Shield of Thunder (35 page)

A cool wind blew over the rear deck, and Helikaon shivered. “We will raid no more villages,” he said.

Gershom smiled, and Helikaon saw the tension ease out of him. “That is good to hear, Golden One.”

“A long time since you called me that.”

“Yes, it is,” Gershom replied.

∗ ∗ ∗

Toward dusk a northwesterly wind began to blow, buffeting the fleet and slowing its progress. Increasing weariness took its toll on the rowers. Some of the older vessels, acquired by Helikaon from allied nations, were not as well cared for as his own galleys. They were heavily barnacled and sluggish, unable to keep up with the swifter ships. Slowly at first, the fleet began to lose formation.

Helikaon was concerned, for if the fleet were to come upon enemy vessels, the stragglers could be picked off and sunk. He had hoped to have made better progress. Without the wind against them they might have been able to make the crossing to the neutral coastline of Asia. There was no chance of that now.

As the light began to fail, Helikaon signaled for the fleet to follow him into a wide bay. This was enemy territory, and he had no idea what forces were garrisoned in the area. The danger was twofold. There could be a hostile army within striking distance of the bay, or an enemy fleet could come upon them as they were beached.

As they entered the bay, Helikaon saw a settlement far to the right and above it a hilltop fort. It was small and would hold no more than a hundred fighting men.

Eight trade vessels of shallow draft were beached close to the settlement, and already cookfires had been lit.

As the sun set, the galleys began to beach some five hundred paces from the houses. Helikaon was the first ashore, calling his captains to him and instructing them to take no aggressive action but merely to prepare cookfires and allow the men to rest. No one, he said, was to approach the settlement.

As more and more men came ashore, Helikaon spotted a troop of twenty soldiers leaving the fort and marching down toward them. They were poorly armed, with light spears and leather breastplates and helms. Helikaon saw Gershom looking at him and guessed the Egypteian was thinking of the promise he had made to raid no more settlements.

Helikaon strode out to meet the soldiers. Their leader, a tall, thin young man, prematurely bald, touched his fist to his breastplate in the Mykene manner. “Greetings, traveler,” he said. “I am Kalos, the watch commander.”

“Greetings to you, Kalos. I am Athenos, a friend to Odysseus.”

“You have a great many ships, Athenos, and a goodly number of men. This is a small settlement. There are only five whores and two eating houses. I fear there could be some unpleasantness if your men were allowed to roam free in the town.”

“Your point is well made, Kalos. I shall instruct my sailors to remain on the beach. Tell me, is there any news of Odysseus? I was to have met him and another allied fleet on Ithaka.”

Kalos shook his head. “We have not seen the Ugly King this year at all. The fleet of Menados passed through several days ago. There have been rumors of more Trojan raiding to the west.”

“Sadly true, I fear,” Helikaon said. “Pylos was attacked several days ago, the palace burned.”

The young militiaman was shocked. “No! That is grim news, sir. Is there no end to the vileness of these Trojans?”

“Apparently not. Where was Menados headed?”

“He did not share his plans with me, sir. He merely provisioned his fleet and set sail.”

“I hope his fleet was mighty. The attack on Pylos was said to have involved some fifty galleys.”

“There were at least eighty ships with Menados, though many of them were transports. He is a fine fighting sailor and has sunk many pirate vessels these last few seasons.” The young man was about to speak on, but Helikaon saw his eyes flicker to the left. Then they widened, and his expression changed. Helikaon glanced back. The last rays of the setting sun had illuminated the
Xanthos.
A poorly tied knot had slipped at the center of the sail brace, and the sail had loosened, showing the head of the black horse painted there. There were few around the Great Green who had not heard of the black horse of Helikaon.

Kalos backed away. Helikaon turned toward him and spoke swiftly, keeping his voice calm. “Now is not the time for rash action,” he said. “The lives of your men and your settlement are in your hands. You have friends here? Family?”

The young soldier stared at him with open hatred. “You are the Burner. You are accursed.”

“I am what I am,” Helikaon admitted, “but that does not change the lives that hang in the balance here. I can see in your eyes that you are a man of courage. You would not hesitate to walk the Dark Road in order to strike down an enemy. But what of the people you are sworn to protect? The old ones, the young ones, the babes in arms? Fight me here and all will die. Allow my men to rest here for the night, and we will sail away and trouble no one. By taking this wise course you will have honored your obligation to defend your people. No one will die; no homes will burn.”

The young man stood blinking in the fading light. Some of Helikaon’s men began to gather. The militiamen lifted their spears and grouped close, ready to fight.

“Back!” Helikaon ordered his warriors. “No blood will be spilled here. I have given my word to this brave young officer.” Returning his attention to Kalos, he looked into the man’s dark eyes. “Your choice, Kalos. Life or death for your people.”

