‘Wait here, sir,’ he said.
The courtyard was shadeless and without greenery. Argurios paced back and forth a few times then sat stiffly on a stone bench facing the westering sun.
From an inner door three men came out. The leader was tall and lean, with thin red hair. His beardless face was grey and his eyes red-rimmed as if from the cold. He wore a long dark cape over tunic and leggings, and was unarmed. The two others, one dark, one fair, both wore swords. Argurios noted their expressions and felt uneasy. They were staring at him unblinkingly. He rose from the bench.
‘I returned last night,’ said the red-haired man, without any form of greeting.
This display of ill manners annoyed Argurios, but he held his anger in check. ‘I was with the king when the lord Kolanos spoke of the cowardly slaughter by the killer Helikaon. He also named you as a traitor, in the pay of Helikaon.’
‘Ah,’ said Argurios, coldly. ‘A coward and a liar as well.’ The ambassador’s eyes narrowed, and he reddened.
‘The lord Kolanos claimed you killed one of his crew, and saved the life of Helikaon.’
‘That is true.’
‘Perhaps you would care to explain yourself.’
Argurios glanced at the armed men with Erekos. ‘I am Argurios, Follower of Agamemnon and a Mykene noble. I answer only to my king, and not to some over-promoted peasant sent to a foreign land.’
The men with the ambassador reached for their swords, but Erekos waved them back. He smiled. ‘I have heard in full of the events in Lykia. Many good Mykene men died – including my nephew Glaukos. You did nothing to save them, indeed you aided the killer Helikaon. You are not welcome here, Argurios. The rules of hospitality dictate that no blood will be shed in my house. But know that Agamemnon has spoken the words of banishment against you. You are no longer Mykene. Your lands are forfeit and you are named as an enemy of the Lion’s Hall.’
Argurios strode from the house, back straight, head reeling. He was not a diplomat and this journey to Troy had not been one he had sought. Yet he was proud to serve his king, both to gather information on Priam’s political and military situation, and to deliver messages to his brother Mykene abroad.
Delving into his leather bag he snatched out the sealed papyrus letters he carried for Erekos. Anger tempted him to throw them to the winds, but he hesitated, then put them away again. They had been given to him by Agamemnon’s chief scribe as he had left the palace on that last day. The man had come running out into the street. ‘I hear you are sailing for Troy,’ he said. ‘These messages were meant to have been sent three days ago, but a fool of a servant forgot to give them to the captain. Will you take them, Lord Argurios?’
Each bore the seal of Agamemnon and he had carried them with reverence. He could not throw the king’s words into the mud of the street.
Banishment!
He could scarcely believe such a sentence, but it hurt him more that Agamemnon, whom he had served with total loyalty, could have acted in such a fashion.
Surely, he thought, the king, of all men, should have known he would never have sold out to Helikaon, or any other enemy of his people. Did the works of his life count for nothing, he wondered? In the twenty years since he reached manhood he had never sought riches, nor succumbed to any temptations that would hinder his service. He had not lied, nor taken part in the palace intrigues that saw men plotting against one another to rise in Agamemnon’s favour. He had even remained unwed, so that his life could be entirely dedicated to the king and to the people.
And now he had been named a traitor, stripped of his lands, and his citizenship.
As he walked from the house of Erekos he decided to take ship back to Mykene, and to appeal to the king directly. Surely, he thought, he will realize he has been misled. His spirits rose. Once back in Mykene he would expose Kolanos for the liar and villain that he was, and all would be well.
He was close to his lodgings when he realized he was being followed.
And he knew then there would be no easy return to his homeland. The killers had been unleashed. As an enemy of the people his life was worth only what price Agamemnon or Kolanos had placed upon it.
Cold anger rose and he swung to await the assassins. He had carried no sword or dagger with him to the ambassador’s house, and stood there unarmed as the five men approached.
The leader was swathed in a dark, hooded cloak. He stepped forward and spoke.
‘Renegade, you know what dark deeds have brought you to this judgement.’
