Lord of the Silver Bow

by David Gemmell

  Habusas had been surprised when he had heard she had survived. Normally deadly with a dagger, he could only suppose that the necessity for speed had caused his blade to miss her heart. The queen’s soldiers had fought their way through more swiftly than anticipated. It was a shame, for he and the others had drenched her clothes with oil, and it would have been fitting to watch her plummet in flames to join her son.

  He thought of Helikaon. It warmed his heart to imagine the anguish he was suffering.

  The last ship to arrive at Pithros, some three weeks back, brought news from the mainland. Helikaon had arrived back in Dardanos. Everywhere there was uproar and unrest. The murder of the boy king had unsettled the people, exactly as Kolanos had forecast.

  And how galling it would be for Helikaon to know that the men who had attacked the fortress were now wintering in the safety of Pithros, protected by both the angry sea and the fact that the island was Mykene. Even if he could persuade his warriors to brave the wrath of Poseidon, Helikaon could not attack the island without bringing on himself a war he could not win.

  Kolanos had promised his men they would raid Dardanos again come the spring, this time with fifty ships and more than a thousand warriors. Habusas was glad the queen was still alive. He could picture her terror as she saw the warriors coming toward her again and almost hear her cries for mercy as they ripped the clothes from her back. He felt a quickening of the blood. He had never raped a queen before. Though the pounding of royal flesh was exactly like his other conquests, the knowledge of her status had excited him greatly.

  Habusas swung around to watch the sun begin to set in the west. His three sons gathered around him, and he hugged them. They were good boys, and he loved them dearly.

  “Well, you rascals,” he said, “time to get you home for your supper.”

  The oldest boy, Balios, pointed out to sea. “Look, Father, ships!”

  Habusas narrowed his eyes. In the far distance, toward the east, he saw four vessels, their oars beating powerfully. Well they might, he thought, for darkness was falling and they would not want to be at sea come nightfall. Why they were at sea at all at this dangerous time was a mystery. Their season must have been lean, and the captains desperate for plunder.

  Habusas hoped they had been lucky, for some of their riches would flow to him. Habusas owned all the whores on Pithros. A feeling of great satisfaction swept over him. He had three fine sons, a loving wife, and burgeoning wealth. In truth these foreign gods had blessed him. And so they should, he thought. Before every voyage he offered sacrifices to all of them: bullocks for Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, and Ares; lambs for Demeter, Athene, Artemis, and Aphrodite; goats for Hephaistos, Hermes, and Hades. Even the lesser deities received libations from him, for he wanted no ill will from the Fates or the mischievous Discord. Habusas was a deeply religious man, and the gods had rewarded his piety.

  His youngest son, six-year-old Kletis, was running along the edge of the cliff path. Habusas called out to him to be careful, then urged Balios to take his hand.

  “Why must I always look after him?” Balios argued. He was thirteen, almost a man and beginning to tear at the bonds of childhood. “Why not Palikles? He never has to do any work.”

  “Yes, I do!” retorted Palikles. “I helped Mother gather the goats while you hid in the haystacks with Fersia.”

  “Enough arguing,” snapped Habusas. “Do as you are told, Balios.”

  The thirteen-year-old ran forward and snatched at little Kletis, who wailed miserably. Balios made to cuff him.

  “Do not touch your brother!” shouted Habusas.

  “He is so irritating.”

  “He is a child. They are meant to be irritating. Have I ever struck you?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Then follow my lead.”

  Balios stalked off, dragging the unwilling Kletis behind him.

  “So,” whispered Habusas to ten-year-old Palikles, “your brother is chasing the lovely Fersia.”

  “Won’t have to chase much,” muttered Palikles. “She’s worse than her mother.”

  Habusas laughed. “Let us hope so. The mother is one of my best whores.”

  Palikles stopped walking and stared out to sea. “More ships, Father,” he said.

  Habusas saw that the original four galleys were now close to the beach, but behind them were seven more.

  Thunderclouds were gathering, and the sea was growing increasingly angry.

  From a little way ahead Balios shouted out. “Five more, Father!” He was pointing toward the north, past the jutting headland.

