by David
His first attempts at smelting metal from the red rocks had proved disappointing. Even the hottest furnace had produced a useless spongy gray mass. The fires, he decided, needed to be even hotter, and to that end Khalkeus had ordered the construction of a new furnace on the northern plateau of Troy, where the wind was keen.
But he needed more time and more gold.
He was convinced that Helikaon would understand. If Khalkeus succeeded, the rewards would be colossal. Swords, spears, arrowheads, and armor could be fashioned from the red rocks, which were plentiful all across the east. No need for expensive tin to be shipped from far islands beyond the Great Green or soft copper from Kypros and other Mykene-held lands. Metal implements—plows, nails, barrel ties—could be produced at a fraction of the price of bronze.
The blazing torches were replaced twice before Helikaon returned. Flanked by five young men, he strode into the building, shouting for a servant to bring water. His handsome face was smeared with grime, his long dark hair tied back in a ponytail that reached his shoulders. Moving to the carved throne, the young king slumped down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Several of the men with him began speaking. Khalkeus listened as they complained of the insurmountable difficulties facing them. This could not be done because of that, and that was impossible because of this. Khalkeus felt his irritation flare. Stupid men with lazy minds. Instead of solving problems, they wasted time seeking reasons why no solutions were available. Why Helikaon should allow such fools around him was a mystery.
A servant brought a silver wine cup and a jug brimming with cool water. Helikaon filled the cup and drained it.
A young man with a wispy red beard spoke up. “Rebuilding the bridge alone will take months, and there is not enough timber to reconstruct the warehouses and other buildings destroyed by the Mykene.”
“Nor enough carpenters and woodworkers,” another man added.
“And certainly not enough brains,” Khalkeus stormed, heaving his bulk upright. The men around the king stopped speaking and swung toward Khalkeus. He marched forward, staring them down. “I saw the remains of the bridge. It can be repaired in a matter of days. By the gods, Helikaon, I hope these morons are better fighters than they are thinkers.”
“My friends,” Helikaon said to the angry men around him, “this is Khalkeus. Now, before you decide to hate him, you should understand that he will not care. Everyone hates Khalkeus. So put aside your anger and leave us to talk.”
Khalkeus waited until the men had walked away, ignoring the cold glances they gave him as they passed. Then he approached Helikaon. “I am close to the answer,” he said, “but I need more gold.”
Helikaon took a deep, slow breath, his face hardening. Khalkeus, suddenly nervous, looked into the king’s eyes, and saw no friendliness there. Far from it. The sapphire gaze was hostile. “Have I… done something to offend?” Khalkeus asked.
“To offend? What a paradox you are, Khalkeus. Genius and idiot in one fat package. You called my men morons. Yet you walk into my hall with no greeting, no consoling words for the agonies that have been experienced here, merely a brazen demand for more of my gold.”
“Ah!” Khalkeus said, “now I understand. Yes, of course. The absence of feigned sympathy was offensive. My apologies. However, I do need more gold. I think I am close, Helikaon. The furnaces need to be hotter to burn out more of the impurities. Then I think—”
“Enough!” Helikaon roared, surging to his feet and drawing his bronze knife. Shocked and frightened, Khalkeus took a backward step. His mouth was dry, and both of his hands were trembling. Helikaon moved in, grabbing Khalkeus’ tunic with his left hand, the right bringing up the dagger until the gleaming blade hovered above Khalkeus’ left eye. For a moment neither man moved, then Helikaon swore softly and let out a long breath.
Sheathing the knife, he returned to his seat and filled the silver cup with water. He drank deeply, and when he looked again at Khalkeus, his eyes were no longer full of rage.
“The men you insulted,” Helikaon said, “came home to find their wives and children murdered. And yes, they are not skilled craftsmen or artisans. They are sailors. I kept them with me today to give them something to do, something to think about other than the terrible losses they have suffered. You do not understand that, though, do you? No man who talks of ‘feigned’ sympathy could understand.”
