[Troy 01] - Lord of the Silver Bow
Page 10
“Yes,” agreed Xander. “It is a wonderful name.”
Zidantas’ smile faded, and Xander saw him looking at a group of six men some distance away. They were standing together and staring toward where Helikaon sat with Odysseus and his crew. The newcomers were clustered around a tall, broad-shouldered warrior. He looked a little like Argurios, with a jutting chin beard and no mustache. But this man’s beard and hair seemed almost white in the moonlight. As Xander watched, he saw the white-haired young warrior shake his head and then move away with his men. Beside the boy Zidantas relaxed.
“Who were they?” asked Xander.
“Mykene traders. Well, that’s what they call themselves. They are raiders, lad. Pirates.”
The curly-haired oarsman Oniacus moved across to where they sat. He smiled at Xander and ruffled his hair, then squatted down alongside Zidantas. “Kolanos is here,” he said.
“I know. We saw him.”
“Should I send some men back on board to fetch weapons?”
“No. I doubt Kolanos will want trouble in the Fat King’s bay.”
“The Golden One should sleep on the Xanthos tonight,” said Oniacus. “Kolanos may not seek an open fight but rely instead on a dagger in the dark. Have you warned Helikaon?”
“No need,” said Zidantas. “He will have seen them. And I will keep watch against assassins. Stay alert, though, Oniacus, and warn a few of the tougher men. Keep it from the others.”
Zidantas rose and stretched, and then he wandered off. Oniacus grinned at the now-nervous Xander.
“Don’t worry, little man. Zidantas knows what he’s doing.”
“Are those men our enemies?” Xander asked fearfully.
“In truth they are everyone’s enemies. They live for plunder. They rob, they steal, they kill. Then they brag about their courage and their bravery and their honor. But then, the Mykene are a strange race.”
“Argurios is a Mykene, and he saved my life,” said Xander.
“As I said, boy, they are a strange people. But that was a brave deed. You can’t say they lack courage. Everything else—charity, compassion, pity—but not courage.”
“Courage is important, though,” said Xander. “Everyone says so.”
“Of course it is,” Oniacus agreed. “But there are different kinds. The Mykene live for combat and the glory of war. I grieve for them. War is the enemy of civilization. We cannot grow through war, Xander. It drags us down, filling our hearts with hatred and thoughts of revenge.” He sighed. “Trade is the key. Every race has something to offer and something it needs to buy. And as we trade, we learn new skills from one another. Wait until you see Troy, then I’ll show you what I mean. Stonemasons from Egypte helped craft the great walls and the towers and the statues at the Scaean Gate; carpenters from Phrygia and Nysia fashioned the temple to Hermes, the god of travelers. Goldsmiths from Troy traveled to Egypte and taught other craftsmen how to create wondrous jewelry. And as the trade increased, so did the exchange of knowledge. Now we can build higher walls and stronger buildings, dig deeper wells, weave brighter cloths. We can irrigate fields and grow more crops to feed the hungry. All from trade. But war? There is nothing to be said for it, boy.”
“But war makes heroes,” argued Xander. “Herakles and Ormenion were warriors, and they have been made immortal. Father Zeus turned them into stars in the night sky.”
Oniacus scowled. “In a drunken rage Herakles clubbed his wife to death, and Ormenion sacrificed his youngest daughter in order that Poseidon might grant fair winds for his attack on Kretos.”
“I’m sorry, Oniacus. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“You are just young, Xander. And I am not angry with you. I hope you never see what war makes men do. I hope that the current peace lasts all your lifetime. Because then we will see great things. All around the Great Green will be happy people, content and safe, raising families.” Then he sighed again. “But not while killers like Kolanos sail the waters. Not while kings like Agamemnon rule. And certainly not while youngsters admire butchers like Herakles and Ormenion.” He glanced back at the crowd around Helikaon. “I am going to have a word with a few of the lads. Don’t you say anything to anyone.”
With that Oniacus ruffled the boy’s hair again and moved off toward the Xanthos’ crew.
