Andromache laughed. ‘He is an impressive man. Why have I not seen him before?’
‘He spends much of his time east of the city. He leads the Thrakian mercenaries, and is almost as fine a general as Hektor. They are very close.’
‘Do they look alike?’
Laodike giggled. ‘Are you asking whether Hektor is handsome?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like a young god. His hair is golden, his eyes are blue, and he has a smile to win any heart.’
‘And he is the oldest of Priam’s sons?’
Laodike laughed again. ‘Yes and no. He is the oldest of mother’s children, and therefore the legitimate heir. But father was twenty-four when he and mother wed. And there were other children born to his lovers. The oldest was Troilus.
He would have been almost forty now.’
‘He died?’
‘Father had him banished last year. He died in Miletos. Some think he was poisoned. I expect he was.’
‘That makes no sense to me,’ said Andromache. ‘If Priam wanted him dead, why not kill him in Troy?’
Laodike paused in her walk and turned towards her. ‘You should understand that before mother was ill Troy had two rulers. Mother hated Troilus. I think she hates all the sons she did not bear. When Troilus plotted to overthrow father she thought he should be killed instantly. Father refused.’ Laodike shrugged.
‘And he died anyway.’
‘Hekabe had him poisoned?’
‘I do not know, Andromache. Perhaps he just died. But you would be amazed at the number of people who have died young, following disagreements with mother.’
‘Then I am glad she liked me. So how old is Hektor?’
‘Almost thirty.’
‘Why has he never wed?’
Laodike looked away. ‘Oh, probably because of wars and battles. You should ask him when he comes home. There will be great parades and celebrations for his victories.’
Andromache knew something was being kept from her, but she decided not to press the point. Instead she said: ‘He must be a great warrior indeed, if his victories can be anticipated before the battles are fought.’
‘Oh, Hektor never loses,’ said Laodike. ‘The Trojan Horse is supreme in battle.’
It seemed to Andromache that such conviction was naive. A stray arrow, a hurled spear, an unlucky blow, could all end the life of any fighting man. However, she let the moment pass, and the two women wandered down through the marketplaces, stopping to examine the wares on display. Finally they reached the healing houses.
They sat in a rear garden, Laodike having sent a servant to seek out the healer Machaon. Another servant, an elderly man, brought them goblets of juice squeezed from various fruits. Andromache had never tasted anything so deliciously sweet.
The mixture was the colour of the sunset. ‘What is in this?’ she asked.
‘Tree fruits from Egypte and Palestine. They come in various shapes and colours.
Some are gold, some yellow, some green. Some are good on their own, and others are so sharp they make the eyes water. But the priests here mix them with honey.
Very refreshing.’
‘There is so much that is new in Troy,’ said Andromache. ‘I have never seen such colour. The women’s gowns, the decorations on the walls.’ She laughed. ‘Even the drinks have many colours.’
‘Father says that trade is what makes civilizations grow. Nations and peoples learn from one another, and improve on one another’s skills. We have Egypteian cloth makers in Troy. They have begun experimenting with the dyes from Phrygia and Babylon. There are some wonderful colours being produced. But it is not just the clothes. Hektor brought back horses from Thessaly. Big beasts. Sixteen hands. He’s bred them with our mares. They make superb war mounts. Men of skill and enterprise all come to Troy. Father says that one day we will be the centre of a great civilization.’
Andromache listened as Laodike spoke on about Priam and his dreams. It was obvious that she adored her father, and equally obvious that he had little time for her.
Laodike’s voice faded away. ‘I think I am boring you,’ she said. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Nonsense. It is fascinating.’
‘Really? You are not just saying that?’
‘Why would I?’ Andromache threw her arm round Laodike’s shoulder and kissed her cheek.
The physican-priest Machaon entered the garden. He looked dreadfully weary, thought Andromache. His face was pale, and there was sweat upon his brow.
