03 - Fall of Kings Read online

  There would be time enough for such idle behavior, he told himself, when the winter had set in fully. Then he could spend more time in the workshops, supervising the crafting of brooches and bangles, rings and ornaments. Amber had been popular for several seasons. It would not last. Trojans were fickle when it came to fashion. Five years back it had been rubies, coral, and cloaks and tunics of crimson. Red had been the color. Then, for a short while, black had gained the ascendancy. An Egypteian merchant named Cthosis had perfected a dye that allowed black garments to be washed without the color leaching out. Ebony and obsidian bangles and earrings had been the fashion then among the women of Troy.

  Now it was amber. What next? Tobios wondered. Blue was a strong possibility. Lapis lazuli never went entirely out of fashion, and it could be very pricey. The bluer the lapis, the more expensive the stone. Many women—and men, for that matter—had been seduced by being told their eyes were the color of lapis lazuli.

  As he was thinking, Tobios caught sight of the Mykene merchant Plouteus and his sons entering the square. He waved a greeting, but immersed in a deep and obviously serious conversation, they did not see him. Perhaps even the notoriously lucky Plouteus was feeling the pressures of this senseless war. So far his ships had escaped either seizure or sinking. That was galling. Not that Tobios wanted to see honest sailors killed on the Great Green, but Plouteus’ luck meant that his trade goods could be sold more cheaply. That kept prices down, cutting margins and lowering profits.

  Others of the merchant group were growing envious of the man, but Tobios had no time to waste on such destructive emotions. Plouteus was, it was said, a religious man, paying homage to many gods. In return, perhaps, they were favoring him. Tobios dearly would have liked to bribe the gods of this land, but if he did, there was no doubt the Prophet would hear of it. If that happened, death surely would follow—or worse. Some years back, it was said, the Prophet had cursed a man and given him leprosy. And one of Tobios’ servants told the story of a man who annoyed the Prophet and woke up the following morning blind in both eyes.

  Better to risk the wrath of anonymous gods who might or might not exist than to anger the Prophet, who certainly did.

  The Scythe was blowing hard now, hissing around and beneath the windbreak. Tobios retrieved his old woolen cap from the shelf below his stall and tugged it over his dyed red hair.

  As he straightened, he saw the king’s son Paris heading toward him. The boy was wearing armor and carrying a dented helm. Tobios cast his gaze around the marketplace, seeking the plump Helen, who usually walked with him. They were a sweet couple, and Tobios liked them. Helen was a plain, matronly woman with mousy hair and a sweet smile. Her husband obviously adored her. Whenever he shopped alone, he would buy the most extravagant pieces for her: jewels that only a beautiful woman would dare to wear. The following day she would return and exchange them quietly. Helen’s taste was for the simple. She chose brooches for the shape of the stone or the beauty of the grain, preferring works in silver to those in gold.

  Tobios smiled at the young man as he approached the stall. “A chill morning, lord, to be sure,” he said.

  “I envy you your cloak, Tobios,” Paris responded. “Armor does not keep out the cold.”

  “So I have been told, lord. Are you expecting a battle today?”

  Paris gave a boyish grin. “If there were one, Tobios, I would be as much use as feathers on a fish.”

  “Skill at fighting is much overrated,” Tobios confided. “In my long life I have discovered that to be fleet of foot is infinitely superior to having skill with weapons. Though better than both is to be quick-witted.”

  “Have you been in many wars?” Paris asked as he examined a bangle of cunningly sliced amber.

  “Too many, sir.” Tobios shivered as dark memories assailed him. Changing the subject, he said: “That piece you hold was crafted by my grandson. It is the first competent example of the skills to come.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Tobios saw Helikaon moving through the crowd. He frowned. He hoped that Helikaon had not come to return the pendant he had bought. Returning his attention to Paris, he waited patiently as the young man examined another bracelet more closely. It was fashioned of braided silver wire wrapped around and through seven small fire opals. Young Aaron was becoming a fine craftsman.

  “If I may make so bold, lord, the lovely Helen would find this piece especially appealing.”

