David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“They are not here to celebrate anything,” Andromache said. “They come for Priam’s golden gifts or to win riches in the games. They care nothing for any wedding. Many of them are little more than bandits who have seized lands and named themselves kings.”

“Like Agamemnon,” Helen said sadly. “He seized Sparta and named his brother king.”

Andromache put her arm around the young woman’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Helen; that was thoughtless of me.”

“Oh, don’t apologize, Andromache. My grandfather took Sparta by storm, enslaving the people of the land. My father merely fought and died to hold on to what his own father had stolen. It was foolish. He thought he could reason with Agamemnon and the Mykene. But the lamb does not reason with the lion. Father gave my sister to Agamemnon and declared him his son. Then he offered me to Agamemnon’s brother, Menelaus. All for nothing. What Agamemnon wants, he gets. And he wanted Sparta.” Helen shrugged, then gave a wan smile. “So now Menelaus sits on the throne, and my father’s bones molder in some field.”

“Perhaps Menelaus, too, will be overthrown,” Andromache observed.

“I think not. Father had no sons, no heirs. There will be a few revolts, but though the Spartans are a proud people, there are not enough of them to defeat the Mykene.”

Andromache lifted her head to the sky, enjoying the warmth of the new sun on her face. “At least your father was wise enough to send you to Troy,” she said. “Here you are safe.”

“That’s what Paris says, and Antiphones, and Hektor. Oh, Andromache, I have seen the army of Mykene on the march. Nowhere is safe from Agamemnon’s ambition. Paris says Agamemnon tried to form a coalition among the kings of the west to lead an attack on Troy.”

“And he failed. The kings know such an expedition would be disastrous.”

Helen looked doubtful. “My father said the same. The Mykene would not march on Sparta.”

“Troy is not Sparta,” Andromache pointed out. “We are far across the sea, with mighty towers and walls. We have Hektor and the Trojan Horse. All around us are allies, and beyond them is the Hittite empire. They would not allow Troy to fall.”

“You have never seen Agamemnon,” Helen said. “I went to the Lion’s Hall when he wed my sister Klytemnestra. I stood close to him. I heard him speak. And, once, he turned toward me and looked into my eyes. He said nothing to me, but those eyes terrified me. There was nothing in them, Andromache. Not joy, not hate. Nothing. All the treasure in the world could not fill the emptiness I saw there.”

On the third day the healer came again. Andromache and Gershom took him to the sickroom. Helikaon’s color had improved, though he was still feverish. Andromache watched as the healer removed the gauze. Bile rose in her when she saw him pinching out the fat, writhing maggots and dropping them into an empty jar. They were bloated and swollen. However, the wound, though open and raw, looked cleaner, less inflamed.

“You need to add more?” she asked.

Leaning forward, the Prophet sniffed the wound. “There is still corruption here,” he said. “Three more days.” With that he took a second jar and once more placed tiny maggots within the wound, covering them with gauze.

The days passed slowly. Helikaon had more moments of clarity and once even managed a bowl of meat broth and a little bread. The nights remained fraught. He would cry out in fever dreams, calling for his friend Ox or his murdered brother, Diomedes.

Andromache was exhausted by the time the healer returned the second time. The wound was almost closed, and the healer, having cleaned it, declared it was ready to be stitched.

“Are all the worms free of it?” she asked him. “What if there are some inside still?”

“They will die.”

“They will not become flies and eat away at him?”

“No. Flies are living creatures and need to breathe. Once the wound is closed, any maggots left inside will suffocate.” Taking a curved needle and some dark thread, he began to close the wound. As he worked, he asked her about Helikaon’s moments of lucidity and what he spoke of during those moments. He listened intently and did not seem happy with her responses.

“What is it you fear?” she asked him.

He looked down at the sleeping man. “He is a little stronger, and his body is fighting hard. It is his mind that concerns me. That is not fighting. It is as if his spirit does not want to live. It has given up. Tell me of the attack on him.”

“I know little of it,” Andromache said, turning toward Gershom. “Were you there?”

“Yes, I was. He was coming from the cliff path with Queen Halysia. She was radiant and happy and holding onto his hand. As they approached the crowd, Attalus stepped out to meet them. Helikaon greeted him with a smile, and then—so swiftly that there was no chance to react—Attalus drew his dagger and plunged it into Helikaon. As he fell back, I ran forward with several others, and we bore Attalus to the ground. Someone stabbed the villain in the chest. He died soon after. That is all.”

“No,” the Prophet said. “That is not all.”

“It is all that I know,” Gershom said.

“Did Attalus die swiftly, or did anyone discover why he had stabbed his friend?”

“Helikaon came to him. He knelt by Attalus. By then the assassin was almost dead. Helikaon asked him something, then leaned in. Attalus replied, but I did not hear it.”

“How did Helikaon take what he heard?”

“That is hard to say, Prophet. He was wounded, though we did not think it so serious. His face went white, and he recoiled from the dying man. Then he stood, shaking his head as if in disbelief. He staggered then, and we all saw the amount of blood he was losing. That was when we fetched the surgeon.”

“And he has not spoken of what he learned?”

“Not to me. Is it important, then?”

“I would say so,” the Prophet answered.

“What can we do for him?” Andromache asked.

“Watch him carefully, as before. Let him hear laughter, song, music. When he is stronger, perhaps bring a woman to his bed, or a young man if that is his preference. Have someone lie naked alongside him. Have them stroke his skin. Anything to remind him of the joys of life.”

He finished stitching the wound, then stood. “I am leaving tomorrow for the south. There is little more I can do for him.” He turned toward Gershom. “Remember your promise. For I shall.”

“I will come when you call, Prophet. I am a man of my word.”

Andromache stared at the two men, sensing that this moment had importance and not knowing why. It struck her then that they were very similar in look, both powerfully built, deep-eyed, and stern. They could have been father and son.

The Prophet glanced at Andromache. “In the desert life is harsh and dangerous. Men yearn for women of strength to walk beside them, fearless and proud. You would do well in the desert, I think.”

With that he strode from the room. “I think he liked you,” Gershom observed.

“What did he mean about your promise?”

“It is nothing,” he told her.

Later that day the physician Machaon came to the palace. He was a round-shouldered young man with receding dark hair and a permanent air of weariness. Andromache greeted him warmly, then led him to the bedside.

“He still clings to life?” he asked.

“Better than that,” Andromache told him. “The wound is clean and sealed.”

Machaon looked doubtful but followed Andromache to the sickroom and examined Helikaon. Andromache saw his amazement.

“This is not possible,” he said. “The wound was rancid and beyond healing.”

She told him about the Prophet and the maggots. He sat unbelieving as she described the process.