David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“He is lucky that such a ghastly nonsense did not kill him,” he said. “There must be another reason. Has he eaten anything or been given potions I have not been made aware of?”

Andromache stared at him. “Nothing he has not had before. I do not understand you, Machaon. Your own eyes have seen the efficacy of the treatment. Why, then, do you doubt it?”

Machaon looked at her pityingly. “Maggots are creatures of foulness. I can understand how some barbaric desert dweller might believe in them, but you are an intelligent woman. I can only assume that exhaustion has dulled your senses.”

Andromache felt a cold anger rise in her. “Oh, Machaon, I did not expect you to reinforce my belief in the stupidity of men. I thought you different… wiser. Now I have a question for you. There are many treatments for illness and disease. How many of them were created by you? What cure have you discovered in your time as a healer?”

“I have studied all the great works—” he began.

She interrupted him. “Not the works of others, Machaon. Tell me the cures you have devised.” The young physician remained silent, his expression tense. “And that is something to consider,” she said witheringly. “There have been no potions, Machaon, no secret elixirs. A man came and explained that maggots ate rancid flesh. I did not believe it, but I have seen it to be true. He had a cure not written down in your ancient scrolls.”

His face darkened, and he rose to his feet. “Helikaon is beloved of the gods,” he said. “What we have here is a miracle. I will give thanks to Asklepios and to the goddess Athene. I have brought healing potions that I will leave with you.”

Gershom stood aside in the doorway, allowing the physician to depart. Then he looked at Andromache and smiled. “You were hard on him. He is a good man, and he works tirelessly for the sick.”

“I know. But he is arrogant. How many wounded men will die under his care because of it?”

“You should get some rest,” he said. “I’ll sit with him. Go and sleep. You will feel better for it.”

Andromache knew he was right. She was almost reeling from exhaustion. When she reached her rooms, a young servant girl asked her if she wanted hot water brought for a bath. Andromache shook her head. “I need to sleep,” she said. Dismissing the girl, she walked into the bedroom, threw off her clothes, and stretched out on the broad bed. A cool wind blew through the open window, and she drew the covers across her body.

Yet sleep would not come. Images swirled in her mind: Helikaon on the beach at Blue Owl Bay, young and handsome; Kalliope laughing and dancing in the moonlight. All her life people had talked of the wonders of love, the joy of it, the strength of it, the music and the passion of it. She had perceived love then to be an absolute: unchanging and solid as a marble statue. Yet it wasn’t. She had loved Kalliope, luxuriating in her company, in the warmth of her skin, the softness of her kisses. And she loved Helikaon, yearning to be with him, her heart beating faster even as she sat by his sickbed, holding his hand. It was very confusing.

Bards talked and sang of the one great love, the meeting of souls, exquisite and unique. The seer on the beach at Blue Owl Bay had talked of three loves, one as tempestuous as the Great Green, one like the oak, solid and true, and one like the bright moon. Helikaon was the first, for he had been the man with one sandal. When she had asked about the others, the seer had told her that the oak would rise to her from the filth of pigs and the moon would arrive in blood and pain.

None of them was Kalliope.

Yet I do love her, she thought. I know that to be true.

Her thoughts drifted, and she saw the isle of Thera and the great Temple of the Horse. It was almost midday now, and the priestesses would be preparing the wine to offer the Minotaur. Twelve women would walk to the trembling rock. They would chant and sing, then pour the wine into the hissing crack, trying not to breathe the noxious fumes that rose from below the ground.

The hot breath of the Minotaur.

Kalliope might be with them. The last time Andromache had taken part in the ritual, Kalliope had winked at her and been rebuked by the high priestess.

Alone now in her bed, Andromache closed her eyes. “I wish you were here,” she whispered, thinking of Kalliope. Then Kalliope’s image blurred, and once again she found herself picturing the brilliant blue eyes of Helikaon.

For Helikaon the world he had known no longer existed. He floated wraithlike through a chaotic jumble of dreams. Sometimes he was lying in a broad bed by a magical window that flickered in a heartbeat between sunlight and moonlight; at other times he was standing on the deck of the Xanthos as it sailed the Great Green or on the cliffs of Dardanos, watching a fleet of ships, all burning, the screams of the sailors sounding like the cries of demonic gulls. Images shifted and shivered. Only the pain was constant, though it was as nothing to the agonies he suffered when the visions came.

His little brother, Diomedes, was playing happily in the sunshine. Helikaon looked on, hearing the boy’s merry laughter, then noticing that an edge of the child’s tunic had begun to burn. He cried out to warn him, but the boy went on playing as the flames roared about him. Helikaon tried to reach him, but his limbs were leaden and every step forward only served to increase the distance between them. Diomedes’ skin blackened, and only then did he turn toward his brother. “Help me!” the boy cried. But Helikaon could do nothing but watch him burn.

Then he was on the Xanthos again, standing alongside his old friend Ox. Sunlight was bright, the breeze fresh. Ox turned toward him, and Helikaon saw a trickle of blood like a thin red necklace around Ox’s throat. Helikaon reached up to touch the wound—and the head came away in his hands.

His eyes opened, and once more he was in the broad bed, moonlight shining through the window. He heard movement and saw Andromache’s face above him. Her hand was cool on his face. “Come back to us, Helikaon,” she whispered.

The plea confused him. From where should he come, and to where? He was already everywhere, sailing the Great Green; walking the Seven Hills with Odysseus and Bias, the black man complaining about the midges coming off the marshes; standing on the battlements of Troy, looking out over the sunset sea; riding with Hektor against the Amorites. All the events of his life playing again and again, from childhood fears and the suicide of his mother to adult tragedies and the deaths of those he loved.

Now the sun was shining, and he was walking with golden-haired Halysia toward the palace. She was to be his wife, and he knew she was happy now. The previous year the Mykene had killed her child and raped her, leaving her for dead. Her life since had been one of sorrow and fear. Now he would protect her—even if he could not love her. He felt the warmth of her hand in his, her grip tight, as if afraid he might pull away from her. As they approached the crowds, he saw Attalus step out. The man darted forward, a knife in his hand. Instinctively Helikaon tried to block the blow, but Halysia, in her surprise at the sudden movement, held to him even more tightly. The knife plunged into his chest. Tearing himself loose from Halysia’s grip, he threw up his arm. The blade tore into his armpit. Then men surged around him, bearing Attalus to the ground. Helikaon saw one of his bodyguards thrust a dagger into Attalus’ belly, ripping it up through the lungs. Helikaon pushed himself through the mass of men and dropped to his knees beside the assassin.

“Why?” he asked the dying man.

“I… am… Karpophorus,” Attalus told him. “It is… my holy duty.”