Shield of Thunder

by David Gemmell

  “The gold, Agamemnon. Priam’s mighty coffers. He will need gold to hire mercenaries, to buy allies. If we block his trade, his income will wither, and slowly his treasury will be sucked dry. I do not want to fight my way into a ruined city in ten years’ time to find it barren. Do you?”

  Agamemnon said nothing for a while. Then he signaled to a guard to bring them some wine. As they drank, he said, “I have misjudged you, Odysseus. For that I apologize. I saw only the genial storyteller. Now I truly understand why you were once called the Sacker of Cities. All that you say is true.” He paused. “Tell me, what do you know of the Shield of Thunder?”

  Now it was Odysseus’ turn to be surprised. “Athene’s shield? What of it?”

  Agamemnon watched him closely, but Odysseus obviously knew nothing. “One of my priests suggested we make sacrifice to Athene and ask for the Shield of Thunder to protect our efforts. I wondered if you’d heard any tales concerning it.”

  Odysseus shrugged. “Only what every child is taught. The shield was given to Athene by Hephaistos, which angered Ares, for he desired it. Ares was so enraged, he smashed Hephaistos’ foot with a club. But I have never heard of anyone calling for protection from the shield before. Still, why not? Sacking this citadel will require all the help we can get. Worth a few bulls at least.”

  Later, when his guests had gone, Agamemnon climbed to the roof of the palace and seated himself in a wide wicker chair beneath the stars. His thoughts roamed over the events of the last few days, reexamining them. Time and again, though, he returned to the conversation two nights before, when the Trojan prince Antiphones had joined them for supper. The fat man had been dazzled by the splendor of Achilles and had sat staring at him as if moonstruck. Much wine had flowed, and Antiphones, eager to entertain Achilles, had told many amusing stories. As Agamemnon had instructed, Achilles flattered the Trojan prince, hanging on his every word, laughing at his jests. Nevertheless they had learned little, even with Antiphones drunk, until Achilles had talked admiringly about Troy and its wonders.

  “It is a great city,” Antiphones said. “Immortal soon.”

  “How will it be immortal, my friend?” Achilles asked him as Agamemnon sat quietly back in the shadows.

  “There is a prophecy. Priam and Hekabe believe it, and many seers have declared it to be true.” And then he had quoted a verse: “Beneath the Shield of Thunder waits the Eagle Child, on shadow wings, to soar above all city gates, till end of days, and fall of kings.”

  “Interesting,” Achilles said. “And what does it mean, this doggerel verse?”

  “Ah!” Antiphones said, tapping his nose. “Secret. Hekabe’s secret. I shouldn’t know it, really. But sweet Andromache told me.” He chuckled, then drained his cup. “A fine girl. She’ll…be a splendid wife for…Hektor.”

  “I heard she killed an assassin as he was about to murder Priam King,” Agamemnon put in softly.

  “Shot him through the heart,” Antiphones said. “Stunning girl! Deadly with the bow. She is my friend, you know. Sweet Shield of Thunder.” His face had fallen then, and he had wiped his fat hand across his mouth, as if pushing back the words. Then he had heaved himself to his feet. “Need to…go now,” he said. At a signal from Agamemnon, Achilles had helped Antiphones from the palace and walked him back to his own apartments.

  Agamemnon had sent for his advisers and questioned them about the prophecy. None had heard of it. For most of the following day the words had continued to haunt him. Messages were sent out to Mykene spies and informers to gather all information on Andromache. Finally they located a merchant who once had been based in Thebe Under Plakos and knew something of the royal family there. He told the story of the child born with a curious birthmark on her skull, round like a shield, with lightning through the center.

  So, then, Andromache was the Shield of Thunder, and the Eagle Child who would soar above all city gates would be her son by Prince Hektor. Priam and Hekabe were setting great store by this prophecy. It was obviously false, for all true followers of the gods knew that the Shield of Thunder sported a snake, not the lightning bolt these eastern kingdoms believed. Even so, they believed in the prophecy.