“You will all remain on the beach?” the militiaman asked.

“We will. And you will ensure it by remaining with us. My cooks will prepare a fine meal, and we will sit and eat and drink good wine.”

“I have no wish to break bread with you, Helikaon.”

“And I have no wish to see you and your men vanishing over the hillside seeking reinforcements. You will stay with us. No harm will come to you.”

“We will not surrender our weapons.”

“Nor should you. You are not captives, nor have I requested your surrender. We are all, for this night, on this beach, neutrals. We will offer thanks and libations to the same gods before we eat, and we will talk as free men under a free sky. You can tell me of the vileness of the Trojans, and I can tell you of the day a Mykene raiding force attacked my lands and took a child of my house, set him aflame, and hurled him from a cliff. And then, as men of intellect and compassion, we will rail at the horrors of war.”

The tension eased, and cookfires were lit. Helikaon gathered the Mykene militiamen to him, and they sat together in awkward silence as the food was prepared. Wine was brought, though at first the Mykene refused it. As the uncomfortable night wore on, Oniacus was called upon to sing, and this time he did. Oniacus had a fine deep voice, and the songs he chose were rich and melancholy. Eventually the Mykene accepted wine and food and stretched out on the sand.

Helikaon set perimeter guards to patrol the beach and prevent any incursions into the settlement, then walked to the water’s edge. He was troubled, his mind unsettled.

Gershom joined him. “You did well, Golden One,” he said.

“Something is wrong,” Helikaon said. “Those men are not soldiers, and their cheap armor is new. They are villagers, hastily armed. Why would that be?”

“Troops from this area were needed elsewhere,” Gershom offered.

“So far from the war?” Kalos had spoken of the fleet of Menados and had said that many of his ships were transports. Those would be used to carry men and horses. An invasion force.

Yet his own fleet had spied no enemy ships, which meant they had hugged the coastline, moving east and north. This removed any thought of an attack on the lower eastern mainland of Lykia. The fleet of Menados was sailing along the Mykene coastline, bringing an army to where?

Up to Thraki to reinforce the armies facing Hektor? That was a possibility. Yet why would it be necessary? The armies of the Thessalian king, Peleus, could march into Thraki. Why denude the southern lands of soldiers and risk them at sea when it would be so much simpler for the northern allies to mount a land attack?

Then it came to him, and the impact of realization struck him like a blow to the belly.

Dardania! If Agamemnon could land an army across the Hellespont below Thraki, Hektor would be truly trapped. The citadel at Dardanos would be isolated, the few troops under an eighty-year-old general outnumbered and overcome. All the lands north of Troy would fall under Mykene domination.

Yet again, he realized with a sinking heart, he had fallen back into thinking of the grand design of falling fortresses and conquered lands. Halysia was at Dardanos and so was the child, Dex. The last time the Mykene had raided, she had been raped and stabbed, her son murdered before her eyes.

“At first light we head for home,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SONS OF SORROW AND JOY

The small fair-haired boy ran down the dusty corridor, his bare feet padding silently on the worn stones. At the end he turned to make sure Gray One had not caught up with him; then he lay quickly down and squirmed into a crevice in a dark corner.

The old fortress of Dardanos was a maze of corridors and tunnels and small holes only a three-year-old could squeeze into. He crawled through the crevice between the walls and out into the gloom of a waiting chamber, ran behind a dusty tapestry, then dashed across the empty room to the heavy oak door in the opposite wall. The door was not quite closed, and if he lay with his face pressed to the jamb, he could see into the great room beyond. He could not see Sun Woman, but he knew she would come, so he squatted more comfortably on the stone floor, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, and waited. He had learned a lot about waiting in his three short years.

He heard a wailing, screeching sound in the distance, which he knew was Gray One seeking him out. She would search the courtyard first. He chose a different hiding place each day, and Gray One was a slow old thing, always many steps behind him.

Bright dawn light was filtering through the high windows of the chamber, and he could smell cooking smells of corn bread and broth as the royal household broke its fast. His tummy felt empty and the smells made his mouth water, but he held his position, waiting for Sun Woman.

Every day he managed to escape Gray One and seek out Sun Woman. Yet he could not let her see him, for he knew she would be angry. Her cold anger frightened him, though he did not understand the reason for it. In his warm cot at night he would dream that one day Sun Woman would seek
him
out, that she would open her arms and call to him, and he would run to her. She would take him in her arms and hold him close and speak sweet words.

He heard movement in the
megaron
and eagerly pressed his face to the door, but it was only some soldiers and Old Red Man. Old Red Man waved his hands about, giving the soldiers orders, then they all went away. Servants passed close by the chamber door, an arm’s length from where he waited, but he knew they would not come in. It was their busiest time of the day.

