by David
He awoke with a groan and threw back his blankets. The fire had burned low, and it was cold on the beach. All around him were sleeping men who were huddled close together for extra warmth. Helikaon glanced up at the great horse on the cliff above. It was a clear night, the stars bright around a crescent moon, and the face of the horse shone balefully in the moonlight.
He shivered and stood, rubbing warmth into his bare arms. He would not sleep again. He would watch for Andromache and be ready to climb the cliff path to find her. He had told himself he would wait until the first light of dawn, but he was impatient to see her again and anxious for her safety.
He looked around. To his left, down by the shoreline, he saw a powerful figure standing staring out to sea. Gershom had seemed withdrawn these last days, spending much time on his own.
Anxious for conversation to divert his thoughts from Andromache, Helikaon picked his way carefully around the sleeping men and walked across the black sand of the beach. Gershom heard his approach and turned to meet him.
“You were wrong about her, Golden One,” he said. “She has the sight.”
Helikaon raised his eyebrows and smiled. “She read your palm?”
“No. She opened my mind.” Gershom shook his head and gave a harsh laugh. “Nothing I say could convince you.”
“You are probably right. But you are troubled, and we are friends. So speak anyway.”
“In a cave on Minoa I learned who I am.”
“What was to learn? You are a runaway Gyppto prince.”
“No, Helikaon, I am a changeling. The child my mother bore was stillborn. A servant carried the babe’s body down to the riverbank. There she was met by two desert people… slaves. They gave her a baby to replace the dead boy. They gave her… me.”
“Kassandra told you this?”
“No, she showed me. She made a fire and burned opiates upon it. When I breathed the smoke, it filled my mind with visions.”
“How can you know they were true?”
“Believe me, Golden One, I know. I saw so much.” He sighed heavily. “Destruction and despair. I saw Troy, and I saw you…”
“Do not speak of Troy, my friend,” Helikaon said quickly. “I know in my heart what will befall the city. I need no prophecies, whether true or false.”
“Then I will offer none. But I understand now why you have sent so many of your people across the sea to the Seven Hills. A new land and a new nation, far from the wars and the treacheries of the old empires.”
“It is just a settlement, Gershom, and the people there are from many nations and races. They bicker constantly. Only luck and the blessings of the gods have stopped them from ripping each other to pieces. The settlement will probably not survive more than a few seasons.”
“No, Helikaon, you are wrong. The hardships they face will bind the people together. They will endure. I promise. You will see.” Gershom smiled. “Well,” he went on, “you may not see—I do not know that—but your sons will, and their descendants.”
Helikaon looked at his friend. “You are beginning to make me uncomfortable. Have you become a seer now?”
“Yes, I have, and I know I must travel to the desert and then return to Egypte.”
“The pharaoh will kill you if you go back!” Helikaon said. Concern for his friend welled up to vanquish his own anxieties. “I think Kassandra has poisoned your mind,” he argued.
“No, do not think that. She is a sweet, sad, broken child. But her visions are true. I believe what I saw was also true. We will know before the dawn.”
“What will we know?”
Gershom pointed to the Egypteian ship drawn up farther along the beach. “If what I saw was real, then I will be summoned to sail upon that vessel tomorrow.”
Helikaon suddenly shivered, the cold night seeping into his bones like freezing water.
“Let us stop this now!” he cried. “You are talking madness, Gershom. Tomorrow we will all sail for the Seven Hills, and you can put all thoughts of Kassandra and visions from your mind.”
Gershom looked into Helikaon’s eyes. “What is it that frightens you about prophecy, my friend?” he asked softly.
“I am not frightened by it. I just do not believe it. I, too, have consumed opiates and seen the whirling colors. I have seen people’s faces suddenly blossom like flowers and heard dogs yapping in strange tongues I could almost understand. I saw a man once who dropped down to the floor and turned into a score of frogs. Do you think he really turned into frogs? Or did the opiates confuse my mind?”
