Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  Banokles had been right to ask, Who are we fighting for? There was no treasure and no king, and the high walls had been rendered meaningless.

  Kalliades thought back to the day when, as a child, he had hidden in the flax field as brutal men had raped and killed his sister. On that day he had vowed to avenge her by seeking out such men and killing them. He had joined the forces of the Mykene still firm in his intention. Yet somehow over the years his vow had been forgotten, and he had found that he was fighting side by side with such brutes. Kalliades never had raped a woman or killed a child, but many of his comrades had, men he was proud to call friends.

  Rescuing Piria from the pirates had changed his life in many ways. It had made him remember his pledge in the flax field. And he knew he could never turn away from it again.

  “In answer to your question—” he said to Banokles.

  “What question?”

  “You asked me what we are fighting for. That little boy. Astyanax is king of Troy now. We’re fighting for him. But not because he is the king. We fight today for all the women and old men relying on us in the palace, people who cannot fight for themselves. We will use our swords to protect the weak, not to kill them and take what they own. That is for lesser men.”

  Banokles shrugged. “If you say so,” he answered. Then he squinted into the growing light. “Here they come!” he said.

  Kalliades rolled to his feet and risked a glance over the crenellated wall. His heart sank. They were still facing a horde. It seemed like the hundreds they had killed at the Scaean Gate had counted for nothing. At least most of the defenders had had a night’s rest while the attackers had been carousing and killing.

  He heard the clatter of ladders hitting the other side of the wall.

  Suddenly Banokles stood up and roared at the enemy, “I am Banokles! Come at me and die, you scum!” A volley of arrows soared over the wall. One shaft grazed his ruined ear, and he ducked down quickly, grinning.

  Looking at each other, they both waited a few heartbeats, then as one leaped up to face the enemy. A huge Mykene warrior had reached the top of the ladder, and the sword of Argurios ripped into his face. Kalliades sent a reverse cut into the bearded face of another attacker, then glanced along the outside of the wall. There were only twenty or so ladders to this section. All we have to do, he thought, is kill twenty warriors, then keep on doing it until the attack fails.

  To his right Banokles swept his sword through the throat of an attacker, then brained another. A warrior with a braided beard came over the wall, an ax in one hand. Banokles let him come and then, as he cleared the ramparts, ducked and plunged a sword into the man’s belly. As he fell, Banokles stabbed him in the back. He grabbed the man’s ax and swung it at the next attacker, smashing through his shoulder and breastplate.

  Arrows soared over the wall. Most were too high, and they flew harmlessly into the courtyard, but two defenders went down, and one shaft stuck high in Banokles’ breastplate.

  To his left Kalliades saw that three Mykene warriors had forced their way to the ramparts, giving the enemy a foothold and allowing more to follow. Kalliades charged the group, cutting one down instantly and shoulder charging the second, who crashed down, his head bouncing against the ramparts wall. The third man lunged with his sword at Kalliades’ belly. A Royal Eagle blocked the blade and slashed his sword through the attacker’s neck. The second man tried to rise, and Kalliades plunged his blade down through his collarbone and into his chest. He glanced at the Eagle who had helped him and saw it was Polydorus.

  “For the king!” the young aide shouted, gutting another attacker and hacking at the neck of another.

  And the battle raged on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE TROJAN WOMEN

  Andromache laid her bundle of arrows on the balcony wall. She dragged her unruly hair back with a leather strip, then dried her damp palms on her tunic. She looked along the palace balcony at the other women. Some were watching her, nervously following her example; others stared transfixed at the ferocious battle taking place across the palace courtyard. It could not last much longer, they all knew. Their gallant warriors defending the ramparts had beaten back wave after wave of enemy attacks. Now, in the sultry afternoon, Andromache knew by the chill in her bones that it was nearly the end.

  She watched stretcher bearers, most of them old men, struggle back to the palace with their burdens. Why? she wondered. Our wounded soldiers are just being saved for a later death, when the enemy breaks into the palace. We cannot hold the palace wall. It is not high enough, and we do not have enough men. We cannot hold the palace. She closed her eyes. Despair threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Lady, can you help me?” Her young handmaid Anio was struggling with the leather breastplate she had been given. Though intended for a small man, it was too wide, the straps falling off her thin shoulders.

