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Book One

DARKNESS FALLS

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I

Farewell to the queen

HELIKAON STOOD AT the stern of the Xanthos, staring back at the burning fleet. He felt no satisfaction as the flames lit the night sky. Removing his helm of bronze he leaned against the stern rail and turned his gaze towards the east. Fires were also burning in the distant fortress of Dardanos, and the Xanthos was heading slowly back towards them.

The breeze was cool upon his face as he stood alone. No one approached him. Even the sailor at the great steering oar kept his gaze firmly fixed to the east. The eighty oars of the great vessel slid rhythmically into the night-dark water, the sound as regular as heartbeat.

Halysia was dead. The queen of Dardania was dead. His wife was dead.

And his heart was a ruin.

He and Gershom had climbed the steep cliff to where her body lay, little Dex snuggled up beside her, the black stallion waiting close by. Helikaon had run to her, kneeling and lifting her into his arms. There was a savage wound in her side, and the ground around her was slick with blood. Her head had flopped back, her golden hair hanging loose.

Dex had cried out, ‘Papa!’ and he had hugged the three-year-old to him. ‘We must be very quiet,’ whispered Dex. ‘Sun Woman is sleeping.’ Gershom had lifted the boy into his arms. ‘We jumped over it,’ said Dex excitedly, pointing to the chasm and the burned bridge. ‘We ran away from the bad men.’

Helikaon had cradled Halysia to him. Her eyes opened then, and she smiled up at him. ‘I knew … you would come,’ she said.

‘I am here. Rest. We will get you back to the palace and staunch your wounds.’

Her face was pale. ‘I am so tired,’ she told him, and his vision misted as tears formed.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

She sighed then. ‘Such a … sweet lie,’ she said.

She spoke no more, nor ever would, and he knelt there, holding her close.

Across the chasm the sounds of battle grew closer. He did not look up. Hektor and the Trojan Horse had driven the Mykene along the defile towards Parnio’s Folly, and there the enemy made their last stand.

But Helikaon did not care. He stroked his fingers through Halysia’s golden hair, and looked down into her dead gaze. Other men came climbing the cliff. They stood round him silently. At last he closed Halysia’s eyes. He gave orders for her body to be carried back to the fortress, then slowly made his way to meet Hektor.

‘There is still some fighting to the northeast,’ Hektor told him. ‘The enemy general tried to battle his way to the coast. We have them penned.’

Helikaon nodded.

‘We took a few prisoners,’ said Hektor. ‘One told us Agamemnon and a war fleet are on Imbros. I don’t think we can hold here if they come. The Seagate is ruined, and my men are weary.’

‘I will deal with them,’ said Helikaon coldly. ‘You finish the resistance here.’

Calling his men he had returned to the Xanthos and set sail into the night. He had expected to face battle with a screen of war galleys protecting the main fleet. But the Mykene, with the arrogance of conquerors, believing themselves safe from attack, had beached their entire fleet on Imbros for the night.

A mistake Agamemnon would now be rueing.

The Xanthos sailed serenely on, the burning fleet lighting the sky behind the great ship, the screams of the dying like the cries of distant gulls. The weight of guilt settled on Helikaon as he stood alone, and he remembered his last conversation with Halysia the previous spring. He had been preparing to raid along the Mykene coastline, and she had walked with him down to the beach.

‘Be safe, and come home to me,’ she said, as they stood together in the shadow of the Xanthos.

‘I will.’

‘And know as you journey that I love you,’ she told him.

The words had surprised him, for she had never said them before. He had stood there in the dawn light like a fool, not knowing how to respond. Their marriage had been, as all royal weddings were, a union of necessity. She had laughed at his confusion. ‘Is the Golden One speechless?’ she asked.

‘I am,’ he admitted. Then he had kissed her hand. ‘It is an honour to be loved by you, Halysia. I mean that with all my heart.’

