Lord of the Silver Bow

by David Gemmell

  II

  Karpophorus the assassin followed Helikaon up the hill toward the palace. It had been almost twenty years since he had killed anyone in Troy. The city had changed greatly since then, expanding in almost every direction. His last assassination there had seen him escape across a pasture into a small wood. That pasture now boasted scores of small houses lining narrow streets, and the wood had been chopped down to make way for a barracks. The imposing house of the merchant he had slain also was gone. That was a shame, he thought, for it had been well constructed, with pleasing lines.

  A little way ahead Helikaon paused beside a clothing stall and chatted to the owner. Karpophorus hung back, watching the exchange. The sun was bright over the golden city, and there were many people gathered in the marketplace.

  How curious, he thought, that Helikaon should seem so relaxed here. He knew there were Mykene in the city, and at any time a killer could attack him. Karpophorus scanned the crowd with suspicious eyes, seeking out any possible attacker, looking for signs of tension in the faces. He was determined that no other assassin should claim his prize.

  Then Helikaon moved on.

  Karpophorus followed him up another hill toward the golden-roofed palace of Priam.

  It was then that he spotted a young man emerging from between two buildings. He was dark-haired and slim, wearing a green tunic and sandals. There was a knife at his belt. Karpophorus had seen him in the crowd at the market. Increasing his pace, Karpophorus closed the distance between them. As Helikaon turned another corner, the newcomer slowly drew his dagger and stepped after him.

  His own blade flashing into his hand, Karpophorus broke into a run.

  When he rounded the corner, he saw the young man spreadeagled on the street, Helikaon standing above him.

  “My apologies,” said Karpophorus. “I was a little slow.”

  “Nonsense, Attalus. It was my fault for ordering you to hang back.” Helikaon grinned at him. “Let us hope that this fool is the best they have.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Karpophorus.

  The young man was still alive and conscious, though his knife was now in Helikaon’s hand. He glared up at the Golden One with a look of pure hatred. Helikaon tossed the knife to the street and walked on. Karpophorus followed.

  They walked in silence to the palace citadel, and Helikaon approached the guards at the double gates. Then they passed under the shadow of the walls above and emerged onto a wide paved courtyard.

  “I shall be some time in the palace,” Helikaon told him, “so go and get yourself some food. I will meet you at the entrance at dusk.”

  Helikaon strolled toward the red columns of the palace entrance, and Karpophorus found a place in the shade. He sat on a stone bench alongside a sweet-smelling climbing plant with purple flowers. It was pleasant there, and he relaxed. It had been a relief to see the Penelope sail that morning. Ever since Bad Luck Bay, Karpophorus had been forced to plan his every step. Odysseus knew his face and no doubt would have guessed that he was stalking Helikaon.

  As a passenger on the Penelope some nine years earlier Karpophorus had been surprised when the Ithakan king had approached him after they had beached one night. As was his style, Karpophorus had found a place to sleep away from the men and was sitting looking at the stars when Odysseus walked up. The ugly king had sat down on a rock close by.

  “I know you,” he had said.

  The shock had been great. Karpophorus’ main talent lay in his anonymity. He had the kind of face no one remembered, and merely tying back his dark hair or growing a chin beard could change his appearance dramatically. And he had not met Odysseus before this trip to Dardania.

  He had hedged. “How so?”

  The king had laughed. “A friend of mine hired you. I saw you leaving his house one day. It is said you are the finest assassin in all the world, Karpophorus. You never fail.”

  “You mistake me for someone else.”

  “I don’t make that kind of mistake,” said Odysseus. “And I would like to hire you.”

  “It is said you are a man without enemies. Who would you possibly want killed?”

  Odysseus had shrugged. “I don’t care. I just want to be able to say I once hired the great Karpophorus.”

  “You don’t care who dies?”

  “Not a jot.”

  “You are suggesting I just kill anyone and then seek payment from you?”

  “Hmm,” mused the ugly king. “I can see how that would be a little too random.” He sat silently for a moment. “All right, how about this: I will hire you to kill the next person who seeks to hire you.”

