by David
Then she wondered, as she did each day, where the Xanthos was and whether Helikaon still lived. Her traitor heart, one moment mourning Hektor, now ached for Helikaon. The blissful time she had spent with him, more than a hundred days, on their voyage west now seemed as though it had happened in another lifetime.
Sitting on the high golden throne, she wept for both of the men she loved.
Suddenly she started and swiped the tears from her cheeks. A young messenger, hardly more than a boy, raced in through the high doorway. He stopped, gawping to see her on Priam’s throne, and she stood up.
“The enemy have broken through, lady. They are coming!”
Andromache stood by the throne, feeling a tension that was almost unbearable. She knew she should be doing something, but she did not know what. Outside she heard the sound of distant thunder rolling over the sea.
After what seemed a lifetime of waiting, two soldiers staggered into the megaron, supporting a comrade. All three were injured, but the one in the middle was dying, she could see. Blood was pumping out of a deep gash in his leg, and she knew that a vital blood vessel had been torn.
“Take him to the queen’s apartments,” she ordered, pointing up the stone staircase. “We will care for the wounded there.” She wondered how many healers, if any, were still in the city.
Soon people started pouring in through the doors: wounded soldiers, old men, and a few women. There was fear and exhaustion on every face, and they all looked to her to tell them what to do. She sent the wounded to the queen’s apartments and ordered the women to tend to them as best they could. The men she set to work stripping the weaponry off the walls.
At last Polites arrived, looking ten years older than when she last had seen him two days before. His thin body was lost in someone else’s cavalry armor, and he pulled the high helm off with evident relief.
“The enemy has won the city,” he told her briefly. “Our generals believe they will not attack the palace until tomorrow, so we have time to prepare.”
“I have sent the wounded to the queen’s apartments,” she said. “There is some food and plenty of water in the kitchens. We need an armory.” She pointed to three women coming in with armfuls of spent arrows to be sorted through.
“Why are there still women here?” Polites asked with anguish. “Why did they not leave when they could?”
“For the same reason you did not, Polites,” Andromache replied. “They are Trojans who are prepared to stay and die for their city, like you. You could have left long ago, as Kreusa did. Or you could have fled in the days after the taking of King’s Joy. These women made the same decision you did. Respect them for it.”
“See that they stay within the palace,” Polites told her. “The city will be a place of horror tonight for anyone outside the palace walls. Agamemnon’s troops will be working off the frustrations of an idle summer. No one will be left alive.”
Andromache thought of her two boys. They were safe for the moment but would not be for long. Feeling panic rising in her breast, she ruthlessly pushed it down.
“Where is Polydorus?” she asked Polites briskly. “He should be here. He has planned the defense of the palace.”
“I saw him at the barricade,” he answered. “He is a soldier. He could not wait here doing nothing while the city was under attack.”
“Sometimes it is hardest just to wait and do nothing.” She felt anger replacing the rising panic. “Polydorus was charged with command of the palace. He has deserted his post—and his king.”
“You are being too harsh, Andromache,” Polites chided her. “Polydorus has always been a dutiful son of Troy. He found it frustrating looking after Father. His city is in danger. He is a soldier,” he repeated.
Andromache looked at him with surprise. “As a soldier,” she said scornfully, “his duty was to look after the king, not to fight in the streets. Any common soldier can do that. Polydorus was honored for his valiant part in the palace siege by being made the king’s aide, Priam’s bodyguard. He has now abandoned the king. How can you defend him, Polites?”
Frowning, he answered, “Sometimes there is a higher duty, Sister, a duty to one’s conscience.”
Andromache took a deep breath and sighed. “I am sorry, Polites. I should not be arguing with you. It is getting dark, and I must say good night to my boys. Then, if Polydorus has not returned, we will get together and make our own plans. Perhaps the generals will be here by then.”
She hurried up the stone staircase, feeling her heart beating noisily. Ruefully she admitted to herself that fear for her boys had expressed itself as anger. In the queen’s apartments she made her way to the boys’ bedchamber. Anio was not to be seen. Then she remembered she had told the girl to find cloth to make bandages. She found little Dex on his own, sitting on the floor playing with his favorite toy, a battered wooden horse with blue eyes he had brought from Dardanos.
She looked around, then squatted down with the boy.
“Where is Astyanax?” she asked him, pushing his fair fringe back off his face.
“He went with the man,” the child said, handing her the toy to play with.
She frowned, and a trickle of dread entered her heart. She heard again the distant sound of thunder. “What man, Dex?”
“The old man took him,” he told her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DEATH OF A KING
“I will find your son,” the warrior Kalliades promised Andromache. “I will not return to you without him.”
They had searched the palace high and low, but there was no sign of Astyanax or of Priam. The king’s body servant told Polites he had left the old man wrapped in a blanket in a chair on the balcony. He was feeble and lost, the man said defensively, living in the comforting world of the distant past. Since the death of Hektor he had lived there all the time.
Back in the megaron, Kalliades swiftly stripped off his armor until he wore only his bronze-reinforced leather kilt and sandals. “Find a dark cloak for me to wear,” he told Andromache. She glanced at him, annoyance overtaking the anxiety in her eyes, but she gestured to one of her handmaids.
