Fall of Kings

CHAPTER SEVEN THE TRUTH OF PROPHECY

Alkaios the king was not an ambitious man. The island of Minoa, with its rich fertile soil, supplied enough wealth to keep him and his three wives happy. Regular income from trading cattle and grain enabled him to maintain a small fighting force: five war galleys to patrol the coast and five hundred soldiers to defend the land. Neither the galleys nor the small army was strong enough to make the kings of neighboring islands fear invasion or so weak that they encouraged the same kings to consider attacking Minoa.

At twenty-eight years of age Alkaios was content with his life.

Success, as the king had discovered many years before, lay in harmony and balance. That path had not been easy for Alkaios. As a child he had been passionate and outspoken, much to the chagrin of his father, who had impressed on him the need to control his emotions. All decisions, his father had maintained, had to be based on rational thought and careful consideration. His father continually had mocked him for his inability to think clearly. At the age of twenty Alkaios finally had realized that his father was right. The understanding that followed freed him, and he went to his father, thanked him, plunged a dagger into his heart, and became king.

After that no one mocked him, and harmony and balance abounded. On the rare occasions when someone put that harmony under threat, he found the dagger to be a source of instant relief.

Not today, though, Alkaios thought irritably. Today there was little balance to be found.

The previous day he had been preparing to move to his summer palace on the western coast, away from the harsh northern winds of winter. Two of his wives were pregnant, the third delightfully barren. The trading season had been, despite the war, more profitable than last summer. The gods had, it seemed, smiled upon Alkaios.

Then the Mykene galley had returned, and now, his journey to the southwest delayed, he was forced to play the genial host with two of Agamemnon’s creatures, one a snake and one a lion. Both were dangerous.

The pale-eyed Mykene ambassador Kleitos was pointing out how greatly Agamemnon King would appreciate it if next summer’s Minoan grain could be used to feed the armies of the west once the invasion of Troy began.

The voice of Kleitos droned on. Alkaios was barely listening. He had heard it before. Minoan grain was shipped all over the Great Green, and the profits were high. Supplying Agamemnon would be, as Kleitos so disingenuously put it, an “act of faith.” The profits for Alkaios, he maintained, would be handsome, and paid from the sacked treasury of Troy. Alkaios had suppressed a smile at that. As his father once had said, “You don’t pull a lion’s teeth until you see the flies on its tongue.” At the thought of lions Alkaios flicked a glance at the second Mykene, the warrior Persion.

Powerfully built, with a black forked beard, Persion stood silently by, one hand on his sword. Alkaios knew his type. The arrogance in his dark eyes spoke of victories. This was a warrior, a killer, and probably at times an assassin. Persion stood unblinking and statue-still, his presence a mute warning: Those who went against Agamemnon’s wishes did not survive very long.

Alkaios leaned back in his chair and called for more wine. A servant crossed the floor of the megaron and filled his cup. A cold breeze was blowing through the old building, and Alkaios strolled to a burning brazier set near the north wall. Kleitos followed him.

“This war will be won in the summer,” he said. “The greatest fleet ever seen will bring seventy thousand men to the walls of Troy. The city cannot withstand our might.”

“Interesting,” Alkaios mused. “Do I not recall a similar comment from you last year?”

“There have been unexpected setbacks,” Kleitos answered, his lips thinning. “There will be no more, I can assure you.”

Alkaios smiled inwardly. “Forgive me,” he said mildly. “You are assuring me you are expecting no further unexpected setbacks? If you had expected them in the first place, they would not have been unexpected. That is the very nature of surprise, Kleitos. That it is always unexpected. So, essentially, you are maintaining that Prince Hektor and his Trojan Horse, and wily Priam, and deadly Aeneas have no capacity left to surprise you. Bold assertions, if I may say so.”

Kleitos blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “I am a soldier. Word games do not interest me. What I am saying, Alkaios King, is that Troy is doomed.”

“I expect you are correct,” the king responded amicably. “However, only last year I was speaking to King Peleus of Thessaly. He told me how much he was looking forward to destroying the Trojan Horse and forcing the braggart Hektor to kiss the dirt at his feet. I heard only yesterday that they met at Carpea, but I do not recall hearing of any dirt kissing.”

He could see that Kleitos was growing angry and knew it would not be long before soft words gave way to hard threats. It annoyed him that he would have to find a way to placate the creature. To irritate Agamemnon’s ambassador was enjoyable but not wise.

