Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN SONS OF SORROW AND JOY

The small fair-haired boy ran down the dusty corridor, his bare feet padding silently on the worn stones. At the end he turned to make sure Gray One had not caught up with him; then he lay quickly down and squirmed into a crevice in a dark corner.

The old fortress of Dardanos was a maze of corridors and tunnels and small holes only a three-year-old could squeeze into. He crawled through the crevice between the walls and out into the gloom of a waiting chamber, ran behind a dusty tapestry, then dashed across the empty room to the heavy oak door in the opposite wall. The door was not quite closed, and if he lay with his face pressed to the jamb, he could see into the great room beyond. He could not see Sun Woman, but he knew she would come, so he squatted more comfortably on the stone floor, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, and waited. He had learned a lot about waiting in his three short years.

He heard a wailing, screeching sound in the distance, which he knew was Gray One seeking him out. She would search the courtyard first. He chose a different hiding place each day, and Gray One was a slow old thing, always many steps behind him.

Bright dawn light was filtering through the high windows of the chamber, and he could smell cooking smells of corn bread and broth as the royal household broke its fast. His tummy felt empty and the smells made his mouth water, but he held his position, waiting for Sun Woman.

Every day he managed to escape Gray One and seek out Sun Woman. Yet he could not let her see him, for he knew she would be angry. Her cold anger frightened him, though he did not understand the reason for it. In his warm cot at night he would dream that one day Sun Woman would seek him out, that she would open her arms and call to him, and he would run to her. She would take him in her arms and hold him close and speak sweet words.

He heard movement in the megaron and eagerly pressed his face to the door, but it was only some soldiers and Old Red Man. Old Red Man waved his hands about, giving the soldiers orders, then they all went away. Servants passed close by the chamber door, an arm’s length from where he waited, but he knew they would not come in. It was their busiest time of the day.

His legs were growing cramped by the time people started filling the megaron. He lay down again and watched intently. All the old men in their long robes came in, their sandaled feet shuffling on the megaron floor. Then there were soldiers in armor, their ceremonial greaves shining in the morning sunlight. Ladies of the court murmured and giggled. The boy could tell who they were by their toe rings and ankle bracelets. One girl wore an ankle chain with tiny green fish dangling from it. He watched, fascinated. They tinkled as she moved.

Then the hubbub ceased abruptly, and the boy strained to press closer to the door.

Sun Woman walked to the throne and stood for a moment looking around her. She was wearing a long sleeveless tunic of shining white decorated with shiny silver dots. Her golden hair was curled and wound on top of her head and threaded with bright ribbon. As always, the boy was dazzled by her beauty, and he felt a pain in his heart that made him want to cry.

Sun Woman said, “Let us begin. We have much to discuss.” Her voice was like silver bells. She sat down, and the business of the day began. She spoke to Old Red Man and the other old men; then people were brought before her one at a time. One of them was a soldier. His hands were tied. He talked to her angrily, his face red. The boy felt a moment’s fear for Sun Woman, but she spoke quietly, and then other soldiers led the man away.

The day was passing into noon, and the boy was half-asleep when Sun Woman rose from her throne. Looking around the megaron, she asked, “Where is Dexios? The boy must be here for the ritual. Lila!” She gestured impatiently.

Gray One shuffled out from a corner of the megaron, wringing her old hands, her face creased with worry. “I could not find him, lady. I’m sorry. He runs so fast, I can’t keep up with him.”

“Have you searched the stable? He hides in the straw, I understand.”

“Yes, lady. He was not there.”

Behind the door Dexios sat frozen for a few heartbeats, scarcely able to believe his ears. Sun Woman was asking for him? She wanted him? He jumped to his feet, ready to run to her, but in his excitement and confusion he pushed against the oak door instead of pulling, and it closed silently, the locking bar snicking into place. It was shut fast.

He beat his hands against the oak. “I’m here. Here I am!” he cried. But they could not hear him.

Panicking now, he pummeled the door with his small fists. “Here I am! Open the door! Please open the door!”

