Shield of Thunder (19 page)

Deep within him something awoke, and he felt it grow. It was a yearning for life, for joy. The phantom above him began to shudder and moan and cry out. The sound filled him. Then white light exploded behind his eyes, and he passed out.

He awoke to birdsong and the bright light of day.

Helikaon took a deep breath and could taste the salt upon the air. A plain-faced woman was leaning over him. He struggled to remember her name. Then it came to him. She was the Spartan princess, Helen, and he had seen her with Paris at the palace of Hekabe.

“How are you feeling?” she asked him.

“Hungry,” he told her. He struggled to sit, and she helped him, lifting the pillows behind him.

“I have some honey water,” she said, “but I will fetch you some food.”

“Thank you, Helen.”

She smiled shyly. “It is good to see you recovered. We were all very worried.”

He drank some honeyed water, and Helen left the room to fetch him breakfast. Leaning to place the empty cup on the table beside the bed, he winced. The wound under his armpit was still painful. He glanced down at his chest and arms. So thin, he thought, touching the jutting collarbones and tracing the lines of his ribs.

The door opened, and Andromache came in, carrying a bowl of fruit. She was wearing a long dress of shimmering scarlet, her red hair held back from her face by a headband of ornate silver set with emeralds. She looked thoughtful and concerned as she laid the fruit bowl beside the bed. She did not sit beside him but stood watching him.

“It is good to see you,” he said. “By the gods, I feel I have been torn back from the grave.”

“You were very sick,” she said softly, her eyes on his.

“You need have no more fear for me,” he told her. “My strength is returning. I slept last night with no dreams. Well, save one of you.”

“You dreamed of me?”

“I did, and it was a fine dream—a dream of life. I think it was that dream that cured me.”

She seemed to relax then and sat down by the bedside. When she spoke, her voice was cool, her tone distant. “Everyone thought you were dying, but Gershom found a healer. He cleansed your wound. Once it is fully sealed, you will need to swim and to take walks to build your strength.”

“What is wrong, Andromache?” he asked.

“Nothing is wrong,” she replied. “I am…pleased you are recovered.”

“You talk like a stranger. We are friends, you and I.”

“We are not friends,” she snapped. “We…I…I am to be wed to Hektor, and you to Halysia.”

“And that means we cannot be friends?”

“I do not see you as a friend, Helikaon. I cannot.” She looked away, staring out of the window.

“You know that I love you,” he said softly. “As I have never loved another woman. That will always be true.”

“I know,” she said, her voice bitter. She swung back toward him. “I feel the same. And that is why we cannot be friends. I cannot sit with you and make idle chatter and laugh at silly jests. You fill my mind, Helikaon. All the time. Even in my dreams.”

“I told you I dreamed of you last night,” he said.

“I do not want to hear it,” she told him, rising. “Gershom is waiting to see you. And Antiphones. Xander came yesterday, too. He said he would return.”

“Where is Hektor?”

“He sailed with the
Xanthos
in search of pirates. He is expected soon.”

Helikaon looked into her face. “I thank you for saving me, Andromache,” he told her.

“It was not me. I told you. Gershom found a healer.”

“No,” he said sadly. “It was you.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BLACK GALLEYS IN THE BAY

Andromache strode out into the long garden behind the palace, her bow in her hand, a quiver of arrows slung across her shoulder. Targets of bound straw had been set by the far wall, cunningly crafted in the shapes of deer, boars, and men. Andromache notched a black-feathered shaft to the string, drew back, and loosed it.

At a distance of thirty paces the arrow tore into the straw deer at the belly. It was a poor shot. Had it been a real animal, the arrow would have ripped through its guts, causing an agonized death and ruining the meat. With a deer, she knew, the arrow needed to pierce both lungs. Death would then be swift, the meat tender. Calming herself, she sent four more shafts into the target. Those were better aimed.

“You are a fine shot,” came the voice of Antiphones. Andromache swung toward him, masking her irritation at having been interrupted.

“You are looking well, Antiphones,” she said. He was still colossally large but had shed a great deal of weight since the autumn. His face now looked healthy, and he no longer wheezed as he moved.

“Still fatter than five pigs, but I am working on it,” he replied. “As you know, Father has given me command of the Ilos regiment. By next spring I’m hoping to be able to mount a horse and ride out with the cavalry.”

She smiled. “I am glad he rewarded you, Antiphones. Had you not discovered the plot, we might all be dead now.”

His face stiffened, but then the smile returned, though a little forced, she thought. “Yes, Father was grateful. I have discovered, though, that his benevolence is always short-lived.”

“My own father is the same,” she said. “Perhaps all kings are. They feel they have nothing to be grateful for. People are born only to serve them; therefore, those who do so faithfully are only behaving as expected.”

“Well, at least he has taken a liking to you,” Antiphones said, easing himself down onto a stone bench in the shade of a flowering tree.

