David Gemmell - Lord of the Silver Bow

It was not an act of piety. The temple required virgins of royal blood to perform the necessary rites, and kings received golden gifts for despatching daughters to serve there. Andromache had been ‘sold’ for two talents of silver.

Not as much as father had received for the two daughters married into the Hittite royal line, and considerably less than the sum promised for the youngest sister, golden-haired Paleste, upon her wedding to the Trojan hero, Hektor.

Still, father had been pleased that this plain girl with the cold green eyes had proved of some service to the kingdom. Andromache recalled well the night he had told her of her fate. He had called her into his private chambers, and they had sat together on a gilded couch. Father had been out hunting that day, and he stank of horse sweat, and there was dried blood upon his hands. Never an attractive man – even when bathed and dressed in finery – Ektion looked more like a goatherd than a king on this occasion. His clothes were travel-stained, his weak chin unshaved, his eyes red-rimmed from weariness. ‘You will travel to Thera, and train as a priestess of the Minotaur,’ said Ektion. ‘I know this task will be arduous, but you are a strong girl.’ She had sat silently, staring at the ugly man. The silence caused his temper to flare. ‘You only have yourself to blame. Many men prefer plain women. But you made no effort to please any of the suitors I found for you. Not a smile, not a word of encouragement.’

‘You found dull men,’ she said.

‘From good families.’

‘Well, father, no doubt you will grow rich anyway, selling my sisters.’

‘Now that is what I mean!’ Ektion stormed. ‘Everything sounds ugly when it comes from your mouth. Your sisters will find joy in their children and the wealth of their husbands. Little Paleste is already betrothed to Hektor. She will live in the golden city of Troy, wed to their greatest hero. He will adore her, and she will be happy.’

‘Which was, of course, your prime concern, father,’ she said, her voice gentle.

He stared hard at her. ‘What will I do on Thera?’ she asked.

‘Do? I don’t know what the women do there. Placate the angry god. Make sacrifices. Sing, for all I know! There are no men there.’ She heard the malice in that last sentence.

‘Well, that will be a blessing,’ she said. ‘I am already looking forward to it.’

It was not true, but she enjoyed the look of anger that flashed from father’s eyes.

Her heart had been heavy the day the trade ship anchored in the circular bay of Thera. A life of dull banishment was about to begin.

But Andromache could not have been more wrong. Within days her life had expanded beyond measure. She learned to shoot a bow, to ride half-wild ponies, to dance in the revels of Artemis, drunk and full of joy. In short, to express herself without fear of complaint or censure. Without the restrictions of a male-dominated society, the women of Thera revelled in their freedom. Each day there was some new entertainment, foot races or archery tournaments. There were treasure hunts and swimming competitions, and in the evenings discussions on poetry, or storytelling. Every few weeks there was a feast offering tributes to one of the many gods, where strong wine was drunk, and the women danced and sang, and made love.

The priestesses of Thera also maintained the Temple of the Horse, conducting ceremonies of sacrifice to the dread Minotaur, seeking to soothe his troubled soul. Their work was vital. Two centuries ago he had burst his chains, and hot lava had spewed from the earth. The top of the mountain exploded, and Apollo, god of the sun, was so distressed that the world remained dark for three days.

Poseidon also, in his anger at the Kretans, who were charged with appeasing the Minotaur, sent a tidal wave across the Great Green, destroying the olive orchards and the wine harvests of Kretos, laying salt upon the earth to prevent any new growth. At the time Kretos was a great power, but the Kretans were humbled by this savage display of godly rage.

Now two hundred priestesses kept the Minotaur subdued – though he still occasionally wrenched at his chains, causing the earth to tremble. On one occasion the western wall of the long dining room had split, shattering the mural upon it.

Despite these occasional crises Andromache enjoyed her two years of freedom.

Then, one day in midsummer came dreadful news. Her sister Paleste – the sweetest of girls, with a smile to melt the coldest heart – had caught a chill, which turned into a fever. She had died within days of falling ill. Andromache could scarcely believe it. Of all the sisters Paleste had been the strongest and most vibrant. She had been pledged to wed the Trojan prince, Hektor, in the autumn, to secure an alliance between Thebe and Troy. Graciously – father wrote – the Trojan king, Priam, had agreed that Andromache could replace Paleste and marry Hektor.

Thus, at twenty, and set for a life without men, Andromache had been forced to leave Thera, and her beloved companions, and journey to Troy to wed a man she had never seen.

No more would she ride bareback over the Theran hills, or dance and sing in the Dionysian revels. No more would she draw bow to cheek and watch the shaft fly straight and true, or swim naked in the midnight seas around the bay. No more would she feel Kalliope’s passionate embrace, or taste the wine upon her lover’s lips.

Andromache felt anger rise, and welcomed it, for it briefly extinguished the boredom. In Troy she would become a breeding cow, and lie on a wide bed, legs spread to receive the seed of a grunting, sweaty man. She would swell like a pig, then scream as the infant clawed its way out of her. And why? So that her father’s greed could be satisfied.

No, she thought, not just his greed. In this violent and uncertain world a nation needed allies. The Egypteian pharaohs constantly waged war on the Hittite peoples, and the Mykene raided wherever they perceived weakness. Her father was greedy, but without treaties and alliances his lands would be devoured by one of the great powers. Little Thebe Under Plakos would be safer under the protection of Troy and its fabled cavalry.

She gazed down on the beach, seeing the fires lit, and hearing the faint swell of music on the dusk breeze. Down there was a freedom she would never again experience. Ordinary people living ordinary lives, laughing, joking, loving.

A thought came. Delicious and tempting. Soon the ship would arrive to take her to Troy. Until then she was – if matters were handled with care – still free.

Moving across the small apartment she took her hooded cloak of dark green wool and swung it round her shoulders. It complemented her gold-embroidered, olive-green gown. Tying her red hair back from her face with a strip of leather she walked from her room and along the silent corridor beyond, then slipped down an outside stairwell to a walled garden. There was a guard at the gate. He bowed when he saw her, pulling the gate open as she passed.

There was a breeze blowing over the cliffs as Andromache made her way to the main gate, and the steep road leading to the beach. Two more guards saw her.

They did not know her, and neglected to bow, merely standing aside as she walked out onto the road.

How easy it was, she thought. But then who would have imagined that a king’s daughter, and a priestess of Thera, would have any desire to leave the safety of the palace and walk among the hard and violent men of the sea.

It was a sobering thought. There was no bodyguard to protect her, and she carried no weapon. The thought of danger did not make her pause. Instead it quickened her heart.

The music grew louder as she approached, and she saw men and women dancing together drunkenly. Off to one side people were fornicating. She gazed down at the closest couple. The man’s buttocks were pounding up and down, and she could see the thick shaft of his penis spearing into the girl he was riding.