David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

He turned to her and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “I thank you for that,” he said. “It was gracious of you.”

“No,” she said. “Do not allow yourself to believe I am some sycophant trying to please you. I am Andromache, and I speak the truth. Look into my eyes, Hektor, and tell me if you see a lie there.”

She gazed at him frankly and watched him relax. “No,” he said at last. “I see no lie.”

“Will you trust me to deal with this problem and not question my decision?” she asked him.

“I will trust you,” he told her.

“Good. Then have a carriage brought around to take me back to the city. And tomorrow I will move here so that we can sit and talk and learn of one another.”

A little while later, as they stood beside the wagon, Hektor took her hand. “I will be a good husband to you, Andromache of Thebe,” he said.

“I know that, Hektor of Troy,” she replied. Emotion surged in her again, and tears formed. “You will be my Oak,” she told him, her voice breaking.

Ordering the driver to take her and Cheon to the gates of Priam’s palace, she sat back in her seat. Cheon, apparently sensitive to her need for reflection, said nothing during the journey. Once at the palace, she instructed him to wait for her, then strode through the megaron, telling a servant that she wished to see the king on a matter of urgency.

This time she was not made to wait.

Priam was in the queen’s apartments. He rose as she was ushered in, then waited until the servant had departed. “What is so urgent?” he asked.

“I have been to see Hektor,” she said, and was struck by the physical similarity between the two men. Priam was not as hugely built, but the shape of his face and the power of his eyes were almost identical to his son’s.

“And?”

“I now understand why you pursue me.”

“He told you? That must have been hard for him. So why are you here?”

“You know why,” she said, anger in her voice.

“You seek to dissolve this marriage?”

“No. If I did, I would not survive. I would die like the surgeon who treated him.”

He nodded. “You are an intelligent woman.”

“I will grant your desire, but I have conditions.”

“Name them. I will grant them all.” She could see the eagerness in his eyes now, his face flushing.

“I will come to your bed only once in every full phase of the moon. I will do this until a doctor confirms I am with child. After that you will never attempt to bed me again. You agree?”

“I agree.” He laughed then, opening his arms. “So come to me, Shield of Thunder.”

And she stepped into his embrace.

Workmen had labored all night under torchlight to complete the games areas. A large section of flat ground had been leveled and stamped to create a stadium for the runners and javelin throwers, the jumpers, the boxers, and the wrestlers. A long hippodrome had been created some four hundred paces west of the stadium, with a high embankment that was now set with benches and seats for the privileged. There the chariot and horse races would be held. The main judges’ dais had been erected at the hippodrome, with intricately fashioned seats of ivory and wood inlaid with gold. A second, smaller dais had been constructed at the stadium. The organization of the games, under the direction of the king’s son Polites, had been fraught with difficulties. No one had known how many competitors would seek to participate or, indeed, the size of the crowds. Initially Polites had thought a few hundred athletes would travel to Troy. Already there were more than a thousand. As to those wishing to enjoy the spectacle, the estimates had risen from six thousand to around sixteen thousand. Even that figure was beginning to look conservative.

Polites paced back and forth before the smaller judges’ dais in the stadium. The dawn sun had not long cleared the horizon, and the last of the work was being completed, carpenters putting in place lines of benches, laborers dragging trestle tables from the backs of carts or hoisting linen canopies to shade the seating areas of the nobles.

Sixteen thousand! Polites rubbed at his temples. The headache had been with him for the last five days. Sixteen thousand people needing to eat, to urinate, to defecate, needing to be kept cool in the midday sun with supplies of water. For the common people there were latrine pits, but special buildings had been constructed where nobles could piss into pots like civilized folk.

Polites strode across the stadium, passing under the columned roof of the new palaistra, where athletes would prepare. Closed off from public scrutiny, the competitors could discuss tactics with their trainers, or hire masseurs, or take cold baths. Here, too, were the rooms of Asklepios, where physicians and surgeons would tend those wounded in the more dangerous events. Cuts to the faces of boxers would be stitched here, and the broken limbs of charioteers would be set. The greatest number of injuries would result from the chariot races, especially the four-horse contests. Not so much, Polites knew, from collisions, but from the sharp turns at either end of the long, narrow track. The course was set between two strong posts. To minimize the distance traveled, a skillful charioteer would rein in the inner horses while giving the outer beasts their heads. This would swing the chariot around the posts at speed. However, timing was crucial. Two years earlier, in Thraki, Polites had witnessed a ghastly accident. The charioteer Kreunos, famous for his skill, had been in the lead when he had mistimed his turn. The hub of his wheel struck the post, splintering the axle and catapulting the chariot into the air. Entangled in the reins, Kreunos was helpless. The horses ran wild, and Kreunos was smashed into the rails separating the crowd from the racers. His right leg was almost torn from his body, and he died a few days later.

Inside the palaistra Polites saw workmen filling the newly built baths under the guidance of the foreman, Choros, a slender Thrakian. Polites had come to trust the man implicitly. Beneath a gentle demeanor Choros was ferociously efficient, and only the very foolish gave less than their best when working for him.

“Greetings, my lord,” Choros said. “Fear not, we will be ready.”

“The regiments will be here soon,” Polites said. It was a redundant comment. Choros was well aware that this was the Day of the Judges. Polites’ mouth was dry, his heart hammering. Priam would be arriving soon after the regiments, and with him would be many of the guests. It would be appalling should anything go wrong on this first day. Priam would shame him before the kings.

He will shame me anyway, he thought. If a seabird shits on the running track, it will somehow be my fault. Though maybe not today. Polites had seen Priam earlier that morning, and the king had seemed in a joyous mood. May the gods cause that to last for the five days of the games, he prayed.

Leaving Choros with the workmen, he moved through the building, emerging at the rear onto a narrow walkway leading to the stables. They were empty at present, but later that day the first of the horses would be brought in to be examined by the judges and marked for competition. Polites went on past the stands where the crowds would gather, then through the gate and onto the racetrack. There he kicked off his sandals. Slaves had been working for days to remove all the loose stones from the surface before tamping it flat. Even so, the chariot wheels would bite deep on the turns, and it was almost certain that some jagged piece of rock would be dug up and flung into the crowds. Polites slowly walked the length of the course between the turning posts, scanning the ground. The new judges would be performing the same task a little later, and their eyes would be keener than his, he knew.