Khalkeus was about to speak, but Helikaon raised his hand. “No, let us not discuss this further. I am sailing for Troy tomorrow. You will remain here. I want the bridge repaired and a new Seagate constructed. Then you can organize workmen to rebuild the warehouses.”
“I have much work to do back in Troy,” Khalkeus responded. Then he saw the cold glint reappear in Helikaon’s eyes. “But of course I would be happy to help here.”
“That is wise of you.”
Khalkeus sighed. “Then they must be the first wise words I have said. You were correct, Helikaon. I am an idiot. You are the last man I would wish to offend—and not because I need your gold but because you have stood by me and supported me when others called me a madman. So I hope that you will forgive me and that we can put these moments of anger behind us.”
Helikaon’s face relaxed, but he did not smile, nor was there any warmth in those bleak, violent blue eyes. “We are what we are,” he said. “Both of us. You are oblivious to the sufferings of others, but you have never burned men alive and reveled in their screams.”
He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. “You say the bridge can be rebuilt swiftly?”
Khalkeus nodded. “It could be functional within twenty days. I doubt you will want it more than that at this time.”
“Why so?”
“You are a rich man, Helikaon, but your continuing riches depend on trade. Every gold ingot you use to rebuild Dardanos could prove to be a reckless waste should the Mykene invade again. And you may need all your gold if this war drags on.”
“So you would advise?”
“Make temporary repairs, at little cost. And move your treasury from Dardanos.”
Helikaon shook his head. “The first I cannot do. There is no nation here, Khalkeus, merely a mix of races who have come to Dardania in search of wealth: Hittites, Phrygians, Thessalians, Thrakians, and many more. They obey my laws and pay my taxes because I shield them from their enemies and crush any who oppose me. If they come to believe that I have lost faith in my ability to defend my own land, they will lose faith in me. Then I will be facing not only invasion from the north but insurrection from within. No, the repairs must be solid and built to last.”
“Then they will be,” Khalkeus told him. “And at the risk of offending you once more, what of my earlier request? With this war showing no sign of ending, my work is even more vital.”
“I know. Help my people here, and I shall ensure you have gold waiting for you in Troy.” Helikaon pushed himself wearily to his feet. “You have great faith in these red rocks, Khalkeus. I hope it is not misplaced.”
“It is not. I am convinced of it. By next summer’s end, Helikaon, I will bring you the greatest sword in all the world.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE MASKS OF PRIAM
The dream was terrifying. Xander was hanging above a black pit. When he looked down, he saw scores of blood-red eyes staring up at him and bright fangs waiting to rip at his flesh. Xander glanced up, seeking reassurance from the man whose strong hand held firmly to his wrist.
Then he screamed, for the man holding him was a corpse with gray, rotting flesh peeling back from his bones. The decaying sinews at the wrist and elbow began to stretch. The bones of the fingers broke away, and Xander fell into the pit.
He awoke with a start, his legs drawing up in a spasmodic movement. Eyes wide, he stared around the small, familiar resting room. Slowly his heartbeat returned to normal, the panic fading.
Xander heard again the words of Odysseus. “My Penelope tells me there are two kinds of dreams. Some come through a gate of ivory, and their mea
nings are deceitful. Others come through a gate of horn, and these are heavy with fate.”
Xander sat up. Sunlight was bright outside the shuttered window, but the young healer was reluctant to open it. Once he did so, his time of rest would be over, and he once again would walk among the dying and the maimed.
“The dream is a deceit,” he whispered. “It is merely a mixture of memories and fears.” In that moment he pictured again the fury of the storm four years before, crashing down on the Xanthos. Then only twelve, Xander had been on his first sea journey. Swept over the side by a colossal wave, he should have drowned, but a powerful hand had grasped his wrist. The warrior Argurios had hurled himself across the rain-swept deck to grab Xander before the sea could swallow him.
“Memories and fears,” Xander whispered, breathing slowly and deeply, this time recalling the dissection of the beggar’s corpse a few days before.
