Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  Evil will always seek to justify its actions, she reproached herself.

  Her thoughts bleak, she turned toward Hektor. Before she could speak to him, she heard a young soldier call out to him. It was Polydorus, the king’s bodyguard. He crossed to where Hektor stood.

  “The king is asking for you both,” he said, glancing at her, “in the Amber Room.”

  Propelled by the wind the Trojans called the Scythe, the great flock of golden birds flew south, leaving behind them the icy peaks of the Rhodope Mountains and the fierce winter of Thraki. Driven by a migratory instinct, the birds dipped and swooped, skimming over the waves and isles of the Great Green. Early-morning sunshine gleamed on feathers of yellow and black as the golden cloud flew above the city of Troy.

  On a high balcony, dressed in an old robe of faded gold, Priam gazed up at the migrating flock of orioles. They swooped above him, twisting and turning in the sky, as if drawn to the king’s golden robe. Priam raised his arms and called out to them. “I am your king, too, little birds.”

  For a few moments the arrival of the flock made the old king forget his troubles. He recalled that his beloved Hekabe had studied the migratory habits of scores of birds: white-tailed eagles, pygmy owls, pelicans, lapwings, and many more whose names he had forgotten.

  The golden orioles, though, were special to Troy, Hekabe had insisted. If their migration to the coasts of Egypte began before the Feast of Ares, the winter would be harsh and cold and full of storms and great winds.

  The Feast of Ares was still eighteen days away.

  Suddenly the golden birds scattered and were gone. A cold breeze whispered across the palace, making the king shiver.

  “Fetch me a cloak!” he called out to his aide Polydorus. The soldier emerged on the balcony bearing a new cloak of green wool edged with gold thread. “Not that useless rag,” Priam snapped. “My own cloak, if you please.” Polydorus returned with an old brown garment that was frayed at the edges. Swirling it around his shoulders, Priam walked to the edge of the balcony.

  In the early morning he could hear movement all over his city: donkeys braying and roosters crowing, the sounds of carts and horses’ hooves on the stone roads, the shouting as soldiers changed shifts and seamen made their way down to the beach for dawn sailings. He imagined bleary-eyed bakers kneading dough and tired whores making for their beds. Atop the Great Tower of Ilion the four night torches still flickered.

  Priam’s eye was drawn constantly to the dark shape of the tower. He used to climb its steep steps every morning to watch the sun rise and look over the city, but he had neglected the practice in recent days.

  “How long since I last went to the tower, Polydorus?”

  “In the high summer, lord.”

  “So long? Time flies swifter than the orioles. I will go tomorrow. The people should see their king keeping watch over them.”

  “Yes, lord,” Polydorus said. “Shall I bring your wine?”

  Priam licked his lips. The thought of wine was tempting. Indeed, he ached for the taste. “No,” he said at last, the effort of will bringing with it a surge of anger. “No wine today, Polydorus.” There was a time when he had enjoyed his wine as a man should, as an enhancer to the joys of dancing, singing, and sex. Now he thought of it constantly, organizing his day around bouts of heavy drinking. Not today, though. Today he would need his wits about him. No wine will pass my lips until tomorrow, he promised himself.

  “Are my visitors here yet?”

  “I’ll see, lord.” The young soldier slipped away.

  Alone now, Priam thought of Andromache, visions of her bringing a tightness to his chest and a warmth in his belly. Andromache! It was too long since he had seen her. His gaze was caught again by the great tower. He could not see it without thinking of her. He first had met her on its heights, when she had refused to kneel to him, as had his own Hekabe so many years before. Andromache! He allowed himself to remember her as he had seen her that day, in a yellow gown, her flame hair tied back roughly, her eyes bold, gazing at him in a way no young woman should look at a king. He had tried to frighten her, but even as they had stood on the parapet together and she had realized he could send her smashing to the stones below with a single push, he had seen in her eyes that she was ready to reach out and take him with her on the Dark Road to Hades.

