“No,” the boy admitted regretfully. “When last I saw him, he was very sick, sir. I wish I could help him. He has always been kind to me. Why am I here with the enemy?”
There was a burst of laughter at his words, and someone said, “You are in the Thessalian camp, boy. You should be proud to be with Achilles and his Myrmidons, the finest warriors in the world.”
The speaker was a slender young man with fair hair braided and pulled back to his neck. He was cleaning blood off his arms, but Xander guessed it was someone else’s, for he looked uninjured. Beside him was a huge dark-haired warrior dressed in black, and lying between them a bald-headed man with a braided red beard. His chest was heavily bandaged, and Xander could see blood leaking and staining the white material. His healer’s eye noted the gray sheen on the man’s face and the feverish look in his eye.
“Podaleirios,” Xander asked the healer, “I don’t know how I got here, but can I return to Troy now?”
The men laughed again, and Podaleirios said, “Call me White-Eye, Xander. Everybody else does. You were brought here by Odysseus of Ithaka. He found you unconscious on the field of battle and carried you to safety. And you cannot return to Troy. You are now healer and surgeon to the warriors of Thessaly.
“This is Achilles, king of Thessaly”—the healer gestured to the black-clad giant—“and you are now his servant.”
Xander stared in wonder at the legendary warrior. “Lord,” he said humbly, “I am not a priest of Asklepios, pledged to help the sick or injured wherever I find them. I am just a helper to Machaon. I belong in Troy.”
Achilles frowned. “Odysseus tells me you trained with Machaon in the House of Serpents. If such a famous healer sent you onto the battlefield to help the Trojan wounded, then he must have faith in your skills. Are you saying you will not help my stricken warriors? Think carefully on your answer, boy.”
Shamefaced, Xander said, “I’m sorry, lord. I will do what I can to help.”
To White-Eye, Achilles said, “At dawn, when the boy has rested, take him up to King’s Joy. He will be valuable there.”
The healer nodded and moved away. A servant came to the campfire, offering platters of meat and corn bread to the warriors. One was placed at the wounded man’s side, but he did not touch it, merely swigged from his jug of wine. Achilles pointed at Xander and nodded, and the servant gave the boy some food. It was roasted pig, warm with greasy juices, salty and tasty. Xander felt his stomach grumble in reaction to the wonderful smell. He realized he had not eaten all day or the day before. He wondered when he last had tasted any food, then forgot about it as he sank his teeth into the succulent meat.
There was silence for a while as the warriors ate. Then Achilles said to the wounded man, “I will have you carried to King’s Joy, Thibo. It will be cold on the beach tonight. At least there you will be under shelter.”
Thibo shook his head. “I’ll be all right here by the fire. I don’t want to be up there with the dead and dying.”
“I am your king and could command you,” Achilles said mildly.
Thibo grunted. “Would you want to be up there, in that place of torment?”
Achilles shook his head and said no more.
The fair-haired warrior nudged him with his elbow. “We went there once when we were children. Do you remember? We visited King’s Joy with your father. I don’t know why.”
Achilles nodded, chewing his meat and swallowing. “I remember, Patroklos.”
Patroklos went on. “It was a place of beauty then, the white walls painted with bright pictures of the gods. There were soft rugs on the marble floors—I had never seen such rugs before—and the gleam of gold and gems everywhere. It was wonderful to behold.”
Achilles grunted. “And now Agamemnon’s Followers have made a pigsty of it,” he said. Then he smiled. “I remember we were told off for playing on the high balcony where Helen fell.”
Patroklos shook his head in wonder. “I’ll not forget that day on this side of the Dark Road. The princess throwing herself to her death with her children.”
Thibo grunted. “They were dead, anyway, the children. Agamemnon would have seen to that.”
Patroklos argued, “But Helen need not have died. It seems wrong, such beauty smashed to ruins on the rocks below.”
Xander listened with surprise. He had met the princess Helen only once, in Helikaon’s chamber when the Golden One had been gravely ill. He had seen a plump, plain woman with a sweet smile. Perhaps they were talking about a different Helen, he thought.
“She was not a beauty,” Thibo said thoughtfully.
