Lord of the Silver Bow

i

The autumn months drifted by with appalling lack of speed. Gloomy skies of unremitting grey, punctuated by ferocious storms and driving rain, dampened even Andromache’s fiery spirit. She endeavoured to fill her time with pleasurable activities, but there were few opportunities for the women of the palace to enjoy themselves. They were not allowed to ride horses, or attend evening entertainments in the town. There were no revels, no gatherings to dance and sing. Day by day she missed the isle of Thera more and more, and dreamt of the wild freedom she had enjoyed.

For a little while her boredom had been allayed by the arrival of a new, temporary night servant, a Thrakian girl, Alesia. She had been willing and compliant, but the closeness of her body in the wide bed had only served to remind Andromache of how much she missed Kalliope. When Alesia returned to her regular duties Andromache did not miss her, and made no attempt to seduce her replacement.

Just before year’s end Andromache acquired a Phrygian bow from the Lower Market.

It was a fine weapon, with a heavy pull that even Andromache found difficult at first to master. It was cunningly contrived from layers of flexible horn and wood, and with it she had bought a heavy wrist guard of polished black leather.

She took it out on the practice fields to the north of the city, where many of the Trojan archers honed their skills. It was a day of rare sunshine, and Andromache, dressed in a thigh-length white tunic and sandals, had enjoyed herself for most of the morning. The Trojan men had at first been polite, but patronizing. When they saw her skill they gathered round her, discussing the attributes of the bow.

The following day Andromache had been summoned before Priam, in his apartments.

The king was angry, and berated her for appearing before men of low class.

‘No highborn Trojan woman would walk semi-naked among peasants,’ he said.

‘I am not yet a Trojan,’ she pointed out, trying in vain to keep her anger in check.

‘And you might not ever be! I could send you home in disgrace and demand the return of your bride price.’

‘What a tragedy that would be,’ she retorted.

She had expected an explosion of rage. Instead the king suddenly burst into laughter. ‘By the gods, woman, you remind me of Hekabe, all spit and fire. Aye, you are very like her.’ She saw his gaze move to her breasts, and flow down over her body. The thin blue gown she was wearing suddenly seemed flimsy and transparent. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘You cannot flout the customs of Troy,’ he continued, his face flushed, but his tone more conciliatory. ‘Palace women wear full gowns when in public. They do not shoot bows. You, however, may shoot your bow. The men were impressed by you, which is no bad thing. The families of ruling houses should always be impressive.’

‘It was easy to impress them,’ she said. ‘The bows you supply them with are inferior weapons. They do not have range or power.’

‘They have served us well in the past.’

‘It would surprise me if a shaft from a Trojan bow could pierce even a leather breastplate. More and more warriors these days are better armoured.’

The king sat quietly for a moment. ‘Very well, Andromache. This afternoon you will attend me in the palace gardens, and we will see how well the Trojan bows perform.’

Back in her own apartments, overlooking the northern hills, she found Laodike waiting. She had been less effusively friendly of late, ever since, in fact, the meeting with Hekabe. Andromache put it down to the shock of seeing her mother so weak and ill. But today she seemed even more sad. Usually bedecked in jewellery she was dressed in a simple, unadorned, ankle-length chiton of pale green. Her fair hair, normally braided with gold or silver wire, hung free to her shoulders. In a curious way, thought Andromache, the lack of extravagant gems actually made Laodike look more attractive, as if the glittering beauty of the gems served only to emphasize her plainness. Greeting her friend with a kiss on the cheek, she told her of Priam’s challenge.

‘He is seeking to shame you, you know,’ said Laodike quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

The young woman shrugged. ‘He does that. He likes to make people look foolish.

Mother is the same. That is why they were so well suited.’

Andromache sat by her, putting her arms round her friend. ‘What is wrong, Laodike?’

‘I am all right.’ Laodike forced a smile. ‘Have you heard from Helikaon?’

Andromache was surprised by the question. ‘Why would I hear from Helikaon?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I wondered if he had sent a message and I hadn’t heard about it. Nobody tells me anything.’

‘No. As far as I know there have been no messages from Dardania.’

Laodike seemed a little happier. ‘They say he killed twenty Mykene at the temple square. He was like a young god. That’s what I heard. He had two swords and he killed all the assassins.’

Andromache too had heard the obviously tall stories about Helikaon’s prowess, and she had watched the Xanthos sail into the dawn with a heavy sense of loss.

She looked at Laodike, and understood then that the young woman was infatuated with Helikaon. Sadness touched her. She had seen Helikaon greeting Laodike at Hekabe’s palace, and there was no sign that he found her attractive. Yes, he had paid her a compliment, but there was no hint of passion in the comment. Then she realized why Laodike had thought he might have been in contact. He had made no secret of his desire for Andromache. ‘What did you mean about your father shaming me?’ she asked, seeking to change the subject.

‘He plays games with people all the time. I don’t know why. He doesn’t do it with Kreusa or Hektor, but everyone else suffers at some time.’

Andromache laughed. ‘He cannot shame me with a bow, Laodike. I can assure you of that.’

‘It will be a contest,’ said Laodike. ‘You’ll see. It will be Dios, or perhaps Agathon. They are superb bowmen. And father will fill the gardens with people to watch you beaten by one of his sons. You’ll see,’ she said again.

‘They will need to be very, very good,’ Andromache told her. ‘And I am not cowed by crowds.’

‘I wish I was like you,’ said Laodike, with a sigh. ‘If I was…’ She hesitated and gave a soft smile. ‘Ah well, I am not, so it doesn’t matter.’

Andromache took Laodike’s hands in hers. ‘Listen to me,’ she whispered.

‘Whatever it is that you see in me, is in you also. You are a fine woman, and I am proud to have you as a friend.’

‘I am a fine woman,’ repeated Laodike. ‘But I am twenty-three, with no husband.

All my pretty sisters – save Kreusa – have wed.’

‘Oh, Laodike! You have no idea how alike we are, really. I was the plainest of my family. No-one would have me. So father sent me to Thera. It was only when my little sister died that Priam accepted me for Hektor. And you are not plain.

Your eyes are beautiful, and your smile is enchanting.’

Laodike blushed. Then she looked Andromache in the eye. ‘I remember when Paleste came to Troy. I liked her, but she was very shy. Father took to her, but mother didn’t like her at all. She said she was unworthy to marry Hektor. I remember mother saying that the wrong sister had been chosen. She knew of you even then, you know.’

‘I didn’t know. Poor Paleste. She was a sweet girl.’

‘Do you like Helikaon?’ asked Laodike.

Andromache didn’t want to talk about it, and feared her friendship with Laodike might be damaged by the truth. But she could not lie. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said.

‘And he is smitten with you. I could see that.’

‘Men always adore what they cannot have. I am to marry Hektor, so let us not allow thoughts of men to come between us. You are my friend, Laodike. I love you like a sister. Now, will you come with me to the gardens later? It would help to have a friend close by.’

‘Of course I will. Then I must go to the Temple of Asklepios. Mother needs more opiates.’

‘I shall come with you. I have a little friend who helps there. His name is Xander.’

It was mid-afternoon when the two women emerged into the largest of the palace gardens. As Laodike had predicted, there were at least a hundred people present.

Andromache had met many of them, but even now there were many names she could not recall. Priam was seated on an ornate gilded chair set on a stone dais.

Beside him was his daughter Kreusa, a dark-haired beauty, slim and regal. Her eyes were cold, and she looked at Andromache with undisguised disdain. The soft-looking, round-shouldered chancellor, Polites, was also with the king, as was fat Antiphones, and the slender Dios. Once again Andromache was struck by his resemblance to Helikaon. There was another man with them, tall and wide-shouldered, his hair red-gold. Andromache had not seen him before. ‘That is my half-brother, Agathon,’ whispered Laodike. ‘I told you it would be a contest.’

At the far end of the gardens, some sixty paces distant, Andromache saw a small cart with large wheels. On a tall spike at the centre a leather breastplate had been fastened. There were long ropes attached to the front and rear of the cart.

‘Have you ever shot at a moving target?’ asked Laodike.

‘No.’

‘You will today. Servants haul on the ropes, dragging the cart back and forth.’

Priam rose from his seat, and all conversation among the crowd ebbed away.

Agathon and the slender Dios both took up bows and walked out to stand alongside Andromache. Laodike faded back a few steps.

‘Today we are to witness a contest,’ said Priam, his voice booming out.

‘Andromache, of Thebe Under Plakos, believes Trojan bows are inferior weapons, and is going to entertain us with her redoubtable skills. My generals, Agathon and Deiphobos, stand for the pride of Trojan craftsmanship. And there is a fine prize to be won.’ He held out his hand, and Kreusa stepped forward, offering him a wondrously crafted battle helmet, embossed with silver, and bearing a motif on the brow of the god Apollo drawing back his bow.

Priam lifted it high, and the afternoon sunshine glinted on the burnished metal.

‘May the Lord of the Silver Bow bring victory to the most worthy,’ cried the king. Andromache felt her anger swell. It was a warrior’s prize, a man’s prize, and the offering of it was a less than subtle insult to a female archer.

‘Will you honour us by shooting first, Andromache?’ asked Priam.

‘It would hardly be fitting, King Priam,’ replied Andromache sweetly. ‘It is – I am assured – a woman’s place to follow in a man’s world.’

‘Then it shall be Agathon,’ said Priam, settling back into his seat. The wide-shouldered prince stepped forward, notching an arrow to his bow. At his command servants at the far end of the garden took up ropes and slowly drew the cart across to the left. Then the men on the right began to haul the cart swiftly across the paved stone.

Agathon let fly – the shaft striking and piercing the leather breastplate. The crowd cheered. Then Dios stepped forward. He too sent a shaft into the leather.

Both arrows drooped after they struck, showing they had not penetrated far.

Andromache notched a black-feathered shaft and curled her fingers around the string. As she had watched the two men she had gauged the time it took for the arrows to fly to their target, and the speed of the cart. Even so, it would have been pleasant to be allowed a few practice shots. Calming herself, she drew back on the bow. The cart lumbered across her line of sight. Adjusting her aim, she loosed her shaft. The black-feathered arrow slammed into the breastplate, burying itself deep.

Each archer loosed six more shafts. Not one missed, and the breastplate began to resemble a porcupine. The crowd were less attentive now, and there was a short break while servants removed the ruined breastplate, and recovered the arrows.

Andromache glanced at the two princes. Both seemed tense and expectant. She saw Priam speaking to a soldier, who then ran off through the crowd. ‘What is happening?’ she asked Prince Agathon.

‘The competition is about to begin in earnest,’ he said, a touch of anger in his voice. He drew in a deep breath. ‘It might be as well, Lady Andromache, for you to withdraw now.’

‘Why would I?’

‘Because we will not be shooting at targets. My father has other plans, I fear.’

As he spoke, soldiers emerged from buildings to the rear of the gardens. They were leading three bound men, each wearing a leather breastplate. The prisoners were taken to stand before the target cart. Then the soldiers, their spears levelled towards the prisoners, formed two lines in front of the crowd. The king rose. ‘These wretches,’ he said, ‘are plotters. They were arrested yesterday. Stubborn, rebellious men, who have refused to name their confederates.’ Andromache stared at the prisoners. They were in a sorry state, their faces smeared with blood, their eyes swollen. Knowing now what was to come she walked away from the princes. Priam saw her. ‘Not to your liking, girl? Ah well, this is man’s work.’ He turned back to the crowd. ‘These traitors deserve death, but I am a merciful man. Their bonds will be cut.’ Taking a spear from a Royal Eagle standing close by he hurled it out onto the grass, some sixty running steps from the prisoners. ‘If any of them can reach that spear then they will suffer merely banishment. Loose the first! And let Deiphobos represent my honour.’ A soldier drew a dagger from his belt and walked to the first prisoner, a slim, middle-aged man. The soldier slashed his blade through the ropes binding the prisoner’s wrists. The man stood very still, staring malevolently down the gardens at the king. Then he took a deep breath, and broke into a swerving run. Dios raised his bow. The running man increased his pace. The arrow took him through the throat, punching through to the back of his neck. He staggered on, then pitched to the right. He began to choke, his face growing purple. Andromache looked away, but could not shut her ears to the grotesque sounds as the dying man fought for breath. Finally there was silence. ‘Now the second!’ roared Priam.

This prisoner was a powerful man, with a heavy beard. He also glared at the king. When they cut him loose he did not run, but strode down the garden. Prince Agathon took aim. Suddenly the man darted to his right, then raced for the spear. Agathon loosed his shaft. It took the man in the chest, but did not fully pierce the breastplate. Without pausing in his run the prisoner sprinted for the spear. Dios let fly. His arrow also thudded home, but the prisoner reached the spear and swept it up. Then he swung towards Priam and charged. The move surprised everyone. A Royal Eagle leapt to bar his way, but the prisoner shoulder-barged him, knocking him from his feet.

Just as he reached the king a black-feathered shaft hammered through his back, burying itself deep, and cleaving his heart. The prisoner stood for a moment, then toppled sideways, the spear clattering to the ground. Andromache lowered the Phrygian bow, and stared at the man she had killed. Agathon moved alongside her. ‘A very fine shot. You saved the king.’ Priam stepped over the body. ‘And now,’ he roared, ‘all can see why this woman was chosen as the bride for my Hektor! Let your voices sound for Andromache!’ Obediently a cheer went up from the crowd. Then the king signalled to the soldiers at the far end of the gardens, and the last prisoner was led away. The following month Andromache learned that Priam had ordered a thousand Phrygian bows for his archers.

ii

It was late in the afternoon before Andromache could slip away from the garden.

Her status suddenly enhanced by the events of the day, she had been surrounded by well-wishers and sycophants. When at last she feigned tiredness she found Laodike waiting in her apartments.

Her friend ran to her, hugging her close. ‘You were wonderful, Andromache!’ she said. ‘I am so proud of you. Your name is on everyone’s lips.’

Andromache kissed her on the cheek, then slipped out of her embrace. ‘Who was the man I killed?’

‘A captain of the Eagles. Everyone thought him to be a hero. What makes a man become a traitor, do you think?’

‘I do not know. But he was brave. He could have merely picked up the spear and taken banishment. Instead he accepted certain death, for even had he killed Priam the guards would have overpowered and slain him. Let us talk no more of it. A walk to the temple is just what I need.’

The sunshine continued, though there were rain clouds in the distance as the two women set out arm in arm. ‘I think Agathon was impressed,’ said Laodike. ‘He couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

Andromache laughed. ‘He is an impressive man. Why have I not seen him before?’

‘He spends much of his time east of the city. He leads the Thrakian mercenaries, and is almost as fine a general as Hektor. They are very close.’

‘Do they look alike?’

Laodike giggled. ‘Are you asking whether Hektor is handsome?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like a young god. His hair is golden, his eyes are blue, and he has a smile to win any heart.’

‘And he is the oldest of Priam’s sons?’

Laodike laughed again. ‘Yes and no. He is the oldest of mother’s children, and therefore the legitimate heir. But father was twenty-four when he and mother wed. And there were other children born to his lovers. The oldest was Troilus.

He would have been almost forty now.’

‘He died?’

‘Father had him banished last year. He died in Miletos. Some think he was poisoned. I expect he was.’

‘That makes no sense to me,’ said Andromache. ‘If Priam wanted him dead, why not kill him in Troy?’

Laodike paused in her walk and turned towards her. ‘You should understand that before mother was ill Troy had two rulers. Mother hated Troilus. I think she hates all the sons she did not bear. When Troilus plotted to overthrow father she thought he should be killed instantly. Father refused.’ Laodike shrugged.

‘And he died anyway.’

‘Hekabe had him poisoned?’

‘I do not know, Andromache. Perhaps he just died. But you would be amazed at the number of people who have died young, following disagreements with mother.’

‘Then I am glad she liked me. So how old is Hektor?’

‘Almost thirty.’

‘Why has he never wed?’

Laodike looked away. ‘Oh, probably because of wars and battles. You should ask him when he comes home. There will be great parades and celebrations for his victories.’

Andromache knew something was being kept from her, but she decided not to press the point. Instead she said: ‘He must be a great warrior indeed, if his victories can be anticipated before the battles are fought.’

‘Oh, Hektor never loses,’ said Laodike. ‘The Trojan Horse is supreme in battle.’

It seemed to Andromache that such conviction was naive. A stray arrow, a hurled spear, an unlucky blow, could all end the life of any fighting man. However, she let the moment pass, and the two women wandered down through the marketplaces, stopping to examine the wares on display. Finally they reached the healing houses.

They sat in a rear garden, Laodike having sent a servant to seek out the healer Machaon. Another servant, an elderly man, brought them goblets of juice squeezed from various fruits. Andromache had never tasted anything so deliciously sweet.

The mixture was the colour of the sunset. ‘What is in this?’ she asked.

‘Tree fruits from Egypte and Palestine. They come in various shapes and colours.

Some are gold, some yellow, some green. Some are good on their own, and others are so sharp they make the eyes water. But the priests here mix them with honey.

Very refreshing.’

‘There is so much that is new in Troy,’ said Andromache. ‘I have never seen such colour. The women’s gowns, the decorations on the walls.’ She laughed. ‘Even the drinks have many colours.’

‘Father says that trade is what makes civilizations grow. Nations and peoples learn from one another, and improve on one another’s skills. We have Egypteian cloth makers in Troy. They have begun experimenting with the dyes from Phrygia and Babylon. There are some wonderful colours being produced. But it is not just the clothes. Hektor brought back horses from Thessaly. Big beasts. Sixteen hands. He’s bred them with our mares. They make superb war mounts. Men of skill and enterprise all come to Troy. Father says that one day we will be the centre of a great civilization.’

Andromache listened as Laodike spoke on about Priam and his dreams. It was obvious that she adored her father, and equally obvious that he had little time for her.

Laodike’s voice faded away. ‘I think I am boring you,’ she said. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Nonsense. It is fascinating.’

‘Really? You are not just saying that?’

‘Why would I?’ Andromache threw her arm round Laodike’s shoulder and kissed her cheek.

The physican-priest Machaon entered the garden. He looked dreadfully weary, thought Andromache. His face was pale, and there was sweat upon his brow.

Although a young man, he was already losing his hair, and his shoulders were rounded. ‘Greetings to you, king’s daughter,’ he said. ‘It is always a pleasure to see you. And you, Andromache of Thebe.’

‘How is Xander faring?’ Andromache asked. The young physician smiled.

‘He is a fine lad, with great sensitivity. I have him working with the dying. He has a talent for lifting their spirits. I am glad he stayed with us.’ He turned

to Laodike, and handed her a small, cloth-wrapped package. ‘These should last for another week or so. Be advised, though, that soon even these powerful opiates will not keep the pain at bay.’

‘Mother says she is feeling a little better,’ said Laodike. ‘Perhaps her body is healing.’

He shook his head. ‘She is past healing. Only her strength of mind and the courage of her spirit keeps her in these lands of the living. There is a small phial in the package. It is stoppered with green wax. When the pain becomes unbearable – and it will –break open the phial and mix it with wine. Then get your mother to drink it.’

‘And that will take away the pain?’

His brows furrowed. ‘Yes, Laodike. It will take away the pain. Permanently.’

‘Then why can she not have it now? Her pain is very great.’

‘I am sorry, I am not making myself clear. The phial is to be used to help your mother at the end. Once she has drunk it she will fall into a deep sleep, and pass peacefully to the world beyond.’

‘Are you saying it is poison?’

‘That is exactly what I am saying. During the last days your mother will be in dreadful agony. The pain will be excruciating, and beyond her ability to cope with. You understand me? At this point she will have only hours left to live.

Better, I think, if you rescue her from that suffering. It is, however, your choice.’

‘I couldn’t poison mother,’ said Laodike.

‘Of course you couldn’t,’ said Andromache. ‘However, you can tell her exactly what the gentle Machaon has told you. And you can give her the phial. Let her make the choice.’

‘Thank you, Lady Andromache,’ said Machaon. ‘Yes, that is of course the correct course.’ He looked at her and seemed about to speak.

‘Was there something else?’ she asked.

‘I understand you travelled with the Mykene warrior Argurios.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A hard man and unpleasant.’

‘Ah! Then I shall not trouble you with my problem concerning him. I thought, perhaps, you might be… friends.’

‘How is it,’ she asked, ‘that a physician is having trouble with a travelling warrior?’

‘Did you not hear? He was attacked by other Mykene. His wounds were grievous. He is still likely to die of them. But I cannot make him rest, my lady. He insists on working for his bread and for the right to sleep here. I have explained that all costs have been met by the lord Helikaon, but this only seems to anger him.

He has been sawing wood, carrying water. All kinds of menial duties, for which we have servants. He has torn open his stitches many times through such – and other – ill-advised exercise. I have tried to explain to him that his body was savagely damaged. He cannot breathe well, and becomes dizzy with any exertion.

Yet he will not listen. I fear he is going to collapse and die, and then the lord Helikaon will view me with displeasure.’

‘We will speak to him, Laodike and I,’ said Andromache. ‘Where is he?’

‘I saw him a little while ago, beyond the House of Earth. He is trying to repair an old wall. There is no need. The wall no longer serves any real purpose. Yet he carries large stones, and exhausts himself.’

Machaon gave them directions and the two women walked off. Laodike was not happy.

‘I do not like Mykene,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if he dies.’

‘He helped Helikaon at the Bay of Blue Owls,’ said Andromache. ‘He killed a Mykene assassin. Perhaps that is why he was attacked.’

‘I expect he had unpleasant reasons for doing what he did,’ said Laodike.