“It is not affection,” she told him. “It is merely lust—and a desire to have that which has been refused him.”

Antiphones shrugged. “You can continue to say no, Andromache. He may be many things, but he would not force a woman against her will.”

Andromache shook her head and laughed. “How naïve that sounds, Antiphones. What you mean is he would not force her down with the strength of his arms. You think the palace girls he beds or the daughters of the nobles spread their legs for him because of his charm? His golden hair is streaked with gray. He is old, Antiphones. Young girls do not clamor for the old. They share his bed because they must. Because he is the king and they are afraid of his wrath.”

“But you are not afraid of his wrath?”

“I fear no man.”

“Then you are safe from his advances.”

“Yes, but I still feel his eyes on me. I can almost hear his heartbeat quicken when I am close. I imagine it will stop when I am Hektor’s wife.”

“It hasn’t stopped him with other men’s wives,” Antiphones said softly, looking around in case any servants were close by.

“There are no whisperers here, Antiphones,” she said. “Surely he will stop. Is not Hektor his favorite son? Even Priam would not risk angering him.”

“Yes, he is the favorite,” Antiphones replied without bitterness. “For years that was hard for me to swallow. Harder for Agathon, for Polites. Hard for all the sons. How could any compete with the
mighty
Hektor?”

“Do you hate him?”

“Father?”

“No. Hektor.”

Antiphones shook his head. “No one ever hates Hektor. Even Agathon, who I discovered hated just about everyone in Troy. Including me, and I was his brother as well as his friend. Why do you ask? Do you dislike Hektor?”

“How can I dislike someone I have never really met?”

Antiphones looked confused. “But Hektor has been in Troy throughout the winter.”

“Yes, and somehow rarely where I am. Strange behavior for a man soon to be my husband.” She felt anger rise and tried to quell it. “But then the daughters of kings are merely breeding cows sold to the highest bidder. Why should a man wish to speak to a breeding cow?”

Antiphones chuckled. “I have never known a woman like you, Andromache.”

“A compliment, I trust?”

“You know, I am not sure. I was raised to believe women yearned to be subservient and longed to be dominated.”

“Had you been raised by Priam alone, that would be no surprise, but Hekabe is not a subservient queen, and I would imagine no man ever dominated her.”

“That is true,” Antiphones said. “Priam and Hekabe, passion and poison, strength and cruelty. She would eat her young for the sake of power.” Antiphones sighed. “What a loving family we are.”

Stepping away from him, she sent an arrow flashing down the garden and into the straw boar. Two more shafts sliced into the target.

“I notice you don’t shoot at the man,” Antiphones said, pointing toward the tallest of the straw targets.

“I don’t hunt men,” she said.

“Yet you killed the man trying to stab Father.”

She swung toward him. “I can hit a target eighty paces distant one hundred times in a hundred. Do men say, What a fine archer? No. Kill one assassin a mere thirty paces away and they are so impressed. What is this link between men and death, Antiphones? Why did I have to kill to become respected?”

“You do yourself an injustice, Andromache. It is not about killing. The man was running at Father, a spear in his hand. You had a heartbeat to react. You did not recoil. Fear and shock did not stiffen your limbs. You acted swiftly and surely while others froze. And your arrow was true.”

“As I said, a simple shot. Did you see Helikaon?”

“For a while. Then he fell asleep. He looks better today. There is color in his cheeks, and the fever has broken. He will recover. And he will need to…rather swiftly.”

“Why?”

“The city will soon be filled by warriors from the west, come to take part in the games. Helikaon is hated by them. Agamemnon has ordered his death. It is almost certain there will be more attempts on his life.” He drew in a deep breath. “And not just Helikaon. Many of the kings loathe one another. Before long the streets will be crawling with assassins.”

“But the games…” Andromache said. “By the laws of Olympos, any city that stages games in honor of the gods is neutral. All enmities are put aside. There will be a truce.” Antiphones was looking at her quizzically. “What is it? Am I suddenly speaking in a foreign language?”

“Almost. You are a curious mixture, Andromache. One moment you are speaking with authority about the nature of kings, and the next…” He hesitated, then shook his head. “You accused me of being naïve. Surely you must understand that the truce is illusory. Everyone knows it. Priam will have soldiers everywhere. All the family will walk surrounded by bodyguards. Agamemnon will have his Followers with him at all times, hands on daggers, ready to strike down anyone who gets too close to their king. It will be a time of tension and menace. Helikaon will be a prime target. Of that you can have no doubt. Once he is stronger, have him taken to his own palace.” He pushed himself ponderously to his feet.

“Perhaps he should go back to Dardania,” she said.

“He won’t do that. That would signify weakness to his enemies.”

“And seeing a stick-thin man tottering around in the sunlight will make them gasp at his strength?”

