Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  “I know that,” Gershom replied. “I will see you tomorrow.” With that he swung away. Oniacus called out to him, and Gershom turned.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Oniacus said.

  Gershom walked to the aft deck, gathered his cloak, and swung it to his shoulders. Then he climbed over the deck rail and lowered himself to the sand.

  Strolling across the beach, he climbed the path to the lower town. At the wide wooden bridge spanning the fortification ditch he saw two sentries in armor of burnished bronze, long spears in their hands. Across the bridge a crowd had gathered around some of the sailors from the Xanthos. One of the sentries smiled at Gershom. He was a young man, but his face and arms bore the scars of combat.

  “News of your victories reached us two days ago,” the sentry said. “It was as welcome as sunshine after snow.” People clustered around the crew, patting them on the back and calling out praises and blessings.

  Gershom eased himself around the edge of the crowd. A man suddenly clapped his hand on Gershom’s shoulder. “Here is another one of them!” he shouted happily.

  As more men turned toward Gershom, he shook his head. “No, no,” he told them, raising his hands. “I am merely a traveler.”

  Losing interest immediately, they turned their attention once more to the other sailors. Gershom pushed on. A dark-haired girl stepped from the shadows into the moonlight and linked her arm in his. Gershom glanced down into her face. She was pretty, her eyes pale, either blue or gray. It was too dark to tell. He could see that the girl was young though. Her white ankle-length tunic was close-fitting, her small breasts barely stretching the fabric.

  Taking her hand, he lifted it from his arm. “I am in no mood for sport,” he told her gruffly. “And if I was, it would be with a woman, not a child.”

  The girl laughed. “If you were in the mood, you could not afford me—not even as a prince of Egypte.”

  Gershom paused then, his eyes raking her slim form, seeking any sign of a hidden weapon. His identity had been kept secret, or so he had thought. If this young whore knew of him, how many more had heard? Men who would seek the reward still on his head. He glanced around nervously, half expecting to see Egypteian assassins dart from the shadows.

  “Do I frighten you?” the girl asked him.

  “Go and find someone else to annoy,” he told her, walking on. The girl ran after him. Gershom felt his irritation rise.

  “I saw you in the sea,” she said. “Great waves crashing over you. You were very strong.”

  Gershom paused again, his curiosity aroused. “All right, you know who I am. Who sent you, child, and for what purpose?”

  “Xidoros sent me.” Suddenly her head cocked. “Yes, yes,” she said, talking to the darkness, “but that is just pedantic.” She frowned and seemed to be listening. Then she threw up her arm. “Oh, go away!” she hissed.

  Turning back to Gershom, she said: “He says he didn’t send me, that he merely said we should speak.”

  Gershom swore softly. Back in Thebes there was a house with high walls where the moon-touched were kept for four years. In that time diviners and healers, astrologers and magicians, would be called on to heal them or drive out the demons that had robbed them of sanity. Surgeons would drill holes into their skulls; healers would feed them strange herbs and potions. If at the end of four years they still were not cured, it was taken as a sign that the gods were calling for them. They then were strangled. Gershom had heard of no such houses of caring in barbarous Troy. That was why sad lunatics like this child were allowed to wander the streets.

  “Where do you live?” he asked the girl. “I will see you safely home.”

  She looked up at him, and her face was suddenly sad. “There is a mist inside your head,” she told him. “It is swirling and thick, and it stops you from seeing. You stumble around like a blind man.” She shrugged. “But then there are times when I long to be blind myself. Just to listen to people and hear only the words they speak and not the sly whisperings inside their heads.”

  She smiled again. “Come, I will walk you home.”

  “You know where I am going?”

  “Yes, I know. You are going to the Beautiful Isle with me, and then you will be called to the desert, and there will be voices in the fire and fire in the heavens, and the fire will melt away the mist in your head, and you will know all that I know and see more than I will ever see.”

  “Very intriguing,” Gershom said, “but I meant do you know where I am going now?”