“They confused your mind,” Gershom agreed. “As indeed they may have confused mine. I will not argue that. If no one comes for me from that ship, Golden One, then I will board the Xanthos and rejoice.”
“Good,” Helikaon said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “And after dawn, when we sail, I will mock you for this conversation. Now let us get back to a fire. This sea breeze is chilling my blood.”
Despite his lightness of tone, Helikaon felt tense and anxious as they walked back to the campfires. He stared at the Egypteian ship. No one was moving around it, the crew all asleep on the beach. Gershom added dry sticks to the glowing coals of a fading fire. Flames sprang up. He stretched himself out on the sand and fell asleep almost instantly.
Helikaon swirled a thick blanket around his shoulders and seated himself close to the small blaze. Clouds started forming in the eastern sky, and the sky grew darker as the moon was obscured. Before long a light rain started to fall. Helikaon sat alone, heavy of heart.
Like Zidantas before him, the big Egypteian had excavated a deep place in Helikaon’s heart, and the Dardanian king found himself grieving for the loss of his friend, suddenly sure that the desert folk would come for him in the morning. Since the Xanthos had rescued him from the sea, Gershom had become an invaluable crewman on the galley and Helikaon’s right-hand man and friend, one to whom he entrusted not only his life but his feelings, his fears and hopes. The man had saved Helikaon on several occasions, both in battle and when he had brought the Prophet with healing maggots to cure him after the assassination attempt.
Remembering that time, when he had lain helpless in Hektor’s palace and Andromache had nursed him, brought thoughts of his lover back, and he turned and looked up again at the cliff path in the hope of seeing her walking down. But it was too dark and wet to see well, and he shrugged the blanket closer around him and waited patiently for first light.
It was nearly dawn, and campfires were glittering like stars on the beach far below, guiding her way as Andromache trod down the cliff path. The ground was uneven, the trail in places narrow and broken. Lowering clouds had covered the moon, and the journey back to the ship was becoming perilous. It began to rain, lightly at first, but soon the path became slick and treacherous. The the wind picked up, tugging at her green dress and the borrowed cloak she wore.
Now the rain came pelting down, sharp and cold, stinging the skin of her face and hands. She moved on even more slowly, one hand tracing along the crumbly cliff wall. Her sandaled feet slipped and slid on the wet ground. Anxious though she was to return to Helikaon and the Xanthos, she finally was forced to stop. Crouching against the cliff wall, she drew her cloak around her.
Alone on the cliff path, she found herself thinking back over the events of the day. She had dreaded seeing Iphigenia again, remembering her dislike of the cold, hard-faced Mykene woman. Now she saw her differently. Was it just that she was dying? Did that knowledge allow her to see the old woman with clearer eyes? Or was it merely pity that had changed her perception of the priestess?
Most of the women sent to Thera had no wish to serve the demigod, and many of them wept at being removed from the world they knew, a world of dreams, of hopes, of love and family. Perhaps Iphigenia had been such a woman once. Andromache saw again the moment Kassandra had knelt beside the priestess and rested her head on Iphigenia’s lap. Iphigenia had reached out and stroked the girl’s hair. Andromache had looked into her face then and though
t she saw regret there. Did Iphigenia, in that one caress, think of an empty life, robbed of the chance to have her own children?
The rain began to die down, and Andromache was preparing to resume her descent when she saw a movement above her. It was Kassandra, strolling along the very edge of the path. Andromache’s breath caught in her throat. Kassandra spotted her and waved.
“It is a beautiful night,” she cried. “So exciting!”
Andromache reached out and drew the girl to her. “What are you doing here? It is dangerous.”
“I needed to see you before you left. Did you speak with Kalliope?”
Andromache sighed. She had buried her bones beneath a tree, and she had wept at memories of their love. “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking, “I told her that I missed her and that I would remember her always. Do you think she heard me?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there,” Kassandra replied brightly. “I tried to speak to Xidoros, but he is not here. Do you think it is because men are not allowed on the isle?”