She had nodded. ‘I know that we do not choose whom to love,’ she said. ‘And I know – I have always known – that you yearn for someone else. I am sorry for that. I am sorry for you. But I have tried, and I will continue to try, to bring you happiness. If it is just a portion of the happiness you have brought me, then you will be content. I know this.’

‘I am already content. No man could have a finer wife.’

With that he had kissed her, then climbed aboard the warship.

Such a … sweet lie.

Memories cut into him like talons of fire.

He saw black-bearded Gershom walking down the central deck. The big Egypteian climbed the steps to the stern. ‘She was a great woman. Fine and brave. That was a mighty leap across that chasm. She saved her son.’

The two men stood in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Helikaon stared ahead, at the flames in the sky over the fortress. Warehouses had been set ablaze, and many of the wooden buildings beyond the palace. Women and children had been killed, as well as many of the defenders, and the fortress city would be shrouded in grief tonight, and for many nights to come.

It was close to midnight when the Xanthos finally beached again on the rocky shore directly below the ruined Seagate. Helikaon and Gershom walked slowly up the steep path. At the gate they met soldiers of the Trojan Horse, who told them Hektor had captured the Mykene leader and several of his officers. They were being held outside the city.

‘Their deaths should be long, and their screams loud,’ said Gershom.

Fewer than twenty Mykene had been taken alive, but these included their admiral Menados. He was brought before Hektor on the open ground before the great Landgate. The few captured warriors, their hands bound, sat huddled close by.

Hektor removed his bronze helm, then ran his fingers through his sweat-streaked golden hair. He was tired to the bone, his eyes gritty, his throat dry. Passing the helm to his shield-bearer Mestares, he unbuckled his breastplate, lifting it clear then dropping it to the grass. The Mykene admiral stepped forward, touching his fist to his own breastplate in salute.

‘Ha!’ he said with a grim smile. ‘The Prince of War himself.’ He shrugged, and scratched at his black and silver chin beard. ‘Ah well, it is no dishonour to lose to you, Hektor. Can we discuss the terms of my ransom?’

‘You are not my prisoner, Menados,’ Hektor told him wearily. ‘You attacked Helikaon’s fortress. You killed his wife. When he returns he will decide your fate. I doubt ransom will be in his thoughts.’

Menados swore softly, then spread his hands. He stared hard at Hektor. ‘It is said you don’t approve of torture. Is that true?’

‘It is.’

‘You had better make yourself scarce then, Trojan, for when Helikaon returns he’ll want more than our deaths. Doubtless he will burn us all.’

‘And you will deserve it,’ Hektor replied. Then he stepped in close, keeping his voice low. ‘I have heard of you, and of your many deeds of courage. Tell me, Menados, how does a hero find himself on a mission to murder a woman and a child?’

The admiral gave Hektor a quizzical glance, then shook his head. ‘How many dead women and children have you seen in your young life, Hektor? Scores? Hundreds? Well, I have seen thousands. Lying twisted in death on the streets of every captured city or town. And, yes, at first it turns the stomach. At first I pondered the waste of life, the savagery and the cruelty.’ He shrugged. ‘After a while, and more mountains of corpses, I no longer pondered on it. How does a hero find himself on a mission like this? You know the answer. The first duty of a soldier is loyalty. When the king orders, we obey.’

‘You will pay a heavy price for that loyalty,’ Hektor told him.

‘Most soldiers pay a heavy price in the end,’ replied Menados. ‘Why not just kill us now, cleanly? I ask this as one warrior to another. I do not want to give the evil bastard the pleasure of my screams.’

Before Hektor could answer he saw Helikaon walking towards them past the captured men, the big Egypteian Gershom with him. Behind them came a score of angry Dardanians, knives and cudgels in their hands. Menados drew himself up to his full height, and placed his hands behind his back, his expression stern, his face unreadable. Helikaon halted before him.

