03 - Fall of Kings Read online

  “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.

  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 este
em 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.