Cold anger rose, and he swung to await the assassins. He had carried no sword or dagger with him to the ambassador’s house, and he stood there unarmed as the five men approached.
The leader was swathed in a dark hooded cloak. He stepped forward and spoke. “Renegade, you know what dark deeds have brought you to this judgment.”
Argurios stood calmly and looked the man in the eye. “There are no dark deeds to my name. I am Argurios and the victim of a coward’s lies. I intend to sail home and appeal to my king.”
The man laughed harshly. “Your life ends here, traitor. There are no appeals.”
A knife flashed into his hands, and he leapt forward. Argurios stepped in to meet him, grabbing the knife wrist and thundering a fierce blow into the man’s face. As the man fell back, Argurios gripped his wrist with both hands, spun him around, and twisted the arm savagely, dislocating his shoulder. The assassin screamed and dropped his knife. The other four men surged forward. Lifting his foot, Argurios propelled the crippled assassin into his comrades, then swept up the dagger.
“I am Argurios!” he thundered. “To come at me is to die.”
They hesitated then, but all were armed with swords. The injured leader was on his knees. “Kill him!” he screamed.
They rushed in. Argurios charged to meet them. A sword plunged into his side, a second cleaving his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain, he stabbed one man through the heart, kicked a second man in the right knee, causing him to fall, and then grappled with the third. The fourth man stabbed at him, the blade glancing from his ribs. Argurios could feel his strength failing. Smashing a blow to one attacker’s face, he followed up with a head butt that broke another’s nose. Half-blinded, the assassin staggered. Argurios twisted to one side, then hammered his foot against an attacker’s knee. There was a sickening crack as the joint snapped, followed by a piercing shriek of agony. The third attacker was on his feet again. Argurios dived to the ground, grabbing a fallen sword, then rolled just in time to block a downward cut. Surging up, he shoulder charged the attacker, hurling him back. Before the man could recover Argurios drove his sword through the assassin’s chest. Tearing the blade clear, he swung in time to parry a ferocious lunge that would have disemboweled him. His sword lanced up, skewering the man through the chin and up into his brain. Argurios wrenched the blade loose and let him fall.
The man with the shattered knee was groaning loudly. Argurios glanced to his left, where the leader now stood, his knife held in his left hand, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side.
“Your comrade cannot walk,” said Argurios. “He will need you to help him to a house of healing.”
“There will be another day,” said the man.
“Maybe, but not for you, puppy dog. It’ll take real hounds to hunt down this old wolf. Now get you gone.”
He stood tall and apparently strong as the leader hauled the groaning man upright. Then the two of them made their slow way back into the darkness.
Argurios managed to stay upright for a few moments more.
He had no idea how much time had passed since then. The pain in his stomach had ceased, and he was cold, though he could still feel warm blood flowing under his hand. He tried to lift himself up with one arm, and the pain ripped through him again. Then he heard footsteps. So they had come back to finish their work. Anger gave him strength, and he levered himself upright, determined to die on his feet.
Several soldiers in crested helmets moved into sight. Argurios sagged back against the door frame.
“What happened here?” asked the first soldier, stepping in close. The world spun, and Argurios fell. The soldier dropped his spear and caught him, lowering him to the ground.
A second soldier called out: “One of the dead men is Philometor the Mykene. He was said to be a fine warrior.”
An elderly man came out of the house and spoke to the soldier. “I saw it from my balcony. Five men attacked him. He had no weapon, and he defeated them all.”
“Well,” said the soldier, “we must get him to the temple. Any man the Mykene want dead must be worthy of life.”
XVII
THE GOLDEN KING
I
The last time Helikaon had stood on the beach below Troy, Zidantas had been alongside him. They had been on their way to Kypros to take the Xanthos on her maiden voyage. It seemed a lifetime ago now.
The ship had been unloaded, the cargo carried to warehouses. With the season over there were few merchants on the beaches, and the Xanthos would continue north to Dardania with a much lighter load. The crew had been paid, and twenty-eight rowers had declared their intent to leave the ship. Oniacus had been scouring the taverns, seeking fresh men to crew the Xanthos on its journey home.