Argurios stood calmly and looked the man in the eye. ‘There are no dark deeds to my name. I am Argurios, and the victim of a coward’s lies. I intend to sail home and appeal to my king.’
The man laughed harshly. ‘Your life ends here, traitor. There are no appeals.’ A knife flashed into his hands and he leapt forward. Argurios stepped in to meet him, grabbing the knife wrist and thundering a fierce blow into the man’s face.
As the man fell back Argurios gripped his wrist with both hands, spun him round, then twisted the arm savagely, dislocating his shoulder. The assassin screamed and dropped his knife. The other four men surged forward. Lifting his foot Argurios propelled the crippled assassin into his comrades, then swept up the dagger.
‘I am Argurios!’ he thundered. ‘To come at me is to die.’
They hesitated then, but all were armed with swords. The injured leader was on his knees. ‘Kill him!’ he screamed.
They rushed in. Argurios charged to meet them. A sword plunged into his side, a second cleaving into his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain he stabbed one man through the heart, kicked a second man in the right knee, causing him to fall, then grappled with the third. The fourth man stabbed at him, the blade glancing from his ribs. Argurios could feel his strength failing. Smashing a blow to one attacker’s face he followed up with a head butt that broke another’s nose. Half blinded, the assassin staggered. Argurios twisted to one side, then hammered his foot against an attacker’s knee. There was a sickening crack as the joint snapped, followed by a piercing shriek of agony. The third attacker was on his feet again. Argurios dived to the ground, grabbing a fallen sword, then rolled just in time to block a downward cut. Surging up, he shoulder-charged the attacker, hurling him back. Before the man could recover Argurios drove his sword through the assassin’s chest. Tearing the blade clear he swung in time to parry a ferocious lunge that would have disembowelled him. His sword lanced up, skewering the man through the chin and up into his brain. Argurios wrenched the blade loose and let him fall.
The man with the shattered knee was groaning loudly. Argurios glanced to his left where the leader now stood, his knife held in his left hand, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side.
‘Your comrade cannot walk,’ said Argurios. ‘He will need you to help him to a house of healing.’
‘There will be another day,’ said the man.
‘Maybe, but not for you, puppy dog. It’ll take real hounds to hunt down this old wolf. Now get you gone.’
He stood tall and apparently strong as the leader hauled the groaning man upright. Then the two of them made their slow way back into the darkness.
Argurios managed to stay upright for a few moments more.
He had no idea how much time had passed since. The pain in his stomach had ceased, and he felt cold, though he could still feel warm blood flowing under his hand. He tried to lift himself up with one arm and the pain ripped through him again. Then he heard footsteps. So, they had come back to finish their work.
Anger gave him strength and he levered himself upright, determined to die on his feet.
Several soldiers in crested helmets moved into sight. Argurios sagged back against the door frame. ‘What happened here?’ asked the first soldier, stepping in close. The world spun, and Argurios fell. The soldier dropped his spear and caught him, lowering him to the ground.
A second soldier called out: ‘One of the dead men is Philometor the Mykene. He was said to be a fine warrior.’
‘Well,’ said the soldier, ‘we must get him to the temple. Any man the Mykene want dead must be worthy of life.’
XVII
The Golden King
i
The last time Helikaon had stood on the beach below Troy Zidantas had been alongside him. They had been on their way to Kypros, to take the Xanthos on her maiden voyage. It seemed a lifetime ago now.
The ship had been unloaded, the cargo carried to warehouses. With the season over there were few merchants on the beaches, and the Xanthos would continue north to Dardania with a much lighter load. The crew had been paid, and twenty-eight rowers had declared their intent to leave the ship. Oniacus had been scouring the taverns, seeking fresh men to crew the Xanthos on its journey home.
Helikaon glanced along the bay, and saw Odysseus and his crew preparing the Penelope for launch. The slender old ship slid gracefully into the water, the men hauling themselves aboard. Odysseus was shouting orders now. For a moment Helikaon wished the years could be swept away, and that he too was back aboard the Penelope, sailing off across the Great Green to winter in Ithaka. Life had seemed so uncomplicated then, his concerns small and focused on easily remedied problems: the tear in the sail that could be stitched, the blistered hands that could be bandaged.
