Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE WORMS OF HEALING

The small lamp guttered and died, but Andromache scarcely noticed it. Sitting by the bedside, holding Helikaon’s hand, she gazed at his face, which was ghost-pale in the soft moonlight shining through the open window.

This night there had been no fever dreams, no calling out to lost loved ones.

Andromache sensed that the end was near. Anger, unfocused and raw, surged in her. She loathed this feeling of abject helplessness. All her life she had believed in the power of action, felt that she alone would determine her fate and the fate of those she loved. When Argurios had been attacked by assassins and could not regain his strength, she had coerced him into swimming in the sea, believing it would restore him. And it had. Back in Thebe, when little Salos had been stricken and had lain unconscious for many days, she had sat by his bedside, talking to him, calling gently to him. He had awoken and smiled at her. Always, in the past, she had found a way to bend events to her will.

But then had come the death of Laodike. That had caused a crack in the fortress of her confidence. Now the walls were breached, and she saw that what lay beyond was not confidence but vanity.

The night was cool, yet still there was a sheen of bright sweat on Helikaon’s handsome face. Such a face, she thought, reaching up to stroke the fevered cheek.

One kiss was all they had exchanged on that night when the world was bathed in blood and the enemy was close. One kiss. One declaration of love. One hope, that if they survived they would be together. A night of ultimate victory and terrible desolation.

Hektor, believed to be dead, had returned in glory. Hektor! How she wished she could hate him for the grief she had known. Yet she could not. For it was not Hektor who had ordered her to leave the island of Thera or Hektor who had haggled over the bridal price. It was not even Hektor who had chosen her.

Her father had bargained with King Priam, gaining treaties and gold, selling Andromache like a market cow into the Trojan royal family.

A cool breeze whispered through the window, and a soft groan came from Helikaon. His eyes opened, the brilliant blue of them seeming silver gray in the moonlight.

“Andromache,” he whispered. She squeezed his hand.

“I am here.”

“Not… a dream… then.”

“Not a dream.” Filling a cup with water, she held it to his lips, and he drank a little. Then his eyes closed once more.

“Helikaon,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” There was no response. He was sleeping again, drifting away from her toward the Dark Road. She felt the muscles of her stomach tighten painfully. “You remember the beach at Blue Owl Bay,” she said, “where first we met? I saw you then in the moonlight, and something inside me knew you would be part of my life. Odysseus took me to a seer. His name was Aklides. He told me… he told me…” Tears began to fall, and her voice shook. “He told me that I would know a love as powerful and as tempestous as the Great Green. I mocked him and asked him whom I should watch for. He said the man with one sandal. When Odysseus and I left his tent, I saw a common soldier some distance away. His sandal strap broke, and he kicked it clear. I laughed then and asked Odysseus if I should call out to this soldier, this love of my life. I wish I had, Helikaon, for it was you, disguised to trick the killers. If I had called out then… if you had turned toward me…” She hung her head and fell silent.

Hearing sounds in the corridor beyond, she swiftly wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her green dress.

The door opened, and Gershom stepped inside, holding the door to usher in a stranger, a tall, powerfully built man in long flowing robes. Andromache rose from the bedside and faced the newcomer. He had fierce eyes under thick bristling brows.

“This is a healer,” Gershom said. “I asked him to come.”

“You look more like a warrior,” Andromache said.

“And I am,” the man told her, his voice deep. Moving past her to the bedside, he leaned over Helikaon, drawing back the bed linen to gaze down on the open wound. “Bring light,” he ordered.

Gershom left the room and returned with two lamps, which he placed by the bedside. The bearded healer knelt down and lifted Helikaon’s arm, exposing the wound further. Then he sniffed at it. “Very bad,” he said, reaching up and resting his hand on Helikaon’s brow. “Worse than I feared.”

From his shoulder bag he removed a small pottery jar covered with gauze, then a thin wooden spoon. In the flickering light Andromache saw him carefully smear the wound with what appeared to be a white paste. She blinked and looked more closely. The paste was writhing!