‘Mykene always do.’

i

Argurios could hardly breathe. It was if the gods had placed a gate in his chest, and no air was reaching his lungs. White lights danced before his eyes and dizziness threatened to bring him down. He staggered on for several paces, his arms burning with the weight of the rock. Even his legs were trembling and painful, especially the calves. Grimly he struggled on, lowering the rock to the breach in the ancient wall. His vision began to swim, forcing him to sit down.

He gazed down at his trembling hands.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for the horror of such weakness. He had seen friends die in battle, and others struck down by wasting fevers. But always he had remained strong. He could run for miles, in full armour, and then fight a battle. His stamina was legendary. Yet now he struggled to lift a few pitiful rocks onto a ruined wall.

Sweat dripped into his eyes and he was too weary even to wipe it away.

He glanced across the old paddock, and saw the two men sitting in the shade.

Both were armed with swords and daggers. Over the weeks he had tried to approach them, but they faded back from him, and he did not have the stamina to give chase. At first he had thought them to be more killers, ready to strike him down and claim the bounty from Erekos. The boy, Xander, had told him not to concern himself.

‘Who are they, then?’

Xander became ill at ease. ‘I am not supposed to say.’

‘But you have. So tell me.’

‘They are here to protect you.’

Argurios had learned then that they were men hired by Helikaon. It was a sickening discovery. ‘You told me… he was glad I was dying,’ said Argurios.

The boy looked crestfallen. ‘He told me to say that. He thought it would make you fight for life.’

Argurios swore softly. The world had gone mad. Friends and countrymen wanted him dead. Enemies hired men to keep him alive. Somewhere on Olympos the gods were laughing at this grotesque jest.

As the weeks passed, and his condition did not improve, Argurios found himself wishing they were Mykene assassins. At least then he could end his life in battle.

A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Two women were standing there, the sun behind them.

‘What… do you want?’ he asked gruffly, thinking them to be priestesses coming to chide him.

‘A courteous greeting would be pleasant,’ replied Andromache. With an effort Argurios pushed himself to his feet.

‘The sun was… in my eyes,’ he said, between shallow breaths. ‘I did not…

recognize you.’

He saw the shock of his condition register on her face. Argurios had lost weight, and his eyes were sunken and dark-rimmed, his arms and legs thin and wasted. ‘Let us all sit,’ said Andromache. ‘This is my friend, the king’s daughter, Laodike.’

Argurios blinked away sweat and looked at Laodike. She was tall, with long fair hair, and in her eyes he saw disdain. Swinging back to Andromache he asked: ‘Why are… you here?’

‘Mykene are always rude,’ said Laodike. ‘They are bred without manners. Let us go, Andromache. It is too hot to be standing here.’

‘Yes, you go back inside,’ Andromache told her. ‘I will sit for a little while with this warrior.’

Laodike nodded. ‘I will wait for you beneath the arbour trees.’ Without a word to Argurios she walked away.

‘You should… go with her,’ said Argurios. ‘We have… nothing to… talk about.’

‘Sit down before you fall down,’ ordered Andromache, seating herself on the stone wall. Argurios slumped down beside her, surprised at himself for obeying a woman. Shame touched him. Even in this small matter he was no longer a man. ‘I know what you need,’ she said.

‘What I need?’

‘To make you strong again. When I was younger my father was in a battle. A horse fell, and rolled on him. After that he – like you – could scarcely breathe. He tottered around like an old man. It went on for months. Then one day we heard of a travelling physician. He was healing people in local villages, while on his way to Egypte. He was an Assyrian. We brought him to my father.’

‘He… cured him?’

‘No. He showed my father how to cure himself.’

Argurios wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked at the young woman. His vision was hazy, his breathing ragged. Yet hope flared in his heart. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘I will show you, Argurios. Tomorrow morning, whatever the weather, I will send a cart for you. It will bring you to cliffs above a beach. Bring Xander with you, for I would like to see the boy again. And now I will leave you to finish your work.’ She rose.

‘Wait!’ said Argurios, painfully heaving himself to his feet. ‘Take me… to the… king’s daughter.’

She walked slowly alongside him. He staggered twice, and felt her arm link through his. He wanted to shrug it away, but her strength kept him upright. It was not a long walk, and yet Argurios felt exhausted by the time they reached the shaded arbour. Laodike was sitting on a bench. Argurios struggled for breath. ‘Not… all… Mykene … are ill mannered. I apolo… gize for my lack… of courtesy. I have… always been uncomfortable around… women.

Especially… beautiful women.’

He expected a harsh response, but instead her expression softened. Leaving the bench she stood before him. ‘Your apology is accepted,’ she said, ‘and I, too, am sorry for the curtness I showed you. You have been badly wounded and I should have realized you were suffering.’

Argurios could think of nothing else to say, and, as the silence grew, the moment became awkward. Andromache spoke then. ‘I have invited Argurios to join us tomorrow. It will aid his healing.’

Laodike laughed. ‘Do you sit awake at night planning events that will annoy father?’ she asked.

ii

Xander enjoyed working in the House of Serpents. He felt useful and needed.

People always seemed pleased to see him, and, as the weeks passed, he learned more about herbs and medicines, treatments and diagnosis. The application of warm, wet towels reduced fevers, the shredded and powdered barks of certain trees could take away pain. Festering sores could be healed by the application of wine and honey. Eager to learn more, he followed Machaon around, watching as he splinted broken bones, or lanced cysts and boils.

Yet despite his enthusiasm for all matters medical he was pleased today to be out in the open air, travelling in the wide cart with Argurios. The sky was cloudy with the promise of rain, but the sun was shining through, and the air was fresh with the smells of the sea.

He glanced at Argurios. The Mykene looked so ill. His face was drawn, and so thin it made him look like an old, frail man. Xander had helped him shave this morning, cutting away the stubble on his cheeks, and trimming the chin beard. He had combed his long dark hair, noting the increase of grey along the temples.

The youngster struggled to remember the iron-hard warrior who had saved him on the Xanthos.

In the weeks since the attack Argurios’ recovery had been painfully slow.

Machaon told Xander that one of the wounds had pierced Argurios’ lung, and come perilously close to the heart. And there had been much bleeding internally.

‘He will recover, though?’ Xander had asked.

‘He may never regain his former strength. Often deep wounds turn bad, and vilenesses can form.’

Xander looked round. The cart was crossing the wide, wooden Scamander bridge. He wondered if they were heading for the white palace he could see on the cliff top to the southwest. It was said that the queen lived in King’s Joy, with some of her daughters.

The cart hit a broken stone on the road and jolted. Argurios winced. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Xander.

Argurios nodded. He very rarely spoke, but each evening when Xander visited him he would sit quietly as the boy told him of the day’s work among the sick, listening as Xander talked of herbs and discoveries. At first Xander had thought him bored. ‘Am I babbling, Argurios?’ he had asked, one evening. ‘Grandfather says I chatter too much. Shall I leave you?’

Argurios had given a rare smile. ‘You chatter on, boy. When I am… bored…

I’ll tell you.’

The cart left the road and angled out along a narrower road leading to the cliffs. There were two Eagles there, sitting beneath the branches of a gnarled tree, sunlight glinting on their armour of bronze and silver. They rose as the cart approached.

The driver, a crook-backed man with a thick white beard, said: ‘Guests of the lady Andromache.’

One of the soldiers, a tall young man, wide-shouldered, and wearing a helmet with a white horsehair crest, walked up to the cart. ‘You’d be Xander,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

The young soldier moved past the boy and stared hard at Argurios. His brows furrowed. ‘By the gods, man, you look all in. Will you need help to get to the beach?’

‘No.’ Argurios hauled himself upright, then climbed down from the cart.

‘I meant no offence, warrior,’ said the soldier. ‘I was wounded myself two years ago, and had to be carried by my comrades.’

Argurios looked at the man. ‘Where was… the battle?’

‘In Thraki. Took a lance-thrust in the chest. Smashed my breastplate, broke several ribs.’

‘Tough fighters…Thrakians.’

‘True. No give in them. We have a regiment of them here now.’ The man chuckled.

‘Sooner have them with me than against me.’

Argurios walked away. Xander followed. The cliff path was steep, but fairly wide. Even so, if Argurios were to stumble he would pitch over the edge and plummet to the rocks far below. The young soldier came alongside.

‘I would consider it an honour, Argurios, if you would allow me to walk with you to the beach.’

Argurios straightened at the sound of his name. ‘You… know of me?’

‘All soldiers know of you, man. I was told the story of the Bridge of Partha when I was a boy. They say you held the bridge all morning.’

‘Not that… long,’ said Argurios. ‘But… by the gods… it felt… like it.’

He gathered himself, then looked at the warrior. ‘Let us… walk, then.’

Xander followed as the two men made their slow way down to the beach. He could see there were already people on the sand, and several men were swimming. Xander wondered what they were looking for. Perhaps they were hunting for shellfish, he thought. Yet they seemed to be swimming aimlessly. They neither dived deep, nor headed for the shore. Others waded into the sea, and Xander could hear the sound of laughter.

There were five yellow canopies set up below the cliffs and close by were tables laden with food and drink. The canopies were very bright – almost as gold as the sun. Xander remembered his mother dying cloth yellow, using the skins of onions, or crocus pollen. But the cloth never had the lustre of these canopies. And it faded so quickly.

Ahead Argurios stumbled. The Trojan soldier took him by the arm, supporting him.

Argurios did not – as Xander expected – pull away. When they reached the beach the Trojan thanked Argurios for the honour of his company. The Mykene remained grave.

‘What is… your name… soldier?’

‘Polydorus,’ he answered.

‘I shall… remember it.’

Xander looked around. He saw Andromache move away from a small group of women and walk across the sand towards them. She was wearing a thigh-length tunic of pale green, and her red hair was hanging loose to her shoulders. Xander thought her very beautiful. She smiled at him, and he blushed.

‘Welcome to the royal beach, Xander.’

‘What are those men looking for?’ he asked, pointing to the swimmers.

‘Nothing. They are swimming for the pleasure of it. Do you swim?’

‘Grandfather taught me. He said a sailor needed to be able to float.’

‘Well, today you will swim.’ She turned to Argurios. ‘And you, warrior.’

‘Why would… I swim?’ he asked. ‘There is… no purpose to it.’

‘A better purpose, perhaps, than repairing a paddock wall where there is no longer a paddock,’ she observed. ‘Come and sit for a while, and I will tell you of the Assyrian physician.’

She led them to a spot beneath a canopy. Argurios’ breathing was ragged, and he seemed grateful to be sitting down. ‘My father could not take deep breaths,’

said Andromache. ‘The physician told him to swim every day. He also taught him to breathe differently.’

‘How many… ways… can a man… breathe?’

‘I will show you. But first you will swim for a while with Xander. Gently and slowly. Do not over-exert yourself.’

‘This is… foolish. I should not… have come.’

‘But you did, warrior,’ said Andromache. ‘And if you want to be strong again you will do as I say.’

Xander expected Argurios to react angrily. But he did not. He looked into her green eyes. ‘I need… my strength,’ he said, at last. Rising wearily to his feet he struggled to remove his threadbare tunic. Xander helped him, and also untied his sandals. Argurios’ naked body was pale and skinny, and Xander saw many old, white scars on his shoulders, arms, chest and legs. The angry red wounds of his recent fight were hideous to look upon. Pus and blood were leaking from the gash in his side, and there were deep scabs on three other wounds. But as he turned to walk to the shoreline Xander noted there were no scars on his back.

‘Go with him, Xander,’ said Andromache. ‘He may need your help.’

Xander stripped off his tunic and sandals and caught up with Argurios as he waded into the blue water.

They swam together silently. Argurios struggled and gasped for breath. After a little while Andromache swam out to join them. She was still wearing the pale green tunic, but it clung so close to her body that she might as well have been naked, thought Xander, trying not to look at her breasts, and the raised nipples. She came alongside Argurios. ‘Lie back in the water,’ she said, ‘and I will support you.’ He obeyed her instantly. ‘And now I want you to close your eyes and relax your body. Then I want you to breathe very slowly. I want you to breathe in for the count of four and hold the breath for the count of six. Then let it out very slowly for the count of ten. Four, six and ten.’

Xander watched for a while, and then, growing hungry, he swam back to the beach, waded ashore and clothed himself. Then he walked to the food tables. There were dishes of figs, barley bread and salted octopus, cuts of meats, cheeses and various breads. There were jugs full of water, and others filled with wine. A tall, stoop-shouldered servant stood staring at him. ‘Are we allowed to eat?’ he asked the man.

‘What would you like, little fellow?’

Xander pointed to the bread, and asked for some cheese and figs. The man tore off a hunk of dark bread, then cut a section of cheese and placed it on a wooden platter with a handful of figs. ‘You might need something to wash that down,’

said the servant, with a smile. Lifting a jug he filled a clay cup with a golden liquid. ‘Try it,’ he said.

Xander sipped the drink. It was thick and deliciously sweet. He thanked the man and wandered back to the canopy to sit and eat. Andromache was still in the water with Argurios. Other people were moving on the beach now. A dark-haired man emerged from the water. For a moment Xander thought it was Helikaon, but it was not. Then a fair-haired young woman in a red gown came and sat beside him.

‘You must be Xander,’ she said. ‘Andromache told me of you.’

‘Yes, I am. Who are you?’

‘I am Laodike. Are you a friend of the Mykene?’

‘I don’t think he has any friends.’

‘But you like him.’

‘Yes. He saved my life.’

‘I would like to hear about that,’ she said.

So Xander told her the story of the storm. She listened intently, then glanced back at the water, watching Andromache and the warrior. ‘Why do you think he risked himself to save you?’ she asked, at last.

‘I don’t know. Odysseus says that is what heroes do. And Argurios is a hero.

Everyone knows that.’

‘I did not know it,’ she admitted. ‘But then Troy is full of heroes. No-one can be expected to know all their names.’

Andromache and Argurios emerged from the water. Rising, Xander gathered up Argurios’ tunic and ran down to the shoreline. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘Tired,’ answered the warrior, taking the tunic and slipping it over his head.

He turned towards Andromache. ‘I am grateful to you,’ he told her.

‘It sounds as if you are already breathing a little more easily,’ she observed.

‘I think I am.’

Several men approached them. Xander saw the man who looked like Helikaon. He seemed angry.

He halted before Andromache. ‘How dare you dishonour the house of Priam?’ he said.

iii

For Xander the moment was shocking, and frightening. He looked around and saw the anger on the faces of the men. Andromache also looked startled – even uncertain. Then her expression hardened.

‘I do not understand you, Dios,’ she said.

‘I am Prince Deiphobos. Only those of equal rank, or those I count my friends, can call me Dios. You are neither. And this beach is reserved for the use of the royal family. You are here as a guest, and had no right to bring a stranger to it. But that discourtesy pales beside the whorish display we have been forced to observe. We all know what disgusting excesses are practised by the priestesses of Thera. To bring them here is an affront that will not be tolerated.’

‘I invited Argurios,’ said Laodike, easing her way through the gathering crowd.

Xander heard the nervousness in her voice, and her eyes were downcast.

‘No more than one would expect, sister. You never were the sharpest arrow in the quiver.’

Laodike seemed to shrink beneath his contempt. Then Argurios stepped forward, and when he spoke Xander saw the shock register on the faces of everyone close by.

‘Have you finished, puppy dog?’ said Argurios. His tone was harsh and cold, and Dios took a sudden backward step. His face reddened. Argurios moved forward.

‘Prince, is it? It seems… to me… that Troy is thick with princes. You must be… the runt of the litter.’

Xander gasped. Young as he was he knew that the situation had suddenly become far worse. Dios stood for a moment, too shocked to speak. Then his eyes narrowed.

‘Have I offended you, puppy dog?’ snarled Argurios. ‘Then fetch swords and I’ll cut your… damned Trojan heart out!’

‘This has gone far enough,’ came a voice from the back of the crowd. A tall, broad-shouldered young man with red-gold hair pushed his way clear. ‘There will be no swords called for.’ He stared hard at Argurios. ‘I know of you, Mykene.

You are a fighting man, but your heart demands what your strength cannot supply.’ He turned to Andromache. ‘I do not know the ways of your land, sister-to-be. Here in Troy noble women do not swim alongside men. It is considered… immoral. However, if no-one explained this to you, then you cannot be held at fault.’ Then he swung back to the angry Dios. ‘My brother, I don’t doubt that our father will hear of this and make his own judgements. For now, however, let us put aside thoughts of combat.’

‘This wretch insulted me!’ stormed Dios.

‘Yes, he did,’ agreed the young man amiably. ‘As you can see, though, he is recovering from severe wounds and in no condition to fight. So store your grievance for now. If you still feel the need to avenge the affront when Argurios is strong again, then so be it.’

‘And I will!’ insisted Dios. He glared at Argurios. ‘We will meet again.’

The Mykene merely nodded. Dios stalked away, followed by a group of young men.

The crowd thinned. ‘What is… your name?’ Argurios asked the newcomer.

‘I am Agathon. Now, let us sit in the shade and talk of less violent matters.

Dios is a hothead, but he is not malicious. I would not wish to see him killed –

even by a great hero.’

It seemed to Xander that Agathon was the most noble man he had ever seen. He looked like a god. His eyes were the deepest blue, and he seemed to dwarf Argurios.

Andromache laid her hand on the prince’s arm. ‘That was well done, Agathon,’ she said.

They walked back to the canopy, Xander following unnoticed. Laodike moved forward to kiss Agathon on both cheeks. ‘You are so like Hektor,’ she said.

‘We are not so alike, sister. Believe me.’

Argurios stretched himself out on a rug placed on the sand, and seemed to fall asleep. Laodike sat alongside Agathon, and Xander moved to sit beside Andromache. Still no-one spoke to him.

‘News of Hektor came in this morning,’ said Agathon. ‘There was a great battle at a place called Kadesh. The reports are sketchy, but it seems the Egypteians almost had the day. Only a charge from the Trojan Horse held them back.’

‘See! I told you,’ Laodike said to Andromache. ‘Hektor always wins.’

‘Is the fighting over?’ asked Andromache.

‘No. The battle was undecided. There were great losses, however, on both sides.

We have no details as yet.’

‘A pox on the details,’ muttered Laodike. ‘Hektor will have the victory, and he will come home to a great parade.’

‘I hope that you are right, sister. However, according to one report the Trojan Horse were cut off, and had not rejoined the main Hittite army by dark. We must pray to the gods of war that Hektor is not among the fallen.’

‘Do not say things like that!’ Laodike admonished him. ‘I don’t want to hear such talk.’

Xander saw the prince glance at Andromache. ‘Will you walk with me on the sand?

There are some matters I would dearly like to discuss with you.’

‘As long as it is not considered immoral,’ said Andromache, rising smoothly to her feet.

Xander watched them walk away. Laodike seemed downcast. ‘Shall I fetch you something to drink?’ Xander asked her.

‘No. I am not thirsty.’ She glanced down at Argurios. ‘He is very thin, and his colour is not good. Perhaps you should fetch him some fruit nectar. Mother says it is good for the blood. He is a very rash man, isn’t he?’ she added. ‘He took a dreadful risk by angering Dios. Dios is a good swordsman, you know, and very quick.’

‘He is… a puppy,’ said Argurios, heaving himself to a sitting position. ‘And you are correct. I am too thin.’

‘I did not mean to offend you, sir,’ said Laodike, embarrassed. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘You did not offend me. And these… days… I cannot sleep lying… down. It seems easier to breathe while upright.’ Argurios looked at Xander. ‘That nectar sounds good,’ he said.

Xander ran to the food tables and brought back a goblet of thick golden juices and handed it to the warrior, who drank deeply. ‘You are a good lad,’ he said, as he laid the empty goblet on the sand. ‘Makes me… wonder… why I never had personal .. . slaves… before.’

‘I am not your slave,’ said Xander.

Argurios thought for a moment. ‘That was ill-spoken… by me, lad. Of course you are… not. You are a friend. That means… much to me.’

‘Why have you never had a personal servant?’ asked Laodike. ‘Are you not a famous hero in your own land?’

‘Never… desired them. I have always… been… a soldier. I had a shield carrier once. Fine young man. Died in Thessaly.’

‘What about your home?’

He shook his head. ‘My father had no wealth. I have… in my life… acquired farmlands, and there are… slaves who… toil upon them. I leave them to themselves mostly.’ His expression darkened. ‘But they are my lands no longer. I am a banished man. Outside the law.’ He glanced out at the sea. ‘I think I will… swim again.’ Struggling to his feet he walked down to the shoreline and removed his faded tunic.

‘A strange man,’ Laodike observed.

‘He called me his friend,’ said Xander happily.

‘And you should be honoured. Such a man does not give his friendship lightly.’

i

Andromache was enjoying the walk with Agathon. In some ways he reminded her of Odysseus. She smiled at the thought. Odysseus was an ugly old charmer, and would have been delighted to be compared to the Trojan prince. It was not the good looks, however, more the easy manner which encouraged familiarity. She listened as he spoke of his love for the city, and sensed a genuine warmth in him. They paused by a rocky outcrop. The clouds above were thickening, and the sky was i growing gloomy. At last he fell silent, and stared out to sea.

‘Are we now going to speak of the matter that is closest to your heart?’ she asked him.

He gave a wry grin. ‘Yes. You are sharp as a sword.’

‘I am intelligent. Why do so many people find that intimidating?’

‘I cannot answer that – though I know it to be true.’ He paused, then met her gaze. ‘I wanted to talk about Hektor. The news is less good than I implied to Laodike. She is a sweet girl, but she adores our brother and I did not want to alarm her. According to our reports, Hektor led a reckless charge to turn the Egypteian flank. He succeeded, but the last anyone saw of him he was cleaving his way into the centre of the enemy ranks. The Hittites were forced to withdraw. Hektor did not return to their camp, though some riders did. They said Hektor and around fifty men were cut off in a blind ravine, with thousands of soldiers bearing down upon them.’

