“No, lord.”
Looking around, he found himself remembering the first time he had entered those rooms as a young man. He had returned home after two years on the Penelope. That same night, as Helikaon had enjoyed a farewell feast with the crew on the beach, his father had been murdered. Everything changed that day. The queen, fearing for her life and that of her child, had sent soldiers to kill him. Pausanius and other loyal men had rushed to protect him. In the standoff that followed Helikaon had taken a great risk. The leader of the men sent to kill him was a powerful soldier named Garus.
Helikaon approached him. “You and I will go alone to see the queen,” he said.
“No, lord. They will kill you,” argued Pausanius.
“There will be no killing today,” Helikaon assured him, though he was less confident than he sounded.
Helikaon had gestured for Garus to precede him and had followed him up the long cliff path to the fortress. He saw Garus finger the hilt of his sword. Then the warrior stopped and slowly turned. He was a big man, wide-shouldered and thick-necked. His eyes were piercingly blue, his face broad and honest.
“The queen is a good and fine woman, and little Diomedes is a joy,” he said. “Do you plan to kill them?”
“No,” said Helikaon.
“I have your oath on that?”
“You do.”
“Very well, my lord. Follow me.”
They walked farther along the open balcony to the queen’s apartments. Two guards were there. Both wore shields and carried long spears. Garus signaled to them to stand aside and then rapped his knuckles against the door frame. “It is I, Garus,” he said. “May I enter?”
“You may enter,” came a woman’s voice.
Garus opened the door, stepped inside, and then made way for Helikaon. Several soldiers inside surged to their feet.
“Be calm!” said Helikaon. “There are no warriors with me.” He looked at the young queen, seeing both fear and pride in her pale eyes. Beside her was a small boy with golden hair. He was staring up at Helikaon, head cocked to one side.
“I am your brother, Helikaon,” he told the child. “And you are Diomedes.”
“I am Dio,” the boy corrected him. “Papa won’t get up, so we can’t have breakfast. We can’t, can we, Mama?”
“We’ll have breakfast soon,” said Helikaon. He looked at the queen. When Anchises had married this slender, fair-haired Zeleian girl, Helikaon had not been invited to the ceremony. In the year before he sailed on the Penelope he had spoken to her on only a handful of occasions and then merely to exchange short pleasantries.
“We do not know each other, Halysia,” he said. “My father was a hard, cold man. He should have let us talk more. Perhaps then we could have grown to understand one another. Had we done so, you would have known that I would never order my father’s death or kill his wife and son. You have nothing to fear from me.”
“I wish I could believe you,” she whispered.
“You can, my queen,” said Garus.
Helikaon was surprised but kept his expression even. “And now,” he said, “you should think of your son’s breakfast. Then we will discuss my father’s funeral arrangements.”
He shivered now at the memory, then walked through to the rear apartments. Halysia was sitting hunched in a chair, a blanket over her thin frame. She had lost a great deal of weight, and her eyes were dark-rimmed. Helikaon drew up a chair alongside her. The handmaiden had been wrong. She did not look better. Helikaon took her hand in his. The skin was cold. She did not seem to notice his touch.
The sun broke through the clouds, bathing the sea in gold. Helikaon glanced down and saw an untouched bowl of broth and some bread on a table beside Halysia. “You must eat,” he said gently. “You must regain your strength.”
Leaning forward, he lifted the bowl and dipped the spoon into it, raising it to her mouth. “Just a little, Halysia,” he prompted. She did not move.
Helikaon replaced the bowl on the table and sat quietly, watching the sunlight dancing on the waves. “I wish I had taken him with me when I sailed,” he said. “The boy loved you. He would be filled with sorrow if he could see you now.” He looked at the queen as he spoke, but there was no change of expression. “I don’t know where you are, Halysia,” he whispered. “I don’t know where your spirit wanders. I don’t know how to reach you and bring you home.”
He sat quietly with her, holding her hand. In the silence he felt his grief welling up like a swollen river beating against a dam. Ashamed of his weakness, he struggled to concentrate on the problems he faced. His body began to tremble. He saw young Diomedes laughing in the sunshine and Zidantas chuckling with him after the fall from the golden horse. He saw Ox lift the boy and hurl him high in the air before catching him and spinning around. And the dam burst.
He covered his face with his hands and wept for the dead. For Zidantas, who had loved him like a son. For Diomedes, the golden child who would never become a man. For the son of Habusas the Assyrian, who had fallen alongside his father. And for the woman dressed in blue and gold who had hurled herself from these cliffs so many years ago.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then someone was kneeling beside him, cradling his head. He leaned in to her, and she kissed his cheek.
Then she spoke. “They took my little boy,” she said. “They killed my Dio.”
“I know, Halysia. I am so sorry.”
She felt so frail, and her flesh was cold despite the sunshine. Helikaon put his arms around her, drawing her close, and they sat together silently as the sun sank into the Great Green.
III
Andromache had never been so angry. The rage had been building since her arrival in this cesspit of a city with its army of liars, eavesdroppers, spies, and sycophants. Kreusa was the worst of them, she thought, with her hard, metallic eyes, her vicious tongue, and the sweet honeyed smile for her father.