His legs were growing cramped by the time people started filling the
megaron.
He lay down again and watched intently. All the old men in their long robes came in, their sandaled feet shuffling on the
megaron
floor. Then there were soldiers in armor, their ceremonial greaves shining in the morning sunlight. Ladies of the court murmured and giggled. The boy could tell who they were by their toe rings and ankle bracelets. One girl wore an ankle chain with tiny green fish dangling from it. He watched, fascinated. They tinkled as she moved.

Then the hubbub ceased abruptly, and the boy strained to press closer to the door.

Sun Woman walked to the throne and stood for a moment looking around her. She was wearing a long sleeveless tunic of shining white decorated with shiny silver dots. Her golden hair was curled and wound on top of her head and threaded with bright ribbon. As always, the boy was dazzled by her beauty, and he felt a pain in his heart that made him want to cry.

Sun Woman said, “Let us begin. We have much to discuss.” Her voice was like silver bells. She sat down, and the business of the day began. She spoke to Old Red Man and the other old men; then people were brought before her one at a time. One of them was a soldier. His hands were tied. He talked to her angrily, his face red. The boy felt a moment’s fear for Sun Woman, but she spoke quietly, and then other soldiers led the man away.

The day was passing into noon, and the boy was half-asleep when Sun Woman rose from her throne. Looking around the
megaron,
she asked, “Where is Dexios? The boy must be here for the ritual. Lila!” She gestured impatiently.

Gray One shuffled out from a corner of the
megaron,
wringing her old hands, her face creased with worry. “I could not find him, lady. I’m sorry. He runs so fast, I can’t keep up with him.”

“Have you searched the stable? He hides in the straw, I understand.”

“Yes, lady. He was not there.”

Behind the door Dexios sat frozen for a few heartbeats, scarcely able to believe his ears. Sun Woman was asking for him? She wanted
him
? He jumped to his feet, ready to run to her, but in his excitement and confusion he pushed against the oak door instead of pulling, and it closed silently, the locking bar snicking into place. It was shut fast.

He beat his hands against the oak. “I’m here. Here I am!” he cried. But they could not hear him.

Panicking now, he pummeled the door with his small fists. “Here I am! Open the door! Please open the door!”

A soldier, sword in hand, suddenly dragged the door open. Dexios, his face a mask of tears, stood framed in sunlight as everyone in the
megaron
stared at him.

Falling to his knees in front of Halysia, queen of Dardania, he said, “Here I am, Mama. Don’t be angry.”

∗ ∗ ∗

The black bullock, bright blood gouting from its throat, fell to the courtyard floor. Its windpipe severed, it made no sound apart from a dying wheeze. Its legs thrashed weakly, then it was still. The priest of Apollo, a young man naked save for a loincloth, handed the ritual knife to his assistant and started to recite the words of worship to the Lord of the Silver Bow.

Halysia closed her mind to the sight and stench of blood and followed the familiar words for mere moments before her thoughts turned once more to her duties.

She noticed the boy was still beside her, and a spasm of irritation ran through her. Why was he here? Why had Lila not taken him back to his room? He was looking up at her from time to time, fair hair flopping back from his face. She always avoided looking at his face, his dark eyes.

She wished Helikaon were there. She had been queen in Dardania for fifteen years, first as a frightened child, then a young mother, then a widow, her heart stricken nearly to death by the murder of her son. Each day she calmly discussed with her counselors the peril that faced them from the north and from the sea. They listened to her plans and suggestions and carried out her orders. But even old Pausanius had no idea of the freezing fear that gripped her heart each time she imagined a second Mykene raid. She saw once again the blood-covered warriors entering her bedchamber, killing her lover Garus, dragging her screaming to the cliff top, her son Dio beside her, and the horror that followed. She remembered the dark-eyed brute, a Hittite she was told, who had raped her. She remembered the agonized cries of her child as he died.

She could not look at the small boy beside her, could not hold his hand, could not embrace him. She wished he had never been born. She wished he would go away. When he was older, she would send him to Troy on some pretext, to be brought up with the royal children there.

She glanced down and saw him looking up at her, an expression on his face she could not interpret. Was he frightened of her? Did he even know who she was? She realized she understood this boy’s thoughts less well than she understood those of the horses she loved. The dark eyes bored into her, full of some unexpressed need, and she turned angrily from their gaze. She signaled to Lila, and the old nursemaid hurried to take the child away.

The ritual ran slowly to its conclusion, and as the priests set about dismembering the bullock, Halysia walked back into the palace, flanked by her senior officers: old Pausanius; his grandnephew, the red-haired Menon; the annoying Trojan Idaios; and his two young aides.

