“Are you enjoying your day, my daughter?” Priam asked, leaning over to kiss her hair.
“In truth, I am looking forward to returning to the farm tonight.”
“I thought you might stay at the palace,” he said.
“That is kind of you, but I am weary. The farm is quiet and cool, and I enjoy it there.”
Helikaon saw the disappointment in Priam. The king’s gaze swung to him. “You are looking better, Aeneas. It is good. What did you think of the words of Odysseus last night? You think I should fear his flea bite?”
“Yes, I think you should,” Helikaon told him. “Of all the enemies to choose, you have picked the most dangerous in Odysseus.”
“I did not choose him,” Priam snapped. “He slew my blood kin. Your own father. I would have thought that would have earned your hatred.”
“He is my enemy now,” Helikaon agreed. “That will have to suffice, for I could never hate him.”
“I thought the dagger had entered your chest, not sliced off your balls,” Priam hissed, his pale eyes glinting with anger.
Helikaon’s reply was icy. “I see your desire to make new enemies has not yet been sated. Have you not enough already, Uncle? Or do you seek to drive me into the camp of Agamemnon?”
“True! True!” Priam replied, forcing a smile. “We should not fall out, Aeneas. My words were hasty and ill judged.” With a final lingering caress of Andromache’s waist he moved back to his seat to watch the games.
Andromache lifted her cup of water and sipped it. Then she glanced at Helikaon. “You are truly an enemy now to Odysseus?” she asked.
“Not from choice,” he said, “for I love him deeply.”
“And he will be a great enemy,” she said, her voice low.
“Indeed he will. Agamemnon is blood-hungry and greedy. Odysseus is a thinker and a planner. The war he brings will be many times more threatening than anything Agamemnon could initiate.”
“I spoke to Hekabe before she died. She said he was a threat. I did not believe it. When will you be returning to Dardanos?”
“Tomorrow, after the games are concluded. Unless Agamemnon has other plans. Mykene spies have been circling my palace. Assassins will probably follow.”
She paled then, and fear showed in her eyes. “Why do you tell me this?”
He leaned toward her. “To see if there is any trace of concern in your eyes. We declared our love for one another, Andromache. The Fates decreed we could not be together, but that love has not died—at least not in me. Yet you have become cold, and I know no reason why that should be.”
“It is not seemly to talk of love on my wedding day,” she said, and he thought he detected sorrow in her voice. “I know what is in my heart. I know what my soul cries out for. But I also know I cannot have what I desire, and to think of it and to talk of it does not help ease the pain. Go home to your wife, Helikaon, and I will return to my husband.” She turned away, paused, then swung back to face him. “I do not worry about these assassins, Helikaon,” she said. “I know you. You can be kind, and you care for those close to you. But you are also a killer, cold and deadly. When they come, you will slay them without mercy.” And then she turned away.
As the day wore on, the heat began to mount, the sun blazing down from a clear sky, the breeze fading away. The final of the archery tourney was won by the young Trojan soldier Cheon, who narrowly put Meriones into second place.
As the day neared its end, the ropes holding back the crowds were released, and thousands of spectators moved across the stadium, eager to see the last event and watch the mighty Achilles claim the champion’s crown.
Helikaon watched the Thessalian prince stride across the open ground. He was wearing a short kilt of fine pale leather, his upper body bare to the sunlight, his raven hair drawn back from his face. The crowd followed him, but not pressing in too closely. He looked, Helikaon thought, like a lion surrounded by sheep. The Dardanian glanced around, seeking out the challenger, but there was no sign of him. Achilles halted before the two thrones and stood quietly.
The kings of the west, led by Agamemnon, left their enclosure and strode across the open ground, the crowd parting for them. Odysseus walked forward to stand before Priam.
“I have just learned,” he said loudly, “that my fighter, Leukon, has suffered an injury. He tripped and fell on the way here, breaking two of his fingers. He cannot fight today.” A roar of disappointment went up from the crowd. Helikaon felt his stomach tighten. He did not believe for a moment that the story was true, and he sensed danger looming.