A soldier, sword in hand, suddenly dragged the door open. Dexios, his face a mask of tears, stood framed in sunlight as everyone in the megaron stared at him.

Falling to his knees in front of Halysia, queen of Dardania, he said, “Here I am, Mama. Don’t be angry.”

The black bullock, bright blood gouting from its throat, fell to the courtyard floor. Its windpipe severed, it made no sound apart from a dying wheeze. Its legs thrashed weakly, then it was still. The priest of Apollo, a young man naked save for a loincloth, handed the ritual knife to his assistant and started to recite the words of worship to the Lord of the Silver Bow.

Halysia closed her mind to the sight and stench of blood and followed the familiar words for mere moments before her thoughts turned once more to her duties.

She noticed the boy was still beside her, and a spasm of irritation ran through her. Why was he here? Why had Lila not taken him back to his room? He was looking up at her from time to time, fair hair flopping back from his face. She always avoided looking at his face, his dark eyes.

She wished Helikaon were there. She had been queen in Dardania for fifteen years, first as a frightened child, then a young mother, then a widow, her heart stricken nearly to death by the murder of her son. Each day she calmly discussed with her counselors the peril that faced them from the north and from the sea. They listened to her plans and suggestions and carried out her orders. But even old Pausanius had no idea of the freezing fear that gripped her heart each time she imagined a second Mykene raid. She saw once again the blood-covered warriors entering her bedchamber, killing her lover Garus, dragging her screaming to the cliff top, her son Dio beside her, and the horror that followed. She remembered the dark-eyed brute, a Hittite she was told, who had raped her. She remembered the agonized cries of her child as he died.

She could not look at the small boy beside her, could not hold his hand, could not embrace him. She wished he had never been born. She wished he would go away. When he was older, she would send him to Troy on some pretext, to be brought up with the royal children there.

She glanced down and saw him looking up at her, an expression on his face she could not interpret. Was he frightened of her? Did he even know who she was? She realized she understood this boy’s thoughts less well than she understood those of the horses she loved. The dark eyes bored into her, full of some unexpressed need, and she turned angrily from their gaze. She signaled to Lila, and the old nursemaid hurried to take the child away.

The ritual ran slowly to its conclusion, and as the priests set about dismembering the bullock, Halysia walked back into the palace, flanked by her senior officers: old Pausanius; his grandnephew, the red-haired Menon; the annoying Trojan Idaios; and his two young aides.

She had only one more duty today: the daily briefing on the course of the war. In an anteroom off the megaron she sank to a couch while the five officers stood around her. The doors were closed against the ears of servants.

“Well, Pausanius, what have you to report today?”

The old general cleared his throat. He was past eighty now and had served the rulers of Dardania for more than sixty years. These days there was always a look of concern on his weather-beaten face.

“No news from Thraki, lady. No messengers have arrived for five days.”

She nodded. A Dardanian infantry force had traveled to Thraki with the Trojan Horse. No news was to be expected this soon, yet every day Halysia feared she would hear they had been wiped out and Mykene and Thrakian rebels were galloping for the straits. But her voice was calm when she asked, “And the horse messengers? My plans have been completed?”

Pausanius hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat again. “Yes, lady. It will be as you order. Within a few days our plans will be complete.”

In Helikaon’s absence, Halysia had taken it upon herself to set up a team of king’s riders throughout Dardania, modeled on those of the Hittites, with armed staging posts a day’s ride apart. Her plan was to have riders carrying messages constantly to and from Troy, sharing intelligence with Priam on the progress of the war. Teams of horsemen would also carry messages to Dardanos’ eastern allies in Phrygia and Zeleia.

Pausanius had been doubtful at first, unhappy at taking skilled horsemen from the army and from the defense of the city.

“Communication is everything,” she had told him. “If the Mykene come, we must have as much warning as possible. The king’s riders have orders to fall back to the city in advance of any invasion. They will give us the early warning we need.”

