Lord of the Silver Bow (27 page)

Just as he reached the king a black-feathered shaft hammered through his back, burying itself deep and cleaving his heart. The prisoner stood for a moment, then toppled sideways, the spear clattering to the ground.

Andromache lowered the Phrygian bow and stared at the man she had killed.

Agathon moved alongside her. “A very fine shot. You saved the king.”

Priam stepped over the body. “And now,” he roared, “all can see why this woman was chosen as the bride for my Hektor! Let your voices sound for Andromache!” Obediently, a cheer went up from the crowd. Then the king signaled to the soldiers at the far end of the gardens, and the last prisoner was led away.

The following month Andromache learned that Priam had ordered a thousand Phrygian bows for his archers.

II

It was late in the afternoon before Andromache could slip away from the garden. Her status suddenly enhanced by the events of the day, she had been surrounded by well-wishers and sycophants. When at last she feigned tiredness she found Laodike waiting in her apartments.

Her friend ran to her, hugging her close. “You were wonderful, Andromache!” she said. “I am so proud of you. Your name is on everyone’s lips.”

Andromache kissed her on the cheek, then slipped out of her embrace. “Who was the man I killed?”

“A captain of the Eagles. Everyone thought him to be a hero. What makes a man become a traitor, do you think?”

“I do not know. But he was brave. He could have merely picked up the spear and taken banishment. Instead he accepted certain death, for even had he killed Priam, the guards would have overpowered and slain him. Let us talk no more of it. A walk to the temple is just what I need.”

The sunshine continued, though there were rain clouds in the distance as the two women set out arm in arm.

“I think Agathon was impressed,” said Laodike. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Andromache laughed. “He is an impressive man. Why have I not seen him before?”

“He spends much of his time east of the city. He leads the Thrakian mercenaries and is almost as fine a general as Hektor. They are very close.”

“Do they look alike?”

Laodike giggled. “Are you asking whether Hektor is handsome?”

“Yes.”

“Like a young god. His hair is golden, his eyes are blue, and he has a smile to win any heart.”

“And he is the oldest of Priam’s sons?”

Laodike laughed again. “Yes and no. He is the oldest of
Mother’s
children and therefore the legitimate heir. But Father was twenty-four when he and Mother wed. And there were other children born to his lovers. The oldest was Troilus. He would have been almost forty now.”

“He died?”

“Father had him banished last year. He died in Miletos. Some think he was poisoned. I expect he was.”

“That makes no sense to me,” said Andromache. “If Priam wanted him dead, why not kill him in Troy?”

Laodike paused in her walk and turned toward her. “You should understand that before Mother was ill Troy had two rulers. Mother hated Troilus. I think she hates all the sons she did not bear. When Troilus plotted to overthrow Father, she thought he should be killed instantly. Father refused.” Laodike shrugged. “And he died anyway.”

“Hekabe had him poisoned?”

“I do not know, Andromache. Perhaps he just died. But you would be amazed at the number of people who have died young following disagreements with Mother.”

“Then I am glad she liked me. So how old is Hektor?”

“Almost thirty.”

“Why has he never wed?”

Laodike looked away. “Oh, probably because of wars and battles. You should ask him when he comes home. There will be great parades and celebrations for his victories.”

Andromache knew something was being kept from her but decided not to press the point. Instead she said: “He must be a great warrior, indeed, if his victories can be anticipated before the battles are fought.”

“Oh, Hektor never loses,” said Laodike. “The Trojan Horse is supreme in battle.”

It seemed to Andromache that such conviction was naive. A stray arrow, a hurled spear, an unlucky blow, could all end the life of any fighting man. However, she let the moment pass, and the two women wandered down through the marketplaces, stopping to examine the wares on display. Finally they reached the healing houses.

They sat in a rear garden, Laodike having sent a servant to seek out the healer Machaon. Another servant, an elderly man, brought them goblets of juice squeezed from various fruits. Andromache had never tasted anything so deliciously sweet. The mixture was the color of the sunset.

“What is in this?” she asked.

“Tree fruits from Egypte and Palestine. They come in various shapes and colors. Some are gold, some yellow, some green. Some are good on their own, and others are so sharp, they make the eyes water. But the priests here mix them with honey. Very refreshing.”