  “Oh! Yes, I do. The House of Stone Horses.”

  “Well, that is true enough. Now, where do you live?”

  She gave a soft laugh. “My guards are looking for me, so I must go. But I will see you tomorrow at Hektor’s palace.” With that she hitched up her white tunic and darted away.

  Gershom thought of chasing her and handing her over to the city watch. Some of the areas of the lower town were known to be dangerous, and a moonstruck child like this one could find herself in peril. But even as the thought occurred, he saw her vanish into a dark alley and out of his sight.

  With a shake of his head the big Egypteian walked on toward the palace of Helikaon.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE AMBER GODDESS

  Early-morning sunshine bathed the streets of Troy as Helikaon left the House of Stone Horses and strolled through the town. The business of the day was beginning: Merchants were setting up their stalls in the marketplaces, and servants and slaves were carrying bundles of cloth or produce wrapped in dry reeds. The varied sounds of the city washed over Helikaon as he walked: hammers beating on metal from the Street of Armorers, the braying of donkeys, the clucking of hens, the yelping of dogs, and the cries of the gather-men competing to draw crowds to their stalls.

  It felt strange to be back in Troy. The war seemed far away now, the death of Halysia a dark nightmare, unreal and bizarre.

  He had awakened that morning to a soft, warm body beside him. In the instant before full consciousness asserted itself he had thought to open his eyes and gaze down at Halysia. Instead it had been Dex, his thumb in his mouth, his head resting on his father’s shoulder. Helikaon had stroked the fair hair back from the boy’s brow. Dex’s eyes had opened, and then the child had fallen asleep again.

  Easing himself from the bed, Helikaon rose and dressed. He chose a white tunic embroidered with gold thread and a wide belt embossed with gold leaf. He felt uncomfortable in such finery, but it was fitting for his meeting with Priam. Lastly he took a scabbarded dagger and tucked it into his belt. It was unlikely that assassins would be on the streets of Troy but not impossible.

  In happier days Helikaon had walked those streets in the company of Hektor or his brothers Antiphones and Agathon. Those had been the days of innocence, when the future had promised wonders. It was here on these streets, ten years earlier, where he and Hektor had argued about the merits and drawbacks of marrying for love alone.

  “Why would you want to?” Hektor had asked. “All the actions of a prince must strengthen the realm. Therefore, a wife should bring a handsome dowry, land, or promises of alliance with her father’s kingdom. A prince can find love wherever he wishes thereafter.”

  “I do not agree,” Helikaon had replied on that far-off day. “Odysseus loves his wife and is happy. You should see them together, Hektor. You would change your views in a heartbeat. Odysseus says that life without Penelope would be like a land without sunshine. I want a wife who brings me happiness like that.”

  “I hope you find her, my friend,” Hektor had said.

  And he had. He had found the woman of his dreams.

  How ironic, then, he thought, that it should have been Hektor who had married her.

  He paused to examine some Egypteian jewelry on display and immediately was accosted by an elderly merchant, a slender dark-skinned man with henna-dyed hair and beard.

  “You won’t find better, sir. Not anywhere in the city.” The man lifted a heavy brooch of amber decorated with gold
wire. “Sixteen silver rings, sir. A real bargain.”

  “In Egypte last season,” Helikaon commented, “sixteen silver rings would buy a sack of these baubles.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” the man replied, his dark eyes narrowing. “But since there is now no trade with Egypte, who knows what price amber is fetching?”

  “Wise words,” Helikaon agreed, casting his gaze around the marketplace. “There are fewer stalls than I recall from my last visit.”

  “A few have left,” the merchant agreed. “More will follow, I think. My brother packed up his wares as soon as the fortification ditch was dug. Too early, I said. But he always was timid. Now they say there’s going to be a wall to protect the lower town. If that’s true, I’ll follow my brother.”

  “An interesting point,” Helikaon observed with a smile. “You will stay only as long as the lower town is badly defended?”