Xander sighed. He did not want to be a hero now. There were evil men on this beach, murderers who used daggers in the dark. Rising to his feet, he followed Oniacus and sat down alongside some of the crew. They were chatting and laughing. Xander looked at them. They were big men and strong, and he felt more confident in their company. Xander stretched himself out on the sand, his head resting on his arm. He fell asleep almost instantly.
II
Had it not been for the two years she had spent on the isle of Thera, the flame-haired Andromache might have had no real understanding of just how boring life could be. She pondered this as she stood on the balcony of the pitiful royal palace overlooking the Bay of Blue Owls. She could not recall being bored as a child, playing in the gardens of her father’s fine palace in Thebe Under Plakos or running in the pastures in the shadows of the hills. Life then had seemed carefree.
Puberty had put paid to such simple pleasures, and she had been confined to the women’s quarters of the palace, behind high walls, under the stern gaze of elderly matrons. At first she had railed against the oppressive atmosphere, but she had succumbed at last to the languorous lack of pace and the calm, almost serene surroundings. Her three younger sisters eventually joined her there. Prettier than she, they had been dangled before prospective suitors to become breeding cows for the princes of neighboring realms, items to be traded for treaties or alliances. Andromache herself, tall and forbidding with her piercing green eyes—intimidating, according to her father—extinguishing any possible fire in the heart of a would-be husband, had been presented for service of another kind. Two years ago, when she was eighteen, her father had sent her to become a priestess on Thera.
It was not an act of piety. The temple required virgins of royal blood to perform the necessary rites, and kings received golden gifts for dispatching daughters to serve there. Andromache had been “sold” for two talents of silver: not as much as her father had received for the two daughters married into the Hittite royal line and considerably less than the sum promised for the youngest sister, the golden-haired Paleste, upon her wedding to the Trojan hero Hektor.
Still, Father had been pleased that this plain girl with the cold green eyes had proved of some service to the kingdom. Andromache recalled well the night he had told her of her fate. He had called her into his private chambers, and they had sat together on a gilded couch. Father had been out hunting that day; he stank of horse sweat, and there was dried blood on his hands. Never an attractive man even when bathed and dressed in silks, Ektion looked more like a goatherd than a king on this occasion. His clothes were travel-stained, his weak chin unshaved, his eyes red-rimmed from weariness. “You will travel to Thera and train as a priestess of the Minotaur,” said Ektion. “I know this task will be arduous, but you are a strong girl.” She had sat silently, staring at the ugly man. The silence had caused his temper to flare. “You have only yourself to blame. Many men prefer plain women. But you made no effort to please any of the suitors I found for you. Not a smile, not a word of encouragement.”
“You found dull men,” she said.
“From good families.”
“Well, Father, no doubt you will grow rich anyway, selling my sisters.”
“Now, that is what I mean!” Ektion stormed. “Everything sounds ugly when it comes from your mouth. Your sisters will find joy in their children and the wealth of their husbands. Little Paleste is already betrothed to Hektor. She will live in the golden city of Troy, wedded to their greatest hero. He will adore her, and she will be happy.”
“Which was, of course, your prime concern, Father,” she said, her voice gentle. He stared hard at her. “What will I do on Thera?” she asked.
“Well, that will be a blessing,” she said. “I am already looking forward to it.”
It was not true, but she enjoyed the look of anger that flashed from his eyes.
Her heart had been heavy the day the trade ship had anchored in the circular bay of Thera. A life of dull banishment was about to begin.
But Andromache could not have been more wrong. Within days her life had expanded beyond measure. She learned to shoot a bow, to ride half-wild ponies, to dance in the revels of Artemis, drunk and full of joy—in short, to express herself without fear of complaint or censure. Without the restrictions of a male-dominated society the women of Thera reveled in their freedom. Each day there was some new entertainment: footraces or archery tournaments. There were treasure hunts and swimming competitions, and in the evenings discussions on poetry or storytelling. Every few weeks there was a feast offering tributes to one of the many gods where strong wine was drunk and the women danced and sang and made love.