“There is so much that is new in Troy,” said Andromache. “I have never seen such color. The women’s gowns, the decorations on the walls.” She laughed. “Even the drinks have many colors.”

“Father says that trade is what makes civilizations grow. Nations and peoples learn from one another and improve on one another’s skills. We have Egypteian cloth makers in Troy. They have begun experimenting with the dyes from Phrygia and Babylon. There are some wonderful colors being produced. But it is not just the clothes. Hektor brought back horses from Thessaly. Big beasts. Sixteen hands. He’s bred them with our mares. They make superb war mounts. Men of skill and enterprise all come to Troy. Father says that one day we will be the center of a great civilization.”

Andromache listened as Laodike spoke on about Priam and his dreams. It was obvious that she adored her father and equally obvious that he had little time for her.

Laodike’s voice faded away. “I think I am boring you,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“Nonsense. It is fascinating.”

“Really? You are not just saying that?”

“Why would I?” Andromache threw her arm around Laodike’s shoulder and kissed her cheek.

The physican-priest Machaon entered the garden. He looked dreadfully weary, thought Andromache. His face was pale, and there was sweat on his brow. Although a young man, he was already losing his hair and his shoulders were rounded.

“Greetings to you, king’s daughter,” he said. “It is always a pleasure to see you. And you, Andromache of Thebe.”

“How is Xander faring?” Andromache asked.

The young physician smiled. “He is a fine lad, with great sensitivity. I have him working with the dying. He has a talent for lifting their spirits. I am glad he stayed with us.” He turned to Laodike and handed her a small, cloth-wrapped package. “These should last for another week or so. Be advised, though, that soon even these powerful opiates will not keep the pain at bay.”

“Mother says she is feeling a little better,” said Laodike. “Perhaps her body is healing.”

He shook his head. “She is past healing. Only her strength of mind and the courage of her spirit keep her in these lands of the living. There is a small phial in the package. It is stoppered with green wax. When the pain becomes unbearable—and it will—break open the phial and mix it with wine. Then get your mother to drink it.”

“And that will take away the pain?”

His brows furrowed. “Yes, Laodike. It will take away the pain. Permanently.”

“Then why can she not have it now? Her pain is very great.”

“I am sorry; I am not making myself clear. The phial is to be used to help your mother at the end. Once she has drunk it, she will fall into a deep sleep and pass peacefully to the world beyond.”

“Are you saying it is poison?”

“That is exactly what I am saying. During the last days your mother will be in dreadful agony. The pain will be excruciating and beyond her ability to cope with. You understand me? At that point she will have only hours left to live. Better, I think, if you rescue her from that suffering. It is, however, your choice.”

“I couldn’t poison Mother,” said Laodike.

“Of course you couldn’t,” said Andromache. “However, you can tell her exactly what the gentle Machaon has told you. And you can give her the phial. Let her make the choice.”

“Thank you, Lady Andromache,” said Machaon. “Yes, that is certainly the correct course.” He looked at her and seemed about to speak.

“Was there something else?” she asked.

“I understand you traveled with the Mykene warrior Argurios.”

“Yes,” she said. “A hard man and unpleasant.”

“Ah! Then I shall not trouble you with my problem concerning him. I thought, perhaps, you might be . . . friends.”

“How is it,” she asked, “that a physician is having trouble with a traveling warrior?”

“Did you not hear? He was attacked by other Mykene. His wounds were grievous. He is still likely to die of them. But I cannot make him rest, my lady. He insists on working for his bread and for the right to sleep here. I have explained that all costs have been met by the lord Helikaon, but this only seems to anger him. He has been sawing wood, carrying water. All kinds of menial duties for which we have servants. He has torn open his stitches many times through such—and other—ill-advised exercise. I have tried to explain to him that his body was savagely damaged. He cannot breathe well and becomes dizzy with any exertion. Yet he will not listen. I fear he is going to collapse and die, and then the lord Helikaon will view me with displeasure.”

“We will speak to him, Laodike and I,” said Andromache. “Where is he?”

“I saw him a little while ago, beyond the House of Earth. He is trying to repair an old wall. There is no need. The wall no longer serves any real purpose. Yet he carries large stones and exhausts himself.”

