Karpophorus had waited for nineteen days. On the morning of the twentieth, as he stared at the old man, he saw that the seer’s eyes were upon him. Then he was summoned. He could scarcely believe it and glanced around to see if anyone was standing behind him. Finally he rose and walked up the hillside.
The seer was less old than he had thought. Though his beard was white, his face was unlined.
Karpophorus sat cross-legged before him.
“What wisdom do you seek?” asked the seer.
“I have been called to serve the Great Father,” Karpophorus told him. “But I need guidance.”
“How did this call come upon you?”
Karpophorus told him of the death of his coworker and of his realization that he was to serve the great god by sending souls on the long journey.
“You think Hades requires you to kill people?”
“Yes,” Karpophorus answered proudly.
The man looked at him, his face expressionless, his large blue eyes holding Karpophorus’ dark gaze. “How many have you killed now?”
“Nine.”
“Wait while I commune with the spirits,” said the seer, then closed his eyes.
So much time passed that Karpophorus began to think the man had fallen asleep. Then his eyes opened.
“All men choose to follow one path or another, Karpophorus. If I were to tell you that you were deluded and that the Lord of the Dead did not call upon you, would you believe me? Answer honestly.”
“No. The Great God has made me his servant.”
The man nodded. “Tell me, do you believe he would want you to kill children?”
“No.”
“Or women?”
“I do not know. Does he want women slain?”
“There will be no children or women. And you will kill no one between the feast of Demeter and the feast of Persephone. When the land sleeps between the seasons, you also will rest. And for each mission you undertake succesfully you will offer half of your fee to benefit the poor and the needy.” He pointed to the knife at Karpophorus’ side. “Give me the blade.” Karpophorus pulled it clear and offered it to the seer. It was a fine dagger, the hilt embossed with silver thread, the pommel shaped like a lion’s head. “You will use only this dagger for your missions. Never poison, nor sword, nor rope. Not your hands, not a spear, not a bow. And when this dagger breaks or is lost, you will serve the Great God no more with death. If any of these instructions be broken, then your life will end within seven days.”
“It will be as you say, holy one.”
Over the years Karpophorus had followed each instruction without complaint. In three cities there were houses of care for the poor and the destitute funded by Karpophorus. Not one woman or child had fallen to his dagger, and the weapon was lovingly tended and used only for his missions lest the blade be damaged. He carried two other knives for general use, and those he had used in the battle at Blue Owl Bay.
Tonight was the feast of Demeter, and today the lion-pommeled dagger would end Helikaon’s life on this earth.
He had watched the lord ride across the Scamander bridge that morning on a horse borrowed from the king’s stable. The chances were that he would return it around dusk and then walk down through the town to the beach. He would pass through the square of the Hermes temple. There would be crowds there.
It should not be difficult, Karpophorus thought, to kill him there. I will merely walk up, the dagger hidden in my sleeve. Helikaon will greet me with a smile. Then, swiftly and surely, I will let slip the dagger and slice it across his throat. Then I will merge with the crowds and be gone. Helikaon will be free to find the Elysian Fields and enjoy eternity in the company of gods and heroes.
Karpophorus sighed.
It should not be difficult to kill him there.
The slaying of Helikaon had proved far more difficult than any of his recent killings. The Golden One was a wary man and sharp-witted, a thinker and a planner. Worse than this, though, Karpophorus realized, he was in fact reluctant to go through with the contract. Odd thoughts had been occurring to him lately, doubts and concerns. It had never happened before. Karpophorus loved his work and felt immense pride that Hades had chosen him. But joining the crew of the Xanthos had unsettled him.
All his life Karpophorus had been a solitary man, comfortable in his own company. More than this, he positively disliked being surrounded by crowds. He had thought the journey on the Xanthos would be tense and unpleasant. Instead he had found a kind of solace. Oniacus had even hugged him on the beach yesterday, after Karpophorus had told him he was quitting the crew. The sensation had been strange. Afterward he tried to think of the last time he had been embraced. He could not remember. He supposed his mother must have cuddled him at some point, but try as he might, he could not recall a single touch from her.
