and seven men were killed in the skirmish.

  Dardanian troops were spread thin across the hills and valleys, and along the bleak coastlines, seeking to restore order. Into this chaos had come outlaw bands, and roving groups of unemployed mercenaries, attacking isolated villages, and raiding merchant caravans.

  The problem was compounded by the laws imposed by Helikaon’s father, Anchises.

  All Dardanian land belonged to the king, and those who built houses, farms or trading posts here were merely tenants. The rents were exorbitant – half of all crops, produce, or trading profit. For this relationship to work, Helikaon knew, the people needed to hold to two truths. First, that the king and his soldiers would protect them from bandits and raiders, and second, that failure to obey the king’s laws would result in a swift and terrible punishment.

  The people’s trust was tarnished by the assault on the fortress. If the soldiers could not protect Diomedes and Queen Halysia, how could they ensure the safety of the populace? And the fear instilled in the people by Anchises had been eroded by the more conciliatory government of Queen Halysia, and her general, Pausanius.

  Helikaon called a meeting of settlement leaders, inviting them to the fortress.

  They were worried and uneasy as they gathered in the great columned throne room, surrounded by cold statues of the warrior kings of Dardania.

  Before the meeting Pausanius had urged conciliation. ‘They are good people, my king,’ he told Helikaon. ‘They are frightened, that is all.’ Helikaon liked the ageing general. The man was fearless in battle, and he had served Queen Halysia loyally.

  ‘What you say is true, Pausanius,’ he said, as they stood on the broad balcony of the royal apartments, looking out over the sea. ‘Answer me this, though. When you are about to go into battle do you pause and consider your enemy, whether his soldiers have children at home? Whether they are good men? Whether their cause is as just as yours?’

  ‘No, of course not. But these people are not our enemy.’

  ‘And what is?’

  The general looked confused. He scratched at his red beard. ‘I … don’t know what you mean, my king.’

  ‘We are close to anarchy, and what happens here today will either begin the process of unifying the people – or see the realm splintered by scores of small uprisings, and then a rebellion. Understand this, Pausanius: all kingdoms survive on the shield and the sword. The people need to believe the king’s shield will protect them. They also need to be certain that if they disobey, then the king’s sword will cut them down. Belief in the shield was fractured by the assault on the fortress. Fear of the sword has also been lost. What is the enemy? We have an army of fifteen hundred men. If the multitude no longer trusts and fears us, then we will be overthrown. Some bandit chief will raise an army.

  Some foreign power will sail ships into our bays. The enemy, Pausanius, is gathering in the throne room.’

  The old general sighed. ‘What would you have me do, lord?’

  Later, after the haggard old soldier left his apartments, Helikaon sent a messenger to the queen, requesting that she admit him to her presence.

  Halysia had survived the stabbing, but was still so weak that she did not leave her apartments. According to her handmaidens she would sit silently all day, staring out over the sea. Then the women would help her to her bed, where she would lie awake, staring up at the moonshadows on the ceiling. Three times Helikaon had visited her. She had sat silently as he talked, her gaze distant.

  Helikaon did not even know if she truly heard him.

  The servant returned. ‘The handmaiden awaits you, lord,’ he said.

  Helikaon dismissed the man and made his way along the open walkway to the queen’s apartments. Two guards were stationed outside the doors. They stepped aside as he entered.

  The handmaiden, a young, plump, flaxen-haired woman, came out from the rear rooms to greet him. ‘She seems a little better today,’ she said. ‘There is colour in her cheeks.’

  ‘Has she spoken?’

  ‘No, lord.’

  Looking around he found himself remembering the first time he had entered these rooms as a young man. He had returned home after two years on the Penelope. That same night – as Helikaon enjoyed a farewell feast with the crew on the beach –

  his father had been murdered. Everything changed that day. The queen, fearing for her life and that of her child, had sent soldiers to kill him. Pausanius and other loyal men had rushed to protect him. In the standoff that followed Helikaon had taken a great risk. The leader of the men sent to kill him was a powerful soldier named Garus. Helikaon approached him. ‘You and I will go alone to see the queen,’ he said.

  ‘No, lord, they will kill you,’ argued Pausanius.

  ‘There will be no killing today,’ Helikaon had assured him, though he was less confident than he sounded.

  Helikaon had gestured for Garus to precede him, and followed him up the long cliff path to the fortress. He saw Garus finger the hilt of his sword. Then the warrior stopped and slowly turned. He was a big man, wide-shouldered and thick-necked. His eyes were piercingly blue, his face broad and honest. ‘The queen is a good and fine woman, and little Diomedes is a joy,’ he said. ‘Do you plan to kill them?’

  ‘No,’ said Helikaon.

