Fall of Kings (20 page)

Despite his lightness of tone, Helikaon felt tense and anxious as they walked
back to the campfires. He stared at the Egypteian ship. No one was moving around
it, the crew all asleep on the beach. Gershom added dry sticks to the glowing
coals of a fading fire. Flames sprang up. He stretched himself out on the sand
and fell asleep almost instantly.

Helikaon swirled a thick blanket around his shoulders and seated himself
close to the small blaze. Clouds started forming in the eastern sky, and the sky
grew darker as the moon was obscured. Before long a light rain started to fall.
Helikaon sat alone, heavy of heart.

Like Zidantas before him, the big Egypteian had excavated a deep place in
Helikaon’s heart, and the Dardanian king found himself grieving for the loss of
his friend, suddenly sure that the desert folk would come for him in the
morning. Since the
Xanthos
had rescued him from the sea, Gershom had
become an invaluable crewman on the galley and Helikaon’s right-hand man and
friend, one to whom he entrusted not only his life but his feelings, his fears
and hopes. The man had saved Helikaon on several occasions, both in battle and
when he had brought the Prophet with healing maggots to cure him after the
assassination attempt.

Remembering that time, when he had lain helpless in Hektor’s palace and
Andromache had nursed him, brought thoughts of his lover back, and he turned and
looked up again at the cliff path in the hope of seeing her walking down. But it
was too dark and wet to see well, and he shrugged the blanket closer around him
and waited patiently for first light.

It was nearly dawn, and campfires were glittering like stars on the beach far
below, guiding her way as Andromache trod down the cliff path. The ground was
uneven, the trail in places narrow and broken. Lowering clouds had covered the
moon, and the journey back to the ship was becoming perilous. It began to rain,
lightly at first, but soon the path became slick and treacherous. The the wind
picked up, tugging at her green dress and the borrowed cloak she wore.

Now the rain came pelting down, sharp and cold, stinging the skin of her face
and hands. She moved on even more slowly, one hand tracing along the crumbly
cliff wall. Her sandaled feet slipped and slid on the wet ground. Anxious though
she was to return to Helikaon and the
Xanthos,
she finally was forced to
stop. Crouching against the cliff wall, she drew her cloak around her.

Alone on the cliff path, she found herself thinking back over the events of
the day. She had dreaded seeing Iphigenia again, remembering her dislike of the
cold, hard-faced Mykene woman. Now she saw her differently. Was it just that she
was dying? Did that knowledge allow her to see the old woman with clearer eyes?
Or was it merely pity that had changed her perception of the priestess?

Most of the women sent to Thera had no wish to serve the demigod, and many of
them wept at being removed from the world they knew, a world of dreams, of
hopes, of love and family. Perhaps Iphigenia had been such a woman once.
Andromache saw again the moment Kassandra had knelt beside the priestess and
rested her head on Iphigenia’s lap. Iphigenia had reached out and stroked the
girl’s hair. Andromache had looked into her face then and thought she saw regret
there. Did Iphigenia, in that one caress, think of an empty life, robbed of the
chance to have her own children?

The rain began to die down, and Andromache was preparing to resume her
descent when she saw a movement above her. It was Kassandra, strolling along the
very edge of the path. Andromache’s breath caught in her throat. Kassandra
spotted her and waved.

“It is a beautiful night,” she cried. “So exciting!”

Andromache reached out and drew the girl to her. “What are you doing here? It
is dangerous.”

“I needed to see you before you left. Did you speak with Kalliope?”

Andromache sighed. She had buried her bones beneath a tree, and she had wept
at memories of their love. “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking, “I told her that
I missed her and that I would remember her always. Do you think she heard me?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there,” Kassandra replied brightly. “I tried to speak
to Xidoros, but he is not here. Do you think it is because men are not allowed
on the isle?”

Andromache hugged the girl and kissed her. “Are you going to be happy here?”
she asked.

Kassandra squirmed away. “You need to tell Helikaon something,” she said
urgently. “He must go to the pirate islands. Odysseus will be there. And
Achilles.”

“We are not here to fight battles, Kassandra.”