  Fear struck Habusas like a spear of ice, and he knew in that moment that Helikaon was coming on a mission of vengeance. Sixteen ships! At the very least eight hundred enemy warriors were about to invade. He stood very still, almost unable to accept what his eyes were seeing. Only a madman would bring a fleet across the Great Green in the storm season, and how could he hope to escape the wrath of the Mykene? Habusas was no fool. Putting himself in Helikaon’s place, he swiftly thought it through. The Dardanian’s only hope of avoiding a war lay in leaving no one alive to name him as the attacker.

  He will have to kill us all! Helikaon’s men will sweep across the island, butchering everyone.

  Habusas began to run down toward the town and the stockade, the boys trailing after him.

  As he reached the first of the houses, he yelled out to the closest men. “Gather your weapons! We are under attack!” Racing on, he headed for his house, continuing to call out to anyone he saw. Men emerged from the white-walled buildings, hastily buckling on breastplates and strapping sword belts to their hips.

  At his house his wife, Voria, had heard the commotion and was standing in the doorway. “Fetch my helmet and ax,” he cried. “Then get the boys into the hills and the deep caves. Do it now!” The panic in his voice galvanized her, and she disappeared into the house. He followed her and dragged his breastplate from a chest. Lifting it over his head, he began to buckle the straps. Little Kletis stood in the doorway, crying, Balios and Palikles behind him, looking frightened.

  His wife returned, and handed him his helmet. Habusas donned it, swiftly tying the chin straps. “Go with your mother, boys,” he said, hefting his double-headed ax.

  “I’ll fight alongside you, Father,” offered Balios.

  “Not today, lad. Protect your mother and brothers. Go to the hills.”

  He wanted to hug them all and tell them he loved them, but there was no time. Pushing past the boys, he ran toward the stockade. There were over two hundred fighting men on Pithros, and the walled wooden fort was well equipped with bows and spears. They could hold off an army from there! But then his heart sank. Even the fort could not stop eight hundred well-armed men.

  Glancing back down toward the beach, he could see soldiers gathering, the last of the sunlight glinting on shields, helmets, breastplates, and the spear points. They were forming into disciplined phalanxes. Transferring his gaze to the hillside above the settlement, he saw the women and children heading toward the relative safety of the caves.

  “Let the bastards come,” he called out to the gathering pirates. “We’ll feed them their own entrails.”

  He knew it was not true, and he could see in their faces that they knew it, too. When it came to fighting on the seas, they were second to none. In raids the lightly armored pirates could move fast, striking hard and then departing with their plunder. Against a disciplined army on land they had no chance. Habusas was going to die. He took a deep breath. At least his sons would live, for the caves were deep, and Balios knew hiding places beneath the earth that no armored soldier would dare to crawl into.

  “Look!” cried one of the men, pointing up at the fleeing women and children. Beyond them armed soldiers had appeared from behind the hill, marching slowly in formation, spears leveled. The women and children began to stream back toward the town, seeking to escape the line of spears.

  Despair flowed over Habusas. More ships must have landed on the w
est of the island. The massacre would be complete.

  “To the stockade,” he shouted to the gathering warriors.

  They set off at a run, angling through a narrow street and out onto the flat ground before the wooden fort. A little way behind them enemy soldiers were marching now, shields locked, spears at the ready. There would be little time to get all the men inside and no time at all for the women.

  Habusas reached the fort and saw men milling there, beating at the barred gates.

  “What in Hades is going on?” he shouted to the men standing on the ramparts. “Open the gates! Swiftly now!”

  “And why would we do that?” said a cold voice.

  Habusas stared up—into the face of Helikaon. He wore no armor and was dressed like a simple sailor in an old, worn chiton. The men with him were dressed similarly, though in their hands they held bows, arrows noched to the strings.

  Habusas felt bile rise in his throat. Apart from feasts and gatherings the stockade was always empty. Helikaon must have landed with these men earlier in the day and merely walked up to the deserted fort.

  “This is Mykene territory,” he said, knowing even as he spoke that his words were a waste of breath.

