by David
She looked up at the horse. “Well, great stallion, what does this mean? Helikaon the Burner here at Thera. The enemy of my blood and of my house.”
The thought that the Xanthos was on a raid flashed into her mind and was as quickly dismissed. Priam the king was the patron of the isle, and much as she abhorred the man’s excesses, she had to admit he performed the duties of a patron with efficiency, delivering both gold and the power of his protection to the Blessed Isle. If the sanctuary of Thera was lost, both Trojans and Mykene would rue it. All sides knew that. No, Helikaon must be acting as a messenger. She had not expected so early a reply to her embassy. Her heart beat faster. Perhaps she had been successful and Andromache would be lured back to Thera in the spring.
Her hand to her chest, she relaxed against the bench. Eager though she was to find out why the Xanthos had arrived, she no longer had the strength to walk down to the harbor. That was a problem, since men who landed on the Blessed Isle were permitted no farther than the wooden receiving hall on the black sandy beach. Therefore, she would have to allow the Burner to walk up to the temple or use intermediaries to ascertain his purpose. To allow a man into the temple—especially one as vile as the Burner—would be sacrilege, yet to depend on others with less guile than she would be to risk misunderstanding the true purpose of his visit.
Allowing a man to walk the island was not without precedent. Priam had entered the temple forty years before. Iphigenia had been fourteen then, newly arrived on the isle, and she had looked with curiosity on the virile king and his young queen, a woman of dark beauty and darker ambition.
The priestess placed her hand against the horse’s massive hoof. “You were more impressive back then, my friend,” she said, marveling anew at the skill of the builders. Craftsmen from Troy and Hattusas had built the main block of the temple with limestone, a huge rectangular building with a tower at one end. Then skilled carpenters from Kypros and Athens had shaped oak timbers around it, creating the illusion from a distance of legs, a neck, and a great head. Egypteian artists had traveled to the Blessed Isle, coating the wooden horse with whitewashed plaster and then adding paints and dyes to give it life. Much of the paint was chipped now, and bare timber showed through, cracked and pockmarked. From the sea, though, the white wooden horse still looked magnificent, a massive sentry standing guard over the island.
Rising again and moving to the edge of the cliff, Iphigenia could see that the great galley with its black horse sail had beached below at last. There were men milling about. Soon she would know.
She had been angry when Queen Hekabe had ordered that Andromache be sent to Troy. There was a strength and energy in the girl that never should have been wasted on furthering men’s ambitions. Andromache had been furious. She had stormed into the gathering chamber and confronted Iphigenia.
The priestess smiled fondly at the memory. Green-eyed Andromache feared her, just as all the other women there did. But such was the strength of her spirit that she could, and often did, conquer that fear and fight for causes she believed in. Iphigenia had admired Andromache for her stand on that day. Closing her eyes, she pictured the angry young priestess. Her lover Kalliope had been standing close by anxiously, her eyes downcast.
Andromache had refused to leave Thera, and Iphigenia had tried to explain how the circumstances were special.
“Special?” Andromache stormed. “You are selling me for Priam’s gold! What is special about that? Women have been sold since the gods were young. Always by men, though. It is what we come to expect from them. But from you!”
And that had hurt, like a dagger deep in her belly. Iphigenia had fought for decades to keep Thera safe and independent from the powers of kings. Sometimes it required steadfast courage, but often it needed compromise.
Instead of seeking to dominate Andromache and cow her into submission, Iphigenia had spoken softly, her words full of regret.
“It is not just for Priam’s gold, Andromache, but for all that gold represents. Without it there would be no temple on Thera, no princesses to placate the beast below. Yes, it would be wonderful if we could ignore the wishes of powerful men like Priam and do our duty here unmolested. Such freedom, however, is a dream. You are a priestess of Thera no longer. You will leave tomorrow.”
Andromache had not argued further. It showed that she had grown in wisdom in her two years on the Blessed Isle and was beginning at last to grasp the need for such compromises.
