03 - Fall of Kings Read online

  “Yes,” Helikaon replied. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Hatch cover slammed on his finger. Nothing serious. Probably lose the nail.”

  Gershom, who had joined them, stared over the side. “I can see nothing wrong with oar six,” he commented.

  “Look harder,” Helikaon told him.

  The Egypteian narrowed his eyes. “I cannot see what you see,” he admitted at last.

  “The rhythm is fine, but the oar is not biting as deeply as it should. There is a slight imbalance in our forward motion. If you close your eyes, you will feel it.”

  Helikaon saw Gershom staring at him disbelievingly. “It is not a jest, my friend.”

  Gershom swung to Oniacus. “You could feel this… this imbalance from one oar in eighty? Speak truly now!”

  Oniacus nodded. “The pain in his hand is causing him to jerk slightly as he dips his oar. I told him to rest it today, but he is a proud man.”

  Several black-headed gulls appeared overhead, swooping and diving. “Did you feel that?” Gershom said suddenly.

  “What?” Oniacus asked.

  “One of the gulls shit on the deck. Wait while I adjust my stance to take in the new weight distribution.”

  Oniacus laughed. “We are not mocking you, Gershom. If you had spent as many years as we have aboard ship, you, too, would feel every small change in the performance of the Xanthos. As our supplies dwindle and we ride higher in the water, or if the sail is wet, or the oarsmen weary.”

  Gershom seemed unconvinced, but he shrugged. “I will take you at your word. So where are we heading tonight?”

  “Perhaps Naxos, perhaps Minoa. I have not yet decided,” Helikaon said.

  “A good trading settlement on Kronos Beach,” Oniacus put in.

  “And a Kretan garrison,” Helikaon replied.

  “True, but local militia. I’ll wager they wouldn’t object to a little profit. And I am tired of dried meat and thin broth. You will recall there is a fine baker there.”

  “Oniacus has convinced me,” Gershom said. “Where is Kronos Beach?”

  “On the island of Naxos,” Helikaon told him.

  “The largest island of the Great Circle,” Oniacus added. “A place of great beauty. It is where I met my wife.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. Then Helikaon spoke. “Oniacus is right,” he told Gershom. “It is a beautiful island, but Minoa may be the safer alternative. The king there has not yet declared himself in the war. He is a canny man and will wait until he is sure which side will be victorious. More important, he has only five war galleys and will be in no hurry to attack the Xanthos.”

  Moving away from Gershom, Helikaon signaled the men standing by the mast to raise the yard and unfurl the sail. Once the black horse fluttered into view, Oniacus called out the order to ship oars.

  The rain began again, lightly spattering the deck. Helikaon stared down toward the prow. The small tent had been repaired, and he could see Andromache and Kassandra standing by the rail.

  “Has Andromache done something to offend you?” Gershom asked.

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  “You have hardly spoken to her on the voyage.”

  It was true, but he did not wish to speak of it to Gershom. Instead he strolled down the central aisle toward the two women. As he came closer, he saw they were watching a dolphin. Andromache looked up as he approached, and he felt the power of her green eyes. But it was Kassandra who spoke.

  “Cavala is still with us,” she said, pointing at the dolphin.

  “Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” he asked her.

  “No. Gershom caught me. He is very strong.” She shivered. “I wish we had a fire. It is very cold.”

  Helikaon saw that her lips were blue. Shrugging off his heavy cloak, he draped it over her shoulders. She drew it tightly around her.

  “Sit in the tent for a while, away from the wind,” he advised.

  She smiled up at him. “Are you worried about me? Or do you want to speak privately to Andromache?”

  “I am worried about you, little cousin.”

  “Then I will,” she said. “For you.”

  Ducking her head, she disappeared into the small tent. Helikaon was suddenly nervous. He met Andromache’s gaze. “I have rarely felt this awkward,” he said.

  “Is this why you have avoided me since the voyage began?” Her gaze was cool, and there was suppressed anger in her voice.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I do not know how to…” His voice tailed away. What could he say? That all his life he had dreamed of finding love and that she was the embodiment of that dream? That every day since he had met her she had been in his heart? That upon falling asleep at night her face shimmered in his mind, and upon waking his first thoughts were of her?