Machaon gave them directions, and the two women walked off.

Laodike was not happy. “I do not like the Mykene,” she said. “I don’t care if he dies.”

“He helped Helikaon at the Bay of Blue Owls,” said Andromache. “He killed a Mykene assassin. Perhaps that is why he was attacked.”

“I expect he had unpleasant reasons for doing what he did,” said Laodike. “Mykene always do.”

XXIII

THE WOUNDED LION

I

Argurios could hardly breathe. It was as if the gods had placed a gate in his chest and no air was reaching his lungs. White lights danced before his eyes, and dizziness threatened to bring him down. He staggered on for several paces, his arms burning with the weight of the rock. Even his legs were trembling and painful, especially the calves. Grimly he struggled on, lowering the rock to the breach in the ancient wall. His vision began to swim, forcing him to sit down. He gazed down at his trembling hands.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for the horror of such weakness. He had seen friends die in battle and seen others struck down by wasting fevers, but always he had remained strong. He could run for miles in full armor and then fight a battle. His stamina was legendary. Yet now he struggled to lift a few pitiful rocks onto a ruined wall.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he was too weary to wipe it away.

He glanced across the old paddock and saw the two men sitting in the shade. Both were armed with swords and daggers. Over the weeks he had tried to approach them, but they faded back from him and he did not have the stamina to give chase. At first he had thought them to be more killers, ready to strike him down and claim the bounty from Erekos. The boy Xander had told him not to concern himself.

“Who are they, then?”

Xander became ill at ease. “I am not supposed to say.”

“But you have. So tell me.”

“They are here to protect you.”

Argurios had learned then that they were men hired by Helikaon. It was a sickening discovery. “You told me . . . he was glad I was dying,” said Argurios.

The boy looked crestfallen. “He
told
me to say that. He thought it would make you fight for life.”

Argurios swore softly. The world had gone mad. Friends and countrymen wanted him dead. Enemies hired men to keep him alive. Somewhere on Olympos the gods were laughing at this grotesque jest.

As the weeks passed and his condition did not improve, Argurios found himself wishing they
were
Mykene assassins. At least then he could end his life in battle.

A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Two women were standing there, the sun behind them.

“What . . . do you want?” he asked gruffly, thinking them to be priestesses coming to chide him.

“A courteous greeting would be pleasant,” replied Andromache.

With an effort Argurios pushed himself to his feet. “The sun was . . . in my eyes,” he said between shallow breaths. “I did not . . . recognize you.”

He saw the shock of his condition register on her face. Argurios had lost weight, and his eyes were sunken and dark-rimmed, his arms and legs thin and wasted.

“Let us all sit,” said Andromache. “This is my friend, the king’s daughter, Laodike.”

Argurios blinked away sweat and looked at Loadike. She was tall, with long fair hair, and in her eyes he saw disdain. Swinging back to Andromache, he asked: “Why are . . . you here?”

“Mykene are always rude,” said Laodike. “They are bred without manners. Let us go, Andromache. It is too hot to be standing here.”

“Yes, you go back inside,” Andromache told her. “I will sit for a little while with this warrior.”

Laodike nodded. “I will wait for you beneath the arbor trees.” Without a word to Argurios she walked away.

“You should . . . go with her,” said Argurios. “We have . . . nothing to . . . talk about.”

“Sit down before you fall down,” ordered Andromache, seating herself on the stone wall. Argurios slumped down beside her, surprised at himself for obeying a woman. Shame touched him. Even in this small matter he was no longer a man. “I know what you need,” she said.

“What I need?”

“To make you strong again. When I was younger, my father was in a battle. A horse fell and rolled on him. After that he—like you—could scarcely breathe. He tottered around like an old man. It went on for months. Then one day we heard of a traveling physician. He was healing people in local villages while on his way to Egypte. He was an Assyrian. We brought him to my father.”

“He . . . cured him?”

“No. He showed my father how to cure himself.”

Argurios wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked at the young woman. His vision was hazy, his breathing ragged, yet hope flared in his heart. “Tell me,” he said.

“I will
show
you, Argurios. Tomorrow morning, whatever the weather, I will send a cart for you. It will bring you to cliffs above a beach. Bring Xander with you, for I would like to see the boy again. And now I will leave you to finish your work.” She rose.