“You’ll be missed, Attalus,” Oniacus had told him. “I know the Golden One sets great store by you. He will be sorely disappointed when he hears you are no longer with us.”
That kind of parting was alien territory to the assassin. It amazed him that he had found himself close to tears. Not knowing what to say, he had trudged off, his copper wages in his pouch.
He had spent the night dozing in a doorway overlooking the palace entrance and was awake with the dawn, watching for Helikaon.
Below the rooftop he heard children laughing and playing. Easing himself up, he glanced down at them. There were five boys playing catch with a knotted ball of old rope. Then he saw another child, sitting apart from the others. He was thin and scrawny, and his face bore a sad look.
Don’t just sit there, thought Karpophorus. Go and join in. Do not set yourself apart. Make friends.
But the boy just sat and watched. Karpophorus felt a sinking of the spirits and toyed with the idea of walking down and speaking to him. Yet he could not. What would I say? he asked himself. And why should he listen?
Then one of the other boys, a tall, slim lad with long auburn hair, left the group and sat beside the smaller child. He put his arm around his shoulder. Then the child smiled. The taller boy pulled him to his feet and drew him to where the others were playing.
Karpophorus felt a great sense of gratitude. He sat watching them playing until they wandered off to their homes. The little boy was laughing. “Who knows now what you may become?” whispered Karpophorus.
And the sadness returned.
In the failing light he saw a horseman heading back across the Scamander bridge. It was too dark to make out his features, but he recognized Helikaon’s riding style, one hand holding the reins and the other resting lightly on his thigh.
Karpophorus watched him return the horse, talk for a while with the groom, and then enter the palace. A short while later, now wearing a tunic of dark leather, two bronze swords scabbarded at his side, he strode out toward the streets leading to the beach.
Slipping his dagger into his sleeve, Karpophorus climbed down from the rooftop and moved out to intercept him.
II
As he walked toward the harbor, Helikaon thought of Andromache. He could still feel the warmth of her body pressed against him in that hug, and the remembered scent of her hair filled him with longing. He wished now that he had sailed from Troy earlier and had not visited the dying Hekabe.
He glanced at the sky and the lowering clouds in the west and wondered if he had committed some sin against Aphrodite, the love goddess. Perhaps he had sacrificed less to her than to the other gods. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He had refused to marry except for love, and now that he had met the woman of his heart and his dreams, she was to wed another. Worse, she was to be married to his closest friend.
Now is not the time to dwell on it, he warned himself as the shadows lengthened on the streets of Troy.
He passed through milling crowds of brightly dressed Trojans thronging the marketplaces, seeking the best deals from traders eager to pack up their wares for the night. A whore smiled at him, cupping her heavy breasts and li
cking her painted lips. He shook his head, and her interest waned, her bright smile fading.
With the crowds behind him he moved more warily down the hillside toward the beach. Mykene spies would be well aware that this was his last day in Troy. They knew he would be sailing with the dawn. If another attack was planned, it would be now, as he returned to the Xanthos.
A cool westerly breeze was blowing, and several drops of rain began to fall. Helikaon gazed at the buildings ahead. He was approaching a narrow street leading to the wide square fronting the temple of Hermes, the god of travelers. There would be many people there, sailors offering gifts for safe passage and others about to take journeys who would be seeking the blessing of the god.
A perfect place to ambush a single man in sight of his ship.
He felt the tension rise in him as he entered the street before the temple. Ahead he saw a man, hooded and cloaked. The man turned away sharply and walked back toward the square.
A cold anger settled on Helikaon. This was the scout, then. His appearance in the square would tell the others that Helikaon was approaching. How many would be waiting? His heart began to beat faster. They would want to be sure this time. Eight or ten killers would rush him, certainly no more. A larger group would get in each other’s way. Ten, he decided, would be the maximum. At least two would run behind to block a retreat along the street he now walked. The others would circle him, then rush in.