The conversation was interrupted by a pounding on the wide door of the megaron. A servant swiftly pulled it open just long enough to allow a stocky soldier to enter. Alkaois saw that it was his captain of cavalry, Malkon. A strong breeze blew through the building. Cinders danced up from the brazier, causing Kleitos to step back. Malkon advanced toward the king. He was a short, wide-shouldered man wearing a breastplate of bronze. Thumping his fist against the armor, he bowed his head to Alkaios.

“What is it, Malkon?”

“A large… galley, lord, has beached at Thetis Rock.” Alkaios noted the hesitation before the word “galley” and looked closely at his captain. “They are traveling to Thera,” the soldier went on, “bringing a new priestess to serve the Minotaur. They request permission to spend the night on the beach and purchase supplies.”

“I see,” the king replied, his mind racing. Malkon had full power to grant such permission and would not have interrupted him if that had been the only concern. He was a sharp, intelligent man, and therefore the interruption meant the new arrival posed some threat or a complication beyond the capacity of a captain to resolve. A king of a neighboring island, perhaps? He dismissed the thought at once. Malkon would have granted permission instantly. No, it had to be connected with the Mykene being there.

That meant it was a Trojan vessel or some ally of Priam’s. But why the emphasis on it being a large galley?

Realization struck home like a lance, though the king’s expression did not change. He looked into Malkon’s blue eyes. “A ship bound for Thera,” he said slowly. “So late in the year. Ah, well, the gods demand we must offer them our hospitality. Not so, Kleitos?” he asked suddenly, looking at the Mykene.

“We must always offer respect to the lords of the earth,” Kleitos answered. “Otherwise they will withdraw from us their favor or curse our endeavors.”

“Quite so, and admirably put.” Swinging back to the soldier, he said, “Go and tell the newcomers they are welcome to stay the night.”

Malkon nodded and strode back toward the door. As he reached it, Alkaios called out to him. “Are there any among them known to us?”

Malkon cleared his throat. “Aeneas of Dardania, my lord. He is taking a daughter of Priam to be a priestess.”

“The Burner is here!” Kleitos roared. “This is insufferable! He must be held by your forces. Agamemnon King will reward you handsomely.”

“I cannot hold him, Kleitos,” Alkaios said. “The ship is bound for the temple at Thera, and as you said yourself only moments ago, we must give respect to the gods.” Turning back to Malkon, he called out, “Invite King Aeneas and his passengers to the palace this evening.”

The soldier walked swiftly from the megaron. Alkaios turned to Kleitos. “Do not be so glum, my friend,” he said, laying his arm over the Mykene’s shoulder. “That man of yours, Persion, looks like a fighter.”

“He is. What of it?”

“Did you not say when introducing him that he was kin to a great Mykene hero?”

“Yes. His uncle was Alektruon, a hero foully murdered by the man you are inviting to your table.”

“As a king and a man who worships the gods, I cannot, for profit or malice, interfere with those engaged in serving them. However, Kleitos, the gods value honor and bravery above all other virtues. Not so?”

“Of course. All men know this.”

“Persion has suffered a great loss. Alektruon the hero was of his blood, and blood cries out for vengeance. The gods would surely understand—even applaud—were he to honor his uncle by challenging to single combat the man who killed him.”

The light of understanding shone in the man’s pale eyes. “By Ares, yes! My apologies, Alkaios King. I misjudged you. It is a fine plan.”

The moon was bright above the cliffs, its silver light reflecting from the timbers of the Xanthos, giving the ship a spectral glow. Fires had been set on the beach, but the men of the crew were not relaxing around them. Many wore light leather breastplates and short swords. Others had strung their bows. Only the cooks went unarmed as they prepared the night’s meal.

Helikaon called the first sentries to him, and the eight men gathered close. Helikaon’s voice was low, but there was an underlying urgency that was not lost on them.

“You must consider this a hostile harbor,” he warned them. “There are two Mykene vessels in the next bay, and by now they will know we are here. Find yourselves positions high on the cliffs and stay alert.”

Nearby, dressed in an ankle-length gown of unembroidered green wool, Andromache sat by a fire, watching Helikaon talking to the men. What a contradiction you are, she thought. One moment volatile and unpredictable, the next as cool and rational as a gray-bearded veteran. She stared at his profile in the moonlight. As if he felt her gaze, he turned suddenly and looked at her, his sapphire eyes emotionless and cold.

Andromache turned away. Rising from beside the fire, she brushed sand from her gown and walked to the shoreline She was angry with herself. When Helikaon had come to the prow in the golden glow of the sunset, she had wanted to tell him the truth, that she loved him as she would never—could never—love another. Instead, with one careless phrase, she had left him believing that Hektor was the man she adored. There was nothing she could do now to draw back those words, nor could she explain them.

