“Such a pity,” Andromache said drily. “There he is, the tempestuous love of my life, and we never met.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “Should I call out to him, do you think?” She swung toward Odysseus. “I thank you for your company, king of Ithaka. You are a fine friend on a starry night. But now I must return to the palace.”
“I would be happy to walk you there,” he said.
“No, you wouldn’t. Save the lies for an audience, Odysseus. Let us have a pact, you and I. The truth always.”
“That will be hard. The truth is often so boring.” He grinned and spread his hands. “But I cannot refuse a goddess, so I will agree.”
“You want to walk me back to the palace?”
“No, lass. I am dog-tired now and just want to wrap myself in a blanket by a fire.”
“That is better, and how it should be between friends. So good night to you, tale spinner.” With that she looked up at the distant fortress and, heavy of heart, set off for the cliff path.
X
THE FAT KING’S FEAST
I
As he walked slowly up the hill road toward the fortress town, Helikaon could not stop thinking about the tall woman he had seen while Odysseus performed: the way she stood, elegance and confidence sublimely in harmony; the way her eyes met his, defiant and challenging. Even her expression as she saw the man attack him had not shown fear. Her eyes had narrowed, her face becoming stern. Helikaon’s heart beat faster as he conjured her face in his mind. Beside him Zidantas trudged on in silence, his huge, nail-studded club resting on his shoulder. Argurios and Glaukos were a little way back.
The walk was perilous at night despite the many lamps that had been lit and left in crevices in the rock wall. The drop was sheer to the left, the path rocky and pitted. Helikaon gazed out over the bay below, his heart swelling as he looked down on the sleek lines of the Xanthos. From there he also could see the distant, now tiny form of Odysseus. His mentor had walked to the water’s edge and was digging away at the sand with his dagger. Helikaon knew what he was doing. He had seen it often during the two years he had spent on the Penelope. Odysseus was shaping the face of his wife in the sand.
Behind him Helikaon heard Glaukos mutter an oath as he tripped over a rock.
The Mykene warriors had seemed surprised when he had invited them to meet the king. The courtesy evidently had been unexpected, and Argurios had almost thanked him. Helikaon smiled as he recalled the moment. The Mykene’s tongue would have turned black, he thought, if forced to utter a pleasantry.
Argurios moved alongside him, moonlight gleaming on the elaborately embossed bronze disks of his cuirass. “This king is a friend of yours?” he asked.
“All reasonable men are my friends, Argurios.”
Argurios’ expression hardened. “Do not bait me. It would not be wise.”
“Why would I bait you?” Helikaon answered coldly. “All reasonable men are my friends, for I seek no enemies. I am a trader, not a plunderer.”
Argurios looked at him closely. “You are a man who has earned the hatred of all Mykene. You should understand there will be great joy when your death is announced.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Helikaon replied, pausing in his stride and turning toward the warrior. “There is great joy in Mykene when anyone suffers or is dispossessed. You are a people who thrive on murder and the sorrow of others.”
Argurios’ hand grasped the hilt of his sword. For a moment Helikaon believed he was about to challenge him. Then Argurios spoke, his voice shaking with suppressed anger. “The law of the road forbids me to rise to that insult. Repeat it on the beach and I will kill you.” With that he strode off, Glaukos running to catch up with him.
Zidantas moved alongside Helikaon and sighed. “What merry company you have chosen for us,” he said.
“I didn’t choose them, Ox. Odysseus suggested we bring them.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps because somewhere ahead on the road will be Mykene killers seeking my blood.”
“Oh, that makes wonderful sense,” Zidantas muttered. “We are facing murderers, so Odysseus gets us to bring them reinforcements. Let’s just go back to the beach. We can return with more men.”
“You know, Ox, in some ways you are just like the Mykene. You take no interest in other cultures. No, we are not going back to the beach. We will walk on and see what transpires.”
“This is not a good place for a fight,” Zidantas pointed out. “One wrong step and a man would be pitched over the side. It is a long way down.”
