Lord of the Silver Bow

i

Helikaon’s grief did not lessen as they turned about and sailed north along the coast. Rather he could feel it swelling inside him, clawing at his heart. There were times when he felt he could not breathe for the weight of it. As the Xanthos clove through the waves alongside Blue Owl Bay once more the memories came back with increased sharpness and the loss of Zidantas threatened to overwhelm him.

The power of his grief was a shock to him. Zidantas had been a good friend and a loyal follower, but Helikaon had not realized how much he had come to rely on the man’s steadfastness and devotion. All his life Helikaon had been wary of intimacy, of allowing people close, of sharing inner thoughts and dreams and fears. Ox had never been intrusive, never pushed to know what he was feeling. Ox was safe.

Odysseus had once told him that a man could not hide from his fears, but had to ride out and face them. He could not be like a king trapped within his fortress.

Helikaon had understood. It had freed him to become the Golden One, the Prince of the Sea.

And yet, he knew, only a part of him had sallied out. The fortress was still there in his mind, and his soul remained within it.

What was it the old rower, Spyros, had said about children who suffer tragedy?

They get heart-scarred. Helikaon understood that too. When he was small his heart had been open. Then his mother, in a dress of gold and blue, a jewelled diadem upon her brow, had flung herself from the cliff top. The little boy had believed she was going to fly to Olympos, and had watched in silent horror as her body plummeted to the rocks below. Then his father had dragged him down to the beach to gaze upon her broken beauty, her face shattered, one eye hanging clear. His father’s words remained carved in fire on his heart. ‘There she lies, the stupid bitch. Not a goddess. Just a corpse for the gulls to pick at.’

For a little while the child’s wounded heart had remained open, as he sought to gain comfort from Anchises. But when he spoke of his feelings he was silenced, and shouted at for his weakness. He was at first derided and then ignored. Maids and servants who treated him with kindness or love were said to be feeding his weakness and replaced by cold, hard harridans who had no patience with a grieving child. Eventually he learned to keep his feelings to himself.

Years later, under the guidance of Odysseus, he had learned to be a man, to laugh and joke with the crew, to work among them and share their lives. But always as an outsider looking in. He would listen as men spoke with feeling of their loved ones, their dreams and their fears. In truth he admired men who could do this, but had never found a way to open the fortress gates and take part himself. After a while it did not seem to matter. He had mastered the art of listening and the skills of conversation.

Odysseus – like Zidantas – never pressed him to express his feelings. Phaedra had, and he had seen the hurt in her eyes when he evaded her questions, when he closed the gates upon her.

What he had not realized, until now, was that Ox had not been kept outside the fortress of his heart. Unnoticed, he had slipped inside, to the deepest chambers. His murder had sundered the walls, leaving Helikaon exposed just as he had been all those years ago when his mother, in drugged despair, had ended her life on that cliff.

Adding to the pain was the fact that his mind kept playing tricks on him, refusing to accept that Ox was dead. Every so often during the day he would look around, seeking him. At night he would dream of seeing him, and believe the dream was reality and reality the dream. Then he would awaken with a glad heart, only for the horror to wash over him like a black wave.

The sun was setting and they needed to find somewhere to beach the Xanthos.

Helikaon ordered the crew to keep rowing, seeking to put distance between himself and the awful memories of Blue Owl Bay.

The ship moved on, more slowly now, for there were hidden rocks, and Oniacus placed men at the prow with sounding poles calling out instructions to the rowers. Helikaon summoned a crewman to take the steering oar and walked to the port side, where he stood staring out over the darkening sea.

‘I will kill you, Kolanos,’ he whispered. The words did nothing to lift his spirits. He had butchered fifty Mykene sailors, and that act of revenge had offered no relief to his pain. Would the death of Kolanos balance the loss of Ox?

A thousand men like Kolanos, he knew, could not replace a single Zidantas. Even if he slaughtered the entire Mykene nation nothing would bring back his friend.

Once again the pressure grew in his chest, a physical pain beginning to swell in his stomach. He drew in slow, deep breaths, trying to push away the despair.

He thought of young Diomedes, and his mother, Halysia. For a moment sunshine touched his anguished soul. Yes, he thought, I will find peace in Dardania. I will teach Diomedes to ride the golden horses. Helikaon had acquired a stallion and six mares from Thessaly four years ago, and they were breeding well.

Strong-limbed and sleek, they were the most beautiful horses Helikaon had ever seen, their bodies pale gold, their manes and tails cloud white. Their temperaments also were sound: gentle and steady and unafraid. Yet when urged to the run they moved like the wind. Diomedes adored them, and had spent many happy days with the foals.

Helikaon smiled at one memory. In that first season, four years ago, eight-year-old Diomedes had been sitting on a paddock fence. One of the golden horses had approached him. Before anyone could stop him the boy had scrambled to the beast’s back. The mare, panicked, had started to run and buck. Diomedes had been thrown through the air. He might have been hurt had not Ox been close by.

The big man had rushed in and caught the boy. Both had tumbled to the ground laughing.

The smile faded and a stab of pain clove through Helikaon, so sharp that he groaned.

The crewman, Attalus, was close by. He glanced over, but said nothing.

Then Oniacus called out from the prow. Helikaon strolled to where the man was standing. Off to starboard there was a narrow bay. There were no ships beached there. ‘Bring us in,’ Helikaon ordered.

Later, on the beach, he wandered away from the fires and climbed up through a shallow wood to the top of the cliffs. There he sat, his thoughts whirling.

He heard movement behind him, and surged to his feet. He saw Attalus moving through the trees, two bulging water skins hanging from his shoulders. The crewman paused.

‘Found a stream,’ he said. ‘You want water?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Helikaon took one of the skins and drank deeply. Attalus stood silently waiting. ‘You don’t say much,’ Helikaon observed.

The man shrugged. ‘Not much to say.’

‘A rare trait for a sailor.’

‘Hot food is ready,’ said Attalus. ‘You should come and eat.’

‘I will in a while.’ In that moment, in the quiet of the woods, Helikaon felt the urge to talk to this taciturn man, to share his thoughts and feelings. As always he did not. He merely stood quietly as Attalus strolled away with the water skins.

Helikaon remained on the cliff top for a while, then returned to the campfire.

Taking a blanket he lay down, resting his head on his arm. Muted conversations flowed around and over him.

As he lay there he pictured again the face of Andromache, as he had seen her in the firelight. She too was heading for Troy. The thought that he might see her there lifted his spirits.

And he slept.

ii

Xander was embarrassed. For the third time that morning he had been sick, vomiting over the side. His head throbbed, and his legs felt unsteady. The Penelope was much smaller than the Xantbos – just half her length and very cramped, so there was nowhere to go to hide his shame. The rowers’ benches were on the main deck and, once the ship was under oars, there was only a narrow passage between the ranks of oarsmen to walk from one end of the ship to the other. Unlike on the gleaming new Xantbos, the oak planks of the deck looked

worn and chipped, and some of the oars appeared warped by the sun and the salt sea.

The mood was gloomy on the tiny foredeck, where he had been told to wait with the other passengers until they reached Troy. On the first day Xander had been excited at the prospect of sailing with the legendary Odysseus, but that excitement had passed swiftly, for there was little for him to do. He watched the land glide by, and listened to the conversation of those around him.

Andromache had been kind to him, and had talked with him of his home and his family. Argurios had said nothing to him. In fact he said little to anyone. He stood at the prow like a statue, staring out at the waves. The old shipwright, Khalkeus, was also gloomy and quiet.

Even the nights were sombre. Odysseus told no tales, and the crew of the Penelope kept to themselves, gambling with dice bones, or chatting quietly to friends. The passengers were left largely to their own devices. Andromache would often walk along the beaches with Odysseus, while Argurios sat alone. Khalkeus too seemed glum and low of spirit.

One night, as they sheltered from heavy rain under overhanging trees back from the beach, Xander found himself sitting with the shipwright. As always, the man seemed downcast. ‘Are you all right?’ Xander asked.

‘I am wet,’ snapped Khalkeus. The silence grew. Then the older man let out a sigh. ‘I did not mean to sound so angry,’ he said. ‘I am still suffering from the results of my actions. I have never had deaths on my conscience before.’

‘You killed someone?’

‘Yes. All those men on the galley.’

‘You didn’t kill them, Khalkeus. You were on the beach with me.’

‘How pleasant it would be if that simple statement were true. You will find, young Xander, that life is not so simple. I designed the Fire Hurlers, and suggested to Helikaon that he should acquire nepbthar. You see? I thought they would be a protection against pirates and reavers. It never occurred to me – stupid man that I am – that they could be instruments of murder. It should have.

The truth is that every invention leads men to say: can I use it to kill, to maim, to terrify? Did you know that bronze was first used to create ploughs, so that men could dig the earth more efficiently? It did not take long, I suspect, before it was used for swords and spears and arrowheads. It angered me when the Kypriots called the Xanthos the Death Ship. But what an apt name it proved to be.’ He fell silent. Xander didn’t want to talk about burning men and death, so he too sat quietly as the rain fell.

By the twentieth day of the journey Xander thought he might die of boredom. Then the sickness had begun. He had woken that morning with a bad headache. His mouth was dry, his skin hot. He had tried to eat a little dried meat, but had rushed away from the group to throw up on the sand.

The day was windless, and a thick bank of mist around the ship muffled the sounds of the oars and the creak of wood and leather. Time crawled by and the Penelope seemed suspended in time and place.

Seated beside him, the old shipwright Khalkeus stared at his hands, turning and turning his old straw hat, mashing the battered brim, and occasionally muttering to himself in a language Xander did not understand. The lady Andromache was facing away from him, looking towards their destination.

An image flashed unwanted into the boy’s mind of the blazing ship, the sound of the screams and the roar of the flames…

He dismissed the image and determinedly thought of his home and his mother and grandfather. Though the sun was obscured by mist he guessed it was well after noon and he imagined his grandfather sitting in the porch of his small white house, shaded by purple-flowering plants, eating his midday meal. The thought of food made his stomach twist.

Delving into his pack he brought out two round pebbles. One was blue speckled with brown like a bird’s egg. The other was white and so translucent he could almost see through it.

‘Are you going to eat them, boy?’

Xander swung round to see Khalkeus gazing at him.

‘Eat them? No, sir!’

‘I saw you looking in your bag and thought you were hungry. When I saw the pebbles I thought you might eat them. Like a chicken.’

‘Chicken?’ the boy repeated helplessly. ‘Do chickens eat pebbles?’

‘They do indeed. It helps to grind the grain they eat. Like millstones in the granary of their bellies.’ The old man bared his few remaining teeth, and Xander realized he was trying to be friendly.

The boy smiled back. ‘Thank you. I didn’t know that. I picked the pebbles up on the beach before I left home. My grandfather told me they are round and shiny because they have been in the sea for hundreds of years, rolling around.’

‘Your grandfather is right. He is obviously a man of intelligence. Why did you choose those two? Were they different from the rest of the stones around them?’

‘Yes. The rest were just grey and brown.’

‘Ah, then these pebbles are travellers, like you and me. They long ago left the seas where they were first made and they have travelled the world. Now they mix with pebbles of a different sort and home is but a dim memory.’

Xander had no answer to this baffling comment, so he changed the subject. ‘Are you going to live in Troy?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I shall purchase a forge and return to my true calling.’

‘I thought you were a builder of ships.’

‘Indeed, I am a man of many talents,’ said Khalkeus, ‘but my heart yearns to work metal. Do you know how we make bronze?’

‘No,’ said Xander, nor did he want to. Bronze was bronze. It didn’t matter to Xander whether it was found in the ground, or grew from trees. Khalkeus chuckled.

‘The young are too honest,’ he said, good-naturedly. ‘Everything shows in their faces.’ Reaching into his pocket he produced a small blue stone. Then he drew a knife of bronze from the sheath at his side. The blade gleamed in the sunlight.

He held up the small stone. ‘From this,’ he said, ‘comes this,’ and he held up the knife.

‘Bronze is a stone?’

‘No, the stone contains copper. First we remove the copper, then we add another metal, tin. In exactly the right amount. Eventually we have a workable bronze.

Sometimes – depending on the quality of the copper – we get poor bronze, brittle and useless. Sometimes it is too soft.’ Khalkeus leaned in. ‘But I have a secret that helps to make the best bronze in all the world. You want to know the secret?’

Xander’s interest was piqued. ‘Yes.’

‘Bird shit.’

‘No, really I would!’

Khalkeus laughed. ‘No, boy, that is the secret. For some reason if you add bird droppings to the process the resulting bronze is hard, but still supple enough to prevent it shattering. That is how I made my first fortune. Through bird shit.’

The curious conversation came to an end when the lookout, high on the crossbeam of the mast, suddenly cried out and pointed to the south. The boy jumped up eagerly and peered in the direction the man indicated. He could see nothing except for the endless bank of blue-grey mist.

Then he heard another shout and saw Odysseus gesturing to him from the aft deck.

His heart lifted, and with wings on his feet he ran down the deck to where the trader waited.

‘We’ll be on the beach at Troy shortly, lad,’ Odysseus said. He was swigging mightily from a water skin, and liquid gushed down his chest. ‘I want you to stick with Bias. Once the rowers have stowed their oars, the mast will be dismantled, for we will remain in the city for a few days. Bias will show you how we take down the mast and stow it safely. Then I want you to ensure the passengers have left none of their belongings on the Penelope.’

Xander was daunted by the trader’s stern manner. ‘Yes, sir.’

For the first time in days he suddenly felt anxious. He had never been to a city. He had never been anywhere larger than his own village until Bad Luck Bay.

Where would he go once they reached Troy? Where would he stay? He wondered if he could remain on the Penelope. Surely someone would have to keep watch, he thought. ‘What do I do when we reach the city? It is said to be very big, and I do not know where to go.’

Odysseus frowned down at him. ‘Where do you go, lad? You’re a free man now.

You’ll do what sailors do. Troy is rich in fleshpots and taverns, as in everything else. Now get about your duties.’

Crestfallen, Xander reluctantly turned away. ‘Wait, boy,’ said Odysseus. Xander swung back to see the ugly king smiling at him. ‘I am jesting. You’ll stay with us until we leave. If Helikaon hasn’t come by then I’ll see you safely back in Kypros. As for seeing the city… well, you can come with me, if you have a mind. I have much business to attend to and many people to visit. Perhaps you will even meet the king.’

‘I should very much like to go with you, sir,’ said Xander eagerly.

‘Very well. Walk with Odysseus and you will breakfast with peasants and dine with kings.’ He smiled. ‘Look, there she is,’ he said. ‘The city of dreams.’

The boy peered ahead through the bank of mist but could still see nothing.

‘Look up,’ said Odysseus.

Xander looked up and fear lanced through him. Far to port and high in the sky above the mist he could see what appeared to be flames of red and gold. He saw high towers and roofs gleaming with molten bronze.

‘Is it on fire?’ he asked fearfully, an image of the flaming ship again invading his head.

Odysseus laughed. ‘Have you not heard of the city of gold, boy? What do you think they mean? Troy’s towers are roofed with bronze and the palace roof is tiled with gold. It sparkles in the sunlight like a painted trollop, luring fools and wise men alike.’

As the ship drew closer and the mist started to clear Xander got his first glimpse of the great golden walls, higher than he had ever dreamed, and stretching far into the distance. They sat atop a high plateau and he found himself craning his neck to see the gleaming towers. He could count three along the wall that faced the sea, all dwarfed by a single one to the south. The battlemented walls shone like copper and Xander could believe the entire city made of metal, shining like freshly burnished armour.