She had only one more duty today: the daily briefing on the course of the war. In an anteroom off the
megaron
she sank to a couch while the five officers stood around her. The doors were closed against the ears of servants.

“Well, Pausanius, what have you to report today?”

The old general cleared his throat. He was past eighty now and had served the rulers of Dardania for more than sixty years. These days there was always a look of concern on his weather-beaten face.

“No news from Thraki, lady. No messengers have arrived for five days.”

She nodded. A Dardanian infantry force had traveled to Thraki with the Trojan Horse. No news was to be expected this soon, yet every day Halysia feared she would hear they had been wiped out and Mykene and Thrakian rebels were galloping for the straits. But her voice was calm when she asked, “And the horse messengers? My plans have been completed?”

Pausanius hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat again. “Yes, lady. It will be as you order. Within a few days our plans will be complete.”

In Helikaon’s absence, Halysia had taken it upon herself to set up a team of king’s riders throughout Dardania, modeled on those of the Hittites, with armed staging posts a day’s ride apart. Her plan was to have riders carrying messages constantly to and from Troy, sharing intelligence with Priam on the progress of the war. Teams of horsemen would also carry messages to Dardanos’ eastern allies in Phrygia and Zeleia.

Pausanius had been doubtful at first, unhappy at taking skilled horsemen from the army and from the defense of the city.

“Communication is everything,” she had told him. “If the Mykene come, we must have as much warning as possible. The king’s riders have orders to fall back to the city in advance of any invasion. They will give us the early warning we need.”

The old man had followed her orders, and horsemen had been chosen from among the Dardanian forces. They were mostly very young, hardly more than boys, but they had been brought up among horses, as she had been herself, so that riding came more naturally to them than walking. She had spoken to each one individually, and their pride at their special task shone from them.

“I have one concern, lady,” said Idaios.

Halysia’s heart sank, though she maintained a look of cool interest. “And what is that, Idaios?”

The officer stood with his fellow Trojans to one side of the anteroom. The three men had been sent by Priam, in Helikaon’s absence, to advise and support the defense of Dardanos. Their only achievement so far, as Halysia saw it, was to hinder and question every decision she made. The speaker, Idaios—a short, stocky man who wore a drooping blond mustache to hide his broken front teeth—was believed to be an illegitimate son of Priam.

“Forgive me, lady,” he said, “but you know my opinion on these messengers. King Priam”—he paused to give everyone time to consider his important connections—“agrees with me that information is priceless and should be closely guarded, not spread around the countryside in the mouths of young men we have no reason to trust.”

Halysia said tiredly, “Yes, we know your opinion, Idaios. We have been through this before. These young men have been chosen not only because they are good riders but because they are intelligent and sharp-witted. They are all Dardanians and loyal to their king. They cannot carry writing because most of the people they carry messages to cannot read script. We trust them to deliver messages accurately and only to the people they are intended for.”

Pausanius put in irritably, “One of my grandsons was chosen as a king’s rider. Are you suggesting he is a traitor?”

Idaios bowed to the old general. “No one questions the loyalty of young Pammon, General. I am merely pointing out that the possibility for treachery exists where information is too freely bandied about.”

Halysia held up her hands. “This subject is closed for discussion. Let us talk of the five settlements.”

The five settlements were large villages lying along the coast north of Dardanos, crucially positioned to give early warning of an invasion across the straits. They were inhabited by Phrygians and Mysians and some Thrakians who had chosen to live on the warm coastal lands rather than in the harsher hinterlands. Many families had lived there for generations. Halysia had taken the controversial step of arming the settlements, believing the people would reward her trust with their loyalty. She knew Idaios strongly disagreed with the plan and suspected he had sent back to Troy to tell Priam of his feelings.

Menon, a handsome young general who was increasingly taking the burden from Pausanius’ shoulders, said the chiefs of the five settlements had been sent both light armor and arms: bows, spears, swords, and shields. The local chiefs had been given total freedom regarding the distribution of the weapons to their people.

“If the Mykene come, they will be useless,” Pausanius said grumpily. “A few hundred armed villagers against thousands of fighting men.”

Menon smiled. “I know this, Uncle, but if you were threatened by a thousand armed men, would you rather face them with a sword in your hand or naked and defenseless?”

The old man nodded in reluctant agreement. Halysia heard Idaios breathe in, about to speak, and held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it, Idaios. I have no doubt that you and your comrades consider this a flawed plan, that these people should not be armed for fear they will use their arms against us or against each other. That might well be true in times of peace, when a Phrygian might kill a Thrakian over the ownership of a cow. But with the threat across the Hellespont constantly in their minds, they will be grateful to be armed and will repay us with their loyalty.”