Helikaon pushed himself to his feet. “I must attend your mother. She would be happy if you came with me.”
“Then I shall make her happy,” said Kassandra.
Swinging back, she gazed at the bay. “This is where they will come,” she whispered. “Just like Herakles did. Only this time their ships will fill the bay. As far as can be seen, all the way to the horizon. And there will be blood and death upon the beach.”
III
For Laodike the afternoon was one of unremitting sadness, and it had started so well. She had been laughing and joking with Andromache in her high apartments overlooking the northern plains. Andromache had been trying on various hats and clothes presented to Laodike by foreign ambassadors. Most of them were ludicrous and showed how stupid and primitive were the peoples of other nations: a wooden hat from Phrygia with an integral veil so heavy that any woman wearing it would be half-blind; a tall conical Babylonian hat, made of beaten rings of silver, that perched precariously on top of the head, held in place only by chin straps. She and Andromache had cavorted around the apartments, shrieking with laughter. At one point Andromache had donned a Kretan dress of heavy linen embroidered with gold thread. It was designed so that the breasts could stand free, and a corset of bone drew in the waist, emphasizing the curves of the wearer.
“It is the most uncomfortable clothing I’ve ever worn,” said Andromache, pulling back her shoulders, her breasts jutting proud and high. Laodike’s good humor had begun to evaporate at that moment. Standing there in a stupid dress, the flame-haired Andromache had looked like a goddess, and Laodike had felt unutterably plain.
Her mood had lifted as they were traveling to her mother’s summer palace, but not by much. Mother had never liked her. Laodike’s childhood had been one of constant scolding. She could never remember the names of all the countries of the Great Green, and even when she did recall them, she found that she got the cities mixed up. So many of them were similar—Maeonia, Mysia, Mykene, Kios, and Kos. In the end they all blurred in her mind. In Mother’s lessons she would panic, and the gates of her mind would close, denying all access even to things she knew. Kreusa and Paris would always know the answers, just as—she had been told—Hektor did before them. She did not doubt that strange little Kassandra also pleased Mother.
Perhaps now that she is ill she will be less harsh, she had thought as the two-wheeled carriage crossed the Scamander bridge.
“What is she like, your mother?” Andromache asked.
“Very nice,” answered Laodike.
“No, I mean, what does she look like?”
“Oh, she’s tall and her hair is dark. Father says she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She is still very attractive. Her eyes are gray-blue.”
“She is revered on Thera,” said Andromache. “Part of her dowry built the Temple of the Horse.”
“Yes. Mother spoke of it. Very big.”
Andromache laughed. “Very big? It is colossal, Laodike. You can see it from the sea, miles from Thera. The head is so large that inside it there is a great hall in which fifty of the senior priestesses meet and offer prayers and sacrifices to Poseidon. The eyes are massive windows. If you lean out, you can pretend to be a bird, so high are you in the sky.”
“It sounds… wonderful,” Laodike said dully.
“Are you ill?” Andromache asked, leaning in to her and placing an arm around her shoulder.
“No, I am well. Truly.” She looked into Andromache’s green eyes, seeing the concern there. “It is just…”
“Hera’s curse?”
“Yes,” she said, happy that it was not a complete lie. “Don’t you find it strange that it was a goddess who cursed women with periods of bleeding? Ought to have been a capricious god, really.”
Andromache laughed. “If all the tales are to be believed, the male gods would surely prefer women to rut all the time. Perhaps Hera was just allowing us a little respite.”
Laodike saw the shoulders of the carriage driver hunch forward as if he was trying to move himself farther from the conversation. Suddenly her mood lifted, and she began to giggle. “Oh, Andromache, you really do have a wonderful way of seeing things.” Settling back in her seat, she glanced ahead at the walls of King’s Joy, her fears melting away.
