David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

Odysseus considered the question. “It is far from this coming war. You can trust me to oversee it and ensure your profits are held for you. I will do my best to see there is no friction between the peoples there. Let us hope that one day we can walk the Seven Hills together as friends once more.”

“I will pray for that day, Odysseus, my friend.”

Tears in his eyes, Odysseus drew the younger man into an embrace and kissed his cheeks. “May the gods favor you,” he said.

“And may they watch over you, Ugly One. Always.”

The games resumed the morning after the funeral feast for Hekabe. The sky was clear, a fresh breeze blowing across the hills. Thousands flocked to the hippodrome and the stadium, and fortunes were wagered on this final day. Not one copper ring, however, was placed on Achilles, for none could be found who would bet against him.

Despite the warnings of his friends, Helikaon walked among the excited throng, watching the contests. The parting with Odysseus weighed heavily on him, and he had no interest any longer in the games. He had come only for a glimpse of Andromache. Gershom was with him, his hand constantly on his dagger hilt, his dark eyes scanning the crowd for signs of assassins. “This is foolish,” said Gershom, not for the first time, as they eased their way through a pack of spectators at the hippodrome.

“I will not live in fear,” Helikaon told him. “I tried it once. It does not suit me.”

Wooden bench seats had been set into the raised banks around the racing area, but they were already full. Helikaon led Gershom through the crowd to a canopied royal enclosure, where he was recognized by the two Royal Eagles guarding the entrance. “Good to see you back among the living,” said one, a wide-shouldered veteran with a black and silver beard. The man had been one of the soldiers who had fought alongside Helikaon the previous autumn during the attack on Priam’s palace. Helikaon clapped the man on the shoulder as he walked into the enclosure, Gershom beside him. A servant brought cool drinks of pressed fruits flavored with spices.

At the back of the enclosure Helikaon saw the slender, dark-haired Dios and the huge Antiphones. They were arguing about the merits of the charioteers about to race. Dios saw Helikaon and smiled broadly, stepping forward to embrace him. Then Antiphones shook his hand.

“You are looking more like yourself,” Dios said. “It is good to see.”

“But still a little thin,” Antiphones added. “I think I have lost more weight than you carry, Helikaon.”

Out on the hippodrome track they saw Polites and some twenty judges walking in a line, examing the ground, searching for small stones that might be lifted by the spinning wheels of the chariots and hurled into the crowd.

“He has done well,” Helikaon said. “The games have been splendidly organized.”

Once the judges had completed their examination of the track, the charioteers came out, riding in single file so that the crowd could see the horses, make their judgments, and decide on their wagers. The red-haired Athenian king, Menestheos, led the line, his four black geldings looking sleek and powerful. Behind him was the Lykian charioteer Supolos, followed by the Mykene champion, Ajax. He was the only man sporting a helm and a breastplate of leather. All the other charioteers wore simple tunics.

Helikaon scanned the line, watching closely the behavior of the horses. Some were nervous, tossing their heads and stamping their hooves; others seemed serene. The black geldings of Menestheos continued to catch his eye.

“Are you wagering?” Dios asked.

“Perhaps.”

“The Lykian, Supolos, has been magnificent throughout. Never seen a team with such speed.”

Helikaon smiled. “I’ll wager a hundred gold rings that Menestheos and his blacks finish ahead of him.”

“Done!”

Having completed a full slow circuit, the twelve chariots were led to their starting positions. The chariots would race toward the first turning pole, spin around it, then thunder back toward the second pole for ten circuits. The starting line was staggered so that the distance to the first pole was the same for all. Menestheos had drawn the outside position; the Lykian, Supolos, the inside. The charioteers looped the long reins around their wrists and waited for the trumpet blast.

The crowd fell silent.

The trumpet sounded.

Forty-eight horses surged into their traces, and the race began. The four black geldings of Menestheos thundered away, cutting across the next team, causing the following charioteer to swerve and haul back on his reins. On the inside the team of Supolos pulled ahead with blistering speed. Supolos reached the turn first, his chariot lifting on one wheel as he reined in the inner pair while the outer increased their speed. It was a breathtaking display of skill, his chariot wheel missing the pole by no more than a handbreadth. Menestheos was just behind him, with the Mykene, Ajax, in close pursuit in third place.

The crowd was baying now, the excitement rising. Two chariots in the rear collided on a turn. One lost a wheel, and the other spun over, throwing the charioteer to the dust. Soldiers ran onto the course, dragging the damaged chariots clear. Both charioteers rose uninjured.

By the fifth turn it seemed that Supolos would claim the laurel crown, but Menestheos and Ajax were both driving with skill and nerve, awaiting the one mistake that would allow them to surge through.

It came on the ninth turn. A moment of misjudgment saw Supolos swing too wide. Ajax lashed his team, seeking to drive through the narrow space he had created. Supolos, recovering swiftly, tried to close him off. Down the straight they thundered, side by side. At the next turn they were too close, and their wheels collided and locked together. The Lykian’s wheel was torn clear, and his damaged chariot hammered into the guardrail. The vehicle shattered, but the horses ran on. Supolos, the reins tight around his wrists, was dragged along the ground. The collision had forced Ajax to slow down, and the Athenian, Menestheos, seeing his chance, lashed his reins and cried out in a loud voice: “Go, beauties! Go!”

The blacks came out of the turn and powered into a gallop. The hapless Supolos was directly in their path. The outside gelding leaped across his flailing body, but the chariot wheel struck his neck with awful force, and all in the crowd knew instantly he had been killed.

Menestheos raced to the final turn just ahead of Ajax and executed a perfect swinging maneuver. Then he lashed the black horses into one last surge for the finish. Ajax could not close the gap and finished second, the other seven charioteers trailing without mishap. Only then did stretcher bearers run onto the track to retrieve the body of Supolos.

“My luck is cursed,” Dios said.

“Not as badly as the Lykian’s,” Helikaon pointed out.

“Menestheos could have avoided him,” Antiphones observed. “He only had to rein back and swerve.”

“Would have cost him the race,” Dios said.

Helikaon waited to applaud as Menestheos received the laurel crown, then he and Gershom made their way down the columned walkway to the stadium entrance. Gershom continued to watch the crowd around them with suspicion.

The final of the javelin tourney was under way as they arrived. It was won by a Rhodian with an enormous throw, but Helikaon was delighted to see his old friend Bias finish second. The crew of the Penelope surged around him, lifting him to their shoulders as if he had won. As Bias was being carried aloft, he spotted Helikaon and waved, grinning broadly. Helikaon lifted his hand and smiled back. Sadness touched him. Will we both be smiling when next we meet? he wondered.

On the far side of the stadium was the second royal enclosure. Helikaon and Gershom eased their way through the crowd until they were close to it. Then Helikaon stopped. Two gilded thrones had been placed at the front, and seated upon them, beneath gold-embroidered canopies, were Hektor and Andromache. Her father, Ektion, a slender man with deep-set wary eyes, was seated at her right, while Priam sat beside his son.