Helikaon paused and whispered a prayer to the war god: “I know these Mykene worship you above all gods, mighty Ares, but the men in this square are cowards. I ask your blessing upon my blades today.”
Then he walked on.
At the entrance to the square he glanced to the left and right. As he walked on he saw two hooded men angling around behind him, blocking his retreat.
He saw Attalus moving through the crowd toward him.
At that moment four men threw off their cloaks, drew swords, and rushed at him. They were wearing leather breastplates and round leather helmets. Helikaon drew his two swords and leapt to meet them. All around, the crowd scattered. Other Mykene rushed in. Helikaon blocked a savage thrust, plunging his blade through an attacker’s throat. A sword blade hammered against his side. The pain was intense, but the hidden ivory disks within the leather tunic prevented his ribs from being smashed. Helikaon drove his sword against the Mykene’s leather helmet. The blade sliced down through the flesh of the man’s face, snapping the jawbone. Helikaon kept moving, cutting and parrying. Despite concentrating on the men coming against him, he was aware of Oniacus and the handpicked fighting men of the crew rushing from their hiding places and attacking the Mykene. The ringing clash of sword upon sword echoed in the square. The crowd had drawn back, leaving the central area to the combatants. Flipping his right-hand blade and holding the short sword as a dagger, Helikaon parried a thrust with his left-hand sword and plunged the right down through the attacker’s collarbone. The blade sank deep, and a ghastly scream tore from the Mykene’s throat.
Helikaon spun and saw Attalus ram a dagger through the eye of a Mykene. There was blood on Attalus’ tunic.
Now it was the Mykene who sought to flee. Helikaon saw a tall warrior cut down a crewman and run toward the narrow street.
Gershom cut off his retreat, the club of Zidantas thundering into the man’s face. The Mykene was hurled from his feet, his skull smashed.
Two other attackers threw down their weapons, but they were ruthlessly slain.
Helikaon saw Attalus tottering toward him, his dagger dripping blood. The man staggered. Dropping his swords, Helikaon stepped in to meet him. The injured man fell into his arms. Helikaon laid him down on the stone. Attalus’ hand flapped, the dagger blade scraping across Helikaon’s tunic.
“It is all right, Attalus,” said Helikaon, taking the blade from the man’s hand. “The fighting is over. Let me see your wound.”
There was a deep puncture just above the right hip, and blood was pouring from it. Then Helikaon saw a second wound in the chest. It was bleeding profusely.
Oniacus crouched down alongside Helikaon. “Eight dead Mykene, but we lost five, with three more carrying wounds.”
“You have a healer waiting at the Xanthos?”
“Aye, Golden One, just as you ordered.”
“Then let us get the wounded aboard.”
“Give me . . . my dagger,” whispered Attalus.
Helikaon laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You must rest, Attalus. Do not exert yourself. Your dagger is safe. I will look after it for you.”
“Looks like you are staying with us after all, Attalus, my friend,” said Oniacus. “Don’t worry. We’ll have those scratches dealt with in no time.”
Helikaon stood and gazed around the temple square. People were gathering now, staring at the bodies. A troop of Trojan soldiers came running into sight, spreading out, swords drawn. Helikaon strode toward them. The officer approached him. Helikaon did not know the man.
“What happened here?” demanded the officer.
“Mykene assassins tried to kill me.”
“And why would they do that?”
“I am Aeneas of Dardania, known as Helikaon.”
Instantly the officer’s attitude changed. “My apologies, lord. I did not recognize you. I am new to the city.” He glanced at the corpses and the wounded crewmen. “Did any of the assassins escape?”
“None that I saw.”
“I will need to make a report to my watch commander.”
“Of course,” said Helikaon, and outlined the attack. As he concluded, the officer thanked him and began to turn away.
