Atreus had died two years later, and now Argurios understood exactly what he had meant. Agamemnon was not like his father. He wanted no truth tellers.
Would Priam?
Argurios doubted it.
He paused in his walk and looked up at the lowering sky. “In all my life, Father Zeus, I have asked you for nothing,” he said. “Be with me on this day and guide me so that I will not lose Laodike.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Argurios glanced back down toward the sea. In the setting sun he saw four dark-sailed galleys slowly beating their way toward the beach far below. The last of the sunlight glistened on the bright helmets and shields carried by the warriors on board.
Argurios walked on, composing in his mind his speech to Priam.
Reaching the open area before the gates, he saw several finely clad Trojan nobles speaking to soldiers of Priam’s Eagles. Voices were raised. “This is outrageous!” he heard someone say. “Not even a dagger? How are we to eat, or are they serving only soup at Hektor’s feast?”
Inside the gateway two long tables had been set side by side. They were covered with swords, daggers, and knives.
“I am sorry my lord,” said a soldier. “The orders were specific. No one is to take a weapon into the megaron. They will be here for you when you leave.” Argurios recognized the speaker as Polydorus, the soldier who had walked with him to the beach on the day he had swum with Andromache. Still grumbling, the visitor slammed his dagger to the tabletop and stalked off. As the light faded, servants came out of the king’s palace, lighting torches and placing them in brackets on the walls of the gate tower. Lamps also were suspended from poles lining the walkway to the high palace doors.
Argurios waited until the last of the Trojan nobles had entered and then approached Polydorus.
The young soldier looked harassed but smiled when he saw the Mykene. “I will take personal care of your weapon, sir,” he said. “Is that the blade you wielded at Partha?”
“No. That broke long ago.”
Just then they heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the road. A golden horse galloped up to the gateway. Helikaon leapt from its back. He was wearing a fitted breastplate and helmet and bearing two swords in scabbards over his shoulders.
“Where is the officer of the watch?” he demanded.
A tall soldier stepped forward from the shadows beyond the gateway. “I am Aranes, my lord. You must leave your weapons here on the orders of Prince Agathon.”
“You must close the palace gates, Aranes,” said Helikaon. “Traitors are coming to kill the king. They are close behind me. And there is a Mykene force to aid them. Even now their ships are beaching.”
“What is this nonsense? Are you drunk?”
“Do I look drunk? The prince Antiphones has been stabbed. Agathon is a traitor, and his Thrakians are heading here, intent on murder. Now close the damned gates or we are all dead.”
The soldier shook his head. “I need to seek authorization. We are ordered to keep the gates open.”
Helikaon stood silently for a moment, then stepped in and slammed a sudden blow to the man’s jaw. Aranes spun, then hit the ground face-first. Several of the Eagles ran forward, drawing their swords.
“Listen to me!” shouted Helikaon. “Death is coming. Gather all the men you can. And for pity’s sake, bar those gates!”
“Do as he says!” called out Polydorus, running to the first of the gates.
Argurios went with him, and slowly they began to swing it shut. Soldiers moved to the other gate.
A hurled javelin slammed into the timber.
From the darkness beyond armed men surged forward, screaming war cries.
And the gates were still open.
II
Helikaon swung around as the javelin thudded home. Thrakian soldiers were rushing toward the gates. Some held javelins or spears, others short swords. In that fraction of a heartbeat Helikaon noted that the warriors were wearing light leather breastplates and round leather helmets. They carried no shields. Fury swept through him. They had not even returned to their barracks to change into battle armor, so confident were they in their mission of murder. All they expected to face were a few Eagles and a hundred unarmed men mourning a dead hero.
Drawing the two leaf-bladed swords from the scabbards at his back, Helikaon charged at the milling Thrakians. There was no thought in his mind of glory, no thought of death, no thought of anything except a savage, reckless desire to visit vengeance on these treacherous men, see their blood flow, and hear their anguished cries.