The surgeon Zeotos had opened the flesh of the dead man’s arm, peeling it back from the elbow. “See,” the old man had said, “how the muscles attach, and the tendons. Remarkable!” Four healers and five students had attended this grisly display of the surgeon’s skill. One of the youngsters had fainted, striking his head on the wall as he fell.
Xander and the other three students briefly had enjoyed a feeling of superiority over their hapless colleague until Zeotos had sawed through the chest bone and slit open the cadaver’s belly. Once the intestines were exposed, the stench that filled the room was beyond bearing, and the young men fled to the corridor beyond, the sound of the surgeon’s laughter following them.
These two memories—the cadaver and the ship in the storm—had blended to form the awful dream.
Feeling calmer, Xander rose from the bed and moved to a stone basin set on a table beneath the window. Splashing water onto his face, he pushed wet fingers through his curly hair. Refreshed, he opened the shutters, allowing sunlight in. There was little warmth in it, and the cold breeze heralded the onset of winter.
“Xander!” came the voice of Zeotos. The young student turned to see the white-bearded surgeon at the door of the House of Serpents resting room. “You have to return to work now,” he said, his face a mask of exhaustion. Xander felt a rush of guilt. The old man had worked through the night without rest.
“You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long, sir,” Xander said.
“The young seem to need their sleep more than the old,” Zeotos answered. “That said, I am now going to steal that bed of yours. There are two men out there with deep stomach wounds. Keep an eye on them both, boy. If their bellies begin to distend, come and get me as fast as you can. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The previous night almost two hundred cavalrymen had been brought to the House of Serpents under cover of darkness. They all had been wounded grievously and had suffered greatly in the embattled crossing of the Hellespont and the long journey to the city from Dardanos. Carried on jolting, overloaded carts and horse-drawn litters, many had died along the way.
Zeotos lay down on the bed and gave a low groan of pleasure. Xander left the old man and made his way to the courtyard, where most of the injured were lying on cushioned pallets under canopies. There was little sound despite the numbers crowded there, just the occasional groan of a soldier having a wound tended or the mumbled delirium of a dying man. The smoke from fragrant herbs burning on the altar of Asklepios helped keep insects away. Xander saw the head of the house, Machaon, and the three other healers moving among the wounded. Elsewhere trained servants busied themselves, bringing fresh water, removing soiled linen, and applying clean bandages.
Xander knew where he was needed most. Those with a chance of life and recovery were receiving the best care from both healers and servants. The dying lay alone. Xander moved swiftly to the row of beds nearest the altar. The first man he came to had been wounded in the chest and lower back. His face was haggard and gray, and death was not far off.
“Are you in pain?” Xander whispered, leaning over the man.
The dying man looked into Xander’s eyes. “I’ve suffered worse. You see the parade?” the soldier asked. “Heard them ride by, crowds cheering.”
“I caught a glimpse,” Xander told him. “Hektor rode in a golden chariot, and the riders followed him in ranks of four. People threw flowers onto the street.”
The soldier’s smile faded. “You can go now, healer. There’s others with greater need than me.”
“Can I get you anything? Water?”
The soldier winced. “Another year of life would be good.”
Xander moved on. Three other warriors had died quietly, and he called servants to remove the bodies. The dying watched the departure of the dead, their faces grim.
Late in the afternoon old Zeotos appeared again, hurrying across the courtyard. “The king is coming,” the surgeon grunted. “Machaon wants you to meet him and Prince Hektor at the gates. He himself must perform an immediate amputation. And I cannot be seen here.”
Xander nodded his understanding. Zeotos had been banished from Troy after the Mykene attack in which the king’s daughter Laodike had died. Priam had blamed the old surgeon for her death. Zeotos had traveled the countryside plying his craft, never straying far from Troy, but had fallen on hard times. Machaon had heard of his plight and covertly had returned him to the House of Serpents, fearful that the impending war would stretch their resources beyond their limit.
