the man’s face.
As the man fell back Argurios gripped his wrist with both hands, spun him round, then twisted the arm savagely, dislocating his shoulder. The assassin screamed and dropped his knife. The other four men surged forward. Lifting his foot Argurios propelled the crippled assassin into his comrades, then swept up the dagger.
‘I am Argurios!’ he thundered. ‘To come at me is to die.’
They hesitated then, but all were armed with swords. The injured leader was on his knees. ‘Kill him!’ he screamed.
They rushed in. Argurios charged to meet them. A sword plunged into his side, a second cleaving into his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain he stabbed one man through the heart, kicked a second man in the right knee, causing him to fall, then grappled with the third. The fourth man stabbed at him, the blade glancing from his ribs. Argurios could feel his strength failing. Smashing a blow to one attacker’s face he followed up with a head butt that broke another’s nose. Half blinded, the assassin staggered. Argurios twisted to one side, then hammered his foot against an attacker’s knee. There was a sickening crack as the joint snapped, followed by a piercing shriek of agony. The third attacker was on his feet again. Argurios dived to the ground, grabbing a fallen sword, then rolled just in time to block a downward cut. Surging up, he shoulder-charged the attacker, hurling him back. Before the man could recover Argurios drove his sword through the assassin’s chest. Tearing the blade clear he swung in time to parry a ferocious lunge that would have disembowelled him. His sword lanced up, skewering the man through the chin and up into his brain. Argurios wrenched the blade loose and let him fall.
The man with the shattered knee was groaning loudly. Argurios glanced to his left where the leader now stood, his knife held in his left hand, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side.
‘Your comrade cannot walk,’ said Argurios. ‘He will need you to help him to a house of healing.’
‘There will be another day,’ said the man.
‘Maybe, but not for you, puppy dog. It’ll take real hounds to hunt down this old wolf. Now get you gone.’
He stood tall and apparently strong as the leader hauled the groaning man upright. Then the two of them made their slow way back into the darkness.
Argurios managed to stay upright for a few moments more.
He had no idea how much time had passed since. The pain in his stomach had ceased, and he felt cold, though he could still feel warm blood flowing under his hand. He tried to lift himself up with one arm and the pain ripped through him again. Then he heard footsteps. So, they had come back to finish their work.
Anger gave him strength and he levered himself upright, determined to die on his feet.
Several soldiers in crested helmets moved into sight. Argurios sagged back against the door frame. ‘What happened here?’ asked the first soldier, stepping in close. The world spun, and Argurios fell. The soldier dropped his spear and caught him, lowering him to the ground.
A second soldier called out: ‘One of the dead men is Philometor the Mykene. He was said to be a fine warrior.’
An elderly man came out of the house and spoke to the soldier. ‘I saw it from my balcony. Five men attacked him. He had no weapon and he defeated them all.’
‘Well,’ said the soldier, ‘we must get him to the temple. Any man the Mykene want dead must be worthy of life.’
XVII
The Golden King
i
The last time Helikaon had stood on the beach below Troy Zidantas had been alongside him. They had been on their way to Kypros, to take the Xanthos on her maiden voyage. It seemed a lifetime ago now.
The ship had been unloaded, the cargo carried to warehouses. With the season over there were few merchants on the beaches, and the Xanthos would continue north to Dardania with a much lighter load. The crew had been paid, and twenty-eight rowers had declared their intent to leave the ship. Oniacus had been scouring the taverns, seeking fresh men to crew the Xanthos on its journey home.
Helikaon glanced along the bay, and saw Odysseus and his crew preparing the Penelope for launch. The slender old ship slid gracefully into the water, the men hauling themselves aboard. Odysseus was shouting orders now. For a moment Helikaon wished the years could be swept away, and that he too was back aboard the Penelope, sailing off across the Great Green to winter in Ithaka. Life had seemed so uncomplicated then, his concerns small and focused on easily remedied problems: the tear in the sail that could be stitched, the blistered hands that could be bandaged.
Earlier that morning he had sat on the beach with his friend. It was their first meeting since the battle outside Blue Owl Bay. Odysseus had told him about the boy, Xander, and they had sat in comfortable silence for a while.
‘You have not spoken of Zidantas,’ said Odysseus, at last.
‘He is dead. What else is there to say?’
Odysseus looked at him closely. ‘You remember me talking about the lost hero, and your need to find him?’
‘Of course. I was a weak and frightened boy. But he is long gone now.’
‘He was frightened, yes, but not weak. Intelligent and thoughtful. Aye, and caring and gentle. And sometimes you need to seek him too.’
Helikaon forced a laugh. The sound was harsh. ‘He could not survive in my world.’
Odysseus shook his head. ‘Your world is full of violent men, heroic with sword and shield, ready to butcher their way to whatever plunder they desire. Can you not see it is the boy you were who stops you from being like them? Do not lose sight of him, Helikaon.’
‘Would he have destroyed the galleys of Kolanos? Would he have defeated Alektruon, or survived the treachery at Blue Owl Bay?’
‘No, he would not,’ snapped Odysseus. ‘Nor would he have burned to death fifty or more unarmed and hobbled men. You want to defeat Kolanos – or become him?’
Helikaon felt a rush of anger at this outburst from his friend. ‘How could you say that to me? You do not know what is in my heart.’
‘Who does?’ countered Odysseus. ‘You have it sheathed in armour. You always did.’
‘I do not need to hear this,’ said Helikaon, pushing himself to his feet.
Odysseus rose alongside him. ‘How many friends do you have, Helikaon? I love you like my own son, and you are wrong. I do see into your heart. I see you are suffering, and I know what Ox meant to you. You are grieving and you feel as if something is ripping out your guts from the inside. Your dreams are tortured, your waking hours tormented. You look for him always, just at the edge of your vision. You expect to wake one morning and find him standing there, big as life.
And a part of you dies every time you wake and realize he isn’t.’
Helikaon’s shoulders sagged as his anger seeped away. ‘How can you know all this?’
‘I watched my son die.’ Odysseus sat down and stared out to sea. Helikaon remained where he was for a moment, then seated himself alongside his friend.
‘I am sorry, Odysseus. I had forgotten.’
‘You didn’t know him.’ The ugly king sighed. ‘Now, do you want to talk about Ox?’
‘I can’t.’
Odysseus looked disappointed, but he nodded. ‘I understand. But one day, my friend, I hope you will learn to open your heart. Otherwise you will always be alone. We will not dwell on it, though. Let us return to Kolanos. He is