Oniacus and Gershom came walking across the sand. Both men waved a greeting to Andromache and then joined Helikaon. The sentries loped off to their positions on the cliffs, and Andromache heard Gershom voice his concerns about the coming feast.

“Why risk this?” he asked. “You know there could be Mykene there.”

“You think I should find a cave and hide in it?”

“That is not what I meant. You are in a strange mood tonight, Golden One. You carefully pick the best sentries. You set up defensive positions and prepare us for an attack. Then you blithely decide to wander out where your enemies can strike you down.”

“There is no ambush planned, Gershom,” Helikaon told him. “They have a champion who means to challenge me after the feast.”

“Is this a jest?”

“Not at all. Alkaios had a servant come and warn me.”

“You know this champion?”

Helikaon shook his head. “His name is Persion. He is kin to a man I killed some years back. Alkaios says he has the look of a fighter.”

Gershom swore softly. “A pox on it! A fighter? You’ve no choice, then.” He glared at Helikaon. “You should have listened to Oniacus and traveled to the island that has the talented baker.”

Helikaon shrugged. “There would have been Mykene there, too, my friend.”

“Well… kill him quickly and take no chances.”

Helikaon gave a tight smile. “That is my plan.”

They talked for a while, but Andromache moved away from them, her stomach tight with fear. Helikaon was going to fight a duel this night. Her mouth was dry. If he died, a part of her would die with him. Do not even think it, she warned herself. He is Helikaon, the Golden One. He stood with Argurios on the stairs and fought the best the Mykene could send against him. He defeated them all.

She heard his footsteps on the gritty sand but did not look at him, instead focusing her gaze on the moonlit waves.

“It is best if Kassandra does not attend the feast,” she heard him say to her.

“She told me earlier that she would not go,” Andromache told him. “She is frightened. She says there will be a red demon there. She does not want to see it.”

“A red demon? By the gods, her condition worsens every season,” he said, sadness in his voice.

Now Andromache looked at him, her green eyes radiating her anger. “Her condition? You all think her insane. She is not. She truly sees, Helikaon. And yes, the power of her visions comes close to driving her mad. She is little more than a child, and yet she has already witnessed the day of her death.”

“I do not believe that,” he said. “I have heard seers make predictions. I have listened to oracles. Sometimes what they predict comes to pass, but often I could have predicted the same outcome, and I am not a seer. The gods—if they exist—are capricious and willful, but they are always fascinating. You think they would devise a world entirely lacking in surprise for them, where everything was preordained?”

Andromache shook her head. “Why do men always leap from one extreme to the other? Just because one event is predestined does not mean that an entire life is mapped out heartbeat by heartbeat. I have seen the truth of prophecy, Helikaon. On Thera, on the beach at Blue Owl Bay, and in Troy with Kassandra.”

Helikaon shrugged. “Then you had better dress yourself for the feast,” he said, “lest you be late and miss the entrance of the red demon.”

“Dress myself?” she countered, nonplussed.

“The gown you are wearing is… functional but hardly fitting for a royal feast.”

“How foolish of me!” she snapped. “I must have gone to the wrong chest. I opened mine, the one that holds clothes for a sea journey. I shall return immediately to the Xanthos and borrow some royal robes from the crew.”

Helikaon flushed, then smiled. “I am an idiot,” he said gently. “Please forgive me. Did you bring no jewelry, either?”

She glared at him. “No.”

He stepped forward, opening the leather pouch at his side. From it he took a heavy pendant of gold and amber, which he passed to her. Upon it was a beautifully carved image of Artemis holding her bow. It was warm in her hands. Idly she stroked her fingers across the amber surface, feeling the grooves of the carving.

Looking into his eyes, she asked, “Why were you carrying it?”

“It caught my eye in a market,” he said with a shrug that was too casual. She knew then that he had bought it with her in mind. “It would honor me if you would wear it tonight,” he said.

“Then I shall,” she told him, lifting it to her neck. Stepping behind her, he fastened it. “Your hands are remarkably steady for a man who is going to fight tonight,” she said. “Are you so unconcerned?”

“Yes,” he answered. “You think me arrogant?”

“Of course you are arrogant, Helikaon. You have much to be arrogant about. However, you do realize that everyone can be beaten? No one is invincible.”

Helikaon grinned. “And that is the thought you would like me to carry into battle, that I might be maimed? Or killed?”

“No!” Andromache exclaimed. “Not at all. I didn’t want you to go into the fight overconfident. That is all.”

“Little danger of that now,” he said. “Come, we should go. It is ill mannered to keep either kings or killers waiting.”

