Banokles grinned, then winced. “You are right. My feet are fine.” He looked over at Kalliades. “I woke last night and saw you talking to Leukon. Does he hurt as much as me?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Bastard! So what were you talking about?”
“He has agreed to train you for the games.”
“Ha!” Banokles snorted. “Like I need to be trained by a man I beat?”
“Yes, you do, idiot. He is a skilled fighter, and you know it. You beat him with a lucky punch. You know that, too. If you are going to win wealth in Troy, his training could prove vital. So I have promised him that every night, when we beach, you will do exactly as he tells you.”
“Won’t hurt to practice, I suppose,” Banokles agreed. Then he glanced across to where Hektor was emerging from the water. “I remember him as far more frightening,” he said. “Very strange. Here he just looks like a big friendly sailor. Even Leukon is more chilling. And bigger. Back in Troy Hektor looked like a giant—a war god.”
Banokles suddenly leaned forward, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Trouble looming,” he said. Piria glanced across the beach. Hektor had pulled on a linen kilt and was standing bare-chested, toweling himself dry. Some twenty sailors were walking toward him, led by a massive man with a red forked beard. Piria knew what Banokles meant by trouble looming. The expressions on the men’s faces were set and hard, and they were grouped together as if on a hunt rather than strolling along a beach.
“That is Hakros, the Rhodian champion,” Kalliades said. “Leukon told me of him last night.”
“By the balls of Ares, he’s a monster right enough,” Banokles said. “Come on, I don’t want to miss this.”
The three companions made their way across the sand. Others had spotted the group, and men began to gather, watching intently.
The huge man with the red beard halted before Hektor and stood there, hands on hips, staring at the Trojan prince. Hektor toweled his golden hair, ignoring him. Piria saw the newcomer redden. Then he spoke, his voice harsh.
“So, you are the mighty Hektor. Will you be taking part in your wedding games?”
“No,” Hektor said, draping the towel across his shoulder.
“Just as well. Now that I’ve seen you, I know I could break your skull.”
“Lucky for me, then,” Hektor said softly.
Piria saw the Rhodian’s eyes narrow. “I am Hakros.”
“Of course you are,” Hektor said wearily. “Now be a good fellow, Hakros, and walk away. You have impressed your friends, and you have told me your name.”
“I walk when I choose. I am minded to test your legend, Trojan.”
“That would be unwise,” Hektor told him. “Here on this beach there is no gold to be won, no acclaim.”
Hakros swung to his comrades. “You see? He is frightened to face me.”
When Hektor spoke, there was no anger in his voice and his words carried to all the watching men. “You are a stupid man, Hakros, a dullard and a windbag. Now you have two choices. Walk away or be carried away.”
For a moment there was stillness, then the Rhodian hurled himself at Hektor. The Trojan stepped in to meet him, dropped his shoulder, and sent a thundering right cross into Hakros’ jaw. There was a sickening crack, and Hakros cried out as he fell. Gamely he surged to his feet—to be met by a straight left that shredded his lips against his teeth and an uppercut that smashed his nose and sent him hurtling unconscious to the sand.
“Oh, yes,” Banokles said. “Now, that is the man I remember.”
Men gathered around the fallen champion, but Hektor was already walking away.
“His jaw is broken,” Piria heard someone say.
Leukon walked over to stand alongside Banokles and Kalliades. “Now, that man is a fighter,” he said. “The speed of those punches was inhuman.”
“Could you beat him?” Kalliades asked.
Leukon shook his head. “I doubt there’s a man alive who could.”
“There is one,” Piria said before she could stop herself.
“And who might that be?” Leukon asked.
“The champion of Thessaly. Achilles.”
“Ah, I have heard of him but never seen him fight. What is he like?”
“He is bigger than Hektor but just as fast. But he wouldn’t have tried to talk the man out of a fight. The moment the fool stood before him, Achilles would have destroyed him. He would have been left dead on the sand.”
“And he will be taking part,” Leukon said. “Not a comforting thought.” Swinging around to Banokles, he clapped him on the shoulder. “Just as well we’ll be practicing together,” he said.
“Don’t you worry, Leukon,” Banokles told him. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”
Piria walked away from the men and stared out to sea. Somewhere in the far distance was the Golden City and Andromache. Closing her eyes, she pictured her lover’s face, the reddish gold of her hair, the glorious green of her eyes.
“I will be with you soon, my love,” she whispered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GHOSTS OF THE PAST
The sky above Troy was heavy with rain clouds, and to the west Andromache could see the distant lightning of a summer storm. Thunder rumbled in the cool afternoon, and she pulled her green woolen shawl closely around her against the cutting wind the Trojans called the Scythe. Her toes were cold in close-fitting leather and wool sandals, and she stamped her feet to keep them warm.
In the Bay of Troy far below she could see a ship closing fast on the city from the north. It was racing to beat the coming storm, oars beating rhythmically, sail stretched taut by the wind.
Andromache’s thoughts flew back to her own journey on the Penelope the previous autumn. Her heart had been heavy then, the future dark with foreboding. It seemed impossible that only a single winter had passed since she had last seen Kalliope, since together they had performed the calming rites for the soul of the Minotaur. The island of Thera now belonged to a different age, passing somehow into dream. So much had happened since then. In that moment she wished that Kalliope could be with her on this bleak hillside. A selfish thought, she realized, for Kalliope was unsuited to the world of men. Thera was where she belonged, where she was happy and free. Thoughts of Kalliope caused confusion in her now. Unlike her lover, Andromache had never hated men, nor had she ever yearned to be free of them. Her time with Kalliope, especially the nights, tasting the wine on the other’s lips, stroking her soft skin, had been wondrous and fulfilling. Yet equally wondrous were the feelings Helikaon had inspired in her.
Her emotions torn, Andromache sighed and turned toward the newly built tomb. It was elaborately carved with bright warriors and fair maidens and stood facing west toward the lands of the Mykene. No grass yet grew around it, and the marble was white as swan’s down. Within it lay the bones of Argurios and Laodike, forever at rest together.
Andromache felt the familiar ache in her heart, the dead weight of guilt on her soul. If she had realized the gravity of Laodike’s wound, could she have saved her friend? She had asked herself a thousand times. She was sick and tired of the thought; it was an evil demon lying in wait in the corner of her mind, ever eager to leap out and torment her. Yet every day she made her pilgrimage to this tomb and fed the demon anew.
Laodike had been stabbed when the renegade Thrakians had attacked the palace. Andromache had half carried her to the deceptive safety of the queen’s apartments while Helikaon and a company of Royal Eagles had fought a rearguard action against the traitors. The wound had seemed slight. Not a great deal of blood had flowed from it, and Laodike had appeared strong. Later, as the dreadful siege had worn on, she had become listless and sleepy. Only then had Andromache summoned the surgeon to her. The spear had gone deep, and the wound was mortal.