  The merchant chuckled. “Priam is a good king. Has to be said, though, that he’s careful with his wealth. If he has now agreed to the expense of a wall around the lower town, it will only be because he cannot stop the Mykene coming to this land. Well, I have walked through the ruins of towns plundered by the Mykene. I’ll not wait to see such sights again.”

  Helikaon nodded. “I see the logic in your words, but surely still more merchants will quit the city if Priam builds no wall to defend them?”

  “Yes. Who’d be a king, eh?”

  On the stall Helikaon’s eye was taken by an amber pendant on which an artist had incised the figure of the goddess Artemis, her bow extended, the string drawn back. It reminded him of Andromache and the way she had stood on the balcony of Priam’s megaron, calmly shooting arrows down into the Mykene attackers. Lifting the pendant, he examined it more closely. It was finely carved.

  “You are a wonderful judge of jewelry, sir,” said the merchant, immediately slipping back into his sales patter, “for you have chosen the pride of my collection.” He was about to go on when Helikaon interrupted him.

  “Before you speak, let me say I am in no mood to haggle today. So this is what we will do. You will name one price. If I like the price, I will pay it instantly. If not, I will drop this bauble back onto the stall and walk on. Now, name the price.”

  The old merchant licked his lips, then rubbed his chin. As he did so, he stepped out from behind the stall, appearing deep in thought. Helikaon stood quietly as the merchant observed him. “Twenty silver rings,” the man said at last.

  “I agree,” Helikaon told him with a smile. “You are a clever man. What is your name?”

  “Tobios.”

  “A Hittite?”

  The merchant shrugged. “I suppose that would depend on who asked. The land in which I was born is fiercely contested. The pharaohs would say I am a foul-hearted Hittite desert dweller, but the land is currently ruled by Emperor Hattusilis of the Hittites. Therefore, I am now considered to be a foul-hearted Egypteian desert dweller. Life for my people is always complicated.”

  Helikaon smiled. “Such complications help sharpen the wits,” he said. As he spoke, he counted out the twenty silver rings and laid them on the stall. “If you choose to remain in the city, Tobios, come and see me at the House of Stone Horses. I am Helikaon of Dardania, and I always have need for men of good judgment.”

  Tobios bowed his head and touched his heart in the Hittite manner.

  Helikaon walked on, the amber pendant in his hand. The price had been high. The merchant had looked at his clothing, appraising through its quality the wealth of the wearer. The white tunic was of Egypteian design, woven from the finest thread. The engravings on his belt were filled with gold leaf. His sandals were fashioned from crocodile skin, brushed with gold. If he had not been dressed for a meeting with King Priam, he would have worn old comfortable clothes and bought the pendant for two-thirds of the price.

  Moving on through narrow streets and open squares, he reached the mighty Scaean Gate with its six guardians of stone, passing through to the upper city with its palaces and gardens and avenues. Indications of wealth lay everywhere. Women wore heavy necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, and the men sported expensive toques or wristbands.

  At the palace Helikaon was ushered through to the gardens, where nobles hoping to see the king were allowed to wait in comfort rather than stand in the crowded megaron. There was a chill in the air, and several braziers filled with burning charcoal had been set up.

  Helikaon looked around, nodding greetings to those he knew. Then he turned, and his stomach tightened. Just paces away, a rust-colored cloak around her shoulders, stood Andromache, sunlight glinting upon the red gold of her hair. She was wearing a long yellow gown that sparkled like summer sunshine. Helikaon’s mouth was dry, and he felt nervous and awkward. Andromache stepped toward him.

  “I was so sorry to hear of Halysia’s death,” she told him, “though my heart was lifted by the manner of it. The gods will cherish her, I think.”

  “Perhaps. But in life she deserved better,” he replied. “From life, from me. The people loved her greatly, though, and they will not forget her, I think.”

  “And how is the boy?”

  “Dex is brave but scarred now. Last night he had nightmares and ran to my room. I slept with him curled up against me. A child should not have to see his mother die.”

  “But when he grows,” she told him softly, “he will know she loved him so much that she was willing to give her life for him. It will sustain him.”

