[Troy 02] - Shield of Thunder

by David Gemmell

  “No. The price I demand will be high.”

  “I have little wealth.”

  “I do not seek gold or trinkets.”

  “What, then?”

  “I will one day call for you, and you will come to me, wherever I am. You will then do as I bid for one year.”

  “I will become your slave?”

  The Prophet’s answer was softly spoken, and Gershom heard a subtle note of contempt in it. “Is the price too high, Prince Ahmose?”

  Gershom swallowed hard. His pride swelled, urging him to shout out that yes, this price was too high. He was a prince of Egypte and no man’s slave. Yet he did not speak. He sat very quietly, scarcely able to breathe through his tension.

  “I agree,” he said at last.

  “Good. And fear not. You will not be any man’s slave. And the time is not yet when I shall call upon you.”

  The Prophet ate some more dates. Gershom breathed more easily. Not a slave, at least.

  “Could you truly have made your men lepers?” he asked.

  “They believe that I can. Perhaps they are right.”

  “Cthosis told me you once cured a Hittite prince of leprosy.”

  “There are those who say that I did,” said the Prophet. “The Hittite prince would be among them. He came to me with his skin white and scaly, pus-filled sores on his body. When he left, his skin was pink and unmarked.”

  “Then you did heal him?”

  “No. I ordered him to bathe for seven days in the River Jordan.”

  “So you are saying your god healed him after seven days.”

  “My god created the river, so I expect you could say that.” The Prophet leaned forward. “There are many skin diseases, Gershom, and many treatments for them. In summer the Jordan can stink. The water and the mud are noxious. But there is goodness there, within the stench. My family has long known that many skin ailments are healed by scrubbing the body with mud from the Jordan. The Hittite prince did not have leprosy. Merely a skin ailment that the mud and the water washed from him.”

  “No miracle, then,” Gershom said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

  The Prophet gave a cold smile. “I have discovered that miracles are merely events that happen just when they are needed. A man dying of thirst in the desert sees a bee flying through the air. He decides that Jehovah has sent him the bee and follows it to a glistening pool of cold, clear water. Is it a miracle?”

  “It sounds like one,” Gershom said.

  “A desert dweller will tell you that bees are never far from water. Of course this begets the question: ‘Who sent the bee?’ However, your friend is not dying of thirst. He was stabbed.”

  “Yes, twice. The second wound has rotted deep within his body.”

  “I can take away the putrefaction, but you will need to have great trust in me. For what I do will seem madness. Do you trust me?”

  Gershom looked into the Prophet’s dark eyes. “I am a good judge of men,” he said. “I trust you.”

  “Then I will come with you tonight, and we will begin the cure.”

  “You will bring medicines and potions?”

  “No, Gershom. I will bring that which feeds upon putrefaction and disease. I will bring maggots.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE WORMS OF HEALING

  The small lamp guttered and died, but Andromache scarcely noticed it. Sitting by the bedside, holding Helikaon’s hand, she gazed at his face, which was ghost-pale in the soft moonlight shining through the open window.

  This night there had been no fever dreams, no calling out to lost loved ones.

  Andromache sensed that the end was near. Anger, unfocused and raw, surged in her. She loathed this feeling of abject helplessness. All her life she had believed in the power of action, felt that she alone would determine her fate and the fate of those she loved. When Argurios had been attacked by assassins and could not regain his strength, she had coerced him into swimming in the sea, believing it would restore him. And it had. Back in Thebe, when little Salos had been stricken and had lain unconscious for many days, she had sat by his bedside, talking to him, calling gently to him. He had awoken and smiled at her. Always, in the past, she had found a way to bend events to her will.

  But then had come the death of Laodike. That had caused a crack in the fortress of her confidence. Now the walls were breached, and she saw that what lay beyond was not confidence but vanity.

  The night was cool, yet still there was a sheen of bright sweat on Helikaon’s handsome face. Such a face, she thought, reaching up to stroke the fevered cheek.

