Fall of Kings (3 page)

“She is well. Angry, though. She railed at Father for keeping the army out
here tonight. They deserve better, she told him.”

“They are both right,” Hektor said. “The men do deserve better, but tomorrow
they will revel in the adulation. The parade is important. It will help disguise
our failure.”

“How can you speak of failure?” Dios asked, surprised. “You did not lose a
single battle—and you killed an enemy king. I call
that
a victory. So do
the people. So should you.”

Unaccustomed anger touched Hektor then, but he kept it from his voice. “We
crossed the straits to defend the land of Thraki, to protect King Rhesos, our
ally. Rhesos is dead. Thraki is lost. Our enemies gather across the Hellespont,
ready to invade. All the northern trade routes are lost to us. Does this sound
like victory to you?”

“I hear you, Brother,” Dios said softly. “However, you and your men went to
Thraki to
assist
in the defense. The defeats were suffered by Rhesos, not
by the warriors of Troy. Your legend is unblemished.”

“A pox on legends,” Hektor snapped. “And a double pox on the twisted
realities of politics, where defeats can be melted down and recast as golden
victories. The truth is that the enemy has gained control of the north. Now
Agamemnon will come against us in our own lands. And he will come with a great
army.”

“And you will destroy him,” Dios said. “You are the Lord of Battles. Every
man around the Great Green knows this. You never lose.”

Hektor glanced at his younger brother, seeing the admiration in his eyes.
Fear touched him, cramping his belly. During the battle at Carpea he had been no
more than a single sword thrust from death. A well-aimed arrow or a cast spear
could have pierced his throat. A slinger’s stone could have cracked his skull.
Indeed, had Banokles not led a nearly suicidal charge at the enemy rear, his
spirit now would be walking the Dark Road. He thought of telling his brother of
the fears, of the trembling hands and the sleepless nights, and, worse, of the
growing pain in his left shoulder and the ache in his right knee. He wanted to
say, “I am a man, just like you, Dios. Just like every man sitting back there at
the campfires. I bruise, I bleed, I age. And if I go on fighting battle after
battle, then one day my luck will run out, my lifeblood with it.”

But he did not say any of that. To Dios, to the army, to the people of Troy,
he had long since ceased to be Hektor the man. Now he was like tomorrow’s
parade, a false yet glittering symbol of Trojan invincibility. And with every
day of war that passed he became more chained to that lie.

Dios spoke again. “Wait until you see Astyanax. The boy has grown, Hektor.
Nearly three years old now. And what a fine, bold child he is.”

Hektor relaxed then and smiled. “I long to see him. I shall take him on a
ride through the hills. He will enjoy that.”

“I took him myself not more than a week ago. Sat him before me and let him
hold the reins. He loved it. Especially the gallop.”

Hektor’s heart sank. Through the long, grim, and bloody months of warfare he
had dreamed of taking the boy on his first ride, of holding the child close to
him, listening to his laughter. Amid the terror and brutality of war that one
small dream had nurtured him. “Was he frightened?” he asked.

“No! Far from it. He kept shouting for me to go faster. He is fearless,
Hektor. No more, of course, than one would expect from a child of yours.”

A child of yours.

Save that he is not mine, Hektor thought. Masking his sadness, he looked
across at the city. “And Father is well?”

Dios said nothing for a moment. Then he shrugged. “He is getting older,” he
replied, dropping his eyes.

“And drinking more?”

Dios hesitated. “You will see him tomorrow,” he said at last. “Best you form
your own judgment.”

“That I will.”

“And what of Helikaon?” Dios asked. “Word reached us that he sank Agamemnon’s
fleet. Burned them all. That lifted the spirits, I can tell you.”

The bitter wind picked up again, hissing through the branches overhead. This
time Hektor shivered, though not from the cold. He saw again the pale dead face
of Helikaon’s wife, the beautiful Halysia, as her body was carried into the
fortress. Hektor had heard the story of her last ride. Taking her son with her,
she had mounted a huge black horse and ridden through the enemy, down the defile
toward the bridge known as Parnio’s Folly. They had pursued her, knowing they
had her, for the bridge had been destroyed by fire. Caught between murderous
soldiers and a deep chasm, Halysia had heeled the stallion forward and leaped it
across the wide gap. Not one rider had dared to follow her. She had saved her
son but not herself. During the ride she had suffered a deep spear wound, and
she had bled to death as Helikaon reached her.

