‘Be calm, boy,’ said Zidantas. ‘Of course I will talk to you.’ He dropped to one knee and put his arms round Xander.
‘Oniacus wouldn’t speak to me. Have I done something wrong?’
‘You have done nothing wrong, son of Akamas. He cannot see you.’
‘Why? You can see me.’
‘Aye, I can.’
‘I thought you were dead, Zidantas. We all thought you were dead.’
‘What are you doing here, boy? Were you hurt in the fight?’
‘No. I went to Troy with Odysseus. That’s all I remember. I was sick. I am better now.’
‘His heart is failing,’ said a voice.
‘Did you hear that?’ Xander asked Zidantas.
‘Yes. You must go back to Troy. And swiftly.’
‘Can’t I stay with you? I don’t want to be alone.’
‘We are walking a dark road. It is not for you. Not yet. Listen to me. I want you to close your eyes and think of Troy, and where you were. You understand?
You are in a bed somewhere, or lying on a beach. There are people with you.’
‘I keep hearing the voice of Odysseus,’ said Xander.
‘Then close your eyes and think of him. Think of Odysseus, Xander. Do it now!
Think of life! Think of a blue sky and a fresh wind off the sea.’
Xander closed his eyes. He could still feel Zidantas’ arms round him, and a great warmth settled over him. Then Zidantas spoke again. ‘If you see my little Thea tell her she brought great joy to my heart. Tell her that, boy.’
‘I will, Zidantas. I promise.’
‘Can you hear my voice, lad?’ he heard Odysseus ask. ‘Listen to my voice, and come back to us.’
Xander groaned, and felt a weight upon his chest. His limbs were leaden and his mouth dry. He opened his eyes, and saw the ugly face of Odysseus leaning over him.
‘Ha!’ shouted the Ithakan king. ‘Did I not tell you? The boy has heart.’ He looked down at Xander and ruffled his hair. ‘You had us all fearful for a while.’
Odysseus helped him to sit, then lifted a cup of water to his lips. Xander drank gratefully. He looked around, and saw sunlight streaming through a window, down onto the bed in which he lay. Beyond Odysseus was a tall, thin man, in an ankle-length chiton of white. His hair was dark, and thinning at the temples, and he looked very tired. He approached Xander and laid a cool hand on the boy’s brow. ‘The fever is breaking,’ he said. ‘He needs to eat and rest. I shall have one of the helpers bring him a little food.’
‘How soon can he travel?’ Odysseus asked the man.
‘Not for a week at least. The fever could return, and he is very weak.’
After the man had gone Xander looked around the small room. ‘Where is this place?’ he asked.
‘It is a House of Serpents – a healing house,’ Odysseus explained. ‘You have been here five days. You remember any of it?’
‘No. All I remember is seeing Zidantas. He told me to come back to Troy. It seemed so real, but it was just a dream.’
‘Did you see any gates?’ asked Odysseus.
‘Gates?’
‘My Penelope tells me there are two kinds of dreams. Some come through a Gate of Ivory, and their meanings are deceitful. Others come through a Gate of Horn, and these are heavy with fate.’
‘I saw no gates,’ said Xander.
‘Then perhaps it was just a dream,’ said Odysseus. ‘I am going to have to leave you here, Xander. The season is almost gone, and I need to get back to my Penelope before winter.’
‘No!’ said Xander fearfully. ‘I don’t want to be alone again. Please don’t go!’
‘You won’t be alone, lad. The Xanthos is in the bay, and Helikaon is here. I shall get word to him about you. For now, though, you must rest, and do everything the healer tells you. Your strength needs to return.’
As he spoke, Xander realized how weak he felt. ‘What was wrong with me?’
Odysseus shrugged. ‘You had a fever. The healer said you might have eaten something bad, or breathed foul air. You are better now, though, lad. And you will be strong again. I can read the hearts of men, you know. I know the difference between heroes and cowards. You are a hero. You believe me?’
‘I don’t feel like a hero,’ Xander admitted.