  Before Paris could answer, the air was rent with a piercing shout. “Father! No! It is not him!”

  Tobios peered around and saw the portly Plouteus fighting with Helikaon. For a heartbeat it looked comical: a fat middle-aged merchant in a crimson, ankle-length tunic grappling next to a pie stall with a slender white-garbed warrior.

  As Tobios looked more closely, he saw that the warrior was not Helikaon. It was Prince Deiphobos, one of Priam’s bastard sons, known as Dios. Tobios wondered why a placid man like Plouteus would risk insulting a king’s son, but then a spray of red spattered across Dios’ tunic. Sunlight glittered on the bright blade in Plouteus’ hand. Dios reached out to grab Plouteus’ wrist, but the merchant wrenched his hand loose of the grip and plunged the blade again into Dios’ chest. The victim’s clothes were blood-drenched now, and rivulets of red streamed down his legs. Yet still he fought on. Plouteus’ sons rushed in. Tobios thought they had come to pull their father clear. Instead they, too, drew knives and began to hack at the injured prince.

  “Paris! Paris!” Dios shouted, and Tobios saw him reach out to his brother. Then another blade slammed into his body, and he doubled over, blood spewing from his mouth.

  Tobios glanced at Paris. The young prince was standing statue-still, frozen in shock and fear. Tobios snatched Paris’ sword from its scabbard and ran at the killers, shouting at the top of his voice, “Murderers! Assassins!”

  Plouteus’ youngest son swung toward Tobios. There were blood splashes across his face, and the skinning knife he held dripped gore. He looked at the jewel merchant, then dropped his blade and ran. The oldest son grabbed his father and was pulling him away when the redheaded merchant arrived. Tobios lashed out with the sword blade. It caught the young man high on the temple, slashing the skin and sending blood spraying. He fell sideways, then staggered several steps.

  “Assassins!” Tobios shouted again. “Hold them!” Another stall holder ran up behind the injured assailant and hit him with a club. He pitched forward unconscious.

  Standing alongside the body of Dios, his face stricken, the merchant Plouteus looked into the eyes of Tobios. He was shaking his head.

  “Never wanted this,” he cried. “I swear by all the gods, Tobios, I had no choice.”

  “You worm!” an angry man in the crowd shouted. Tobios recognized him as the trader Actonion. Running forward, he plunged his dagger into Plouteus’ neck, forcing it deep. Blood spouted from the wound, and Plouteus pitched to his face on the stones.

  Tobios knelt beside Dios. The man’s eyes were open, but they could see nothing. The stab wounds to his face and neck no longer were bleeding.

  The man who had killed Plouteus also knelt beside the body. Tobios looked up into the dark eyes of Actonion.

  “I would have thought such a famed fighter would be bigger,” Actonion commented, staring down at the corpse.

  “Famed fighter?” Tobios queried.

  “Did someone not say this was the dread Helikaon?”

  “They were wrong. This is Deiphobos, son of Priam.”

  Pushing himself to his feet, Tobios turned back toward his stall. Paris still was standing there, slack-jawed, his eyes full of tears. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” he whispered.

  “A man stabbed that many times usually is,” Tobios told him.

  Paris groaned. “He called out for me, and I didn’t go to him. I couldn’t move, Tobios.”

  “Then go to him now,” Tobios said softly. “It is not right for the son of a king to lie alone in the dust of a marketplace.”

  But Par
is seemed rooted to the spot. “Oh, Tobios, I failed him. My greatest friend, and when he needed me, I did nothing.”

  Tobios held his tongue and sought to hide his contempt. Paris was spineless, but he was a good customer. Merchants did not stay in business long if they drove away good customers. Then he saw that the young man was staring at him, his expression imploring. Tobios sighed. He knew what the prince needed, what all cowards needed. “You could have done nothing, lord,” he said, putting as much sincerity into the lie as he could muster. “The first blows would have been fatal. By rushing in you would have risked being killed yourself for nothing. You acted wisely.”

  Paris shook his head but said nothing.