Priam rose from his seat, raising his arms for silence. “That is, indeed, grim news, Odysseus,” he said. “It is always regrettable when a man becomes champion by default. However, few can deny that Achilles is worthy of the crown.” So saying, he reached down and lifted the laurel band, preparing to offer it to the Thessalian.
At that moment Achilles spoke. “By your leave, Priam King,” he said, “it seems to me that your people gathered here deserve to see a contest. Why not, then, allow them an exhibition bout? It is said by some that your son Hektor is a fine fighter. I would deem it a privilege to spar with him, and I am sure the Trojan people would enjoy viewing it.”
A great cheer went up, and the crowd began to chant: “Hektor! Hektor!”
Anger swept through Helikaon. Hektor had not trained for these games and had been sitting all day, eating and drinking. Achilles spoke of an exhibition bout, of sparring. That was a lie. The moment the two men faced each other, it would be a fight to the finish. He realized then that this was the plan: for the games to finish with the Trojan hero sprawled senseless in the dust and Troy humiliated by the might of the west.
With any other opponent Helikaon would have had no doubts as to the outcome. Hektor was a magnificent fighter. But for the first time he found himself wondering if Hektor might be outclassed. It seemed like a betrayal of friendship even to think it, but Helikaon had now seen both men in action. Hektor was enormously strong and brave and fast. But Achilles was colder, and there was a cruelty in him that made him deadly. Helikaon glanced at Priam, hoping he would see the danger. His heart sank, for there was a gleam in Priam’s eyes that spoke of triumph. Here was a man who could not conceive of defeat for his son. As far as Priam was concerned, Hektor was the physical personification of Troy itself and therefore unbeatable. Priam once more lifted his hands for silence, and as the chanting died away, he turned toward his son. “Will you honor your people and take up this challenge?” he asked.
Hektor rose, his expression grim. “As always I will obey my father’s bidding,” he said. Stepping down from the dais, he pulled off his jeweled belt and removed his tunic. A soldier brought him a leather kilt, which he swung around his waist and tied into place. Helikaon moved down to stand alongside him.
“You know this will be no sparring match,” he whispered.
Hektor nodded. “Of course I know. This is about blood and humiliation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE FALLEN HERO
More than twenty thousand people were present at the fight, though less than a tenth could say truthfully they witnessed it. People farther back than the first few rows could occasionally get a glimpse of the two men, but those at the rear could only listen to the roars of the crowd. And yet, decades later, men from all nations would say their fathers or their grandfathers had stood close by on that day. Two hundred years on a king from Macedonia named Antipas would insist that his ancestor had held the cloak of the victor. For seven generations his family claimed the title Cloakbearer. Bards would later sing of the battle, maintaining that Zeus and the gods had descended on Troy that day, disguised as mortals, and that ownership of the stars was wagered by them.
Odysseus saw no gods as he stood on the far side of the circle with the kings of the west. He saw two proud men in the full glory of youth and strength circling one another under a blazing sun. Achilles made the first attack, stepping in and feinting with a left before f
lashing a right hand that thundered against Hektor’s face. The Trojan champion reacted with an uppercut that hammered into his opponent’s belly and a left cross that glanced from Achilles’ temple. Then they pulled back and circled again. This time it was Hektor who moved in. Achilles swayed back from a straight left, then stepped inside, throwing a combination of blows that drove Hektor back. The punches were blindingly fast, each one pounding into Hektor’s face. The Trojan covered up, blocking further blows with his forearms, then counterattacked with a left hook that clubbed into Achilles’ cheek.
Achilles was bigger and faster than the Trojan and was landing more punches. Odysseus watched intently as the fighters circled once more. Each man had now tested the other, and both knew there would be no swift conclusion.
