Helikaon showed no mercy to the wounded man. Again and again his sword and dagger cut and sliced the Mykene. One vicious slash ripped away an ear; another tore into his face, cutting away his nose. Not a sound came from the crowd, but Andromache could see the looks of horror on their faces. This was not a fight, not even an execution. It was cold-blooded annihilation. With every fresh and painful cut a cry of pain was torn from the mutilated Mykene. At last, his body drenched in blood, which had begun to pool at his feet, he dropped his sword and just stood there, blood streaming from him.
In that moment Helikaon tossed aside his sword, stepped in swiftly, and rammed his dagger into Persion’s heart. The Mykene sagged against him and let out a long, broken sigh.
Helikaon pushed the dying man from him. Persion’s legs gave way, and he tumbled to the floor.
Andromache had seen enough. Rising to her feet, she waited as Malkon replaced the panel of wood. Then the two of them returned to the rooftop. The wind had died down, but it was still cold.
The soldier led Andromache down the steps and out to the road leading to the beach. He walked with her in the moonlight until they were within sight of the Xanthos and the cookfires of the crew. Then, without a word, he turned back to the palace.
Andromache was met by Oniacus and other crewmen. She told them Helikaon had conquered. None was surprised. Paradoxically, though, they were all relieved.
Desiring no company, she moved far away from the campsite to a small section of beach close to a wood. Sitting alone by the water’s edge, a thick cloak wrapped around her, she could not push the images of the combat from her mind: Helikaon, in a cold fury, cutting and slashing an increasingly helpless opponent. Andromache saw again the spraying blood. By the end of the duel Helikaon’s naked body had been almost as crimson as that of his opponent.
Near midnight she saw Helikaon walking along the beach toward her. His hair was still wet from the bath he must have taken to remove the blood.
“You should be beside a fire,” he told her. “It is bitterly cold here.”
“Yes, it is,” she replied.
“What is wrong?” he asked her, sensing her mood. “One of our enemies has been defeated, we are provisioned for the journey to Thera, and all is well. You should be happy.”
“I am glad you survived, Helikaon. Truly I am. But I saw Kassandra’s red demon tonight, and he filled me with sadness.”
He looked confused. “There was no demon,” he said. “What are you talking about?”
Reaching up, she pressed her finger against the skin of his neck. As her hand came away, there was blood on the finger. “You missed a spot,” she said coldly.
Then he understood, and his voice deepened with anger. “I am no demon! The Mykene brought this upon himself. He was the one who set fire to my brother.”
“No, he was not,” Andromache told him. “King Alkaios talked to me of him during the feast. He said Persion had fought many duels in the lands of the west. But he had not been to sea before. How, then, could he have taken part in the first attack on Dardanos?”
“Then why would he say what he did?”
“You do not need to ask that.”
She was right. Even as he had spoken the words, Helikaon had known the answer. Persion had tried to make him angry and unsettle him for the fight. Angry men were mostly reckless, and reckless men did not last long in duels. He sat back and stared at Andromache. “He was a fool, then,” he said at last.
“Yes, he was,” she agreed with a sigh.
“You sound like you regret his death.”
She swung to face him, and he saw that she, too, was angry. “Yes, I regret it. But more than that, I regret watching you torment and destroy a brave opponent.”
“He was evil.”
Her hand snaked out, cracking against his face.
“You hypocrite! You were the evil one tonight. And the foulness of what you did will be spoken of all across the Great Green. How you tortured a proud man, turning him into a mewling wreck. It will be added to your heroic list of accomplishments: gouging the eyes from Alektruon, setting fire to bound men at Blue Owl Bay, raiding unarmed villages in the west. How dare you speak of the savagery of the Mykene when you are cast from the same bronze? There is no difference between you.”
With that she pushed herself to her feet to walk away. He surged up and grabbed her arm. “Easy for you, woman, to criticize me! You do not have to walk into ruined towns and see the dead or bury your comrades or see your loved ones raped and tortured.”