‘There must be many great warriors living there,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ said Odysseus. ‘This is horse country and the home of horse tamers. The Trojan Horse – the city’s cavalry – is legendary and its leader is the king’s eldest son Hektor. He is a great warrior.’

‘Do you know him?’ Xander wondered if he would meet the king’s warrior son.

‘I know everybody, boy. Hektor…’ He hesitated, and Xander saw that Andromache had moved up the deck to stand quietly beside him. ‘Hektor is a fine rider and charioteer, the best you will ever see.’

‘It is so beautiful,’ said the boy suddenly.

Odysseus took another deep drink from his water skin and wiped his mouth, absently brushing drops from his tunic. ‘Do you know what an illusion is, boy?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Xander uncertainly.

‘Well, an illusion is a story, a tall tale if you like. It’s a bright shining story that masks a hidden darkness. Troy is a city of illusion. Nothing is what it seems.’

Xander could now see the land stretching out around the high plateau. It was green and lush and he could make out the moving dots of horses and sheep on the low hills. Between the plateau and the sea, in front of the city walls, lay a massive town. Xander could make out individual buildings of many colours and even people walking in the streets. A wide road wound down from the great south tower of Troy, eventually reaching the beach where many hundreds of ships were pulled up and there was a riot of activity as they were loaded and unloaded.

Seeing the crowd of boats, Odysseus growled to Bias, ‘This cursed mist has made us too late to get a good berth. By Apollo’s golden balls, I’ve never seen the bay so full. We’ll be halfway up the Scamander before we can get some sand under her keel.’

But at that moment a large ship started to pull away from the beach and Bias gave a quick command to the helmsman. The Penelope turned and headed for the strand, passing close to the departing ship, a wide low cargo vessel with purple eye markings and a patchwork sail.

‘Ho, PenelopeV A powerful dark-haired man dressed in black waved from the other ship.

‘Ho, Phaistosl You’re setting sail late in the day!’ called Odysseus.

‘Kretan ships sail the seas when men of Ithaka are tucked up safe in their beds!’ shouted the man in black. ‘Sleep well, Odysseus!’

‘Good sailing, Meriones!’

The sun was passing down through the sky by the time Xander had his feet safely on the sand of Troy. He was struggling with several heavy bags. There was his own small sack of belongings, an embroidered linen bag Andromache had entrusted to him, and two large leather satchels crammed to the brim, their drawstrings straining, which Odysseus had told him to carry. He looked up at the city looming above him and wondered how he would ever carry everything up to its heights. His legs felt unsteady, his head was aching, and dizziness ebbed and flowed over him. Dropping the bags to the sand he sat down heavily.

The beach was bustling with activity and noise. Cargoes were being unloaded and piled onto carts and donkeys. Xander saw bales of bright cloth, piles of pottery packed with straw, amphorae great and small, livestock in wooden crates.

Odysseus he could see further up the beach, arguing with a thin man in a grey loincloth. Both men were shouting and gesticulating, and Xander wondered nervously if there would be more deaths. But Andromache stood quietly by the two and seemed unconcerned. She was now garbed in a long white robe, a white shawl round her shoulders, and a thin veil covering her head and face.

Finally Odysseus slapped the man on the back and turned to Xander, gesturing to him to join them. He struggled over, the leather satchels banging awkwardly against his legs. Odysseus pointed to a battered two-donkey carriage standing nearby. ‘Is that a chariot?’ asked Xander.

‘Of a sort, lad.’

The wooden carriage was two-wheeled, and there were four seats, two on either side of its U-shaped structure. The thin man stepped onto the driving platform and took up the reins.

‘In there, lad. Quickly,’ ordered Odysseus.

Xander climbed in, dragging the bags and satchels after him and piling them at his feet. Odysseus handed Andromache into the cart and she sat beside the boy.

He had never been so close to her before, and he could smell the fragrance of her hair. He awkwardly shifted away, trying not to touch her. She turned and he could see her smile at him under the veil. The small silver sea horses weighting the ends tinkled together as her head moved, and he could feel the gauzy softness of the cloth against his shoulder.

‘Whose chariot is this?’ he asked. ‘Does it belong to Odysseus? Has he bought it?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘The cart is for travellers. It will carry us up to the city.’

Xander’s head was spinning with the strangeness of it all. The sickness seemed to be passing, but he felt terribly hot, and wished he could feel a sea breeze on his face. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he brushed it away with the sleeve of his tunic.

The donkeys plodded up the winding street through the lower town, moving ever upwards towards the city walls. The boy craned his neck to see the brightly painted houses, some awash with flowers, others decorated with carved wood.

There were potters’ homes with their goods piled high on wooden racks outside, metal workers plying their trade out in the open, protected from the heat of their furnaces by leather aprons, textile workshops with dyed cloth drying on racks outside. He could smell hot metal, baking bread and flowers, the rich scents of animal dung and perfumes, and a hundred smells he couldn’t name. The noise all around was of laughter and complaint, the braying of donkeys, the creak of the cart’s wheels and the leather traces, women’s shrill voices and the calls of pedlars.

Xander could see the walls up close now. They rose from the rocky ground at an angle so gradual it seemed possible to climb them, but then straightened up suddenly and soared towards the sky.

The huge gate they were slowly approaching lay in the shadow of the tallest tower, almost twice as high as the walls, and as Xander craned his neck to see the top he felt as if the weight of it was falling towards him and he quickly looked away. In front of the tower was a line of stone pedestals on which stood six fearsome statues of ferocious warriors wearing crested helms and holding spears. Xander noticed the thin cartman cease to shout at his donkeys, and bow his head in brief silence, as the cart passed by the statues.

‘This is the Scaean Gate, the first Great Gate of Troy,’ said Odysseus. ‘It is the main entrance to the city from the sea.’

‘It is very big,’ said Xander. ‘I can see why it is called a great gate.’

‘Troy has many gates, and towers now. The city is growing continually. But the four Great Gates guard the Upper City, where the rich and the mighty dwell.’

As the donkey cart reached the gate it was swallowed in sudden darkness. There was silence around them and the gateway felt cold out of the late day’s sunshine. Now the boy could hear only the steady clop-clop of hooves and his own breathing.

Then they burst out into the sunshine again and he shaded his eyes, dazzled by the light and the glitter of gold and bronze. The road continued to stretch away from them, but inside the city gates it became a roadway of stone, made of the same great golden blocks that formed the walls. It was so wide Xander doubted he could throw a stone across it. The road wound ever upwards between huge buildings, the smallest of which was bigger even than Kygones’ citadel at Blue Owl Bay. Xander felt the size of an ant beneath their walls, some of which were carved with mighty creatures of legend. The wide windows and the edges of roofs were decorated with shining metals and polished woods. High gates stood open and the boy saw glimpses of green courtyards and marble fountains.

He looked around him, open-mouthed. He glanced at Andromache, who had pulled up her veil and was wide-eyed too.

‘Is this what all cities are like?’ he asked at last.

‘No, lad,’ said Odysseus with amusement. ‘Only Troy.’

The street was thronged with men and women, walking, or riding chariots or horses. Their clothing was rich and colourful and the glitter of jewellery shone at every neck and arm.

‘They are all dressed like kings and queens,’ the boy whispered to Andromache.

She didn’t answer him but asked Odysseus, ‘Do all these buildings belong to the king?’

‘Everything in Troy belongs to Priam,’ he told her. ‘This poxy cart belongs to him, the road it travels on, that pile of apples over there, they are all Priam’s. These buildings are the palaces of Troy’s nobles.’

‘Which one is the home of Hektor?’ Andromache asked, looking around her.

Odysseus pointed up the roadway. ‘Up there. It is beyond the crest of the hill and overlooks the plain to the north. But we are going to Priam’s palace. After that Hektor’s home will seem but a peasant’s hovel.’

The cart trundled on and soon the palace came in sight. To Xander’s eyes its walls were as high as those of the city itself, and he could see the golden roof gleam as the westering sun caught its edge. In front of the palace, once they had passed through the bronze-reinforced double gates, was a red-pillared portico, where the cart stopped and they descended. The portico was flanked by lines of tall soldiers garbed in bronze breastplates and high helms with cheek guards inlaid with silver, and white plumes which waved in the wind. Each had one hand on his sword hilt, the other grasping a spear, and each stared sternly over the boy’s head, as still and silent as the statues at the Scaean Gate.

‘Those are Priam’s Eagles, boy,’ said Odysseus, pointing at the soldiers.

‘Finest fighting men you’ll ever see. Look, Xander,’ he went on. ‘Is that not a sight to lift the spirits?’ Xander turned to look back the way they had come, across the shining roofs of the palaces, the golden walls, and down over the lower town to the sea. The sky had turned rose pink and copper in the light of the dying sun, and the sea below it was a lake of molten gold. In the far distance Xander saw a glowing island of coral and gold on the horizon.

‘What isle is that?’ he asked, thinking it must be a magical place.

‘Not one but two islands,’ said Odysseus. ‘The first you can see is Imbros, but the great peak beyond is Samothraki.’

Xander stood entranced. The sky darkened, blood-red streaks and clouds of gold and black forming before his eyes. ‘And there?’ he asked, pointing towards the north, and the dark hills overlooking a crimson sea.

‘That is the Hellespont, lad, and the land beyond is Thraki.’

Andromache laid her hand on the boy’s shoulder, gently turning him towards the south. Far away, across a shimmering river and a wide plain, Xander saw a mighty mountain. ‘That is the holy mount of Ida,’ whispered Andromache, ‘where Zeus has his watch-tower. And beyond it is little Thebe, where I was born.’

It was now so hot that Xander could hardly catch his breath. He looked up at Andromache, but her face seemed to shimmer before his eyes. Then the ground shifted beneath his feet, and he fell. Embarrassed, he tried to rise, but his arms had no strength and he slumped down again, his face resting on the cold stone. Gentle hands turned him onto his back.

‘He has a fever,’ he heard Andromache say. ‘We must get him inside.’

Then blissful darkness took away the heat, and he tumbled down and down into it.

i

The mist was crowing thicker, and Xander could see no buildings or trees, merely floating tendrils of white that wafted before his eyes, obscuring his vision. He couldn’t recall why he was walking through the mist, but he could hear voices close by. He tried to move towards the sound, but could not make out the direction.

‘He is fading,’ he heard a man say.

Then the voice of Odysseus cut in. ‘Xander! Can you hear me?’

‘Yes!’ shouted the boy. ‘Yes! Where are you?’

And then there was silence.

Xander was frightened now, and, in his panic, he began to run, his arms held out before him, in case he crashed into a wall or a tree.

‘Do you have rings for his eyes?’ he heard someone ask. Xander looked round, but the mist was thick and he could see no-one.

‘Do not speak of death just yet,’ he heard Odysseus say. ‘The boy has heart. He is still fighting.’

Xander struggled to his feet. ‘Odysseus!’ he called out. ‘Where are you? I am frightened.’

Then he heard voices, and the mist cleared. It was night and he was standing on a wide beach, the Xanthos drawn up on the sand. He could see Helikaon and the crew, standing around a large fire. The men were chanting, ‘Hear our words, O Hades, Lord of the Deepest Dark.’ Xander had heard this chant before. It was a funeral oration. He moved towards the men, desperately needing to be no longer alone.

He saw Oniacus at the outer edge of the circle, and could hear Helikaon speaking about the greatness of Zidantas. Then he remembered the awful sight of the head being drawn from the sack. Reaching the circle he called out to Oniacus. ‘I don’t know how I got here,’ he said. The man ignored him. Xander crouched down in front of the seated man, but Oniacus’ eyes did not register his presence.

‘Oniacus! Please talk to me!’ Stretching out his hand he tried to touch Oniacus on the arm. Strangely he could not feel anything under his fingers, and Oniacus did not notice his questing hand. So Xander sat quietly as Helikaon spoke on.

Then Oniacus rose and began to tell stories about Zidantas and Epeus. Xander looked around.

Four men were standing outside the circle, quietly watching the orations.

One of them was Zidantas. Xander ran over to him. ‘Please talk to me!’ he said.

‘Be calm, boy,’ said Zidantas. ‘Of course I will talk to you.’ He dropped to one knee and put his arms round Xander.

‘Oniacus wouldn’t speak to me. Have I done something wrong?’

‘You have done nothing wrong, son of Akamas. He cannot see you.’

‘Why? You can see me.’

‘Aye, I can.’

‘I thought you were dead, Zidantas. We all thought you were dead.’

‘What are you doing here, boy? Were you hurt in the fight?’

‘No. I went to Troy with Odysseus. That’s all I remember. I was sick. I am better now.’

‘His heart is failing,’ said a voice.

‘Did you hear that?’ Xander asked Zidantas.

‘Yes. You must go back to Troy. And swiftly.’

‘Can’t I stay with you? I don’t want to be alone.’

‘We are walking a dark road. It is not for you. Not yet. Listen to me. I want you to close your eyes and think of Troy, and where you were. You understand?

You are in a bed somewhere, or lying on a beach. There are people with you.’

‘I keep hearing the voice of Odysseus,’ said Xander.

‘Then close your eyes and think of him. Think of Odysseus, Xander. Do it now!

Think of life! Think of a blue sky and a fresh wind off the sea.’

Xander closed his eyes. He could still feel Zidantas’ arms round him, and a great warmth settled over him. Then Zidantas spoke again. ‘If you see my little Thea tell her she brought great joy to my heart. Tell her that, boy.’

‘I will, Zidantas. I promise.’

‘Can you hear my voice, lad?’ he heard Odysseus ask. ‘Listen to my voice, and come back to us.’

Xander groaned, and felt a weight upon his chest. His limbs were leaden and his mouth dry. He opened his eyes, and saw the ugly face of Odysseus leaning over him.

‘Ha!’ shouted the Ithakan king. ‘Did I not tell you? The boy has heart.’ He looked down at Xander and ruffled his hair. ‘You had us all fearful for a while.’

Odysseus helped him to sit, then lifted a cup of water to his lips. Xander drank gratefully. He looked around, and saw sunlight streaming through a window, down onto the bed in which he lay. Beyond Odysseus was a tall, thin man, in an ankle-length chiton of white. His hair was dark, and thinning at the temples, and he looked very tired. He approached Xander and laid a cool hand on the boy’s brow. ‘The fever is breaking,’ he said. ‘He needs to eat and rest. I shall have one of the helpers bring him a little food.’

‘How soon can he travel?’ Odysseus asked the man.

‘Not for a week at least. The fever could return, and he is very weak.’

After the man had gone Xander looked around the small room. ‘Where is this place?’ he asked.

‘It is a House of Serpents – a healing house,’ Odysseus explained. ‘You have been here five days. You remember any of it?’

‘No. All I remember is seeing Zidantas. He told me to come back to Troy. It seemed so real, but it was just a dream.’

‘Did you see any gates?’ asked Odysseus.

‘Gates?’

‘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.’

‘I saw no gates,’ said Xander.

‘Then perhaps it was just a dream,’ said Odysseus. ‘I am going to have to leave you here, Xander. The season is almost gone, and I need to get back to my Penelope before winter.’

‘No!’ said Xander fearfully. ‘I don’t want to be alone again. Please don’t go!’

