There was no one close by, but even so the black man leaned in close, dropping his voice. “She may not be welcomed by this friend. You know that?”
“They are more than just friends,” Kalliades answered.
“I know that, lad. The crew does not know who Piria is, but Odysseus tells me that you do. The temple on Thera was built with Trojan gold. Priam is its patron. You think he will allow a runaway to live free in Troy? As long as she is here, she will be a danger to any who give her shelter.”
“What are you suggesting, Bias?”
“I know you are fond of her. Take her with you. Far from the city, where she will never be recognized.”
Kalliades looked into the black man’s broad face. “And this concern is purely for Piria?”
“No, lad. It is for me and the other lads on the Penelope. If she’s captured in Troy and questioned, then we will be implicated. I have no wish to be burned alive.”
Kalliades fell silent. In his recent conversations with Piria she had spoken of Andromache with enthusiasm and love, her face shining with happiness and anticipation. What would be the effect if she was rejected by her? Or, worse, if Hektor’s guards took her into custody? The thought of such an outcome left him sick with fear. She had great courage, but her personality was fragile. How many more betrayals could she take?
“She will not be captured,” he said at last. “I will keep her safe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A GATHERING OF WOLVES
Priam sat alone in the queen’s apartments, the shrouded body of Hekabe laid out on a bier at the center of the main room. The scent of heavy perfumes rose from the linen, masking the stench of death. Priam could not approach the body. He sat on the far side of the room, a half-empty wine cup in his hand. As was the funeral custom of the house of Ilos, his white tunic was rent at the shoulder, and gray ash had been rubbed into the right sleeve and sprinkled over his hair.
Priam drank the last of the wine. He was aware of the presence of Hekabe in the room, standing there, staring down at him. He could feel her disapproval.
“I should have come to you,” he whispered. “I know that. But I could not. It was more than I could bear. You understand that, Hekabe. I know you do. You were once the most beautiful of women. I wanted to remember you that way and not as some cancer-eaten hag, all yellow skin and gleaming bone.”
He gave a furtive glance toward the body and closed his eyes, seeing again the glorious days of youth, when it seemed they were both immortal. He recalled when these apartments had been finished and he and Hekabe had stood on the balcony, looking out over the city. She had been pregnant then, with Hektor. “There is nothing we cannot do, Priam,” she had told him. “We are the mighty!”
“We were the mighty,” he said aloud. “But now you are gone from me, and the wolves are gathering. They are all in the megaron below, waiting for your funeral feast. They will come to me, offering their condolences, their fine wishes. They will stare at me through hooded eyes, and they will sense my weakness. Agamemnon will be jubilant. The ghastly Peleus, the greedy Idomeneos, the wily Nestor, and the cunning Odysseus.” He rose and walked back and forth, not looking at the shrouded body. He gazed into the depths of the empty wine cup, then hurled it against the wall. “Where are you now that I need you?” he shouted. Then he sagged back into his chair. An image flickered into his mind of Andromache disrobing before him, turning her back to him as the gown fell to the floor. He saw himself stepping forward, his hands sliding over the soft skin. The same image had been haunting him for days now. He woke to it, walked with it, fell asleep to it.
“My mind is clouded, Hekabe,” he said, trying to push it away. “I took Andromache to my bed, as you knew I would. I thought that would end the constant need for her. It did not. It fired my blood in a way I have not known since… since you and I were young. Is that what you hoped for? Was this your gift to me? She is so like you, my love. I see you in her eyes, hear you in her voice.” He fell silent, then staggered across the room to where the wine jug stood on a small table. Hefting it, he drank deeply, red liquid swilling over his cheeks and dripping onto his tunic. “Now she will not come to me. She reminds me of the agreement we made. Once in every rising moon. She reminds me! Am I not the king? Is it not for me to make, or break, agreements?” He rubbed at his eyes. “No, I cannot think of her now. I must consider the wolves. They are becoming a pack, and I must break it, separate them. I can bribe Idomeneos and some of the smaller petty chieftains. Nestor may still be reasoned with. The rest I must find a way to intimidate. And Odysseus must die.”
He heard the door and swung around to see his son, fat Antiphones, enter quietly. “What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Can’t you see I am talking to your mother?”
“I can, Father, as can others, but I fear she cannot hear you.”
Priam swung toward the body, lost his balance, and began to fall. Antiphones grabbed him, hauling him upright, then half carried him to a couch. “Get me wine,” the king ordered.
Antiphones shook his head. “You have enemies coming to your hall. This is not a time for such maudlin behavior. I will fetch you water, and you will drink it and piss away this weakness. Then you will come down to your guests as the mighty king of Troy and not as a drunken sot bleating for his poor dead wife.”
The words cut through Priam’s grief, and his hand snaked out, grabbing Antiphones by the tunic and dragging him across the couch. “You dare speak to me in this way? By thunder, I’ll have your tongue ripped out!”
“And that is the Priam we need to see now,” Antiphones said softly.
Priam blinked, his anger fading. Drawing in a deep breath, he released Antiphones. His son was right. The room began to swim, and he leaned back into the couch.
“Fetch water,” he mumbled.
Antiphones took hold of his arm. “Let us get out to the balcony. The air will help clear your head.”
Priam managed to stand and, supported by his son, staggered out into the moonlight. Once there, he leaned over the balcony rail and vomited. His head began to pound, but he felt the effects of the wine weakening. Antiphones brought him a jug of water, which he forced himself to drink. After a while he took a deep breath and pushed himself upright. “I am myself again,” he said. “Now let us walk among the wolves.”
The kings of west and east sat at the great table in Priam’s megaron beneath flickering torches, in the shadows of gilded statues of Trojan heroes. Servants bearing golden trays on which stood golden cups brimming with wine moved along the huge horseshoe-shaped table. Priam still had not appeared, and the kings were growing restive. The Athenian king, Menestheos, was the first to complain. The stocky red-bearded Athenian had a notoriously quick temper. “How much longer will he keep us waiting?” he growled. “This is intolerable!”
“Be calm, my friend,” Agamemnon said from across the table. “The man is in despair and not thinking clearly. He does not intend to insult us, I am sure. In his grief he has merely forgotten his manners.”
Alongside him the golden-haired Hektor reddened. “I thank you for your courtesy, Agamemnon,” he said coldly, “but my father needs no one to apologize for him.”
Odysseus was sitting quietly, close to the great doors. He had no wish to be at this feast and had felt no affection for the queen. She was, he knew, a poisonous mixture: the smile of a siren, the eyes of a leopard, and the heart of a snake. Odysseus did not mourn her passing, nor had he any desire to offer platitudes to Priam. However, courtesy dictated he be there for the oration. So he would listen politely as the high priest of Athene extolled the queen’s countless virtues and watch as they sliced the throats of seven white doves, which would then, so fools believed, fly to distant Olympos and regale the gods with the story of Hekabe’s life. What kind of gods would not already know of Hekabe’s life and all the deceits and treacheries that stained it? Such a stupid ritual, Odysseus thought.