“It sounds like one,” Gershom said.
“A desert dweller will tell you that bees are never far from water. Of course this begets the question: ‘Who sent the bee?’ However, your friend is not dying of thirst. He was stabbed.”
“Yes, twice. The second wound has rotted deep within his body.”
“I can take away the putrefaction, but you will need to have great trust in me. For what I do will seem madness. Do you trust me?”
Gershom looked into the Prophet’s dark eyes. “I am a good judge of men,” he said. “I trust you.”
“Then I will come with you tonight, and we will begin the cure.”
“You will bring medicines and potions?”
“No, Gershom. I will bring that which feeds upon putrefaction and disease. I will bring maggots.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE WORMS OF HEALING
The small lamp guttered and died, but Andromache scarcely noticed it. Sitting by the bedside, holding Helikaon’s hand, she gazed at his face, which was ghost-pale in the soft moonlight shining through the open window.
This night there had been no fever dreams, no calling out to lost loved ones.
Andromache sensed that the end was near. Anger, unfocused and raw, surged in her. She loathed this feeling of abject helplessness. All her life she had believed in the power of action, felt that she alone would determine her fate and the fate of those she loved. When Argurios had been attacked by assassins and could not regain his strength, she had coerced him into swimming in the sea, believing it would restore him. And it had. Back in Thebe, when little Salos had been stricken and had lain unconscious for many days, she had sat by his bedside, talking to him, calling gently to him. He had awoken and smiled at her. Always, in the past, she had found a way to bend events to her will.
But then had come the death of Laodike. That had caused a crack in the fortress of her confidence. Now the walls were breached, and she saw that what lay beyond was not confidence but vanity.
The night was cool, yet still there was a sheen of bright sweat on Helikaon’s handsome face. Such a face, she thought, reaching up to stroke the fevered cheek.
One kiss was all they had exchanged on that night when the world was bathed in blood and the enemy was close. One kiss. One declaration of love. One hope, that if they survived they would be together. A night of ultimate victory and terrible desolation.
Hektor, believed to be dead, had returned in glory. Hektor! How she wished she could hate him for the grief she had known. Yet she could not. For it was not Hektor who had ordered her to leave the island of Thera or Hektor who had haggled over the bridal price. It was not even Hektor who had chosen her.
Her father had bargained with King Priam, gaining treaties and gold, selling Andromache like a market cow into the Trojan royal family.
A cool breeze whispered through the window, and a soft groan came from Helikaon. His eyes opened, the brilliant blue of them seeming silver gray in the moonlight.
“Andromache,” he whispered. She squeezed his hand.
“I am here.”
“Not… a dream… then.”
“Not a dream.” Filling a cup with water, she held it to his lips, and he drank a little. Then his eyes closed once more.
“Helikaon,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” There was no response. He was sleeping again, drifting away from her toward the Dark Road. She felt the muscles of her stomach tighten painfully. “You remember the beach at Blue Owl Bay,” she said, “where first we met? I saw you then in the moonlight, and something inside me knew you would be part of my life. Odysseus took me to a seer. His name was Aklides. He told me… he told me…” Tears began to fall, and her voice shook. “He told me that I would know a love as powerful and as tempestous as the Great Green. I mocked him and asked him whom I should watch for. He said the man with one sandal. When Odysseus and I left his tent, I saw a common soldier some distance away. His sandal strap broke, and he kicked it clear. I laughed then and asked Odysseus if I should call out to this soldier, this love of my life. I wish I had, Helikaon, for it was you, disguised to trick the killers. If I had called out then… if you had turned toward me…” She hung her head and fell silent.
Hearing sounds in the corridor beyond, she swiftly wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her green dress.
The door opened, and Gershom stepped inside, holding the door to usher in a stranger, a tall, powerfully built man in long flowing robes. Andromache rose from the bedside and faced the newcomer. He had fierce eyes under thick bristling brows.
“This is a healer,” Gershom said. “I asked him to come.”
“You look more like a warrior,” Andromache said.
“And I am,” the man told her, his voice deep. Moving past her to the bedside, he leaned over Helikaon, drawing back the bed linen to gaze down on the open wound. “Bring light,” he ordered.
Gershom left the room and returned with two lamps, which he placed by the bedside. The bearded healer knelt down and lifted Helikaon’s arm, exposing the wound further. Then he sniffed at it. “Very bad,” he said, reaching up and resting his hand on Helikaon’s brow. “Worse than I feared.”
From his shoulder bag he removed a small pottery jar covered with gauze, then a thin wooden spoon. In the flickering light Andromache saw him carefully smear the wound with what appeared to be a white paste. She blinked and looked more closely. The paste was writhing!
“What are you doing?” she screamed, launching herself at the man.
Gershom grabbed her, hauling her back. “You must trust him!” he said.
“They are maggots!”
“Yes, they are maggots,” said the man at the bedside. “And they are his only chance for life. Though it may be too late.”
“Are you both insane?” Andromache shouted, struggling in Gershom’s grip. “They are creatures of filth.”
“You are Andromache,” the healer said, his voice displaying no emotion. “Daughter of Ektion, king of Thebe Under Plakos. I know of you, girl. A priestess of the Minotaur. Betrothed to Hektor. Stories of your courage abound in Troy. You saved the king from an assassin. You took up a bow and fought against the Mykene when they attacked Priam’s palace. You helped heal the warrior Argurios.” All the while he spoke, he continued to apply the tiny white worms to the wound. Then he laid a section of gauze across it. “You are fierce and you are proud. But you are also young, and you do not know all there is to know.”
“And you do?” Andromache cried.
“Listen to me!” the healer snapped. “The maggots will eat away the decaying flesh and devour the sickness within it. You are correct; they are creatures of filth. They feast on filth—on the filth that is killing him. Release her, Gershom.”
Andromache sensed the reluctance in the big man, but his hold loosened, and she pulled free of him. “Why should I trust you?” she asked the healer.
“I don’t care if you do or you don’t,” he responded. “I have lived long in this world, and I have seen glory and I have seen horror. I have witnessed the compassion of evil men and the darkness in the hearts of the good. I am not here to convince you, woman. All that matters is that you should know I have no interest in Helikaon’s survival. His world and mine do not interact. Equally, I have no interest in his death. I am here because Gershom came to me. When I leave, you can either trust in my wisdom or clean the maggots from the wound. I care not.”
In the silence that followed she looked into the healer’s broad, fierce face, then swung toward the dying man in the bed. “And he will recover if I leave the worms?”
“I cannot say that. He is very weak. The maggots should have been applied as soon as the flesh began to putrefy. However, Gershom tells me he is a brave man, determined and decisive. Such a man will not die easily.”