Helikaon did not answer. Increasing his pace, he kept close to the Mykene. Up ahead the path twisted to the left. Steps had been cut into the stone. At the top, Helikaon knew, the road widened. There were several caves there where armed men could hide.
“Soon?” Zidantas whispered.
“At the top of these steps, I would think. Do not attack them, Ox. Wait and see what happens first.”
Keeping close behind the two warriors, they climbed the steps. Up ahead Argurios reached the top and suddenly paused. Helikaon came alongside him. Standing before them were six warriors, all clad in leather breastplates and carrying short swords. They did not rush in and seemed confused and uncertain.
One of them looked at Argurios. “Step aside, brother, for our business is not with you.”
“I would do that gladly, idiot!” snapped Argurios. “But you know the law of the road. If a man walks in company with other travelers, then he is obliged to face dangers alongside them.”
“That is a Mykene law for Mykene travelers,” the man argued.
“I am in the company of Helikaon,” said Argurios. “Now, I loathe him as much as you do, but attack him and I will, by the law, be obliged to fight alongside him. You know me, and you know my skills. All of you will die.”
“We have no choice,” said the man. “It is a matter of honor.”
Argurios’ sword rasped from its scabbard. “Then die as a man of honor,” he said.
“Wait!” said Helikaon, stepping forward. “I wish for no blood to be shed here, but if a fight is necessary, then let us settle it with single combat.” He pointed at the warrior standing before Argurios. “You and I, Mykene. Or any of your comrades you care to choose.”
“I will fight you, vile one!” said the man.
Helikaon drew his sword.
Raising his blade, the warrior attacked. Helikaon stepped in, blocking a thrust, and hammered his shoulder into the warrior’s chest, hurling him back. The Mykene charged again, his sword hacking and slashing. Helikaon blocked and countered with ease. The man was not skilled with a blade and tried to compensate with sheer ferocity. Helikaon waited for the right moment, then blocked a wild cut and grabbed the man’s sword wrist. Curling his leg behind the knee of his opponent, he threw him from his feet. The man landed heavily on his back.
Helikaon’s sword touched the fallen man’s throat. “Is it over?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man answered, hatred in his eyes.
Helikaon stepped back and turned toward the others. “You heard him,” he said, sheathing his sword. “It is over.”
A movement from his left caused him to turn sharply. The man he had spared had risen silently to his feet and was rushing at him, sword raised. There was no time to draw his blade. Then Argurios leapt between them, his sword slashing through the attacker’s neck. The man fell back with a gargling cry, blood spraying from his open jugular. As the dying warrior’s body spasmed, Helikaon turned to the five remaining men. “Return to your ship,” he ordered them. “There is only death here for you, with no hope of victory.”
They stood very still, and Helikaon saw they were preparing themselves to attack.
Then Argurios spoke. “Sheathe your swords! It would weigh heavily on my heart if I were forced to kill another Mykene. And carry this treacherous creature with you,” he said, pointing to the corpse.
Helikaon saw the men relax. They scabbarded their blades and shuffled forward, lifted the d
ead man, and made their way back to the steps.
Argurios, coldly furious now, marched to confront Helikaon. “Did you know they would be here? Is that why you invited me, Trojan?”
“First, Argurios, I am a Dardanian. As an ambassador to this side of the Great Green it might be worthwhile for you to understand that not all who dwell in these lands are Trojans. There are Maeonians, Lykians, Karians, and Thrakians. And many more. Second, is it likely that I would have walked this path with two Mykene warriors had I known there were six more waiting to kill me?”
Argurios let out a long sigh. “No, you would not,” he admitted. He looked into Helikaon’s eyes. “You have been blessed with luck twice tonight. Such good fortune cannot last.”
II
The contradiction that was Kygones the Fat King sat on a high-backed chair, his skeletal frame clad in a simple, unadorned tunic. He was picking at his meal, his wary eyes scanning his guests. The two Gyppto ambassadors had hardly touched the food and were locked in conversation, their voices low. The merchant from Maeonia was eating enough for three, shoveling the food into his cavernous mouth as if he had not eaten for weeks, gravy from the meat staining his several chins. The Dardanian prince, Helikaon, was sitting silently beside the fork-bearded Zidantas, and the two Mykene warriors with them had helped themselves to cuts of beef, ignoring the finer delicacies on display: the honey-dipped sweetmeats, the peppered sheep’s eyes, the seared kidneys marinated in wine.