‘You came to my lands with fire and terror,’ he said, his voice cold as winter. ‘You murdered my wife, and the wives and children of my people. Is murder the only skill you Mykene ever seek to master?’

‘Ah,’ said Menados, ‘we are to have a debate about murder? Had I won here I would have been declared a hero of the Mykene, having defeated a king of evil. But I lost. Do not seek to lecture me, Helikaon the Burner. How many helpless men have you killed? How many women and children died in your raids on Mykene villages?’

Beyond them the mob of Dardanians was moving in on the bound Mykene prisoners.

‘Back!’ yelled Helikaon, turning towards them. ‘There are buildings burning in our city, and many there need help. Go! Leave these men to me.’

He stood in silence for a while, then glanced at Hektor. ‘What do you say, my friend?’ he asked. ‘You captured him.’

Hektor looked at his comrade, seeing his anger and his need for vengeance. ‘The road a soldier walks is narrower than a sword blade,’ he said. ‘A step one way and he weakens, becoming less of a fighter; the other and he becomes a monster. Tonight Menados strayed from this path and is cursed for it. His tragedy is that he serves Agamemnon, a man without pity, a man devoid of humanity. In any other army Menados would have remained true to his heart, and been remembered as a hero. Before you make a judgement on the matter of his death, I will tell you one story, if I may.’

‘Make it brief.’

‘When I was a boy,’ Hektor went on, ‘I heard the tale of a Mykene galley beached on the isle of Kythera, close to a fishing village. A fleet of pirate vessels came into sight, ready to raid the village, kill the men and the children, and enslave the women. The captain of the galley, though he had no links to the village, nor any friends there, led his forty men into battle against great odds. Twenty-two of his men died, and he was severely wounded. But the village was saved. The people there still celebrate their day of deliverance.’

‘And that was you, Menados?’ Helikaon asked.

‘I was younger then and knew no better,’ the admiral answered.

‘Back in the summer,’ said Helikaon softly, ‘I saw a soldier weep, because in the midst of battle he accidentally killed a child. I led that soldier into the fight. I took him to that village, and I made him a murderer. You are correct, Menados. I have no right to lecture you, or any man, on the vileness of war.’

He fell silent and turned away. Hektor watched him, but his expression was unreadable. Finally he swung back to Menados.

‘For the sake of that child, and the villagers of Kythera, I give you your life.’ He turned to Hektor. ‘Have your men escort the prisoners to the shore. There is a damaged Mykene galley there. It is barely seaworthy. But let them take it and try to reach Imbros.’

Menados stepped forward, as if he would speak, but Helikaon raised his hand, and his voice was cold. ‘Do not misjudge me, Mykene. If ever I see you again I will cut out your heart and feed it to the crows.’

The men of the Trojan Horse rode southwest from Dardanos, until the city of Troy came into sight. Only then did Hektor order them to make camp in a wood just outside the city. Here they sat, the night cold, a bitter wind leaching the heat from their campfires, their thoughts grim. Just beyond the hill their families waited, loved ones they had not seen for more than two years.

On the brow of the wooded hill Hektor stood silently, a deep sadness clinging to his spirit. Tomorrow there would be a parade for these survivors, their entry to the city met with cheers. But the men who had given most to this ghastly war would not ride through the flower-strewn streets, nor have garlands placed over their shoulders by adoring young women. The lifeblood of those heroes had already soaked into the soil of distant Thraki, their ashes scattered by the winds of a foreign land. Or they had drowned in the Hellespont, or fallen before the walls of Dardanos.

Even among the survivors there were those who would not enjoy the acclaim they deserved. A victory parade, according to Priam the king, was no place for cripples and amputees. ‘By the gods, boy, no one wants to see the truth of war. They want to see heroes, tall and strong, striking and handsome.’ The comment had angered Hektor, not because it was harsh and ungrateful, but because it was true. And so he had ordered the wounded and the maimed to be taken to the healing houses after dark, ferried into the city in secret, as if covered in shame.

