Andromache’s sense of panic was almost uncontrollable now. Nevertheless, she took the old priestess’s arm and walked with her slowly into the dark building.
Kassandra was lying on a narrow bed in a corner of the high bleak chamber. It was dark and very cold. The only windows were high above, and she was staring at the dusty shafts of light they shed, her mouth moving as if in conversation.
“Kassandra,” Andromache said gently.
After a long delay her sister looked at her. Andromache was shocked to see her condition. She was dirty, and her hair was in rats’ tails. She was skeletally thin, and looking into her fevered eyes was like staring into a black furnace.
“Is it time?” she asked feebly. “Can I go now?”
There was a jug of water and a goblet beside her, so Andromache filled the goblet, then gently lifted her sister up and dribbled some water into her mouth. After a few mouthfuls Kassandra drank greedily, holding on to the goblet, water running down her filthy gown onto the floor.
“Andromache,” she said at last, clutching at her with bony fingers. “I’m so glad you’ve come. There is much to tell you and little time.”
“Listen to me, Sister,” Andromache urged her. “You must come with me. I will take you to the Xanthos. It is here, with Helikaon. We will travel together again.”
“She is too ill to be moved,” Iphigenia told her reprovingly.
“I will bring men from the Xanthos. Helikaon will come and fetch you, my love.”
“Men will not defile this temple,” the old priestess barked. “Do not be so arrogant, Andromache, as to bring down the god’s wrath on us.”
“Then I will carry her myself,” Andromache told her defiantly.
“Listen, Andromache. You never listen,” Kassandra cried, pulling her close. “I am dying, and I have always known I would die here. You know that. I told you so many times. It is my fate, and I rejoice in it. I will see Mother again. She is waiting for me just beyond, so close that I can almost touch her. She knows I am coming. It is my fate. You must let me be.”
Andromache felt tears running down her face, and Kassandra brushed them gently away. “Tears for me, Sister? You cried for Hektor, too. I saw you.
“They never should have killed him, you see. Hektor and Achilles were the last great heroes. And after the Age of Heroes comes the Age of Darkness.” Kassandra seemed to gain strength as she spoke. “Even now they are coming down from the north, the barbarians, sweeping through the lands of the western kings. Soon they will learn the secret of the star metal; then nothing will stop them. Within a generation they will tear down the stone palaces of the mighty. In the Lion’s Hall where the heroes walked there will be only rats and beetles feeding; then green grass will cover the ruins, and sheep will graze there.”
“But what of Troy, Sister?”
“Troy will be a place of legend. Only the names of its heroes will live on.”
“Did they all die?”
But Kassandra had paused, listening to her voices. “Astyanax and Dex,” she asked suddenly. “Are they safe?”
“Yes, they are safe. Was Melite’s prophecy true, Sister? Is Astyanax the Eagle Child?”
Kassandra smiled then. Her manner became less anxious, and her voice was that of a normal young woman, the passion and urgency gone. “Prophecies are slippery things,” she told Andromache, patting her hand. “Like oiled snakes. Priam and Hekabe searched for many years for the meaning of Melite’s words. Finally they found a soothsayer who interpreted them to their liking. He told them the prophecy meant that a king’s son born to the Shield of Thunder—you—would never be defeated in battle and that his city would be eternal.”
“But you do not believe that?” Andromache asked. “Is Astyanax not the Eagle Child? Priam believed he would found a dynasty.”
Kassandra laughed, and the sound was bright and merry and echoed off the roof and walls of the temple. For a moment the dust motes seemed to dance in the shafts of light.
“Like his father Hektor, Astyanax will have no sons,” she said, smiling at the paradox. “But because of him a dynasty will be founded, and it will last a thousand years. It is true, Andromache. I have seen it set in the stones of the future.”
“But that is not the prophecy of Melite.”
“No, it is the prophecy of Kassandra.”
A shudder ran through the temple as another small earthquake hit, and a corner of the temple roof gave way, collapsing to the floor, sending a new cloud of dust boiling around the chamber.
