“Of course. In your own mind are you not always right?”
Priam’s laughter boomed out. “You know why you don’t like me, boy? I am all you do not have the nerve to be. I became a king. You backed away from it and allowed little Diomedes to bear the burden.”
“Moments like this remind me why I spend so little time in Troy,” said Helikaon, pushing himself to his feet.
“Oh, sit down!” said Priam. “We need to talk, so we’ll stop baiting each other for a little while. You want wine?”
“No.”
“Let us return to Agamemnon,” Priam continued as Helikaon resumed his seat. “Have you met him?”
“No.”
“Nor I, though I knew his father, Atreus. He was a fighting man, but then, he had to be. The western peoples were constantly warring with one another in those days. But Agamemnon? He is a mystery. Most of his father’s loyal men have been either replaced or killed. Those around him now are savages—like Kolanos. Did you know Agamemnon has reintroduced human sacrifice before battles?”
“No, I had not heard that. It is hardly surprising. The Mykene are a blood-hungry race.”
“Indeed so, Aeneas. Yet they have, since the time of Atreus and his father, maintained the heroic code laid down by Herakles. Glory and service to the gods. Courage and love of homeland. Strength without cruelty. All that is changing under Agamemnon. His generals are now brutal men who encourage excesses among their soldiers. My spies tell me stories of horror from the lands they have plundered. Women and babes butchered, men tortured and maimed.”
“So why is Agamemnon mysterious?” asked Helikaon. “Surely he is just another savage from a race of savages.”
“He is not so easy to analyze, Aeneas. His generals are bloodthirsty, yet he takes no part in their excesses. At feasts he does not down wine and laugh and sing. He sits quietly, watching others do those things. My ambassadors tell me he has a sharp mind, and he talks well about alliances with Troy and the need for peaceful trade. Yet he also equips the pirate fleets that raid our coastlines. Now he seeks alliances with the kings of the east. His ambassadors have been offering gifts of gold in Maeonia, Karia, Lykia—even up as far as Phrygia. Kings require alliances with neighbors to prevent unnecessary warfare. An alliance with Troy is understandable. We are the greatest trading city on the Great Green. But Lykia and Phrygia? What point is there in such gift giving? What does he hope to gain?”
Helikaon shrugged. “With the Mykene it is always war or plunder.”
“That is in my mind also,” said Priam. “And there is the mystery. My spies tell me Agamemnon has fierce intelligence, yet a war in the east would be foolhardy and doomed. The Hittites may not be the power they were, but their armies would dwarf those of the Mykene. The Gypptos, too, could be drawn in. Also, if Agamemnon attacked our allies, then the Trojan Horse would be dispatched—and there is not a force alive to match my Hektor.”
“All this is true, and still you are worried,” Helikaon pointed out.
“ ‘The shepherd is always concerned when the wolves are out,’ ” quoted Priam. “However, there is the added concern that Agamemnon has ordered the building of great numbers of ships. The question is: How will he use them? And where will he take them?” Priam rose from his seat and walked into the bedroom, returning with a length of cured hide on which was etched a map of the Great Green. He spread it on the table. “In my grandfather’s time the Mykene attacked Kypros, and there is still a large Mykene settlement on the island. If they invaded in force, they could seize the copper mines. But Kypros is allied with both Egypte and the Hittite empire, and both have armies ten times larger than that of Agamemnon. Fleets would blockade the island. Massive armies would land, and the Mykene would be defeated.” The king moved his finger to the coast of Lykia. “Let us suppose they invaded the Fat King’s realm. They already have colonies on Rhodos and Kos and in Miletos. They could be supplied from there. But Kygones is an old soldier and a good fighting man. More important, he is allied with me. I would send the Trojan Horse to his aid, and the Mykene would have no way to call for reinforcements. The same can be said of Miletos and Maeonia. Wherever one looks there is no hope of victory for Agamemnon. And you know what that means, Aeneas?”
“Either Agamemnon is not as intelligent as your ambassadors report or you are missing something.”