Hektor glanced towards the wagons recently arrived from the city. Only one had brought food for his men. The other two were filled with two thousand new white cloaks, so the crowds would not see weary men, exhausted by years of battle, coming home bloodstained and filthy. Instead they would gaze in wonder at shining heroes.

His brother Dios climbed the hill to stand alongside him. ‘A cold night,’ he said, drawing his cloak more tightly around him.

‘I do not feel it,’ answered Hektor, who was dressed in a simple, knee-length tunic of faded yellow.

‘That is because you are Hektor,’ said Dios amiably.

‘No, it is because I have spent two long years in Thraki, trudging through snow and ice in the mountains. You do not have to stay with us, brother. Go back to the warmth of your house.’

‘You are gloomy tonight. Are you not glad to be home?’

Hektor stared down at Troy, and thought of his wife and son, and of his farms and the horse herds on the northern plain. He sighed. ‘I am not yet home,’ he said. ‘How is Andromache?’

‘She is well. Angry, though. She railed at Father for keeping the army out here tonight. They deserve better, she told him.’

‘They are both right,’ said Hektor. ‘The men do deserve better, but tomorrow they will revel in the adulation. The parade is important. It will help disguise our failure.’

‘How can you speak of failure?’ asked Dios, surprised. ‘You did not lose a single battle – and you killed an enemy king. I call that a victory. So do the people. So should you.’

Unaccustomed anger touched Hektor then, but he kept it from his voice. ‘We crossed the straits to defend the land of Thraki, and to protect King Rhesos, our ally. Rhesos is dead. Thraki is lost. Our enemies gather across the Hellespont, ready to invade. All the northern trade routes are lost to us. Does this sound like victory to you?’

‘I hear you, brother,’ said Dios softly. ‘However, you and your men went to Thraki to assist in the defence. The defeats were suffered by Rhesos, not by the warriors of Troy. Your legend is unblemished.’

‘A pox on legends,’ snapped Hektor. ‘And a double pox on the twisted realities of politics, where defeats can be melted down and recast as golden victories. The truth is that the enemy has gained control of the north. Now Agamemnon will come against us in our own lands. And he will come with a great army.’

‘And you will destroy him,’ said Dios. ‘You are the Lord of Battles. Every man round the Great Green knows this. You never lose.’

Hektor glanced at his younger brother, seeing the admiration in his eyes. Fear touched him, cramping his belly. During the battle at Carpea he had been no more than a single sword-thrust from death. A well-aimed arrow, or a cast spear, could have pierced his throat. A slinger’s stone could have cracked his skull. Indeed, had Banokles not led a near-suicidal charge at the enemy rear his spirit would now be walking the Dark Road. He thought of telling his brother of the fears, of the trembling hands and the sleepless nights. And, worse, of the growing pain in his left shoulder, and the ache in his right knee. He wanted to say, ‘I am a man, just like you, Dios. Just like every man sitting back there at the campfires. I bruise, I bleed, I age. And, if I go on fighting battle after battle, then one day my luck will run out, and my lifeblood with it.’

But he did not say any of it. To Dios, to the army, to the people of Troy, he had long since ceased to be Hektor the man. Now he was like tomorrow’s parade, a false, yet glittering, symbol of Trojan invincibility. And with every day of war that passed he became more firmly chained to that lie.

Dios spoke again. ‘Wait until you see Astyanax. The boy has grown, Hektor. Nearly three years old now. And what a fine, bold child he is.’

Hektor relaxed then, and smiled. ‘I long to see him. I shall take him on a ride through the hills. He will enjoy that.’

‘I took him myself, not more than a week ago. Sat him before me and let him hold the reins. He loved it. Especially the gallop.’

Hektor’s heart sank. Through the long, grim and bloody months of warfare he had dreamed of taking the boy on his first ride, of holding the child close to him, listening to his laughter. Amidst the terror and brutality of war this one small ambition had nurtured him. ‘Was he frightened?’ he asked.

