Fall of Kings

CHAPTER FOUR BLOOD IN THE MARKET

Plouteus the merchant had fallen in love with Troy during his six years in the city. Despite being a foreigner, he had been accepted warmly by his neighbors and treated with courtesy by his fellow merchants and had come to regard the Golden City as the home of his heart, if not his blood. He was considered a lucky man, for his ships always seemed to find a way through the blockades, bringing silks and spices up from Miletos and even smuggled copper from Kypros.

Life was good for Plouteus, and he gave thanks every day at the temple of Hermes, offering white doves to the winged-heeled god of merchants. Ten times a season he also made sacrifices to Athene, guardian goddess of Troy, and once a year he made a donation of ten gold ingots to the temple of Zeus the All-Father. Plouteus was above all else a man of religion and piety.

He also was known in his homeland as a man of steadfast loyalty, a reputation he had been proud of all his life. Until this day.

Plouteus sat quietly with his guest in a secluded corner of his garden, a brazier burning close by. The visitor was younger and slimmer than the portly Plouteus, and where the merchant was ruddy-faced and friendly, the newcomer was hollow of cheek and cold of eye. A chill breeze blew across the garden. Dancing embers whirled up from the brazier. The newcomer swore softly. Plouteus saw his hands brushing at his blue cloak and guessed that a hot ash had settled on the garment. Plouteus rubbed at his eyes. Bright sunlight made them water and caused his head to ache.

“It would be warmer inside,” his guest said.

“Yes, it would,” Plouteus agreed. “But out here, in the cold, Actonion, no one will hear us.”

“You already know what is required,” Actonion said, tugging at his thin black chin beard. “We need speak no more of it.”

“You do not understand the nature of the task you are suggesting,” Plouteus argued.

Actonion raised his hand, wagging his finger. “I am suggesting nothing, Plouteus. I have brought you instructions from your lord. Your king desires the death of an enemy. You and your sons will kill this man of evil.”

“Just like that?” Plouteus snapped, reddening. “My boys are brave enough, but they are untrained. And I, as you can see, have fully enjoyed the fine foods of Troy. Why is it that we are asked to do this? Why not men of blood like yourself? Why not soldiers or assassins?”

The newcomer’s cold eyes hardened further. “So,” he said, “now you seek to question our master’s wisdom. You worm! Everything you have here Agamemnon King has given you. You swore to serve him in any way he desired. Now you balk at the first danger.”

“It is not the first,” Plouteus said, defiance in his voice. “My sons and I have gathered information, sent reports. We have risked our lives many times. But once we have accomplished this task today—if indeed we can—our usefulness will be at an end. Can you not see that? When our troops come in the spring, would it not be valuable to have loyal men inside the city?”

“Of course. And we will have them,” Actonion replied. “You think you are the only spies in Troy?” He rose from his seat. “As I have told you, Helikaon is at the palace and meeting with Priam. When he leaves, he will walk back down through the lower town. You and your sons will waylay him and strike together.”

“He has been kind to us,” Plouteus observed sadly.

“So I am told.” Actonion sneered. “You have dined at his house and made trade deals with him. He gave your youngest son a pony on the day of his manhood. That is why you have been chosen for this task. We have tried sending soldiers. We have tried sending assassins. Always he has eluded death. He is cunning and crafty, and he has strength and speed. But few men seek to protect themselves from their friends.”

Actonion drew his cloak around him and stepped away from the brazier. Glancing back, he said, “Once it is done, get down to the beach as fast as you can. Take any wealth you can carry.”

“Will you be on the ship waiting for us?” Plouteus asked.

“No. I shall remain in Troy for a while, but you will not see me again, Plouteus. Well… unless you fail. Agamemnon King has little time for those who break faith with him. Now best prepare yourself. You have a friend to kill.”

Tobios the jewel merchant hitched his heavy wool cloak up around his neck and stamped his feet against the cold. The early-morning crowd had thinned as people headed off to the eating houses and their midday meals. It had been a good day so far, he thought. The pendant Helikaon had purchased had ensured that, but Tobios also had sold three brooches and an amber bracelet. He was tempted to summon his servants, pack away his stall, and head for home and a warm fire. However, thoughts of the many years he had spent on the borders of ruin and starvation prevented such extravagant behavior. Chilled to the bone, Tobios remained where he was, huddled against the canvas windbreak behind his stall.