‘You won’t be alone, lad. The Xanthos is in the bay, and Helikaon is here. I shall get word to him about you. For now, though, you must rest, and do everything the healer tells you. Your strength needs to return.’

As he spoke, Xander realized how weak he felt. ‘What was wrong with me?’

Odysseus shrugged. ‘You had a fever. The healer said you might have eaten something bad, or breathed foul air. You are better now, though, lad. And you will be strong again. I can read the hearts of men, you know. I know the difference between heroes and cowards. You are a hero. You believe me?’

‘I don’t feel like a hero,’ Xander admitted.

Odysseus tapped the cheekbone under his right eye. ‘This eye is magical, Xander.

It is never wrong. Now, I ask again, do you believe me?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Then tell me what you are.’

‘I am a hero.’

‘Good. When doubt comes, as it always does, remember those words. Say them to yourself. And I will see you again in the spring, if the gods will it.’

ii

Argurios of Mykene was not a man given to introspection. His life had been one of service to his king and his people. He did not question the decisions of the ruler, or wonder about the rights and wrongs of war and conquest. For Argurios life was stark and uncomplicated. Powerful men ruled, weaker men became servants or slaves. It was the same with nations.

Yet within this simple philosophy he had also absorbed the code of Atreus King, Agamemnon’s father. Power with conscience, strength without cruelty, love of homeland without hatred for one’s enemies.

Hence Argurios had never tortured a foe, raped a woman, nor killed a child. He had burned no homes, nor sought to terrorize those he had defeated.

The events leading to the horror of Bad Luck Bay continued to haunt him. The murder of Zidantas was brutal and sadistic. He wanted to believe that Kolanos was merely a savage; a monster who stood apart from the fine men of the Mykene race.

But was he?

He had pondered this on the voyage with Odysseus, but had still not found an answer. Now, as he walked up the long hill towards the Scaean Gate, he did not marvel at the beauty of the city, or notice the glittering gold of the palace roofs. He was thinking of other generals who had gained favour with Agamemnon King, cruel and ruthless men whose atrocities were a stain upon the honour of the Mykene. He had heard stories during the past months that had chilled his blood.

A village had been massacred, the men tied to trees, their ribs cut open, their entrails held in place by sticks. The women had been raped and murdered. The Mykene general in charge of the attack had been Kolanos.

Argurios had gone to Agamemnon with the tale. The king had listened intently.

‘If all is as you said, Argurios, then the guilty men will be harshly dealt with.’

But they had not been. After that Argurios had rarely been invited into the king’s presence. Indeed, when Agamemnon last visited the Cave of Wings Argurios was not one of the twelve, though Kolanos was.

Pushing aside such thoughts Argurios entered the lower town of Troy, seeking the Street of Ambassadors. He soon became lost, and was loth to ask directions. He paused by a well and sat down in the shade of a wall on which the figure of Artemis the Huntress had been incised. It was a fine work. Her image had been captured in full run, her bow bent, as if chasing a quarry.

‘I want you to go to Troy,’ Agamemnon King had said, on their final meeting.

‘I am at your command, my king. What would you have me do there?’

‘Study their defences. You may explain your findings to Erekos the ambassador.

He will send me your reports.’

‘With respect, my king, he can already describe the fortifications. What purpose is served by my travelling there?’

‘My purpose,’ said Agamemnon. ‘And you know as well as I that fortifications alone are not the key to strength. Men win or lose wars. Study the soldiers.

Look to their disciplines and their weaknesses. Troy is the richest city on the Great Green. It has enormous wealth, and even greater influence. No venture across the sea can succeed if Troy is against it. Therefore Troy must fall to the Mykene.’

‘We are to attack Troy?’

‘Not immediately. It may not even be necessary. We now have friends within the royal family. One of those friends may soon be king. Then there will be no need to storm the city. However, as my father taught me, it is always wise to have more than one plan. You will travel with Glaukos. He is related to Erekos the ambassador. He can also read and write – a skill I believe you have not mastered.’

‘No, lord.’

‘He may be useful to you.’

‘The boy lacks heart. I would not trust him in a hard fight.’

‘You will not be in hard fights, Argurios.’

‘Might I ask the result of your investigations into the massacre?’

Agamemnon had waved his hand. ‘Exaggerated stories. A few people were killed to emphasize the futility of opposing Mykene rule. There is a ship leaving later today. The captain will be expecting you.’

The memory of that last conversation hung on him like a shroud. Agamemnon had been more than cool towards him. There was an underlying feeling of hostility emanating from the king.

Rising from his seat, Argurios continued to walk through the city, becoming ever more lost in the maze of streets. Finally he was forced to seek help from a street seller.

Following the man’s directions, he found himself in front of a large but anonymous house in the lower town, tucked under the west wall of the city. There was an armed man outside the gate. He wore no armour – Argurios was later to

discover that the wearing of a breastplate and helmet was a privilege given in the city only to soldiers of Troy – but his demeanour told Argurios that he was a Mykene warrior. Tall, grim, with grey eyes, the soldier looked at the visitor but said nothing.

‘I am Argurios, Follower to Agamemnon. I seek audience with Erekos.’

‘He is in Miletos, sir,’ the guard told him. ‘He is due back in the next few days. He has gone to meet the king.’

‘Agamemnon is in Miletos?’ The news surprised Argurios. Miletos was a large port city, between Lykia and Troy. The Penelope had sailed that coastline. It was infuriating to have been so close to his king without knowing it. He could have informed him of the events at Bad Luck Bay.

The guard gave him directions to a house where visitors could find a bed and food. Argurios took his few belongings with him, and was offered a small room, with a tiny window overlooking distant hills. The bed was rickety, the room musty. Argurios did not care. It would be used only for sleep.

Every morning for the next six days he walked to the ambassador’s house to seek news of his arrival. On discovering that Erekos had still not returned he would patrol the city, examining its defences as Agamemnon had ordered.

He soon discovered that Troy was not a single city. Its burgeoning wealth meant it was growing fast, spreading out over the hills and plain. At the highest point was the walled palace of the king. This had been the original citadel, and contained many ancient buildings, now used as treasuries, or offices for the king’s counsellors. There were two gates, one leading through to the women’s quarters, the second opening onto the courtyard before the huge double doors of the king’s megaron.

Extending out in a wide circle round the palace was the Upper City, containing the homes of the rich: merchants, princes and noblemen. Here there were great palaces and houses boasting statues and flowering trees, and gardens of extraordinary beauty. There were several large areas where craftsmen and artisans produced goods for the wealthy: jewellers, clothes makers, armourers, potters and bronzesmiths. There were dining halls and meeting places, a gymnasium and a theatre. The Upper City was defended by huge walls, and cunningly placed towers.

Outside these walls was the continuously growing Lower Town. This was largely indefensible. There were no walls, merely a series of wide ditches, some still under construction. Any large force could march unopposed through the streets, but there would be little plunder. Here there were few palaces. Mostly the area contained the homes of the poorer inhabitants: servants and lesser craftspeople, workers in the dye trade, or the fishing industry. The air was, in places, noxious with the stench of lime ash and cattle urine, used by cloth dyers, and fermented fish guts, processed for soups and broths.

But here was not where any battle for the city would be won or lost. The sack of Troy, Argurios knew, would come only when an enemy breached the Great Gates, or scaled the mighty walls.

The East Gate would be a nightmare to storm. The walls doubled back on themselves in a dog-leg, ensuring that invaders would be crammed together and assaulted by archers, peltasts, and spear throwers. Even heavy rocks thrown from such a height would crush an armoured man. And the gates themselves were thick, and reinforced with bronze. They would not burn easily.

However, the physical defences were not Argurios’ main concern. His skills, as Agamemnon knew, lay in the study of soldiers and their qualities and weaknesses. Wars were won and lost on four vital elements: morale, discipline, organization, and courage. Flaws in any one and defeat was assured. So he had studied the soldiers on the walls, their alertness and their demeanour. Were they careless or slack? Were their officers decisive and disciplined? Were they confident of their strength, or merely arrogant? These were the questions Agamemnon sought answers to. So Argurios sat in taverns and eating houses, listening to the conversations of soldiers, and watched them as they marched, or patrolled the walls. He chatted to traders at their stalls, and to old men sitting round wells talking of their days in the army.

The Trojan troops, he discovered, were highly disciplined and well trained. In conversations he found out that Priam regularly sent troops in support of the Hittites in their wars, and even hired out horsemen, foot soldiers and charioteers to neighbouring kingdoms, in order that the men would gain combat experience. While Troy itself had suffered no wars in more than two generations, its soldiers were battle-hardened men. It had been difficult to gauge the exact number of fighting men Troy could call upon, but Argurios believed it to be no fewer than 10,000, including the 1,000 warriors of the Trojan Horse riding with Hektor against the Egypteians.

On first analysis it seemed Troy was unassailable, but Argurios knew that no fortress was ever unconquerable. How then to breach its defences? How many men would be needed?

For overwhelming force to destroy a besieged enemy the normal calculation was a factor of five. The Trojans had 10,000 men, therefore the minimum force to gather would be 50,000 warriors. That in itself precluded any Mykene invasion, for Agamemnon could not muster more than 15,000 fighting men if he conscripted every warrior in Mykene. And even if 50,000 could be gathered, a second logistical problem would arise. How to feed such an army? They would need to raid surrounding territories, and this would inflame the populations, causing uprisings and disaffection. The problem was a thorny one, but Argurios was determined to return to his king with a positive plan.

Then on the seventh day he learned that Erekos the ambassador had returned from Miletos.

iii

The screams echoed through his head, and Argurios felt his skull starting to pound. He looked up at the high roof of the circular tomb, trying to ignore the thick smell of blood and fear, and the sounds of the thrashing, dying horses. The sacrifice of noble horses to Zeus was an appropriate ritual at the funeral of a great king, and his heart lifted at the thought that Atreus King would ride such fine steeds on his journey to the Elysian Fields.

The two horses, dead at last, were being hauled into place at the sides of the king’s bier in the centre of the tomb. Atreus lay in his gold and silver armour, his favourite sword at his right side, three jewelled daggers and a bow to his left. At his head was a great golden cup embossed with the Lion of Mykene, and flagons of wine and oil for his journey. Three of the king’s beloved hounds lay slaughtered at his feet.

The dark, musty tomb was filled with the king’s Followers, his grieving family, counsellors, and mourners. Agamemnon stood dressed in a simple woollen robe, tears pouring down his cheeks. His brother Menelaus was dry-eyed but looked stricken, his face ashen and empty.

There was a cacophony of noise from the musicians and singers milling around in the darkness. Then the sounds of lute and lyre started to fade away.

Argurios stepped forward to take his last look at his king. He frowned. The bearded face resting peacefully on the bier was not that of Atreus. The beard was wrong, and the face too broad. Was this an impostor?

Confusion and fear in his heart, he moved forward reluctantly and saw that the face on the bier was his own.

He looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. But there was no-one there.

The mourners and musicians, sons and counsellors had all vanished, and the great circular tomb was dark and cold, the air heavy with damp and rot.

He was alone. No-one mourned Argurios. No-one marked his passing, and he would go to the earth unnoticed. No-one would know his name.

His head was splitting now. A terrible pain erupted in his stomach as well. He had just noticed it, but he knew it had been there all the time. He cried out…

He was lying in a stone doorway in the cool night air. The moon was high, and, by its light, Argurios could see that his tunic was drenched in blood. Three bodies lay close by, and he saw a blood-smeared sword by the doorway. He tried to rise, but fell again, a stabbing pain searing through his back and chest.

Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his knees. His vision swam and he fell against the door frame.

After a while the pain ebbed a little and he gazed around him. In the moonlight he could see a small street of modest houses looking over a silver sea. Then he remembered. He was in Troy.

A fresh wave of pain surged over him. His head began to pound and he vomited on the ground. There was blood in the vomit. Once again he tried to rise, but there was no strength in his legs. He stared at the bodies of the men he had killed.

One was facing him. He recognized him as the guard who had been on duty on the seventh day of his visit to the house of Erekos.

The man had informed him that Erekos had returned, and had gestured Argurios into the courtyard.

‘Wait here, sir,’ he said.

The courtyard was shadeless and without greenery. Argurios paced back and forth a few times then sat stiffly on a stone bench facing the westering sun.

From an inner door three men came out. The leader was tall and lean, with thin red hair. His beardless face was grey and his eyes red-rimmed as if from the cold. He wore a long dark cape over tunic and leggings, and was unarmed. The two others, one dark, one fair, both wore swords. Argurios noted their expressions and felt uneasy. They were staring at him unblinkingly. He rose from the bench.

‘I returned last night,’ said the red-haired man, without any form of greeting.

This display of ill manners annoyed Argurios, but he held his anger in check. ‘I was with the king when the lord Kolanos spoke of the cowardly slaughter by the killer Helikaon. He also named you as a traitor, in the pay of Helikaon.’

‘Ah,’ said Argurios, coldly. ‘A coward and a liar as well.’ The ambassador’s eyes narrowed, and he reddened.

‘The lord Kolanos claimed you killed one of his crew, and saved the life of Helikaon.’

‘That is true.’

‘Perhaps you would care to explain yourself.’

Argurios glanced at the armed men with Erekos. ‘I am Argurios, Follower of Agamemnon and a Mykene noble. I answer only to my king, and not to some over-promoted peasant sent to a foreign land.’

The men with the ambassador reached for their swords, but Erekos waved them back. He smiled. ‘I have heard in full of the events in Lykia. Many good Mykene men died – including my nephew Glaukos. You did nothing to save them, indeed you aided the killer Helikaon. You are not welcome here, Argurios. The rules of hospitality dictate that no blood will be shed in my house. But know that Agamemnon has spoken the words of banishment against you. You are no longer Mykene. Your lands are forfeit and you are named as an enemy of the Lion’s Hall.’

Argurios strode from the house, back straight, head reeling. He was not a diplomat and this journey to Troy had not been one he had sought. Yet he was proud to serve his king, both to gather information on Priam’s political and military situation, and to deliver messages to his brother Mykene abroad.

Delving into his leather bag he snatched out the sealed papyrus letters he carried for Erekos. Anger tempted him to throw them to the winds, but he hesitated, then put them away again. They had been given to him by Agamemnon’s chief scribe as he had left the palace on that last day. The man had come running out into the street. ‘I hear you are sailing for Troy,’ he said. ‘These messages were meant to have been sent three days ago, but a fool of a servant forgot to give them to the captain. Will you take them, Lord Argurios?’

Each bore the seal of Agamemnon and he had carried them with reverence. He could not throw the king’s words into the mud of the street.

Banishment!

He could scarcely believe such a sentence, but it hurt him more that Agamemnon, whom he had served with total loyalty, could have acted in such a fashion.

Surely, he thought, the king, of all men, should have known he would never have sold out to Helikaon, or any other enemy of his people. Did the works of his life count for nothing, he wondered? In the twenty years since he reached manhood he had never sought riches, nor succumbed to any temptations that would hinder his service. He had not lied, nor taken part in the palace intrigues that saw men plotting against one another to rise in Agamemnon’s favour. He had even remained unwed, so that his life could be entirely dedicated to the king and to the people.

And now he had been named a traitor, stripped of his lands, and his citizenship.

As he walked from the house of Erekos he decided to take ship back to Mykene, and to appeal to the king directly. Surely, he thought, he will realize he has been misled. His spirits rose. Once back in Mykene he would expose Kolanos for the liar and villain that he was, and all would be well.