‘No! Far from it. He kept shouting for me to go faster. He is fearless, Hektor. No more, of course, than one would expect from a child of yours.’

A child of yours.

Save that he is not mine, thought Hektor. Masking his sadness, he looked across at the city. ‘And Father is well?’

Dios said nothing for a moment. Then he shrugged. ‘He is getting older,’ he replied, dropping his eyes.

‘And drinking more?’

Dios hesitated. ‘You will see him tomorrow,’ he said at last. ‘Best you form your own judgement.’

‘That I will.’

‘And what of Helikaon? Word reached us that he sank Agamemnon’s fleet. Burned them all. That lifted the spirits, I can tell you.’

The bitter wind picked up again, hissing through the branches overhead. This time Hektor shivered, though not from the cold. He saw again the pale, dead face of Helikaon’s wife, the beautiful Halysia, as her body was carried into the fortress. Hektor had heard the story of her last ride. Taking her son with her she had mounted a huge black horse, and ridden through the enemy, down the defile towards the bridge known as Parnio’s Folly. They had pursued her, knowing they had her, for the bridge had been destroyed by fire. Caught between murderous soldiers and a deep chasm Halysia had heeled the stallion forward and leapt it across the wide gap. Not one rider had dared to follow her. She had saved her son, but not herself. During the ride she had suffered a deep spear wound, and had bled to death as Helikaon reached her.

The voice of Dios brought Hektor back to the present. ‘We need to discuss the route for the victory parade. You will ride Father’s ceremonial war chariot. It is being burnished now, and layered with new gold leaf. It will be brought out to you before dawn. Father has two pure white horses to draw it.’ Dios smiled. ‘You will look like a young god!’

Hektor took a deep breath, and transferred his gaze to the city. ‘And the route?’ he asked.

‘The entire regiment will ride up through the lower town, then through the Scaean Gate and up the avenue to the palace, where Priam will greet them, and give awards to the heroes you have named. This will be followed later by a feast of thanksgiving in the Square of Hermes. Here Father hopes you will make a speech. He suggests you tell the gathering about the victory at Carpea, as it is the most recent.’

‘Dardanos is the most recent,’ Hektor pointed out.

‘Yes it is, but the death of Halysia makes it too sad a tale.’

‘Of course,’ said Hektor. ‘We cannot have tales of blood and death spoil a story about war.’

Khalkeus the bronzesmith sat in the torchlit megaron of Dardanos, rubbing at the numbed fingers of his left hand. After a while sensation returned, the tips beginning to tingle. Then the trembling started. He stared down at the palsied limb, willing the movement to stop. Instead it intensified. It was as if invisible fingers had grasped his wrist and were shaking it. Irritated now, he made a fist, then crossed his arms so no one would see the tremors.

Not that there was anyone to see. The Gyppto, Gershom, had told him to wait in this cold, empty place for Helikaon. Khalkeus stared around the megaron. Blood had stained the mosaic floor. The splashes and spatters had dried, but elsewhere, on the rugs and in the deeper grooves of the mosaic, it remained sticky and uncongealed. A broken sword lay by a wall.

Khalkeus strolled across and picked up the weapon. It had snapped halfway down the blade. Khalkeus ran his thick fingers over the metal. Poorly cast, with too much tin, he decided. Copper was a soft metal, and the addition of tin created the harder, more useful bronze. But this blade had been hardened too much, becoming brittle, and had snapped on impact.

Returning to his couch Khalkeus sat once more. His hand had stopped trembling, which was a blessing. But the palsy would return. It was the curse of bronze-smiths. No one knew what caused it, but it always began in the fingertips, then the toes. Soon he would be limping along with the aid of a staff. Even the god of smiths, Hephaistos, was said to be lame. Old Karpithos, back in Miletos, had gone blind in the end. He had sworn it was the melting copper putting poison in the air. Khalkeus had no way of testing this theory, but he favoured it enough to have his forges built outside now, so any poisons would be dissipated by fresh air.

