Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE A QUEEN OF POISON

Hekabe the queen felt like one of the gods aloft on Olympos as she gazed down upon the two bays far below. From her high vantage point at King’s Joy she could see to her right the shallow Bay of Troy, its water brown and brackish, churned by ships still jostling for beach space. To her left was the deeper Bay of Herakles, the water there sparkling and blue. Even there she could see scores of ships, the beaches being swiftly filled. Hekabe seldom smiled now, but the thought of all those angry ships’ captains and flustered beachmasters brought a dry chuckle to her throat.

Pain, sharp and hot, began to seep through her belly and into her lower back. These days she thought of herself as a vessel that was filled each day with fresh agony. With trembling fingers she reached for the medicine phial, running a sharp fingernail through the thin wax that sealed it. Once it was opened, she lifted it to her dry lips, then paused. Not yet, she decided, for she could still see the ships in the bays and the people swarming across the beaches. Once the opiates began their work, those ships would become great monsters, the people merely magical insects flying and swooping across the line of her vision. Despite the temporary relief from pain, Hekabe loathed those moments when her mind was dulled and confused. Age and illness wrecking her body she could tolerate, but not this. Her fame had once been based on her beauty, but during these last twenty years she had become known, revered, and feared for the power of her mind: her ability to outwit, outplan, and outmaneuver the enemies of Troy. To see dangers almost before they arose and nip them out like pricking weeds from a garden.

She sat very still and sought to detach her mind from the agony of the spreading cancer, allowing her thoughts to drift back to her childhood, to her early glorious years with Priam, to her son’s wedding in just a few days’ time. Her work was almost complete, and the prophecy was about to be fulfilled. Once Andromache was pregnant, Hekabe could die at last, the future of Troy secure.

The crocus-yellow canopy raised above her head to shade her from the bright morning sun gave everything a garish, violent hue. Hot knives began to pierce her belly, causing her to cry out. Taking a deep breath, she reluctantly lifted the phial to her lips and drank. The medicine was bitter, burning her tongue. Then the pain began to fade a little. When first she had been given these phials, they had eliminated the suffering altogether. Now the cancer was stronger, and nothing could entirely mask its effects. She could hardly remember a day without suffering.

From time to time slow figures crossed her vision. Sometimes they seemed to swim in the air. She had no idea who most of them were. People spoke to her, but their voices were hollow and distant. She ignored them.

A figure moved across her, blocking the sun. Irritably she blinked and tried to focus. She started to speak, but her mouth was as dry and crusty as an old sandal. The figure came closer, a hand extending a goblet to her. It was filled with cool water. Hekabe drank gratefully, the taste of the medicine washing away. Her vision cleared, and she saw the visitor was her new daughter, the flame-haired Andromache.

So like me, she thought, fierce and proud and full of life and vitality. She gazed fondly at the girl. “Andromache,” she whispered. “One of the few visitors I can tolerate.”

“How are you today, Mother?” the girl asked.

“Still dying. But by Hera’s will and my own strength, I am making Hades wait for me.” Hekabe took another sip from the goblet. It writhed in her hand, becoming a sharp-fanged serpent. Hekabe held fast to its throat. “You will not bite me, viper,” she told it. “I can still crush you.”

Andromache gently took the serpent from her. “Be careful, girl,” the queen warned, “its bite is deadly.” Then she saw it had become a goblet again and relaxed. Andromache kissed the queen’s dry cheek, then sat down beside her. Hekabe reached out and patted the girl’s arm. “So alike, you and I,” she said. “Even more now.”

“Why now?” Andromache asked.

“My spies tell me Priam has taken you to his bed. I told you he would. Now you have experienced the joy that has been denied me for so long.”

“It was not joyous,” Andromache said. “Merely necessary.”

Hekabe laughed. “Not joyous? Priam has many faults, but being a bad lover is not among them.”

“I do not wish to talk of it, Mother.”

“Soon you will be pregnant, and the child will ensure the future of Troy. The prophecy will be fulfilled. Another son for Priam,” the queen said with satisfaction. “The people will love the boy because they will believe he is Hektor’s son. They will call him Lord of the City.”

She looked assessingly at Andromache. “Hmm. You are slender, like me. Childbirth is never easy for us, not like the big-hipped women of the countryside. You will suffer, girl, but you are strong. I bore Priam eight children. Each one of them I wrestled into the world with blood and pain. Each time I was victorious. Now look at me…”

Her voice drifted away, and she sat in silence for a while. She saw the dark figures of gods stalking across the horizon. There were horses and bears walking with them and a great horned creature she did not recognize. She could feel the vibrations of their footsteps tremble through her spine.