Earlier that morning he had sat on the beach with his friend. It was their first meeting since the battle outside Blue Owl Bay. Odysseus had told him about the boy, Xander, and they had sat in comfortable silence for a while.
‘You have not spoken of Zidantas,’ said Odysseus, at last.
‘He is dead. What else is there to say?’
Odysseus looked at him closely. ‘You remember me talking about the lost hero, and your need to find him?’
‘Of course. I was a weak and frightened boy. But he is long gone now.’
‘He was frightened, yes, but not weak. Intelligent and thoughtful. Aye, and caring and gentle. And sometimes you need to seek him too.’
Helikaon forced a laugh. The sound was harsh. ‘He could not survive in my world.’
Odysseus shook his head. ‘Your world is full of violent men, heroic with sword and shield, ready to butcher their way to whatever plunder they desire. Can you not see it is the boy you were who stops you from being like them? Do not lose sight of him, Helikaon.’
‘Would he have destroyed the galleys of Kolanos? Would he have defeated Alektruon, or survived the treachery at Blue Owl Bay?’
‘No, he would not,’ snapped Odysseus. ‘Nor would he have burned to death fifty or more unarmed and hobbled men. You want to defeat Kolanos – or become him?’
Helikaon felt a rush of anger at this outburst from his friend. ‘How could you say that to me? You do not know what is in my heart.’
‘Who does?’ countered Odysseus. ‘You have it sheathed in armour. You always did.’
‘I do not need to hear this,’ said Helikaon, pushing himself to his feet.
Odysseus rose alongside him. ‘How many friends do you have, Helikaon? I love you like my own son, and you are wrong. I do see into your heart. I see you are suffering, and I know what Ox meant to you. You are grieving and you feel as if something is ripping out your guts from the inside. Your dreams are tortured, your waking hours tormented. You look for him always, just at the edge of your vision. You expect to wake one morning and find him standing there, big as life.
And a part of you dies every time you wake and realize he isn’t.’
Helikaon’s shoulders sagged as his anger seeped away. ‘How can you know all this?’
‘I watched my son die.’ Odysseus sat down and stared out to sea. Helikaon remained where he was for a moment, then seated himself alongside his friend.
‘I am sorry, Odysseus. I had forgotten.’
‘You didn’t know him.’ The ugly king sighed. ‘Now, do you want to talk about Ox?’
‘I can’t.’
Odysseus looked disappointed, but he nodded. ‘I understand. But one day, my friend, I hope you will learn to open your heart. Otherwise you will always be alone. We will not dwell on it, though. Let us return to Kolanos. He is likely to go to ground now. He’ll either return to Mykene or seek shelter on the pirate isle southwest of Samothraki. The waters there are treacherous, and few ships will risk the winter storms. Even if they did there is a stockade there, and several hundred pirates to man it.’
‘I know the island,’ said Helikaon. ‘The Penelope beached there on my first voyage. The pirates gathered round you, and you told them a story that had them laughing, crying and cheering. They showered you with gifts. I still think of it sometimes. A hundred cruel and barbaric men, weeping over a story of love and honour and courage.’
‘Aye, it was a good night,’ said Odysseus. ‘If Kolanos is there he will be safe for the winter. But he will sail again in spring.’
‘And I will find him, Odysseus.’
‘I expect you will. More important, however, you need to watch yourself now.
There are some canny killers out there. With that in mind, I have a small gift for you.’
Delving into the pack he was carrying he pulled forth a tunic of dark brown leather and passed it to Helikaon. It was heavier than Helikaon expected, and he could feel something hard beneath the soft leather. ‘Picked it up a few years back in Kretos,’ said Odysseus. Helikaon hoisted the garment. It was a knee-length tunic, with a lining of silk. ‘It is a cunning piece,’ said Odysseus. ‘Between the silk and the leather are thin, overlapping discs of ivory. It’ll turn a dagger blade, though I doubt it would withstand a powerful sword thrust, a strike from an axe, or a well-aimed arrow from a bow of horn.’
