The servants departed, and an elderly priest arrived. His robes were black, and on his spindly shoulders he wore the twin red sashes that denoted a follower of Ares.
“You have called upon the god of war to witness this duel,” he said. “Let it be understood, then, that Ares has no wish to see anything but a fight to the death. There will be no calls for mercy, no surrender, no flight. Only one combatant will walk away. The other will shed his lifeblood upon these stones. Let the duelists step forward.”
The first man Andromache saw was Persion. In the torchlight the pale skin of his torso seemed as white as marble against his dark, suntanned arms and legs. As he walked forward, he was stretching the muscles of his arms and shoulders, loosening them for combat. Then she saw Helikaon. Persion seemed taller and wider in the shoulder than Helikaon, and once again Andromache felt her fears grow. Both men were armed with sword and dagger, the bronze glinting like red gold in the torchlight.
“I call upon the gods to bear witness to the justness of my cause,” said Persion. Then he stepped in close and whispered something no one in the hall heard. But the sound carried to Andromache.
“I was there when we killed your brother. I set the flames to his tunic. Oh, how he screamed! As you will scream, Helikaon, when I cut the flesh from your bones.”
Helikaon did not reply or even seem to hear.
“Let the duel begin!” called out the priest, stepping back from the two fighters. Instantly Persion leaped to the attack, his sword lancing toward Helikaon’s head. The Dardanian danced to his left, avoiding the blow. The crowd gasped. A long red line had appeared across Persion’s belly, a shallow cut that began to leak blood. It streamed down over his genitals and thighs. Persion shouted an oath and atacked again, slashing out with his sword. Helikaon blocked the blow. Persion stabbed with his dagger. That, too, was parried. Helikaon hurled himself forward, hammering a head butt into the Mykene’s face, smashing his nose. Persion fell back with a cry. Helikaon stepped in, his sword slashing left and right with dazzling speed. Then he withdrew. The cut to the flesh of Persion’s belly had been joined by three other long wounds. Once again Persion rushed at Helikaon. This time the Dardanian stepped in to meet him, easily blocking and parrying the Mykene’s lunges. Helikaon’s dagger flashed out, slicing the skin of Persion’s cheek, which flapped down from his face like a torn sail.
Persion screamed in rage and frustration, hurling his knife at his tormentor. Helikaon swayed to his right, and the weapon sailed harmlessly past, clattering against the far wall. Persion charged, and Helikaon side-stepped. A crimson spray erupted from Persion’s arm, and Andromache saw that the limb had been slashed deeply. Blood was spurting from ruptured vessels.
“Call upon the gods again, wretch,” Helikaon taunted. “Perhaps they did not hear you.”
Persion advanced again. Blood was pouring from him, and Helikaon, too, was spattered with gore. The Mykene darted forward. His foot slipped. Helikaon leaped, slashing his sword across Persion’s mouth, splitting the skin and smashing the man’s front teeth. Persion fell to his knees, spitting blood. Then he struggled to his feet and swung back to face his enemy.
Helikaon showed no mercy to the wounded man. Again and again his sword and dagger cut and sliced the Mykene. One vicious slash ripped away an ear; another tore into his face, cutting away his nose. Not a sound came from the crowd, but Andromache could see the looks of horror on their faces. This was not a fight, not even an execution. It was cold-blooded annihilation. With every fresh and painful cut a cry of pain was torn from the mutilated Mykene. At last, his body drenched in blood, which had begun to pool at his feet, he dropped his sword and just stood there, blood streaming from him.
In that moment Helikaon tossed aside his sword, stepped in swiftly, and rammed his dagger into Persion’s heart. The Mykene sagged against him and let out a long, broken sigh.
Helikaon pushed the dying man from him. Persion’s legs gave way, and he tumbled to the floor.
Andromache had seen enough. Rising to her feet, she waited as Malkon replaced the panel of wood. Then the two of them returned to the rooftop. The wind had died down, but it was still cold.
The soldier led Andromache down the steps and out to the road leading to the beach. He walked with her in the moonlight until they were within sight of the Xanthos and the cookfires of the crew. Then, without a word, he turned back to the palace.
Andromache was met by Oniacus and other crewmen. She told them Helikaon had conquered. None was surprised. Paradoxically, though, they were all relieved.
Desiring no company, she moved far away from the campsite to a small section of beach close to a wood. Sitting alone by the water’s edge, a thick cloak wrapped around her, she could not push the images of the combat from her mind: Helikaon, in a cold fury, cutting and slashing an increasingly helpless opponent. Andromache saw again the spraying blood. By the end of the duel Helikaon’s naked body had been almost as crimson as that of his opponent.
Near midnight she saw Helikaon walking along the beach toward her. His hair was still wet from the bath he must have taken to remove the blood.
“You should be beside a fire,” he told her. “It is bitterly cold here.”
“Yes, it is,” she replied.
“What is wrong?” he asked her, sensing her mood. “One of our enemies has been defeated, we are provisioned for the journey to Thera, and all is well. You should be happy.”
“I am glad you survived, Helikaon. Truly I am. But I saw Kassandra’s red demon tonight, and he filled me with sadness.”
He looked confused. “There was no demon,” he said. “What are you talking about?”
Reaching up, she pressed her finger against the skin of his neck. As her hand came away, there was blood on the finger. “You missed a spot,” she said coldly.
Then he understood, and his voice deepened with anger. “I am no demon! The Mykene brought this upon himself. He was the one who set fire to my brother.”
“No, he was not,” Andromache told him. “King Alkaios talked to me of him during the feast. He said Persion had fought many duels in the lands of the west. But he had not been to sea before. How, then, could he have taken part in the first attack on Dardanos?”
“Then why would he say what he did?”
“You do not need to ask that.”
She was right. Even as he had spoken the words, Helikaon had known the answer. Persion had tried to make him angry and unsettle him for the fight. Angry men were mostly reckless, and reckless men did not last long in duels. He sat back and stared at Andromache. “He was a fool, then,” he said at last.
“Yes, he was,” she agreed with a sigh.
“You sound like you regret his death.”
She swung to face him, and he saw that she, too, was angry. “Yes, I regret it. But more than that, I regret watching you torment and destroy a brave opponent.”
“He was evil.”
Her hand snaked out, cracking against his face.
“You hypocrite! You were the evil one tonight. And the foulness of what you did will be spoken of all across the Great Green. How you tortured a proud man, turning him into a mewling wreck. It will be added to your heroic list of accomplishments: gouging the eyes from Alektruon, setting fire to bound men at Blue Owl Bay, raiding unarmed villages in the west. How dare you speak of the savagery of the Mykene when you are cast from the same bronze? There is no difference between you.”
With that she pushed herself to her feet to walk away. He surged up and grabbed her arm. “Easy for you, woman, to criticize me! You do not have to walk into ruined towns and see the dead or bury your comrades or see your loved ones raped and tortured.”