Lord of the Silver Bow t-1

by David Gemmell

  ‘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 towards sunset.

  Turning back to his armour he finished burnishing the greaves, then the bronze discs 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 armour. 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 not read script, nor could he fashion his own armour. He knew nothing about the growing of crops, nor 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 Xantbos.

  The shadows were lengthening outside. Argurios strapped on his greaves then donned his breastplate and kilt. Lastly 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. So 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.

  ‘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 towards 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,’ said the young man 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, marshalling his thoughts. ‘The Spartan king has no sons. If Sparta falls then Helen will be married off to one of Aga
memnon’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, nor 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 on 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 towards the Scamander bridge.

  The conversation with Paris had unsettled him. He had ridden to Troy convinced that he could win Andromache, but was he also 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 towards 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, Hehkaon 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. Hehkaon 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 Hehkaon, 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?’ asked Helikaon, 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 still further. Antiphones’ upper body was covered in blood, and Hehkaon 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?’ Hehkaon 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 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 counsellors, 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,’ Hehkaon 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 short-sightedly 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 slamme
d and there was a rattle of curtains, then Kassandra appeared in the doorway, her dark curls dishevelled 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-grey eyes flashed at her sister. ‘Your 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 for 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 grey 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.