You cannot complain, he told himself. Fifty years old, and only now does the trembling start. Karpithos had endured the tremors for close to twenty years before his sight failed.

Time drifted by and Khalkeus, never a patient man, began to grow more irritated. Rising from his couch he walked out into the night air.

Black smoke was drifting up from the centre of the fortress, where the kitchens still smouldered. Despite their obvious enthusiasm for destruction, thought Khalkeus, the enemy had been largely incompetent. Many of the burned buildings had suffered superficial damage only. And the support struts of the bridge at Parnio’s Folly had been ignored by the Mykene. They had hacked at the bridge planks with axe and sword to weaken them, then poured oil on the flat timbers, before setting them ablaze. The idiots did not realize it was the support struts, set deeply into the cliffs on both sides, that gave the structure its strength. Whoever had designed them had been a master at his craft. With them still in place, undamaged by fire, the bridge could be rebuilt within days.

Khalkeus glanced to his right. In the moonlight he saw three men hauling a wide handcart on which the bodies of several women and children had been laid. A wheel struck an uneven patch on the road, making the vehicle judder. One of the dead women slid sideways. The movement caused her torn tunic to ride up, exposing her buttocks. Instantly the three men stopped pulling the cart, and one of them hurried back to cover her nakedness.

How strange, thought Khalkeus. As if she would care.

He wandered back into the megaron. Several servants were placing fresh torches in the brackets on the wall. Khalkeus called out to one of them. ‘You there! Bring me some bread and wine.’

‘And you are?’ the man asked, his tone surly.

‘Hungry and thirsty,’ replied Khalkeus.

‘Are you a guest of the king?’

‘Yes. I am Khalkeus.’

The servant grinned. ‘Truly? The Madman from Miletos?’

Khalkeus sighed. ‘I am not from Miletos but, yes, that is what some idiots call me.’

The man brought him a platter of black bread, some cheese, and a jug of watered wine. The bread was not fresh but, smeared with the cheese, it was palatable enough. Khalkeus sipped his wine and glanced towards the great doors, and the moon shadows beyond them. He wished Helikaon would come, so that he could conclude his business here and head back to Troy and his new forges.

His first attempts at smelting metal from the red rocks had proved disappointing. Even the hottest furnace produced a useless spongy grey mass. The fires, he decided, needed to be even hotter, and to this end Khalkeus had ordered the construction of a new furnace on the north plateau of Troy where the wind was keen.

But he needed more time, and more gold.

He was convinced Helikaon would understand. If Khalkeus succeeded the rewards would be colossal. Swords, spears, arrowheads and armour could be fashioned from the red rocks, which were plentiful all across the east. No need for expensive tin to be shipped from far islands beyond the Great Green, or soft copper from Kypros and other Mykene-held lands. Metal implements – ploughs, nails, barrel ties – could be produced at a fraction of the price of bronze.

The blazing torches were replaced twice before Helikaon returned. Flanked by five young men he strode into the building, shouting for a servant to bring some water. His handsome face was smeared with grime, his long dark hair tied back in a ponytail that reached his shoulders. Moving to the carved throne the young king slumped down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Several of the men with him began speaking. Khalkeus listened as they complained of the insurmountable difficulties facing them. This could not be done because of that, and that was impossible because of this. Khalkeus felt his irritation flare. Stupid men with lazy minds. Instead of solving problems they wasted time seeking reasons why no solutions were available. Why Helikaon should allow such fools around him was a mystery.

A servant brought a silver wine cup and a jug brimming with cool water. Helikaon filled the cup, and drained it.

A young man with a wispy red beard spoke up. ‘Rebuilding the bridge alone will take months, and there is not enough timber to reconstruct the warehouses and other buildings destroyed by the Mykene.’

‘Nor enough carpenters and woodworkers,’ added another man.

