David Gemmell - Lord of the Silver Bow

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.

The man knelt beside him, then drew a knife. ‘Are you going to kill me?’ asked Antiphones.

‘Someone has already tried that, my friend. No. I have sent for a physician, but I need to see your wounds and staunch that bleeding.’ The knife blade sliced through Antiphones’ gown. ‘Who did this to you?’

Antiphones felt as if he was falling from a great height. He tried to speak. The Egypteian’s face swam before his eyes. ‘Traitors,’ he mumbled. ‘Going to… kill everyone.’ Then darkness swallowed him.

Argurios sat quietly in the temple gardens, burnishing his breastplate with an old cloth. The armour was old, and several of the overlapping bronze discs were cracked. Two on the left side were missing. The first had been shattered by an axe. Argurios still remembered the blow. A young Thessalian soldier had burst through the Mykene ranks and killed two warriors. The man was tall, wide-shouldered, and utterly fearless. Argurios had leapt at him, shield high, sword extended. The Thessalian had reacted brilliantly, dropping to one knee and hammering his axe under the shield. The blow had cracked two of Argurios’ ribs, and would have disembowelled him had it not been for the quality of the old breastplate. Despite the searing pain Argurios had fought on, mortally wounding his opponent. When the battle was over he had found the dying man, and had sat with him. They had talked of life; of the coming harvest and the value of a good blade.

When the short war was concluded Argurios had travelled up into Thessaly, returning the man’s axe and armour to his family, on a farm in a mountain valley.

Slowly, and with great care, Argurios polished each disc. Tonight he planned to approach Priam and he wanted to look his best. He had no great expectation of success in this venture, and the thought of being banished from Laodike’s presence caused a rising feeling of panic in his breast.

What will you do, he wondered, if the king refuses you?

In truth he did not know, and pushed his fears away.

Finishing the breastplate he took up his helmet. It was a fine piece, crafted from a single sheet of bronze. A gift from Atreus the king. Lined with padded leather to absorb the impact of any blow, the helmet had served him well. As he stared at it he marvelled at the skill of the bronzesmith. It would have taken weeks to shape this piece, crafting its high dome and curved cheek guards. He ran his fingers lightly down the raised ridges over the crown that would hold the white horsehair crest in place for ceremonial functions. He would not wear the crest tonight. It was weather-beaten and needed replacing. Carefully he burnished the helmet. Had he not been a warrior he would have enjoyed learning the craft of bronze making. Swords needed to hold an edge, and yet not be too brittle; helms and armour required softer bronze, that would give and bend and absorb blows. Greater or lesser amounts of tin were added to the copper to supply whatever was required.

Finally satisfied with the shine of the helmet, he placed it at his side and began to work on the greaves. These were not high quality. They were a gift from Agamemnon King, and should have indicated Argurios’ steady fall from favour.

He was still working when he saw Laodike approaching through the trees. She was wearing a sunshine-yellow gown, with a wide belt embossed with gold. Her fair hair was hanging free, and her smile as she saw him lifted his heart. Putting aside the greaves he stood and she ran into his embrace.

‘I have such a good feeling about today,’ she said. ‘I woke this morning and all my fears had vanished.’

Cupping her face in his hands he kissed her. They stood for a moment, unspeaking. Then she glanced down at his armour. ‘You are going to look magnificent tonight,’ she told him.

‘I wish I could see myself through your eyes. The last time I saw my reflection it showed a man past his prime with a hard angular face and greying hair.’

Reaching up she stroked his cheek. ‘I never saw a more handsome man. Not ever.’

She smiled at him. ‘It is very warm out here. Perhaps we should go to your room, where it is cooler.’

‘If we go to my room you will not be cool for long,’ he told her.

Laodike laughed and helped him gather his armour. Then they walked back through the gardens.

Later, as they lay naked together on the narrow bed, she talked of the coming feast. ‘There will be no women there,’ she said. ‘The high priestess of Athene is holding a separate function in the women’s quarters. She is very old, and very dull. I am not looking forward to it. Yours will be much more exciting. There will be bards singing tales of Hektor’s glory, and storytellers.’ Her face suddenly crumpled and she held her hand to her mouth. Tears fell. Argurios put his arms round her. ‘I still can’t believe he is dead,’ she whispered. ‘He was a hero. The gods will have welcomed him with a great feast.’ She sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Kassandra upset everyone by saying he was going to come back to life, rise from the dead. Hekabe was so angry she sent her away to father’s palace, so she could listen to the priestess and learn to accept the truth. Do people ever rise from the dead, do you think?’ ‘I never knew anyone who did,’ said Argurios. ‘Orpheus was said to have entered the Underworld to ask for his wife to be returned to him. But she was not. I am sorry for your grief, Laodike. He was a warrior, though, and that is how warriors die. I expect he would have wanted it no other way.’

She smiled then. ‘Oh, not Hektor! He hated being a warrior.’

Argurios sat up beside her. ‘How is that possible? Every man around the Great Green has heard of the battles fought by Hektor.’

‘I cannot explain the contradiction. Hektor is… was… unusual. He hated arguments and confrontations. When in Troy he would spend most of his time on his farm, breeding horses and pigs. There is a big house there, full of children, the sons of fallen Trojan soldiers. Hektor pays for their tutoring and their keep. He used to talk with loathing about war. He told me even victory left a bad taste in his mouth. He once said that all children should be forced to walk on a battlefield and see the broken, ruined bodies. Then, perhaps, they would not grow to manhood filled with thoughts of glory.’