Helikaon also ate sparingly and seemed lost in thought.
The king cast his weary gaze over the other guests, most of them merchants from outlying lands, bringing gifts of ivory, or glass, or—more important—objects of gold and silver.
Kygones scratched at his pockmarked face and eased himself back against the chair, wishing the time would pass. A servant moved alongside him, filling his goblet with clear water. The king glanced at the man and nodded his thanks. There was a time when Kygones would have sold his soul for the chance to be a palace servant, to be sure of at least one meal a day and sleep under a roof, away from wind and rain.
The interminable banquet finally came to a close. Servants carried away the dishes and replenished the wine cups, and Kygones clapped his hands for the entertainment to begin. Female dancers from Kretos moved across the mosaic floor of the megaron, swaying rhythmically to the music from several lyres, their bodies slim and lithe, their naked breasts firm. Oil glistened on their skin. The dance grew wilder, the women twirling and leaping. The guests banged on the table in time to the music. Kygones closed his eyes, his mind drifting back through the years. His father had assured him that hard work and dedicated service would lead to happiness for any peasant. Like most youngsters he had believed his father and had toiled on the small farm from dawn to dusk every day. He had seen his mother age before his eyes, watched two brothers die, seen his three older sisters sold into servitude, and finally witnessed his father being murdered by Gypptos during the third invasion. That was when Kygones discovered the real secret of success.
It lay not in scratching at the land with sharpened sticks but in grasping a sword in a strong hand.
The music faded, the women moving gracefully away. Acrobats replaced them, and jugglers, and finally a bard from Ugarit, who told a tale of magical beasts and heroes. It was a dull tale, and Kygones found himself wishing he had invited Odysseus to the feast.
The two Gypptos rose as the bard was still speaking, bowed low to Kygones, and left the megaron. The bard’s voice faded away as the men walked past him, and Kygones saw that the display of bad manners had unnerved the man. Lifting his hand, he urged the storyteller to continue, his own thoughts straying to his departing guests.
The Gypptos were an odd pair. They had arrived with gifts: a gold-inlaid ivory wristband and a jewel-encrusted dagger. And though they spoke of trade and shipments of spices, they were not merchants. Kygones had waited to hear the real reason for their visit and had suppressed a smile when the older one finally said, “There is one small matter, King Kygones, that my master instructed me to make known to you.” He had spoken then of a criminal who had escaped justice in Egypte following the slaying of two royal guardsmen. There followed a description of the man—tall, wide-shouldered, dark-bearded. “He has no skills save that he is a fighting man, and so he may seek to join your army. My master, realizing that to apprehend him would put you at some inconvenience, has instructed me to say that there is a reward offered for his capture. Five gold ingots.”
“A big man, you say?”
“Indeed.”
“I shall instruct my captains to look out for him. He has a name?”
“He would not use it. We located a ship’s captain who sailed to Kypros with someone of his description. This man called himself Gershom.”
“Then perhaps you should be seeking him in Kypros.”
“Indeed we are, and in every other land.”
The bard concluded his tale, which was greeted by polite, if unenthusiastic, cheers. He bowed to the assembly and, red-faced, left the megaron.
Kygones rose from his chair, thanked his guests for honoring him with their company, signaled to Helikaon and the Mykene to follow him, and walked back through the palace to his private apartments. There he wandered onto a high balcony and stared out over the dark sea. The night breeze was cool and refreshing.
“You seem a little weary, my friend,” said Helikaon.
