by David
“Yes.”
“And you assume he was lying to the men and telling the truth to Hektor?”
Xander nodded. “Am I wrong, sir?”
“Perhaps, Xander. Priam is a complex man. It is possible that his words to the injured and the dying were heartfelt and that his callous comments to Hektor were made to disguise his emotions.”
“You think so?” Xander asked, his heart lifting.
“No. Priam is a cold and wretched creature. Although,” Zeotos added with a wink, “now it might be I who am lying. The point is, Xander, that it is unwise to form judgments on such little evidence.”
“Now I am completely confused,” the young man admitted.
“Which was my intention. You are a fine lad, Xander, honest, direct, and without guile. Priam is a man so drenched in deceit, even he would no longer know which—if any—of his statements was genuine. In the end it doesn’t matter. The men who heard him praise them had their spirits lifted. Indeed, some of them may even recover now, and it would then be fair to say that Priam healed them. So do not be downcast by a few callous words from a drunken king.”
Andromache climbed the long hill toward the palace, moonlight glinting on the golden, gem-encrusted gown she wore. Her long flame-red hair was decorated with emeralds in a braid of gold. She was weary as she walked, not physically tired, for she was young and strong, but drained by a day of jostling crowds and cloying conversation rich with insincerity. Andromache still could hear music and laughter from the square. There was no joy in the sound. The atmosphere at the feast had been tense, the laughter forced and strident.
The men had talked of victory, but Andromache had heard the fear in their voices, seen it shining in their eyes. Priam had lifted the crowd with a powerful speech in which he had extolled the heroic virtues of Hektor and the Trojan Horse. But the effect had been ephemeral. All at the feast knew the reality.
Many merchant families already had left the city, and most of the warehouses stood empty. The wealth that had flowed like a golden river into the city was slowing. Soon it would be merely a trickle. How long, then, before the enemy forces were camped outside the walls, readying their ladders and their battering rams, sharpening their swords, and preparing for slaughter and plunder?
That was why, Andromache knew, everyone wanted to be close to her husband, Hektor, talking to him, clapping him on the back, telling him how they had prayed for his safe homecoming. The last part was probably true. More than the huge walls, more than the power of its soldiers and the wealth of its king, Hektor represented the greatest hope for staving off defeat. Everywhere else the news was grim: trade routes cut off, allies overcome or suborned, enemy armies rampaging beyond the Ida mountains and across the straits in Thraki.
Andromache walked on, two soldiers alongside her holding burning brands to light the way. Two others, of Priam’s elite Eagles, followed, hands on sword hilts. Ever since the attack on her by Mykene assassins, Andromache had been shadowed by armed men. It was galling, and she never had become used to it.
She thought back to the night long before on Blue Owl Bay when, disguised, she had walked among the sailors and the whores and had listened to Odysseus telling tall tales. That was the night she had met Helikaon, a night of violence and death, a night of prophecy.
There would be no such anonymous nights now. Her face was too well known in Troy. Otherwise she might have returned to the palace, slipped into a servant’s tunic, and made her way down to the lower town, where she could dance and sing among honest people.
As they climbed toward the palace, she saw several drunken men asleep on the street. The soldiers with her eyed them warily. One of the drunks awoke as they passed. He stared at her, then rubbed his eyes. His expression was one of wonder. He struggled to his feet and staggered toward her. Instantly the swords of the Eagles rasped from their scabbards.
“It is all right,” Andromache called out. “Do not harm him.”
The drunk halted before her, staring at the golden gown she wore, the torchlight glittering on the gems woven into its strands. “I thought… I thought you were a goddess from Olympos,” he said.
“I am Andromache. You should go home.”
“Andromache,” he repeated.
“Be off with you,” one of the soldiers ordered.
The drunk tried to stand tall but then staggered. He glared at the soldier. “I was at Kadesh,” he said, raising his right hand.
In the flickering light Andromache saw that it was maimed, the first three fingers cut away.