The priestesses of Thera also maintained the Temple of the Horse, conducting ceremonies of sacrifice to the dread Minotaur, seeking to soothe his troubled soul. Their work was vital. Two centuries earlier he had burst his chains, and hot lava had spewed from the earth. The top of the mountain exploded, and Apollo, god of the sun, was so distressed that the world remained dark for three days. Poseidon also, in his anger at the Kretans, who were charged with appeasing the Minotaur, sent a tidal wave across the Great Green, destroying the olive orchards and the wine harvests of Kretos, laying salt upon the earth to prevent any new growth. At the time Kretos was a great power, but the Kretans were humbled by that savage display of godly rage.
Now two hundred priestesses kept the Minotaur subdued, though he still occasionally wrenched at his chains, causing the earth to tremble. On one occasion the western wall of the long dining room had split, shattering the mural upon it.
Despite these occasional crises Andromache enjoyed her two years of freedom. Then, one day in midsummer, came dreadful news. Her sister Paleste, the sweetest of girls, with a smile to melt the coldest heart, had caught a chill, which had turned into a fever. She had died within days of falling ill. Andromache could scarcely believe it. Of all the sisters Paleste had been the strongest and most vibrant. She had been pledged to wed the Trojan prince Hektor in the autumn to secure an alliance between Thebe and Troy. Graciously, her father wrote, the Trojan king, Priam, had agreed that Andromache could replace Paleste and marry Hektor.
Thus, at twenty and set for a life without men, Andromache had been forced to leave Thera and her beloved companions and return to the mainland. Soon she would journey to Troy to wed a man she had never seen.
No more would she ride bareback over the Theran hills or dance and sing in the Dionysian revels. No more would she draw bow to cheek and watch the shaft fly straight and true or swim naked in the midnight seas around the bay. No more would she feel Kalliope’s passionate embrace or taste the wine upon her lover’s lips.
Andromache felt anger rise and welcomed it, for it briefly extinguished the boredom. In Troy she would become a breeding cow and lie on a wide bed, legs spread to receive the seed of a grunting, sweaty man. She would swell like a pig, then scream as the infant clawed its way out of her. And why? So that her father’s greed could be satisfied.
No, she thought, not just his greed. In this violent and uncertain world a nation needed allies. The Egypteian pharaohs constantly waged war on the Hittite peoples, and the Mykene raided wherever they perceived weakness. Her father was greedy, but without treaties and alliances his lands would be devoured by one of the great powers. Little Thebe Under Plakos would be safer under the protection of Troy and its fabled cavalry.
She gazed down on the beach, seeing the fires lit and hearing the faint swell of music on the dusk breeze. Down there was a freedom she would never again experience. Ordinary people living ordinary lives, laughing, joking, loving.
A thought came, delicious and tempting. Soon the ship would arrive to take her to Troy. Until then she was—if matters were handled with care—still free. Moving across the small apartment, she took her hooded cloak of dark green wool and swung it around her shoulders. It complemented her gold-embroidered, olive-green gown. Tying her chestnut hair back from her face with a strip of leather, she walked from her room and along the silent corridor beyond, then slipped down an outside stairwell to a walled garden. There was a guard at the gate. He bowed when he saw her, pulling the gate open as she passed.
There was a breeze blowing over the cliffs as Andromache made her way to the main gate and the steep road leading to the beach. Two more guards saw her. They did not know her and neglected to bow, merely standing aside as she walked out onto the road.
How easy it was, she thought. But then, who would have imagined that a king’s daughter and a priestess of Thera would have any desire to leave the safety of the palace and walk among the hard and violent men of the sea.
It was a sobering thought. There were no soldiers to protect her, and she carried no weapon. The thought of danger did not make her pause. Instead it quickened her heart.
The music grew louder as she approached, and she saw men and women dancing together drunkenly. Off to one side people were fornicating. She gazed down at the closest couple. The man’s buttocks were pounding up and down, and she could see the thick shaft of his penis spearing into the girl he was riding. Andromache looked at her. Their eyes met. The girl grinned and raised her eyebrows. Then she winked at Andromache, who smiled back at her and walked on.
