She came alongside Argurios. “Lie back in the water,” she said, “and I will support you.” He obeyed her instantly. “And now I want you to close your eyes and relax your body. Then I want you to breathe very slowly. I want you to breathe in for the count of four and hold the breath for the count of six. Then let it out very slowly for the count of ten. Four, six, and ten.”
Xander watched for a while and then, growing hungry, swam back to the beach, waded ashore, and clothed himself. Then he walked to the food tables. There were dishes of figs, barley bread, and salted octopus and cuts of meats, cheeses, and various breads. There were jugs full of water and others filled with wine. A tall stoop-shouldered servant stood staring at him. “Are we allowed to eat?” he asked the man.
“What would you like, little fellow?”
Xander pointed to the bread and asked for some cheese and figs. The man tore off a hunk of dark bread and then cut a section of cheese and placed it on a wooden platter with a handful of figs.
“You might need something to wash that down,” the servant said with a smile. Lifting a jug, he filled a clay cup with a golden liquid. “Try it,” he said.
Xander sipped the drink. It was thick and deliciously sweet. He thanked the man and wandered back to the canopy to sit and eat. Andromache was still in the water with Argurios. Other people were moving on the beach now. A dark-haired man emerged from the water. For a moment Xander thought it was Helikaon, but it was not. Then a fair-haired young woman in a red gown came and sat beside him.
“You must be Xander,” she said. “Andromache told me of you.”
“Yes, I am. Who are you?”
“I am Laodike. Are you a friend of the Mykene?”
“I don’t think he has any friends.”
“But you like him.”
“Yes. He saved my life.”
“I would like to hear about that,” she said.
Xander told her the story of the storm. She listened intently and then glanced at the water, watching Andromache and the warrior.
“Why do you think he risked himself to save you?” she asked at last.
“I don’t know. Odysseus says that is what heroes do. And Argurios is a hero. Everyone knows that.”
“I did not know it,” she admitted. “But then, Troy is full of heroes. No one can be expected to know all their names.”
Andromache and Argurios emerged from the water. Rising, Xander gathered up Argurios’ tunic and ran down to the shoreline. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Tired,” the warrior answered, taking the tunic and slipping it over his head. He turned toward Andromache. “I am grateful to you,” he told her.
“It sounds as if you are already breathing a little more easily,” she observed.
“I think I am.”
Several men approached them. Xander saw the man who looked like Helikaon. He seemed angry.
He halted before Andromache. “How dare you dishonor the house of Priam?” he said.
III
For Xander the moment was shocking and frightening. He looked around and saw the anger on the faces of the men. Andromache also looked startled, even uncertain. Then her expression hardened.
“I do not understand you, Dios,” she said.
“I am Prince Deiphobos. Only those of equal rank or those I count my friends can call me Dios. You are neither. And this beach is reserved for the use of the royal family. You are here as a guest and had no right to bring a stranger to it. But that discourtesy pales beside the whorish display we have been forced to observe. We all know what disgusting excesses are practiced by the priestesses of Thera. To bring them here is an affront that will not be tolerated.”
“I invited Argurios,” said Laodike, easing her way through the gathering crowd. Xander heard the nervousness in her voice, and her eyes were downcast.
“No more than one would expect, Sister. You never were the sharpest arrow in the quiver.”
Laodike seemed to shrink beneath his contempt. Then Argurios stepped forward, and when he spoke, Xander saw the shock register on the faces of everyone close by.
“Have you finished, puppy dog?” said Argurios. His tone was harsh and cold, and Dios took a sudden backward step. His face reddened. Argurios moved forward. “Prince, is it? It seems . . . to me . . . that Troy is thick with princes. You must be . . . the runt of the litter.”
Xander gasped. Young as he was, he knew that the situation suddenly had become far worse. Dios stood for a moment, too shocked to speak. Then his eyes narrowed.
“Have I offended you, puppy dog?” snarled Argurios. “Then fetch swords and I’ll cut your . . . damned Trojan heart out!”