Andromache probably would not show such understanding when she returned to Thera in the spring, Iphigenia knew. She would be furious when she discovered the betrayal. But her fury was as nothing when set against the needs of Thera. The security of the temple was vital, more important than any single life.
At last she heard the snorting of donkeys and the clink of bridles. Iphigenia eased herself up and moved to the cliff edge. Below she could see three figures on donkeys slowly climbing up the winding path from the harbor. The priestess Kolea led the way. She had turned in her seat and was chattering to the others: a dark-haired girl she did not know and… Andromache.
The old priestess raised her hand to her heart. Andromache here already? Across the winter seas all the way from Troy!
“No!” she whispered. “It is too soon. Far too soon.”
Andromache sat on the little donkey’s back as it slowly plodded up the steep, narrow trail. Far below, the Xanthos had been half drawn up on the black beach. Men, seeming no larger than insects from this height, scurried around it.
She glanced back at Kassandra. Mostly when visitors were carried up this treacherous path, they sat their mounts nervously, aware that the slightest slip of a hoof would send them plummeting to their deaths. Not Kassandra. She seemed to be in a dream, a faraway look in her eyes.
Back on the beach, when Andromache had ordered Oniacus to fetch the ornate box from its place in the hold, Kassandra had gone with him, returning with an old canvas sack, which she carried on her shoulder.
“What do you have there?” Andromache asked.
“A gift for a friend,” Kassandra answered, giving her a shy smile.
“Could you not have brought it in a… more suitable container? The High Priestess is a formidable and angry woman. She will be looking for any action that might be regarded as an insult to her or to the order.”
“You do not like her,” Kassandra said.
Andromache had laughed, but there had been little humor in the sound. “No one likes Iphigenia, little sister. Like her brother Agamemnon, she is cold, hard, and unfeeling.”
“You are just angry because she let your father send you to Troy.”
“She sold me for gold.”
Kassandra had carried her sack away and walked toward the two priestesses sent to greet them. Andromache knew one of them, Kolea, the youngest daughter of the king of Lesbos. She had arrived in the same season as Andromache. Kolea, with her long dark hair drawn back from her face in a tight ponytail, was taller and slimmer than Andromache remembered. The priestess smiled a greeting. The other girl was around Kassandra’s age, fair-haired and freckled. She seemed frightened.
Helikaon had moved across the sand to stand alongside Andromache. She was very conscious of his warm body, not quite touching hers. Each time they had spoken since that night on Minoa, she had trembled a little at the sound of his voice. She feared she was blushing and lowered her head.
“Hektor and Priam both believe this invitation reeks of treachery,” he said softly, concern deepening his voice. “They fear you are being lured to Thera on Agamemnon’s orders. But there are no other ships here or close by, only a small Egypteian trader. I do not know the High Priestess, so I cannot judge her motives. But you do.”
Andromache looked into his sapphire eyes and saw that they were clouded with anxiety.
“She dislikes me,” she replied, making herself speak firmly and clearly, “and will have reasons of her own for wanting me here. But we have discussed this already at length. It could be a trap. But she is
the First Priestess of Thera before she is Mykene. I do not believe she would do her brother’s bidding if it would harm the reputation of the Blessed Isle. More likely, she wants to punish me rather than betray me.”
“Through Kalliope, you mean?” he said, indicating the ornate box she carried. She nodded.
“When will you return, my love?” he asked quietly.
“In the morning.”
“I will watch for you at first light.”
“I will be here.”
“If you are not, I will come for you with my men. Make sure the old witch understands that.”
“She is a daughter of Atreus and a Mykene princess. She would understand that without being told. Do nothing rash!”
He leaned in close, touching her hair, and lightly tapped the box she carried. “Rash actions may be necessary if the witch discovers you are lying to her.”
Andromache’s mouth was dry. “What are you saying?” she countered.
“I know you, Andromache,” he whispered. “You would never surrender the soul of your friend to serve a monster. It is not in you. Where did you find those bones?”
“Xander brought them for me. They are the skull and thigh bone of a murderer.”
