Vengeance of Orion (13 page)

Slowly I pulled myself to my feet. The square was empty now, except for the mangled body of Aleksandros and the other slain men. Behind the first row of columned temples I could see flames rising into the sky, smoke billowing toward heaven. A sacrifice to the gods, I thought bitterly.

Raising my bloody sword over my head I cried out, "I want
your
blood, Golden One! Your blood!"

There was no answer.

I looked down at what was left of Aleksandros. We all die, prince of Troy. Your brothers have died. Your father is probably dying at this very moment. Some of us die many times. The lucky ones, only once.

Then a thought struck me, like a telepathic message beamed into my brain. Where is Helen, the beautiful Helen who was the reason for this slaughter, the calculating woman who had tried to use me as a messenger?

Chapter 20

I strode up the main street of burning Troy, sword in hand, through a morning turned dark by the smoke of fires I had started. Women's screams and sobs filled the air, men bellowed and laughed raucously. The roof of a house collapsed in a shower of sparks, forcing me back a few steps. Perhaps it was the house I had slept in; I could not be sure.

Up the climbing avenue I walked, my face blackened with dust and soot, my arms spattered with blood—most of it Trojan. I saw that the gutter running along the center of the dirt street also ran red.

A pair of children ran shrieking past me, and a trio of drunken Achaians lurched laughingly after them. I recognized one of them: giant Ajax, lumbering along with a huge wine jug in one hand.

"Come back!" he yelled drunkenly. "We won't hurt you!"

The children fled into the smoke and disappeared down an alley.

I climbed on, toward the palace, past the market stalls that now blazed hot enough to singe the hair on my arms, past a heap of bodies where some of the Trojans had tried to make a stand. Finally I reached the steps at the front of the palace. They too were littered with fallen bodies.

Sitting on the top step, leaning against one of the massive stone pillars, was Poletes. Weeping.

I rushed to him. "Are you hurt?"

"Yes," he said, bobbing his old head. "In my soul."

I almost felt relieved.

"Look at the desolation. Murder and fire. Is this what men live for? To act like beasts?"

"Yes," I replied. Grabbing him by his bony shoulder, I said, "Sometimes men do act like beasts. Sometimes they behave like angels. They can build beautiful cities and burn them to the ground. What of it? Don't try to make sense out of it, just accept us as we are."

Poletes looked up at me through eyes reddened by tears and smoke. "So we should accept the whims of the gods, and dance their dance whenever they pull our strings? Is that what you tell me?"

"There are no gods, Poletes. Only vicious bullies who laugh at our pain."

"No gods? That cannot be. There
must
be some reason for our existence, some order in the world."

"We do what we have to do, old moralizer," I said gruffly. "We obey the gods when we have no other choice."

"You speak in riddles, Orion."

"Go back to the camp, old man. This is no place for you. Some drunken Achaian might mistake you for a Trojan."

But he did not move, except to lean his head against the pillar. I saw that its once-bright red paint was now blackened and someone had scratched his name into the stone with the point of a sword: Thersites.

"I'll see you back at the camp," I said.

He nodded sadly. "Yes, when mighty Agamemnon divides the spoils and decides how many of the women and how much of the treasure he will take for himself."

"Go to the camp," I said, more firmly. "Now. That's not advice, Poletes, it is my command."

He drew in a long breath and sighed it out, then raised himself slowly to his feet.

"Take this sign." I handed him the armlet Odysseus had given me. "It will identify you to any drunken lout that wants to take off your head."

He accepted it wordlessly. It was much too big for his frail arms, so he hung it around his skinny neck. I had to laugh at the sight.

"Laughter in the middle of the sack of a great city," Poletes said. "You are becoming a true Achaian warrior, my master."

With that he started down the steps, haltingly, like a man who really did not care which way he went.

I went through the columned portico and into the hall of statues, where Achaian warriors were directing slaves to take down the gods' images and carry them off toward the boats. Into the open courtyard that had been so lovely I went. Pots were overturned and smashed, flowers trampled, bodies strewn everywhere staining the grass with their blood. The little statue of Athene was already gone. The big one of Apollo had toppled and broken into several pieces. I smiled grimly at that.