Although a young man, he was already losing his hair, and his shoulders were rounded. ‘Greetings to you, king’s daughter,’ he said. ‘It is always a pleasure to see you. And you, Andromache of Thebe.’
‘How is Xander faring?’ Andromache asked. The young physician smiled.
‘He is a fine lad, with great sensitivity. I have him working with the dying. He has a talent for lifting their spirits. I am glad he stayed with us.’ He turned
to Laodike, and handed her a small, cloth-wrapped package. ‘These should last for another week or so. Be advised, though, that soon even these powerful opiates will not keep the pain at bay.’
‘Mother says she is feeling a little better,’ said Laodike. ‘Perhaps her body is healing.’
He shook his head. ‘She is past healing. Only her strength of mind and the courage of her spirit keeps her in these lands of the living. There is a small phial in the package. It is stoppered with green wax. When the pain becomes unbearable – and it will –break open the phial and mix it with wine. Then get your mother to drink it.’
‘And that will take away the pain?’
His brows furrowed. ‘Yes, Laodike. It will take away the pain. Permanently.’
‘Then why can she not have it now? Her pain is very great.’
‘I am sorry, I am not making myself clear. The phial is to be used to help your mother at the end. Once she has drunk it she will fall into a deep sleep, and pass peacefully to the world beyond.’
‘Are you saying it is poison?’
‘That is exactly what I am saying. During the last days your mother will be in dreadful agony. The pain will be excruciating, and beyond her ability to cope with. You understand me? At this point she will have only hours left to live.
Better, I think, if you rescue her from that suffering. It is, however, your choice.’
‘I couldn’t poison mother,’ said Laodike.
‘Of course you couldn’t,’ said Andromache. ‘However, you can tell her exactly what the gentle Machaon has told you. And you can give her the phial. Let her make the choice.’
‘Thank you, Lady Andromache,’ said Machaon. ‘Yes, that is of course the correct course.’ He looked at her and seemed about to speak.
‘Was there something else?’ she asked.
‘I understand you travelled with the Mykene warrior Argurios.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A hard man and unpleasant.’
‘Ah! Then I shall not trouble you with my problem concerning him. I thought, perhaps, you might be… friends.’
‘How is it,’ she asked, ‘that a physician is having trouble with a travelling warrior?’
‘Did you not hear? He was attacked by other Mykene. His wounds were grievous. He is still likely to die of them. But I cannot make him rest, my lady. He insists on working for his bread and for the right to sleep here. I have explained that all costs have been met by the lord Helikaon, but this only seems to anger him.
He has been sawing wood, carrying water. All kinds of menial duties, for which we have servants. He has torn open his stitches many times through such – and other – ill-advised exercise. I have tried to explain to him that his body was savagely damaged. He cannot breathe well, and becomes dizzy with any exertion.
Yet he will not listen. I fear he is going to collapse and die, and then the lord Helikaon will view me with displeasure.’
‘We will speak to him, Laodike and I,’ said Andromache. ‘Where is he?’
‘I saw him a littl
e while ago, beyond the House of Earth. He is trying to repair an old wall. There is no need. The wall no longer serves any real purpose. Yet he carries large stones, and exhausts himself.’
Machaon gave them directions and the two women walked off. Laodike was not happy.
‘I do not like Mykene,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if he dies.’
‘He helped Helikaon at the Bay of Blue Owls,’ said Andromache. ‘He killed a Mykene assassin. Perhaps that is why he was attacked.’
‘I expect he had unpleasant reasons for doing what he did,’ said Laodike.
‘Mykene always do.’
XXIII
The Wounded Lion
i
Argurios could hardly breathe. It was if the gods had placed a gate in his chest, and no air was reaching his lungs. White lights danced before his eyes and dizziness threatened to bring him down. He staggered on for several paces, his arms burning with the weight of the rock. Even his legs were trembling and painful, especially the calves. Grimly he struggled on, lowering the rock to the breach in the ancient wall. His vision began to swim, forcing him to sit down.