Odysseus tapped the cheekbone under his right eye. ‘This eye is magical, Xander.
It is never wrong. Now, I ask again, do you believe me?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Then tell me what you are.’
‘I am a hero.’
‘Good. When doubt comes, as it always does, remember those words. Say them to yourself. And I will see you again in the spring, if the gods will it.’
ii
Argurios of Mykene was not a man given to introspection. His life had been one of service to his king and his people. He did not question the decisions of the ruler, or wonder about the rights and wrongs of war and conquest. For Argurios life was stark and uncomplicated. Powerful men ruled, weaker men became servants or slaves. It was the same with nations.
Yet within this simple philosophy he had also absorbed the code of Atreus King, Agamemnon’s father. Power with conscience, strength without cruelty, love of homeland without hatred for one’s enemies.
Hence Argurios had never tortured a foe, raped a woman, nor killed a child. He had burned no homes, nor sought to terrorize those he had defeated.
The events leading to the horror of Bad Luck Bay continued to haunt him. The murder of Zidantas was brutal and sadistic. He wanted to believe that Kolanos was merely a savage; a monster who stood apart from the fine men of the Mykene race.
But was he?
He had pondered this on the voyage with Odysseus, but had still not found an answer. Now, as he walked up the long hill towards the Scaean Gate, he did not marvel at the beauty of the city, or notice the glittering gold of the palace roofs. He was thinking of other generals who had gained favour with Agamemnon King, cruel and ruthless men whose atrocities were a stain upon the honour of the Mykene. He had heard stories during the past months that had chilled his blood.
A village had been massacred, the men tied to trees, their ribs cut open, their entrails held in place by sticks. The women had been raped and murdered. The Mykene general in charge of the attack had been Kolanos.
Argurios had gone to Agamemnon with the tale. The king had listened intently.
‘If all is as you said, Argurios, then the guilty men will be harshly dealt with.’
But they had not been. After that Argurios had rarely been invited into the king’s presence. Indeed, when Agamemnon last visited the Cave of Wings Argurios was not one of the twelve, though Kolanos was.
Pushing aside such thoughts Argurios entered the lower town of Troy, seeking the Street of Ambassadors. He soon became lost, and was loth to ask directions. He paused by a well and sat down in the shade of a wall on which the figure of Artemis the Huntress had been incised. It was a fine work. Her image had been captured in full run, her bow bent, as if chasing a quarry.
‘I want you to go to Troy,’ Agamemnon King had said, on their final meeting.
‘I am at your command, my king. What would you have me do there?’
‘Study their defences. You may explain your findings to Erekos the ambassador.
He will send me your reports.’
‘With respect, my king, he can already describe the fortifications. What purpose is served by my travelling there?’
‘My purpose,’ said Agamemnon. ‘And you know as well as I that fortifications alone are not the key to strength. Men win or lose wars. Study the soldiers.
Look to their disciplines and their weaknesses. Troy is the richest city on the Great Green. It has enormous wealth, and even greater influence. No venture across the sea can succeed if Troy is against it. Therefore Troy must fall to the Mykene.’
‘We are to attack Troy?’
‘Not immediately. It may not even be necessary. We now have
friends within the royal family. One of those friends may soon be king. Then there will be no need to storm the city. However, as my father taught me, it is always wise to have more than one plan. You will travel with Glaukos. He is related to Erekos the ambassador. He can also read and write – a skill I believe you have not mastered.’
‘No, lord.’
‘He may be useful to you.’
‘The boy lacks heart. I would not trust him in a hard fight.’
‘You will not be in hard fights, Argurios.’
‘Might I ask the result of your investigations into the massacre?’
Agamemnon had waved his hand. ‘Exaggerated stories. A few people were killed to emphasize the futility of opposing Mykene rule. There is a ship leaving later today. The captain will be expecting you.’
The memory of that last conversation hung on him like a shroud. Agamemnon had been more than cool towards him. There was an underlying feeling of hostility emanating from the king.
