“Matters more seemly for the ears of women?”
Dios laughed. “You are not like most women, Andromache, and I will not be drawn into such a pit of scorpions.”
“Then tell me of Thraki.”
“The problem is both tribal and historical,” he replied. “There are several tribes occupying Thrakian lands, but the two most prominent are the Kikones and the Idonoi. Before you were born, Eioneus—a Kikones king—conquered the eastern tribes of the Idonoi, absorbing their lands into a greater Thrakian federation. To ensure his success he slaughtered thousands. Most of the Idonoi leaders were executed, and the royal line was wiped out. Eioneus tempered this savagery with generosity to the captured cities, allowing them some self-rule. And he also established profitable trade routes that brought wealth to the Idonoi, thus securing an uneasy peace for a generation. However, Eioneus’ death in Troy during your wedding games unleashed old tribal rivalries. The Idonoi are now backed by Agamemnon and, spurred by him, have risen against Rhesos, seeking to win back their ancestral lands and be free of Kikones domination.”
“To be replaced,” Andromache said, “by Mykene domination.”
“Indeed, but old hatreds sit deep.”
“Hektor speaks highly of Rhesos,” Andromache said. “Surely the two of them can conquer?”
Dios considered the question. “Rhesos is a fine young man and would be a good king if his people would let him. But even without outside agitators and Mykene reinforcements the civil war would have been hard to win. And with enemy troops pouring in from Thessaly and Makedonia, his situation is dire. Already loyal troops are outnumbered five to one. Hektor wants Rhesos to hold the plain of Thraki and the land east of the river Nestos as a buffer between the Mykene and the Hellespont. But it is looking increasingly impossible.”
“Hektor is known for achieving the impossible,” she pointed out.
“Indeed he is. The sad truth, though, is that Hektor could win a score of battles and still not win the war there, whereas he only has to lose one and Thraki falls.” He smiled at her, and once again she saw the resemblance to Helikaon. Their fathers were cousins, and the blood of Ilos ran strongly in both. As she thought of Helikaon, her mind went back to the sleeping child, and as if he read her thoughts, Dios said, “Now let us talk of happier matters. How is the boy?”
“Come and see,” she said. They walked together into Astyanax’s room, where the red-haired boy was awake and fretting, anxious to go out to play. Naked, he squirmed from the small bed and, dodging around his young nurse, ran out onto the terrace, his chubby arms and legs pumping as he tried to escape.
The nursemaid called out to him in vain, then Dios said firmly, “Astyanax!”
The child stopped instantly at the deep male voice and turned back to look at his uncle. His mouth open, he stared at Dios in wonder.
Dios picked the boy up and swung him around high in the air. The child gurgled, then screamed with delight, his piercing cry echoing in their ears. Dios, with no sons of his own, grinned at the joyous reaction from the boy. As he put him down, Astyanax reached up his arms to be spun around again.
“He’s a brave one,” Dios said. “Truly his father’s son.”
He swung the boy again, higher and higher. Watching their noisy play, Andromache did not see Kassandra quietly come onto the terrace. When she spotted the girl, she turned to her with a smile. Kassandra stood with her hands behind her back, her face half-hidden, as usual, by her long black hair. She wore a drab dark robe, unbelted, and her feet were bare.
“Kassandra, I’ve not seen you for days. You wanted to speak to me?”
Dios put the boy down and went to embrace his sister, but she moved away from him into the shade of the building.
“You tried to stop me going to Thera,” she said to Andromache, ignoring Dios and the child. Her voice was trembling.
“Only immediately, while there is a war on,” Andromache told her. “Once the Great Green is safe again, you can go to the Blessed Isle if you still wish to. There is plenty of time. You are only fourteen.”
“There is not plenty of time,” the girl said angrily. “I must go there. I have no choice. Father is right, Andromache—you are always trying to interfere in other people’s lives. Why don’t you leave me alone?”
Andromache said, “I am only trying to keep you safe, Sister.”
Kassandra drew herself up, and when she spoke, the shrillness had gone from her voice. “You cannot keep other people safe, Andromache,” she said gently. “You should know that by now. Have the last few years taught you nothing? You could not save Laodike or Kalliope. You cannot guard this boy from the world’s hurt.” She gestured at the child, who stood silent, staring at the girl with wide eyes. “You cannot keep his father safe on the Great Green.”
“No, I cannot,” Andromache said sadly. “But I will try to save those I love. And I love you, Kassandra.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she said, “Mother tells me you loved her, too.” Then she swung on her heel and left the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE TROJAN HORSE
A cool breeze was blowing through the Rhodope Mountains, shimmering the long grass of the Thrakian plain and whispering through the tops of the trees that flanked the high hills beyond.
Hidden beyond the tree line, Banokles sat on his mount and waited, along with a thousand other riders of the Trojan Horse. On the plain below fifteen hundred Trojan soldiers appeared to be preparing for a midday halt, clearing areas for cookfires. Three hundred Thrakian cavalry were with them, along with some two hundred archers. Banokles had little interest in strategy. Either the enemy would march into the trap or it wouldn’t. It didn’t matter much to the big warrior. If not today, then they would crush the rebels tomorrow. Or the next day.
He glanced at the rider to his left, the slim, yellow-haired Skorpios. The man had removed his helm. He was unnaturally pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. Banokles looked along the line. Everywhere there were signs of nerves and fear. He couldn’t understand it. We are the Trojan Horse, he thought. We don’t lose battles. And Skorpios was a fine fighter and a superb horseman. So what was he worried about?
It was a mystery, and Banokles did not like mysteries. He promptly put all thoughts of Skorpios from his mind. There were more important things to think about.
For one, he was hungry. The food wagons had not reached them, and there had been no breakfast. That was intolerable to Banokles. No one should be asked to fight a battle without breakfast. The wagons that had come over the high pass had carried spare swords and a supply of arrows. This, while welcomed by those soldiers whose blades had been ruined by the battles of the last few weeks, had been a disappointment to Banokles. Supplies of cheese and dried meat had run out, and the men had eaten nothing but crushed oats soaked in water.
An itch began in Banokles’ armpit. That was especially irritating, as the armor worn by Trojan Horse riders was intricate: small, overlapping bronze disks, like fish scales, that covered the chest, belly, and lower throat. It was impossible to reach inside and scratch.
Banokles’ horse shifted under him, then tossed its head. Idly he patted the beast’s black neck. “Steady, Arse Face,” he said.
“By the gods, why don’t they come?” said another nervous man to his right, a heavyset warrior with a carefully trimmed trident beard. Justinos dragged his helm clear, then pulled a cloth from his belt and wiped the sweat from his shaved head. Banokles did not know how to answer him. How in Hades would he know why the enemy hadn’t arrived? “I hate this bastard waiting,” Justinos added.