Helikaon grinned then. “Well, he and the Minotaur should suit each other.”
Iphigenia sat alone in the coolness of the temple’s great gathering room. The carved high-backed chair was uncomfortable, but the High Priestess no longer had the strength to stand for long.
When the two visitors finally arrived, they stepped out of bright sunlight into the temple and stood blinking as their eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior. Andromache, her hair shining red in the light from the doorway, was dressed in green and carried only an ivory box. Kassandra’s dark hair also was unbound. Her face was pale and gaunt and her eyes feverish as she squinted in the near darkness. On the floor she dropped an old canvas sack.
Kolea stepped forward. “My lady, these are—”
“I know who they are,” Iphigenia said forbiddingly. “You may go now.” The girl bobbed her head and fled back to the sunlight.
Pushing herself to her feet, Iphigenia stepped toward Andromache. “I am glad your sense of duty has not deserted you,” she said. Then she paused, for Andromache was staring at her intently, her expression one of sadness. For a moment this confused the old priestess, and then realization dawned.
“Do I look so shocking?” she asked coldly.
“I am sorry to find you unwell,” Andromache told her. The sincerity in her words touched Iphigenia.
“I have been ill, but let us not dwell on the matter. You arrival is a surprise. We expected you in the spring.”
“A ritual to appease the Minotaur should not be so long delayed,” responded Andromache, and Iphigenia saw her expression change. Gone was the concern for her health, replaced by a look of defiance Iphigenia remembered well.
“You brought Kalliope’s remains?”
“I have.” Andromache put the ivory box on the ground and was about to open it, when Kassandra stepped forward and laid her sack down at Iphigenia’s feet.
“These are Kalliope’s bones.” Kassandra bent down to the sack and drew forth a dull gray cloth. Unwrapping it, she revealed a shining white thigh bone and a skull.
Iphigenia looked from one woman to the other.
Andromache was ashen. “How could you do this?” she asked Kassandra.
“Because Kalliope asked me to,” the girl replied. “She wanted to come home to the Beautiful Isle, where she was happy. She wants to be laid in the earth of the tamarisk grove, close to the shrine to Artemis.”
“You don’t realize what you have done,” Andromache stormed, stepping forward, fists clenched. For a moment Iphigenia thought she would strike the girl. Instead she reached out and took the bones from Kassandra’s hands, clutching them to her.
She glared defiantly at Iphigenia. “You will not have her. Not her bones, not her spirit.”
Iphigenia ignored her and called to Kassandra. “Come here, child. Let me look at you.” Kassandra stepped forward, and Iphigenia took her hands.
She spoke softly to the girl. “The tamarisk grove, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew I had no intention of chaining her spirit?”
“I knew. This was not about bones but about luring Andromache to Thera.”
“Yes, it was. And I have both succeeded and failed,” Iphigenia said, reaching up and stroking a dark lock of hair back from Kassandra’s brow.
“So much has been spoken about you, child, and I see now that most of it was nonsense. You may be moon-touched, but Artemis has gifted you with the sight. So tell Andromache why I wanted her here.”
Kassandra turned to her sister. “She wanted to save you from Agamemnon, not deliver you to him. But she thought you would arrive here in the spring when the sailing season starts again, just before the siege begins. Then there would be no way for you to return, and you would be forced to remain here.”
“For what purpose?” Andromache demanded. “Do you care so much for me, lady?” she asked sarcastically.
Iphigenia released Kassandra’s hands. “The Blessed Isle remains free only because its leaders have always been strong, fearless, and unafraid of the world of men. I am dying, Andromache. You can see that. Thera will need a new leader soon. I had hoped it would be you.”
Andromache fell silent and stood staring into Iphigenia’s face. Finally she spoke gently. “But I am married now, and I have a son.”
“And neither of them will survive the onslaught on Troy,” Iphigenia replied gravely. “You will die, too, or face slavery if you remain there.”
Anger rose again in Andromache’s eyes.