  He sighed. “I cannot say what is in my heart,” he said at last. “Not to the wife of a dear friend and the mother of his son.”

  “Yes,” she said, “the son of the man I love—and love with all my heart.”

  The words, spoken with such intensity and passion, tore into him. He stepped back from her. “I am glad for you,” he managed to say. He saw there were tears in her eyes.

  Swinging away from her, he returned to the rear deck.

  Gershom looked at him closely. “Are you all right? You are ashen.”

  Helikaon ignored him and turned to Oniacus. “Southwest to Minoa,” he ordered.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE TRUTH OF PROPHECY

  Alkaios the king was not an ambitious man. The island of Minoa, with its rich fertile soil, supplied enough wealth to keep him and his three wives happy. Regular income from trading cattle and grain enabled him to maintain a small fighting force: five war galleys to patrol the coast and five hundred soldiers to defend the land. Neither the galleys nor the small army was strong enough to make the kings of neighboring islands fear invasion or so weak that they encouraged the same kings to consider attacking Minoa.

  At twenty-eight years of age Alkaios was content with his life.

  Success, as the king had discovered many years before, lay in harmony and balance. That path had not been easy for Alkaios. As a child he had been passionate and outspoken, much to the chagrin of his father, who had impressed on him the need to control his emotions. All decisions, his father had maintained, had to be based on rational thought and careful consideration. His father continually had mocked him for his inability to think clearly. At the age of twenty Alkaios finally had realized that his father was right. The understanding that followed freed him, and he went to his father, thanked him, plunged a dagger into his heart, and became king.

  After that no one mocked him, and harmony and balance abounded. On the rare occasions when someone put that harmony under threat, he found the dagger to be a source of instant relief.

  Not today, though, Alkaios thought irritably. Today there was little balance to be found.

  The previous day he had been preparing to move to his summer palace on the western coast, away from the harsh northern winds of winter. Two of his wives were pregnant, the third delightfully barren. The trading season had been, despite the war, more profitable than last summer. The gods had, it seemed, smiled upon Alkaios.

  Then the Mykene galley had returned, and now, his journey to the southwest delayed, he was forced to play the genial host with two of Agamemnon’s creatures, one a snake and one a lion. Both were dangerous.

  The pale-eyed Mykene ambassador Kleitos was pointing out how greatly Agamemnon King would appreciate it if next summer’s Minoan grain could be used to feed the armies of the west once the invasion of Troy began.

  The voice of Kleitos droned on. Alkaios was barely listening. He had heard it before. Minoan grain was shipped all over the Great Green, and the profits were high. Supplying Agamemnon would be, as Kleitos so disingenuously put it, an “act of faith.” The profits for Alkaios, he maintained, would be handsome, and paid from the sacked treasury of Troy. Alkaios had supp
ressed a smile at that. As his father once had said, “You don’t pull a lion’s teeth until you see the flies on its tongue.” At the thought of lions Alkaios flicked a glance at the second Mykene, the warrior Persion.

  Powerfully built, with a black forked beard, Persion stood silently by, one hand on his sword. Alkaios knew his type. The arrogance in his dark eyes spoke of victories. This was a warrior, a killer, and probably at times an assassin. Persion stood unblinking and statue-still, his presence a mute warning: Those who went against Agamemnon’s wishes did not survive very long.

  Alkaios leaned back in his chair and called for more wine. A servant crossed the floor of the megaron and filled his cup. A cold breeze was blowing through the old building, and Alkaios strolled to a burning brazier set near the north wall. Kleitos followed him.

  “This war will be won in the summer,” he said. “The greatest fleet ever seen will bring seventy thousand men to the walls of Troy. The city cannot withstand our might.”

  “Interesting,” Alkaios mused. “Do I not recall a similar comment from you last year?”

  “There have been unexpected setbacks,” Kleitos answered, his lips thinning. “There will be no more, I can assure you.”