‘It is a fine gift, my friend. Thank you.’
‘Pshaw! Too small for me anyway. Wear it when ashore – and try not to travel alone in the city.’
‘I will be careful,’ promised Helikaon. ‘I shall be sailing for Dardania soon.
Once home I will be surrounded by loyal soldiers.’
‘As your father was,’ pointed out Odysseus. ‘Do not assume anywhere is safe.
Equally, do not assume loyalty is made of stone.’
‘I know.’
‘Of course you do,’ muttered Odysseus apologetically. ‘Did you hear about Argurios?’
‘No.’
‘Word is he’s been banished and declared outlaw. It is said you bought him.’
Helikaon shook his head in disbelief. ‘You don’t buy a man like Argurios. Who could think such a thing?’
‘Men who can be bought,’ answered Odysseus. ‘I doubt he’ll last a month. How long are you planning to stay in Troy?’
‘A few days more. I must pay my respects to Priam, and there are still merchants I need to see. Why do you ask?’
‘Something in the air,’ said the older man, touching his nose. ‘There is a feeling of unease in the city. I suspect there is another palace revolution brewing.’
Helikaon laughed. ‘There is always a palace revolution brewing. My guess is that Priam enjoys them. It gives his devious mind something to gnaw at.’
‘You are right,’ admitted Odysseus, ‘he likes risks. 1 knew a man once who placed wagers on almost anything. He would sit beneath a tree and wager on which pigeon would fly away first, or which dolphin would swim beneath the prow. His wagers grew larger and larger. One day he wagered his lands, his horses, his cattle and his ship on a single throw of the dice. He lost it all.’
‘You believe Priam to be such a fool?’
Odysseus shrugged. ‘A man who loves risks is a man seeking to test himself. Each time he wins he needs to increase the peril. Priam has many acknowledged sons, and only a few positions of power to award. Not all of his sons can succeed him.’
‘He has Hektor,’ Helikaon pointed out. ‘He would never betray his father.’
‘Hektor is the key in all this,’ Odysseus replie
d. ‘He is both loved and feared.
Any who rose against Priam would have to face the wrath of Hektor. That alone is what prevents a civil war. Priam has alienated at least half his generals, and the gods alone know how many of his counsellors. He strips them of their titles on a whim, appointing others in their place. He revels in humiliating the men around him. His sons too are often chided publicly. Foolish man. If Hektor were to fall in battle this kingdom would rip apart like an old sail in a storm.’
Helikaon laughed. ‘Hektor will not fall in battle. He is invincible. If his ship were to sink he’d emerge riding one of Poseidon’s dolphins.’
Odysseus grinned. ‘Aye, he does radiate a godlike quality.’ The smile faded.
‘But he is not a god, Helikaon. He is a man, albeit a great one. And men die. I wouldn’t want to be in Troy if that were to happen.’
‘It won’t happen. The gods have always loved Hektor.’
‘May Father Zeus hear those words and make them true.’ Odysseus rose. ‘I must be making ready to sail. Take care, my boy,’ he said. The two men embraced.
‘Fair winds and calm seas, Odysseus.’
‘That would make a pleasant change. Tell me, will you be seeing Andromache?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Fine woman. I like her enormously.’ Odysseus laughed. ‘I would love to have been present when she met Priam.’
Helikaon thought of the Trojan king. Powerful and dominant, he sought to intimidate all who came before him. Then he recalled Andromache’s challenging gaze. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I would like to have seen that too.’
ii
‘My lady, wake up, my lady! Oh, please wake up!’
Andromache returned to consciousness slowly. She had been dreaming of a great storm, the sea rising like a mountain into the sky. Ever since she had seen the seer, Aklides, she had been haunted by dreams: visions of men with one sandal, or colossal storms. Once she had even dreamed she was married to a pig farmer, whose face had slowly become that of a boar, white tusks sprouting from his bearded cheeks.
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