‘You think he is dead?’

‘I hope not. I pray not! Hektor is my greatest friend, as well as my half-brother. But it is more than that. Hektor is the heart of Troy. If he falls there will be chaos. Can you imagine it? Brother princes vying for supremacy? We would be racked by civil war.’

‘I do not see why,’ said Andromache. ‘Priam is a strong king.’

‘Oh, he is strong,’ agreed Agathon, ‘but he is hated. There are few of his sons he has not slighted, or publicly shamed. However, there is also discord among the brothers. Deep divisions and even hatreds. Hektor alone holds us all together. First, because we all love him.’ Agathon gave a wide smile. ‘Second, he would kill anyone who went against father.’

‘This is all fascinating to a foreigner,’ said Andromache, ‘but how does it concern Hektor’s bride-to-be? If he is dead I will return to Thera, and be with my friends.’

‘I hope you might consider a different path,’ he said.

‘Why would I?’

‘I am also unwed, Andromache. And in all my twenty-eight summers I have never seen a woman who fires me as you do. Therefore – unless there is another who holds a place in your heart – I would ask that you consider me as a suitor.’

Andromache smiled. ‘What a strange city this is, Agathon. It is immoral for a woman to swim with a man, but acceptable for a man to woo his brother’s bride?

In truth it will take me a while to master the rules here.’

He sighed. ‘That was neatly parried, Andromache. But think on what I have said.

If news reaches us that Hektor is gone I will petition my father for your hand.’

Before she could answer him a young soldier came running across the beach. ‘The king calls for you, lord,’ he told Agathon.

‘I must go. Think on what I have said.’

‘Oh, I shall think on it,’ she assured him, and watched as he walked away. He carried himself well, but as she looked at him her mind pictured another young prince, his hair dark, his eyes gleaming with suppressed passion.

… unless there is another who holds a place in your heart…

She thought again of the night at the Bay of the Blue Owls, and of the young man from the golden ship who had stepped away from the crowd. And then again, the following morning, when he had stood, heartbroken, holding the severed head of his friend in his hands. More than this, though, she remembered his arms enfolding her at the palace of Hekabe.

‘Oh,’ she whispered, gazing out over the wide, blue bay, ‘if Hektor is dead let the golden ship come for me.’

ii

For Helikaon the first few weeks after the raid on Pithros had been arduous and draining. The camaraderie he had enjoyed among the soldiers and officials of Dardania had been replaced by a cautious coolness that reeked of fear.

He was no longer the Prince of the Sea, a merchant and a man of the people. He was Helikaon the Burner, the avenger, the ruthless killer. Servants averted their eyes when he passed. Even men he had known for years – like Oniacus, and the old general Pausanius measured their words, anxious to avoid causing offence. The atmosphere within the citadel was fraught and tense. Outside the fortress the storms of winter raged, lightning forking the sky, thunder rolling across the land.

Everywhere there was disorder. The murder of the young king had created a feeling of unease and fear among the general populace in the countryside.

The people of Dardania were from many diverse cultures: migrants from Thraki had settled the northern coasts; Phrygians, Mysians, and Lydians had formed scores of small farming communities in the once empty heartland east of the capital.

Merchants – Egypteians, Amorites and Assyrians – had built trading centres to the south, linking with Troy. Even at the best of times, when harvests were good, and trade thriving, tempers flared and violent incidents erupted between the various ethnic groups.

Since the death of Diomedes tensions had been running high. A small settlement of Mykene exiles had been attacked, and five men hacked to death by an angry mob. A riot had developed in a Phrygian community, following the theft of a sheep. Two women from a Mysian settlement claimed to have been raped by travelling Hittite traders. A revenge party had set out and seven men were killed in the skirmish.

Dardanian troops were spread thin across the hills and valleys, and along the bleak coastlines, seeking to restore order. Into this chaos had come outlaw bands, and roving groups of unemployed mercenaries, attacking isolated villages, and raiding merchant caravans.

The problem was compounded by the laws imposed by Helikaon’s father, Anchises.

All Dardanian land belonged to the king, and those who built houses, farms or trading posts here were merely tenants. The rents were exorbitant – half of all crops, produce, or trading profit. For this relationship to work, Helikaon knew, the people needed to hold to two truths. First, that the king and his soldiers would protect them from bandits and raiders, and second, that failure to obey the king’s laws would result in a swift and terrible punishment.

The people’s trust was tarnished by the assault on the fortress. If the soldiers could not protect Diomedes and Queen Halysia, how could they ensure the safety of the populace? And the fear instilled in the people by Anchises had been eroded by the more conciliatory government of Queen Halysia, and her general, Pausanius.

Helikaon called a meeting of settlement leaders, inviting them to the fortress.

They were worried and uneasy as they gathered in the great columned throne room, surrounded by cold statues of the warrior kings of Dardania.

Before the meeting Pausanius had urged conciliation. ‘They are good people, my king,’ he told Helikaon. ‘They are frightened, that is all.’ Helikaon liked the ageing general. The man was fearless in battle, and he had served Queen Halysia loyally.

‘What you say is true, Pausanius,’ he said, as they stood on the broad balcony of the royal apartments, looking out over the sea. ‘Answer me this, though. When you are about to go into battle do you pause and consider your enemy, whether his soldiers have children at home? Whether they are good men? Whether their cause is as just as yours?’

‘No, of course not. But these people are not our enemy.’

‘And what is?’

The general looked confused. He scratched at his red beard. ‘I … don’t know what you mean, my king.’

‘We are close to anarchy, and what happens here today will either begin the process of unifying the people – or see the realm splintered by scores of small uprisings, and then a rebellion. Understand this, Pausanius: all kingdoms survive on the shield and the sword. The people need to believe the king’s shield will protect them. They also need to be certain that if they disobey, then the king’s sword will cut them down. Belief in the shield was fractured by the assault on the fortress. Fear of the sword has also been lost. What is the enemy? We have an army of fifteen hundred men. If the multitude no longer trusts and fears us, then we will be overthrown. Some bandit chief will raise an army.

Some foreign power will sail ships into our bays. The enemy, Pausanius, is gathering in the throne room.’

The old general sighed. ‘What would you have me do, lord?’

Later, after the haggard old soldier left his apartments, Helikaon sent a messenger to the queen, requesting that she admit him to her presence.

Halysia had survived the stabbing, but was still so weak that she did not leave her apartments. According to her handmaidens she would sit silently all day, staring out over the sea. Then the women would help her to her bed, where she would lie awake, staring up at the moonshadows on the ceiling. Three times Helikaon had visited her. She had sat silently as he talked, her gaze distant.

Helikaon did not even know if she truly heard him.

The servant returned. ‘The handmaiden awaits you, lord,’ he said.

Helikaon dismissed the man and made his way along the open walkway to the queen’s apartments. Two guards were stationed outside the doors. They stepped aside as he entered.

The handmaiden, a young, plump, flaxen-haired woman, came out from the rear rooms to greet him. ‘She seems a little better today,’ she said. ‘There is colour in her cheeks.’

‘Has she spoken?’

‘No, lord.’

Looking around he found himself remembering the first time he had entered these rooms as a young man. He had returned home after two years on the Penelope. That same night – as Helikaon enjoyed a farewell feast with the crew on the beach –

his father had been murdered. Everything changed that day. The queen, fearing for her life and that of her child, had sent soldiers to kill him. Pausanius and other loyal men had rushed to protect him. In the standoff that followed Helikaon had taken a great risk. The leader of the men sent to kill him was a powerful soldier named Garus. Helikaon approached him. ‘You and I will go alone to see the queen,’ he said.

‘No, lord, they will kill you,’ argued Pausanius.

‘There will be no killing today,’ Helikaon had assured him, though he was less confident than he sounded.

Helikaon had gestured for Garus to precede him, and followed him up the long cliff path to the fortress. He saw Garus finger the hilt of his sword. Then the warrior stopped and slowly turned. He was a big man, wide-shouldered and thick-necked. His eyes were piercingly blue, his face broad and honest. ‘The queen is a good and fine woman, and little Diomedes is a joy,’ he said. ‘Do you plan to kill them?’

‘No,’ said Helikaon.

‘I have your oath on that?’

‘You do.’

‘Very well, my lord. Follow me.’

They walked further along the open balcony to the queen’s apartments. Two guards were there. Both wore shields and carried long spears. Garus signalled to them to stand aside, then rapped his knuckles against the door frame. ‘It is I, Garus,’ he said. ‘May I enter?’

‘You may enter,’ came a woman’s voice.

Garus opened the door, stepped inside, then made way for Helikaon. Several soldiers inside surged to their feet. ‘Be calm!’ said Helikaon. ‘There are no warriors with me.’ He had looked at the young queen, seeing both fear and pride in her pale eyes. Beside her was a small boy with golden hair. He was staring up at Helikaon, head cocked to one side.

‘I am your brother, Helikaon,’ he told the child. ‘And you are Diomedes.’

‘I am Dio,’ the boy corrected him. ‘Papa won’t get up. So we can’t have breakfast. We can’t, can we, mama?’

‘We’ll have breakfast soon,’ said Helikaon. He looked at the queen. When Anchises had married this slender, fair-haired Zeleian girl Helikaon had not been invited to the ceremony. In the year before he sailed on the Penelope he had spoken to her on but a handful of occasions, and then merely to exchange short pleasantries.

‘We do not know each other, Halysia,’ he said. ‘My father was a hard, cold man.

He should have let us talk more. Perhaps then we could have grown to understand one another. Had we done so you would have known that I would never order my father’s death, nor kill his wife and son. You have nothing to fear from me.’

‘I wish that I could believe you,’ she whispered.

‘You can, my queen,’ said Garus. Helikaon was surprised but kept his expression even.

‘And now,’ he said, ‘you should think of your son’s breakfast. Then we will discuss my father’s funeral arrangements.’

He shivered now at the memory, then walked through to the rear apartments.

Halysia was sitting hunched in a chair, a blanket over her thin frame. She had lost a great deal of weight, and her eyes were dark-rimmed. Helikaon drew up a chair alongside her. The handmaiden was wrong. She did not look better. Helikaon took her hand in his. The skin was cold. She did not seem to notice his touch.

The sun broke through the clouds, bathing the sea in gold. Helikaon glanced down and saw an untouched bowl of broth and some bread on a table beside Halysia.

‘You must eat,’ he said, gently. ‘You must regain your strength.’

Leaning forward, he lifted the bowl and dipped the spoon into it, raising it to her mouth. ‘Just a little, Halysia,’ he prompted. She did not move.

Helikaon replaced the bowl on the table and sat quietly, watching the sunlight dancing on the waves. ‘I wish I had taken him with me when I sailed,’ he said.

‘The boy loved you. He would be filled with sorrow if he could see you now.’ He looked at the queen as he spoke, but there was no change of expression. ‘I don’t know where you are, Halysia,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know where your spirit wanders. I don’t know how to reach you and bring you home.’

He sat quietly with her, holding her hand. In the silence he felt his own grief welling up like a swollen river beating against a dam. Ashamed of his weakness, he struggled to concentrate on the problems he faced. His body began to tremble.

He saw young Diomedes laughing in the sunshine, and Zidantas chuckling with him, after the fall from the golden horse. He saw Ox lift the boy and hurl him high in the air, before catching him and spinning round. And the dam burst.

He covered his face with his hands and wept for the dead. For Zidantas, who had loved him like a son. For Diomedes, the golden child who would never become a man. For the son of Habusas the Assyrian, who had fallen alongside his father.

And for the woman dressed in blue and gold, who had hurled herself from these cliffs so many years ago.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and then someone was kneeling beside him, cradling his head. He leaned in to her, and she kissed his cheek.

Then she spoke. ‘They took my little boy,’ she said. ‘They killed my Dio.’

‘I know, Halysia. I am so sorry.’

She felt so frail, and her flesh was cold despite the sunshine.

Helikaon put his arms round her, drawing her close, and they sat together silently as the sun sank into the Great Green.

iii

Andromache had never been so angry. The rage had been building since her arrival in this cesspit of a city, with its army of liars, eavesdroppers, spies and sycophants. Kreusa was the worst of them, she thought, with her hard, metallic eyes, her vicious tongue, and the sweet honeyed smile for her father.

A week ago she had invited Andromache to her own apartments. Kreusa had been friendly, and had greeted her sister-to-be with a hug and a kiss on her cheek.

The rooms were everything Andromache would have expected for the king’s favourite daughter, beautifully furnished with items of glistening gold, painted vases, elaborately carved furniture, rich drapes, and two wide balconies. There were thick rugs upon the floor and the walls had been painted with colourful scenes. Kreusa had been wearing a gown of pale blue. A long and delicately braided length of silver was looped around her neck, crossing under her breasts and then around her slender waist. Her face was flushed, and Andromache realized she had been drinking. She filled a golden cup with wine, added a little water, and passed it to her. Andromache sipped it. It was strong, but underlying the taste she recognized the bitter tang of meas root. It was used on Thera during revels and feasts to heighten awareness and release inhibition. Andromache had never taken to it, though Kalliope used it regularly. Kreusa had sat close to her on the wide couch, and as she talked she reached out and took Andromache’s hand. ‘We should be friends,’ she said, her smile bright, her eyes gleaming, the pupils wide and distended. ‘We share so many .. . interests.’

‘We do?’

‘Oh, do not be coy, Andromache,’ whispered Kreusa, moving closer. ‘There are few secrets in the king’s palace that I am not privy to. How was slender Alesia? Did she please you? I chose her for you myself.’

‘And why would you do that?’ asked Andromache, thinking back to the young Thrakian servant, and recalling how simple had been the seduction.

‘I wanted to know if our… interests… were truly shared.’ Kreusa leaned in closer, her arm sliding over Andromache’s shoulder. Andromache’s hand closed over Kreusa’s wrist, lifting the arm clear, and she eased herself to her feet.

Kreusa rose alongside her, her expression puzzled. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked.

‘Nothing is wrong, Kreusa.’

‘You spurn my friendship?’ Kreusa’s eyes were angry.

‘Not your friendship,’ replied Andromache, trying to be conciliatory.

‘Then be with me,’ she said, moving in closer. Andromache realized then that there was no diplomatic way to end this meeting.

‘We will not become lovers,’ she told Kreusa. ‘You are very beautiful, but I do not desire you.’

‘You do not desire me} You arrogant bitch! Get out of my sight!’

Andromache had returned to her rooms, her spirits low. She had not desired to make an enemy of Kreusa, and had known that trouble would follow.

She had not, however, anticipated the depth of Kreusa’s malice.

It was Axa who bore the brunt of Kreusa’s revenge. The little maid had been suffering in miserable silence since word had come that Hektor’s men were lost. Her husband, Mestares, was shield bearer to Hektor and one of the men who was missing with him. As if the uncertainty and fear for her husband were not enough, Axa had birthed her baby son ten days ago. Seeking the reassurance of her palace duties, she had left him with a female relative in the lower town to return to Andromache’s side during the day.

Yesterday had started like most days. With the help of another serving girl Axa had laboured to carry bucket after bucket of hot water for Andromache’s bath, and sprinkled into it perfumes and rose petals. But when Andromache wandered half naked into the bathroom, she found her maid slumped on the floor.

She crouched down beside her. ‘Axa! What’s wrong?’

‘I’m sorry, lady.’ Axa struggled to sit up. ‘I have had a weakness since the birth of my son. He is a big boy. It has passed. I’ll carry on now.’

‘No you won’t.’ Andromache looked into her face and saw the greyness of exhaustion. ‘Sit there for a while and tell me about your baby. Has he a name?’

‘No, lady. It is for my husband to decide. When he returns.’ Her face crumpled then, and a moan born of tiredness, pain and grief arose from her.

‘Come.’ Andromache started to unwrap the woollen shawl round Axa’s waist. ‘You need a rest. Get up.’ She put an arm round her and raised her to her feet. She undid the straps of the apron Axa wore and it fell to the ground.

‘Now, out of that tunic,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have a bath. It will make you feel better.’

‘Oh no, lady,’ Axa cried, fear in her voice. ‘I mustn’t. I’ll get into trouble.

Please don’t make me.’

‘Nonsense,’ Andromache said, laughing a little. ‘If you’re modest get into the bath like that, in your shift.’

Axa cast an agonized look at Andromache’s face, recognized the determination there, and stepped reluctantly into the warm bath. She sat bolt upright in the water, her face a picture of misery.

‘Relax, lie back,’ said Andromache, hands on her shoulders. ‘See, isn’t that good?’

Axa gave a weak smile and said, ‘It feels very strange, lady. It doesn’t feel natural to be wet all over.’ Growing in confidence, she splashed the water a little and watched the rose petals float on the ripples.

Andromache laughed and stroked her maid’s thick brown hair. ‘We’ll have to wash this, too, you know.’

Just then there was a rattle of curtains and they both looked round. In the doorway stood Kreusa. She said nothing, but gave a radiant smile before turning and leaving the room.

Axa had climbed clumsily out of the bath, water sluicing from her linen shift onto the floor.

‘She saw me. I’ll be in trouble now,’ she wailed.

‘Nonsense,’ Andromache repeated. ‘I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

Her words had been hollow. When she had awoken today it was to find a new servant by her bedside, a round-faced girl, who told her, after much shilly-shallying, that Axa had been flogged and dismissed from the palace that morning, on the orders of the king.

Andromache went immediately to the megaron, where she found Priam seated among his advisers. Barely reining in her anger, she demanded, ‘What have you done with my servant?’

The king sat back on his throne, waving away his counsellors. They moved back a few steps but remained within earshot. Priam gazed at her for a moment. She thought she could see satisfaction on his face, though he spoke mildly.

‘Your servant, Andromache? Every servant in this palace is mine. These greybeards in their bright clothes and gaudy jewellery are mine. You are mine.’

‘I was told…’ Andromache forced herself to think coolly. ‘I was told she was flogged and thrown from the palace. I wish to know why. She was a good servant and deserved better.’

Priam leaned forward and she smelled wine on his breath. ‘A good servant,’ he hissed, ‘does not frolic naked with the daughter of a king. She does not cavort in a bath with rose petals on her breasts.’

There was amused whispering among the counsellors.

‘You have been misinformed about cavorting,” Andromache replied. ‘Axa was exhausted and in pain. I ordered her to rest and take the bath.’

Priam’s face darkened. ‘And you thought you would take it with her? What is done is done. Be more careful of your behaviour in the future.’

‘Either that, or ensure I am not spied upon by people with minds like shit buckets,’ said Andromache, her anger flaring dangerously out of control. ‘The person who should have been flogged is the vile bitch…’

‘Enough!’ roared Priam, surging to his feet. ‘If you want to plead for your servant, then get on your knees!’

Andromache stood very still. All her pride urged her to turn away from this harsh and arrogant man, and to walk from the room, back straight, spirit defiant. And yet it was because of her that poor Axa had been flogged and humiliated. Axa herself had warned her, but proud Andromache had not listened.

Yes, she could retain her pride and walk from the room, but what would that pride be worth thereafter?

Her mouth was dry as she closed her eyes and dropped to her knees before the king. ‘I would ask…’ she began.

‘Silence! I have matters here to attend to. Remain where you are until I bid you to speak.’

Now the humiliation was complete. Priam gathered his courtiers around him, and they discussed their matters of state. Time passed, and her knees began to ache against the cold stone of the floor. But she did not move, nor open her eyes.

After a while she did not even listen to their conversation. At one point she felt the warmth of sunlight on her back, and realized the afternoon was wearing on.

When Priam spoke to her, and she opened her eyes, she saw that the courtiers and scribes had gone.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Make your plea.’ She looked at him. He seemed more weary now, and his eyes had lost their gleam.

‘Does guilt or innocence not matter to you, King Priam?’ she asked him, her voice soft. ‘Are you not the First Magistrate of Troy? Does justice not flow from this throne? Had I been cavorting, as you call it, with a young servant, I would not hide it. I am who I am. I do not lie. Axa is the wife of Hektor’s shield bearer. Only days ago she gave birth to a son. In your long experience do you know of many women who desire to cavort so soon after childbirth, with their bodies torn and bruised, their breasts swollen with milk?’

Priam’s expression changed. He sat back on his throne, and rubbed his hand across his grey-gold beard. ‘I was not aware it was the wife of Mestares. Stand up. You have knelt long enough.’

She was surprised by this sudden change in him, and, pushing herself to her feet, remained silent. ‘There has been a misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I shall have a gift sent to her. You want her back?’

‘Indeed I do.’

He looked long at her. ‘You would not kneel to me when yourlife might have depended on it. Yet you abase yourself for a servant.’

‘It was my foolishness that caused her suffering. I ordered her into that bath.

I thought it would ease her pain.’

He nodded. ‘As you thought it would be good to swim naked with a Mykene warrior on my beach? Or to shoot arrows with my soldiers? You are a strange woman, Andromache.’ He rubbed his eyes, then reached for a cup of wine, which he drained. ‘You seem to arouse great passion in those who know you,’ he continued.

‘Deiphobos wants you expelled from Troy. Kreusa wanted you flogged and shamed.

Agathon wants to marry you. Even dull 1ittle Laodike has blossomed in your company. Answer me this, Andromache of Thebe: had I told you that the only way to rescue Axa was to have you come to my bed, would you have done so?’

‘Yes, I would,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘Why did you not?’

He shook his head. ‘A good question, Andromache, and one which you need to answer for yourself.’

