David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

She rested there for a while, then rose from the bed and returned to the sickroom. Helen stood as she entered and hugged her briefly. Helikaon was asleep, his breathing ragged.

“I must go,” Helen said. “I will return tomorrow.”

Alone now with Helikaon, Andromache sat by the bed and took his hand. The skin was hot and dry. “I am here, Helikaon,” she said. “Andromache is here.”

Gershom bid a cheerful farewell to Xander and watched as the youngster ran off toward the House of Serpents. Only then did the appearance of good humor leave Gershom’s face.

Helikaon was dying.

There was no doubt now in Gershom’s mind. The wound would not heal, and only the last vestiges of the man’s enormous stamina were holding him to life.

So it had to be tonight. Gershom stood for a while in the moon shadows of the palace gateway. Cthosis the Eunuch had given him directions to find the Prophet, but they would take him through the Egypteian quarter of the city.

“If you are recognized, my prince,” Cthosis had warned him back in Dardania, “then nowhere will be safe for you. And there are many there who will have seen you in your grandfather’s palace.”

“It may not be necessary,” Gershom had replied. “They have great healers in Troy.”

“If that is so,” the slender merchant had said, “then you should remain in Dardania, where there are few Egypteians.”

“Helikaon is my friend. I will travel with him. This prophet is a desert dweller?”

“A prophet of the One. He is a harsh man. And, as with you, the pharaoh has spoken the words of his death.”

“You have met this man?”

“No,” Cthosis had replied. “Nor do I wish to.” He lowered his voice. “He had a servant once who displeased him, and with one gesture he turned him into a leper. You must understand, my prince, that he hates all Egypteian nobles. If he guesses who you are—and he may well, for his powers are great—he will curse you, and you will die.”

“It will take more than a curse to kill me,” Gershom had told him.

Now, standing in the shadows, Gershom was not so sure. He had no doubt that many of the stories Cthosis had told him of the Prophet had been exaggerated, but even so, the man must have some magic. And to reach him Gershom would need to walk through the eastern quarter, an area teeming with Egypteian merchants and envoys. Any who recognized him could claim his weight in gold as a reward.

A foolish risk to take for a dying man, whispered the voice of reason.

“Not if his death can be prevented,” he said aloud.

Lifting the hood of his dark cloak over his head, he set off through the moonlight, skirting the Street of Bright Dancers and heading down the long hill toward the eastern quarter. In the distance he could hear the sounds of hammers as workers continued under torchlight to complete the buildings for the games. Not for the first time Gershom considered the bizarre nature of these peoples of the sea.

All the enemies of Troy invited to attend a wedding. And while they were there they would be protected by Trojan soldiers, as if they were friends. Where is the sense in this? he wondered. Enemies should be cut down, their bones left to rot. Instead they would bring their retainers and play games, running and throwing, wrestling and racing. And the prizes these men cherished above all others? Not the riches of victory, the gold rings, or the silver adornments. Not the ornate helms, the cunningly crafted swords, or the glittering shields.

No, the warriors longed for the small circlets of laurel leaves brought from the trees beneath Mount Olympos and placed on the heads of the champions.

They struggled and fought, and sometimes died, for a few fading leaves.

Pushing thoughts of such idiocy from his mind, Gershom strode on.

Unlike the upper city, with its fine palaces, courtyards, and gardens, the lower town was cramped and crowded, the stench of urine and excrement hanging in the air. The streets were narrow, many of the buildings squalid and poorly built. Gershom moved on. Several women accosted him, offering him “favors,” and several young men, their faces painted, called out to him. Gershom ignored them all.

Coming at last to the Street of Bronze, he cut right and began searching for the alleyway Cthosis had described. As he scanned the buildings, a heavily built man approached him. “Are you lost, stranger?” he asked.

“No, I am not lost,” Gershom told him. He saw the man’s eyes flicker to the right and heard sounds of stealthy movement from behind.

Gershom suddenly smiled, feeling all tension leave him. Stepping in swiftly, he grabbed the man before him and spun him into the path of the man behind. The two would-be robbers collided and fell heavily before scrambling to their feet. Gershom stood, hands on hips, and observed them. The second man had a dagger in his hand. Gershom did not draw his own. “You are not very skillful thieves,” he said.

The man with the dagger swore at him and charged. Gershom swatted the knife thrust aside and hammered a thunderous left into the attacker’s jaw. The man hit a nearby wall headfirst and sank to the stone unmoving.

The first man stood blinking in the moonlight. “You do not seem to be armed,” Gershom said. “Do you wish to retrieve your friend’s dagger?”

The robber licked his lips. “Is he dead?” he asked.

“I do not know, nor do I care. You know this area?”

“What? Yes, I know it.”

“I am told there is an alley near here where they have a small temple to the God of Deserts.”

“Yes. Not the next turning but the one after, on the right.”

The man on the ground groaned and tried to rise. Then he slumped back.

Gershom walked on. He felt better than he had in days.

The alley was dark, but farther down he could see lamplight shining from a low window. Picking his way carefully along the narrow way, he came to a gateway and a small courtyard. Five men were sitting there on low stone benches. They looked up as he entered. They were wearing the pale flowing robes of the desert people, garments Gershom had not seen since leaving Egypte.

“I am seeking the Prophet,” he said. No one spoke. He repeated the statement in the language of the desert.

Now they stared at him, but still no one spoke.

“I have a friend who is dying,” he continued. “I am told the Prophet is a man with great healing power.”

“He is not here,” said a young man, hawk-faced and stern. His dark gaze was cold, almost malevolent. “And if he was, why would he see you, Prince Ahmose?”

The other men rose smoothly and spread out to form a half circle around him.

“Perhaps out of curiosity,” Gershom replied. “When will he be back?”

“I had a brother,” said the first man, his voice trembling. “He was flayed alive. And a sister whose throat was cut because she looked up into the face of an Egypteian prince. My father had his hands cut off for complaining that there was not enough straw to make bricks.”

“And I had a dog that fell down a hole once,” Gershom said. “Such a shame. I loved that dog. But I didn’t come here to listen to your miserable life story or mourn with you the ill luck of your family.” The young man tensed, his hand moving toward the hilt of a curved dagger at his belt. “And if you draw that weapon,” Gershom said, “some other member of your blighted family will be telling the terrible tale of how you ended up wearing your balls as a necklace.”

The dagger flashed into the young man’s hand. His comrades also drew weapons. Gershom stepped back, his knife now in his hand. His mind was cool. When they attacked, he would kill the youngster first, then hurl himself into the group, slashing left and right. With luck he would down three of them swiftly and then make a break for the alley.