“You must go now,” Kassandra told her. They looked at each other calmly. Andromache felt the turmoil in her heart cease, and acceptance took its place. She nodded, then embraced her sister for the last time. But Kassandra suddenly pulled away from her, her eyes wild again.
“Go now!” she shouted, flailing her arms. “Agamemnon is coming! You must go now!” She pushed urgently at Andromache until her sister stood up.
“Agamemnon?”
“He is coming to rescue me,” Iphigenia explained. “Kassandra tells me he will be here before noon, with a fleet. I will return with him to Mykene.”
Andromache hesitated no more but ran to the door, pausing for a last wave to Kassandra. But the girl had turned away and was speaking to her unseen friends again. Andromache picked up her skirts and raced from the temple toward the cliff path.
On the beach Helikaon watched as Andromache strode away up the path toward the temple. Her back was straight, and her hips swayed delightfully under the flame-colored dress.
Odysseus observed him, grinning. “You are a fortunate man, Helikaon.”
“I have always been fortunate in my friends, Odysseus. You taught me to face my fears and conquer them. Andromache taught me that life can be savored only if you look to the future and leave vengeance to the gods.”
“A good woman and a fine philosophy,” Odysseus agreed. “And if Agamemnon were to walk up this beach now?”
“I would kill him in a heartbeat,” Helikaon admitted with a grin. “But I will no longer seek out revenge and let it rule my life.”
“You are sailing to the Seven Hills for the winter?”
Helikaon nodded. “The Trojan fleet has gone ahead of us. With all the extra men in the settlement, there will be a great deal to do.”
“Many men and not enough women,” Odysseus observed. “There will certainly be work for you to do, arbitrating disputes and settling grievances. Try to do it without severing their heads from their bodies.”
Helikaon laughed, and the feeling of urgency in his chest eased.
Then he saw Kalliades and Skorpios walking toward them, and his heart sank. He had tried to persuade the two warriors to stay on the ship to the Seven Hills, but he could guess what they had come to ask.
“Kalliades!” Odysseus cried. “It is good to see you! Where is our friend Banokles?”
“He fell at Troy,” Kalliades told him.
“Then I wager he took a good few of the enemy with him.”
“Banokles never did things by halves. He was a brave man and a fine comrade. He often spoke of the Hall of Heroes. I’m sure he is supping there now with Hektor and Achilles and telling them what a fine warrior he is.”
The other men smiled. Then Kalliades told Odysseus, “This is Skorpios of the Trojan Horse. We both wish to go to Ithaka. Will you grant me passage one last time, Odysseus?”
“Aye, lad, with pleasure. And you can tell me tales of the fall of Troy to pay your way.”
The tall warrior unstrapped his sword belt and held it out to Helikaon.
“I owe you my life, lord, and I owe it to Argurios, too. Take the sword of Argurios with you. It belongs to the people of Troy, not one wandering Mykene.”
Helikaon received it silently. He slid the sword out of the scabbard and gazed at it with awe. “It is a wondrous gift. But will you not need it, my friend?”
“I do not yet know the shape of my future, Golden One, but I know I will not be carving it out with a sword.”
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They sat on the black sand then. Kalliades spoke of the last days of Troy, and Helikaon told Odysseus of the escape from the city. The sun was rising fast toward noon when Helikaon spotted the flame of Andromache’s dress on the cliff path. She appeared to be hurrying, though she was treading with care on the treacherous slope. There was no sign of Kassandra.
He stood and strode over to meet her. As he did so, he saw dozens of rats running from their holes in the base of the cliff and scurrying toward the sea.
“Where is Kassandra?” he asked, taking Andromache’s hand.
“She will not come. She is dying.”
As Helikaon frowned and moved toward the path, Andromache stopped him. “She wants to die here. She says it is her fate. She will not come, and it would not be right to make her.”
“Then I will go and say goodbye to her.”
She grabbed his arm. “She says Agamemnon is coming with a fleet. He will be here by noon. I know you do not believe her predictions. It is her destiny never to be believed. But the First Priestess confirms her brother is coming for her. We must leave, my love, as fast as we can.” There was an edge of panic in her voice.
