Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  It was getting dark when he reached the north walls of the city. He made his way to the point directly beneath the queen’s apartments. Looking up, he could see lights in the high windows. They seemed so close. Yet to get there he had to scale a dry, crumbling vertical cliff face. That was the easy part. Above that was the sheer limestone wall of Troy itself.

  When he and Hektor had been young men, they once had competed to make this climb. Scaling the lower cliff, with its numerous handholds and footholds and rocky outcrops, they had ascended quickly, shoulder to shoulder. Then they had reached the point where the cliff ended and the wall began. There was a wide ledge there, and they had paused. They both had looked up at the golden stones from which the wall was fashioned. They were massive, each more than the height of a man, and so cunningly crafted that there was not the narrowest fingerhold between them. The pair had turned to each other and laughed. They had agreed it was impossible and had climbed down, their friendly contest over.

  Now, a man ten years older, he was planning to try something a youngster at the height of his strength could not do. Only desperation would make him attempt it, but he could see no other choice.

  He started to climb. As he remembered, the hand-and footholds were plentiful, although dry and crumbly after the hot summer. The initial ascent was not difficult, and within a short time he was on the ledge that marked the top of the cliff and the bottom of the wall. He paused for breath, looking up again. He had come this far. He could not stop now. But in the gathering dark he could see not a single handhold.

  He dropped the coil of rope on the ledge beside him. In desperation he looked up again. Miraculously, leaning over the window ledge high above him, her chestnut hair a halo of flame in the light from the window, was Andromache.

  “Goddess,” he whispered. “I am truly blessed.”

  “Andromache!” he called. “Catch the rope!”

  She nodded silently. He picked up the rope again, carefully trapping the loose end under one foot. He steadied himself, then with a mighty effort threw the coil upward. But his caution made it fall short. Andromache grasped vainly at thin air, and the rope fell back, missing Helikaon and looping far down the cliff. Patiently he wound it up again. Now he had the measure of the throw, and at his second attempt he hurled the coil harder and it landed in Andromache’s waiting hands.

  She disappeared from sight, then was swiftly back, calling down to him, “It is secure!”

  He cautiously leaned his weight on the rope, and it held firm. Within heartbeats he had shinnied up it and was over the window ledge.

  Andromache fell into his arms. Only then did he allow himself to believe fully that she was still alive. He pressed his face into her hair. It smelled of smoke and flowers. “I love you,” he said simply.

  “I can’t believe you are here,” she answered him, gazing into his eyes. “I feared I would never see you again.”

  There were tears in her eyes, and he pulled her close, feeling her heart beating. For a long moment time slowed. He forgot about the war and surrendered himself to their embrace. The fears that had been plaguing him, that he would find her dead, their sons murdered, evaporated as he held her close and their hearts beat as one.

  “Dex?” he whispered. She drew away from him and took his hand. She led him to the little bed in the next room where the two boys lay. He bent down to look into his son’s face and touched his fair hair.

  When he turned back to Andromache, her face had become grave. They walked back out of the room, and then she put her arms around him and drew a deep breath. She said, “My love, there is something I must tell you.”

  At that moment, the door of the chamber opened and two warriors burst in. Kalliades and Banokles stopped in shock. Helikaon did not know which surprised them more, his presence in the room or the fact that he was holding Andromache in his arms.

  Kalliades recovered first. “Helikaon! You come unlooked for!” He glanced toward the window, seeing the knotted rope.

  Helikaon said quickly, “Do not expect an army to come swarming up the walls. I come to you alone. But you have my sword if it will make a difference.”

  “You will always make a difference, lord,” Kalliades said, “though the situation is grave.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Agamemnon has thousands waged against us. We number less than a hundred. They have taken the palace wall. It is taking them a while to break through the megaron doors, but they cannot last much longer.”

