Shield of Thunder

by David Gemmell

  Hekabe felt a surge of anger in her frail breast. “Odysseus,” she said malevolently. “He will not see Ithaka again. I will see to that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hah! Odysseus the tale spinner. Odysseus the buffoon. That is how people see him these days. But I know him of old. He is a cold killer. He paid an assassin to murder Anchises. Blood kin to Priam.”

  “How can you know this?” The girl’s face looked sickly under the yellow awning. “Not Odysseus.”

  “The assassin, the same one who wounded Helikaon, told Helikaon so with his dying breath. And Helikaon himself told Priam.”

  “It is nonsense,” Andromache said. “What would Odysseus have gained from such an act?”

  Hekabe leaned back in her chair. “That is what Priam wonders. All his advisers are mystified. They talk of ancient feuds and trade agreements. Stupid men! The answer is there for any with the wit to see it. Odysseus loves Helikaon. Perhaps the boy was his catamite. Who knows? Anchises loathed the boy and dispossessed him. I knew Anchises. He was a sound ruler and a man with no sentiment. It was probable he would have had Helikaon quietly murdered. Odysseus is wily, and he would have guessed this. So, to save the boy, he had the father slain.”

  “He did it to save Helikaon’s life?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why should that make him an enemy of Troy?” Andromache asked. “Helikaon is our friend, and if you are right, Odysseus saved him.”

  “I care nothing about the murder of Anchises,” Hekabe answered. “Neither does Priam. But before this war begins we must be sure of our friends and eliminate all possible outside threats. Odysseus’ part in the death of Anchises has given us the opportunity to kill him without alienating our allies.”

  “I do not understand,” Andromache whispered, obviously mystified. “Odysseus is neutral. Why would he be a threat?”

  Hekabe sighed. “You have much to learn, child, about the nature of politics. It is not about what Odysseus is now. It is the danger he represents for the future. If his lands were closer to Troy, we could bind him to us with gold and with friendship. But he is a western king with close links to the Mykene. And yes, there is a small chance that he would remain neutral. But we cannot risk the future of Troy on a small chance. The truth is that once the war became inevitable, Odysseus had to die. Agamemnon is a man of battles and will be a worthy foe, but we can defeat him. But Odysseus is crafty and a planner. More than this he is a charismatic leader, and where he leads, other kings will follow. We cannot risk him joining with Agamemnon.”

  “Then you always intended to murder Odysseus?” said Andromache.

  “Of course. I have invited him to attend me here this eve. He will suspect nothing of a dying old woman. They say the Ugly King is cunning, but he has never dealt with Hekabe. He will leave King’s Joy alive—and then sicken and die back in his bed. Stay with me, Andromache. You can chat and laugh with him and put him at his ease. He will be here soon.”

  She nodded her head again in satisfaction, thinking of the poison phial that had long been her servant and friend. “Rulers are never short of enemies, Andromache,” she said. “We must be ruthless in order to survive. Kill them all. Tonight Odysseus will die, and tomorrow I will have fat Antiphones here. Priam is a fool to have forgiven him for his treachery. A man who betrays you once will do so again, when the time suits him.”

  Hekabe’s mouth was dry once more, and her goblet empty. “Andromache, fill my water goblet. I don’t know where the servants are.”

  The girl was gone for some time. Hekabe dozed in the sunlight. She awoke suddenly with Andromache beside her again. Her new daughter carefully poured a small phial of medicine into the goblet, added water, then handed it to her. The queen drank gratefully. The bitter taste of the medicine was sharp upon the tongue, and there was an unaccustomed aftertaste that Hekabe could not identify. She sat in silence as the medicine began to dull the agonies. After a while, miraculously, all traces of pain vanished. She felt free for the first time in months.

  “This medicine is new,” she said, her mind beginning to clear.

  “Machaon gave it to Laodike last autumn,” Andromache said. “Is your pain gone now?”

  “It is. I almost feel I could dance.” Hekabe smiled. “It is a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

  “I am with child,” Andromache said calmly. “And the father is not Priam.”

  Hekabe frowned. “Not Priam?”