“What are you doing?” she screamed, launching herself at the man.

Gershom grabbed her, hauling her back. “You must trust him!” he said.

“They are maggots!”

“Yes, they are maggots,” said the man at the bedside. “And they are his only chance for life. Though it may be too late.”

“Are you both insane?” Andromache shouted, struggling in Gershom’s grip. “They are creatures of filth.”

“You are Andromache,” the healer said, his voice displaying no emotion. “Daughter of Ektion, king of Thebe Under Plakos. I know of you, girl. A priestess of the Minotaur. Betrothed to Hektor. Stories of your courage abound in Troy. You saved the king from an assassin. You took up a bow and fought against the Mykene when they attacked Priam’s palace. You helped heal the warrior Argurios.” All the while he spoke, he continued to apply the tiny white worms to the wound. Then he laid a section of gauze across it. “You are fierce and you are proud. But you are also young, and you do not know all there is to know.”

“And you do?” Andromache cried.

“Listen to me!” the healer snapped. “The maggots will eat away the decaying flesh and devour the sickness within it. You are correct; they are creatures of filth. They feast on filth—on the filth that is killing him. Release her, Gershom.”

Andromache sensed the reluctance in the big man, but his hold loosened, and she pulled free of him. “Why should I trust you?” she asked the healer.

“I don’t care if you do or you don’t,” he responded. “I have lived long in this world, and I have seen glory and I have seen horror. I have witnessed the compassion of evil men and the darkness in the hearts of the good. I am not here to convince you, woman. All that matters is that you should know I have no interest in Helikaon’s survival. His world and mine do not interact. Equally, I have no interest in his death. I am here because Gershom came to me. When I leave, you can either trust in my wisdom or clean the maggots from the wound. I care not.”

In the silence that followed she looked into the healer’s broad, fierce face, then swung toward the dying man in the bed. “And he will recover if I leave the worms?”

“I cannot say that. He is very weak. The maggots should have been applied as soon as the flesh began to putrefy. However, Gershom tells me he is a brave man, determined and decisive. Such a man will not die easily.”

“How long… must they feed on him?”

“Three days. The maggots will then be fat, ten times their present size. I will remove them and perhaps add more. In the meantime someone must be with him at all times. Whenever he wakes, he must drink. Water mixed with honey. As much as he will take.” Swinging his bag to his shoulder, he rose and looked at Gershom. “I will return.”

Without another word he left the room, and Andromache stood silently as his footsteps faded away. Gershom moved to the bedside, laying his hand gently on Helikaon’s shoulder. “Fight on, my friend,” he said softly.

Helikaon gave a shuddering breath, and his eyes opened. Andromache was instantly beside him. “Was… someone here?”

“Yes, a healer,” Gershom answered. “Rest now. Build your strength.”

“So… many dreams.”

Andromache filled a silver cup with water. Gershom lifted Helikaon’s head, and he drank a little. Then he slept again. For the rest of the night Andromache remained by the bedside. Gershom left with the dawn, and Andromache dozed for a while. She awoke when Helen arrived, carrying a jug.

“Gershom said to mix honey with the water,” she said, placing the jug by the bedside.

Andromache rose and stretched, then walked out onto the wide balcony above the Street of Bright Dancers. Helen joined her there.

“They say that more visitors are arriving every day,” Helen said. “Kings and princes to celebrate your wedding. The bay is full of ships. Paris says many of the nobles are unhappy at being asked to remove themselves from their palaces to make way for all the foreigners.”

“They are not here to celebrate anything,” Andromache said. “They come for Priam’s golden gifts or to win riches in the games. They care nothing for any wedding. Many of them are little more than bandits who have seized lands and named themselves kings.”

“Like Agamemnon,” Helen said sadly. “He seized Sparta and named his brother king.”

Andromache put her arm around the young woman’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Helen; that was thoughtless of me.”

