Shield of Thunder (22 page)

“I think you will find it interesting,” said the king. “
Beneath the Shield

of Thunder waits the Eagle Child, on shadow wings, to soar above all city gates, till end of days, and fall of kings.
Hekabe was very taken with the verse, but the meaning was hidden from her. For years she consulted mystics and seers. Then, in late winter two years back, she encountered a Hittite soothsayer. He finally interpreted the verse to Hekabe’s liking. The Shield of Thunder, he said, was not an object but a person. A woman. The Eagle Child would be born to her. As you know, the eagle is the symbol of kingship. So, this woman would bear the son of a king.
To soar above all city gates
means he will never be defeated in battle, and
till end of days
means his city will be eternal.”

“Even if the prophecy is a true one,” Andromache said, “there are hundreds of kings and thousands of young women who serve Athene. All of them would at some time have stood before her statue and effectively have been beneath the Shield of Thunder.”

“Indeed so.” Priam leaned forward. “But how many of them were born with the image of the shield upon their heads?”

Andromache sighed. “I was told of my birthmark, but that is all it is, lord: a patch of red skin with a slash of white upon it.”

Priam shook his head. “My ambassador, Heraklitos, was there that night. He saw the shield and heard the words of the priestess. But there is more. When Melite was babbling on Thera, she spoke of a woman with the strength of a man. Hekabe remembered that, albeit not swiftly enough. Your father’s people came from across the sea, and with them they brought many words of the western tongue.
Andros
for ‘man,’ and
machos
for ‘strength.’ Your name is derived from these two words.
You
are the Shield of Thunder, Andromache, and your child will be the son of a king. He will make my city greater, eternal and undying.”

“Suppose it is true,” Andromache said, rising, “and I do not believe it is, what makes you believe that you will be the father? You could die, Priam, and then Hektor will be king, and his son will be the Eagle Child. Had you not thought of that?”

“Oh, there is little in all of this that I haven’t thought of, Andromache. But you can go now. We will talk again once Hektor returns.” Turning away from her, he filled a goblet full of wine and drained it.

“Might I ask one question, sire?”

“Make it brief, for I am tired.”

“If I am the Shield of Thunder, why, then, did you send for my sister Paleste to be wed to Hektor?”

Priam sighed. “A stupid error of Heraklitos. He told us that Paleste was the child who bore the shield. He was very sick then, and his mind was not what it had been.”

“He was not wrong, lord. At my birth my mother named me Paleste, but my father changed it when he returned from his campaign.”

But Priam was not listening. Taking the jug of wine and the goblet, he walked back through the apartments to the bedroom, pushing shut the door behind him.

Andromache felt the nausea strike once more but swallowed it down. Sweat was on her brow as she left the apartments and made her way down to the
megaron.
A servant brought her some water, and she sat quietly, waiting for her stomach to settle.

She thought then of shy and gentle Paleste. How awful the workings of this city would have been to her. Did Priam seek to seduce her? Was she awed and frightened by the dying Hekabe? She suddenly shivered as the full import of Priam’s careless words struck home. Paleste had been “a stupid error.”

How convenient, then, that innocent Paleste, trusting and sweet, should have sickened and died.

Andromache rose from her seat and walked out into the cool night air. Cheon was waiting for her. As he approached her, Andromache fell to her knees and vomited on the path. The soldier was instantly beside her, supporting her. Twice more Andromache retched; then her head cleared and her stomach ceased to cramp.

“Do you need a physician?” Cheon asked, concern in his voice. Andromache shook her head.

They walked slowly through the empty streets, and Andromache felt stronger by the time they reached the gates of the palace. Once inside, she ordered a servant to bring her some bread and cheese, then went to her rooms.

Kassandra was sleeping on a couch, but she awoke when Andromache entered. “I was dreaming of dolphins,” the girl said, yawning.

Andromache sat beside her. “You spoke earlier of my sickness. You said it was not the fish.”

Kassandra leaned in and smiled. “It is the Eagle Child,” she whispered. “The son of Helikaon.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE DEATH OF A KING

The palace Agamemnon had been assigned overlooked the temple of Hermes and the bay beyond. The location was excellent, but the standard of workmanship, Agamemnon saw, was not of the highest quality. The finish on the dressed stone was clumsy, and many of the carvings seemed to have been completed in haste. Also, the architect must have been a man of little imagination, for huge windows had been set in the main apartments upstairs, facing west into the setting sun. In the height of summer the rooms would be like ovens.

Agamemnon sat now in the spacious walled garden, three guards close by, as his men searched through the fifteen rooms. The Mykene king did not expect them to find assassins hidden anywhere, but the search alone would keep his men focused on the dangers he faced. All the food in the kitchens had been removed and dumped, the wine poured away. Fresh food was being purchased in the market. Agamemnon gazed balefully over the garden. Garishly colored flowers had been planted, and their scent would draw insects.

“Whose palace is this?” he asked his aide.