The voice of Dios brought Hektor back to the present. “We need to discuss the
route for the victory parade. You will ride Father’s ceremonial war chariot. It
is being burnished now and layered with new gold leaf. It will be brought out to
you before dawn. Father has two pure white horses to draw it.” Dios smiled. “You
will look like a young god!”

Hektor took a deep breath and transferred his gaze to the city. “And the
route?” he asked.

“The entire regiment will ride up through the lower town, then through the
Scaean Gate and up the avenue to the palace, where Priam will greet them and
give awards to the heroes you have named. This will be followed later by a feast
of thanksgiving in the Square of Hermes. There Father hopes you will make a
speech. He suggests you tell the gathering about the victory at Carpea, as it is
the most recent.”

“Dardanos is the most recent,” Hektor pointed out.

“Yes, it is, but the death of Halysia makes it too sad a tale.”

“Of course,” Hektor said. “We cannot have tales of blood and death spoil a
story about war.”

Khalkeus the bronzesmith sat in the torchlit
megaron
of Dardanos,
rubbing at the numbed fingers of his left hand. After a while sensation
returned, the tips beginning to tingle. Then the trembling started. He stared
down at the palsied limb, willing it to stop. Instead it worsened. It was as if
invisible fingers had grasped his wrist and were shaking it. Irritated now, he
made a fist, then crossed his arms so that no one would see the tremors.

Not that there was anyone to see. The Gyppto, Gershom, had told him to wait
in this cold, empty place for Helikaon. Khalkeus stared around the
megaron.
Blood had stained the mosaic floor. The splashes and spatters had dried, but
elsewhere, on the rugs and in the deeper grooves of the mosaic, it remained
sticky and uncongealed. A broken sword lay by a wall.

Khalkeus strolled across and picked up the weapon. It had snapped halfway
down the blade. Khalkeus ran his thick fingers over the metal. Poorly cast, with
too much tin, he decided. Copper was a soft metal, and the addition of tin
created the harder, more useful bronze. Yet this blade had been hardened too
much, becoming brittle, and had snapped on impact.

Returning to his couch, Khalkeus sat once more. His hand had stopped
trembling, and that was a blessing. But the palsy would return. It was the curse
of bronzesmiths. No one knew what caused it, but it always began in the
fingertips, then moved to the toes. Soon he would be limping along with the aid
of a staff. Even the god of smiths, Hephaistos, was said to be lame. Old
Karpithos, back in Miletos, had gone blind in the end. He had sworn it was the
melting copper putting poison in the air. Khalkeus had no way of testing that
theory, but he favored it enough to have his forges built outside now so that
any poisons would be dissipated by fresh air.

“You cannot complain,” he told himself aloud. Fifty years old, and only now
does the trembling start. Karpithos had endured the tremors for close to twenty
years before his sight had failed.

Time drifted by, and Khalkeus, never a patient man, began to grow more
irritated. Rising from the couch, he walked out into the night air.

Black smoke was drifting up from the center of the fortress, where the
kitchens still smoldered.

Despite their obvious enthusiasm for destruction, Khalkeus thought, the enemy
had been largely incompetent. Many of the burned buildings had suffered
superficial damage only. And the support struts of the bridge called Parnio’s
Folly had been ignored by the Mykene. They had hacked at the bridge planks with
ax and sword to weaken them, then poured oil on the flat timbers before setting
them ablaze. The idiots had not realized it was the support struts, set deeply
into the cliffs on both sides, that gave the structure its strength. Whoever had
designed them had been a master at his craft. With them still in place,
undamaged by fire, the bridge could be rebuilt within days.

Khalkeus glanced to his right. In the moonlight he saw three men hauling a
wide handcart. The bodies of several women and children had been laid on the
cart. A wheel struck an uneven patch on the road, causing the vehicle to
shudder. One of the dead women slid sideways. The movement caused her torn tunic
to ride up, exposing her buttocks. Instantly the three men stopped pulling the
cart, and one of them hurried back to cover her nakedness.

How strange, Khalkeus thought. As if she would care.

Khalkeus wandered back into the
megaron.
Several servants were placing
fresh torches in brackets on the wall. Khalkeus called out to one of them. “You
there! Bring me some bread and wine.”

