iii
The screams echoed through his head, and Argurios felt his skull starting to pound. He looked up at the high roof of the circular tomb, trying to ignore the thick smell of blood and fear, and the sounds of the thrashing, dying horses. The sacrifice of noble horses to Zeus was an appropriate ritual at the funeral of a great king, and his heart lifted at the thought that Atreus King would ride such fine steeds on his journey to the Elysian Fields.
The two horses, dead at last, were being hauled into place at the sides of the king’s bier in the centre of the tomb. Atreus lay in his gold and silver armour, his favourite sword at his right side, three jewelled daggers and a bow to his left. At his head was a great golden cup embossed with the Lion of Mykene, and flagons of wine and oil for his journey. Three of the king’s beloved hounds lay slaughtered at his feet.
The dark, musty tomb was filled with the king’s Followers, his grieving family, counsellors, and mourners. Agamemnon stood dressed in a simple woollen robe, tears pouring down his cheeks. His brother Menelaus was dry-eyed but looked stricken, his face ashen and empty.
There was a cacophony of noise from the musicians and singers milling around in the darkness. Then the sounds of lute and lyre started to fade away.
Argurios stepped forward to take his last look at his king. He frowned. The bearded face resting peacefully on the bier was not that of Atreus. The beard was wrong, and the face too broad. Was this an impostor?
Confusion and fear in his heart, he moved forward reluctantly and saw that the face on the bier was his own.
He looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. But there was no-one there.
The mourners and musicians, sons and counsellors had all vanished, and the great circular tomb was dark and cold, the air heavy with damp and rot.
He was alone. No-one mourned Argurios. No-one marked his passing, and he would go to the earth unnoticed. No-one would know his name.
His head was splitting now. A terrible pain erupted in his stomach as well. He had just noticed it, but he knew it had been there all the time. He cried out…
He was lying in a stone doorway in the cool night air. The moon was high, and, by its light, Argurios could see that his tunic was drenched in blood. Three bodies lay close by, and he saw a blood-smeared sword by the doorway. He tried to rise, but fell again, a stabbing pain searing through his back and chest.
Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his knees. His vision swam and he fell against the door frame.
After a while the pain ebbed a little and he gazed around him. In the moonlight he could see a small street of modest houses looking over a silver sea. Then he remembered. He was in Troy.
A fresh wave of pain surged over him. His head began to pound and he vomited on the ground. There was blood in the vomit. Once again he tried to rise, but there was no strength in his legs. He stared at the bodies of the men he had killed.
One was facing him. He recognized him as the guard who had been on duty on the seventh day of his visit to the house of Erekos.
The man had informed him that Erekos had returned, and had gestured Argurios into the courtyard.
‘Wait here, sir,’ he said.
The courtyard was shadeless and without greenery. Argurios paced back and forth a few times then sat stiffly on a stone bench facing the westering sun.
From an inner door three men came out. The leader was tall and lean, with thin red hair. His beardless face was grey and his eyes red-rimmed as if from the cold. He wore a long dark cape over tunic and leggings, and was unarmed. The two others, one dark, one fair, both wore swords. Argurios noted their expressions and felt uneasy. They were staring at him unblinkingly. He rose from the bench.
‘I returned last night,’ said the red-haired man, without any form of greeting.
This display of ill manners annoyed Argurios, but he held his anger in check. ‘I was with the king when the lord Kolanos spoke of the cowardly slaughter by the killer Helikaon. He also named you as a traitor, in the pay of Helikaon.’
‘Ah,’ said Argurios, coldly. ‘A coward and a liar as well.’ The ambassador’s eyes narrowed, and he reddened.
‘The lord Kolanos claimed you killed one of his crew, and saved the life of Helikaon.’
‘That is true.’
‘Perhaps you would care to explain yourself.’
Argurios glanced at the armed men with Erekos. ‘I am Argurios, Follower of Agamemnon and a Mykene noble. I answer only to my king, and not to some over-promoted peasant sent to a foreign land.’
The men with the ambassador reached for their swords, but Erekos waved them back. He smiled. ‘I have heard in full of the events in Lykia. Many good Mykene men died – including my nephew Glaukos. You did nothing to save them, indeed you aided the killer Helikaon. You are not welcome here, Argurios. The rules of hospitality dictate that no blood will be shed in my house. But know that Agamemnon has spoken the words of banishment against you. You are no longer Mykene. Your lands are forfeit and you are named as an enemy of the Lion’s Hall.’
Argurios strode from the house, back straight, head reeling. He was not a diplomat and this journey to Troy had not been one he had sought. Yet he was proud to serve his king, both to gather information on Priam’s political and military situation, and to deliver messages to his brother Mykene abroad.
Delving into his leather bag he snatched out the sealed papyrus letters he carried for Erekos. Anger tempted him to throw them to the winds, but he hesitated, then put them away again. They had been given to him by Agamemnon’s chief scribe as he had left the palace on that last day. The man had come running out into the street. ‘I hear you are sailing for Troy,’ he said. ‘These messages were meant to have been sent three days ago, but a fool of a servant forgot to give them to the captain. Will you take them, Lord Argurios?’
Each bore the seal of Agamemnon and he had carried them with reverence. He could not throw the king’s words into the mud of the street.
Banishment!
He could scarcely believe such a sentence, but it hurt him more that Agamemnon, whom he had served with total loyalty, could have acted in such a fashion.
Surely, he thought, the king, of all men, should have known he would never have sold out to Helikaon, or any other enemy of his people. Did the works of his life count for nothing, he wondered? In the twenty years since he reached manhood he had never sought riches, nor succumbed to any temptations that would hinder his service. He had not lied, nor taken part in the palace intrigues that saw men plotting against one another to rise in Agamemnon’s favour. He had even remained unwed, so that his life could be entirely dedicated to the king and to the people.
And now he had been named a traitor, stripped of his lands, and his citizenship.
As he walked from the house of Erekos he decided to take ship back to Mykene, and to appeal to the king directly. Surely, he thought, he will realize he has been misled. His spirits rose. Once back in Mykene he would expose Kolanos for the liar and villain that he was, and all would be well.
He was close to his lodgings when he realized he was being followed.
And he knew then there would be no easy return to his homeland. The killers had been unleashed. As an enemy of the people his life was worth only what price Agamemnon or Kolanos had placed upon it.
Cold anger rose and he swung to await the assassins. He had carried no sword or dagger with him to the ambassador’s house, and stood there unarmed as the five men approached.
The leader was swathed in a dark, hooded cloak. He stepped forward and spoke.
‘Renegade, you know what dark deeds have brought you to this judgement.’
Argurios stood calmly and looked the man in the eye. ‘There are no dark deeds to my name. I am Argurios, and the victim of a coward’s lies. I intend to sail home and appeal to my king.’
The man laughed harshly. ‘Your life ends here, traitor. There are no appeals.’ A knife flashed into his hands and he leapt forward. Argurios stepped in to meet him, grabbing the knife wrist and thundering a fierce blow into
