Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  But the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the king’s son and chancellor, Polites. Stooping and balding, Polites seemed to age a year for every season that passed. His face was pale, his eyes dark-ringed, his mouth permanently downturned. “We need to speak, Antiphones,” he said.

  “You forget your manners, Brother,” Antiphones admonished him. Only then did Polites notice Andromache. His tired face reddened with embarrassment.

  “I am sorry, Sister,” he told her. “Please forgive me.”

  “No need to apologize, Polites. You are obviously more in need of Antiphones’ fellowship than I am. Therefore, I will leave you both to talk.”

  Andromache left the megaron and, trailed by two bodyguards, made her way back toward the palace of Hektor. Once she was outside, her problems returned to haunt her. She understood Hektor’s fears. There had been honesty between them from the first, so he knew she loved Helikaon. Now the thought of his wife sailing across the Great Green with Helikaon must be burrowing into his mind like a maggot into an apple.

  Her heart in turmoil, Andromache paused by a well. One of her guards, thinking she was thirsty, drew up a bucket. Andromache thanked him and sipped a little water from a wooden ladle. Thoughts of Kalliope suddenly filled her mind. Sweet, damaged, brave Kalliope. And she remembered the vile killers, the blazing farm, and Kalliope, standing tall on the hillside shooting arrows down at the assassins. Tears formed as she struggled to hold to that heroic image. But she could not, and cold reality made her see again the black shaft ripping into Kalliope. Now all that remained of her lover was the few bones Andromache had gathered from the ashes of the funeral pyre. They were contained in an ebony and silver chest beneath a window in her bedchamber.

  Andromache had dreamed of returning the bones to the Blessed Isle and burying them in the tamarisk grove beside the temple of Artemis. Now the High Priestess planned to hurl Kalliope’s bones into the pit and chain her spirit to serve the Minotaur forever.

  “Are you well, lady?” asked Ethenos, the youngest of her guards. “You are looking very pale.” He was a serious young man and a cousin to the murdered Cheon, who had died along with Kalliope on the day of the assassins.

  “I am fine,” she told the fair-haired soldier. It was a lie.

  Kalliope had adored the goddess Artemis, had prayed to her many times a day. Had that adoration been repaid in any way? Raped as a child, betrayed by her family, and then murdered by assassins. Not twenty years old when she died. Now, even after death, she was to be brutalized.

  For a moment only Andromache thought of praying to the goddess, but the voice of her anguish screamed out then. You think Artemis or any of the gods cares a whit about your life or Kalliope’s? Think on it! Have any of your prayers ever been answered?

  Suddenly Andromache smiled, but her thoughts were bitter. When she first had left Thera, she had wanted nothing more than to return to the Blessed Isle, to its simple life, with Kalliope. She had prayed for that and for the freedom she never had known before or since. And in her first unhappy days in Troy she had daydreamed about Helikaon taking her away on the Xanthos and had prayed for that also. Now, like a knife twisting in her gut, the gods had decided she would have both prayers twistedly fulfilled.

  Cold anger coursed through her. The demigod would not have Kalliope, not even if the fate of worlds hung on it. Yes, she would take bones to Thera, but not those of her lover.

  The decision made, she dropped the ladle into the bucket and walked on. At the palace she dismissed her guard, nodded to the soldiers at the side gates, then stepped through into the courtyard gardens. She saw Astyanax playing in the dirt, Hektor kneeling beside him.

  Her love for Astyanax was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was as if he were tied to her with tender ropes. Each time she left him, even for a day, there was a dull ache in her heart. An entire winter without him would be close to unbearable. Her heart began to pound with increasing panic. She also feared for his life. She was afraid of traitors, spies, poison, and the dagger in the night.

  Then the sun moved beyond the clouds and shone down on her child and the powerful man beside him. The two were disheveled and covered with dust, as if they had been rolling on the ground. They were kneeling, facing each other, engrossed in something in the dirt between them. The boy pointed to an insect or a leaf, perhaps, and raised his small face in inquiry to his father. The expression of love and tenderness on Hektor’s face made a lump form in Andromache’s throat.