She leaned toward the girl, her voice low and insistent. “The house of Priam will go on for a thousand years, and I played my part in that. I played my part well. I did what I had to do.” She nodded to herself, remembering that day nearly a year ago, the slender Paleste writhing in agony on the floor of the queen’s apartments, her vomit staining the rugs, her screams muffled by an old shawl.

Her thoughts floated free, and she returned to the days when she and her lord had sailed the Great Green. They had lived aboard ship, and her memories were sea-green, the taste of salt upon her lips. Young and in love, they visited verdant isles and cities of stone, meeting kings and pirates, sleeping in beds of ivory and gold or on cold beaches under the stars. She tried to remember the name of the ship that carried them, but it was out of reach.

Unaccustomed sadness touched her.

“Scamandrios!” she said suddenly. “That was it, Scamandrios.”

Andromache looked curious. “Who was that, Mother?”

Hekabe shook her head, confusion fogging her mind again. “I don’t remember now. Perhaps he was a king. We met so many kings. They were like gods in those days. They are small and petty men now…

“Tell me of the games,” she said, rallying, her mind fighting the dulling drugs. “What is the gossip? Are these small kings killing each other yet? A good games always ends with some deaths. A few minor thrones change hands. It is the way of the world. I hear the king of Thraki is dead already. Agamemnon’s responsible for that, I have no doubt. Have you met Agamemnon? He’s not the man his father was, they say.”

“The games have barely started,” Andromache said. “I have not heard much gossip. Although,” she said, smiling a little, “I heard Odysseus lost the archery tourney. He was not allowed to use his own great bow, and the one he was given broke. He was said to be very angry.”

Hekabe felt a surge of anger in her frail breast. “Odysseus,” she said malevolently. “He will not see Ithaka again. I will see to that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hah! Odysseus the tale spinner. Odysseus the buffoon. That is how people see him these days. But I know him of old. He is a cold killer. He paid an assassin to murder Anchises. Blood kin to Priam.”

“How can you know this?” The girl’s face looked sickly under the yellow awning. “Not Odysseus.”

“The assassin, the same one who wounded Helikaon, told Helikaon so with his dying breath. And Helikaon himself told Priam.”

“It is nonsense,” Andromache said. “What would Odysseus have gained from such an act?”

Hekabe leaned back in her chair. “That is what Priam wonders. All his advisers are mystified. They talk of ancient feuds and trade agreements. Stupid men! The answer is there for any with the wit to see it. Odysseus loves Helikaon. Perhaps the boy was his catamite. Who knows? Anchises loathed the boy and dispossessed him. I knew Anchises. He was a sound ruler and a man with no sentiment. It was probable he would have had Helikaon quietly murdered. Odysseus is wily, and he would have guessed this. So, to save the boy, he had the father slain.”

“He did it to save Helikaon’s life?”

“Of course.”

“Why should that make him an enemy of Troy?” Andromache asked. “Helikaon is our friend, and if you are right, Odysseus saved him.”

“I care nothing about the murder of Anchises,” Hekabe answered. “Neither does Priam. But before this war begins we must be sure of our friends and eliminate all possible outside threats. Odysseus’ part in the death of Anchises has given us the opportunity to kill him without alienating our allies.”

“I do not understand,” Andromache whispered, obviously mystified. “Odysseus is neutral. Why would he be a threat?”

Hekabe sighed. “You have much to learn, child, about the nature of politics. It is not about what Odysseus is now. It is the danger he represents for the future. If his lands were closer to Troy, we could bind him to us with gold and with friendship. But he is a western king with close links to the Mykene. And yes, there is a small chance that he would remain neutral. But we cannot risk the future of Troy on a small chance. The truth is that once the war became inevitable, Odysseus had to die. Agamemnon is a man of battles and will be a worthy foe, but we can defeat him. But Odysseus is crafty and a planner. More than this he is a charismatic leader, and where he leads, other kings will follow. We cannot risk him joining with Agamemnon.”

“Then you always intended to murder Odysseus?” said Andromache.

“Of course. I have invited him to attend me here this eve. He will suspect nothing of a dying old woman. They say the Ugly King is cunning, but he has never dealt with Hekabe. He will leave King’s Joy alive—and then sicken and die back in his bed. Stay with me, Andromache. You can chat and laugh with him and put him at his ease. He will be here soon.”

She nodded her head again in satisfaction, thinking of the poison phial that had long been her servant and friend. “Rulers are never short of enemies, Andromache,” she said. “We must be ruthless in order to survive. Kill them all. Tonight Odysseus will die, and tomorrow I will have fat Antiphones here. Priam is a fool to have forgiven him for his treachery. A man who betrays you once will do so again, when the time suits him.”

Hekabe’s mouth was dry once more, and her goblet empty. “Andromache, fill my water goblet. I don’t know where the servants are.”