There would be time enough for such idle behavior, he told himself, when the winter had set in fully. Then he could spend more time in the workshops, supervising the crafting of brooches and bangles, rings and ornaments. Amber had been popular for several seasons. It would not last. Trojans were fickle when it came to fashion. Five years back it had been rubies, coral, and cloaks and tunics of crimson. Red had been the color. Then, for a short while, black had gained the ascendancy. An Egypteian merchant named Cthosis had perfected a dye that allowed black garments to be washed without the color leaching out. Ebony and obsidian bangles and earrings had been the fashion then among the women of Troy.

Now it was amber. What next? Tobios wondered. Blue was a strong possibility. Lapis lazuli never went entirely out of fashion, and it could be very pricey. The bluer the lapis, the more expensive the stone. Many women—and men, for that matter—had been seduced by being told their eyes were the color of lapis lazuli.

As he was thinking, Tobios caught sight of the Mykene merchant Plouteus and his sons entering the square. He waved a greeting, but immersed in a deep and obviously serious conversation, they did not see him. Perhaps even the notoriously lucky Plouteus was feeling the pressures of this senseless war. So far his ships had escaped either seizure or sinking. That was galling. Not that Tobios wanted to see honest sailors killed on the Great Green, but Plouteus’ luck meant that his trade goods could be sold more cheaply. That kept prices down, cutting margins and lowering profits.

Others of the merchant group were growing envious of the man, but Tobios had no time to waste on such destructive emotions. Plouteus was, it was said, a religious man, paying homage to many gods. In return, perhaps, they were favoring him. Tobios dearly would have liked to bribe the gods of this land, but if he did, there was no doubt the Prophet would hear of it. If that happened, death surely would follow—or worse. Some years back, it was said, the Prophet had cursed a man and given him leprosy. And one of Tobios’ servants told the story of a man who annoyed the Prophet and woke up the following morning blind in both eyes.

Better to risk the wrath of anonymous gods who might or might not exist than to anger the Prophet, who certainly did.

The Scythe was blowing hard now, hissing around and beneath the windbreak. Tobios retrieved his old woolen cap from the shelf below his stall and tugged it over his dyed red hair.

As he straightened, he saw the king’s son Paris heading toward him. The boy was wearing armor and carrying a dented helm. Tobios cast his gaze around the marketplace, seeking the plump Helen, who usually walked with him. They were a sweet couple, and Tobios liked them. Helen was a plain, matronly woman with mousy hair and a sweet smile. Her husband obviously adored her. Whenever he shopped alone, he would buy the most extravagant pieces for her: jewels that only a beautiful woman would dare to wear. The following day she would return and exchange them quietly. Helen’s taste was for the simple. She chose brooches for the shape of the stone or the beauty of the grain, preferring works in silver to those in gold.

Tobios smiled at the young man as he approached the stall. “A chill morning, lord, to be sure,” he said.

“I envy you your cloak, Tobios,” Paris responded. “Armor does not keep out the cold.”

“So I have been told, lord. Are you expecting a battle today?”

Paris gave a boyish grin. “If there were one, Tobios, I would be as much use as feathers on a fish.”

“Skill at fighting is much overrated,” Tobios confided. “In my long life I have discovered that to be fleet of foot is infinitely superior to having skill with weapons. Though better than both is to be quick-witted.”

“Have you been in many wars?” Paris asked as he examined a bangle of cunningly sliced amber.

“Too many, sir.” Tobios shivered as dark memories assailed him. Changing the subject, he said: “That piece you hold was crafted by my grandson. It is the first competent example of the skills to come.”

Out of the corner of his eye Tobios saw Helikaon moving through the crowd. He frowned. He hoped that Helikaon had not come to return the pendant he had bought. Returning his attention to Paris, he waited patiently as the young man examined another bracelet more closely. It was fashioned of braided silver wire wrapped around and through seven small fire opals. Young Aaron was becoming a fine craftsman.

“If I may make so bold, lord, the lovely Helen would find this piece especially appealing.”

Before Paris could answer, the air was rent with a piercing shout. “Father! No! It is not him!”

Tobios peered around and saw the portly Plouteus fighting with Helikaon. For a heartbeat it looked comical: a fat middle-aged merchant in a crimson, ankle-length tunic grappling next to a pie stall with a slender white-garbed warrior.