  Whether it was true or merely wishful thinking made little difference. Agamemnon knew that such a belief would stiffen the resolve of Priam when the war came. It followed, therefore, that if the woman of the prophecy were to die, then great would be the grief and despair that followed her death. It would also show to Troy, its citizens, and the world that Priam could not protect his own. The games and the wedding celebrations would turn to ash, and the coming war would fall upon a people cowed by disaster and tragedy. It was perfect.

  Sitting on the rooftop, he made a decision and summoned Kleitos to him. The tall warrior came immediately.

  “Pull all men back from the Palace of Stone Horses. We will not attack Helikaon.”

  “But lord, we are almost set.”

  “No, the time is not right. Instead have the woman Andromache followed. Find out if she sleeps in the king’s palace or in Hektor’s. How many guards attend her? Does she wander in the marketplaces, where a stray dagger can cut her down? I want to know everything, Kleitos. Everything.”

  Back in the great courtyard of Hektor’s palace, where the crew of the Penelope had made camp, the mood was somber. Bias, though through to the final of the javelin, could scarcely lift his arm, and there was a tingling in his fingertips that did not bode well. Leukon was nursing a swelling on his cheek and a small cut over his right eye. His left fist was bruised and swollen, all those wounds coming from a grueling victory over the Mykene champion, a tough and durable fighter with a head made of rock. Leukon’s hopes of becoming champion in the boxing contest were shrinking fast, especially as he had watched Achilles demolish opponents with gruesome ease. Kalliades had lost in the short race, taking an elbow in the face from a canny sprinter from Kretos who had gone on to win. And even the usually cheerful Banokles was downcast, having lost in a savage bout the previous afternoon.

  “Could have sworn I had him with that uppercut,” Banokles told Kalliades as they sat in the moonlight. “Big Red said she thought I was unlucky.”

  “It was a tight contest,” Kalliades agreed. “However, look on the cheerful side. Had you won, we would have been once more bereft of wealth. As it is, we have fifteen gold rings, thirty-eight silver, and a handful of copper.”

  “Not sure about that at all,” Banokles said. “You bet against me.”

  “We agreed to follow Leukon’s advice,” Kalliades said wearily. “He would tell me when you were facing an opponent you couldn’t beat. And I would wager on him.”

  “Doesn’t feel right,” Banokles grumbled. “You might have told me.”

  “If I had told you, what would you have done?”

  “I’d have bet on him.”

  “And that would certainly not have been right. Anyway, did you really want to come up against Achilles? That’s who your opponent faces in tomorrow’s semifinal. As it is, we have wealth and a roof over our heads, and you have no broken bones.”

  Leukon strolled over to them, bearing a jug of wine and filling Banokles’ cup. “A few more weeks of training on your footwork and you would have had him, my friend,” he said, slumping down beside the bruised warrior. “You kept walking into that looping left.”

  “Felt like being struck by an avalanche,” Banokles said. “Looking forward to seeing Achilles taking a few of those blows. Wipe the smug smile off his face.”

  Leukon shook his head. “Achilles will finish him in a few heartbeats,” he said gloomily. “And that looping left won’t touch him. Never seen a big man move so fast.”

  “You’ll beat him in the final,” Banokles said. Leukon did not reply, and the three men sat quietly, drinking their wine.

  Odysseus, with his five bodyguards in tow, came through the gates and crossed the courtyard without speaking to anyone.

  “I’m going to visit Red,” Banokles said. “Hand me a few of thos
e silver rings, Kalliades.”

  Kalliades opened the bulging pouch at his side and pulled out several rings, which he dropped into Banokles’ outstretched palm. “Not like you to offer your favors to only one woman,” he observed.

  “Never was a woman like Red,” Banokles replied happily, draining the last of his wine and setting off for the gates.

  They watched him go, and then Kalliades turned to Leukon. “Banokles is a man without cares. Unlike you, it seems.”

  Leukon said nothing for a while, and the two men sat in silence. Finally the blond sailor spoke, his voice almost a whisper. “Achilles has no weaknesses. He has speed, strength, and enormous stamina. And he can take a punch. I saw him demolish an opponent yesterday. I fought the same man last summer. Took me an afternoon to wear him down. Achilles finished him in less time than it takes to drink a cup of wine. The truth is I do not have the skill to take him, and that is hard for me to admit.” Filling his cup, he drank deeply.