“And you are?” the man asked, his tone surly.

“Hungry and thirsty,” Khalkeus replied.

“Are you a guest of the king?”

“Yes. I am Khalkeus.”

The servant grinned. “Truly? The Madman from Miletos?”

Khalkeus sighed. “I am not from Miletos, but yes, that is what some idiots
call me.”

The man brought him a platter of black bread, some cheese, and a jug of
watered wine. The bread was not fresh, but smeared with the cheese, it was
palatable enough. Khalkeus sipped his wine and glanced toward the great doors
and the moon shadows beyond them. He wished Helikaon would come so that he could
conclude his business here and head back to Troy and his new forges.

His first attempts at smelting metal from the red rocks had proved
disappointing. Even the hottest furnace had produced a useless spongy gray mass.
The fires, he decided, needed to be even hotter, and to that end Khalkeus had
ordered the construction of a new furnace on the northern plateau of Troy, where
the wind was keen.

But he needed more time and more gold.

He was convinced that Helikaon would understand. If Khalkeus succeeded, the
rewards would be colossal. Swords, spears, arrowheads, and armor could be
fashioned from the red rocks, which were plentiful all across the east. No need
for expensive tin to be shipped from far islands beyond the Great Green or soft
copper from Kypros and other Mykene-held lands. Metal implements—plows, nails,
barrel ties—could be produced at a fraction of the price of bronze.

The blazing torches were replaced twice before Helikaon returned. Flanked by
five young men, he strode into the building, shouting for a servant to bring
water. His handsome face was smeared with grime, his long dark hair tied back in
a ponytail that reached his shoulders. Moving to the carved throne, the young
king slumped down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Several of the men with him
began speaking. Khalkeus listened as they complained of the insurmountable
difficulties facing them.
This
could not be done because of
that,
and
that
was impossible because of
this.
Khalkeus felt his
irritation flare. Stupid men with lazy minds. Instead of solving problems, they
wasted time seeking reasons why no solutions were available. Why Helikaon should
allow such fools around him was a mystery.

A servant brought a silver wine cup and a jug brimming with cool water.
Helikaon filled the cup and drained it.

A young man with a wispy red beard spoke up. “Rebuilding the bridge alone
will take months, and there is not enough timber to reconstruct the warehouses
and other buildings destroyed by the Mykene.”

“Nor enough carpenters and woodworkers,” another man added.

“And certainly not enough brains,” Khalkeus stormed, heaving his bulk
upright. The men around the king stopped speaking and swung toward Khalkeus. He
marched forward, staring them down. “I saw the remains of the bridge. It can be
repaired in a matter of days. By the gods, Helikaon, I hope these morons are
better fighters than they are thinkers.”

“My friends,” Helikaon said to the angry men around him, “this is Khalkeus.
Now, before you decide to hate him, you should understand that he will not care.
Everyone hates Khalkeus. So put aside your anger and leave us to talk.”

Khalkeus waited until the men had walked away, ignoring the cold glances they
gave him as they passed. Then he approached Helikaon. “I am close to the
answer,” he said, “but I need more gold.”

Helikaon took a deep, slow breath, his face hardening. Khalkeus, suddenly
nervous, looked into the king’s eyes, and saw no friendliness there. Far from
it. The sapphire gaze was hostile. “Have I… done something to offend?” Khalkeus
asked.

“To offend? What a paradox you are, Khalkeus. Genius and idiot in one fat
package. You called my men morons. Yet you walk into my hall with no greeting,
no consoling words for the agonies that have been experienced here, merely a
brazen demand for more of my gold.”

“Ah!” Khalkeus said, “now I understand. Yes, of course. The absence of
feigned sympathy was offensive. My apologies. However, I do need more gold. I
think I am close, Helikaon. The furnaces need to be hotter to burn out more of
the impurities. Then I think—”

“Enough!” Helikaon roared, surging to his feet and drawing his bronze knife.
Shocked and frightened, Khalkeus took a backward step. His mouth was dry, and
both of his hands were trembling. Helikaon moved in, grabbing Khalkeus’ tunic
with his left hand, the right bringing up the dagger until the gleaming blade
hovered above Khalkeus’ left eye. For a moment neither man moved, then Helikaon
swore softly and let out a long breath.