XV
The City of Dreams
i
Helikaon’s grief did not lessen as they turned about and sailed north along the coast. Rather he could feel it swelling inside him, clawing at his heart. There were times when he felt he could not breathe for the weight of it. As the Xanthos clove through the waves alongside Blue Owl Bay once more the memories came back with increased sharpness and the loss of Zidantas threatened to overwhelm him.
The power of his grief was a shock to him. Zidantas had been a good friend and a loyal follower, but Helikaon had not realized how much he had come to rely on the man’s steadfastness and devotion. All his life Helikaon had been wary of intimacy, of allowing people close, of sharing inner thoughts and dreams and fears. Ox had never been intrusive, never pushed to know what he was feeling. Ox was safe.
Odysseus had once told him that a man could not hide from his fears, but had to ride out and face them. He could not be like a king trapped within his fortress.
Helikaon had understood. It had freed him to become the Golden One, the Prince of the Sea.
And yet, he knew, only a part of him had sallied out. The fortress was still there in his mind, and his soul remained within it.
What was it the old rower, Spyros, had said about children who suffer tragedy?
They get heart-scarred. Helikaon understood that too. When he was small his heart had been open. Then his mother, in a dress of gold and blue, a jewelled diadem upon her brow, had flung herself from the cliff top. The little boy had believed she was going to fly to Olympos, and had watched in silent horror as her body plummeted to the rocks below. Then his father had dragged him down to the beach to gaze upon her broken beauty, her face shattered, one eye hanging clear. His father’s words remained carved in fire on his heart. ‘There she lies, the stupid bitch. Not a goddess. Just a corpse for the gulls to pick at.’
For a little while the child’s wounded heart had remained open, as he sought to gain comfort from Anchises. But when he spoke of his feelings he was silenced, and shouted at for his weakness. He was at first derided and then ignored. Maids and servants who treated him with kindness or love were said to be feeding his weakness and replaced by cold, hard harridans who had no patience with a grieving child. Eventually he learned to keep his feelings to himself.
Years later, under the guidance of Odysseus, he had learned to be a man, to laugh and joke with the crew, to work among them and share their lives. But always as an outsider looking in. He would listen as men spoke with feeling of their loved ones, their dreams and their fears. In truth he admired men who could do this, but had never found a way to open the fortress gates and take part himself. After a while it did not seem to matter. He had mastered the art of listening and the skills of conversation.
Odysseus – like Zidantas – never pressed him to express his feelings. Phaedra had, and he had seen the hurt in her eyes when he evaded her questions, when he closed the gates upon her.
What he had not realized, until now, was that Ox had not been kept outside the fortress of his heart. Unnoticed, he had slipped inside, to the deepest chambers. His murder had sundered the walls, leaving Helikaon exposed just as he had been all those years ago when his mother, in drugged despair, had ended her life on that cliff.
Adding to the pain was the fact that his mind kept playing tricks on him, refusing to accept that Ox was dead. Every so often during the day he would look around, seeking him. At night he would dream of seeing him, and believe the dream was reality and reality the dream. Then he would awaken with a glad heart, only for the horror to wash over him like a black wave.
The sun was setting and they needed to find somewhere to beach the Xanthos.
Helikaon ordered the crew to keep rowing, seeking to put distance between himself and the awful memories of Blue Owl Bay.
The ship moved on, more slowly now, for there were hidden rocks, and Oniacus placed men at the prow with sounding poles calling out instructions to the rowers. Helikaon summoned a crewman to take the steering oar and walked to the port side, where he stood staring out over the darkening sea.
‘I will kill you, Kolanos,’ he whispered. The words did nothing to lift his spirits. He had butchered fifty Mykene sailors, and that act of revenge had offered no relief to his pain. Would the death of Kolanos balance the loss of Ox?
A thousand men like Kolanos, he knew, could not replace a single Zidantas. Even if he slaughtered the entire Mykene nation nothing would bring back his friend.
Once again the pressure grew in his chest, a physical pain beginning to swell in his stomach. He drew in slow, deep breaths, trying to push away the despair.
He thought of young Diomedes, and his mother, Halysia. For a moment sunshine touched his anguished soul. Yes, he thought, I will find peace in Dardania. I will teach Diomedes to ride the golden horses. Helikaon had acquired a stallion and six mares from Thessaly four years ago, and they were breeding well.
Strong-limbed and sleek, they were the most beautiful horses Helikaon had ever seen, their bodies pale gold, their manes and tails cloud white. Their temperaments also were sound: gentle and steady and unafraid. Yet when urged to the run they moved like the wind. Diomedes adored them, and had spent many happy days with the foals.
Helikaon smiled at one memory. In that first season, four years ago, eight-year-old Diomedes had been sitting on a paddock fence. One of the golden horses had approached him. Before anyone could stop him the boy had scrambled to the beast’s back. The mare, panicked, had started to run and buck. Diomedes had been thrown through the air. He might have been hurt had not Ox been close by.
The big man had rushed in and caught the boy. Both had tumbled to the ground laughing.
The smile faded and a stab of pain clove through Helikaon, so sharp that he groaned.
The crewman, Attalus, was close by. He glanced over, but said nothing.
Then Oniacus called out from the prow. Helikaon strolled to where the man was standing. Off to starboard there was a narrow bay. There were no ships beached there. ‘Bring us in,’ Helikaon ordered.
Later, on the beach, he wandered away from the fires and climbed up through a shallow wood to the top of the cliffs. There he sat, his thoughts whirling.
He heard movement behind him, and surged to his feet. He saw Attalus moving through the trees, two bulging water skins hanging from his shoulders. The crewman paused.
‘Found a stream,’ he said. ‘You want water?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Helikaon took one of the skins and drank deeply. Attalus stood silently waiting. ‘You don’t say much,’ Helikaon observed.
The man shrugged. ‘Not much to say.’
‘A rare trait for a sailor.’
‘Hot food is ready,’ said Attalus. ‘You should come and eat.’
‘I will in a while.’ In that moment, in the quiet of the woods, Helikaon felt the urge to talk to this taciturn man, to share his thoughts and feelings. As always he did not. He merely stood quietly as Attalus strolled away with the water skins.
Helikaon remained on the cliff top for a while, then returned to the campfire.
Taking a blanket he lay down, resting his head on his arm. Muted conversations flowed around and over him.
As he lay there he pictured again the face of Andromache, as he had seen her in the firelight. She too was heading for Troy. The thought that he might see her there lifted his spirits.
And he slept.