‘How can I? I do not know your thoughts.’

Rising from his throne he beckoned her to follow him, then strode the length of the megaron, and up the stairway towards the queen’s apartments. Andromache was nervous, but not for fear that he might ravish her. In their conversation he had not once stared at her breasts or her legs, and his eyes had not possessed their normal hungry look. The King reached the top of the stairs and turned right, walking along the gallery to a balcony high above the royal gardens. Andromache joined him there.

People were milling in the gardens below, talking in low voices. Andromache saw Agathon and fat Antiphones talking together and, beyond them, Laodike sitting with Kreusa. Laodike’s head was bowed, and Kreusa was gesticulating with her hands. Around them were counsellors, in their white robes, and Trojan nobles, some with their wives or daughters.

‘Everyone you see,’ said Priam softly, ‘requires something from the king. Yet each gift to one will be seen as an insult to another. Among them will be those who are loyal to the king. Among them will be traitors. Some are loyal now, but will become traitors. Some could become traitors, but a gift from me will keep them loyal. How does the king know whom to trust and whom to kill, whom to reward and whom to punish?’

Andromache felt tense and uneasy. ‘I do not know,’ she said.

‘Then learn, Andromache,’ he told her. ‘For, if the gods will it, one day you will be queen of Troy. On that day you will look out from this balcony and all those below will be coming to you or your husband. You will need to know their thoughts, their dreams, their ambitions. For when they are before you the loyal and the treacherous will both sound the same. They will all laugh when you make a jest, they will weep when you are sad. They will pledge undying love for you.

Their words, therefore, will be meaningless. Unless you know the thoughts behind the words.’

‘And you know all their thoughts, King Priam?’

‘I know enough of their thoughts and their ambitions to keep me alive.’ He chuckled. ‘One day, though, one of them will surprise me. He will plunge a dagger through my heart, or slip poison into my cup, or raise a rebellion to overthrow me.’

‘Why do you smile at the thought?’

‘Why not? Whoever succeeds me as king will be strong and cunning, and therefore well equipped for the role.’

Now it was Andromache who smiled. ‘Or he might be stupid and lucky.’

Priam nodded. ‘If that proves true he won’t last long. Another of my cunning sons will overthrow him. However, let us return to your question. Why did I not demand your body in payment? Think on it, and we will talk again.’ He gazed down at the milling crowds below. ‘And now I must allow my subjects, both loyal and treacherous, to present their petitions to their king.’

Returning to her own rooms, Andromache wrapped herself in a hooded green cloak and left the palace, heading for the lower town and the poorer quarter where the soldiers’ wives were billeted. Asking directions from several women gathered round a well, she located the dwelling occupied by Axa and three other wives. It was small and cramped, with dirt floors. Axa was sitting at the back of the building, in the shade, her babe in her arms. She saw Andromache and struggled to rise.

‘Oh, sit, please,’ said Andromache, kneeling beside her. ‘I am so sorry, Axa. It was my fault.’

‘Mestares will be so angry with me when he gets home,’ said Axa. ‘I have shamed him.’

‘You shamed no-one. I have seen the king. He knows it was a mistake. He is sending a gift to you. And I want you back. Oh, Axa! Please say you will come!’

‘Of course I will,’ replied Axa dully. ‘How else could I feed myself and my son?

I will be there tomorrow.’

‘Can you forgive me?’

The babe in Axa’s arms began to make soft little mewing sounds. Axa opened her shift, exposing a heavy breast, and lifted the child to it. The babe nuzzled at the teat ineffectually, and then with more confidence. Axa sighed. She looked at Andromache.

‘What difference does it make whether I forgive or don’t forgive?’ she asked.

‘We are called servants, but we are slaves really. We live or die at the whim of others. I was flogged for being seen in a bath. Were you flogged for being with me?’

‘No, I wasn’t flogged. But believe me when I say I would rather it had been me.

Can we be friends, Axa?’

‘I am your servant. I must be whatever you want me to be.’

Andromache fell silent, watching as Axa finished feeding her babe and lifted the mite to her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. ‘Did they hurt you badly?’ she asked at last.

‘Yes, they hurt me,’ replied Axa, tears in her eyes. ‘But not with the blows from that knotted rope. I am the wife of Mestares the shield bearer. Ten battles he has fought for the king and for Troy. Now he might be dead, and I live every day fearing the news. And what do they do to ease my suffering? They flog me and throw me from the palace. I will never forgive that.’

‘No,’ said Andromache, rising to her feet. ‘Neither would I. I will see you tomorrow, Axa.’

The little woman looked up at her, and her expression softened.

‘You went to the king for me,’ she said. ‘You I will forgive. But no more baths.’

Andromache smiled. ‘No more baths,’ she agreed.

Returning to the palace Andromache walked through the private royal gardens.

There were still some twenty people there, enjoying the shade and the scent of the blooms. By the far wall, beneath a latticed bower, Kreusa was talking to Agathon. She was wearing a white gown edged with gold, and had thrown back her head in a parody of careless laughter, her raven hair rippling in the breeze.

As she approached them Agathon saw her, and gave a tight smile. He is embarrassed, thought Andromache. Kreusa, by contrast, looked at her with an expression of smug satisfaction.

‘How are you, beautiful lady?’ asked Agathon.

‘I am well, Prince Agathon. I saw the king this morning. You heard of the misunderstanding concerning my servant?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was sorry to hear of it.’

‘As was I. However, the king has reinstated her, and is sending her a gift in apology.’ She swung towards Kreusa. ‘I think he understands now that poor Axa was merely the victim of malice. Some poor, demented creature, driven by envy and spite.’

Kreusa’s hand slashed out, slapping Andromache hard on the cheek. Stepping in, Andromache punched her full on the jaw. Kreusa spun and hit the ground hard. She struggled to rise, then slumped down.

Agathon knelt by the half-stunned young woman, helping her to stand. There was blood trickling from a split in her lip, and her white gown was smeared with dirt.

Andromache took a deep breath, and turned away. All conversation among the crowd had ceased and she felt all eyes on her as she walked back into the palace.

i

Cthosis the eunuch had worn his latest creation to the meeting, and no-one had noticed. It was most galling. The ankle-length gown was jet black, and edged with silver thread. It was a magnificent piece, which he had been convinced would be the envy of every man present. No-one had ever produced a black dye that would remain fast to the cloth. Two problems always occurred. First, if rained upon the dye would seep out, staining the skin for days. Second, the dyes were so powerful that they would stink until the garment had been washed several times and faded to a dull and lifeless grey.

Cthosis had spent years refining the process, eliminating these problems. Oak bark from the gnarled trees in the lands of the Sombre Sea had provided the source of a finer dye, but obtaining it had consumed much of his wealth. So treacherous and powerful were the currents that it was almost impossible to sail a ship up the Hellespont and into the Sombre Sea. All trade goods had to be carried overland.

Now here he was, with sixty of the most influential men in Dardania, and not one had mentioned the gown. He wondered if, as an Egypteian, he had failed to realize that there was some antipathy for the colour black among these peoples of the Northern Sea. Ah well, he thought, come the spring I will ship the cloth to Memphis and Luxor. Egypteian men will pay heavily in gold for such finery.

Even so, the lack of appreciation here was dispiriting.

Raised voices cut through his meditations. The Phrygian cattle trader – whose name Cthosis could never recall – was shouting at a Hittite merchant, and waving his powerful fist in the man’s face. Before long there would be blows struck, and the entire conference would degenerate into an unseemly brawl. With this in mind Cthosis eased his way to the left-hand wall, to stand beneath a fearsome statue of a helmeted warrior carrying a spear. Cthosis was not a fighting man, and had no wish to be drawn into an unseemly scrap – especially in his new garment.

Indeed, had it not been for the chance to display it, Cthosis would have avoided the meeting altogether.

People were not hard to read. When times were good they moved about their business smiling at neighbours. But add a touch of fear, or uncertainty, and the smiles would disappear. Rows and feuds would erupt. If a storm washed away crops the cry was: ‘Who is to blame?’ Not the vagaries of the weather, obviously. No, it had to be a mischievous spell cast by a jealous neighbour. Probably a witch.

If everyone’s crops were washed away – well, then it was the fault of the king, who had angered the gods in some inexplicable way.

It was not dissimilar back in Egypte. Fear and blame, leading to idiots gathering in mobs, followed by riots, and unnecessary deaths.

A long time ago, when Cthosis was still a small boy, he had seen lightning strike a tree around which a herd of cattle had been quietly feeding. The cattle bunched together and took off in a stampede that carried half of them over a cliff.

People and cattle. Not a great deal of difference, he thought.

Life had been harsh in Egypte for the mutilated child he had been. Yet at least at the palace the people had enjoyed a love of poetry and painting, and men would sit in the evenings discussing the beauty of the sunsets. The wall paintings depicted gentle scenes, of ships sailing mighty rivers, or pharaohs receiving tributes from vassal kings.

Oh, do not fool yourself, stupid man, he chided himself. They were not so different. Here in Dardania they do not clip the balls from a ten-year-old boy so that he can wander among the palace women, carrying their goblets of wine, fetching their cloaks and their hats. The pain had been excruciating, but nothing compared to the knowledge that his father had sold him for just that purpose.

Cthosis sighed. The betrayal still hurt, even after fifteen years.

Dust from the statue had rubbed off onto the shoulder of his tunic. Idly he brushed it away. As he did so the stump of his little finger caught on a loose stitch in the cloth. He shivered as he remembered the day, three years ago, when it had been cut away. Cthosis had been running to collect some bauble a princess had left in the royal gardens. As he turned a corner he had collided with Prince Rameses, knocking the young man sideways. The prince had reacted with customary savagery, hurling Cthosis against a painted pillar. He was prepared for a beating, but Rameses had dragged his sword from its sheath and lashed out.

Cthosis had thrown up his hand. The blade sliced through one finger and cut into the next. Cthosis had stood there, staring at the severed digit. Then he realized that it was not over. Rameses stepped in, pressed the sword point against his chest, and tensed for the killing thrust.

Death was a heartbeat away when a powerful hand grabbed Rameses’ cloak and dragged him back. ‘Get you gone, eunuch,’ said Prince Ahmose. Cthosis had needed no further instruction, and had run back to the women’s quarters, where the servant girls had fussed over him, and called for the royal physician.

As he sat there, blood seeping from the ruin of his hand, the aftershock of the violence had hit him. He had begun to tremble. Then he had wept. When he told the women what had happened they went suddenly quiet, and began to cast nervous glances towards the doors.

He knew then that Rameses would send for him, and finish what he had begun.

Cthosis had struck a prince. It would not matter that it was accidental. The punishment would be the same.

He had sat miserably while the Nubian physician prepared pitch for the stump.

The other injured finger, he was told, was broken, and would need a splint. Then the women suddenly scattered. Cthosis felt tears beginning again. Death was once more upon him.

But it was not the terrifying Rameses who entered the room, but the powerful figure of Prince Ahmose. The big man spoke quietly to the Nubian, and then turned to Cthosis, who kept his head down. No slave could ever look into the eyes of a prince. ‘You are released from service, eunuch,’ said the prince, in his deep voice.

Inadvertently Cthosis looked up. ‘Released, lord?’ Ahmose was not a handsome man. His face was too rugged, the nose too prominent, the chin too broad. And it had a cleft in it that looked like a scar. But his eyes were dark and magnificent.

‘Best you leave tonight,’ said the prince softly. ‘I would suggest travelling to a far place.’ He placed a pouch in Cthosis’ good hand. ‘There is gold there, and a few baubles, rings and such like. I am told they have some value.’ Then he had left.

The pouch contained fourteen small gold ingots, and several rings set with precious stones. There was also an emerald the size of a dove’s egg. With this fortune Cthosis had travelled to Dardania.

The shouting began again in the great throne room, jerking Cthosis back to the present. He glanced around the crowd. Many nationalities were represented here.

He saw Hittites, in their curious woollen leggings, Phrygians, tall and red-headed, Samothrakians, Mykene, Lydians. All wore the clothes of their races.

Three Babylonians were standing on the far side of the throne room, their beards curled with hot irons. How foolish was that in this wet, autumn climate? There were Trojans – horse traders and chariot makers – who had fallen foul of Priam and made their home in Dardania. They also stood apart, staring disdainfully at the noisy throng.

‘You miserable son of an ugly pig!’ someone shouted.

An odd insult, Cthosis thought. Would it be a compliment to be called the son of a beautiful pig? The two men flew at one another.

Blows were struck and they fell, struggling, to the stone floor.

Cthosis considered leaving. No-one would notice the absence of a single merchant among so many angry men. But he did not. He was interested to see this new king.

He had heard much of Helikaon the trader, and a little of Helikaon the fighter.

But all he knew of the man’s nature was contained in the story of how he had put aside his rights to the throne in favour of the child, Diomedes, his half-brother. Such an action did not speak highly of his ambition, or indeed of his ruthlessness.

And ruthlessness was what was required now. Helikaon needed to enter this throne room dressed in armour, and carrying a sword of fire, to quell this mob.

The two fighting men were dragged apart, still yelling abuse at one another.

Then the great doors opened, and soldiers marched into the throne room. Garbed in bronze breastplates and helmets, and carrying long spears and deep shields, they formed two lines and stood silently with their backs to the walls. The crowd fell silent and glanced back towards the doors. Cthosis saw a slim young man enter. His long dark hair was tied back from his face by a single strip of leather. His tunic was a pale, listless green, with a blue tinge. Probably privet berries, thought Cthosis, and not enough salt in the boil.

The young man stepped up to the dais at the far end of the throne room, and halted beside a long table. Then he turned and surveyed the crowd. Men were still talking to one another, and another argument broke out. The young man raised his hand. Immediately all the soldiers began to hammer their spears against their bronze shields. The sudden noise was startling.

Silence fell on the hall.

‘I thank you all for coming. I am Helikaon the king,’ said the young man.

‘I hope it’s worth our while,’ shouted someone from the back.

‘Let us be clear about something,’ said Helikaon, his voice displaying no anger.

‘There will be no interruptions when I speak. The next man whose voice cuts across mine will rue it. I will call upon each of you to voice his thoughts, and – equally – no-one will interrupt you as you speak. That is the only way we will achieve unity.’

‘Who says we need unity?’ called out the same man.

Helikaon raised his hand. Two soldiers moved forward, grabbing the speaker – a red-headed Phrygian – and hauling him from the throne room. ‘Now all of you here,’ continued Helikaon, ‘have grievances. There are enmities, hatreds, discords. We are here to put an end to them. And we will achieve this by discussing our grievances and solving them. Almost all of you men come from lands far away. But when you die your bodies will go into the earth of Dardania, and become part of it. And your spirits will reach out and touch your children, and they too will become the land. They will be Dardanians. Not Phrygians, Maeonians, Trojans, Lydians, but Dardanians.’

Helikaon fell silent as a soldier, carrying a small sack, moved through the crowd. He advanced to the dais and waited. Helikaon gestured him forward. The man stepped up to the dais, opened the sack, and lifted out a severed head. Cthosis blinked when he saw it. Then the soldier laid the head on the table, where the dead eyes stared out at the crowd. Blood oozed from the mutilated neck, and dripped to the stone floor. It was the head of the red-headed man who only moments before had been hauled from the throne room. ‘Now what I intend to do,’ said Helikaon, his voice still calm and agreeable, ‘is to call each of you forward to speak your minds. I do not do this in any order of preference, and you should not consider yourself slighted if you are not called until later. Are there any questions?’

The men stood in shocked silence, staring at the head upon the table. ‘Good,’ said Helikaon. ‘Then let us begin. I will speak first. Every man here lives or dies upon my sufferance. Every man here dwells upon my land, and is subject to my laws. Obey those laws and you will prosper. You will be protected by my soldiers, and your wealth will grow. You will be able to come to me, or my generals, and seek help when you need it. Disobey my laws and you will come to rue it. Now what are these laws? They are simple. You will render to me the king’s due from your profits, or your crops, or your herds. You will not take up arms against me, or against any other man under my protection. And that is all men who obey my laws. There will be no blood feuds. Grievances will be brought before me, or those appointed by me. That is where judgements will be sought. Those judgements will be final. Should a man commit murder, I will see him dead, and his entire family sold into slavery. His lands, his goods and his chattels will revert to me.’

Cthosis listened as the young man continued to speak. Not a sound came from anyone else in the throne room. Helikaon did not refer to the dead man, or even so much as glance at the severed head. The contrast between his measured words and the ghastly image was chilling. When at last he finished speaking he called out for a scribe to be sent for. A middle-aged man with a twisted back entered the room and nervously made his way forward. He was carrying a wicker basket full of soft clay tablets. A soldier brought him a chair and he sat quietly at the end of the table, as far from the severed head as he could. ‘This man,’ said the king, ‘will write down your grievances, and I will examine them later, and give judgement.’ He pointed to a tall, bearded Phrygian. ‘Now we shall begin the discussion. First say your name, then speak your grievance.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘If I speak, lord, and you do not like what you hear, will my head also grace your table, like my poor brother’s?’

‘You may speak freely. There will be no recrimination. Begin with your name.’

‘I am Pholus of Phrygia, and I breed horses for sale in Troy. My people have a settlement a day’s ride from the fortress, and we have water rights, granted by Queen Halysia. Some months back a cattle trader drove his herds onto our lands.

When my brother remonstrated with him he was beaten with cudgels. The cattle muddied the water, and collapsed the stream banks. How can I breed horses without water?’

And so it went on.

Cthosis stood quietly as one man after another spoke of problems, fears, and the reasons for discord with neighbours. The king listened to them for several hours, then called a halt, telling them they would meet again tomorrow. Then he invited them to join him at a feast later in the main courtyard, and with that he strode from the dais towards the far doors.

As he came abreast of Cthosis he paused. ‘That is a very fine gown, my friend,’

he said. ‘I have never seen the like.’ He stepped forward and sniffed. ‘There is no smell from the dye. It has already been washed?’

‘Indeed, lord. Three times.’

‘Extraordinary. Where did you acquire it?’

‘It is from my own cloth, and my own dye, lord.’

‘Even better. We shall find time to talk. A cloth of jet will earn gold in every country around the Great Green.’

He smiled at Cthosis, and walked away.

The soldiers filed out after him, and the doors closed. For a moment no-one said anything. Then the Phrygian horse breeder walked to the dais, dropped to his knees, and laid his hand on the severed head. ‘You never learned how to listen, little brother,’ he said. ‘But you were a good lad always. I shall miss you greatly.’

He picked up the sack, then stood by, uncertain. Cthosis approached him.

‘I do not believe the king would object if you removed your brother’s head,’ he said.

‘You think so?’

‘I am sure of it.’

The man sighed. ‘He paid a heavy price for a few ill-spoken words.’

‘Indeed he did.’

Cthosis left the hall and strolled out to the courtyard. Many of the leaders were now gathered together and talking quietly. Cthosis eased his way through the group, heading out towards an open area overlooking the cliff path leading up to the fortress gates.

A line of men was moving through the gates, carrying baskets of food, ready for the feast.

Idly he watched them. Then his interest quickened. A big man was coming through the gate, carrying a sheep upon his shoulders. Cthosis walked swiftly down towards him, fully expecting to be wrong in his identification. As he came closer his heart began to beat rapidly. He was heavily bearded now, but there was no mistaking those magnificent eyes. It was Prince Ahmose.

What wonder was this? The second in line to the Great Pharaoh was working as a servant in the fortress of Dardanos.

The big man saw him and smiled. ‘It seems you have done well for yourself, eunuch,’ he said.

Cthosis lowered his head and bowed. ‘Oh, no need for that,’ said Ahmose. ‘As you can see, I am no longer the pharaoh’s grandson. I am, like you, a man with a price on his head.’ ‘I am sorry, lord. You were kind to me.’ ‘No need for pity.

I am content. Do you serve here?’ ‘No, lord. I am a merchant. I make and sell cloth. It would be an honour to fashion you a tunic’

‘You may stop calling me lord – Cthosis, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes, lord. Oh… I am sorry.’ Ahmose laughed. ‘I am known now as Gershom.’ ‘How strange,’ said Cthosis. ‘A long time since I heard that word. My people use it to describe foreigners.’

‘That is why I chose it. You are one of the desert folk?’ ‘Yes… well, I was once. Before my father sold me to the palace.’ ‘A curious race,’ said Gershom.

‘However, I cannot stand here talking of old times. There is work to be done for your feast.’ He clapped Cthosis on the shoulder. ‘Rameses was furious when he found out I’d freed you. It cost me two hundred talents of silver and my best war horse.’

‘I will always be grateful, lord. If ever you need anything .. .’ ‘Don’t make promises, my friend. Those who are discovered to have aided me will face a harsh reckoning.’

‘Even so. Should you ever need anything you have only to ask. All that I have is at your disposal.’

ii

Helikaon left the assembly and strode through the palace. The old general Pausanius tried to intercept him, but he shook his head and waved the man away.

Climbing the worn steps to the battlements he tilted his head to the sky, drawing in deep, calming breaths. His stomach began to settle.

Noticing a sentry watching him, he moved back inside, making his way through to the old royal apartments, and his childhood rooms. Dust lay over the floor, and there were cobwebs across the balcony entrance. Brushing them aside, he stepped out. The ancient, rickety chair was still there, the wood paled and cracked by the sun. Kneeling down, he traced his fingers over the carved horse in the backrest.

This was the throne he had sat upon as a child, king of a pretend world, in which all men were contented, and there were no wars. He had never, in those days, dreamed of battle and glory. Moving back from the chair he slumped down to the cold stone, and rested his head on the low balcony rail. Closing his eyes he saw again the severed head on the table. It merged with that of Zidantas.

