Fall of Kings (18 page)

Pain lanced through Iphigenia’s chest, and she cried out and staggered. Her
left arm spasmed in an agonizing cramp. She staggered to the bench and collapsed
onto it. Reaching into the pouch at her waist, she took a pinch of the powder
there, placing it on her tongue. The taste was sharp and bitter, but she
swallowed it and sat quietly, taking deep calming breaths. After a while the
pain faded, though her arm ached for some time.

In the far distance she saw the tiny dot of a ship moving through the
necklace of islands surrounding Thera. During winter ships rarely ventured far
on the Great Green, fearing the sudden squalls when Poseidon swam. They
certainly did not travel to Thera without an invitation. Yet now two were there:
the Egypteian ship and this newcomer.

The Gypptos had arrived the previous day but had offered no reason for their
visit. The leader, a lean, hard-faced young man named Yeshua, had sent two
barrels of dried fruits as a gift offering and requested permission to remain on
the beach for a few days. Iphigenia had granted his wish assuming they had
repairs to make to their vessel. A strange craft it was, with its high curved
prow and crescent sail. It seemed flimsy against the solidly crafted galleys of
Mykene or Kretos.

The aftereffects of pain left Iphigenia feeling cold and nauseous. Wrapping
her cloak more tightly around her thin shoulders, she leaned back against the
bench. Craning her neck, she looked up at the horse. Even now she could vividly
recall her feelings when she first had seen the isle and its monstrous temple.
She had been barely fourteen, tall and thin and without the curves that caught
men’s eyes. Her failure to attract suitors had left her shy and ashamed, but
when Iphigenia had gazed upon the giant horse, she had been filled with a sense
of purpose, of destiny.

“Lady!” Her reverie was interrupted by a young priestess with disheveled
yellow hair who ran up to her, breathless. “It is the
Xanthos
! The
Xanthos
!” The girl was terrified, as well she might be.

Iphigenia looked sternly down at her. “Are you sure, Melissa?”

“Yes, lady. Kolea told me, and she has seen it many times. Kolea is from
Lesbos. Her father is an ally of Troy.”

“I know who her father is, foolish girl!”

“I’m sorry, lady. Kolea told me it is Helikaon’s ship. No other ship on the
Great Green is that big. Should we hide?”

“Hide?” Iphigenia surged to her feet. “From a murderous brigand? I am
Iphigenia, daughter of Atreus the battle king, sister to Agamemnon. You think
that I will hide?”

Melissa flung herself to her knees, her forehead to the floor. “Forgive me,
lady!”

Pain seared again through Iphigenia’s chest. Biting back a cry of agony, she
sat back down and took a second pinch of powder. It was too much, she knew, and
the colors of the sunset sky began to dance and swirl. But the pain died down.

“Send Kolea down to greet the
Xanthos,
” she told Melissa. “Tell her to
bring any messages to me immediately.”

She looked out to sea again. The
Xanthos
was beating its way across
the great harbor, passing the black isle in the center. The young priestess
hitched her skirt around her knees and ran off toward the jumble of stables and
living quarters behind the temple.

“Melissa!” the older woman barked. The girl stopped in her tracks and turned,
dust swirling around her bare feet. “Behave with dignity. A priestess of Thera
does not run like a frightened peasant. She does not panic.”

The girl flushed. “Yes, lady.” She turned and walked quickly toward the
stables.

Iphigenia smiled grimly. She knew how they all saw her: tall and forbidding,
her iron-gray hair pulled back fiercely, emphasizing her hawk nose and fierce
brows. They could not see beneath the wrinkled, sagging skin the remains of the
young priestess who also had run like a colt, intoxicated by this life of
freedom and unexpected pleasures. They saw only a woman grown old in the service
of the Blessed Isle.

She looked up at the horse. “Well, great stallion, what does this mean?
Helikaon the Burner here at Thera. The enemy of my blood and of my house.”

