on your arms.’
The god returned then. He had changed his clothes and was wearing a white, knee-length tunic edged with silver thread, his long black hair pulled back from his face and tied in a ponytail. ‘Your mother is very weak,’ he said, ‘but she is sleeping now. The healer will come every day until she is well. You may both stay here for as long as you wish. Phaedra will find work for your mother. Does that answer your prayers, Phia?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the girl. ‘Thank you.’
‘She was wondering if you are Apollo,’ said Phaedra, with a smile.
He knelt alongside Phia and she looked into his brilliant blue eyes. ‘My name is Helikaon,’ he said, ‘and I am not a god. Are you disappointed?’
‘No,’ replied Phia, though she was.
Helikaon rose then, and spoke to Phaedra. ‘There are merchants coming. I will be with them for a while.’
‘You still intend to sail for Troy tomorrow?’
‘I must. I promised Hektor I would be at the wedding.’
‘It is the storm season, Helikaon, and almost a month at sea. That could prove a costly promise.’
He leaned in and kissed her, then walked from the room.
Phaedra sat down with Phia. ‘Do not be too disappointed, little one,’ said Phaedra. ‘He is a god, really. He just doesn’t know it.’
ii
Later, with the child bathed and in bed, Phaedra stood under the portico roof, watching the lightning. The wind was fresh and cool, gusting over the garden, filling the air with the scent of jasmine from the trees against the western wall. She was tired now and strangely melancholy. This was Helikaon’s last night in Kypros. The season was almost over and he would be sailing his new ship hundreds of miles to Troy, and then north to Dardania for the winter. Phaedra had been anticipating a night of passion and warmth, the hardness of his body, the taste of his lips upon hers. Instead he had returned to the house with the half-starved, flea-bitten child of the toothless whore Ox had carried in earlier.
At first Phaedra had been angry, but now she was merely unsettled.
Sheltered from the rain Phaedra closed her eyes and pictured the child, her shaven head covered by bites, her face thin and pinched, her eyes huge and frightened. The little girl was asleep now, in the room next to her mother’s.
Phaedra had felt the urge to hug her, to draw her close and kiss her cheek. She had wanted to take away the pain and the fear from those large, blue eyes. Yet she had not. She had merely drawn back the coverlet to allow the skinny girl to clamber into the wide bed, and lay her head back on the soft bolster. ‘Sleep well, Phia. You will be safe here.’
‘Are you his wife?’
‘No. He is one of my Gift-givers. I am like your mother – one of Aphrodite’s Maidens.’
‘There are no Gift-givers now,’ said Phia, sleepily.
‘Go to sleep.’
Of course there were no Gift-givers, thought Phaedra. The mother was ugly and thin, and old before her time.
As you are getting old, she thought. Though blessed with a youthful appearance Phaedra was approaching thirty-five. Soon her Gift-givers too would fall away.
Anger touched her. Who cares if they do? I have wealth now.
And yet the sense of melancholy remained.
In the eighteen years since she had become a Follower of Aphrodite Phaedra had been pregnant nine times. On each occasion she had visited the Temple of Asklepios and swallowed bitter herbs to end the pregnancies. The last time had been five years ago. She had delayed for a month, torn between the desire to increase her wealth and the growing need to be a mother. ‘Next time,’ she had told herself. ‘Next time I will bear the child.’
Only there had been no next time, and now she found herself dreaming of children crying in the dark, calling out to her. She would run around blindly trying to find them, and wake in a cold sweat. The tears would come then, and her sobs would echo the emptiness of her life.
‘My life is not empty,’ she told herself. ‘I have a palace and servants, and wealth enough to live out my life without the need of men.’
Yet was it true, she wondered?
Her mood had been fragile all day, and she had felt close to tears when Helikaon said he was going up to the Shrine of Apollo. She had walked there with him once, a year ago now, and had watched as he stood on the very edge of the cliff, arms raised, eyes closed.
‘Why did you do that?’ she had asked him. ‘The cliff could give way. You could fall and be dashed on the rocks.’
‘Perhaps that is why,’ he had answered.
Phaedra had been mystified by the answer. It made no sense. But then so much of Helikaon defied logic. She always struggled to understand the mysteries of the man. When he was with her there was never a hint of the violence men whispered of. No harshness, no cruelty, no anger. In fact he rarely carried a weapon when in Kypros, although she had seen the three bronze swords, the white-crested helm, the breastplate and the greaves he wore in battle. They were packed in a chest in the upper bedroom he used when on the island.
Packed in a chest. Like his emotions, she thought. In the five years she had known him Phaedra had never come close to the man within. She wondered if anyone did.
Phaedra stepped out into the rain, lifting her face to the black sky. She shivered as her green gown became drenched, the wind seeming icy now as it flowed across her wet skin. She laughed aloud and stepped back under cover. The cold stripped away her fatigue.
Lightning flashed, and she thought she saw a shadowy figure dart past the screen of bushes to her right. Spinning round she saw nothing. Was it a trick of the light? Nervous now, she moved back into the house, pushing shut the door.
The last of Helikaon’s guests had gone, and she walked upstairs to his apartment. The room was dark, no lamps lit. Entering silently she walked to the bed. It was empty. Moving to the balcony she looked down into the garden. There was no-one in sight. The clouds broke briefly, and the moon shone bright.
Turning back inside she saw a muddy footprint on the floor. Fear rose and she glanced around the room. Someone had been here. He had climbed through the window. Moving back to the balcony she glanced down once more.
A shadow moved, and she saw a hooded, dark-garbed man run for the wall. Then Helikaon emerged from behind a statue, a dagger in his hand. The man saw him and swerved away. He ran and leapt high, hauling himself onto the high wall, and rolling over to the open land beyond. The clouds closed in again, and Phaedra could see nothing.
Running out into the corridor she descended the stairs, arriving at the entrance just as Helikaon stepped inside. Pushing shut the door Phaedra dropped the locking bar in place. ‘Who was he?’ she asked. Helikaon tossed the bronze dagger to a table top.
‘Just a thief,’ he said. ‘He is gone now.’ Moving past her he walked to the kitchen, taking up a towel and drying his face and arms. Phaedra followed him.
‘Tell me the truth,’ she said.
Stripping off his tunic he continued to dry his body. Then he walked naked across the room and filled two goblets with watered wine. Passing one to her he sipped his own. ‘The man was following me when I went to the shrine. I caught glimpses of him. He is very skilled, and held to the shadows. Ox and my men did not see him.’
‘But you did?’
He sighed. ‘My father was murdered by an assassin, Phaedra. Since then I have been… more observant of those around me, shall we say?’