“That may be the Mykene view,” she replied, “but it is not mine. Firstly, there is Hektor and his Trojan Horse. Then there are our allies of courage, like Helikaon and my father, Ektion. But even aside from the men of war, there must be some among the enemy who will draw back even now from the folly of pride and envy that is Agamemnon.”
Iphigenia’s shoulders sagged, and she returned to her chair with relief.
“Pride?” she asked quietly. “You think it is pride that drives Agamemnon? It is not, and it is why this war cannot be brought to a peaceful conclusion.”
Kassandra sat down at Iphigenia’s feet, resting her dark head on the old woman’s thigh.
“Why, then?” Andromache asked. “And do not tell me about poor Helen and the great love Menelaus has apparently developed for her.”
Iphigenia gave a cold smile. “No, Helen has no real part to play here, though if Priam had returned her, then Agamemnon’s armies would not have been so mighty. But that is of no import now.” She looked into Andromache’s green eyes. “Do you know what my father had painted upon his shield?”
Andromache frowned. “It was a snake, I am told.”
“A snake eating its own tail,” Iphigenia added. “Atreus had a dry sense of humor. His generals were constantly urging him to attack and conquer other lands. My father fought many battles, but only against those who were threatening us. An army is like a great snake. It must be fed and motivated. The more lands a king controls, the greater his army needs to be. The greater the army, the greater the amount of gold needed to maintain it. You see? As the conqueror strides into each captured city, his treasury grows, but so must his army in order to hold the conquered land. Atreus understood this, hence the snake. For when an army is not fed, or paid, or motivated, it will turn upon itself. Therefore, the conqueror is forced to take his wars farther and farther from his homeland.”
Iphigenia lifted a hand and called out. Instantly a priestess emerged from behind a column and ran forward. “Water,” Iphigenia demanded. The priestess ran the length of the hall, returning swiftly with a pitcher and a silver cup. Iphigenia took the cup from her.
Iphigenia drank deeply, then returned her attention to Andromache. “Agamemnon no longer has a choice. He must build an empire or fall
to a usurper from within his own army.”
“But there are gold mines in Mykene land,” Andromache argued. “Everyone knows Agamemnon is rich even without conquest.”
“Yes, three mines,” Iphigenia said. “Only one of them now produces enough color to maintain even the miners. The largest, and once the richest, collapsed upon itself two seasons ago.”
Andromache was shocked. “You are saying Agamemnon has no gold?”
“He has plundered gold, but not enough. He has borrowed gold, but not enough. He has promised gold, and far too much. His only hope is for Troy to be defeated and the riches of the city to fall into his hands. And it will, Andromache. The armies he brings will be as many as the stars in the sky. With them will be Achilles—like Hektor, unbeaten in battle. And wily Odysseus, fox-cunning and deadly in war. Old Sharptooth will be there. Greedy he may be, but Idomeneos is a battle king to be feared. Troy cannot withstand them all.”
“All that you say may be true,” Andromache said. “But you know I would not—could not—desert my son.”
“Of course I know,” Iphigenia told her sadly. “In the spring you would have had no choice, and by summer’s end nothing to return to. But now I cannot save you. I am tired now, Andromache. But you are young and strong. So take Kalliope’s bones to the tamarisk grove and pour wine in remembrance of her. I liked her, you know. She suffered much before she came here.”
Iphigenia held out her arm to Kassandra. “Support me, child, and help me to my bedchamber. I fear the strength is almost gone from these old bones.”
Kassandra put her arm around her. “One day we will have no bones,” the girl said happily, “and our dust will swirl among the stars.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CALL OF DESTINY
Helikaon slept fitfully that night, concern for Andromache disturbing his rest and coloring his dreams. He found himself in darkness, as if at the bottom of a deep well, and he could see Andromache high above him, framed by light, her hair wild around her head, her hands reaching out to him. Then she was in his arms, and he could feel the curves of her body and smell salt in her hair, but she was as cold as stone, and he realized she was soaking wet, her face pale and lifeless. He cried out, but his voice was thin, like a distant gull, and he could not help her.
