Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  Andromache bit back an angry response. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Tell me that the deaths of Odysseus and Achilles will not save Troy.”

  Kassandra shook her head. “No, I will not tell you that. All I know is that Odysseus is rushing to his doom, which is what the pirates want. Their leader has a blood feud with Odysseus. There are almost two hundred warriors on Ithaka now. Odysseus has thirty men.”

  “The Ugly King is no fool,” Andromache said, “and only a fool would attack two hundred with thirty.”

  Kassandra shook her head. “He loves Penelope more than he loves life. They have cut off her hair, Andromache, and every night the pirate chief has her dragged from a dungeon, dressed in rags, and chained to her throne. The whores of the pirates throw food at her and screech insults.”

  With that Kassandra fell silent. Tilting her head, she said, “The decision is yours to make. I must go now.” Turning, she started swiftly up the mountain path.

  Andromache cursed and ran after her, slipping on the wet ground. “Kassandra, we cannot part like this. Will I see you again?”

  Kassandra smiled. “We will meet again before the end.” She lightly touched her sister’s cheek, then walked away.

  Andromache watched her go, then turned and continued down the path. As she came closer to the beach, she saw a group of men in flowing robes talking with Helikaon. Most of the crewmen were gathered around. Almost unnoticed, Andromache moved through the crowd. As she came closer, she saw that one of the men in robes was Gershom.

  “What is happening here?” she asked, stepping forward to stand alongside Helikaon.

  “Gershom is leaving us,” he said. He smiled at the sight of her, but quickly the smile faded and there was suppressed anger in his voice. “He is sailing today with these people of the desert.” Andromache looked at the four cold-eyed bearded men with Gershom.

  “Why would you want to leave us?” she asked Gershom.

  “I do not want to. I gave a promise some years ago. Now I have been asked to honor it. I have many faults, Andromache, but I keep my promises.”

  Turning to Helikaon, he offered his hand. For a moment Andromache thought Helikaon would refuse it. Then the Dardanian king shook his head and stepped in to embrace him.

  “I will miss you, my friend,” he said, drawing back. “My men and I all have reason to be grateful to you.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the crew gathered around, and Oniacus clapped Gershom on the back. Gershom grinned and nodded.

  “We hope to hear tales of great adventures,” Helikaon said, forcing a smile.

  “More likely you will hear of my untimely death,” Gershom replied. “But word is unlikely to reach you, for I will be traveling under a new name, one chosen for me.” Gershom turned to the gathered crew.

  “My friends,” he said, “you plucked me from the sea and befriended me. I will hold you all in my heart, as I hold Zidantas and others no longer with us. May the Source of All Creation protect you, and keep you from harm.”

  Lastly he looked at Helikaon and Andromache. “May you both find great happiness,” he said.

  Without another word he walked away. In his long robes, with the men of the desert following behind him, Andromache thought he now looked like the prince he was, sterner and full of authority. She wondered what would become of him, but she knew she never would find out.

  They watched in silence as Gershom climbed onto the Egypteian ship, and Andromache looked into the face of her lover and saw the sorrow there. Placing her hand on his arm, she leaned in close. “I am sorry to see you so sad.”

  “He is my friend, one of the best I have ever had, and my heart tells me we will not meet again.”

  “You have other friends who love you.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I value them all.”

  “Is Odysseus one of them still?”

  He smiled. “Odysseus first and foremost. He is the greatest man I have ever met.”

  Andromache sighed. “Then there is something we must speak of.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE BEGGAR AND THE BOW

  In the drafty megaron on wind-tossed Ithaka, the pirates were enjoying their nightly revels. Many stood out in the courtyard, seeking the warmth where Odysseus’ sheep roasted on spits, but most of them were in the hall, laughing, quarreling, eating, and drinking. A few already had slumped asleep on the cold stone floor. Occasionally a skirmish would break out, but no one had died yet this night, Penelope thought regretfully. And the numbers who were killed each day in those sudden knife fights were more than made up for by newcomers. More than a hundred of these scum of the seas had arrived in the last few days, drawn across the winter seas by tales of the hospitality on Ithaka. Added to their number were some Siculi tribesmen from the Fire Isle in the west, harsh, savage men with tattooed faces and weapons of curved bronze.

