“No, I don’t,” she snapped, her green eyes flashing. “But those Mykene who returned to settlements you destroyed will have seen it. They will have buried loved ones you killed or tortured. I thought you a hero, brave and noble. I thought you intelligent and wise; then I hear you talk of all Mykene as evil. Argurios, who fought and died beside you, was a hero. And he was Mykene. The two men with Kalliope who saved me from assassins—they were Mykene!”
“Three men!” he stormed. “What of the thousands who swarm like locusts through the lands they conquer? What of the hordes waiting to descend on Troy?”
“What do you want me to tell you, Helikaon? That I hate them? I do not. Hate is the father of all evil. Hate is what creates men like Agamemnon and men like you, vying with each other to see who can commit the most ghastly atrocity. Let go of my arm!”
But he did not release her. She dragged back on his grip, then angrily lashed out with her other hand. Instinctively he pulled her closer, his arm circling her waist. This close, he could smell the perfume of her hair and feel the warmth of her body against his. Her forehead cracked against his cheek, and he grabbed her hair to prevent her from butting him again.
And then, before he knew what he was doing, he was kissing her. The taste of wine was on her lips, and his mind swam. For a moment only she struggled; then her body relaxed against him, and she responded to the kiss, just as she had on the stairs four years before. He drew her closer, his hands sliding down over her hips, drawing up her dress until he felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.
Then they were lying down, still entwined, her arms around his neck. He felt the hunger in her kisses. It matched his own. She was beneath him now, and her legs opened, her thighs sliding over his hips. With a groan of pleasure he entered her.
Their lovemaking was fierce. No words were spoken. In all his life he never had known such intensity of passion, such completeness of being. Nothing existed in all the world except this woman beneath him. He had no sense of place or time or even identity. There was no war, no mission, no life beyond. There was no guilt, only a joy he had experienced only once before, in a delirium dream on the point of death.
Andromache cried out then, the sound feral. Her body arched against his. Then he, too, groaned and relaxed against her, holding her close.
Only then did he become aware of the lapping of the waves on the shoreline, the whispering of the breeze through the treetops. He looked down into her face, into her green eyes. He was about to speak when she curled her arm around his neck and drew him into a soft embrace. “No more words tonight,” she whispered.
CHAPTER NINE
VOYAGE OF THE BLOODHAWK
A half day’s sail to the east, in a protected bay on the isle of Naxos, the sailors of the Bloodhawk and the crews of four other galleys sat in a circle around the legendary storyteller Odysseus. His voice thundered out a tale of gods and men and a ship caught up in a great storm that flew high into the sky and anchored on the silver disk of the moon. The audience cheered wildly as the stocky king embellished his tale with stories of nymphs and dryads.
Sitting quietly a little distance from the circle, the warrior Achilles listened intently. He enjoyed the tales of Odysseus, especially those in which mortal men defied the gods and won the day. But mostly he loved the images they contained of comrades standing together like brothers, caring for one another, dying for one another.
“How did you get down from the sky?” yelled a man in the crowd.
Odysseus laughed. “We took down the sail, cut it in half, and strapped the pieces to the oars. Then, using the sail as wings, we flew down. Tiring work, I can tell you, flapping those oars.”
“The last time you told that tale,” another man shouted, “you said you called on Father Zeus, who sent fifty eagles to bring you down.”
“That was a different tale,” Odysseus thundered, “and I didn’t want to waste a sail. Now, if any other cowson interrupts me, I’ll soak him in oil and swallow him whole.”
Achilles smiled. There was no one like Odysseus. He gazed fondly at the old king. He was dressed in a tunic of faded red, his ornate belt of gold straining around his large belly. His beard was more silver than red now, and his hair was thinning, yet he radiated a power that was ageless.
They first had met many years earlier when Achilles was still a child in his father’s palace at Thessaly. He had crept from his bedchamber and hidden with his sister Kalliope on the wide gallery above Peleus’ megaron to listen to the tales of Odysseus. He had been thrilled then with the stories of heroes, and both of the children had sat wide-eyed.
Thoughts of his sister brought with them a sense of sadness and loss. He remembered his first real conversation with Odysseus after the fall of the Thrakian city of Kalliros. The Ugly King had brought a fleet of supply ships up the river and then had entertained the troops. Achilles had invited him to dine with him in the captured palace.
Odysseus had been tired after his performance, and the meeting had been stilted. Somewhere during the evening Kalliope had been mentioned. Odysseus’ eyes had hardened. “A fine, brave girl,” he had said. “I liked her enormously.”
“She betrayed the House of Peleus,” Achilles had replied.
For a moment Odysseus had said nothing. He had swirled the wine in his cup and then drained it. “Let us talk of other matters, Achilles, for I am not one to insult a man at his own feast.”
The response had surprised the young warrior. “I was not aware that I said anything that could give birth to an insult. I was merely stating a fact.”
“No, lad, you were merely repeating a great lie. I do not believe Kalliope was capable of betrayal any more than you are. She left Thera because a seer told her a friend would be in grave danger. She made her way, through great perils, to save that friend. And she died doing so.”
“That is not what I meant,” Achilles had said. “She betrayed my father.”
“And now we really must stop talking about her,” Odysseus had said, rising from the table. “Otherwise we will come to blows. And I am too old and fat to trade punches with a young warrior like you. Thank you for the meal.”
Achilles had risen to clasp hands with the older man.
“Let us not part with ill feeling,” he had said. “As a child I loved your stories. They inspired me. They made me determined to be a hero. All my life I have struggled to live up to that dream.”
Odysseus’ expression had softened then. “There is more to life than heroism, Achilles. There is love and friendship and laughter. It seems to me you know too little of these.”
Achilles had been embarrassed then. “I know of them,” he had said defensively. “When we were young, Kalliope and I were very close. And a man could have no greater friend than my shield bearer Patroklos. I have known him since we were children.”
“Let us have some wine,” Odysseus had said, reseating himself, “and we’ll talk of the woes of the world and how, through the brilliance of our minds, we can set them right.”
And they had talked long into the night. As they were draining their fifth flagon of wine, as the pearly light of dawn appeared in the east, Achilles had confessed he had never enjoyed a conversation so much.
Odysseus had laughed. “We are not rivals, you see, lad,” he had explained. “I am too old to be competition for you. And you know, that is why you lack friends. You are Achilles, and you compete for everything. Most young men are in awe of you or frightened of you. Only Patroklos feels no awe in your presence, for he was brought up with you and knows all your weaknesses as well as your strengths.”