03 - Fall of Kings Read online

  “I do not believe that,” he said. “I have heard seers make predictions. I have listened to oracles. Sometimes what they predict comes to pass, but often I could have predicted the same outcome, and I am not a seer. The gods—if they exist—are capricious and willful, but they are always fascinating. You think they would devise a world entirely lacking in surprise for them, where everything was preordained?”

  Andromache shook her head. “Why do men always leap from one extreme to the other? Just because one event is predestined does not mean that an entire life is mapped out heartbeat by heartbeat. I have seen the truth of prophecy, Helikaon. On Thera, on the beach at Blue Owl Bay, and in Troy with Kassandra.”

  Helikaon shrugged. “Then you had better dress yourself for the feast,” he said, “lest you be late and miss the entrance of the red demon.”

  “Dress myself?” she countered, nonplussed.

  “The gown you are wearing is… functional but hardly fitting for a royal feast.”

  “How foolish of me!” she snapped. “I must have gone to the wrong chest. I opened mine, the one that holds clothes for a sea journey. I shall return immediately to the Xanthos and borrow some royal robes from the crew.”

  Helikaon flushed, then smiled. “I am an idiot,” he said gently. “Please forgive me. Did you bring no jewelry, either?”

  She glared at him. “No.”

  He stepped forward, opening the leather pouch at his side. From it he took a heavy pendant of gold and amber, which he passed to her. Upon it was a beautifully carved image of Artemis holding her bow. It was warm in her hands. Idly she stroked her fingers across the amber surface, feeling the grooves of the carving.

  Looking into his eyes, she asked, “Why were you carrying it?”

  “It caught my eye in a market,” he said with a shrug that was too casual. She knew then that he had bought it with her in mind. “It would honor me if you would wear it tonight,” he said.

  “Then I shall,” she told him, lifting it to her neck. Stepping behind her, he fastened it. “Your hands are remarkably steady for a man who is going to fight tonight,” she said. “Are you so unconcerned?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “You think me arrogant?”

  “Of course you are arrogant, Helikaon. You have much to be arrogant about. However, you do realize that everyone can be beaten? No one is invincible.”

  Helikaon grinned. “And that is the thought you would like me to carry into battle, that I might be maimed? Or killed?”

  “No!” Andromache exclaimed. “Not at all. I didn’t want you to go into the fight overconfident. That is all.”

  “Little danger of that now,” he said. “Come, we should go. It is ill mannered to keep either kings or killers waiting.”

  Gershom belted his heavy woolen cloak against the strong breeze from the north and thought fleetingly of fine food and a warm bed. Ten nights of cold fitful sleep on winter beaches had left him nostalgic for the luxurious palaces of Egypte, the splendor of white-walled Memphis, the awesome majesty of Luxor. Places of soft sheets and softer women but, more than anything else, places of warmth.

  He sighed. As Prince Ahmose, those palaces had been his, but as Gershom the outlaw, his home was wherever his blanket lay. Now is not the time to meditate on all that is lost, he told himself. There were Mykene on the island, and the Xanthos needed to be guarded against attack. Helikaon had sent scouts up into the cliffs to the south and across the shingle headland to the east.

  To the west thin woodland grew almost down to the beach. More scouts lay hidden in the perimeter of the wood, overlooking the cliff path to the king’s citadel.

  Crewmen free of guard duty settled by the cookfires. All those men remained alert, keeping their weapons close by. Yet despite the awareness of peril there was laughter and some singing in the gathering darkness, for these were men used to war and its dangers.

  Gershom glanced at the star-filled sky and then sought out Oniacus. “We will rotate the guards when the moon reaches its height,” he told the crewman. “No one will get a full night’s sleep tonight. See that the wine is given out sparingly.”

  “Much as I love the Xanthos, I would sooner be guarding Helikaon,” the younger man replied. “What if there is treachery there tonight?”

  Gershom had similar thoughts but did not voice them. Instead he said, “Helikaon knows this king and trusts him. You think he would take the wife of Hektor and the daughter of Priam into danger?”