Andromache hugged the girl and kissed her. “Are you going to be happy here?” she asked.
Kassandra squirmed away. “You need to tell Helikaon something,” she said urgently. “He must go to the pirate islands. Odysseus will be there. And Achilles.”
“We are not here to fight battles, Kassandra.”
“But Ithaka has been invaded, and Penelope is held prisoner. She has been beaten and tormented. Odysseus will go there and die if Helikaon does not help him.”
The wind faltered, and a cold silence fell on the cliffside. Andromache almost could hear her own heart beating. Odysseus was Helikaon’s oldest friend, but he was now an enemy. If he and Achilles were to die, it would weaken the Mykene forces, perhaps fatally, and maybe save Troy. The silence grew, and she saw that Kassandra was watching her. Guilt touched her.
“I need to think on this,” she said, unable to meet her sister’s pale gaze.
“What is there to think on?” the girl asked. “Penelope is a wonderful woman, and she is carrying the son of Odysseus.”
“It is not just about Penelope. There are other factors. The survival of Troy, for one.”
“Other factors,” Kassandra said softly. “How strange people are.”
Andromache flushed. “There is nothing strange about desiring to protect those we love.”
“That is my point. Helikaon loves Odysseus and Penelope. You know that if you tell him, he will rush to their aid just as he risked his life to come for you when the Mykene attacked Troy. He is a hero, and he will always desire to protect those he loves.”
Andromache bit back an angry response. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Tell me that the deaths of Odysseus and Achilles will not save Troy.”
Kassandra shook her head. “No, I will not tell you that. All I know is that Odysseus is rushing to his doom, which is what the pirates want. Their leader has a blood feud with Odysseus. There are almost two hundred warriors on Ithaka now. Odysseus has thirty men.”
“The Ugly King is no fool,” Andromache said, “and only a fool would attack two hundred with thirty.”
Kassandra shook her head. “He loves Penelope more than he loves life. They have cut off her hair, Andromache, and every night the pirate chief has her dragged from a dungeon, dressed in rags, and chained to her throne. The whores of the pirates throw food at her and screech insults.”
With that Kassandra fell silent. Tilting her head, she said, “The decision is yours to make. I must go now.” Turning, she started swiftly up the mountain path.
Andromache cursed and ran after her, slipping on the wet ground. “Kassandra, we cannot part like this. Will I see you again?”
Kassandra smiled. “We will meet again before the end.” She lightly touched her sister’s cheek, then walked away.
Andromache watched her go, then turned and continued down the path. As she came closer to the beach, she saw a group of men in flowing robes talking with Helikaon. Most of the crewmen were gathered around. Almost unnoticed, Andromache moved through the crowd. As she came closer, she saw that one of the men in robes was Gershom.
“What is happening here?” she asked, stepping forward to stand alongside Helikaon.
“Gershom is leaving us,” he said. He smiled at the sight of her, but quickly the smile faded and there was suppressed anger in his voice. “He is sailing today with these people of the desert.” Andromache looked at the four cold-eyed bearded men with Gershom.
“Why would you want to leave us?” she asked Gershom.
“I do not want to. I gave a promise some years ago. Now I have been asked to honor it. I have many faults, Andromache, but I keep my promises.”
Turning to Helikaon, he offered his hand. For a moment Andromache thought Helikaon would refuse it. Then the Dardanian king shook his head and stepped in to embrace him.
“I will miss you, my friend,” he said, drawing back. “My men and I all have reason to be grateful to you.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the crew gathered around, and Oniacus clapped Gershom on the back. Gershom grinned and nodded.
“We hope to hear tales of great adventures,” Helikaon said, forcing a smile.
“More likely you will hear of my untimely death,” Gershom replied. “But word is unlikely to reach you, for I will be traveling under a new name, one chosen for me.” Gershom turned to the gathered crew.
