At twenty-eight years of age Alkaios was content with his life.
Success, as the king had discovered many years before, lay in harmony and balance. That path had not been easy for Alkaios. As a child he had been passionate and outspoken, much to the chagrin of his father, who had impressed on him the need to control his emotions. All decisions, his father had maintained, had to be based on rational thought and careful consideration. His father continually had mocked him for his inability to think clearly. At the age of twenty Alkaios finally had realized that his father was right. The understanding that followed freed him, and he went to his father, thanked him, plunged a dagger into his heart, and became king.
After that no one mocked him, and harmony and balance abounded. On the rare occasions when someone put that harmony under threat, he found the dagger to be a source of instant relief.
Not today, though, Alkaios thought irritably. Today there was little balance to be found.
The previous day he had been preparing to move to his summer palace on the western coast, away from the harsh northern winds of winter. Two of his wives were pregnant, the third delightfully barren. The trading season had been, despite the war, more profitable than last summer. The gods had, it seemed, smiled upon Alkaios.
Then the Mykene galley had returned, and now, his journey to the southwest delayed, he was forced to play the genial host with two of Agamemnon’s creatures, one a snake and one a lion. Both were dangerous.
The pale-eyed Mykene ambassador Kleitos was pointing out how greatly Agamemnon King would appreciate it if next summer’s Minoan grain could be used to feed the armies of the west once the invasion of Troy began.
The voice of Kleitos droned on. Alkaios was barely listening. He had heard it before. Minoan grain was shipped all over the Great Green, and the profits were high. Supplying Agamemnon would be, as Kleitos so disingenuously put it, an “act of faith.” The profits for Alkaios, he maintained, would be handsome, and paid from the sacked treasury of Troy. Alkaios had suppressed a smile at that. As his father once had said, “You don’t pull a lion’s teeth until you see the flies on its tongue.” At the thought of lions Alkaios flicked a glance at the second Mykene, the warrior Persion.
Powerfully built, with a black forked beard, Persion stood silently by, one hand on his sword. Alkaios knew his type. The arrogance in his dark eyes spoke of victories. This was a warrior, a killer, and probably at times an assassin. Persion stood unblinking and statue-still, his presence a mute warning: Those who went against Agamemnon’s wishes did not survive very long.
Alkaios leaned back in his chair and called for more wine. A servant crossed the floor of the megaron and filled his cup. A cold breeze was blowing through the old building, and Alkaios strolled to a burning brazier set near the north wall. Kleitos followed him.
“This war will be won in the summer,” he said. “The greatest fleet ever seen will bring seventy thousand men to the walls of Troy. The city cannot withstand our might.”
“Interesting,” Alkaios mused. “Do I not recall a similar comment from you last year?”
“There have been unexpected setbacks,” Kleitos answered, his lips thinning. “There will be no more, I can assure you.”
Alkaios smiled inwardly. “Forgive me,” he said mildly. “You are assuring me you are expecting no further unexpected setbacks? If you had expected them in the first place, they would not have been unexpected. That is the very nature of surprise, Kleitos. That it is always unexpected. So, essentially, you are maintaining that Prince Hektor and his Trojan Horse, and wily Priam, and deadly Aeneas have no capacity left to surprise you. Bold assertions, if I may say so.”
Kleitos blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “I am a soldier. Word games do not interest me. What I am saying, Alkaios King, is that Troy is doomed.”
“I expect you are correct,” the king responded amicably. “However, only last year I was speaking to King Peleus of Thessaly. He told me how much he was looking forward to destroying the Trojan Horse and forcing the braggart Hektor to kiss the dirt at his feet. I heard only yesterday that they met at Carpea, but I do not recall hearing of any dirt kissing.”
He could see that Kleitos was growing angry and knew it would not be long before soft words gave way to hard threats. It annoyed him that he would have to find a way to placate the creature. To irritate Agamemnon’s ambassador was enjoyable but not wise.
The conversation was interrupted by a pounding on the wide door of the megaron. A servant swiftly pulled it open just long enough to allow a stocky soldier to enter. Alkaois saw that it was his captain of cavalry, Malkon. A strong breeze blew through the building. Cinders danced up from the brazier, causing Kleitos to step back. Malkon advanced toward the king. He was a short, wide-shouldered man wearing a breastplate of bronze. Thumping his fist against the armor, he bowed his head to Alkaios.
“What is it, Malkon?”
“A large… galley, lord, has beached at Thetis Rock.” Alkaios noted the hesitation before the word “galley” and looked closely at his captain. “They are traveling to Thera,” the soldier went on, “bringing a new priestess to serve the Minotaur. They request permission to spend the night on the beach and purchase supplies.”
“I see,” the king replied, his mind racing. Malkon had full power to grant such permission and would not have interrupted him if that had been the only concern. He was a sharp, intelligent man, and therefore the interruption meant the new arrival posed some threat or a complication beyond the capacity of a captain to resolve. A king of a neighboring island, perhaps? He dismissed the thought at once. Malkon would have granted permission instantly. No, it had to be connected with the Mykene being there.
That meant it was a Trojan vessel or some ally of Priam’s. But why the emphasis on it being a large galley?
Realization struck home like a lance, though the king’s expression did not change. He looked into Malkon’s blue eyes. “A ship bound for Thera,” he said slowly. “So late in the year. Ah, well, the gods demand we must offer them our hospitality. Not so, Kleitos?” he asked suddenly, looking at the Mykene.
“We must always offer respect to the lords of the earth,” Kleitos answered. “Otherwise they will withdraw from us their favor or curse our endeavors.”
“Quite so, and admirably put.” Swinging back to the soldier, he said, “Go and tell the newcomers they are welcome to stay the night.”
Malkon nodded and strode back toward the door. As he reached it, Alkaios called out to him. “Are there any among them known to us?”
Malkon cleared his throat. “Aeneas of Dardania, my lord. He is taking a daughter of Priam to be a priestess.”
“The Burner is here!” Kleitos roared. “This is insufferable! He must be held by your forces. Agamemnon King will reward you handsomely.”
“I cannot hold him, Kleitos,” Alkaios said. “The ship is bound for the temple at Thera, and as you said yourself only moments ago, we must give respect to the gods.” Turning back to Malkon, he called out, “Invite King Aeneas and his passengers to the palace this evening.”
The soldier walked swiftly from the megaron. Alkaios turned to Kleitos. “Do not be so glum, my friend,” he said, laying his arm over the Mykene’s shoulder. “That man of yours, Persion, looks like a fighter.”