He was close to his lodgings when he realized he was being followed.

And he knew then there would be no easy return to his homeland. The killers had been unleashed. As an enemy of the people his life was worth only what price Agamemnon or Kolanos had placed upon it.

Cold anger rose and he swung to await the assassins. He had carried no sword or dagger with him to the ambassador’s house, and stood there unarmed as the five men approached.

The leader was swathed in a dark, hooded cloak. He stepped forward and spoke.

‘Renegade, you know what dark deeds have brought you to this judgement.’

Argurios stood calmly and looked the man in the eye. ‘There are no dark deeds to my name. I am Argurios, and the victim of a coward’s lies. I intend to sail home and appeal to my king.’

The man laughed harshly. ‘Your life ends here, traitor. There are no appeals.’ A knife flashed into his hands and he leapt forward. Argurios stepped in to meet him, grabbing the knife wrist and thundering a fierce blow into the man’s face.

As the man fell back Argurios gripped his wrist with both hands, spun him round, then twisted the arm savagely, dislocating his shoulder. The assassin screamed and dropped his knife. The other four men surged forward. Lifting his foot Argurios propelled the crippled assassin into his comrades, then swept up the dagger.

‘I am Argurios!’ he thundered. ‘To come at me is to die.’

They hesitated then, but all were armed with swords. The injured leader was on his knees. ‘Kill him!’ he screamed.

They rushed in. Argurios charged to meet them. A sword plunged into his side, a second cleaving into his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain he stabbed one man through the heart, kicked a second man in the right knee, causing him to fall, then grappled with the third. The fourth man stabbed at him, the blade glancing from his ribs. Argurios could feel his strength failing. Smashing a blow to one attacker’s face he followed up with a head butt that broke another’s nose. Half blinded, the assassin staggered. Argurios twisted to one side, then hammered his foot against an attacker’s knee. There was a sickening crack as the joint snapped, followed by a piercing shriek of agony. The third attacker was on his feet again. Argurios dived to the ground, grabbing a fallen sword, then rolled just in time to block a downward cut. Surging up, he shoulder-charged the attacker, hurling him back. Before the man could recover Argurios drove his sword through the assassin’s chest. Tearing the blade clear he swung in time to parry a ferocious lunge that would have disembowelled him. His sword lanced up, skewering the man through the chin and up into his brain. Argurios wrenched the blade loose and let him fall.

The man with the shattered knee was groaning loudly. Argurios glanced to his left where the leader now stood, his knife held in his left hand, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side.

‘Your comrade cannot walk,’ said Argurios. ‘He will need you to help him to a house of healing.’

‘There will be another day,’ said the man.

‘Maybe, but not for you, puppy dog. It’ll take real hounds to hunt down this old wolf. Now get you gone.’

He stood tall and apparently strong as the leader hauled the groaning man upright. Then the two of them made their slow way back into the darkness.

Argurios managed to stay upright for a few moments more.

He had no idea how much time had passed since. The pain in his stomach had ceased, and he felt cold, though he could still feel warm blood flowing under his hand. He tried to lift himself up with one arm and the pain ripped through him again. Then he heard footsteps. So, they had come back to finish their work.

Anger gave him strength and he levered himself upright, determined to die on his feet.

Several soldiers in crested helmets moved into sight. Argurios sagged back against the door frame. ‘What happened here?’ asked the first soldier, stepping in close. The world spun, and Argurios fell. The soldier dropped his spear and caught him, lowering him to the ground.

A second soldier called out: ‘One of the dead men is Philometor the Mykene. He was said to be a fine warrior.’

An elderly man came out of the house and spoke to the soldier. ‘I saw it from my balcony. Five men attacked him. He had no weapon and he defeated them all.’

‘Well,’ said the soldier, ‘we must get him to the temple. Any man the Mykene want dead must be worthy of life.’

i

The last time Helikaon had stood on the beach below Troy Zidantas had been alongside him. They had been on their way to Kypros, to take the Xanthos on her maiden voyage. It seemed a lifetime ago now.

The ship had been unloaded, the cargo carried to warehouses. With the season over there were few merchants on the beaches, and the Xanthos would continue north to Dardania with a much lighter load. The crew had been paid, and twenty-eight rowers had declared their intent to leave the ship. Oniacus had been scouring the taverns, seeking fresh men to crew the Xanthos on its journey home.

Helikaon glanced along the bay, and saw Odysseus and his crew preparing the Penelope for launch. The slender old ship slid gracefully into the water, the men hauling themselves aboard. Odysseus was shouting orders now. For a moment Helikaon wished the years could be swept away, and that he too was back aboard the Penelope, sailing off across the Great Green to winter in Ithaka. Life had seemed so uncomplicated then, his concerns small and focused on easily remedied problems: the tear in the sail that could be stitched, the blistered hands that could be bandaged.

Earlier that morning he had sat on the beach with his friend. It was their first meeting since the battle outside Blue Owl Bay. Odysseus had told him about the boy, Xander, and they had sat in comfortable silence for a while.

‘You have not spoken of Zidantas,’ said Odysseus, at last.

‘He is dead. What else is there to say?’

Odysseus looked at him closely. ‘You remember me talking about the lost hero, and your need to find him?’

‘Of course. I was a weak and frightened boy. But he is long gone now.’

‘He was frightened, yes, but not weak. Intelligent and thoughtful. Aye, and caring and gentle. And sometimes you need to seek him too.’

Helikaon forced a laugh. The sound was harsh. ‘He could not survive in my world.’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘Your world is full of violent men, heroic with sword and shield, ready to butcher their way to whatever plunder they desire. Can you not see it is the boy you were who stops you from being like them? Do not lose sight of him, Helikaon.’

‘Would he have destroyed the galleys of Kolanos? Would he have defeated Alektruon, or survived the treachery at Blue Owl Bay?’

‘No, he would not,’ snapped Odysseus. ‘Nor would he have burned to death fifty or more unarmed and hobbled men. You want to defeat Kolanos – or become him?’

Helikaon felt a rush of anger at this outburst from his friend. ‘How could you say that to me? You do not know what is in my heart.’

‘Who does?’ countered Odysseus. ‘You have it sheathed in armour. You always did.’

‘I do not need to hear this,’ said Helikaon, pushing himself to his feet.

Odysseus rose alongside him. ‘How many friends do you have, Helikaon? I love you like my own son, and you are wrong. I do see into your heart. I see you are suffering, and I know what Ox meant to you. You are grieving and you feel as if something is ripping out your guts from the inside. Your dreams are tortured, your waking hours tormented. You look for him always, just at the edge of your vision. You expect to wake one morning and find him standing there, big as life.

And a part of you dies every time you wake and realize he isn’t.’

Helikaon’s shoulders sagged as his anger seeped away. ‘How can you know all this?’

‘I watched my son die.’ Odysseus sat down and stared out to sea. Helikaon remained where he was for a moment, then seated himself alongside his friend.

‘I am sorry, Odysseus. I had forgotten.’

‘You didn’t know him.’ The ugly king sighed. ‘Now, do you want to talk about Ox?’

‘I can’t.’

Odysseus looked disappointed, but he nodded. ‘I understand. But one day, my friend, I hope you will learn to open your heart. Otherwise you will always be alone. We will not dwell on it, though. Let us return to Kolanos. He is likely to go to ground now. He’ll either return to Mykene or seek shelter on the pirate isle southwest of Samothraki. The waters there are treacherous, and few ships will risk the winter storms. Even if they did there is a stockade there, and several hundred pirates to man it.’

‘I know the island,’ said Helikaon. ‘The Penelope beached there on my first voyage. The pirates gathered round you, and you told them a story that had them laughing, crying and cheering. They showered you with gifts. I still think of it sometimes. A hundred cruel and barbaric men, weeping over a story of love and honour and courage.’

‘Aye, it was a good night,’ said Odysseus. ‘If Kolanos is there he will be safe for the winter. But he will sail again in spring.’

‘And I will find him, Odysseus.’

‘I expect you will. More important, however, you need to watch yourself now.

There are some canny killers out there. With that in mind, I have a small gift for you.’

Delving into the pack he was carrying he pulled forth a tunic of dark brown leather and passed it to Helikaon. It was heavier than Helikaon expected, and he could feel something hard beneath the soft leather. ‘Picked it up a few years back in Kretos,’ said Odysseus. Helikaon hoisted the garment. It was a knee-length tunic, with a lining of silk. ‘It is a cunning piece,’ said Odysseus. ‘Between the silk and the leather are thin, overlapping discs of ivory. It’ll turn a dagger blade, though I doubt it would withstand a powerful sword thrust, a strike from an axe, or a well-aimed arrow from a bow of horn.’

‘It is a fine gift, my friend. Thank you.’

‘Pshaw! Too small for me anyway. Wear it when ashore – and try not to travel alone in the city.’

‘I will be careful,’ promised Helikaon. ‘I shall be sailing for Dardania soon.

Once home I will be surrounded by loyal soldiers.’

‘As your father was,’ pointed out Odysseus. ‘Do not assume anywhere is safe.

Equally, do not assume loyalty is made of stone.’

‘I know.’

‘Of course you do,’ muttered Odysseus apologetically. ‘Did you hear about Argurios?’

‘No.’

‘Word is he’s been banished and declared outlaw. It is said you bought him.’

Helikaon shook his head in disbelief. ‘You don’t buy a man like Argurios. Who could think such a thing?’

‘Men who can be bought,’ answered Odysseus. ‘I doubt he’ll last a month. How long are you planning to stay in Troy?’

‘A few days more. I must pay my respects to Priam, and there are still merchants I need to see. Why do you ask?’

‘Something in the air,’ said the older man, touching his nose. ‘There is a feeling of unease in the city. I suspect there is another palace revolution brewing.’

Helikaon laughed. ‘There is always a palace revolution brewing. My guess is that Priam enjoys them. It gives his devious mind something to gnaw at.’

‘You are right,’ admitted Odysseus, ‘he likes risks. 1 knew a man once who placed wagers on almost anything. He would sit beneath a tree and wager on which pigeon would fly away first, or which dolphin would swim beneath the prow. His wagers grew larger and larger. One day he wagered his lands, his horses, his cattle and his ship on a single throw of the dice. He lost it all.’

‘You believe Priam to be such a fool?’

Odysseus shrugged. ‘A man who loves risks is a man seeking to test himself. Each time he wins he needs to increase the peril. Priam has many acknowledged sons, and only a few positions of power to award. Not all of his sons can succeed him.’

‘He has Hektor,’ Helikaon pointed out. ‘He would never betray his father.’

‘Hektor is the key in all this,’ Odysseus replied. ‘He is both loved and feared.

Any who rose against Priam would have to face the wrath of Hektor. That alone is what prevents a civil war. Priam has alienated at least half his generals, and the gods alone know how many of his counsellors. He strips them of their titles on a whim, appointing others in their place. He revels in humiliating the men around him. His sons too are often chided publicly. Foolish man. If Hektor were to fall in battle this kingdom would rip apart like an old sail in a storm.’

Helikaon laughed. ‘Hektor will not fall in battle. He is invincible. If his ship were to sink he’d emerge riding one of Poseidon’s dolphins.’

Odysseus grinned. ‘Aye, he does radiate a godlike quality.’ The smile faded.

‘But he is not a god, Helikaon. He is a man, albeit a great one. And men die. I wouldn’t want to be in Troy if that were to happen.’

‘It won’t happen. The gods have always loved Hektor.’

‘May Father Zeus hear those words and make them true.’ Odysseus rose. ‘I must be making ready to sail. Take care, my boy,’ he said. The two men embraced.

‘Fair winds and calm seas, Odysseus.’

‘That would make a pleasant change. Tell me, will you be seeing Andromache?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Fine woman. I like her enormously.’ Odysseus laughed. ‘I would love to have been present when she met Priam.’

Helikaon thought of the Trojan king. Powerful and dominant, he sought to intimidate all who came before him. Then he recalled Andromache’s challenging gaze. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I would like to have seen that too.’

ii

Andromache returned to consciousness slowly. She had been dreaming of a great storm, the sea rising like a mountain into the sky. Ever since she had seen the seer, Aklides, she had been haunted by dreams: visions of men with one sandal, or colossal storms. Once she had even dreamed she was married to a pig farmer, whose face had slowly become that of a boar, white tusks sprouting from his bearded cheeks.

Her bed was a tangle of white linen and she felt the slickness of sweat on her body. The dreams had been full of fear, leaving a lingering sense of dread behind them. Sitting up she regarded her handmaid, the young and heavily pregnant Axa.

Normally smiling and complacent, Axa was wringing her hands in worry, her plump, plain face a mask of anxiety.

‘Thank the gods, my lady. I thought I would never wake you. You’ve been sent for,’ she said, lowering her voice and looking around her as if Andromache’s chambers were filled with spies. Which they might well be, thought Andromache.

The entire palace was a sea of suspicious eyes. Servants appeared and hovered whenever people gathered together, and conversations were spoken in whispers.

Andromache shook her head to clear it and swung her long legs out of bed.

Outside her high square window she could just see the paleness of dawn in the night sky. ‘Who has sent for me at this hour?’

‘The king, my lady.’ Axa immediately started to pull Andromache’s nightgown over her head. ‘You must wash and dress quickly, my lady, and attend the king with haste. It would not do to delay.’

Andromache could sense the panic in the woman and realized Axa would be held responsible if Priam were kept waiting. As her maid thrust a wet sponge in her face, Andromache grabbed it from her.

‘I’ll do that. Find my saffron gown, and the calf sandals Laodike gave me yesterday.’

As she washed she wondered about the significance of being made to wait seven days to see Priam. Perhaps she should be honoured. Perhaps other young brides had to wait months before they met the king. She had asked Laodike but the king’s eldest daughter had just shrugged. There were so many things Andromache did not know about Troy. What she did know, however, was that the palace of Priam was not a happy place. Stunningly beautiful, and filled with treasures, many of them of solid gold, it was a monument to ostentation, which contrasted mightily with the furtive manner in which people moved through it. Laodike had been assigned to guide Andromache through the customs of the palace: the areas in which the women could wander, and the rooms and corridors closed to them. But Andromache had learned far more than this. Laodike’s conversation was always of warnings. What not to do. What not to say. Whom to smile at, and be civil to.

Whom to avoid.

Laodike had listed names, but most of them had flown by Andromache with the speed of hunting hawks. Some had registered, but only after meeting the men they applied to: watery-eyed Polites, the king’s chancellor, fat Antiphones, his Master of Horse. It would have amazed Andromache if the wheezing man could actually mount a horse. Then there was Deiphobos, the Prince of the Harbour.

More commonly called Dios, he looked a little like Helikaon, though without the inherent power. In fact, he had frightened eyes, she thought.

She realized Axa was regarding her with a worried frown. ‘The pretty sandals, my lady…’ she faltered.

‘Do you have them, Axa?’

‘Yes, my lady, but… they are not appropriate.’

‘Do not argue with me,’ she said. ‘You fear the king’s anger. I understand that.

But you should fear my anger too.’ She kept her voice pleasant, but she looked hard into Axa’s face and the young woman dropped her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, my lady, but you do not understand. You cannot wear sandals. You are to meet the king on the Great Tower. The steps are treacherous, and his orders were for you to wear suitable shoes.’

Later, striding through the stone streets in the growing dawn light, Axa hurrying behind her, two royal Eagles, in armour of bronze and silver, by her side, Andromache wondered what game Priam was playing. She wished she had had a chance to speak to Laodike about the king’s strange choice of meeting place.

