[Troy 01] - Lord of the Silver Bow

by David Gemmell - (ebook by Undead)

  “I am so sorry, Hektor,” she whispered. Then the tears flowed once more.

  A shadow fell across her, and she looked up. The sun was behind the figure, bright and dazzling, and just for a moment, as her tear-swollen eyes took in the glinting breastplate, she thought it was the ghost of her brother, come to comfort her. Then he knelt beside her, and she saw it was Argurios. She had not seen him for five days now, and she had sent him no message.

  “Oh, Argurios, I cannot stop weeping.”

  His arm curved around her shoulder. “I have seen the same throughout the city. He must have been a great man, and I am sorry I did not know him.”

  “How did you know I would be here?”

  “You told me that when troubles were weighing heavy you liked to walk through the city in the dawn light. You talked of an old shepherd in these hills.”

  “And how did you guess I would be here today?”

  “I did not. I have been at the Scaean Gate every day at dawn for the last five days.”

  “I am sorry, Argurios. It was thoughtless of me. I should have sent a messenger to you.”

  There was a silence between them, and then Laodike asked, “Where are your bodyguards?”

  He smiled, a rare event. “I am stronger now, and faster. I walked through the city a few days ago, then doubled back and came upon them. I told them I had no more need of their services, and they agreed to leave me be.”

  “Just like that? So simply?”

  “I spoke to them… firmly,” he said.

  “You frightened them, didn’t you?”

  “Some men are easily frightened,” he replied.

  His face was inches away from hers, and as she looked into his eyes Laodike felt the pain and sorrow of the last few days ease. This was the face she had so often summoned to mind. His eyes were not just brown, as she had remembered, but had flecks of hazel and gold in them, and his eyebrows were finely shaped. He watched her steadily, and she lowered her gaze. There was a warm flowering in the pit of her belly, and she became aware of the rub of cloth against her skin.

  She felt a touch on her arm and saw his hand lightly graze her skin, barely stirring the fair hairs. The warmth in her belly flared.

  Reaching up, she began to untie the thongs holding Argurios’ breastplate in place.

  His powerful hand closed over hers. “You are a king’s daughter,” he reminded her.

  “You do not want me?”

  His face was flushed. “I never wanted anything so much in all my life.”

  “The king will never allow us to wed, Argurios. He will order you from Troy. He will send me away. I cannot bear the thought. But we have this moment. This is our moment, Argurios!” His hand fell away. Even as a child she had helped Hektor don and remove his armor. I have few skills, she thought to herself, but taking off a cuirass is one of them. Her nimble hands untied the thongs, and Argurios lifted the breastplate clear.

  Unbuckling his sword and laying it by the breastplate, he led her into the circle of stones by the tomb of Ilos, and they lay together on the grass. He kissed her then and for a long time made no other move. Taking his hand, she lifted it to her breast. His touch was gentle—more gentle in that moment than she desired. Her lips pressed against his, her mouth hungry to taste him. His hands became less hesitant, pulling at her gown, lifting it high. Laodike raised her arms, and he threw the gown clear. Within moments they were both naked. Laodike reveled in the feel of his warm skin against hers, the hard muscles under her fingers. Then came the swift pain of entry and the exquisite sense of becoming one with the man she loved.

  Afterward she lay in a daze of joy and satisfaction, her body warm and fulfilled, her mind swimming with shame and exhilaration. Slowly she became aware of the grass under her and the uneven ground pressing into her back.

  She lay with her head in the crook of Argurios’ shoulder. She realized he had not spoken for a while. She twisted to look up at him, thinking him asleep, but he was staring up at the sky, his face, as always, grave.

  Laodike suddenly was filled with foreboding. Was he regretting his actions? Would he leave her now?

  He turned to look down at her. Seeing the look on her face, he said, “Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

  “No. It was wonderful.” Feeling foolish but unable to stop herself, she said, “It was the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. The maidservants told me…” She hesitated.

  “Told you what?”

  “Told me… told me it was painful and unpleasant. It was a bit painful,” she conceded, “but it wasn’t unpleasant.”

  “It wasn’t unpleasant,” he repeated, smiling a little. Then he kissed her again, long and tenderly.

  She lay back, and all doubts in her mind vanished. The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. She had never been so happy. She knew this moment would live with her for the rest of her life.

  Suddenly she sat up, her shawl falling from her naked breasts, and pointed to the east.

  A great flock of swans were beating their way on silent white wings over the city toward the sea. Laodike had never seen more than one or two swans before and was awestruck by the sight of hundreds of the great birds flying overhead, for a moment blotting out the sunlight like a living cloud.

  They watched silently as the flock winged its way to the west, disappearing at last into the gray mist on the horizon.

  Laodike felt a touch on her bare leg and looked down. A soft white feather lay curled on her skin, motionless, as though it had always been there. She picked it up and showed it to her lover.

  “Is it an omen?” she wondered aloud.

  “Birds are always omens,” he said softly.

  “I wonder what it means.”

  “When a swan mates, it is for life,” he said, pulling her to him. “It means we will never be parted. I will speak to your father tomorrow.”