He looked up the cliff path but turned back to her, the woman he loved above all others. “As always, I will take your advice. Come.”
As they walked back to the ship, Helikaon shouted to his crew to get ready. He quickly told Odysseus the news, and without a parting word the Ithakan king hurried to the Bloodhawk. Helikaon felt something brush against his foot and looked down. There were more rats heading for the ships, dozens of them, running over his feet and climbing the ship’s trailing ropes.
He heard cries as the crew spotted them, and he looked back up the beach. The black sand now was swarming with thousands of the creatures. And they all were heading for the two ships.
There were shouts and curses from the crew of the Xanthos as the rodents started scrambling on board. Men were leaping about, skewering rats on their swords, but more and more were climbing onto the ship all the time.
“Don’t try to kill them all!” Helikaon bellowed. “Get the ship off the beach!”
He handed Andromache quickly up the ladder. He saw that her face was pale with anxiety for her boys as she stepped onto the rat-infested ship. Then, trying to ignore the creatures running over his feet and biting his legs, Helikaon put his shoulder to the hull with others from his crew. He saw crewmen running from the Bloodhawk to help move the Xanthos. Slowly the great bireme began to shift. Then, with a rasp of wood on sand, she moved into the sea and floated free, surrounded by swimming rats.
The Bloodhawk crewmen ran back to their ship, and Helikaon went with them. It was impossible to run through the carpet of rats without treading on them, and the men slipped and slid on squashed bodies and rodent blood. They leaned into its planks and within heartbeats pushed the smaller ship into the water. Helikaon climbed on board. Men were killing the rats frantically, stabbing them with swords and daggers and throwing them overboard. Fewer were getting onto the ship as she drifted out into clear water. Helikaon glanced at the Xanthos. She also was floating clear, and the oars were being run out.
He skewered a dozen more rodents and threw their carcasses in the water. Then he walked over to Odysseus, who still was energetically stabbing any rat he could see.
“This will make a fine tale for you, my friend,” Helikaon told him, laughter bubbling up as he watched the fat king dancing about, impaling rats on his sword.
Odysseus stopped, panting, and grinned. “I need no more tales, even rats’ tales,” he countered. “Stories are always buzzing in my head like a hive full of bees!”
Then his expression sobered. “Get back to your ship, Helikaon. We must both make haste. We cannot take on an entire Mykene fleet.”
Helikaon stepped forward and embraced his old mentor for the last time. “Good sailing, my friend.”
Odysseus nodded. “Look for me in the spring,” he promised.
With a parting salute to Kalliades and Skorpios, Helikaon ran to the foredeck and dived into the sea. As he swam toward the Xanthos, he tried to ignore the floating carpet of dead and dying rats and the scratching of claws as drowning animals tried to scramble onto his back. He grabbed the rope his crew had lowered for him and climbed onto the deck. Only then did he allow himself to shudder and brush phantom rats from his shoulders.
He looked around. Andromache stood at the mast, gazing up at the Great Horse. Oniacus was ready at the steering oar. The oar smen watched Helikaon, waiting for his words.
“By the mark of one!” he shouted, and the oar blades sliced into the water. Following the Bloodhawk, the Xanthos left the island as the sun rose toward noon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
FIRE IN THE SKY
Agamemnon liked to think of himself as a pragmatist. Standing on the deck of his flagship as it raced toward Thera, he was still angry, but looking back on the last day in Troy, he knew he would have made his vital decisions no differently.
That blowhard Idomeneos had berated him for opening the Scaean Gate to the Hittite horde, but had he had any choice? If they had barred the gates to keep the Hittites out, Agamemnon’s troops would have been trapped in the city as surely as the Trojans had been before them, with little water or food. They would have starved within days, then been forced to sally out weakened and vulnerable to face superior Hittite numbers.
