The blacks came out of the turn and powered into a gallop. The hapless Supolos was directly in their path. The outside gelding leaped across his flailing body, but the chariot wheel struck his neck with awful force, and all in the crowd knew instantly he had been killed.
Menestheos raced to the final turn just ahead of Ajax and executed a perfect swinging maneuver. Then he lashed the black horses into one last surge for the finish. Ajax could not close the gap and finished second, the other seven charioteers trailing without mishap. Only then did stretcher bearers run onto the track to retrieve the body of Supolos.
“My luck is cursed,” Dios said.
“Not as badly as the Lykian’s,” Helikaon pointed out.
“Menestheos could have avoided him,” Antiphones observed. “He only had to rein back and swerve.”
“Would have cost him the race,” Dios said.
Helikaon waited to applaud as Menestheos received the laurel crown, then he and Gershom made their way down the columned walkway to the stadium entrance. Gershom continued to watch the crowd around them with suspicion.
The final of the javelin tourney was under way as they arrived. It was won by a Rhodian with an enormous throw, but Helikaon was delighted to see his old friend Bias finish second. The crew of the Penelope surged around him, lifting him to their shoulders as if he had won. As Bias was being carried aloft, he spotted Helikaon and waved, grinning broadly. Helikaon lifted his hand and smiled back. Sadness touched him. Will we both be smiling when next we meet? he wondered.
On the far side of the stadium was the second royal enclosure. Helikaon and Gershom eased their way through the crowd until they were close to it. Then Helikaon stopped. Two gilded thrones had been placed at the front, and seated upon them, beneath gold-embroidered canopies, were Hektor and Andromache. Her father, Ektion, a slender man with deep-set wary eyes, was seated at her right, while Priam sat beside his son.
Helikaon stood silently staring at the woman he loved. She was wearing an ankle-length gown of shimmering yellow and a belt of gold. Her long red hair had been bound with golden wire and was held back from her face by a golden circlet upon her brow. Her beauty struck his heart like a lance.
“Are you going in?” Gershom asked.
“No, you would not be allowed to enter. We will stay together,” Helikaon replied.
Gershom chuckled. “Believe me, my friend, I would prefer you to go in. Walking around with you, watching for assassins, is shredding my nerves. I will meet you here after Achilles has won his bout.”
Taking a deep, calming breath, Helikaon walked past the guards and entered the enclosure. Priam saw him and smiled a greeting. Seeing the king brought back the events of the previous night. Odysseus had responded to the taunts of Priam with words of war. And in that moment, Helikaon knew, the world had changed. He remembered then the vision of his wife, Halysia, of flames and battle and a fleet of ships on a sea of blood.
A sense of unreality gripped him now. No more than fifty paces distant the kings of the west were in their own enclosure, watching athletes and joking among themselves: Odysseus, Agamemnon, Idomeneos, and the Athenian king Menestheos, still sporting his laurel crown. Close by were Peleus of Thessaly, Nestor of Pylos, Pelemos the Rhodian ruler, and tall Agapenor of Arcadia. These men would leave Troy and sail back to their homelands, there to gather armies and return. There would be no friendly contests then, no competition for laurel wreaths. Armored in bronze, sharp swords in their hands, they would seek to slaughter or enslave the very people who now watched happily as their future killers raced against one another. As the footrace was won by a slender Mykene, the crowd cheered and clapped their hands. They could be cheering the man who would one day slit their throats and rape their wives.
Helikaon eased back to the rear of the enclosure, where servants stood ready to offer cool drinks to the nobles. Taking a cup, he sipped the contents. It was the same mixture of fruits and spices being served in the hippodrome. Then he saw Andromache rise from her seat and walk back toward him. His heart began to race, his breath catching in his throat, his mouth instantly dry. Andromache accepted a cup of water from a servant, then, without acknowledging Helikaon, started to walk back to her seat.
“You look beyond beautiful,” Helikaon said.
She paused, her green eyes observing him gravely. “I am happy to see your strength improving, King Aeneas.”
Andromache’s tone was cool, and despite her physical closeness, he felt as distant from her as the moon from the sun. He wanted to find some words to bring her close, to make her smile at least, but he could think of nothing. Just then Priam moved into his line of sight. He crossed to Andromache and slid his arm around her waist, broad fingers resting on the curve of her hip. Helikaon felt his stomach tighten at the familiarity and was surprised to see Andromache accept the touch without complaint.
“Are you enjoying your day, my daughter?” Priam asked, leaning over to kiss her hair.
“In truth, I am looking forward to returning to the farm tonight.”
“I thought you might stay at the palace,” he said.
“That is kind of you, but I am weary. The farm is quiet and cool, and I enjoy it there.”
Helikaon saw the disappointment in Priam. The king’s gaze swung to him. “You are looking better, Aeneas. It is good. What did you think of the words of Odysseus last night? You think I should fear his flea bite?”
“Yes, I think you should,” Helikaon told him. “Of all the enemies to choose, you have picked the most dangerous in Odysseus.”
“I did not choose him,” Priam snapped. “He slew my blood kin. Your own father. I would have thought that would have earned your hatred.”
“He is my enemy now,” Helikaon agreed. “That will have to suffice, for I could never hate him.”
“I thought the dagger had entered your chest, not sliced off your balls,” Priam hissed, his pale eyes glinting with anger.
Helikaon’s reply was icy. “I see your desire to make new enemies has not yet been sated. Have you not enough already, Uncle? Or do you seek to drive me into the camp of Agamemnon?”
“True! True!” Priam replied, forcing a smile. “We should not fall out, Aeneas. My words were hasty and ill judged.” With a final lingering caress of Andromache’s waist he moved back to his seat to watch the games.
Andromache lifted her cup of water and sipped it. Then she glanced at Helikaon. “You are truly an enemy now to Odysseus?” she asked.
“Not from choice,” he said, “for I love him deeply.”
“And he will be a great enemy,” she said, her voice low.
“Indeed he will. Agamemnon is blood-hungry and greedy. Odysseus is a thinker and a planner. The war he brings will be many times more threatening than anything Agamemnon could initiate.”
“I spoke to Hekabe before she died. She said he was a threat. I did not believe it. When will you be returning to Dardanos?”
“Tomorrow, after the games are concluded. Unless Agamemnon has other plans. Mykene spies have been circling my palace. Assassins will probably follow.”
She paled then, and fear showed in her eyes. “Why do you tell me this?”
He leaned toward her. “To see if there is any trace of concern in your eyes. We declared our love for one another, Andromache. The Fates decreed we could not be together, but that love has not died—at least not in me. Yet you have become cold, and I know no reason why that should be.”
“It is not seemly to talk of love on my wedding day,” she said, and he thought he detected sorrow in her voice. “I know what is in my heart. I know what my soul cries out for. But I also know I cannot have what I desire, and to think of it and to talk of it does not help ease the pain. Go home to your wife, Helikaon, and I will return to my husband.” She turned away, paused, then swung back to face him. “I do not worry about these assassins, Helikaon,” she said. “I know you. You can be kind, and you care for those close to you. But you are also a killer, cold and deadly. When they come, you will slay them without mercy.” And then she turned away.