“No, I don’t,” she snapped, her green eyes flashing. “But those Mykene who returned to settlements you destroyed will have seen it. They will have buried loved ones you killed or tortured. I thought you a hero, brave and noble. I thought you intelligent and wise; then I hear you talk of all Mykene as evil. Argurios, who fought and died beside you, was a hero. And he was Mykene. The two men with Kalliope who saved me from assassins—they were Mykene!”
“Three men!” he stormed. “What of the thousands who swarm like locusts through the lands they conquer? What of the hordes waiting to descend on Troy?”
“What do you want me to tell you, Helikaon? That I hate them? I do not. Hate is the father of all evil. Hate is what creates men like Agamemnon and men like you, vying with each other to see who can commit the most ghastly atrocity. Let go of my arm!”
But he did not release her. She dragged back on his grip, then angrily lashed out with her other hand. Instinctively he pulled her closer, his arm circling her waist. This close, he could smell the perfume of her hair and feel the warmth of her body against his. Her forehead cracked against his cheek, and he grabbed her hair to prevent her from butting him again.
And then, before he knew what he was doing, he was kissing her. The taste of wine was on her lips, and his mind swam. For a moment only she struggled; then her body relaxed against him, and she responded to the kiss, just as she had on the stairs four years before. He drew her closer, his hands sliding down over her hips, drawing up her dress until he felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.
Then they were lying down, still entwined, her arms around his neck. He felt the hunger in her kisses. It matched his own. She was beneath him now, and her legs opened, her thighs sliding over his hips. With a groan of pleasure he entered her.
Their lovemaking was fierce. No words were spoken. In all his life he never had known such intensity of passion, such completeness of being. Nothing existed in all the world except this woman beneath him. He had no sense of place or time or even identity. There was no war, no mission, no life beyond. There was no guilt, only a joy he had experienced only once before, in a delirium dream on the point of death.
Andromache cried out then, the sound feral. Her body arched against his. Then he, too, groaned and relaxed against her, holding her close.
Only then did he become aware of the lapping of the waves on the shoreline, the whispering of the breeze through the treetops. He looked down into her face, into her green eyes. He was about to speak when she curled her arm around his neck and drew him into a soft embrace. “No more words tonight,” she whispered.
CHAPTER NINE
VOYAGE OF THE BLOODHAWK
A half day’s sail to the east, in a protected bay on the isle of Naxos, the sailors of the Bloodhawk and the crews of four other galleys sat in a circle around the legendary storyteller Odysseus. His voice thundered out a tale of gods and men and a ship caught up in a great storm that flew high into the sky and anchored on the silver disk of the moon. The audience cheered wildly as the stocky king embellished his tale with stories of nymphs and dryads.
Sitting quietly a little distance from the circle, the warrior Achilles listened intently. He enjoyed the tales of Odysseus, especially those in which mortal men defied the gods and won the day. But mostly he loved the images they contained of comrades standing together like brothers, caring for one another, dying for one another.
“How did you get down from the sky?” yelle
d a man in the crowd.
Odysseus laughed. “We took down the sail, cut it in half, and strapped the pieces to the oars. Then, using the sail as wings, we flew down. Tiring work, I can tell you, flapping those oars.”
“The last time you told that tale,” another man shouted, “you said you called on Father Zeus, who sent fifty eagles to bring you down.”
“That was a different tale,” Odysseus thundered, “and I didn’t want to waste a sail. Now, if any other cowson interrupts me, I’ll soak him in oil and swallow him whole.”
Achilles smiled. There was no one like Odysseus. He gazed fondly at the old king. He was dressed in a tunic of faded red, his ornate belt of gold straining around his large belly. His beard was more silver than red now, and his hair was thinning, yet he radiated a power that was ageless.