Rising from his seat, Argurios continued to walk through the city, becoming ever more lost in the maze of streets. Finally he was forced to seek help from a street seller.
Following the man’s directions, he found himself in front of a large but anonymous house in the lower town, tucked under the west wall of the city. There was an armed man outside the gate. He wore no armour – Argurios was later to
discover that the wearing of a breastplate and helmet was a privilege given in the city only to soldiers of Troy – but his demeanour told Argurios that he was a Mykene warrior. Tall, grim, with grey eyes, the soldier looked at the visitor but said nothing.
‘I am Argurios, Follower to Agamemnon. I seek audience with Erekos.’
‘He is in Miletos, sir,’ the guard told him. ‘He is due back in the next few days. He has gone to meet the king.’
‘Agamemnon is in Miletos?’ The news surprised Argurios. Miletos was a large port city, between Lykia and Troy. The Penelope had sailed that coastline. It was infuriating to have been so close to his king without knowing it. He could have informed him of the events at Bad Luck Bay.
The guard gave him directions to a house where visitors could find a bed and food. Argurios took his few belongings with him, and was offered a small room, with a tiny window overlooking distant hills. The bed was rickety, the room musty. Argurios did not care. It would be used only for sleep.
Every morning for the next six days he walked to the ambassador’s house to seek news of his arrival. On discovering that Erekos had still not returned he would patrol the city, examining its defences as Agamemnon had ordered.
He soon discovered that Troy was not a single city. Its burgeoning wealth meant it was growing fast, spreading out over the hills and plain. At the highest point was the walled palace of the king. This had been the original citadel, and contained many ancient buildings, now used as treasuries, or offices for the king’s counsellors. There were two gates, one leading through to the women’s quarters, the second opening onto the courtyard before the huge double doors of the king’s megaron.
Extending out in a wide circle round the palace was the Upper City, containing the homes of the rich: merchants, princes and noblemen. Here there were great palaces and houses boasting statues and flowering trees, and gardens of extraordinary beauty. There were several large areas where craftsmen and artisans produced goods for the wealthy: jewellers, clothes makers, armourers, potters and bronzesmiths. There were dining halls and meeting places, a gymnasium and a theatre. The Upper City was defended by huge walls, and cunningly placed towers.
Outside these walls was the continuously growing Lower Town. This was largely indefensible. There were no walls, merely a series of wide ditches, some still under construction. Any large force could march unopposed through the streets, but there would be little plunder. Here there were few palaces. Mostly the area contained the homes of the poorer inhabitants: servants and lesser craftspeople, workers in the dye trade, or the fishing industry. The air was, in places, noxious with the stench of lime ash and cattle urine, used by cloth dyers, and fermented fish guts, processed for soups and broths.
But here was not where any battle for the city would be won or lost. The sack of Troy, Argurios knew, would come only when an enemy breached the Great Gates, or scaled the mighty walls.
The East Gate would be a nightmare to storm. The walls doubled back on themselves in a dog-leg, ensuring that invaders would be crammed together and assaulted by archers, peltasts, and spear throwers. Even heavy rocks thrown from such a height would crush an armoured man. And the gates themselves were thick, and reinforced with bronze. They would not burn easily.
However, the physical defences were not Argurios’ main concern. His skills, as Agamemnon knew, lay in the study of soldiers and their qualities and weaknesses. Wars were won and lost on four vital elements: morale, discipline, organization, and courage. Flaws in any one and defeat was assured. So he had studied the soldiers on the walls, their alertness and their demeanour. Were they careless or slack? Were their officers decisive and disciplined? Were they confident of their strength, or merely arrogant? These were the questions Agamemnon sought answers to. So Argurios sat in taverns and eating houses, listening to the conversations of soldiers, and watched them as they marched, or patrolled the walls. He chatted to traders at their stalls, and to old men sitting round wells talking of their days in the army.
