Lord of the Silver Bow t-1

by David Gemmell

  ‘Nonsense,’ Andromache repeated. ‘I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

  Her words had been hollow. When she had awoken today it was to find a new servant by her bedside, a round-faced girl, who told her, after much shilly-shallying, that Axa had been flogged and dismissed from the palace that morning, on the orders of the king.

  Andromache went immediately to the megaron, where she found Priam seated among his advisers. Barely reining in her anger, she demanded, ‘What have you done with my servant?’

  The king sat back on his throne, waving away his counsellors. They moved back a few steps but remained within earshot. Priam gazed at her for a moment. She thought she could see satisfaction on his face, though he spoke mildly.

  ‘Your servant, Andromache? Every servant in this palace is mine. These greybeards in their bright clothes and gaudy jewellery are mine. You are mine.’

  ‘I was told…’ Andromache forced herself to think coolly. ‘I was told she was flogged and thrown from the palace. I wish to know why. She was a good servant and deserved better.’

  Priam leaned forward and she smelled wine on his breath. ‘A good servant,’ he hissed, ‘does not frolic naked with the daughter of a king. She does not cavort in a bath with rose petals on her breasts.’

  There was amused whispering among the counsellors.

  ‘You have been misinformed about cavorting,” Andromache replied. ‘Axa was exhausted and in pain. I ordered her to rest and take the bath.’

  Priam’s face darkened. ‘And you thought you would take it with her? What is done is done. Be more careful of your behaviour in the future.’

  ‘Either that, or ensure I am not spied upon by people with minds like shit buckets,’ said Andromache, her anger flaring dangerously out of control. ‘The person who should have been flogged is the vile bitch…’

  ‘Enough!’ roared Priam, surging to his feet. ‘If you want to plead for your servant, then get on your knees!’

  Andromache stood very still. All her pride urged her to turn away from this harsh and arrogant man, and to walk from the room, back straight, spirit defiant. And yet it was because of her that poor Axa had been flogged and humiliated. Axa herself had warned her, but proud Andromache had not listened.

  Yes, she could retain her pride and walk from the room, but what would that pride be worth thereafter?

  Her mouth was dry as she closed her eyes and dropped to her knees before the king. ‘I would ask…’ she began.

  ‘Silence! I have matters here to attend to. Remain where you are until I bid you to speak.’

  Now the humiliation was complete. Priam gathered his courtiers around him, and they discussed their matters of state. Time passed, and her knees began to ache against the cold stone of the floor. But she did not move, nor open her eyes.

  After a while she did not even listen to their conversation. At one point she felt the warmth of sunlight on her back, and realized the afternoon was wearing on.

  When Priam spoke to her, and she opened her eyes, she saw that the courtiers and scribes had gone.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Make your plea.’ She looked at him. He seemed more weary now, and his eyes had lost their gleam.

  ‘Does guilt or innocence not matter to you, King Priam?’ she asked him, her voice soft. ‘Are you not the First Magistrate of Troy? Does justice not flow from this throne? Had I been cavorting, as you call it, with a young servant, I would not hide it. I am who I am. I do not lie. Axa is the wife of Hektor’s shield bearer. Only days ago she gave birth to a son. In your long experience do you know of many women who desire to cavort so soon after childbirth, with their bodies torn and bruised, their breasts swollen with milk?’

  Priam’s expression changed. He sat back on his throne, and rubbed his hand across his grey-gold beard. ‘I was not aware it was the wife of Mestares. Stand up. You have knelt long enough.’

  She was surprised by this sudden change in him, and, pushing herself to her feet, remained silent. ‘There has been a misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I shall have a gift sent to her. You want her back?’

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  He looked long at her. ‘You would not kneel to me when yourlife might have depended on it. Yet you abase yourself for a servant.’

  ‘It was my foolishness that caused her suffering. I ordered her into that bath.

  I thought it would ease her pain.’

  He nodded. ‘As you thought it would be good to swim naked with a Mykene warrior on my beach? Or to shoot arrows with my soldiers? You are a strange woman, Andromache.’ He rubbed his eyes, then reached for a cup of wine, which he drained. ‘You seem to arouse great passion in those who know you,’ he continued.