“Exactly! And I have no doubt as to his intelligence. In the spring will you ask your captains to gather information as they sail the west?”
“Of course.”
“Good. In the meantime my spies and ambassadors will continue to report. At some point Agamemnon’s plans will become clear. When are you heading for home?”
“In a day or two. After I have paid my respects to the queen.”
A look of pain crossed Priam’s features. “She is dying,” he said. He shivered. “Hard to believe. I thought she would outlive us all.”
“That saddens me,” said Helikaon. “I had heard she was ill. Can nothing be done?”
Priam shook his head. “She has opiates for the pain, but the priests tell me she will not survive the winter. You know she is not yet fifty? By the gods, she was once the most beautiful woman in all the world. She filled my soul with fire and made my days golden. I miss her, Aeneas. She was always my best counselor.”
“You speak as if she were dead already.”
“I have not seen her in weeks. Not since the priests told me. I cannot look at her. It is too painful. You will find her at the summer palace across the Scamander. She is there with Kassandra and young Paris.”
Helikaon rose. “You are looking weary. I shall leave you to rest.”
“Rest would be good,” Priam admitted. “I am not sleeping too well at the moment. However, there is something else you should be aware of. Agamemnon has hired Karpophorus to kill you.”
“I have heard the name.”
“Of course. We all have. What you may not have heard is that he is the man who murdered your father.”
It was as if the air had suddenly chilled. Helikaon stood very still and felt his heart thudding against his chest. “How do you know this?” he managed to say.
“Soldiers of mine captured a man yesterday. They took him away for questioning, and naturally he died. During the interrogation, however, a great deal was learned. The man we captured negotiates and arranges the missions undertaken by the assassin. One of my sons tried to hire Karpophorus to kill me. However, Karpophorus had already been hired by Agamemnon’s agents to kill you.”
“Which of your sons wanted you dead?”
“Probably all of them, truth be told. They are, with the exception of Hektor, a sorry crew. However, the agent died without naming the traitor. In truth I do not believe he knew which of the princes he had been summoned to meet. A messenger took gold to him in Miletos and invited him to Troy. He was to have been met and taken to the unknown prince. Unfortunately, we captured him too soon. However, we have the messenger, but he is proving to be a man of considerable courage. I am not at all sure we will break him.”
“Do we know what Karpophorus looks like?” asked Helikaon.
“About forty years of age, of average height and slim. Sometimes he is bearded, sometimes not. Hardly a help, is it?”
“No. Did you learn who hired him to kill my father?”
“No. Apparently it was not arranged through the intermediary. Someone went to Karpophorus directly. You need to be wary, Aeneas, and be careful whom you trust.”
“I have only loyal men around me.”
“Loyalty is a commodity.” Priam sneered. “And Agamemnon is not short of gold.”
Helikaon felt his anger rise. “Your curse is to believe that everything has a price,” he said.
Priam smiled. “And your weakness is to believe that it doesn’t.”
XIX
WINGS OVER OLYMPOS
I
The days were becoming increasingly strange for Hekabe the queen. The statues that lined the garden path often
smiled at her, and yesterday in the sky above she had seen the white winged horse Pegasus flying off to the west. It required an effort of will to rationalize those images. The opiates were strong, and the statues did not smile. Pegasus had taken a little more thought. In the end she decided it was probably no more than a flock of gulls. On the other hand, it was more pleasant to think that dying gave her greater sight, and maybe, after all, she had seen the white horse flying back to Olympos.
Her back was aching, but she did not have the energy to move the down-filled cushion to a more comfortable position. A cool breeze blew off the sea, and Hekabe sighed. She had always loved the sea, especially at the Bay of Herakles. From the high cliff-top garden she could look down on the Great Green and merely by turning her head to the right cast her gaze across the shining Scamander River to the high golden walls of Troy in the distance.