Helikaon glanced along the bay and saw Odysseus and his crew preparing the Penelope for launch. The slender old ship slid gracefully into the water, the men hauling themselves aboard. Odysseus was shouting orders now. For a moment Helikaon wished that the years could be swept away and that he was back aboard the Penelope, sailing off across the Great Green to winter in Ithaka. Life had seemed so uncomplicated then, his concerns small and focused on easily remedied problems: the tear in the sail that could be stitched, the blistered hands that could be bandaged.
Earlier that morning he had sat on the beach with his friend. It was their first meeting since the battle outside Blue Owl Bay. Odysseus had told him about the boy Xander, and they had sat in comfortable silence for a while.
“You have not spoken of Zidantas,” Odysseus said at last.
“He is dead. What else is there to say?”
Odysseus looked at him closely. “You remember me talking about the lost hero and your need to find him?”
“Of course. I was a weak and frightened boy. But he is long gone now.”
“He was frightened, yes, but not weak. Intelligent and thoughtful. Aye, and caring and gentle. And sometimes you need to seek him, too.”
Helikaon forced a laugh. The sound was harsh. “He could not survive in my world.”
Odysseus shook his head. “Your world is full of violent men, heroic with sword and shield, ready to butcher their way to whatever plunder they desire. Can you not see it is the boy you were who stops you from being like them? Do not lose sight of him, Helikaon.”
“Would he have destroyed the galleys of Kolanos? Would he have defeated Alektruon or survived the treachery at Blue Owl Bay?”
“No, he would not,” snapped Odysseus. “Nor would he have burned to death fifty or more unarmed and hobbled men. You want to defeat Kolanos—or become him?”
Helikaon felt a rush of anger at this outburst from his friend. “How could you say that to me? You do not know what is in my heart.”
“Who does?” countered Odysseus. “You have it sheathed in armor. You always did.”
“I do not need to hear this,” Helikaon said, pushing himself to his feet.
Odysseus rose alongside him. “How many friends do you have, Helikaon? I love you like my own son, and you are wrong. I do see into your heart. I see you are suffering, and I know what Ox meant to you. You are grieving, and you feel as if something is ripping out your guts from the inside. Your dreams are tortured, your waking hours tormented. You look for him always, just at the edge of your vision. You expect to wake one morning and find him standing there, big as life. And a part of you dies every time you wake and realize he isn’t.”
Helikaon’s shoulders sagged as his anger seeped away. “How can you know all this?”
“I watched my son die.” Odysseus sat down and stared out to sea. Helikaon remained where he was for a moment, then seated himself alongside his friend.
“I am sorry, Odysseus. I had forgotten.”
“You didn’t know him.” The ugly king sighed. “Now, do you want to talk about Ox?”
“I can’t.”
Odysseus looked disappointed, but he nodded. “I understand. But one day, my friend, I hope you will learn to open your heart. Otherwise you will always
be alone. We will not dwell on it, though. Let us return to Kolanos. He is likely to go to ground now. He’ll either return to Mykene or seek shelter on the pirate isle southwest of Samothraki. The waters there are treacherous, and few ships will risk the winter storms. Even if they did, there is a stockade there and several hundred pirates to man it.”
“I know the island,” said Helikaon. “The Penelope beached there on my first voyage. The pirates gathered around you, and you told them a story that had them laughing, crying, and cheering. They showered you with gifts. I still think of it sometimes. A hundred cruel and barbaric men weeping over a story of love and honor and courage.”
“Aye, it was a good night,” said Odysseus. “If Kolanos is there, he will be safe for the winter. But he will sail again in the spring.”
“And I will find him, Odysseus.”
“I expect you will. More important, however, you need to watch yourself now. There are some canny killers out there. With that in mind, I have a small gift for you.”
Delving into the pack he was carrying, he pulled out a tunic of dark brown leather and passed it to Helikaon. It was heavier than Helikaon expected, and he could feel something hard beneath the soft leather.