  Kalliades clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, my friend. With luck you won’t win the semifinal, and your opponent will have to face Achilles.”

  “Why would I not win the semifinal? I have fought the man three times. I have the measure of him.”

  “I was jesting.”

  “Leukon is not the man to jest with,” Odysseus said, joining them. “How is the fist?” he asked the big fighter.

  “The extra day’s rest will help, as will the strapping for the fight.” Leukon glanced across the courtyard to where Bias was rubbing olive oil into his shoulder. “The same cannot be said for Bias. His shoulder is aflame and swollen badly.”

  “I will speak to him later,” Odysseus said, “but now you and I need to talk. Come with me.”

  Kalliades watched the Ugly King and the fighter move into the palace, then strolled across to where Bias was kneading his injured muscles. “Here, let me,” he said, taking the phial of oil and pouring it into his palms.

  “Thank you,” Bias said. “Can’t reach the point by the shoulder blade.”

  Bias’s skin felt hot to the touch, the muscles around the shoulder inflamed and swollen. Gently Kalliades kneaded them, easing out knots and adhesions.

  “I saw Banokles heading out,” Bias said. “Gone whoring again?”

  Kalliades chuckled. “It is what he does best.”

  “That’s what I miss about youth,” Bias said. “That and the fact I could throw a damned javelin without ripping every muscle in my back.”

  “Even so, only three men outthrew you.”

  “They’ll all outthrow me tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps not,” Kalliades said. “We’ll soak some cloths in cold water and take some of the heat from those muscles.”

  Later, as the two men sat in the cool of the night, Bias asked: “Have you thought what you’ll do when the games are over?”

  “Head south, probably. Down to Thebe Under Plakos and then perhaps on to Lykia. Join a mercenary regiment.”

  “Will you be taking the girl with you?”

  “No. She will be staying in Troy with a friend.”

  There was no one close by, but even so the black man leaned in close, dropping his voice. “She may not be welcomed by this friend. You know that?”

  “They are more than just friends,” Kalliades answered.

  “I know that, lad. The crew does not know who Piria is, but Odysseus tells me that you do. The temple on Thera was built with Trojan gold. Priam is its patron. You think he will allow a runaway to live free in Troy? As long as she is here, she will be a danger to any who give her shelter.”

  “What are you suggesting, Bias?”

  “I know you are fond of her. Take her with you. Far from the city, where she will never be recognized.”

  Kalliades looked into the black man’s broad face. “And this concern is purely for Piria?”

  “No, lad. It is for me and the other lads on the Penelope. If she’s captured in Troy and questioned, then we will be implicated. I have no wish to be burned alive.”

  Kalliades fell silent. In his recent conversations with Piria she had spoken of Andromache with enthusiasm and love, her face shining with happiness and anticipation. What would be the effect if she was rejected by her? Or, worse, if Hektor’s guards took her into custody? The thought of such an outcome left him sick with fear. She had great courage, but her personality was fragile. How many more betrayals could she take?

  “She will not be captured,” he said at last. “I will keep her safe.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A GATHERING OF WOLVES

  Priam sat alone in the queen’s apartments, the shrouded body of Hekabe laid out on a bier at the center of the main room. The scent of heavy perfumes rose from the linen, masking the stench of death. Priam could not approach the body. He sat on the far side of the room, a half-empty wine cup in his hand. As was the funeral custom of the house of Ilos, his white tunic was rent at the shoulder, and gray ash had been rubbed into the right sleeve and sprinkled over his hair.

  Priam drank the last of the wine. He was aware of the presence of Hekabe in the room, standing there, staring down at him. He could feel her disapproval.

  “I should have come to you,” he whispered. “I know that. But I could not. It was more than I could bear. You understand that, Hekabe. I know you do. You were once the most beautiful of women. I wanted to remember you that way and not as some cancer-eaten hag, all yellow skin and gleaming bone.”

