by David
Toward the end of the feast a storyteller was called out, a young man with tightly curled blond hair and the face of a girl. Kleitos disliked him the instant he walked before the assembly. He was obviously the soft-bellied son of a rich man who never had to fight for what he wanted or struggle to stay alive in a harsh world.
His voice, though, had range, and his story was well told. The tale itself was exceptional, but then, it had been devised by Odysseus, and Kleitos already had heard it from the master himself. Now, there was a man who could tell stories.
The girl-faced bard entertained the crowd with the exploits of the sea king and the sorceress and the battle with the dread one-eyed giant Cyclops. At the conclusion the bard opened his arms and bowed deeply to Alkaios. Applause thundered out, and the king tossed the man a pouch of copper rings.
In the silence that followed the performance Kleitos flicked a glance at Persion. The warrior nodded, then pushed himself to his feet.
“I have a grievance,” he said, his voice ringing out. “A blood grievance with a murderer seated at this table.”
Even though Andromache had been waiting for this moment, its arrival was shocking. She looked down the table at the young Mykene warrior. His dark eyes were shining, his expression one of exultation. He looked like a man of great determination, powerful and unbeatable. Andromache felt fear begin to swell. Fear cannot be trusted, she warned herself. It exaggerates everything. It is both treacherous and dishonest.
Despite those rational thoughts, when Andromache looked again at Persion, she still saw a warrior of almost elemental power. When she turned her gaze to Helikaon, he seemed altogether more human and therefore vulnerable. Closing her eyes, she summoned again the image of him fighting on the stairs, invincible and unconquerable. A sense of calm returned to her.
Alkaios called out: “A feast is a time of comradeship, Persion. Can this matter not wait until the morning?”
“In respect to you, Alkaios King, I have waited until the feast was concluded. However, the gods and Mykene honor demand that I seek retribution for the atrocities committed against my family, my land, and my king.”
Alkaios climbed to his feet. “And who do you seek retribution against?” he asked.
Persion drew himself up and stabbed out a hand, his finger pointing down the table. “I speak of Helikaon the vile and accursed,” he said.
Alkaios turned to Helikaon. “You are my guest,” he said, “and should you request it, the laws of hospitality demand that I refuse this man’s challenge to you.”
“I make no such request,” Helikaon answered, rising to his feet. “Might I inquire of my challenger which of his family have suffered at my hands?”
“The mighty Alektruon,” shouted Persion, “overcome by your warriors and beheaded by you, though first you put out his eyes to make him blind in Hades.”
Andromache heard murmurs from the crowd at this and saw some men staring coldly at Helikaon.
“The mighty Alektruon,” Helikaon told the company, “was, like all Mykene, merely a blood-hungry savage preying on those too weak to resist him. I killed him in single combat, then cut off his head. And yes, I pricked out his dead eyes before throwing the head overboard to be devoured by the fish. Perhaps one day I will regret that action. As it is, I regret not cutting out his tongue and ripping off his ears.”
Helikaon fell silent for a moment, then looked around the megaron, scanning the crowd. “You all know the reality of the Mykene honor this wretch speaks of. It lies in the ruins of your cities and towns, the rape and plunder of your women and lands. The arrogance of the Mykene is colossal. My accuser talks of the gods and Mykene honor as if the two are somehow linked. They are not. I believe with all my heart that the gods loathe and despise Agamemnon and his people. If I am mistaken, then let me die here, under the hand of this… this wretched creature.”
Persion shouted out an oath, drew his sword, and stepped away from the table.
“Put up your sword!” Alkaios demanded. “You invoked the gods, Persion, and now you will wait while all the rituals are observed. This duel will follow Olympian rules. Both fighters will be naked and armed with stabbing sword and dagger. Let the priest of Ares be summoned, and the women allowed to withdraw.”
Andromache sat very still as the other women rose and left the room. Alkaios looked at her. “You cannot stay, lady.”
“Nor will I go,” she told him.
Alkaios moved in close to her, his voice barely audible. “In this I must insist, Andromache. No woman must be present at a blood duel.”
