Fall of Kings (15 page)

Gershom blinked, and the vision faded, becoming once again a fire within a
cave. Desperate to be away from the fire, he struggled to rise but then slumped
down. The blazing twigs shifted and turned red. He saw shining rivers of blood
flowing through a land of darkness and despair. He saw the face of his brother
Rameses, gray with grief.

Then the fire grew again, filling his vision. Flames blazed high into the
sky, and he heard the roar of a thousand thunders. Darkness blotted out the sun.
Gershom watched in horror as the sea rose up to meet roiling black clouds. The
fury of the vision caused him to cry out and cover his face with his hands. Yet
still he saw…

Finally the fire burned out, and cool fresh air blew into the cave. Tears
streaming from his eyes, he crawled out into the night and collapsed on the wet
earth of the entrance. Kassandra was sitting there, slim and straight, a garland
of olive leaves around her head.

“And now you begin to see,” she said softly. It was not a question.

Gershom rolled to his back and stared up at the stars. His head began to
clear. “You put opiates in the flames.”

“Yes. To help open your eyes.” His head was aching now, and he sat up and
groaned. “Drink this,” she said, passing him a water skin. “It will clear your
head.”

Pulling the stopper free, he lifted the skin and drank greedily. His mouth
felt as dry as the desert he had observed. “What was it I saw?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “They are your visions. I do not know what you saw.”

“At the last I saw a mountain explode and destroy the sun.”

“Ah,” she said, “then I am wrong, for I
do
know that vision. It will
not destroy the sun, merely block out its light. It is a true vision, Gershom.”

Gershom drank more water. “My head is still full of mist,” he said. “Upon the
fire mountain there was a great temple in the shape of a horse.”

“Yes, it is the temple on Thera,” she answered.

Gershom leaned forward. “Then you must not go there. Nothing living could
survive what I saw.”

“I know,” she said, pulling the crown of leaves from her head and shaking
twigs from her long dark hair. “I will die on Thera. I have known this since I
was old enough to know anything.”

He looked at her then, and his heart was full of grief. She looked so fragile
and alone, her eyes haunted, her expression sad. Gershom reached out to draw her
into a hug, but she moved back from him. “I am not frightened by death, Gershom.
And all my fears will end on the Beautiful Isle.”

“It did not look beautiful to me,” he said.

“It has had many shapes and many names through the Ages of Man. It will have
more yet, all of them beautiful.” She sighed. “But this night is not about my
life and death. It is about you, Man of Stone. Your days upon the sea are almost
done. You made a vow, and soon you will be required to honor it.”

As she spoke, Gershom’s thoughts flew back to the time Helikaon had been
close to death. With the surgeons and healers of Troy powerless to save him
Gershom had sought out a mysterious holy man, a desert dweller known as the
Prophet. Even now he recalled with absolute clarity the first meeting and the
words spoken there. The white-bearded Prophet had agreed to heal Helikaon, but
for a price, and not one to be paid with gold or silver.

“I will one day call for you,” he told Gershom that night, “and you will come
to me wherever I am. You will then do as I bid for one year.”

“I will become your slave?”

The Prophet’s answer was softly spoken, and Gershom remembered the subtle
note of contempt in it. “Is the price too high, Prince Ahmose?”

Gershom wanted to refuse. Pride demanded it. He wanted to shout that yes, the
price was too high. He was a prince of Egypte and no man’s slave. Yet he did not
speak. He sat quietly, scarcely able to breathe through his tension. Helikaon
was his friend and had saved his life. No matter the cost, he had to repay that
debt.

“I agree,” he said at last.

Now, in the moonlight, he looked at Kassandra. “He will call for me soon?”

“Yes. You will not see Troy again, Gershom.”

Kleitos the Mykene ambassador sat quietly nursing a cup of wine. The
atmosphere in Alkaios’
megaron
was subdued, the fifty or more guests
eating and drinking in near silence. There was tension in the room, and Kleitos
watched as people furtively glanced at Persion and Helikaon, who were sitting at
opposite ends of the king’s table.

