Fall of Kings (10 page)

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.

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
older 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.”

Kassandra’s head drooped forward, and she sighed. “Did you know Vora died?”
she asked.

“Who is Vora?”

Kassandra’s eyes had a faraway look. “Vora was a dolphin. She was very old.
Cavala, her mate, sings of her. He will spend a year traveling the Great Green
singing her song in every place she loved; then he will follow her to the ocean
of the South Wind, and they will be together again.”

Andromache smiled. “Perhaps he will swim to Thera with us.”

“No. He is frightened of Thera. He won’t go there. I am frightened of it,
too. I never expected to be.” Kassandra sighed and leaned forward, her hands on
her lap. She looked just like a child again.

Andromache put her arm around Kassandra’s shoulder. “There is no need for
fear. Thera is a place of beauty and serenity. You will like it there.”

“Thera is where the world will end,” Kassandra whispered. “I will rise into
the sky like an eagle, and three kings will die with me…” Her voice tailed away.

Andromache kissed her cheek. “Why not come to the gardens with me. We can
shoot our bows. You used to enjoy that. It will lift your spirits.”

Kassandra straightened and suddenly smiled. “Of course!” she said. “We must
prepare them. It can begin now. I would like that. It’s very important!”

She ran to the far wall and took two bows and two quivers of arrows down from
the rack. Then she rushed into the outer room. Andromache followed. Kassandra
ran to the sisters.

“Put down the embroidery,” she ordered them, then pushed the bows into their
hands. “You must learn to shoot! The Women of the Horse with shaft and bow!” She
swung back to Andromache. “You see? You see, Andromache?” Her head jerked, and
she turned away. “What? Yes…” she said to the wall. Then she nodded and sighed.

Looking into Andromache’s eyes, she smiled sadly. “Too soon,” she said. “But
you will remember, Andromache? The Women of the Horse? You will teach them the
bow?”

“Be calm, little sister,” Andromache said softly. The girls were standing
very still, their eyes watchful. Andromache put her arms around Kassandra’s
slender shoulders. “Come, let us take our bows and go to the garden,” she said,
retrieving the weapons from the sisters.

“You will remember?” Kassandra cried.

“I will. I promise. I will teach them to shoot.” Turning to the sisters, she
asked, “Would you like to learn the bow?”

“I can shoot a little,” Penthesileia answered. “Father taught me. And yes, I
would enjoy taking up a bow again.”

Andromache felt the tension fade from Kassandra. The young princess looked at
Penthesileia and smiled. “You will be a warrior woman of Troy, and great songs
will be sung of your bravery.” Pulling away from Andromache, she said: “We will
not need the bows now.”

Andromache returned the weapons to the inner chamber and led Kassandra
through the palace and into the gardens, where the shadows were lengthening.
Hektor saw them and walked over, Astyanax sleeping in his arms.

Andromache smiled at her husband, who leaned in and kissed her. “I am sorry
for your hurt today,” she told him.

Hektor nodded. “It is already forgotten.” She knew it was a lie, but it was
meant well.

Kassandra stepped up to him. She took his free hand and kissed it and held it
against her cheek. “I will not see you after tonight. You will remember me
kindly, won’t you? Not as a little madwoman.” Tears suddenly fell to her cheeks.

Instantly Hektor passed the sleeping boy to Andromache and took Kassandra
into his arms.

“I will miss you,” he said, kissing her brow. “I love you, and I always have.
You are my little sister, and I treasure you.”

“I am not mad, Hektor. I do see things.”

“I know.”

In the still silence that followed a soldier burst through the courtyard
gates and ran across the garden toward them. “Hektor! Lord Hektor!” He stopped
and hesitated as if suddenly aware of the impact of his news.

“Well?” said Hektor, releasing Kassandra and facing the soldier. “Speak,
Mestares, my friend! No one is going to slice out your tongue.”

“It is Dios, lord. He has been killed. Murdered in the lower town.”

For a moment there was silence. Then Andromache realized she could hear the
sound of her heart beating. Her friend Dios dead? It seemed impossible.

“It was the Mykene merchant Plouteus,” Mestares explained. “He and his sons.
They attacked him in the marketplace. Plouteus was killed by someone in the
crowd. One of his sons fled; the other was captured. Paris was there. He will
know more than I.”