“Yes, but you don’t like them buxom, Thibo,” Patroklos replied, grinning. “You like your women skinny, like boys.” He winked at his friend.
“It’s true,” Thibo agreed amiably. “But I meant she was not beautiful like an expensive whore.”
Patroklos started laughing at that, but Achilles broke in, “I know what you mean, Thibo. She did not have the beauty of golden-haired Aphrodite. She was more like stern and terrible Hera, before whom even the gods quail.”
Thibo agreed, “She made me feel like a small boy. She was like the mother you love but whose anger you fear. The other men on the balcony said the same. They’ve all been talking about her.”
Speaking so much made Thibo cough. The spasm was agonizing, and he held on to his chest with both hands. His face lost all color, and he groaned. Xander could see that the blood patch on the bandage was spreading.
Taking up his leather satchel, he stood and said to the wounded warrior, “Sir, perhaps I can help you, if you will let me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
ANDROMACHE’S CHOICE
Andromache stood at the prow of the Xanthos and breathed in the fresh salt air as the great ship glided through a light swell. She always had loved the days of spring, when the snows melted on great Ida and the rivers and streams around her home of Little Thebe filled and sparkled with clear icy water, its wooded hills and valleys clothed in pale green rain-washed leaves.
When she had been sent by her father as a priestess to Thera, she had thought of Thebe Under Plakos as her home. But by the time she was dispatched unhappily to Troy to marry Hektor, Thera had become home to her. Now here she was, on the Xanthos and less than a day’s sail from the Golden City. Where is your home now, Andromache? she thought. Is it Troy, where you yearn to hold your son in your arms again?
Or is it on this ship, where you have lived and loved for endless winter days of fear and longing and bliss?
Once the crewmen had gotten used to a woman aboard the ship, they had stopped calling her “princess” or “priestess” and had ceased glancing covertly at her legs and breasts at all opportunities. She had found a home on the big ship. She joined the men at their campfires at night, shared their meals, distributed water skins when the ship was under oars, helped sluice down the decks, and even was asked to sew a ragged rip in the sail after a rough day in stormy seas.
“I am the daughter of a king and wife to Hektor,” she had said, laughing, “and you are sailors. You know more about sewing than I do!” Yet she had done her best with the sharp needles and sturdy thread they had given her and had pretended not to notice when her poor stitches were remade for her by a grizzled crewman whose fingers were more nimble than hers.
One calm day Oniacus had offered to teach her to row, and she had grasped the great oar and learned to pull with the motion of the sea. But within a short time her palms were covered with bleeding blisters, and Helikaon had told her angrily to stop.
Helikaon! She did not turn around, for she knew he would be standing at the stern of the ship, one arm on the great steering oar, watching her. Closing her eyes, she could recall every detail of his face, the fine dark hairs of his eyebrows, the exact set of the corners of his mouth, the shape of his ears. In her mind’s eye she could see his bronzed arm with its soft sun-bleached hairs draped across the steering oar, as she had seen it a hundred times. She knew every scar on his body b
y touch and taste. He was wearing a long winter robe of blue wool, the same color as his eyes when he was angry, and his feet were in old sandals stained by salt and time.
They had tried to follow the counsel of Odysseus at first and stay away from each other, not touching, not brushing past each other on the narrow aisle of the ship, barely speaking unless there were crewmen present. Their determination had lasted until they had reached the Seven Hills.
Andromache had been astonished by the small thriving city built by Helikaon and Odysseus so far from their homes. The stockaded fort was on a hill overlooking the great river Thybris, and a busy community had developed around it, flourishing in the soft, verdant land so different from Ithaka and Dardanos. The people had started building a stone wall around the fort, for they had to fend off attacks from local tribes that resented the presence of foreigners from far across the seas. But the king of one of the tribes, Latinus, had welcomed them and joined his forces to theirs, and the community of the Seven Hills grew. They had purchased tin from pale-skinned traders traveling from far to the north in the Land of Mists, and Helikaon had been able to fill the Xanthos’ cargo hold with the precious metal.
