where she would lie awake, staring up at the moonshadows on the ceiling. Three times Helikaon had visited her. She had sat silently as he talked, her gaze distant.
Helikaon did not even know if she truly heard him.
The servant returned. ‘The handmaiden awaits you, lord,’ he said.
Helikaon dismissed the man and made his way along the open walkway to the queen’s apartments. Two guards were stationed outside the doors. They stepped aside as he entered.
The handmaiden, a young, plump, flaxen-haired woman, came out from the rear rooms to greet him. ‘She seems a little better today,’ she said. ‘There is colour in her cheeks.’
‘Has she spoken?’
‘No, lord.’
Looking around he found himself remembering the first time he had entered these rooms as a young man. He had returned home after two years on the Penelope. That same night – as Helikaon enjoyed a farewell feast with the crew on the beach –
his father had been murdered. Everything changed that day. The queen, fearing for her life and that of her child, had sent soldiers to kill him. Pausanius and other loyal men had rushed to protect him. In the standoff that followed Helikaon had taken a great risk. The leader of the men sent to kill him was a powerful soldier named Garus. Helikaon approached him. ‘You and I will go alone to see the queen,’ he said.
‘No, lord, they will kill you,’ argued Pausanius.
‘There will be no killing today,’ Helikaon had assured him, though he was less confident than he sounded.
Helikaon had gestured for Garus to precede him, and followed him up the long cliff path to the fortress. He saw Garus finger the hilt of his sword. Then the warrior stopped and slowly turned. He was a big man, wide- shouldered and thick-necked. His eyes were piercingly blue, his face broad and honest. ‘The queen is a good and fine woman, and little Diomedes is a joy,’ he said. ‘Do you plan to kill them?’
‘No,’ said Helikaon.
‘I have your oath on that?’
‘You do.’
‘Very well, my lord. Follow me.’
They walked further along the open balcony to the queen’s apartments. Two guards were there. Both wore shields and carried long spears. Garus signalled to them to stand aside, then rapped his knuckles against the door frame. ‘It is I, Garus,’ he said. ‘May I enter?’
‘You may enter,’ came a woman’s voice.
Garus opened the door, stepped inside, then made way for Helikaon. Several soldiers inside surged to their feet. ‘Be calm!’ said Helikaon. ‘There are no warriors with me.’ He had looked at the young queen, seeing both fear and pride in her pale eyes. Beside her was a small boy with golden hair. He was staring up at Helikaon, head cocked to one side.
‘I am your brother, Helikaon,’ he told the child. ‘And you are Diomedes.’
‘I am Dio,’ the boy corrected him. ‘Papa won’t get up. So we can’t have breakfast. We can’t, can we, mama?’
‘We’ll have breakfast soon,’ said Helikaon. He looked at the queen. When Anchises had married this slender, fair-haired Zeleian girl Helikaon had not been invited to the ceremony. In the year before he sailed on the Penelope he had spoken to her on but a handful of occasions, and then merely to exchange short pleasantries.
‘We do not know each other, Halysia,’ he said. ‘My father was a hard, cold man.
He should have let us talk more. Perhaps then we could have grown to understand one another. Had we done so you would have known that I would never order my father’s death, nor kill his wife and son. You have nothing to fear from me.’
‘I wish that I could believe you,’ she whispered.
‘You can, my queen,’ said Garus. Helikaon was surprised but kept his expression even.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘you should think of your son’s breakfast. Then we will discuss my father’s funeral arrangements.’
He shivered now at the memory, then walked through to the rear apartments.
Halysia was sitting hunched in a chair, a blanket over her thin frame. She had lost a great deal of weight, and her eyes were dark-rimmed. Helikaon drew up a chair alongside her. The handmaiden was wrong. She did not look better. Helikaon took her hand in his. The skin was cold. She did not seem to notice his touch.
The sun broke through the clouds, bathing the sea in gold. Helikaon glanced down and saw an untouched bowl of broth and some bread on a table beside Halysia.
‘You must eat,’ he said, gently. ‘You must regain your strength.’
Leaning forward, he lifted the bowl and dipped the spoon into it, raising it to her mouth. ‘Just a little, Halysia,’ he prompted. She did not move.
Helikaon replaced the bowl on the table and sat quietly, watching the sunlight dancing on the waves. ‘I wish I had taken him with me when I sailed,’ he said.
‘The boy loved you. He would be filled with sorrow if he could see you now.’ He looked at the queen as he spoke, but there was no change of expression. ‘I don’t know where you are, Halysia,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know where your spirit wanders. I don’t know how to reach you and bring you home.’
He sat quietly with her, holding her hand. In the silence he felt his own grief welling up like a swollen river beating against a dam. Ashamed of his weakness, he struggled to concentrate on the problems he faced. His body began to tremble.
He saw young Diomedes laughing in the sunshine, and Zidantas chuckling with him, after the fall from the golden horse. He saw Ox lift the boy and hurl him high in the air, before catching him and spinning round. And the dam burst.
He covered his face with his hands and wept for the dead. For Zidantas, who had loved him like a son. For Diomedes, the golden child who would never become a man. For the son of Habusas the Assyrian, who had fallen alongside his father.
And for the woman dressed in blue and gold, who had hurled herself from these cliffs so many years ago.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and then someone was kneeling beside him, cradling his head. He leaned in to her, and she kissed his cheek.
Then she spoke. ‘They took my little boy,’ she said. ‘They killed my Dio.’
‘I know, Halysia. I am so sorry.’
She felt so frail, and her flesh was cold despite the sunshine.
Helikaon put his arms round her, drawing her close, and they sat together silently as the sun sank into the Great Green.
iii
Andromache had never been so angry. The rage had been building since her arrival in this cesspit of a city, with its army of liars, eavesdroppers, spies and sycophants. Kreusa was the worst of them, she thought, with her hard, metallic eyes, her vicious tongue, and the sweet honeyed smile for her father.
A week ago she had invited Andromache to her own apartments. Kreusa had been friendly, and had greeted her sister-to-be with a hug and a kiss on her cheek.
The rooms were everything Andromache would have expected for the king’s favourite daughter, beautifully furnished with items of glistening gold, painted vases, elaborately carved furniture, rich drapes, and two wide balconies. There were thick rugs upon the floor and the walls had been painted with colourful scenes. Kreusa had