As Tobios looked more closely, he saw that the warrior was not Helikaon. It was Prince Deiphobos, one of Priam’s bastard sons, known as Dios. Tobios wondered why a placid man like Plouteus would risk insulting a king’s son, but then a spray of red spattered across Dios’ tunic. Sunlight glittered on the bright blade in Plouteus’ hand. Dios reached out to grab Plouteus’ wrist, but the merchant wrenched his hand loose of the grip and plunged the blade again into Dios’ chest. The victim’s clothes were blood-drenched now, and rivulets of red streamed down his legs. Yet still he fought on. Plouteus’ sons rushed in. Tobios thought they had come to pull their father clear. Instead they, too, drew knives and began to hack at the injured prince.

“Paris! Paris!” Dios shouted, and Tobios saw him reach out to his brother. Then another blade slammed into his body, and he doubled over, blood spewing from his mouth.

Tobios glanced at Paris. The young prince was standing statue-still, frozen in shock and fear. Tobios snatched Paris’ sword from its scabbard and ran at the killers, shouting at the top of his voice, “Murderers! Assassins!”

Plouteus’ youngest son swung toward Tobios. There were blood splashes across his face, and the skinning knife he held dripped gore. He looked at the jewel merchant, then dropped his blade and ran. The oldest son grabbed his father and was pulling him away when the redheaded merchant arrived. Tobios lashed out with the sword blade. It caught the young man high on the temple, slashing the skin and sending blood spraying. He fell sideways, then staggered several steps.

“Assassins!” Tobios shouted again. “Hold them!” Another stall holder ran up behind the injured assailant and hit him with a club. He pitched forward unconscious.

Standing alongside the body of Dios, his face stricken, the merchant Plouteus looked into the eyes of Tobios. He was shaking his head.

“Never wanted this,” he cried. “I swear by all the gods, Tobios, I had no choice.”

“You worm!” an angry man in the crowd shouted. Tobios recognized him as the trader Actonion. Running forward, he plunged his dagger into Plouteus’ neck, forcing it deep. Blood spouted from the wound, and Plouteus pitched to his face on the stones.

Tobios knelt beside Dios. The man’s eyes were open, but they could see nothing. The stab wounds to his face and neck no longer were bleeding.

The man who had killed Plouteus also knelt beside the body. Tobios looked up into the dark eyes of Actonion.

“I would have thought such a famed fighter would be bigger,” Actonion commented, staring down at the corpse.

“Famed fighter?” Tobios queried.

“Did someone not say this was the dread Helikaon?”

“They were wrong. This is Deiphobos, son of Priam.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Tobios turned back toward his stall. Paris still was standing there, slack-jawed, his eyes full of tears. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” he whispered.

“A man stabbed that many times usually is,” Tobios told him.

Paris groaned. “He called out for me, and I didn’t go to him. I couldn’t move, Tobios.”

“Then go to him now,” Tobios said softly. “It is not right for the son of a king to lie alone in the dust of a marketplace.”

But Paris seemed rooted to the spot. “Oh, Tobios, I failed him. My greatest friend, and when he needed me, I did nothing.”

Tobios held his tongue and sought to hide his contempt. Paris was spineless, but he was a good customer. Merchants did not stay in business long if they drove away good customers. Then he saw that the young man was staring at him, his expression imploring. Tobios sighed. He knew what the prince needed, what all cowards needed. “You could have done nothing, lord,” he said, putting as much sincerity into the lie as he could muster. “The first blows would have been fatal. By rushing in you would have risked being killed yourself for nothing. You acted wisely.”

Paris shook his head but said nothing.

A troop of soldiers arrived too late in the marketplace. They lifted the body of Dios, carrying him back toward the Scaean Gate. Tobios looked around for Actonion, but the man had gone.

How strange, he thought. Priam surely would reward the man who had killed the assassin of one of his sons.

Leaving Priam and Helikaon deep in conversation in the Amber Room, Andromache made her way down to the megaron, where she spotted Antiphones among the crowd. He was hard to miss, for he was still the largest man in Troy, though much of his weight was now muscle. Where once he had enjoyed bouts of almost Heraklean eating, he now was famed for his ferocious training regimen. Andromache liked him greatly but was in no mood for idle conversation.

“Have you seen Hektor?” she asked him swiftly.

“A few moments ago. He left the palace.” He leaned toward her and whispered, “You seem troubled, dear one.”

“This has been a difficult day,” she told him.

“There are many difficult days now. Hektor also seemed downcast. Is all well between you?”