  One kiss was all they had exchanged on that night when the world was bathed in blood and the enemy was close. One kiss. One declaration of love. One hope, that if they survived they would be together. A night of ultimate victory and terrible desolation.

  Hektor, believed to be dead, had returned in glory. Hektor! How she wished she could hate him for the grief she had known. Yet she could not. For it was not Hektor who had ordered her to leave the island of Thera or Hektor who had haggled over the bridal price. It was not even Hektor who had chosen her.

  Her father had bargained with King Priam, gaining treaties and gold, selling Andromache like a market cow into the Trojan royal family.

  A cool breeze whispered through the window, and a soft groan came from Helikaon. His eyes opened, the brilliant blue of them seeming silver gray in the moonlight.

  “Andromache,” he whispered. She squeezed his hand.

  “I am here.”

  “Not… a dream… then.”

  “Not a dream.” Filling a cup with water, she held it to his lips, and he drank a little. Then his eyes closed once more.

  “Helikaon,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” There was no response. He was sleeping again, drifting away from her toward the Dark Road. She felt the muscles of her stomach tighten painfully. “You remember the beach at Blue Owl Bay,” she said, “where first we met? I saw you then in the moonlight, and something inside me knew you would be part of my life. Odysseus took me to a seer. His name was Aklides. He told me… he told me…” Tears began to fall, and her voice shook. “He told me that I would know a love as powerful and as tempestous as the Great Green. I mocked him and asked him whom I should watch for. He said the man with one sandal. When Odysseus and I left his tent, I saw a common soldier some distance away. His sandal strap broke, and he kicked it clear. I laughed then and asked Odysseus if I should call out to this soldier, this love of my life. I wish I had, Helikaon, for it was you, disguised to trick the killers. If I had called out then… if you had turned toward me…” She hung her head and fell silent.

  Hearing sounds in the corridor beyond, she swiftly wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her green dress.

  The door opened, and Gershom stepped inside, holding the door to usher in a stranger, a tall, powerfully built man in long flowing robes. Andromache rose from the bedside and faced the newcomer. He had fierce eyes under thick bristling brows.

  “This is a healer,” Gershom said. “I asked him to come.”

  “You look more like a warrior,” Andromache said.

  “And I am,” the man told her, his voice deep. Moving past her to the bedside, he leaned over Helikaon, drawing back the bed linen to gaze down on the open wound. “Bring light,” he ordered.

  Gershom left the room and returned with two lamps, which he placed by the bedside. The bearded healer knelt down and lifted Helikaon’s arm, exposing the wound further. Then he sniffed at it. “Very bad,” he said, reaching up and resting his hand on Helikaon’s brow. “Worse than I feared.”

  From his shoulder bag he removed a small pottery jar covered with gauze, then a thin wooden spoon. In the flickering light Andromache saw him carefully smear the wound with what appeared to be a white paste. She blinked and looked more closely. The paste was writhing!

  “What are you doing?” she screamed, launching herself at the man.

  Gershom grabbed her, hauling her back. �
��You must trust him!” he said.

  “They are maggots!”

  “Yes, they are maggots,” said the man at the bedside. “And they are his only chance for life. Though it may be too late.”

  “Are you both insane?” Andromache shouted, struggling in Gershom’s grip. “They are creatures of filth.”

  “You are Andromache,” the healer said, his voice displaying no emotion. “Daughter of Ektion, king of Thebe Under Plakos. I know of you, girl. A priestess of the Minotaur. Betrothed to Hektor. Stories of your courage abound in Troy. You saved the king from an assassin. You took up a bow and fought against the Mykene when they attacked Priam’s palace. You helped heal the warrior Argurios.” All the while he spoke, he continued to apply the tiny white worms to the wound. Then he laid a section of gauze across it. “You are fierce and you are proud. But you are also young, and you do not know all there is to know.”

  “And you do?” Andromache cried.

  “Listen to me!” the healer snapped. “The maggots will eat away the decaying flesh and devour the sickness within it. You are correct; they are creatures of filth. They feast on filth—on the filth that is killing him. Release her, Gershom.”

