David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

Face the truth, Odysseus, he told himself. Priam’s decision to make me an enemy has left only one viable choice. You are like a ship, being driven by storm winds you cannot control toward a land of hatred and blood you have no wish to visit. The realization of it grieved him. He loved Helikaon and felt great fondness for Hektor and his new wife, Andromache. In the war to come his every sympathy would lie with Troy. He disliked the megalomaniac Agamemnon and loathed the ghastly Peleus. He had contempt for the mean-spirited Idomeneos and felt no warmth toward the Athenian Menestheos. In fact, of all the kings of the west, he felt affection only for Nestor. Anger swelled again, cold and all-consuming.

Odysseus gazed up at the towering walls and the mighty Scaean Gate. He saw the hilltop palace of Priam and the buildings on either side of the narrow, twisting streets. He no longer viewed them as impressive works of architecture. Now he saw them through different eyes. Coldly he estimated the numbers of men needed to scale the walls and pictured the streets as battlegrounds.

As they eased their way through the crowds, Kalliades leaned in to him. “Four men,” he said. “Following a little distance behind. They have been with us since the tourney fields.”

Odysseus did not look back. Neither Kalliades nor Banokles was armed, and Odysseus carried only a small curved knife in a jeweled scabbard. The weapon was useful for cutting fruit but little else.

“Are they soldiers?” he asked.

“Perhaps, but they are not wearing armor. They have knives, not swords.”

Odysseus pictured the route ahead. Soon they would leave the main concourse and move through narrower residential streets. Pausing by a market stall, he picked up a small bracelet of silver inlaid with opal.

“A fine piece, sir,” the stallholder said. “You won’t see better anywhere.”

Odysseus replaced it and walked on. “Two of them have cut through the alley on the left,” Kalliades whispered.

“They know we are going to the ship,” Odysseus told him. “There is a small square with a well close by. The road we are taking intersects with the alley there.” He glanced at Banokles. “You have the Hammer of Hephaistos ready?”

“Always,” Banokles answered.

“Then prepare to use it.”

Odysseus swung on his heel and walked back the way he had come. Two men, both tall and broad-shouldered and wearing long cloaks, suddenly halted. Odysseus strode up to them. Without a word he clubbed his fist into the first man’s face. Banokles leaped at the second, downing him with a ferocious right hook. The first man staggered back. Odysseus followed in, kicking his legs out from under him. As the man fell, Odysseus dropped to his knees, wrenching the man’s knife from its scabbard. The victim struggled to rise, then subsided as his own dagger blade touched his throat.

“You want to say anything?” Odysseus asked.

The man licked his lips. “I do not know why you are attacking me, stranger.”

“Ah,” Odysseus said with a smile. “Now I know you are lying, for you were in the crowd at the archery tourney, and you know I am no stranger. I am Odysseus, king of Ithaka. And you are an assassin.”

“That is nonsense! Help!” the man suddenly shouted. “I am being attacked!” Odysseus struck him. His head bounced down against the stone of the road. He groaned once. Odysseus clubbed him again. Then there was silence.

Odysseus rose and, gesturing to Kalliades and Banokles, approached the road leading to the square. Behind them several people from the crowd had gathered around the fallen men. Tossing the stolen knife to Kalliades, the king set off down the narrow road. Banokles, armed with the second man’s knife, took up a position on his right.

“Keep the weapons in clear view,” Odysseus said. “I want the other two to know they are in for a fight.”

They walked on, coming at last to the small square and the well. The remaining two assassins were waiting there. They looked across at Odysseus, noting the knives his companions carried. Then they looked past the trio, seeking their comrades. Odysseus glared at them and continued walking. The assassins glanced at one another, then turned and moved away.

“You want us to follow and kill them?” Banokles asked.

Odysseus shook his head. “Let us get back to the ship. I need to think. Hekabe the queen has asked to see me later. I’ll want you both with me for that.”

Helikaon did not remain for the full afternoon of games. His strength was all but gone as he and Gershom moved back through the crowd toward the waiting carriages. Helikaon stumbled, and Gershom caught his arm. The heat from the sun was intense, almost as great as on a midsummer day, and Helikaon was sweating freely.

Climbing into the six-seat chariot, Helikaon slumped down gratefully. Gershom sat opposite him, scanning the crowd, his hand on his dagger hilt.

Helikaon smiled. “I doubt even Agamemnon would seek to kill me in front of Priam.”

The charioteer flicked the reins, and the two-horse carriage moved out. The ride was bumpy across the newly broken ground outside the new stadium, but soon they reached the road. Gershom relaxed a little as the chariot picked up speed but still kept a wary eye open for bowmen or slingers.

“We shouldn’t have come,” he grumbled. “All men can see how weak you are. It will encourage them to try an attack.”

“They will attack anyway,” Helikaon answered, “when they perceive that the time is right. And it will be while Agamemnon is still in Troy. He will want to rejoice at my death.”

The chariot clattered on through nearly empty streets. “Odysseus was there,” Gershom said. “He waved at you.”

“I saw him,” Helikaon said. “If word comes to the palace that he wishes to see me, make some excuse.”

“He is your closest friend,” Gershom said.

Helikaon did not reply. Pulling a cloth from his belt, he dabbed at his sweat-streaked face. Gershom looked closely at him. Helikaon’s color was good, his skin having lost the ashen texture it had acquired during his illness. He was close to recovery, needing only to rebuild his stamina.

The carriage moved down through the lower town until it reached Helikaon’s palace. Two armed guards stood there, drawing open the gates to allow entry. Once inside the building, Helikaon walked through to a large room and stretched himself out on a couch. A servant brought a pitcher of cool water and filled a cup for the Dardanian king. Helikaon drank deeply, then closed his eyes, resting his head on a cushion. Gershom left him there and strode through to the rear garden, where two more guards were patrolling. He spoke to them for a little while, then returned to the palace. The guards were for little more than show. It was not a building to be easily defended. There were windows on two sides leading to the streets, and the walls of the gardens were low. Assassins could force entry in any one of twenty places without alerting the sentries. And sometime during the next five days they would do exactly that. A sensible plan of action would be to leave and return to Dardania, but Helikaon would not hear of it.

Returning to the cool of the main room, Gershom saw Helikaon sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees. He looked tired and troubled.

“Why do you not wish to see Odysseus?” Gershom asked, seating himself alongside the Dardanian king.

“I will see him, but I need time to prepare my thoughts.” Idly he rubbed at the healing wound beneath his arm. Then he leaned back. “When Attalus was dying, he spoke to me. It is a strange thing, Gershom, but I think his words were more poisonous than his blade.”

“How could that be?”

“He told me Odysseus paid to have my father murdered.”