  “I already know who seeks to hire me, and he is a powerful man and well protected. The cost of my services is in direct proportion to the risk I take.”

  “Name a fee.”

  “You don’t want to know who it is?”

  “No.”

  Now it was Karpophorus who fell silent. He glanced back along the beach to where the men were sitting around the fire. His gaze fell on the dark-haired young prince who traveled with Odysseus. Here was the difficulty. He had seen on the voyage so far that Odysseus was fond of the youth. Had the ugly king guessed that Karpophorus was being hired to kill him? If he had and Karpophorus refused to accept his offer, Odysseus would have him killed here on this beach. He looked up at Odysseus, meeting his gaze. The man was clever. He was seeking to save the young man by murdering his father, yet if Karpophorus was captured, there would be no blood feud, for the Ithakan king was, after all, only hiring Karpophorus on a whim to kill someone anonymous.

  “How will you know the deed is done?” Karpophorus asked, continuing the charade.

  “Cut off the man’s ear and send it to me. I will take that as proof of completion.”

  “It will cost a sheep’s weight in silver.”

  “I agree, but we have very thin sheep on Ithaka. One other thing. The man we are talking of may already have named the person he wants dead. Or he may name him before you fulfill your promise to me.”

  “That is a possibility.”

  Odysseus’ eyes grew cold. In that moment Karpophorus saw the briefest glimpse of the man legend spoke of, the young reaver who had terrorized settlements all across the Great Green. In the days of his youth Odysseus had built a formidable reputation as a fighting man and a killer. Karpophorus stayed very calm. His life at that moment was flickering like a candle in a storm. One wrong word now and it would be extinguished.

  “I think,” said Odysseus, “it would be unwise to accept an offer from a man you are going to kill. You agree?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent.”

  They had agreed on the manner of the payment. In the background the men of the Penelope were laughing. Karpophorus looked over to see the dark-haired young prince engaged in a mock wrestling bout with Odysseus’ first mate, Bias.

  “A fine lad,” said Odysseus. “Reminds me of a young sailor who once served with me. He was murdered. It took me five seasons to find the killer. I left his head on a spear. My Penelope always tells me I am an unforgiving man and should learn how to put aside grudges. I wish I could.” He shrugged. “But we are what we are, Karpophorus.” Then he had clapped his meaty hand on Karpophorus’ shoulder. “I am glad we had this little talk.”

  It had irked Karpophorus to have been outmaneuvered by the ugly king, and now, with the promise of Agamemnon’s gold, it seemed fitting that the original wishes of Anchises the king would be honored.

  Helikaon would at last fall to the blade of Karpophorus.

  He had originally planned to kill him in Kypros and had followed him in the darkness to a high cliff top. The storm had come then, and Helikaon had walked to the cliff edge and stood, arms raised, as if preparing to dive to the rocks below. Karpophorus had moved silently between the great stones of the shrine. No need for a blade. Just a swift push and the man would plummet into eternity.

  Then the child had appeared. Karpophorus had faded back into the shadows and liste
ned as the terrified little girl spoke of her mother. With Helikaon kneeling by the girl, it would have been a simple matter to step forward and bury a knife blade between his shoulders. Yet he could not take a life in front of a child.

  Karpophorus thought back to the night in Kypros. He had learned a lot both about Helikaon and about himself. Arrogance had crept in. It was almost a deadly lesson. Helikaon had known he was being followed and had set men outside the walls. And the Golden One had almost trapped him in the garden. He shivered with pleasure at the remembered excitement.

  A sudden burst of moonlight had shone on Helikaon as he had raced to intercept him. Karpophorus had made it to the wall and into the darkness beyond. Then he had glimpsed Zidantas. The big man had not seen him in the shadows. Then other men had appeared. Karpophorus had needed all his skills to evade them.

  He sat in the shade, remembering, and began to doze. A shadow fell across him, and he woke instantly, his dagger in his hand. The elderly servant standing before him almost let slip the tray of food and drink he held. Karpophorus sheathed his blade.

