Bright dawn light was filtering through the high windows of the chamber, and he could smell cooking smells of corn bread and broth as the royal household broke its fast. His tummy felt empty and the smells made his mouth water, but he held his position, waiting for Sun Woman.
Every day he managed to escape Gray One and seek out Sun Woman. Yet he could not let her see him, for he knew she would be angry. Her cold anger frightened him, though he did not understand the reason for it. In his warm cot at night he would dream that one day Sun Woman would seek him out, that she would open her arms and call to him, and he would run to her. She would take him in her arms and hold him close and speak sweet words.
He heard movement in the megaron and eagerly pressed his face to the door, but it was only some soldiers and Old Red Man. Old Red Man waved his hands about, giving the soldiers orders, then they all went away. Servants passed close by the chamber door, an arm’s length from where he waited, but he knew they would not come in. It was their busiest time of the day.
His legs were growing cramped by the time people started filling the megaron. He lay down again and watched intently. All the old men in their long robes came in, their sandaled feet shuffling on the megaron floor. Then there were soldiers in armor, their ceremonial greaves shining in the morning sunlight. Ladies of the court murmured and giggled. The boy could tell who they were by their toe rings and ankle bracelets. One girl wore an ankle chain with tiny green fish dangling from it. He watched, fascinated. They tinkled as she moved.
Then the hubbub ceased abruptly, and the boy strained to press closer to the door.
Sun Woman walked to the throne and stood for a moment looking around her. She was wearing a long sleeveless tunic of shining white decorated with shiny silver dots. Her golden hair was curled and wound on top of her head and threaded with bright ribbon. As always, the boy was dazzled by her beauty, and he felt a pain in his heart that made him want to cry.
Sun Woman said, “Let us begin. We have much to discuss.” Her voice was like silver bells. She sat down, and the business of the day began. She spoke to Old Red Man and the other old men; then people were brought before her one at a time. One of them was a soldier. His hands were tied. He talked to her angrily, his face red. The boy felt a moment’s fear for Sun Woman, but she spoke quietly, and then other soldiers led the man away.
The day was passing into noon, and the boy was half-asleep when Sun Woman rose from her throne. Looking around the megaron, she asked, “Where is Dexios? The boy must be here for the ritual. Lila!” She gestured impatiently.
Gray One shuffled out from a corner of the megaron, wringing her old hands, her face creased with worry. “I could not find him, lady. I’m sorry. He runs so fast, I can’t keep up with him.”
“Have you searched the stable? He hides in the straw, I understand.”
“Yes, lady. He was not there.”
Behind the door Dexios sat frozen for a few heartbeats, scarcely able to believe his ears. Sun Woman was asking for him? She wanted him? He jumped to his feet, ready to run to her, but in his excitement and confusion he pushed against the oak door instead of pulling, and it closed silently, the locking bar snicking into place. It was shut fast.
He beat his hands against the oak. “I’m here. Here I am!” he cried. But they could not hear him.
Panicking now, he pummeled the door with his small fists. “Here I am! Open the door! Please open the door!”
A soldier, sword in hand, suddenly dragged the door open. Dexios, his face a mask of tears, stood framed in sunlight as everyone in the megaron stared at him.
Falling to his knees in front of Halysia, queen of Dardania, he said, “Here I am, Mama. Don’t be angry.”
The black bullock, bright blood gouting from its throat, fell to the courtyard floor. Its windpipe severed, it made no sound apart from a dying wheeze. Its legs thrashed weakly, then it was still. The priest of Apollo, a young man naked save for a loincloth, handed the ritual knife to his assistant and started to recite the words of worship to the Lord of the Silver Bow.
Halysia closed her mind to the sight and stench of blood and followed the familiar words for mere moments before her thoughts turned once more to her duties.
She noticed the boy was still beside her, and a spasm of irritation ran through her. Why was he here? Why had Lila not taken him back to his room? He was looking up at her from time to time, fair hair flopping back from his face. She always avoided looking at his face, his dark eyes.
She wished Helikaon were there. She had been queen in Dardania for fifteen years, first as a frightened child, then a young mother, then a widow, her heart stricken nearly to death by the murder of her son. Each day she calmly discussed with her counselors the peril that faced them from the north and from the sea. They listened to her plans and suggestions and carried out her orders. But even old Pausanius had no idea of the freezing fear that gripped her heart each time she imagined a second Mykene raid. She saw once again the blood-covered warriors entering her bedchamber, killing her lover Garus, dragging her screaming to the cliff top, her son Dio beside her, and the horror that followed. She remembered the dark-eyed brute, a Hittite she was told, who had raped her. She remembered the agonized cries of her child as he died.
She could not look at the small boy beside her, could not hold his hand, could not embrace him. She wished he had never been born. She wished he would go away. When he was older, she would send him to Troy on some pretext, to be brought up with the royal children there.
She glanced down and saw him looking up at her, an expression on his face she could not interpret. Was he frightened of her? Did he even know who she was? She realized she understood this boy’s thoughts less well than she understood those of the horses she loved. The dark eyes bored into her, full of some unexpressed need, and she turned angrily from their gaze. She signaled to Lila, and the old nursemaid hurried to take the child away.
The ritual ran slowly to its conclusion, and as the priests set about dismembering the bullock, Halysia walked back into the palace, flanked by her senior officers: old Pausanius; his grandnephew, the red-haired Menon; the annoying Trojan Idaios; and his two young aides.
She had only one more duty today: the daily briefing on the course of the war. In an anteroom off the megaron she sank to a couch while the five officers stood around her. The doors were closed against the ears of servants.
“Well, Pausanius, what have you to report today?”
The old general cleared his throat. He was past eighty now and had served the rulers of Dardania for more than sixty years. These days there was always a look of concern on his weather-beaten face.
“No news from Thraki, lady. No messengers have arrived for five days.”
She nodded. A Dardanian infantry force had traveled to Thraki with the Trojan Horse. No news was to be expected this soon, yet every day Halysia feared she would hear they had been wiped out and Mykene and Thrakian rebels were galloping for the straits. But her voice was calm when she asked, “And the horse messengers? My plans have been completed?”
Pausanius hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat again. “Yes, lady. It will be as you order. Within a few days our plans will be complete.”
In Helikaon’s absence, Halysia had taken it upon herself to set up a team of king’s riders throughout Dardania, modeled on those of the Hittites, with armed staging posts a day’s ride apart. Her plan was to have riders carrying messages constantly to and from Troy, sharing intelligence with Priam on the progress of the war. Teams of horsemen would also carry messages to Dardanos’ eastern allies in Phrygia and Zeleia.