“Helikaon is my friend, King Alkaios, and I will bear witness to these proceedings. Unless of course you wish to order the wife of Hektor dragged from your megaron.”
He gave a wan smile. “Sadly, sweet Andromache, the mention of your husband’s name no longer carries the weight it once did. Despite that, I will grant your request. Not through fear or thoughts of future gain. Simply because you are the wife of a great man and one I admire.”
Looking up, he summoned a soldier to him, a short, stocky man with a strong face and bright blue eyes. “Malkon,” he murmured, “the lady Andromache wishes to see the duel. Take her to the Whisper Room and ensure that no one disturbs her.”
Andromache rose to her feet and smoothed the folds of her green gown. There was so much she wanted to say to Helikaon, but her mouth was dry, her heart beating fast. His sapphire gaze turned to her, and he smiled.
“I will see you soon, lady,” he told her.
“You keep that promise,” she told him, then turned and followed the stocky soldier out of the megaron and along a corridor.
They came to a set of stone steps leading up through a narrow doorway to a rooftop overlooking the town and the sea. The wind was blowing fiercely. Andromache shivered. Malkon crossed the rooftop to a second doorway. Andromache followed him. The soldier entered the room. Andromache paused in the doorway, suddenly concerned. The room was dark and windowless. In the moonlight she could see the dark shape of Malkon by the far wall. He seemed to be kneeling. Then came another light, thin as a sword blade, from low in the wall, and Andromache saw that the soldier had removed a slim section of paneling. Malkon rose and and crept quietly back to the rooftop.
“If you stretch out upon the rug, lady,” he said, his voice a whisper, “you will be able to see the the center of the megaron. I will wait outside.”
Andromache glanced into the darkened room with its sliver of light and hesitated. “You wish to change your mind and return to your ship?” Malkon asked.
“No.” Stepping into the room, she crouched on the floor and edged in close to the sliver of light. It was coming from torches flickering in the megaron below. The field of vision was narrow, and she could just see the edge of the feast table and the central flagstones of the megaron. There were servants moving below, scattering dry sand on the floor. The sound of the sand striking the flagstones seemed loud in the room. One of the servants leaned in to another and whispered, “I’ll wager two copper rings on the Mykene.” The words echoed unnaturally in Andromache’s ears. So this is how the Whisper Room gained its name, she thought. Spies would lie here listening to conversation in the megaron below.
The servants departed, and an elderly priest arrived. His robes were black, and on his spindly shoulders he wore the twin red sashes that denoted a follower of Ares.
“You have called upon the god of war to witness this duel,” he said. “Let it be understood, then, that Ares has no wish to see anything but a fight to the death. There will be no calls for mercy, no surrender, no flight. Only one combatant will walk away. The other will shed his lifeblood upon these stones. Let the duelists step forward.”
The first man Andromache saw was Persion. In the torchlight the pale skin of his torso seemed as white as marble against his dark, suntanned arms and legs. As he walked forward, he was stretching the muscles of his arms and shoulders, loosening them for combat. Then she saw Helikaon. Persion seemed taller and wider in the shou
lder than Helikaon, and once again Andromache felt her fears grow. Both men were armed with sword and dagger, the bronze glinting like red gold in the torchlight.
“I call upon the gods to bear witness to the justness of my cause,” said Persion. Then he stepped in close and whispered something no one in the hall heard. But the sound carried to Andromache.
“I was there when we killed your brother. I set the flames to his tunic. Oh, how he screamed! As you will scream, Helikaon, when I cut the flesh from your bones.”
Helikaon did not reply or even seem to hear.
