“You are a strange man, sea uncle.”
Odysseus chuckled. “You first called me that fifteen summers back. That was a good voyage.”
“I have fond memories of it. Helikaon and I used to swap stories about you. He told me how you tricked him into diving from that cliff by pretending you couldn’t swim. He will always be grateful for that. He said you made him a man.”
“Pish! He would have found his way without me. Might have taken a little longer, is all.”
Hektor sighed, and the smile left his face. “He is dying, Odysseus. I hear myself say the words, and I still can’t believe them.”
“He may surprise you yet. Men like Helikaon do not die easily.”
“You have not seen him, Odysseus. He fades in and out, sometimes knowing where he is but mostly floating in delirium. He is stick-thin and fever-ridden.”
“And is this why you are suffering?”
“In part.” Hektor picked up a stone from the beach and sent it skimming over the water. “War is coming. That’s what Father says. I think he is right. He usually is.”
Odysseus looked at the young man, knowing instantly that his question had been deflected. Hektor never could lie. Whatever it was that had brought him low, the young prince had no wish to speak of it.
“There is always talk of war,” Odysseus said. “Perhaps wisdom will prevail.”
Hektor shook his head. “Not wisdom but gold. Many of the allies Agamemnon needs are fed wealth by my father. That is why the gathering at Sparta came to nothing. It will not last. Agamemnon will find a way to unite the kings, or he will kill those who oppose him. Either way he will bring his armies to our gates.” He skimmed another stone, then dropped to his knees to hunt for more. “Do you still carve Penelope’s face in the sand?” he asked.
“Yes. Most nights.”
Hektor sat down on the sand and looked out over the starlit water. “Those were good days, Odysseus. I had killed no one then, led no charges, stormed no walls. All that mattered was shipping the olive oil to Kypros and the copper ore to Lykia. I do not see the world as I did then. I look out over a valley and see battlegrounds where once I saw fields and hills bright with flowers. You know there were six thousand dead at Kadesh? Six thousand!”
“Men will tire of women and song before they tire of war,” said Odysseus, crouching down beside him.
“I am tired of it. So tired. When I was young, Father told me I would come to revel in combat and victory. It was never true. I have even come to loathe the fistfighting, Odysseus. All I want is to live on my farm and raise horses. Yet there is always a battle somewhere. The Egypteians raiding Hittite towns, allies begging for help with insurrections or invasions. Now it is the Mykene, seeking to bring war to Troy.”
“Perhaps… but not this spring. This spring you are to be wed. Can you not put off such gloomy thoughts for a while and enjoy your bride?”
For a heartbeat only Hektor’s expression changed, his shoulders sagging. He turned his face away, staring once more out to sea. “Andromache is wonderful… breathtaking and enchanting. She traveled with you, I am told.”
“For a short time. I liked her enormously.”
“And she met Helikaon then.”
“Yes, I believe she did.”
“Did they… become friends?”
“Oh, I don’t think they got to know each other well enough,” Odysseus lied. “Why do you ask?”
“She nurses him now, exhausting herself.”
“She did that for Argurios, I am told, after assassins brought him low. It is the nature of the woman, Hektor—perhaps the nature of all women—to nurture and to heal.”
“Yes. I expect you are right.” He smiled. “Even my father speaks highly of her, and that is rare. He uses women freely but has no respect for them.”
“She will make a fine wife, Hektor, loyal and true. Of that I have no doubt. She is like my Penelope and will bring you great happiness.”
“We should be getting back to the others,” Hektor said, pushing himself to his feet.
Odysseus spoke quietly. “You know, lad, sometimes a problem shared grows in weight. Most times, though, it lessens when spoken of. You know that you can talk to me and that I will not repeat what you say. I tell you this because it seems to me you are carrying a great burden. It should not be so. You are Hektor, prince of Troy. Your fame is known around the Great Green. There is not a man on this beach who would not give ten years of his life to be you.”