  The queen sat chained to the carved wooden throne and tried, as she did each night, to distance herself from events around her. Though exhausted, she raised her shaved head high and held her gaze on the opposite wall, where the huge painted shield of Odysseus’ father hung unregarded. She tried to force her thoughts away from the pain of her broken fingers, the throbbing from her bound wrists, and the incessant itching of the lice-ridden rags she had been forced to wear.

  Penelope tried to recall the happy days when she and Odysseus both had been young. She called to mind the face of her son Laertes. In the first years after he died she could see him only as he had been in the immobility of death, but now she found she could remember the precise hue of his eyes, feel the soft down of his cheek against her lips, and recall the exact expression on his face when his father came into the room. No day passed when she did not remember the boy, but thoughts of him now were calming and sweet, rescuing her for a few precious moments from this endless torment.

  As always, her mind kept betraying her, raising fruitless hopes of Odysseus striding through the megaron doors, swinging his sword and carving a path to her, releasing her from her bonds, and taking her into the safety of his huge arms. It would be like one of his stories told in this very hall at night when the fire was banked high and she was surrounded by her loved ones. But then cold intelligence would flow across those hopes. Odysseus was older now, almost fifty. The days of great strength and inexhaustible stamina were behind him. His joints ached in the winter, and after a day of labor, he would sink down into a comfortable chair with the heavy, grateful sigh of the ancient.

  The thief of time slowly was stealing the vitality from the man she loved. She knew that if he came, his aging body would betray him against these vile young men glorying in the power of their youth.

  Then despair would strike, and she would plead: Don’t come, Ugly One! For once in your life do something sensible and stay away. Wait until the spring and bring an army to avenge me. Please don’t come to me now.

  But he would come. She knew it with certainty. For all that he was wily, brilliant, and cunning, Odysseus would be blinded to reason by his love for her.

  Her thoughts turned bleakly to suicide. If he knew she was dead, Odysseus still would come, but with a clearer mind bent only on vengeance. He would wait until he had raised a fleet and could kill every pirate on Ithaka ten times over. If she could get hold of a knife or a sharp stick, she could pierce her breast in an instant. Even as the thought came, she felt the babe move within her, and her eyes misted with tears. I could kill myself, but I cannot kill you, little one.

  “Well, Your Highness, will you do us the honor of eating and drinking with us tonight?” asked the hated voice.

  Penelope’s gaze reluctantly focused on the gaunt, cruel features of Antinous, her captor and tormentor, as he bowed elaborately before her. He was young, having hardly more than twenty summers, but he was clever and ruthless. The hint of insanity in his green eyes could be feigned, she thought, but it made the older pirates step around him with care. His hair was dark and long, and a single thin braid decorated with gold wir
e hung from his right temple.

  In the nineteen endless days since the attack—days the queen had marked as carefully as she marked the kicking of the child inside her—Penelope had learned a lot about the pirates and their ways. Most were spiteful, stupid men who believed that cruelty and murder made them strong. They were undisciplined and prone to sudden outbursts of rage and violence. Of the five pirate leaders who had banded together under Antinous’ leadership to attack Ithaka, three were dead at Antinous’ hand. Another had been killed in a fight over a captured woman.

  “Well, my lady? Shall I untie your hands and have food brought?” Antinous’ grinning face was inches from hers. She smelled meat on his breath but not wine, for he never drank.

  Penelope ignored him. His hand snaked out, slapping her face hard and jarring her teeth. She could taste blood on her tongue. “Or shall I give you to my men tonight?” Antinous inquired softly, gesturing to the drunken rabble. “They will make you squeal.”

  The queen focused her gaze on his too-calm eyes, eyes she would see in her dreams as long as she lived.

  “Do as you will, pirate,” she said coldly. “I am Penelope, queen of Ithaka. My husband is the great Odysseus, and he is coming here to kill you. Hear the words of your death, Antinous.”