Some of the Thrakians had hurled themselves against the gates, forcing them back. Some twenty Eagles were on the inner side, straining to close them. Helikaon darted between the yawning gap, slashing his right-hand blade through the throat of a blond warrior, then lancing the left-hand sword into the neck of a second. His assault was sudden, his swords slashing, cutting, and cleaving. A few Thrakians tried to rush him; others sought to pull back from the fray, dismayed by the deadly speed of his blades. Swords clattered against his breastplate, and a thrusting spear struck against his helmet.
Now he was in their midst. Bodies lay at his feet, and his swords glittered as they rose and fell. Even in his battle fury he realized he had advanced too far. They were all around him now, and it would not be long before he was hamstrung or dragged from his feet. Even as the thought came, a huge Thrakian leapt at him, his shoulder cannoning into Helikaon’s breastplate. As Helikaon fell back, he plunged a blade through the man’s cheek. A hand grabbed him, steadying him. He saw Argurios alongside him. A Thrakian ran in, thrusting his spear at Argurios. The Mykene swayed aside from the thrust, killing the wielder with a ferocious cut that split his skull.
“Kill them all!” bellowed Argurios, his voice ringing with authority. A few of Priam’s Eagles rushed into the fray, tall men, wide-shouldered and strong. Heavily armored and bearing great shields of bronze, they cleaved the Thrakian ranks. The enemy fell back to regroup.
Helikaon started to charge toward them.
“Not now!” shouted Argurios, grabbing him again. “Back to the gates!”
The red battle fury seeped away, and Helikaon raced back with the others. The Thrakians, realizing too late what was happening, gave chase.
Helikaon was the last man through the closing gates. As they slammed shut, Polydorus and another soldier tipped a long timber locking bar into place.
Men were streaming from the palace now. “Arm yourselves with bows,” Helikaon yelled at the soldiers. “Get to the walls. More will come.” Turning to Argurios, he said: “My thanks to you.”
“There were only around fifty or so out there,” said Argurios. “Must have been an advance party. How many Thrakians are there in all?”
“A thousand.”
“And you say there are Mykene coming?”
“So I am informed.”
“I believe I saw them. Four galleys beached as I was walking here. At least two hundred warriors, maybe more. I thought they were Trojans.”
Priam the king pushed through the crowd. “What in Hades is happening here?” he asked Helikaon, his breath stinking of unwatered wine, his legs unsteady.
“Betrayal,” said Helikaon. “Agathon’s Thrakians have been ordered to kill every man in the palace. And there are two hundred Mykene warriors marching toward us as we speak.”
Priam rubbed at his eyes and sucked in a great breath. “This is madness,” he said. “One regiment of Thrakians? As soon as word reaches the other garrisons, they will come in the thousands. And it is after dark. The great gates will be closed. No Mykene will be allowed to enter.”
“You are wrong, sire,” said Helikaon. “The soldiers at the Scaean Gate have been ordered to let them in and then close the gate behind them. No other troops will be allowed to enter. The Eagles here are the only loyal men left in the upper city. We are on our own.”
Priam said nothing for a moment, then swung to a nearby Eagle. “Fetch me my armor,” he ordered. Turning back to Helikaon,
he said, “We’ll hold them. By the gods, we’ll teach them the price to be paid for treachery.”
“You’ll not hold these palace walls for long,” said Argurios. “They are not high enough, and you don’t have the men. Even now they will be searching for ladders, carts, timber . . . anything to allow them to scale the ramparts.”
“Do I know you?” retorted Priam, squinting in the torchlight.
“I am Argurios, Priam King.”
“The Argurios?”
“Even so.”
“And you are fighting for me?”
“It appears that I am.”
The drunken king suddenly laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “My Hektor has been taken from me. His brother wants me dead, and my city is under attack. Now a Mykene hero has come to aid me.” His face hardened. “Oh, how the gods favor me!”
“I share your feelings,” said Argurios. “It was no dream of mine to fight for Troy. However, we can talk of capricious gods at another time. Now we need to arm every one of your guests with whatever weapons are inside the palace. We will need bowmen on the palace balcony covering this courtyard. Even so the odds will be long indeed.”