The old man had followed her orders, and horsemen had been chosen from among the Dardanian forces. They were mostly very young, hardly more than boys, but they had been brought up among horses, as she had been herself, so that riding came more naturally to them than walking. She had spoken to each one individually, and their pride at their special task shone from them.

“I have one concern, lady,” said Idaios.

Halysia’s heart sank, though she maintained a look of cool interest. “And what is that, Idaios?”

The officer stood with his fellow Trojans to one side of the anteroom. The three men had been sent by Priam, in Helikaon’s absence, to advise and support the defense of Dardanos. Their only achievement so far, as Halysia saw it, was to hinder and question every decision she made. The speaker, Idaios—a short, stocky man who wore a drooping blond mustache to hide his broken front teeth—was believed to be an illegitimate son of Priam.

“Forgive me, lady,” he said, “but you know my opinion on these messengers. King Priam”—he paused to give everyone time to consider his important connections—“agrees with me that information is priceless and should be closely guarded, not spread around the countryside in the mouths of young men we have no reason to trust.”

Halysia said tiredly, “Yes, we know your opinion, Idaios. We have been through this before. These young men have been chosen not only because they are good riders but because they are intelligent and sharp-witted. They are all Dardanians and loyal to their king. They cannot carry writing because most of the people they carry messages to cannot read script. We trust them to deliver messages accurately and only to the people they are intended for.”

Pausanius put in irritably, “One of my grandsons was chosen as a king’s rider. Are you suggesting he is a traitor?”

Idaios bowed to the old general. “No one questions the loyalty of young Pammon, General. I am merely pointing out that the possibility for treachery exists where information is too freely bandied about.”

Halysia held up her hands. “This subject is closed for discussion. Let us talk of the five settlements.”

The five settlements were large villages lying along the coast north of Dardanos, crucially positioned to give early warning of an invasion across the straits. They were inhabited by Phrygians and Mysians and some Thrakians who had chosen to live on the warm coastal lands rather than in the harsher hinterlands. Many families had lived there for generations. Halysia had taken the controversial step of arming the settlements, believing the people would reward her trust with their loyalty. She knew Idaios strongly disagreed with the plan and suspected he had sent back to Troy to tell Priam of his feelings.

Menon, a handsome young general who was increasingly taking the burden from Pausanius’ shoulders, said the chiefs of the five settlements had been sent both light armor and arms: bows, spears, swords, and shields. The local chiefs had been given total freedom regarding the distribution of the weapons to their people.

“If the Mykene come, they will be useless,” Pausanius said grumpily. “A few hundred armed villagers against thousands of fighting men.”

Menon smiled. “I know this, Uncle, but if you were threatened by a thousand armed men, would you rather face them with a sword in your hand or naked and defenseless?”

The old man nodded in reluctant agreement. Halysia heard Idaios breathe in, about to speak, and held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it, Idaios. I have no doubt that you and your comrades consider this a flawed plan, that these people should not be armed for fear they will use their arms against us or against each other. That might well be true in times of peace, when a Phrygian might kill a Thrakian over the ownership of a cow. But with the threat across the Hellespont constantly in their minds, they will be grateful to be armed and will repay us with their loyalty.”

Idaios took another breath. “Tell me,” she said, cutting him off again, “you have been placed in charge of security on the beach. Are all visitors to Dardanos being searched and disarmed as I ordered?”

A discontented look came over his face. She knew he resented the role she had given him. Confiscating old wooden clubs and blunted swords from visiting seafarers, then returning them to the right owners when they left, was beneath his dignity.

“Yes, lady,” he said, “it is being done. Although—”

“Good,” she said. “This is a vital task. Do not underestimate it.” She stood up before anyone else could speak. “General Pausanius, please walk with me.”

They moved out through the sunlit courtyard and beyond to the bustling stables of the royal guard. Halysia raised her face to the sun and breathed in deeply the smells of horses, sun-bleached straw, and leather. She moderated her pace to allow the old soldier to keep up. She was saddened by his increasing infirmity. In the three years since the attack on Dardanos, his age seemed to have weighed ever more heavily upon him.