  Andromache sensed the reluctance in the big man, but his hold loosened, and she pulled free of him. “Why should I trust you?” she asked the healer.

  “I don’t care if you do or you don’t,” he responded. “I have lived long in this world, and I have seen glory and I have seen horror. I have witnessed the compassion of evil men and the darkness in the hearts of the good. I am not here to convince you, woman. All that matters is that you should know I have no interest in Helikaon’s survival. His world and mine do not interact. Equally, I have no interest in his death. I am here because Gershom came to me. When I leave, you can either trust in my wisdom or clean the maggots from the wound. I care not.”

  In the silence that followed she looked into the healer’s broad, fierce face, then swung toward the dying man in the bed. “And he will recover if I leave the worms?”

  “I cannot say that. He is very weak. The maggots should have been applied as soon as the flesh began to putrefy. However, Gershom tells me he is a brave man, determined and decisive. Such a man will not die easily.”

  “How long… must they feed on him?”

  “Three days. The maggots will then be fat, ten times their present size. I will remove them and perhaps add more. In the meantime someone must be with him at all times. Whenever he wakes, he must drink. Water mixed with honey. As much as he will take.” Swinging his bag to his shoulder, he rose and looked at Gershom. “I will return.”

  Without another word he left the room, and Andromache stood silently as his footsteps faded away. Gershom moved to the bedside, laying his hand gently on Helikaon’s shoulder. “Fight on, my friend,” he said softly.

  Helikaon gave a shuddering breath, and his eyes opened. Andromache was instantly beside him. “Was… someone here?”

  “Yes, a healer,” Gershom answered. “Rest now. Build your strength.”

  “So… many dreams.”

  Andromache filled a silver cup with water. Gershom lifted Helikaon’s head, and he drank a little. Then he slept again. For the rest of the night Andromache remained by the bedside. Gershom left with the dawn, and Andromache dozed for a while. She awoke when Helen arrived, carrying a jug.

  “Gershom said to mix honey with the water,” she said, placing the jug by the bedside.

  Andromache rose and stretched, then walked out onto the wide balcony above the Street of Bright Dancers. Helen joined her there.

  “They say that more visitors are arriving every day,” Helen said. “Kings and princes to celebrate your wedding. The bay is full of ships. Paris says many of the nobles are unhappy at being asked to remove themselves from their palaces to make way for all the foreigners.”

  “They are not here to celebrate anything,” Andromache said. “They come for Priam’s golden gifts or to win riches in the games. They care nothing for any wedding. Many of them are little more than bandits who have seized lands and named themselves kings.”

  “Like Agamemnon,” Helen said sadly. “He seized Sparta and named his brother king.”

  Andromache put her arm around the young woman’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Helen; that was thoughtless of me.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize, Andromache. My grandfather took Sparta by storm, enslaving the people of the land. My father merely fought and died to hold on to what his own father had stolen. It was foolish. He thought he could reason with Agamemnon and the Mykene. But the lamb does not reason with the lion. Father gave my sister to Agamemnon and declared him his son. Then he offered me to Agamemnon’s brother, Menelaus. All for nothing. What Agamemnon wants, he gets. And he wanted Sparta.” Helen shrugged, then gave a wan smile. “So now Menelaus sits on the throne, and my father’s bones molder in some field.”

  “Perhaps Menelaus, too, will be overthrown,” Andromache observed.

  “I think not. Father had no sons, no heirs. There will be a few revolts, but though the Spartans are a proud people, there are not enough of them to defeat the Mykene.”

  Andromache lifted her head to the sky, enjoying the warmth of the new sun on her face. “At least your father was wise enough to send you to Troy,” she said. “Here you are safe.”

  “That’s what Paris says, and Antiphones, and Hektor. Oh, Andromache, I have seen the army of Mykene on the march. Nowhere is safe from Agamemnon’s ambition. Paris says Agamemnon tried to form a coalition among the kings of the west to lead an attack on Troy.”

  “And he failed. The kings know such an expedition would be disastrous.”

