“Almost. You are a curious mixture, Andromache. One moment you are speaking with authority about the nature of kings, and the next…” He hesitated, then shook his head. “You accused me of being naďve. Surely you must understand that the truce is illusory. Everyone knows it. Priam will have soldiers everywhere. All the family will walk surrounded by bodyguards. Agamemnon will have his Followers with him at all times, hands on daggers, ready to strike down anyone who gets too close to their king. It will be a time of tension and menace. Helikaon will be a prime target. Of that you can have no doubt. Once he is stronger, have him taken to his own palace.” He pushed himself ponderously to his feet.
“Perhaps he should go back to Dardania,” she said.
“He won’t do that. That would signify weakness to his enemies.”
“And seeing a stick-thin man tottering around in the sunlight will make them gasp at his strength?”
Antiphones laughed with genuine good humor. “You have a tongue on you like a whip. I am chastened, and I flee from your company.”
Andromache smiled. “It was good to talk with you, Antiphones. I hope you will visit me again. As long, of course, as it is considered seemly for a future brother to attend me in the absence of my betrothed.”
“Oh, no one will worry about me,” he said brightly. “It is well known that my tastes have never been for women. Pies, pastries, and handsome young men. No, Andromache, we do not have to concern ourselves with seemly behavior.” Stepping forward, he kissed her lightly on both cheeks. “And remember what I said. Speak to Gershom. He is a fighting man and will know how to protect Helikaon.”
The whore known as Big Red watched the rising pandemonium on the beach and laughed. A fistfight would break out soon, maybe several, she thought as the beachmasters fought a losing battle to organize the incoming galleys. The other whores who had gathered were not amused. Bad tempers meant poor business, and the women had believed there would be gold and silver rings to be earned with so many ships arriving together. In fact, as Big Red had surmised almost as soon as she had reached the beach, there were just too many ships. Few of the sailors and even fewer of the passengers were in any mood to let loose the one-eyed snake.
Red moved away from the line of whores, looking for a spot in the shade. Later that night there would be gold aplenty to be made in the streets of Troy. For now she might as well rest and enjoy the entertainment. Reaching a low stone bench, she brushed her hand across its surface, scanning it for bird shit. Her red gown was new, and she had no wish to see it stained. Satisfied the bench was clean, she eased her considerable weight down onto it. The relief was instant. Her left knee had been paining her recently, and long periods of standing caused the joint to stiffen and swell. Comfortable now, she watched the chaos on the long beach.
As far as the eye could see in both directions the Bay of Troy was packed with vessels large and small, and scores more were gliding in quietly through the afternoon mist. There was no room for them all, and the beachmasters, backed up by soldiers, were forcing some boats off the sand to make way for incomers. Those leaving were impeding those rowing in, and the clash of oars and cursing of sailors echoed around the waters.
She heard the angry complaints of fishermen, furious at losing berths their families had used for generations, being forced to travel far up the Scamander to beach. Foreign captains shouted scorn at the beachmasters when told to disembark their important passengers and then return the way they had come to beach in the Bay of Herakles, far from the city. Merchants and peddlers who had just arrived were milling about, uncertain where to go, anxious about their cargoes in the heaving throng.
Red found it all highly amusing. Clouds of flying insects from the low marshes about the bay were buzzing around the sweating, red-faced beachmasters, who were trying to maintain order and placate tempers while rapidly losing their own. Red was never troubled by insects. They did not like the heavy perfume with which she doused her henna-dyed hair.
“You poxy son of a river rat!”
Red watched with delight as a Gyppto mechant took a swing at the beachmaster Dresos. Fat Dresos tried to dodge but lost his footing and sprawled in the sand. Soldiers stepped forward and prodded the furious Gyppto back to his ship at spearpoint.
Others joined in the laughter as Dresos got to his feet, but he swung angrily on the red-headed whore.
“Shut your mouth, you filthy bitch!”
This just made her laugh harder, but one of the young soldiers stepped over to her.
“Better get back beyond the wall, Red. Likely to be trouble before long. Wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Sweet of you, Ipheus,” she said, and felt a sinking of the spirits. The young man had treated her with polite concern, but there had been no hint of desire as he spoke to her. He had not looked into her violet eyes and blushed. He had not licked his lips or shifted from foot to foot, awed by her sensuality. Red glanced down at the flowing crimson gown she wore to disguise her growing weight. Once—and not so long ago—she had been desirable. But those had been the days before she became known as Big Red. She sighed.
“Are you all right, Red?” Ipheus asked.
“Come ride me and find out,” she replied with a practiced wink.
The soldier laughed. “Couldn’t afford you, Red,” he said, then moved off toward another group of angry men.
The young man’s compliment did not lift her mood, and Red decided to go home and drown her sorrows in wine. She never had been beautiful. Her large and powerful frame precluded that. But there had once been power in her violet eyes, in the days when the gods had blessed her with radiant youth. Now that youth was passing. Many of the older whores sought out husbands in the autumn of their careers: old soldiers or lonely merchants. Red wanted no husband, as she had never wanted children.
She began the long walk up toward the city and paused. The noise on the beach had faded away. All argument and cursing had ceased. It seemed even the seabirds had stopped their screeching. The crowds on the beach were all looking toward the bay. In the ominous silence Red realized she could hear her heart beating.
Three black galleys were moving slowly through the mass of ships. Oarsmen on other vessels hurriedly backed up, making room for them. No one complained or shouted insults as the galleys headed for shore, ahead of those which had been waiting impatiently since midday.
As the first galley closed on the beach, black oars were raised. The ship glided on for a few heartbeats, then the keel bumped quietly on the sand.
Red walked back down to where Ipheus was standing silently, his expression tense.
“You’d think the god of the dead was arriving,” she said.
“And you wouldn’t be far wrong. Those are Mykene vessels. Agamemnon is here.”
Agamemnon, a long black cloak over his thin shoulders, his black chin beard jutting like a sword blade, stood on the prow and gazed up at the golden city of Troy. His dark, brooding eyes scanned the high walls, his expression unreadable. Beside him stood the fleshy, dissolute Peleus, king of Thessaly, and his son Achilles, a huge black-haired young warrior dressed in a white knee-length tunic edged with gold thread.
“See how they fear you,” Peleus said enviously. For a moment only Agamemnon had no idea what he meant; then he realized that the crews of the waiting ships had fallen silent and no one complained as the galleys of Mykene eased through to the beach. He was not uplifted by the knowledge. It was no more than he expected.