“Picked it up a few years back in Kretos,” said Odysseus. Helikaon hoisted the garment. It was a knee-length tunic with a lining of silk. “It is a cunning piece,” said Odysseus. “Between the silk and the leather are thin overlapping disks of ivory. It’ll turn a dagger blade, though I doubt it would withstand a powerful sword thrust, a strike from an ax, or a well-aimed arrow from a bow of horn.”
“It is a fine gift, my friend. Thank you.”
“Pshaw! Too small for me, anyway. Wear it when ashore—and try not to travel alone in the city.”
“I will be careful,” Helikaon promised. “I shall be sailing for Dardania soon. Once home, I will be surrounded by loyal soldiers.”
“As your father was,” Odysseus pointed out. “Do not assume anywhere is safe. Equally, do not assume loyalty is made of stone.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do,” Odysseus muttered apologetically. “Did you hear about Argurios?”
“No.”
“Word is he’s been banished and declared an outlaw. It is said you bought him.”
Helikaon shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t buy a man like Argurios. Who could think such a thing?”
“Men who can be bought,” answered Odysseus. “I doubt he’ll last a month. How long are you planning to stay in Troy?”
“A few days more. I must pay my respects to Priam, and there are still merchants I need to see. Why do you ask?”
“Something in the air,” said the older man, touching his nose. “There is a feeling of unease in the city. I suspect there is another palace revolution brewing.”
Helikaon laughed. “There is always a palace revolution brewing. My guess is that Priam enjoys them. It gives his devious mind something to gnaw at.”
“You are right,” admitted Odysseus. “He likes risks. I knew a man once who placed wagers on almost anything. He would sit beneath a tree and wager on which pigeon would fly away first or which dolphin would swim beneath the prow. His wagers grew larger and larger. One day he wagered his lands, his horses, his cattle, and his ship on a single throw of the dice. He lost it all.”
“You believe Priam to be such a fool?”
Odysseus shrugged. “A man who loves risks is a man seeking to test himself. Each time he wins he needs to increase the peril. Priam has many acknowledged sons and only a few positions of power to award. Not all of his sons can succeed him.”
“He has Hektor,” Helikaon pointed out. “He would never betray his father.”
“Hektor is the key in all this,” Odysseus pointed out. “He is both loved and feared. Any who rose against Priam would have to face the wrath of Hektor. That alone is what prevents a civil war. Priam has alienated at least half his generals and the gods alone know how many of his counselors. He strips them of their titles on a whim, appointing others in their place. He revels in humiliating the men around him. His sons, too, are often chided publicly. Foolish man. If Hektor were to fall in battle, this kingdom would rip apart like an old sail in a storm.”
Helikaon laughed. “Hektor will not fall in battle. He is invincible. If his ship were to sink, he’d emerge riding one of Poseidon’s dolphins.”
Odysseus grinned. “Aye, he does radiate a godlike quality.” The smile faded. “But he is not a god, Helikaon. He is a man, albeit a great one. And men die. I wouldn’t want to be in Troy if that were to happen.”
“It won’t happen. The gods have always loved Hektor.”
“May Father Zeus hear those words and make them true.” Odysseus rose. “I must be making ready to sail. Take care, my boy.”
The two men embraced.
“Fair winds and calm seas, Odysseus.”
“That would make a pleasant change. Tell me, will you be seeing Andromache?”
“Perhaps.”
“Fine woman. I like her enormously.” Odysseus laughed. “I would love to have been present when she met Priam.”
Helikaon thought of the Trojan king. Powerful and dominant, he sought to intimidate all who came before him. Then he recalled Andromache’s challenging gaze. “Yes,” he agreed. “I would like to have seen that, too.”
II
“My lady, wake up, my lady! Oh, please wake up!”
Andromache returned to consciousness slowly. She had been dreaming of a great storm, the sea rising like a mountain into the sky. Ever since she had visited the seer Aklides, she had been haunted by dreams: visions of men with one sandal or colossal storms. Once she had even dreamed she was married to a pig farmer whose face had slowly become that of a boar, white tusks sprouting from his bearded cheeks.