He gazed down at his trembling hands.
Nothing in his life had prepared him for the horror of such weakness. He had seen friends die in battle, and others struck down by wasting fevers. But always he had remained strong. He could run for miles, in full armour, and then fight a battle. His stamina was legendary. Yet now he struggled to lift a few pitiful rocks onto a ruined wall.
Sweat dripped into his eyes and he was too weary even to wipe it away.
He glanced across the old paddock, and saw the two men sitting in the shade.
Both were armed with swords and daggers. Over the weeks he had tried to approach them, but they faded back from him, and he did not have the stamina to give chase. At first he had thought them to be more killers, ready to strike him down and claim the bounty from Erekos. The boy, Xander, had told him not to concern himself.
‘Who are they, then?’
Xander became ill at ease. ‘I am not supposed to say.’
‘But you have. So tell me.’
‘They are here to protect you.’
Argurios had learned then that they were men hired by Helikaon. It was a sickening discovery. ‘You told me… he was glad I was dying,’ said Argurios.
The boy looked crestfallen. ‘He told me to say that. He thought it would make you fight for life.’
Argurios swore softly. The world had gone mad. Friends and countrymen wanted him dead. Enemies hired men to keep him alive. Somewhere on Olympos the gods were laughing at this grotesque jest.
As the weeks passed, and his condition did not improve, Argurios found himself wishing they were Mykene assassins. At least then he could end his life in battle.
A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Two women were standing there, the sun behind them.
‘What… do you want?’ he asked gruffly, thinking them to be priestesses coming to chide him.
‘A courteous greeting would be pleasant,’ replied Andromache. With an effort Argurios pushed himself to his feet.
‘The sun was… in my eyes,’ he said, between shallow breaths. ‘I did not…
recognize you.’
He saw the shock of his condition register on her face. Argurios had lost weight, and his eyes were sunken and dark-rimmed, his arms and legs thin and wasted. ‘Let us all sit,’ said Andromache. ‘This is my friend, the king’s daughter, Laodike.’
Argurios blinked away sweat and looked at Laodike. She was tall, with long fair hair, and in her eyes he saw disdain. Swinging back to Andromache he asked: ‘Why are… you here?’
‘Mykene are always rude,’ said Laodike. ‘They are bred without manners. Let us go, Andromache. It is too hot to be standing here.’
‘Yes, you go back inside,’ Andromache told her. ‘I will sit for a little while with this warrior.’
Laodike nodded. ‘I will wait for you beneath the arbour trees.’ Without a word to Argurios she walked away.
‘You should… go with her,’ said Argurios. ‘We have… nothing to… talk about.’
‘Sit down before you fall down,’ ordered Andromache, seating herself on the stone wall. Argurios slumped down beside her, surprised at himself for obeying a woman. Shame touched him. Even in this small matter he was no longer a man. ‘I know what you need,’ she said.
‘What I need?’
‘To make you strong again. When I was younger my father was in a battle. A horse fell, and rolled on him. After that he – like you – could scarcely breathe. He tottered around like an old man. It went on for months. Then one day we heard of a travelling physician. He was healing people in local villages, while on his way to Egypte. He was an Assyrian. We brought him to my father.’
‘He… cured him?’
‘No. He showed my father how to cure himself.’
Argurios wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked at the young woman. His vision was hazy, his breathing ragged. Yet hope flared in his heart. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘I will show you, Argurios. Tomorrow morning, whatever the weather, I will send a cart for you. It will bring you to cliffs above a beach. Bring Xander with you, for I would like to see the boy again. And now I will leave you to finish your work.’ She rose.
‘Wait!’ said Argurios, painfully heaving himself to his feet. ‘Take me… to the… king’s daughter.’