One wing of the palace was afire. I could see flames crackling in the windows. I closed my eyes momentarily, picturing in my mind the chamber where Helen had spoken to me. It was there where the fire blazed.

From a balcony overhead I heard shouts, then curses. The clash of metal on metal. A fight was still going on up there.

"The royal women have locked themselves into the temple of Aphrodite," I heard a man behind me yell. "Come on!" He sounded like someone rushing to a party, or hurrying to get back to his seat before the curtain rose on the final act of the drama.

I snatched my sword from its scabbard and rushed up the nearest stairs. A handful of Trojans were making a last-ditch defense of the corridor that led to the royal temples, fighting desperately against a shouting, bellowing mob of Achaian warriors. Behind the doors locked at the Trojans' backs waited aged Priam and his wife, Hecuba, together with their daughters and grandchildren, I realized.

Helen must be there too, I thought. I saw Menalaos, Diomedes, and Agamemnon himself thrusting their spears at the few desperate Trojan defenders, laughing at them, taunting them.

"You sell your lives for nothing," shouted Diomedes. "Put down your spears and we will allow you to live."

"As slaves!" roared Agamemnon.

The Trojans fought bravely, but they were outnumbered and doomed, their backs pressed against the doors they tried so valiantly to defend, as more and more Achaians rushed up to join the sport.

I sprinted down the next corridor and pushed my way through rooms where soldiers were tearing through chests of gorgeous robes, grabbing jewels from gold-inlaid boxes, and pulling silken tapestries from the walls. This wing of the palace would also be in flames soon, I knew. Too soon.

I found a balcony, swung over its ballustrade, and, leaning as far forward as I dared, clamped one hand on the edge of a window in the otherwise blank rear wall of the temple wing. I swung out over thirty feet of air and pulled myself up onto my elbows, then hoisted a leg onto the windowsill. Pushing aside the beaded curtain, I peered into a small, dim inner sanctuary. The walls were bare, the tiles of the floor old and worn to dullness. Small votive statues stood lined on both sides of the room, some of them still decked with rings of withered flowers. The palace smelled of incense and old candles. Standing by the door, her back to me, her hands clasped in fear, stood Helen.

I could hear the sounds of the fighting from outside the temple. I dropped lightly to my feet and walked quietly toward her.

"Helen," I said.

She whirled to face me, her fists pressed against her mouth, her body tense with terror. I saw her eyes recognize me, and she relaxed a little.

"The emissary," she whispered.

"Orion," I reminded her.

She stood there for an uncertain moment, wearing her finest robes, decked with gold and jewels, more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. Then she ran to me, three tiny steps, and pressed her golden head against my grimy, bloodstained chest. Her hair was scented like fragrant flowers.

"Don't let them kill me, Orion! Please, please! They'll be crazy with bloodlust. Even Menalaos. He'd take my head off and then blame it on Ares. Please protect me!"

"That's why I came to you," I said. As I spoke the words, I knew they were true. It was the one civilized thing I could do in this entire mad, murderous day. Having slain the man who had abducted her, I would now see to it that her rightful husband took her back.

"Priam is dead," she said, her voice muffled and sobbing. "His heart broke when he saw the Achaians coming over the western wall."

"The queen?" I asked.

"She and the other royal women are in the main temple, just on the other side of that door. The guards outside have sworn to go down to the last man before allowing Agamemnon and his brutes to enter here."

I held her and listened to the clamor of the fight. It did not last long. A final scream of agony, a final roar of triumph, then a thudding as they pounded against the locked doors. A splintering of wood, then silence.

"It would be better if we went in there, rather than letting them break in and find you," I suggested.

She pulled herself away from me and visibly fought for self-control. Lifting her little chin like the queen she had hoped to be, Helen said, "Yes. I am ready to face them."

I went to the connecting door, unlatched it, and opened it a crack. Agamemnon, his brother Menalaos, and dozens of other Achaian nobles were crowding into the temple. Gold-covered statues taller than life lined its walls, and the floor was of gleaming marble. At the head of the temple, behind the marble altar, loomed a towering marble statue of Aphrodite, gilded and painted, decked with flowers and offerings of jewels. Hundreds of candles burned at its base, casting dancing highlights off the gold and gems. But the Achaians ignored all the temple's treasures. Instead they stared at the richly draped altar, and the old woman on it.