  Antinous laughed lightly and stood back. “We are impatient for your husband’s arrival. I hear that he and a few old men like him are coming to rescue you. All across the Great Green I expect they are speaking of it.” He gestured again around the hall. “My fighters are young and strong and fearless. They will relish cutting out the heart of fat Odysseus.” Then he moved alongside her and whispered in her ear. “But first I will make him watch you die. He will see you raped by my men, then watch as I put out your eyes and cut his foul get from your belly.”

  Despite the terror in her heart, Penelope forced a smile. “Your words mean nothing, blowhard. You are already dead. This I promise.”

  There was movement in the doorway far down the hall, and she saw a new group enter. Eagerly she scanned their faces. There was a muscled giant she first thought was Leukon, but as he turned to her, she saw the violence in his eyes and realized he was just a killer.

  Then she saw a face she knew. Sekundos! He was an old rogue Odysseus had had dealings with in happier days but was pirate scum nonetheless. No hope for her there. Others of his crew followed him in, ragged men in threadbare tunics. They looked more like beggars than pirates.

  “Looking for rescue, Penelope?” Antinous asked her. “Old Sekundos is not a savior. Soft as puppy shit and close to senile, but he tells me he knows the island well—all the hidden places where your peasants and their women are cowering in fear.”

  Penelope closed her eyes, seeking a few heartbeats of release from his presence. But she could not force his face from her mind and saw again the dreadful day he had come to Ithaka.

  His eight galleys had sailed through the morning mist, and two hundred warriors had stormed ashore. The small garrison of thirty fighting men had battled valiantly all day, but by twilight all of her soldiers, most of them boys and ancients, had lain dead. The bodies of those brave men had been impaled on spikes on the beach for Odysseus to see when he arrived. The stench of rotting flesh on the breeze was appalling.

  The pirate chief spoke again. Penelope opened her eyes. “And Sekundos will show us where the black savage is hiding,” he said. “I will have him brought here and slowly dismembered. You can watch him suffer and hear his screams.”

  One-armed Bias had defended her through the long day of the attack, killing and wounding more than a dozen invaders until, as hope faded, he reluctantly had retreated on her stern orders, disappearing into the night like a phantom. Each day she heard whispers among the pirates of the dark demon who picked off sentries and lone stragglers. Antinous had scoured the island for him but had not found him.

  Penelope had been dragged into her own palace and hurled to the floor before the young pirate chief. He had kicked her in the face and hauled her up by her hair. When she had tried to strike him, he had grasped her fingers, twisting them until two snapped. Then he had punched her to the ground. Half-dazed with pain, she had heard his cold voice.

  “I am Antinous, son of a father murdered by Odysseus. I am here for vengeance.”

  “Odysseus is no murderer,” she replied, spitting blood from her mouth.

  “A foul lie. He was on a ship with Nestor and Idomeneos in a sea battle against my father.”

  “Three kings in a sea battle? Ah, yes,” she said, staring up at his long, angular face. “Odysseus spoke of it often, and now I see the resemblance. Your father was the man known as Donkey Face.”

  He had punched her again, breaking her nose, then had grabbed her hair, slapping her again and again. Finally, she had sunk unconscious to the floor and had awoken in a tiny cell.

  Now she watched Sekundos the Kretan walk up to her, an old shield hanging loosely from his shoulder. He looked frightened, and there was sweat glistening on his bald head.

  Glancing nervously at Antinous, he said, “Greetings, lady. I am sorry to see you brought so low.” She saw his gaze taking in her crippled fingers and the crusted blood around her eyes and mouth.

  She smiled gently. “Greetings, Sekundos. The company you keep brings you only shame.”

  “There is so much shame in my life, lady, that a little more would not weigh heavily on me.”

  Antinous laughed and pushed the old pirate away. Then he turned toward Penelope. “You speak of shame in my presence, when I have treated you so well? I fear I must teach you manners!” He raised his left hand to strike her. At that moment there came a hissing sound, and a black-feathered arrow hurtling toward his head plunged instead through his forearm. Antinous cried out in pain and staggered back.