Gershom belted his heavy woolen cloak against the strong breeze from the north and thought fleetingly of fine food and a warm bed. Ten nights of cold fitful sleep on winter beaches had left him nostalgic for the luxurious palaces of Egypte, the splendor of white-walled Memphis, the awesome majesty of Luxor. Places of soft sheets and softer women but, more than anything else, places of warmth.

He sighed. As Prince Ahmose, those palaces had been his, but as Gershom the outlaw, his home was wherever his blanket lay. Now is not the time to meditate on all that is lost, he told himself. There were Mykene on the island, and the Xanthos needed to be guarded against attack. Helikaon had sent scouts up into the cliffs to the south and across the shingle headland to the east.

To the west thin woodland grew almost down to the beach. More scouts lay hidden in the perimeter of the wood, overlooking the cliff path to the king’s citadel.

Crewmen free of guard duty settled by the cookfires. All those men remained alert, keeping their weapons close by. Yet despite the awareness of peril there was laughter and some singing in the gathering darkness, for these were men used to war and its dangers.

Gershom glanced at the star-filled sky and then sought out Oniacus. “We will rotate the guards when the moon reaches its height,” he told the crewman. “No one will get a full night’s sleep tonight. See that the wine is given out sparingly.”

“Much as I love the Xanthos, I would sooner be guarding Helikaon,” the younger man replied. “What if there is treachery there tonight?”

Gershom had similar thoughts but did not voice them. Instead he said, “Helikaon knows this king and trusts him. You think he would take the wife of Hektor and the daughter of Priam into danger?”

Oniacus’ face darkened. “Kassandra did not go with them,” he said, looking around in sudden alarm. “She said she would be with you.”

Gershom cursed. The wretched girl was nothing but trouble. He and Oniacus strode among the crew, asking if any had seen the girl. It was surprising how few had noticed her. A dark-haired princess in the midst of young strong men ought to have drawn their eyes. But it seemed she walked among them like a wraith. One of the cooks, however, recalled seeing her beside a narrow cliff path, which he pointed out. Then Gershom remembered the prayer fire she had spoken of.

“Stay alert, Oniacus,” he said. “I will find her.” Snatching his sword, he strode into the night.

As he climbed the path, he could see the king’s citadel awash with light far to his right. To the left the land was in darkness, but bright moonlight showed a narrow trail running up toward a rocky outcrop shrouded in trees. The trail was narrow, perhaps made by animals, but he followed it confidently. The sounds of night—the shrill creak of tree beetles and the croaking of frogs—pressed in on him as he left the sea behind. Small creatures rustled in the undergrowth, and close by he heard the bleating of unseen goats. He started to sweat under his wool cloak and paused for a moment. A faint smell of burning herbs drifted past his nostrils, and he turned his head slowly, seeking its source. His eye caught the faintest glow of firelight reflected on rock above him.

Climbing carefully in the moonlight, he found a deep cave in the rock that faced south and protected from the northerly winds. A fire had been set against the far wall, and smoke swirled up to the low ceiling.

“Kassandra?” he called, but there was no reply. Ducking his head, he moved deeper into the cave. The smell from the fire was acrid and faintly perfumed. The smoke stung his eyes, and he crouched down low to the rocky ground, seeking fresher air. “Kassandra!” he called again. His voice sounded strange in his ears. “Ka-ssan-dra!” he said, then chuckled at the weirdness of the sound. He slumped down, resting his head on his arm, and stared into the fire.

It was a poor effort, scarcely more than a small dry bush blazing, except that the leaves did not seem to be burning. Fires danced around them, bright as captured sunlight, leaving the leaves unmarked. Small though the fire was, it gave off a great deal of heat. Gershom clumsily undid the bronze cloak brooch, then let slip the garment. The effort drained him, causing him to breathe heavily, drawing in more of the sickly-sweet air of the cave. He found himself growing drowsy, yet his eyes remained open, staring into the fire. The sounds of the night drifted away.

The blaze seemed to be drawing him in, and his mind swirled with bright colors. And then the fire was gone, and he was dreaming.

He found himself floating in the moonlight above the palace garden in Thebes and laughed. How curious, he thought. I am dreaming, and I know I am dreaming. Below him he saw a female servant moving furtively, a newborn babe in her arms. It was wrapped in a blanket embroidered with gold. The woman was crying as she ran through the night-dark garden and out into the street beyond. Gershom recognized her, though she was far younger than he remembered. The last time he had seen Merysit, she had been frail and silver-haired, crippled with arthritis. A sweet-natured woman, she had been his nursemaid for seven years. Intrigued, he watched as the weeping woman ran through the gardens and out into a shadowed street. Then she made her way down to a broad riverbank, where she crouched down in the bullrushes. She hugged the babe to her, but its head flopped down, the eyes open and unstaring. In the bright moonlight Gershom saw that the infant was dead. A bearded old man dressed in the ragged clothes of a brickmaker moved out of the shadows Then another woman appeared, dressed in the flowing robes of the desert people. She, too, had a babe, but this one was alive. Merysit tenderly wrapped the living child in the golden blanket and ran back to the palace.