  ‘Deiphobos wants you expelled from Troy. Kreusa wanted you flogged and shamed.

  Agathon wants to marry you. Even dull 1ittle Laodike has blossomed in your company. Answer me this, Andromache of Thebe: had I told you that the only way to rescue Axa was to have you come to my bed, would you have done so?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘Why did you not?’

  He shook his head. ‘A good question, Andromache, and one which you need to answer for yourself.’

  ‘How can I? I do not know your thoughts.’

  Rising from his throne he beckoned her to follow him, then strode the length of the megaron, and up the stairway towards the queen’s apartments. Andromache was nervous, but not for fear that he might ravish her. In their conversation he had not once stared at her breasts or her legs, and his eyes had not possessed their normal hungry look. The King reached the top of the stairs and turned right, walking along the gallery to a balcony high above the royal gardens. Andromache joined him there.

  People were milling in the gardens below, talking in low voices. Andromache saw Agathon and fat Antiphones talking together and, beyond them, Laodike sitting with Kreusa. Laodike’s head was bowed, and Kreusa was gesticulating with her hands. Around them were counsellors, in their white robes, and Trojan nobles, some with their wives or daughters.

  ‘Everyone you see,’ said Priam softly, ‘requires something from the king. Yet each gift to one will be seen as an insult to another. Among them will be those who are loyal to the king. Among them will be traitors. Some are loyal now, but will become traitors. Some could become traitors, but a gift from me will keep them loyal. How does the king know whom to trust and whom to kill, whom to reward and whom to punish?’

  Andromache felt tense and uneasy. ‘I do not know,’ she said.

  ‘Then learn, Andromache,’ he told her. ‘For, if the gods will it, one day you will be queen of Troy. On that day you will look out from this balcony and all those below will be coming to you or your husband. You will need to know their thoughts, their dreams, their ambitions. For when they are before you the loyal and the treacherous will both sound the same. They will all laugh when you make a jest, they will weep when you are sad. They will pledge undying love for you.

  Their words, therefore, will be meaningless. Unless you know the thoughts behind the words.’

  ‘And you know all their thoughts, King Priam?’

  ‘I know enough of their thoughts and their ambitions to keep me alive.’ He chuckled. ‘One day, though, one of them will surprise me. He will plunge a dagger through my heart, or slip poison into my cup, or raise a rebellion to overthrow me.’

  ‘Why do you smile at the thought?’

  ‘Why not? Whoever succeeds me as king will be strong and cunning, and therefore well equipped for the role.’

  Now it was Andromache who smiled. ‘Or he might be stupid and lucky.’

  Priam nodded. ‘If that proves true he won’t last long. Another of my cunning sons will overthrow him. However, let us return to your question. Why did I not demand your body in payment? Think on it, and we will talk again.’ He gazed down at the milling crowds below. ‘And now I must allow my subjects, both loyal and treacherous, to present their petitions to their king.’

  Returning to her own rooms,
Andromache wrapped herself in a hooded green cloak and left the palace, heading for the lower town and the poorer quarter where the soldiers’ wives were billeted. Asking directions from several women gathered round a well, she located the dwelling occupied by Axa and three other wives. It was small and cramped, with dirt floors. Axa was sitting at the back of the building, in the shade, her babe in her arms. She saw Andromache and struggled to rise.

  ‘Oh, sit, please,’ said Andromache, kneeling beside her. ‘I am so sorry, Axa. It was my fault.’

  ‘Mestares will be so angry with me when he gets home,’ said Axa. ‘I have shamed him.’

  ‘You shamed no-one. I have seen the king. He knows it was a mistake. He is sending a gift to you. And I want you back. Oh, Axa! Please say you will come!’

  ‘Of course I will,’ replied Axa dully. ‘How else could I feed myself and my son?

  I will be there tomorrow.’

  ‘Can you forgive me?’