“This has gone far enough,” came a voice from the back of the crowd. A tall, broad-shouldered young man with golden hair pushed his way through. “There will be no swords called for.” He stared hard at Argurios. “I know of you, Mykene. You are a fighting man, but your heart demands what your strength cannot supply.” He turned to Andromache. “I do not know the ways of your land, sister to be. Here in Troy noble women do not swim alongside men. It is considered . . . immoral. However, if no one explained this to you, then you cannot be held at fault.” Then he swung back to the angry Dios. “My brother, I don’t doubt that our father will hear of this and make his own judgment. For now, however, let us put aside thoughts of combat.”
“This wretch insulted me!” stormed Dios.
“Yes, he did,” the golden-haired man agreed amiably. “As you can see, though, he is recovering from severe wounds and is in no condition to fight. So store your grievance for now. If you still feel the need to avenge the affront when Argurios is strong again, then so be it.”
“And I will!” insisted Dios. He glared at Argurios. “We will meet again.”
The Mykene merely nodded. Dios stalked away, followed by a group of young men. The crowd thinned.
“What is . . . your name?” Argurios asked the golden-haired newcomer.
“I am Agathon. Now let us sit in the shade and talk of less violent matters. Dios is a hot-head, but he is not malicious. I would not wish to see him killed—even by a great hero.”
It seemed to Xander that Agathon was the most noble man he had ever seen. He looked like a god. His eyes were the deepest blue, and he seemed to dwarf Argurios.
Andromache laid her hand on the prince’s arm. “That was well done, Agathon,” she said.
They walked back to the canopy, Xander following unnoticed.
Laodike moved forward to kiss Agathon on both cheeks. “You are so like Hektor,” she said.
“We are not so alike, Sister. Believe me.”
Argurios stretched himself out on a rug placed on the sand and seemed to fall asleep. Laodike sat alongside Agathon, and Xander moved to sit beside Andromache. Still no one spoke to him.
“News of Hektor came in this morning,” said Agathon. “There was a great battle at a place called Kadesh. The reports are sketchy, but it seems the Egypteians almost won the day. Only a charge from the Trojan Horse held them back.”
“See! I told you,” Laodike said to Andromache. “Hektor always wins.”
“Is the fighting over?” asked Andromache.
“No. The battle was undecided. There were great losses, however, on both sides. We have no details yet.”
“A pox on the details,” muttered Laodike. “Hektor will have the victory, and he will come home to a great parade.”
“I hope that you are right, Sister. However, according to one report, the men of the Trojan Horse were cut off and had not rejoined the main Hittite army by dark. We must pray to the gods of war that Hektor is not among the fallen.”
“Do not say things like that!” Laodike admonished him. “I don’t want to hear such talk.”
Xander saw the prince glance at Andromache. “Will you walk with me on the sand? There are some matters I would dearly like to discuss with you.”
“As long as it is not considered immoral,” said Andromache, rising smoothly to her
feet.
Xander watched them walk away. Laodike seemed downcast. “Shall I fetch you something to drink?” Xander asked her.
“No. I am not thirsty.” She glanced down at Argurios. “He is very thin, and his color is not good. Perhaps you should fetch him some fruit nectar. Mother says it is good for the blood. He is a very rash man, isn’t he?” she added. “He took a dreadful risk by angering Dios. Dios is a good swordsman, you know, and very quick.”
“He is . . . a puppy,” said Argurios, heaving himself to a sitting position. “And you are correct. I am too thin.”
“I did not mean to offend you, sir,” said Laodike, embarrassed. “I thought you were asleep.”
“You did not offend me. And these . . . days . . . I cannot sleep lying . . . down. It seems easier to breathe while upright.” Argurios looked at Xander. “That nectar sounds good,” he said.
Xander ran to the food tables and brought back a goblet of thick golden juices and handed it to the warrior, who drank deeply.
“You are a good lad,” he said as he laid the empty goblet on the sand. “Makes me . . . wonder . . . why I never had personal . . . slaves . . . before.”
“I am not your slave,” said Xander.
Argurios thought for a moment. “That was ill spoken . . . by me, lad. Of course you are . . . not. You are a friend. That means . . . much to me.”
