So, then, Andromache was the Shield of Thunder, and the Eagle Child who would soar above all city gates would be her son by Prince Hektor. Priam and Hekabe were setting great store by this prophecy. It was obviously false, for all true followers of the gods knew that the Shield of Thunder sported a snake, not the lightning bolt these eastern kingdoms believed. Even so, they believed in the prophecy.
Whether it was true or merely wishful thinking made little difference. Agamemnon knew that such a belief would stiffen the resolve of Priam when the war came. It followed, therefore, that if the woman of the prophecy were to die, then great would be the grief and despair that followed her death. It would also show to Troy, its citizens, and the world that Priam could not protect his own. The games and the wedding celebrations would turn to ash, and the coming war would fall upon a people cowed by disaster and tragedy. It was perfect.
Sitting on the rooftop, he made a decision and summoned Kleitos to him. The tall warrior came immediately.
“Pull all men back from the Palace of Stone Horses. We will not attack Helikaon.”
“But lord, we are almost set.”
“No, the time is not right. Instead have the woman Andromache followed. Find out if she sleeps in the king’s palace or in Hektor’s. How many guards attend her? Does she wander in the marketplaces, where a stray dagger can cut her down? I want to know everything, Kleitos. Everything.”
Back in the great courtyard of Hektor’s palace, where the crew of the Penelope had made camp, the mood was somber. Bias, though through to the final of the javelin, could scarcely lift his arm, and there was a tingling in his fingertips that did not bode well. Leukon was nursing a swelling on his cheek and a small cut over his right eye. His left fist was bruised and swollen, all those wounds coming from a grueling victory over the Mykene champion, a tough and durable fighter with a head made of rock. Leukon’s hopes of becoming champion in the boxing contest were shrinking fast, especially as he had watched Achilles demolish opponents with gruesome ease. Kalliades had lost in the short race, taking an elbow in the face from a canny sprinter from Kretos who had gone on to win. And even the usually cheerful Banokles was downcast, having lost in a savage bout the previous afternoon.
“Could have sworn I had him with that uppercut,” Banokles told Kalliades as they sat in the moonlight. “Big Red said she thought I was unlucky.”
“It was a tight contest,” Kalliades agreed. “However, look on the cheerful side. Had you won, we would have been once more bereft of wealth. As it is, we have fifteen gold rings, thirty-eight silver, and a handful of copper.”
“Not sure about that at all,” Banokles said. “You bet against me.”
“We agreed to follow Leukon’s advice,” Kalliades said wearily. “He would tell me when you were facing an opponent you couldn’t beat. And I would wager on him.”
“Doesn’t feel right,” Banokles grumbled. “You might have told me.”
“If I had told you, what would you have done?”
“I’d have bet on him.”
“And that would certainly not have been right. Anyway, did you really want to come up against Achilles? That’s who your opponent faces in tomorrow’s semifinal. As it is, we have wealth and a roof over our heads, and you have no broken bones.”
Leukon strolled over to them, bearing a jug of wine and filling Banokles’ cup. “A few more weeks of training on your footwork and you would have had him, my friend,” he said, slumping down beside the bruised warrior. “You kept walking into that looping left.”
“Felt like being struck by an avalanche,” Banokles said. “Looking forward to seeing Achilles taking a few of those blows. Wipe the smug smile off his face.”
Leukon shook his head. “Achilles will finish him in a few heartbeats,” he said gloomily. “And that looping left won’t touch him. Never seen a big man move so fast.”
“You’ll beat him in the final,” Banokles said. Leukon did not reply, and the three men sat quietly, drinking their wine.
Odysseus, with his five bodyguards in tow, came through the gates and crossed the courtyard without speaking to anyone.
“I’m going to visit Red,” Banokles said. “Hand me a few of those silver rings, Kalliades.”
Kalliades opened the bulging pouch at his side and pulled out several rings, which he dropped into Banokles’ outstretched palm. “Not like you to offer your favors to only one woman,” he observed.
“Never was a woman like Red,” Banokles replied happily, draining the last of his wine and setting off for the gates.
They watched him go, and then Kalliades turned to Leukon. “Banokles is a man without cares. Unlike you, it seems.”
Leukon said nothing for a while, and the two men sat in silence. Finally the blond sailor spoke, his voice almost a whisper. “Achilles has no weaknesses. He has speed, strength, and enormous stamina. And he can take a punch. I saw him demolish an opponent yesterday. I fought the same man last summer. Took me an afternoon to wear him down. Achilles finished him in less time than it takes to drink a cup of wine. The truth is I do not have the skill to take him, and that is hard for me to admit.” Filling his cup, he drank deeply.
Kalliades clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, my friend. With luck you won’t win the semifinal, and your opponent will have to face Achilles.”
“Why would I not win the semifinal? I have fought the man three times. I have the measure of him.”
“I was jesting.”
“Leukon is not the man to jest with,” Odysseus said, joining them. “How is the fist?” he asked the big fighter.
“The extra day’s rest will help, as will the strapping for the fight.” Leukon glanced across the courtyard to where Bias was rubbing olive oil into his shoulder. “The same cannot be said for Bias. His shoulder is aflame and swollen badly.”
“I will speak to him later,” Odysseus said, “but now you and I need to talk. Come with me.”
Kalliades watched the Ugly King and the fighter move into the palace, then strolled across to where Bias was kneading his injured muscles. “Here, let me,” he said, taking the phial of oil and pouring it into his palms.
“Thank you,” Bias said. “Can’t reach the point by the shoulder blade.”
Bias’ skin felt hot to the touch, the muscles around the shoulder inflamed and swollen. Gently Kalliades kneaded them, easing out knots and adhesions.
“I saw Banokles heading out,” Bias said. “Gone whoring again?”
Kalliades chuckled. “It is what he does best.”
“That’s what I miss about youth,” Bias said. “That and the fact I could throw a damned javelin without ripping every muscle in my back.”
“Even so, only three men outthrew you.”
“They’ll all outthrow me tomorrow.”
“Perhaps not,” Kalliades said. “We’ll soak some cloths in cold water and take some of the heat from those muscles.”
Later, as the two men sat in the cool of the night, Bias asked: “Have you thought what you’ll do when the games are over?”
“Head south, probably. Down to Thebe Under Plakos and then perhaps on to Lykia. Join a mercenary regiment.”
“Will you be taking the girl with you?”
“No. She will be staying in Troy with a friend.”