  ‘I have your oath on that?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Very well, my lord. Follow me.’

  They walked further along the open balcony to the queen’s apartments. Two guards were there. Both wore shields and carried long spears. Garus signalled
to them to stand aside, then rapped his knuckles against the door frame. ‘It is I, Garus,’ he said. ‘May I enter?’

  ‘You may enter,’ came a woman’s voice.

  Garus opened the door, stepped inside, then made way for Helikaon. Several soldiers inside surged to their feet. ‘Be calm!’ said Helikaon. ‘There are no warriors with me.’ He had looked at the young queen, seeing both fear and pride in her pale eyes. Beside her was a small boy with golden hair. He was staring up at Helikaon, head cocked to one side.

  ‘I am your brother, Helikaon,’ he told the child. ‘And you are Diomedes.’

  ‘I am Dio,’ the boy corrected him. ‘Papa won’t get up. So we can’t have breakfast. We can’t, can we, mama?’

  ‘We’ll have breakfast soon,’ said Helikaon. He looked at the queen. When Anchises had married this slender, fair-haired Zeleian girl Helikaon had not been invited to the ceremony. In the year before he sailed on the Penelope he had spoken to her on but a handful of occasions, and then merely to exchange short pleasantries.

  ‘We do not know each other, Halysia,’ he said. ‘My father was a hard, cold man.

  He should have let us talk more. Perhaps then we could have grown to understand one another. Had we done so you would have known that I would never order my father’s death, nor kill his wife and son. You have nothing to fear from me.’

  ‘I wish that I could believe you,’ she whispered.

  ‘You can, my queen,’ said Garus. Helikaon was surprised but kept his expression even.

  ‘And now,’ he said, ‘you should think of your son’s breakfast. Then we will discuss my father’s funeral arrangements.’

  He shivered now at the memory, then walked through to the rear apartments.

  Halysia was sitting hunched in a chair, a blanket over her thin frame. She had lost a great deal of weight, and her eyes were dark-rimmed. Helikaon drew up a chair alongside her. The handmaiden was wrong. She did not look better. Helikaon took her hand in his. The skin was cold. She did not seem to notice his touch.

  The sun broke through the clouds, bathing the sea in gold. Helikaon glanced down and saw an untouched bowl of broth and some bread on a table beside Halysia.

  ‘You must eat,’ he said, gently. ‘You must regain your strength.’

  Leaning forward, he lifted the bowl and dipped the spoon into it, raising it to her mouth. ‘Just a little, Halysia,’ he prompted. She did not move.

  Helikaon replaced the bowl on the table and sat quietly, watching the sunlight dancing on the waves. ‘I wish I had taken him with me when I sailed,’ he said.

  ‘The boy loved you. He would be filled with sorrow if he could see you now.’ He looked at the queen as he spoke, but there was no change of expression. ‘I don’t know where you are, Halysia,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know where your spirit wanders. I don’t know how to reach you and bring you home.’

  He sat quietly with her, holding her hand. In the silence he felt his own grief welling up like a swollen river beating against a dam. Ashamed of his weakness, he struggled to concentrate on the problems he faced. His body began to tremble.

  He saw young Diomedes laughing in the sunshine, and Zidantas chuckling with him, after the fall from the golden horse. He saw Ox lift the boy and hurl him high in the air, before catching him and spinning round. And the dam burst.

  He covered his face with his hands and wept for the dead. For Zidantas, who had loved him like a son. For Diomedes, the golden child who would never become a man. For the son of Habusas the Assyrian, who had fallen alongside his father.

  And for the woman dressed in blue and gold, who had hurled herself from these cliffs so many years ago.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and then someone was kneeling beside him, cradling his head. He leaned in to her, and she kissed his cheek.

  Then she spoke. ‘They took my little boy,’ she said. ‘They killed my Dio.’

  ‘I know, Halysia. I am so sorry.’

  She felt so frail, and her flesh was cold despite the sunshine.

  Helikaon put his arms round her, drawing her close, and they sat together silently as the sun sank into the Great Green.

  iii

  Andromache had never been so angry. The rage had been building since her arrival in this cesspit of a city, with its army of liars, eavesdroppers, spies and sycophants. Kreusa was the worst of them, she thought, with her hard, metallic eyes, her vicious tongue, and the sweet honeyed smile for her father.

  A week ago she had invited Andromache to her own apartments. Kreusa had been friendly, and had greeted her sister-to-be with a hug and a kiss on her cheek.