“Paris? Was he hurt?”

“No, lord,” the soldier replied.

A female servant came into the garden and hurried up to them. “Lord Hektor,”
she cried. “The king has sent for you.”

Hektor’s face was ashen, and he left the garden without a word of farewell to
Andromache or Kassandra.

The servant girl approached Andromache. “Shall I take the boy, lady?” she
asked softly.

Andromache nodded and passed the child to her. Astyanax moaned a little and
then settled his head on the girl’s shoulder.

As the servant moved away, a cool breeze whispered across the garden,
rustling the dried leaves on the pathway. Andromache saw that Kassandra was
standing there, her large blue-gray eyes full of tears.

“You knew he was dead, didn’t you?” Andromache said. “You were speaking to
his spirit.”

Kassandra nodded. “The fat merchant had weak eyes. He thought Dios was
Helikaon.”

Andromache recalled seeing Dios earlier that day. He had been wearing a white
tunic similar to Helikaon’s. Odysseus once had remarked on the resemblance
between the two men. “They look alike,” he had said, “but they are very
different. They are copper and bronze. Both have value.” His eyes had twinkled
mischievously. “In a whorehouse a man needs copper rings to buy his pleasure. In
battle, though, a man needs sharp bronze in his hand. Helikaon is bronze. Dios
is copper.”

Kassandra’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Dios will be honored in death.
His bones will lie in the city he loved. That is important, you know.”

“Yes,” Andromache said. “I am sure that it is.”

Kassandra leaned in close. “Kalliope wants you to take her home. You can
carry her back to the tamarisk grove, where she was most happy, where she sat
with you on that midsummer’s night. You remember?”

Andromache could not answer, but she nodded, tears coursing down her face.

“You can speak to her there,” Kassandra said. “You will feel her in your
heart.”

Andromache shook her head. “No,” she said, “I cannot take her home. I will
not allow her spirit to be chained.”

Pale predawn light shone through high windows as Andromache kissed her
sleeping son and allowed herself a few heartbeats to enjoy the warmth of his
cheek against her face. Then she stood and strode from her apartments.

Dressed in an ankle-length tunic of yellow wool and wrapped in a heavy
gray-green cloak, Andromache made her way through the quiet palace and out into
the night. Kassandra was waiting at the portico, her slight figure also
enveloped in a dark cloak. Close by, servants held torches, lighting a four-seat
chariot. Horses shifted nervously and whinnied softly in the flickering light.

Suddenly Hektor appeared out of the gloom. In full armor and ready for
travel, he picked up Kassandra and swung her high like a child before placing
her gently into the chariot. She looked flustered and pleased. Then he kissed
Andromache and handed her into the vehicle, too. She smiled down at him and
touched his cheek. They had talked long into the night. Today he would ride
south to protect her father’s lands while she sailed enemy seas to Thera.

“May the gods keep you from harm,” he said, “and bring you back to me.”

The charioteer touched the reins lightly to the horses’ backs, and,
surrounded by a troop of cavalry, the chariot set off down the stone road toward
the bay.

The two women held on tightly as the vehicle bumped through the wakening
streets. At the Scaean Gate they paused as the great gate was opened, and the
noise of the wooden wheels, creaking harness, and snorting horses died down.

Sadness settled on her as she thought again of Dios. She regretted missing
the ritual farewell the next day but promised herself that wherever the
Xanthos
beached that night, she would speak her own words of goodbye to his
shade. The chariot lurched forward. Andromache grabbed the rail as the vehicle
thundered toward the beach.

And there, in the distance, she saw the mighty
Xanthos.
Twice the size
of any ship on the King’s Beach, the
Xanthos
lay half-in, half-out of the
water, resting slightly to one side. Despite the great bulk, the warship had
grace and beauty. As the chariot clattered down to the beach, drawing up close
to the
Xanthos,
the first rays of the rising sun speared over the
horizon, turning the polished oak timbers to gold.

The
Xanthos,
still and serene, was surrounded by people: crewmen
shinnying up ropes to the top deck, beachmasters and their workers loading
cargo, early-rising fishermen and home-going whores lingering to watch the
launch.