“Trojan Horse,” he went on. “No parades for me, boy. Now I piss in a pot for the dye makers, and I sleep on the street. But I could still piss on you, you arrogant turd!”
Andromache swiftly stepped between the man and the angry soldier. Unpinning a golden brooch encrusted with gems from the shoulder of her gown, she pressed it into the man’s ruined hand. “Accept this gift, soldier, from Hektor’s wife,” she said, “in tribute to your courage.”
He stared down at the glowing gold, and she saw there were tears in his eyes. “I am Pardones,” he said. “Remember me to your husband.”
Then he turned away and stumbled into the darkness.
The sun was blazing low on the horizon as the Xanthos sailed into the great Bay of Troy. Not a breath of wind blew across the waters, and only the sound of the oars dipping and rising broke the sunset silence.
In the distance the city gleamed as if cast from burning gold. The last of the sunlight shone upon its gilded rooftops and bannered towers, casting glittering reflected shards of light from the spear points and helms of the sentries on the battlements.
Gershom the Egypteian smiled as he gazed again upon the city. It was indeed impressive, but as he looked at the awestruck expressions of the crewmen nearest to him, he wondered how they would react if they ever saw the wonders of Thebes, the city of a hundred gates, or the towering white pyramids, or the Great Lion. Troy was breathtaking, but it mirrored the people who had built it. The city had not been constructed with thoughts of beauty or aligned with the stars to please the gods who dwelled there. It was first and foremost a fortress, solid and strong, with high walls and gates of oak and bronze. The majesty of Troy was almost accidental, Gershom thought, a blending of impressive masonry and brilliant sunsets.
There were few other ships in the bay. Four fishing boats had spread their nets, and three new war galleys were being put through maneuvers close to the southern shore. Gershom watched them for a while. The rowers were inexperienced, oars clashing at times, as the galleys were halted, spun, or urged to ramming speed. So many ships had been sunk these last few seasons, and hundreds of experienced sailors drowned or killed in sea battles. Now novices would take to the sea and die in the hundreds.
The Xanthos sailed on, reaching the King’s Beach just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Oniacus called out orders to the rowers. Immediately the two banks of oars on the port side lifted clear of the water while those on the starboard side dipped and pulled. The stern of the Xanthos swung smoothly toward the beach. “And… NOW!” Oniacus yelled. All the oars struck the water simultaneously. The hull of the Xanthos ground into the sand, then came to rest. Oars were shipped swiftly.
Then the deck hatches were opened. Gershom walked over and helped the crew unload the cargo. More than a thousand cuirasses were passed up and dropped over the side to the sand. The armor worn by the Trojan Horse was well crafted, disks of bronze overlaid like fish scales on breastplates of leather, and, unlike the bodies of the proud men who had worn them, far too valuable to be left behind on the battlefields of Thraki.
The armor was loaded onto carts, then carried up through the lower town and into the city. Finally the deck hatches were closed. Oniacus moved past Gershom, heading to the prow. The men of the skeleton crew settled down on the raised aft deck, blankets over their shoulders against the chill of the evening, while their comrades made their way up to the town, beneath the walls of the golden city.
; Gershom saw Helikaon, who was cradling in his arms his sleeping son, Dex, as he was greeted by the huge Trojan prince Antiphones. Gershom turned away and strolled to the prow.
Oniacus was leaning against the rail and staring out across the bay at the new war galleys. His handsome young face was set and angry, and there was violence in his eyes.
“Is there anything I can have sent down to you?” Gershom asked. “Wine, perhaps?”
Oniacus shook his head. “Wine helps you forget, they say. I don’t want to forget. And I don’t want to talk, either.”
“Then don’t talk,” Gershom said softly. “Two friends should be able to stand together in silence without awkwardness.”
The silence did not last long, nor had Gershom expected it to. It was not that Oniacus was a gregarious man, but the grief welling up in him could not be restrained. He began by talking of his two sons, what fine boys they had been. Gershom said nothing; it was not necessary. Oniacus was not really talking to him but instead speaking to the night, to the shades of his boys, to the gods who had not been there to protect them and their mother when the Mykene had fallen upon Dardanos with bright swords. Sadness was followed by rage, and rage by tears. Finally there was silence again. Gershom put his arm around Oniacus’ shoulder.