  Helikaon remembered that Priam had had the doors renewed after the previous siege. They were fashioned from three layers of oak, cross-grained, reinforced with metal bars that locked into holes in the floor and ceiling. It was unlikely they could be forced, only hacked slowly to pieces.

  “The king?” he asked.

  “Priam and all his sons are dead. Astyanax is king.”

  Andromache cast Helikaon an agonized glance and looked toward the window. He nodded. “I have a duty here,” he told her. “Then we will save the children.”

  The warriors walked through the palace to the megaron, where Helikaon was proud to see order and calm, though the air was thick with the scent of death. There were a hundred heavily armored soldiers, most of them wounded and bloodstained, all so exhausted that they barely could stand. A few stood facing the doors, where even now the wood was starting to splinter under the heavy heads of axes. Most sat or lay, conserving their energy, too tired to speak. But one of them, in the armor of an Eagle, scrambled up as they passed.

  “Helikaon!” he cried.

  Helikaon turned and smiled. “Polydorus, it is pleasant to see you alive.”

  “Have your brought an army, my friend?”

  “No. I bring only my sword.”

  “Then you bring us hope. There is little enough here now.”

  Helikaon nodded. Looking down, he saw horse droppings on the floor. He frowned. “Horses?” he asked.

  Banokles grinned. “There are a few left. I’ve had them locked away somewhere safe.”

  “Who commands here?” Helikaon asked. “Lucan?”

  Banokles shook his head and grunted. “Lucan fell at the Scaean Gate. Tough old bastard. Thought he’d live forever.”

  He told Helikaon curtly, “You’re the only king on this side of those doors.”

  But Helikaon shook his head. “You have fought for this city all summer, General. You know every man here and what he is capable of. You command here. I am just a foot soldier, Banokles. My sword and my life are yours.”

  Banokles sighed and shot a glance at Kalliades, who threw his head back and laughed. The laughter rang around the megaron, and men turned their heads at the unaccustomed sound. “Tell us your plan, then, General,” Kalliades asked his friend, grinning.

  “There are thousands of the bastards, most of them Mykene veterans,” Banokles replied. “Not one soft-bellied puker among them. We’re just a hundred. When the thunder rolls, they’ll have the better of us. But by the bloody spear of Ares we’ll make them pay for every step they take!”

  The hundred defenders stood in line three deep facing the doors. In the front two lines were the last of the Eagles. Front and center was Helikaon, wearing the armor of a Royal Eagle, with Banokles and Kalliades. Behind them stood Polydorus. Out in front, on either side of the doors, were two Thrakian archers.

  Andromache was on the gallery watching them, bow in hand. She remembered the last time the four men had been together in this megaron, when Banokles and Kalliades had fought for the Mykene and Helikaon and Polydorus had defended the stairs. She wondered at the irony of life and the tyrannical whims of the gods that had brought them together again.

  She could see Helikaon’s profile and saw him turn his head briefly to glimpse her. She wondered if this would be her last sight of him alive. She knew he had come there with the intention of rescuing her. Yet once here, he could not leave friends and comrades to fight on without him. In the heat of the battle he would forget about her and her boys. For a moment
only she felt sorry for herself. To be in his arms once again and then to have him snatched away by duty and loyalty seemed so cruel. Then she hardened her heart. Helikaon must follow his duty, and he would live or die. Her duty this day was to fight until the battle was lost, then escape with her sons somehow down the cliff. She thought again of Kassandra’s words, “We will meet again, Sister, before the end,” and took courage from their message.

  The ax heads tearing relentlessly at the heavy oak doors finally had cut a hole. She could see movement on the other side. Then she saw Banokles step forward from the front line, hefting a lance, and with astonishing accuracy and strength throw it through the gap. There was an explosion of curses on the other side, and the Trojans all cheered. The cry was taken up all around the megaron: “Banokles! Banokles! BANOKLES!”

