“No!” Andromache exclaimed. “Not at all. I didn’t want you to go into the fight overconfident. That is all.”
“Little danger of that now,” he said. “Come, we should go. It is ill mannered to keep either kings or killers waiting.”
Gershom belted his heavy woolen cloak against the strong breeze from the north and thought fleetingly of fine food and a warm bed. Ten nights of cold fitful sleep on winter beaches had left him nostalgic for the luxurious palaces of Egypte, the splendor of white-walled Memphis, the awesome majesty of Luxor. Places of soft sheets and softer women but, more than anything else, places of warmth.
He sighed. As Prince Ahmose, those palaces had been his, but as Gershom the outlaw, his home was wherever his blanket lay. Now is not the time to meditate on all that is lost, he told himself. There were Mykene on the island, and the Xanthos needed to be guarded against attack. Helikaon had sent scouts up into the cliffs to the south and across the shingle headland to the east.
To the west thin woodland grew almost down to the beach. More scouts lay hidden in the perimeter of the wood, overlooking the cliff path to the king’s citadel.
Crewmen free of guard duty settled by the cookfires. All those men remained alert, keeping their weapons close by. Yet despite the awareness of peril there was laughter and some singing in the gathering darkness, for these were men used to war and its dangers.
Gershom glanced at the star-filled sky and then sought out Oniacus. “We will rotate the guards when the moon reaches its height,” he told the crewman. “No one will get a full night’s sleep tonight. See that the wine is given out sparingly.”
“Much as I love the Xanthos, I would sooner be guarding Helikaon,” the younger man replied. “What if there is treachery there tonight?”
Gershom had similar thoughts but did not voice them. Instead he said, “Helikaon knows this king and trusts him. You think he would take the wife of Hektor and the daughter of Priam into danger?”
Oniacus’ face darkened. “Kassandra did not go with them,” he said, looking around in sudden alarm. “She said she would be with you.”
Gershom cursed. The wretched girl was nothing but trouble. He and Oniacus strode among the crew, asking if any had seen the girl. It was surprising how few had noticed her. A dark-haired princess in the midst of young strong men ought to have drawn their eyes. But it seemed she walked among them like a wraith. One of the cooks, however, recalled seeing her beside a narrow cliff path, which he pointed out. Then Gershom remembered the prayer fire she had spoken of.
“Stay alert, Oniacus,” he said. “I will find her.” Snatching his sword, he strode into the night.
As he climbed the path, he could see the king’s citadel awash with light far to his right. To the left the land was in darkness, but bright moonlight showed a narrow trail running up toward a rocky outcrop shrouded in trees. The trail was narrow, perhaps made by animals, but he followed it confidently. The sounds of night—the shrill creak of tree beetles and the croaking of frogs—pressed in on him as he left the sea behind. Small creatures rustled in the undergrowth, and close by he heard the bleating of unseen goats. He started to sweat under his wool cloak and paused for a moment. A faint smell of burning herbs drifted past his nostrils, and he turned his head slowly, seeking its source. His eye caught the faintest glow of firelight reflected on rock above him.
Climbing carefully in the moonlight, he found a deep cave in the rock that faced south and protected from the northerly winds. A fire had been set against the far wall, and smoke swirled up to the low ceiling.
“Kassandra?” he called, but there was no reply. Ducking his head, he moved deeper into the cave. The smell from the fire was acrid and faintly perfumed. The smoke stung his eyes, and he crouched down low to the rocky ground, seeking fresher air. “Kassandra!” he called again. His voice sounded strange in his ears. “Ka-ssan-dra!” he said, then chuckled at the weirdness of the sound. He slumped down, resting his head on his arm, and stared into the fire.
It was a poor effort, scarcely more than a small dry bush blazing, except that the leaves did not seem to be burning. Fires danced around them, bright as captured sunlight, leaving the leaves unmarked. Small though the fire was, it gave off a great deal of heat. Gershom clumsily undid the bronze cloak brooch, then let slip the garment. The effort drained him, causing him to breathe heavily, drawing in more of the sickly-sweet air of the cave. He found himself growing drowsy, yet his eyes remained open, staring into the fire. The sounds of the night drifted away.
The blaze seemed to be drawing him in, and his mind swirled with bright colors. And then the fire was gone, and he was dreaming.
He found himself floating in the moonlight above the palace garden in Thebes and laughed. How curious, he thought. I am dreaming, and I know I am dreaming. Below him he saw a female servant moving furtively, a newborn babe in her arms. It was wrapped in a blanket embroidered with gold. The woman was crying as she ran through the night-dark garden and out into the street beyond. Gershom recognized her, though she was far younger than he remembered. The last time he had seen Merysit, she had been frail and silver-haired, crippled with arthritis. A sweet-natured woman, she had been his nursemaid for seven years. Intrigued, he watched as the weeping woman ran through the gardens and out into a shadowed street. Then she made her way down to a broad riverbank, where she crouched down in the bullrushes. She hugged the babe to her, but its head flopped down, the eyes open and unstaring. In the bright moonlight Gershom saw that the infant was dead. A bearded old man dressed in the ragged clothes of a brickmaker moved out of the shadows Then another woman appeared, dressed in the flowing robes of the desert people. She, too, had a babe, but this one was alive. Merysit tenderly wrapped the living child in the golden blanket and ran back to the palace.
Gershom followed her up to the royal apartments, where his mother was sleeping. There was blood on the sheets. The queen opened her eyes. Merysit sat on the bed and passed the babe to her. It had begun to cry.
“Hush, little Ahmose, you are safe now,” the queen whispered.
It is just a dream, Gershom thought, fear flowing through him. Just a dream.
The image shifted, and he was soaring like a hawk above a burning desert. A multitude was crossing the sands: hard-faced men with worried eyes, women dressed in bright robes, small children darting among flocks of sheep and goats. And he saw himself, his beard streaked with silver, a gnarled staff in his hands. A young boy ran up to him, crying out a name.
Gershom blinked, and the vision faded, becoming once again a fire within a cave. Desperate to be away from the fire, he struggled to rise but then slumped down. The blazing twigs shifted and turned red. He saw shining rivers of blood flowing through a land of darkness and despair. He saw the face of his brother Rameses, gray with grief.
Then the fire grew again, filling his vision. Flames blazed high into the sky, and he heard the roar of a thousand thunders. Darkness blotted out the sun. Gershom watched in horror as the sea rose up to meet roiling black clouds. The fury of the vision caused him to cry out and cover his face with his hands. Yet still he saw…
Finally the fire burned out, and cool fresh air blew into the cave. Tears streaming from his eyes, he crawled out into the night and collapsed on the wet earth of the entrance. Kassandra was sitting there, slim and straight, a garland of olive leaves around her head.
“And now you begin to see,” she said softly. It was not a question.
Gershom rolled to his back and stared up at the stars. His head began to clear. “You put opiates in the flames.”