From the stables came the sounds of stamping hooves, then angry neighing. Halysia entered the wooden building. With Pausanius behind her, she walked to the farthest stall, where a huge black horse was rearing and bucking, his hooves thundering against the walls, causing them to creak and shudder. As she approached the stall, the beast caught sight of her and lunged, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. His massive chest hit the stall door, cracking the top timber. Unflinching, Halysia stood her ground and spoke quiet words to the animal, which glared at her, then backed away into the shadows.

“I don’t know why you keep that creature around,” Pausanius grumbled. “We brought him up here because he was causing havoc down in the paddocks. Now he’s upsetting the guards’ horses instead.”

“I thought being away from the mares would calm him down,” she said. “He’s always so angry. I wonder why.”

“He’d be less angry if we cut his balls off,” Pausanius offered. “Then he might settle and become a good mount.”

“Helikaon thinks he will make a fine stud animal and create a new breed of warhorse.”

Pausanius shook his head. “Too much spirit to be allowed to roam free. You know he almost crippled one of my best riders? Threw him, then stamped down on his legs. Broke them both. He’s wrong in the head, lady.”

“Open the stall, Pausanius.”

The old man stood his ground. “Please don’t do this, my queen.”

She smiled at him. “He is merely a horse. Not some savage killer. Do as I order you.”

Pausanius stepped forward and lifted the locking bar, pulling the door open just wide enough for Halysia to enter. She saw him draw his sword and knew he was ready to cut the beast’s throat if it threatened her. “Put that away,” she said softly, “and lock the stall behind me.” Stepping inside, she began to hum a soft, soothing tune, then slowly and smoothly lifted her hand and gently stroked the stallion’s neck. It pawed the ground, its ears flat against its skull. “One day,” she whispered, pressing her face against the horse’s cheek, “you and I will ride out into the meadows. You will be a king among horses, and the mares will flock to you.” Taking a handful of straw, she brushed the stallion’s broad back. After a while its ears pricked up, and it turned its head to look at her. “You are so beautiful,” she said. “So handsome, so strong.”

Dropping the straw, she walked slowly back to the stall door. Pausanius opened it, and she stepped out. As the locking bar fell into place, the stallion suddenly reared and lashed out. Pausanius stumbled back and almost fell.

Halysia laughed. “He will be a fine, fine horse,” she said.

“I do not know how you do that,” the old general said. “I’d swear he understands you when you speak to him.”

Outside, Halysia turned to Pausanius. “Will you ride with me, General?”

“I would be honored, my queen.” He called out to a stable boy to fetch mounts. The youngster brought out Halysia’s old bay gelding, Dancer, and a gentle swaybacked mare Pausanius had recently taken a liking to. They rode through the stable yard and down to the Seagate, overlooking the harbor. Halting their mounts on the steep rocky incline, they stared across the narrow ribbon of sea to the shore of war-torn Thraki.

Pausanius voiced the fear she felt. “If eastern Thraki falls, both the armies of the west and rebel Thrakians will arrive on that shore in the thousands.”

She turned and looked at the Seagate. Helikaon had ordered the gate towers reinforced and the stone entrance faced with green marble brought from Sparta. The steep gradient from the harbor would make it nearly impossible to force the gates. An enemy laboring up the hill would lose many men to bowmen safe on the high walls.

“With enough soldiers we could hold out for months,” she said.

The old man grunted. “Enough would be five times what we have.”

Without another word Halysia turned her horse and rode up along the narrow rocky trail around the outside of the walls, past the highest point of the cliffs, called Aphrodite’s Leap. She smiled as she thought of the old general following her. The ground was uneven, and in places the trail was so narrow that her outside foot hung over an awesome drop to the rocks below.

Pausanius did not fear the dangerous ride, but he feared for her. He could not understand her desire to take such risks. Halysia did not try to explain. Out on the plains of her youth there had been many summer fires. They would blaze in the dry grass, the winds fanning them, driving them toward the settlements. The only way to combat them was to set controlled blazes ahead of the inferno so that when the blaze reached the burned-out areas, it would have nothing to feed on and die away.