  Patiently Andromache unthreaded the straps and then tied them closer together. “There,” she decided, “that’s better. You look like a tortoise who’s been given too big a shell.”

  Anio smiled, and one girl laughed; Andromache felt her tension ease. There were ten Women of the Horse left, women and girls as young as fifteen who had not fled the city. Some had stayed because they had no family and nowhere to go, others because their families had remained, convinced that the great walls would never fall. As Kalliades had ordered, she had brought them to the high palace balcony overlooking the courtyard. Only Penthesileia had ignored those orders and gone to the ramparts to fight with the Thrakian bowmen.

  Andromache frowned, angry at herself for giving in to despair, however fleetingly. You are the daughter of a king, she told herself. You do not whine or complain about your lot. Little Anio can find it in herself to smile despite the odds. You should feel privileged to stand beside her.

  She watched the men on the wall, and pride surged in her breast. They are Trojan warriors, she thought. We are Trojan warriors. We will fight here, and we may die, but our tale will be told and the name of Troy will not be forgotten.

  A familiar voice whispered in her ear: “Yes, Andromache, yes! Be strong! Look to the north, and help will come. We will meet again before the end, Sister.”

  Kassandra! The girl’s voice was so clear, so present, that Andromache looked around. Inside her head she called her sister’s name, but there was no reply. Look to the north, Kassandra had said. Odysseus had told her the same thing.

  At that moment, with awful suddenness, the enemy broke through on the wall. Eight Mykene warriors fought their way clear, racing down the rampart steps and across the paved courtyard toward the palace.

  “Be ready!” she yelled to her archers, snatching her bow and notching an arrow to the string. The other women did the same thing. “Wait!” she warned. She watched coolly as the warriors approached.

  Then she shouted, “Now!” and a volley of arrows tore into the running men. The women had time to loose two or three shafts each, and five of the attackers were hit. Two fell, and three stumbled on. When the men reached the closed megaron doors, there was nowhere to go, and they tried to scale the sheer stone walls. Only one managed to reach the balcony. As his hand gripped the top of the wall, Andromache pulled out her bronze dagger. She waited until his face appeared and then plunged the blade into the man’s eye. He fell without a sound.

  She looked again to the struggle on the ramparts. The line of defenders had fractured in several places, and more Mykene were breaking through. The Trojans started to fall back in an organized retreat, pace by pace, trying to hold the line while being relentlessly forced toward the palace.

  “Wait!” she ordered the women, seeing some of them raise their bows again. “Lower your bows. Now! Remember our orders.”

  Beneath them they heard the groan and rumble of the megaron doors opening.

  With a loud clatter of hooves on stone, the last horsemen in the city rode out from the palace. In the center of the battle line, defenders broke swiftly to the left and right
. The riders galloped straight for the exposed center. With lance and spear they slammed into the enemy. Every horse left in the city was there. Andromache saw the black stallion Hero that had carried Hektor on his final ride. He was rearing, kicking out with flailing hooves at the enemy soldiers. Then all she could see was a melee of warriors and horses, all she could hear the shouts of men and the neighing of their mounts, the clash of metal and the rending of flesh.

  It was a gallant last strike, but it was not enough. The gates in the palace wall had been opened, and hundreds more enemy warriors were joining the rear of the horde. The Trojans still were retreating, battling bravely but losing ground all the time.

  “Be ready,” Andromache ordered the Women of the Horse. “Don’t shoot wildly. Take time to aim. We cannot risk shooting our own men. Make each arrow count. Always aim high. If you miss one man’s face, you might hit the man behind him.” This was the instruction she had drummed into her archers over and over in recent days until she found herself muttering it in her sleep.