  “Your master bade me bring you refreshment,” said the servant sternly, laying the tray on the bench. There was a flagon of cool water and a goblet, alongside a loaf of bread and slices of salt-dried fish.

  The servant left him without a word, and Karpophorus ate and drank. His liking for Helikaon swelled. Here was a nobleman who considered the welfare of the men who served him. He must have glanced down from one of the upper windows and seen Karpophorus waiting. Such a man would be made most welcome by the All Father when Karpophorus delivered his spirit to him. In a way, Karpophorus decided, the killing of Helikaon was a gift to the man.

  Pleased with the thought, he settled back to doze once more and remembered the first man he had killed. It had been an accident. Karpophorus had been working in the stone quarry. His chisel blade had snapped and flown up. It had caught the man working alongside him in the throat, opening the jugular. He had died writhing on the dust of the quarry. Karpophorus had been horrified, but a priest later had put his mind at rest. His words remained with the assassin still: “Hades, the lord of the dead, knows the moment of our birth and the day and the moment of our death. It is written thus, that each man has a certain span allocated to him by Hades. And when that span is done, his body returns to the earth.”

  “So no one dies except at their allotted time?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then the lord of the dead used me to take his life?”

  “Yes, indeed, my boy. So you should feel no guilt.”

  Guilt was the last thing he felt. The young Karpophorus was invigorated. He had been touched by the gods and in that moment had become a servant of Hades. It was the single greatest moment of his life, and it changed his destiny.

  He thought again of Helikaon. He could not kill him today, for Oniacus had ordered him to be the Golden One’s bodyguard. In order to remain close to Helikaon, Karpophorus had joined the crew in Kypros and as a crew member had sworn an oath of loyalty. Such matters were not to be taken lightly, which was why he had fought ferociously alongside the Golden One at the battle at Blue Owl Bay.

  But the deed could not be put off much longer. The feast of Demeter was tomorrow night. He would quit the ship later today and then kill Helikaon tomorrow.

  Satisfied with his decision, he stretched out on the bench and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  III

  Helikaon passed through the doorway into the king’s megaron, a massive hall where petitioners waited in the hope of bringing their disputes before the king. There were merchants and commoners there. It was packed and noisy, and Helikaon moved across it swiftly. A Royal Eagle in bright armor with a white-crested helmet opened the side door to the palace gardens, and Helikaon stepped out into the sunlight. There were stone walkways there, flowing around areas of brightly colored flowers, and several sets of stone seats shaded by an intricate series of climbing plants growing between thick wooden roof slats.

  There were people waiting there also, but they were of the royal line. Helikaon saw two of Priam’s sons there, the king’s chancellor, Polites, and fat Antiphones. Polites was sitting in the shade, a mass of papyrus scrolls on his lap. Both men wore the ankle-length white robes and belts of gold that marked their rank as ministers of the king. It had been almost a year since Helikaon had seen them. Polites looked tired, almost ill. His pale hair was thinning, and his eyes were red-rimmed. Antiphones was even larger than Helikaon had remembered, his belly bulging over his wide golden belt, his face flushed and bloated, his eyes heavily pouched. Hard to believe, thought Helikaon, that both were still in their twenties.

  Antiphones saw him first and grinned broadly. “Ho, Aeneas!” he called out. “Welcome back!” Stepping forward swiftly for such a large man, he embraced Helikaon, kissing his cheeks. The man’s strength was prodigious, and Helikaon thought his ribs might snap. Then Antiphones released him. Polites did not rise but smiled shyly. “Your adventures are the talk of Troy,” Antiphones continued. “Sea battles and burning pirate ships. You live a life that is not dull, my friend.”

  “It is good to be back.”

  Helikaon noted the use of the word “pirates,” and added no comment. Troy was still allied to Mykene, and no one was going to risk causing offense to Agamemnon. He chatted to them for a while, learning that Priam was “at rest,” which meant he was rutting with some servant girl or the wife of one of his sons. Polites seemed nervous and ill at ease. Perhaps it is your wife, thought Helikaon.

  “What news of the city?” he asked them. He watched their expressions change, as if masks had fallen into place.

