“Yes, sir.”
The previous night almost two hundred cavalrymen had been brought to the House of Serpents under cover of darkness. They all had been wounded grievously and had suffered greatly in the embattled crossing of the Hellespont and the long journey to the city from Dardanos. Carried on jolting, overloaded carts and horse-drawn litters, many had died along the way.
Zeotos lay down on the bed and gave a low groan of pleasure. Xander left the old man and made his way to the courtyard, where most of the injured were lying on cushioned pallets under canopies. There was little sound despite the numbers crowded there, just the occasional groan of a soldier having a wound tended or the mumbled delirium of a dying man. The smoke from fragrant herbs burning on the altar of Asklepios helped keep insects away. Xander saw the head of the house, Machaon, and the three other healers moving among the wounded. Elsewhere trained servants busied themselves, bringing fresh water, removing soiled linen, and applying clean bandages.
Xander knew where he was needed most. Those with a chance of life and recovery were receiving the best care from both healers and servants. The dying lay alone. Xander moved swiftly to the row of beds nearest the altar. The first man he came to had been wounded in the chest and lower back. His face was haggard and gray, and death was not far off.
“Are you in pain?” Xander whispered, leaning over the man.
The dying man looked into Xander’s eyes. “I’ve suffered worse. You see the parade?” the soldier asked. “Heard them ride by, crowds cheering.”
“I caught a glimpse,” Xander told him. “Hektor rode in a golden chariot, and the riders followed him in ranks of four. People threw flowers onto the street.”
The soldier’s smile faded. “You can go now, healer. There’s others with greater need than me.”
“Can I get you anything? Water?”
The soldier winced. “Another year of life would be good.”
Xander moved on. Three other warriors had died quietly, and he called servants to remove the bodies. The dying watched the departure of the dead, their faces grim.
Late in the afternoon old Zeotos appeared again, hurrying across the courtyard. “The king is coming,” the surgeon grunted. “Machaon wants you to meet him and Prince Hektor at the gates. He himself must perform an immediate amputation. And I cannot be seen here.”
Xander nodded his understanding. Zeotos had been banished from Troy after the Mykene attack in which the king’s daughter Laodike had died. Priam had blamed the old surgeon for her death. Zeotos had traveled the countryside plying his craft, never straying far from Troy, but had fallen on hard times. Machaon had heard of his plight and covertly had returned him to the House of Serpents, fearful that the impending war would stretch their resources beyond their limit.
As Xander hurried nervously to the gates to greet the king, he could hear the sound of marching feet. Out in the sunlit square a troop of Royal Eagles was heading toward the temple, escorting a covered litter. Beside them walked Hektor, still in the ceremonial armor and flowing white cloak he had worn in the parade. The litter stopped, and Priam the king climbed out. Dressed in long blue robes, he lifted his arms high and stretched his back.
“A pox on this…moving hammock!” he spit. “I should have ridden my chariot. A king shouldn’t be carried around like a heap of laundry.”
Looking around, he glared at Xander. “Who are you, boy?” he rasped.
Xander was speechless. He had seen the king before, but only from a distance, at games and ceremonial events. He was struck now by the resemblance between Priam and his son, both tall and broad and exuding power. The older man was slightly stooped, and it was clear he had celebrated his son’s return with plenty of wine, yet his personality dominated the sunlit square, and even the heavily armored Eagles seemed diminished in his presence.
Hektor stepped forward. “You are Xander,” he said, smiling.
“Yes. Yes, lord,” the young healer replied, throwing himself belatedly to his knees.
“Stand up, Xander. You are a friend of my wife, and no friend kneels in my presence. Now, bring us to our wounded comrades.”
As they passed through the dark gates into the temple, Xander heard Priam grumble, “Cripples depress me, and there is always a stink around the dying. It sticks in the nostrils for days.” Hektor appeared not to hear him.
They stepped into the courtyard. There was silence for a moment, then ragged cheering arose from the sick and broken men. Even those on the threshold of the Dark Road raised their voices for their king and commander.