Moving through the packed stalls, she saw that they were covered mostly with cheap and ill-made items. A man approached her, lifting his tunic and waggling his manhood at her. “How much for a ride, girl?” he asked.
Andromache stared hard at the stiffening penis, then transferred her green gaze to the man. “The last time I saw something that small, it was crawling out of an apple,” she said.
Peals of laughter came from two women close by. “It’s getting even smaller now!” one of them called.
Andromache walked on, easing her way through the throng. Some distance away a crowd was gathering around a man standing on an empty stall. Great cheers went up as he raised his arms.
“Want to hear a true story?” he bellowed.
“No, we want to hear one of yours,” yelled someone in the crowd.
The man’s laughter boomed out. “Then I’ll tell you of a dread monster with only one eye. Tall as ten men and teeth sharp and long as swords.”
The crowd fell silent.
III
Helikaon always enjoyed the performances Odysseus gave. He did not just recount tall tales, he acted them, too. As now, with four men lifting the wooden stall, heaving it back and forth to represent a tilting deck. Balanced on it, Odysseus roared out a tale of a mighty storm that carried the Penelope to an enchanted isle. In the background some of the Penelope’s crew banged drums to imitate thunder, while others whistled shrilly at intervals. Helikaon had not heard this story before and settled back to enjoy the surprises.
Odysseus suddenly leapt from the stall. “And we were upon a strange beach,” he said, “and just beyond it were the tallest trees I ever saw, twisted and gnarled. Just when we thought we were safe there came a terrifying voice.”
From the back of the crowd six of the Penelope’s crew all cried out in unison: “I smell blood!” A flicker of enjoyable panic swept through the throng. The timing had been perfect.
“’Twas a massive creature, with a single eye in the center of its head. Its teeth were long and sharp. It ran from the trees and caught one of my men by the waist, hauling him high. Then those terrible teeth ripped him apart.”
At that moment Helikaon saw several of Kolanos’ crew working their way through the throng, moving ever closer to him. His eyes scanned the crowd, and
he picked out Zidantas, Oniacus, and several of the Xanthos’ men, also maneuvering their way toward him while keeping wary eyes on the Mykene.
Odysseus was in full voice now, recounting the adventure with the Cyclops. Sweat gleamed on his face and dripped from his beard. The audience was entranced, the performance—as always—boisterous, energetic, and captivating.
Helikaon looked around. None of the Fat King’s soldiers were close by. The Mykene were apparently unarmed, but one of them was wearing a jerkin of leather that could have concealed a knife. The chances were the Mykene would do nothing. The Fat King was merciless with any who broke his laws. Much of his wealth came from the ships that beached on his bays, and the main reason they chose to stay was the reciprocal guarantee of safety for their crews and cargoes.
Even so it made sense to be cautious. Helikaon eased his way back into the audience, then cut to the left, seeking to circle the crowd and link with Zidantas.
Then he saw the woman.
She was standing just back from the gathering, dressed in a long cloak of green and an embroidered gown. It was difficult by fire and moonlight to see the color of her hair, but it was long, thickly curled, and drawn back from her face. And such a face! She looked like a goddess. Not pretty but awesomely beautiful. Helikaon’s mouth was dry. He could not stop looking at her. She saw him, and he felt the power of her eyes. The look was cool yet strangely challenging. He swallowed hard and stepped toward her. In that moment her expression changed, her eyes flickering beyond him. Helikaon spun around.
The man with the leather jerkin was behind him, a knife in his hand. The assassin darted forward. Swaying aside from the thrusting blade, Helikaon grabbed the attacker’s wrist, pulling him away from the crowd, then stepped in and smashed a head butt to the man’s nose. Stunned, blood pouring from his nostrils, the assassin fell back. Helikaon followed in, butting him again. The assassin’s knees gave way, and he dropped to the sand, the knife slipping from his fingers. Helikaon swept it up, plunging the sharp blade into the man’s throat and then ripping it clear. Blood spurted through the air.