The Trojan troops, he discovered, were highly disciplined and well trained. In conversations he found out that Priam regularly sent troops in support of the Hittites in their wars, and even hired out horsemen, foot soldiers and charioteers to neighbouring kingdoms, in order that the men would gain combat experience. While Troy itself had suffered no wars in more than two generations, its soldiers were battle-hardened men. It had been difficult to gauge the exact number of fighting men Troy could call upon, but Argurios believed it to be no fewer than 10,000, including the 1,000 warriors of the Trojan Horse riding with Hektor against the Egypteians.
On first analysis it seemed Troy was unassailable, but Argurios knew that no fortress was ever unconquerable. How then to breach its defences? How many men would be needed?
For overwhelming force to destroy a besieged enemy the normal calculation was a factor of five. The Trojans had 10,000 men, therefore the minimum force to gather would be 50,000 warriors. That in itself precluded any Mykene invasion, for Agamemnon could not muster more than 15,000 fighting men if he conscripted every warrior in Mykene. And even if 50,000 could be gathered, a second logistical problem would arise. How to feed such an army? They would need to raid surrounding territories, and this would inflame the populations, causing uprisings and disaffection. The problem was a thorny one, but Argurios was determined to return to his king with a positive plan.
Then on the seventh day he learned that Erekos the ambassador had returned from Miletos.
iii
The screams echoed through his head, and Argurios felt his skull starting to pound. He looked up at the high roof of the circular tomb, trying to ignore the thick smell of blood and fear, and the sounds of the thrashing, dying horses. The sacrifice of noble horses to Zeus was an appropriate ritual at the funeral of a great king, and his heart lifted at the thought that Atreus King would ride such fine steeds on his journey to the Elysian Fields.
The two horses, dead at last, were being hauled into place at the sides of the king’s bier in the centre of the tomb. Atreus lay in his gold and silver armour, his favourite sword at his right side, three jewelled daggers and a bow to his left. At his head was a great golden cup embossed with the Lion of Mykene, and flagons of wine and oil for his journey. Three of the king’s beloved hounds lay slaughtered at his feet.
The dark, musty tomb was filled with the king’s Followers, his grieving family, counsellors, and mourners. Agamemnon stood dressed in a simple woollen robe, tears pouring down his cheeks. His brother Menelaus was dry-eyed but looked stricken, his face ashen and empty.
There was a cacophony of noise f
rom the musicians and singers milling around in the darkness. Then the sounds of lute and lyre started to fade away.
Argurios stepped forward to take his last look at his king. He frowned. The bearded face resting peacefully on the bier was not that of Atreus. The beard was wrong, and the face too broad. Was this an impostor?
Confusion and fear in his heart, he moved forward reluctantly and saw that the face on the bier was his own.
He looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. But there was no-one there.
The mourners and musicians, sons and counsellors had all vanished, and the great circular tomb was dark and cold, the air heavy with damp and rot.
He was alone. No-one mourned Argurios. No-one marked his passing, and he would go to the earth unnoticed. No-one would know his name.
His head was splitting now. A terrible pain erupted in his stomach as well. He had just noticed it, but he knew it had been there all the time. He cried out…
He was lying in a stone doorway in the cool night air. The moon was high, and, by its light, Argurios could see that his tunic was drenched in blood. Three bodies lay close by, and he saw a blood-smeared sword by the doorway. He tried to rise, but fell again, a stabbing pain searing through his back and chest.
Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his knees. His vision swam and he fell against the door frame.
After a while the pain ebbed a little and he gazed around him. In the moonlight he could see a small street of modest houses looking over a silver sea. Then he remembered. He was in Troy.
A fresh wave of pain surged over him. His head began to pound and he vomited on the ground. There was blood in the vomit. Once again he tried to rise, but there was no strength in his legs. He stared at the bodies of the men he had killed.
One was facing him. He recognized him as the guard who had been on duty on the seventh day of his visit to the house of Erekos.
The man had informed him that Erekos had returned, and had gestured Argurios into the courtyard.
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