“Oh, don’t apologize, Andromache. My grandfather took Sparta by storm, enslaving the people of the land. My father merely fought and died to hold on to what his own father had stolen. It was foolish. He thought he could reason with Agamemnon and the Mykene. But the lamb does not reason with the lion. Father gave my sister to Agamemnon and declared him his son. Then he offered me to Agamemnon’s brother, Menelaus. All for nothing. What Agamemnon wants, he gets. And he wanted Sparta.” Helen shrugged, then gave a wan smile. “So now Menelaus sits on the throne, and my father’s bones molder in some field.”

“Perhaps Menelaus, too, will be overthrown,” Andromache observed.

“I think not. Father had no sons, no heirs. There will be a few revolts, but though the Spartans are a proud people, there are not enough of them to defeat the Mykene.”

Andromache lifted her head to the sky, enjoying the warmth of the new sun on her face. “At least your father was wise enough to send you to Troy,” she said. “Here you are safe.”

“That’s what Paris says, and Antiphones, and Hektor. Oh, Andromache, I have seen the army of Mykene on the march. Nowhere is safe from Agamemnon’s ambition. Paris says Agamemnon tried to form a coalition among the kings of the west to lead an attack on Troy.”

“And he failed. The kings know such an expedition would be disastrous.”

Helen looked doubtful. “My father said the same. The Mykene would not march on Sparta.”

“Troy is not Sparta,” Andromache pointed out. “We are far across the sea, with mighty towers and walls. We have Hektor and the Trojan Horse. All around us are allies, and beyond them is the Hittite empire. They would not allow Troy to fall.”

“You have never seen Agamemnon,” Helen said. “I went to the Lion’s Hall when he wed my sister Klytemnestra. I stood close to him. I heard him speak. And, once, he turned toward me and looked into my eyes. He said nothing to me, but those eyes terrified me. There was nothing in them, Andromache. Not joy, not hate. Nothing. All the treasure in the world could not fill the emptiness I saw there.”

On the third day the healer came again. Andromache and Gershom took him to the sickroom. Helikaon’s color had improved, though he was still feverish. Andromache watched as the healer removed the gauze. Bile rose in her when she saw him pinching out the fat, writhing maggots and dropping them into an empty jar. They were bloated and swollen. However, the wound, though open and raw, looked cleaner, less inflamed.

“You need to add more?” she asked.

Leaning forward, the Prophet sniffed the wound. “There is still corruption here,” he said. “Three more days.” With that he took a second jar and once more placed tiny maggots within the wound, covering them with gauze.

The days passed slowly. Helikaon had more moments of clarity and once even managed a bowl of meat broth and a little bread. The nights remained fraught. He would cry out in fever dreams, calling for his friend Ox or his murdered brother, Diomedes.

Andromache was exhausted by the time the healer returned the second time. The wound was almost closed, and the healer, having cleaned it, declared it was ready to be stitched.

“Are all the worms free of it?” she asked him. “What if there are some inside still?”

“They will die.”

“They will not become flies and eat away at him?”

“No. Flies are living creatures and need to breathe. Once the wound is closed, any maggots left inside will suffocate.” Taking a curved needle and some dark thread, he began to close the wound. As he worked, he asked her about Helikaon’s moments of lucidity and what he spoke of during those moments. He listened intently and did not seem happy with her responses.

“What is it you fear?” she asked him.

He looked down at the sleeping man. “He is a little stronger, and his body is fighting hard. It is his mind that concerns me. That is not fighting. It is as if his spirit does not want to live. It has given up. Tell me of the attack on him.”

“I know little of it,” Andromache said, turning toward Gershom. “Were you there?”

“Yes, I was. He was coming from the cliff path with Queen Halysia. She was radiant and happy and holding onto his hand. As they approached the crowd, Attalus stepped out to meet them. Helikaon greeted him with a smile, and then—so swiftly that there was no chance to react—Attalus drew his dagger and plunged it into Helikaon. As he fell back, I ran forward with several others, and we bore Attalus to the ground. Someone stabbed the villain in the chest. He died soon after. That is all.”