One night a feast was held in honor of one of the country’s tribal gods, and the crewmen of the Xanthos joined in with relish. In the firelight Andromache, a little drunk, caught Helikaon’s eye and smiled. No further message was needed. Unseen, they crept away and found a soft mossy hollow far from the revels, where they made love for most of the night, first with frantic animal passion and then, later, gently and tenderly until the first glimmer of dawn. Little was said; they had no need of words.
Back on board the ship, returning to Troy with all haste, the lovers had stayed away from each other again. Helikaon had steered the Xanthos up the coast of Mykene, which was deserted of ships, then crossed the Great Green high to the north. They had spent the last night before their return to Troy in a deep cove on the isle of Samothraki. Andromache had remained on board the ship in her small tent pitched on the foredeck, and Helikaon had come to her in the darkness.
The night was pitch black, but she heard the small soft sound of the tent flaps being parted, smelled the musky smell of him as he lay down beside her. He said nothing but pulled down the sheepskin covering her body and kissed her shoulder. She turned to him. He kissed her mouth deeply, and the swell of suppressed longing in her rose so sharply that it was painful. She moaned. He put his hand over her mouth. “No sounds,” he whispered in her ear. She nodded her head, then gently bit the palm of his hand, tasting salt. He smiled against her cheek. He slid under the warm sheepskin and moved on top of her, his body cool against her fiery loins. Her legs rose up to meet him, and he entered her, warm and wet in the animal-smelling darkness.
He paused for a few unbearable heartbeats, then moved against her slowly. Too slowly. She squirmed under him, seeking a quick release from the painful longing of her body. He stopped until she lay still, then moved again, teasing her. When she finally climaxed, the need to cry out became almost unstoppable, and he put his hand over her mouth again, then kissed her hard. He lay still for mere moments, then started again.
At last, drained and exhausted, he rolled away from her, and they pushed off the damp animal skin and let the sweat dry on their bodies.
She whispered in his ear, “Tomorrow we will be back in Troy.”
“Not now, my love,” he murmured. “We will have plenty of time to talk about it tomorrow.” They spoke no more that night.
Now, standing on the foredeck of the ship, Andromache closed her eyes again and let her body move dreamily with the rhythms of the waves, remembering that wondrous night and its own rhythms.
When she opened her eyes, she could see a dark speck on the blue sea to her left.
“Ship to port!” she cried, pointing, and within heartbeats she felt the great ship move beneath her toward the new threat. She narrowed her eyes. She could see it was a galley under sail, no mere fishing boat, but could not make out its markings.
“It’s Dardanian, lord!” shouted Praxos, new to the crew the previous autumn and with the sharp eyes of the young. “I can see the black horse!”
There was a lusty cheer from the oarsmen, most of whom were Dardanians and were looking forward to returning to their families. As Andromache watched, the other ship’s sail was furled and her rowers took up the beat. The two ships glided toward each other. As they met, rowers on the approaching sides shipped their oars, and ropes were thrown across, lashing the ships together.
Andromache made her way along the aisle of the Xanthos to the stern. Helikaon glanced at her, his face expressionless. “It is the Boreas,” he said.
They waited in silence as the Dardanian ship’s young fair-haired captain shinnied up a rope, climbed to the deck, and fell to his knees before Helikaon. “Golden One, thank the mercy of Poseidon we met you,” he said breathlessly. “We were expecting the Xanthos to sail up the coast, and most of our ships are off Lesbos, waiting for you.”
“Calm down, Asios. Why was the Boreas waiting?”
“Troy is under siege, lord,” the young man told him, “and the Mykene fleet of Menados holds the entrance to the Hellespont. Agamemnon is camped in the Bay of Herakles with a thousand ships. We hoped to warn you before you sailed unknowing into them.”
Andromache closed her eyes. She had left Astyanax thinking he was safe in Troy. The familiar demon of guilt clawed at her. She had left her son to be with her lover. Who did she think of more often on her journey, her only son or Helikaon?
Helikaon was asking, “What of Dardanos?”
“The Mykene have ignored the fortress. Our people are safe for a while. Agamemnon has pulled his troops away from Thebe as well, lady.” He glanced at Andromache and flushed. “He has thrown all his forces and those of the western kings into an attack on the Golden City.”