Hektor looked into Odysseus’ eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was full of sorrow. “I cannot share my burden, sea uncle—even with you. Believe me, though, when I say that if the truth was known, not one of those men would wish to be me.”
With that, he strode back to the campfire.
Dawn was breaking, and there were rain clouds to the south when Piria woke. A little way from her Banokles was snoring. Kalliades was stretched out alongside him. He opened his eyes as Piria stirred and smiled before falling asleep again.
She lay quietly for a while on the soft sand. For the first time in months her dreams had not been troubled, nor had she been woken by the pain of her injuries. Carefully she sat up. The pain was less now, and she sensed that her body had begun to heal. The rising sun shone down on Apollo’s Bow, bathing the cliffs in soft gold, and Piria felt a lightness of spirit that had long been absent. The outburst at Kalliades the previous day had been remarkable in its effect. It was as if she had been holding poison inside her and it had flowed out with the angry words. Everything was different this day, the sky more beautiful, the scent of the sea more uplifting. Even the air felt clean as it filled her lungs. She had not felt this happy since she and Andromache had been together on Thera with no thought of ever leaving.
Breakfast fires had been lit, and Piria wandered across to a stall, where she was given a wooden bowl filled with a nameless stew and a hunk of dry bread. The stew was greasy, brimming with lumps of stringy meat, yet the taste was divine. She wondered idly whether this stew would have seemed inedible back on Thera and decided it probably would. Yet here on this chilly morning it was delicious.
The meal finished, she stood and returned to the stall, collecting two more bowls to bring to Banokles and Kalliades. The idea of doing it made her smile. How amazing it was, she thought, to be growing fond of two men.
Kalliades was sitting up when she returned, and he thanked her for the stew. Banokles groaned as he awoke and took the stew without a word. He ate noisily, complaining of a loose tooth.
Men were stirring around the Penelope campfire, and farther on, the crewmen of the Xanthos were preparing to depart. She saw Hektor sitting alone, and her thoughts darkened as she gazed upon him. This was the man who would chain Andromache’s spirit, who would plant his seed in her, who would pin her down and invade her body. In that moment all the old hatreds sought to rise. They had no power over her now, and she pushed them back. Even so, she felt uneasy watching Hektor.
Rising to his feet, he stripped off his tunic, waded out into the sea, and dived forward into the blue water. He swam with long, easy strokes almost to the edge of the bay, then turned and headed back toward the shore.
“Tell me,” she heard Banokles say behind her, “did a herd of cattle stampede over me last night?”
“Not that I noticed,” Kalliades told him.
“I am trying to find some part of my body that doesn’t hurt,” Banokles grumbled. His right eye was swollen badly, and there were dark bruises on both cheeks.
Piria glanced at him. “Perhaps your feet,” she said. “He didn’t hit you in the feet.”
Banokles grinned, then winced. “You are right. My feet are fine.” He looked over at Kalliades. “I woke last night and saw you talking to Leukon. Does he hurt as much as me?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Bastard! So what were you talking about?”
“He has agreed to train you for the games.”
“Ha!” Banokles snorted. “Like I need to be
trained by a man I beat?”
“Yes, you do, idiot. He is a skilled fighter, and you know it. You beat him with a lucky punch. You know that, too. If you are going to win wealth in Troy, his training could prove vital. So I have promised him that every night, when we beach, you will do exactly as he tells you.”
“Won’t hurt to practice, I suppose,” Banokles agreed. Then he glanced across to where Hektor was emerging from the water. “I remember him as far more frightening,” he said. “Very strange. Here he just looks like a big friendly sailor. Even Leukon is more chilling. And bigger. Back in Troy Hektor looked like a giant—a war god.”
Banokles suddenly leaned forward, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Trouble looming,” he said. Piria glanced across the beach. Hektor had pulled on a linen kilt and was standing bare-chested, toweling himself dry. Some twenty sailors were walking toward him, led by a massive man with a red forked beard. Piria knew what Banokles meant by trouble looming. The expressions on the men’s faces were set and hard, and they were grouped together as if on a hunt rather than strolling along a beach.