  Alkaios smiled inwardly. “Forgive me,” he said mildly. “You are assuring me you are expecting no further unexpected setbacks? If you had expected them in the first place, they would not have been unexpected. That is the very nature of surprise, Kleitos. That it is always unexpected. So, essentially, you are maintaining that Prince Hektor and his Trojan Horse, and wily Priam, and deadly Aeneas have no capacity left to surprise you. Bold assertions, if I may say so.”

  Kleitos blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “I am a soldier. Word games do not interest me. What I am saying, Alkaios King, is that Troy is doomed.”

  “I expect you are correct,” the king responded amicably. “However, only last year I was speaking to King Peleus of Thessaly. He told me how much he was looking forward to destroying the Trojan Horse and forcing the braggart Hektor to kiss the dirt at his feet. I heard only yesterday that they met at Carpea, but I do not recall hearing of any dirt kissing.”

  He could see that Kleitos was growing angry and knew it would not be long before soft words gave way to hard threats. It annoyed him that he would have to find a way to placate the creature. To irritate Agamemnon’s ambassador was enjoyable but not wise.

  The conversation was interrupted by a pounding on the wide door of the megaron. A servant swiftly pulled it open just long enough to allow a stocky soldier to enter. Alkaois saw that it was his captain of cavalry, Malkon. A strong breeze blew through the building. Cinders danced up from the brazier, causing Kleitos to step back. Malkon advanced toward the king. He was a short, wide-shouldered man wearing a breastplate of bronze. Thumping his fist against the armor, he bowed his head to Alkaios.

  “What is it, Malkon?”

  “A large… galley, lord, has beached at Thetis Rock.” Alkaios noted the hesitation before the word “galley” and looked closely at his captain. “They are traveling to Thera,” the soldier went on, “bringing a new priestess to serve the Minotaur. They request permission to spend the night on the beach and purchase supplies.”

  “I see,” the king replied, his mind racing. Malkon had full power to grant such permission and would not have interrupted him if that had been the only concern. He was a sharp, intelligent man, and therefore the interruption meant the new arrival posed some threat or a complication beyond the capacity of a captain to resolve. A king of a neighboring island, perhaps? He dismissed the thought at once. Malkon would have granted permission instantly. No, it had to be connected with the Mykene being there.

  That meant it was a Trojan vessel or some ally of Priam’s. But why the emphasis on it being a large galley?

  Realization struck home like a lance, though the king’s expression did not change. He looked into Malkon’s blue eyes. “A ship bound for Thera,” he said slowly. “So late in the year. Ah, well, the gods demand we must offer them our hospitality. Not so, Kleitos?” he asked suddenly, looking at the Mykene.

  “We must always offer respect to the lords of the earth,” Kleitos answered. “Otherwise they will withdraw from us their favor or curse our endeavors.”

  “Quite so, and admirably put.” Swinging back to the soldier, he said, “Go and tell the newcomers they are welcome to stay the night.”

  Malkon nodded and strode back toward the door. As he reached it, Alkaios called out to him. “Are there any among them known to us?”

  Malkon cleared his throat. “Aeneas of Dardania, my lord. He is taking a daughter of Priam to be a priestess.”

  “The Burner is here!” Kleitos roared. “This is insufferable! He must be held by your forces. Agamemnon King will reward you handsomely.”

  “I cannot hold him, Kleitos,” Alkaios said. “The ship is bound for the temple at Thera, and as you said yourself only moments ago, we must give respect to the gods.” Turning back to Malkon, he called out, “Invite King Aeneas and his passengers to the palace this evening.”

  The soldier walked swiftly from the megaron. Alkaios turned to Kleitos. “Do not be so glum, my friend,” he said, laying his arm over the Mykene’s shoulder. “That man of yours, Persion, looks like a fighter.”

  “He is. What of it?”

  “Did you not say when introducing him that he was kin to a great Mykene hero?”

  “Yes. His uncle was Alektruon, a hero foully murdered by the man you are inviting to your table.”

  “As a king and a man who worships the gods, I cannot, for profit or malice, interfere with those engaged in serving them. However, Kleitos, the gods value honor and bravery above all other virtues. Not so?”