Priam gave a cold smile. “Odds fit for a hero, Argurios. Where is that damned armor?” Priam turned away and staggered off in search of his weapons.
On the walls above a few Eagles began loosing shafts down into the Thrakian ranks.
“We cannot hold the walls for long,” repeated Argurios, this time to Helikaon. “They will come back with ladders and ropes and grappling hooks. They will swarm over like ants.”
“I know.” Helikaon swung to Polydorus. “You go inside. Get all the older counselors and servants up into the queen’s apartments, away from the fighting. Then barricade all unnecessary entrances. Make sure all windows are shuttered and barred. If you can find tools, have them nailed shut.”
The officer he had struck earlier was now on his feet but still groggy. Helikaon approached him. “How many men are at the outside gate to the women’s quarters?” he asked.
“No one is stationed there,” said the officer, rubbing his jaw. “The gates are locked. There is no way through.”
“Then the enemy will scale the walls unopposed!” stormed Helikaon. “Argurios, you stay here and command the defense. You!” he said to Aranes. “Gather twenty good swordsmen and follow me!”
III
Outside her apartments deep in the palace Andromache looked into Kassandra’s gray eyes, seeing the terror there. “Who is coming?” she asked softly.
Kassandra blinked. “Swords and daggers and spears.” She gazed around, eyes wide. “Blood on the walls. Blood . . . everywhere. Please take the bow.”
The child had begun to tremble. Andromache stepped forward, lifting the weapon from her hand. Kassandra offered her the quiver with its twenty black-shafted arrows.
Andromache swung it over her shoulder. “There now! I have the bow. Be calm, little one. No one is going to hurt you.”
“No,” Kassandra agreed with a sigh. “No one is going to hurt me.”
Holding out her free arm, Andromache took Kassandra by the hand. “Let us go down and listen to the priestess. She is said to be very dull. Then later you and I will sit in the starlight and talk.”
“Helikaon is coming for you,” said Kassandra as they walked hand in hand along the wide corridor toward the gathering hall of the women’s quarters.
“Why would he be doing that?” asked Andromache.
“Because he loves you,” answered the child. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
Andromache sighed. “Helikaon is in Dardania.”
Kassandra shook her head. “He was on a golden horse, riding through the streets. He is frightened for you. He knows that blood is coming. The fat one told him.” Suddenly the child began to cry.
Andromache laid the bow on a couch set by the corridor wall and sat down, drawing Kassandra to her. Hugging the girl and kissing her dark hair, she tried to calm her. She had heard many stories of the fey child and knew there was nothing she could say to pierce the veils of illusion, and so she waited for the tears to pass and held her close.
They sat there for some time. “I don’t want to see so much,” said Kassandra, drawing away and sitting with her back to the wall. “I hate it. I can’t tell sometimes what is now and what was then.”
“This is now,” said Andromache. “You and I sitting here.”
“You and I,” repeated Kassandra. She glanced across the corridor. “Look there. What do you see?”
Andromache followed the line of her pointing finger. “I see a tapestry hanging from the wall. Very pretty embroidery.”
“No! In front of the tapestry.”
“The corridor?”
Kassandra’s shoulders sagged. Andromache saw her smile at nothing and give a little wave.
“What is it that you see?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter. The dolphins told me the sea is changing. They are frightened. I am frightened, too. Everything is changing, Andromache.”
“Why did you say that Helikaon loves me? Is it something he said?”
Kassandra gave a shy smile. “I love Helikaon. I used to watch him sleeping. Helikaon is in the now. He is the Lord of the Silver Bow.”
“You think Helikaon is Apollo?”
“No, silly! Helikaon is Helikaon.”
Andromache smiled at the child. “I don’t understand.”
“No one does. Well, no one who feels the rain or the sun’s heat.”
“Isn’t that everyone?”
“We must be going! Keep your bow ready. We must rescue Laodike. We must bring her to the shield bearer.”
Andromache could think of no more to say to the strange child, and so they walked together in silence to the hall of gathering.
