Stella Gemmell - Fall of Kings

The armor was loaded onto carts, then carried up through the lower town and into the city. Finally the deck hatches were closed. Oniacus moved past Gershom, heading to the prow. The men of the skeleton crew settled down on the raised aft deck, blankets over their shoulders against the chill of the evening, while their comrades made their way up to the town, beneath the walls of the golden city.

Gershom saw Helikaon, who was cradling in his arms his sleeping son, Dex, as he was greeted by the huge Trojan prince Antiphones. Gershom turned away and strolled to the prow.

Oniacus was leaning against the rail and staring out across the bay at the new war galleys. His handsome young face was set and angry, and there was violence in his eyes.

“Is there anything I can have sent down to you?” Gershom asked. “Wine, perhaps?”

Oniacus shook his head. “Wine helps you forget, they say. I don’t want to forget. And I don’t want to talk, either.”

“Then don’t talk,” Gershom said softly. “Two friends should be able to stand together in silence without awkwardness.”

The silence did not last long, nor had Gershom expected it to. It was not that Oniacus was a gregarious man, but the grief welling up in him could not be restrained. He began by talking of his two sons, what fine boys they had been. Gershom said nothing; it was not necessary. Oniacus was not really talking to him but instead speaking to the night, to the shades of his boys, to the gods who had not been there to protect them and their mother when the Mykene had fallen upon Dardanos with bright swords. Sadness was followed by rage, and rage by tears. Finally there was silence again. Gershom put his arm around Oniacus’ shoulder.

Oniacus sighed. “I am not ashamed of tears,” he said.

“Nor should you be, my friend. It is said that the gates of paradise can only be opened by the tears of those left behind. I do not know whether that be true. It should be, I think.”

Oniacus looked at him closely. “You do believe we live on and that there… there will be some reward for those innocents whose lives were… were stolen from them?”

“Of course,” Gershom lied. “How could it be otherwise?”

Oniacus nodded. “I believe that. A place of happiness. No terrors or fears, no cowards or killers. I believe that,” he said again.

They stood together for a while, watching the galleys on the still waters. “The balance is wrong,” Gershom said, pointing to the nearest vessel. “See it veer?”

“Too much strength on the port-side oars. They need to switch some of the rowers,” Oniacus told him. The anguish still could be seen in his eyes, but now he was focused on the galley. “Pushing the oarsmen too hard,” he said. “All they’ll get is sprained shoulders and shattered confidence.”

He looked at Gershom and forced a smile. “Time for you to get ashore. The many delights of Troy are waiting, and you do not want to be standing here discussing the training of sailors. Do not concern yourself about me. I shall not slash open my throat, I promise you.”

“I know that,” Gershom replied. “I will see you tomorrow.” With that he swung away. Oniacus called out to him, and Gershom turned.

“Thank you, my friend,” Oniacus said.

Gershom walked to the aft deck, gathered his cloak, and swung it to his shoulders. Then he climbed over the deck rail and lowered himself to the sand.

Strolling across the beach, he climbed the path to the lower town. At the wide wooden bridge spanning the fortification ditch he saw two sentries in armor of burnished bronze, long spears in their hands. Across the bridge a crowd had gathered around some of the sailors from the Xanthos. One of the sentries smiled at Gershom. He was a young man, but his face and arms bore the scars of combat.

“News of your victories reached us two days ago,” the sentry said. “It was as welcome as sunshine after snow.” People clustered around the crew, patting them on the back and calling out praises and blessings.

Gershom eased himself around the edge of the crowd. A man suddenly clapped his hand on Gershom’s shoulder. “Here is another one of them!” he shouted happily.

As more men turned toward Gershom, he shook his head. “No, no,” he told them, raising his hands. “I am merely a traveler.”

Losing interest immediately, they turned their attention once more to the other sailors. Gershom pushed on. A dark-haired girl stepped from the shadows into the moonlight and linked her arm in his. Gershom glanced down into her face. She was pretty, her eyes pale, either blue or gray. It was too dark to tell. He could see that the girl was young though. Her white ankle-length tunic was close-fitting, her small breasts barely stretching the fabric.

Taking her hand, he lifted it from his arm. “I am in no mood for sport,” he told her gruffly. “And if I was, it would be with a woman, not a child.”

The girl laughed. “If you were in the mood, you could not afford me—not even as a prince of Egypte.”

Gershom paused then, his eyes raking her slim form, seeking any sign of a hidden weapon. His identity had been kept secret, or so he had thought. If this young whore knew of him, how many more had heard? Men who would seek the reward still on his head. He glanced around nervously, half expecting to see Egypteian assassins dart from the shadows.

“Do I frighten you?” the girl asked him.

“Go and find someone else to annoy,” he told her, walking on. The girl ran after him. Gershom felt his irritation rise.

“I saw you in the sea,” she said. “Great waves crashing over you. You were very strong.”

Gershom paused again, his curiosity aroused. “All right, you know who I am. Who sent you, child, and for what purpose?”

“Xidoros sent me.” Suddenly her head cocked. “Yes, yes,” she said, talking to the darkness, “but that is just pedantic.” She frowned and seemed to be listening. Then she threw up her arm. “Oh, go away!” she hissed.

Turning back to Gershom, she said: “He says he didn’t send me, that he merely said we should speak.”

Gershom swore softly. Back in Thebes there was a house with high walls where the moon-touched were kept for four years. In that time diviners and healers, astrologers and magicians, would be called on to heal them or drive out the demons that had robbed them of sanity. Surgeons would drill holes into their skulls; healers would feed them strange herbs and potions. If at the end of four years they still were not cured, it was taken as a sign that the gods were calling for them. They then were strangled. Gershom had heard of no such houses of caring in barbarous Troy. That was why sad lunatics like this child were allowed to wander the streets.

“Where do you live?” he asked the girl. “I will see you safely home.”

She looked up at him, and her face was suddenly sad. “There is a mist inside your head,” she told him. “It is swirling and thick, and it stops you from seeing. You stumble around like a blind man.” She shrugged. “But then there are times when I long to be blind myself. Just to listen to people and hear only the words they speak and not the sly whisperings inside their heads.”

She smiled again. “Come, I will walk you home.”

“You know where I am going?”

“Yes, I know. You are going to the Beautiful Isle with me, and then you will be called to the desert, and there will be voices in the fire and fire in the heavens, and the fire will melt away the mist in your head, and you will know all that I know and see more than I will ever see.”

“Very intriguing,” Gershom said, “but I meant do you know where I am going now ?”

“Oh! Yes, I do. The House of Stone Horses.”