Kreusa. ‘I think he understands now that poor Axa was merely the victim of malice. Some poor, demented creature, driven by envy and spite.’
Kreusa’s hand slashed out, slapping Andromache hard on the cheek. Stepping in, Andromache punched her full on the jaw. Kreusa spun and hit the ground hard. She struggled to rise, then slumped down.
Agathon knelt by the half-stunned young woman, helping her to stand. There was blood trickling from a split in her lip, and her white gown was smeared with dirt.
Andromache took a deep breath, and turned away. All conversation among the crowd had ceased and she felt all eyes on her as she walked back into the palace.
XXV
The Silent Head
i
Cthosis the eunuch had worn his latest creation to the meeting, and no-one had noticed. It was most galling. The ankle-length gown was jet black, and edged with silver thread. It was a magnificent piece, which he had been convinced would be the envy of every man present. No-one had ever produced a black dye that would remain fast to the cloth. Two problems always occurred. First, if rained upon the dye would seep out, staining the skin for days. Second, the dyes were so powerful that they would stink until the garment had been washed several times and faded to a dull and lifeless grey.
Cthosis had spent years refining the process, eliminating these problems. Oak bark from the gnarled trees in the lands of the Sombre Sea had provided the source of a finer dye, but obtaining it had consumed much of his wealth. So treacherous and powerful were the currents that it was almost impossible to sail a ship up the Hellespont and into the Sombre Sea. All trade goods had to be carried overland.
Now here he was, with sixty of the most influential men in Dardania, and not one had mentioned the gown. He wondered if, as an Egypteian, he had failed to realize that there was some antipathy for the colour black among these peoples of the Northern Sea. Ah well, he thought, come the spring I will ship the cloth to Memphis and Luxor. Egypteian men will pay heavily in gold for such finery.
Even so, the lack of appreciation here was dispiriting.
Raised voices cut through his meditations. The Phrygian cattle trader – whose name Cthosis could never recall – was shouting at a Hittite merchant, and waving his powerful fist in the man’s face. Before long there would be blows struck, and the entire conference would degenerate into an unseemly brawl. With this in mind Cthosis eased his way to the left-hand wall, to stand beneath a fearsome statue of a helmeted warrior carrying a spear. Cthosis was not a fighting man, and had no wish to be drawn into an unseemly scrap – especially in his new garment.
Indeed, had it not been for the chance to display it, Cthosis would have avoided the meeting altogether.
People were not hard to read. When times were good they moved about their business smiling at neighbours. But add a touch of fear, or uncertainty, and the smiles would disappear. Rows and feuds would erupt. If a storm washed away crops the cry was: ‘Who is to blame?’ Not the vagaries of the weather, obviously. No, it had to be a mischievous spell cast by a jealous neighbour. Probably a witch.
If everyone’s crops were washed away – well, then it was the fault of the king, who had angered the gods in some inexplicable way.
It was not dissimilar back in Egypte. Fear and blame, leading to idiots gathering in mobs, followed by riots, and unnecessary deaths.
A long time ago, when Cthosis was still a small boy, he had seen lightning strike a tree around which a herd of cattle had been quietly feeding. The cattle bunched together and took off in a stampede that carried half of them over a cliff.
People and cattle. Not a great deal of difference, he thought.
Life had been harsh in Egypte for the mutilated child he had been. Yet at least at the palace the people had enjoyed a love of poetry and painting, and men would sit in the evenings discussing the beauty of the sunsets. The wall paintings depicted gentle scenes, of ships sailing mighty rivers, or pharaohs receiving tributes from vassal kings.
Oh, do not fool yourself, stupid man, he chided himself. They were not so different. Here in Dardania they do not clip the balls from a ten-year-old boy so that he can wander among the palace women, carrying their goblets of wine, fetching their cloaks and their hats. The pain had been excruciating, but nothing compared to the knowledge that his father had sold him for just that purpose.
Cthosis sighed. The betrayal still hurt, even after fifteen years.
Dust from the statue had rubbed off onto the shoulder of his tunic. Idly he brushed it away. As he did so the stump of his little finger caught on a loose stitch in the cloth. He shivered as he remembered the day, three years ago, when it had been cut away. Cthosis had been running to collect some bauble a princess had left in the royal gardens. As he turned a corner he had collided with Prince Rameses, knocking the young man sideways. The prince had reacted with customary savagery, hurling Cthosis against a painted pillar. He was prepared for a beating, but Rameses had dragged his sword from its sheath and lashed out.
Cthosis had thrown up his hand. The blade sliced through one finger and cut into the next. Cthosis had stood there, staring at the severed digit. Then he realized that it was not over. Rameses stepped in, pressed the sword point against his chest, and tensed for the killing thrust.
Death was a heartbeat away when a powerful hand grabbed Rameses’ cloak and dragged him back. ‘Get you gone, eunuch,’ said Prince Ahmose. Cthosis had needed no further instruction, and had run back to the women’s quarters, where the servant girls had fussed over him, and called for the royal physician.
As he sat there, blood seeping from the ruin of his hand, the aftershock of the violence had hit him. He had begun to tremble. Then he had wept. When he told the women what had happened they went suddenly quiet, and began to cast nervous glances towards the doors.
He knew then that Rameses would send for him, and finish what he had begun.
Cthosis had struck a prince. It would not matter that it was accidental. The punishment would be the same.
He had sat miserably while the Nubian physician prepared pitch for the stump.
The other injured finger, he was told, was broken, and would need a splint. Then the women suddenly scattered. Cthosis felt tears beginning again. Death was once more upon him.
But it was not the terrifying Rameses who entered the room, but the powerful figure of Prince Ahmose. The big man spoke quietly to the Nubian, and then turned to Cthosis, who kept his head down. No slave could ever look into the eyes of a prince. ‘You are released from service, eunuch,’ said the prince, in his deep voice.
Inadvertently Cthosis looked up. ‘Released, lord?’ Ahmose was not a handsome man. His face was too rugged, the nose too prominent, the chin too broad. And it had a cleft in it that looked like a scar. But his eyes were dark and magnificent.
‘Best you leave tonight,’ said the prince softly. ‘I would suggest travelling to a far place.’ He placed a pouch in Cthosis’ good hand. ‘There is gold there, and a few baubles, rings and such like. I am told they have some value.’ Then he had left.
The pouch contained fourteen small gold ingots, and several rings set with precious stones. There was also an emerald the size of a dove’s egg. With this fortune Cthosis had travelled to Dardania.
The shouting began again in the great throne room, jerking Cthosis back to the present. He glanced around the crowd. Many nationalities were represented here.