  Enemy warriors had fought their way within bowshot now, but still she waited. Then she saw a bearded bloodstained soldier in a Mykene helm look up at her and grin. “Now!” she shouted. Sighting high on his face, she loosed her arrow. The shaft plunged into the man’s cheek. She had a new arrow to the string in a heartbeat. She shot it at a soldier with his sword raised. It bit deep into his biceps, and she saw the sword fall from his hand.

  For a moment she paused to glance at the other women shooting at the oncoming horde. Their faces were determined, their movements confident. Arrow after arrow was finding its target. Her heart soared.

  “We are Trojan women,” she yelled at the enemy. “Come against us and we will kill you!”

  She no longer could see the Trojan defenders beneath her; they were hidden by the jutting balcony. She and her archers kept shooting into the mass of enemy faces. She did not hear the megaron doors close.

  No time seemed to pass as she carried on shooting, yet she realized it was growing dark. Her shoulder hurt.

  “Andromache, fall back! Andromache!” She felt a hand on her arm and found herself being dragged from the balcony. Struggling, she looked up.

  “Kalliades! We must fight on!” she cried.

  “We are fighting on, Andromache. But you must rest. You are wounded.”

  “Are the doors closed?”

  “We have retreated to the megaron, and the doors are closed. The enemy is bringing ladders to the balcony. The fighting there will be hand to hand. It is the only place they can hope to break in until they can force the megaron doors. Your women have been magnificent, and they still have a part to play. We need you and your bows on the gallery. But you must rest first,” he urged. “There is time. Then you will be ready to fight on.”

  She nodded and looked at the wound on her shoulder. Blood was flowing freely. She guessed an arrow had made the deep groove, though she could not remember it. “I will have my wound dressed once the other women have been attended to.”

  “That has already happened. You were the last to leave the balcony.”

  “Are any of them hurt?”

  “Yes, but minor wounds only.”

  “Then I must see my son.”

  He nodded. “Very well. Go, see your son. I will find someone to tend your wound.”

  Andromache walked through the palace, pushing her way through a megaron packed with men and horses, hardly seeing the frenzied activity around her, her mind in a whirl. She still could feel the smooth wood of the bow in her palm, the straightness of each arrow in her fingers, the muscles in her arm tensing as she drew back, the smooth release—over and over again.

  The queen’s apartments were dusty and dark. Stillness lay on the rooms as heavily as the dust. Wounded men were being cared for in the queen’s gathering room, so she skirted it and made her way to the rear chamber where the boys slept. Astyanax and Dex were fast asleep, tucked up in the same bed, their two heads, one red and one fair, close together.

  Andromache watched them breathing and stroked each small head. Her mind slowly calmed.

  Behind her a voice said hesitantly, “Andromache?”

  She started and turned. “Xander!” she said in surprise, embracing the freckle-faced healer. Kalliades, who had brought him, raised an eyebrow.

  “This lad says he is a healer. Clearly you know him.”

  “He is a good friend of mine and of Odysseus. We voyaged together. I feared you dead, Xander. You have been gone so long.”

  As he examined her shoulder and applied ointment and a dressing, she told him of her travels and of Gershom’s sudden departure from the Xanthos. Xander explained how he had ended up in the enemy camp and talked about the time he’d spent with Odysseus and Achilles.

  “You should have taken the Ugly One’s advice,” she told him, “and fled the city.”

  “You did not,” he countered quietly.

  She remembered her last talk with Polites and shook her head, smiling. “You are right, Xander. It is not my place to judge you.”

  Xander examined the deep gash on Kalliades’ thigh. “It is very angry,” he said, frowning, “and I think corruption is setting in.” From his satchel he brought out some dry brown vegetation. “This is tree moss,” he explained to them. “It is old, but it still has virtue to purify.” He bound it to the wound with a bandage. “The wound should have been stitched long since,” he told the warrior. “I fear it will always pain you.”

  Kalliades told him, “If I live through this day, I will rejoice in the pain.”

  After healer and warrior had left, Andromache sat with the sleeping boys. She scanned Astyanax’s face, seeking something of his father in the angle of an eyebrow, the curve of an ear. She wondered again where Helikaon and the Xanthos were. Then the familiar demon guilt rose in her heart, and she thought of Hektor. She realized how much she missed him and found herself wishing he was there beside her. She always felt safe with Hektor. With Helikaon there was always danger.