  Helen looked doubtful. “My father said the same. The Mykene would not march on Sparta.”

  “Troy is not Sparta,” Andromache pointed out. “We are far across the sea, with mighty towers and walls. We have Hektor and the Trojan Horse. All around us are allies, and beyond them is the Hittite empire. They would not allow Troy to fall.”

  “You have never seen Agamemnon,” Helen said. “I went to the Lion’s Hall when he wed my sister Klytemnestra. I stood close to him. I heard him speak. And, once, he turned toward me and looked into my eyes. He said nothing to me, but those eyes terrified me. There was nothing in them, Andromache. Not joy, not hate. Nothing. All the treasure in the world could not fill the emptiness I saw there.”

  On the third day the healer came again. Andromache and Gershom took him to the sickroom. Helikaon’s color had improved, though he was still feverish. Andromache watched as the healer removed the gauze. Bile rose in her when she saw him pinching out the fat, writhing maggots and dropping them into an empty jar. They were bloated and swollen. However, the wound, though open and raw, looked cleaner, less inflamed.

  “You need to add more?” she asked.

  Leaning forward, the Prophet sniffed the wound. “There is still corruption here,” he said. “Three more days.” With that he took a second jar and once more placed tiny maggots within the wound, covering them with gauze.

  The days passed slowly. Helikaon had more moments of clarity and once even managed a bowl of meat broth and a little bread. The nights remained fraught. He would cry out in fever dreams, calling for his friend Ox or his murdered brother, Diomedes.

  Andromache was exhausted by the time the healer returned the second time. The wound was almost closed, and the healer, having cleaned it, declared it was ready to be stitched.

  “Are all the worms free of it?” she asked him. “What if there are some inside still?”

  “They will die.”

  “They will not become flies and eat away at him?”

  “No. Flies are living creatures and need to breathe. Once the wound is closed, any maggots left inside will suffocate.” Taking a curved needle and some dark thread, he began to close the wound. As he worked, he asked her about Helikaon’s moments of lucidity and what he spoke of during those moments. He listened intently and did not seem happy with her responses.


  “What is it you fear?” she asked him.

  He looked down at the sleeping man. “He is a little stronger, and his body is fighting hard. It is his mind that concerns me. That is not fighting. It is as if his spirit does not want to live. It has given up. Tell me of the attack on him.”

  “I know little of it,” Andromache said, turning toward Gershom. “Were you there?”

  “Yes, I was. He was coming from the cliff path with Queen Halysia. She was radiant and happy and holding onto his hand. As they approached the crowd, Attalus stepped out to meet them. Helikaon greeted him with a smile, and then—so swiftly that there was no chance to react—Attalus drew his dagger and plunged it into Helikaon. As he fell back, I ran forward with several others, and we bore Attalus to the ground. Someone stabbed the villain in the chest. He died soon after. That is all.”

  “No,” the Prophet said. “That is not all.”

  “It is all that I know,” Gershom said.

  “Did Attalus die swiftly, or did anyone discover why he had stabbed his friend?”

  “Helikaon came to him. He knelt by Attalus. By then the assassin was almost dead. Helikaon asked him something, then leaned in. Attalus replied, but I did not hear it.”

  “How did Helikaon take what he heard?”

  “That is hard to say, Prophet. He was wounded, though we did not think it so serious. His face went white, and he recoiled from the dying man. Then he stood, shaking his head as if in disbelief. He staggered then, and we all saw the amount of blood he was losing. That was when we fetched the surgeon.”

  “And he has not spoken of what he learned?”

  “Not to me. Is it important, then?”

  “I would say so,” the Prophet answered.

  “What can we do for him?” Andromache asked.

  “Watch him carefully, as before. Let him hear laughter, song, music. When he is stronger, perhaps bring a woman to his bed, or a young man if that is his preference. Have someone lie naked alongside him. Have them stroke his skin. Anything to remind him of the joys of life.”

  He finished stitching the wound, then stood. “I am leaving tomorrow for the south. There is little more I can do for him.” He turned toward Gershom. “Remember your promise. For I shall.”