Priam raised his arms, and the cheers redoubled. Then he spoke, and the irritable rasp Xander had heard moments before was replaced by a deep, warm booming voice that easily reached the injured men at the far wall.
“Trojans!” he cried, and all sound ceased. “I am proud of you all. This victory you have won for Troy will be spoken of for a thousand years. Your names will be as familiar to Father Zeus as those of Herakles and Ilos.” He beamed and raised his arms again to acknowledge the cheers, and then he and Hektor walked among the beds.
Xander was baffled. Moments before he had heard the king complaining of this visit as a tiresome duty. Perhaps he had misheard or misunderstood the words. Now Xander watched Priam speaking softly to the dying, listening kindly to babbled tales of saintly mothers and wives, even joking with amputees, saying to each one, “Your king is proud of you, soldier.”
Xander stayed at his side, sometimes translating the mumbled words of a soldier in his last moments, sometimes lifting a man’s hand so that he could touch the king’s robes. He stole an occasional look into Priam’s face but could see nothing there but kind concern and compassion.
Hektor was always a step behind his father, greeting each man by name. As they slowly made their way around, not missing one bed, the sun moved down in the sky and Xander saw the lines on Hektor’s face deepen and his shoulders sag. In contrast, his father seemed to gain energy from the visit.
As the sun disappeared over the houses of healing and torches were lit around the courtyard, they returned to the gates, where an ornate chariot encrusted with gold and gems had been drawn up. Priam turned to his son.
“Now let us return to the living and enjoy this day of triumph.”
“It was good for those soldiers to see us together,” Hektor replied mildly.
Priam turned on him with anger in his eyes. His voice again was cold and rasping. “Never ask me to do that again, boy. A king is not a nursemaid. And the smell in there was nauseating.”
Xander saw Hektor’s jaw set, but he stepped lightly into the chariot and took up the reins. Priam climbed in beside him. “You should have left them all on the beach at Carpea. They would have welcomed an honorable death for their king and their city,” he said.
Hektor flicked at the reins, and the two white geldings leaned into the traces. The chariot pulled smoothly away, the Royal Eagles loping alongside.
Back in the courtyard the men were talking excitedly about the visit of the king and how he had spoken of his pride in them. Xander, saddened by Priam’s deceit, spoke of it to Zeotos later that night.
“He seemed so…so genuinely interested in them, so warm, so compassionate. In truth, though, he cared nothing for them.”
The surgeon chuckled. “You heard him tell the men he was proud of them and tell Hektor he was a king, not a nursemaid?”
“Yes.”
“And you assume he was lying to the men and telling the truth to Hektor?”
Xander nodded. “Am I wrong, sir?”
“Perhaps, Xander. Priam is a complex man. It is possible that his words to the injured and the dying were heartfelt and that his callous comments to Hektor were made to disguise his emotions.”
“You think so?” Xander asked, his heart lifting.
“No. Priam is a cold and wretched creature. Although,” Zeotos added with a wink, “now it might be I who am lying. The point is, Xander, that it is unwise to form judgments on such litt
le evidence.”
“Now I am completely confused,” the young man admitted.
“Which was my intention. You are a fine lad, Xander, honest, direct, and without guile. Priam is a man so drenched in deceit, even he would no longer know which—if any—of his statements was genuine. In the end it doesn’t matter. The men who heard him praise them had their spirits lifted. Indeed, some of them may even recover now, and it would then be fair to say that Priam healed them. So do not be downcast by a few callous words from a drunken king.”
Andromache climbed the long hill toward the palace, moonlight glinting on the golden, gem-encrusted gown she wore. Her long flame-red hair was decorated with emeralds in a braid of gold. She was weary as she walked, not physically tired, for she was young and strong, but drained by a day of jostling crowds and cloying conversation rich with insincerity. Andromache still could hear music and laughter from the square. There was no joy in the sound. The atmosphere at the feast had been tense, the laughter forced and strident.