  And later, when she finally had surrendered to him, as he had known she would, he had glanced out into the darkness and seen the torches on the great tower ablaze. He had known then that his entire life had been destined for that one act. All the battles he had fought, all the sons he had sired—mostly a waste of energy and seed. Even the years with his beloved Hekabe had faded into gray futility. His night with Andromache had fulfilled the prophecy. The Shield of Thunder had brought forth the Eagle Child, and Troy would last a thousand years. He was a king complete, yet his loins still ached for her. Not a day went by that he did not regret the promise he had made her. She had agreed to share his bed—but only until she fell pregnant. She had demanded his word that he would honor that agreement. And he had given it. Fool!

  Even so, he had been convinced that she would return to him. Trapped in a loveless marriage with an impotent husband—of course she would.

  Yet she had not, and it still mystified him.

  “Hektor and Andromache await you in the Amber Room, lord,” Polydorus said, emerging from the doorway. “I have sent a soldier to find Helikaon.”

  “He is Prince Aeneas,” Priam snapped. “A noble name, long held in high esteem by my family.”

  “Yes, my lord king. I am sorry. I forgot for an instant.”

  Priam strolled from his chambers and walked along the wide corridor, Polydorus following him. The room where his guests waited was on the south side of the palace, away from the cold winter winds. Even so there was a chill in the air.

  Waiting for him were Andromache, Hektor, and the young Dardanian king. Leaving Polydorus outside to guard the door, Priam stepped inside to greet them. As he did so, he could not stop his eyes from lingering on Andromache: the curve of her breasts beneath the yellow gown, the bright green of her eyes, the lusciousness of her lips.

  Tearing his gaze away, he said, “Aeneas, my boy, I grieve for you. When my own dear Hekabe died, it was as if my heart had been pierced by a flaming arrow.”

  Priam gazed around the room. There was tension there. Andromache was sitting stiffly, her hands folded on her lap. Hektor was standing behind her, his expression stern, his eyes cold. Aeneas seemed oddly ill at ease. Did they know what he was about to ask them? The priestess had arrived only late yesterday but since then might have spoken of the matter to a servant. Instantly he dismissed the thought. The priestess was a tight-lipped old witch and hardly likely to gossip to palace servants. No, there was something else here. Pushing that minor problem from his mind, he focused on the matter at hand.

  Looking at Aeneas, he asked: “Is it still your intention to risk the winter seas and voyage west?”

  His kinsman nodded. “We need the tin,” he said simply. “With all the sources through Kypros drying up and the Hittites using all the tin they can get, we must seek it from farther afield. If I leave directly, I can get to the Seven Hills well ahead of Odysseus, who will probably winter on Ithaka as he always has.”

  Though perilous, it was a good plan, Priam knew. Without tin there could be no bronze for the smiths to work. Without bronze, no swords, no spears, no shields, no helms. Without bronze there could be no victory over the Mykene.

  “And you will take the Xanthos? You will not pass unnoticed in that fire-hurling monstrosity.”

  “No, I will not,” Aeneas agreed. “But with a full complement of eighty she is faster than any galley and will withstand the stormy seas. Added to which she will carry more tin than any three galleys could. As to monstrosity, well…I do not doubt Agamemnon would agree with you.”

  Then Hektor spoke. “If any ship can make it to the Seven Hills in winter and return safely, it is the Xanthos. We
must assume Agamemnon will attack again in the spring, be it Dardanos or Thebe-Under-Plakos or Troy itself, and we must have the armor for our troops. I agree: Helikaon should leave as soon as possible.”

  “As soon as possible, yes,” Priam said, walking to a small carved table and pouring himself a goblet of water. He glanced again at Andromache. She was wearing a necklace of sea horses carved from ivory. Sea horse clasps held back her thick red hair. She sat with her hands in her lap and watched him gravely. If she wondered why she had been asked there, she gave no indication.

  “There is something else we must discuss,” he told them. “Yesterday a representative of the High Priestess arrived from Thera. It seems, Andromache, a decision has been made about your young friend, the renegade priestess.”

  “Kalliope. Her name was Kalliope.” Andromache’s voice was low, but the king could hear the tension in it.

  “Yes, Kalliope. As we all know, the punishment for a runaway is to be buried alive on the isle to serve the Sleeping God. This punishment still stands. They require that the girl’s bones be returned to Thera in the spring for burial there, where her soul will be chained to serve the Minotaur for all eternity.”

