grew again. Then Agathon had risen.
‘Well, there is much to do,’ he said. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’ He had walked to the doorway, and then looked back, an odd expression on his face. ‘Farewell, Antiphones,’ he had said, softly.
Antiphones shivered as he recalled the moment.
The streets were quiet now as the shadows lengthened. Antiphones looked up towards the upper city walls, shining gold in the fading sunlight.
Despair swept over him. There was nothing he could do. If he got a message to Priam he would have to implicate himself in the plot, and that would mean death for treason. And even were he to accept this fate, how could he get through to the king? Agathon controlled all access to the palace, and who knew how many officers or soldiers he had suborned.
He thought of the people who were to die tonight. More than a hundred would be gathered at the funeral feast. Polites would be there, and Helikaon, and Dios.
Face after face swam before his eyes. Yes, many of them had – as Agathon observed – sniggered at fat Antiphones. Many had laughed when Priam mocked Agathon. In the main, however, they were good men who served Troy loyally.
He looked up the hill towards Helikaon’s palace with its stone horses at the gates. He could see no guards there, but the general bustle in and out of the gateway showed that Helikaon was in residence.
Antiphones took a deep breath. His own death would be a small matter, compared to the horror that awaited the innocents at the palace. He decided then to send a message to Helikaon. He would be able to reach the king.
He called out to his body servant, Thoas, and walked ponderously to the door.
Outside, a blond-haired Thrakian soldier was crouched over Thoas’s body, wiping a bloody knife on the old servant’s tunic.
And two others were standing in the doorway, swords in their hands.
Antiphones knew he was going to die. In that moment, rather than the sickening onrush of terror, it was like sunshine bursting through dark clouds. All his life he had lived with fear – fear of disappointing his father, fear of failure, fear of rejection. There was no fear now.
His eyes met the pale blue gaze of the Thrakian assassin.
‘He was my body servant,’ said Antiphones softly, pointing at the dead Thoas. ‘A simple man with a good heart.’
‘Ah well,’ said the Thrakian, with a wide smile. ‘Maybe he will serve you, fat man, in the Underworld.’ Rising smoothly he advanced on Antiphones. The soldier was young, and, like so many of the Thrakian mercenaries, hard- eyed and cruel.
Antiphones did not move. The soldier paused.
‘Well, carrying that amount of blubber you can’t run,’ he said. ‘Do you want to beg for your life?’
‘I would ask nothing from a Thrakian goat shagger,’ said Antiphones coldly.
The man’s eyes narrowed and, with a snarl of anger, he leapt at the prince.
Antiphones stepped in to meet him, his huge left arm parrying the knife blow, his right fist hammering into the man’s jaw. Lifted from his feet, the Thrakian hit the wall head first and slumped to the floor. The remaining two soldiers raised their swords and rushed at Antiphones. With a bellowing shout he surged forward to meet them. A sword cut into his side, blood drenching his voluminous blue gown. Grabbing the attacker, Antiphones dragged him into a savage head butt. The man sagged, semi-conscious, in his grip.
Pain lanced through him. The other Thrakian had darted behind and stabbed him in the back. Wrenching the sword clear the assassin pulled back his arm for another strike. Still holding on to the stunned man, Antiphones twisted round, hurling him at the swordsman. The Thrakian sidestepped. Antiphones lurched forward. The Thrakian’s sword jabbed out, piercing Antiphones’ belly. Antiphones’ fist thundered against the man’s chin, hurling him against the wall. Dropping to one knee Antiphones picked up a fallen sword. Heaving himself upright he blocked a wild cut then drove his blade towards the man’s throat. It was a mistimed thrust, for he had never been skilled with the sword. The blade lanced through the man’s cheek, slicing the skin and scraping along his teeth, before exiting through the jaw. With a gurgling cry he stabbed at Antiphones again. Stepping back Antiphones swung his sword against the man’s temple, and the assassin staggered to his right and half fell. Antiphones struck him three more times, the last blow severing his jugular.
The second assassin was struggling to rise. Antiphones ran at him. Flipping the short sword into dagger position he plunged it past the man’s collarbone, driving it down with all his considerable weight. The Thrakian let out a terrible scream, and fell back, the sword so deep inside him that only the hilt guard protruded from his body.
Blood was soaking through Antiphones’ gown. He could feel it running down his belly and back. He felt light-headed and dizzy. Slowly he walked back to the first Thrakian. Scooping up the man’s dagger he knelt by the unconscious assassin. Grabbing him by the collar of his breastplate he heaved him to his back. The man groaned and his pale eyes opened. Antiphones touched the dagger blade to his throat.
‘This fat man,’’ he said, ‘is a prince of Troy, and his blood is the blood of heroes and kings. When you get to Hades you can apologize to Thoas. You can tell him the fat man thought highly of him.’
The Thrakian’s eyes widened and he started to speak. Antiphones plunged the blade through his throat, ripping it clear and watching the blood spray from the awful wound. Then he dropped the knife and sagged back against the door frame.
Farewell, brother, Agathon had said. Antiphones had known that some dread meaning lay behind that last chilling look. Agathon had gone from the house and sent his Thrakians to murder him. And why not? Most of the other brothers were marked for death.
Blood continued to flow. Antiphones closed his eyes. He felt no terror of the dark road. In fact he was surprised at the sense of calm that had settled on him. He thought of Hektor and smiled. Would he have been surprised to see me defeat three killers?
Then he thought again of the murder plot against Priam and his sons and counsellors.
With a mighty effort he made it to his feet. Staggering through to the back of the house he donned a full- length cloak of grey wool, drawing it about him to disguise the bloodstains. Then he moved slowly out into the rear gardens, and into a side street.
He could not see the stones of the street clearly. A haze seemed to be lying on them like the mist on the Scamander at daybreak.
They wavered and shimmered, and with every jarring footstep they threatened to vanish into darkness.
As he bent forward the pain in his side and back redoubled, but with a soft cry he pushed forward another step. Then another.
Blood was still flowing freely, but the cloak disguised his injuries, and the few people who passed him in the street merely glanced. They thought him drunk, or just too fat to walk properly, so they looked away, amused or embarrassed.
They did not notice the bloody footprints he was leaving.
Reaching the gate of Helikaon’s palace he stood for a moment in the shadow of the stone horses. He saw a servant crossing the courtyard towards the main entrance, and called out to him. The servant recognized him and ran to where Antiphones was now leaning against the base of one of the statues.
‘Help me,’ he said, unsure if he was speaking the words or just saying them in his head.
He sank into unconsciousness, then felt hands pulling at him, trying to lift him. They could not. The weight was too great.
Opening his eyes he looked up and saw a powerful, black-bearded man with wide shoulders looming over him. ‘We have to get you inside,’ said the man, his accent Egypteian.
‘Helikaon… I must speak to… Helikaon.’
‘He is not here. Give me your hand.’ Antiphones raised his arm. Several servants moved behind him. Then the Egypteian heaved, drawing Antiphones up. On his feet again, Antiphones leaned heavily on the Egypteian as they made their slow way into Helikaon’s palace. Once inside Antiphones’ legs gave way, and the Egypteian lowered him to the floor.