They first had met many years earlier when Achilles was still a child in his father’s palace at Thessaly. He had crept from his bedchamber and hidden with his sister Kalliope on the wide gallery above Peleus’ megaron to listen to the tales of Odysseus. He had been thrilled then with the stories of heroes, and both of the children had sat wide-eyed.
Thoughts of his sister brought with them a sense of sadness and loss. He remembered his first real conversation with Odysseus after the fall of the Thrakian city of Kalliros. The Ugly King had brought a fleet of supply ships up the river and then had entertained the troops. Achilles had invited him to dine with him in the captured palace.
Odysseus had been tired after his performance, and the meeting had been stilted. Somewhere during the evening Kalliope had been mentioned. Odysseus’ eyes had hardened. “A fine, brave girl,” he had said. “I liked her enormously.”
“She betrayed the House of Peleus,” Achilles had replied.
For a moment Odysseus had said nothing. He had swirled the wine in his cup and then drained it. “Let us talk of other matters, Achilles, for I am not one to insult a man at his own feast.”
The response had surprised the young warrior. “I was not aware that I said anything that could give birth to an insult. I was merely stating a fact.”
“No, lad, you were merely repeating a great lie. I do not believe Kalliope was capable of betrayal any more than you are. She left Thera because a seer told her a friend would be in grave danger. She made her way, through great perils, to save that friend. And she died doing so.”
“That is not what I meant,” Achilles had said. “She betrayed my father.”
“And now we really must stop talking about her,” Odysseus had said, rising from the table. “Otherwise we will come to blows. And I am too old and fat to trade punches with a young warrior like you. Thank you for the meal.”
Achilles had risen to clasp hands with the older man.
“Let us not part with ill feeling,” he had said. “As a child I loved your stories. They inspired me. They made me determined to be a hero. All my life I have struggled to live up to that dream.”
Odysseus’ expression had softened then. “There is more to life than heroism, Achilles. There is love and friendship and laughter. It seems to me you know too little of these.”
Achilles had been embarrassed then. “I know of them,” he had said defensively. “When we were young, Kalliope and I were very close. And a man could have no greater friend than my shield bearer Patroklos. I have known him since we were children.”
“Let us have some wine,” Odysseus had said, reseating himself, “and we’ll talk of the woes of the world and how, through the brilliance of our minds, we can set them right.”
And they had talked long into the night. As they were draining their fifth flagon of wine, as the pearly light of dawn appeared in the east, Achilles had confessed he had never enjoyed a conversation so much.
Odysseus had laughed. “We are not rivals, you see, lad,” he had explained. “I am too old to be competition for you. And you know, that is why you lack friends. You are Achilles, and you compete for everything. Most young men are in awe of you or frightened of you. Only Patroklos feels no awe in your presence, for he was brought up with you and knows all your weaknesses as well as your strengths.”
He thought for a moment and then went on. “I’ve heard your father speak of your childhood. It was the same then. He talked of you winning all the footraces, the wrestling matches, the spear throwing, as well as the swordplay. You crushed all those other youngsters, never losing. You can admire a man who constantly defeats you. Rare to like him, though.”
“Hektor is liked,” Achilles argued.
“Ah, you have me there. When I arrived tonight, two soldiers escorted me to your presence. Who were they?”
“I did not notice.”
“Hektor would have. He would also have told me, if asked, the names of their wives and children.”
“That is clever of him,” Achilles agreed.
“True, but he doesn’t do it because it’s clever. He does it because he cares. And that is why his men love him.”
“I hear in your voice that you are fond of him, too.”
“Yes, I am. It is a tragedy to be his enemy. But I didn’t choose to be.”
“It seems to me that you are a good judge of men, Odysseus.”
“And of women, which—if we are not careful—will bring us back to talking of your sister. So now, since the dawn is rising, I am going to take to my bed.”
“Will you answer one question before you go?”
“It depends on the question,” Odysseus replied.
“Why do you dislike my father?”