“Why have you never had a personal servant?” asked Laodike. “Are you not a famous hero in your own land?”
“Never . . . desired them. I have always . . . been . . . a soldier. I had a shield carrier once. Fine young man. Died in Thessaly.”
“What about your home?”
He shook his head. “My father had no wealth. I have . . . in my life . . . acquired farmlands, and there are . . . slaves who . . . toil upon them. I leave them to themselves mostly.” His expression darkened. “But they are my lands no longer. I am a banished man. Outside the law.” He glanced out at the sea. “I think I will . . . swim again.” Struggling to his feet, he walked down to the shoreline and removed his faded tunic.
“A strange man,” Laodike observed.
“He called me his friend,” Xander said happily.
“And you should be honored. Such a man does not give his friendship lightly.”
XXIV
WARNINGS OF WAR
I
Andromache was enjoying the walk with Agathon. In some ways he reminded her of Odysseus. She smiled at the thought. Odysseus was an ugly old charmer and would have been delighted to be compared to the Trojan prince. It was not the good looks, however, but more the easy manner that encouraged familiarity. She listened as he spoke of his love for the city and sensed a genuine warmth in him. They paused by a rocky outcrop. The clouds above were thickening, and the sky was growing gloomy. At last he fell silent and stared out to sea.
“Are we now going to speak of the matter that is closest to your heart?” she asked him.
He gave a wry grin. “Yes. You are sharp as a sword.”
“I am intelligent. Why do so many people find that intimidating?”
“I cannot answer that, though I know it to be true.” He paused and then met her gaze. “I wanted to talk about Hektor. The news is less good than I implied to Laodike. She is a sweet girl, but she adores our brother, and I did not want to alarm her. According to our reports, Hektor led a reckless charge to turn the Egypteian flank. He succeeded, but the last anyone saw of him, he was forcing his way into the center of the enemy ranks. The Hittites were forced to withdraw. Hektor did not return to their camp, though some riders did. They said Hektor and around fifty men were cut off in a blind ravine, with thousands of soldiers bearing down upon them.”
“You think he is dead?”
“I hope not. I pray not! Hektor is my greatest friend, as well as my half brother. But it is more than that. Hektor is the heart of Troy. If he falls, there will be chaos. Can you imagine it? Brother princes vying for supremacy. We would be racked by civil war.”
“I do not see why,” said Andromache. “Priam is a strong king.”
“Oh, he is strong,” Agathon agreed, “but he is hated. There are few of his sons he has not slighted or publicly shamed. However, there is also discord among the brothers, deep divisions and even hatred. Hektor alone holds us all together. First, because we all love him.” Agathon gave a wide smile. “Second, he would kill anyone who went against Father.”
“This is all fascinating to a foreigner,” said Andromache, “but how does it concern Hektor’s bride to be? If he is dead, I will return to Thera and be with my friends.”
“I hope you might consider a different path,” he said.
“Why would I?”
“I am also unwed, Andromache, and in all my twenty-eight summers I have never seen a woman who fires me as you do. Therefore, unless there is another who holds a place in your heart, I would ask that you consider me as a suitor.”
Andromache smiled. “What a strange city this is, Agathon. It is immoral for a woman to swim with a man but acceptable for a man to woo his brother’s bride. In truth it will take me a while to master the rules here.”
He sighed. “That was neatly parried, Andromache. But think on what I have said. If news reaches us that Hektor is gone, I will petition my father for your hand.”
Before she could answer him a young soldier came running across the beach. “The king calls for you, lord,” he told Agathon.
“I must go. Think on what I have said.”
“Oh, I shall think on it,” she assured him, and watched as he walked away. He carried himself well, but as she looked at him, her mind pictured another young prince, his hair dark, his eyes gleaming with suppressed passion.
. . . unless there is another who holds a place in your heart . . .
She thought again of the night at the Bay of Blue Owls and of the young man from the golden ship who had stepped away from the crowd. And then again, the following morning, when he had stood, heartbroken, holding the severed head of his friend in his hands. More than this, though, she remembered his arms enfolding her at the palace of Hekabe.