‘And certainly not enough brains,’ stormed Khalkeus, heaving his bulk upright. The men about the king stopped speaking, and swung towards Khalkeus. He marched forward, staring them down. ‘I saw the remains of the bridge. It can be repaired in a matter of days. By the gods, Helikaon, I hope these morons are better fighters than they are thinkers.’

‘My friends,’ said Helikaon, to the angry men around him, ‘this is Khalkeus. Now, before you decide to hate him you should understand that he will not care. Everyone hates Khalkeus. So put aside your anger, and leave us to talk.’

Khalkeus waited until the men had walked away, ignoring the cold glances they gave him as they passed. Then he approached Helikaon. ‘I am close to the answer,’ he said, ‘but I need more gold.’

Helikaon took a deep, slow breath, his face hardening. Khalkeus, suddenly nervous, looked into the king’s eyes, and saw no friendliness there. On the contrary, the sapphire gaze was hostile. ‘Have I … done something to offend?’ asked Khalkeus.

‘To offend? What a paradox you are, Khalkeus. Genius and idiot in one fat package. You called my men morons. You walk into my hall with no greeting, no consoling words for the agonies that have been experienced here, merely a brazen demand for more of my gold.’

‘Ah!’ said Khalkeus. ‘Now I understand. Yes, of course. The absence of feigned sympathy was offensive. My apologies. However, I do need more gold. I think I am close, Helikaon. The furnaces need to be hotter to burn out more of the impurities. Then I think—’

‘Enough!’ roared Helikaon, surging to his feet, and drawing his bronze knife. Shocked and frightened, Khalkeus took a backward step. His mouth was dry, and both his hands were trembling now. Helikaon moved in, grabbing Khalkeus’ tunic with his left hand, the right bringing up the dagger, until the gleaming blade hovered above Khalkeus’ left eye. For a moment neither man moved, then Helikaon swore softly, and let out a long breath. Sheathing the knife, he returned to his seat and filled the silver cup with more water. He drank deeply, and when he looked again at Khalkeus his eyes were no longer full of rage.

‘The men you insulted,’ said Helikaon, ‘came home to find their wives and children murdered. And, yes, they are not skilled craftsmen or artisans. They are sailors. I kept them with me today to give them something to do, something to think about, other than the terrible losses they have suffered. You do not understand that, though, do you? No man who talks of feigned sympathy could understand.’

Khalkeus was about to speak, but Helikaon raised his hand. ‘No, let us not discuss this further. I am sailing for Troy tomorrow. You will remain here. I want the bridge repaired and a new Seagate constructed. Then you can organize workmen to rebuild the warehouses.’

‘I have much work to do back in Troy,’ responded Khalkeus. Then he saw the cold glint reappear in Helikaon’s eyes. ‘But, of course, I would be happy to help here.’

‘That is wise of you.’

Khalkeus sighed. ‘Then they must be the first wise words I have said today. You were correct, Helikaon. I am an idiot. You are the last man I would wish to offend – and not because I need your gold, but because you have stood by me, and supported me when others called me a madman. So I hope you will forgive me, and that we can put these moments of anger behind us.’

Helikaon’s face relaxed, but he did not smile, nor was there any warmth in those bleak, violent blue eyes. ‘We are what we are,’ he said. ‘Both of us. You are oblivious of the sufferings of others, but you have never burned men alive and revelled in their screams.’

He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. ‘You say the bridge can be rebuilt swiftly?’

Khalkeus nodded. ‘It could be functional within twenty days. I doubt you will want it more than that, at this time.’

‘Why so?’

‘You are a rich man, Helikaon, but your continuing riches depend on trade. Every gold ingot you use to rebuild Dardanos could prove to be a reckless waste should the Mykene invade again. And you may need all your gold if this war drags on.’

‘So you would advise …?’

‘Make temporary repairs, at little cost. And move your treasury from Dardanos.’