These perilous rides were for Halysia a way of containing the greater fears she suffered by enduring a lesser fear she could control.

Eventually they reached the wider path leading to Dardanos’ second great gate. The Landgate was the oldest part of the city, built by ancient craftsmen whose names were lost to history. It was a massive bastion facing south toward Troy, the walls deep and solid, the two sets of gates narrow and high. Yet the land outside the gates was wide and flat. An invading army could camp there in safety for a season and attack at will.

From the Landgate a narrow road crossed the dry plain, then dipped through a long steep defile. The two riders followed the road downward toward a deep crevice crossed by a narrow wooden bridge with a permanent guard stationed at each end. The road to Troy flowed from it toward the south. The horses’ hooves clattered on the timbers as they rode across. Halysia glanced over and down. The drop was dizzying. On the far side she reined in her mount and glanced back, marveling at the skill and courage of the men who had built the bridge. Although it was no more than three spear lengths across, it would have been no easy feat preparing the ground. Cross-timbers and joists had been set deep into the rocks below the bridge. Men would have had to hang from ropes and hack away at the stone to create deep indentations: the kind of work her brothers were famed for.

Away from the city Halysia breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent of the damp earth and the summer grass and the feel of a breeze unhindered by walls of stone. The light was beginning to fail when Pausanius said: “We should be getting back across the Folly. I have no wish to be riding the high roads after dark.”

Halysia reined in her mount. “The Folly?”

“I meant the bridge, lady.”

“Why do you call it a folly?” she asked. “It shortens the route to Troy, cutting off a day’s travel for merchants.”

“The place had the name long before the bridge was built. Only old men like me use it still. Parnio’s Folly.” Pausanius sighed. “A young rider made a wager with his friends that his horse could leap the crevice at its narrowest point. He was wrong. It took two days to bring up his broken body. A few years later the bridge was constructed above where he died.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes, I knew him. A vain and reckless boy. But there was no malice in him. He thought, as all young men do, that he was immortal. Had he lived, he would have been sixty years old now, white-haired and long in the tooth. He would have railed at the recklessness of youngsters and told us all how it was different in his day.” He glanced at the queen and smiled. “How strange it is,” he said, “that I can remember the old days so clearly, and yet I cannot recall what I had for breakfast this morning. I fear I am becoming increasingly useless, my queen.”

“Nonsense, Pausanius. I rely on your wisdom.”

He smiled his thanks. “And I rely more and more on young Menon. You will, too, when I am gone.”

“You are fond of the boy, and it shows,” she said.

Pausanius grinned. “You won’t believe it, but he looks just like me when I was young. He is a good lad. Constantly in debt, though. Loves to gamble. Which was also my curse as a youngster.”

“Will he be as truthful with me as you are?”

Pausanius’ face stiffened. “I am not always as truthful as I would wish to be. It has been bothering me of late. We are alone now, with no one to overhear. So if you will allow me, I will speak my mind.”

“I had hoped you would always feel able to do so,” Halysia told him.

“On matters martial I have. But this is not about soldiering.”

“Speak on, then, for I am intrigued.”

“You care for that wild horse, and you struggle to understand its pain and its anger. When you stroke it, the beast calms, for it senses you have affection for it. Yet there is another little horse, starved of affection, longing to be stroked and loved. And this one you ignore.”

Anger rose in her. “You of all men should understand my revulsion. The child’s father was an evil man who murdered my son and planted his vile seed in me against my will.”

“Yes, he was,” Pausanius said. “And Helikaon nailed him to the gates of his fortress to die a wretched death. But the boy is not his father. He is the son of Halysia, a queen of courage and dignity, loyalty and compassion. He has her blood and her spirit.”

Halysia raised her hand. “You will speak no more of this. You were quite right, General, to hold those views to yourself. Do so in future.”