“The king’s son, Polites.” Kleitos winced as he spoke, lifting his hand to massage his jaw. Three teeth had been broken when the renegade Banokles had attacked him. Two had been successfully pulled, but the third had snapped off at the gum line. The angry stump ached constantly.

A soldier wearing the long black cloak of a Follower entered the garden. “The rooms are clear, Agamemnon King.”

“Check the roof,” Agamemnon told him.

“Yes, lord.”

Kleitos waited until the man had left and then asked, “You think Priam would hide an assassin on the roof?”

Agamemnon ignored the question. “What did you find out about Helikaon?”

“He is recovering, my lord. He is at his palace in the lower town.”

“And well guarded?”

“First reports are that he has nine servants, all men. But no Trojans guard him, and he brought no Dardanian soldiers with him to Troy. He has one companion, a big man named Gershom. It is said he’s a Gyppto.”

Agamemnon leaned back in his chair. How many assassination attempts could one man survive? Kolanos had had him trapped at Blue Owl Bay, but Helikaon had slipped by the killers dressed as a simple soldier. Then, the previous autumn, a group of warriors had confronted him in the grounds of the temple of Hermes. Helikaon had survived that, too. Now even the dagger of the legendary Karpophorus had failed to kill him. “He is blessed by luck,” he said.

“It is said that he is the son of Aphrodite herself,” Kleitos said, in a low voice. “Perhaps he is protected by the goddess.”

Agamemnon controlled his rising anger and waited for several moments so that his voice would appear calm and controlled. “His mother was a madwoman, Kleitos, who chewed too much meas root. She threw herself from a cliff top and was killed on the rocks below. And do not tell me the story of how she was seen flying from the cliff to distant Olympos. I have spoken to a man who gathered up her remains for burial. One eye was hanging from her shattered skull, and her jaw had been torn off.”

“Yes, my king. I was only repeating what I had heard.”

“Is the Thrakian here yet?”

“Yes, my lord. King Eioneus arrived yesterday. He is lodged in a palace on the outskirts of the city. He brought two warhorses with him and desired to be close to the open hills so that he could ride them.”

“How many retainers?”

“Thirty soldiers and his son, Rhesos. There is also the Thrakian contingent for the games—some twenty men.”

Agamemnon considered the information. “Eioneus is a man of routine. Have him watched, then ride out over the route he chooses. There will be a perfect spot somewhere for a man to lie in wait.”

“We have some fine archers with us, my lord. Okotos can hit a bird on the wing.”

“No, not a bowman. Use a slinger. Eioneus is an old man. A fall from a running horse could kill him. Even better if the stone strikes unseen by those with him. His death would then seem ill fortune.”

As the light began to fade, Agamemnon rose and entered the palace. Lamps had been lit, and he could smell roasting meat from the kitchen. A soldier brought him a goblet of watered wine, and Agamemnon drank sparingly. Some time after dusk King Peleus arrived. The man was angry, his face flushed.

“By the gods, they have given me a hovel,” he complained. “Close to the dyemakers. The stink is stomach-churning.”

“Where is Achilles?”

“He and two of his companions are out running in the hills.”

“Do they have guards riding with them?”

Peleus laughed. “You think anyone would be foolish enough to attack Achilles? He would tear out their lungs.”

“Or an arrow could pierce his,” Agamemnon pointed out.

“You think Priam would break the truce?”

“Not all men are as honorable as you and I,” Agamemnon said.

Day by day Helikaon’s strength grew. On his return to his own palace in the lower town he had barely been able to climb the stairs, and then only after stopping several times to catch his breath. His once lean and powerful frame was now skeletally thin, his muscles wasted. However, the absence of infection allowed his appetite to return, and Gershom supervised the preparation of his meals. There were no sweetmeats, no wines, but an abundance of fruits and fresh meats. “My grandfather was a great warrior in his day,” he told Helikaon, “and he was wounded more than twenty times. He maintained that an injured body needed simple fare: water to flush through the system, fruits and meats for strength. And like a fine horse the body needed to work in order to grow stronger.”

Soon Helikaon’s skin began to lose its ghostly sheen, the dark rings under his eyes disappearing. Gershom borrowed two horses from Priam’s stables, and the two men rode bareback over the hills. The ride tired Helikaon, and Gershom led them down through several fields to a farmhouse where a well had been sunk. Tethering their mounts, the companions sat in the shade of the house. Helikaon was holding his hand over his wound. There were no bandages now, and when he raised his arm, the deep scar was red and vivid.

“How is the pain?” Gershom asked.

“Almost gone. But the wound itches.” He glanced at Gershom. “How could you allow a stranger to cover me in maggots?” he asked with a weary smile.

“I was bored,” Gershom told him. “I thought it would be entertaining.”

Helikaon leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I have had no dreams since that last night,” he said. “In a way I miss them. It was as if I could float across the world in an instant. I thought the room was enchanted. Day would pass into night and back to day in a heartbeat.”

“From what I heard, when you were delirious, your dreams were all of blood and death and pain.”