“No,” the Prophet said. “That is not all.”

“It is all that I know,” Gershom said.

“Did Attalus die swiftly, or did anyone discover why he had stabbed his friend?”

“Helikaon came to him. He knelt by Attalus. By then the assassin was almost dead. Helikaon asked him something, then leaned in. Attalus replied, but I did not hear it.”

“How did Helikaon take what he heard?”

“That is hard to say, Prophet. He was wounded, though we did not think it so serious. His face went white, and he recoiled from the dying man. Then he stood, shaking his head as if in disbelief. He staggered then, and we all saw the amount of blood he was losing. That was when we fetched the surgeon.”

“And he has not spoken of what he learned?”

“Not to me. Is it important, then?”

“I would say so,” the Prophet answered.

“What can we do for him?” Andromache asked.

“Watch him carefully, as before. Let him hear laughter, song, music. When he is stronger, perhaps bring a woman to his bed, or a young man if that is his preference. Have someone lie naked alongside him. Have them stroke his skin. Anything to remind him of the joys of life.”

He finished stitching the wound, then stood. “I am leaving tomorrow for the south. There is little more I can do for him.” He turned toward Gershom. “Remember your promise. For I shall.”

“I will come when you call, Prophet. I am a man of my word.”

Andromache stared at the two men, sensing that this moment had importance and not knowing why. It struck her then that they were very similar in look, both powerfully built, deep-eyed, and stern. They could have been father and son.

The Prophet glanced at Andromache. “In the desert life is harsh and dangerous. Men yearn for women of strength to walk beside them, fearless and proud. You would do well in the desert, I think.”

With that he strode from the room. “I think he liked you,” Gershom observed.

“What did he mean about your promise?”

“It is nothing,” he told her.

Later that day the physician Machaon came to the palace. He was a round-shouldered young man with receding dark hair and a permanent air of weariness. Andromache greeted him warmly, then led him to the bedside.

“He still clings to life?” he asked.

“Better than that,” Andromache told him. “The wound is clean and sealed.”

Machaon looked doubtful but followed Andromache to the sickroom and examined Helikaon. Andromache saw his amazement.

“This is not possible,” he said. “The wound was rancid and beyond healing.”

She told him about the Prophet and the maggots. He sat unbelieving as she described the process.

“He is lucky that such a ghastly nonsense did not kill him,” he said. “There must be another reason. Has he eaten anything or been given potions I have not been made aware of?”

Andromache stared at him. “Nothing he has not had before. I do not understand you, Machaon. Your own eyes have seen the efficacy of the treatment. Why, then, do you doubt it?”

Machaon looked at her pityingly. “Maggots are creatures of foulness. I can understand how some barbaric desert dweller might believe in them, but you are an intelligent woman. I can only assume that exhaustion has dulled your senses.”

Andromache felt a cold anger rise in her. “Oh, Machaon, I did not expect you to reinforce my belief in the stupidity of men. I thought you different… wiser. Now I have a question for you. There are many treatments for illness and disease. How many of them were created by you? What cure have you discovered in your time as a healer?”

“I have studied all the great works—” he began.

She interrupted him. “Not the works of others, Machaon. Tell me the cures you have devised.” The young physician remained silent, his expression tense. “And that is something to consider,” she said witheringly. “There have been no potions, Machaon, no secret elixirs. A man came and explained that maggots ate rancid flesh. I did not believe it, but I have seen it to be true. He had a cure not written down in your ancient scrolls.”

His face darkened, and he rose to his feet. “Helikaon is beloved of the gods,” he said. “What we have here is a miracle. I will give thanks to Asklepios and to the goddess Athene. I have brought healing potions that I will leave with you.”

Gershom stood aside in the doorway, allowing the physician to depart. Then he looked at Andromache and smiled. “You were hard on him. He is a good man, and he works tirelessly for the sick.”