And although it had been humiliating to be ordered from Troy by the upstart emperor, it actually had worked in his favor. Agamemnon had no intention of rebuilding the ruined city. His aim had been accomplished. Everyone throughout the Great Green knew he had destroyed Troy, defeated Priam, and killed all his sons. He was Agamemnon the Conqueror, and all men quailed before him. His name would echo forever in hearts and minds, as the priest in the Cave of Wings had predicted.
He smiled to himself. Once he had found Priam’s stolen treasure, he would return to the Lion’s Hall in triumph. The boy-king Astyanax need not concern him. Mykene soldiers, spies, and agents would hunt him down relentlessly, and Helikaon the Burner, too, and the bitch Andromache. He still held hopes of finding them on Thera. He would take great pleasure in their deaths, which would be lingering and agonizing.
As the fleet approached its harbor, the Mykene king could see a heavy gray pall lying over Thera. The black isle at its center was much bigger than he remembered, and a column of smoke was rising from the top. He heard the rumble of a small earthquake like a portent of doom. He shivered.
“My king,” said his aide Kleitos, “the beach is empty. The Xanthos is not here.”
“Then the vile Helikaon must have been to the island already and left. He can be no more than half a day ahead. He will not expect to be followed, so he will be taking his time.”
“What do we do, my king?”
Agamemnon thought swiftly. “Send six of our ships around the black isle to ensure that the Xanthos is not hiding on the other side. We will go ashore and find Priam’s insane daughter. I will make her tell us where Helikaon is. She claims to be prescient, and now she can prove that claim. If she is no longer here and we find no treasure, we sail on to Ithaka.”
My visit to Ithaka is long overdue, he thought. I will revel in the deaths of the fat fool Odysseus and his family.
Agamemnon’s flagship and the Kretan war galley beached on the black sand, and the three kings stepped ashore with their bodyguards. There were hundreds of dead rats on the strand, and it was difficult to cross the beach without treading on their carcasses. A pungent smell of blood and burning lay over the island.
“Why are all these rats here?” Menelaus questioned nervously. “And that black isle is growing. There is the stench of witchcraft here. I do not like this place.”
Idomeneos, who as usual was garbed in full armor, growled, “An island of women is an abomination. We have all heard tales of the unnatural practices they revel in. It will be pleasant to see the witches sold into slavery.”
Menelaus was astonished
. “But they are all princesses, some of them daughters of our allies!”
Idomeneos turned on him. “And will you go running to tell them, you fat lapdog?” he spit.
Irritably, Agamemnon told them, “We are near the end of our journey. We will not have to suffer each other’s company much longer. Now, follow me!”
He set a fast pace up the cliff path, with bodyguards in front and behind. They were near the top when there was the low grumble of another quake. They all froze for a heartbeat, then threw themselves to the ground as the earth shook under them. Two guards ahead of them were dislodged from the path and fell, plummeting to the rocky shore below. Agamemnon closed his eyes and waited grimly for the ground to stop moving. Something deep inside screamed at him to run to his ship and race away from this witches’ isle. He ruthlessly suppressed it.
It was a while before the kings cautiously picked themselves up. A thick layer of gray ash lay over them, and they brushed it off their clothes. Agamemnon stalked off angrily. “This island is cursed,” he agreed with his brother. “We will take what we need and leave quickly!”
Menelaus looked around. “It is very quiet,” he muttered.
As Agamemnon breasted the top of the cliff, he saw the Great Horse temple looming above him. A faint, elusive memory touched the edge of his mind, but he forgot it as he saw one of the priestesses stumbling toward him. She was an old crone and had difficulty walking, but she struggled forward, holding her arms out in front of her as if to touch him. Agamemnon drew his sword. He lanced it into the old woman’s skinny breast and walked on, leaving her in a pool of blood.
Agamemnon handed the etched and decorated sword to a soldier to clean, then returned it to its scabbard, feeling more elated than he had for days. He strode between the horse’s front hooves and into the temple.
It was cold and very dark in there. All he could see at first were bright shafts of daylight streaming vertically from the roof. He paused to give his bodyguards time to fan out in front of him. There were only women there, but he felt unnerved by the strangeness of the isle.