She had heard a great deal of gossip about Priam in her seven days in Troy –

most of it admiring, all of it meaningless. He was said to have fifty sons, Axa had confided to her, although the queen had borne him just four. He was known to be a great bull in his youth, and many of those sons, recognized by him or not, had made their home in Troy, close to the glory of their father. The king, now on his throne for over forty years, still had an eye for a pretty young girl, said another maid, giggling. Andromache had felt repulsed. Just another old man who couldn’t accept that his rutting days were decently over, she had thought.

But then rich men were also powerful men, and power was an aphrodisiac. And Priam was said to be the richest man in all the world.

She had been astonished by the treasures she had seen in the king’s megaron, in the queen’s apartments, and the gold and jewels that Laodike thought quite normal daily wear. Laodike was always festooned with gold, her wrists and throat sporting an assortment of bracelets, bangles and necklets, her corn-coloured hair intertwined with gold wire, her gowns weighed down with brooches. None of which made her more pretty, thought Andromache. The jewels only served to draw attention to her small, hazel eyes, her long nose and a slightly receding chin.

What she had, though, to compensate, was a smile of dazzling beauty, and a sweet nature that made her lovable.

‘Poor Andromache,’ Laodike had said, putting her arm through her new sister’s.

‘You have no jewellery, no gold at all, only a few cheap beads and a little silver. I shall make my father give you gold, amber and carnelian necklets and earrings to match your eyes, and gold chains to adorn your dainty ankles…

and,’ she laughed gleefully, ‘y°ur big feet.’

‘Big feet are said to be very beautiful,’ Andromache had replied gravely. ‘The bigger the better.’

She smiled to herself now, looking down at those feet encased in the clumsy rope-soled sandals Axa had borrowed for her. Then she looked up. The Great Tower of Ilion, standing proud of the south wall of Troy, was almost twice as high as the main city walls, and by far the tallest building she had ever seen. As she walked towards it she could see the ever-present guards on each corner of its roof. They looked like tiny insects, the rising sun glinting off their helmets and spear tips.

When she had asked Axa about her summons to the Great Tower, the maid had been strangely reticent. ‘It must be a great honour,’ she had said doubtfully. ‘King Priam sometimes goes there to look over his city and to scan the sea and land for invaders. He is watchful for his people.’

‘Does he usually greet visitors on the Great Tower of Ilion?’

Axa blushed and refused to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what the king does. It is the highest point in the city. It must be a great honour,’ she repeated.

Andromache had caught a look of dismay on her maid’s face and she put her arms round her and hugged her close.

‘I have a head for heights,’ she reassured the woman. ‘Don’t worry.’

They entered the huge square tower at its base, just inside the Scaean Gate. The stone wall was very thick and inside the tower was cold and damp. Andromache saw a narrow flight of stone stairs spiralling up into the darkness. She looked up and saw the tower was merely a dank square shaft of empty air illuminated at intervals by holes punched through the thickness of the walls. The stairs hugged the inside walls in a series of sharp inclines, followed by horizontal walkways to the next rise, until they reached a tiny square of light high above. There was no hand rail. Torches flickered in wall brackets and one of the soldiers lit a brand to carry up the steps.

‘Do you wish me to come with you, my lady?’ Andromache saw Axa’s eyes were huge and frightened in the torchlight, her hands straying unconsciously to her swollen belly.

‘No. Stay here. Wait for me,’ Andromache replied.

‘Do you want the water?’

Axa started to unsling the water skin she held on her hip. Andromache thought for moment, then told her, ‘No, keep it. I might want it later.’

She realized the two soldiers were preparing to escort her up. She held out her hand. ‘Give me the torch,’ she demanded.

The torch carrier, unsure, casting an eye at his fellow, passed the brand to her.

‘Stay here,’ she told them curtly, and before they could move she set off swiftly up the stairs, stepping lightly on the shiny stone.

On and up she climbed, her legs, strengthened by her many hours of walking or running on Thera, pushing her up the steep flights. The steps were each nearly knee-high, and she felt her body enjoying the exercise, her thighs and calves thrilling to be worked so hard. She had never suffered from the sickness sparked by heights, but she was not tempted to look down to see how far she had climbed.

She looked up instead, towards the small square of light.

She felt she had the measure of the old king now. He had asked her to the tower to daunt her, perhaps to humiliate her, hoping she would collapse in tears at the foot of the tower and have to be carried up like a child. She was amazed that a king with such power, such riches, should feel the need to prove his superiority over a young woman. Petty bullies I can deal with, she thought.

The steps became narrower as she neared the top, and they seemed much more worn here and slick with damp. She became conscious of the dark abyss to her right and she placed her feet more carefully as she climbed. She wondered why the stairs would be most worn at the top of the tower. Then she realized and laughed. She stopped and held her torch high. Thirty or so steps below her, on the other side of the tower, was a dark recess. In it there was a narrow door.

She had not seen it as she passed. It must be a door leading to the battlements of the south wall. The old man would have come that way, leaving her to climb the full height of the tower. Priam, she thought, already I do not like you.

When she emerged at the top it was with a sense of relief. The brightness of the low sun hurt her eyes and the wind buffeted her hair, and for a moment she was disorientated. She looked around slowly, steadying her breathing.

The wooden roof was half the size of the king’s megaron, yet empty bar four guards, one at each corner of the tower, motionless, staring outward. A tall, wide-shouldered man was standing on the battlements of the southwest wall, the wind blowing through his long silver-gold hair.

He was powerfully built and deeply tanned. He wore a blue full-length tunic and, despite the coolness of the dawn, his tanned, muscular arms were bare. He was in profile to her and she saw a high, beaked nose and strong jaw. He didn’t appear to have seen her and she stood uncertain.

‘Well, are you going to stand there all day, girl?’ he said, not turning.

Andromache walked over to him and stood, head bowed. ‘I am Andromache of Thebe.’

The king turned suddenly. She was surprised at how young and vital he was. His height and the width of his shoulders dominated her, and his physical presence was colossal.

‘Have you not been taught how to address your king, girl? On your knees.’ He loomed over her and she was almost forced to her knees by his presence alone.

Instead she straightened her back. ‘In Thebe Under Plakos we do not bow the knee to anyone, not even the gods.’

Priam leaned in close so she could see the yellowish whites of his eyes and smell the morning wine on his breath. He said quietly, ‘You are not in little Thebe now. I will not tell you again.’

At that moment there was a clattering on the staircase and a Royal Eagle climbed onto the roof. His helmet bore the black and white crest of a captain. He strode quickly to the king.

‘Lord.’ He glanced at Andromache and hesitated. Priam gestured impatiently for him to go on. ‘Lord, we have him! Someone must have warned him, for he had almost made it to the Egypteian ship. He is being questioned now.’

‘Excellent! I shall attend the questioning later.’ The king was once more looking down at the bay. ‘Is that monstrosity Helikaon’s new ship?’

‘Yes, sir, the Xantbos. It arrived late last night.’

Andromache’s interest quickened. She watched Priam closely but could not see from his expression whether he considered it good news or bad. After a moment he dismissed the captain and turned to regard Andromache again. ‘Let me show you my city,’ he said, then sprang lightly up onto the high battlement wall, before turning and holding out his hand to Andromache.

She did not hesitate, and he took hold of her wrist, drawing her up to stand alongside him. The wind buffeted her, and she glanced down at the awesome drop.

‘So, you will not kneel to me?’ he said.

‘I will kneel to no man,’ she answered, preparing herself for the push that would send her toppling to her death, and ready to haul him with her.

‘You interest me, girl. There is no fear in you.’

‘Nor in you, apparently, King Priam.’

He looked surprised. ‘Fear is for weaklings. Look around you. This is Troy. My Troy. The richest and most powerful city in the world. It was not built by fearful men, but by men with imagination and courage. Its wealth grows daily, and with it the influence that wealth brings.’

Suddenly, to Andromache’s surprise, the king reached out and weighed her left breast in his hand. She did not flinch.

‘You will do,’ Priam said, taking his hand away and waving his dismissal. ‘You will breed strong children for me.’

An icy worm of fear slithered into her heart. ‘For your son Hektor, I think you mean, my king,’ she corrected, her voice harder than was wise.

More quickly than she could have expected he stepped towards her, looming over her again. ‘I am your king,’ he whispered in her ear, his breath hot and wet.

‘And Hektor is not here. He may well not return until the spring.’

The prospect of being confined to Priam’s palace through the long weeks of winter filled Andromache with dismay.

‘You may go now,’ said Priam, turning away from her and staring out over the bay.

Andromache leapt lightly down to the ramparts and walked to the stairway. Then Priam called out to her. She turned towards him.

‘You are still a virgin, I take it?’

‘I am who I am, King Priam,’ she replied, unable to keep the anger from her voice.

‘Then remember who you are, and what you are,’ he advised. ‘You are the property of Priam, until he decides you should become the property of another.’

i

The House Of Serpents was larger than xander had first imagined. There were four immense buildings, set in a square with an open garden area at the centre, in which an altar had been erected to the god Asklepios.

There were people everywhere, women in long green gowns, men dressed in white tunics, priests in flowing robes of blue and gold. Then there were crowds of supplicants, queuing before three tables set close to the altar. Everyone in the queues carried an offering, some holding caged white doves, others bearing perfumes, or gifts of copper or silver. Xander saw that each supplicant was given a small square of papyrus, which he or she held to their lips before dropping it into a large copper container beside the priest at the table.

Mystified, Xander moved on through the crowd, wandered around the garden, then decided to return to his room.

Except that he had no idea where it was. All four of the buildings looked exactly the same. He entered one, followed a corridor, and found himself in a i huge, round chamber. There were statues of the gods set into alcoves. At the foot of each statue was a deep cup of silver, and a small brazier, filled with glowing coals. He recognized the statue of Demeter, Goddess of Fertility, for she carried a basket of corn in one hand, and the babe Persephone held against her breast. Others he could not identify. The air was full of incense, and he saw two priests moving to each of the statues. The first poured libations of wine into the silver cups, and the second sprinkled papyrus squares onto the fires in the braziers.

Then Xander understood. The supplicants’ squares were being offered to the gods.

He wondered how Demeter would know from the ashes exactly what each worshipper had asked for.

Moving out of the temple area he saw Machaon, the healer priest who had tended him. Xander called out and Machaon turned his head. He was tall and stoop-shouldered, with short dark hair thinning at the temples. His eyes looked tired.

‘I see you are feeling stronger, Xander,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Do not over-exert yourself. You are still recovering.’

‘Yes, sir. Can you tell me where my room is?’

Machaon smiled. ‘The house is like a labyrinth. It takes time to find your way around. Do you read symbols?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You are in Fire Seven. Each building here is marked by a different symbol, and each room has a number.’ He pointed to the closest door. ‘The first symbol on the door represents the element after which the area was named.’ Xander peered at the symbol carved into the wood. ‘What does it look like to you?’

‘Like a bow,’ he answered.

‘I suppose it does,’ agreed Machaon. ‘In fact the upturned half-circle is a cup.

So this building is Water. The mark below it is the number of the room. To the north is Earth, and the symbol there is a full circle, for all things come from the earth and return to the earth. Fire is directly across the garden from here, and on each door you will see another half-circle, resting downwards on a straight line. This represents the rising sun. Air is the building to your left.

On its walls you will see another half-circle standing upright, like a sail in the breeze.’

‘Thank you, sir. How do the gods know who kissed the papyrus?’

Machaon smiled. ‘The gods see all, Xander. They know what is in our hearts and in our minds.’

‘Why then do they need the papyrus at all?’

‘It is a ritual of worship; an indication of respect and adoration. We will talk about that tomorrow when I visit you. And now I must continue my work.’ Machaon rose. ‘You may walk around for a while. But try not to get in anyone’s way.’

Xander crossed the now deserted gardens and found his room. He was feeling dreadfully tired and weak. On trembling legs he made it to his bed and lay down.

The room seemed to be moving, as if it was on a ship. As he lay there he heard his door open and a figure came into sight.

It was Helikaon. Xander struggled to rise.

‘Stay where you are, boy,’ said the Golden One, sitting down on the bed.

‘Thank you, lord.’

‘The Xanthos is sailing for Dardania soon. Machaon believes you should stay here for the winter. He says it will take time for your strength to return.’

Xander did not reply. He was both relieved and disappointed. He had loved being part of the crew, but he dreaded another battle, and still had nightmares about burning men.

Helikaon seemed to read his thoughts. ‘I am truly sorry that your first voyage should have seen such tragedy. Odysseus tells me you saw Zidantas while you were in your fever.’

‘Yes, lord. Everyone was on the beach, and he was standing with some other men close by. One of them was Epeus.’

‘Epeus died in the battle,’ said Helikaon. ‘Did Zidantas speak to you?’

‘Yes. He told me to think of life and to come back to Troy. I wanted to go with him, but he said he was walking a dark road. He asked me to tell his daughter Thea that she gave him great joy.’

Helikaon sat silently for a few moments. ‘I think it was not a dream, Xander,’

he said at last. ‘I think it was a true vision. I will leave gold with the temple to pay for your keep. In the spring I will still have a place for you among my crew. There is something you can do for me, in return.’

‘Anything, lord.’

‘Argurios is here. He was stabbed, and I am told he is dying. I want you to visit him, see to his needs. I have hired other men to watch over him, to prevent the killers returning. Will you do this for me?’

‘Yes, lord, but Argurios does not like me.’

‘It would surprise me to find that Argurios liked anyone.’

‘What can I do?’

‘He is refusing to eat or drink. So, bring him food and water.’

‘Why doesn’t he want to eat?’

‘Evil men have taken away all that he has. I think a part of him does not want to live.’

‘I can’t make him eat, lord.’

‘Tell him you spoke to me and I laughed when I heard of his plight. Tell him I said that one less Mykene warrior in the world was a matter to be celebrated.’

‘He will hate you for that, won’t he?’

Helikaon sighed. ‘Yes, I expect he will. Go and find him when you are rested. He is in Air, and his room is close to the portico entrance.’

ii

Karpophorus the assassin followed Helikaon up the hill towards the palace. It had been almost twenty years since he had killed anyone in Troy. The city had changed greatly since then, expanding in almost every direction. His last assassination here had seen him escape across a pasture into a small wood. The pasture now boasted scores of small houses lining narrow streets, and the wood had been chopped down to make way for a barracks. The imposing house of the merchant he had slain was also gone. That was a shame, he thought, for it had been well constructed, with pleasing lines.

A little way ahead Helikaon paused beside a clothing stall, and chatted to the owner. Karpophorus hung back, watching the exchange. The sun was bright over the golden city, and there were many people gathered in the market place.

How curious, he thought, that Helikaon should seem so relaxed here. He knew there were Mykene in the city, and at any time a killer could attack him.

Karpophorus scanned the crowd with suspicious eyes, seeking out any possible attacker, looking for signs of tension in the faces. He was determined that no other assassin should claim his prize.

Then Helikaon moved on.

Karpophorus followed him up another hill towards the golden-roofed palace of Priam.

It was then that he spotted a young man emerging from between two buildings. He was dark-haired, and slim, wearing a green tunic and sandals. There was a knife at his belt. Karpophorus had seen him in the crowd at the market. Increasing his pace Karpophorus closed the distance between them. As Helikaon turned another corner the newcomer slowly drew his dagger and stepped after him.