“Wait!” said Argurios, painfully heaving himself to his feet. “Take me . . . to the . . . king’s daughter.”

She walked slowly alongside him. He staggered twice and felt her arm link through his. He wanted to shrug it away, but her strength kept him upright. It was not a long walk, yet Argurios felt exhausted by the time they reached the shaded arbor. Laodike was sitting on a bench.

Argurios struggled for breath. “Not . . . all . . . Mykene . . . are ill-mannered. I apolo . . . gize for my lack . . . of courtesy. I have . . . always been uncomfortable around . . . women. Especially . . . beautiful women.”

He expected a harsh response, but instead her expression softened. Leaving the bench, she stood before him. “Your apology is accepted,” she said, “and I, too, am sorry for the curtness I showed you. You have been badly wounded, and I should have realized you were suffering.”

Argurios could think of nothing else to say, and as the silence grew, the moment became awkward.

Andromache spoke then. “I have invited Argurios to join us tomorrow. It will aid his healing.”

Laodike laughed. “Do you sit awake at night planning events that will annoy Father?” she asked.

II

Xander enjoyed working in the House of Serpents. He felt useful and needed. People always seemed pleased to see him, and as the weeks passed he learned more about herbs and medicines, treatments and diagnosis. The application of warm wet towels reduced fevers; the shredded and powdered barks of certain trees could take away pain. Festering sores could be healed by the application of wine and honey. Eager to learn more, he followed Machaon around, watching as he splinted broken bones or lanced cysts and boils.

Yet despite his enthusiasm for all matters medical he was pleased to be out in the open air, traveling in the wide cart with Argurios. The sky was cloudy with the promise of rain, but the sun was shining through and the air was fresh with the smells of the sea.

He glanced at Argurios. The Mykene looked so ill. His face was drawn and so thin that it made him look like an old, frail man. Xander had helped him shave that morning, cutting away the stubble on his cheeks and trimming the chin beard. He had combed his long dark hair, noting the increase of gray along the temples. The youngster struggled to remember the iron-hard warrior who had saved him on the
Xanthos.

In the weeks since the attack Argurios’ recovery had been painfully slow. Machaon had told Xander that one of the wounds had pierced Argurios’ lung and come perilously close to the heart. And there had been much bleeding internally.

“He will recover, though?” Xander had asked.

“He may never regain his former strength. Often deep wounds turn bad, and vilenesses can form.”

Xander looked around. The cart was crossing the wide wooden Scamander bridge. He wondered if they were heading for the white palace he could see on the cliff top to the southwest. It was said that the queen lived in King’s Joy with some of her daughters.

The cart hit a broken stone on the road and jolted. Argurios winced.

“Are you all right?” asked Xander.

Argurios nodded. He very rarely spoke, but each evening when Xander visited him, he would sit quietly as the boy told him of the day’s work among the sick, listening as Xander talked of herbs and discoveries. At first Xander had thought him bored. “Am I babbling, Argurios?” he had asked one evening. “Grandfather says I chatter too much. Shall I leave you?”

Argurios had given a rare smile. “You chatter on, boy. When I am . . . bored . . . I’ll tell you.”

The cart left the road and angled out along a narrower road leading to the cliffs. There were two Eagles there, sitting beneath the branches of a gnarled tree, sunlight glinting on their armor of bronze and silver. They rose as the cart approached.

The driver, a crookbacked man with a thick white beard, said: “Guests of the lady Andromache.”

One of the soldiers, a tall young man, wide-shouldered and wearing a helmet with a white horsehair crest, walked up to the cart. “You’d be Xander,” he said.

“Yes.”

The young soldier moved past the boy and stared hard at Argurios. His brows furrowed. “By the gods, man, you look all in. Will you need help to get to the beach?”

“No.” Argurios hauled himself upright, then climbed down from the cart.

“I meant no offense, warrior,” said the soldier. “I was wounded myself two years ago and had to be carried by my comrades.”

Argurios looked at the man. “Where was . . . the battle?”

“In Thraki. Took a lance thrust in the chest. Smashed my breastplate, broke several ribs.”

“Tough fighters . . . Thrakians.”

“True. No give in them. We have a regiment of them here now.” The man chuckled. “Sooner have them with me than against me.”