  “He will not see you, Argurios.”

  “I think that he will. I have been invited to the funeral gathering tomorrow night.”

  Laodike was surprised. “Why? As you said, you did not know Hektor.”

  “I said the same to the messenger who came to the temple two days ago. He told me that Prince Agathon had requested my presence.”

  “That was all he said?”

  “No, there was abundant flattery,” he told her.

  Laodike laughed. “About being a great warrior and a hero and it being fitting that you should attend?”

  “Something similar,” he grunted.

  “It is a great honor to be invited. There is already discord in the family. My father has upset a number of his sons, who will not be present. Antiphones is out of favor, as is Paris. And there are others.” She sighed. “Even at such a time he still plays games with people’s feelings. Do you really think he will listen to you, Argurios?”

  “I do not know. I have little to offer save my sword. But the sword of Argurios has some value.”

  She leaned in to him, her hand sliding down his flanks. “The sword of Argurios has great value,” she told him.

  XXIX

  THE BLOOD OF HEROES

  I

  Antiphones watched from an upper window as his visitor left, a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He turned to the hearth, where a platter of smoked fish and corn cakes lay cooling. He munched some fish and washed it down with a swig of undiluted wine that was sweet and thick. His fears eased a little, but he knew they would return. He had caught himself in a net of his own making.

  He had always liked and admired Agathon. Though they had different mothers, they were much of an age and had played together as children. They had even looked similar then, with blond hair and blue eyes. Priam’s three oldest sons—Hektor, Agathon, and Antiphones—often were mistaken for one another by visitors to the king’s megaron, and he winced as he recalled Priam saying to his guests, “Alike in looks but not in character. Remember: Hektor the brave, Agathon the sly, and Antiphones the stupid!” His visitors wo
uld snigger politely, and the king would smile his cold smile and study the reactions of the three boys.

  Antiphones knew he was not stupid. As the years passed, he came to realize he was sharper than most people he knew. It was he who first understood that it was better to ship wine from Lesbos than to grow vines on the land north of the city best used for horse paddocks. Breeding strong horses and sending them all around the Great Green raised more for Priam’s treasury than trading in wine ever did. It was he who suggested reorganizing the treasury and keeping an inventory of the king’s wealth in the script learned from the Hittites and written on Gyppto papyrus.

  As a result of all this, with typical cruel humor, Priam had made Polites his chancellor and fat Antiphones master of the horse. He knew people laughed when they heard his title; few bothered to hide it. It had been many years since he had been able to mount a horse.

  He walked to the window again and looked down on the quiet street. Unlike most of the king’s sons, he chose to live in the lower town, close to the bakers, wine merchants, and cheese makers he loved. Each afternoon, after his nap, he would stroll down through the streets and wander among the food stalls, taking his choice from the ripest figs and the sweetest honey cakes. Sometimes he would walk slowly down to the far side of town to where a young woman called Thaleia offered spiced pomegranates and walnuts glazed with honey. It was an effort to get that far, but he could not ride and feared being carried in a litter in case it broke. That had happened once two years ago. He still felt the shame of it and had not traveled in one since.

  But that shame was as nothing to what he felt now.

  When he had been made aware of the plot to kill the king, he had joined in with zeal. Priam was a tyrant, and tyrannicide was an honorable mission. The king gathered wealth to himself at the expense of all else in the city. Antiphones, with his knowledge of the treasury, had the best reason to know that. Children in the lower town starved in winter and slaves in the fields died of exhaustion in summer, yet Priam’s treasure house was bursting with gold and precious gems, most of it covered with the dust of ages. Hektor, defending his father, would say, Yes, the king can be harsh, but he never scrimps in his defense of the city. Yet Antiphones knew this to be untrue. The Thrakian mercenaries were grossly underpaid, and the city engineers still had not been instructed to rebuild the weak west wall.

  With Hektor dead, all restraint on Priam’s acquisitiveness would be gone.

  Antiphones had been asked to join the rebellion because Agathon recognized in him the skills they would need to reorganize the administration of the city, renegotiate treaties with neighboring kings, and rethink their defenses. For the last few days he had made feverish plans, staying up into the depths of the night working on his dreams for the future of Troy once his father was dead. But today’s meeting with Agathon had toppled his hopes and plunged him into despair.

  “It is tonight, Brother. You must stay clear of the palace.”

  “You mean to kill him after the funeral feast?”

  Agathon shook 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 neighbors.”

  “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 the 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 asked.

  “Of course,” answered Antiphones, but he had not been able to look him in the eye as he said it. The silence had grown 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 said softly.

  Antiphones shivered as he recalled the moment.

  The streets were quiet now as the shadows lengthened. Antiphones looked up toward 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 if he accepted 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 had observed, sniggered at fat Antiphones. Many had laughed when Priam had mocked Agathon. In the main, however, they were good men who served Troy loyally.

  He looked up the hill toward 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 with 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’ 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,” Antiphones said 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,” Antiphones said 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 headfirst and slumped to the floor. The remaining two soldiers drew 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, semiconscious, 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 the stunned man, Antiphones twisted around, 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 and then drove his blade toward 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 drove 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.