His own blade flashing into his hand Karpophorus broke into a run.

When he rounded the corner he saw the young man spread-eagled on the street, Helikaon standing above him.

‘My apologies,’ said Karpophorus. ‘I was a little slow.’

‘Nonsense, Attalus. It was my fault for ordering you to hang back.’ Helikaon grinned at him. ‘Let us hope that this fool is the best they have.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Karpophorus.

The young man was still alive and conscious, though his knife was now in Helikaon’s hand. He glared up at the Golden One with a look of pure hatred.

Helikaon tossed the knife to the street and walked on. Karpophorus followed.

They walked in silence to the palace citadel, and Helikaon approached the guards at the double gates, then they passed under the shadow of the walls above and emerged onto a wide paved courtyard. ‘I shall be some time in the palace,’

Helikaon told him, ‘so go and get yourself some food. I will meet you at the entrance at dusk.’

Helikaon strolled towards the red columns of the palace entrance and Karpophorus found a place in the shade. He sat on a stone bench alongside a sweet-smelling climbing plant with purple flowers. It was pleasant here and he relaxed. It had been a relief to see the Penelope sail that morning. Ever since Bad Luck Bay Karpophorus had been forced to plan his every step. Odysseus knew his face, and would no doubt have guessed that he was stalking Helikaon.

As a passenger on the Penelope some nine years ago Karpophorus had been surprised when the Ithakan king approached him after they had beached one night.

As was his style, Karpophorus had found a place to sleep away from the men, and was sitting looking at the stars when Odysseus walked up. The ugly king had sat down on a rock close by. ‘I know you,’ he had said.

The shock had been great. Karpophorus’ main talent lay in his anonymity. He had the kind of face no-one remembered, and merely by tying back his dark hair, or growing a chin beard, could change his appearance dramatically. And he had not met Odysseus before this trip to Dardania.

He had hedged. ‘How so?’

The king had laughed. ‘A friend of mine hired you. I saw you leaving his house one day. It is said you are the finest assassin in all the world, Karpophorus.

You never fail.’

‘You mistake me for someone else.’

‘I don’t make that kind of mistake,’ said Odysseus. ‘And I would like to hire you.’

‘It is said you are a man without enemies. Who would you possibly want killed?’

Odysseus had shrugged. ‘I don’t care. I just want to be able to say I once hired the great Karpophorus.’

‘You don’t care who dies?’

‘Not a jot.’

‘You are suggesting I just kill anyone and then seek payment from you?’

‘Hmm,’ mused the ugly king. ‘I can see how that would be a little too random.’

He sat silently for a moment. ‘All right, how about this: I will hire you to kill the next person who seeks to hire you.’

‘I already know who seeks to hire me, and he is a powerful man and well protected. The cost of my services is in direct proportion to the risk I take.’

‘Name a fee.’

‘You don’t want to know who it is?’

‘No.’

Now it was Karpophorus who fell silent. He glanced back along the beach, to where the men were sitting round the fire. His gaze fell on the dark-haired young prince who travelled with Odysseus. And here was the difficulty. He had seen on the voyage so far that Odysseus was fond of the youth. Had the ugly king guessed that Karpophorus was being hired to kill him? If he had, and Karpophorus refused to accept his offer, then Odysseus would have him killed here on this beach. He looked up at Odysseus, meeting his gaze. The man was clever. He was seeking to save the young man by murdering his father, and yet, if Karpophorus was captured, there would be no blood feud. For the Ithakan king was, after all, only hiring Karpophorus on a whim, to kill someone anonymous.

‘How will you know the deed is done?’ asked Karpophorus, continuing the charade.

‘Cut off the man’s ear and send it to me. I will take that as proof of completion.’

‘It will cost a sheep’s weight in silver.’

‘I agree – but then we have very thin sheep on Ithaka. One other thing. The man we are talking of may already have named the person he wants dead. Or he may name him before you fulfil your promise to me.’

‘That is a possibility.’

Odysseus’ eyes grew cold. In that moment Karpophorus had seen the briefest glimpse of the man legend spoke of, the young reaver who had terrorized settlements all across the Great Green. In the days of his youth Odysseus had built a formidable reputation as a fighting man and a killer. Karpophorus had stayed very calm. His life, at that moment, was flickering like a candle in a storm. One wrong word now and it would be extinguished.

‘I think,’ said Odysseus, ‘it would be unwise to accept an offer from a man you are going to kill. You agree?’

‘Of course.’

‘Excellent.’

They had then agreed the manner of the payment. In the background the men of the Penelope were laughing. Karpophorus looked over to see the dark-haired young prince engaged in a mock wrestling bout with Odysseus’ first mate, Bias.

‘A fine lad,’ said Odysseus. ‘Reminds me of a young sailor who once served with me. He was murdered. It took me five seasons to find the killer. I left his head on a spear. My Penelope always tells me I am an unforgiving man, and I should learn how to put aside grudges. I wish I could.’ He shrugged. ‘But we are what we are, Karpophorus.’ Then he had clapped his meaty hand on Karpophorus’

shoulder. ‘I am glad we had this little talk.’

It had irked Karpophorus to have been outmanoeuvred by the ugly king, and now, with the promise of Agamemnon’s gold, it seemed fitting that the original wishes of Anchises the king would be honoured.

Helikaon would – at last – fall to the blade of Karpophorus.

He had originally planned to kill him in Kypros, and had followed him in the darkness to a high cliff top. The storm had come then, and Helikaon had walked to the cliff edge, and stood, arms raised, as if preparing to dive to the rocks below. Karpophorus had moved silently between the great stones of the shrine. No need for a blade. Just a swift push and the man would plummet into eternity.

Then the child had appeared. Karpophorus had faded back into the shadows, and listened as the terrified little girl spoke of her mother. With Helikaon kneeling by the girl it would have been a simple matter to step forward and bury a knife blade between his shoulders. Yet he could not take a life in front of a child.

Karpophorus thought back to the night in Kypros. He had learned a lot, both about Helikaon and about himself. Arrogance had crept in. It was almost a deadly lesson. Helikaon had known he was followed, and had set men outside the walls.

And the Golden One had almost trapped him in the garden. He shivered with pleasure at the remembered excitement.

A sudden burst of moonlight had shone on Helikaon as he raced to intercept him.

Karpophorus had made it to the wall, and into the darkness beyond. Then he had glimpsed Zidantas. The big man did not see him in the shadows. Then other men had appeared. Karpophorus had needed all his skills to evade them.

He sat in the shade, remembering, and began to doze. A shadow fell across him and he woke instantly, his dagger in his hand. The elderly servant standing before him almost let slip the tray of food and drink he held. Karpophorus sheathed his blade. ‘Your master bade me bring you refreshment,’ said the servant, sternly, laying the tray on the bench. There was a flagon of cool water and a goblet, alongside a loaf of bread and slices of salt-dried fish.

The servant left him without a word and Karpophorus ate and drank. His liking for Helikaon swelled. Here was a nobleman who considered the welfare of the men who served him. He must have glanced down from one of the upper windows and seen Karpophorus waiting. Such a man would be made most welcome by the All Father when Karpophorus delivered his spirit to Him. In a way, Karpophorus decided, the killing of Helikaon was a gift to the man.

Pleased with the thought, he settled back to doze once more, and remembered the first man he had killed. It had been an accident. Karpophorus had been working in the stone quarry. His chisel blade had snapped, and flown up. It caught the man working alongside him in the throat, opening the jugular. He had died writhing on the dust of the quarry. Karpophorus had been horrified, but a priest later put his mind at rest. His words remained with the assassin still. ‘Hades, the Lord of the Dead, knows the moment of our birth, and the day and the moment of our death. It is written thus, that each man has a certain span allocated to him by Hades. And when that span is done his body returns to the earth.’

‘So no-one dies except at their allotted time?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then the Lord of the Dead used me to take his life?’

‘Yes, indeed, my boy. So you should feel no guilt.’

Guilt was the last thing he felt. The young Karpophorus was invigorated. He had been touched by the gods, and, in that moment, had become a servant of Hades. It was the single greatest moment of his life, and it changed his destiny.

He thought again of Helikaon. He couldn’t kill him today, for Oniacus had ordered him to be the Golden One’s bodyguard. In order to remain close to Helikaon Karpophorus had joined the crew in Kypros, and – as a crew member – had sworn an oath of loyalty. Such matters were not to be taken lightly, which was why he had fought ferociously alongside the Golden One at the Battle of Blue Owl Bay.

But the deed could not be put off for much longer. The feast of Demeter was tomorrow night. He would quit the ship later today, and then kill Helikaon tomorrow.

Satisfied with his decision, he stretched out on the bench and fell into a dreamless sleep.

iii

Helikaon passed through the doorway into the king’s megaron, a massive hall where petitioners waited in the hope of bringing their disputes before the king. There were merchants there, and commoners. It was packed and noisy, and Helikaon moved across it swiftly. A Royal Eagle in bright armour, with a white-crested helmet, opened the side door to the palace gardens, and Helikaon stepped out into the sunlight. There were stone walkways here, flowing around areas of brightly coloured flowers, and several sets of stone seats, shaded by an intricate series of climbing plants, growing between thick wooden roof slats. There were people waiting here also, but these were of the royal line. Helikaon saw two of Priam’s sons there, the king’s chancellor Polites, and fat Antiphones. Polites was sitting in the shade, a mass of papyrus scrolls on his lap. Both men wore the ankle-length white robes and belts of gold that marked their rank as ministers of the king. It had been almost a year since Helikaon had last seen them. Polites looked tired, almost ill. His pale hair was thinning, and his eyes were red-rimmed. Antiphones was even larger than Helikaon had remembered, his belly bulging over his wide golden belt, his face flushed and bloated, his eyes heavily pouched. Hard to believe, thought Helikaon, that both were still in their twenties.

Antiphones saw him first and grinned broadly. ‘Ho, Aeneas!’ he called out.

‘Welcome back!’ Stepping forward swiftly for such a large man, he embraced Helikaon, kissing his cheeks. The man’s strength was prodigious and Helikaon thought his ribs might snap. Then Antiphones released him. Polites did not rise, but smiled shyly. ‘Your adventures are the talk of Troy,’ continued Antiphones.

‘Sea battles and burning pirate ships. You live a life that is not dull, my friend.’

‘It is good to be back.’

Helikaon noted the use of the word pirate, and added no comment. Troy was still allied to Mykene, and no-one was going to risk causing offence to Agamemnon. He chatted to them for a while, learning that Priam was ‘at rest’, which meant he was rutting with some servant girl, or the wife of one of his sons. Polites seemed nervous and ill at ease. Perhaps it is your wife, thought Helikaon.

‘What news of the city?’ he asked them. He watched their expressions change, as if masks had fallen into place.

‘Oh,’ said Antiphones, ‘it is much the same. Have you seen Hektor’s bride?’

‘We met.’

‘Hard woman. Eyes like green flint. A Thera priestess, no less! Thin as a stick.

Nothing to get hold of there!’

Helikaon had no wish to discuss Andromache with them. Ignoring the comment he said, ‘Any news of Hektor?’

‘Only rumour,’ said Polites, dabbing at his watery eyes with the white sleeve of his gown. ‘A trader reported that a huge battle was being waged. No-one knows who won.’

‘Hektor won,’ insisted Antiphones. ‘Hektor always wins. He may be dull in conversation, and unable to tell a fine wine from a cup of cow piss, but he never loses a fight. Don’t you find it baffling?’

‘In what way?’

‘Ever the diplomat, Polites!’ said Antiphones scornfully. ‘You know full well what I mean. We both grew up with Hektor. He never liked to fight, not even childish scraps. Always reasonable, good-natured, grinning like an oaf. How in the name of Hades did he turn out to be such a warrior?’

Helikaon forced a smile. ‘Come, come, Antiphones! I remember when you were the fastest runner in Troy. Might not a similar question be asked? How did such a beautiful athlete become so fat?’

Antiphones also smiled, but his eyes were hard. ‘You have a point, Aeneas.

Hektor is what Hektor is. The beloved heir. Good for him, I suppose. But there is more to running a city than a warrior might suppose. When crops fail, or disease strikes, it will matter not a jot if the king can steer a chariot through a melee, or lop the head from an enemy.’

‘Which is why Hektor is lucky to have brothers like you.’

A servant appeared and halted before Helikaon. ‘The king is ready to see you, lord Aeneas,’ he said. Helikaon thanked the man, and followed him back into the palace through a side door, and towards a wide flight of stairs leading to the queen’s apartments at the top of the building.

‘Is the queen in residence?’ he asked the servant.

‘No, lord, she is still at the summer palace. But King Priam has taken to…

resting in her apartments during the day.’

Two Royal Eagles were standing before a doorway at the top of the stairs.

Helikaon recognized one of them, a powerfully built warrior named Cheon. The soldier nodded a greeting and smiled as he opened the door to the queen’s apartments, but he did not speak.

Helikaon entered the room and Cheon pulled the door shut behind him. Long curtains of gauze were fluttering in the mild breeze from the wide window, and the room smelt of heavy perfume. Through an open doorway Helikaon could see an unmade bed. Then a young woman emerged, her face flushed, her eyes downcast.

Easing past Helikaon she opened the door and left.

Then Priam appeared, a large golden goblet in his hand, a golden flagon in the other. Moving to a wide couch he sat down, drained the goblet and refilled it.

‘Well, come and sit down,’ he said, gesturing to a chair on the other side of a low table. ‘Unless, of course, you have plans to rush through my city burning Mykene pirates.’ Helikaon sat and looked at the king. There seemed to be more silver in the gold of his hair, but he was still a powerful figure.

‘Have you heard that Agamemnon was in Miletos?’ asked Priam.

‘No. He’s a long way from home.’

‘He’s been travelling greatly these last two years. Thraki, Phrygia, Karia, Lykia. Offering gifts to kings, declaring friendship and making alliances.’

‘Why would he need alliances on this side of the Great Green?’

‘Why indeed?’ The king fell silent. He leaned back. ‘You saw the girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pretty – but dull. Was a time when all women seemed to be creatures of fire and passion. You could spend a glorious day rutting. Now it’s all: “Yes, Great King, whatever pleases you, Great King. Would you like me to bark like a dog, Great King?” Why is that, do you think?’

‘You already know the answer,’ Helikaon told him.

‘Then humour me.’

‘No. I did not come here to argue with you. Why is it you always desire conflict when we meet?’

‘It is not about desire,’ said Priam. ‘It is merely that we don’t like each other. Shall I tell you what you were thinking when I asked the question?’

‘If it pleases you.’

‘In past days the girls made love to Priam, the beautiful young man. Now they just seek to serve Priam the randy old king. Am I right?’

‘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 one another for a little while. You want wine?’

‘No.’

‘Let us return to Agamemnon,’ continued Priam, 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 each other 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 analyse, Aeneas. His generals are bloodthirsty, and 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 these 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 which 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 neighbours, to prevent unnecessary warfare. An alliance with Troy is understandable. We are the greatest trading city upon 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, and 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 despatched – 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 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,’ said the king. 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 counsellor.’

‘You speak as if she was 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,’ he added. ‘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, where, 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?’ said Priam.

‘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,’ sneered Priam. ‘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.’

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 was an effort of will to rationalize these 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 now 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 favourite place, and it seemed entirely right that she should die here. 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 was already losing his hair, like his brother Polites. Slim and studious, Paris had never been suited to the manly pursuits his father so loved. He did not care for riding, save to journey from one place to another. He had no skill with sword or bow.