Andromache paused before answering, and when she did, the words sounded hollow in her ears. “There is love between us, Antiphones. Ultimately, therefore, all will be well. I have to believe that.”

“He adores you, so I hope you are right,” Antiphones said. Andromache looked into the big man’s eyes and knew he wanted to say more.

But the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the king’s son and chancellor, Polites. Stooping and balding, Polites seemed to age a year for every season that passed. His face was pale, his eyes dark-ringed, his mouth permanently downturned. “We need to speak, Antiphones,” he said.

“You forget your manners, Brother,” Antiphones admonished him. Only then did Polites notice Andromache. His tired face reddened with embarrassment.

“I am sorry, Sister,” he told her. “Please forgive me.”

“No need to apologize, Polites. You are obviously more in need of Antiphones’ fellowship than I am. Therefore, I will leave you both to talk.”

Andromache left the megaron and, trailed by two bodyguards, made her way back toward the palace of Hektor. Once she was outside, her problems returned to haunt her. She understood Hektor’s fears. There had been honesty between them from the first, so he knew she loved Helikaon. Now the thought of his wife sailing across the Great Green with Helikaon must be burrowing into his mind like a maggot into an apple.

Her heart in turmoil, Andromache paused by a well. One of her guards, thinking she was thirsty, drew up a bucket. Andromache thanked him and sipped a little water from a wooden ladle. Thoughts of Kalliope suddenly filled her mind. Sweet, damaged, brave Kalliope. And she remembered the vile killers, the blazing farm, and Kalliope, standing tall on the hillside shooting arrows down at the assassins. Tears formed as she struggled to hold to that heroic image. But she could not, and cold reality made her see again the black shaft ripping into Kalliope. Now all that remained of her lover was the few bones Andromache had gathered from the ashes of the funeral pyre. They were contained in an ebony and silver chest beneath a window in her bedchamber.

Andromache had dreamed of returning the bones to the Blessed Isle and burying them in the tamarisk grove beside the temple of Artemis. Now the High Priestess planned to hurl Kalliope’s bones into the pit and chain her spirit to serve the Minotaur forever.

“Are you well, lady?” asked Ethenos, the youngest of her guards. “You are looking very pale.” He was a serious young man and a cousin to the murdered Cheon, who had died along with Kalliope on the day of the assassins.

“I am fine,” she told the fair-haired soldier. It was a lie.

Kalliope had adored the goddess Artemis, had prayed to her many times a day. Had that adoration been repaid in any way? Raped as a child, betrayed by her family, and then murdered by assassins. Not twenty years old when she died. Now, even after death, she was to be brutalized.

For a moment only Andromache thought of praying to the goddess, but the voice of her anguish screamed out then. You think Artemis or any of the gods cares a whit about your life or Kalliope’s? Think on it! Have any of your prayers ever been answered?

Suddenly Andromache smiled, but her thoughts were bitter. When she first had left Thera, she had wanted nothing more than to return to the Blessed Isle, to its simple life, with Kalliope. She had prayed for that and for the freedom she never had known before or since. And in her first unhappy days in Troy she had daydreamed about Helikaon taking her away on the Xanthos and had prayed for that also. Now, like a knife twisting in her gut, the gods had decided she would have both prayers twistedly fulfilled.

Cold anger coursed through her. The demigod would not have Kalliope, not even if the fate of worlds hung on it. Yes, she would take bones to Thera, but not those of her lover.

The decision made, she dropped the ladle into the bucket and walked on. At the palace she dismissed her guard, nodded to the soldiers at the side gates, then stepped through into the courtyard gardens. She saw Astyanax playing in the dirt, Hektor kneeling beside him.

Her love for Astyanax was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was as if he were tied to her with tender ropes. Each time she left him, even for a day, there was a dull ache in her heart. An entire winter without him would be close to unbearable. Her heart began to pound with increasing panic. She also feared for his life. She was afraid of traitors, spies, poison, and the dagger in the night.

Then the sun moved beyond the clouds and shone down on her child and the powerful man beside him. The two were disheveled and covered with dust, as if they had been rolling on the ground. They were kneeling, facing each other, engrossed in something in the dirt between them. The boy pointed to an insect or a leaf, perhaps, and raised his small face in inquiry to his father. The expression of love and tenderness on Hektor’s face made a lump form in Andromache’s throat.

The panic passed. He loves Astyanax, she thought, and he will never stop. He will guard the boy with his life.

Quietly, unnoticed, she went into the palace.