The light was fading some, still bright, bright enough to illuminate sixteen-year-old Alys’s slight dusting of purple eye shadow, and seeing that made him lower his face to hers for a final hot kiss as he began thrusting forward and in.
92
One year after the Fall of Ilium:
Helen of Troy awoke just after dawn to a dream-memory of the sound of air raid sirens. She felt along the cushions of her bed, but her lover Hockenberry was gone—had been gone for more than a month now—and it was only the memory of his warmth that made her hunt for him each morning. She had yet to take another lover, although half the Trojans and Argives left here in New Ilium wanted her.
She had her slave-women, Hypsipyle included, bathe and perfume her. Helen took her time. These apartments in the rebuilt section near the Pillar House near the fallen Scaean Gate were no comparison to her former palace, but the amenities of life were beginning to return. She used the last of her well-rationed scented soap in the bath. Today was a special day. The Joint Council would be deciding on the expedition to Delphi. She had the slave girls dress her in her finest green silk gown and gold necklaces for the morning Council meeting.
It was still strange to see the Argives, Achaeans, Myrmidons, and other invaders in the Trojan council house. Both the Temple of Athena and the larger Temple of Apollo had crumbled that day of the Fall, but the Trojan and Greek masons had erected a new palace where the rubble of Athena’s temple had once been, just north of the main avenue and not far from where Priam’s palace had stood with its proud porches and pillars before the gods had bombed it into oblivion.
This new palace—they had no other name for their central civic building—still smelled of fresh wood, cold stone, and paint, but it was bright and sunny this early spring day. Helen slipped in and took her place near the royal family, next to Andromache, who gave her a brief smile and then turned her attention back to her husband.
Hector was getting some gray in his dark-brown curly hair and beard. Everyone had noticed it. Most of the women, Helen knew, thought it made him look even more distinguished, if such a thing were possible. It was Hector’s place to open the meeting and he did so now, welcoming all the Trojan dignitaries and Achaean guests by name.
Agamemnon was here, still strange, occasionally giving everyone that long, unfocused gaze he had worn for so many months after the Fall, but he was lucid enough now to be heeded in the Joint Council discussions. And his tents were still full of treasure.
Nestor was here, but he had to be carried to the city—carried up from the tent-city of the Achaeans, undefended now on the beach—on a portable chair toted by four slaves. Wise old Nestor had never recovered the use of his legs after that final day of terrible battle on the beach. Also here from the Achaean camp—sixty thousand Greek warriors still lived, enough to demand a vote—were Little Ajax, Idomeneus, Polyxinus, Teucer, and the acknowledged, if not yet publicly acclaimed, leader of the Greeks—handsome Thrasymedes, Nestor’s son. With the Greeks were several men whom Helen did not recognize, including a tall, gangly young man with curly hair and beard.
At his introduction and welcome by Nestor, Thrasymedes glanced in the direction of Helen and Helen lowered her eyes in modesty while allowing herself to blush slightly. Some habits died hard, even here on a different world and in a different time.
Finally Nestor introduced their emissary from Ardis—not Hockenberry, who had not yet returned from his trip west, but a tall, thin, quiet man named Boman. No moravecs were present this morning.
Having finished the welcomings, unnecessary introductions, and ritual words of assembly, Hector established the reasons for this council and what needed to be decided before they could adjourn.
“So today we must decide whether to launch the expedition to Delphi,” concluded noble Hector, “and, if we do so, who shall go and who shall stay. We also have to decide what to do if it is possible to interdict the blue beam there and bring so many of the Argives’ relatives back. Thrasymedes, your people were in charge of building the long ships. Would you tell the Council what progress has been made?”
Thrasmymedes bowed, his knee raised slightly on a step and his golden helmet on his leg. He said, “As you know, our best surviving shipbuilder, Harmonides—literally ‘Son of the Fitter’—has been in charge of the construction. I shall let him report.”
Harmonides, the curly-bearded youth Helen had spotted a minute earlier, now stepped forward a few paces and then quickly looked down at his feet as if he wished he hadn’t made himself so conspicuous. He had a slight stammer as he spoke.
“The… thirty long ships are … ready. Each can… carry… fifty men, their armor, and provisions adequate for… reaching Delphi. We are also close to… to completing… the twenty other ships… as commanded by the Council. These ships are… broader of beam… than the long ships, perfect for… for transporting goods and people should we find such… goods and people.”
Harmonides quickly stepped back into the group of Argives.
“Very good work, noble Harmonides,” said Hector. “We thank you and the Council thanks you. I’ve inspected the ships and they are beautiful—tight, firm, made with precision.”
“And I wish to thank the Trojans for knowing where to find the best wood on the slopes of Mount Ida,” spoke up the blushing Harmonides, but with pride this time, and no hint of a stammer.
“So we now have ships to make the voyage,” said Hector. “Since the missing families on the mainland are Achaean and Argive, not Trojan, Thrasymedes has volunteered to lead the expedition back to Delphi. Would you tell us, Thrasymedes, your plans for that voyage?”
Tall Thrasymedes lowered his leg, holding his heavy helmet easily in one palm, Helen noticed.
“We propose to sail in the next week when the spring winds bless our voyage,” said Thrasymedes, his low, strong voice carrying to the far ends of the large, pillared Council chamber. “All thirty ships and fifteen hundred picked men—Trojan adventurers are still invited if they want to see the world.”
There was some chuckling and good humor in the room.
“We shall sail south along the coast past empty Colonae,” continued Thrasymedes, “then to Lesbos, then across dark waters to Chios, where we shall hunt and lay in fresh water. Then west-southwest across the deep sea, past Andros, and into the Genestius Strait between Catsylus on the peninsula and the isle of Ceos. Here, five of our ships will break away and sail upriver toward Athens, the men crossing on foot for the last way. They will hunt for human life there, and if they find none—they shall march to Delphi on foot, their ships returning and sailing past the Saronic Gulf after us.
“The twenty-five ships remaining to me shall sail southwest past Lacedaemonia, circumnavigating the entire Peloponnese, braving the straits between Cytherea and the mainland if the weather allows. When we spot Zacynthros off our port bows, we will approach the mainland once again, then east-northeast and east again deep into the Corinthian Gulf. Just past Cyolain Locrians and before we reach Boeotia, we shall sail into harbor, beach our boats, and walk to Delphi, where the moravecs and our Ardis friends assure us the blue-beam temple holds the living remnants of our race.”
The person named Boman stepped into the center of the open space. His Greek was horribly accented—much more so even than old Hockenberry’s had been, thought Helen—and he sounded as much the barbarian as he dressed, but he made himself understood despite syntactical errors that would make the mentor of a three-year-old blush.
“It is a good time of year for this,” said Boman, the tall Ardisian. “The problem is—if you do follow our procedures for bringing back the people trapped in the blue beam, what do you do with them? It’s possible that the entire population of Ilium-Earth was coded there—up to six million people—including Chinese, Africans, American Indians, pre-Aztecs…”