  The rooms were everything Andromache would have expected for the king’s favourite daughter, beautifully furnished with items of glistening gold, painted vases, elaborately carved furniture, rich drapes, and two wide balconies. There were thick rugs upon the floor and the walls had been painted with colourful scenes. Kreusa had been wearing a gown of pale blue. A long and delicately braided length of silver was looped around her neck, crossing under her breasts and then around her slender waist. Her face was flushed, and Andromache realized she had been drinking. She filled a golden cup with wine, added a little water, and passed it to her. Andromache sipped it. It was strong, but underlying the taste she recognized the bitter tang of meas root. It was used on Thera during revels and feasts to heighten awareness and release inhibition. Andromache had never taken to it, though Kalliope used it regularly. Kreusa had sat close to her on the wide couch, and as she talked she reached out and took Andromache’s hand. ‘We should be friends,’ she said, her smile bright, her eyes gleaming, the pupils wide and distended. ‘We share so many .. . interests.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘Oh, do not be coy, Andromache,’ whispered Kreusa, moving closer. ‘There are few secrets in the king’s palace that I am not privy to. How was slender Alesia? Did she please you? I chose her for you myself.’

  ‘And why would you do that?’ asked Andromache, thinking back to the young Thrakian servant, and recalling how simple had been the seduction.

  ‘I wanted to know if our… interests… were truly shared.’ Kreusa leaned in closer, her arm sliding over Andromache’s shoulder. Andromache’s hand closed over Kreusa’s wrist, lifting the arm clear, and she eased herself to her feet.

  Kreusa rose alongside her, her expression puzzled. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing is wrong, Kreusa.’

  ‘You spurn my friendship?’ Kreusa’s eyes were angry.

  ‘Not your friendship,’ replied Andromache, trying to be conciliatory.

  ‘Then be with me,’ she said, moving in closer. Andromache realized then that there was no diplomatic way to end this meeting.

  ‘We will not become lovers,’ she told Kreusa. ‘You are very beautiful, but I do not desire you.’

  ‘You do not desire me} You arrogant bitch! Get out of my sight!’

  Andromache had returned to her rooms, her spirits low. She had not desired to make an enemy of Kreusa, and had known that trouble would follow.

  She had not, however, anticipated the depth of Kreusa’s malice.

  It was Axa who bore the brunt of Kreusa’s revenge. The little maid had been suffering in miserable silence since word had come that Hektor’s men were lost. Her husband, Mestares, was shield bearer to Hektor and one of the men who was missing with him. As if the uncertainty and fear for her husband were not enough, Axa had birthed her baby son ten days ago. Seeking the reassurance of her palace duties, she had left him with a female relative in the lower town to return to Andromache’s side during the day.

  Yesterday had started like most days. With the help of another serving girl Axa had laboured to carry bucket after bucket of hot water for Andromache’s bath, and sprinkled into it perfumes and rose petals. But when Andromache wandered half naked into the bathroom, she found her maid slumped on the floor.

  She crouched down beside her. ‘Axa! What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry, lady.’ Axa
struggled to sit up. ‘I have had a weakness since the birth of my son. He is a big boy. It has passed. I’ll carry on now.’

  ‘No you won’t.’ Andromache looked into her face and saw the greyness of exhaustion. ‘Sit there for a while and tell me about your baby. Has he a name?’

  ‘No, lady. It is for my husband to decide. When he returns.’ Her face crumpled then, and a moan born of tiredness, pain and grief arose from her.

  ‘Come.’ Andromache started to unwrap the woollen shawl round Axa’s waist. ‘You need a rest. Get up.’ She put an arm round her and raised her to her feet. She undid the straps of the apron Axa wore and it fell to the ground.

  ‘Now, out of that tunic,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have a bath. It will make you feel better.’

  ‘Oh no, lady,’ Axa cried, fear in her voice. ‘I mustn’t. I’ll get into trouble.

  Please don’t make me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Andromache said, laughing a little. ‘If you’re modest get into the bath like that, in your shift.’

  Axa cast an agonized look at Andromache’s face, recognized the determination there, and stepped reluctantly into the warm bath. She sat bolt upright in the water, her face a picture of misery.

  ‘Relax, lie back,’ said Andromache, hands on her shoulders. ‘See, isn’t that good?’

  Axa gave a weak smile and said, ‘It feels very strange, lady. It doesn’t feel natural to be wet all over.’ Growing in confidence, she splashed the water a little and watched the rose petals float on the ripples.

  Andromache laughed and stroked her maid’s thick brown hair. ‘We’ll have to wash this, too, you know.’

  Just then there was a rattle of curtains and they both looked round. In the doorway stood Kreusa. She said nothing, but gave a radiant smile before turning and leaving the room.

  Axa had climbed clumsily out of the bath, water sluicing from her linen shift onto the floor.

  ‘She saw me. I’ll be in trouble now,’ she wailed.