  Oniacus’ face darkened. “Kassandra did not go with them,” he said, looking around in sudden alarm. “She said she would be with you.”

  Gershom cursed. The wretched girl was nothing but trouble. He and Oniacus strode among the crew, asking if any had seen the girl. It was surprising how few had noticed her. A dark-haired princess in the midst of young strong men ought to have drawn their eyes. But it seemed she walked among them like a wraith. One of the cooks, however, recalled seeing her beside a narrow cliff path, which he pointed out. Then Gershom remembered the prayer fire she had spoken of.

  “Stay alert, Oniacus,” he said. “I will find her.” Snatching his sword, he strode into the night.

  As he climbed the path, he could see the king’s citadel awash with light far to his right. To the left the land was in darkness, but bright moonlight showed a narrow trail running up toward a rocky outcrop shrouded in trees. The trail was narrow, perhaps made by animals, but he followed it confidently. The sounds of night—the shrill creak of tree beetles and the croaking of frogs—pressed in on him as he left the sea behind. Small creatures rustled in the undergrowth, and close by he heard the bleating of unseen goats. He started to sweat under his wool cloak and paused for a moment. A faint smell of burning herbs drifted past his nostrils, and he turned his head slowly, seeking its source. His eye caught the faintest glow of firelight reflected on rock above him.

  Climbing carefully in the moonlight, he found a deep cave in the rock that faced south and protected from the northerly winds. A fire had been set against the far wall, and smoke swirled up to the low ceiling.

  “Kassandra?” he called, but there was no reply. Ducking his head, he moved deeper into the cave. The smell from the fire was acrid and faintly perfumed. The smoke stung his eyes, and he crouched down low to the rocky ground, seeking fresher air. “Kassandra!” he called again. His voice sounded strange in his ears. “Ka-ssan-dra!” he said, then chuckled at the weirdness of the sound. He slumped down, resting his head on his arm, and stared into the fire.

  It was a poor effort, scarcely more than a small dry bush blazing, except that the leaves did not seem to be burning. Fires danced around them, bright as captured sunlight, leaving the leaves unmarked. Small though the fire was, it gave off a great deal of heat. Gershom clumsily undid the bronze cloak brooch, then let slip the garment. The effort drained him, causing him to breathe heavily, drawing in more of the sickly-sweet air of the cave. He found himself growing drowsy, yet his eyes remained open, staring into the fire. The sounds of the night drifted away.

  The blaze seemed to be drawing him in, and his mind swirled with bright colors. And then the fire was gone, and he was dreaming.

  He found himself floating in the moonlight above the palace garden in Thebes and laughed. How curious, he thought. I am dreaming, and I know I am dreaming. Below him he saw a female servant moving furtively, a newborn babe in her arms. It was wrapped in a blanket embroidered with gold. The woman was crying as she ran through the night-dark garden and out into the street beyond. Gershom recognized her, though she was far younger than he remembered. The last time he had seen Merysit, she had been frail and silver-haired, crippled with arthritis. A sweet-natured woman, she had been his nursemaid for seven years. Intrigued, he watched as the weeping woman ran through the gardens and out into a shadowed street. Then she made her way down to a broad riverbank, where she crouched down in the bullrushes. She hugged the babe to her, but its head flopped down, the eyes open and unstaring. In the bright moonlight Gershom saw that the in
fant was dead. A bearded old man dressed in the ragged clothes of a brickmaker moved out of the shadows Then another woman appeared, dressed in the flowing robes of the desert people. She, too, had a babe, but this one was alive. Merysit tenderly wrapped the living child in the golden blanket and ran back to the palace.

  Gershom followed her up to the royal apartments, where his mother was sleeping. There was blood on the sheets. The queen opened her eyes. Merysit sat on the bed and passed the babe to her. It had begun to cry.

  “Hush, little Ahmose, you are safe now,” the queen whispered.

  It is just a dream, Gershom thought, fear flowing through him. Just a dream.

  The image shifted, and he was soaring like a hawk above a burning desert. A multitude was crossing the sands: hard-faced men with worried eyes, women dressed in bright robes, small children darting among flocks of sheep and goats. And he saw himself, his beard streaked with silver, a gnarled staff in his hands. A young boy ran up to him, crying out a name.