Odysseus stood quietly, the roars of the crowd washing over him. He knew Achilles was the stronger man, but he knew also that skill and speed alone would not dictate the outcome. The plan had been Agamemnon’s, and Odysseus had offered no argument against it. If Hektor could be defeated, it would damage the morale of the Trojans, whereas if Achilles lost, it would dent only the confidence of the Thessalians and have little effect on men from other nations drawn into the battle for Troy.
Even so he was torn as he watched the combat. He liked Hektor and had no desire to see him humbled. Equally, he longed to see the look on Priam’s face when his beloved son was defeated. Odysseus glanced at the Trojan king. Priam was watching the fight, his expression calm and untroubled.
That will change, Odysseus thought.
Both fighters now glistened with sweat, and there was a swelling beneath Hektor’s right eye. Achilles was unmarked. He surged forward, ducking under a murderous right, then smashing two blows into Hektor’s face, opening a cut under the left eye that sprayed blood over the nearby spectators. A gasp went up from the crowd. Hektor countered with a left hook that slashed above Achilles’ ducking head. Achilles hammered a blow into Hektor’s belly and a right cross that cracked against his chin. Off balance, Hektor tumbled to the dirt and rolled onto his back.
Odysseus flicked a glance at Priam and smiled. The Trojan king was ashen, his mouth open in shock.
Hektor rose to his knees, shook his head, and remained where he was for a moment, dragging in deep breaths. Then he stood, walked to the spear plunged into the ground, and patted the haft. Blood was running down his face.
The crowd was silent now.
Achilles launched a swift attack, but he was overconfident and ran into a straight left that jarred him to his heels and an uppercut to the belly that lifted him from his feet. Hektor followed in, but Achilles spun away, sending a stinging right that further opened the cut on Hektor’s face.
The day wore on, the sun sinking slowly over the sea.
Hektor was slowing, fewer of his punches hitting the target, whereas Achilles seemed to be growing in strength. Twice more Hektor was downed, and twice more he rose to touch the spear haft.
At that point Odysseus thought that the end was inevitable. Hektor’s strength was being leached away by every blow. Only pride and courage kept him on his feet.
Achilles, sensing victory was close, stepped in, thundering two right crosses into Hektor’s face, hurling him from his feet.
Hektor hit the ground hard and rolled to his knees. He struggled to rise, fell back, then slowly made it to his feet to touch the spear.
Then Achilles made a terrible mistake.
“Come on, you Trojan dog,” he said with a sneer. “There is more pain here for you.”
Odysseus saw the change come over Hektor. His head came up, and his pale eyes narrowed. Then, amazingly, he smiled.
Achilles, oblivious to the change in his opponent, charged in. Hektor stepped in to meet him, blocking a right cross and sending yet another uppercut into Achilles’ belly. Breath whooshed from the Thessalian’s lungs. A clubbing left hook exploded against his forehead, splitting the skin above his right eye. Achilles tried to back away. Hektor hit him with a ferocious left, then a right that pulped his lips against his teeth, shredding them. Desperately Achilles ducked his head, trying to protect his face with his forearms. An uppercut swept between the raised limbs. Achilles’ head snapped back. A straight left shattered his nose. Achilles stumbled back, but there was no escape. Hektor moved in, hammering punch after punch into Achilles’ ruined face. Blood was flowing into both eyes now, and Achilles did not see the blow that ended the fight. Hektor stepped back and with all his strength hit his opponent with an explosive right that spun the Thessalian through a full circle before his unconscious body hit the dirt.
A huge cheer went up from the crowd. Hektor turned and strode back to the dais, where he lifted clear the laurel wreath of victory. Walking back to where Achilles lay, he dropped the wreath onto his chest, then swung to face Odysseus and the kings of the west. As the cheering faded away, he pointed down at the fallen hero. When he spoke, his voice was cold.
“Hail to mighty Achilles,” he said. “Hail to the champion of the games.”
