“And you know all their thoughts, King Priam?”
“I know enough of their thoughts and their ambitions to keep me alive.” He chuckled. “One day, though, one of them will surprise me. He will plunge a dagger through my heart, or slip poison into my cup, or raise a rebellion to overthrow me.”
“Why do you smile at the thought?”
“Why not? Whoever succeeds me as king will be strong and cunning and therefore well equipped for the role.”
Now it was Andromache who smiled. “Or he might be stupid and lucky.”
Priam nodded. “If that proves true, he won’t last long. Another of my cunning sons will overthrow him. However, let us return to your question. Why did I not demand your body in payment? Think on it and we will talk again.” He gazed down at the milling crowds below. “And now I must allow my subjects, both loyal and treacherous, to present their petitions to their king.”
After returning to her rooms, Andromache wrapped herself in a hooded green cloak and left the palace, heading for the lower town and the poorer quarter where the soldiers’ wives were billeted. Asking directions from several women gathered around a well, she located the dwelling occupied by Axa and three other wives. It was small and cramped, with dirt floors. Axa was sitting at the back of the building in the shade, her babe in her arms. She saw Andromache and struggled to rise.
“Oh, sit, please,” said Andromache, kneeling beside her. “I am so sorry, Axa. It was my fault.”
“Mestares will be so angry with me when he gets home,” said Axa. “I have shamed him.”
“You shamed no one. I have seen the king. He knows it was a mistake. He is sending a gift to you. And I want you back. Oh, Axa! Please say you will come!”
“Of course I will,” Axa replied dully. “How else could I feed myself and my son? I will be there tomorrow.”
“Can you forgive me?”
The babe in Axa’s arms began to make soft mewing sounds. Axa opened her shift, exposing a heavy breast, and lifted the child to it. The babe nuzzled at the teat ineffectually and then with more confidence.
Axa sighed. She looked at Andromache. “What difference does it make whether I forgive or don’t forgive?” she asked. “We are called servants, but we are slaves really. We live or die at the whim of others. I was flogged for being seen in a bath. Were you flogged for being with me?”
“No, I wasn’t flogged. But believe me when I say I would rather it had been me. Can we be friends, Axa?”
“I am your servant. I must be whatever you want me to be.”
Andromache fell silent, watching as Axa finished feeding her babe and lifted the mite to her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. “Did they hurt you badly?” she asked at last.
“Yes, they hurt me,” Axa replied, tears in her eyes. “But not with the blows from that knotted rope. I am the wife of Mestares the shield bearer. Ten battles he has fought for the king and for Troy. Now he might be dead, and I live every day fearing the news. And what do they do to ease my suffering? They flog me and throw me from the palace. I will never forgive that.”
“No,” said Andromache, rising to her feet. “Neither would I. I will see you tomorrow, Axa.”
The little woman looked up at her, and her expression softened. “You went to the king for me,” she said. “You I will forgive. But no more baths.”
Andromache smiled. “No more baths,” she agreed.
Returning to the palace, Andromache walked through the private royal gardens. There were still some twenty people there, enjoying the shade and the scent of the blooms. By the far wall, beneath a latticed bower, Kreusa was talking to Agathon. She was wearing a white gown edged with gold and had thrown back her head in a parody of careless laughter, her dark hair rippling in the breeze.
As she approached them, Agathon saw her and gave a tight smile. He is embarrassed, thought Andromache. Kreusa, by contrast, looked at her with an expression of smug satisfaction.
“How are you, beautiful lady?” asked Agathon.
“I am well, Prince Agathon. I saw the king this morning. You heard about the misunderstanding concerning my servant?”
“Yes,” he said. “I was sorry to hear of it.”
“As was I. However, the king has reinstated her and is sending her a gift in apology.” She swung toward Kreusa. “I think he understands now that poor Axa was merely the victim of malice. Some poor, demented creature driven by envy and spite.”