  The babe in Axa’s arms began to make soft little mewing sounds. Axa opened her shift, exposing a heavy breast, and lifted the child to it. The babe nuzzled at the teat ineffectually, and then with more confidence. Axa sighed. She looked at Andromache.

  ‘What difference does it make whether I forgive or don’t forgive?’ she asked.

  ‘We are called servants, but we are slaves really. We live or die at the whim of others. I was flogged for being seen in a bath. Were you flogged for being with me?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t flogged. But believe me when I say I would rather it had been me.

  Can we be friends, Axa?’

  ‘I am your servant. I must be whatever you want me to be.’

  Andromache fell silent, watching as Axa finished feeding her babe and lifted the mite to her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. ‘Did they hurt you badly?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Yes, they hurt me,’ replied Axa, tears in her eyes. ‘But not with the blows from that knotted rope. I am the wife of Mestares the shield bearer. Ten battles he has fought for the king and for Troy. Now he might be dead, and I live every day fearing the news. And what do they do to ease my suffering? They flog me and throw me from the palace. I will never forgive that.’

  ‘No,’ said Andromache, rising to her feet. ‘Neither would I. I will see you tomorrow, Axa.’

  The little woman looked up at her, and her expression softened.

  ‘You went to the king for me,’ she said. ‘You I will forgive. But no more baths.’

  Andromache smiled. ‘No more baths,’ she agreed.

  Returning to the palace Andromache walked through the private royal gardens.

  There were still some twenty people there, enjoying the shade and the scent of the blooms. By the far wall, beneath a latticed bower, Kreusa was talking to Agathon. She was wearing a white gown edged with gold, and had thrown back her head in a parody of careless laughter, her raven hair rippling in the breeze.

  As she approached them Agathon saw her, and gave a tight smile. He is embarrassed, thought Andromache. Kreusa, by contrast, looked at her with an expression of smug satisfaction.

  ‘How are you, beautiful lady?’ asked Agathon.

  ‘I am well, Prince Agathon. I saw the king this morning. You heard of the misunderstanding concerning my servant?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was sorry to hear of it.’

  ‘As was I. However, the king has reinstated her, and is sending her a gift in apology.’ She swung towards Kreusa. ‘I think he understands now that poor Axa was merely the victim of malice. Some poor, demented creature, driven by envy and spite.’

  Kreusa’s hand slashed out, slapping Andromache hard on the cheek. Stepping in, Andromache punched her full on the jaw. Kreusa spun and hit the ground hard. She struggled to rise, then slumped down.

  Agathon knelt by the half-stunned young woman, helping her to stand. There was blood trickling from a split in her lip, and her white gown was smeared with dirt.

  Andromache took a deep breath, and turned away. All conversation among the crowd had ceased and she felt all eyes on her as she walked back into the palace.

  XXV

  The Silent Head

  i

  Cthosis the eunuch had worn his latest creation to the meeting, and no-one had noticed. It was most galling. The ankle-length gown was jet black, and edged with silver thread. It was a magnificent piece, which he had been convinced would be the envy of every man present. No-one had ever produced a black dye that would remain fast to the cloth. Two problems always occurred. First, if rained upon the dye would seep out, staining the skin for days. Second, the dyes were so powerful that they would stink until the garment had been washed several times and faded to a dull and lifeless grey.

  Cthosis had spent years refining the process, eliminating these problems. Oak bark from the gnarled trees in the lands of the Sombre Sea had provided the source of a finer dye, but obtaining it had consumed much of his wealth. So treacherous and powerful were the currents that it was almost impossible to sail a ship up the Hellespont and into the Sombre Sea. All trade goods had to be carried overland.

  Now here he was, with sixty of the most influential men in Dardania, and not one had mentioned the gown. He wondered if, as an Egypteian, he had failed to realize that there was some antipathy for the colour black among these peoples of the Northern Sea. Ah well, he thought, come the spring I will ship the cloth to Memphis and Luxor. Egypteian men will pay heavily in gold for such finery.

  Even so, the lack of appreciation here was dispiriting.