  The panic passed. He loves Astyanax, she thought, and he will never stop. He will guard the boy with his life.

  Quietly, unnoticed, she went into the palace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MEN OF COPPER AND BRONZE

  Entering her high, airy apartments, Andromache greeted the two young handmaids who sat in an outer room embroidering heavy cloth. Both were Women of the Horse and wore hip belts crafted from bronze disks threaded with gold wire.

  Andromache recalled the first day she had seen such a belt. Heavily pregnant, she had been walking with Hektor along the Street of Goldsmiths. A young woman with braided blond hair had been standing by a stall. Her tunic had been long and white, and around her hips there had hung a disk belt.

  “I would like one of those,” Andromache said.

  Hektor stared at her curiously. “I think you do not know what the belt signifies,” he said softly.

  “No, I do not,” she replied honestly.

  “If ever you get one, it will mean I am dead.”

  Andromache learned then of the Women of the Horse, wives and daughters of soldiers killed serving with the Trojan Horse. The belts were crafted from the breastplate disks of the fallen.

  Andromache’s handmaids were sisters, the raven-haired daughters of a warrior named Ursos who had died in the battle for Dardanos. They would work in the palace until suitable husbands were found from among the ranks of the Horse. The older one, Penthesileia, was tall with deep-set eyes and a strong chin. Her sister, Anio, younger and more nervous, was slight of build and pretty.

  “Is there anything we can do for you, lady?” Penthesileia asked.

  “No. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, lady,” Anio said. “There is fresh bread in the kitchen. Shall I fetch some?”

  Andromache smiled at her. The girl was fifteen years old and desperately eager to please. “I need nothing at the moment,” she told her. “Why don’t you and your sister go for a walk. Familiarize yourselves with the palace.”

  “We are your handmaids,” said stern Penthesileia. “We must serve you.”

  Andromache sighed. “Yes, you are my handmaids, and you will also be my friends. You are not slaves. You are daughters of a hero. If I need you, I will call for you.”

  “Yes, lady,” Anio answered. “You have a guest waiting in your chambers. The princess Kassandra.” She suddenly looked nervous. “She is”—she dropped her voice—“talking to herself.”

  “She does that,” Andromache told her. “Do not let it concern you.”

  Walking through to her inner rooms, Andromache heard Kassandra speaking excitedly. “I did not see it, Dios. I don’t see everything.” She sounded distraught.

  As Andromache entered the room, she saw Kassandra sitting and staring at a wall. Dressed in her usual black, her wild hair pulled roughly back with combs, she was alone.

  Andromache took a deep breath and approached the girl. “I’m so glad to see you, Kassandra,” she said, sitting beside her on the couch. “I’ve missed you these past few months.”

  Kassandra’s head drooped forward, and she sighed. “Did you know Vora died?” she asked.

  “Who is Vora?”

  Kassandra’s eyes had a faraway look. “Vora was a dolphin. She was very old. Cavala, her mate, sings of her. He will spend a year traveling the Great Green singing her song in every place she loved; then he will follow her to the ocean of the South Wind, and they will be together again.”

  Andromache smiled. “Perhaps he
will swim to Thera with us.”

  “No. He is frightened of Thera. He won’t go there. I am frightened of it, too. I never expected to be.” Kassandra sighed and leaned forward, her hands on her lap. She looked just like a child again.

  Andromache put her arm around Kassandra’s shoulder. “There is no need for fear. Thera is a place of beauty and serenity. You will like it there.”

  “Thera is where the world will end,” Kassandra whispered. “I will rise into the sky like an eagle, and three kings will die with me…” Her voice tailed away.

  Andromache kissed her cheek. “Why not come to the gardens with me. We can shoot our bows. You used to enjoy that. It will lift your spirits.”

  Kassandra straightened and suddenly smiled. “Of course!” she said. “We must prepare them. It can begin now. I would like that. It’s very important!”

  She ran to the far wall and took two bows and two quivers of arrows down from the rack. Then she rushed into the outer room. Andromache followed. Kassandra ran to the sisters.