  Andromache opened her mouth to speak, but Priam held up his hand. “Let me finish. Those who aid a runaway must also suffer. Burning is the usual punishment. But the two Mykene soldiers who helped her are now valued members of the Trojan Horse. As patron of the Blessed Isle I have decided that they were unknowing dupes. The High Priestess can make her own representations to Odysseus, who also helped the girl. However, this leaves you, Andromache.”

  Hektor’s response, as Priam had expected, was swift.

  “Andromache was not responsible for Kalliope’s actions,” he said, an edge of anger in his voice. “She had no idea the girl had left Thera until she turned up at my farm. I will not allow anyone to punish my wife for something she did not do.”

  “Yes, yes,” Priam snapped impatiently. “However, the High Priestess does not seek to punish her. She asks that Andromache bring the renegade’s bones to Thera. Andromache is, after all, the reason the girl fled the isle. I have agreed that Andromache should travel to Thera with the bones of Kalliope to make this act of contrition. Kassandra was due to go to Thera in the spring, anyway. Now my two daughters will go together.”

  Hektor’s anger flared. “This is insane! Andromache cannot go. This is just a ploy of Agamemnon’s. He has tried to have Andromache killed before. We all know the High Priestess is his blood kin. Now, with her help, he seeks to lure Andromache onto the Great Green. By the spring Agamemnon’s fleets will once more control the sea routes. It is a trap.”

  Priam stared at his son coldly. “Of course it could be a trap!” he snapped. “But I cannot refuse. If I do, I risk Troy being cursed by Thera. Such a curse will strengthen our enemies and likely cause our allies to think twice about coming to our aid. But as ever, we will outthink them. We will not wait for spring. Andromache and Kassandra will sail for Thera on the Xanthos. Tomorrow.”

  For a moment there was silence. Priam looked at his son and saw that all color had drained from his face.

  “No,” Hektor said. “This I will not allow.”

  The reaction surprised Priam. Hektor was a fine strategist and a man who understood that risks were necessary in war. Priam switched his gaze to Andromache, expecting her to speak up. She always had an opinion. Instead she sat very quietly, eyes downcast. Then Aeneas spoke.

  “It is a clever plan,” he said, “but I must agree with Hektor. The risks are very great. Sailing to Thera in winter, when the days are short, will mean sailing in darkness in treacherous weather. It will also bring us close to the pirate havens.”

  “The risks are high,” Priam agreed. “But look at what we face. Our enemies outnumber us; our trade routes have been blocked. In the spring the Mykene may come to our shores in the thousands. Then we will need the Xanthos and all the allies we can muster. With the blessings of Thera we can hold those allies steady. You think I want to expose Andromache and Kassandra to the perils of the winter sea? I do not. But I see no other choice.”

  “Then I will go, too,” Hektor stated.

  “What?” Priam stormed. “Now, that would be nonsense and you know it. If word got out that you were on the Great Green in a single ship, every Mykene war fleet would be mobilized. No. I have already promised King Ektion that you and the Trojan Horse will ride south to Little Thebe. Enemy armies are ravaging his lands. They need to be crushed or at the least forced back.” Stepping in, he patted Hektor’s shoulder. “Have faith, my son,” he said. “Aeneas is a fine sailor, and I trust him to master the perils of the sea.”

  “It is not the sea…” Hektor began. His words tailed away, and with a shake of his head, he walked out onto the balcony.

  Thirsty now, Priam called out to Polydorus. The door opened, and the young soldier entered. “Fetch wine!” the king ordered.

  “Yes, lord, but you said—”

  “Never mind what I said!”

  Hektor stood out on the balcony, taking deep drafts of air into his chest. Then he returned to the Amber Room. Pausing before Priam, he said, “As the king orders, so shall it be.”

  With that he turned toward Helikaon, who rose from his seat. Hektor gazed upon his old friend and felt a deep sadness sweep over him. This was the man his wife loved, whose son she had borne. Forcing a smile, he said, “Take care, Helikaon. And bring Andromache safely home.”

  Helikaon said nothing, and Hektor understood. No promises could be made, for the Great Green in winter was hazardous enough without the added perils of pirates and enemy ships.