  He gave a furtive glance toward the body and closed his eyes, seeing again the glorious days of youth, when it seemed they were both immortal. He recalled when these apartments had been finished and he and Hekabe had stood on the balcony, looking out over the city. She had been pregnant then, with Hektor. “There is nothing we cannot do, Priam,” she had told him. “We are the mighty!”

  “We were the mighty,” he said aloud. “But now you are gone from me, and the wolves are gathering. They are all in the megaron below, waiting for your funeral feast. They will come to me, offering their condolences, their fine wishes. They will stare at me through hooded eyes, and they will sense my weakness. Agamemnon will be jubilant. The ghastly Peleus, the greedy Idomeneos, the wily Nestor, and the cunning Odysseus.” He rose and walked back and forth, not looking at the shrouded body. He gazed into the depths of the empty wine cup, then hurled it against the wall. “Where are you now that I need you?” he shouted. Then he sagged back into his chair. An image flickered into his mind of Andromache disrobing before him, turning her back to him as the gown fell to the floor. He saw himself stepping forward, his hands sliding over the soft skin. The same image had been haunting him for days now. He woke to it, walked with it, fell asleep to it.

  “My mind is clouded, Hekabe,” he said, trying to push it away. “I took Andromache to my bed, as you knew I would. I thought that would end the constant need for her. It did not. It fired my blood in a way I have not known since…since you and I were young. Is that what you hoped for? Was this your gift to me? She is so like you, my love. I see you in her eyes, hear you in her voice.” He fell silent, then staggered across the room to where the wine jug stood on a small table. Hefting it, he drank deeply, red liquid swilling over his cheeks and dripping onto his tunic. “Now she will not come to me. She reminds me of the agreement we made. Once in every rising moon. She reminds me! Am I not the king? Is it not for me to make, or break, agreements?” He rubbed at his eyes. “No, I cannot think of her now. I must consider the wolves. They are becoming a pack, and I must break it, separate them. I can bribe Idomeneos and some of the smaller petty chieftains. Nestor may still be reasoned with. The rest I must find a way to intimidate. And Odysseus must die.”

  He heard the door and swung around to see his son, fat Antiphones, enter quietly. “What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Can’t you see I am talking to your mother?”

  “I can, Father, as can others, but I fear she cannot hear you.”

  Priam swung toward the body, lost his balance, and began
to fall. Antiphones grabbed him, hauling him upright, then half carried him to a couch. “Get me wine,” the king ordered.

  Antiphones shook his head. “You have enemies coming to your hall. This is not a time for such maudlin behavior. I will fetch you water, and you will drink it and piss away this weakness. Then you will come down to your guests as the mighty king of Troy and not as a drunken sot bleating for his poor dead wife.”

  The words cut through Priam’s grief, and his hand snaked out, grabbing Antiphones by the tunic and dragging him across the couch. “You dare speak to me in this way? By thunder, I’ll have your tongue ripped out!”

  “And that is the Priam we need to see now,” Antiphones said softly.

  Priam blinked, his anger fading. Drawing in a deep breath, he released Antiphones. His son was right. The room began to swim, and he leaned back into the couch.

  “Fetch water,” he mumbled.

  Antiphones took hold of his arm. “Let us get out to the balcony. The air will help clear your head.”

  Priam managed to stand and, supported by his son, staggered out into the moonlight. Once there, he leaned over the balcony rail and vomited. His head began to pound, but he felt the effects of the wine weakening. Antiphones brought him a jug of water, which he forced himself to drink. After a while he took a deep breath and pushed himself upright. “I am myself again,” he said. “Now let us walk among the wolves.”

  The kings of west and east sat at the great table in Priam’s megaron beneath flickering torches, in the shadows of gilded statues of Trojan heroes. Servants bearing golden trays on which stood golden cups brimming with wine moved along the huge horseshoe-shaped table. Priam still had not appeared, and the kings were growing restive. The Athenian king, Menestheos, was the first to complain. The stocky red-bearded Athenian had a notoriously quick temper. “How much longer will he keep us waiting?” he growled. “This is intolerable!”

  “Be calm, my friend,” Agamemnon said from across the table. “The man is in despair and not thinking clearly. He does not intend to insult us, I am sure. In his grief he has merely forgotten his manners.”