“Let the duel begin!” called out the priest, stepping back from the two fighters. Instantly Persion leaped to the attack, his sword lancing toward Helikaon’s head. The Dardanian danced to his left, avoiding the blow. The crowd gasped. A long red line had appeared across Persion’s belly, a shallow cut that began to leak blood. It streamed down over his genitals and thighs. Persion shouted an oath and atacked again, slashing out with his sword. Helikaon blocked the blow. Persion stabbed with his dagger. That, too, was parried. Helikaon hurled himself forward, hammering a head butt into the Mykene’s face, smashing his nose. Persion fell back with a cry. Helikaon stepped in, his sword slashing left and right with dazzling speed. Then he withdrew. The cut to the flesh of Persion’s belly had been joined by three other long wounds. Once again Persion rushed at Helikaon. This time the Dardanian stepped in to meet him, easily blocking and parrying the Mykene’s lunges. Helikaon’s dagger flashed out, slicing the skin of Persion’s cheek, which flapped down from his face like a torn sail.
Persion screamed in rage and frustration, hurling his knife at his tormentor. Helikaon swayed to his right, and the weapon sailed harmlessly past, clattering against the far wall. Persion charged, and Helikaon side-stepped. A crimson spray erupted from Persion’s arm, and Andromache saw that the limb had been slashed deeply. Blood was spurting from ruptured vessels.
“Call upon the gods again, wretch,” Helikaon taunted. “Perhaps they did not hear you.”
Persion advanced again. Blood was pouring from him, and Helikaon, too, was spattered with gore. The Mykene darted forward. His foot slipped. Helikaon leaped, slashing his sword across Persion’s mouth, splitting the skin and smashing the man’s front teeth. Persion fell to his knees, spitting blood. Then he struggled to his feet and swung back to face his enemy.
Helikaon showed no mercy to the wounded man. Again and again his sword and dagger cut and sliced the Mykene. One vicious slash ripped away an ear; another tore into his face, cutting away his nose. Not a sound came from the crowd, but Andromache could see the looks of horror on their faces. This was not a fight, not even an execution. It was cold-blooded annihilation. With every fresh and painful cut a cry of pain was torn from the mutilated Mykene. At last, his body drenched in blood, which had begun to pool at his feet, he dropped his sword and just stood there, blood streaming from him.
In that moment Helikaon tossed aside his sword, stepped in swiftly, and rammed his dagger into Persion’s heart. The Mykene sagged against him and let out a long, broken sigh.
Helikaon pushed the dying man from him. Persion’s legs gave way, and he tumbled to the floor.
Andromache had seen enough. Rising to her feet, she waited as Malkon replaced the panel of wood. Then the two of them returned to the rooftop. The wind had died down, but it was still cold.
The soldier led Andromache down the steps and out to the road leading to the beach. He walked with her in the moonlight until they were within sight of the Xanthos and the cookfires of the crew. Then, without a word, he turned back to the palace.
Andromache was met by Oniacus and other crewmen. She told them Helikaon had conquered. None was surprised. Paradoxically, though, they were all relieved.
Desiring no company, she moved far away from the campsite to a small section of beach close to a wood. Sitting alone by the water’s edge, a thick cloak wrapped around her, she could not push the images of the combat from her mind: Helikaon, in a cold fury, cutting and slashing an increasingly helpless opponent. Andromache saw again the spraying blood. By the end of the duel Helikaon’s naked body had been almost as crimson as that of his opponent.
Near midnight she saw Helikaon walking along the beach toward her. His hair was still wet from the bath he must have taken to remove the blood.
“You should be beside a fire,” he told her. “It is bitterly cold here.”
“Yes, it is,” she replied.
“What is wrong?” he asked her, sensing her mood. “One of our enemies has been defeated, we are provisioned for the journey to Thera, and all is well. You should be happy.”
“I am glad you survived, Helikaon. Truly I am. But I saw Kassandra’s red demon tonight, and he filled me with sadness.”
He looked confused. “There was no demon,” he said. “What are you talking about?”
Reaching up, she pressed her finger against the skin of his neck. As her hand came away, there was blood on the finger. “You missed a spot,” she said coldly.
Then he understood, and his voice deepened with anger. “I am no demon! The Mykene brought this upon himself. He was the one who set fire to my brother.”
“No, he was not,” Andromache told him. “King Alkaios talked to me of him during the feast. He said Persion had fought many duels in the lands of the west. But he had not been to sea before. How, then, could he have taken part in the first attack on Dardanos?”