Laodike had not seen her mother for several months, and when Paris led them into the garden, she did not recognize her. Sitting in a wicker chair was a white-haired ancient, frail and bony, her face a mask of yellowed parchment drawn so tightly across her skull that it seemed that at any moment the skin would tear. Laodike stood very still, not knowing how to react. At first she thought the crone was also visiting her mother, but then the ancient spoke.
“Are you just going to stand there, stupid girl, or are you going to kiss your mother?”
Laodike felt giddy. Her mouth was dry, her mind reeling, just as it had been during those awful lessons. “This is Andromache,” she managed to say.
The dying queen’s gaze moved on. Laodike felt a surge of relief.
Then Andromache stepped forward and kissed Hekabe’s cheek. “I am sorry to find you in such poor health,” she said.
“My son tells me I will like you,” said the queen coldly. “I have always loathed that phrase. It instantly makes me feel I am destined to dislike the person. So you tell me why I should like you.”
Andromache shook her head. “I think not, Queen Hekabe. It seems to me that in Troy everyone plays games. I do not play games. Like me if you will, dislike me if you must. Either way the sun will still shine.”
“A good answer,” said the queen. Then her bright eyes fixed Andromache with a piercing look. “I hear you stood on the high parapet with Priam and refused to kneel.”
“Did you kneel for Priam?”
“Not for Priam or any man!” snapped the queen.
Andromache laughed. “There you are, then, Queen Hekabe. We have something in common already. We don’t know how to kneel.”
The queen’s smile faded. “Yes, we have something in common. Has my husband tried to bed you yet?”
“No. Nor will he succeed if he tries.”
“Oh, he will try, my dear. Not just because you are tall and comely but because you are very like me. Or rather as I once was. I, too, was once a priestess of Thera. I, too, was strong once. I ran through the hills and bent the bow and danced in the revels. I, too, had a sweet lover, full-lipped and heavy-breasted. How did Kalliope take your parting?”
Laodike was shocked at this news and glanced at Andromache. She thought her friend would be crestfallen and shamed.
Instead Andromache smiled broadly. “What a city this is,” she said. “Everywhere there are spies and whispers, and no secrets are safe. I had not thought the royal court would know so much of the happenings on Thera.”
“The royal court does not,” said the queen. “I do. So, did Kalliope weep? Did she beg you to run away with her?”
“Was that how you parted from your lover?”
“Yes. It tore my heart to leave her. She killed herself.”
“She must have loved you greatly.”
“I am sure that she did. But she killed herself twenty years later, after a vileness grew in her throat, draining the flesh from her bones and robbing her of speech and breath. She threw herself from the Eye of the Horse, her life dashed out on the rocks far below. Now I have a vileness in my belly. Do you think the gods punished us both for our lustful ways?”
“Do you?”
Hekabe shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder.”
“I do not,” said Andromache. “Angry men stalk the lands with sword and fire, burning, killing, and raping, yet the gods are said to admire them. If this is true, then I cannot see how they would punish women for loving one another. However, if I am wrong and the gods do hate us for our pleasures, then they do not deserve my worship.”
Hekabe suddenly laughed. “Oh, you are so like me! And you are far more suited to my Hektor than your insipid sister. However, we were talking a
bout Priam. He will not rape you. He will seek to seduce you, or he will find some other means to force your acquiescence. He is a subtle man. I think he will wait until I am dead, though. So you have a little time of freedom yet.”
“How could anyone love such a man?” said Andromache.
Hekabe sighed. “He is willful and sometimes cruel, but there is greatness in him, too.” She smiled. “When you have known him a little longer you will see it.” Her eyes turned back to Laodike. “Well, girl, are you going to kiss your mother?”
“Yes,” Laodike replied meekly, stepping forward and stooping down. She closed her eyes and planted a swift peck on her mother’s cheek, then moved back hurriedly. The queen smelled of cloves, the scent sickly and cloying.