Her bed was a tangle of white linen, and she felt the slickness of sweat on her body. The dreams had been full of fear, leaving a lingering sense of dread behind them. Sitting up, she regarded her handmaid, the young and heavily pregnant Axa.
Normally smiling and complacent, Axa was wringing her hands in worry, her plump, plain face a mask of anxiety.
“Thank the gods, my lady. I thought I would never wake you. You’ve been sent for,” she said, lowering her voice and looking around her as if Andromache’s chambers were filled with spies. Which they might well be, thought Andromache. The entire palace was a sea of suspicious eyes. Servants appeared and hovered whenever people gathered together, and conversations were spoken in whispers.
Andromache shook her head to clear it and swung her long legs out of bed. Outside her high square window she could just see the paleness of dawn in the night sky. “Who has sent for me at this hour?”
“The king, my lady.” Axa immediately started to pull Andromache’s nightgown over her head. “You must wash and dress quickly, my lady, and attend the king with haste. It would not do to delay.”
Andromache could sense the panic in the woman and realized Axa would be held responsible if Priam was kept waiting. As her maid thrust a wet sponge in her face, Andromache grabbed it from her.
“I’ll do that. Find my saffron gown and the calf sandals Laodike gave me yesterday.”
As she washed she wondered about the significance of being made to wait seven days to see Priam. Perhaps she should be honored. Perhaps other young brides had to wait months before they met the king. She had asked Laodike, but the king’s oldest daughter had just shrugged. There were so many things Andromache did not know about Troy. What she did know, however, was that the palace of Priam was not a happy place. Stunningly beautiful and filled with treasures, many of them of solid gold, it was a monument to ostentation, which contrasted mightily with the furtive manner in which people moved through it. Laodike had been assigned to guide Andromache through the customs of the palace: the areas in which the women could wander and the rooms and corridors closed to them. But Andromache had learned far more than this. Laodike’s conversation was always of warni
ngs: what not to do, what not to say: whom to smile at and be civil to, whom to avoid.
Laodike had listed names, but most of them had flown by Andromache with the speed of hunting hawks. Some had registered, but only after she had met the men they applied to: watery-eyed Polites, the king’s chancellor; fat Antiphones, his master of horse. It would have amazed Andromache if the wheezing man could actually mount a horse. Then there was Deiphobos, the prince of the harbor. More commonly called Dios, he looked a little like Helikaon, though without the inherent power. In fact, he had frightened eyes, she thought.
She realized Axa was regarding her with a worried frown. “The pretty sandals, my lady…” She faltered.
“Do you have them, Axa?”
“Yes, my lady, but… they are not appropriate.”
“Do not argue with me,” she said. “You fear the king’s anger. I understand that. But you should fear my anger, too.” She kept her voice pleasant but looked hard into Axa’s face, and the young woman dropped her eyes.
“I’m sorry, my lady, but you do not understand. You cannot wear sandals. You are to meet the king on the great tower. The steps are treacherous, and his orders were for you to wear suitable shoes.”
Later, striding through the stone streets in the growing dawn light, Axa hurrying behind her and two royal Eagles in armor of bronze and silver by her side, Andromache wondered what game Priam was playing. She wished she had had a chance to speak to Laodike about the king’s strange choice of a meeting place.
She had heard a great deal of gossip about Priam in her seven days in Troy, most of it admiring, all of it meaningless. He was said to have fifty sons, Axa had confided to her, although the queen had borne him just four. He was known to have been a great bull in his youth, and many of those sons, recognized by him or not, had made their home in Troy, close to the glory of their father. The king, now on his throne for over forty years, still had an eye for a pretty young girl, said another maid, giggling. Andromache had felt repulsed. Just another old man who could not accept the fact that his rutting days were decently over, she had thought. But then, rich men were also powerful men, and power was an aphrodisiac. And Priam was said to be the richest man in the world.