  A troop of soldiers arrived too late in the marketplace. They lifted the body of Dios, carrying him back toward the Scaean Gate. Tobios looked around for Actonion, but the man had gone.

  How strange, he thought. Priam surely would reward the man who had killed the assassin of one of his sons.

  Leaving Priam and Helikaon deep in conversation in the Amber Room, Andromache made her way down to the megaron, where she spotted Antiphones among the crowd. He was hard to miss, for he was still the largest man in Troy, though much of his weight was now muscle. Where once he had enjoyed bouts of almost Heraklean eating, he now was famed for his ferocious training regimen. Andromache liked him greatly but was in no mood for idle conversation.

  “Have you seen Hektor?” she asked him swiftly.

  “A few moments ago. He left the palace.” He leaned toward her and whispered, “You seem troubled, dear one.”

  “This has been a difficult day,” she told him.

  “There are many difficult days now. Hektor also seemed downcast. Is all well between you?”

  Andromache paused before answering, and when she did, the words sounded hollow in her ears. “There is love between us, Antiphones. Ultimately, therefore, all will be well. I have to believe that.”

  “He adores you, so I hope you are right,” Antiphones said. Andromache looked into the big man’s eyes and knew he wanted to say more.

  But the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the king’s son and chancellor, Polites. Stooping and balding, Polites seemed to age a year for every season that passed. His face was pale, his eyes dark-ringed, his mouth permanently downturned. “We need to speak, Antiphones,” he said.

  “You forget your manners, Brother,” Antiphones admonished him. Only then did Polites notice Andromache. His tired face reddened with embarrassment.

  “I am sorry, Sister,” he told her. “Please forgive me.”

  “No need to apologize, Polites. You are obviously more in need of Antiphones’ fellowship than I am. Therefore, I will leave you both to talk.”

  Andromache left the megaron and, trailed by two bodyguards, made her way back toward the palace of Hektor. Once she was outside, her problems returned to haunt her. She understood Hektor’s fears. There had been honesty between them from the first, so he knew she loved Helikaon. Now the thought of his wife sailing across the Great Green with Helikaon must be burrowing into his mind like a maggot into an apple.

  Her heart in turmoil, Andromache paused by a well. One of her guards, thinking she was thirsty, drew up a bucket. Andromache thanked him and sipped a little water from a wooden ladle. Thoughts of Kalliope suddenly filled her mind. Sweet, damaged, brave Kalliope. And she remembered the vile killers, the blazing farm, and Kalliope, standing tall on the hillside shooting arrows down at the assassins. Tears formed as she struggled to hold to that heroic image. But she could not, and cold reality made her see again the black shaft ripping into Kalliope. Now all that remained of her lover was the few bones Andromache had gathered from the ashes of the funeral pyre. They were contained in an ebony and silver chest beneath a window in her bedchamber.

  Andromache had dreamed of returning the bones to the Blessed Isle and burying them in the tamarisk grove beside the temple of Artemis. Now the High Priestess planned to hurl Kalliope’s bones into the pit and chain her spirit to serve the Minotaur forever.

  “Are you well, lady?” asked Ethenos, the youngest of her guards. “You are looking very pale.” He was a serious young man and a cousin to the murdered Cheon, who had died along with Kalliope on the day of the assassins.

  “I am fine,” she told the fair-haired soldier. It was a lie.

  Kalliope had adored the goddess Artemis, had prayed to her many times a day. Had that adoration been repaid in any way? Raped as a child, betrayed by her family, and then murdered by assassins. Not twenty years old when she died. Now, even after death, she was to be brutalized.

  For a moment only Andromache thought of praying to the goddess, but the voice of her anguish screamed out then. You think Artemis or any of the gods cares a whit about your life or Kalliope’s? Think on it! Have any of your prayers ever been answered?