Gershom followed her up to the royal apartments, where his mother was sleeping. There was blood on the sheets. The queen opened her eyes. Merysit sat on the bed and passed the babe to her. It had begun to cry.

“Hush, little Ahmose, you are safe now,” the queen whispered.

It is just a dream, Gershom thought, fear flowing through him. Just a dream.

The image shifted, and he was soaring like a hawk above a burning desert. A multitude was crossing the sands: hard-faced men with worried eyes, women dressed in bright robes, small children darting among flocks of sheep and goats. And he saw himself, his beard streaked with silver, a gnarled staff in his hands. A young boy ran up to him, crying out a name.

Gershom blinked, and the vision faded, becoming once again a fire within a cave. Desperate to be away from the fire, he struggled to rise but then slumped down. The blazing twigs shifted and turned red. He saw shining rivers of blood flowing through a land of darkness and despair. He saw the face of his brother Rameses, gray with grief.

Then the fire grew again, filling his vision. Flames blazed high into the sky, and he heard the roar of a thousand thunders. Darkness blotted out the sun. Gershom watched in horror as the sea rose up to meet roiling black clouds. The fury of the vision caused him to cry out and cover his face with his hands. Yet still he saw…

Finally the fire burned out, and cool fresh air blew into the cave. Tears streaming from his eyes, he crawled out into the night and collapsed on the wet earth of the entrance. Kassandra was sitting there, slim and straight, a garland of olive leaves around her head.

“And now you begin to see,” she said softly. It was not a question.

Gershom rolled to his back and stared up at the stars. His head began to clear. “You put opiates in the flames.”

“Yes. To help open your eyes.” His head was aching now, and he sat up and groaned. “Drink this,” she said, passing him a water skin. “It will clear your head.”

Pulling the stopper free, he lifted the skin and drank greedily. His mouth felt as dry as the desert he had observed. “What was it I saw?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “They are your visions. I do not know what you saw.”

“At the last I saw a mountain explode and destroy the sun.”

“Ah,” she said, “then I am wrong, for I do know that vision. It will not destroy the sun, merely block out its light. It is a true vision, Gershom.”

Gershom drank more water. “My head is still full of mist,” he said. “Upon the fire mountain there was a great temple in the shape of a horse.”

“Yes, it is the temple on Thera,” she answered.

Gershom leaned forward. “Then you must not go there. Nothing living could survive what I saw.”

“I know,” she said, pulling the crown of leaves from her head and shaking twigs from her long dark hair. “I will die on Thera. I have known this since I was old enough to know anything.”

He looked at her then, and his heart was full of grief. She looked so fragile and alone, her eyes haunted, her expression sad. Gershom reached out to draw her into a hug, but she moved back from him. “I am not frightened by death, Gershom. And all my fears will end on the Beautiful Isle.”

“It did not look beautiful to me,” he said.

“It has had many shapes and many names through the Ages of Man. It will have more yet, all of them beautiful.” She sighed. “But this night is not about my life and death. It is about you, Man of Stone. Your days upon the sea are almost done. You made a vow, and soon you will be required to honor it.”

As she spoke, Gershom’s thoughts flew back to the time Helikaon had been close to death. With the surgeons and healers of Troy powerless to save him Gershom had sought out a mysterious holy man, a desert dweller known as the Prophet. Even now he recalled with absolute clarity the first meeting and the words spoken there. The white-bearded Prophet had agreed to heal Helikaon, but for a price, and not one to be paid with gold or silver.

“I will one day call for you,” he told Gershom that night, “and you will come to me wherever I am. You will then do as I bid for one year.”

“I will become your slave?”

The Prophet’s answer was softly spoken, and Gershom remembered the subtle note of contempt in it. “Is the price too high, Prince Ahmose?”

Gershom wanted to refuse. Pride demanded it. He wanted to shout that yes, the price was too high. He was a prince of Egypte and no man’s slave. Yet he did not speak. He sat quietly, scarcely able to breathe through his tension. Helikaon was his friend and had saved his life. No matter the cost, he had to repay that debt.

“I agree,” he said at last.

Now, in the moonlight, he looked at Kassandra. “He will call for me soon?”

“Yes. You will not see Troy again, Gershom.”