Servants brought chairs and cool drinks, and they sat together. Paris had wandered off and was reading a scroll. Laodike did not know what to say. She knew now that her mother was dying, and her heart ached with the knowledge of it. She felt like a child again, miserable, alone and unloved. Even on the verge of death Mother did not have a kind word for her. Her stomach was knotted, and the conversation between Andromache and Hekabe seemed like the intermittent buzzing of bees. Mother summoned more servants to raise a set of painted sunscreens around them, and though the shade was welcome, it did nothing to raise Laodike’s spirits.
And then Helikaon came, and once more Laodike’s spirits lifted. She rose from her chair and waved as the young prince came striding across the pale grass of the cliff top, young Kassandra beside him. He smiled when he saw Laodike.
“You are more lovely than ever, Cousin,” he said, taking her into his arms and hugging her close. Laodike wanted the hug never to end, and she clung to him and kissed his cheek.
“By the gods, Laodike, must you act the harlot?” demanded her mother.
The harshness of the tone cut through her. She had committed the most awful breach of protocol. A guest must first greet the queen. Helikaon leaned in and kissed her brow. Then he winked and mouthed the words: “Don’t worry!” Stepping forward, he knelt beside the queen’s chair. “I brought Kassandra as you requested.”
“No one brought me,” said Kassandra. “I came to make you happy, Mother.”
“You always make me happy, my dear,” said Hekabe. “Now sit with us, Helikaon. I am told you have been battling pirates and setting them ablaze, no less.”
“It is too beautiful a day,” he said, “to be spoiled by tales of bloodshed and savagery. And the lady Andromache already knows of the battle and its aftermath. She was there on the beach.”
“I envy you,” said Hekabe. “I would like to have watched those Mykene burn. Heartless dogs, every one of them. I never met a Mykene I liked—nor one I trusted.”
“Tell Mother about the disguise,” said Laodike. “One of my servants heard it from a crewman.”
“Disguise?” Hekabe echoed, her brows furrowing.
“To escape assassins on the cliff,” said Laodike. “It was very clever. Tell her, Helikaon.”
“It was a small matter. I knew the killers were waiting for me, so I bribed one of Kygones’ guards and borrowed his armor. Nothing dramatic, I fear. I merely walked past the Mykene.” He suddenly chuckled. “One of them even called me over to ask if I had seen Helikaon.”
“You were dressed as a guard?” said Andromache. “Did you perchance lose your sandal on the beach?”
“Yes. The strap broke. How odd you should know that.”
“Not at all. I saw you.”
Laodike looked at her young friend. Her face seemed very pale, and for the first time since she had known her Andromache seemed tense and ill at ease.
“It was a cheap sandal,” said Helikaon.
“Tell me of the ship,” demanded Hekabe. “I have always loved tales of ships.”
Laodike sat quietly as Helikaon spoke of the Xanthos and the Madman from Miletos who had designed and built her. He talked of her seaworthiness and how she danced upon the waters like a queen of the sea. He told them of the storm and how the ship had weathered it. Laodike was lost in the wonder of it all. She dreamed of sailing far away from Troy to live on a green island where no one would ever call her a stupid girl or demand that she recite the names of lands she would never visit.
Toward dusk Hekabe complained of tiredness, and two servants were summoned to carry her back into the house. Helikaon left soon afterward. He had intended to sail that day for Dardania but now would have to wait for the dawn.
He kissed Laodike and hugged her again. “She does not mean to be cruel,” he said.
Oh, yes, she does, thought Laodike, but said: “I am sure you are right, Helikaon.”
Kneeling beside Kassandra, he said: “Do I get a hug from you, little friend?”
“No.”
“Very well,” he told her, and began to rise.
“I have changed my mind,” she said haughtily. “I will allow you a hug because it will make you happy.”
“That is gracious of you,” he said. Kassandra threw her thin arms around his neck, and hugged him tightly. He kissed her cheek. “Friends should always hug,” he added. Then he stood and turned toward Andromache.