“I know. But he is arrogant. How many wounded men will die under his care because of it?”

“You should get some rest,” he said. “I’ll sit with him. Go and sleep. You will feel better for it.”

Andromache knew he was right. She was almost reeling from exhaustion. When she reached her rooms, a young servant girl asked her if she wanted hot water brought for a bath. Andromache shook her head. “I need to sleep,” she said. Dismissing the girl, she walked into the bedroom, threw off her clothes, and stretched out on the broad bed. A cool wind blew through the open window, and she drew the covers across her body.

Yet sleep would not come. Images swirled in her mind: Helikaon on the beach at Blue Owl Bay, young and handsome; Kalliope laughing and dancing in the moonlight. All her life people had talked of the wonders of love, the joy of it, the strength of it, the music and the passion of it. She had perceived love then to be an absolute: unchanging and solid as a marble statue. Yet it wasn’t. She had loved Kalliope, luxuriating in her company, in the warmth of her skin, the softness of her kisses. And she loved Helikaon, yearning to be with him, her heart beating faster even as she sat by his sickbed, holding his hand. It was very confusing.

Bards talked and sang of the one great love, the meeting of souls, exquisite and unique. The seer on the beach at Blue Owl Bay had talked of three loves, one as tempestuous as the Great Green, one like the oak, solid and true, and one like the bright moon. Helikaon was the first, for he had been the man with one sandal. When she had asked about the others, the seer had told her that the oak would rise to her from the filth of pigs and the moon would arrive in blood and pain.

None of them was Kalliope.

Yet I do love her, she thought. I know that to be true.

Her thoughts drifted, and she saw the isle of Thera and the great Temple of the Horse. It was almost midday now, and the priestesses would be preparing the wine to offer the Minotaur. Twelve women would walk to the trembling rock. They would chant and sing, then pour the wine into the hissing crack, trying not to breathe the noxious fumes that rose from below the ground.

The hot breath of the Minotaur.

Kalliope might be with them. The last time Andromache had taken part in the ritual, Kalliope had winked at her and been rebuked by the high priestess.

Alone now in her bed, Andromache closed her eyes. “I wish you were here,” she whispered, thinking of Kalliope. Then Kalliope’s image blurred, and once again she found herself picturing the brilliant blue eyes of Helikaon.

For Helikaon the world he had known no longer existed. He floated wraithlike through a chaotic jumble of dreams. Sometimes he was lying in a broad bed by a magical window that flickered in a heartbeat between sunlight and moonlight; at other times he was standing on the deck of the Xanthos as it sailed the Great Green or on the cliffs of Dardanos, watching a fleet of ships, all burning, the screams of the sailors sounding like the cries of demonic gulls. Images shifted and shivered. Only the pain was constant, though it was as nothing to the agonies he suffered when the visions came.

His little brother, Diomedes, was playing happily in the sunshine. Helikaon looked on, hearing the boy’s merry laughter, then noticing that an edge of the child’s tunic had begun to burn. He cried out to warn him, but the boy went on playing as the flames roared about him. Helikaon tried to reach him, but his limbs were leaden and every step forward only served to increase the distance between them. Diomedes’ skin blackened, and only then did he turn toward his brother. “Help me!” the boy cried. But Helikaon could do nothing but watch him burn.

Then he was on the Xanthos again, standing alongside his old friend Ox. Sunlight was bright, the breeze fresh. Ox turned toward him, and Helikaon saw a trickle of blood like a thin red necklace around Ox’s throat. Helikaon reached up to touch the wound—and the head came away in his hands.

His eyes opened, and once more he was in the broad bed, moonlight shining through the window. He heard movement and saw Andromache’s face above him. Her hand was cool on his face. “Come back to us, Helikaon,” she whispered.

