Lord of the Silver Bow t-1

by David Gemmell

  ‘It is tonight, brother. You must stay clear of the palace.’

  ‘You mean to kill him after the funeral feast?’

  Agathon had shaken his head. ‘During. My Thrakians have orders to kill all our enemies tonight.’

  Antiphones felt a hollow opening up in his chest. ‘All our enemies? What enemies? You told me Karpophorus was being hired to kill father.’

  Agathon shrugged. ‘That was my original thought, but he cannot be found. But think on it, brother. Merely killing father would only have been the beginning anyway. Dios and many of the others would start to plot our downfall. Don’t you see? Civil war would follow. Some of the coastline kings would ally themselves with us, but others would follow Dios.’ He lifted his hand and slowly made a fist. ‘In this way we crush them all and Troy remains at peace with all its neighbours.’

  ‘You said all our enemies. How many are we talking about?’

  ‘Only those who might turn on us. Only those who have laughed when father mocked us. Only those who have sniggered behind our backs. A hundred or so. Oh, Antiphones, you have no idea how long I have waited for just this moment!’

  He had looked into Agathon’s eyes then, and seen for the first time the depth of his half-brother’s malice.

  ‘Wait!’ he said desperately. ‘You cannot allow the Thrakians loose in the palace. They are barbarians! What of the women?’

  Agathon laughed. ‘The women? Like Andromache? Cold and disdainful. You know what she said? I cannot marry you, Agathon, for I do not love you. By the gods I’ll watch her ravished by my Thrakians. They’ll pound the arrogance out of her.

  She’ll not be so haughty after tonight.’

  ‘You cannot allow it! Trojan troops must not be used to kill Trojan princes! How would they be regarded thereafter as they patrol the city? Will father’s murderer be sitting in a local tavern talking of how he cut the throat of Troy’s king?’

  ‘Of course you are right, brother,’ said Agathon. ‘You think that has not occurred to me? Once the Thrakians have taken the palace walls our allies will arrive. It is they who will kill those inside the megaron.’

  ‘Our allies? What are you talking about?’

  ‘A Mykene force will be landing after dusk. Their soldiers will kill our enemies.’

  Antiphones had sat very quietly, trying to absorb this new information. Father had talked of Agamemnon building great fleets of ships, and had questioned how they would be used. Now it was clear. Agathon had been duped by the Mykene. He would be king in name only. Agamemnon would be the true power, and he would use Troy as a base for Mykene expansion into the east.

  He had looked at Agathon with new eyes. ‘Oh, my brother,’ he had whispered.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Done? Merely what we have planned. I shall be king, and you will be my chancellor. And Troy will be stronger than ever.’

  Antiphones had said nothing. Agathon sat quietly, watching him. ‘You are still with me, brother?’ he had asked.

  ‘Of course,’ answered Antiphones, but he had not been able to look him in the eye as he said it. The silence grew again. Then Agathon had risen.

  ‘Well, there is much to do,’ he said. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’ He had walked to the doorway, and then looked back, an odd expression on his face. ‘Farewell, Antiphones,’ he had said, softly.

  Antiphones shivered as he recalled the moment.

  The streets were quiet now as the shadows lengthened. Antiphones looked up towards the upper city walls, shining gold in the fading sunlight.

  Despair swept over him. There was nothing he could do. If he got a message to Priam he would have to implicate himself in the plot, and that would mean death for treason. And even were he to accept this fate, how could he get through to the king? Agathon controlled all access to the palace, and who knew how many officers or soldiers he had suborned.

  He thought of the people who were to die tonight. More than a hundred would be gathered at the funeral feast. Polites would be there, and Helikaon, and Dios.

  Face after face swam before his eyes. Yes, many of them had – as Agathon observed – sniggered at fat Antiphones. Many had laughed when Priam mocked Agathon. In the main, however, they were good men who served Troy loyally.

  He looked up the hill towards Helikaon’s palace with its stone horses at the gates. He could see no guards there, but the general bustle in and out of the gateway showed that Helikaon was in residence.

  Antiphones took a deep breath. His own death would be a small matter, compared to the horror that awaited the innocents at the palace. He decided then to send a message to Helikaon. He would be able to reach the king.

  He called out to his body servant, Thoas, and walked ponderously to the door.

  Outside, a blond-haired Thrakian soldier was crouched over Thoas’s body, wiping a bloody knife on the old servant’s tunic.

  And two others were standing in the doorway, swords in their hands.

  Antiphones knew he was going to die. In that moment, rather than the sickening onrush of terror, it was like sunshine bursting through dark clouds. All his life he had lived with fear – fear of disappointing his father, fear of failure, fear of rejection. There was no fear now.

  His eyes met the pale blue gaze of the Thrakian assassin.

  ‘He was my body servant,’ said Antiphones softly, pointing at the dead Thoas. ‘A simple man with a good heart.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said the Thrakian, with a wide smile. ‘Maybe he will serve you, fat man, in the Underworld.’ Rising smoothly he advanced on Antiphones. The soldier was young, and, like so many of the Thrakian mercenaries, hard-eyed and cruel.

  Antiphones did not move. 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,’ said Antiphones 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 head first and slumped to the floor. The remaining two soldiers raised 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, semi-conscious, 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 on to the stunned man, Antiphones twisted round, 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 then drove his blade towards 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 swung 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 second assassin was struggling to rise. Antiphones ran at him. Flipping the short sword into dagger position he plunged it past 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, ripping it clear and watching 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 had known that some dread meaning lay behind 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 counsellors.

  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 grey 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, 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 towards 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 was 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 armour was old, and several of the overlapping bronze discs were cracked. Two on the left side were missing. The first had been shattered by an axe. Argurios still remembered the blow. A young Thessalian soldier had burst through the Mykene ranks and killed two warriors. The man was 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 axe under the shield. The blow had cracked two of Argurios’ ribs, and would have disembowelled 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 had travelled up into Thessaly, returning the man’s axe and armour to his family, on a farm in a mountain valley.

  Slowly, and with great care, Argurios polished each disc. 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 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 marvelled 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 burnished the helmet. Had he not been a warrior he would have enjoyed learning the craft of bronze making. Swords needed to hold an edge, and yet not be too brittle; helms and armour 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. These were not high quality. They were a gift from Agamemnon King, and should have indicated Argurios’ steady fall from favour.

  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 armour. ‘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 greying 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 armour. 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 round 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 fr
om 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.’