He could almost hear Ox speak. You think that boy in the hall deserved to die, so that you could make a point? Could you not have won them over with the conviction of your words, the power of your mind? Does it always have to be death, with you?

Helikaon stared at the chair, picturing the little boy who had sat there.

‘Sometimes,’ he told him, ‘such deeds are necessary. I once saw Odysseus cut open a crewman’s chest, in order to pull out an arrow head that had lodged there. Sometimes the evil needs to be cut free.’

Do not seek to fool yourself, said the voice of Ox. Do not rationalize your evil, and seek to make it something good. Yes, the men will follow you now. Yes, the realm is safe from discord. Yes, you are a king. Your father would be so proud of you!

Helikaon’s anger rose. It is not Ox talking to you, he told himself. It is your own weakness. The man was warned and chose to ignore it. His death achieved more in one blood-drenched moment than a torrent of words could have. And that is the truth of it!

The truth is a many-costumed whore, came Odysseus’ voice in his mind. Seems to me she will offer a man valid reasons for any deed, no matter how ghastly.

A rumble of thunder came from the distance, and a cold wind began to blow.

Helikaon pushed himself to his feet and took a last look around the home of his childhood, then walked out, and down to the lower apartments, where the wounded men of his crew were being cared for. He stopped and spoke to each man, then went in search of Attalus.

He found him in a side garden, his chest and side bandaged. Sitting alone in the shadows of a late-flowering tree, he was whittling a length of wood. Helikaon approached him.

‘The surgeon says you were lucky, my friend. The knife missed your heart by a whisker.’

Attalus nodded. ‘Lucky day for you too,’ he said.

‘It always helps when good friends are close by. It surprised me to see you there. Oniacus tells me you had decided to quit the crew.’

‘Surprised me too,’ admitted Attalus. Helikaon sat alongside him. The man continued to whittle.

‘If you want to leave for Troy when you are well, I will see you are given a good horse and a pouch of gold. You are welcome, though, to stay in Dardanos, and enjoy my hospitality for the winter.’

Attalus put down his knife, and his shoulders sagged. ‘You owe me nothing.’

‘I owe any man who chooses to fight alongside me – most especially when he is no longer a member of my crew.’

‘I just got drawn in, that’s all. Had my own reasons for being there.’ Attalus sat silently for a moment. Then he looked at Helikaon. ‘It is not over, you know.’

‘I know that. The assassin Karpophorus has been paid to end my life. They say he is the finest killer on the Great Green. He was also the man who murdered my father. Here in this very fortress.’

‘Oniacus told me no-one knew who killed Anchises.’

Helikaon sat down opposite Attalus. ‘I only found out recently.’ He gazed around the garden. ‘This is a peaceful place. I used to play here as a child.’

Attalus did not respond, and returned to his whittling.

‘Rest and regain your strength, Attalus. And if you need anything, ask and it will be supplied for you.’ Helikaon stood up, ready to leave.

‘I am not a good man,’ said Attalus suddenly, his face reddening. ‘Everyone treats me like a good man. I don’t like it!’

The outburst surprised Helikaon. Attalus had always seemed so calm and in control. Resuming his seat, he looked at the crewman. He was tense now, and his eyes looked angry. ‘We are none of us good men,’ said Helikaon softly. ‘Today I had a man killed merely to make a point. He may well have been a good man. We are all flawed, Attalus. We all carry the weight of our deeds. And we will all answer for them, I think. All I know of you is that you have proved a loyal crewman, and a brave companion. I also know you were hired by Zidantas. The Ox was a fine judge of fighting men. Your past means nothing here. Only the deeds of the present and the future.’

‘Past, present and future, it is all the same,’ said Attalus, his shoulders slumping. ‘They are what they are. We are what we are. Nothing changes.’

‘I don’t know if that is true. My life has changed now three times. Once when I was a small child and my mother died. Once when Odysseus came and took me aboard the Penelope. And then when my father was murdered. That still haunts me. I left here as a frightened boy. My father told me he loathed me. I came back as a man, hoping that he would be proud.’ Helikaon fell silent, surprised at himself for sharing his thoughts with a relative stranger. He saw that Attalus was looking at him. ‘I don’t usually talk like this,’ he said, suddenly embarrassed.

‘A man who tells his child he loathes him,’ said Attalus, his voice trembling, ‘isn’t worth rat’s piss. So why care whether he would have been proud or not?’

Sheathing his dagger he threw aside the whittled wood and rose to his feet. ‘I’m tired. I’ll rest now.’

Helikaon remained where he was as the slim sailor returned to the fortress.

Not worth rat’s piss.

The simple truth of the words cut through years of hidden anguish. The weight of regret suddenly lifted. Anchises had never been a father to him, had cared nothing for him. He was cold-hearted, and manipulative, and had spent years tormenting a lost and lonely child. Attalus was right.

And the dark shadow of Anchises melted from his mind like mist in the sunlight.

i

That autumn and winter in Dardania were the worst in living memory. Fierce storms lashed the coastline. Swollen rivers burst their banks, bringing down bridges. Several low-lying villages were washed away in the floods. Into this chaos came bands of outlaws and rogue mercenary groups, preying on the populace. Helikaon travelled the land leading troops to hunt them down. Three battles were i fought before midwinter. Two were indecisive, the mercenaries escaping into the mountains. The third saw a mercenary force of some seven hundred men routed.

Helikaon had the leaders executed, the hundred or so survivors sold into slavery.

Messengers from Troy brought no good news. Hektor was still missing, even though the brief war between the Hittite empire and Egypte was over. The last anyone had seen of the Trojan prince he had been facing impossible odds, with no escape route. Helikaon did not believe Hektor was dead. The man was vibrant with life.

If a mountain fell on him he would burrow his way out. If the sea rose over him, he would emerge riding a dolphin.

Hektor was invincible.

Even so, as the weeks went by, a gnawing worry gripped him.

What if the inconceivable proved to be true?

Priam was hated by most of his sons, and many of his followers. If he was toppled civil war would follow. All alliances would be voided. The war would inevitably spread to encompass all the lands of the eastern coastline, as Priam’s warring sons forged new alliances. Trade would suffer, the flow of wealth drying up. Merchants, farmers, traders, cattle breeders would see their profits tumble. Without markets for their goods they would release workers. More and more people would find themselves without the means to buy food. This in turn would lead to unrest, and the swelling of outlaw bands. Agamemnon and the Mykene would be jubilant. How much more simple their plans would become if the armies of the east tore into each other in a great bloodletting.

As the first cold winds of winter blew in from the north, Helikaon was back at the fortress of Dardanos. The queen, Halysia, had recovered from her physical wounds, but rarely ventured out into the public eye. Helikaon tried to draw her in to the running of the realm, but she refused. ‘Everyone knows what was done to me,’ she said. ‘I see it in their eyes.’

‘The people love you, Halysia. And so they should. You are a caring queen. The works of evil men have not changed that.’

‘Everything has changed,’ she said. ‘The sun no longer shines for me.’

He had left her then, for he had no words to pierce the walls of her sorrow.

That afternoon Pausanius came to him, telling him a Mykene ambassador had arrived from Troy.

‘You want me to send him away?’ The old general looked nervous.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘He may have learned of the attack on Pithros.’

‘I am sure that he has.’

‘You do not fear war with the Mykene?’

‘Bring him to me, Pausanius, and then remain, but say nothing.’

The ambassador was a slender, red-headed man, who introduced himself as Erekos.

He entered the megaron and offered no bow.

‘Greetings, King Helikaon. I hope I find you well.’

‘Indeed you do, Erekos. How may we assist you?’

‘We have received disturbing news, king, from the island of Pithros. A ship beached there recently and found hundreds of corpses. All the houses were empty and plundered, and most of the women and children removed.’

‘Consider it my gift to King Agamemnon.’

‘Your gift? The island of Pithros is Mykene land.’

‘Indeed it is, and so it remains,’ said Helikaon. ‘It had also become a pirate haven, and from its bays their galleys attacked merchant vessels, or raided coastal settlements. You will know that my own fortress was attacked, and my brother slain.’ Helikaon paused and watched the man. Erekos looked away.

‘Yes, the news of the… atrocity… reached us. Appalling. But you had no right to bring troops to a Mykene island, without first seeking the permission of Agamemnon King.’

‘Not so, Erekos. My father, Anchises, forged a treaty with King Atreus. In it both nations pledged to support the other against pirates and raiders. What greater support could I offer the son of Atreus, than to expel pirates from a Mykene island, and to make the Great Green safer for Mykene trading ships?’

Erekos stood silently, his face pale. ‘You wish me to convey to my king that you invaded Mykene lands as a gift to him?’

‘What else could it be but a gift?’ asked Helikaon. ‘Two hundred dead pirates and an island returned to Mykene rule. And you can assure your king that come the spring my fleet will continue to hunt pirates and kill them wherever they find them.’

‘You will not again invade Mykene lands, King Helikaon.’

‘Mykene lands?’ responded Helikaon, feigning surprise. ‘By the gods, have pirates conquered even more Mykene territory? This is grim news.’

‘No territory has been conquered,’ replied Erekos, his voice becoming shrill. He took a deep, calming breath. ‘What I am saying, King Helikaon, is that the Mykene will deal with any pirates who might seek to hide on Mykene lands.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Helikaon, nodding. ‘It is a question of martial pride. I understand that, and would wish to cause King Agamemnon no embarrassment. He has suffered so much of late. It must be galling for him.’

‘Galling? I do not understand.’

‘Two of his Followers turning rogue. First Alektruon, who I understand was a favourite of the king. Then Kolanos becoming a pirate. Oh – and I almost forgot – then there is Argurios, who I understand has been declared a traitor and an outlaw. And now to discover that pirates had overrun a Mykene island…’

Helikaon shook his head, adopting an expression of sympathy. ‘It will make him wonder what disasters are yet to befall him. However, you can assure the king of my friendship. Now, will you stay and dine with us, Erekos?’

‘No, King Helikaon – though I thank you for your courtesy. I must return to Troy. There are matters there that need my attention.’

After Erekos had left Pausanius stepped forward, a wide smile on his face. ‘I enjoyed that, my king. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.’

‘Agamemnon will not laugh when he hears of it.’

‘You think he will declare war on us?’

‘I doubt it. How can he make war on a friend who has aided him?’

‘But they were his pirates.’

‘Indeed they were. We know it, he knows it, but other kings around the Great Green do not. If he makes war on Dardania, following an attack on pirates, it will be an admission that he is behind the pirate raids.’

‘I hope you are right, my king.’

ii

On midwinter’s night another messenger arrived from Troy. Nasiq was a young Phrygian scribe employed by one of Helikaon’s merchant allies. He brought scrolls and messages concerning the needs of the coming trading season, and accountings of the previous trading year. More than this, though, he was a raconteur and an outrageous gossip. Helikaon always enjoyed his winter visits.

‘What news, Nasiq, my friend?’ he asked, as they sat down to eat in the king’s apartments.

The slender Phrygian lifted a small delicacy from a silver plate. It was minced lamb, wrapped in a vine leaf. He sniffed at it, then took a bite. ‘Oh, my dear, there is so much to tell. Who would you like to hear of first?’

‘What of Hektor?’

‘No word. Many of the Trojan Horse have now returned to the city. Others remained around Kadesh with Hittite soldiers, searching for him. It does not look as if there will be good news. The last time anyone saw him he and around fifty of his men were surrounded and outnumbered, and night was falling.’

‘What is the mood in the city?’

‘Fractious. Two of Priam’s sons – Isos and Pammon – have fled the city. They were about to be arrested, I understand.’

‘I know them both. Neither has the wit to organize a revolt, or the following to inspire insurrection.’

‘I agree. They would be serving someone else. Fat Antiphones has been stripped of his titles and ordered not to leave his palace. He was seen meeting in secret with the Mykene ambassador, Erekos.’

‘I met him,’ said Helikaon. ‘A cold and unpleasant man. It would surprise me, however, to learn that Antiphones was a traitor. He is more interested in food than power. Polites is a possibility. He is no warrior, but he has a sharp mind.’

‘And Priam is said to enjoy riding his wife. Rumour has it that Polites’ two sons share an interesting trait. Their father is also their grandfather.’

Helikaon chuckled and shook his head. ‘You really are a dreadful gossip, Nasiq.

It shames me that I am amused by it.’ His smile faded. ‘However, Polites is a possibility, as is Agathon.’

‘Agathon has always been as loyal as Hektor,’ Nasiq pointed out.

‘Largely because of Hektor. They are great friends. But Priam does not favour Agathon. Never has. He judges him against Hektor. I remember once the king saying publicly that Agathon and Hektor were like two identical statues, save that one was cast in gold, the other copper.’ Helikaon swore. ‘Priam is an unpleasant man, and always finds exactly the right insult to wound the deepest.’

‘Is there anyone in high position that Priam has not insulted?’ queried Nasiq.

‘Probably not. Let us talk of other news. What of Andromache?’

‘Ah, wonderful stories!’ Nasiq hesitated. ‘Are you friends with the lady?’

‘What difference would that make to the stories?’

‘I’m not sure. She is the talk of Troy… for many reasons. Some high, some low.’

‘I want no low tales concerning her,’ said Helikaon sharply. The wind blew in from the open balcony, causing a lamp to gutter. He rose and pulled the doors closed, then relit the lamp. Nasiq sat silently for a few moments more. Then he gave a wry smile.

‘Rather a large difference then.’

Helikaon relaxed. ‘Begin your tale,’ he said.

‘Very well. You heard she saved the king’s life?’

Helikaon was shocked, then he chuckled. ‘Is there some fine and witty line that ends this Odyssean fable?’

‘No, it is true,’ insisted Nasiq. Helikaon listened as the Phrygian told the story of the archery tourney, and how Andromache had killed the assassin. ‘The traitor had reached the king and was poised to strike him down when Andromache’s arrow pierced his heart. The king praised her before the crowd, saying she was indeed a fit bride for his Hektor.’

‘By the gods,’ whispered Helikaon, ‘she is a woman to treasure.’

‘Prince Agathon obviously agrees with you. It is said he has asked Andromache to marry him, if Hektor does not return.’

‘Has she… accepted Agathon’s advances?’

‘I have no knowledge that she has or she hasn’t,’ answered Nasiq. ‘Of course she would be a fool not to. He is young, rich, and… depending on circumstances…

could one day be king.’

‘What else can you tell me of Andromache?’

Nasiq chuckled. ‘She swam with a naked man, in front of the royal princes.’

‘Is this gossip, or reality?’ asked Helikaon, holding back his anger.

‘Reality, my lord. A friend of mine was on the royal beach at the time. The king’s daughter, Laodike, had invited a wounded Mykene warrior to the beach. All skin and bone he was, apparently. Hardly able to breathe. Andromache went swimming with him.’

‘Argurios,’ said Helikaon.

‘Yes, that was the man. Famous, they say.’

‘Go on.’

‘When they emerged from the water Prince Deiphobos harangued her, and then the Mykene challenged him. It should have been amusing. A tottering skeleton demanding a sword. But he frightened Deiphobos. Agathon came to his rescue and calmed the situation. Who else would you like to hear of?’

‘Was that what you meant by low tales?’

Nasiq leaned back. ‘Now you are drawing me into dangerous territory, Golden One.

You have already made it clear the lady is a friend of yours, and you want to hear no ill of her. So what would you have me say?’

Helikaon sat silently for a moment. ‘Tell me all,’ he said, at last.

‘When I arrived here earlier the palace servants were talking of a man who offended you at a recent meeting. They said his head was put on display. I am rather fond of my head.’

‘Your head is safe, Nasiq. You are too good a gossip to kill. My winter evenings would be dull indeed without you.’

‘Very well – but remember you asked. Kreusa claimed to have discovered her frolicking naked with a female servant. This was reported to the king, who had the servant whipped, and then dismissed from the palace. Andromache was furious and accosted Kreusa publicly. Kreusa slapped her, and Andromache hit her with her fist. Said to have been a fine blow. An uppercut, according to one witness.

Kreusa was knocked senseless and had to be carried to her bed. Everyone expected Andromache to be sent back in shame to her father. Priam chose to ignore the incident. Probably because he owed her his life. Now the palace is seething with rumours concerning the king and Andromache.’

‘I have heard enough,’ said Helikaon stiffly. ‘How is Queen Hekabe?’

‘She continues to cling to life. She is even entertaining guests. The youngest daughter of the king of Sparta is staying at the palace. Ostensibly she is here to find a suitable husband. The belief though is that her father sent her away to keep her safe. Mykene armies are massing on Sparta’s borders. There is likely to be a war in the spring. And Sparta’s small army cannot stand against Agamemnon’s forces.’

Just then there was a soft knocking at the outer door. The old general Pausanius entered.

‘My apologies for disturbing you, lord,’ he said. ‘I need to speak to you…

privately.’

Nasiq rose. ‘Matters of state must always take precedence,’ he said, with a smile at Pausanius. Then he left the room.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Helikaon.

‘The queen has left her apartments. Her handmaiden says she saw her walking towards Aphrodite’s Leap.’ The old general paled. ‘I am sorry, my king. That was crass of me.’

‘I will find her,’ said Helikaon.

iii

As she walked the high rocky path in the faint light of dawn, Halysia could barely distinguish between the mist rising from the crumbling cliff edge under her bare feet and the dark fog lying across her mind. People talked of broken hearts, but they were wrong. Broken was somehow complete. Finished. Over. The real sensation was of continual breaking. An everlasting wound, sharp and jagged, like claws of bronze biting into the soft tissue of the heart. The mind became a cruel enemy, closing off reality for brief periods. Sometimes she would forget that Dio had been murdered. She would look at the sunlit sky and smile, and wonder – just for a moment – where he was. Then the truth would plunge home, and the bronze talons cleave once more into her wounded heart. The dawn breeze was cool with the promise of rain. It was a long time since she had walked this path. Aphrodite’s Leap they called it, though the words had been whispered behind the old king’s back. His first wife had thrown herself from this cliff onto the unforgiving rocks hundreds of feet below. Halysia had heard the tale many times.

Wandering to the cliff edge she peered down. Mist was heavy upon the sea, and she wondered how it would feel to let go, to plummet down and end the agony of her life.

Thoughts of the past stirred in her. She remembered the bright days of her childhood in Zeleia when she and her brothers rode with the horse herds in summer, taking them from water pastures beside the dark river Aesipos to the cities of the coast. For days her feet would barely touch the ground as she travelled wrapped in a warm blanket on a gentle mare, listening to the night sounds across the plains.

Dio was already a fearless rider and she had planned to take him on a night journey, to camp out under the cold stars…

The sky was lightening, but the fog grew darker on her mind. She faltered to a halt and fell to her knees, her strength running out like water from a cup. She thought she heard a sound, running steps behind her, but she could not move to look round.

Her tortured mind returned again to the past, to comforting thoughts of her first arrival at Dardanos. True, she had not been happy then; she was just seventeen and homesick and frightened of the grey old man she was to marry. But now she always thought of it as a good time, because she was quickly pregnant with Dio. Anchises was not a bad husband, not unkind, and once Aeneas had been banished from his thoughts she was the mother of the son in whom he placed all his hopes. He gave Dio a toy horse, she recalled with a smile, that he had carved himself from pale wood. It was a crude thing, for he had little skill with his hands, but he had decorated it with gold leaf on mane and tail, and it had sky-blue chips of lapis lazuli for eyes.

She remembered the blue eyes of Garus, her personal bodyguard. He had soft blond eyelashes that lay gently on his cheek as he slept. She liked to wake him, to see the pale lashes open, to see his eyes rest on her in love and wonder.

He had fallen in the last desperate struggle, a spear through his chest, a sword in his belly, still trying to protect her and her son. He was dead before they all raped her. She was glad of that. He was dead before they flung Dio from the high walls.

She heard a thin keening sound. It was her own voice, but she knew of no way to stop it.

‘Halysia!’ Another voice in the fog. ‘Halysia!’

She thought back to her childhood and her father holding her in his arms, smiling down at her. He smelled of horses, of their pungent hides he always wore. She reached up and pulled the greasy braids of his beard. He laughed and clutched her fiercely to his chest.

She felt his arms round her now, gentle and tender.

‘Halysia. It is Aeneas. Come back to me.’

Aeneas. They called him Helikaon. There were many Aeneases, many Helikaons in her mind. There was the shy, frightened youth she had barely noticed, consumed as she was in her love for her baby. He disappeared one day on a foreign ship, and Anchises said he would not return. But he did, on a day of great terror.

With Anchises dead she was sure Aeneas would have her killed, or kill her himself, and her son with her. But he didn’t. He sailed away again after a few days, leaving Dio king and herself safe under the protection of Garus and old Pausanius. Those were the happiest years…

‘Halysia, look at me. Look at me!’

She looked up, but it was not her father who held her. His eyes had been brown; these were blue. She remembered blue eyes…

‘Halysia!’ She felt strong hands shaking her. ‘It is I, Aeneas. Say Aeneas.’

‘Aeneas.’ She frowned and looked around, at the treacherous cliff edge, and the grey sea far below their feet. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Your maid saw you walking here. She feared for your life.’

‘My life? I have no life.’ He pulled her into his arms again and she rested her cheek on his shoulder. ‘My son was my life, Aeneas,’ she said calmly. ‘I have no life without him.’

‘He walks in the green fields of Elysium now,’ he said. ‘He has your bodyguard… was it Garus?… to hold his hand.’

‘Do you believe that?’ she asked, searching his face.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Do you believe also in the power of dreams?’