The plea confused him. From where should he come, and to where? He was already everywhere, sailing the Great Green; walking the Seven Hills with Odysseus and Bias, the black man complaining about the midges coming off the marshes; standing on the battlements of Troy, looking out over the sunset sea; riding with Hektor against the Amorites. All the events of his life playing again and again, from childhood fears and the suicide of his mother to adult tragedies and the deaths of those he loved.

Now the sun was shining, and he was walking with golden-haired Halysia toward the palace. She was to be his wife, and he knew she was happy now. The previous year the Mykene had killed her child and raped her, leaving her for dead. Her life since had been one of sorrow and fear. Now he would protect her—even if he could not love her. He felt the warmth of her hand in his, her grip tight, as if afraid he might pull away from her. As they approached the crowds, he saw Attalus step out. The man darted forward, a knife in his hand. Instinctively Helikaon tried to block the blow, but Halysia, in her surprise at the sudden movement, held to him even more tightly. The knife plunged into his chest. Tearing himself loose from Halysia’s grip, he threw up his arm. The blade tore into his armpit. Then men surged around him, bearing Attalus to the ground. Helikaon saw one of his bodyguards thrust a dagger into Attalus’ belly, ripping it up through the lungs. Helikaon pushed himself through the mass of men and dropped to his knees beside the assassin.

“Why?” he asked the dying man.

“I… am… Karpophorus,” Attalus told him. “It is… my holy duty.”

“You killed my father!”

“Yes.”

“Who hired you for that?”

As the killer whispered the name, Helikaon cried out, and the scene darkened. A hand was stroking his face, and his eyes opened once more. Moonlight was shining against the dark frame of the window, and he could see patches of clouds in the night sky. “You must live, Helikaon,” said a vision that looked like Andromache.

“Why?” he answered wearily.

And now he was fighting on the stairs once more, Argurios beside him. He was so tired, and the Mykene kept coming, surging up at them. A hand touched his arm, and a voice said: “Walk with me, Golden One.”

“I have to fight,” he shouted, plunging his blade into the neck of an advancing soldier.

“The fight is already won,” said the voice of Argurios. “Come with me.” The world spun, and Helikaon was standing alongside the great warrior, looking down at the fighting, seeing himself, blood-spattered, struggling on. Then he saw the vile Kolanos draw back on his bow. And he knew the arrow was aimed at Argurios, knew that it would punch through his broken cuirass.

“No!” he shouted. “Argurios, beware!”

“I am here,” said the Argurios who was standing beside him. “The arrow has already flown. You see?” Helikaon looked at him and saw the shaft buried deep in his side. “You cannot stop what is to be, Helikaon. This was my time. Walk with me.”

And then there was sunshine, the glory of an autumn sunset. They were in a garden, watching the last light of the dying sun fade in the west. Argurios was dressed now in a simple tunic of white, his face bronzed by the sun. Gone were the signs of struggle, the deeply etched lines, the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Go back to the world, Helikaon. Live,” he said.

“I don’t know how,” Helikaon replied.

“Neither did I—for all but the last few days of my life. We are tiny flames, Helikaon, and we flicker alone in the great dark for no more than a heartbeat. When we strive for wealth, glory, and fame, it is meaningless. The nations we fight for will one day cease to be. Even the mountains we gaze upon will crumble to dust. To truly live we must yearn for that which does not die.”

“Everything dies,” Helikaon said sadly.

“Not everything,” Argurios said. A shaft of sunlight illuminated a white stone bench at the end of the garden. Helikaon saw a woman sitting upon it, watching the sunset. She turned to him and smiled. It was Laodike. Argurios walked away from him to where Laodike sat and kissed her. Then the two of them sat together on the bench arm in arm as the light faded. Helikaon felt lost and alone. Argurios turned toward him. “Go back,” he said. “She is waiting!”

His mind flickered, and his eyes opened. He was lying down now and could see the enchanted window to his right, bright stars shining in the sky.

“Come back to us, my love,” whispered a vision of Andromache.

Helikaon felt the warmth of a naked body slide alongside his, her arm over his chest, her leg touching his thigh.