The summer palace of King’s Joy had always been her favorite place, and it seemed entirely right that she should die there. Priam had built it for her when they were both young, when life seemed everlasting and love eternal. Pain flared in her belly, but it was dull and thudding, not sharp and jagged as it had been only a few weeks before.
Some twenty paces ahead of her the young prince Paris was sitting in the shade, poring over Egypteian scrolls. Hekabe smiled as she watched him, his stern expression, his total concentration. Not yet twenty-five, he already was losing his hair, like his brother Polites. Slim and studious Paris had never been suited to the manly pursuits his father loved. He did not care for riding except to journey from one place to another. He had no skill with sword or bow. His enthusiasm was focused entirely on study. He loved to draw plants and flowers and as a youngster had spent many happy afternoons dissecting plant stems and examining leaves. Priam had soon tired of the boy. But then, Priam tired of everyone sooner or later, she thought.
Sadness touched her.
At that moment Paris looked up. Concern showed on his face, and he put aside the scroll and rose. “Let me move that pillow, Mother,” he said, helping her lean forward and then adjusting the cushion.
Hekabe sank back gratefully. “Thank you, my son.”
“I shall fetch you some water.”
She watched him walk away. His movements were not graceful like Hektor’s, and his shoulders were already rounded from too many hours spent sitting and reading. There was a time when she, too, had been disappointed by Paris, but now she was grateful for the kindness of his spirit and the compassion he showed her. “I raised good sons,” she told herself aloud. The pain began to worsen, and she took a phial from a pouch at her belt and broke the wax seal. Lifting it to her lips with a trembling hand, she drained the contents. The taste was bitter, but within moments the pain ebbed away and she began to doze.
She dreamed of little Kassandra, reliving the dread day when the three-year-old had been consumed by brain fire. The priests all said she would die, yet she did not. Most young children did not survive the illness, but Kassandra was strong and clung to life for ten days, the fever raging through her tiny body.
When the fever passed, Hekabe’s joy was short-lived. The happy, laughing girl Kassandra had been was replaced by a quiet, fey child who claimed to hear voices in her head and sometimes would speak in gibberish that none could understand. Now, at eleven years old, she was withdrawn and secretive, avoiding people and shying away from intimacy, even with her mother.
A hand gently pressed on her shoulder. Hekabe opened her eyes. The sun was so bright, the face above her appeared in silhouette. “Ah, Priam, you did come to see me,” she said, her spirits lifting. “I knew you would.”
“No, Mother. It is Paris. I have your water.”
“My water. Yes. Of course.” Hekabe sipped the liquid, then rested her head on the back of the wicker chair. “Where is your sister?”
“Swimming in the bay with the dolphins. She shouldn’t do that. They are large creatures and could hurt her.”
“The dolphins won’t harm her, Paris. And she loves to swim. I think her only happiness comes when she is in the water.”
Hekabe glanced back toward the Scamander River. A centaur was rising across the plain. The queen blinked and tried to focus. Centaurs were said to be lucky creatures. Half-man, half-horse, they always brought gifts. Perhaps he has come to cure me, she thought.
“Rider coming, Mother,” said Paris.
“Rider? Yes. Do you recognize him?”
“No. He has long dark hair. Could be Dios.”
She shook her head. “He is like his father and has no time for dying old women.” Hekabe shielded her eyes with her hand. “He rides well,” she said, still seeing the centaur.
As the horseman came closer, Paris said: “It is Aeneas, Mother. I did not know he was in Troy.”
“That is because you spend all your time with your scrolls and parchments. Go and greet him. And remember, he does not like the name Aeneas. He likes to be called Helikaon.”
“Yes, I will remember. And you should remember that you have other guests awaiting an audience. Laodike is here with Hektor’s bride to be. They have been waiting all morning.”
“I told you earlier that I am not in the mood to talk to young girls,” said the queen.
Paris laughed. “I think you will like Andromache, Mother. She is just the woman you would have chosen for Hektor.”
“How so?”
“No, no! You must see her yourself. And it would be most rude to receive Helikaon and ignore your own daughter and Hektor’s betrothed.”