Kreusa’s hand slashed out, slapping Andromache hard on the cheek. Stepping in, Andromache punched her full on the jaw. Kreusa spun and hit the ground hard. She struggled to rise, then slumped down.
Agathon knelt by the half-stunned young woman, helping her stand. There was blood trickling from a split in her lip, and her white gown was smeared with dirt.
Andromache took a deep breath and turned away. All conversation among the crowd had ceased, and she felt all eyes on her as she walked back into the palace.
XXV
THE SILENT HEAD
I
Cthosis the eunuch had worn his latest creation to the meeting, and no one had noticed. It was most galling. The ankle-length gown was jet-black and edged with silver thread. It was a magnificent piece that he had been convinced would be the envy of every man present. No one had ever produced a black dye that would remain fast to the cloth. Two problems always occurred. First, if rained upon the dye would seep out, staining the skin for days. Second, the dyes were so powerful that they would stink until the garment had been washed several times and had faded to a dull and lifeless gray.
Cthosis had spent years refining the process, eliminating those problems. Oak bark from the gnarled trees in the lands of the Somber Sea had provided the source of a finer dye, but obtaining it had consumed much of his wealth. So treacherous and powerful were the currents that it was almost impossible to sail a ship up the Hellespont and into the Somber Sea. All trade goods had to be carried overland.
Now here he was, with sixty of the most influential men in Dardania, and not one had mentioned the gown. He wondered if, as an Egypteian, he had failed to realize that there was some antipathy for the color black among these peoples of the Northern Sea. Ah, well, he thought, come the spring I will ship the cloth to Memphis and Luxor. Egypteian men will pay heavily in gold for such finery. Even so, the lack of appreciation was dispiriting.
Raised voices cut through his meditations. The Phrygian cattle trader, whose name Cthosis could never recall, was shouting at a Hittite merchant and waving his powerful fist in the man’s face. Before long blows would be struck, and the entire conference would degenerate into an unseemly brawl. With that in mind Cthosis eased his way to the left-hand wall to stand beneath a fearsome statue of a helmeted warrior carrying a spear. Cthosis was not a fighting man and had no wish to be drawn into an unseemly scrap, especially in his new garment.
Indeed, had it not been for the chance to display it, Cthosis would have avoided the meeting altogether.
People were not hard to read. When times were good, they moved about their business smiling at neighbors. But add a touch of fear or uncertainty and the smiles would disappear. Rows and feuds would erupt. If a storm washed away crops, the cry was: “Who is to blame?” Not the vagaries of the weather, obviously. No, it had to be a mischievous spell cast by a jealous neighbor. Probably a witch. If everyone’s crops were washed away, well, then it was the fault of the king, who had angered the gods in some inexplicable way.
It was not dissimilar back in Egypte: fear and blame, leading to idiots gathering in mobs, followed by riots and unnecessary deaths.
A long time ago, when Cthosis was still a small boy, he had seen lightning strike a tree around which a herd of cattle had been feeding quietly. The cattle had bunched together and taken off in a stampede that had carried half of them over a cliff.
People and cattle. Not a great deal of difference, he thought.
Life had been harsh in Egypte for the mutilated child he had been. Yet at least at the palace the
people had enjoyed a love of poetry and painting, and men would sit in the evenings discussing the beauty of the sunsets. The wall paintings depicted gentle scenes of ships sailing mighty rivers or pharaohs receiving tribute from vassal kings.
Oh, do not fool yourself, stupid man, he chided himself. They were not so different. Here in Dardania they do not clip the balls from a ten-year-old boy so that he can wander among the palace women, carrying their goblets of wine, fetching their cloaks and their hats. The pain had been excruciating but nothing compared to the knowledge that his father had sold him for just that purpose.
Cthosis sighed. The betrayal still hurt, even after fifteen years.
