XIX
Wings over Olympos
i
The days were becoming increasingly strange for Hekabe the queen. The statues that lined the garden path often smiled at her, and, yesterday, in the sky above she had seen the white winged horse, Pegasus, flying off to the west. It was an effort of will to rationalize these images. The opiates were strong, and the statues did not smile. Pegasus had taken a little more thought. In the end she decided it was probably no more than a flock of gulls. On the other hand, it was more pleasant to think that dying gave her greater sight, and maybe, after all, she had seen the white horse flying back to Olympos.
Her back was aching now but she did not have the energy to move the down-filled cushion to a more comfortable position. A cool breeze blew off the sea and Hekabe sighed. She had always loved the sea – especially at the Bay of Herakles. From the high, cliff top garden she could look down on the Great Green, and merely by turning her head to the right cast her gaze across the shining Scamander river to the high golden walls of Troy in the distance. The summer palace of King’s Joy had always been her favourite place, and it seemed entirely right that she should die here. Priam had built it for her when they were both young, when life seemed everlasting, and love eternal. Pain flared in her belly, but it was dull and thudding, not sharp and jagged as it had been only a few weeks before.
Some twenty paces ahead of her the young prince Paris was sitting in the shade, poring over Egypteian scrolls. Hekabe smiled as she watched him, his stern expression, his total concentration. Not yet twenty-five, he was already losing his hair, like his brother Polites. Slim and studious, Paris had never been suited to the manly pursuits his father so loved. He did not care for riding, save to journey from one place to another. He had no skill with sword or bow.
His enthusiasms were focused entirely on study. He loved to draw plants and flowers, and, as a youngster, had spent many happy afternoons dissecting plant stems and examining leaves. Priam soon tired of the boy. But then Priam tired of everyone sooner or later, she thought.
Sadness touched her.
At that moment Paris looked up. Concern showed on his face and he put aside the scroll and rose. ‘Let me move that pillow, mother,’ he said, helping her to lean forward, then adjusting the cushion. Hekabe sank back gratefully.
‘Thank you, my son.’
‘I shall fetch you some water.’
She watched him walk away. His movements were not graceful like Hektor’s, and his shoulders were already rounded from too many hours spent sitting and reading. There was a time when she too had been disappointed by Paris, but now she was grateful for the kindness of his spirit, and the compassion he showed her. ‘I raised good sons,’ she told herself. The pain began to worsen and she took a phial from a pouch at her belt and broke the wax seal. Lifting it to her lips with a trembling hand she drained the contents. The taste was bitter, but within moments the pain ebbed away, and she began to doze.
She dreamt of little Kassandra, reliving the dread day when the three-year-old had been consumed by brain fire. The priests all said she would die, and yet she did not. Most young children did not survive the illness, but Kassandra was strong, and clung to life for ten days, the fever raging through her tiny body.
When the fever passed Hekabe’s joy was short-lived. The happy, laughing girl Kassandra had been was replaced by a quiet, fey child, who claimed to hear voices in her head, and would sometimes speak in gibberish that none could understand. Now, at eleven years old, she was withdrawn and secretive, avoiding people and shying away from intimacy, even with her mother.
A hand gently pressed on her shoulder. Hekabe opened her eyes. The sun was so bright, the face above her in silhouette. ‘Ah, Priam, you did come to see me,’ she said, her spirits lifting. ‘I knew you would.’
‘No, mother. It is Paris. I have your water.’
‘My water. Yes. Of course.’ Hekabe sipped the liquid, then rested her head on the back of the wicker chair. ‘Where is your sister?’
‘Swimming in the bay with the dolphins. She shouldn’t do that. They are large creatures and could hurt her.’
‘The dolphins won’t harm her, Paris. And she loves to swim. I think her only happiness comes when she is in the water.’
Hekabe glanced back towards the Scamander river. A centaur was rising across the plain. The queen blinked and tried to focus. Centaurs were said to be lucky creatures. Half man, half horse, they always brought gifts. Perhaps he has come to cure me, she thought.
‘Rider coming, mother,’ said Paris.
‘Rider? Yes. Do you recognize him?’
‘No. He has long dark hair. Could be Dios.’
She shook her head. ‘He is like his father and has no time for dying old women.’
Hekabe shielded her eyes with her hand. ‘He rides well,’ she said, still seeing the centaur.
As the horseman came closer Paris said: ‘It is Aeneas, mother. I did not know he was in Troy.’
‘That is because you spend all your time with your scrolls and parchments. Go and greet him. And remember he does not like the name Aeneas. He likes to be called Helikaon.’
‘Yes, I will remember. And you should remember that you have other guests awaiting an audience. Laodike is here, with Hektor’s bride-to-be. They have been waiting all morning.’
‘I told you earlier that I am not in the mood to talk to young girls,’ said the queen.
Paris laughed. ‘I think you will like Andromache, mother. She is just the woman you would have chosen for Hektor.’
‘How so?’
‘No, no! You must see her yourself. And it would be most rude to receive Helikaon and ignore your own daughter and Hektor’s betrothed.’
‘I am dying and do not concern myself with petty rules of behaviour.’
His face fell, and she saw him struggling to hold back tears. ‘Oh, Paris,’ she said, reaching up and stroking his cheek. ‘Do not be so soft.’
‘I don’t like to think of you… you know?… not being here with me.’
‘You are a sweet boy. I will see my guests. Have servants fetch chairs for them, and some refreshments.’
Lifting her hand to his lips he kissed the palm. ‘When you are tired,’ he said, ‘and want them to go, just give me a sign. Say… ask for a honeyed fig, something like that.’
Hekabe chuckled. ‘I do not need to give signs, Paris. When I am tired I shall tell them all to go. Now go and tell Kassandra to join us.’
‘Oh, mother, you know she does nothing I ask of her. She delights in refusing me everything. I think she hates me.’
‘She can be wayward,’ agreed Hekabe. ‘Very well. Ask Helikaon to go down to her.
He has a way with her.’
ii
The cliff path was treacherous and steep, the path scree-covered, shifting beneath his sandalled feet.