A week ago she had invited Andromache to her apartments. Kreusa had been friendly and had greeted her sister to be with a hug and a kiss on her cheek. The rooms were everything Andromache would have expected for the king’s favorite daughter, beautifully furnished with items of glistening gold, painted vases, elaborately carved furniture, rich drapes, and two wide balconies. There were thick rugs on the floor, and the walls had been painted with colorful scenes. Kreusa was wearing a gown of pale blue. A long and delicately braided length of silver was looped around her neck, crossing under her breasts and then around her slender waist. Her face was flushed, and Andromache realized she had been drinking. She filled a golden cup with wine, added a little water, and passed it to her. Andromache sipped it. It was strong, but underlying the taste she recognized the bitter tang of meas root. It was used on Thera during revels and feasts to heighten awareness and release inhibition. Andromache had never taken to it, though Kalliope had used it regularly. Kreusa sat close to her on the wide couch, and as she talked, she reached out and took Andromache’s hand.
“We should be friends,” she said, her smile bright and her eyes gleaming, the pupils wide and distended. “We share so many… interests.”
“We do?”
“Oh, do not be coy, Andromache,” Kreusa whispered, moving closer. “There are few secrets in the king’s palace that I am not privy to. How was slender Alesia? Did she please you? I chose her for you myself.”
“And why would you do that?” asked Andromache, thinking back to the young Thrakian servant and recalling how simple the seduction had been.
“I wanted to know if our… interests… were truly shared.” Kreusa leaned in closer, her arm sliding over Andromache’s shoulder. Andromache’s hand closed over Kreusa’s wrist, lifting the arm clear, and she eased herself to her feet. Kreusa rose alongside her, her expression puzzled. “What is wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing is wrong, Kreusa.”
“You spurn my friendship?” Kreusa’s eyes were angry.
“Not your friendship,” Andromache replied, trying to be conciliat
ory.
“Then be with me,” she said, moving in closer.
Andromache realized then that there was no diplomatic way to end this meeting. “We will not become lovers,” she told Kreusa. “You are very beautiful, but I do not desire you.”
“You do not desire me? You arrogant bitch! Get out of my sight!”
Andromache had returned to her rooms, her spirits low. She had not desired to make an enemy of Kreusa and had known that trouble would follow.
She had not, however, anticipated the depth of Kreusa’s malice.
It was Axa who bore the brunt of Kreusa’s revenge. The little maid had been suffering in miserable silence since word had come that Hektor’s men were lost. Her husband, Mestares, was shield bearer to Hektor and one of the men who were missing with him. As if the uncertainty and fear for her husband were not enough, Axa had birthed her baby son ten days earlier. Seeking the reassurance of her palace duties, she had left him with a female relative in the lower town to return to Andromache’s side during the day.
Yesterday had started like most days. With the help of another serving girl Axa had labored to carry bucket after bucket of hot water for Andromache’s bath and sprinkled into it perfumes and rose petals. But when Andromache wandered half-naked into the bathroom, she found her maid slumped on the floor.
She crouched down beside her. “Axa! What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, lady.” Axa struggled to sit up. “I have had a weakness since the birth of my son. He is a big boy. It has passed. I’ll carry on now.”
“No, you won’t.” Andromache looked into her face and saw the grayness of exhaustion. “Sit there for a while and tell me about your baby. Has he a name?”
“No, lady. It is for my husband to decide. When he returns.” Her face crumpled then, and a moan born of tiredness, pain, and grief arose from her.
“Come.” Andromache started to unwrap the woolen shawl around Axa’s waist. “You need a rest. Get up.” She put an arm around her and raised her to her feet. She undid the straps of the apron Axa wore, and it fell to the ground.
“Now, out of that tunic,” she said. “You’re going to have a bath. It will make you feel better.”
“Oh, no, lady,” Axa cried, fear in her voice. “I mustn’t. I’ll get into trouble. Please don’t make me.”
“Nonsense,” Andromache said, laughing a little. “If you’re modest, get into the bath like that, in your shift.”
Axa cast an agonized look at Andromache’s face, recognized the determination there, and stepped reluctantly into the warm bath. She sat bolt upright in the water, her face a picture of misery.
“Relax, lie back,” said Andromache, hands on her shoulders. “See, isn’t that good?”
Axa gave a weak smile and said, “It feels very strange, lady. It doesn’t feel natural to be wet all over.” Growing in confidence, she splashed the water a little and watched the rose petals float on the ripples.
Andromache laughed and stroked her maid’s thick brown hair. “We’ll have to wash this, too, you know.”
Just then there was a rattle of curtains, and they both turned around. In the doorway stood Kreusa. She said nothing but gave a radiant smile before turning and leaving the room.
Axa climbed clumsily out of the bath, water sluicing from her linen shift onto the floor.
“She saw me. I’ll be in trouble now,” she wailed.
“Nonsense. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Her words had been hollow. When she awoke that day, 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 counselors. 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 graybeards in their bright clothes and gaudy jewelry 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 counselors.
“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 behavior 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. 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 or 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 gray-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 your life 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 and then reached for a cup of wine, which he drained. “You seem to arou
se 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 little 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 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 toward 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 counselors 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 who to trust and who to kill, who to reward and who 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.”
[Troy 01] - Lord of the Silver Bow Page 31