Argurios walked away. Xander followed. The cliff path was steep but fairly wide. Even so, if Argurios were to stumble, he would pitch over the edge and plummet to the rocks far below.

The young soldier came alongside. “I would consider it an honor, Argurios, if you would allow me to walk with you to the beach.”

Argurios straightened at the sound of his name. “You . . . know of me?”

“All soldiers know of you, man. I was told the story of the bridge at Partha when I was a boy. They say you held the bridge all morning.”

“Not that . . . long,” said Argurios. “But . . . by the gods . . . it felt . . . like it.” He gathered himself, then looked at the warrior. “Let us . . . walk, then.”

Xander followed as the two men made their slow way down to the beach. He could see there were already people on the sand, and several men were swimming. Xander wondered what they were looking for. Perhaps they were hunting for shellfish, he thought. Yet they seemed to be swimming aimlessly. They neither dived deep nor headed for the shore. Others waded into the sea, and Xander could hear the sound of laughter.

There were five yellow canopies set up below the cliffs, and close by were tables laden with food and drink. The canopies were very bright, almost as gold as the sun. Xander remembered his mother dying cloth yellow, using the skins of onions or crocus pollen. But the cloth never had the luster of these canopies, and it faded so quickly.

Ahead Argurios stumbled. The Trojan soldier took him by the arm, supporting him. Argurios did not, as Xander expected, pull away. When they reached the beach, the Trojan thanked Argurios for the honor of his company. The Mykene remained grave.

“What is . . . your name . . . soldier?”

“Polydorus,” he answered.

“I shall . . . remember it.”

Xander looked around. He saw Andromache move away from a small group of women and walk across the sand toward them. She was wearing a thigh-length tunic of pale green, and her red hair was hanging loose to her shoulders. Xander thought her very beautiful. She smiled at him, and he blushed.

“Welcome to the royal beach, Xander.”

“What are those men looking for?” he asked, pointing to the swimmers.

“Nothing. They are swimming for the pleasure of it. Do you swim?”

“Grandfather taught me. He said a sailor needed to be able to float.”

“Well, today you will swim.” She turned to Argurios. “And you, warrior.”

“Why would . . . I swim?” he asked. “There is . . . no purpose to it.”

“A better purpose, perhaps, than repairing a paddock wall where there is no longer a paddock,” she observed. “Come and sit for a while, and I will tell you of the Assyrian physician.”

She led them to a spot beneath a canopy. Argurios’ breathing was ragged, and he seemed grateful to be sitting down.

“My father could not take deep breaths,” said Andromache. “The physician told him to swim every day. He also taught him to breathe differently.”

“How many . . . ways . . . can a man . . . breathe?”

“I will show you. But first you will swim for a while with Xander. Gently and slowly. Do not overexert yourself.”

“This is . . . foolish. I should not . . . have come.”

“But you did, warrior,” said Andromache. “And if you want to be strong again, you will do as I say.”

Xander expected Argurios to react angrily, but he did not.

He looked into her green eyes. “I need . . . my strength,” he said at last. Rising wearily to his feet, he struggled to remove his threadbare tunic.

Xander helped him and also untied his sandals. Argurios’ naked body was pale and skinny, and Xander saw many old white scars on his shoulders, arms, chest, and legs. The angry red wounds of his recent fight were hideous to look on. Pus and blood were leaking from the gash in his side, and there were deep scabs on three other wounds. But as he turned to walk to the shoreline, Xander noted that there were no scars on his back.

“Go with him, Xander,” said Andromache. “He may need your help.”

Xander stripped off his tunic and sandals and caught up with Argurios as he waded into the blue water.

They swam together silently. Argurios struggled and gasped for breath. After a little while Andromache swam out to join them. She was still wearing the pale green tunic, but it clung so close to her body that she might as well have been naked, thought Xander, trying not to look at her breasts and the raised nipples.

She came alongside Argurios. “Lie back in the water,” she said, “and I will support you.” He obeyed her instantly. “And now I want you to close your eyes and relax your body. Then I want you to breathe very slowly. I want you to breathe in for the count of four and hold the breath for the count of six. Then let it out very slowly for the count of ten. Four, six, and ten.”