“But Ithaka has been invaded, and Penelope is held prisoner. She has been
beaten and tormented. Odysseus will go there and die if Helikaon does not help
him.”

The wind faltered, and a cold silence fell on the cliffside. Andromache
almost could hear her own heart beating. Odysseus was Helikaon’s oldest friend,
but he was now an enemy. If he and Achilles were to die, it would weaken the
Mykene forces, perhaps fatally, and maybe save Troy. The silence grew, and she
saw that Kassandra was watching her. Guilt touched her.

“I need to think on this,” she said, unable to meet her sister’s pale gaze.

“What is there to think on?” the girl asked. “Penelope is a wonderful woman,
and she is carrying the son of Odysseus.”

“It is not just about Penelope. There are other factors. The survival of
Troy, for one.”

“Other factors,” Kassandra said softly. “How strange people are.”

Andromache flushed. “There is nothing strange about desiring to protect those
we love.”

“That is my point. Helikaon loves Odysseus and Penelope. You know that if you
tell him, he will rush to their aid just as he risked his life to come for you
when the Mykene attacked Troy. He is a hero, and he will always desire to
protect those he loves.”

Andromache bit back an angry response. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Tell
me that the deaths of Odysseus and Achilles will not save Troy.”

Kassandra shook her head. “No, I will not tell you that. All I know is that
Odysseus is rushing to his doom, which is what the pirates want. Their leader
has a blood feud with Odysseus. There are almost two hundred warriors on Ithaka
now. Odysseus has thirty men.”

“The Ugly King is no fool,” Andromache said, “and
only
a fool would
attack two hundred with thirty.”

Kassandra shook her head. “He loves Penelope more than he loves life. They
have cut off her hair, Andromache, and every night the pirate chief has her
dragged from a dungeon, dressed in rags, and chained to her throne. The whores
of the pirates throw food at her and screech insults.”

With that Kassandra fell silent. Tilting her head, she said, “The decision is
yours to make. I must go now.” Turning, she started swiftly up the mountain
path.

Andromache cursed and ran after her, slipping on the wet ground. “Kassandra,
we cannot part like this. Will I see you again?”

Kassandra smiled. “We will meet again before the end.” She lightly touched
her sister’s cheek, then walked away.

Andromache watched her go, then turned and continued down the path. As she
came closer to the beach, she saw a group of men in flowing robes talking with
Helikaon. Most of the crewmen were gathered around. Almost unnoticed, Andromache
moved through the crowd. As she came closer, she saw that one of the men in
robes was Gershom.

“What is happening here?” she asked, stepping forward to stand alongside
Helikaon.

“Gershom is leaving us,” he said. He smiled at the sight of her, but quickly
the smile faded and there was suppressed anger in his voice. “He is sailing
today with these people of the desert.” Andromache looked at the four cold-eyed
bearded men with Gershom.

“Why would you want to leave us?” she asked Gershom.

“I do not
want
to. I gave a promise some years ago. Now I have been
asked to honor it. I have many faults, Andromache, but I keep my promises.”

Turning to Helikaon, he offered his hand. For a moment Andromache thought
Helikaon would refuse it. Then the Dardanian king shook his head and stepped in
to embrace him.

“I will miss you, my friend,” he said, drawing back. “My men and I all have
reason to be grateful to you.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the crew gathered around, and Oniacus
clapped Gershom on the back. Gershom grinned and nodded.

“We hope to hear tales of great adventures,” Helikaon said, forcing a smile.

“More likely you will hear of my untimely death,” Gershom replied. “But word
is unlikely to reach you, for I will be traveling under a new name, one chosen
for me.” Gershom turned to the gathered crew.

“My friends,” he said, “you plucked me from the sea and befriended me. I will
hold you all in my heart, as I hold Zidantas and others no longer with us. May
the Source of All Creation protect you, and keep you from harm.”

Lastly he looked at Helikaon and Andromache. “May you both find great
happiness,” he said.

Without another word he walked away. In his long robes, with the men of the
desert following behind him, Andromache thought he now looked like the prince he
was, sterner and full of authority. She wondered what would become of him, but
she knew she never would find out.