I had never seen Hecuba before. The aged, wrinkled woman lay on the altar, arms crossed over her breast, eyes closed. Her robes were threaded with gold; her wrists and fingers bore turquoise and amber, rubies and carnelian. Heavy ropes of gold necklaces and a jewel-encrusted crown had been lovingly placed upon her. Seven women, ranging in age from gray-haired to teenaged, stood trembling around the altar, facing the sweating, bloodstained Achaians, who gaped at the splendor of the dead Queen of Troy.

One of the older women was saying quietly to Agamemnon, "She took poison once the king died. She knew that Troy could not outlive this day, that my prophecy had finally come true."

"Cassandra," whispered Helen to me. "The queen's eldest daughter."

Agamemnon turned slowly from the corpse to the gray-haired princess. His narrow little eyes glared anger and frustration.

Cassandra said, "You will not bring the Queen of Troy back to Mycenae in your black boat, mighty Agamemnon. She will never be a slave of yours."

A leering smile twisted Agamemnon's lips. "Then I'll have to settle for you, princess. You will be my slave in her place."

"Yes," Cassandra said, "and we will die together at the hands of your faithless wife."

"Trojan bitch!" He cuffed her with a heavy backhand swat that knocked her to the marble floor.

Before any more violence erupted, I swung wide the door of the sanctuary. The Achaians turned, hands gripping the swords at their sides. Helen stepped through with regal grace and an absolutely blank expression on her incredibly beautiful face. It was as if the most splendid statue imaginable had taken on the power of life.

She went wordlessly to Cassandra and helped the princess to her feet. Blood trickled from her cut lip.

I stood by the side of the altar, my left hand resting on the pommel of my sword. Agamemnon and the others recognized me. Their faces were grimy, hands stained with blood. I could smell their sweat even from this distance.

Menalaos, who seemed to be stunned with shock for a moment, suddenly stepped forward and gripped his wife by her shoulders.

"Helen!" His mouth seemed to twitch, as if he were trying to say words that would not leave his soul.

She did not smile, but her eyes searched his. The other Achaians watched them dumbly.

Every emotion a human being can show flashed across Menalaos's face. Helen simply stood there, in his grip, waiting for him to speak, to act, to make his decision on whether she lived or died.

Agamemnon broke the silence. "Well, brother, I promised you we'd get her back! She's yours once again, to deal with as you see fit."

Menalaos swallowed hard and finally found his voice. "You are my wife, Helen," he said, more for the ears of Agamemnon and the others than hers, I thought. "What has happened since Aleksandros abducted you was not of your doing. A woman captive is not responsible for what happens to her during her captivity."

I kept myself from smiling. Menalaos wanted her back so badly he was willing to forget everything that had happened. For now.

Agamemnon clapped his brother on the back gleefully. "I'm only sorry that Aleksandros didn't have the courage to face me, man to man. I would have gladly spitted him on my spear."

"Where is Aleksandros?" Menalaos asked suddenly.

"Dead," I answered. "His body is in the square at the Scaean gate."

The women started to cry, sobbing quietly as they stood by their mother's bier. All but Cassandra, whose eyes blazed with unconcealed fury.

"Odysseus is going through the city to find all the princes and noblemen," said Agamemnon. "Those that still live will make noble sacrifices to the gods." He laughed at his own pun.

So I left Troy for the final time, marching with the Achaian victors through the burning city as Agamemnon led seven Trojan princesses back to his camp and slavery, and Menalaos walked side by side with Helen, his wife once more. A guard of honor marched alongside us, spears held stiffly up to the blackened sky. Wailing and sobs rose all around us; the air was filled with the stench of blood and smoke.

I trailed behind and noted that Helen never voluntarily touched Menalaos, not even to take his hand. I remembered what she had told me when we had first met: that being a wife among the Achaians, even a queen, was little better than being a slave.

She never touched Menalaos, and he hardly looked at her, after that first emotion-charged meeting in the temple of Aphrodite at dead Hecuba's bier.

But she looked over her shoulder more than once, looked back at me, as if to make certain I was not far from her.