Very well. Mighty still will you be when next you walk this corridor of stone. Father to a son.’
He whispered something then to the woman, who held a cup of water to his lips.
‘And what dangers will I face?’ Agamemnon asked.
The old priest’s body spasmed, and he cried out. Then he relaxed and stared up at the king. ‘A ruler is always in peril, Agamemnon King. Unless he be strong he will be torn down. Unless he be wise he will be overthrown. The seeds of doom are planted in every season, and need neither sun nor rain to make them grow.
You sent a hero to end a small threat, and thus you planted the seeds. Now they grow, and swords will spring from the earth.’
‘You speak of Alektruon. He was my friend.’
‘He was no man’s friend! He was a slaughterer and did not heed the warnings. He trusted in his cunning, his cruelty and his might. Poor blind Alektruon. Now he knows the magnitude of his error. Arrogance laid him low, for no man is invincible. Those the gods would destroy they first make proud.’
‘What more have you seen?’ said Agamemnon. ‘Speak now! Death is upon you.’
‘I have no fear of death, King of Swords, King of Blood, King of Plunder. You will live for ever, Agamemnon, in the hearts and minds of men. When your father’s name has fallen to dust and whispered away on the winds of time, yours will be spoken loud and often. When your line is a memory, and all kingdoms come to ashes, still your name will echo. This I have seen.’
‘This is more to my liking,’ said the king. ‘What else? Be swift now, for your time is short. Give a name to the greatest danger I will face. ‘
‘You desire but a name? How… strange men are. You could have… asked for answers, Agamemnon.’ The old man’s voice was fading and slurring. The hemlock was reaching his brain.
‘Give me a name and I will know the answer.’
Another flash of anger lit the old man’s eyes, holding back the advancing poison. When he spoke his voice was stronger. ‘Alektruon asked me for a name, when I was but a seer, and not blessed – as now – with the wisdom of the dying.
I named Helikaon, the Golden One. And what did he do… this foolish man? He sailed the seas in search of Helikaon, and brought his doom upon himself. Now you seek a name, Agamemnon King. It is the same name. Helikaon.’ The old priest closed his eyes. The silence grew.
‘Helikaon threatens me?’ asked the king.
The dying priest spoke again. ‘I see men burning like candles, and… a ship of flame. I see a headless man… and a great fury. I see… I see many ships, like a great flock of birds. I see war, Agamemnon, long and terrible, and the deaths of many heroes.’ With a shuddering cry he fell back into the arms of the veiled woman.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Agamemnon.
The woman felt for a pulse, then nodded. Agamemnon swore.
A powerful warrior moved alongside him, his hair so blond it appeared white in the lamplight. ‘He spoke of a great horse, lord. The sails of Helikaon’s ships are all painted with the symbol of a rearing black horse.’
Agamemnon remained silent. Helikaon was kin to Priam, the king of Troy, and Agamemnon had a treaty of alliance with Troy, and with most of the trading kingdoms on the eastern coast. While maintaining these treaties he also financed pirate raids by Mykene galleys, looting the towns of his allies and capturing trade ships and cargoes of copper, tin, lead, alabaster or gold. Each one of the galleys tithed him their takings. The plunder allowed him to equip his armies, and bestow favours on his generals and soldiers. Publicly, though, he denounced the pirates and threatened them with death, so he could not openly declare Helikaon an enemy of Mykene. Troy was a rich and powerful kingdom, and that trade alone brought in large profits, paid in copper and tin, without which bronze armour and weapons could not be made.
War with the Trojans was coming, but he was not yet ready to make an enemy of their king.
The fumes from the Prophecy Fire were less noxious now, and Agamemnon felt his head clearing. The priest’s words had been massively reassuring. He would have a son, and the name of Agamemnon would echo through the ages.
Yet the old man had also spoken about seeds of doom, and he could not ignore the warning.
He looked the blond man in the eyes. ‘Let it be known, Kolanos, that twice a man’s weight in gold awaits whoever kills Helikaon.’
‘Every pirate ship on the Great Green will hunt him down for such a reward,’
said Kolanos. ‘By your leave, my king, I will also take my three galleys in search of him. However, it will not be easy to draw him out. He is a cunning fighter, and cool in battle.’
‘Then you will make him less cool, my Breaker of Spirits,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Find those Helikaon loves, and kill them. He has family in Dardanos, a young brother he dotes upon. Begin with him. Let Helikaon know rage and despair. Then rip his life from him.’
‘I shall leave tomorrow, lord.’
‘Attack him on the open sea, Kolanos. If you find him on land, and the opportunity arises, have him stabbed, or throttled, or poisoned. I care not. But the trail of his death must not end at my hall. At sea do as you will. If you take him alive saw the head from his shoulders. Slowly. Ashore make his death swift and quiet. A private quarrel. You understand me?’
‘I do, my king.’
‘When last I heard Helikaon was in Kypros,’ said Agamemnon, ‘overseeing the building of a great ship. I am told it will be ready to sail by season’s end.
Time enough for you to light a fire under his soul.’
There was a strangled cry from behind them. Agamemnon swung round. The old priest had opened his eyes again. His upper body was trembling, his arms jerking spasmodically.
‘The Age of Heroes is passing!’ he shouted, his voice suddenly clear and strong. ‘The rivers are all of blood, the sky aflame! And look how men burn upon the Great Green!’ His dying eyes fixed on Agamemnon’s face. ‘The Horse! Beware the Great Horse!’ Blood spurted from his mouth, drenching his pale robes. His face contorted, his eyes wide with panic. Then another spasm shook him, and a last breath rattled from his throat.
II
The God of the Shrine
i
The Gods walk in times of storms. Little Phia knew this, for her mother had often told her stories of the immortals: how the spears of Ares, God of War, could be seen in the lightning, and how the hammer of Hephaistos caused the thunder. When the seas grew angry it meant Poseidon was swimming below the waves, or being drawn in his dolphin chariot across the Great Green. So the eight-year-old tried to quell her fears as she struggled up the muddy slope towards the shrine, her faded, threadbare tunic offering no protection from the shrieking winds and the driving rain lashing the coast of Kypros. Even her head was cold, for ten days earlier mother had cut away her golden hair in a bid to free her of the lice and fleas on her scalp. Even so Phia’s thin body was still covered in sores and bites. Most of them were just itchy, but the rat bite on her ankle remained swollen and sore, the scab constantly breaking and fresh blood flowing.
But these were small matters, and did not concern the child as she pushed on towards the high shrine. When mother had taken sick yesterday Phia had run to the healer in the centre of town. Angrily he had told her to stand back from him. He did not visit those the gods had cursed with poverty, and had barely listened as she explained that mother would not rise from her bed, and that her body was hot, and she was in pain. ‘Go to a priest,’ he said.
So Phia had run through the port to the Temple of Asklepios, and queued there with others seeking guidance and help. The waiting people all carried some kind of offering. Many had snakes in wicker pots, some had