“Wait,” called Helikaon. “You have not asked me why the Mykene should want me dead.”
The officer gave a tight smile. “Oh, I have been in the city long enough to understand why,” he answered. “You stain the Great Green with their blood.”
Helikaon returned to his men. Stretcher bearers carried three badly wounded crewmen away to the House of Serpents, and others were helped down to the beach, where the physician Machaon waited. The five corpses were carried to the beach and laid out on the sand close to the Xanthos. Helikaon knelt alongside the bodies, placing silver rings in their mouths.
“Why do you do that?” asked Gershom.
Helikaon rose. “Gifts for Charon the Ferryman. All spirits must cross the Black River to reach the Fields of Elysia. He ferries them.”
“You believe that?”
Helikaon shrugged. “I don’t know. But the gifts also honor the dead and are tributes to their bravery.”
A tall, silver-haired man wearing a long white cloak bearing the horse insignia of the house of Priam approached them and bowed.
“My lord Aeneas, I come from the king with grim news.”
“Is Priam ill?”
“No, lord. The news is from Dardania.”
“Then speak, man.”
The messenger hesitated, then took a long, deep breath. He did not meet Helikaon’s gaze. “Word has reached us that a force of Mykene pirates, under cover of darkness, broke into the citadel at Dardanos.” He hesitated. “It was not a plunder raid. It was a mission of murder.”
Helikaon stood very quietly. “They were seeking me?”
“No, lord. They were hunting the boy king.”
A cold fear settled on Helikaon’s heart. “Tell me they did not find him.”
“I am sorry, lord. They killed Diomedes and raped and stabbed his mother. She still lives, but it is feared not for long.”
Several men, Oniacus among them, had gathered around. No one spoke. Helikaon fought for control. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the bright, smiling face of Diomedes, sunlight glinting on his golden hair. The silence grew.
“The pirates were beaten back, lord. But most of them made it to the beach and their waiting ships.”
“How did the boy die?”
“They soaked his clothing in oil, set fire to him, and hurled him from the cliffs. The queen’s clothing was also drenc
hed in oil, but General Pausanius and his men fought their way to her. The Mykene had no time to burn her, which, I suppose, is why they stabbed her. No one knows who led the raid, save that it was a young warrior with white hair.”
Helikaon walked away from the messenger and the silent crew and stood silently staring out to sea. Oniacus joined him.
“What are your orders, my king?” he asked.
“We sail tonight. We are going home to Dardanos,” Helikaon told him.
PART THREE
THE STORMS
OF WINTER
XXI
THE MAN AT THE GATE
Habusas the Assyrian sat on the cliff top, gazing out over the sea. To the northeast the high-mountained isle of Samothraki was bathed in sunshine, but here, above the small island of Pithros, heavy clouds cast dark shadows over the cliffs and the rugged land behind them. The sea below was rough and churning, fierce winds buffeting the waves. Habusas lifted the wine jug to his lips and drank. It was cheap wine and coarse but nonetheless satisfying. Behind him he could hear the laughter of his children, the three boys chasing one another, long sticks in their hands—pretend swords for pretend warriors. One day, he thought proudly, they will sail with me and the swords will be real.
It had been a good season with fine raiding. Kolanos had led them to many victories, and Habusas had returned to the winter isle with a huge sack of plunder. There were golden torques and wristbands, brooches of silver and lapis lazuli, rings set with carnelian and emerald. Yes, a fine season—except for the horror of Blue Owl Bay. A lot of good men had died that day, their bodies burned and blackened.
Still, they had revenged themselves in the attack on Dardanos. Habusas recalled with pleasure watching the young king, his clothes ablaze, fall screaming from the cliff. More pleasurable still, though, was the memory of the queen. Sex was always good, but the pleasure was heightened immeasurably when the woman was unwilling, indeed, when she begged and pleaded to be spared.
And how she had pleaded!
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