Kygones swung to greet him. “Battles are less tiring than feasts,” he said. He looked at the two Mykene behind the Golden One. The first was lean, fierce-eyed and battle-hardened. The second was younger, and there was weakness in his eyes. He listened as Helikaon introduced them, then bade them sit. The room was large, with several couches, and two open balconies allowed the night breeze to dissipate the fumes from the lamps on the walls. “I have heard of you, Argurios,” he said as his guests settled themselves. “You held a bridge during the war with the Myrmidons. Seventeen men you killed that day.” He noted with satisfaction the surprise on the man’s face.
“I had not thought the story would have traveled so far,” said Argurios. “And it was only nine. The others were merely wounded and removed from the fighting.”
“Tales of heroes are often exaggerrated,” said Kygones. “You are a close companion, I understand, of King Agamemnon.”
“I have the honor to be a Follower.”
“You are the second Follower to grace my beach. The lord Kolanos is here also. You are friends?”
“Most friendships are forged in battle. I have never fought alongside him,” replied Argurios.
“I am told he is now considered the first of Agamemnon’s Followers and that the king places great trust in him.”
“All the Followers are trusted,” said Argurios. “They gain their positions through their loyalty to the king and their services to the land.”
Kygones nodded. “I understand,” he said. You do not like him, warrior, he thought. Is it jealousy or something else? The king sat down on a couch, beckoning his guests to seat themselves. Argurios and Helikaon moved to couches set against the walls, while Glaukos sat with his back to the door.
“Two of Kolanos’ crew died tonight, one on the beach and one on the path to my palace,” said the king.
Argurios remained silent. Kygones turned his attention to Helikaon. “I have reprimanded the captain of the guard. He did not allocate enough men to patrol the beach. And now I have a small favor to ask of you, Helikaon, my friend. The intended bride of Hektor has been waiting here for almost ten days. I would dearly like to see her on a ship to Troy.”
Helikaon looked surprised. “I thought she was already there.”
“Well, she is here,” said Kygones, “and I pity Hektor. The time she has spent with me has felt like a season. By the gods, she has a tongue on her that could cut through stone. I am amazed that Priam should have sought such a harridan for his eldest son. You’d have to be drunk or drugged before you climbed aboard that mare. Can you take her
off my hands?”
“Of course, my friend. Though I had heard the girl was charming and shy.”
“Paleste might have been, but she died. Now Hektor has been offered the sister, Andromache. The words ‘charming’ and ‘shy’ do not apply.” Kygones chuckled. “She was a priestess on Thera. I have heard stories about those women. They are not lovers of men, that’s for sure.”
“We have all heard stories about those women,” said young Glaukos harshly. “If true, they should be sealed alive in weighted boxes and hurled into the sea.”
Kygones masked his surprise at the man’s vehemence. “An interesting thought,” he said after a while. “Tell me, should the same punishment be meted out to men who seek their pleasures among other men?”
“I was not talking about men,” said Glaukos. “It is a good woman’s duty to receive sexual pleasure from her husband and no other.”
Kygones shrugged and said nothing. The man was an idiot. He returned his attention to Helikaon. “That is a fine sword you are wearing.”
Helikaon drew the blade, reversed it, and offered it to Kygones. There were no embellishments on the reinforced hilt, but the blade was beautifully fashioned, the balance perfect. Hefting it, Kygones stepped back, then slashed it through the air twice.
“Magnificent. One of the best I have held,” he said. He tested the edge, then examined the bronze blade under the lamplight. His warrior’s eye noted the sheen. Bronze swords were notoriously treacherous. Too soft and they would bend out of shape in a fight. Too hard and they would shatter on impact. But this blade seemed different. “Crafted by a master,” he said. “I have never seen the like before.”
As Kygones had anticipated, Helikaon was too sharp not to know what was expected of him. “I am glad that you like it, my friend, for I brought it with me as a gift for you,” he said smoothly. Lifting the scabbard from the loop at his belt, he passed it to the king.
Kygones chuckled. “You know the way to an old soldier’s heart. Here!” he called to Argurios. “A warrior such as yourself will appreciate this weapon.” Flicking his wrist, he tossed the blade through the air. Argurios caught it expertly, and Kygones noted the gleam of pleasure in the man’s eyes as he felt the balance of the blade.