  Suddenly Andromache smiled, but her thoughts were bitter. When she first had left Thera, she had wanted nothing more than to return to the Blessed Isle, to its simple life, with Kalliope. She had prayed for that and for the freedom she never had known before or since. And in her first unhappy days in Troy she had daydreamed about Helikaon taking her away on the Xanthos and had prayed for that also. Now, like a knife twisting in her gut, the gods had decided she would have both prayers twistedly fulfilled.

  Cold anger coursed through her. The demigod would not have Kalliope, not even if the fate of worlds hung on it. Yes, she would take bones to Thera, but not those of her lover.

  The decision made, she dropped the ladle into the bucket and walked on. At the palace she dismissed her guard, nodded to the soldiers at the side gates, then stepped through into the courtyard gardens. She saw Astyanax playing in the dirt, Hektor kneeling beside him.

  Her love for Astyanax was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was as if he were tied to her with tender ropes. Each time she left him, even for a day, there was a dull ache in her heart. An entire winter without him would be close to unbearable. Her heart began to pound with increasing panic. She also feared for his life. She was afraid of traitors, spies, poison, and the dagger in the night.

  Then the sun moved beyond the clouds and shone down on her child and the powerful man beside him. The two were disheveled and covered with dust, as if they had been rolling on the ground. They were kneeling, facing each other, engrossed in something in the dirt between them. The boy pointed to an insect or a leaf, perhaps, and raised his small face in inquiry to his father. The expression of love and tenderness on Hektor’s face made a lump form in Andromache’s throat.

  The panic passed. He loves Astyanax, she thought, and he will never stop. He will guard the boy with his life.

  Quietly, unnoticed, she went into the palace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MEN OF COPPER AND BRONZE

  Entering her high, airy apartments, Andromache greeted the two young handmaids who sat in an outer room embroidering heavy cloth. Both were Women of the Horse and wore hip belts crafted from bronze disks threaded with gold wire.

  Andromache recalled the first day she had seen such a belt. Heavily pregnant, she had been walking with Hektor along the Street of Goldsmiths. A young woman with braided blond hair had been standing by a stall. Her tunic had been long and white, and around her hips there had hung a disk belt.

  “I would like one of those,” Andromache said.

  Hektor stared at her curiously. “I think you do not know what the belt signifies,” he said softly.

  “No, I do not,” she replied honestly.

  “If ever you get one, it will mean I am dead.”

  Andromache learned then of the Women of the Horse, wives and daughters of soldiers killed serving with the Trojan Horse. The belts were crafted from the breastplate disks of the fallen.

  Andromache’s handmaids were sisters, the raven-haired daughters of a warrior named Ursos who had died in the battle for Dardanos. They would work in the palace until suitable husbands were found from among the ranks of the Horse. The ol
der one, Penthesileia, was tall with deep-set eyes and a strong chin. Her sister, Anio, younger and more nervous, was slight of build and pretty.

  “Is there anything we can do for you, lady?” Penthesileia asked.

  “No. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, lady,” Anio said. “There is fresh bread in the kitchen. Shall I fetch some?”

  Andromache smiled at her. The girl was fifteen years old and desperately eager to please. “I need nothing at the moment,” she told her. “Why don’t you and your sister go for a walk. Familiarize yourselves with the palace.”

  “We are your handmaids,” said stern Penthesileia. “We must serve you.”

  Andromache sighed. “Yes, you are my handmaids, and you will also be my friends. You are not slaves. You are daughters of a hero. If I need you, I will call for you.”

  “Yes, lady,” Anio answered. “You have a guest waiting in your chambers. The princess Kassandra.” She suddenly looked nervous. “She is”—she dropped her voice—“talking to herself.”

  “She does that,” Andromache told her. “Do not let it concern you.”

  Walking through to her inner rooms, Andromache heard Kassandra speaking excitedly. “I did not see it, Dios. I don’t see everything.” She sounded distraught.

  As Andromache entered the room, she saw Kassandra sitting and staring at a wall. Dressed in her usual black, her wild hair pulled roughly back with combs, she was alone.

  Andromache took a deep breath and approached the girl. “I’m so glad to see you, Kassandra,” she said, sitting beside her on the couch. “I’ve missed you these past few months.”