  Raised voices cut through his meditations. The Phrygian cattle trader – whose name Cthosis could never recall – was shouting at a Hittite merchant, and waving his powerful fist in the man’s face. Before long there would be blows struck, and the entire conference would degenerate into an unseemly brawl. With this in mind Cthosis eased his way to the left-hand wall, to stand beneath a fearsome statue of a helmeted warrior carrying a spear. Cthosis was not a fighting man, and had no wish to be drawn into an unseemly scrap – especially in his new garment.

  Indeed, had it not been for the chance to display it, Cthosis would have avoided the meeting altogether.

  People were not hard to read. When times were good they moved about their business smiling at neighbours. But add a touch of fear, or uncertainty, and the smiles would disappear. Rows and feuds would erupt. If a storm washed away crops the cry was: ‘Who is to blame?’ Not the vagaries of the weather, obviously. No, it had to be a mischievous spell cast by a jealous neighbour. Probably a witch.

  If everyone’s crops were washed away – well, then it was the fault of the king, who had angered the gods in some inexplicable way.

  It was not dissimilar back in Egypte. Fear and blame, leading to idiots gathering in mobs, followed by riots, and unnecessary deaths.

  A long time ago, when Cthosis was still a small boy, he had seen lightning strike a tree around which a herd of cattle had been quietly feeding. The cattle bunched together and took off in a stampede that carried half of them over a cliff.

  People and cattle. Not a great deal of difference, he thought.

  Life had been harsh in Egypte for the mutilated child he had been. Yet at least at the palace the people had enjoyed a love of poetry and painting, and men would sit in the evenings discussing the beauty of the sunsets. The wall paintings depicted gentle scenes, of ships sailing mighty rivers, or pharaohs receiving tributes from vassal kings.

  Oh, do not fool yourself, stupid man, he chided himself. They were not so different. Here in Dardania they do not clip the balls from a ten-year-old boy so that he can wander among the palace women, carrying their goblets of wine, fetching their cloaks and their hats. The pain had been excruciating, but nothing compared to the knowledge that his father had sold him for just that purpose.

  Cthosis sighed. The betrayal still hurt, even after fifteen years.

  Dust from the statue had rubbed off onto the shoulder of his tunic. Idly he brushed it away. As he did so the stump of his little finger caught on
a loose stitch in the cloth. He shivered as he remembered the day, three years ago, when it had been cut away. Cthosis had been running to collect some bauble a princess had left in the royal gardens. As he turned a corner he had collided with Prince Rameses, knocking the young man sideways. The prince had reacted with customary savagery, hurling Cthosis against a painted pillar. He was prepared for a beating, but Rameses had dragged his sword from its sheath and lashed out.

  Cthosis had thrown up his hand. The blade sliced through one finger and cut into the next. Cthosis had stood there, staring at the severed digit. Then he realized that it was not over. Rameses stepped in, pressed the sword point against his chest, and tensed for the killing thrust.

  Death was a heartbeat away when a powerful hand grabbed Rameses’ cloak and dragged him back. ‘Get you gone, eunuch,’ said Prince Ahmose. Cthosis had needed no further instruction, and had run back to the women’s quarters, where the servant girls had fussed over him, and called for the royal physician.

  As he sat there, blood seeping from the ruin of his hand, the aftershock of the violence had hit him. He had begun to tremble. Then he had wept. When he told the women what had happened they went suddenly quiet, and began to cast nervous glances towards the doors.

  He knew then that Rameses would send for him, and finish what he had begun.

  Cthosis had struck a prince. It would not matter that it was accidental. The punishment would be the same.

  He had sat miserably while the Nubian physician prepared pitch for the stump.

  The other injured finger, he was told, was broken, and would need a splint. Then the women suddenly scattered. Cthosis felt tears beginning again. Death was once more upon him.

  But it was not the terrifying Rameses who entered the room, but the powerful figure of Prince Ahmose. The big man spoke quietly to the Nubian, and then turned to Cthosis, who kept his head down. No slave could ever look into the eyes of a prince. ‘You are released from service, eunuch,’ said the prince, in his deep voice.