  Then the hole in the door was hacked wider, and warriors started forcing their way through. The two archers loosed arrow after arrow into them. Six Mykene fell before their comrades managed to get as far as the Trojan line. At first they only climbed in one at a time, and the men on the front line dispatched them with ease. Then they started pouring in and succeeded in releasing the metal bars. The ruined doors groaned open.

  Andromache watched with pride and fear as the small band of Trojan fighters held back the forces of Agamemnon. Despite the power of the Mykene attack, the slaughter was terrible in their ranks. Helikaon, Kalliades, and Banokles fought with cool efficiency, each armed with shield and sword. Every attacker fell swiftly to their blades, and for a moment Andromache gave in to hope. Then she looked through the doors and saw the ranks of the enemy, all armed to the teeth, ready to replace their fallen comrades. All hope drained away.

  She looked around. The narrow Trojan line across the megaron was protecting the stone staircase and the gallery. If it was pushed back even a few paces, the enemy could reach the side of the gallery, throw ladders up, and get behind the defenders. The Mykene would not make the mistake they had made the last time and be drawn by arrogance to attack the stairs while neglecting the gallery. Agamemnon, a cool thinker, would have made sure of that.

  The women archers had been ordered to protect the gallery. With them were some civilians, traders and farmers, and a number of old soldiers well past their fighting years who were charged with pushing away the ladders and guarding the women.

  The brute strength of the Mykene advance soon started to take its toll on the exhausted defenders, and the line was being forced back at each end. Andromache saw Trojans falling, to be replaced instantly by their comrades behind. Yet slowly the two wings of the line were being bent back. Only the center held.

  “Be ready!” she shouted, and the women raised their bows. Ladders were passed from hand to hand over the heads of the Mykene, and then she heard one bang against the gallery wall. Half a dozen arrows slammed into the first warrior to climb a ladder.

  Below them one wing of the defending line had been pushed back farther. “Hold the line!” someone bellowed. A group of old soldiers hurried down the stone stairs, bellowing their battle cries, to lend their support to the collapsing wing.

  More and more ladders were raised, and soon Mykene warriors were climbing onto the gallery. Andromache saw the civilians attacking them with swords and clubs, fighting without skill but with desperation. Still the women stood their ground, raining their shafts into the enemy.

  The defenders below had been forced back to the stone staircase, and Andromache saw a few Trojan soldiers fleeing up the stairs. Then she realized they were racing to defend the gallery.

  Kalliades left Helikaon and Banokles fighting side by side on the stairway and sprinted up the steps toward her. As he passed, he snarled, “Retreat now, Andromache!” Armed with two swords, he slammed into the advancing Mykene.

  Andromache shouted to the women to retreat to the queen’s apartments. One was already dead, but several wounded archers limped past, including little Anio, blood streaming down one arm. The others fought on, loosing arrow after arrow into the Mykene. Two were cut down. Penthesileia stood her ground alone, then fell with a dagger in her side.

  Andromache grabbed her bundle of arrows and turned to flee—and saw two Mykene warriors stalking toward her, cutting off her path of retreat. The first lunged his sword at her. Instinctively she blocked the blow with her bundle of arrows, then grabbed an arrow in her fist and stepped in. With a cry she plunged it into the eye of the attacker. He fell, clutching the shaft.

  The second warrior raised his sword for a killing blow. Then he fell to his knees, hit on the head from behind by a man wielding a club. The Mykene, dazed, twisted around and rammed his sword into the belly of his attacker. Andromache picked up the first Mykene’s sword and hacked at the second man’s neck until he was still. She stepped over the bodies to reach her rescuer, who was slumped against the wall, thick blood staining the front of his clothing. She knelt down.

  “Remember me, lady?” the man whispered, blood trickling from his mouth.

  For a heartbeat Andromache did not. Then she saw that three fingers had been cut away from his right hand, and the memory came back to her of a moment in a street when a drunken man, a veteran of the Trojan Horse, had called her a goddess.

  “You are Pardones. I thank you for my life, Pardones.”