  Gershom blinked, and the vision faded, becoming once again a fire within a cave. Desperate to be away from the fire, he struggled to rise but then slumped down. The blazing twigs shifted and turned red. He saw shining rivers of blood flowing through a land of darkness and despair. He saw the face of his brother Rameses, gray with grief.

  Then the fire grew again, filling his vision. Flames blazed high into the sky, and he heard the roar of a thousand thunders. Darkness blotted out the sun. Gershom watched in horror as the sea rose up to meet roiling black clouds. The fury of the vision caused him to cry out and cover his face with his hands. Yet still he saw…

  Finally the fire burned out, and cool fresh air blew into the cave. Tears streaming from his eyes, he crawled out into the night and collapsed on the wet earth of the entrance. Kassandra was sitting there, slim and straight, a garland of olive leaves around her head.

  “And now you begin to see,” she said softly. It was not a question.

  Gershom rolled to his back and stared up at the stars. His head began to clear. “You put opiates in the flames.”

  “Yes. To help open your eyes.” His head was aching now, and he sat up and groaned. “Drink this,” she said, passing him a water skin. “It will clear your head.”

  Pulling the stopper free, he lifted the skin and drank greedily. His mouth felt as dry as the desert he had observed. “What was it I saw?” he asked her.

  She shrugged. “They are your visions. I do not know what you saw.”

  “At the last I saw a mountain explode and destroy the sun.”

  “Ah,” she said, “then I am wrong, for I do know that vision. It will not destroy the sun, merely block out its light. It is a true vision, Gershom.”

  Gershom drank more water. “My head is still full of mist,” he said. “Upon the fire mountain there was a great temple in the shape of a horse.”

  “Yes, it is the temple on Thera,” she answered.

  Gershom leaned forward. “Then you must not go there. Nothing living could survive what I saw.”

  “I know,” she said, pulling the crown of leaves from her head and shaking twigs from her long dark hair. “I will die on Thera. I have known this since I was old enough to know anything.”

  He looked at her then, and his heart was full of grief. She looked so fragile and alone, her eyes haunted, her expression sad. Gershom reached out to draw her into a hug, but she moved back from him. “I am not frightened by death, Gershom. And all my fears will end on the Beautiful Isle.”

  “It did not look beautiful to me,” he said.

  “It has had many shapes and many names through the Ages of Man. It will have more yet, all of them beautiful.” She sighed. “But this night is not about my life and death. It is about you, Man of Stone. Your days upon the sea are almost done. You made a vow, and soon you will be required to honor it.”

  As she spoke, Gershom’s thoughts flew back to the time Helikaon had been close to death. With the surgeons and healers of Troy powerless to save him Gershom had sought out a mysterious holy man, a desert dweller known as the Prophet. Even now he recalled with absolute clarity the first meeting and the words spoken there. The white-bearded Prophet had agreed to heal Helikaon, but for a price, and not one to be paid with gold or silver.

  “I will one day call for you,” he told Gershom that night, “and you will come to me wherever I am. You will then do as I bid for one year.”

  “I will become your slave?”

  The Prophet’s answer was softly spoken, and Gershom remembered the subtle note of contempt in it. “Is the price too high, Prince Ahmose?”

  Gershom wanted to refuse. Pride demanded it. He wanted to shout that yes, the price was too high. He was a prince of Egypte and no man’s slave. Yet he did not speak. He sat quietly, scarcely able to breathe through his tension. Helikaon was his friend and had saved his life. No matter the cost, he had to repay that debt.

  “I agree,” he said at last.

  Now, in the moonlight, he looked at Kassandra. “He will call for me soon?”

  “Yes. You will not see Troy again, Gershom.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE CRIMSON DEMON

  Kleitos the Mykene ambassador sat quietly nursing a cup of wine. The atmosphere in Alkaios’ megaron was subdued, the fifty or more guests eating and drinking in near silence. There was tension in the room, and Kleitos watched as people furtively glanced at Persion and Helikaon, who were sitting at opposite ends of the king’s table.

