had no interest in war or combat, or political intrigue. He had never taken part in athletic tourneys, nor even attempted to become proficient with sword or spear or bow. ‘Paris, my friend, you said yourself you do not understand strategies or battles. Whoever weds Helen will have a claim on the throne of Sparta. Can you imagine that Agamemnon would allow a Trojan prince to have such a claim? Even Priam, with all his power, could do nothing to alter that. Put it from your mind.’
‘I cannot do that. We love each other.’
‘Princes do not marry for love, Paris. I fear disappointment awaits you,’ said Helikaon, taking hold of his horse’s white mane, and vaulting to its back.
Touching heels to his mount he rode back towards the Scamander bridge.
The conversation with Paris had unsettled him. He had ridden to Troy convinced that he could win Andromache, but was he also blinded by emotion? Why would Priam allow such a match? Why indeed would he not merely wed her to Agathon? Or bed her himself?
That last thought brought a wave of anger, and with it an image that sickened him. As he rode back towards the city his mind began to conceive plans of action that became increasingly absurd. As he rode through the Scaean Gate he was even considering abducting Andromache and fleeing back to Dardanos.
Are you an idiot, he asked himself?
His small, mostly militia army could never withstand the might of Troy. Such an action would bring disaster on the realm. Forcing himself to think coolly he considered all that he could offer Priam, in terms of wealth and trade. Lost in his calculations, he rode slowly through the city to the House of the Stone Horses.
He saw some twenty soldiers in the courtyard, and, as he approached, noticed blood smeared on the stones.
‘What is going on?’ he asked a young Thrakian officer. The man recognized him.
‘Someone was attacked, Lord Aeneas,’ he said. ‘Your servant has refused us entry.’
Moving past the officer, Helikaon hammered his fist on the door. ‘Who is it?’
came the voice of Gershom.
‘Helikaon. Open the door.’
He heard the bar being lifted and the door opened. The first thing he saw was a body on the floor, covered by two cloaks. Blood had drenched the rug on which it lay. Despite the fact that the face was covered, Hehkaon knew the dead man was Antiphones. No-one else in Troy was that size. The Thrakian officer entered behind him and gazed down at the covered corpse.
‘We did not know what to do, lord,’ said Gershom, bowing low. ‘This man staggered in here asking for you. Then he collapsed and died.’
Helikaon looked closely at Gershom. The man had never before been servile, and not once had he bowed. Meeting his gaze, he sensed there was more to this than Gershom could say. Hehkaon turned to the Thrakian officer. ‘The dead man is Antiphones, son of Priam. I suggest you send for a cart, and have the body taken to the palace.’
‘I will indeed, sir,’ said the Thrakian. He swung to Gershom. ‘Did he say anything before he died?’
‘He tried, lord,’ said Gershom, head bowed. ‘He kept asking for the lord Helikaon. I told him he wasn’t here. I tried to stop the bleeding, but the wounds were too deep. Then he died. I couldn’t save him.’
‘Why did you not let us in?’ asked the officer.
‘I was frightened, lord. I am a stranger to the city. A man comes in and drops dead, and then other armed men are banging at the door. I did not know what to do.’
The answer seemed to satisfy the officer. ‘I will have a cart sent,’ he told Hehkaon, and went out. As the door closed Gershom knelt by Antiphones and pulled the top cloak away from the man’s face. Antiphones’ eyes were open. Helikaon saw him blink. The physician Machaon emerged from a side room.
‘What is happening here?’ asked Helikaon, mystified.
Gershom looked up. ‘He was attacked by Thrakian soldiers sent by his brother Agathon,’ he said, all trace of servility vanished. Machaon also knelt by Antiphones, drawing back the cloak still further. Antiphones’ upper body was covered in blood, and Hehkaon could see jagged lines of stitches applied to many wounds.
Machaon examined the wounds, then placed his hand over Antiphones’ heart.
‘He is a strong man,’ said the physician, ‘and the depth of fat, I think, prevented the blades from causing mortal blows.’
‘Why did Agathon do this to you?’ Hehkaon asked the wounded man.
‘I have been such a fool. So much I did not see. I thought that, like me, Agathon wanted revenge on Priam for all the hurts and insults. But he is lost on a sea of hatred. Not just for Priam, but for everyone who has ever offered him what he considers a slight. Tonight will be a massacre. A thousand Thrakians and some two hundred Mykene will descend on the palace. Every man inside the megaron is to be killed. All the princes, the counsellors, the nobles. Everyone. I tried to convince him of the madness of it. He sent three men to kill me.’ Antiphones gave a weary smile. ‘I slew them. Hektor would have been proud of me, don’t you think?’
‘He would. What of the women?’
Antiphones’ smile faded. ‘Our sisters should be safe. All others will be spoils of war,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see all that hatred in him. I was blinded by my own loathing of Priam. You must get out of the city. Once Priam is dead Agathon will send killers after you.’
‘Priam is not dead yet,’ Hehkaon told him.
‘You can do nothing. The Great Gates are guarded by a regiment controlled by one of Agathon’s men. They have orders not to leave their posts, and to keep the gates shut until dawn. They will not come to Priam’s aid. And there are only a hundred or so Eagles at the palace. They cannot win against such odds.’
‘What of the Lady Andromache? Where is she?’
‘Oh, she has joined his list of enemies. She refused him, Aeneas. He said he would enjoy watching her raped by his Thrakians.’
ii
It was the afternoon of the funeral feast, and Andromache stood on the balcony of her apartment, staring out over the green hills to the north of the city.
There were sheep grazing there, and in the far distance she saw two riders cresting a rise. How good it would be, she thought, to be free of Troy. How wonderful to be riding on a hillside, without a care.
‘You wanted a plain white garment today,’ said Axa, moving onto the balcony and disturbing her reverie. The maid held out two identical robes. Andromache pointed to one. Axa examined the embroidery on the hem and then, tutting, rushed off to her sewing box. Armed with needle and silver thread she sat herself comfortably on a padded stool. She was now moving more easily and her bruises were fading, Andromache noticed.
‘Kassandra is at the palace,’ said Axa, peering short-sightedly at her sewing.
‘She returned yesterday. The gossip is that the queen lost her temper with her.
She kept saying that Hektor will come back from the dead. Must be difficult for a mother to have a child with a blighted soul.’
‘Her soul is not blighted,’ said Andromache. ‘Paris told me that Kassandra almost died as a babe. She had the brain fire.’
‘Poor mite,’ said Axa. ‘My boy will not suffer that. I have a charm. It carries the blessing of Persephone. Mestares bought it.’ As she spoke her husband’s name Axa ceased her sewing, her plain, plump face crumpling in sorrow. Andromache sat beside her. There was nothing she could say. The arrival of the emperor had put paid to all hopes that Hektor and his men would return.
Axa brushed away her tears with a callused hand. ‘This won’t do. Won’t do at all,’ she said. ‘Must get you looking nice for the gathering.’
‘Andromache!’ A door slammed and there was a rattle of curtains, then Kassandra appeared in the doorway, her dark curls dishevelled and the hem of her long blue gown dragging on the floor. ‘I want to go to the gardens. Laodike won’t let me.
She keeps telling me off.’