  The soldiers marching up from the beach were approaching now, forming a battle line, shields high and spears extended. Women and children began to arrive from the hillside, clustering close to their husbands and lovers. Balios moved alongside his father, holding an old dagger with a chipped blade. Habusas gazed down at his son, his heart breaking. How could the gods have been so cruel? he wondered.

  “Throw down your weapons,” ordered Helikaon.

  Anger surged through Habusas. “So you can burn us, you bastard? I think not! Come on, lads! Kill them all!”

  Habusas hurled himself at the advancing line, his men surging after him, screaming defiant battle cries. Arrows tore into them from the stockade, and the soldiers surged to meet them. The battle was short and brutal. The lightly armed Mykene were no match for the fully armored soldiers. Habusas killed two Dardanians before being stabbed through the thigh. A thrusting shield crashed into his head as he fell.

  When he regained consciousness, he found that his hands had been bound behind him and he was lying against the stockade wall. The wound in his leg burned like fire, and blood had drenched his leggings. All around him in the bright moonlight lay the comrades he had fought beside for so many years. Not a man was left alive. Struggling to his knees and pushing himself upright, he staggered around, seeking his sons. He cried out when he saw the body of Balios. The boy had been speared through the throat and was lying on his back. “Oh, my son!” he said, tears in his eyes.

  Just ahead of him he saw Helikaon talking to an old soldier. He remembered him from the attack on Dardanos. He was a general . . . Pausanius, that was it. The old man saw him and gestured to Helikaon. Then the Burner turned toward him, his gaze malevolent.

  “I remember you from Blue Owl Bay. You stood with Kolanos on the cliff. You were beside him in the sea battle. You are Habusas.”

  “You murdered my son. He was just a boy.”

  Helikaon stood silently for a moment, and Habusas saw the hatred in his eyes. Yet when he spoke his voice was cold, almost emotionless, which made what he said infinitely more terrifying. “I did not have time to soak him in oil and throw him burning from a cliff top. But perhaps you have other sons. I shall find out.” The words ripped into Habusas like whips of fire.

  “Do not hurt them, Helikaon! I beg you!”

  “Did she beg?” Helikaon asked, his voice unnaturally calm. “Did the queen plead for the life of her son?”

  “Please! I will do anything! My sons are my life!”

  Habusas dropped to his knees. “My life for theirs, Helikaon. They did nothing to you or yours.”

  “Your life is already mine.” Helikaon drew his sword and held it to Habusas’ throat. “But tell me where I can find Kolanos and I might offer mercy for your children.”

  “He left here three days ago. He is due back in the spring with fifty ships. I do not know where he is now. I swear. I would tell you if I did. Ask me anything else. Anything!”

  “Very well. Did Kolanos burn my brother and throw him from the cliff?”

  “No. He gave the order.”

  “Who set my brother ablaze?”

  Habusas climbed to his feet. “I tell you this and you promise not to kill my family?”

  “If I believe what you tell me.”

  Habusas drew himself up to his full height. “I set the fire on the boy. Yes, and I raped the queen, too. I enjoyed the screams of both, and I wish I could live long enough to piss on your ashes!”

  Helikaon stood very still, and Habusas saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. Habusas hoped the man might be angry enough to kill him with a single sword thrust through the throat. It was not to be. Helikaon stepped back, sheathing his blade.

  “And now you burn me, you bastard?”

  “No. You will not burn.” Helikaon swung around and beckoned two soldiers forward.

  Habusas was hauled back to the stockade gates. His bonds were cut. Immediately he lashed out, knocking one soldier from his feet. The second hammered the butt of his spear into Habusas’ temple. Weakened by the loss of blood, Habusas fell back. Another blow sent him reeling unconscious to the ground.

  Pain woke him, radiating from his wrists and feet and flowing along his arms and up his shins. His eyes opened, and he cried out. His arms had been splayed and nailed to the wood of the gates. Blood was dripping from the puncture wounds, and he felt the bronze spikes grating on the bones of his wrists. He tried to straighten his legs to take the strain from his mutilated arms. Agonizing pain roared through him, and he screamed. His legs were bent unnaturally, and he realized that his feet, too, had been nailed to the gates.