“Andromache?” he whispered. It did not matter that she was a phantom. The moon shone brightly, and he saw her face, her beautiful green eyes looking down into his.

“Yes, it is Andromache,” she said. Her lips touched his, and he felt his heart quicken. Her hand moved down over his belly, and he groaned as arousal stiffened his loins. Her lips parted, and the kiss became more passionate. The pain from his wound faded. This was a new dream! A part of his mind expected her to burst into flame or the scene to shift to one of horror. But it did not. The warmth in him grew, his heart pounding. His good arm circled her back, drawing her down and across him. Her thigh slid over his hip, and now she was above him, straddling him.

The nightmare visions had no claim on him now. He felt the soft, wet warmth of her and surged up to meet it. She cried out as he entered her, then pressed down upon him, her hands cradling his face, her lips pressed to his.

Deep within him something awoke, and he felt it grow. It was a yearning for life, for joy. The phantom above him began to shudder and moan and cry out. The sound filled him. Then white light exploded behind his eyes, and he passed out.

He awoke to birdsong and the bright light of day.

Helikaon took a deep breath and could taste the salt upon the air. A plain-faced woman was leaning over him. He struggled to remember her name. Then it came to him. She was the Spartan princess, Helen, and he had seen her with Paris at the palace of Hekabe.

“How are you feeling?” she asked him.

“Hungry,” he told her. He struggled to sit, and she helped him, lifting the pillows behind him.

“I have some honey water,” she said, “but I will fetch you some food.”

“Thank you, Helen.”

She smiled shyly. “It is good to see you recovered. We were all very worried.”

He drank some honeyed water, and Helen left the room to fetch him breakfast. Leaning to place the empty cup on the table beside the bed, he winced. The wound under his armpit was still painful. He glanced down at his chest and arms. So thin, he thought, touching the jutting collarbones and tracing the lines of his ribs.

The door opened, and Andromache came in, carrying a bowl of fruit. She was wearing a long dress of shimmering scarlet, her red hair held back from her face by a headband of ornate silver set with emeralds. She looked thoughtful and concerned as she laid the fruit bowl beside the bed. She did not sit beside him but stood watching him.

“It is good to see you,” he said. “By the gods, I feel I have been torn back from the grave.”

“You were very sick,” she said softly, her eyes on his.

“You need have no more fear for me,” he told her. “My strength is returning. I slept last night with no dreams. Well, save one of you.”

“You dreamed of me?”

“I did, and it was a fine dream—a dream of life. I think it was that dream that cured me.”

She seemed to relax then and sat down by the bedside. When she spoke, her voice was cool, her tone distant. “Everyone thought you were dying, but Gershom found a healer. He cleansed your wound. Once it is fully sealed, you will need to swim and to take walks to build your strength.”

“What is wrong, Andromache?” he asked.

“Nothing is wrong,” she replied. “I am… pleased you are recovered.”

“You talk like a stranger. We are friends, you and I.”

“We are not friends,” she snapped. “We… I… I am to be wed to Hektor, and you to Halysia.”

“And that means we cannot be friends?”

“I do not see you as a friend, Helikaon. I cannot.” She looked away, staring out of the window.

“You know that I love you,” he said softly. “As I have never loved another woman. That will always be true.”

“I know,” she said, her voice bitter. She swung back toward him. “I feel the same. And that is why we cannot be friends. I cannot sit with you and make idle chatter and laugh at silly jests. You fill my mind, Helikaon. All the time. Even in my dreams.”

“I told you I dreamed of you last night,” he said.

“I do not want to hear it,” she told him, rising. “Gershom is waiting to see you. And Antiphones. Xander came yesterday, too. He said he would return.”

“Where is Hektor?”

“He sailed with the Xanthos in search of pirates. He is expected soon.”

Helikaon looked into her face. “I thank you for saving me, Andromache,” he told her.

“It was not me. I told you. Gershom found a healer.”

“No,” he said sadly. “It was you.”