Helikaon rose. ‘Gifts for Charon the Ferryman. All spirits must cross the Black River to reach the Fields of Elysia. He ferries them.’
‘You believe that?’
Helikaon shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But the gifts also honour the dead, and are tributes to their bravery.’
A tall, silver-haired man, wearing a long white cloak bearing the horse insignia of the House of Priam, approached them and bowed.
‘My lord Aeneas, I come from the king with grim news.’
‘Is Priam ill?’
‘No, lord. The news is from Dardania.’
‘Then speak, man.’
The messenger hesitated, then took a long, deep breath. He did not meet Helikaon’s gaze. ‘Word has reached us that a force of Mykene pirates, under cover of darkness, broke into the citadel at Dardanos.’ He hesitated. ‘It was not a plunder raid. It was a mission of murder.’
Helikaon stood very quietly. ‘They were seeking me?’
‘No, lord. They were hunting the boy king.’
A cold fear settled on Helikaon’s heart. ‘Tell me they did not find him.’
‘I am sorry, lord. They killed Diomedes and raped and stabbed his mother. She still lives, but it is feared not for long.’
Several men, Oniacus among them, had gathered round. No-one spoke. Helikaon fought for control. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the bright, smiling face of Diomedes, sunlight glinting on his golden hair. The silence grew.
‘The pirates were beaten back, lord. But most of them made it to the beach and their waiting ships.’
‘How did the boy die?’
‘They soaked his clothing in oil, set fire to him, and hurled him from the cliffs. The queen’s clothing was also drenched in oil, but General Pausanius and his men fought their way to her. The Mykene had no time to burn her, which, I suppose, is why they stabbed her. No-one knows who led the raid, save that it was a young warrior with white hair.’
Helikaon walked away from the messenger and the silent crew and stood staring out to sea. Oniacus joined him.
‘What are your orders, my king?’ he asked.
‘We sail tonight. We are going home to Dardanos,’ Helikaon told him.
Part Three
THE STORMS OF WINTER
XXI
The Man at the Gate
Habusas the Assyrian sat on the cliff top, gazing out over the sea. To the northeast the high mountained isle of Samothraki was bathed in sunshine, but here, above the small island of Pithros, heavy clouds cast dark shadows over the cliffs and the rugged land behind them. The sea below was rough and churning, fierce winds buffeting the waves. Habusas lifted the wine jug to his lips and drank. It was cheap wine, and coarse, but none the less satisfying. Behind him he could hear the laughter of his children, the three boys chasing each other, long sticks in their hands – pretend swords for pretend warriors. One day, he thought proudly, they will sail with me, and the swords will be real.
It had been a good season, with fine raiding. Kolanos had led them to many victories, and Habusas had returned to the winter isle with a huge sack of plunder. There were golden torques and wristbands, brooches of silver and lapis lazuli, rings set with carnelian and emerald. Yes, a fine season – save for the horror of Blue Owl Bay. A lot of good men had died that day, their bodies burnt and blackened.
Still, they had revenged themselves in the attack on Dardanos. Habusas recalled with pleasure watching the young king, his clothes ablaze, fall screaming from the cliff. More pleasurable still, though, was the memory of the queen. Sex was always good, but the pleasure was heightened immeasurably when the woman was unwilling. Indeed, when she begged and pleaded to be spared.
And how she had pleaded!
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 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 convince his warriors to brave the wrath of Poseidon, Helikaon could not attack the island without bringing upon 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 towards 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 round to watch the sun begin to set in the west. His three sons gathered round 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, towards 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?’ argued Balios. 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.
Thunder clouds were gathering, and the sea was growing increasingly angry.
From a little way ahead Balios shouted out. ‘Five more, father!’ He was pointing towards 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 towards 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 own house, continuing to call out to any he saw. Men emerged from the white-walled buildings, hastily buckling on breastplates, and strapping swordbelts to their hips.
At his own house his wife, Voria, had heard the commotion and was standing in the doorway. ‘Fetch my helmet and axe,’ 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 axe.
‘I’ll fight alongside you, father,’ offered Balios.
‘Not today, lad. Stay with 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 towards 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 towards the beach he could see soldiers gathering, the last of the sunlight glinting on shields, helms, breastplates and the points of spears. They were forming up into disciplined phalanxes. Transferring his gaze to the hillside above the settlement, he saw the women and children heading towards 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 wasn’t 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 armoured pirates could move fast, striking hard, 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 armoured 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 levelled. The women and children began to stream back towards the town, seeking to escape the line of spears.
Despair flowed over Habusas. More ships must have landed on the west 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 armour, and was dressed like a simple sailor, in an old, worn chiton tunic. The men with him were dressed similarly – though in their hands they held bows, arrows notched 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, 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 pushing 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 armoured 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 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 towards 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 whe
re 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 just kill him, a single sword-thust 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 round, 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 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 out 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 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 towards the beach.
The galleys of the invaders were drawn up there. Helikaon repeated the question.
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