  He saw that Helikaon was standing before him. All the other soldiers had gone.

  “Can you see the ships?” asked Helikaon.

  Habusas stared at the man and saw that he was pointing down toward the beach. The galleys of the invaders were drawn up there. Helikaon repeated the question.

  “I . . . see . . . them.”

  “Tomorrow at dawn all the women and children of this settlement will be on those ships. They are slaves now. But I will not single out your family or seek any vengeance upon them. They will live.”

  With that he walked away. The wind picked up, catching the open gate and swinging it gently. Habusas groaned as the nails tore at his flesh. As the gate continued to move, he saw that the bodies of his men had been moved. They had been dragged to houses nearby, their corpses nailed to doors or fences. Some had been spiked to walls, others hung by their necks from ropes strung from upper windows.

  Then he saw the body of his son, lying on the ground, his arms laid across his belly. His head had lolled to one side. In the bright moonlight Habusas saw a glint of shining metal in the boy’s mouth. Someone had placed a ring of silver there to pay the Ferryman.

  Even through his pain Habusas felt grateful for that.

  Fresh waves of agony ripped through him as a cramp struck his twisted legs, causing them to spasm. The weight of his body then sagged against his pierced wrists. Habusas cried out. He tried to close his mind against the pain. How long, he wondered, will it take me to die?

  Sometime tonight? Tomorrow? Would days pass? Would carrion birds feed on him while he writhed? Would he be forced to watch wild dogs feast on the flesh of his son?

  Then he saw movement to his right. Helikaon was walking back across the open ground, a sword in his hand.

  “I am not Kolanos,” he said. The sword lanced forward, spearing through Habusas’ chest and cleaving his heart.

  And all pain faded away.

  XXII

  THE PHRYGIAN BOW

  I

  The autumn months drifted by with appalling lack of speed. Gloomy skies of unremitting gray punctuated by ferocious storms and driving rain dampened even Andromache’s fiery spirit. She endeavored to f
ill her time with pleasurable activities, but there were few opportunities for the women of the palace to enjoy themselves. They were not allowed to ride horses or attend evening entertainments in the town. There were no revels, no gatherings to dance and sing. Day by day she missed the isle of Thera more and more and dreamed of the wild freedom she had enjoyed.

  For a little while her boredom had been allayed by the arrival of a new, temporary night servant, a Thrakian girl, Alesia. She had been willing and compliant, but the closeness of her body in the wide bed only served to remind Andromache of how much she missed Kalliope. When Alesia returned to her regular duties, Andromache did not miss her and made no attempt to seduce her replacement.

  Just before the year’s end Andromache acquired a Phrygian bow from the lower market. It was a fine weapon with a heavy pull that even she found difficult at first to master. It was cunningly contrived from layers of flexible horn and wood, and with it she had bought a heavy wrist guard of polished black leather.

  She took it out on the practice fields to the north of the city, where many of the Trojan archers honed their skills. It was a day of rare sunshine, and Andromache, dressed in a thigh-length white tunic and sandals, had enjoyed herself for most of the morning. The Trojan men had at first been polite but patronizing. When they saw her skill, they gathered around her, discussing the attributes of the bow.

  The following day Andromache had been summoned before Priam in his apartments. The king was angry and berated her for appearing before men of low class.

  “No highborn Trojan woman would walk seminaked among peasants,” he said.

  “I am not yet a Trojan,” she pointed out, trying in vain to keep her anger in check.

  “And you might not ever be! I could send you home in disgrace and demand the return of your bride-price.”

  “What a tragedy that would be,” she retorted.

  She had expected an explosion of rage. Instead the king suddenly burst into laughter. “By the gods, woman, you remind me of Hekabe, all spit and fire. Aye, you are very like her.” She saw his gaze move to her breasts and flow down over her body. The thin blue gown she was wearing suddenly seemed flimsy and transparent. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You cannot flout the customs of Troy,” he continued, his face flushed but his tone more conciliatory. “Palace women wear full gowns when in public. They do not shoot bows. You, however, may shoot your bow. The men were impressed by you, which is no bad thing. The families of ruling houses should always be impressive.”