“It was good to see you again, lady,” he said. Laodike expected him to step in and take her in his arms also, but he did not. The two of them looked at each other. Andromache’s normally stern face had softened, and there was color in her cheeks.
“Will you come back for the wedding?”
“I think not. I wish you every happiness. I have always known Hektor was lucky, but now I know the gods have blessed him.”
“But have they blessed me?” she asked softly.
“I hope so—with all my heart.”
“Are you going to hug her?” asked Kassandra. “You should.”
Helikaon looked uncertain, but Andromache stepped in. “I think we should be friends,” she said.
“We always will be, Andromache. You have my oath on that.” His arms swept around her, drawing her close.
Laodike felt a sudden chill in her belly as she watched them. She saw Helikaon’s eyes close and heard him sigh. Sadness flowed through her. For several years now she had entertained the fantasy that her father might arrange a marriage between her and Helikaon. She knew he did not love her but believed that if such a match was completed, she could make him happy. When she had heard he had refused to be wedded to the beautiful Kreusa, she had been jubilant. He had told Priam he would marry only for love. Laodike had held to the faintest hope that he might come to love her. That hope had shone like a spark in the lonely nights. Now it was extinguished. He had never held her like that.
And she knew in that moment that he never would.
You will never know love, whispered the dark fear of her heart.
Andromache broke the embrace. She was flushed and seemed unsteady on her feet. Swiftly she stepped back from Helikaon, then knelt by the slim Kassandra. “Can we be friends, too?” she asked.
“Not yet,” said Kassandra. “I am going to swim again. The dolphins are waiting for me.”
XX
THE TEMPLE OF HERMES
I
Karpophorus was uneasy as he sat on the rooftop, staring across the Scamander at the distant cliff-top palace. Tonight, as the sun set, the feast of Demeter the corn goddess would begin. People would give thanks for the harvests of the summer. There would be strong drink, fine wines, platters of food, and huge roasting pits. People would dance and sing and throw off their cares and worries for a day. In nine months there would be hundreds of new babes born into the world, screaming and crying. Karpophorus loathed feast days.
However, this one was special.
When he had first been called to his ministry of death he had traveled to the island of Samothraki, to seek the wisdom of a seer who dwelled there. The man was famous across the Great Green. He lived in a cave, eschewing wealth in the search for spiritual perfection. There were always scores of people thronging the hillside below the cave, offering gifts and making entr
eaties. The seer would sit silently in the sunshine and occasionally call someone forward. Then he would speak in low tones, and the supplicant would listen before walking away quietly through the crowd. People would call out to the supplicant, “What did he say?” But always there was no answer.
Karpophorus had waited for nineteen days. On the morning of the twentieth, as he stared at the old man, he saw that the seer’s eyes were upon him. Then he was summoned. He could scarcely believe it and glanced around to see if anyone was standing behind him. Finally he rose and walked up the hillside.
The seer was less old than he had thought. Though his beard was white, his face was unlined.
Karpophorus sat cross-legged before him.
“What wisdom do you seek?” asked the seer.
“I have been called to serve the Great Father,” Karpophorus told him. “But I need guidance.”
“How did this call come upon you?”
Karpophorus told him of the death of his coworker and of his realization that he was to serve the great god by sending souls on the long journey.
“You think Hades requires you to kill people?”
“Yes,” Karpophorus answered proudly.
The man looked at him, his face expressionless, his large blue eyes holding Karpophorus’ dark gaze. “How many have you killed now?”
“Nine.”
“Wait while I commune with the spirits,” said the seer, then closed his eyes.
So much time passed that Karpophorus began to think the man had fallen asleep. Then his eyes opened.
“All men choose to follow one path or another, Karpophorus. If I were to tell you that you were deluded and that the Lord of the Dead did not call upon you, would you believe me? Answer honestly.”
“No. The Great God has made me his servant.”
The man nodded. “Tell me, do you believe he would want you to kill children?”
“No.”