Swinging her gelding, she rode back to the citadel.

Andromache awoke from a dream and lay still, trying to hold on to its fleeting fragments. Kalliope had been with her, and Laodike. The three of them had been sailing together on a great white ship. There were no oars or sails or any crew, yet the vessel had glided on toward a distant island, bathed in the gold of the rising sun. Andromache had been happy, her heart freed by the presence of her friends. In that moment of the dream she had not recalled the fate of the two women.

Then a fourth figure had joined them, a young, dark-haired woman of dazzling beauty. There was something familiar in her cold gaze, but Andromache had not at first recognized her.

“And here you are,” the woman told Andromache. “Sailing with those you have slain.” They were all standing very still now and staring at her. A red stain began to seep through Laodike’s pale gown, and a black-shafted arrow appeared in Kalliope’s chest. The dark-haired young woman stood before her, saying nothing. Then her skin began to age and draw tight over her face, and Andromache saw that she was Hekabe the queen.

“You deserved death,” Andromache said.

“Was I wrong, Andromache? Has not Odysseus proved a deadly enemy?”

Andromache awoke on a couch on the eastern terrace overlooking the barracks stables. The sounds of the horses—their gentle whinnying and the clop of their hooves—came to her ears mixed with the distant shouts and oaths of the soldiers. The dream clung to her with misty fingers, bringing guilt and sorrow.

Beside her couch her servant Axa was sitting in a straight chair working on a piece of embroidered linen, squinting from time to time at the tiny stitches. She looked up. “Oh, you’re awake, lady. Can I get you anything?”

Andromache shook her head and closed her eyes again. Was there no escape from such guilt? she wondered. I could not have saved Laodike; the wound was too deep. But then Kalliope’s face appeared in her mind, and her heart sank. When she had seen the assassin draw back on his bow, she had thought the arrow was aimed at her and had flung herself to the ground. If only she had called out a warning, Kalliope might have avoided the speeding shaft.

Opening her eyes, she sat up and took a deep breath. The truth was that guilt was ever present, and not just for the loss of her friends. It seemed that it was a cloak suited to every occasion. She even felt guilty for the joy in her life. In spite of the war and the fear and deprivation it was bringing to Troy, in spite of the fact that the two men she loved were away fighting, in spite of the fact that her family in Thebe was under threat—in spite of all those things she was happier than she had ever been in her life.

The cause of that happiness slept in the room behind her. Astyanax lay, she knew without looking, on his back with his arms and legs flung out like the starfish they had found together on the beach one day. They had brought it home in some water, but it had died and the child had forgotten about it, but Andromache had hidden it in a box of discarded jewelry and still took it out from time to time as a reminder of that happy day and the toddler’s breathless delight at finding the tiny sea creature.

The mere thought of the boy made her chest close up, and she fought down an urge to rush to him and hold his sleeping body, warm and milky, against her own.

The birth had been difficult, as Hekabe had predicted. Andromache’s narrow hips had seen to that. The labor had taken most of a night and the following morning, the pain harsh and rending. Yet it was not the moment when they laid the babe in her arms that always brought a lump to her throat when she recalled it. It was the time, some days later, on a bright cool morning, when he had looked up at her. His eyes were a brilliant sapphire blue.

Helikaon’s eyes.

Axa’s voice cut through her memories. “Kassandra was here to see you,” she said.

“Kassandra? Where is she?”

“You needed your sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you. So I sent her away,” Axa said, a little defiantly.

“You sent her away?” Andromache almost smiled. The princess Kassandra, daughter of the king, sent away by a servant. Then a small fear struck her. “If King Priam hears of such an affront, he is likely to order you beaten. Send a servant to ask her to come back. No, better still, go and ask her yourself.”

Axa, looking contrite, gathered up her sewing bag and left the terrace. As she went, Andromache heard her mutter, “She won’t come.”

