‘I shall apologize to him.’
‘That would be wise. You know, Argurios, I have always valued your honesty. I always will. Kings tend to surround themselves with flatterers.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Indeed, I have gathered quite a few myself. There should, however, always be one truth teller. But try to remember that not all men think as I do.’
‘I cannot be anything but what I am, lord.’
‘I know. So let us hope we both live long, eh?’
Atreus had died two years later. And now Argurios understood exactly what he meant. Agamemnon was not like his father. He wanted no truth tellers.
Would Priam?
Argurios doubted it.
He paused in his walk and looked up at the lowering sky. ‘In all my life, Father Zeus, I have asked you for nothing,’ he said. ‘Be with me on this day, and guide me so that I will not lose Laodike.’
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Argurios glanced back down towards the sea. In the setting sun he saw four dark-sailed galleys slowly beating their way towards the beach far below. The last of the sunlight glistened on the bright helms and shields carried by the warriors on board.
Argurios walked on, composing in his mind his speech to Priam.
Reaching the open area before the gates he saw several finely clad Trojan nobles speaking to soldiers of Priam’s Eagles. Voices were raised. ‘This is outrageous!’ he heard someone say. ‘Not even a dagger? How are we to eat, or are they serving only soup at Hektor’s feast?’
Inside the gateway two long tables had been set side by side. They were covered with swords, daggers and knives.
‘I am sorry, my lord,’ said a soldier. ‘The orders were specific. No-one is to take a weapon into the megaron. They will be here for you when you leave.’
Argurios recognized the speaker as Polydorus, the soldier who had walked with him to the beach on the day he had swum with Andromache. Still grumbling, the visitor slammed his dagger to the table top and stalked off. As the light faded servants came out of the king’s palace, lighting torches and placing them in brackets on the walls of the gate tower. Lamps were also suspended from poles lining the walkway to the high palace doors.
Argurios waited until the last of the Trojan nobles had entered, then approached Polydorus. The young soldier looked harassed, but smiled when he saw the Mykene.
‘I will take personal care of your weapon, sir,’ he said. ‘Is that the blade you wielded at Partha?’
‘No. That broke long ago.’
Just then they heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves upon the road. A golden horse galloped up to the gateway. Helikaon leapt from its back. He was wearing a fitted breastplate and helmet, and bearing two swords in scabbards over his shoulders.
‘Where is the officer of the watch?’ he demanded.
A tall soldier stepped forward from the shadows beyond the gateway. ‘I am Aranes, my lord. You must leave your weapons here, on the orders of Prince Agathon.’
‘You must close the palace gates, Aranes,’ said Helikaon. ‘Traitors are coming to kill the king. They are close behind me. And there is a Mykene force to aid them. Even now their ships are beaching.’
‘What is this nonsense? Are you drunk?’
‘Do I look drunk? The Prince Antiphones has been stabbed. Agathon is a traitor and his Thrakians are heading here, intent on murder. Now close the damned gates, or we are all dead.’
The soldier shook his head. ‘I need to seek authorization. We are ordered to keep the gates open.’
Helikaon stood silently for a moment, then stepped in and slammed a sudden blow to the man’s jaw. Aranes spun, then hit the ground face first. Several of the Eagles ran forward, drawing their swords.
‘Listen to me!’ shouted Helikaon. ‘Death is coming. Gather all the men you can.
And, for pity’s sake, bar those gates!’
‘Do as he says!’ called out Polydorus, running to the first of the gates.
Argurios went with him, and slowly they began to swing it shut. Soldiers moved to the other gate.
A hurled javelin slammed into the timber.
From the darkness beyond armed men surged forward, screaming war cries.
And the gates were still open.
ii
Helikaon swung round as the javelin thudded home. Thrakian soldiers were rushing towards the gates. Some held javelins or spears, others short swords. In that fraction of a heartbeat Helikaon registered that the warriors were wearing light leather breastplates and round leather helmets. They carried no shields.
Fury swept through him. They had not even returned to their barracks to change into battle armour, so confident were they in their mission of murder. All they expected to face were a few Eagles and a hundred unarmed men mourning a dead hero.
Drawing the two leaf-bladed swords from the scabbards at his back, Helikaon charged at the milling Thrakians. There was no thought in his mind of glory. No thought of death. No thought of anything, save a savage, reckless desire to visit vengeance on these treacherous men, to see their blood flow, and to hear their anguished cries.
Some of the Thrakians had hurled themselves against the gates, forcing them back. Some twenty Eagles were on the inner side, straining to close them.
Helikaon darted between the yawning gap, slashing his right-hand blade through the throat of a blond warrior, then lancing the left-hand sword into the neck of a second. His assault was sudden, his swords slashing, cutting and cleaving. A few Thrakians tried to rush him, others sought to pull back from the fray, dismayed by the deadly speed of his strokes. Swords clattered against his breastplate, and a thrusting spear struck against his helm.
Now he was in their midst. Bodies lay at his feet, and his swords glittered as they rose and fell. Even in the midst of his battle fury he realized he had advanced too far. They were all around him now, and it would not be long before he was hamstrung, or dragged from his feet. Even as the thought came, a huge Thrakian leapt at him, his shoulder cannoning into Helikaon’s breastplate. As Helikaon fell back he plunged a blade through the man’s cheek. A hand grabbed him, steadying him. He saw Argurios alongside him. A Thrakian ran in, thrusting his spear at Argurios. The Mykene swayed aside from the thrust, killing the wielder with a ferocious cut that split his skull.
‘Kill them all!’ bellowed Argurios, his voice ringing with authority. A few of Priam’s Eagles rushed into the fray, tall men, wide-shouldered and strong.
Heavily armoured and bearing great shields of bronze, they clove into the Thrakian ranks. The enemy fell back to regroup.
Helikaon started to charge towards them. ‘Not now!’ shouted Argurios, grabbing him again. ‘Back to the gates!’
The red battle fury seeped away, and Helikaon raced back with the others. The Thrakians, realizing too late what was happening, gave chase.
Helikaon was the last man through the closing gates. As they slammed shut Polydorus and another soldier tipped a long timber locking bar into place.
Men were streaming from the palace now. ‘Arm yourselves with bows,’ Helikaon yelled at the soldiers. ‘Get to the walls. More will come.’ Turning to Argurios he said: ‘My thanks to you.’
‘There were only around fifty or so out there,’ said Argurios. ‘Must have been an advance party. How many Thrakians are there in all?’
‘A thousand.’
‘And you say there are Mykene coming?’
‘So I am informed.’
‘I believe I saw them. Four galleys beached as I was walking here. At least two hundred warriors. Maybe more. I thought they were Trojans.’