“Make that two,” Banokles said, loosening his breastplate.
“General,” Kalliades urged his comrade. “You will be vital here to rally the troops.”
“They won’t attack tonight,” the blond warrior replied confidently.
“No,” Kalliades agreed. “Agamemnon will give them free rein tonight to plunder as they will. But by first light we must be ready for them. We have barely enough soldiers left to man the palace walls as it is. Our warriors trust you and will fight to the death for you.”
Polites stepped forward nervously. “I will go with you, Kalliades,” he suggested, “if you will have me. I know my father, and I can guess where he will be going.”
He had expected the tall warrior to refuse his aid, but instead Kalliades said, “Thank you, lord. He cannot have gotten far. We can only hope he has not been captured, and the boy with him.”
The handmaid returned with two dark hooded cloaks. Kalliades swiftly donned his sword belt and then the cloak. Polites watched him and then awkwardly did the same.
Kalliades told the prince, “The storm will be our ally tonight. We will stay in the shadows until we find two Mykene warriors. Then we will take their armor.”
Polites nodded without speaking, fearing his voice would quaver. He had never been a warrior. He had left that to his brothers Hektor, Agathon, and Dios. He always had been in awe of soldiers who spoke as casually of killing as he did of cutting his roses.
Kalliades told Andromache, “Soon we will need your women with their bows. Place them on the front palace balcony to cover any retreat from the palace walls. If the walls and courtyard are taken, pull them back to the gallery of the megaron. Finally, if it comes to that, retreat to the queen’s apartments.”
She nodded. “They will do us proud,” she promised him.
As they left the palace, Kalliades paused and Poli
tes looked around. Torrential rain was driving at them sideways, lashed by a vicious wind. Lightning lit the sky to the north, and beyond the walls to their left a huge brush fire was burning. They could see no enemy troops, although shouts, screams, and the clash of metal echoed from lower in the city.
“Which way?” he asked, his voice whipped away by the gusting wind.
Polites put his mouth close to the warrior’s ear. “The great tower,” he shouted.
Kalliades raised an eyebrow, and Polites nodded vigorously. “I’m sure of it,” he yelled.
They set off and made swift progress, running through the streets down toward the tower. Whenever Kalliades paused, Polites froze, his heart thumping. Then the tall warrior would lope on, staying in narrow alleys and skirting open spaces. There were fires everywhere despite the driving rain. They saw many bodies—some townsfolk but mostly soldiers—and several wounded men. Kalliades stopped only once, kneeling to speak briefly to a badly wounded Trojan soldier who lay with his entrails strewn around him. Kalliades took out a curved dagger and sliced the man’s throat, then moved on, his expression grim.
In one narrow alleyway Kalliades stopped when they heard the sound of marching feet above the racket of the rain. Coming toward them through the darkness were enemy soldiers carrying torches. They were not running, laughing, or shouting; they marched in silence, as if on a mission. Kalliades shoved Polites back into the nearest doorway, but it was shallow and they would be seen once the soldiers came close. Kalliades opened the door and stepped through. Polites followed, his heart in his mouth.
They were in a courtyard. More than a dozen Mykene soldiers were in there, too, but their attention was on someone unseen on the ground. The pair heard an agonized cry and a woman’s voice begging. Polites looked in anguish at Kalliades. The warrior’s face darkened, but he shook his head. Polites saw pain in his eyes.
Unnoticed, they slipped back into the alley and ran on. Polites saw that Kalliades was limping slightly. He wondered at the severity of a wound that would make a warrior like Kalliades limp.
At last they found two Mykene soldiers in armor. One was leaning against a wall, hands on hips, as if getting his breath back. The other was berating him about something, leaning in and shouting in his ear. Kalliades gestured to Polites to wait. Then he walked over to them. They both glanced up, unconcerned. Before they could move, Kalliades sliced his dagger across the throat of one. The other leaped back, cursing and drawing his sword. He scowled at Kalliades and lunged at the warrior’s face. Kalliades swayed and ducked in one graceful movement, then sank his knife into the man’s groin. Only then did he unsheathe his sword. The Mykene fought on bravely for a few heartbeats, then collapsed beside his comrade. Polites could see his lifeblood pumping out onto the rain-soaked street. Glancing around, Kalliades swiftly started to remove the dead man’s armor, handing it to Polites to put on. By then the other man was dead, too, and Kalliades donned his armor.
They moved on, and the base of the great tower was within sight when they encountered another band of Mykene soldiers. The leader beckoned them to him, and Kalliades staggered up, emphasizing his limp.
“Your name, soldier?” the leader demanded.
“Kleitos of the Panthers, sir,” Kalliades replied, slurring a little. “This is Thoas. He’s drunk.”
“We are hunting for children,” the leader told him. “Agamemnon King wants any brats still in the city found and taken to him.”
“We’re looking for women, not their brats.” Kalliades laughed.
