“Do not think me a fool for being so tricked, Andromache,” she said. “It was the medicine that made me stupid. Ah, well, you have avenged your sister, and that is honorable. I would have done the same in your place. You see, I was right. We are very alike.” She looked into Andromache’s green eyes and saw a flash of anger there.
“If I believed that to be true, Hekabe, I would have taken the poison myself. This is not for Paleste, though perhaps it should have been, for she was sweet and kind and loving and deserved better than to be drawn into your world of deceit, treachery, and murder. This is for Odysseus, a fine man, good and proud, and for Antiphones, who is my friend, and for who knows how many other innocents your evil would seek to destroy.”
“Innocents?” Hekabe replied, her voice rich with contempt. “On the mountains of ambition there are no innocents. You think Priam would still be king if I had viewed the world through such naďve eyes? You think Troy would have survived against the avarice of powerful kings had I not dealt with them, bribed them, seduced them, befriended them, and killed them? You want to live among the innocents, Andromache, among the sheep? Yes, in every peasant village they will live their loving lives, among true friends, and they will sing and dance together on feast days and weep when their friends and loved ones die. Sweet little sheep. Brings a tear to my eye. We are not sheep, stupid girl! We are lions. We are wolves. We devour the sheep, and we rend and tear at each other. Just as you have done—and will do again when needs must.”
“You are wrong, Hekabe,” Andromache told her. “I may be stupid, as you say, to believe in honor and friendship and loyalty without price. But these are virtues to be cherished, for without them we are no more than beasts roaming the land.”
“Yet you pretended to befriend me,” Hekabe said, her mind beginning to swim. “You lied and you cheated your way into my favor. Is this honor?”
“I did not pretend, Mother,” she heard Andromache say, her voice breaking. “I have liked you from the moment we met, and I admire your strength and your courage. May the gods grant you rest and peace.”
“Rest and peace! You foolish, foolish girl. If Odysseus lives, then Troy will face ruin.” Hekabe fell back into her chair, her eyes staring up at the blue of the sky. Her thoughts were of plans wrecked on the shores of other people’s weakness and error. And then she found herself once more upon the deck of the Scamandrios, and up ahead she could see a golden figure shining with a dazzling light. She thought it must be Priam, and her joy soared. “Where do we sail today, my lord?” she whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE SACKER OF CITIES
A full day of mourning was declared by Priam. All contests ceased, and the market traders were refused permission to sell their wares. A hundred bulls, sixty goats, and two hundred sheep were sacrificed to Hades, Lord of the Underworld, with the meat then hauled off to feed the thousands thronging the hillsides around the city. Hekabe’s body was carried back into the palace, wrapped in robes of gold, and laid in state in the queen’s apartments.
The high priest of the temple of Zeus maintained that even the heavens wept, for dark clouds gathered, with rain pouring down for most of the day.
Some priests whispered that the death of the queen was an ill omen for the wedding of her son, but those views were not widely spoken.
In the palace of Polites, the Mykene king, Agamemnon, struggled to conceal his delight at the news. Hekabe was a fearsome opponent whose agents had caused the deaths of a number of Mykene spies. In the past her counsel had checked many of Priam’s more rash decisions. Without her Priam was weakened, and Agamemnon’s invasion plans could move ahead more smoothly.
The doors in the main room had been closed and guarded for most of the afternoon, and the words spoken there could not be overheard. The gathered kings talked of logistics and supply, the movements of armies, and the defenses of the city.
Agamemnon listened as they spoke, offering little. He knew how the war should be fought, and most of his plans were already moving forward in secret. There was, however, no harm in letting others put forward ideas, allowing them to believe they were more important to the project than was the actuality. Idomeneos had spoken at length, as had Peleus.
Odysseus had said little, nor had he offered any objections to the wilder ideas of Idomeneos. Still, even if Odysseus was more the storyteller than the strategist, at least he had drawn the others in, and more would follow. There were now sixteen rulers pledged to the war, with 470 ships and close to sixty thousand fighting men. Agamemnon glanced at Idomeneos. There was still a chance the Kretan king would draw back at the last, bribed by Priam’s gold. Idomeneos would always be for sale to the highest bidder. It was the nature of the man, bred as he was from peasants. Agamemnon transferred his gaze to the elderly Nestor. He was not of peasant stock, yet his mind also sang with the music of commerce. The war would cost him in trade goods and gold. But he would join with them, especially now that Odysseus had declared himself.
What a boon that had been. The Ugly King, accompanied by five bodyguards, had arrived at the palace the previous evening. Agamemnon had invited him in, and the two men had walked through to a small side room.
“I cannot stay this evening,” Odysseus said. “There are matters I must attend to. I came merely to tell you that Ithaka, with fifty ships and two thousand men, will be available to you, Agamemnon.”
Agamemnon stood silent a moment, looking into his eyes. Then he said, “That is good to hear, though I must say I am surprised.”
“We will talk more,” Odysseus said grimly. “Do you have plans for tomorrow eve?”
“None that cannot be changed.”
“Then I shall come here with Idomeneos and Nestor.”
“They are also with us?”
“They will be.”
Agamemnon thrust out his hand. “I bid you welcome, Ithaka,” he said. “You are a brother now to the Mykene. Your troubles are our troubles, your dreams our dreams.”
Odysseus took his hand. The grip was strong. “I am grateful, Mykene,” he replied solemnly. “With this bonding of hands your enemies become our enemies, your friends our friends.”
Inside the main room now the king of Thessaly was drunk, his head lolling back on his chair. “Farewell to the old witch,” he said, raising his cup.
“Do not gloat, my friend,” Agamemnon said. “Even in the midst of enmity we should feel some sympathy for Priam, for it was said he had great love for her.”
“A pox on sympathy,” Peleus muttered. “The old hag outlived her time.”
“We all do,” Odysseus said. “Some sooner than others.”
Peleus sat up in his chair, his bleary eyes on the Ithakan king. “What does that mean?” he snarled.
“Did it seem I was speaking in some obscure Hittite dialect?” Odysseus countered, his tone bored.
Peleus observed him malevolently. “I never liked you, Odysseus,” he said.
“Hardly surprising. You’ve never liked anyone this side of puberty.”
Peleus surged out of his chair, scrabbling for his dagger. Agamemnon moved with speed to stand between the men. “Now, that is enough, my friend,” he said, grasping Peleus by the wrist. “It is not necessary for us to like one another. There is a common enemy who requires our focus.” He felt Peleus relax and sensed the man was grateful to have been blocked. The Mykene king turned to Odysseus. “Your mood has been foul all evening. Walk with me in the garden. The air will clear your mind.”