Andromache thought she was probably right. Kassandra had been difficult as a child. Her feyness and gift of prophecy had always made people shy away from her. Even those who loved her, like Andromache and Helikaon, feared her uncanny ability to predict the future. Now the girl was fourteen, and since the death of her mother she had turned in upon herself, becoming quieter and more reserved. As a child she had always spoken up boldly; now she guarded her words with a care that was almost painful to watch. She stayed in the shadows of the women’s quarters and the temple of Athene, and Andromache saw less and less of her.

It was Kassandra who had sparked Andromache’s most recent argument with Priam. The king had announced that the girl was to be dedicated to the isle of Thera, as her mother Hekabe and Andromache herself had been. Kassandra had accepted the decision without complaint, but Andromache had been furious when she heard.

She had confronted Priam in the megaron, the scene of so many of their battles. He had watched her as she walked the length of the great hall to stand before him, his eyes roving over her body. She had heard the king was ailing, but he looked strong, though he wore a wine-stained robe and his eyes were unnaturally bright.

“Andromache,” he said, “you are a stranger to my palace these days. But I can guess why you are here. You have not come to pay respects to your king. Interfering, I suppose, as always.”

“I heard Kassandra is to be dedicated to the Blessed Isle,” she said quietly. “I thought you might seek to consult me, as I spent two years there.”

He laughed. “And what would you have said, Daughter, had I consulted you?”

“I would have said, Father, that the journey to Thera is too dangerous. I had a friend who suffered the horror of rape and the threat of death from pirates. And there are now enemy fleets in those waters.”

“A friend?” He sneered. “You talk of Kalliope the runaway, whose treachery to her calling created the need for me to send my daughter to replace her. Still, what else could one expect from the daughter of Peleus—a family steeped in treachery and vileness.”

Andromache’s response was instant and icy. “Had it not been for the treachery of Kalliope, I would now be moldering in a tomb, and my son would never have opened his eyes on the world.”

At the mention of Astyanax his expression softened. “It was always intended,” he said, “that Kassandra would serve the Sleeping God. Her mother Hekabe wished it, and Kassandra herself foretold it.”

“You never believe Kassandra’s predictions,” she said angrily.

“No, but you do.”

Andromache knew that was unanswerable. She had spoken to Priam in the past about the accuracy of Kassandra’s prophecies. She could not now argue that the girl was wrong.

“She will be escorted to Thera by Helikaon’s fleet,” Priam said, “early next spring. Nothing you can say will alter my decision.”

A slight breeze was blowing through the balcony window, and Andromache rose from her couch, stretching out her arms. She heard a sound on the terrace behind her and turned, expecting to see Kassandra, but saw instead the dark-haired Prince Dios step out from the shade of the palace.

“Dios!” She almost ran to greet him, and he held both of her hands in his. “You are back quickly. What news from Thebe?”

“Your father is well, Andromache. And your brothers. They are preparing for war, but they are all safe as yet.”

“Is there news of Hektor?” she asked. “I inquire every day, but no one seems to know.”

“The situation in Thraki is confused by the civil war,” he said. “And it is hard to estimate the truth of any information we receive. Hektor and the Trojan Horse were fighting in the mountains the last we heard.”

“How can the Thrakians be fighting among themselves when the threat from Mykene is so great?” she said angrily. “It is so stupid.”

“How much do you know of Thraki’s recent history?”

“Very little,” she admitted. “King Eioneus was a good ruler, and there were no wars. Now the land is beset by rebellion.”

Dios sat down on the couch and poured himself a goblet of water. “Shall I tell you of Thraki, or shall we talk of happier matters?”

“Matters more seemly for the ears of women?”

Dios laughed. “You are not like most women, Andromache, and I will not be drawn into such a pit of scorpions.”

“Then tell me of Thraki.”