The thought that the
Xanthos
was on a raid flashed into her mind and
was as quickly dismissed. Priam the king was the patron of the isle, and much as
she abhorred the man’s excesses, she had to admit he performed the duties of a
patron with efficiency, delivering both gold and the power of his protection to
the Blessed Isle. If the sanctuary of Thera was lost, both Trojans and Mykene
would rue it. All sides knew that. No, Helikaon must be acting as a messenger.
She had not expected so early a reply to her embassy. Her heart beat faster.
Perhaps she had been successful and Andromache would be lured back to Thera in
the spring.

Her hand to her chest, she relaxed against the bench. Eager though she was to
find out why the
Xanthos
had arrived, she no longer had the strength to
walk down to the harbor. That was a problem, since men who landed on the Blessed
Isle were permitted no farther than the wooden receiving hall on the black sandy
beach. Therefore, she would have to allow the Burner to walk up to the temple or
use intermediaries to ascertain his purpose. To allow a man into the
temple—especially one as vile as the Burner—would be sacrilege, yet to depend on
others with less guile than she would be to risk misunderstanding the true
purpose of his visit.

Allowing a man to walk the island was not without precedent. Priam had
entered the temple forty years before. Iphigenia had been fourteen then, newly
arrived on the isle, and she had looked with curiosity on the virile king and
his young queen, a woman of dark beauty and darker ambition.

The priestess placed her hand against the horse’s massive hoof. “You were
more impressive back then, my friend,” she said, marveling anew at the skill of
the builders. Craftsmen from Troy and Hattusas had built the main block of the
temple with limestone, a huge rectangular building with a tower at one end. Then
skilled carpenters from Kypros and Athens had shaped oak timbers around it,
creating the illusion from a distance of legs, a neck, and a great head.
Egypteian artists had traveled to the Blessed Isle, coating the wooden horse
with whitewashed plaster and then adding paints and dyes to give it life. Much
of the paint was chipped now, and bare timber showed through, cracked and
pockmarked. From the sea, though, the white wooden horse still looked
magnificent, a massive sentry standing guard over the island.

Rising again and moving to the edge of the cliff, Iphigenia could see that
the great galley with its black horse sail had beached below at last. There were
men milling about. Soon she would know.

She had been angry when Queen Hekabe had ordered that Andromache be sent to
Troy. There was a strength and energy in the girl that never should have been
wasted on furthering men’s ambitions. Andromache had been furious. She had
stormed into the gathering chamber and confronted Iphigenia.

The priestess smiled fondly at the memory. Green-eyed Andromache feared her,
just as all the other women there did. But such was the strength of her spirit
that she could, and often did, conquer that fear and fight for causes she
believed in. Iphigenia had admired Andromache for her stand on that day. Closing
her eyes, she pictured the angry young priestess. Her lover Kalliope had been
standing close by anxiously, her eyes downcast.

Andromache had refused to leave Thera, and Iphigenia had tried to explain how
the circumstances were special.

“Special?” Andromache stormed. “You are selling me for Priam’s gold! What is
special
about that? Women have been sold since the gods were young.
Always by men, though. It is what we come to expect from them. But from
you
!”

And
that
had hurt, like a dagger deep in her belly. Iphigenia had
fought for decades to keep Thera safe and independent from the powers of kings.
Sometimes it required steadfast courage, but often it needed compromise.

Instead of seeking to dominate Andromache and cow her into submission,
Iphigenia had spoken softly, her words full of regret.

“It is not just for Priam’s gold, Andromache, but for all that gold
represents. Without it there would be no temple on Thera, no princesses to
placate the beast below. Yes, it would be wonderful if we could ignore the
wishes of powerful men like Priam and do our duty here unmolested. Such freedom,
however, is a dream. You are a priestess of Thera no longer. You will leave
tomorrow.”

Andromache had not argued further. It showed that she had grown in wisdom in
her two years on the Blessed Isle and was beginning at last to grasp the need
for such compromises.

Andromache probably would not show such understanding when she returned to
Thera in the spring, Iphigenia knew. She would be furious when she discovered
the betrayal. But her fury was as nothing when set against the needs of Thera.
The security of the temple was vital, more important than any single life.