  The dying man said something, but it was so weak that she could not hear it. She bent down to him. “Kept it,” he murmured. Then the rasp of his breath abruptly stopped.

  She sat back, tears in her eyes, and saw on the floor beside his dead hand the golden brooch she had given him for his courtesy and loyalty.

  Wiping her face on the back of her hand, she got up, cast a last glance at the megaron where Helikaon fought on, then followed Kalliades’ orders and ran back down the stone corridor to the queen’s apartments.

  The gathering room was a scene of carnage. Dozens of gravely wounded soldiers lay on the floor, dragged there by comrades or civilians. There were a few injured women. Andromache saw that Penthesileia had been brought there, still alive but ashen-faced. Lying with her was Anio, her head in her sister’s lap. Young Xander was moving from person to person, overwhelmed by the number of injured yet carrying on, stanching wounds, comforting the wounded, holding the hands of the dying. He looked up at her, and she saw that his face was gray.

  Kalliades had followed her in, covered in blood, some of it from a wound high in his chest.

  “They have the gallery,” he told her urgently. “We can hold the stone corridor for a while, but you must get ready to leave with the boys.”

  “Helikaon?” she asked, her heart in her mouth.

  But at that moment Helikaon and Banokles entered the gathering room, carrying Polydorus, who was badly wounded. They laid the Eagle on the floor, then Helikaon turned to Andromache.

  “You must go now,” he told her, and she heard the agony in his voice. You must go, she thought with a stab of fear. Not we must go. She knew he would stay and fight to the end. She would not try to change his mind.

  They hurried to the room where the little boys slept on. She woke them, and they rubbed their eyes and looked wonderingly at the blood-covered warriors around their bed.

  Helikaon lifted Andromache’s hand to his lips, and she winced. “You are wounded?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yesterday,” she admitted, showing him her shoulder. “It has opened up again. I will need help with the boys.”

  “You cannot take two children down the rope on your own, anyway,” he said. “I will carry them down.” Hope flared in her, then died when he dropped his eyes. “Then I must return,” he told her.

  “You take Dex,” Kalliades suggested. “I will carry Astyanax. He knows me, and we have shared adventures before.” He picked up the little boy, who confidently put his arms around the warrior’s neck.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly,” urged Banokles, who had been listening to the fighting in the stone corridor.

  “Strap the child to me,” Kalliades told his friend, h
anding him a length of bandage. In a moment Banokles had wound the bandage around him, tying the child tightly to his chest. Kalliades walked to the window. Astyanax grinned over his shoulder at Andromache and waved his hand at her, thrilled by the excitement.

  “You had better take this,” Banokles said suddenly. Kalliades looked at the weapon he was holding out.

  “The sword of Argurios! I had lost it!”

  “I found it on the stairs. Take it with you.”

  “It will hamper me on my climb. Keep it until I get back.”

  “You don’t know what might happen down there. Take it.”

  Kalliades shrugged and sheathed the sword. He climbed out the window, disappearing into the night.

  “You next, my love,” Helikaon said to Andromache. “Can you climb down with that wound?”

  “I can make it,” she reassured him, although privately she had doubts. Her heart was thudding in her chest. She cast a last glance at the blond warrior. “Thank you, Banokles,” she said. It seemed inadequate after all he had done for her. Before he could step back, she darted forward and kissed his cheek. Banokles nodded, his face reddening.

  Andromache sat on the window ledge and swung her legs around. Grabbing hold of the rope, she started her descent.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE LAST KING OF TROY

  With his small son Dex strapped to his body, Helikaon climbed hand over hand down the rope after Kalliades and Andromache. He was anxious to return to the palace quickly and could think only of the coming struggle. He knew that Agamemnon would show himself at the last and that Helikaon would be waiting for him. No matter how many elite warriors the Mykene king sent against him, he was determined to survive long enough to confront Agamemnon and kill him if it was in his power.