Oniacus sighed. “I am not ashamed of tears,” he said.
“Nor should you be, my friend. It is said that the gates of paradise can only be opened by the tears of those left behind. I do not know whether that be true. It should be, I think.”
Oniacus looked at him closely. “You do believe we live on and that there… there will be some reward for those innocents whose lives were… were stolen from them?”
“Of course,” Gershom lied. “How could it be otherwise?”
Oniacus nodded. “I believe that. A place of happiness. No terrors or fears, no cowards or killers. I believe that,” he said again.
They stood together for a while, watching the galleys on the still waters. “The balance is wrong,” Gershom said, pointing to the nearest vessel. “See it veer?”
“Too much strength on the port-side oars. They need to switch some of the rowers,” Oniacus told him. The anguish still could be seen in his eyes, but now he was focused on the galley. “Pushing the oarsmen too hard,” he said. “All they’ll get is sprained shoulders and shattered confidence.”
He looked at Gershom and forced a smile. “Time for you to get ashore. The many delights of Troy are waiting, and you do not want to be standing here discussing the training of sailors. Do not concern yourself about me. I shall not slash open my throat, I promise you.”
“I know that,” Gershom replied. “I will see you tomorrow.” With that he swung away. Oniacus called out to him, and Gershom turned.
“Thank you, my friend,” Oniacus said.
Gershom walked to the aft deck, gathered his cloak, and swung it to his shoulders. Then he climbed over the deck rail and lowered himself to the sand.
Strolling across the beach, he climbed the path to the lower town. At the wide wooden bridge spanning the fortification ditch he saw two sentries in armor of burnished bronze, long spears in their hands. Across the bridge a crowd had gathered around some of the sailors from the Xanthos. One of the sentries smiled at Gershom. He was a young man, but his face and arms bore the scars of combat.
“News of your victories reached us two days ago,” the sentry said. “It was as welcome as sunshine after snow.” People clustered around the crew, patting them on the back and calling out praises and blessings.
Gershom eased himself around the edge of the crowd. A man suddenly clapped his hand on Gershom’s shoulder. “Here is another one of them!” he shouted happily.
As more men turned toward Gershom, he shook his head. “No, no,” he told them, raising his hands. “I am merely a traveler.”
Losing interest immediately, they turned their attention once more to the other sailors. Gershom pushed on. A dark-haired girl stepped from the shadows into the moonlight and linked her arm in his. Gershom glanced down into her face. She was pretty, her eyes pale, either blue or gray. It was too dark to tell. He could see that the girl was young though. Her white ankle-length tunic was close-fitting, her small breasts barely stretching the fabric.
Taking her hand, he lifted it from his arm. “I am in no mood for sport,” he told her gruffly. “And if I was, it would be with a woman, not a child.”
The girl laughed. “If you were in the mood, you could not afford me—not even as a prince of Egypte.”
Gershom paused then, his eyes raking her slim form, seeking any sign of a hidden weapon. His identity had been kept secret, or so he had thought. If this young whore knew of him, how many more had heard? Men who would seek the reward still on his head. He glanced around nervously, half expecting to see Egypteian assassins dart from the shadows.
“Do I frighten you?” the girl asked him.
“Go and find someone else to annoy,” he told her, walking on. The girl ran after him. Gershom felt his irritation rise.
“I saw you in the sea,” she said. “Great waves crashing over you. You were very strong.”
Gershom paused again, his curiosity aroused. “All right, you know who I am. Who sent you, child, and for what purpose?”
“Xidoros sent me.” Suddenly her head cocked. “Yes, yes,” she said, talking to the darkness, “but that is just pedantic.” She frowned and seemed to be listening. Then she threw up her arm. “Oh, go away!” she hissed.
Turning back to Gershom, she said: “He says he didn’t send me, that he merely said we should speak.”