At last she heard the snorting of donkeys and the clink of bridles. Iphigenia
eased herself up and moved to the cliff edge. Below she could see three figures
on donkeys slowly climbing up the winding path from the harbor. The priestess
Kolea led the way. She had turned in her seat and was chattering to the others:
a dark-haired girl she did not know and… Andromache.

The old priestess raised her hand to her heart. Andromache here already?
Across the winter seas all the way from Troy!

“No!” she whispered. “It is too soon. Far too soon.”

Andromache sat on the little donkey’s back as it slowly plodded up the steep,
narrow trail. Far below, the
Xanthos
had been half drawn up on the black
beach. Men, seeming no larger than insects from this height, scurried around it.

She glanced back at Kassandra. Mostly when visitors were carried up this
treacherous path, they sat their mounts nervously, aware that the slightest slip
of a hoof would send them plummeting to their deaths. Not Kassandra. She seemed
to be in a dream, a faraway look in her eyes.

Back on the beach, when Andromache had ordered Oniacus to fetch the ornate
box from its place in the hold, Kassandra had gone with him, returning with an
old canvas sack, which she carried on her shoulder.

“What do you have there?” Andromache asked.

“A gift for a friend,” Kassandra answered, giving her a shy smile.

“Could you not have brought it in a… more suitable container? The High
Priestess is a formidable and angry woman. She will be looking for any action
that might be regarded as an insult to her or to the order.”

“You do not like her,” Kassandra said.

Andromache had laughed, but there had been little humor in the sound. “No one
likes
Iphigenia, little sister. Like her brother Agamemnon, she is cold,
hard, and unfeeling.”

“You are just angry because she let your father send you to Troy.”

“She
sold
me for gold.”

Kassandra had carried her sack away and walked toward the two priestesses
sent to greet them. Andromache knew one of them, Kolea, the youngest daughter of
the king of Lesbos. She had arrived in the same season as Andromache. Kolea,
with her long dark hair drawn back from her face in a tight ponytail, was taller
and slimmer than Andromache remembered. The priestess smiled a greeting. The
other girl was around Kassandra’s age, fair-haired and freckled. She seemed
frightened.

Helikaon had moved across the sand to stand alongside Andromache. She was
very conscious of his warm body, not quite touching hers. Each time they had
spoken since that night on Minoa, she had trembled a little at the sound of his
voice. She feared she was blushing and lowered her head.

“Hektor and Priam both believe this invitation reeks of treachery,” he said
softly, concern deepening his voice. “They fear you are being lured to Thera on
Agamemnon’s orders. But there are no other ships here or close by, only a small
Egypteian trader. I do not know the High Priestess, so I cannot judge her
motives. But you do.”

Andromache looked into his sapphire eyes and saw that they were clouded with
anxiety.

“She dislikes me,” she replied, making herself speak firmly and clearly, “and
will have reasons of her own for wanting me here. But we have discussed this
already at length. It
could
be a trap. But she is the First Priestess of
Thera before she is Mykene. I do not believe she would do her brother’s bidding
if it would harm the reputation of the Blessed Isle. More likely, she wants to
punish me rather than betray me.”

“Through Kalliope, you mean?” he said, indicating the ornate box she carried.
She nodded.

“When will you return, my love?” he asked quietly.

“In the morning.”

“I will watch for you at first light.”

“I will be here.”

“If you are not, I will come for you with my men. Make sure the old witch
understands that.”

“She is a daughter of Atreus and a Mykene princess. She would understand that
without being told. Do nothing rash!”

He leaned in close, touching her hair, and lightly tapped the box she
carried. “Rash actions may be necessary if the witch discovers you are lying to
her.”

Andromache’s mouth was dry. “What are you saying?” she countered.

“I know you, Andromache,” he whispered. “You would never surrender the soul
of your friend to serve a monster. It is not in you. Where did you find those
bones?”

“Xander brought them for me. They are the skull and thigh bone of a
murderer.”

Helikaon grinned then. “Well, he and the Minotaur should suit each other.”

Iphigenia sat alone in the coolness of the temple’s great gathering room. The
carved high-backed chair was uncomfortable, but the High Priestess no longer had
the strength to stand for long.