His enthusiasms were 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 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 to lean forward, 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. 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 dreamt 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, and 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 would sometimes 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 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 towards 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 behaviour.’

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,’ agreed Hekabe. ‘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 sandalled feet. Moving with care Helikaon descended to the beach below, then gazed out across the waves, seeing Kassandra’s dark head bobbing alongside the sleek grey 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, 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 further stretched their waning resources.

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 would one day be a beautiful woman. Her long dark hair was thick and lustrous, her eyes a soft blend of grey 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, 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 Cavala,’ 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 that 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 any normal standards of behaviour. ‘Does it not make you sad?’

‘Why would it make me sad?’

‘Do you not love her?’

‘Of course I love her. She is my greatest friend. Mother, you and Hektor. I love you all.’

‘But when she is dead you will not be able to see her, or hug her.’

‘Of course I will, silly! When I am dead too.’

Helikaon fell silent. The sea was calm and beautiful, and sitting here in the quiet of the Bay of Herakles it seemed that all the world was at peace. ‘I used to dream that you would marry me,’ said Kassandra. ‘When I was little. Before I knew better. I thought it would be wonderful to live with you in a palace.’

He laughed. ‘As I recall you also wanted to marry Hektor.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That would have been wonderful too. Egypteian brothers and sisters marry, you know.’

‘But you changed your mind about me,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Was it because you heard me snore?’

‘You don’t snore, Helikaon. You sleep on your back, with your arms spread out. I used to sit and watch you sleep. And I listened to your dreams. They were always frightening.’

‘How do you listen to dreams?’

‘I don’t know. I just do. I love this bay,’ she said. ‘It is very peaceful.’

‘So, are you going to tell me why you decided not to marry me?’

‘I will never marry. It is not in my destiny.’

‘In a few years you may change your mind. When you are grown. You are only eleven. I would wager that by the time you are my age the world will look very different to you.’

‘It will look different to everyone,’ she said. ‘But I will be dead before then, and I will be with mother.’

Helikaon shivered. ‘Don’t say that! Children should not talk of death so lightly.’

Her grey eyes met his own, and he saw the sadness there. ‘I will be on a rock,’

she said, ‘high in the sky, and three kings will be with me. And I will see you far below. The rock will carry me to the stars. It will be a great journey.’

Helikaon pushed himself to his feet. ‘I must attend your mother. She would be happy if you came with me.’

‘Then I shall make her happy,’ said Kassandra.

Swinging back she gazed at the bay. ‘This is where they will come,’ she whispered. ‘Just like Herakles did. Only this time their ships will fill the bay. As far as can be seen, all the way to the horizon. And there will be blood and death upon the beach.’

iii

For Laodike the afternoon was one of unremitting sadness. And it had started so well. She had been laughing and joking with Andromache in her high apartments overlooking the northern plains. Andromache had been trying on various hats and clothes presented to Laodike by foreign ambassadors. Most of them were ludicrous, and showed how stupid and primitive were the peoples of other nations: a wooden hat from Phrygia, with an integral veil so heavy that any woman wearing it would be half blind; a tall, conical Babylonian hat, made up of beaten rings of silver, that perched precariously on top of the head, held in place only by chin straps. She and Andromache had cavorted around the apartments, shrieking with laughter. At one point Andromache had donned a Kretan dress of heavy linen, embroidered with gold thread. It was designed so that the breasts could stand free, and a corset of bone drew in the waist, emphasising the curves of the wearer.

‘It is the most uncomfortable clothing I’ve ever worn,’ said Andromache, pulling back her shoulders, her breasts jutting proud and high. Laodike’s good humour had begun to evaporate at that moment. Standing there, in a stupid dress, the flame-haired Andromache looked like a goddess, and Laodike had felt unutterably plain.

Her mood had lifted as they were travelling to mother’s summer palace, but not by much. Mother had never liked her. Laodike’s childhood had been one of constant scolding. She could never remember the names of all the countries of the Great Green, and even when she did recall them, she found that she got the cities mixed up. So many of them were similar – Maeonia, Mysia, Mykene, Kios and Kos. In the end they all blurred in her mind. In mother’s lessons she would panic, and the gates of her mind would close, denying all access – even to things she knew. Kreusa and Paris would always know the answers, just as – she had been told – Hektor did before them. She didn’t doubt that strange little Kassandra also pleased mother.

Perhaps now that she is ill she will be less harsh, she had thought, as the two-wheeled carriage crossed the Scamander bridge.

‘What is she like, your mother?’ Andromache asked.

‘Very nice,’ answered Laodike.

‘No, I mean, what does she look like?’

‘Oh, she’s tall and her hair is dark. Father says she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She is still very attractive. Her eyes are grey-blue.’

‘She is revered on Thera,’ said Andromache. ‘Part of her dowry built the Temple of the Horse.’

‘Yes. Mother spoke of it. Very big.’

Andromache laughed. ‘Very big? It is colossal, Laodike. You can see it from the sea, miles from Thera. The head is so large that inside it there is a great hall, in which fifty of the senior priestesses meet and offer prayers and sacrifices to Poseidon. The eyes are massive windows. If you lean out you can pretend to be a bird, so high are you in the sky.’

‘It sounds… wonderful,’ said Laodike dully.

‘Are you ill?’ asked Andromache, leaning in to her, and placing an arm round her shoulder.

‘No, I am well. Truly,’ answered Laodike. She looked into Andromache’s green eyes, seeing the concern there. ‘It is just…’

‘Hera’s curse?’

‘Yes,’ she said, happy that it was not a complete lie. ‘Don’t you find it strange that it was a goddess who cursed women with periods of bleeding? Ought to have been a capricious god, really.’

Andromache laughed. ‘If all the tales are to be believed the male gods would surely prefer women to rut all the time. Perhaps Hera was just allowing us a little respite.’

Laodike saw the shoulders of the carriage driver hunch forward, as if he was trying to move himself further from the conversation. Suddenly her mood lifted, and she began to giggle. ‘Oh, Andromache, you really do have a wonderful way of seeing things.’ Settling back in her seat she glanced ahead at the walls of King’s Joy, her fears melting away.

Laodike had not seen her mother for several months, and, when Paris led them into the garden, she did not recognize her. Sitting in a wicker chair was a white-haired ancient, frail and bony, her face a mask of yellowed parchment, drawn so tightly across her skull it seemed that at any moment the skin would tear. Laodike stood very still, not knowing how to react. At first she thought the crone was also visiting mother, but then the ancient spoke. ‘Are you just going to stand there, stupid girl, or are you going to kiss your mother?’

Laodike felt giddy. Her mouth was dry, her mind reeling, just as it had during those awful lessons. ‘This is Andromache,’ she managed to say.

The dying queen’s gaze moved on. Laodike felt a surge of relief. Then Andromache stepped forward and kissed Hekabe’s cheek. ‘I am sorry to find you in such poor health,’ she said.

‘My son tells me I will like you,’ said the queen coldly. ‘I have always loathed that phrase. It instantly makes me feel I am destined to dislike the person. So you tell me why I should like you.’

Andromache shook her head. ‘I think not, Queen Hekabe. It seems to me that in Troy everyone plays games. I do not play games. Like me if you will, dislike me if you must. Either way the sun will still shine.’

‘A good answer,’ said the queen. Then her bright eyes fixed Andromache with a piercing look. ‘I hear you stood on the high parapet with Priam, and that you refused to kneel.’

‘Did you kneel for Priam?’

‘Not for Priam, or any man!’ snapped the queen.

Andromache laughed. ‘There you are then, Queen Hekabe. We have something in common already. We don’t know how to kneel.’

The queen’s smile faded. ‘Yes, we have something in common. Has my husband tried to bed you yet?’

‘No. Nor will he succeed if he tries.’

‘Oh, he will try, my dear. Not just because you are tall and comely, but because you are very like me. Or rather as I once was. I too was once a priestess of Thera. I too was strong once. I ran through the hills, and bent the bow, and danced in the revels. I too had a sweet lover, full-lipped and heavy-breasted.

How did Kalliope take your parting?’

Laodike was shocked at this news, and glanced at Andromache. She thought her friend would be crestfallen and shamed. Instead Andromache smiled broadly. ‘What a city this is,’ she said. ‘Everywhere there are spies and whispers, and no secrets are safe. I had not thought the royal court would know so much of the happenings on Thera.’

‘The royal court does not,’ said the queen. ‘I do. So, did Kalliope weep? Did she beg you to run away with her?’

‘Was that how you parted from your lover?’

‘Yes. It tore my heart to leave her. She killed herself.’

‘She must have loved you greatly.’

‘I am sure that she did. But she killed herself twenty years later, after a vileness grew in her throat, draining the flesh from her bones, and robbing her of speech and breath. She threw herself from the Eye of the Horse, her life dashed out on the rocks far below. Now I have a vileness in my belly. Do you think the gods punished us both for our lustful ways?’

‘Do you?’

Hekabe shrugged. ‘Sometimes I wonder.’

‘I do not,’ said Andromache. ‘Angry men stalk the lands with sword and fire, burning, killing, and raping. Yet the gods are said to admire them. If this is true, then I cannot see how they would punish women for loving one another.

However, if I am wrong, and the gods do hate us for our pleasures, then they do not deserve my worship.’

Hekabe suddenly laughed. ‘Oh, you are so like me! And you are far more suited to my Hektor than your insipid sister. However, we were talking about Priam. He will not rape you. He will seek to seduce you, or he will find some other means to force your acquiescence. He is a subtle man. I think he will wait until I am dead, though. So you have a little time of freedom yet.’

‘How could anyone love such a man?’ said Andromache.

Hekabe sighed. ‘He is wilful, and sometimes cruel. But there is greatness in him too.’ She smiled. ‘When you have known him a little longer you will see it.’ Her eyes turned back to Laodike. ‘Well, girl, are you going to kiss mother?’

‘Yes,’ replied Laodike meekly, stepping forward and stooping down. She closed her eyes and planted a swift peck on her mother’s cheek, then moved back hurriedly. The queen smelt of cloves, the scent sickly and cloying.

Servants brought chairs and cool drinks and they sat together. Paris had wandered off, and was reading a scroll. Laodike did not know what to say. She knew now that mother was dying, and her heart ached with the knowledge of it.

She felt like a child again, miserable, alone and unloved. Even on the verge of death mother did not have a kind word for her. Her stomach was knotted, and the conversation between Andromache and Hekabe seemed like the intermittent buzzing of bees. Mother summoned more servants to raise a set of painted sun screens around them, and, though the shade was welcome, it did nothing to raise Laodike’s spirits.

And then Helikaon came, and once more Laodike’s spirits lifted. She rose from her chair and waved as the young prince came striding across the pale grass of the cliff top, young Kassandra beside him. He smiled when he saw Laodike.

‘You are more lovely than ever, cousin,’ he said, taking her into his arms and hugging her close. Laodike wanted the hug never to end, and she clung to him, and kissed his cheek.

‘By the gods, Laodike, must you act the harlot?’ demanded mother.

The harshness of the tone cut through her. She had committed the most awful breach of protocol. A guest must first greet the queen. Helikaon leaned in and kissed her brow. Then he winked and mouthed the words: ‘Don’t worry!’ Stepping forward he knelt beside the queen’s chair. ‘I brought Kassandra as you requested.’

‘No-one brought me,’ said Kassandra. ‘I came to make you happy, mother.’

‘You always make me happy, my dear,’ said Hekabe. ‘Now sit with us, Helikaon. I am told you have been battling pirates, and setting them ablaze, no less.’

‘It is too beautiful a day,’ he said, ‘to be spoiled by tales of bloodshed and savagery. And the lady Andromache already knows of the battle and its aftermath.

She was there on the beach.’

‘I envy you,’ said Hekabe. ‘I would like to have watched those Mykene burn.

Heartless dogs every one of them. I never met a Mykene I liked – nor one I trusted.’

‘Tell mother about the disguise,’ said Laodike. ‘One of my servants heard it from a crewman.’

‘Disguise?’ echoed Hekabe, her brows furrowing.

‘To escape assassins on the cliff,’ said Laodike. ‘It was very clever. Tell her, Helikaon.’

‘It was a small matter. I knew the killers were waiting for me, so I bribed one of Kygones’ guards and borrowed his armour. Nothing dramatic, I fear. I merely walked past the Mykene.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘One of them even called me over to ask if I had seen Helikaon.’

‘You were dressed as a guard?’ said Andromache. ‘Did you perchance lose your sandal on the beach?’

‘Yes. The strap broke. How odd you should know that.’

‘Not at all. I saw you.’

Laodike looked at her young friend. Her face seemed very pale, and for the first time since she had known her Andromache seemed tense and ill at ease. ‘It was a cheap sandal,’ said Helikaon.

‘Tell me of the ship,’ demanded Hekabe. ‘I have always loved tales of ships.’

Laodike sat quietly as Helikaon spoke of the Xanthos, and the Madman from Miletos who designed and built her. He talked of her seaworthiness, and how she danced upon the waters like a queen of the sea. He told them of the storm, and how the ship weathered it. Laodike was lost in the wonder of it all. She dreamed of sailing far away from Troy, to live on a green island, where no-one would ever call her a stupid girl, or demand that she recite the names of lands she would never visit.

Towards dusk Hekabe complained of tiredness, and two servants were summoned to carry her back into the house. Helikaon left soon after. He had intended to sail today for Dardania, but now would have to wait for the dawn. He kissed Laodike, and hugged her again. ‘She does not mean to be cruel,’ he said.

Oh yes, she does, thought Laodike, but said: ‘I am sure you are right, Helikaon.’

Kneeling beside Kassandra he said: ‘Do I get a hug from you, little friend?’

‘No.’

‘Very well,’ he told her, and began to rise.

‘I have changed my mind,’ she said haughtily. ‘I will allow you a hug because it will make you happy.’

‘That is gracious of you,’ he said. Kassandra threw her thin arms round his neck, and hugged him tightly. He kissed her cheek. ‘Friends should always hug,’

he added. Then he stood and turned towards Andromache.

‘It was good to see you again, lady,’ he said. Laodike expected him to step in and take her in his arms also, but he did not. The two of them looked at one another. Andromache’s normally stern face had softened, and there was colour in her cheeks.

‘Will you come back for the wedding?’

‘I think not. I wish you every happiness. I have always known Hektor was lucky, but now I know the gods have blessed him.’

‘But have they blessed me?’ she asked softly.

‘I hope so – with all my heart.’

‘Are you going to hug her?’ asked Kassandra. ‘You should.’

Helikaon looked uncertain, but Andromache stepped in. ‘I think we should be friends,’ she said.

‘We always will be, Andromache. You have my oath on that.’ His arms swept round her, drawing her close.

Laodike felt a sudden chill in her belly as she watched them. She saw Helikaon’s eyes close, and she heard him sigh. Sadness flowed through her. For several years now she had entertained the fantasy that father might arrange a marriage between her and Helikaon. She knew he did not love her, but she believed that if such a match was completed she could make him happy. When she heard he had refused to be wedded to the beautiful Kreusa she had been jubilant.

He had told Priam he would only marry for love. Laodike had held to the faintest hope that he might come to love her. That hope had shone like a spark in the lonely nights. Now it was extinguished. He had never held her like that.

And she knew in that moment he never would.