  Penelope looked down the length of the hall.

  In the far doorway, dressed like a beggar, stood Odysseus, the great bow Akilina in his hand. “And now, you cowsons,” he bellowed, “it is time to die!”

  Shocked silence fell. No one moved. In that moment Odysseus calmly notched another arrow and let it fly. The shaft plunged through the throat of a yellow-haired tribesman, who fell back dead.

  Pandemonium broke out. Some pirates tried to run for cover. Others grabbed their weapons and charged at the Ithakan king, but a huge dark-haired warrior carrying two swords stepped into their path. He slashed his sword through the throat of the first before ramming his second blade deep into the chest of the pirate alongside him.

  Others of Odysseus’ disguised crew drew weapons and attacked. Odysseus ran toward the long feasting table in the center of the hall. A man reared up before him. Odysseus shoulder charged him to the floor, then leaped onto the table.

  “I am Odysseus!” he shouted. “You are all dead men now!” His voice boomed like thunder, the words echoing from the rafters.

  Achilles and the crew of the Bloodhawk were fighting furiously before the doors, forcing the enemy back toward the center of the hall. Odysseus sent a shaft through the skull of a tall pirate. Two more warriors scrambled onto the table and rushed at him. Odysseus swung Akilina like a club, cracking the bow against the face of the first. The man was hurled from the table. Odysseus twisted to one side and kicked the second man in the knee. The pirate screamed and fell.

  A spear flew past Odysseus’ head. He shot an arrow into the chest of the man who had thrown it.

  Standing by the throne, Antinous snapped off the arrow in his forearm and with a cry of pain dragged the shaft clear. His left hand was useless, the thumb paralyzed. Drawing a short stabbing sword, he shouted, “Odysseus! Watch your wife die!” Penelope shrank away as the sword blade lanced toward her throat—to be blocked by the shield of Sekundos. The old man’s sword slashed at him, but he was too slow, and Antinous swayed away from the blade.

  “You treacherous cur!” Antinous hissed. “You brought them here! Now you can die with them.”

  Antinous attacked. Sekundos blocked a thrust with his shield, but
Antinous dropped to one knee, his sword slicing beneath the shield and cutting deeply into the old man’s thigh. Sekundos cried out and fell back. Antinous glanced down the long megaron. Odysseus had jumped off the table and thrown aside his bow. He now was fighting with a sword, slashing ferociously left and right, trying to force his way through to his wife.

  The balance of the battle was shifting, Antinous realized. The advantage of surprise had been with Odysseus and his men, but that had passed, and the weight of numbers was beginning to tell. There had been almost one hundred fifty pirates in the megaron. The fighting men with Odysseus numbered only forty. They were being forced back slowly toward the great doors. They would have been overrun swiftly were it not for the giant black-haired warrior with the two blades. His strength was terrifying. Again and again his swords cut through defenses, bodies piling up around him.

  Antinous turned his attention back to Sekundos, for the old man was advancing on him, shield held high, stabbing sword at the ready.

  Antinous laughed. “Old fool, you should have quit the sea years ago. Your muscles are wasted, your speed gone, your bones brittle.”

  Antinous darted in, making a feint toward the groin. Sekundos dropped his shield to block the blow. Antinous plunged his short sword over the shield and into the old man’s chest. Sekundos groaned and fell back, his shield clattering to the floor.

  In the center of the hall Odysseus was surrounded by pirates, but he surged into them, shouting curses. “Take him alive!” Antinous shouted. “I want him alive!”

  Suddenly the great doors were thrust open. More warriors came pouring in, screaming a battle cry.

  “Penelope! PENELOPE!”

  Antinous stood aghast as more and more fighting men swarmed into the palace. At their center was a warrior in a full-faced helm and breastplate of glittering bronze. He tore into the pirates, cutting down one man and then another.

  In panic the pirates fell back once more. Some fled through the side doors to the servants’ quarters. Others retreated toward the throne. The bronze warrior and his men followed hard on their heels, his sword cutting and killing, blood spraying from the blade.