  “The father of my child is Helikaon. Now tell me about Paleste.”

  Hekabe’s eyes narrowed. Was the girl insane? When Priam found out about her deceit, he would be furious. “Foolish girl,” she hissed. “You have doomed Helikaon and the child. Priam will have them killed. If you are lucky, he will keep you alive to fulfill the prophecy. I thought you were sharper than your sister. It seems Ektion’s daughters are as stupid as each other.”

  Andromache knelt by the old woman’s side. “You do not understand, Hekabe. I slept with Priam so he would think this child is his. The king will never know. Now tell me how you killed Paleste.”

  Hekabe saw again the image of the agonized child, and her lip curled. “She was a mistake, a stupid mistake by the fool Heraklitos. She was nothing. The future of Troy’s family was all that mattered. It must be protected. Paleste was nothing,” she repeated.

  Andromache sat back on her haunches and looked at her for a moment. Hekabe thought there were tears in her eyes, but her own vision had misted. She looked around her feebly.

  “Where is Paris?” she asked.

  “Gone with Helen to watch the games.”

  “There are no servants. Where are the servants?”

  “I told them to leave us alone.”

  Andromache stood up and dusted down her gown, as if preparing to leave. The phial she had left on the table she dropped into a pouch at her side.

  Then, like sunlight piercing the mists of morning, Hekabe’s mind finally cleared. Medicine given to Laodike months before. Strong medicine. Why had she not been offered it before? Understanding swept through her. It was meant to have been the gift of release, when the pain became unbearable. She knew then what the aftertaste had been. Hemlock! Hekabe rested her hand on her skinny thigh and pressed the flesh. She could feel nothing. Death was creeping along her veins. She sighed.

  “Do not think me a fool for being so tricked, Andromache,” she said. “It was the medicine that made me stupid. Ah, well, you have avenged your sister, and that is honorable. I would have done the same in your place. You see, I was right. We are very alike.” She looked into Andromache’s green eyes and saw a flash of anger there.

  “If I believed that to be true, Hekabe, I would have taken the poison myself. This is not for Paleste, though perhaps it should have been, for she was sweet and kind and loving and deserved better than to be drawn into your world of deceit, treachery, and murder. This is for Odysseus, a fine man, good and proud, and for Antiphones, who is my friend, and for who knows how many other innocents your evil would seek to destroy.”

  “Innocents?” Hekabe replied, her voice rich with contempt. “On the mountains of ambition there are no innocents. You think Priam would still be king if I had viewed the world through such naïve eyes? You think Troy would have survived against the avarice of powerful kings had I not dealt with them, bribed them, seduced them, befriended them, and killed them? You want to live among the innocents, Andromache, among the sheep? Yes, in every peasant village they will live their loving lives, among true friends, and they will sing and dance together on feast days and weep when their friends and loved ones die. Sweet little sheep. Brings a tear to my eye. We are not sheep, stupid girl! We are lions. We are wolves. We devour the sheep, and we rend and tear at each other. Just as you have done—and will do again when needs must.”

  “You are wrong, Hekabe,” Andromache told her. “I may be stupid, as you say, to believe in honor and friendship and loyalty without price. But these are virtues to be cherished, for without th
em we are no more than beasts roaming the land.”

  “Yet you pretended to befriend me,” Hekabe said, her mind beginning to swim. “You lied and you cheated your way into my favor. Is this honor?”

  “I did not pretend, Mother,” she heard Andromache say, her voice breaking. “I have liked you from the moment we met, and I admire your strength and your courage. May the gods grant you rest and peace.”

  “Rest and peace! You foolish, foolish girl. If Odysseus lives, then Troy will face ruin.” Hekabe fell back into her chair, her eyes staring up at the blue of the sky. Her thoughts were of plans wrecked on the shores of other people’s weakness and error. And then she found herself once more upon the deck of the Scamandrios, and up ahead she could see a golden figure shining with a dazzling light. She thought it must be Priam, and her joy soared. “Where do we sail today, my lord?” she whispered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE SACKER OF CITIES

  A full day of mourning was declared by Priam. All contests ceased, and the market traders were refused permission to sell their wares. A hundred bulls, sixty goats, and two hundred sheep were sacrificed to Hades, Lord of the Underworld, with the meat then hauled off to feed the thousands thronging the hillsides around the city. Hekabe’s body was carried back into the palace, wrapped in robes of gold, and laid in state in the queen’s apartments.