You will never know love, whispered the dark fear of her heart.

Andromache broke the embrace. She was flushed and seemed unsteady on her feet.

Swiftly she stepped back from Helikaon, then knelt by the slim Kassandra. ‘Can we be friends too?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Kassandra. ‘I am going to swim again. The dolphins are waiting for me.’

i

Karpophorus was uneasy as he sat on the rooftop, staring across the Scamander river at the distant cliff-top palace. Tonight, as the sun set, the feast of Demeter, the Corn Goddess, would begin. People would give thanks for the harvests of the summer. There would be strong drink, fine wines, platters of food and huge roasting pits. People would dance and sing, and throw off their cares and worries for a day. In nine months there would be hundreds of new babes born into the world, screaming and crying. Karpophorus loathed feast days.

However, this one was special.

When he had first been called to his ministry of death he had travelled to the island of Samothraki, to seek the wisdom of a seer who dwelt there. The man was famous across the Great Green. He lived in a cave, eschewing wealth in the search for spiritual perfection. There were always scores of people thronging the hillside below the cave, offering gifts and entreaties. The seer would sit silently in the sunshine, and occasionally call someone forward. Then he would speak in low tones, and the supplicant would listen before walking away quietly through the crowd. People would call out to the supplicant, ‘What did he say?’

But always there was no answer.

Karpophorus had waited for nineteen days. On the morning of the twentieth, as he stared at the old man, he saw that the seer’s eyes were upon him. Then he was summoned. He could scarcely believe it, and glanced round to see if anyone was standing behind him. Finally he rose and walked up the hillside.

The seer was less old than he had thought. Though his beard was white his face was unlined.

Karpophorus sat cross-legged before him. ‘What wisdom do you seek?’ asked the seer.

‘I have been called to serve the Great Father,’ Karpophorus told him. ‘But I need guidance.’

‘How did this call come upon you?’

Karpophorus told him of the death of his co-worker, and of his realization that he was to serve the great god by sending souls on the long journey.

‘You think Hades requires you to kill people?’

‘Yes,’ answered Karpophorus proudly.

The man looked at him, his face expressionless, his large blue eyes holding Karpophorus’ dark gaze. ‘How many have you killed now?’

‘Nine.’

‘Wait, while I commune with the spirits,’ said the seer, then closed his eyes.

So much time passed that Karpophorus began to think the man had fallen asleep.

Then his eyes opened.

‘All men choose to follow one path or another, Karpophorus. If I were to tell you that you were deluded, and that the Lord of the Dead did not call upon you, would you believe me? Answer honestly.’

‘No. The Great God has made me his servant.’

The man nodded. ‘Tell me, do you believe he would want you to kill children?’

‘No.’

‘Or women?’

‘I do not know. Does he want women slain?’

‘There will be no children or women. And you will kill no-one between the Feast of Demeter and the Feast of Persephone. When the land sleeps between the seasons you also will rest. And for each mission you undertake successfully you will offer half of your fee to benefit the poor and the needy.’ He pointed to the knife at Karpophorus’ side. ‘Give me the blade.’ Karpophorus pulled it clear and offered it to the seer. It was a fine dagger, the hilt embossed with silver thread, the pommel shaped like a lion’s head. ‘You will use only this dagger for your missions. Never poison, nor sword, nor rope. Not your hands, not a spear, not a bow. And when this dagger breaks, or is lost, you will serve the Great God no more with death. If any of these instructions be broken then your life will end within seven days.’

‘It will be as you say, holy one.’

Over the years Karpophorus had followed each instruction without complaint. In three cities there were houses of care for the poor and the destitute, funded by Karpophorus. Not one woman or child had fallen to his dagger, and the weapon was lovingly tended, and used only for his missions, lest the blade be damaged. He carried two other knives for general use, and these he had used in the Battle of Blue Owl Bay.

Tonight was the Feast of Demeter, and today the Lion-pommelled dagger would end Helikaon’s life on this earth.

He had watched the lord ride across the Scamander bridge that morning, on a horse borrowed from the king’s stable. The chances were that he would return it around dusk and then walk down through the town to the beach. He would pass through the square of the Hermes Temple. There would be crowds there.

It should not be difficult, Karpophorus thought, to kill him there. I will merely walk up, the dagger hidden in my sleeve. Helikaon will greet me with a smile. Then, swiftly and surely, I will let slip the dagger and slice it across his throat. Then I will merge with the crowds and be gone. Helikaon will be free to find the Elysian Fields and enjoy eternity in the company of gods and heroes.

Karpophorus sighed.

It should not be difficult to kill him there.

The slaying of Helikaon had proved far more difficult than any of his recent killings. The Golden One was a wary man, and sharp-witted; a thinker and a planner. Worse than this, though, Karpophorus realized, he was, in fact, reluctant to go through with the contract. Odd thoughts had been occurring to him lately, doubts and concerns. It had never happened before. Karpophorus loved his work, and felt immense pride that Hades had chosen him. But joining the crew of the Xanthos had unsettled him.

All his life Karpophorus had been a solitary man, comfortable in his own company. More than this, he positively disliked being surrounded by crowds. He had thought the journey on the Xanthos would be tense and unpleasant. Instead he had found a kind of solace. Oniacus had even hugged him on the beach yesterday, after Karpophorus told him he was quitting the crew. The sensation had been strange. Afterwards he tried to think of the last time he had been embraced. He couldn’t remember. He supposed his mother must have cuddled him at some point,

but try as he might, he could not recall a single touch from her. ‘You’ll be missed, Attalus,’ Oniacus had told him. ‘I know the Golden One sets great store by you. He will be sorely disappointed when he hears you are no longer with us.’

This kind of parting was alien territory to the assassin. It amazed him that he had found himself close to tears. Not knowing what to say he had trudged off, his copper wages in his pouch.

He had spent the night dozing in a doorway overlooking the palace entrance, and was awake with the dawn, watching for Helikaon.

Below the rooftop he heard children laughing and playing. Easing himself up, he glanced down at them. There were five boys, playing catch with a knotted ball of old rope. Then he saw another child, sitting apart from the others. He was thin and scrawny, and his face bore a sad look.

Don’t just sit there, thought Karpophorus. Go and join in. Do not set yourself apart. Make friends.

But the boy just sat and watched. Karpophorus felt a sinking of the spirits, and toyed with the idea of walking down and speaking to him. Yet he could not. What would I say, he asked himself? And why should he listen?

Then one of the other boys, a tall, slim lad with long auburn hair, left the group and sat beside the smaller child. He put his arm round his shoulder. Then the child smiled. The taller boy pulled him to his feet, and drew him to where the others were playing.

Karpophorus felt a great sense of gratitude. He sat watching them playing until they wandered off to their homes. The little boy was laughing. ‘Who knows now what you may become?’ whispered Karpophorus.

And the sadness returned.

In the failing light he saw a horseman heading back across the Scamander bridge.

It was too dark to make out his features, but he recognized Helikaon’s riding style, one hand holding the reins, the other resting lightly on his thigh.

Karpophorus watched him return the horse, talk for a while with the groom, and then enter the palace. A short while later, now wearing a tunic of dark leather, two bronze swords scabbarded at his side, he strode out towards the streets leading to the beach.

Slipping his dagger into his sleeve, Karpophorus climbed down from the rooftop and moved out to intercept him.

ii

As he walked towards the harbour Helikaon thought of Andromache. He could still feel the warmth of her body pressed against him in that hug, and the remembered scent of her hair filled him with longing. He wished now that he had sailed from Troy earlier, and had not visited the dying Hekabe.

He glanced at the sky, and the lowering clouds in the west, and wondered if he had committed some sin against Aphrodite, the love goddess. Perhaps he had sacrificed less to her than to the other gods. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He had refused to marry, save for love, and now, having met the woman of his heart and his dreams, she was to wed another. Worse, she was to be married to his closest friend.

Now is not the time to dwell on it, he warned himself, as the shadows lengthened on the streets of Troy.

He passed through milling crowds of brightly dressed Trojans thronging the marketplaces, seeking the best deals from traders anxious to pack up their wares for the night. A whore smiled at him, cupping her heavy breasts, and licking her painted lips. He shook his head and her interest waned, her bright smile fading.

With the crowds behind him he moved more warily down the hillside towards the beach. Mykene spies would be well aware that this was his last day in Troy. They knew he would be sailing with the dawn. If another attack was planned, then it would be now, as he returned to the Xanthos.

A cool westerly breeze was blowing, and several drops of rain began to fall.

Helikaon gazed at the buildings ahead. He was approaching a narrow street, leading to the wide square fronting the Temple of Hermes, God of Travellers.

There would be many people there, sailors offering gifts for safe passage, and others about to take journeys who would be seeking the blessing of the god.

A perfect place to ambush a single man in sight of his ship.

He felt the tension rise in him as he entered the street before the temple.

Ahead he saw a man, hooded and cloaked. The man turned away sharply and walked back towards the square.

A cold anger settled on Helikaon. This was the scout, then. His appearance in the square would tell the others that Helikaon was approaching. How many would be waiting? His heart began to beat faster. They would want to be sure this time. Eight or ten killers would rush him. Certainly no more. A larger group would get in each others’ way. Ten, he decided, would be the maximum. At least two would run behind, to block a retreat back along the street he now walked.

The others would circle him, then rush in.

Helikaon paused and whispered a prayer to the war god. ‘I know these Mykene worship you above all gods, mighty Ares, but the men in this square are cowards.

I ask your blessing upon my blades today.’

Then he walked on.

At the entrance to the square he glanced left and right. As he walked on he saw two hooded men angling around behind him, blocking his retreat.

He saw Attalus moving through the crowd towards him.

At that moment four men threw off their cloaks, drew swords and rushed at him.

They were wearing leather breastplates and round leather helmets. Helikaon drew his two swords and leapt to meet them. All around, the crowd scattered. Other Mykene rushed in. Helikaon blocked a savage thrust, plunging his blade through an attacker’s throat. A sword blade hammered against his side. The pain was intense – but the hidden ivory discs within the leather tunic prevented his ribs being smashed. Helikaon swung his sword against the Mykene’s leather helmet. The blade sliced down through the flesh of the man’s face, snapping the jaw bone.

Helikaon kept moving, cutting and parrying. Despite concentrating on the men coming against him he was aware of Oniacus and the hand-picked fighting men of the crew rushing from their hiding places and attacking the Mykene. The ringing clash of sword upon sword echoed in the square. The crowd had drawn back, leaving the central area to the combatants. Flipping his right-hand blade, and holding the short sword now as a dagger, Helikaon parried a thrust with his left-hand sword, then plunged the right down through the attacker’s collar bone.

The blade sank deep, and a ghastly scream tore from the Mykene’s throat.

Helikaon spun and saw Attalus ram a dagger through the eye of a Mykene. There was blood on Attalus’ tunic.

Now it was the Mykene who sought to flee. Helikaon saw a tall warrior cut down a crewman and run towards the narrow street.

Gershom cut off his retreat, the club of Zidantas thundering into the man’s face. The Mykene was hurled from his feet, his skull smashed.

Two other attackers threw down their weapons, but they were ruthlessly slain.

Helikaon saw Attalus tottering towards him, his dagger dripping blood. The man staggered. Dropping his swords Helikaon stepped in to meet him. The injured man fell into his arms. Helikaon laid him down on the stone. Attalus’ hand flapped, the dagger blade scraping across Helikaon’s tunic. ‘It is all right, Attalus,’

said Helikaon, taking the blade from the man’s hand. ‘The fighting is over. Let me see your wound.’

There was a deep puncture just above the right hip, and blood was pouring from it. Then Helikaon saw a second wound in the chest. It was bleeding profusely.

Oniacus crouched down alongside Helikaon. ‘Eight dead Mykene, but we lost five, with three more carrying wounds.’

‘You have a healer waiting at the Xanthos?’

‘Aye, Golden One, just as you ordered.’

‘Then let us get the wounded aboard.’

‘Give me… my dagger,’ whispered Attalus.

Helikaon laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘You must rest, Attalus. Do not exert yourself. Your dagger is safe. I will look after it for you.’

‘Looks like you are staying with us after all, Attalus, my friend,’ said Oniacus. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll have those scratches dealt with in no time.’

Helikaon stood and gazed around the temple square. People were gathering now, staring at the bodies. A troop of Trojan soldiers came running into sight, spreading out, swords drawn. Helikaon strode towards them. The officer approached him. Helikaon did not know the man.

‘What happened here?’ demanded the officer.

‘Mykene assassins tried to kill me.’

‘And why would they do that?’

‘I am Aeneas of Dardania, known as Helikaon.’

Instantly the officer’s attitude changed. ‘My apologies, lord. I did not recognize you. I am new to the city.’ He glanced at the corpses, and the wounded crewmen. ‘Did any of the assassins escape?’

‘None that I saw.’

‘I will need to make a report to my watch commander.’

‘Of course,’ said Helikaon, and outlined the attack. As he concluded the officer thanked him and began to turn away. ‘Wait,’ called Helikaon. ‘You have not asked me why the Mykene should want me dead.’

The officer gave a tight smile. ‘Oh, I have been in the city long enough to understand why,’ he answered. ‘You stain the Great Green with their blood.’

Helikaon returned to his men. Stretcher bearers carried three badly wounded crewmen away to the House of Serpents, while others were helped down to the beach where the physician Machaon waited. The five corpses were also carried to the beach and laid out on the sand close to the Xanthos. Helikaon knelt alongside each of the bodies, placing silver rings in their mouths.

‘Why do you do that?’ asked Gershom.

Helikaon rose. ‘Gifts for Charon the Ferryman. All spirits must cross the Black River to reach the Fields of Elysia. He ferries them.’

‘You believe that?’

Helikaon shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But the gifts also honour the dead, and are tributes to their bravery.’

A tall, silver-haired man, wearing a long white cloak bearing the horse insignia of the House of Priam, approached them and bowed.

‘My lord Aeneas, I come from the king with grim news.’

‘Is Priam ill?’

‘No, lord. The news is from Dardania.’

‘Then speak, man.’

The messenger hesitated, then took a long, deep breath. He did not meet Helikaon’s gaze. ‘Word has reached us that a force of Mykene pirates, under cover of darkness, broke into the citadel at Dardanos.’ He hesitated. ‘It was not a plunder raid. It was a mission of murder.’

Helikaon stood very quietly. ‘They were seeking me?’

‘No, lord. They were hunting the boy king.’

A cold fear settled on Helikaon’s heart. ‘Tell me they did not find him.’

‘I am sorry, lord. They killed Diomedes and raped and stabbed his mother. She still lives, but it is feared not for long.’

Several men, Oniacus among them, had gathered round. No-one spoke. Helikaon fought for control. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the bright, smiling face of Diomedes, sunlight glinting on his golden hair. The silence grew.

‘The pirates were beaten back, lord. But most of them made it to the beach and their waiting ships.’

‘How did the boy die?’

‘They soaked his clothing in oil, set fire to him, and hurled him from the cliffs. The queen’s clothing was also drenched in oil, but General Pausanius and his men fought their way to her. The Mykene had no time to burn her, which, I suppose, is why they stabbed her. No-one knows who led the raid, save that it was a young warrior with white hair.’

Helikaon walked away from the messenger and the silent crew and stood staring out to sea. Oniacus joined him.

‘What are your orders, my king?’ he asked.

‘We sail tonight. We are going home to Dardanos,’ Helikaon told him.