  She wandered to the north window, where light was fading on the plain of the Simoeis. She recalled her trip by donkey cart into the city with the cargo of tin. That night she had looked up at those high windows and wondered if anyone was up there staring down. Now she looked down into darkness and guessed no one was there. With the city open to him, Agamemnon would not waste men guarding the sheer north walls.

  The north walls. Look to the north. Suddenly Andromache realized what the words meant. She leaned over the window ledge and looked far down to the bottom of the cliffs. If she could find rope, could she get two children down the vertical cliff? She moved her wounded shoulder. Back and forth did not hurt much, but when she lifted it above her head, the pain was agonizing. She could never do it.

  Yet Odysseus and Kassandra always gave good advice, each in his or her own way. And they were right. It was the only path left to her now if she hoped to save her son. She leaned over the window ledge again. Darkness was gathering, but as she looked down, she could just make out a figure climbing toward her.

  Her heart seemed suddenly to slow, and its thudding echoed in her ears. She could not see the climber’s face, not even his age or build, but she knew without a doubt that it was Helikaon.

  Earlier that day, while the sun still sat high in the sky, Helikaon stood impatiently on the prow of the Xanthos as the great bireme made her last journey up the Simoeis.

  His emotions had been in disarray since, off Lesbos two days before, they had encountered a Kypriot vessel loaded with refugees from Troy and had heard of Hektor’s death and the fall of the city. Hektor dead! He had found it impossible to believe. Hektor had been feared dead before. But he heard the refugees’ tales of the duel with Achilles, the poison and betrayal, and the great funeral pyre, and with pain in his heart he knew it to be true.

  There was no news of Andromache, but he was sure she still lived; he knew every bone in his body would ache if she was no longer in his world.

  Now, as the galley slipp
ed up the narrowing river, he looked south toward Troy. The oarsmen, too, kept glancing at the city, their faces grim, watching the flames leaping from the walls, darkening the pale sky to the color of bronze.

  Suddenly Helikaon could wait no longer. He ordered the starboard rowers to ship their oars, and the oarsmen to port guided the galley into the side. Even as she bumped gently into the reed-covered bank, Helikaon turned and addressed his crew.

  “You are all Dardanians here,” he told them, his deep voice somber. “My fight is not yours. I am going to the city, and I will go alone. If any of you wish to return to Dardanos, leave here and now, and may the gods walk with you. For the rest of you the Xanthos sails at dawn. If I do not return, Oniacus will be your captain. He will first take the ship to Thera, then follow the Trojan fleet to the Seven Hills.” He glanced at his right-hand man, who nodded. They had discussed this at length, and he knew Oniacus would follow his orders loyally.

  But there were cries from the men, “We will go with you, Golden One!”

  Helikaon shook his head. “I will go alone,” he repeated. “I do not know if anyone can get into the city now. And if we could, even the eighty of you, brave men and true, would make little difference against the hordes of the enemy. Go to the Seven Hills. Many of you already have families there. It is your home now.”

  There were more shouts and entreaties from the crew. But Helikaon ignored them, strapping to his back the scabbard with its twin leaf-bladed swords, then hefting a thick coil of rope onto his shoulder.

  The cries died down, and then a single voice asked, “Do you plan to die in Troy, lord?”

  He stared coldly at the questioner. “I plan to live,” he told him.

  Then he vaulted smoothly over the side and onto the riverbank. Without a glance back at the Xanthos, he set off at a steady lope toward the Golden City.

  As he ran, his thoughts were of Andromache and the boys. If she still lived, Dex and Astyanax must be alive. She would fight to the death for them, he was certain. Two nights and two days had passed since the enemy had entered the city. Could anyone still be alive? How long could they hold Priam’s palace? In the previous siege the defenders had numbered a mere handful, yet they had held back the invaders all night. This time the number of the enemy could be a hundred times greater. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the endless speculation. First he had to find his way in.