David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

A soldier wearing the long black cloak of a Follower entered the garden. “The rooms are clear, Agamemnon King.”

“Check the roof,” Agamemnon told him.

“Yes, lord.”

Kleitos waited until the man had left and then asked, “You think Priam would hide an assassin on the roof?”

Agamemnon ignored the question. “What did you find out about Helikaon?”

“He is recovering, my lord. He is at his palace in the lower town.”

“And well guarded?”

“First reports are that he has nine servants, all men. But no Trojans guard him, and he brought no Dardanian soldiers with him to Troy. He has one companion, a big man named Gershom. It is said he’s a Gyppto.”

Agamemnon leaned back in his chair. How many assassination attempts could one man survive? Kolanos had had him trapped at Blue Owl Bay, but Helikaon had slipped by the killers dressed as a simple soldier. Then, the previous autumn, a group of warriors had confronted him in the grounds of the temple of Hermes. Helikaon had survived that, too. Now even the dagger of the legendary Karpophorus had failed to kill him. “He is blessed by luck,” he said.

“It is said that he is the son of Aphrodite herself,” Kleitos said, in a low voice. “Perhaps he is protected by the goddess.”

Agamemnon controlled his rising anger and waited for several moments so that his voice would appear calm and controlled. “His mother was a madwoman, Kleitos, who chewed too much meas root. She threw herself from a cliff top and was killed on the rocks below. And do not tell me the story of how she was seen flying from the cliff to distant Olympos. I have spoken to a man who gathered up her remains for burial. One eye was hanging from her shattered skull, and her jaw had been torn off.”

“Yes, my king. I was only repeating what I had heard.”

“Is the Thrakian here yet?”

“Yes, my lord. King Eioneus arrived yesterday. He is lodged in a palace on the outskirts of the city. He brought two warhorses with him and desired to be close to the open hills so that he could ride them.”

“How many retainers?”

“Thirty soldiers and his son, Rhesos. There is also the Thrakian contingent for the games—some twenty men.”

Agamemnon considered the information. “Eioneus is a man of routine. Have him watched, then ride out over the route he chooses. There will be a perfect spot somewhere for a man to lie in wait.”

“We have some fine archers with us, my lord. Okotos can hit a bird on the wing.”

“No, not a bowman. Use a slinger. Eioneus is an old man. A fall from a running horse could kill him. Even better if the stone strikes unseen by those with him. His death would then seem ill fortune.”

As the light began to fade, Agamemnon rose and entered the palace. Lamps had been lit, and he could smell roasting meat from the kitchen. A soldier brought him a goblet of watered wine, and Agamemnon drank sparingly. Some time after dusk King Peleus arrived. The man was angry, his face flushed.

“By the gods, they have given me a hovel,” he complained. “Close to the dyemakers. The stink is stomach-churning.”

“Where is Achilles?”

“He and two of his companions are out running in the hills.”

“Do they have guards riding with them?”

Peleus laughed. “You think anyone would be foolish enough to attack Achilles? He would tear out their lungs.”

“Or an arrow could pierce his,” Agamemnon pointed out.

“You think Priam would break the truce?”

“Not all men are as honorable as you and I,” Agamemnon said.

Day by day Helikaon’s strength grew. On his return to his own palace in the lower town he had barely been able to climb the stairs, and then only after stopping several times to catch his breath. His once lean and powerful frame was now skeletally thin, his muscles wasted. However, the absence of infection allowed his appetite to return, and Gershom supervised the preparation of his meals. There were no sweetmeats, no wines, but an abundance of fruits and fresh meats. “My grandfather was a great warrior in his day,” he told Helikaon, “and he was wounded more than twenty times. He maintained that an injured body needed simple fare: water to flush through the system, fruits and meats for strength. And like a fine horse the body needed to work in order to grow stronger.”

Soon Helikaon’s skin began to lose its ghostly sheen, the dark rings under his eyes disappearing. Gershom borrowed two horses from Priam’s stables, and the two men rode bareback over the hills. The ride tired Helikaon, and Gershom led them down through several fields to a farmhouse where a well had been sunk. Tethering their mounts, the companions sat in the shade of the house. Helikaon was holding his hand over his wound. There were no bandages now, and when he raised his arm, the deep scar was red and vivid.

“How is the pain?” Gershom asked.

“Almost gone. But the wound itches.” He glanced at Gershom. “How could you allow a stranger to cover me in maggots?” he asked with a weary smile.

“I was bored,” Gershom told him. “I thought it would be entertaining.”

Helikaon leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I have had no dreams since that last night,” he said. “In a way I miss them. It was as if I could float across the world in an instant. I thought the room was enchanted. Day would pass into night and back to day in a heartbeat.”

“From what I heard, when you were delirious, your dreams were all of blood and death and pain.”

“Mostly they were. But I also dreamed I saw Argurios and Laodike. That was like balm upon the spirit. And I…” He fell silent.

“What?” Gershom asked.

Helikaon sighed. “I had a healing dream. Andromache was in it. It felt as if I were being lifted from a dark pit into bright sunshine.”

Gershom glanced at his friend. Helikaon was staring into the distance, and Gershom could feel a sense of sadness emanating from him. Why this should be was mystifying. Helikaon had returned from the shores of Hades. He was a young king with everything to live for. He had a beautiful wife waiting for him in Dardania and a fleet of ships to sail the Great Green, bringing him wealth. Yet not once since he had begun his recovery had he laughed or made a jest.

A growl sounded from close by, and a large black hound came padding around the wall, lips drawn back, teeth bared. The horses shifted nervously. Gershom’s hand moved to his dagger.

“No, my friend,” Helikaon said, “do not harm it. The hound is doing what it should, protecting its master’s home. Ignore it. Turn your head away and do not stare into its eyes.”

“So that it can take a bite out of my rump?”

Helikaon slowly reached out his hand, softly clicking his fingers. The hound stood still, but the snarl remained and the hackles on its neck were raised. Suddenly Helikaon snapped his fingers and called out. “Here! Come!” Instantly the hound padded over to him. “You are a fine, brave fellow,” Helikaon told it, slowly raising his hand so that the hound could sniff at it.

“And you, I fear, are an idiot,” Gershom grumbled. “With jaws like that he could have taken off your fingers.”

“You know the problem with a royal upbringing in Egypte, Gershom? You can look, but you do not have to see. Slaves everywhere to do your bidding, bring you food, lay out your clothing.” The hound wandered away, padding back past the well, where it slumped down in an area of shade. “The hound is an old one. Gray around the jaws. It is not young and reckless. People will visit this farmhouse all the time. No farmer would keep an ill-trained guard dog unleashed.

Daylight visitors will generally be welcome. Had we come at night, the story would have been different. And then there are the horses. If that dog was in a killing mood, they would have sensed it and panicked. Instead they merely shifted a little and grew wary. Therefore, we were in no danger. All we had to do was show the dog we had no evil intent.”