  The high priest of the temple of Zeus maintained that even the heavens wept, for dark clouds gathered, with rain pouring down for most of the day.

  Some priests whispered that the death of the queen was an ill omen for the wedding of her son, but those views were not widely spoken.

  In the palace of Polites, the Mykene king, Agamemnon, struggled to conceal his delight at the news. Hekabe was a fearsome opponent whose agents had caused the deaths of a number of Mykene spies. In the past her counsel had checked many of Priam’s more rash decisions. Without her Priam was weakened, and Agamemnon’s invasion plans could move ahead more smoothly.

  The doors in the main room had been closed and guarded for most of the afternoon, and the words spoken there could not be overheard. The gathered kings talked of logistics and supply, the movements of armies, and the defenses of the city.

  Agamemnon listened as they spoke, offering little. He knew how the war should be fought, and most of his plans were already moving forward in secret. There was, however, no harm in letting others put forward ideas, allowing them to believe they were more important to the project than was the actuality. Idomeneos had spoken at length, as had Peleus.

  Odysseus had said little, nor had he offered any objections to the wilder ideas of Idomeneos. Still, even if Odysseus was more the storyteller than the strategist, at least he had drawn the others in, and more would follow. There were now sixteen rulers pledged to the war, with 470 ships and close to sixty thousand fighting men. Agamemnon glanced at Idomeneos. There was still a chance the Kretan king would draw back at the last, bribed by Priam’s gold. Idomeneos would always be for sale to the highest bidder. It was the nature of the man, bred as he was from peasants. Agamemnon transferred his gaze to the elderly Nestor. He was not of peasant stock, yet his mind also sang with the music of commerce. The war would cost him in trade goods and gold. But he would join with them, especially now that Odysseus had declared himself.

  What a boon that had been. The Ugly King, accompanied by five bodyguards, had arrived at the palace the previous evening. Agamemnon had invited him in, and the two men had walked through to a small side room.

  “I cannot stay this evening,” Odysseus said. “There are matters I must attend to. I came merely to tell you that Ithaka, with fifty ships and two thousand men, will be available to you, Agamemnon.”

  Agamemnon stood silent a moment, looking into his eyes. Then he said, “That is good to hear, though I must say I am surprised.”

  “We will talk more,” Odysseus said grimly. “Do you have plans for tomorrow eve?”

  “None that cannot be changed.”

  “Then I shall come here with Idomeneos and Nestor.”

  “They are also with us?”

  “They will be.”

  Agamemnon thrust out his hand. “I bid you welcome, Ithaka,” he said. “You are a brother now to the Mykene. Your troubles are our troubles, your dreams our dreams.”

  Odysseus took his hand. The grip was strong. “I am grateful, Mykene,” he replied solemnly. “With this bonding of hands your enemies become our enemies, your friends our friends.”

  Inside the main room now the king of Thessaly was drunk, his head lolling back on his chair. “Farewell to the old witch,” he said, raising his cup.

  “Do not gloat, my friend,” Agamemnon said. “Even in the midst of enmity we should feel some sympathy for Priam, for it was said he had great love for her.”

  “A pox on sympathy,” Peleus muttered. “The old hag outlived her time.”

  “We all do,” Odysseus said. “Some sooner than others.”

  Peleus sat up in his chair, his bleary eyes on the Ithakan king. “What does that mean?” he snarled.

  “Did it seem I was speaking in some obscure Hittite dialect?” Odysseus countered, his tone bored.

  Peleus observed him malevolently. “I never liked you, Odysseus,” he said.

  “Hardly surprising. You’ve never liked anyone this side of puberty.”