“Mostly they were. But I also dreamed I saw Argurios and Laodike. That was like balm upon the spirit. And I…” He fell silent.

“What?” Gershom asked.

Helikaon sighed. “I had a healing dream. Andromache was in it. It felt as if I were being lifted from a dark pit into bright sunshine.”

Gershom glanced at his friend. Helikaon was staring into the distance, and Gershom could feel a sense of sadness emanating from him. Why this should be was mystifying. Helikaon had returned from the shores of Hades. He was a young king with everything to live for. He had a beautiful wife waiting for him in Dardania and a fleet of ships to sail the Great Green, bringing him wealth. Yet not once since he had begun his recovery had he laughed or made a jest.

A growl sounded from close by, and a large black hound came padding around the wall, lips drawn back, teeth bared. The horses shifted nervously. Gershom’s hand moved to his dagger.

“No, my friend,” Helikaon said, “do not harm it. The hound is doing what it should, protecting its master’s home. Ignore it. Turn your head away and do not stare into its eyes.”

“So that it can take a bite out of my rump?”

Helikaon slowly reached out his hand, softly clicking his fingers. The hound stood still, but the snarl remained and the hackles on its neck were raised. Suddenly Helikaon snapped his fingers and called out. “Here! Come!” Instantly the hound padded over to him. “You are a fine, brave fellow,” Helikaon told it, slowly raising his hand so that the hound could sniff at it.

“And you, I fear, are an idiot,” Gershom grumbled. “With jaws like that he could have taken off your fingers.”

“You know the problem with a royal upbringing in Egypte, Gershom? You can look, but you do not have to see. Slaves everywhere to do your bidding, bring you food, lay out your clothing.” The hound wandered away, padding back past the well, where it slumped down in an area of shade. “The hound is an old one. Gray around the jaws. It is not young and reckless. People will visit this farmhouse all the time. No farmer would keep an ill-trained guard dog unleashed.

Daylight visitors will generally be welcome. Had we come at night, the story would have been different. And then there are the horses. If that dog was in a killing mood, they would have sensed it and panicked. Instead they merely shifted a little and grew wary. Therefore, we were in no danger. All we had to do was show the dog we had no evil intent.”

Gershom shook his head. “You do not convince me, Helikaon. You rationalize your actions, and because the end result is favorable, you become right. However, the dog
could
have been suffering with toothache or been rabid and therefore would not have acted according to its training. The horses might
not
have scented its purpose. Horses are not generally considered to be great thinkers. Your method of dealing with the situation involved danger. Mine—to stab the beast—would have achieved the same end result with no risk.”

“Except you would have killed a fine dog,” Helikaon pointed out.

“It is not my dog.”

As they were speaking, two men came walking in from the fields. Both were broad-shouldered and redheaded, though the first man was older and there was gray in his hair.

“You seeking me?” he asked.

Helikaon eased himself to his feet. “No. We were merely riding and sought to rest here awhile.”

“Ah, well, you are welcome,” the farmer said. “Lucky, though. Cerberos there took a lump out of the last traveler who arrived unannounced.” Gershom’s laughter boomed out. “It wasn’t amusing,” the farmer grumbled. “Cost me two sheep in compensation. He’s getting old and forgetting his training. Are you heading up to the city?”

“Yes.”

“Best avoid the low woods. Been an accident there, and there are soldiers swarming everywhere, stopping travelers and asking questions.”

“What happened?” Helikaon asked.

“Some foreigner fell from his horse and died. Important man. Come for the wedding feast, I expect. Anyways, I am losing daylight standing here, so you’ll need to excuse me. Here, Cerberos,” he called, and the black hound padded after him as he walked off.

“Do not say a word,” Helikaon warned Gershom.

“What could I say? I who was born in a royal palace and look but do not see?”

Helikaon sighed. “How long are you going to hold this over my head?”

“Difficult to say. Most of the summer, for sure.”

Helikaon laughed then and swung onto his horse. “For that you can eat my dust all the way to the palace,” he said, heeling his mount into a run.

Gershom set off after him. Both horses were powerful and fast, but Gershom was considerably heavier than the Dardanian king and could not close the gap. Only as they came closer to the city did Helikaon slow his horse and allow Gershom’s mount to canter alongside. There was good color in Helikaon’s cheeks, and his mood seemed to have lifted. As they crested a hill, the bay beyond came into sight, brilliantly blue in the sunshine. A light breeze was blowing over the hills. Helikaon reined in his mount and sat staring out over the sea. Gershom saw his mood change once more, his expression hardening.

“What is it?” he asked.

“There is a man coming to Troy whom I have sworn to kill.”

“Well, your strength is returning fast. A few more weeks and you will be able to challenge him.”

Helikaon said nothing more and heeled his horse. By the time they reached the palace, his strength was gone, and he took to his bed. Gershom returned the mounts and while at the stables heard that the king of Thraki, Eioneus, had been the man killed in the fall from the horse. He had been riding ahead of his companions, and when they rounded a bend in the path, they found him sprawled on the ground, his horse standing close by.