  “Put down the embroidery,” she ordered them, then pushed the bows into their hands. “You must learn to shoot! The Women of the Horse with shaft and bow!” She swung back to Andromache. “You see? You see, Andromache?” Her head jerked, and she turned away. “What? Yes…” she said to the wall. Then she nodded and sighed.

  Looking into Andromache’s eyes, she smiled sadly. “Too soon,” she said. “But you will remember, Andromache? The Women of the Horse? You will teach them the bow?”

  “Be calm, little sister,” Andromache said softly. The girls were standing very still, their eyes watchful. Andromache put her arms around Kassandra’s slender shoulders. “Come, let us take our bows and go to the garden,” she said, retrieving the weapons from the sisters.

  “You will remember?” Kassandra cried.

  “I will. I promise. I will teach them to shoot.” Turning to the sisters, she asked, “Would you like to learn the bow?”

  “I can shoot a little,” Penthesileia answered. “Father taught me. And yes, I would enjoy taking up a bow again.”

  Andromache felt the tension fade from Kassandra. The young princess looked at Penthesileia and smiled. “You will be a warrior woman of Troy, and great songs will be sung of your bravery.” Pulling away from Andromache, she said: “We will not need the bows now.”

  Andromache returned the weapons to the inner chamber and led Kassandra through the palace and into the gardens, where the shadows were lengthening. Hektor saw them and walked over, Astyanax sleeping in his arms.

  Andromache smiled at her husband, who leaned in and kissed her. “I am sorry for your hurt today,” she told him.

  Hektor nodded. “It is already forgotten.” She knew it was a lie, but it was meant well.

  Kassandra stepped up to him. She took his free hand and kissed it and held it against her cheek. “I will not see you after tonight. You will remember me kindly, won’t you? Not as a little madwoman.” Tears suddenly fell to her cheeks.

  Instantly Hektor passed the sleeping boy to Andromache and took Kassandra into his arms.

  “I will miss you,” he said, kissing her brow. “I love you, and I always have. You are my little sister, and I treasure you.”

  “I am not mad, Hektor. I do see things.”

  “I know.”

  In the still silence that followed a soldier burst through the courtyard gates and ran across the garden toward them. “Hektor! Lord Hektor!” He stopped and hesitated as if suddenly aware of the impact of his news.

  “Well?” said Hektor, releasing Kassandra and facing the soldier. “Speak, Mestares, my friend! No one is going to slice out your tongue.”

  “It is Dios, lord. He has been killed. Murdered in the lower town.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then Andromache realized she could hear the sound of her heart beating. Her friend Dios dead? It seemed impossible.

  “It was the Mykene merchant Plouteus,” Mestares explained. “He and his sons. They attacked him in the marketplace. Plouteus was killed by someone in the crowd. One of his sons fled; the other was captured. Paris was there. He will know more than I.”

  “Paris? Was he hurt?”

  “No, lord,” the soldier replied.

  A female servant came into the garden and hurried up to them. “Lord Hektor,” she cried. “The king has sent for you.”

  Hektor’s face was ashen, and he left the garden without a word of farewell to Andromache or Kassandra.

  The servant girl approached Andromache. “Shall I take the boy, lady?” she asked softly.

  Andromache nodded and passed the child to her. Astyanax moaned a little and then settled his head on the girl’s shoulder.

  As the servant moved away, a cool breeze whispered across the garden, rustling the dried leaves on the pathway. Andromache saw that Kassandra was standing there, her large blue-gray eyes full of tears.

  “You knew he was dead, didn’t you?” Andromache said. “You were speaking to his spirit.”

  Kassandra nodded. “The fat merchant had weak eyes. He thought Dios was Helikaon.”

  Andromache recalled seeing Dios earlier that day. He had been wearing a white tunic similar to Helikaon’s. Odysseus once had remarked on the resemblance between the two men. “They look alike,” he had said, “but they are very different. They are copper and bronze. Both have value.” His eyes had twinkled mischievously. “In a whorehouse a man needs copper rings to buy his pleasure. In battle, though, a man needs sharp bronze in his hand. Helikaon is bronze. Dios is copper.”