The girl was gone for some time. Hekabe dozed in the sunlight. She awoke suddenly with Andromache beside her again. Her new daughter carefully poured a small phial of medicine into the goblet, added water, then handed it to her. The queen drank gratefully. The bitter taste of the medicine was sharp upon the tongue, and there was an unaccustomed aftertaste that Hekabe could not identify. She sat in silence as the medicine began to dull the agonies. After a while, miraculously, all traces of pain vanished. She felt free for the first time in months.

“This medicine is new,” she said, her mind beginning to clear.

“Machaon gave it to Laodike last autumn,” Andromache said. “Is your pain gone now?”

“It is. I almost feel I could dance.” Hekabe smiled. “It is a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

“I am with child,” Andromache said calmly. “And the father is not Priam.”

Hekabe frowned. “Not Priam?”

“The father of my child is Helikaon. Now tell me about Paleste.”

Hekabe’s eyes narrowed. Was the girl insane? When Priam found out about her deceit, he would be furious. “Foolish girl,” she hissed. “You have doomed Helikaon and the child. Priam will have them killed. If you are lucky, he will keep you alive to fulfill the prophecy. I thought you were sharper than your sister. It seems Ektion’s daughters are as stupid as each other.”

Andromache knelt by the old woman’s side. “You do not understand, Hekabe. I slept with Priam so he would think this child is his. The king will never know. Now tell me how you killed Paleste.”

Hekabe saw again the image of the agonized child, and her lip curled. “She was a mistake, a stupid mistake by the fool Heraklitos. She was nothing. The future of Troy’s family was all that mattered. It must be protected. Paleste was nothing,” she repeated.

Andromache sat back on her haunches and looked at her for a moment. Hekabe thought there were tears in her eyes, but her own vision had misted. She looked around her feebly.

“Where is Paris?” she asked.

“Gone with Helen to watch the games.”

“There are no servants. Where are the servants?”

“I told them to leave us alone.”

Andromache stood up and dusted down her gown, as if preparing to leave. The phial she had left on the table she dropped into a pouch at her side.

Then, like sunlight piercing the mists of morning, Hekabe’s mind finally cleared. Medicine given to Laodike months before. Strong medicine. Why had she not been offered it before? Understanding swept through her. It was meant to have been the gift of release, when the pain became unbearable. She knew then what the aftertaste had been. Hemlock! Hekabe rested her hand on her skinny thigh and pressed the flesh. She could feel nothing. Death was creeping along her veins. She sighed.

“Do not think me a fool for being so tricked, Andromache,” she said. “It was the medicine that made me stupid. Ah, well, you have avenged your sister, and that is honorable. I would have done the same in your place. You see, I was right. We are very alike.” She looked into Andromache’s green eyes and saw a flash of anger there.

“If I believed that to be true, Hekabe, I would have taken the poison myself. This is not for Paleste, though perhaps it should have been, for she was sweet and kind and loving and deserved better than to be drawn into your world of deceit, treachery, and murder. This is for Odysseus, a fine man, good and proud, and for Antiphones, who is my friend, and for who knows how many other innocents your evil would seek to destroy.”

“Innocents?” Hekabe replied, her voice rich with contempt. “On the mountains of ambition there are no innocents. You think Priam would still be king if I had viewed the world through such naďve eyes? You think Troy would have survived against the avarice of powerful kings had I not dealt with them, bribed them, seduced them, befriended them, and killed them? You want to live among the innocents, Andromache, among the sheep? Yes, in every peasant village they will live their loving lives, among true friends, and they will sing and dance together on feast days and weep when their friends and loved ones die. Sweet little sheep. Brings a tear to my eye. We are not sheep, stupid girl! We are lions. We are wolves. We devour the sheep, and we rend and tear at each other. Just as you have done—and will do again when needs must.”

“You are wrong, Hekabe,” Andromache told her. “I may be stupid, as you say, to believe in honor and friendship and loyalty without price. But these are virtues to be cherished, for without them we are no more than beasts roaming the land.”

“Yet you pretended to befriend me,” Hekabe said, her mind beginning to swim. “You lied and you cheated your way into my favor. Is this honor?”

“I did not pretend, Mother,” she heard Andromache say, her voice breaking. “I have liked you from the moment we met, and I admire your strength and your courage. May the gods grant you rest and peace.”

“Rest and peace! You foolish, foolish girl. If Odysseus lives, then Troy will face ruin.” Hekabe fell back into her chair, her eyes staring up at the blue of the sky. Her thoughts were of plans wrecked on the shores of other people’s weakness and error. And then she found herself once more upon the deck of the Scamandrios, and up ahead she could see a golden figure shining with a dazzling light. She thought it must be Priam, and her joy soared. “Where do we sail today, my lord?” she whispered.