Dios spoke again. “Wait until you see Astyanax. The boy has grown, Hektor. Nearly three years old now. And what a fine, bold child he is.”
Hektor relaxed then and smiled. “I long to see him. I shall take him on a ride through the hills. He will enjoy that.”
“I took him myself not more than a week ago. Sat him before me and let him hold the reins. He loved it. Especially the gallop.”
Hektor’s heart sank. Through the long, grim, and bloody months of warfare he had dreamed of taking the boy on his first ride, of holding the child close to him, listening to his laughter. Amid the terror and brutality of war that one small dream had nurtured him. “Was he frightened?” he asked.
“No! Far from it. He kept shouting for me to go faster. He is fearless, Hektor. No more, of course, than one would expect from a child of yours.”
A child of yours.
Save that he is not mine, Hektor thought. Masking his sadness, he looked across at the city. “And Father is well?”
Dios said nothing for a moment. Then he shrugged. “He is getting older,” he replied, dropping his eyes.
“And drinking more?”
Dios hesitated. “You will see him tomorrow,” he said at last. “Best you form your own judgment.”
“That I will.”
“And what of Helikaon?” Dios asked. “Word reached us that he sank Agamemnon’s fleet. Burned them all. That lifted the spirits, I can tell you.”
The bitter wind picked up again, hissing through the branches overhead. This time Hektor shivered, though not from the cold. He saw again the pale dead face of Helikaon’s wife, the beautiful Halysia, as her body was carried into the fortress. Hektor had heard the story of her last ride. Taking her son with her, she had mounted a huge black horse and ridden through the enemy, down the defile toward the bridge known as Parnio’s Folly. They had pursued her, knowing they had her, for the bridge had been destroyed by fire. Caught between murderous soldiers and a deep chasm, Halysia had heeled the stallion forward and leaped it across the wide gap. Not one rider had dared to follow her. She had saved her son but not herself. During the ride she had suffered a deep spear wound, and she had bled to death as Helikaon reached her.
The voice of Dios brought Hektor back to the present. “We need to discuss the route for the victory parade. You will ride Father’s ceremonial war chariot. It is being burnished now and layered with new gold leaf. It will be brought out to you before dawn. Father has two pure white horses to draw it.” Dios smiled. “You will look like a young god!”
Hektor took a deep breath and transferred his gaze to the city. “And the route?” he asked.
“The entire regiment will ride up through the lower town, then through the Scaean Gate and up the avenue to the palace, where Priam will greet them and give awards to the heroes you have named. This will be followed later by a feast of thanksgiving in the Square of Hermes. There Father hopes you will make a speech. He suggests you tell the gathering about the victory at Carpea, as it is the most recent.”
“Dardanos is the most recent,” Hektor pointed out.
“Yes, it is, but the death of Halysia makes it too sad a tale.”
“Of course,” Hektor said. “We cannot have tales of blood and death spoil a story about war.”
Khalkeus the bronzesmith sat in the torchlit megaron of Dardanos, rubbing at the numbed fingers of his left hand. After a while sensation returned, the tips beginning to tingle. Then the trembling started. He stared down at the palsied limb, willing it to stop. Instead it worsened. It was as if invisible fingers had grasped his wrist and were shaking it. Irritated now, he made a fist, then crossed his arms so that no one would see the tremors.
Not that there was anyone to see. The Gyppto, Gershom, had told him to wait in this cold, empty place for Helikaon. Khalkeus stared around the megaron. Blood had stained the mosaic floor. The splashes and spatters had dried, but elsewhere, on the rugs and in the deeper grooves of the mosaic, it remained sticky and uncongealed. A broken sword lay by a wall.
Khalkeus strolled across and picked up the weapon. It had snapped halfway down the blade. Khalkeus ran his thick fingers over the metal. Poorly cast, with too much tin, he decided. Copper was a soft metal, and the addition of tin created the harder, more useful bronze. Yet this blade had been hardened too much, becoming brittle, and had snapped on impact.
Returning to his couch, Khalkeus sat once more. His hand had stopped trembling, and that was a blessing. But the palsy would return. It was the curse of bronzesmiths. No one knew what caused it, but it always began in the fingertips, then moved to the toes. Soon he would be limping along with the aid of a staff. Even the god of smiths, Hephaistos, was said to be lame. Old Karpithos, back in Miletos, had gone blind in the end. He had sworn it was the melting copper putting poison in the air. Khalkeus had no way of testing that theory, but he favored it enough to have his forges built outside now so that any poisons would be dissipated by fresh air.
“You cannot complain,” he told himself aloud. Fifty years old, and only now does the trembling start. Karpithos had endured the tremors for close to twenty years before his sight had failed.
Time drifted by, and Khalkeus, never a patient man, began to grow more irritated. Rising from the couch, he walked out into the night air.
Black smoke was drifting up from the center of the fortress, where the kitchens still smoldered.
Despite their obvious enthusiasm for destruction, Khalkeus thought, the enemy had been largely incompetent. Many of the burned buildings had suffered superficial damage only. And the support struts of the bridge called Parnio’s Folly had been ignored by the Mykene. They had hacked at the bridge planks with ax and sword to weaken them, then poured oil on the flat timbers before setting them ablaze. The idiots had not realized it was the support struts, set deeply into the cliffs on both sides, that gave the structure its strength. Whoever had designed them had been a master at his craft. With them still in place, undamaged by fire, the bridge could be rebuilt within days.
Khalkeus glanced to his right. In the moonlight he saw three men hauling a wide handcart. The bodies of several women and children had been laid on the cart. A wheel struck an uneven patch on the road, causing the vehicle to shudder. One of the dead women slid sideways. The movement caused her torn tunic to ride up, exposing her buttocks. Instantly the three men stopped pulling the cart, and one of them hurried back to cover her nakedness.
How strange, Khalkeus thought. As if she would care.
Khalkeus wandered back into the megaron. Several servants were placing fresh torches in brackets on the wall. Khalkeus called out to one of them. “You there! Bring me some bread and wine.”
“And you are?” the man asked, his tone surly.
“Hungry and thirsty,” Khalkeus replied.
“Are you a guest of the king?”
“Yes. I am Khalkeus.”
The servant grinned. “Truly? The Madman from Miletos?”
Khalkeus sighed. “I am not from Miletos, but yes, that is what some idiots call me.”
The man brought him a platter of black bread, some cheese, and a jug of watered wine. The bread was not fresh, but smeared with the cheese, it was palatable enough. Khalkeus sipped his wine and glanced toward the great doors and the moon shadows beyond them. He wished Helikaon would come so that he could conclude his business here and head back to Troy and his new forges.
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 meanings 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?”