A small crowd of some twenty women were already there, dressed in flowing gowns and bedecked in jewelry of gold and silver. Servants moved among them, bearing trays of golden cups brimming with wine. Andromache saw Laodike and waved. By the great double doors stood a tall silver-haired woman carrying a small ceremonial helmets of bright gold.
“That is the priestess,” Kassandra whispered. “I don’t like her. She gives false prophecies.”
“If they were false,” said Andromache, “then surely people would realize it when they failed to come true.”
“No, she is very clever,” said Kassandra. “Pandates the merchant went to her last year to ask if his wife would ever become pregnant. She told him the gods favored him but required his patience. She said he would have a son as long as he did nothing to offend the gods. Pandates was drowned when his ship sank. She said that he had offended Poseidon.”
“Perhaps he had,” offered Andromache.
“After tonight,” said Kassandra, “she will speak the truth, and her prophecies will be real. But no one will hear them.”
It seemed to Andromache that holding a conversation with Kassandra was not dissimilar to trying to catch a butterfly. Every time you thought you had it in your grasp, it fluttered away. “There are not many women here,” she ventured. “Did Hektor have no female friends?”
“Everyone loved Hektor,” replied Kassandra. “They will be so happy when he comes home. Keep your bow ready.”
Laodike moved across to join them. She was wearing a bright yellow gown, and her fair hair had been braided with gold wire.
“This is not the place for an archery display,” she said, frowning.
“I know. I will explain later. I see Kreusa isn’t here.”
“She always arrives late,” said Laodike. “Kreusa likes to make a dramatic entrance. She will be disappointed, I think. There are so few people here. The wives of Father’s closest counselors but none of Hektor’s friends.” She leaned in close. “Oh dear, the priestess is about to speak, and the drab part of the evening begins.”
“She will not speak for long,” whispered Kassandra, backing away, her face pale. Suddenly she turned and darted back alon
g the corridor.
The silver-haired priestess held the ceremonial gold helmet above her head and began to chant: “Athene, hear your children! Goddess of wisdom, hear your followers. Let our words and our grief flow to you and bring us peace and understanding in these days of sorrow.”
Just then the far doors burst open, and Thrakian soldiers surged into the room, swords and spears in their hands. The women stood, shocked. No men were allowed into the women’s quarters, and certainly no male could invade a sacred ceremony.
The priestess was outraged. She rushed at them, screaming for them to leave at once or face the curse of Athene. What followed then stunned Andromache. A burly Thrakian lashed out at her, sending the priestess sprawling to the floor, the ceremonial helmet clattering away to strike a table leg. For a moment there was shocked silence. Then the priestess pointed at the man.
“May the goddess strike you down and curse your family for nine generations!” she shrieked.
The man laughed, and then his sword slashed down. The priestess threw up her arm, and the bronze blade hacked into it, spraying blood. A second cut tore open her throat. Women began to scream and run. Soldiers rushed at them, dragging them back.
Then Laodike ran toward the warrior who was still stabbing his sword into the squirming priestess. “You cowardly dog!” she shouted.
“You want to bleed too, bitch?” he responded, charging toward her.
Andromache swiftly noched an arrow to her bow and drew back on the string. As the soldier reached Laodike, his sword raised high, a black-feathered shaft plunged through his eye. He staggered back several steps, dropping his sword, then slumped to the floor.
“Laodike!” yelled Andromache.
The young woman started to run toward her. A Thrakian soldier hurled a spear, which took her in the back. Laodike screamed and stumbled. Andromache shot the spearman through the throat. More Thrakians pushed through into the gathering hall. Laodike half fell against Andromache. A soldier charged at them. Andromache loosed a shaft that tore through the man’s leather breastplate, spearing his chest. He faltered and then came on, sword raised. With no time to draw the string, Andromache dropped the bow and stepped forward to meet him, the shaft held like a dagger in her hand. Weakened by the arrow in his chest, the soldier gave a weak thrust. Andromache parried the blow with her arm, then plunged the bronze-headed arrow into the man’s neck. He fell back with a gargling cry.
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