“That is Hakros, the Rhodian champion,” Kalliades said. “Leukon told me of him last night.”
“By the balls of Ares, he’s a monster right enough,” Banokles said. “Come on, I don’t want to miss this.”
The three companions made their way across the sand. Others had spotted the group, and men began to gather, watching intently.
The huge man with the red beard halted before Hektor and stood there, hands on hips, staring at the Trojan prince. Hektor toweled his golden hair, ignoring him. Piria saw the newcomer redden. Then he spoke, his voice harsh.
“So, you are the mighty Hektor. Will you be taking part in your wedding games?”
“No,” Hektor said, draping the towel across his shoulder.
“Just as well. Now that I’ve seen you, I know I could break your skull.”
“Lucky for me, then,” Hektor said softly.
Piria saw the Rhodian’s eyes narrow. “I am Hakros.”
“Of course you are,” Hektor said wearily. “Now be a good fellow, Hakros, and walk away. You have impressed your friends, and you have told me your name.”
“I walk when I choose. I am minded to test your legend, Trojan.”
“That would be unwise,” Hektor told him. “Here on this beach there is no gold to be won, no acclaim.”
Hakros swung to his comrades. “You see? He is frightened to face me.”
When Hektor spoke, there was no anger in his voice and his words carried to all the watching men. “You are a stupid man, Hakros, a dullard and a windbag. Now you have two choices. Walk away or be carried away.”
For a moment there was stillness, then the Rhodian hurled himself at Hektor. The Trojan stepped in to meet him, dropped his shoulder, and sent a thundering right cross into Hakros’ jaw. There was a sickening crack, and Hakros cried out as he fell. Gamely he surged to his feet—to be met by a straight left that shredded his lips against his teeth and an uppercut that smashed his nose and sent him hurtling unconscious to the sand.
“Oh, yes,” Banokles said. “Now, that is the man I remember.”
Men gathered around the fallen champion, but Hektor was already walking away.
“His jaw is broken,” Piria heard someone say.
Leukon walked over to stand alongside Banokles and Kalliades. “Now, that man is a fighter,” he said. “The speed of those punches was inhuman.”
“Could you beat him?” Kalliades asked.
Leukon shook his head. “I doubt there’s a man alive who could.”
“There is one,” Piria said before she could stop herself.
“And who might that be?” Leukon asked.
“The champion of Thessaly. Achilles.”
“Ah, I have heard of him but never seen him fight. What is he like?”
“He is bigger than Hektor but just as fast. But he wouldn’t have tried to talk the man out of a fight. The moment the fool stood before him, Achilles would have destroyed him. He would have been left dead on the sand.”
“And he will be taking part,” Leukon said. “Not a comforting thought.” Swinging around to Banokles, he clapped him on the shoulder. “Just as well we’ll be practicing together,” he said.
“Don’t you worry, Leukon,” Banokles told him. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”
Piria walked away from the men and stared out to sea. Somewhere in the far distance was the Golden City and Andromache. Closing her eyes, she pictured her lover’s face, the reddish gold of her hair, the glorious green of her eyes.
“I will be with you soon, my love,” she whispered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GHOSTS OF THE PAST
The sky above Troy was heavy with rain clouds, and to the west Andromache could see the distant lightning of a summer storm. Thunder rumbled in the cool afternoon, and she pulled her green woolen shawl closely around her against the cutting wind the Trojans called the Scythe. Her toes were cold in close-fitting leather and wool sandals, and she stamped her feet to keep them warm.
In the Bay of Troy far below she could see a ship closing fast on the city from the north. It was racing to beat the coming storm, oars beating rhythmically, sail stretched taut by the wind.