Banokles was furious to have missed the fight. He’d had no desire to watch Leukon humbled by the awesome Achilles and had walked down to the lower town to enjoy the company of Big Red. Only later, as he walked back to Hektor’s palace, did he learn of the contest he had missed. Crowds streaming away from the stadium were talking of nothing else, their mood jubilant.
Back at the palace the crewmen of the Penelope were gathering their belongings for departure. Banokles found Kalliades sitting in the shade of a flowering tree in the rear gardens. Slumping down beside him, he said: “I would have wagered on Hektor.”
Kalliades laughed. “You said you thought Achilles was unbeatable. In fact, you said even Hektor would have no chance against him. I remember that.”
“You always remember too much,” Banokles grumbled. “Was it a great bout?”
“The best I have ever seen.”
“And I missed it.”
“Do not be so downcast, my friend. In days to come you will brag about being there, and no one will be the wiser.”
“That’s true,” Banokles said, his mood lifting. Several crew members left the palace building, carrying their bedrolls. “Where is everyone going? I thought they were going to sail in the morning.”
“Odysseus is leaving the city now,” Kalliades said. “Says he will find a bay somewhere up the coast.”
“Why?”
“The neutrality of the games ends tonight. I hear most of the kings of the west are leaving with him.”
“What will we do?” Banokles asked.
“We’ll head south, down to Thebe Under Plakos. The king there is troubled by bandits raiding his trade caravans.”
“Is that a long distance from Troy?”
Kalliades glanced at him. “Are your legs weary?”
“No. Just asking.” Banokles called out to a passing servant for some wine, but the man ingored him. “Seems like we are not welcome anymore,” he said.
Odysseus came strolling from the palace. “You lads can stay with the Penelope, if you will. I have spoken to Agamemnon, and he has lifted the sentence from you. As far as he is concerned, you are Ithakan warriors, and I would be glad to have you.”
“That’s good,” Banokles said. He glanced at Kalliades. “It is good, isn’t it?”
Kalliades rose to stand before Odysseus. “I thank you, Odysseus King, but I promised to take Piria to her friend, to see her safely to the end of her journey.”
“A man should always honor his word,” Odysseus said, “but I fear nowhere is safe for that girl. You understand?”
“I believe I do.”
“Her actions, though inspired by love and prophecy, have been reckless. I think she is beginning to realize that now.”
“Not so long ago,” Kalliades said, “you told me she would need friends. Loyal friends. She has those, Odysseus. We will keep her safe. Banokles and I will allow no one to harm her or take her. If she is not welcomed by her friend, she can accompany us to The
be Under Plakos. There she will not be known.”
“I do not think her friend will turn her away,” Odysseus said, “though good sense would dictate otherwise.” Reaching out, he gripped Kalliades’ hand. “You lads take care. If ever you are in need of a friend, you can look to Ithaka or to any Ithakan ship. You tell them you are friends of Odysseus, and they will carry you wherever they are sailing.”
“That is good to know,” Kalliades told him.
“My last words of advice are these. I have given Piria directions to Hektor’s farm. Get her to wait until dusk. There are a number of Thessalians still in the city who might recognize her in daylight.”
“We will see her there safely,” Kalliades promised.
Odysseus turned to Banokles. “I did not see you at the fight, big man.”
“Oh, I was there,” Banokles insisted. “Wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Aye, it was something to see, and I doubt Achilles will ever forget it. You don’t taunt a man like Hektor. Heroes can always delve deeper than ordinary men. They have a well of courage that is bottomless. I think both of you understand that. It has been good to know you.”
As he walked away, Bias, Leukon, and others of the crew wandered over to say their goodbyes, and then Kalliades and Banokles were alone in the garden.
A little while later Piria joined them. She was wearing a long hooded cloak of dark green and carrying a Phrygian bow, and a quiver of arrows was slung across her shoulder.
“Going hunting?” Banokles asked.
“No,” the blond girl said. “This is Andromache’s bow. A servant told me she had asked for it to be brought to the farm. I said I would carry it. Why are you still here?”
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