For Kleitos this night was an answer to a prayer, a gift from the gods to a
man who obediently served them. His life had been singularly blessed. Above all
he had been born into a land and a people loved by the gods. The Mykene were the
greatest race of the Great Green, more noble, more heroic than any other.
Agamemnon King epitomized that greatness. He had seen before all others the
danger Troy represented to all the nations. He had recognized in Priam a despot
determined to subdue all free peoples to his will. While others had been bribed
or seduced by the wily Trojan king, Agamemnon had not been fooled. Because of
his wisdom the vileness of Troy would be cut away, its walls torn down, its
people enslaved.

This night, as a foreshadowing of that great day, one of the worst enemies of
the Mykene, a man of true evil, was to be struck down by the righteous strength
of a Mykene warrior. It would be a night of justice, a night for the gods to
rejoice.

The heavily pregnant woman on his left leaned across him, trying to reach a
platter of fruit. Her arm brushed his, spilling a little of his wine.

“My apologies, Lord Kleitos,” she said. Kleitos wanted to slap her. Instead
he smiled, reached for the platter, and placed it before her.

“None are needed, Arianna Queen,” he told her, instantly turning his head
away in the hope the fat sow would understand that he had no wish to converse
with her. But the woman, like most of her kind, was uncomprehending and could
not take a simple hint. She insisted on talking to him, continuing the
conversation they had started earlier.

“But I do not understand, Ambassador,” she said. “You say Priam was planning
to plunge the world into war.”

“Yes. To make himself master of the world.”

“Why?”

He stared at her. “Why? Because… he is evil and a tyrant.”

“I meant, what would he
gain
from sending armies to attack his
neighbors? He is already the richest king. Armies are costly. Each area, once
subdued, would need to be patrolled, and forts built. Endless armies roaming the
lands would drain even Troy’s great wealth.”

“What would he gain?” he repeated, trying to give himself time to think. “He
would be seen as a conqueror and a great warrior king. He would have fame and
glory.”

“And this would be important to him?”

“Of course it would be important. All
true
men desire fame and glory.”

“Ah,” she said. “I am confused again now. Is he a true man, then, or an evil
tyrant? Or somehow both?”

“He is evil, as I have said.”

“So the evil also desire fame and glory. How, then, do we tell them apart?”

“It is not always easy,” he replied, “especially for women. One must rely on
the wisdom of great kings like Agamemnon.”

“I have heard of his greatness,” said the queen. “My husband talks of his
conquests, of the numbers of cities he has overcome, the slaves and the plunder
he has gathered. From Sparta in the south all the way north to Thraki. I am not
good with numbers. Is it fourteen kings and princes he has slain or sixteen?”

“I have not kept count,” Kleitos told her. “It is true, though, that
Agamemnon King is a warrior without peer.”

“A man of fame and glory,” she said.

“Indeed so.”

She leaned in then. “Ah, yes, I think I have a grasp of it now. Priam fooled
us all, disguising his plans for domination with forty years of peace. Such
cunning approaches genius, don’t you think?”

Arianna smiled sweetly, then turned away to speak to other guests. Kleitos
stared malevolently at her. One day, he promised himself, she will pay for such
disrespect. Just as her husband would suffer for his sly, mocking tone.

He glanced along the table at Helikaon. The villain seemed relaxed. He was
smiling and chatting with some merchant. Kleitos noticed, though, that he hardly
touched his wine cup. Alkaios was engaged in conversation with the wife of
Hektor. Kleitos was impressed with her. She had not arrived at the feast, as had
other women, bedecked in jewelry but wearing a simple green gown and a single
pendant. Such behavior entirely befitted a woman traveling without her husband.
Torchlight shone on her red-gold hair, and Kleitos found himself staring at the
curve of her neck, his gaze flowing down to her breasts. Hektor was a lucky man
to have found such a wife. Tall, graceful, demure in her dress and her manner,
she was a beauty. Kleitos wondered if Agamemnon King would grant him Andromache
as a prize when the city fell. Probably not, he decided ruefully. Her son would
have to be executed, and women rarely forgave such necessities. No, he realized,
she would have to be killed, too.