Andromache’s thoughts flew back to her own journey on the Penelope the previous autumn. Her heart had been heavy then, the future dark with foreboding. It seemed impossible that only a single winter had passed since she had last seen Kalliope, since together they had performed the calming rites for the soul of the Minotaur. The island of Thera now belonged to a different age, passing somehow into dream. So much had happened since then. In that moment she wished that Kalliope could be with her on this bleak hillside. A selfish thought, she realized, for Kalliope was unsuited to the world of men. Thera was where she belonged, where she was happy and free. Thoughts of Kalliope caused confusion in her now. Unlike her lover, Andromache had never hated men, nor had she ever yearned to be free of them. Her time with Kalliope, especially the nights, tasting the wine on the other’s lips, stroking her soft skin, had been wondrous and fulfilling. Yet equally wondrous were the feelings Helikaon had inspired in her.
Her emotions torn, Andromache sighed and turned toward the newly built tomb. It was elaborately carved with bright warriors and fair maidens and stood facing west toward the lands of the Mykene. No grass yet grew around it, and the marble was white as swan’s down. Within it lay the bones of Argurios and Laodike, forever at rest together.
Andromache felt the familiar ache in her heart, the dead weight of guilt on her soul. If she had realized the gravity of Laodike’s wound, could she have saved her friend? She had asked herself a thousand times. She was sick and tired of the thought; it was an evil demon lying in wait in the corner of her mind, ever eager to leap out and torment her. Yet every day she made her pilgrimage to this tomb and fed the demon anew.
Laodike had been stabbed when the renegade Thrakians had attacked the palace. Andromache had half carried her to the deceptive safety of the queen’s apartments while Helikaon and a company of Royal Eagles had fought a rearguard action against the traitors. The wound had seemed slight. Not a great deal of blood had flowed from it, and Laodike had appeared strong. Later, as the dreadful siege had worn on, she had become listless and sleepy. Only then had Andromache summoned the surgeon to her. The spear had gone deep, and the wound was mortal.
Gentle Laodike, plain and plump, had discovered love in the days before the siege. On that one ghastly night her dreams and her hopes bled from her. Andromache would never forget the moment Laodike’s lover had come to her. The mighty Argurios, who had held the stairs like a Titan, was also dying, an arrow buried deep in his side, the point cutting up close to his heart. Helikaon and Andromache had helped him to his feet, and he had made his way to Laodike’s side.
Andromache had not heard the words that passed between them, but she had seen Argurios draw a small white feather from the blood-smeared pouch at h
is side and place it in Laodike’s hand. Then he had covered her hand with his own. Laodike had smiled then, a smile of such joy that it had broken Andromache’s heart.
So much glory and so much sorrow on that one night.
King Priam had built the white tomb as a tribute to Argurios. Andromache wondered again at the contradiction that was Priam. A lascivious man, sometimes cruel, selfish, and greedy, he had nevertheless built a marble tribute to a warrior who had come to the city as his enemy and to the daughter he had had little time for when she lived. They were together now in death, as they would never have been allowed to be in life.
“May your souls be together always,” Andromache whispered, then turned and walked away.
Swiftly she crossed the fortification ditch that surrounded the lower town and started to climb the hill toward the city walls. After the palace siege Priam had speeded work on the ditches. Although hardly more than waist-deep, they were wider than a horse could jump and would effectively halt any cavalry charge on the lower town. They were crossed only by three wide wooden bridges that could be set ablaze if necessary.
But the real defense of Troy was the great walls. Towering above her, they were gray on this cloudy day and seemed as impregnable as the sheerest cliff face. There were four great gates piercing the walls: the Scaean Gate to the south, the Dardanian Gate to the northeast, the East Gate, and the western gate called the Gate of Sorrows, as the city’s main burial ground lay in its shadow.
Andromache strode up through the Scaean Gate, which was guarded by the Great Tower of Ilion, and into the city itself. Her gloomy mood lifted a little, despite the weather, at the sight of the golden city, its carved and decorated buildings and green courtyards. It had been her home for half a year, and she loved it and hated it in equal measure.
In this cool afternoon the stone streets were teeming with people. Andromache turned to her right, then climbed the wooden steps to the south battlements. There she paused, feeling the wind more keenly on the high place as it buffeted her and plucked at her long red hair.