She walked slowly alongside him. He staggered twice, and felt her arm link through his. He wanted to shrug it away, but her strength kept him upright. It was not a long walk, and yet Argurios felt exhausted by the time they reached the shaded arbour. Laodike was sitting on a bench. Argurios struggled for breath. ‘Not… all… Mykene … are ill mannered. I apolo… gize for my lack… of courtesy. I have… always been uncomfortable around… women.
Especially… beautiful women.’
He expected a harsh response, but instead her expression softened. Leaving the bench she stood before him. ‘Your apology is accepted,’ she said, ‘and I, too, am sorry for the curtness I showed you. You have been badly wounded and I should have realized you were suffering.’
Argurios could think of nothing else to say, and, as the silence grew, the moment became awkward. Andromache spoke then. ‘I have invited Argurios to join us tomorrow. It will aid his healing.’
Laodike laughed. ‘Do you sit awake at night planning events that will annoy father?’ she asked.
ii
Xander enjoyed working in the House of Serpents. He felt useful and needed.
People always seemed pleased to see him, and, as the weeks passed, he learned more about herbs and medicines, treatments and diagnosis. The application of warm, wet towels reduced fevers, the shredded and powdered barks of certain trees could take away pain. Festering sores could be healed by the application of wine and honey. Eager to learn more, he followed Machaon around, watching as he splinted broken bones, or lanced cysts and boils.
Yet despite his enthusiasm for all matters medical he was pleased today to be out in the open air, travelling in the wide cart with Argurios. The sky was cloudy with the promise of rain, but the sun was shining through, and the air was fresh with the smells of the sea.
He glanced at Argurios. The Mykene looked so ill. His face was drawn, and so thin it made him look like an old, frail man. Xander had helped him shave this morning, cutting away the stubble on his cheeks, and trimming the chin beard. He had combed his long dark hair, noting the increase of grey along the temples.
The youngster struggled to remember the iron-hard warrior who had saved him on the Xanthos.
In the weeks since the attack Argurios’ recovery had been painfully slow.
Machaon told Xander that one of the wounds had pierced Argurios’ lung, and come perilously close to the heart. And there had been much bleeding internally.
‘He will recover, though?’ Xander had asked.
‘He may never regain his former strength. Often deep wounds turn bad, and vilen
esses can form.’
Xander looked round. The cart was crossing the wide, wooden Scamander bridge. He wondered if they were heading for the white palace he could see on the cliff top to the southwest. It was said that the queen lived in King’s Joy, with some of her daughters.
The cart hit a broken stone on the road and jolted. Argurios winced. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Xander.
Argurios nodded. He very rarely spoke, but each evening when Xander visited him he would sit quietly as the boy told him of the day’s work among the sick, listening as Xander talked of herbs and discoveries. At first Xander had thought him bored. ‘Am I babbling, Argurios?’ he had asked, one evening. ‘Grandfather says I chatter too much. Shall I leave you?’
Argurios had given a rare smile. ‘You chatter on, boy. When I am… bored…
I’ll tell you.’
The cart left the road and angled out along a narrower road leading to the cliffs. There were two Eagles there, sitting beneath the branches of a gnarled tree, sunlight glinting on their armour of bronze and silver. They rose as the cart approached.
The driver, a crook-backed man with a thick white beard, said: ‘Guests of the lady Andromache.’
One of the soldiers, a tall young man, wide-shouldered, and wearing a helmet with a white horsehair crest, walked up to the cart. ‘You’d be Xander,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
The young soldier moved past the boy and stared hard at Argurios. His brows furrowed. ‘By the gods, man, you look all in. Will you need help to get to the beach?’
‘No.’ Argurios hauled himself upright, then climbed down from the cart.
‘I meant no offence, warrior,’ said the soldier. ‘I was wounded myself two years ago, and had to be carried by my comrades.’
Argurios looked at the man. ‘Where was… the battle?’
‘In Thraki. Took a lance-thrust in the chest. Smashed my breastplate, broke several ribs.’
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