  Kassandra’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Dios will be honored in death. His bones will lie in the city he loved. That is important, you know.”

  “Yes,” Andromache said. “I am sure that it is.”

  Kassandra leaned in close. “Kalliope wants you to take her home. You can carry her back to the tamarisk grove, where she was most happy, where she sat with you on that midsummer’s night. You remember?”

  Andromache could not answer, but she nodded, tears coursing down her face.

  “You can speak to her there,” Kassandra said. “You will feel her in your heart.”

  Andromache shook her head. “No,” she said, “I cannot take her home. I will not allow her spirit to be chained.”

  Pale predawn light shone through high windows as Andromache kissed her sleeping son and allowed herself a few heartbeats to enjoy the warmth of his cheek against her face. Then she stood and strode from her apartments.

  Dressed in an ankle-length tunic of yellow wool and wrapped in a heavy gray-green cloak, Andromache made her way through the quiet palace and out into the night. Kassandra was waiting at the portico, her slight figure also enveloped in a dark cloak. Close by, servants held torches, lighting a four-seat chariot. Horses shifted nervously and whinnied softly in the flickering light.

  Suddenly Hektor appeared out of the gloom. In full armor and ready for travel, he picked up Kassandra and swung her high like a child before placing her gently into the chariot. She looked flustered and pleased. Then he kissed Andromache and handed her into the vehicle, too. She smiled down at him and touched his cheek. They had talked long into the night. Today he would ride south to protect her father’s lands while she sailed enemy seas to Thera.

  “May the gods keep you from harm,” he said, “and bring you back to me.”

  The charioteer touched the reins lightly to the horses’ backs, and, surrounded by a troop of cavalry, the chariot set off down the stone road toward the bay.

  The two women held on tightly as the vehicle bumped through the wakening streets. At the Scaean Gate they paused as the great gate was opened, and the noise of the wooden wheels, creaking harness, and snorting horses died down.

  Sadness settled on her as she thought again of Dios. She regretted missing the ritual farewell the next day but promised herself that wherever the Xanthos beached that night, she would speak her own words of goodbye to his shade. The chariot lurched forward. Andromache grabbed the rail as th
e vehicle thundered toward the beach.

  And there, in the distance, she saw the mighty Xanthos. Twice the size of any ship on the King’s Beach, the Xanthos lay half-in, half-out of the water, resting slightly to one side. Despite the great bulk, the warship had grace and beauty. As the chariot clattered down to the beach, drawing up close to the Xanthos, the first rays of the rising sun speared over the horizon, turning the polished oak timbers to gold.

  The Xanthos, still and serene, was surrounded by people: crewmen shinnying up ropes to the top deck, beachmasters and their workers loading cargo, early-rising fishermen and home-going whores lingering to watch the launch.

  As she got down from the chariot, Andromache wondered for a moment how they were going to get on board, but as they neared the ship, a sturdy wooden ladder was passed down to the sand at the stern. At the top she could see the reassuring figure of Gershom leaning down over the rail. He waved and called out a greeting.

  Then curly-haired Oniacus trudged across the sand. “Can you manage, lady? You can sit in a sling if you prefer.”

  “To be hauled up like livestock, Oniacus? My sister and I can manage a ladder.” She softened the sharp words with a smile, remembering that the man only recently had lost his family at Dardanos.

  “The rest of your belongings are already aboard,” he said. “They are stored at the rear of the lower deck.”

  “And the ebony box?” she asked.

  Oniacus nodded. “Safe, lady, alongside your luggage. Your bow is there also, and two fine quivers. Let us hope you do not find use for them—beyond practice, I mean.”

  Andromache saw that Kassandra was about to speak and cut across her. “Thank you, Oniacus,” she said. “We also took your advice and brought extra warm clothing. Oiled woolen cloaks and leggings.”

  “That is good. The weather may be savagely cold and wet.”

  Andromache took Kassandra by the arm and led her to the ladder. “You go up first,” she told her. “I will follow and steady your foot if you slip.”