Kassandra was sleeping on a couch, but she awoke when Andromache entered. “I was dreaming of dolphins,” the girl said, yawning.
Andromache sat beside her. “You spoke earlier of my sickness. You said it was not the fish.”
Kassandra leaned in and smiled. “It is the Eagle Child,” she whispered. “The son of Helikaon.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE DEATH OF A KING
The palace Agamemnon had been assigned overlooked the temple of Hermes and the bay beyond. The location was excellent, but the standard of workmanship, Agamemnon saw, was not of the highest quality. The finish on the dressed stone was clumsy, and many of the carvings seemed to have been completed in haste. Also, the architect must have been a man of little imagination, for huge windows had been set in the main apartments upstairs, facing west into the setting sun. In the height of summer the rooms would be like ovens.
Agamemnon sat now in the spacious walled garden, three guards close by, as his men searched through the fifteen rooms. The Mykene king did not expect them to find assassins hidden anywhere, but the search alone would keep his men focused on the dangers he faced. All the food in the kitchens had been removed and dumped, the wine poured away. Fresh food was being purchased in the market. Agamemnon gazed balefully over the garden. Garishly colored flowers had been planted, and their scent would draw insects.
“Whose palace is this?” he asked his aide.
“The king’s son, Polites.” Kleitos winced as he spoke, lifting his hand to massage his jaw. Three teeth had been broken when the renegade Banokles had attacked him. Two had been successfully pulled, but the third had snapped off at the gum line. The angry stump ached constantly.
A soldier wearing the long black cloak of a Follower entered the garden. “The rooms are clear, Agamemnon King.”
“Check the roof,” Agamemnon told him.
“Yes, lord.”
Kleitos waited until the man had left and then asked, “You think Priam would hide an assassin on the roof?”
Agamemnon ignored the question. “What did you find out about Helikaon?”
“He is recovering, my lord. He is at his palace in the lower town.”
“And well guarded?”
“First reports are that he has nine servants, all men. But no Trojans guard him, and he brought no Dardanian soldiers with him to Troy. He has one companion, a big man named Gershom. It is said he’s a Gyppto.”
Agamemnon leaned back in his chair. How many assassination attempts could one man survive? Kolanos had had him trapped at Blue Owl Bay, but Helikaon had slipped by the killers dressed as a simple soldier. Then, the previous autumn, a group of warriors had confronted him in the grounds of the temple of Hermes. Helikaon had survived that, too. Now even the dagger of the legendary Karpophorus had failed to kill him. “He is blessed by luck,” he said.
“It is said that he is the son of Aphrodite herself,” Kleitos said, in a low voice. “Perhaps he is protected by the goddess.”
Agamemnon controlled his rising anger and waited for several moments so that his voice would appear calm and controlled. “His mother was a madwoman, Kleitos, who chewed too much meas root. She threw herself from a cliff top and was killed on the rocks below. And do not tell me the story of how she was seen flying from the cliff to distant Olympos. I have spoken to a man who gathered up her remains for burial. One eye was hanging from her shattered skull, and her jaw had been torn off.”
“Yes, my king. I was only repeating what I had heard.”
“Is the Thrakian here yet?”
“Yes, my lord. King Eioneus arrived yesterday. He is lodged in a palace on the outskirts of the city. He brought two warhorses with him and desired to be close to the open hills so that he could ride them.”
“How many retainers?”
“Thirty soldiers and his son, Rhesos. There is also the Thrakian contingent for the games—some twenty men.”
Agamemnon considered the information. “Eioneus is a man of routine. Have him watched, then ride out over the route he chooses. There will be a perfect spot somewhere for a man to lie in wait.”
“We have some fine archers with us, my lord. Okotos can hit a bird on the wing.”
“No, not a bowman. Use a slinger. Eioneus is an old man. A fall from a running horse could kill him. Even better if the stone strikes unseen by those with him. His death would then seem ill fortune.”
As the light began to fade, Agamemnon rose and entered the palace. Lamps had been lit, and he could smell roasting meat from the kitchen. A soldier brought him a goblet of watered wine, and Agamemnon drank sparingly. Some time after dusk King Peleus arrived. The man was angry, his face flushed.
“By the gods, they have given me a hovel,” he complained. “Close to the dyemakers. The stink is stomach-churning.”
“Where is Achilles?”
“He and two of his companions are out running in the hills.”
“Do they have guards riding with them?”
Peleus laughed. “You think anyone would be foolish enough to attack Achilles? He would tear out their lungs.”
“Or an arrow could pierce his,” Agamemnon pointed out.
“You think Priam would break the truce?”
“Not all men are as honorable as you and I,” Agamemnon said.
Day by day Helikaon’s strength grew. On his return to his own palace in the lower town he had barely been able to climb the stairs, and then only after stopping several times to catch his breath. His once lean and powerful frame was now skeletally thin, his muscles wasted. However, the absence of infection allowed his appetite to return, and Gershom supervised the preparation of his meals. There were no sweetmeats, no wines, but an abundance of fruits and fresh meats. “My grandfather was a great warrior in his day,” he told Helikaon, “and he was wounded more than twenty times. He maintained that an injured body needed simple fare: water to flush through the system, fruits and meats for strength. And like a fine horse the body needed to work in order to grow stronger.”
Soon Helikaon’s skin began to lose its ghostly sheen, the dark rings under his eyes disappearing. Gershom borrowed two horses from Priam’s stables, and the two men rode bareback over the hills. The ride tired Helikaon, and Gershom led them down through several fields to a farmhouse where a well had been sunk. Tethering their mounts, the companions sat in the shade of the house. Helikaon was holding his hand over his wound. There were no bandages now, and when he raised his arm, the deep scar was red and vivid.
“How is the pain?” Gershom asked.
“Almost gone. But the wound itches.” He glanced at Gershom. “How could you allow a stranger to cover me in maggots?” he asked with a weary smile.
“I was bored,” Gershom told him. “I thought it would be entertaining.”
Helikaon leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I have had no dreams since that last night,” he said. “In a way I miss them. It was as if I could float across the world in an instant. I thought the room was enchanted. Day would pass into night and back to day in a heartbeat.”
“From what I heard, when you were delirious, your dreams were all of blood and death and pain.”
“Mostly they were. But I also dreamed I saw Argurios and Laodike. That was like balm upon the spirit. And I…” He fell silent.
“What?” Gershom asked.
Helikaon sighed. “I had a healing dream. Andromache was in it. It felt as if I were being lifted from a dark pit into bright sunshine.”
Gershom glanced at his friend. Helikaon was staring into the distance, and Gershom could feel a sense of sadness emanating from him. Why this should be was mystifying. Helikaon had returned from the shores of Hades. He was a young king with everything to live for. He had a beautiful wife waiting for him in Dardania and a fleet of ships to sail the Great Green, bringing him wealth. Yet not once since he had begun his recovery had he laughed or made a jest.