Gershom swore softly. Back in Thebes there was a house with high walls where the moon-touched were kept for four years. In that time diviners and healers, astrologers and magicians, would be called on to heal them or drive out the demons that had robbed them of sanity. Surgeons would drill holes into their skulls; healers would feed them strange herbs and potions. If at the end of four years they still were not cured, it was taken as a sign that the gods were calling for them. They then were strangled. Gershom had heard of no such houses of caring in barbarous Troy. That was why sad lunatics like this child were allowed to wander the streets.
“Where do you live?” he asked the girl. “I will see you safely home.”
She looked up at him, and her face was suddenly sad. “There is a mist inside your head,” she told him. “It is swirling and thick, and it stops you from seeing. You stumble around like a blind man.” She shrugged. “But then there are times when I long to be blind myself. Just to listen to people and hear only the words they speak and not the sly whisperings inside their heads.”
She smiled again. “Come, I will walk you home.”
“You know where I am going?”
“Yes, I know. You are going to the Beautiful Isle with me, and then you will be called to the desert, and there will be voices in the fire and fire in the heavens, and the fire will melt away the mist in your head, and you will know all that I know and see more than I will ever see.”
“Very intriguing,” Gershom said, “but I meant do you know where I am going now?”
“Oh! Yes, I do. The House of Stone Horses.”
“Well, that is true enough. Now, where do you live?”
She gave a soft laugh. “My guards are looking for me, so I must go. But I will see you tomorrow at Hektor’s palace.” With that she hitched up her white tunic and darted away.
Gershom thought of chasing her and handing her over to the city watch. Some of the areas of the lower town were known to be dangerous, and a moonstruck child like this one could find herself in peril. But even as the thought occurred, he saw her vanish into a dark alley and out of his sight.
With a shake of his head the big Egypteian walked on toward the palace of Helikaon.
CHAPTER THREE
THE AMBER GODDESS
Early-morning sunshine bathed the streets of Troy as Helikaon left the House of Stone Horses and strolled through the town. The business of the day w
as beginning: Merchants were setting up their stalls in the marketplaces, and servants and slaves were carrying bundles of cloth or produce wrapped in dry reeds. The varied sounds of the city washed over Helikaon as he walked: hammers beating on metal from the Street of Armorers, the braying of donkeys, the clucking of hens, the yelping of dogs, and the cries of the gather-men competing to draw crowds to their stalls.
It felt strange to be back in Troy. The war seemed far away now, the death of Halysia a dark nightmare, unreal and bizarre.
He had awakened that morning to a soft, warm body beside him. In the instant before full consciousness asserted itself he had thought to open his eyes and gaze down at Halysia. Instead it had been Dex, his thumb in his mouth, his head resting on his father’s shoulder. Helikaon had stroked the fair hair back from the boy’s brow. Dex’s eyes had opened, and then the child had fallen asleep again.
Easing himself from the bed, Helikaon rose and dressed. He chose a white tunic embroidered with gold thread and a wide belt embossed with gold leaf. He felt uncomfortable in such finery, but it was fitting for his meeting with Priam. Lastly he took a scabbarded dagger and tucked it into his belt. It was unlikely that assassins would be on the streets of Troy but not impossible.
In happier days Helikaon had walked those streets in the company of Hektor or his brothers Antiphones and Agathon. Those had been the days of innocence, when the future had promised wonders. It was here on these streets, ten years earlier, where he and Hektor had argued about the merits and drawbacks of marrying for love alone.
“Why would you want to?” Hektor had asked. “All the actions of a prince must strengthen the realm. Therefore, a wife should bring a handsome dowry, land, or promises of alliance with her father’s kingdom. A prince can find love wherever he wishes thereafter.”
“I do not agree,” Helikaon had replied on that far-off day. “Odysseus loves his wife and is happy. You should see them together, Hektor. You would change your views in a heartbeat. Odysseus says that life without Penelope would be like a land without sunshine. I want a wife who brings me happiness like that.”