‘Dreams?’

‘When I lay… as I thought… dying I had many dreams, Aeneas. And all but one of them were terrifying. I saw blood and fire, and a city burning. I saw the sea full of ships, carrying violent men. I saw war, Aeneas. I saw the fall of kings and the death of heroes. Oh… so much death.’ She looked up at him. ‘Do you believe in the power of dreams?’

He led her away from the cliff top and they sat on a green slope. ‘Odysseus says there are two kinds of dreams. Some born of strong wine and rich food, and some sent by the gods. Of course you dreamt of blood and war. Evil men had attacked you. Your mind was full of visions of vileness.’

His words flowed over her, and she clung to the hope they were true. They sat in silence for a while. Then she sighed. ‘Garus loved me. I was going to ask if you would object to our marriage. They took both my loves that night, Aeneas. My Dio, and strong-hearted Garus.’

‘I did not know. And, no, I would have offered no objection. He was a good man.

But you are young still, Halysia, and beautiful. If the gods will it you will find love again.’

‘Love? I do so hope not, Aeneas. Yes, it was the only part of the dream that was bright and joyful. But if what I saw does come to pass, does it not mean that the other visions, of war and death, will also come?’

‘I have no answers for such fears,’ he said. ‘What I do know is that you are the queen of Dardania, and the people love you. No-one will supplant you, and, while I live, no-one will ever threaten you again.’

‘They love me now,’ she said sadly. ‘Will they love me still when the monster is born?’

‘What monster?’

‘The beast in my belly,’ she whispered to him. ‘It is evil, Aeneas. It is Mykene.’

He took her hand. ‘I did not know you were pregnant. I am sorry, Halysia.’ He sighed. ‘But it is not a monster. It is merely a child, who will love you as Dio did.’

‘It will be a boy, dark-haired and grey-eyed. I saw this too.’

‘Then he will be a prince of Dardania. People are bred to evil, Halysia. I do not believe it is born in them. No matter how they are conceived.’

She relaxed in his arms. ‘You are a good man, Aeneas.’

‘My friends call me Helikaon. I would hope you are my friend.’

‘I am your friend,’ she said. ‘I always will be.’

He smiled. ‘Good. I will be leaving for Troy in a few days. I want you and Pausanius to continue meeting the leaders and resolving disputes. They trust you, Halysia. And now that they have witnessed my harshness they will be more amenable to your wisdom. Are you ready to be queen again?’

‘I will do as you ask,’ she said. ‘For friendship.’

Then the vision came back to her, bright and shining. Helikaon standing before her in a white tunic edged with gold, and in his hand a bejewelled necklet.

Closing her eyes she prayed with all her strength that he would never bring her that golden gift.

iv

The young Hittite horseman rode at a gallop across the plain, bent low over the horse’s neck, his imperial cloak of green and yellow stripes flowing behind him. He glanced again at the dying sun and saw it was closing on the horizon. He could not ride after dark in this unknown country, and leaned forward on his horse to urge it on. He was determined to reach Troy before sunset. He had been on the road for eight days, and had used five horses, at first changing them daily at imperial garrisons. But in this uncharted western end of the empire there were no troops stationed on a regular basis and this horse must last him until he reached Troy. Since leaving Sallapa, the last civilized city in the Hittite empire, he had followed the route he had memorized – keep the rising sun warm on your back, the setting sun between your horse’s ears, and after four days you will see the great mountain called Ida. Skirt this to the north, and you will reach Troy and the sea.

The messenger, Huzziyas, had never seen the sea. He had lived all his nineteen years in and around the capital Hattusas, deep in the heart of Hittite lands. This was his first important commission as an imperial messenger and he was determined to fulfil it with speed and efficiency. But he was eager to gaze upon the sea when the emperor’s task was done. His hand crept to his breast again and he nervously touched the papers hidden in his leather tunic. He was riding now across a flat green plain. He could see a plateau in front of him, the sun falling directly towards it. The last sunlight was shining off something on the heights of the plateau. Troy is roofed with gold, they had told him, but he had scoffed at this. ‘Do you think me a fool?’ he asked. ‘If it is roofed with gold why do bandits not come and steal the roofs?’ ‘You will see,’ they replied. It was almost dark by the time he rode up to the city. He could see nothing but great shadowed walls towering above him. Suddenly his confidence evaporated and he felt like a small boy again. He walked his tired horse round the south of the walls, as instructed, until he reached the high wooden gates. One gate had been opened a little, and six riders awaited him, silent men clad in high-crested helmets seated on tall horses.

He cleared his throat of the dust of travel, and called out to them in the foreign words he had been schooled in. ‘I come from Hattusas. I have a message for King Priam!’

He was beckoned forward and rode slowly through the gate. Two horsemen rode in front of him, two at his sides, and two behind. They were all armed and armoured and they said nothing as they made their way through the darkened streets.

Huzziyas looked curiously around him but in the torchlight he could see little.

Steadily, they climbed towards the citadel.

They passed through the palace gates and halted at a great building lined with red pillars and lit with hundreds of torches. The riders sat their horses and waited until a man clad in long white robes hurried out. He was grey-faced and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery. He peered at Huzziyas.

‘You are an imperial messenger?’ he snapped.

Huzziyas was relieved he spoke the Hittite tongue.

‘I am,’ he answered with pride. ‘I have travelled day and night to bring an important message to the Trojan king.’

‘Give it to me.’ The man held out his hand, gesturing impatiently. The Hittite took out the precious paper. It had been wrapped round a stick and sealed with the imperial seal, then placed in a hollow wooden tube and sealed again at each end. Huzziyas ceremoniously handed the tube to the wet-eyed man, who almost snatched it from him, merely glancing at the seals before breaking them and unrolling the paper.

He frowned and Huzziyas saw disappointment on his face.

‘You know what this says?’ he asked the young man.

‘I do,’ said Huzziyas importantly. ‘It says the emperor is coming.’

i

In the days following her first meeting with Argurios, Laodike had found herself thinking more and more of the Mykene warrior. It was most odd. He was not good-looking, like Helikaon or Agathon. His features were hard and angular. He was certainly not charming, and seemed possessed of no great wit. And yet he had i begun to dominate her thoughts in a most disconcerting manner.

When he had been beside her on the beach she had experienced an almost maternal longing, a desire to help him regain his physical strength, to watch him become again the man he had been. At least, that was how it had begun. Now her thoughts were more obsessive, and she realized she was missing him.

Xander had told her of the soldier who had walked Argurios to the beach, saying that he had treated him with great respect. Laodike knew Polydorus and had called out to him one afternoon, when the blond-haired soldier was off duty and walking through the palace gardens.

‘It is a fine day,’ she began. ‘For the time of year, I mean.’

‘Indeed it is,’ he answered. ‘Is there something you need?’

‘No, not at all. I wanted to… thank you for your courtesy towards the wounded Mykene. The boy, Xander, spoke of it.’

Now he looked bemused and Laodike felt embarrassment swelling. ‘I am sorry. I am obviously delaying you. Are you going into the lower town?’

‘Yes, I am meeting the parents of my bride-to-be. But first I must find a gift for them.’

‘There is a trader,’ she said, ‘on the Street of Thetis. He is a silversmith, and crafts the most beautiful small statues of the goddess Demeter, and the babe Persephone. It is said they are lucky pieces.’

‘I have heard of him, but I fear I could not afford such a piece.’

Now Laodike felt foolish. Of course he couldn’t. He was a soldier, not a nobleman with rich farms, or horse herds, or trading ships. Polydorus waited, and the moment became awkward. Finally she took a deep breath. ‘What do you know of the Mykene?’ she asked.

‘He is a great warrior,’ answered Polydorus, relaxing. ‘I learned of him when I was still a child. He has fought in many battles, and under the old king was twice Mykene champion. You have heard of the bridge of Partha?’

‘No.’

‘The Mykene were in retreat. A rare thing! They had crossed the bridge, but the enemy were close behind. Argurios stood upon the bridge and defied the enemy to kill him. They came at him one at a time, but he defeated every champion they sent.’

‘Why did they not all just rush at him in a charge? One man could not have stopped them all, surely?’

‘I suppose that is true. Perhaps they valued his courage. Perhaps they wanted to test themselves against the best. I do not know.’

‘Thank you, Polydorus,’ she said. ‘And now you must go and find that gift.’ He bowed his head and turned away. On impulse she reached out and touched his arm.

The young soldier was shocked. ‘Go to the silversmith,’ she said, with a smile.

‘And tell him I sent you. Pick a fine statue and instruct him to come to me for payment.’

‘Thank you. I… do not know what to say.’

‘Then say nothing, Polydorus,’ she told him.

That afternoon she had walked down to the House of Serpents, ostensibly to collect more medicines for Hekabe. In fact, though, she wandered the grounds until she caught sight of Argurios. He was chopping wood. She stood in the shadows of a stand of trees and watched him. He had put on weight, and his movements were smooth and graceful, the axe rising and falling, the wood splitting cleanly.

She stood for a while, trying to think of what she might say to him. She wished she had worn a more colourful dress, and perhaps the gold pendant with the large sapphire. Everyone said it was a beautiful piece. Then grim reality struck home, and her heart sank. You are a plain woman, she told herself. No amount of gold or pretty jewellery can disguise it. And you are about to make a fool of yourself.

Turning away she decided to return to the palace, but she had taken no more than a few steps before the healer Machaon came round the corner of a building and saw her. He bowed deeply. ‘I did not know you were here, Laodike,’ he said. ‘Has your mother’s condition worsened?’

‘No. I was just… out walking,’ she replied, reddening.

He glanced beyond her to where Argurios was still working. ‘His recovery is amazing,’ he said. ‘His breathing is almost normal, and his strength is returning at a fine rate. Would that all those I treated showed such determination. How goes it, Argurios?’ he called out.

The Mykene thunked the axe into a round of wood, and swung to face them. Then he walked across the grass towards them. Laodike tried to breathe normally, but felt panic rising.

‘Greetings,’ said Argurios.

‘And to you, warrior,’ she said. ‘I see that you are almost well.’

‘Aye, I feel power in me again.’

Silence fell. ‘Ah well,’ said Machaon, with a knowing smile, ‘I have patients to see to.’ Bowing once more, he went on his way.

Laodike stood very quietly, not knowing what to say. She looked at Argurios. His cheeks were shaved, the jutting chin beard trimmed, and sweat gleamed on his bare chest. ‘It is a fine day,’ she managed. ‘For the time of year, I mean.’ The blue sky was streaked with clouds, but at that moment the sun was shining brightly.

‘I am glad you came,’ he said suddenly. ‘I have been thinking of you constantly,’ he added, his tone awkward, his gaze intense.

In that moment Laodike’s nervousness vanished, and she felt a sense of calm descend on her. In the silence that followed she saw Argurios becoming ill at ease. ‘I never did know how to speak other than plainly,’ he said.

‘Perhaps you would like to walk for a while in the sunshine. Though, first, I suggest you put on your tunic’

They walked through the gardens and out into the lower town. Argurios said little, but the silence was comfortable. Finally they sat on a stone bench beside a well. Glancing back, she saw that two men had followed them, and were now sitting on a wall some distance away. ‘Do you know them?’ she asked, pointing.

His expression darkened. ‘They have been hired by Helikaon to protect me. There are others who come at night, and stand beneath the trees.’

‘That was kind of him.’

‘Kind!’

‘Why does it make you angry?’

‘Helikaon is my enemy. I have no wish to be beholden to the man.’ He glanced at the two bodyguards. ‘And any half-trained Mykene soldier could scatter those fools in a heartbeat.’

‘You are proud of your people.’

‘We are strong. We are unafraid. Yes, I am proud.’ A group of women carrying empty buckets approached the well. Laodike and Argurios moved away, up the slope towards the Scaean Gate. Passing through it they climbed to the battlements of the great wall and strolled along the ramparts.

‘Why were you banished?’ asked Laodike.

He shrugged. ‘Lies were told and believed. I can make little sense of it. There are men at the royal court with honeyed tongues. They fill the king’s ear with flattery. The old king I could talk to. Atreus was a warrior – a fighting man.

You could sit with him at a campfire, like any other soldier.’

Another silence grew. It did not bother Laodike, who was enjoying his company, but Argurios became increasingly uncomfortable. ‘I have never known how to talk to women,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I do not know what interests them. At this moment I wish I did.’

She laughed. ‘Life,’ she told him. ‘Birth and growth. Flowers that bloom and fade, seasons that bring sunshine or rain. Clothes that mirror the beauty that is all around us, the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the gold of the sun. But mostly we are interested in people. In their lives and their dreams. Do you have a family back in Mykene?’

‘No. My parents died years ago.’

‘Not a wife at home?’

‘No.’

Laodike let the silence grow once more. She gazed out over the bay. There were few ships now, save for some fishing boats. ‘You were very rash with Dios,’ she said.

‘I did not like the way he spoke to you,’ he told her, and she saw anger again in his eyes.

The sun was low in the sky and Laodike turned. ‘I must be getting back,’ she said.

‘Will you visit me again?’ His nervousness was obvious, and it filled her with a confidence she rarely experienced in the company of men.

‘I might come tomorrow.’

He smiled. ‘I hope you do,’ he told her.

For the next ten days she came every day and they walked the great walls together. There was little conversation, but she enjoyed those times more than any she could remember. Especially the moment she slipped on a rampart step, and his arm swept round her before she could fall. Laodike leaned in to him then, her head upon his shoulder. It was exquisite, and she wished it could last for ever.

ii

Andromache thought she had never seen such a tall man as the Hittite emperor.

Hattusilis was even taller than Priam, and of much the same age, but he stooped as he walked and Andromache was sure he had bad feet, for he shuffled a little as if anxious not to lift them far from the ground.

He was thin to the point of emaciation, his hair oiled black and partly covered by a close-fitting cap. He glanced around Priam’s great, gold-filled megaron, looking strangely out of place in his simple, unadorned leather riding clothes.

He had ridden into the city, but Andromache knew the Hittite force had been camped out on the plain of the Simoeis overnight while the emperor rested, and that he had travelled much of the way from his capital in a rich and comfortable carriage.

Hattusilis carried two curved swords, one at his waist, the other unsheathed in his hand, and Andromache wondered at the frenzied negotiations that had taken place between the two sides since dawn to agree to that. He was attended by a retinue of eunuchs and counsellors, all wearing colourfully patterned kilts clasped at the waist with belts of braided gold wire, some attired in bright shawls, others bare-chested. All were unarmed, of course.

One huge half-naked bodyguard, so muscle-bound that Andromache decided he was more ornament than use, stood close to the emperor’s shoulder.

Hattusilis III, emperor of the Hittites, advanced halfway down the megaron, then stopped. Priam, standing in front of his carved and gilded throne, walked forward to meet him, flanked by Polites and Agathon. There was a pause while the two men locked eyes, then Priam bowed briefly. Had the Trojan king ever bowed to anyone before? Andromache doubted it. It was only his concern for Hektor that persuaded him to make this gesture, she guessed, even to his emperor.

‘Greetings,’ said Priam loudly, but without enthusiasm. ‘We are honoured to welcome you to Troy.’ Each courteous word seemed to cost him effort. He added flatly, ‘Our people rejoice.’

A small bald-headed man wearing striped robes of yellow and green spoke quietly to the emperor. Andromache realized this was the translator.

The emperor smiled thinly and spoke. The little man said, ‘Troy is a valued vassal kingdom to the great Hittite empire. The emperor takes a kindly interest in his subjects.’

Priam’s face grew red with anger. He said, ‘This vassal is honoured to fight the emperor’s battles for him. We are told the Trojan Horse won a great victory at Kadesh for the emperor.’

Hattusilis replied, ‘The greater Hittite army has crushed the ambitions of the pharaohs for generations to come. We are grateful to Troy for its brave cavalry.’

Priam could contain his impatience no longer. ‘My son has not returned from Kadesh. Do you bring news of him?’

Hattusilis handed the unsheathed sword to the muscle-bound bodyguard, then placed both his hands upon his heart. The megaron fell silent. The bald translator said, ‘We regret Hektor is dead. He died a valiant death in the cause of the Hittite empire.’ The emperor spoke again. ‘Hektor was a good friend to us. He fought many battles for the empire.’ His dark gaze rested on Priam’s stricken face, and Andromache saw genuine concern there. ‘We grieve for him as if he were our own son.’

Andromache heard a soft sigh from beside her, and she put her arm round Laodike as the young woman sagged against her. Hektor dead, she thought. Hektor is really dead. Her mind buzzed with possibilities but she ruthlessly pushed them away to listen to Priam’s words.

The king looked straight into the black eyes of the emperor. ‘My son cannot be dead,’ he said, but there was a tremor in his voice.

Hattusilis gestured and two unarmed Hittite soldiers struggled forward with a heavy wooden chest. At a nod from the emperor they unbarred it and flung back the lid, which clanged hollowly against the stone floor.

The emperor said, ‘His body was discovered with those of his men. They had been trapped, surrounded and killed by the Egypteians. By the time he was found his body had decayed, so I have returned his armour to you as proof of his death.’

Priam stepped forward and reached into the chest. He took out a huge bronze breastplate decorated with silver and gold. From where Andromache stood she could see that the pattern represented a golden horse racing across silver waves. Laodike said in a small breathless voice, ‘Hektor. It is Hektor’s.’

Hattusilis stepped forward and took from the chest a heavily decorated gold urn.

‘Following the custom of your people we burned the body and placed Hektor’s bones in this vessel.’

He held it out. When Priam did not move Polites darted forward and took the golden urn from the emperor’s hands.

Never in her life had Andromache felt such a confusion of emotions. She grieved for Laodike’s pain at the death of her brother, for the loss on the faces of the people gathered around the megaron, the soldiers, counsellors and palace servants. She even grieved for Priam as he stood there holding the breastplate, a stunned look on his face, desolation in his eyes as he stared at the funeral urn.

Yet in her heart joy welled up irresistibly. Her hands flew to her throat for fear she would cry out for gladness. She was free!

Then Priam turned away from the emperor and walked with halting steps to his throne. Hugging the breastplate to his chest he slumped down. A gasp of shock came from the Hittite retinue. No-one sat in the presence of the emperor.

Andromache glanced at Agathon, expecting the prince to step in and ease the situation, but he was standing, almost mesmerized, staring at his father, his expression torn between sadness and shock. Andromache felt for him. Then the dark-haired Dios moved smoothly forward, bowing deeply to Hattusilis.

‘My apologies, great lord. My father is overcome with grief. He intends no disrespect. Priam, and the sons of Priam, remain, as always, your most loyal followers.’

The emperor spoke, and the translator’s words echoed in the silent megaron.

‘There is no slight. When a great hero falls it becomes men to show their feelings truly. Hektor’s courage did indeed turn the battle in our favour. I would have expected no less from him. That is why I felt it right to come myself to this far city, so that all would know that Hektor was honoured by those he served most heroically.’

With that the emperor swung on his heel and walked from the megaron.

iii

Shortly before dark a hooded and cloaked figure slipped out through the Dardanian Gate into the lower town. One of the gate guards caught a glimpse of the man’s face and turned to speak to his colleague, but the other soldier was part-way through a good joke about a Hittite, a horse and a donkey, so the first guard laughed and said nothing. There was no reason to question anyone leaving the citadel, after all.

The hooded man made his way through the eastern quarter to where the city engineers had been digging a wide fortification ditch, designed to stop the advance of horses and chariots. Houses all along the line of the trench had been emptied to permit the work. But the digging had revealed a horde of burial jars, dating from many generations ago, which were now being carefully dug up and moved to another site south-east of the city.

In the grey twilight the man identified a white house with a yellow mark like a paw-print on the door. Looking around him, he entered the abandoned house swiftly, and waited in the shadow of an inner doorway. A short while later two others entered. ‘Are you here?’ a man with thin reddish hair asked quietly.

The hooded man stepped from the shadows. ‘I am here, Erekos,’ he said.

The Mykene ambassador’s voice betrayed his anxiety. ‘No names, if you please, Prince.’

The hooded man snorted. ‘This meeting-place is well chosen. No-one will come within a hundred paces of it. They fear the shades of the dead are lingering around the burial ground.’

‘Perhaps they are right,’ said the ambassador nervously.

‘Let us not waste time on religious debate,’ snapped the third man, a tall, white-haired warrior. ‘The death of Hektor is a gift from the gods. We must seize the chance now.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘And what of the Hittites, Kolanos?’ the hooded man said coldly. ‘You think we should spark a revolution while the emperor is in Troy? Do you have any idea of the numbers of troops his sons could bring? And they would cry out for joy at the opportunity. Troy’s independence is based on three simple facts. We pay enormous taxes to fund the Hittite wars, we are far distant from the centre of their empire, and we send the finest warriors to aid them. But there are those who look upon Troy with great envy and greed. We must offer them no insult, no opportunity to seek our ruin.’

‘This is all true, Prince,’ put in Erekos, ‘but even if we wait for the emperor’s departure, will he not send men to the aid of Priam?’

‘Not if Priam is dead,’ said the hooded man. ‘It is well known that Hattusilis has little liking for him. But then who does? The emperor has far more important worries than domestic problems in Troy. The Hittite army leaves at dawn. When Hattusilis hears Priam is dead I will send a rider to him, pledging my continued allegiance. He will, I believe, accept it. We must be patient and wait nine more days.’

‘It is easy for you to be patient, sitting in your palace,’ sneered Kolanos.

‘But it is not so easy to conceal four galleys off the coast for so long.’