  “Oh,” said Antiphones, “it is much the same. Have you seen Hektor’s bride?”

  “We met.”

  “Hard woman. Eyes like green flint. A Thera priestess, no less! Thin as a stick. Nothing to get hold of there!”

  Helikaon had no wish to discuss Andromache with them. Ignoring the comment, he said, “Any news of Hektor?”

  “Only rumor,” said Polites, dabbing at his watery eyes with the white sleeve of his gown. “A trader reported that a huge battle was being waged. No one knows who won.”

  “Hektor won,” insisted Antiphones. “Hektor always wins. He may be dull in conversation and unable to tell a fine wine from a cup of cow piss, but he never loses a fight. Don’t you find it baffling?”

  “In what way?”

  “Ever the diplomat, Polites!” Antiphones said scornfully. “You know full well what I mean. We both grew up with Hektor. He never liked to fight, not even childish scraps. Always reasonable, good-natured, grinning like an oaf. How in the name of Hades did he turn out to be such a warrior?”

  Helikaon forced a smile. “Come, come, Antiphones! I remember when you were the fastest runner in Troy. Might not a similar question be asked? How did such a beautiful athlete become so fat?”

  Antiphones smiled, but his eyes were hard. “You have a point, Aeneas. Hektor is what Hektor is. The beloved heir. Good for him, I suppose. But there is more to running a city than a warrior might suppose. When crops fail or disease strikes, it will matter not a jot if the king can steer a chariot through a melee, or lop the head from an enemy.”

  “Which is why Hektor is lucky to have brothers like you.”

  A servant appeared and halted before Helikaon. “The king is ready to see you, Lord Aeneas,” he said.

  Helikaon thanked the man and followed him back into the palace through a side door and toward a wide flight of stairs leading to the queen’s apartments at the top of the building.

  “Is the queen in residence?” he asked the servant.

  “No, lord, she is still at the summer palace. But King Priam has taken to . . . resting in her apartments during the day.”

  Two Royal Eagles were standing before a doorway at the top of the stairs. Helikaon recognized one of them, a powerfully built warrior named Cheon. The soldier nodded a greeting and smiled as he opened the door to the queen’s apartments, b
ut he did not speak.

  Helikaon entered the room, and Cheon pulled the door shut behind him. Long curtains of gauze were fluttering in the mild breeze from the wide window, and the room smelled of heavy perfume. Through an open doorway Helikaon could see an unmade bed. Then a young woman emerged, her face flushed and her eyes downcast. Easing past Helikaon, she opened the door and left.

  Then Priam appeared, a large golden goblet in one hand and a golden flagon in the other. Moving to a wide couch, he sat down, drained the goblet, and refilled it. “Well, come and sit down,” he said, gesturing to a chair on the other side of a low table. “Unless, of course, you have plans to rush through my city burning Mykene pirates.”

  Helikaon sat and looked at the king. There seemed to be more silver in the gold of his hair, but he was still a powerful figure.

  “Have you heard that Agamemnon was in Miletos?” asked Priam.

  “No. He’s a long way from home.”

  “He’s been traveling greatly these last two years. Thraki, Phrygia, Karia, Lykia. Offering gifts to kings, declaring friendship and making alliances.”

  “Why would he need alliances on this side of the Great Green?”

  “Why indeed?” The king fell silent. He leaned back. “You saw the girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty—but dull. Was a time when all women seemed to be creatures of fire and passion. You could spend a glorious day rutting. Now it’s all: ‘Yes, Great King, whatever pleases you, Great King. Would you like me to bark like a dog, Great King?’ Why is that, do you think?”

  “You already know the answer,” Helikaon told him.

  “Then humor me.”

  “No. I did not come here to argue with you. Why is it you always desire conflict when we meet?”

  “It is not about desire,” said Priam. “It is merely that we don’t like each other. Shall I tell you what you were thinking when I asked the question?”

  “If it pleases you.”

  “In past days the girls made love to Priam the beautiful young man. Now they just seek to serve Priam the randy old king. Am I right?”