‘But you are not in love with her?’
Helikaon shrugged. ‘I am not truly sure what that means, my friend. How does one tell?’
Odysseus draped the towel over his shoulders and stretched his back. ‘You remember practising with wooden swords? All the moves, the blocks, the counters, getting your footwork right, learning how to be in balance always?’
‘Of course. You were a hard master.’
‘And you recall the first time you went into a real fight, with blood being shed and the fear of death in the air?’
‘I do.’
‘The moves are the same, but the difference is wider than the Great Green. Love is like that, Helikaon. You can spend time with a whore, and laugh and know great pleasure. But when love strikes – ah, the difference is awesome. You will find more joy in the touch of a hand, or the sight of a smile, than you could ever experience in a hundred nights of passion with anyone else. The sky will be more blue, the sun more bright. Ah, I am missing my Penelope tonight.’
‘The season is almost over, and you’ll be home for the winter.’
‘Aye, I am looking forward to that.’ Lifting a water jug Odysseus drank deeply.
‘Diomedes asked to be remembered to you,’ said Helikaon. ‘He is hoping you will let him sail with you when he is older.’
Odysseus chuckled. ‘He’s a fine, brave little lad. How old is he now?’
‘Twelve soon – and not so little. He will be a fine king one day, if the gods will it. I feared he might be like my father, cold and unfeeling. Thankfully he has his mother’s spirit.’
‘You surprised me that day, Helikaon,’ said Odysseus. ‘But it was a good surprise, and one that did you credit.’
Before Helikaon could respond several soldiers in conical helmets and bronze breastplates approached the fire. The first bowed low. ‘My lord Helikaon, the king requests you to join him.’
Helikaon rose. ‘Tell him it is an honour to be invited. I will be there as soon as I have returned to my ship and donned garments suitable for a king’s palace.’
The soldiers bowed again, and departed. Odysseus pushed himself to his feet.
‘Take Argurios and his companion with you,’ he said. ‘I am sure they would wish to meet the king.’
‘I do not feel like the company of Mykene, Odysseus.’
‘Then do it for your old mentor.’
Helikaon sighed. ‘For you I would walk into Hades. Very well. I shall spend the evening being bored by them. But do something for me, would you?’ ‘Of course, lad.’
‘See if you can find that goddess. I would like to meet her.’
‘She’s probably a Lykian whore who’ll give you the pox.’
‘Find her anyway. I should be back before dawn.’
‘Good. I shall enjoy standing in line to speak to her as she ruts with my sailors.’
IX
Andromache’s Prophecy
i
Odysseus watched Helikaon walk back to the Xanthos. The giant Zidantas went with him, keeping a wary eye out for more Mykene assassins. Helikaon grasped a trailing rope and drew himself up onto the ship. There will be more violence tonight, Odysseus thought.
The idea that Helikaon might be killed caused him to shiver. He had come to love the boy during his two years on the Penelope. The first few weeks had been difficult. Odysseus had no moral qualms about killing for profit. He had, in his time, been a raider and a plunderer. But the thought of murdering the young i prince was abhorrent to him. Instead he had watched the boy with an increasingly paternal eye, revelling in the lad’s new-found freedom, and feeling pride as the youngster steadily overcame his fears. Day by day he had stared them down.
Climbing the mast in high winds to help draw up the sail, his face grey, his terror palpable; standing defiantly, sword in hand, as the pirate ship closed and the raiders leapt over the side, screaming their battle cries. Then hurling himself into the fray when every instinct screamed at him to run below and hide.
Most of all, though, it was the rowing that won the hearts of the crew. The skin of Helikaon’s hands was soft, and whenever he took his turn at the oars his palms would bleed. He never complained, merely bound the torn flesh and rowed on. Odysseus had convinced himself that the boy’s father would put aside all thoughts of murder, once he saw the fine young man he was becoming.
Until the day the assassin Karpophorus took passage on the Penelope.
Now there were more assassins waiting. Odysseus gazed again at the high cliff road. Should he have been more direct with his warning? Should he have mentioned the blood price Agamemnon had placed on Helikaon’s head?
The answer was no. Odysseus was a man without enemies, and that was rare in these harsh and bloody times. He never openly took sides, remaining neutral, and therefore welcome in any port. It was not always easy. When Alektruon had told him he was hunting down the Golden One, Odysseus had been sorely tempted to send a warning. Yet he had not. Happily it had all turned out well. Alektruon was dead, which was no loss to the world, and Odysseus had won a splendid blue cloak at his funeral games, outshooting Meriones with the bow. But now Helikaon dead was worth twice a man’s weight in gold. There were kings who would sell him out for less than that.
After a while he saw Helikaon climbing down from the great ship. He was wearing a dark blue knee-length tunic, and a short sword was scabbarded at his waist.
Zidantas was carrying an enormous club. Odysseus smiled. Ah, he understood then, he thought, with relief. Helikaon and Zidantas moved off towards where Argurios and Glaukos were sitting by the Xanthos fire. Odysseus watched as the two Mykene rose and accompanied Helikaon. Both were wearing their armour, swords sheathed at their sides.
A young man, with long golden hair, moved across Odysseus’ line of vision. A pretty woman was holding his hand and smiling up at him. Suddenly he swept his arm round the girl’s waist and drew her to him. She laughed and tilted her head back, accepting his kiss. Odysseus smiled.
As a child he had dreamed of being handsome and graceful like that boy, with the kind of looks men envied and women grew giddy to gaze upon. Instead he was stout and stocky, with too much body hair. It now grew in reddish tufts even on his shoulders.
No, the gods, in their infinite wisdom, had decided Odysseus would be ugly.
There must have been great planning involved in the scheme, he decided, for they had accomplished their task with genius. His arms were too long, his hands too gnarled, his legs as bandy as a Thessalian pony rider’s. Even his teeth were crooked. And Penelope had laughingly pointed out once that one of his ears was bigger than the other. Having created such a mismatch, at least one of the gods had taken pity on him. For he had been blessed with a gift for storytelling. He could spin a tale of dazzling complexity, and read an audience as well as, if not better than, he could perceive the subtle shifting of the trade winds.
Wherever he beached his ship crowds would gather, and sit around waiting for the moment when he deigned to perform. Sometimes he would tell them he was tired, or claim that they knew all his tales now anyway. Then they would clamour and beg.
At last he would sigh, and the performance would begin.