‘Easy?’ snapped the hooded man. ‘Nothing about this venture will prove easy. I have troops loyal to me – but that loyalty will wear thin when the murders begin. Easy? You think it will be easy to defeat the Eagles? Every one of them is a veteran of many battles. They were promoted for their courage and for their fighting abilities. They were trained by Hektor.’

‘And like Hektor they will die. They have not come against Mykene warriors before,’ replied Kolanos. ‘I have the best with me. Invincible. The Eagles will fall.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said the prince. ‘We will also have the advantage of surprise. Even so it is vital that we do not deviate from the plan. Apart from the Eagles the only people to die will be the men inside the megaron when we attack: Priam, and those of his sons and counsellors who will be there. The deaths must be swift, and the palace taken by dawn.’

‘Why wait nine days?’ asked Erekos. ‘Do you need so long?’

‘The king has been rotating the troops who guard the Upper City,’ answered the prince. ‘I will need the time to ensure both regiments are loyal to me.’

‘With two thousand troops against a hundred or so Eagles why do you need us at all?’ Kolanos asked.

‘I will not have two thousand troops. You need to understand the complexities here, Kolanos. My regiment will fight for me without question. Other Trojan units will serve me loyally once I am king. The regiment guarding the walls will be led by one of my men. He will ensure they keep the gates closed and remain at their posts. But not even he could command them to attack the palace and kill the king. Why do I need you and your men? Because Trojan troops should not be used in the slaughter of Priam and his sons. My regiment will take the two palace gates, hold the walls, and do battle with the Eagles. Then, when the King and his followers are safely contained in the palace itself, you and your Mykene will assault the megaron and kill all men within.’

‘What of the royal daughters and the women of the palace?’ asked Kolanos.

‘Your men can take their pleasures with the servants. No royal daughters are to be harmed in any way. Enjoy the others as you will. There is one woman, however, named Andromache. She is tall, with long red hair, and cursed with too much pride. I am sure your men will find a way to humble her. It would please me to hear her beg.’

‘And you will. I promise you,’ said Kolanos. ‘There is nothing quite so sweet after a battle as the squealing of captured women.’

Erekos spoke: ‘Thoughts of rape should be left until the battle is over, Kolanos. Tell me, Prince, what of the other troops close to the city? The barracks in the Lower Town contain a full regiment, and there is a cavalry detachment based on the Plain of Simoeis.’

The prince smiled. ‘As I said, the gates will be closed until dawn. I know well the generals commanding the other regiments. They will swear allegiance to me – if Priam is dead.’

‘Might I ask one favour?’ said Kolanos.

‘Of course.’

‘That the traitor Argurios be invited to the megaron that night.’

‘Are you insane?’ snapped Erekos. ‘You want the greatest warrior of the Mykene facing us?’

Kolanos laughed. ‘He will be unarmed. Is that not so, Prince?’

‘Yes. All weapons will be left at the gate. The king allows no swords or daggers in his presence.’

But Erekos was not convinced. ‘He was unarmed when he defeated five armed assassins. It seems to me an unnecessary risk. Many of the warriors with you hold him still in high regard. I urge you to withdraw this request, Kolanos.’

‘Agamemnon King wants him dead,’ said Kolanos. ‘He wants him cut down by his former comrades. It will be a fitting punishment for his treachery. I will not withdraw my request. What say you, Prince?’

‘I agree with Erekos. But if you wish it I shall see that he is there.’

‘I do.’

‘Then it will be done.’

i

Gershom had never enjoyed riding. In Egypte the horses had been small, their buttock-pounding gait bruisingly uncomfortable for a heavy man. He had also felt faintly ludicrous, his long legs hanging close to the ground. But the Thessalian-bred horse he now rode was a joy. Just under sixteen hands, golden-bodied, with white mane and tail, it all but flew across the terrain. At full run there was little upward movement of the beast’s back and Gershom settled down to revel in the speed. Helikaon rode alongside him, on a mount the twin of Gershom’s own. Together they thundered across the open ground under a pale, cloudy sky. At last Helikaon slowed his horse, then patted its sleek neck.

Gershom drew alongside.

‘Magnificent beasts,’ he said.

‘Good for speed,’ said Helikaon, ‘but poor for war. Too skittish and prone to panic when swords clash and arrows fly. I am breeding them with our own ponies.

Perhaps their foals’ temperament will be less nervous.’

Swinging their mounts, they rode back to where they had left the baggage pony.

The beast was grazing on a hillside. Helikaon gathered the lead rope, and they set off again towards the southwest.

Gershom was happy to be on the move again. The fortress of Dardanos – despite i being a rough dwelling place compared to the palaces back home – was still a reminder of a world he had lost, and he was glad of the chance to accompany the Golden One back to Troy.

‘I do not think that merchant would have betrayed me,’ he said, as they rode.

‘Perhaps not knowingly,’ said Helikaon, ‘but people gossip. Troy is larger, and there is less chance of your being recognized.’

Gershom glanced around at the bleak landscape. The old general, Pausanius, had warned Helikaon that there were bandits abroad in these hills, and had urged him to take a company of soldiers, as a personal guard. Helikaon had refused.

‘I have promised to make these lands safe,’ he had said. ‘The leaders know me now. When they see the king riding through their communities without armed escort it will give them confidence.’

Pausanius had been unconvinced. Gershom did not believe it either.

Once they were travelling together he became convinced that Helikaon had needed to get away from Dardanos, and all the trappings and duties of royalty. Yet with each mile they rode Helikaon grew more tense.

That night, as they camped in the foothills, beneath a stand of cypress trees, Gershom said, ‘What is worrying you?’

Helikaon did not answer, merely added dry wood to the small campfire, then sat quietly by it. Gershom did not press the question further. After a while Helikaon spoke. ‘Did you enjoy being a prince?’

‘Aye, I did – but not as much as my half-brother, Rameses. He was desperate to become pharaoh, to lead Egypteian armies into battle, to build his own great pillars at the Temple of Luxor, to see his face carved on massive statues. Me, I just loved being fawned upon by beautiful women.’

‘Did it not concern you that the women only fawned upon you because they were obliged to?’

‘Why would that be a concern? The result is the same.’

‘Only for you.’

Gershom chuckled. ‘You Sea People think too much. The slave women at the palace were there for my pleasure. That was their purpose. What did it matter whether or not they desired to be slave women? When you are hungry and you decide to kill a sheep do you stop and wonder how the sheep feels about it?’

‘An interesting point,’ observed Helikaon. ‘I will think on it.’

‘It is not a point to think on,’ argued Gershom. ‘It was supposed to end the debate, not widen it.’

‘The purpose of debate is to explore issues, not end them.’

‘Very well. Then let us debate the reason for your original question. Why did you ask if I enjoyed being a prince?’

‘Perhaps I was just making conversation,’ said Helikaon.

‘No. The first reason was to deflect me from questioning you about your concerns. The second was more complex, but still linked to the first.’

‘Well, now you have me intrigued,’ said Helikaon. ‘Enlighten me.’

Gershom shook his head. ‘You need enlightenment, Golden One? I think not. Back in Egypte there are statues of mythical beasts that used to fascinate me.

Creatures with the heads of eagles, the bodies of lions, the tails of serpents.

My grandfather told me they actually represented men. We are all of us hybrid beasts. There is the savage in us, who would tear out an enemy’s heart and devour it raw. There is the lover, who composes songs to the woman who owns his soul. There is the father, who holds his child close, and would die to protect it from all harm. Three creatures in one man. And there are more. In every one of us is the total of all we have ever been, the sullen child, the arrogant youth, the suckling babe. Every fear endured in childhood is lodged somewhere in here.’ He tapped his temple. ‘And every act of heroism or cowardice, generosity or meanness of spirit.’

‘This is fascinating,’ said Helikaon, ‘but I feel as if I have just sailed into a mist. What is the point you are making?’

‘That is the point I am making. Our lives are spent sailing in the mist, hoping for a burst of sunlight that can make sense of who we are.’

‘I know who I am, Gershom.’

‘No, you don’t. Are you the man who concerns himself about the secret desires of slave women, or the man who cuts the head from a farmer who speaks out of turn?

Are you the god who rescued a child on Kypros, or the madman who burned to death fifty sailors?’

‘This conversation has lost its appeal,’ said Helikaon, his voice cold.

Gershom felt his anger swell. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So the issues that can be debated are only those that do not affect the actions of the Golden One. Now you are truly becoming a king, Helikaon. Next you will surround yourself with sycophants who whisper to you of your greatness, and offer no criticism.’

Gathering up his blanket he lay down, facing the fire, his heart hammering. The night was cold, and he could scent rain on the breeze. He was annoyed at himself for reacting with such anger. Truth was, he was fond of the young king, and admired him greatly. Helikaon was capable of great kindness and loyalty. He was also courageous and principled. These attributes were rare, in Gershom’s experience. But he also knew the dangers Helikaon would face as his power grew.

After a while he threw back his blanket and sat up. Helikaon was sitting with his back to a tree, a blanket round his shoulders. ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ said Gershom. ‘It is not my place to harangue you.’

‘No, it is not,’ Helikaon replied. ‘But I have been thinking of what you said, and there was truth in it. Your grandfather is a wise man.’

‘He is. Do you know the story of Osiris and Set?’

‘Egypteian gods at war with one another?’

‘Yes. Osiris is the hero god, the Lord of Light. Set is his brother, a creature vile and depraved. They are in a constant war to the death. My grandfather told me of them when I was young. He said that we carry Osiris and Set struggling within us. All of us are capable of great compassion and love, or hatred and horror. Sadly we can take joy from both.’

‘I know that is true,’ said Helikaon. ‘I felt it as those sailors burned. The memory of it is shameful.’

‘Grandfather would say that when you burned those sailors Set was dominant in your soul. It is Osiris who feels the shame. That is why you dislike being king, Helikaon. Such power brings Set closer to total control. And you fear the man you would become if ever the Osiris in you was slain.’

Gershom fell silent. Helikaon added fuel to the fire, then walked to the pack pony and brought back some bread and dried meat. The silence grew as the two men ate. Then Helikaon stretched himself out by the fire, and covered himself with his cloak.

Gershom dozed for a while. The night grew colder, and a clap of thunder sounded.

Lightning blazed across the heavens. Helikaon awoke and the two men ran to where the horses were tethered. The beasts were frightened, ears flat to their skulls.

Helikaon and Gershom led them away from the trees and out onto open ground.

Rain began to fall, slowly at first, then in a torrent.

Lightning flashed, and by its light Gershom saw a cave high up on the hillside.

He beckoned to Helikaon and they led the mounts up the slope. It was not easy.

The golden horses – as Helikaon had warned – were skittish, rearing constantly and trying to break free. The little baggage pony was calmer, but even he dragged back on the lead rope when the thunder crashed. Both men were weary when they finally reached the cave.

Leading the horses inside, they tethered them. Then the two men sat at the cave mouth, watching the storm wash over the land.

‘I used to enjoy storms,’ said Gershom. ‘But since the shipwreck…’ He shivered at the memories.

‘It will pass swiftly,’ said Helikaon. Then he looked at Gershom. ‘I thank you for your honesty.’

Gershom chuckled. ‘Always been my curse – to speak my mind. Hard to think of anyone I haven’t insulted at some time or other. Are you planning to stay long in Troy?’

Helikaon shook his head. ‘I will attend the funeral feast for Hektor.’ He shivered suddenly. ‘Just saying the words chills the soul.’

‘You were friends?’

‘More than friends. I still cannot accept that he is gone.’ He smiled suddenly.

‘Some five years ago I rode with Hektor. Priam had sent him and two hundred of the Trojan Horse to Thraki, to aid a local king against some raiders. We were pursuing an enemy force through woodland and they caught us in an ambush. Once we had fought our way clear we realized Hektor was not with us. Someone then recalled seeing him struck in the head by a hurled rock. Night was falling, but we rode swiftly back to the battle site. The bandits had removed the bodies of their fallen. Six of our dead were there, but Hektor was not among them. We knew then that he had been taken. The Thrakians were known to torture their captives, slicing off fingers, putting out eyes. I sent out scouts and we went in search of their camp. We found it just before dawn, and as we crept forward we could hear the sounds of merriment. And there, standing tall in the firelight, a huge cup of wine in his hand, was Hektor. He was regaling the drunken raiders with ribald stories, and they were shrieking with laughter.’ Helikaon sighed. ‘That is how I will remember him.’

‘But you have a second reason for this journey,’ said Gershom.

‘Are you a seer, Gershom?’

‘No. But I saw you talking to Hektor’s betrothed, and I heard you call her goddess.’

Helikaon laughed. ‘Yes, I did. I fell in love with her, Gershom. If she feels the same I mean to make her my wife, though I will probably have to offer Priam a mountain of gold for her.’

‘If she feels the same?’ echoed Gershom. ‘What difference does it make? Buy her anyway.’

Helikaon shook his head. ‘You can buy gold that is bright as the sun, and diamonds as pale as the moon. But you cannot buy the sun. You cannot own the moon.’

ii

As dawn approached Laodike wrapped herself in a shawl and walked out of the palace. The streets were silent and empty, save for a few stray dogs seeking scraps. She liked walking, particularly in the fresh air of the early morning, and thought she must know more about the city and its everyday life than any soldier or common worker. She knew which baker had the first loaves fresh and aromatic outside his bakery before dawn. She knew the prostitutes and their regular patrols as well as she knew those of the Trojan regiments. She knew when the first lamb was born on the hillside at the end of winter because Poimen the ancient shepherd, blessed with four generations of sons, would open his only jug of wine of the year and get rolling drunk, then sleep it off in the street in the dawn air, barred from his home by his tiny ferocious wife. Laodike walked on out of the town, her sad steps taking her across the new defensive ditch by a bridge, then down towards the Scamander. Mist lay heavy and grey in the river valley. Beyond it the hills were touched with pink still, though the sun was rising in the sky behind her. She could hear no sounds but the crowing of cocks and the bleating of sheep in the distance. She walked on towards the tomb of Ilos, on a small hill between the city and the river. Ilos was her great-grandfather and a hero of Troy. Hektor would often come here and talk to his ancestor when he was troubled. So she came now, hoping to find comfort.

She plodded up to the small cairn of rocks and sat down on the short, sheep-cropped grass, facing the city. Her body no longer busy, her grief overwhelmed her again and tears welled in her eyes. How could he be dead? How could the gods be so cruel? Laodike could see him now, his infectious smile lifting her heart, the sun glinting on the gold of his hair. He was like the dawn, she thought. Whenever he entered a room spirits lifted. When she was young and frightened Hektor was always the rock she would run to. And he was the man who would have persuaded Priam to allow Argurios to marry her.

Shame touched her then, and with it the weight of guilt. Are you sad because he has passed to the Elysian Fields, or are you thinking of yourself, she wondered? ‘I am so sorry, Hektor,’ she whispered. Then the tears flowed once more. A shadow fell across her and she looked up. The sun was behind the figure, bright and dazzling, and, just for a moment, as her tear-swollen eyes took in the glinting breastplate, she thought it was the ghost of her brother, come to comfort her. Then he knelt beside her, and she saw it was Argurios. She had not seen him for five days now, and she had sent him no message.

‘Oh, Argurios, I cannot stop weeping.’

His arm curved round her shoulder. ‘I have seen the same throughout the city. He must have been a great man, and I am sorry I did not know him.’

‘How did you know I would be here?’

‘You told me that when troubles were weighing heavy you liked to walk through the city in the dawn light. You talked of an old shepherd in these hills.’

‘And how did you guess I would be here today?’

‘I did not. I have been at the Scaean Gate every day at dawn for the last five days.’

‘I am sorry, Argurios. It was thoughtless of me. I should have sent a messenger to you.’

There was a silence between them, and then Laodike asked, ‘Where are your bodyguards?’

He smiled, a rare event. ‘I am stronger now, and faster. I walked through the city a few days ago, then doubled back and came upon them. I told them I had no more need of their services, and they agreed to leave me be.’

‘Just like that? So simply?’

‘I spoke to them… firmly,’ he said.

‘You frightened them, didn’t you?’

‘Some men are easily frightened,’ he replied.

His face was inches away from hers, and as she looked into his eyes Laodike felt the pain and sorrow of the last few days ease away. This was the face she had so often summoned to mind. His eyes were not just brown, as she’d remembered, but had flecks of hazel and gold in them, and his eyebrows were finely shaped. He watched her steadily and she lowered her gaze. There was a warm flowering in the pit of her belly and she became aware of the rub of cloth against her skin.

She felt a touch on her arm and saw his hand lightly graze her skin, barely stirring the fair hairs. The warmth in her belly flared.

Reaching up she began to untie the thongs holding Argurios’ breastplate in place. His powerful hand closed over hers. ‘You are a king’s daughter,’ he reminded her.

‘You do not want me?’

His face was flushed. ‘I never wanted anything so much in all my life.’

‘The king will never allow us to wed, Argurios. He will order you from Troy. He will send me away. I cannot bear the thought. But we have this moment. This is our moment, Argurios!’ His hand fell away. Even as a child she had helped Hektor don and remove his armour. I have few skills, she thought to herself, but taking off a cuirass is one of them. Her nimble hands untied the thongs and Argurios lifted the breastplate clear.

Unbuckling his sword and laying it by the breastplate, he led her into the circle of stones by the tomb of Ilos, and they lay together on the grass. He kissed her then, and for a long time made no other move. Taking his hand she lifted it to her breast. His touch was gentle – more gentle in that moment than she desired. Her lips pressed against his, her mouth hungry to taste him. His hands became less hesitant, pulling at her gown, lifting it high. Laodike raised her arms and he threw the gown clear. Within moments they were both naked.

Laodike revelled in the feel of his warm skin against hers, the hard muscles under her fingers. Then came the swift pain of entry, and the exquisite sense of becoming one with the man she loved.

Afterwards she lay in a daze of joy and satisfaction, her body warm and fulfilled, her mind swimming with shame and exhilaration. Slowly she became aware of the grass under her and the uneven ground pressing into her back.

She lay with her head in the crook of Argurios’ shoulder. She realized he had not spoken for a while. She twisted to look up at him, thinking him asleep, but he was staring up at the sky, his face, as always, grave.

Laodike was suddenly filled with foreboding. Was he regretting his actions?

Would he leave her now? He turned to look down at her. Seeing the look on her face, he said, ‘Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?’

‘No. It was wonderful.’ Feeling foolish, but unable to stop herself, she said, ‘It was the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. The maidservants told me…’ She hesitated.

‘Told you what?’

‘Told me… told me it was painful and unpleasant. It was a bit painful,’ she conceded, ‘but it wasn’t unpleasant.’

‘It wasn’t unpleasant,’ he repeated, smiling a little. Then he kissed her again, long and tenderly.

She lay back, all doubts in her mind vanished. The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. She had never been so happy. She knew this moment would live with her for the rest of her life.

Suddenly she sat up, her shawl falling from her naked breasts, and pointed to the east.

A great flock of swans were beating their way on silent white wings over the city towards the sea. Laodike had never seen more than one or two swans before and she was awestruck by the sight of hundreds of the great birds flying overhead, for a moment blotting out the sunlight like a living cloud.

They watched silently as the flock winged its way to the west, disappearing at last into the grey mist on the horizon.

Laodike felt a touch on her bare leg and looked down. A soft white feather lay curled on her skin, motionless as though it had always been there. She picked it up and showed it to her lover.

‘Is it an omen?’ she wondered.

‘Birds are always omens,’ he said softly.

‘I wonder what it means.’

‘When a swan mates it is for life,’ he said, pulling her to him. ‘It means we will never be parted. I will speak to your father tomorrow.’

‘He will not see you, Argurios.’

‘I think he will. I have been invited to the funeral gathering tomorrow night.’

Laodike was surprised. ‘Why? As you said, you did not know Hektor.’

‘I said the same to the messenger who came to the temple two days ago. He told me that Prince Agathon had requested my presence.’

‘That was all he said?’

‘No, there was abundant flattery,’ he told her. Laodike laughed.

‘About being a great warrior and a hero, and it being fitting that you should attend?’

‘Something similar,’ he grunted.

‘It is a great honour to be invited. There is already discord in the family. My father has upset a number of his sons, who will not be present. Antiphones is out of favour, as is Paris. And there are others.’ She sighed. ‘Even at such a time he still plays games with people’s feelings. Do you really think he will listen to you, Argurios?’

‘I do not know. I have little to offer, save my sword. But the sword of Argurios has some value.’

She leaned in to him, her hand sliding down his flanks. ‘The sword of Argurios has great value,’ she told him.

i

Antiphones watched from an upper window as his visitor left, a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He turned to the hearth where a platter of smoked fish and corn cakes lay cooling. He munched some fish and washed it down with a swig of undiluted wine, sweet and thick. His fears eased a little, but he knew they would return. He had caught himself in a net of his own making. He had always liked and admired Agathon. Though they had different mothers, they were much of an age and had played together as children. They even looked similar then, with blond hair and blue eyes. Priam’s three eldest sons – Hektor, Agathon and Antiphones – were often mistaken for one another by visitors to the king’s megaron, and he winced as he recalled Priam saying to his guests, ‘Alike in looks but not in character. Remember: Hektor the brave, Agathon the sly, and Antiphones the stupid!’ His visitors would snigger politely, and the king would smile his cold smile and study the reactions of the three boys. Antiphones knew he wasn’t stupid. As the years passed he came to realize he was sharper than most people he knew. It was he who first understood it was better to ship wine from Lesbos than to grow vines on the land north of the city best used for horse paddocks. Breeding strong horses and sending them all round the Great Green raised more for Priam’s treasury than trading in wine. It was he who suggested reorganizing the treasury and keeping an inventory of the king’s wealth in the script learned from the Hittites and written on Gyppto papyrus. As a result of all this, with typical cruel humour, Priam had made Polites his chancellor and fat Antiphones Master of the Horse. He knew people laughed when they heard his title; few bothered to hide it. It had been many years since he had been able to mount a horse.