“Oh,” she whispered, gazing out over the wide blue bay, “if Hektor is dead, let the golden ship come for me.”
II
For Helikaon the first few weeks after the raid on Pithros had been arduous and draining. The camaraderie he had enjoyed among the soldiers and officials of Dardania had been replaced by a cautious coolness that reeked of fear.
He was no longer the prince of the sea, a merchant and a man of the people. He was Helikaon the burner, the avenger, the ruthless killer. Servants averted their eyes when he passed. Even men he had known for years—such as Oniacus and the old general Pausanius—measured their words, anxious to avoid causing offense. The atmosphere in the citadel was fraught and tense. Outside the fortress the storms of winter raged, lightning forking the sky and thunder rolling across the land.
Everywhere there was disorder. The murder of the young king had created a feeling of unease and fear among the general populace in the countryside.
The people of Dardania were from many diverse cultures: Migrants from Thraki had settled the northern coasts; Phrygians, Mysians, and Lydians had formed scores of small farming communities in the once-empty heartland east of the capital. Merchants—Egypteians, Amorites, and Assyrians—had built trading centers to the south, linking with Troy. Even at the best of times, when harvests were good and trade thriving, tempers flared and violent incidents erupted between the various ethnic groups.
Since the death of Diomedes tensions had been running high. A small settlement of Mykene exiles had been attacked, with five men hacked to death by an angry mob. A riot had developed in a Phrygian community after the theft of a sheep. Two women from a Mysian settlement had claimed to have been raped by traveling Hittite traders. A revenge party had set out, and seven men had been killed in the skirmish.
Dardanian troops were spread thin across the hills and valleys and along the bleak coastline
s, seeking to restore order. Into the chaos had come outlaw bands and roving groups of unemployed mercenaries, attacking isolated villages and raiding merchant caravans.
The problem was compounded by the laws imposed by Helikaon’s father, Anchises. All Dardanian land belonged to the king, and those who built houses, farms, or trading posts there were merely tenants. The rents were exorbitant: half of all crops, produce, or trading profit. For this relationship to work, Helikaon knew, the people needed to hold to two truths: first, that the king and his soldiers would protect them from bandits and raiders, and second, that failure to obey the king’s laws would result in swift and terrible punishment.
The people’s trust had been tarnished by the assault on the fortress. If the soldiers could not protect Diomedes and Queen Halysia, how could they ensure the safety of the populace? And the fear instilled in the people by Anchises had been eroded by the more conciliatory government of Queen Halysia and General Pausanius.
Helikaon called a meeting of settlement leaders, inviting them to the fortress. They were worried and uneasy as they gathered in the great columned throne room, surrounded by cold statues of the warrior kings of Dardania.
Before the meeting Pausanius had urged conciliation. “They are good people, my king,” he told Helikaon. “They are frightened, that is all.” Helikaon liked the aging general. The man was fearless in battle and had served Queen Halysia loyally.
“What you say is true, Pausanius,” he said as they stood on the broad balcony of the royal apartments, looking out over the sea. “Answer me this, though. When you are about to go into battle, do you pause and consider your enemy, whether his soldiers have children at home? Whether they are good men? Whether their cause is as just as yours?”
“No, of course not. But these people are not our enemy.”
“And what is?”
The general looked confused. He scratched at his red beard. “I . . . don’t know what you mean, my king.”
“We are close to anarchy, and what happens here today will either begin the process of unifying the people or see the realm splintered by scores of small uprisings and then a rebellion. Understand this, Pausanius: All kingdoms survive on the shield and the sword. The people need to believe the king’s shield will protect them. They also need to be certain that if they disobey, the king’s sword will cut them down. Belief in the shield was fractured by the assault on the fortress. Fear of the sword has also been lost. What is the enemy? We have an army of fifteen hundred men. If the multitude no longer trusts and fears us, then we will be overthrown. Some bandit chief will raise an army. Some foreign power will sail ships into our bays. The enemy, Pausanius, is gathering in the throne room.”