  Stepping forward, Helikaon embraced him. Hektor kissed his cheek and then pulled away, turning back to his father. But Priam was not looking in his direction. Instead he was gazing hungrily at Andromache. Without a farewell to his wife or his father, Hektor left the room.

  He paused outside and leaned against the wall, feeling the cool of the stone against his brow. The turmoil in his mind was like a fever, and his heart was sick.

  During the campaign in Thraki, all he could think of was returning home to Troy and to the woman he adored. He knew that Andromache loved another and that Astyanax was Helikaon’s son. Yet when he was with his wife and the boy, he could put those hurtful facts out of his mind. He had never considered what it would be like when Helikaon was in Troy as well, knowing Andromache’s heart belonged to the Golden One and not to him, knowing the child who called him “Papa” was really another man’s son.

  Hektor had spent all his young life trying not to be like his father, treating other men with honor and respect and women with gentleness and courtesy. When Andromache had told him she was pregnant with Helikaon’s child, he had accepted it, knowing he could not give her sons himself. But then he had not known her; they had scarcely met. Over the years he had grown to love her deeply, while she still thought of him as a brother, a good friend. He never had shown her how much that had hurt him until today, when she had spoken so blithely of bringing Helikaon’s boy, Dex, to the palace. And now she was to set sail with her lover on a long journey by sea, where they would be together all the time.

  Never in his life had he wanted so much to throw himself back into the war, to fight and, yes, to kill. At this moment war and perhaps death seemed wonderfully simple. It was life that was so hard.

  He looked up. Coming toward him along the corridor he saw his brothers Dios and Paris. They were speaking together in hushed tones. Dios saw him, and his expression brightened. Then Paris saw him, too. Despite the sadness in his heart, Hektor could not help smiling as he saw that Paris was wearing a breastplate and carrying a bronze helm under his arm. No one, he thought, could look more ludicrous in armor. Paris always had lacked coordination, his movements clumsy. To see him masquerading as a warrior was almost comical. Dios was wearing no armor, merely a white tunic and a leaf-green cloak.

  “Well, what did you decide without us, Brother?” Dios asked, his smile fading.


  “Nothing that need concern you, Dios. We talked only of Helikaon’s planned voyage to the west.”

  Paris pushed forward and stared up into his brother’s eyes, his expression angry. “You will not send Helen back to Sparta,” he said.

  “Why would we?” Hektor responded, surprised.

  “You think me an idiot? That is what Agamemnon demanded. That is what caused this stupid war.”

  Hektor sighed. “I do not think you an idiot, Paris. But you are not using your mind now. The demand for Helen was merely an excuse. Agamemnon does not want her and knew when he made the demand that Father would have to refuse.”

  “I know this!” Paris snapped. “It does not alter the fact that Agamemnon has used the refusal to gather allies. Therefore, to accede to his demand would weaken the Mykene alliance. Not so?”

  Hektor shook his head. “Not anymore, Paris,” he said. “Had we agreed at the start, then yes, perhaps our enemies would not have been so numerous. Not now, Brother. A king is already dead, and a queen has been murdered. This war will be to the death. No drawing back. Either Mykene will fall or the Golden City will.”

  “They will come here, then?” Dios asked. “We cannot stop them?”

  “They will come from the north, from the south, from the sea. Agamemnon, Menelaus, Achilles, Odysseus…” His voice tailed away. “And all the lesser kings, bandit chiefs, and mercenary bands seeking plunder.”

  “But you will be here to defeat them,” Dios said.

  “If the gods will it, Dios, then yes, I will be here. As will you, my brothers.”

  Dios laughed aloud and clapped Paris on the back. “You hear that, Paris? You are going to be a hero.” Taking the helm from Paris’ hands, Dios placed it on his brother’s head. It was too large and slid down over his eyes.

  “It is as if great Herakles himself has returned from Elysium!” Dios laughed.

  Paris dragged the helm clear and threw it at Dios, who ducked. The helm struck the wall and clanged to the floor. Paris lunged at Dios, grabbing his tunic. Dios staggered, and they both fell. Dios scrambled up, but Paris grabbed his ankle and tried to drag him back. Hektor smiled, and his thoughts went back to the days of childhood. Dios and Paris had always been close. Dios unruly and disobedient, Paris quiet and scholarly—they were an odd pair.