“My friends,” he said, “you plucked me from the sea and befriended me. I will hold you all in my heart, as I hold Zidantas and others no longer with us. May the Source of All Creation protect you, and keep you from harm.”
Lastly he looked at Helikaon and Andromache. “May you both find great happiness,” he said.
Without another word he walked away. In his long robes, with the men of the desert following behind him, Andromache thought he now looked like the prince he was, sterner and full of authority. She wondered what would become of him, but she knew she never would find out.
They watched in silence as Gershom climbed onto the Egypteian ship, and Andromache looked into the face of her lover and saw the sorrow there. Placing her hand on his arm, she leaned in close. “I am sorry to see you so sad.”
“He is my friend, one of the best I have ever had, and my heart tells me we will not meet again.”
“You have other friends who love you.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I value them all.”
“Is Odysseus one of them still?”
He smiled. “Odysseus first and foremost. He is the greatest man I have ever met.”
Andromache sighed. “Then there is something we must speak of.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE BEGGAR AND THE BOW
In the drafty megaron on wind-tossed Ithaka, the pirates were enjoying their nightly revels. Many stood out in the courtyard, seeking the warmth where Odysseus’ sheep roasted on spits, but most of them were in the hall, laughing, quarreling, eating, and drinking. A few already had slumped asleep on the cold stone floor. Occasionally a skirmish would break out, but no one had died yet this night, Penelope thought regretfully. And the numbers who were killed each day in those sudden knife fights were more than made up for by newcomers. More than a hundred of these scum of the seas had arrived in the last few days, drawn across the winter seas by tales of the hospitality on Ithaka. Added to their number were some Siculi tribesmen from the Fire Isle in the west, harsh, savage men with tattooed faces and weapons of curved bronze.
The queen sat chained to the carved wooden throne and tried, as she did each night, to distance herself from events around her. Though exhausted, she raised her shaved head high and held her gaze on the opposite wall, where the huge painted shield of Odysseus’ father hung unregarded. She tried to force her thoughts away from the pain of her broken fingers, the throbbing from her bound wrists, and the incessant itching of the lice-ridden rags she had been forced to wear.
Penelope tried to recall the happy days when she and Odysseus both had been young
. She called to mind the face of her son Laertes. In the first years after he died she could see him only as he had been in the immobility of death, but now she found she could remember the precise hue of his eyes, feel the soft down of his cheek against her lips, and recall the exact expression on his face when his father came into the room. No day passed when she did not remember the boy, but thoughts of him now were calming and sweet, rescuing her for a few precious moments from this endless torment.
As always, her mind kept betraying her, raising fruitless hopes of Odysseus striding through the megaron doors, swinging his sword and carving a path to her, releasing her from her bonds, and taking her into the safety of his huge arms. It would be like one of his stories told in this very hall at night when the fire was banked high and she was surrounded by her loved ones. But then cold intelligence would flow across those hopes. Odysseus was older now, almost fifty. The days of great strength and inexhaustible stamina were behind him. His joints ached in the winter, and after a day of labor, he would sink down into a comfortable chair with the heavy, grateful sigh of the ancient.
The thief of time slowly was stealing the vitality from the man she loved. She knew that if he came, his aging body would betray him against these vile young men glorying in the power of their youth.
Then despair would strike, and she would plead: Don’t come, Ugly One! For once in your life do something sensible and stay away. Wait until the spring and bring an army to avenge me. Please don’t come to me now.
But he would come. She knew it with certainty. For all that he was wily, brilliant, and cunning, Odysseus would be blinded to reason by his love for her.
Her thoughts turned bleakly to suicide. If he knew she was dead, Odysseus still would come, but with a clearer mind bent only on vengeance. He would wait until he had raised a fleet and could kill every pirate on Ithaka ten times over. If she could get hold of a knife or a sharp stick, she could pierce her breast in an instant. Even as the thought came, she felt the babe move within her, and her eyes misted with tears. I could kill myself, but I cannot kill you, little one.