Dust from the statue had rubbed off onto the shoulder of his tunic. Idly he brushed it away. As he did so the stump of his little finger caught on a loose stitch in the cloth. He shivered as he remembered the day three years earlier when it had been cut away. Cthosis had been running to collect some bauble a princess had left in the royal gardens. As he had turned a corner, he had collided with Prince Rameses, knocking the young man sideways. The prince had reacted with customary savagery, hurling Cthosis against a painted pillar. He had been prepared for a beating, but Rameses had dragged his sword from its sheath and lashed out. Cthosis had thrown up his hand. The blade had sliced through one finger and cut into the next. Cthosis had stood there, staring at the severed digit. Then he had realized that it was not over. Rameses had stepped in, pressed the sword point against his chest, and tensed for the killing thrust.
Death was a heartbeat away when a powerful hand grabbed Rameses’ cloak and dragged him back. “Get you gone, eunuch,” said Prince Ahmose. Cthosis had needed no further instruction and had run back to the women’s quarters, where the servant girls had fussed over him and called for the royal physician.
As he had sat there, blood seeping from the ruin of his hand, the aftershock of the violence had hit him. He had begun to tremble. Then he had wept. When he told the women what had happened, they went suddenly quiet and began to cast nervous glances toward the doors.
He knew then that Rameses would send for him and finish what he had begun. Cthosis had struck a prince. It did not matter that it had been accidental. The punishment would be the same.
He had sat miserably while the Nubian physician prepared pitch for the stump. The other injured finger, he was told, was broken and would need a splint. Then the women suddenly scattered. Cthosis felt tears beginning again. Death was once more upon him.
It was not the terrifying Rameses who entered the room but the powerful figure of Prince Ahmose. The big man spoke quietly to the Nubian and then turned to Cthosis, who kept his head down. No slave could ever look into the eyes of a prince.
“You are released from service, eunuch,” said the prince in his deep voice.
Inadvertently Cthosis looked up. “Released, lord?”
Ahmose was not a handsome man. His face was too rugged, the nose too prominent and the chin too broad. And it had a cleft in it that looked like a scar. But his eyes were dark and magnificent.
“Best you leave tonight,” the prince said softly. “I would suggest traveling to a far place.” He placed a pouch in Cthosis’ good hand. “There is gold there and a few baubles, rings and suchlike. I am told they have some value.” Then he left.
The pouch had contained fourteen small gold ingots and several rings set with precious stones. There was also an emerald the size of a dove’s egg. With that fortune Cthosis had traveled to Dardania.
The shouting began again in the great throne room, jerking Cthosis back to the present. He glanced around the crowd. Many nationalities were represented there. He saw Hittites in their curious woolen leggings; Phrygians, tall and red-headed; Samothrakians, Mykene, and Lydians. All wore the clothes of their races. Three Babylonians were standing on the far side of the throne room, their beards curled with hot irons. How foolish was that in this wet autumn climate? There were Trojans—horse traders and chariot makers—who had fallen afoul of Priam and made their home in Dardania. They also stood apart, staring disdainfully at the noisy throng.
“You miserable son of an ugly pig!” someone shouted.
An odd insult, Cthosis thought. Would it be a compliment to be called the son of a beautiful pig? The two men flew at each other. Blows were struck, and they fell, struggling, to the stone floor.
Cthosis considered leaving. No one would notice the absence of a single merchant among so many angry men. But he did not. He was interested to see this new king. He had heard much of Helikaon the trader and a little of Helikaon the fighter. But all he knew of the man’s nature was contained in the story of how he had put aside his rights to the throne in favor of the child Diomedes, his half brother. Such an action did not speak highly of his ambition, or indeed of his ruthlessness.
And ruthlessness was what was required now. Helikaon needed to enter this throne room dressed in armor and carrying a sword of fire to quell this mob.
The two fighting men were dragged apart, still yelling abuse at each other.