“The problem is both tribal and historical,” he replied. “There are several tribes occupying Thrakian lands, but the two most prominent are the Kikones and the Idonoi. Before you were born, Eioneus—a Kikones king—conquered the eastern tribes of the Idonoi, absorbing their lands into a greater Thrakian federation. To ensure his success he slaughtered thousands. Most of the Idonoi leaders were executed, and the royal line was wiped out. Eioneus tempered this savagery with generosity to the captured cities, allowing them some self-rule. And he also established profitable trade routes that brought wealth to the Idonoi, thus securing an uneasy peace for a generation. However, Eioneus’ death in Troy during your wedding games unleashed old tribal rivalries. The Idonoi are now backed by Agamemnon and, spurred by him, have risen against Rhesos, seeking to win back their ancestral lands and be free of Kikones domination.”

“To be replaced,” Andromache said, “by Mykene domination.”

“Indeed, but old hatreds sit deep.”

“Hektor speaks highly of Rhesos,” Andromache said. “Surely the two of them can conquer?”

Dios considered the question. “Rhesos is a fine young man and would be a good king if his people would let him. But even without outside agitators and Mykene reinforcements the civil war would have been hard to win. And with enemy troops pouring in from Thessaly and Makedonia, his situation is dire. Already loyal troops are outnumbered five to one. Hektor wants Rhesos to hold the plain of Thraki and the land east of the river Nestos as a buffer between the Mykene and the Hellespont. But it is looking increasingly impossible.”

“Hektor is known for achieving the impossible,” she pointed out.

“Indeed he is. The sad truth, though, is that Hektor could win a score of battles and still not win the war there, whereas he only has to lose one and Thraki falls.” He smiled at her, and once again she saw the resemblance to Helikaon. Their fathers were cousins, and the blood of Ilos ran strongly in both. As she thought of Helikaon, her mind went back to the sleeping child, and as if he read her thoughts, Dios said, “Now let us talk of happier matters. How is the boy?”

“Come and see,” she said. They walked together into Astyanax’s room, where the red-haired boy was awake and fretting, anxious to go out to play. Naked, he squirmed from the small bed and, dodging around his young nurse, ran out onto the terrace, his chubby arms and legs pumping as he tried to escape.

The nursemaid called out to him in vain, then Dios said firmly, “Astyanax!”

The child stopped instantly at the deep male voice and turned back to look at his uncle. His mouth open, he stared at Dios in wonder.

Dios picked the boy up and swung him around high in the air. The child gurgled, then screamed with delight, his piercing cry echoing in their ears. Dios, with no sons of his own, grinned at the joyous reaction from the boy. As he put him down, Astyanax reached up his arms to be spun around again.

“He’s a brave one,” Dios said. “Truly his father’s son.”

He swung the boy again, higher and higher. Watching their noisy play, Andromache did not see Kassandra quietly come onto the terrace. When she spotted the girl, she turned to her with a smile. Kassandra stood with her hands behind her back, her face half-hidden, as usual, by her long black hair. She wore a drab dark robe, unbelted, and her feet were bare.

“Kassandra, I’ve not seen you for days. You wanted to speak to me?”

Dios put the boy down and went to embrace his sister, but she moved away from him into the shade of the building.

“You tried to stop me going to Thera,” she said to Andromache, ignoring Dios and the child. Her voice was trembling.

“Only immediately, while there is a war on,” Andromache told her. “Once the Great Green is safe again, you can go to the Blessed Isle if you still wish to. There is plenty of time. You are only fourteen.”

“There is not plenty of time,” the girl said angrily. “I must go there. I have no choice. Father is right, Andromache—you are always trying to interfere in other people’s lives. Why don’t you leave me alone?”

Andromache said, “I am only trying to keep you safe, Sister.”

Kassandra drew herself up, and when she spoke, the shrillness had gone from her voice. “You cannot keep other people safe, Andromache,” she said gently. “You should know that by now. Have the last few years taught you nothing? You could not save Laodike or Kalliope. You cannot guard this boy from the world’s hurt.” She gestured at the child, who stood silent, staring at the girl with wide eyes. “You cannot keep his father safe on the Great Green.”

“No, I cannot,” Andromache said sadly. “But I will try to save those I love. And I love you, Kassandra.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she said, “Mother tells me you loved her, too.” Then she swung on her heel and left the room.