They watched in silence as Gershom climbed onto the Egypteian ship, and
Andromache looked into the face of her lover and saw the sorrow there. Placing
her hand on his arm, she leaned in close. “I am sorry to see you so sad.”

“He is my friend, one of the best I have ever had, and my heart tells me we
will not meet again.”

“You have other friends who love you.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I value them all.”

“Is Odysseus one of them still?”

He smiled. “Odysseus first and foremost. He is the greatest man I have ever
met.”

Andromache sighed. “Then there is something we must speak of.”

In the drafty
megaron
on wind-tossed Ithaka, the pirates were enjoying
their nightly revels. Many stood out in the courtyard, seeking the warmth where
Odysseus’ sheep roasted on spits, but most of them were in the hall, laughing,
quarreling, eating, and drinking. A few already had slumped asleep on the cold
stone floor. Occasionally a skirmish would break out, but no one had died yet
this night, Penelope thought regretfully. And the numbers who were killed each
day in those sudden knife fights were more than made up for by newcomers. More
than a hundred of these scum of the seas had arrived in the last few days, drawn
across the winter seas by tales of the hospitality on Ithaka. Added to their
number were some Siculi tribesmen from the Fire Isle in the west, harsh, savage
men with tattooed faces and weapons of curved bronze.

The queen sat chained to the carved wooden throne and tried, as she did each
night, to distance herself from events around her. Though exhausted, she raised
her shaved head high and held her gaze on the opposite wall, where the huge
painted shield of Odysseus’ father hung unregarded. She tried to force her
thoughts away from the pain of her broken fingers, the throbbing from her bound
wrists, and the incessant itching of the lice-ridden rags she had been forced to
wear.

Penelope tried to recall the happy days when she and Odysseus both had been
young. She called to mind the face of her son Laertes. In the first years after
he died she could see him only as he had been in the immobility of death, but
now she found she could remember the precise hue of his eyes, feel the soft down
of his cheek against her lips, and recall the exact expression on his face when
his father came into the room. No day passed when she did not remember the boy,
but thoughts of him now were calming and sweet, rescuing her for a few precious
moments from this endless torment.

As always, her mind kept betraying her, raising fruitless hopes of Odysseus
striding through the
megaron
doors, swinging his sword and carving a path
to her, releasing her from her bonds, and taking her into the safety of his huge
arms. It would be like one of his stories told in this very hall at night when
the fire was banked high and she was surrounded by her loved ones. But then cold
intelligence would flow across those hopes. Odysseus was older now, almost
fifty. The days of great strength and inexhaustible stamina were behind him. His
joints ached in the winter, and after a day of labor, he would sink down into a
comfortable chair with the heavy, grateful sigh of the ancient.

The thief of time slowly was stealing the vitality from the man she loved.
She knew that if he came, his aging body would betray him against these vile
young men glorying in the power of their youth.

Then despair would strike, and she would plead:
Don’t come, Ugly One! For
once in your life do something sensible and stay away. Wait until the spring and
bring an army to avenge me. Please don’t come to me now.

But he
would
come. She knew it with certainty. For all that he was
wily, brilliant, and cunning, Odysseus would be blinded to reason by his love
for her.

Her thoughts turned bleakly to suicide. If he knew she was dead, Odysseus
still would come, but with a clearer mind bent only on vengeance. He would wait
until he had raised a fleet and could kill every pirate on Ithaka ten times
over. If she could get hold of a knife or a sharp stick, she could pierce her
breast in an instant. Even as the thought came, she felt the babe move within
her, and her eyes misted with tears.
I could kill myself, but I cannot kill
you, little one.

“Well, Your Highness, will you do us the honor of eating and drinking with us
tonight?” asked the hated voice.

Penelope’s gaze reluctantly focused on the gaunt, cruel features of Antinous,
her captor and tormentor, as he bowed elaborately before her. He was young,
having hardly more than twenty summers, but he was clever and ruthless. The hint
of insanity in his green eyes could be feigned, she thought, but it made the
older pirates step around him with care. His hair was dark and long, and a
single thin braid decorated with gold wire hung from his right temple.