Toward the end of the feast a storyteller was called out, a young man with
tightly curled blond hair and the face of a girl. Kleitos disliked him the
instant he walked before the assembly. He was obviously the soft-bellied son of
a rich man who never had to fight for what he wanted or struggle to stay alive
in a harsh world.

His voice, though, had range, and his story was well told. The tale itself
was exceptional, but then, it had been devised by Odysseus, and Kleitos already
had heard it from the master himself. Now,
there
was a man who could tell
stories.

The girl-faced bard entertained the crowd with the exploits of the sea king
and the sorceress and the battle with the dread one-eyed giant Cyclops. At the
conclusion the bard opened his arms and bowed deeply to Alkaios. Applause
thundered out, and the king tossed the man a pouch of copper rings.

In the silence that followed the performance Kleitos flicked a glance at
Persion. The warrior nodded, then pushed himself to his feet.

“I have a grievance,” he said, his voice ringing out. “A blood grievance with
a murderer seated at this table.”

Even though Andromache had been waiting for this moment, its arrival was
shocking. She looked down the table at the young Mykene warrior. His dark eyes
were shining, his expression one of exultation. He looked like a man of great
determination, powerful and unbeatable. Andromache felt fear begin to swell.
Fear cannot be trusted, she warned herself. It exaggerates everything. It is
both treacherous and dishonest.

Despite those rational thoughts, when Andromache looked again at Persion, she
still saw a warrior of almost elemental power. When she turned her gaze to
Helikaon, he seemed altogether more human and therefore vulnerable. Closing her
eyes, she summoned again the image of him fighting on the stairs, invincible and
unconquerable. A sense of calm returned to her.

Alkaios called out: “A feast is a time of comradeship, Persion. Can this
matter not wait until the morning?”

“In respect to you, Alkaios King, I have waited until the feast was
concluded. However, the gods and Mykene honor demand that I seek retribution for
the atrocities committed against my family, my land, and my king.”

Alkaios climbed to his feet. “And who do you seek retribution against?” he
asked.

Persion drew himself up and stabbed out a hand, his finger pointing down the
table. “I speak of Helikaon the vile and accursed,” he said.

Alkaios turned to Helikaon. “You are my guest,” he said, “and should you
request it, the laws of hospitality demand that I refuse this man’s challenge to
you.”

“I make no such request,” Helikaon answered, rising to his feet. “Might I
inquire of my challenger which of his family have suffered at my hands?”

“The mighty Alektruon,” shouted Persion, “overcome by your warriors and
beheaded by you, though first you put out his eyes to make him blind in Hades.”

Andromache heard murmurs from the crowd at this and saw some men staring
coldly at Helikaon.

“The
mighty
Alektruon,” Helikaon told the company, “was, like all
Mykene, merely a blood-hungry savage preying on those too weak to resist him. I
killed him in single combat, then cut off his head. And yes, I pricked out his
dead eyes before throwing the head overboard to be devoured by the fish. Perhaps
one day I will regret that action. As it is, I regret not cutting out his tongue
and ripping off his ears.”

Helikaon fell silent for a moment, then looked around the
megaron,
scanning the crowd. “You all know the reality of the Mykene honor this wretch
speaks of. It lies in the ruins of your cities and towns, the rape and plunder
of your women and lands. The arrogance of the Mykene is colossal. My accuser
talks of the gods and Mykene honor as if the two are somehow linked. They are
not. I believe with all my heart that the gods loathe and despise Agamemnon and
his people. If I am mistaken, then let me die here, under the hand of this… this
wretched creature.”

Persion shouted out an oath, drew his sword, and stepped away from the table.

“Put up your sword!” Alkaios demanded. “
You
invoked the gods, Persion,
and now you will wait while all the rituals are observed. This duel will follow
Olympian rules. Both fighters will be naked and armed with stabbing sword and
dagger. Let the priest of Ares be summoned, and the women allowed to withdraw.”

Andromache sat very still as the other women rose and left the room. Alkaios
looked at her. “You cannot stay, lady.”

“Nor will I go,” she told him.

Alkaios moved in close to her, his voice barely audible. “In this I must
insist, Andromache. No woman must be present at a blood duel.”