As Xander hurried nervously to the gates to greet the king, he could hear the sound of marching feet. Out in the sunlit square a troop of Royal Eagles was heading toward the temple, escorting a covered litter. Beside them walked Hektor, still in the ceremonial armor and flowing white cloak he had worn in the parade. The litter stopped, and Priam the king climbed out. Dressed in long blue robes, he lifted his arms high and stretched his back.
“A pox on this… moving hammock!” he spit. “I should have ridden my chariot. A king shouldn’t be carried around like a heap of laundry.”
Looking around, he glared at Xander. “Who are you, boy?” he rasped.
Xander was speechless. He had seen the king before, but only from a distance, at games and ceremonial events. He was struck now by the resemblance between Priam and his son, both tall and broad and exuding power. The older man was slightly stooped, and it was clear he had celebrated his son’s return with plenty of wine, yet his personality dominated the sunlit square, and even the heavily armored Eagles seemed diminished in his presence.
Hektor stepped forward. “You are Xander,” he said, smiling.
“Yes. Yes, lord,” the young healer replied, throwing himself belatedly to his knees.
“Stand up, Xander. You are a friend of my wife, and no friend kneels in my presence. Now, bring us to our wounded comrades.”
As they passed through the dark gates into the temple, Xander heard Priam grumble, “Cripples depress me, and there is always a stink around the dying. It sticks in the nostrils for days.” Hektor appeared not to hear him.
They stepped into the courtyard. There was silence for a moment, then ragged cheering arose from the sick and broken men. Even those on the threshold of the Dark Road
raised their voices for their king and commander.
Priam raised his arms, and the cheers redoubled. Then he spoke, and the irritable rasp Xander had heard moments before was replaced by a deep, warm booming voice that easily reached the injured men at the far wall.
“Trojans!” he cried, and all sound ceased. “I am proud of you all. This victory you have won for Troy will be spoken of for a thousand years. Your names will be as familiar to Father Zeus as those of Herakles and Ilos.” He beamed and raised his arms again to acknowledge the cheers, and then he and Hektor walked among the beds.
Xander was baffled. Moments before he had heard the king complaining of this visit as a tiresome duty. Perhaps he had misheard or misunderstood the words. Now Xander watched Priam speaking softly to the dying, listening kindly to babbled tales of saintly mothers and wive
s, even joking with amputees, saying to each one, “Your king is proud of you, soldier.”
Xander stayed at his side, sometimes translating the mumbled words of a soldier in his last moments, sometimes lifting a man’s hand so that he could touch the king’s robes. He stole an occasional look into Priam’s face but could see nothing there but kind concern and compassion.
Hektor was always a step behind his father, greeting each man by name. As they slowly made their way around, not missing one bed, the sun moved down in the sky and Xander saw the lines on Hektor’s face deepen and his shoulders sag. In contrast, his father seemed to gain energy from the visit.
As the sun disappeared over the houses of healing and torches were lit around the courtyard, they returned to the gates, where an ornate chariot encrusted with gold and gems had been drawn up. Priam turned to his son.
“Now let us return to the living and enjoy this day of triumph.”
“It was good for those soldiers to see us together,” Hektor replied mildly.
Priam turned on him with anger in his eyes. His voice again was cold and rasping. “Never ask me to do that again, boy. A king is not a nursemaid. And the smell in there was nauseating.”
Xander saw Hektor’s jaw set, but he stepped lightly into the chariot and took up the reins. Priam climbed in beside him. “You should have left them all on the beach at Carpea. They would have welcomed an honorable death for their king and their city,” he said.
Hektor flicked at the reins, and the two white geldings leaned into the traces. The chariot pulled smoothly away, the Royal Eagles loping alongside.
Back in the courtyard the men were talking excitedly about the visit of the king and how he had spoken of his pride in them. Xander, saddened by Priam’s deceit, spoke of it to Zeotos later that night.
“He seemed so… so genuinely interested in them, so warm, so compassionate. In truth, though, he cared nothing for them.”
The surgeon chuckled. “You heard him tell the men he was proud of them and tell Hektor he was a king, not a nursemaid?”