The men had talked of victory, but Andromache had heard the fear in their voices, seen it shining in their eyes. Priam had lifted the crowd with a powerful speech in which he had extolled the heroic virtues of Hektor and the Trojan Horse. But the effect had been ephemeral. All at the feast knew the reality.
Many merchant families already had left the city, and most of the warehouses stood empty. The wealth that had flowed like a golden river into the city was slowing. Soon it would be merely a trickle. How long, then, before the enemy forces were camped outside the walls, readying their ladders and their battering rams, sharpening their swords, and preparing for slaughter and plunder?
That was why, Andromache knew, everyone wanted to be close to her husband, Hektor, talking to him, clapping him on the back, telling him how they had prayed for his safe homecoming. The last part was probably true. More than the huge walls, more than the power of its soldiers and the wealth of its king, Hektor represented the greatest hope for staving off defeat. Everywhere else the news was grim: trade routes cut off, allies overcome or suborned, enemy armies rampaging beyond the Ida mountains and across the straits in Thraki.
Andromache walked on, two soldiers alongside her holding burning brands to light the way. Two others, of Priam’s elite Eagles, followed, hands on sword hilts. Ever since the attack on her by Mykene assassins, Andromache had been shadowed by armed men. It was galling, and she never had become used to it.
She thought back to the night long before on Blue Owl Bay when, disguised, she had walked among the sailors and the whores and had listened to Odysseus telling tall tales. That was the night she had met Helikaon, a night of violence and death, a night of prophecy.
There would be no such anonymous nights now. Her face was too well known in Troy. Otherwise she might have returned to the palace, slipped into a servant’s tunic, and made her way down to the lower town, where she could dance and sing among honest people.
As they climbed toward the palace, she saw several drunken men asleep on the street. The soldiers with her eyed them warily. One of the drunks awoke as they passed. He stared at her, then rubbed his eyes. His expression was one of wonder. He struggled to his feet and staggered toward her. Instantly the swords of the Eagles rasped from their scabbards.
“It is all right,” Andromache called out. “Do not harm him.”
The drunk halted before her, staring at the golden gown she wore, the torchlight glittering on the gems woven into its strands. “I thought…I thought you were a goddess from Olympos,” he said.
“I am Andromache. You should go home.”
“Andromache,” he repeated.
“Be off with you,” one of the soldiers ordered.
The drunk tried to stand tall but then staggered. He glared at the soldier. “I was at Kadesh,” he said, raising his right hand.
In the flickering light Andromache saw that it was maimed, the first three fingers cut away.
“Trojan Horse,” he went on. “No parades for me, boy. Now I piss in a pot for the dye makers, and I sleep on the street. But I could still piss on you, you arrogant turd!”
Andromache swiftly stepped between the man and the angry soldier. Unpinning a golden brooch encrusted with gems from the shoulder of her gown, she pressed it into the man’s ruined hand. “Accept this gift, soldier, from Hektor’s wife,” she said, “in tribute to your courage.”
He stared down at the glowing gold, and she saw there were tears in his eyes. “I am Pardones,” he said. “Remember me to your husband.”
Then he turned away and stumbled into the darkness.
The sun was blazing low on the horizon as the Xanthos sailed into the great Bay of Troy. Not a breath of wind blew across the waters, and only the sound of the oars dipping and rising broke the sunset silence.
In the distance the city gleamed as if cast from burning gold. The last of the sunlight shone upon its gilded rooftops and bannered towers, casting glittering reflected shards of light from the spear points and helms of the sentries on the battlements.
Gershom the Egypteian smiled as he gazed again upon the city. It was indeed impressive, but as he looked at the awestruck expressions of the crewmen nearest to him, he wondered how they would react if they ever saw the wonders of Thebes, the city of a hundred gates, or the towering white pyramids, or the Great Lion. Troy was breathtaking, but it mirrored the people who had built it. The city had not been constructed with thoughts of beauty or aligned with the stars to please the gods who dwelled there. It was first and foremost a fortress, solid and strong, with high walls and gates of oak and bronze. The majesty of Troy was almost accidental, Gershom thought, a blending of impressive masonry and brilliant sunsets.