  Andromache saw his handsome face soften, and he gave a sad smile. She wanted to reach out and hug him in that moment, remembering that he, too, had watched his mother die. Instead, she forced herself to stand still and said politely: “I hope you will bring your son to visit us while you are in Troy.”

  “I would like that, Andromache.”

  She reddened as he spoke her name. “I am here to see the king,” she told him suddenly, the comment both redundant and ridiculous, since the only reason anyone was in the garden was to see the king.

  Angry with herself, she went on. “I meant to say I have been called here to see the king. A ship arrived yesterday from Thera with a message from the High Priestess. It probably concerns Kassandra. As you know, she is to become a priestess at the Temple of the Horse. You did know that?”

  Sweet Artemis! Help me stop babbling!

  “Yes, I did. I am to take her on the Xanthos next spring. Are you well?” he asked suddenly, concern in his eyes. “You seem flushed.”

  “I am well. Just a little warm.”

  “I shall fetch you some water,” he said, and moved away.

  There were many people in the garden waiting to see the king. As Helikaon walked away, the crowd parted for him. Andromache could see he was oblivious to the effect he had on the people around him. He did not seem to notice the envious glances from the men or the openly admiring stares from the women.

  A shadow fell across her. She looked up to see her husband, Hektor. He, too, was looking across at Helikaon, his face expressionless. Andromache thought she saw sadness in his eyes.

  “What is wrong, husband?” she asked, taking his arm.

  He shrugged and drew her close. “What could be wrong when I have you beside me? Did I miss any interesting conversation with Helikaon?”

  “No, not really. I asked him to bring his son to see us.”

  Hektor’s brow furrowed, and she felt him tense. “Why did you do that?” he asked.

  “Why would I not?” she responded, suddenly uncertain.

  When he answered her, the anguish in his voice was so great that the words slid through her defenses like daggers. “How many of his sons do I need in my house, Andromache?”

  The shock was so great, she felt sick. Hektor had promised to raise the boy Astyanax and love him as he would his own child. He had been true to his word, and Andromache never before had heard him express such feelings. Rarely at a loss for words, Andromache had no response. She merely stood and looked at her husband, seeing yet again the resemblance to
his father. Until this moment he had reflected everything that could have been great in Priam—courage, compassion, kindness—but now she wondered how many of his father’s weaknesses he also had inherited.

  Turning away from him without a word, she walked to a brazier, reaching out her hands and rubbing them over the fire as if seeking warmth. There was anger in her, but not for Hektor. She was angry with herself. Of course her husband would be hurt by her invitation! He knew she loved Helikaon. She had confessed to Hektor on their first evening alone about the night she had shared a bed with Helikaon. Having survived an assassin’s blade, Helikaon had fallen into a fever, poison in his blood.

  A healer from the desert told Andromache that Helikaon appeared to have lost the will to live. He suggested that a naked woman be brought to his bed to remind him of the joys of life. A few nights later, fearing Helikaon was dying, Andromache let fall her dress and slid into the bed alongside him. The following morning, when Andromache returned to his room, Helikaon told her he had dreamed of her. She realized then that he had no memory of their lovemaking. Not only had she allowed him to believe the dream, she later had kept from him the knowledge that he had a son.

  Standing by the brazier, she found her mood sliding ever downward, bleak thoughts filling her mind. She had arrived in this city as a young priestess, proud and honest, determined that the deceptions and deceits of Troy would not sully her. She would not be drawn into a world of lies and intrigue. Stupid, arrogant girl, she chided herself. Since her arrival she had become pregnant by one man while betrothed to another, had seduced the old king to make him believe her son was his, and had poisoned Hekabe, the dying queen of Troy.

  But Hekabe had been a queen of malice, she told herself, who had murdered her sister and would have murdered her friends. As for seducing Priam, what other course had there been? If he had discovered the truth, Astyanax would have been taken from her, perhaps killed, and she would have been executed, and Helikaon, too.