“I am dying and do not concern myself with petty rules of behavior.”
His face fell, and she saw him struggling to hold back tears. “Oh, Paris,” she said, reaching up and stroking his cheek. “Do not be so soft.”
“I don’t like to think of you . . . you know . . . not being here with me.”
“You are a sweet boy. I will see my guests. Have servants fetch chairs for them and some refreshments.”
Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed the palm. “When you are tired,” he said, “and want them to go, just give me a sign. Say . . . ask for a honeyed fig, something like that.”
Hekabe chuckled. “I do not need to give signs, Paris. When I am tired, I shall tell them all to go. Now go and tell Kassandra to join us.”
“Oh, Mother, you know she does nothing I ask of her. She delights in refusing me everything. I think she hates me.”
“She can be wayward,” Hekabe agreed. “Very well. Ask Helikaon to go down to her. He has a way with her.”
II
The cliff path was treacherous and steep, the path scree-covered, shifting beneath his sandaled feet. Moving with care, Helikaon descended to the beach below and gazed out across the waves, seeing Kassandra’s dark head bobbing alongside the sleek gray forms of two dolphins. The sun was high and hot in a brilliant blue sky. The girl saw him and waved. Helikaon returned the wave and then walked to a shelf of rock and sat.
The meeting with Priam had unsettled him. The king was arrogant, and Helikaon had never liked him. Yet he was also canny. He believed the Mykene were preparing to raid the east in force somewhere, and his arguments were persuasive. A people who lived for war would always be seeking fresh areas of conquest and plunder, and the east was ripe for such a venture. The Hittites were engaged in several wars. Battles with the Ashurians, the Elamites, and the Kassites had sapped their strength, and now an Egypteian invasion into Phoenicia had stretched their waning resources further.
A fresh breeze blew off the sea, and Helikaon drew in a deep breath, tasting the salt in the air. Kassandra was still swimming, but he did not call out to her. In the happy days when he had lived with Hektor and Kassandra had come to stay with them, he had learned she was not a child who took well to commands.
He sat quietly in the sunshine and waited. After a little while he saw Kassandra swim smoothly back to the shore and wade from the water. Lifting a white knee-length tunic from the rock over which she had draped it, she clothed herself and ran over
the sand to where Helikaon waited. Slim and small, her face delicate and fine-boned, Kassandra one day would be a beautiful woman. Her long dark hair was thick and lustrous, her eyes a soft blend of gray and blue.
“The dolphins are worried,” she said. “The sea is changing.”
“Changing?”
“It is getting warmer. They don’t like it.”
He had almost forgotten how fey the child was and how she could not tell fantasy from reality. Sometimes at night she used to wander the gardens chatting as if to old friends even though there was no one with her.
“It is good to see you again, Kassandra,” he told her.
“Why?” Her eyes were wide, the question asked with great innocence.
“Because you are my friend, and it is always good to see friends.”
She sat down on the rock beside him, drawing up her knees and resting her arms on them, and stared out to sea. “The big one is Kavala,” she said, pointing to the dolphins. “That is his wife, Vora. They have been together for five migrations. I don’t know how long that is. Do you think it is a long time?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Your mother has guests. She was wondering if you would like to meet them.”
“I don’t like guests,” said the girl, shaking back her long black hair. Droplets of water sprayed out.
“I am a guest,” he pointed out.
She nodded, her expression, as always, serious. “Yes, I suppose you are. Then I am wrong, Helikaon, for I like you. Who are the others?”
“Laodike and Hektor’s betrothed, the lady Andromache.”
“She shoots a bow,” said Kassandra. “She is very skilled.”
“Andromache?”
“Yes.”
“I did not know that.”
“Mother will be dead soon.” The words were spoken without feeling, cold and detached.
He kept his voice calm. With anyone else he would have grown angry, but Kassandra could not be judged against normal standards of behavior. “Does it not make you sad?”
“Why would it make me sad?”