He walked to the window again and looked down on the quiet street. Unlike most of the king’s sons, he chose to live in the lower town, close to the bakers, wine merchants and cheese makers he loved. Each afternoon, after his nap, he would stroll down through the streets and wander among the food stalls, taking his choice from the ripest figs and the sweetest honey cakes. Sometimes he would walk slowly down to the far side of town to where a young woman called Thaleia offered spiced pomegranates and walnuts glazed with honey. It was an effort to get that far, but he could not ride and he feared being carried in a litter in case it broke. This had happened once two years ago. He still felt the shame of it and had not travelled in one since.

But that shame was as nothing to what he felt now.

When he had been made aware of the plot to kill the king he had joined in with zeal. Priam was a tyrant, and tyrannicide was an honourable mission. The king gathered wealth to himself at the expense of all else in the city. Antiphones, with his knowledge of the treasury, had best reason to know that. Children in the lower town starved in winter, slaves in the fields died of exhaustion in summer, yet Priam’s treasure house was bursting with gold and precious gems, most of it covered with the dust of ages. Hektor, defending his father, would say, Yes, the king can be harsh, but he never scrimps in his defence of the city. Yet Antiphones knew this not to be true. The Thrakian mercenaries were grossly underpaid, and the city engineers had still not been instructed to rebuild the weak west wall.

With Hektor dead, all restraint on Priam’s acquisitiveness would be gone.

Antiphones had been asked to join the rebellion because Agathon recognized in him the skills they would need to reorganize the administration of the city, renegotiate treaties with neighbouring kings, and rethink their defences. For the last few days he had made feverish plans, staying up into the depths of the night working on his dreams for the future of Troy once his father was dead. But today’s meeting with Agathon had toppled his hopes and plunged him into despair.

‘It is tonight, brother. You must stay clear of the palace.’

‘You mean to kill him after the funeral feast?’

Agathon had shaken his head. ‘During. My Thrakians have orders to kill all our enemies tonight.’

Antiphones felt a hollow opening up in his chest. ‘All our enemies? What enemies? You told me Karpophorus was being hired to kill father.’

Agathon shrugged. ‘That was my original thought, but he cannot be found. But think on it, brother. Merely killing father would only have been the beginning anyway. Dios and many of the others would start to plot our downfall. Don’t you see? Civil war would follow. Some of the coastline kings would ally themselves with us, but others would follow Dios.’ He lifted his hand and slowly made a fist. ‘In this way we crush them all and Troy remains at peace with all its neighbours.’

‘You said all our enemies. How many are we talking about?’

‘Only those who might turn on us. Only those who have laughed when father mocked us. Only those who have sniggered behind our backs. A hundred or so. Oh, Antiphones, you have no idea how long I have waited for just this moment!’

He had looked into Agathon’s eyes then, and seen for the first time the depth of his half-brother’s malice.

‘Wait!’ he said desperately. ‘You cannot allow the Thrakians loose in the palace. They are barbarians! What of the women?’

Agathon laughed. ‘The women? Like Andromache? Cold and disdainful. You know what she said? I cannot marry you, Agathon, for I do not love you. By the gods I’ll watch her ravished by my Thrakians. They’ll pound the arrogance out of her.

She’ll not be so haughty after tonight.’

‘You cannot allow it! Trojan troops must not be used to kill Trojan princes! How would they be regarded thereafter as they patrol the city? Will father’s murderer be sitting in a local tavern talking of how he cut the throat of Troy’s king?’

‘Of course you are right, brother,’ said Agathon. ‘You think that has not occurred to me? Once the Thrakians have taken the palace walls our allies will arrive. It is they who will kill those inside the megaron.’

‘Our allies? What are you talking about?’

‘A Mykene force will be landing after dusk. Their soldiers will kill our enemies.’

Antiphones had sat very quietly, trying to absorb this new information. Father had talked of Agamemnon building great fleets of ships, and had questioned how they would be used. Now it was clear. Agathon had been duped by the Mykene. He would be king in name only. Agamemnon would be the true power, and he would use Troy as a base for Mykene expansion into the east.

He had looked at Agathon with new eyes. ‘Oh, my brother,’ he had whispered.

‘What have you done?’

‘Done? Merely what we have planned. I shall be king, and you will be my chancellor. And Troy will be stronger than ever.’

Antiphones had said nothing. Agathon sat quietly, watching him. ‘You are still with me, brother?’ he had asked.

‘Of course,’ answered Antiphones, but he had not been able to look him in the eye as he said it. The silence grew again. Then Agathon had risen.

‘Well, there is much to do,’ he said. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’ He had walked to the doorway, and then looked back, an odd expression on his face. ‘Farewell, Antiphones,’ he had said, softly.

Antiphones shivered as he recalled the moment.

The streets were quiet now as the shadows lengthened. Antiphones looked up towards the upper city walls, shining gold in the fading sunlight.

Despair swept over him. There was nothing he could do. If he got a message to Priam he would have to implicate himself in the plot, and that would mean death for treason. And even were he to accept this fate, how could he get through to the king? Agathon controlled all access to the palace, and who knew how many officers or soldiers he had suborned.

He thought of the people who were to die tonight. More than a hundred would be gathered at the funeral feast. Polites would be there, and Helikaon, and Dios.

Face after face swam before his eyes. Yes, many of them had – as Agathon observed – sniggered at fat Antiphones. Many had laughed when Priam mocked Agathon. In the main, however, they were good men who served Troy loyally.

He looked up the hill towards Helikaon’s palace with its stone horses at the gates. He could see no guards there, but the general bustle in and out of the gateway showed that Helikaon was in residence.

Antiphones took a deep breath. His own death would be a small matter, compared to the horror that awaited the innocents at the palace. He decided then to send a message to Helikaon. He would be able to reach the king.

He called out to his body servant, Thoas, and walked ponderously to the door.

Outside, a blond-haired Thrakian soldier was crouched over Thoas’s body, wiping a bloody knife on the old servant’s tunic.

And two others were standing in the doorway, swords in their hands.

Antiphones knew he was going to die. In that moment, rather than the sickening onrush of terror, it was like sunshine bursting through dark clouds. All his life he had lived with fear – fear of disappointing his father, fear of failure, fear of rejection. There was no fear now.

His eyes met the pale blue gaze of the Thrakian assassin.

‘He was my body servant,’ said Antiphones softly, pointing at the dead Thoas. ‘A simple man with a good heart.’

‘Ah well,’ said the Thrakian, with a wide smile. ‘Maybe he will serve you, fat man, in the Underworld.’ Rising smoothly he advanced on Antiphones. The soldier was young, and, like so many of the Thrakian mercenaries, hard-eyed and cruel.

Antiphones did not move. The soldier paused.

‘Well, carrying that amount of blubber you can’t run,’ he said. ‘Do you want to beg for your life?’

‘I would ask nothing from a Thrakian goat shagger,’ said Antiphones coldly.

The man’s eyes narrowed and, with a snarl of anger, he leapt at the prince.

Antiphones stepped in to meet him, his huge left arm parrying the knife blow, his right fist hammering into the man’s jaw. Lifted from his feet, the Thrakian hit the wall head first and slumped to the floor. The remaining two soldiers raised their swords and rushed at Antiphones. With a bellowing shout he surged forward to meet them. A sword cut into his side, blood drenching his voluminous blue gown. Grabbing the attacker, Antiphones dragged him into a savage head butt. The man sagged, semi-conscious, in his grip.

Pain lanced through him. The other Thrakian had darted behind and stabbed him in the back. Wrenching the sword clear the assassin pulled back his arm for another strike. Still holding on to the stunned man, Antiphones twisted round, hurling him at the swordsman. The Thrakian sidestepped. Antiphones lurched forward. The Thrakian’s sword jabbed out, piercing Antiphones’ belly. Antiphones’ fist thundered against the man’s chin, hurling him against the wall. Dropping to one knee Antiphones picked up a fallen sword. Heaving himself upright he blocked a wild cut then drove his blade towards the man’s throat. It was a mistimed thrust, for he had never been skilled with the sword. The blade lanced through the man’s cheek, slicing the skin and scraping along his teeth, before exiting through the jaw. With a gurgling cry he stabbed at Antiphones again. Stepping back Antiphones swung his sword against the man’s temple, and the assassin staggered to his right and half fell. Antiphones struck him three more times, the last blow severing his jugular.

The second assassin was struggling to rise. Antiphones ran at him. Flipping the short sword into dagger position he plunged it past the man’s collarbone, driving it down with all his considerable weight. The Thrakian let out a terrible scream, and fell back, the sword so deep inside him that only the hilt guard protruded from his body.

Blood was soaking through Antiphones’ gown. He could feel it running down his belly and back. He felt light-headed and dizzy. Slowly he walked back to the first Thrakian. Scooping up the man’s dagger he knelt by the unconscious assassin. Grabbing him by the collar of his breastplate he heaved him to his back. The man groaned and his pale eyes opened. Antiphones touched the dagger blade to his throat.

‘This fat man,’’ he said, ‘is a prince of Troy, and his blood is the blood of heroes and kings. When you get to Hades you can apologize to Thoas. You can tell him the fat man thought highly of him.’

The Thrakian’s eyes widened and he started to speak. Antiphones plunged the blade through his throat, ripping it clear and watching the blood spray from the awful wound. Then he dropped the knife and sagged back against the door frame.

Farewell, brother, Agathon had said. Antiphones had known that some dread meaning lay behind that last chilling look. Agathon had gone from the house and sent his Thrakians to murder him. And why not? Most of the other brothers were marked for death.

Blood continued to flow. Antiphones closed his eyes. He felt no terror of the dark road. In fact he was surprised at the sense of calm that had settled on him. He thought of Hektor and smiled. Would he have been surprised to see me defeat three killers?

Then he thought again of the murder plot against Priam and his sons and counsellors.

With a mighty effort he made it to his feet. Staggering through to the back of the house he donned a full-length cloak of grey wool, drawing it about him to disguise the bloodstains. Then he moved slowly out into the rear gardens, and into a side street.

He could not see the stones of the street clearly. A haze seemed to be lying on them like the mist on the Scamander at daybreak.

They wavered and shimmered, and with every jarring footstep they threatened to vanish into darkness.

As he bent forward the pain in his side and back redoubled, but with a soft cry he pushed forward another step. Then another.

Blood was still flowing freely, but the cloak disguised his injuries, and the few people who passed him in the street merely glanced. They thought him drunk, or just too fat to walk properly, so they looked away, amused or embarrassed.

They did not notice the bloody footprints he was leaving.

Reaching the gate of Helikaon’s palace he stood for a moment in the shadow of the stone horses. He saw a servant crossing the courtyard towards the main entrance, and called out to him. The servant recognized him and ran to where Antiphones was now leaning against the base of one of the statues.

‘Help me,’ he said, unsure if he was speaking the words or just saying them in his head.

He sank into unconsciousness, then felt hands pulling at him, trying to lift him. They could not. The weight was too great.

Opening his eyes he looked up and saw a powerful, black-bearded man with wide shoulders looming over him. ‘We have to get you inside,’ said the man, his accent Egypteian.

‘Helikaon… I must speak to… Helikaon.’

‘He is not here. Give me your hand.’ Antiphones raised his arm. Several servants moved behind him. Then the Egypteian heaved, drawing Antiphones up. On his feet again, Antiphones leaned heavily on the Egypteian as they made their slow way into Helikaon’s palace. Once inside Antiphones’ legs gave way, and the Egypteian lowered him to the floor.

The man knelt beside him, then drew a knife. ‘Are you going to kill me?’ asked Antiphones.

‘Someone has already tried that, my friend. No. I have sent for a physician, but I need to see your wounds and staunch that bleeding.’ The knife blade sliced through Antiphones’ gown. ‘Who did this to you?’

Antiphones felt as if he was falling from a great height. He tried to speak. The Egypteian’s face swam before his eyes. ‘Traitors,’ he mumbled. ‘Going to… kill everyone.’ Then darkness swallowed him.

ii

Argurios sat quietly in the temple gardens, burnishing his breastplate with an old cloth. The armour was old, and several of the overlapping bronze discs were cracked. Two on the left side were missing. The first had been shattered by an axe. Argurios still remembered the blow. A young Thessalian soldier had burst through the Mykene ranks and killed two warriors. The man was tall, wide-shouldered, and utterly fearless. Argurios had leapt at him, shield high, sword extended. The Thessalian had reacted brilliantly, dropping to one knee and hammering his axe under the shield. The blow had cracked two of Argurios’ ribs, and would have disembowelled him had it not been for the quality of the old breastplate. Despite the searing pain Argurios had fought on, mortally wounding his opponent. When the battle was over he had found the dying man, and had sat with him. They had talked of life; of the coming harvest and the value of a good blade.

When the short war was concluded Argurios had travelled up into Thessaly, returning the man’s axe and armour to his family, on a farm in a mountain valley.

Slowly, and with great care, Argurios polished each disc. Tonight he planned to approach Priam and he wanted to look his best. He had no great expectation of success in this venture, and the thought of being banished from Laodike’s presence caused a rising feeling of panic in his breast.

What will you do, he wondered, if the king refuses you?

In truth he did not know, and pushed his fears away.

Finishing the breastplate he took up his helmet. It was a fine piece, crafted from a single sheet of bronze. A gift from Atreus the king. Lined with padded leather to absorb the impact of any blow, the helmet had served him well. As he stared at it he marvelled at the skill of the bronzesmith. It would have taken weeks to shape this piece, crafting its high dome and curved cheek guards. He ran his fingers lightly down the raised ridges over the crown that would hold the white horsehair crest in place for ceremonial functions. He would not wear the crest tonight. It was weather-beaten and needed replacing. Carefully he burnished the helmet. Had he not been a warrior he would have enjoyed learning the craft of bronze making. Swords needed to hold an edge, and yet not be too brittle; helms and armour required softer bronze, that would give and bend and absorb blows. Greater or lesser amounts of tin were added to the copper to supply whatever was required.

Finally satisfied with the shine of the helmet, he placed it at his side and began to work on the greaves. These were not high quality. They were a gift from Agamemnon King, and should have indicated Argurios’ steady fall from favour.

He was still working when he saw Laodike approaching through the trees. She was wearing a sunshine-yellow gown, with a wide belt embossed with gold. Her fair hair was hanging free, and her smile as she saw him lifted his heart. Putting aside the greaves he stood and she ran into his embrace.

‘I have such a good feeling about today,’ she said. ‘I woke this morning and all my fears had vanished.’

Cupping her face in his hands he kissed her. They stood for a moment, unspeaking. Then she glanced down at his armour. ‘You are going to look magnificent tonight,’ she told him.

‘I wish I could see myself through your eyes. The last time I saw my reflection it showed a man past his prime with a hard angular face and greying hair.’

Reaching up she stroked his cheek. ‘I never saw a more handsome man. Not ever.’

She smiled at him. ‘It is very warm out here. Perhaps we should go to your room, where it is cooler.’

‘If we go to my room you will not be cool for long,’ he told her.

Laodike laughed and helped him gather his armour. Then they walked back through the gardens.

Later, as they lay naked together on the narrow bed, she talked of the coming feast. ‘There will be no women there,’ she said. ‘The high priestess of Athene is holding a separate function in the women’s quarters. She is very old, and very dull. I am not looking forward to it. Yours will be much more exciting. There will be bards singing tales of Hektor’s glory, and storytellers.’ Her face suddenly crumpled and she held her hand to her mouth. Tears fell. Argurios put his arms round her. ‘I still can’t believe he is dead,’ she whispered. ‘He was a hero. The gods will have welcomed him with a great feast.’ She sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Kassandra upset everyone by saying he was going to come back to life, rise from the dead. Hekabe was so angry she sent her away to father’s palace, so she could listen to the priestess and learn to accept the truth. Do people ever rise from the dead, do you think?’ ‘I never knew anyone who did,’ said Argurios. ‘Orpheus was said to have entered the Underworld to ask for his wife to be returned to him. But she was not. I am sorry for your grief, Laodike. He was a warrior, though, and that is how warriors die. I expect he would have wanted it no other way.’

She smiled then. ‘Oh, not Hektor! He hated being a warrior.’

Argurios sat up beside her. ‘How is that possible? Every man around the Great Green has heard of the battles fought by Hektor.’

‘I cannot explain the contradiction. Hektor is… was… unusual. He hated arguments and confrontations. When in Troy he would spend most of his time on his farm, breeding horses and pigs. There is a big house there, full of children, the sons of fallen Trojan soldiers. Hektor pays for their tutoring and their keep. He used to talk with loathing about war. He told me even victory left a bad taste in his mouth. He once said that all children should be forced to walk on a battlefield and see the broken, ruined bodies. Then, perhaps, they would not grow to manhood filled with thoughts of glory.’

‘As you say, an unusual man.’ Argurios rose from the bed and put on his tunic.

Pushing open the window he looked out over the temple courtyard. Crowds had gathered before the offertory tables, and priests were collecting the petitions.

‘An odd thing happened to me today,’ he said. ‘I went down into the lower town, seeking a bronzesmith who could repair my breastplate. I saw Thrakian troops there. Many had been drinking. They were loud and ill disciplined.’

‘Yes, I saw some on my way here. Agathon will be angry when he hears.’

‘One of them staggered into me. He said: “You are supposed to be in hiding.” I am sure I didn’t know the man. Then another one dragged him away, and told him he was a fool.’

‘I don’t know why they are back so soon,’ Laodike told him. ‘Father is very careful about rotating the regiments. Yet the Thrakians were here a week ago.

They should not have been assigned city duties for some while yet.’

‘You should get back to the palace,’ said Argurios. ‘I need to prepare myself.’

Laodike donned her gown, then walked to a chest by the far wall. On it was a sword and scabbard, a slim dagger, and two wax-sealed scrolls.

‘Have you been writing letters?’ she asked.

‘No. I never mastered the skill. I was given them back in Mykene to deliver to Erekos the ambassador.’

Lifting the first Laodike broke the seal. ‘What are you doing?’ asked Argurios.

‘Those are letters from the king.’

‘Not your king any longer,’ she said. ‘He has banished you. I am curious to know what he writes about.’

‘Probably trade tallies,’ he said.

Laodike unrolled the scroll and scanned it. ‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘He is talking about shipments of copper and tin, and telling Erekos to ensure supplies are increased.’ She read on. ‘And something about supplying gold to “our friends”.

It is all very boring.’ She opened the second. ‘More of the same. There is a name. Karpophorus. Gold has to be assigned to him for a mission. And Erekos is thanked for supplying details about troop rotations.’ She laid the papyrus on the chest. ‘Your king writes dull letters.’ Moving back across the room, she kissed him. ‘I will not see you tonight, but I will be here tomorrow to hear how your meeting with father went. Remember he is a very proud man.’

‘So am I,’ said Argurios.

‘Well, try not to anger him. If he refuses, merely bow your head and walk away.

Nothing he can do can keep us apart for long, my love. If he sends me away I will find a way to get word to you.’

‘It is good to see your confidence growing.’

‘I believe in the message of the swans,’ she told him. Then, after another lingering kiss, she left the room.

Argurios walked back to the window. The sun was sliding towards sunset.

Turning back to his armour he finished burnishing the greaves, then the bronze discs on the old leather war kilt. Lastly he polished the curved forearm guards given to him by the soldier Kalliades two years before. Kalliades had stripped them from a dead Athenian and brought them to where Argurios was resting after the battle. ‘Thank you for saving my life, Argurios,’ he had said. Argurios could not recall the incident. ‘I was wearing a helmet embossed with a snake,’

persisted Kalliades. ‘I was knocked from my feet and a spearman was about to thrust his blade through my throat. You leapt at him, turning away his spear with your shield.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Argurios. ‘I am glad you survived.’

‘I brought you these,’ he said, offering the arm guards. Some of Kalliades’

friends were close by, keeping a respectful distance. Argurios recognized Banokles of the One Ear, and Eruthros, who was renowned for his practical jokes.

There were others, new soldiers he did not know.

Accepting the gift he had said, ‘They are very fine. You may leave me now.’ The soldiers had backed away. As he remembered the moment Argurios found himself wishing he had spoken to the men, drawing them in and getting to know them.

He glanced at the sword belt and scabbard. These too needed polishing, but he was not intending to wear a sword to the palace.

On the chest lay the papyrus scrolls, covered with their indecipherable symbols.

Copper and tin for the making of more weapons and armour. Gold for ‘our friends’. Those friends would be Trojan traitors. As to the troop rotations, that could only refer to the regiments guarding the city. Argurios could not read script, nor could he fashion his own armour. He knew nothing about the growing of crops, nor the weaving of linens and wools.

What he did know as well as any man alive was strategy and war.

If Agamemnon desired to know which troops were guarding the city at any time it could only mean that an advantage could be gained if a specific regiment was in control. Otherwise it would matter little which force patrolled the walls.

You are no longer the king’s strategos, he chided himself. The ambitions of Agamemnon no longer concern you.

Unless, of course, Priam agreed to let him marry Laodike. Then he would, by law, become the king’s son, and a Trojan. How inconceivable such an idea would have seemed as he set out with Helikaon on the Xantbos.

The shadows were lengthening outside. Argurios strapped on his greaves then donned his breastplate and kilt. Lastly he fastened the straps of the forearm guards and stood.

He walked to the door – and paused. Glancing back, his eyes rested on the sword and scabbard.

On impulse he swept them up and left for the palace.