Then the great doors opened, and soldiers marched into the throne room. Garbed in bronze breastplates and helmets and carrying long spears and deep shields, they formed two lines and stood silently with their backs to the walls. The crowd fell silent and glanced toward the doors. Cthosis saw a slim young man enter. His long dark hair was tied back from his face by a single strip of leather. His tunic was a pale, listless green with a blue tinge. Probably privet berries, thought Cthosis, and not enough salt in the boil.
The young man stepped up to the dais at the far end of the throne room and halted beside a long table. Then he turned and surveyed the crowd. Men were still talking to one another, and another argument broke out. The young man raised his hand. Immediately all the soldiers began to hammer their spears against their bronze shields. The sudden noise was startling.
Silence fell on the hall.
“I thank you all for coming. I am Helikaon the king,” said the young man.
“I hope it’s worth our while,” shouted someone from the back.
“Let us be clear about something,” said Helikaon, his voice displaying no anger. “There will be no interruptions when I speak. The next man whose voice cuts across mine will rue it. I will call upon each of you to voice his thoughts, and equally, no one will interupt you as you speak. That is the only way we will achieve unity.”
“Who says we need unity?” called out the same man.
Helikaon raised his hand. Two soldiers moved forward, grabbing the speaker—a redheaded Phrygian—and hauling him from the throne room.
“Now, all of you here,” continued Helikaon, “have grievances. There are enmities, hatreds, discords. We are here to put an end to them. And we will achieve this by discussing our grievances and solving them. Almost all of you men come from lands far away. But when you die, your bodies will go into the earth of Dardania and become part of it. And your spirits will reach out and touch your children, and they, too, will become the land. They will be Dardanians. Not Phrygians, Maeonians, Trojans, Lydians, but Dardanians.”
Helikaon fell silent as a soldier carrying a small sack moved through the crowd. He advanced to the dais and waited. Helikaon gestured him forward. The man stepped up to the dais, opened the sack, and lifted out a severed head. Cthosis blinked when he saw it. Then the soldier laid the head on the table, where the dead eyes stared out at the crowd. Blood oozed from the mutilated neck and dripped to the stone floor. It was the head of the redheaded man who only moments before had been hauled from the throne room.
“Now, what I intend to do,” said Helikaon, his voice still calm and agreeable, “is call each of you forward to speak your minds. I do not do this in any order of preference, and you should not consider yourself slighted if you are not called until later. Are there any questions?”
The men stood in shocked silence, staring at the head on the table.
“Good,” said Helikaon. “Then let us begin. I will speak first. Every man here lives or di
es upon my sufferance. Every man here dwells upon my land and is subject to my laws. Obey those laws and you will prosper. You will be protected by my soldiers, and your wealth will grow. You will be able to come to me or my generals and seek help when you need it. Disobey my laws and you will come to rue it. Now, what are these laws? They are simple. You will render to me the king’s due from your profits, or your crops, or your herds. You will not take up arms against me or against any other man under my protection. And that is all men who obey my laws. There will be no blood feuds. Grievances will be brought before me or those appointed by me. That is where judgments will be sought. Those judgments will be final. Should a man commit murder, I will see him dead, and his entire family sold into slavery. His lands, his goods, and his chattel will revert to me.”
Cthosis listened as the young man continued to speak. Not a sound came from anyone else in the throne room. Helikaon did not refer to the dead man or even so much as glance at the severed head. The contrast between his measured words and the ghastly image was chilling. When at last he finished speaking, he called out for a scribe to be sent for. A middle-aged man with a twisted back entered the room and nervously made his way forward. He was carrying a wicker basket full of soft clay tablets. A soldier brought him a chair, and he sat quietly at the end of the table, as far from the severed head as he could.
“This man,” said the king, “will write down your grievances, and I will examine them later and give judgment.” He pointed to a tall, bearded Phrygian. “Now we shall begin the discussion. First say your name, then speak your grievance.”
The man cleared his throat. “If I speak, lord, and you do not like what you hear, will my head also grace your table, like my poor brother?”
“You may speak freely. There will be no recriminations. Begin with your name.”