As was his style, Karpophorus had found a place to sleep away from the men, and was sitting looking at the stars when Odysseus walked up. The ugly king had sat down on a rock close by. ‘I know you,’ he had said.
The shock had been great. Karpophorus’ main talent lay in his anonymity. He had the kind of face no-one remembered, and merely by tying back his dark hair, or growing a chin beard, could change his appearance dramatically. And he had not met Odysseus before this trip to Dardania.
He had hedged. ‘How so?’
The king had laughed. ‘A friend of mine hired you. I saw you leaving his house one day. It is said you are the finest assassin in all the world, Karpophorus.
You never fail.’
‘You mistake me for someone else.’
‘I don’t make that kind of mistake,’ said Odysseus. ‘And I would like to hire you.’
‘It is said you are a man without enemies. Who would you possibly want killed?’
Odysseus had shrugged. ‘I don’t care. I just want to be able to say I once hired the great Karpophorus.’
‘You don’t care who dies?’
‘Not a jot.’
‘You are suggesting I just kill anyone and then seek payment from you?’
‘Hmm,’ mused the ugly king. ‘I can see how that would be a little too random.’
He sat silently for a moment. ‘All right, how about this: I will hire you to kill the next person who seeks to hire you.’
‘I already know who seeks to hire me, and he is a powerful man and well protected. The cost of my services is in direct proportion to the risk I take.’
‘Name a fee.’
‘You don’t want to know who it is?’
‘No.’
Now it was Karpophorus who fell silent. He glanced back along the beach, to where the men were sitting round the fire. His gaze fell on the dark-haired young prince who travelled with Odysseus. And here was the difficulty. He had seen on the voyage so far that Odysseus was fond of the youth. Had the ugly king guessed that Karpophorus was being hired to kill him? If he had, and Karpophorus refused to accept his offer, then Odysseus would have him killed here on this beach. He looked up at Odysseus, meeting his gaze. The man was clever. He was seeking to save the young man by murdering his father, and yet, if Karpophorus was captured, there would be no blood feud. For the Ithakan king was, after all, only hiring Karpophorus on a whim, to kill someone anonymous.
‘How will you know the deed is done?’ asked Karpophorus, continuing the charade.
‘Cut off the man’s ear and send it to me. I will take that as proof of completion.’
‘It will cost a sheep’s weight in silver.’
‘I agree – but then we have very thin sheep on Ithaka. One other thing. The man we are talking of may already have named the person he wants dead. Or he may name him before you fulfil your promise to me.’
‘That is a possibility.’
Odysseus’ eyes grew cold. In that moment Karpophorus had seen the briefest glimpse of the man legend spoke of, the young reaver who had terrorized settlements all across the Great Green. In the days of his youth Odysseus had built a formidable reputation as a fighting man and a killer. Karpophorus had stayed very calm. His life, at that moment, was flickering like a candle in a storm. One wrong word now and it would be extinguished.
‘I think,’ said Odysseus, ‘it would be unwise to accept an offer from a man you are going to kill. You agree?’
‘Of course.’
‘Excellent.’
They had then agreed the manner of the payment. In the background the men of the Penelope were laughing. Karpophorus looked over to see the dark-haired young prince engaged in a mock wrestling bout with Odysseus’ first mate, Bias.
‘A fine lad,’ said Odysseus. ‘Reminds me of a young sailor who once served with me. He was murdered. It took me five seasons to find the killer. I left his head on a spear. My Penelope always tells me I am an unforgiving man, and I should learn how to put aside grudges. I wish I could.’ He shrugged. ‘But we are what we are, Karpophorus.’ Then he had clapped his meaty hand on Karpophorus’
shoulder. ‘I am glad we had this little talk.’
It had irked Karpophorus to have been outmanoeuvred by the ugly king, and now, with the promise of Agamemnon’s gold, it seemed fitting that the original wishes of Anchises the king would be honoured.
Helikaon would – at last – fall to the blade of Karpophorus.
He had originally planned to kill him in Kypros, and had followed him in the darkness to a high cliff top. The storm had come then, and Helikaon had walked to the cliff edge, and stood, arms raised, as if preparing to dive to the rocks below. Karpophorus had moved silently between the great stones of the shrine. No need for a blade. Just a swift push and the man would plummet into eternity.
Then the child had appeared. Karpophorus had faded back into the shadows, and listened as the terrified little girl spoke of her mother. With Helikaon kneeling by the girl it would have been a simple matter to step forward and bury a knife blade between his shoulders. Yet he could not take a life in front of a child.
Karpophorus thought back to the night in Kypros. He had learned a lot, both about Helikaon and about himself. Arrogance had crept in. It was almost a deadly lesson. Helikaon had known he was followed, and had set men outside the walls.
And the Golden One had almost trapped him in the garden. He shivered with pleasure at the remembered excitement.
A sudden burst of moonlight had shone on Helikaon as he raced to intercept him.
Karpophorus had made it to the wall, and into the darkness beyond. Then he had glimpsed Zidantas. The big man did not see him in the shadows. Then other men had appeared. Karpophorus had needed all his skills to evade them.
He sat in the shade, remembering, and began to doze. A shadow fell across him and he woke instantly, his dagger in his hand. The elderly servant standing before him almost let slip the tray of food and drink he held. Karpophorus sheathed his blade. ‘Your master bade me bring you refreshment,’ said the servant, sternly, laying the tray on the bench. There was a flagon of cool water and a goblet, alongside a loaf of bread and slices of salt-dried fish.
The servant left him without a word and Karpophorus ate and drank. His liking for Helikaon swelled. Here was a nobleman who considered the welfare of the men who served him. He must have glanced down from one of the upper windows and seen Karpophorus waiting. Such a man would be made most welcome by the All Father when Karpophorus delivered his spirit to Him. In a way, Karpophorus decided, the killing of Helikaon was a gift to the man.
Pleased with the thought, he settled back to doze once more, and remembered the first man he had killed. It had been an accident. Karpophorus had been working in the stone quarry. His chisel blade had snapped, and flown up. It caught the man working alongside him in the throat, opening the jugular. He had died writhing on the dust of the quarry. Karpophorus had been horrified, but a priest later put his mind at rest. His words remained with the assassin still. ‘Hades, the Lord of the Dead, knows the moment of our birth, and the day and the moment of our death. It is written thus, that each man has a certain span allocated to him by Hades. And when that span is done his body returns to the earth.’
‘So no-one dies except at their allotted time?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then the Lord of the Dead used me to take his life?’
‘Yes, indeed, my boy. So you should feel no guilt.’
Guilt was the last thing he felt. The young Karpophorus was invigorated. He had been touched by the gods,