Helikaon shook his head. ‘The first I cannot do. There is no nation here, Khalkeus, merely a mix of races who have come to Dardania in search of wealth: Hittites, Phrygians, Thessalians, Thrakians. And many more. They obey my laws, and pay my taxes because I shield them from their enemies, and crush any who oppose me. If they come to believe that I have lost faith in my ability to defend my own land, then they will lose faith in me. Then I will be facing not only invasion from the north, but insurrection from within. No, the repairs must be solid and built to last.’

‘Then they will be,’ agreed Khalkeus. ‘And, at the risk of offending you once more, what of my earlier request? With this war showing no sign of ending my work is even more vital.’

‘I know. Help my people here and I shall ensure you have gold waiting for you in Troy.’ Helikaon pushed himself wearily to his feet. ‘You have great faith in these red rocks, Khalkeus. I hope it is not misplaced.’

‘It is not. I am convinced of it. By next summer’s end, Helikaon, I will bring you the greatest sword in all the world.’

II

The masks of Priam

THE DREAM WAS terrifying. Xander was hanging above a black pit. When he looked down he saw scores of blood-red eyes staring up at him, and bright fangs waiting to rip at his flesh. Xander glanced up, seeking reassurance from the man whose strong grip held firmly to Xander’s wrist.

Then he screamed – for the man holding him was a corpse, grey, rotting flesh peeling back from his bones. The decaying sinews at the wrist and the elbow began to stretch. The bones of the fingers broke away and Xander fell into the pit.

He awoke with a start, his legs drawing up in a spasm of movement. Eyes wide, he stared around the small, familiar resting room in the House of Serpents. Slowly his heartbeat returned to normal, the panic fading. He heard again the words of Odysseus. ‘My Penelope tells me there are two kinds of dreams. Some come through a Gate of Ivory, and their meanings are deceitful. Others come through a Gate of Horn, and these are heavy with fate.’

Xander sat up. Sunlight was bright outside the shuttered window, but the young healer was reluctant to open it. Once he did so his time of rest would be over, and he would once again walk among the dying and the maimed.

‘The dream is a deceit,’ he whispered. ‘It is merely a mixture of memories and fears.’ In that moment he pictured again the fury of the storm four years before, crashing down upon the Xanthos. Then only twelve, Xander had been on his first sea journey. Swept over the side by a colossal wave he should have drowned, but a powerful hand had grasped his wrist. The warrior Argurios had hurled himself across the rainswept deck to grab Xander before the sea could swallow him.

‘Memories and fears,’ whispered Xander, breathing slowly and deeply, now recalling the dissection of the beggar’s corpse a few days before.

The surgeon Zeotos had opened the flesh of the dead man’s arm, peeling it back from the elbow. ‘See,’ said the old man, ‘how the muscles attach, and the tendons. Remarkable!’ Four healers and five students had attended this grisly display of the surgeon’s skill. One of the youngsters had fainted, striking his head on the wall as he fell. Xander and the other three students had briefly enjoyed a feeling of superiority over their hapless colleague, until Zeotos had sawn through the chest bone and slit open the cadaver’s belly. Once the intestines were exposed the stench that filled the room was beyond bearing, and the young men had fled to the corridor beyond, the sound of the surgeon’s laughter following them.

These two memories – the cadaver and the ship in the storm – had blended to form the awful dream.

Feeling calmer Xander rose from the bed and moved to a stone basin set on a table beneath the window. Splashing water to his face he pushed his wet fingers through his curly hair. Refreshed, he opened the shutters, allowing sunlight in. There was little warmth in it, and the cold breeze heralded the onset of winter.

‘Xander!’ came the voice of Zeotos. The young student turned to see the white-bearded surgeon at the door of the resting room. ‘You have to return to work now,’ he said, his face a mask of exhaustion. Xander felt a rush of guilt. The old man had worked throughout the night without rest.

‘You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long, sir,’ he said.