  Peleus surged out of his chair, scrabbling for his dagger. Agamemnon moved with speed to stand between the men. “Now, that is enough, my friend,” he said, grasping Peleus by the wrist. “It is not necessary for us to like one another. There is a common enemy who requires our focus.” He felt Peleus relax and sensed the man was grateful to have been blocked. The Mykene king turned to Odysseus. “Your mood has been foul all evening. Walk with me in the garden. The air will clear your mind.”

  Pushing open the doors as he spoke, Agamemnon strolled out into the cool of the evening. The Ugly King followed him. The guards moved back out of earshot.

  “Are you still torn, Odysseus?” Agamemnon asked softly.

  “Emotions are complex beasts. I loathe Peleus. I like Hektor and Helikaon. Now Peleus is my ally and my two friends are my foes. Of course I am torn. But my course is set, my sail rigged. They have declared me an enemy of Troy, and now they will discover what that means.”

  Agamemnon nodded. “You speak of Helikaon. Tonight my men will kill him.” It was a lie, but Agamemnon needed to see his reaction.

  Odysseus laughed. “I think you will try at some time,” he said. “It is a sensible plan. Helikaon is a fine fighter, a good general, and a brilliant sailor. But it will not be tonight.”

  “Not tonight? Why?”

  “Two reasons. One, you are unsure of me, Agamemnon. I could leave here and warn the boy. That might mean your men being taken alive and implicating you. Or, if they succeeded, I could go to Priam with information about your plot and you would be dragged to justice for breaking the truce. Priam’s gratitude might then extend to putting aside his enmity and declaring me a friend once more.”

  Agamemnon nodded. “You have a sharp mind, Odysseus.”

  “Yes, I do.” He looked at Agamemnon and sighed. “I would tell you to put your fears aside concerning me, but it is not in your nature. So I will continue to speak frankly until you realize that my alliance is a true one. I hope Helikaon survives. Yet in order for us to succeed in this venture, Dardania must be in turmoil. Only then can your troops cross the Hellespont from Thraki and invade to the north of Troy.”

  Agamemnon blinked and felt shock flow through him with needles of ice. No one knew of his troops moving into Thraki. If it was discovered before the end of the games, he would never leave Troy alive.

  “I don’t know of what you speak,” he managed to say.

  “Let us play no games, Agamemnon. Troy cannot be taken by frontal assault. You could camp an army across the Scamander, as Idomeneos suggests, and the roads north and east would remain open, supplies and mercenaries flowing in. To fully surround Troy you
would need a hundred times more soldiers than any of us possess. The feeding of such a multitude would require thousands of wagons and, more important, farmlands and stock and slaves to gather crops. An army of that size would denude the land all the way to the horizon and cause consternation in the Hittite capital. Being huge, it would be difficult to manage and slow to respond to threat. Troy’s allies would attack its flanks, severing its supply routes. Hektor and the Trojan Horse would sally out from the city, striking like lightning, then fleeing back behind the walls. Within a season our treasuries would be bare, our armies demoralized. Then what if the Hittites won their own civil war, freeing their forces to come to the aid of Troy?

  “No, Agamemnon, there is only one way to take this city. It needs to be slowly squeezed from above and below, with the sea routes blocked. North is Dardania, south Thebe Under Plakos. Dardanos guards the Hellespont, and across the narrow straits there is Thraki, an ally of Troy. So first you must take Thraki and hold it, preparing it to be a supply base for our troops. Only then can an invasion force cross the Hellespont into Dardania and continue to be resupplied. In the south it will be more simple. Troops and supplies can be shipped from Kos, Rhodos, and Miletos. Then Thebe Under Plakos can be taken, closing off the routes through the Ida mountains and preventing the coming of reinforcements from the Fat King, Kygones, in Lykia and others friendly to Troy.”

  Agamemon looked at Odysseus as if seeing him for the first time. The broad face, which had seemed so jovial, was now hard, the eyes glittering. Power radiated from him. “Your words are fascinating,” Agamemnon said, playing for time. “Do go on.”

  Odysseus laughed. “Fascinating they may be, but you already know all that I am about to say. For you understand strategy as well as any man alive. This is not a city to be raided and sacked in the course of a few days or even a few seasons. But it cannot take too long. We both know that.”

  “And why would that be?”