“I will avoid that path, Achilles. No man should seek to come between a father and his son. You are a fine young man, and you have a good mind, so I will offer you some advice. Trust your instincts and base judgments on what your heart tells you. The heart will not betray you, Achilles.”
As the months of war ground on, Achilles had thought of that advice many times, especially when dealing with his father. As a child he had seen Peleus as a great king, powerful and brave. It was not an image he wanted to lose. Yet time and again he found himself making excuses for the man, for his pettiness, his cruelty, and, worse, his ability to blame others for his mistakes. Then the jealousy began. Where Peleus had been proud of Achilles’ achievements, he now began to berate his son for “stealing his glory.” Every success Achilles achieved in battle was belittled.
In the end, with Thraki taken and Hektor and his surviving men fleeing toward the eastern coasts, Peleus had relieved Achilles of command of the army and sent him with Odysseus to Naxos to bargain with King Gadelos for supplies of grain and meat.
“You want me to be a merchant?” he had asked his father, unbelieving.
“You will do as I command. Agamemnon needs food for the army. It will flatter Gadelos to have a great hero as part of the delegation.”
“And who will lead the attack on Hektor? He is no ordinary general. His mere presence is worth a hundred men.”
Peleus had reddened. “I will lead the attack. Peleus, king of Thessaly, will destroy this Trojan.”
Angry then, Achilles had spoken without thinking. “You have shown precious little appetite for battle so far, Father.”
Peleus had struck him open-handed. “Are both of my children destined to betray me?” he had shouted.
Shocked by the blow, Achilles finally had voiced the thoughts of his heart. “I loved Kalliope, and I do not believe she ever betrayed anyone.”
“You dog!” Peleus’ hand slashed out again, but this time Achilles caught his fat wrist.
“Do not ever attempt to strike me again,” he said, his voice cold.
He had seen the fear then in his father’s eyes, and the last vestiges of childhood admiration had vanished like mist in the sunshine. Peleus had licked his lips nervously and forced a smile.
“I am sorry, my son. The pressures of war…You know I value you above all men. My pride in you is colossal. But allow me a little pride, too,” he pleaded. “I will hunt down Hektor and bring us a victory. But I need you to
go to Naxos. Otherwise men will say that the defeat of Hektor was because of you. Do this for me!”
Saddened and sickened by the wheedling tone, Achilles had stepped back. “I will do as you bid, Father. It will be good to get away from here for a while, and I enjoy the tales of Odysseus.”
“The man is a fat braggart, worthless and vain. Do not listen too closely to his lies, boy.”
Achilles had ignored the comment.
“Remember, Father, that Hektor is a warrior without peer. When you corner him, it will be a fight to the death. There can be no withdrawal, no pulling back. The man is a lion. Once you grab his tail, only one of you will walk away alive.”
Achilles had left the following day, traveling on the Bloodhawk, the sleek war galley manned by Ithakan sailors, veterans who had served Odysseus for many years. Achilles had tried to be friendly with the men, but as always, they were in awe of him, treating him respectfully and keeping their distance.
The days at sea and the enforced idleness at first had left him tense and bored, but gradually he had relaxed and had begun to see why the Great Green held such fascination for sailors. The vast eternal sea freed the mind from petty thoughts and vain ambitions.
Now, as he sat on the beach at Naxos, listening to Odysseus, he realized that he had no great desire to return to Thraki or even to fight in the war against Troy. A part of him wished merely to be a sailor, an oarsman, traveling the sea.
Odysseus concluded his tale to thunderous applause, and the listeners cried out for more.
“Too old and tired to go on,” Odysseus told them, then strode away to a cookfire.
Achilles saw several soldiers approach him. In the conversation that followed Achilles saw Odysseus turn as still as a statue, and he wondered what was being said. Others of the crew gathered around. Achilles saw Odysseus glance across at him. Obviously, some important news was being imparted. Achilles thought of walking across to join the men, but at that moment Odysseus strode away from them, moving toward him. Achilles rose to greet him.