“Then why would he say what he did?”
“You do not need to ask that.”
She was right. Even as he had spoken the words, Helikaon had known the answer. Persion had tried to make him angry and unsettle him for the fight. Angry men were mostly reckless, and reckless men did not last long in duels. He sat back and stared at Andromache. “He was a fool, then,” he said at last.
“Yes, he was,” she agreed with a sigh.
“You sound like you regret his death.”
She swung to face him, and he saw that she, too, was angry. “Yes, I regret it. But more than that, I regret watching you torment and destroy a brave opponent.”
“He was evil.”
Her hand snaked out, cracking against his face.
“You hypocrite! You were the evil one tonight. And the foulness of what you did will be spoken of all across the Great Green. How you tortured a proud man, turning him into a mewling wreck. It will be added to your heroic list of accomplishments: gouging the eyes from Alektruon, setting fire to bound men at Blue Owl Bay, raiding unarmed villages in the west. How dare you speak of the savagery of the Mykene when you are cast from the same bronze? There is no difference between you.”
With that she pushed herself to her feet to walk away. He surged up and grabbed her arm. “Easy for you, woman, to criticize me! You do not have to walk into ruined towns and see the dead or bury your comrades or see your loved ones raped and tortured.”
“No, I don’t,” she snapped, her green eyes flashing. “But those Mykene who returned to settlements you destroyed will have seen it. They will have buried loved ones you killed or tortured. I thought you a hero, brave and noble. I thought you intelligent and wise; then I hear you talk of all Mykene as evil. Argurios, who fought and died beside you, was a hero. And he was Mykene. The two men with Kalliope who saved me from assassins—they were Mykene!”
“Three men!” he stormed. “What of the thousands who swarm like locusts through the lands they conquer? What of the hordes waiting to descend on Troy?”
“What do you want me to tell you, Helikaon? That I hate them? I do not. Hate is the father of all evil. Hate is what creates men like Agamemnon and men like you, vying with each other to see who can commit the most ghastly atrocity. Let go of my arm!”
But he did not release her. She dragged back on his grip, then angrily lashed out with her other hand. Instinctively he pulled her closer, his arm circling her waist. This close, he could smell the perfume of her hair and feel the warmth of her body against his. Her forehead cracked against his chee
k, and he grabbed her hair to prevent her from butting him again.
And then, before he knew what he was doing, he was kissing her. The taste of wine was on her lips, and his mind swam. For a moment only she struggled; then her body relaxed against him, and she responded to the kiss, just as she had on the stairs four years before. He drew her closer, his hands sliding down over her hips, drawing up her dress until he felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.
Then they were lying down, still entwined, her arms around his neck. He felt the hunger in her kisses. It matched his own. She was beneath him now, and her legs opened, her thighs sliding over his hips. With a groan of pleasure he entered her.
Their lovemaking was fierce. No words were spoken. In all his life he never had known such intensity of passion, such completeness of being. Nothing existed in all the world except this woman beneath him. He had no sense of place or time or even identity. There was no war, no mission, no life beyond. There was no guilt, only a joy he had experienced only once before, in a delirium dream on the point of death.
Andromache cried out then, the sound feral. Her body arched against his. Then he, too, groaned and relaxed against her, holding her close.
Only then did he become aware of the lapping of the waves on the shoreline, the whispering of the breeze through the treetops. He looked down into her face, into her green eyes. He was about to speak when she curled her arm around his neck and drew him into a soft embrace. “No more words tonight,” she whispered.
CHAPTER NINE
VOYAGE OF THE BLOODHAWK
A half day’s sail to the east, in a protected bay on the isle of Naxos, the sailors of the Bloodhawk and the crews of four other galleys sat in a circle around the legendary storyteller Odysseus. His voice thundered out a tale of gods and men and a ship caught up in a great storm that flew high into the sky and anchored on the silver disk of the moon. The audience cheered wildly as the stocky king embellished his tale with stories of nymphs and dryads.
