Troy 01 - Lord of the Silver Bow Read Free Page A

him.”
    “I shall leave tomorrow, lord.”
    “Attack him on the open sea, Kolanos. If you find him on land and the opportunity arises, have him stabbed, or throttled, or poisoned—I care not. But the trail of his death must not end at my hall. At sea do as you will. If you take him alive, saw the head from his shoulders—slowly. Ashore, make his death swift and quiet. A private quarrel. You understand me?”
    “I do, my king.”
    “When last I heard, Helikaon was in Kypros,” said Agamemnon, “overseeing the building of a great ship. I am told it will be ready to sail by season’s end. Time enough for you to light a fire under his soul.”
    There was a strangled cry from behind them. Agamemnon swung around. The old priest had opened his eyes again. His upper body was trembling, his arms jerking spasmodically.
    “The age of heroes is passing!” he shouted, his voice suddenly clear and strong. “The rivers are all of blood, the sky aflame! And look how men burn upon the Great Green!” His dying eyes fixed on Agamemnon’s face. “The Horse! Beware the Great Horse!” Blood spurted from his mouth, drenching his pale robes. His face contorted, his eyes wide with panic. Then another spasm shook him, and a last breath rattled from his throat.

II
    THE GOD OF THE SHRINE
    I
    The gods walk in times of storms. Little Phia knew this, for her mother often had told her stories of the immortals: how the spears of Ares, god of war, could be seen in the lightning and how the hammer of Hephaistos caused the thunder. When the seas grew angry, it meant Poseidon was swimming below the waves or being drawn in his dolphin chariot across the Great Green.
    The eight-year-old tried to quell her fears as she struggled up the muddy slope toward the shrine, her faded threadbare tunic offering no protection from the shrieking winds and driving rain lashing the coast of Kypros. Even her head was cold, for ten days earlier her mother had cut away her golden hair in a bid to free her of the lice and fleas on her scalp. Even so Phia’s thin body still was covered in sores and bites. Most of them were just itchy, but the rat bite on her ankle remained swollen and sore, the scab constantly breaking and fresh blood flowing.
    But those were small matters and did not concern the child as she pushed on toward the high shrine. When mother had taken sick yesterday, Phia had run to the healer in the center of town. Angrily he had told her to stand back from him. He did not visit those the gods had cursed with poverty, and had barely listened as she explained that her mother would not rise from her bed and that her body was hot and she was in pain.
    “Go to a priest,” he said.
    Phia had run through the port to the temple of Asklepios and queued there with others seeking guidance and help. The waiting people all carried some kind of offering. Many had snakes in wicker pots, some had small dogs, and others had gifts of food or wine. When at last she was allowed through the high doors, she was met by a young man who asked her what offering she had brought. She tried to tell him about her mother’s sickness, but he, too, ordered her away and called out for the person next in line, an old man carrying a wooden cage in which two white doves were cooing. Phia did not know what to do and returned home. Mother was awake, and she was talking to someone Phia could not see. Then she started crying. Phia began to cry, too.
    The storm came at dusk, and Phia remembered that the gods walked in harsh weather. She decided to speak to them herself.
    The shrine of Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow, was close to the angry sky, and Phia thought the gods might hear her better if she climbed to it.
    She was shivering as the night grew colder and was worried that the wild dogs roaming the hills would catch the scent of the blood on her ankle. She stumbled in the darkness. Her knee struck a rock, and she cried out. When she was small and hurt herself, she would run to Mother,