  “Of course. All men know this.”

  “Persion has suffered a great loss. Alektruon the hero was of his blood, and blood cries out for vengeance. The gods would surely understand—even applaud—were he to honor his uncle by challenging to single combat the man who killed him.”

  The light of understanding shone in the man’s pale eyes. “By Ares, yes! My apologies, Alkaios King. I misjudged you. It is a fine plan.”

  The moon was bright above the cliffs, its silver light reflecting from the timbers of the Xanthos, giving the ship a spectral glow. Fires had been set on the beach, but the men of the crew were not relaxing around them. Many wore light leather breastplates and short swords. Others had strung their bows. Only the cooks went unarmed as they prepared the night’s meal.

  Helikaon called the first sentries to him, and the eight men gathered close. Helikaon’s voice was low, but there was an underlying urgency that was not lost on them.

  “You must consider this a hostile harbor,” he warned them. “There are two Mykene vessels in the next bay, and by now they will know we are here. Find yourselves positions high on the cliffs and stay alert.”

  Nearby, dressed in an ankle-length gown of unembroidered green wool, Andromache sat by a fire, watching Helikaon talking to the men. What a contradiction you are, she thought. One moment volatile and unpredictable, the next as cool and rational as a gray-bearded veteran. She stared at his profile in the moonlight. As if he felt her gaze, he turned suddenly and looked at her, his sapphire eyes emotionless and cold.

  Andromache turned away. Rising from beside the fire, she brushed sand from her gown and walked to the shoreline She was angry with herself. When Helikaon had come to the prow in the golden glow of the sunset, she had wanted to tell him the truth, that she loved him as she would never—could never—love another. Instead, with one careless phrase, she had left him believing that Hektor was the man she adored. There was nothing she could do now to draw back those words, nor could she explain them.

  Oniacus and Gershom came walking across the sand. Both men waved a greeting to Andromache and then joined Helikaon. The sentries loped off to their positions on the cliffs, and Andromache heard Gershom voice his concerns about the coming feast.

  “Why risk this?” he asked. “Yo
u know there could be Mykene there.”

  “You think I should find a cave and hide in it?”

  “That is not what I meant. You are in a strange mood tonight, Golden One. You carefully pick the best sentries. You set up defensive positions and prepare us for an attack. Then you blithely decide to wander out where your enemies can strike you down.”

  “There is no ambush planned, Gershom,” Helikaon told him. “They have a champion who means to challenge me after the feast.”

  “Is this a jest?”

  “Not at all. Alkaios had a servant come and warn me.”

  “You know this champion?”

  Helikaon shook his head. “His name is Persion. He is kin to a man I killed some years back. Alkaios says he has the look of a fighter.”

  Gershom swore softly. “A pox on it! A fighter? You’ve no choice, then.” He glared at Helikaon. “You should have listened to Oniacus and traveled to the island that has the talented baker.”

  Helikaon shrugged. “There would have been Mykene there, too, my friend.”

  “Well… kill him quickly and take no chances.”

  Helikaon gave a tight smile. “That is my plan.”

  They talked for a while, but Andromache moved away from them, her stomach tight with fear. Helikaon was going to fight a duel this night. Her mouth was dry. If he died, a part of her would die with him. Do not even think it, she warned herself. He is Helikaon, the Golden One. He stood with Argurios on the stairs and fought the best the Mykene could send against him. He defeated them all.

  She heard his footsteps on the gritty sand but did not look at him, instead focusing her gaze on the moonlit waves.

  “It is best if Kassandra does not attend the feast,” she heard him say to her.

  “She told me earlier that she would not go,” Andromache told him. “She is frightened. She says there will be a red demon there. She does not want to see it.”

  “A red demon? By the gods, her condition worsens every season,” he said, sadness in his voice.

  Now Andromache looked at him, her green eyes radiating her anger. “Her condition? You all think her insane. She is not. She truly sees, Helikaon. And yes, the power of her visions comes close to driving her mad. She is little more than a child, and yet she has already witnessed the day of her death.”