  For Kleitos this night was an answer to a prayer, a gift from the gods to a man who obediently served them. His life had been singularly blessed. Above all he had been born into a land and a people loved by the gods. The Mykene were the greatest race of the Great Green, more noble, more heroic than any other. Agamemnon King epitomized that greatness. He had seen before all others the danger Troy represented to all the nations. He had recognized in Priam a despot determined to subdue all free peoples to his will. While others had been bribed or seduced by the wily Trojan king, Agamemnon had not been fooled. Because of his wisdom the vileness of Troy would be cut away, its walls torn down, its people enslaved.

  This night, as a foreshadowing of that great day, one of the worst enemies of the Mykene, a man of true evil, was to be struck down by the righteous strength of a Mykene warrior. It would be a night of justice, a night for the gods to rejoice.

  The heavily pregnant woman on his left leaned across him, trying to reach a platter of fruit. Her arm brushed his, spilling a little of his wine.

  “My apologies, Lord Kleitos,” she said. Kleitos wanted to slap her. Instead he smiled, reached for the platter, and placed it before her.

  “None are needed, Arianna Queen,” he told her, instantly turning his head away in the hope the fat sow would understand that he had no wish to converse with her. But the woman, like most of her kind, was uncomprehending and could not take a simple hint. She insisted on talking to him, continuing the conversation they had started earlier.

  “But I do not understand, Ambassador,” she said. “You say Priam was planning to plunge the world into war.”

  “Yes. To make himself master of the world.”

  “Why?”

  He stared at her. “Why? Because… he is evil and a tyrant.”

  “I meant, what would he gain from sending armies to attack his neighbors? He is already the richest king. Armies are costly. Each area, once subdued, would need to be patrolled, and forts built. Endless armies roaming the lands would drain even Troy’s great wealth.”

  “What would he gain?” he repeated, trying to give himself time to think. “He would be seen as a conqueror and a great warrior king. He would have fame and glory.”

  “And this would be important to him?”

  “Of course it would be important. All true men desire fame and glory.”

  “Ah,” she said. “I am confused again now. Is he a true man, then, or an evil tyrant? Or somehow both?”

  “He is evil, as I have said.”

 
; “So the evil also desire fame and glory. How, then, do we tell them apart?”

  “It is not always easy,” he replied, “especially for women. One must rely on the wisdom of great kings like Agamemnon.”

  “I have heard of his greatness,” said the queen. “My husband talks of his conquests, of the numbers of cities he has overcome, the slaves and the plunder he has gathered. From Sparta in the south all the way north to Thraki. I am not good with numbers. Is it fourteen kings and princes he has slain or sixteen?”

  “I have not kept count,” Kleitos told her. “It is true, though, that Agamemnon King is a warrior without peer.”

  “A man of fame and glory,” she said.

  “Indeed so.”

  She leaned in then. “Ah, yes, I think I have a grasp of it now. Priam fooled us all, disguising his plans for domination with forty years of peace. Such cunning approaches genius, don’t you think?”

  Arianna smiled sweetly, then turned away to speak to other guests. Kleitos stared malevolently at her. One day, he promised himself, she will pay for such disrespect. Just as her husband would suffer for his sly, mocking tone.

  He glanced along the table at Helikaon. The villain seemed relaxed. He was smiling and chatting with some merchant. Kleitos noticed, though, that he hardly touched his wine cup. Alkaios was engaged in conversation with the wife of Hektor. Kleitos was impressed with her. She had not arrived at the feast, as had other women, bedecked in jewelry but wearing a simple green gown and a single pendant. Such behavior entirely befitted a woman traveling without her husband. Torchlight shone on her red-gold hair, and Kleitos found himself staring at the curve of her neck, his gaze flowing down to her breasts. Hektor was a lucky man to have found such a wife. Tall, graceful, demure in her dress and her manner, she was a beauty. Kleitos wondered if Agamemnon King would grant him Andromache as a prize when the city fell. Probably not, he decided ruefully. Her son would have to be executed, and women rarely forgave such necessities. No, he realized, she would have to be killed, too.