‘So am I,’ said Argurios.
‘Well, try not to anger him. If he refuses, merely bow your head and walk away.
Nothing he can do can keep us apart for long, my love. If he sends me away I will find a way to get word to you.’
‘It is good to see your confidence growing.’
‘I believe in the message of the swans,’ she told him. Then, after another lingering kiss, she left the room.
Argurios walked back to the window. The sun was sliding towards sunset.
Turning back to his armour he finished burnishing the greaves, then the bronze discs on the old leather war kilt. Lastly he polished the curved forearm guards given to him by the soldier Kalliades two years before. Kalliades had stripped them from a dead Athenian and brought them to where Argurios was resting after the battle. ‘Thank you for saving my life, Argurios,’ he had said. Argurios could not recall the incident. ‘I was wearing a helmet embossed with a snake,’
persisted Kalliades. ‘I was knocked from my feet and a spearman was about to thrust his blade through my throat. You leapt at him, turning away his spear with your shield.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Argurios. ‘I am glad you survived.’
‘I brought you these,’ he said, offering the arm guards. Some of Kalliades’
friends were close by, keeping a respectful distance. Argurios recognized Banokles of the One Ear, and Eruthros, who was renowned for his practical jokes.
There were others, new soldiers he did not know.
Accepting the gift he had said, ‘They are very fine. You may leave me now.’ The soldiers had backed away. As he remembered the moment Argurios found himself wishing he had spoken to the men, drawing them in and getting to know them.
He glanced at the sword belt and scabbard. These too needed polishing, but he was not intending to wear a sword to the palace.
On the chest lay the papyrus scrolls, covered with their indecipherable symbols.
Copper and tin for the making of more weapons and armour. Gold for ‘our friends’. Those friends would be Trojan traitors. As to the troop rotations, that could only refer to the regiments guarding the city. Argurios could not read script, nor could he fashion his own armour. He knew nothing about the growing of crops, nor the weaving of linens and wools.
What he did know as well as any man alive was strategy and war.
If Agamemnon desired to know which troops were guarding the city at any time it could only mean that an advantage could be gained if a specific regiment was in control. Otherwise it would matter little which force patrolled the walls.
You are no longer the king’s strategos, he chided himself. The ambitions of Agamemnon no longer concern you.
Unless, of course, Priam agreed to let him marry Laodike. Then he would, by law, become the king’s son, and a Trojan. How inconceivable such an idea would have seemed as he set out with Helikaon on the Xantbos.
The shadows were lengthening outside. Argurios strapped on his greaves then donned his breastplate and kilt. Lastly he fastened the straps of the forearm guards and stood.
He walked to the door – and paused. Glancing back, his eyes rested on the sword and scabbard.
On impulse he swept them up and left for the palace.
Part Four
THE HERO’S SHIELD
XXX
Blood on the Walls
i
It had been a frustrating day for Helikaon. He had walked to the palace in search of Andromache, only to find the gates closed. An Eagle on the walls above the gate had called down that no-one was to be allowed entry until dusk, on the orders of Agathon. So he had returned to the House of the Stone Horses, thrown a leopard-skin shabrack over the back of his horse, and ridden across the Scamander to Hekabe’s palace, hoping to find Andromache there.
Instead he found the palace virtually deserted. Hekabe’s youngest son, the studious Paris, was sitting in the shade of some trees overlooking the bay.
Beside him, poring over some old parchments, was a thickset young woman with a plain, honest face and pale auburn hair.
‘Mother is sleeping,’ Paris told him, setting aside the parchment he held. ‘She had a troubled night.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. I was seeking Andromache.’
‘She was here yesterday with Laodike. Today everyone is in the city, preparing for the feast.’
‘But not you?’
Paris gave a shy smile. ‘I was not invited. Agathon knows I am uncomfortable in crowds. I am much happier here.’ His pale eyes flickered towards the young woman. ‘Oh, I am sorry, cousin,’ he said. ‘This is Helen. She has been staying with us.’
‘I am Helikaon,’ he told her.
‘I have heard of you,’ she said softly, meeting his gaze. She swiftly looked away, her face reddening.
‘Helen shares my interest in matters historical,’ said Paris, gazing at her fondly.
‘Do you read?’ Helikaon asked her, in an effort to be polite.
‘Paris is teaching me,’ she told him.
‘Then I shall disturb you no longer,’ he said. ‘I must go home and prepare for the feast.’
Paris rose from his chair and walked with Helikaon back through the silent palace. ‘Isn’t she a joy?’ he said excitedly.
Helikaon smiled. ‘It seems you are in love.’
‘I think I am,’ said the young man happily.
‘When is the wedding?’
Paris sighed. ‘It is all too complicated. Helen’s father is at war with the Mykene. I do not understand the mysteries of battles and strategies, but Antiphones told me that Sparta will lose the war. So, either her father will be killed, or he will be forced to swear allegiance to Agamemnon. Either way Helen will be subject to Agamemnon’s will.’
‘She is Spartan? Paris, my friend, she is not for you.’
The young prince was defiant. ‘Yes, she is,’ he protested. ‘She is everything to me!’
‘That is not what I meant.’ Helikaon took a deep breath, marshalling his thoughts. ‘The Spartan king has no sons. If Sparta falls then Helen will be married off to one of Agamemnon’s generals, in order to provide a claim to the throne. And even if by some miracle Sparta wins, then the king’s daughter will be wed to a highborn Spartan, who would then be named as heir.’
Paris looked crestfallen. ‘What if father intervened for us?’
Helikaon hesitated. He liked the quiet young prince. Of all Priam’s sons he was the least like his father. Paris