“And Hektor?” Andromache asked.
“Hektor leads the Trojan defense, but they are outnumbered, and the last we heard they had been pushed back to the lower town. King’s Joy is taken, and the plain of the Scamander.” He hesitated. “Prince Paris and his wife are dead. And Prince Antiphones.”
Andromache, stunned by the news, saw the color drain from Helikaon’s face. “All dead?” he said, his deep voice grave.
“There has been great slaughter on both sides, lord. The funeral pyres burn night and day. If the Xanthos had arrived after dark, you would have seen their light from far across the Great Green.”
“The city is surrounded?”
“No, lord. All their efforts are on the south of the city, at the fortification ditch. People can still flee through the Scaean Gate or the Dardanian Gate. Everyone is leaving,” he said. “But that was six days ago. The situation changes daily. The Boreas has had no word since then.”
Oniacus stepped forward. “Agamemnon has left his ships vulnerable at the Bay of Herakles, Golden One,” he said. “Our fire hurlers can destroy his ships in one night, as we did at Imbros.”
Helikaon frowned. “Perhaps later. But at the moment, sadly, I do not have that choice. The city is awaiting our cargo of tin, is it not, Asios?”
The young man nodded. “The city’s forges are dark,” he said. “Troy desperately needs weapons and armor.”
Suddenly he glanced toward the coast, startled, and they all turned. In the distance at the tip of Trojan lands, the Cape of Tides, a light had appeared. It was a beacon, blazing brightly.
Helikaon gazed at it and frowned. “A beacon, but telling what to whom? Asios, is the Cape of Tides in Trojan or Mykene hands?”
“I know not, lord. Trojan when I last heard.” He shrugged.
“It tells us nothing, then,” Helikaon said briskly, his decision made. “Oniacus, we will sail on to the Hellespont and the Bay of Troy, then make our way up the Simoeis. We will berth there and, if Athene favors us, smuggle our tin into the city from the north.”
“But Menados’ fleet holds the Hellespont,” the young captain repeated. “
Even the Xanthos cannot defeat his fifty ships!”
“But,” Helikaon said thoughtfully, “maybe together the Xanthos and the Boreas can.”
The Mykene admiral Menados looked up from the high deck of his patrol ship and saw a beacon blazing on the topmost cliff of the Cape of Tides.
“What does it mean, Admiral?” asked his aide, his sister’s son, a bright enough boy but with no initiative.
“I do not know,” the admiral told him. “The Trojans are signaling someone, but we cannot tell who or what the signal means. Much good may it do them,” he grunted. “They are all dead men, anyway.”
Like his crews, Menados was bored and frustrated after long days of sailing the Hellespont. Of his fleet of fifty-seven, he had ordered thirty ships to patrol the length of the Trojan coast from the tip of the Thrakian shore to the Bay of Herakles. Seven ships, including this own, the new bireme Alektruon, held station against the current in the Hellespont. The remaining twenty ships were beached on the coast of Thraki, their men relieved to sleep and eat. The ships’ duties were rotated regularly, but it was no work for fighting men, he thought, traveling back and forth, first under oars and then under sail, over and over again, wearing out the oarsmen and blunting the skills of their captains. Menados privately thought the duty was Agamemnon’s punishment of him for the mercy Helikaon had shown him at Dardanos.
Word of the blockade had traveled swiftly through the lands bordering the Hellespont, and no ship so far had tried to break it and sail out of the straits. They had sunk one Dardanian ship trying to break in under cover of darkness, and two Hittite merchants had tried to run the blockade and get home, angry at Agamemnon’s high-handed action in closing the straits to the ships of all lands.
As the doomed Hittite seamen had struggled in the cold, treacherous waters, Menados had been asked if the Mykene ships should pick them up. Let them die, had been his order. Personally, it would have been his choice to rescue them; he had respect for seamen of all lands, and it would have been easy enough to drop them on the Thrakian coast to make their way home on foot. But word could not get back to the Hittite emperor that his ships were being sunk by the Mykene. The few strong swimmers who seemed likely to make it to the shore were stalked by the ships, then picked off by archers when they failed to drown.