Antiphones laughed with genuine good humor. “You have a tongue on you like a whip. I am chastened, and I flee from your company.”

Andromache smiled. “It was good to talk with you, Antiphones. I hope you will visit me again. As long, of course, as it is considered seemly for a future brother to attend me in the absence of my betrothed.”

“Oh, no one will worry about me,” he said brightly. “It is well known that my tastes have never been for women. Pies, pastries, and handsome young men. No, Andromache, we do not have to concern ourselves with seemly behavior.” Stepping forward, he kissed her lightly on both cheeks. “And remember what I said. Speak to Gershom. He is a fighting man and will know how to protect Helikaon.”

∗ ∗ ∗

The whore known as Big Red watched the rising pandemonium on the beach and laughed. A fistfight would break out soon, maybe several, she thought as the beachmasters fought a losing battle to organize the incoming galleys. The other whores who had gathered were not amused. Bad tempers meant poor business, and the women had believed there would be gold and silver rings to be earned with so many ships arriving together. In fact, as Big Red had surmised almost as soon as she had reached the beach, there were just too many ships. Few of the sailors and even fewer of the passengers were in any mood to let loose the one-eyed snake.

Red moved away from the line of whores, looking for a spot in the shade. Later that night there would be gold aplenty to be made in the streets of Troy. For now she might as well rest and enjoy the entertainment. Reaching a low stone bench, she brushed her hand across its surface, scanning it for bird shit. Her red gown was new, and she had no wish to see it stained. Satisfied the bench was clean, she eased her considerable weight down onto it. The relief was instant. Her left knee had been paining her recently, and long periods of standing caused the joint to stiffen and swell. Comfortable now, she watched the chaos on the long beach.

As far as the eye could see in both directions the Bay of Troy was packed with vessels large and small, and scores more were gliding in quietly through the afternoon mist. There was no room for them all, and the beachmasters, backed up by soldiers, were forcing some boats off the sand to make way for incomers. Those leaving were impeding those rowing in, and the clash of oars and cursing of sailors echoed around the waters.

She heard the angry complaints of fishermen, furious at losing berths their families had used for generations, being forced to travel far up the Scamander to beach. Foreign captains shouted scorn at the beachmasters when told to disembark their important passengers and then return the way they had come to beach in the Bay of Herakles, far from the city. Merchants and peddlers who had just arrived were milling about, uncertain where to go, anxious about their cargoes in the heaving throng.

Red found it all highly amusing. Clouds of flying insects from the low marshes about the bay were buzzing around the sweating, red-faced beachmasters, who were trying to maintain order and placate tempers while rapidly losing their own. Red was never troubled by insects. They did not like the heavy perfume with which she doused her henna-dyed hair.

“You poxy son of a river rat!”

Red watched with delight as a Gyppto mechant took a swing at the beachmaster Dresos. Fat Dresos tried to dodge but lost his footing and sprawled in the sand. Soldiers stepped forward and prodded the furious Gyppto back to his ship at spearpoint.

Others joined in the laughter as Dresos got to his feet, but he swung angrily on the red-headed whore.

“Shut your mouth, you filthy bitch!”

This just made her laugh harder, but one of the young soldiers stepped over to her.

“Better get back beyond the wall, Red. Likely to be trouble before long. Wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Sweet of you, Ipheus,” she said, and felt a sinking of the spirits. The young man had treated her with polite concern, but there had been no hint of desire as he spoke to her. He had not looked into her violet eyes and blushed. He had not licked his lips or shifted from foot to foot, awed by her sensuality. Red glanced down at the flowing crimson gown she wore to disguise her growing weight. Once—and not so long ago—she
had
been desirable. But those had been the days before she became known as
Big
Red. She sighed.

“Are you all right, Red?” Ipheus asked.

“Come ride me and find out,” she replied with a practiced wink.

The soldier laughed. “Couldn’t afford you, Red,” he said, then moved off toward another group of angry men.

The young man’s compliment did not lift her mood, and Red decided to go home and drown her sorrows in wine. She never had been beautiful. Her large and powerful frame precluded that. But there had once been power in her violet eyes, in the days when the gods had blessed her with radiant youth. Now that youth was passing. Many of the older whores sought out husbands in the autumn of their careers: old soldiers or lonely merchants. Red wanted no husband, as she had never wanted children.

She began the long walk up toward the city and paused. The noise on the beach had faded away. All argument and cursing had ceased. It seemed even the seabirds had stopped their screeching. The crowds on the beach were all looking toward the bay. In the ominous silence Red realized she could hear her heart beating.

Three black galleys were moving slowly through the mass of ships. Oarsmen on other vessels hurriedly backed up, making room for them. No one complained or shouted insults as the galleys headed for shore, ahead of those which had been waiting impatiently since midday.

As the first galley closed on the beach, black oars were raised. The ship glided on for a few heartbeats, then the keel bumped quietly on the sand.