There were few other ships in the bay. Four fishing boats had spread their nets, and three new war galleys were being put through maneuvers close to the southern shore. Gershom watched them for a while. The rowers were inexperienced, oars clashing at times, as the galleys were halted, spun, or urged to ramming speed. So many ships had been sunk these last few seasons, and hundreds of experienced sailors drowned or killed in sea battles. Now novices would take to the sea and die in the hundreds.
The Xanthos sailed on, reaching the King’s Beach just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Oniacus called out orders to the rowers. Immediately the two banks of oars on the port side lifted clear of the water while those on the starboard side dipped and pulled. The stern of the Xanthos swung smoothly toward the beach. “And…NOW!” Oniacus yelled. All the oars struck the water simultaneously. The hull of the Xanthos ground into the sand, then came to rest. Oars were shipped swiftly.
Then the deck hatches were opened. Gershom walked over and helped the crew unload the cargo. More than a thousand cuirasses were passed up and dropped over the side to the sand. The armor worn by the Trojan Horse was well crafted, disks of bronze overlaid like fish scales on breastplates of leather, and, unlike the bodies of the proud men who had worn them, far too valuable to be left behind on the battlefields of Thraki.
The armor was loaded onto carts, then carried up through the lower town and into the city. Finally the deck hatches were closed. Oniacus moved past Gershom, heading to the prow. The men of the skeleton crew settled down on the raised aft deck, blankets over their shoulders against the chill of the evening, while their comrades made their way up to the town, beneath the walls of the golden city.
Gershom saw Helikaon, who was cradling in his arms his sleeping son, Dex, as he was greeted by the huge Trojan prince Antiphones. Gershom turned away and strolled to the prow.
Oniacus was leaning against the rail and staring out across the bay at the new war galleys. His handsome young face was set and angry, and there was violence in his eyes.
“Is there anything I can have sent down to you?” Gershom asked. “Wine, perhaps?”
Oniacus shook his head. “Wine helps you forget, they say. I don’t want to forget. And I don’t want to talk, either.”
“Then don’t talk,” Gershom said softly.
“Two friends should be able to stand together in silence without awkwardness.”
The silence did not last long, nor had Gershom expected it to. It was not that Oniacus was a gregarious man, but the grief welling up in him could not be restrained. He began by talking of his two sons, what fine boys they had been. Gershom said nothing; it was not necessary. Oniacus was not really talking to him but instead speaking to the night, to the shades of his boys, to the gods who had not been there to protect them and their mother when the Mykene had fallen upon Dardanos with bright swords. Sadness was followed by rage, and rage by tears. Finally there was silence again. Gershom put his arm around Oniacus’ shoulder.
Oniacus sighed. “I am not ashamed of tears,” he said.
“Nor should you be, my friend. It is said that the gates of paradise can only be opened by the tears of those left behind. I do not know whether that be true. It should be, I think.”
Oniacus looked at him closely. “You do believe we live on and that there…there will be some reward for those innocents whose lives were…were stolen from them?”
“Of course,” Gershom lied. “How could it be otherwise?”
Oniacus nodded. “I believe that. A place of happiness. No terrors or fears, no cowards or killers. I believe that,” he said again.
They stood together for a while, watching the galleys on the still waters. “The balance is wrong,” Gershom said, pointing to the nearest vessel. “See it veer?”
“Too much strength on the port-side oars. They need to switch some of the rowers,” Oniacus told him. The anguish still could be seen in his eyes, but now he was focused on the galley. “Pushing the oarsmen too hard,” he said. “All they’ll get is sprained shoulders and shattered confidence.”
He looked at Gershom and forced a smile. “Time for you to get ashore. The many delights of Troy are waiting, and you do not want to be standing here discussing the training of sailors. Do not concern yourself about me. I shall not slash open my throat, I promise you.”