The leader grinned. “Of course you are, soldier, but the two often come together. And Agamemnon is offering a silver ring for any child brought to him. A silver ring will buy you as many women as you need when we get home.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” Kalliades said cheerfully. “But better to ride one woman now than ten as a promise. And tonight’s will cost me nothing!” He turned to Polites. “Keep up, you drunken sot,” he shouted, and they hurried on.
The area by the Scaean Gate, a killing ground only the day before, was empty of life. A few blackened corpses lay in the wetness, but no one living could be seen. The great gate was closed and the heavy locking bar in place, trapping them inside the city as effectively as it once had kept the enemy out.
Polites looked up at the tower and for a moment thought he saw movement at the battlement door. He pointed, and Kalliades narrowed his eyes.
“Are you sure?” the warrior asked, doubt written across his face. Polites nodded, and they both made for the stone steps. Kalliades ran up lightly despite the heavy armor and his injured leg. Polites followed more slowly.
Inside the tower it was pitch black, but it was a relief to get out of the wind. The only sound now was the drumming of rain on the wooden roof far above. They no longer had to yell to each other.
Polites advised the warrior, “Stay to the left, as close to the wall as you can. The steps are well worn, but they should not be slippery.”
The climb in total darkness was terrifying even for Polites, who had been this way by torchlight so many times. He was assailed by doubts now. Could Priam have gotten this far? Could he have taken Astyanax up the steps in total darkness? He realized they should have checked at the bottom of the tower first to see if there was a small body there. By the time they reached the top, Polites had convinced himself they were chasing chimeras.
At last he felt the clean night air on his face and the rain, and he saw Kalliades step out onto the roof ahead of him. The sky had lightened, and he realized it was almost dawn. The thunder and lightning went on unabated. A new fear struck him. He had heard of men in armor being struck by lightning.
He stepped onto the roof. For a heartbeat he could see nothing, his senses blunted by the wind whipping rain across the high tower. Then the thunder rolled overhead, and a brilliant flash of lightning forked down through the sky. By its light they could see Priam standing on the parapet on the far side. His long white hair and gray robe were flying behind him in the wind, as if he were falling already. He held the child out in front of him, motionless in his arms.
His heart hammering in his chest, Polites stepped toward his father, fearing he would plunge out of sight at any moment.
Priam turned and saw him.
“What are you doing, Polites, you fool?” The king’s voice, loud and rich with contempt, was carried toward them on the wind. “I did not order you here.”
“I came to find the boy, Father. Andromache was concerned. She did not know where he was.” Polites could see the child’s face now. His blue eyes were open, and he stared at Polites in terror.
“He is with his father,” the king told him. “Who else can keep him safe, Polites? Not you, you fool. Nor his whore of a mother. I am showing him to great Zeus. He is the Eagle Child and precious to the All-Father.”
His father? Polites wondered what he meant. Beside him Kalliades asked him with wonder, “How did he manage to get here without being captured?”
Polites replied, “The king knows his city better than anyone. And when he is lucid, he is as cunning as three foxes.”
As they spoke, Priam looked down at the child, and confusion appeared on his features. They saw his pale face fall into its usual picture of fear and despair.
Polites stepped forward quickly, fearing that the old man would drop the boy in his panic. “Let me take baby Hektor,” he offered. “The queen is asking for him.”
Priam looked down at the child. “Hektor,” he crooned. “My best boy.”
Polites reached out, and Priam handed Astyanax over. Only then did the boy begin to cry quietly. Polites thrust him at Kalliades.
“Take him to his mother,” he ordered.
Kalliades looked at him and then at the king, hesitating.
“Go now, Kalliades. He must be saved. He is the Eagle Child.”
Kalliades frowned. The words clearly meant nothing to him, but he nodded. “Yes, lord,” he said, and in an instant he was gone, disappearing swiftly down
the steps, the boy in his arms.
“Come, Father, you must rest,” Polites said gently, taking his father’s hand and drawing him down from the parapet.
“Where am I?” the old man cried fearfully. “I don’t know where I am.”
“We are on the Great Tower of Ilion, Father. We are watching for Troy’s enemies. When they come, we will destroy them.”
The old man nodded and slumped to the floor. Polites could see that he was beyond exhaustion. Polites sat down as well and started removing some of his armor. He knew they both would die there.
When at last the enemy came, there were just two of them, Mykene soldiers. One was big, with long unkempt red hair and a full beard. The other was thin and small. They climbed up onto the roof, and both grinned, exchanging feral glances as they saw the sick old man and his son.
Polites stood wearily, dragging out his sword and trying to remember the lessons he had been taught in the long-distant past. Two-handed, he held the blade up before him and stepped in front of his father.
The redheaded soldier unsheathed his sword and walked toward him. The other stood and watched, smiling in anticipation.
The soldier lunged at his chest, but Polites skipped nervously back, and the sword glanced off the bronze disks of his breastplate. The soldier feinted to the left, and as Polites moved slowly to block the move, he stepped in and sank the blade into Polites’ side. It felt like the blow of a hammer. His legs crumpled, and he went down on the rain-soaked roof, agony coursing through him.