‘Then he will be a prince of Dardania. People are bred to evil, Halysia. I do not believe it is born in them. No matter how they are conceived.’
She relaxed in his arms. ‘You are a good man, Aeneas.’
‘My friends call me Helikaon. I would hope you are my friend.’
‘I am your friend,’ she said. ‘I always will be.’
He smiled. ‘Good. I will be leaving for Troy in a few days. I want you and Pausanius to continue meeting the leaders and resolving disputes. They trust you, Halysia. And now that they have witnessed my harshness they will be more amenable to your wisdom. Are you ready to be queen again?’
‘I will do as you ask,’ she said. ‘For friendship.’
Then the vision came back to her, bright and shining. Helikaon standing before her in a white tunic edged with gold, and in his hand a bejewelled necklet.
Closing her eyes she prayed with all her strength that he would never bring her that golden gift.
iv
The young Hittite horseman rode at a gallop across the plain, bent low over the horse’s neck, his imperial cloak of green and yellow stripes flowing behind him. He glanced again at the dying sun and saw it was closing on the horizon. He could not ride after dark in this unknown country, and leaned forward on his horse to urge it on. He was determined to reach Troy before sunset. He had been on the road for eight days, and had used five horses, at first changing them daily at imperial garrisons. But in this uncharted western end of the empire there were no troops stationed on a regular basis and this horse must last him until he reached Troy. Since leaving Sallapa, the last civilized city in the Hittite empire, he had followed the route he had memorized – keep the rising sun warm on your back, the setting sun between your horse’s ears, and after four days you will see the great mountain called Ida. Skirt this to the north, and you will reach Troy and the sea.
The messenger, Huzziyas, had never seen the sea. He had lived all his nineteen years in and around the capital Hattusas, deep in the heart of Hittite lands. This was his first important commission as an imperial messenger and he was determined to fulfil it with speed and efficiency. But he was eager to gaze upon the sea when the emperor’s task was done. His hand crept to his breast again and he nervously touched the papers hidden in his leather tunic. He was riding now across a flat green plain. He could see a plateau in front of him, the sun falling directly towards it. The last sunlight was shining off something on the heights of the plateau. Troy is roofed with gold, they had told him, but he had scoffed at this. ‘Do you think me a fool?’ he asked. ‘If it is roofed with gold why do bandits not come and steal the roofs?’ ‘You will see,’ they replied. It was almost dark by the time he rode up to the city. He could see nothing but great shadowed walls towering above him. Suddenly his confidence evaporated and he felt like a small boy again. He walked his tired horse round the south of the walls, as instructed, until he reached the high wooden gates. One gate had been opened a little, and six riders awaited him, silent men clad in high-crested helmets seated on tall horses.
He cleared his throat of the dust of travel, and called out to them in the foreign words he had been schooled in. ‘I come from Hattusas. I have a message for King Priam!’
He was beckoned forward and rode slowly through the gate. Two horsemen rode in front of him, two at his sides, and two behind. They were all armed and armoured and they said nothing as they made their way through the darkened streets.
Huzziyas looked curiously around him but in the torchlight he could see little.
Steadily, they climbed towards the citadel.
They passed through the palace gates and halted at a great building lined with red pillars and lit with hundreds of torches. The riders sat their horses and waited until a man clad in long white robes hurried out. He was grey-faced and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery. He peered at Huzziyas.
‘You are an imperial messenger?’ he snapped.
Huzziyas was relieved he spoke the Hittite tongue.
‘I am,’ he answered with pride. ‘I have travelled day and night to bring an important message to the Trojan king.’
‘Give it to me.’ The man held out his hand, gesturing impatiently. The Hittite took out the precious paper. It had been wrapped round a stick and sealed with the imperial seal, then placed in a hollow wooden tube and sealed again at each end. Huzziyas ceremoniously handed the tube to the wet-eyed man, who almost snatched it from him, merely glancing at the seals before breaking them and unrolling the paper.
He frowned and Huzziyas saw disappointment on his face.
‘You know what this says?’ he asked the young man.
‘I do,’ said Huzziyas importantly. ‘It says the emperor is coming.’
XXVII
The Fallen Prince
i
In the days following her first meeting with Argurios, Laodike had found herself thinking more and more of the Mykene warrior. It was most odd. He was not good-looking, like Helikaon or Agathon. His features were hard and angular. He was certainly not charming, and seemed possessed of no great wit. And yet he had i begun to dominate her thoughts in a most disconcerting manner.
When he had been beside her on the beach she had experienced an almost maternal longing, a desire to help him regain his physical strength, to watch him become again the man he had been. At least, that was how it had begun. Now her thoughts were more obsessive, and she realized she was missing him.
Xander had told her of the soldier who had walked Argurios to the beach, saying that he had treated him with great respect. Laodike knew Polydorus and had called out to him one afternoon, when the blond-haired soldier was off duty and walking through the palace gardens.
‘It is a fine day,’ she began. ‘For the time of year, I mean.’
‘Indeed it is,’ he answered. ‘Is there something you need?’
‘No, not at all. I wanted to… thank you for your courtesy towards the wounded Mykene. The boy, Xander, spoke of it.’
Now he looked bemused and Laodike felt embarrassment swelling. ‘I am sorry. I am obviously delaying you. Are you going into the lower town?’
‘Yes, I am meeting the parents of my bride-to-be. But first I must find a gift for them.’
‘There is a trader,’ she said, ‘on the Street of Thetis. He is a silversmith, and crafts the most beautiful small statues of the goddess Demeter, and the babe Persephone. It is said they are lucky pieces.’
‘I have heard of him, but I fear I could not afford such a piece.’
Now Laodike felt foolish. Of course he couldn’t. He was a soldier, not a nobleman with rich farms, or horse herds, or trading ships. Polydorus waited, and the moment became awkward. Finally she took a deep breath. ‘What do you know of the Mykene?’ she asked.
‘He is a great warrior,’ answered Polydorus, relaxing. ‘I learned of him when I was still a child. He has fought in many battles, and under the old king was twice Mykene champion. You have heard of the bridge of Partha?’
‘No.’
‘The Mykene were in retreat. A rare thing! They had crossed the bridge, but the enemy were close behind. Argurios stood upon the bridge and defied the enemy to kill him. They came at him one at a time, but he defeated
