Fall of Kings (35 page)

“My name is Podaleirios, and Machaon is my brother,” the healer said. “You
clearly know him, Xander. Is he well?”

“No,” the boy admitted regretfully. “When last I saw him, he was very sick,
sir. I wish I could help him. He has always been kind to me. Why am I here with
the enemy?”

There was a burst of laughter at his words, and someone said, “You are in the
Thessalian camp, boy. You should be proud to be with Achilles and his Myrmidons,
the finest warriors in the world.”

The speaker was a slender young man with fair hair braided and pulled back to
his neck. He was cleaning blood off his arms, but Xander guessed it was someone
else’s, for he looked uninjured. Beside him was a huge dark-haired warrior
dressed in black, and lying between them a bald-headed man with a braided red
beard. His chest was heavily bandaged, and Xander could see blood leaking and
staining the white material. His healer’s eye noted the gray sheen on the man’s
face and the feverish look in his eye.

“Podaleirios,” Xander asked the healer, “I don’t know how I got here, but can
I return to Troy now?”

The men laughed again, and Podaleirios said, “Call me White-Eye, Xander.
Everybody else does. You were brought here by Odysseus of Ithaka. He found you
unconscious on the field of battle and carried you to safety. And you cannot
return to Troy. You are now healer and surgeon to the warriors of Thessaly.

“This is Achilles, king of Thessaly”—the healer gestured to the black-clad
giant—“and you are now his servant.”

Xander stared in wonder at the legendary warrior. “Lord,” he said humbly, “I
am not a priest of Asklepios, pledged to help the sick or injured wherever I
find them. I am just a helper to Machaon. I belong in Troy.”

Achilles frowned. “Odysseus tells me you trained with Machaon in the House of
Serpents. If such a famous healer sent you onto the battlefield to help the
Trojan wounded, then he must have faith in your skills. Are you saying you will
not help my stricken warriors? Think carefully on your answer, boy.”

Shamefaced, Xander said, “I’m sorry, lord. I will do what I can to help.”

To White-Eye, Achilles said, “At dawn, when the boy has rested, take him up
to King’s Joy. He will be valuable there.”

The healer nodded and moved away. A servant came to the campfire, offering
platters of meat and corn bread to the warriors. One was placed at the wounded
man’s side, but he did not touch it, merely swigged from his jug of wine.
Achilles pointed at Xander and nodded, and the servant gave the boy some food.
It was roasted pig, warm with greasy juices, salty and tasty. Xander felt his
stomach grumble in reaction to the wonderful smell. He realized he had not eaten
all day or the day before. He wondered when he last had tasted any food, then
forgot about it as he sank his teeth into the succulent meat.

There was silence for a while as the warriors ate. Then Achilles said to the
wounded man, “I will have you carried to King’s Joy, Thibo. It will be cold on
the beach tonight. At least there you will be under shelter.”

Thibo shook his head. “I’ll be all right here by the fire. I don’t want to be
up there with the dead and dying.”

“I am your king and could command you,” Achilles said mildly.

Thibo grunted. “Would you want to be up there, in that place of torment?”

Achilles shook his head and said no more.

The fair-haired warrior nudged him with his elbow. “We went there once when
we were children. Do you remember? We visited King’s Joy with your father. I
don’t know why.”

Achilles nodded, chewing his meat and swallowing. “I remember, Patroklos.”

Patroklos went on. “It was a place of beauty then, the white walls painted
with bright pictures of the gods. There were soft rugs on the marble floors—I
had never seen such rugs before—and the gleam of gold and gems everywhere. It
was wonderful to behold.”

Achilles grunted. “And now Agamemnon’s Followers have made a pigsty of it,”
he said. Then he smiled. “I remember we were told off for playing on the high
balcony where Helen fell.”

Patroklos shook his head in wonder. “I’ll not forget that day on this side of
the Dark Road. The princess throwing herself to her death with her children.”

Thibo grunted. “They were dead, anyway, the children. Agamemnon would have
seen to that.”

Patroklos argued, “But Helen need not have died. It seems wrong, such beauty
smashed to ruins on the rocks below.”

Xander listened with surprise. He had met the princess Helen only once, in
Helikaon’s chamber when the Golden One had been gravely ill. He had seen a
plump, plain woman with a sweet smile. Perhaps they were talking about a
different Helen, he thought.

“She was not a beauty,” Thibo said thoughtfully.

“Yes, but you don’t like them buxom, Thibo,” Patroklos replied, grinning.
“You like your women skinny, like boys.” He winked at his friend.

“It’s true,” Thibo agreed amiably. “But I meant she was not beautiful like an
expensive whore.”

Patroklos started laughing at that, but Achilles broke in, “I know what you
mean, Thibo. She did not have the beauty of golden-haired Aphrodite. She was
more like stern and terrible Hera, before whom even the gods quail.”

Thibo agreed, “She made me feel like a small boy. She was like the mother you
love but whose anger you fear. The other men on the balcony said the same.
They’ve all been talking about her.”

Speaking so much made Thibo cough. The spasm was agonizing, and he held on to
his chest with both hands. His face lost all color, and he groaned. Xander could
see that the blood patch on the bandage was spreading.

Taking up his leather satchel, he stood and said to the wounded warrior,
“Sir, perhaps I can help you, if you will let me.”

Andromache stood at the prow of the
Xanthos
and breathed in the fresh
salt air as the great ship glided through a light swell. She always had loved
the days of spring, when the snows melted on great Ida and the rivers and
streams around her home of Little Thebe filled and sparkled with clear icy
water, its wooded hills and valleys clothed in pale green rain-washed leaves.

When she had been sent by her father as a priestess to Thera, she had thought
of Thebe Under Plakos as her home. But by the time she was dispatched unhappily
to Troy to marry Hektor, Thera had become home to her. Now here she was, on the
Xanthos
and less than a day’s sail from the Golden City. Where is your
home now, Andromache? she thought. Is it Troy, where you yearn to hold your son
in your arms again?

Or is it on this ship, where you have lived and loved for endless winter days
of fear and longing and bliss?

Once the crewmen had gotten used to a woman aboard the ship, they had stopped
calling her “princess” or “priestess” and had ceased glancing covertly at her
legs and breasts at all opportunities. She had found a home on the big ship. She
joined the men at their campfires at night, shared their meals, distributed
water skins when the ship was under oars, helped sluice down the decks, and even
was asked to sew a ragged rip in the sail after a rough day in stormy seas.

“I am the daughter of a king and wife to Hektor,” she had said, laughing,
“and you are sailors. You know more about sewing than I do!” Yet she had done
her best with the sharp needles and sturdy thread they had given her and had
pretended not to notice when her poor stitches were remade for her by a grizzled
crewman whose fingers were more nimble than hers.

One calm day Oniacus had offered to teach her to row, and she had grasped the
great oar and learned to pull with the motion of the sea. But within a short
time her palms were covered with bleeding blisters, and Helikaon had told her
angrily to stop.

Helikaon! She did not turn around, for she knew he would be standing at the
stern of the ship, one arm on the great steering oar, watching her. Closing her
eyes, she could recall every detail of his face, the fine dark hairs of his
eyebrows, the exact set of the corners of his mouth, the shape of his ears. In
her mind’s eye she could see his bronzed arm with its soft sun-bleached hairs
draped across the steering oar, as she had seen it a hundred times. She knew
every scar on his body by touch and taste. He was wearing a long winter robe of
blue wool, the same color as his eyes when he was angry, and his feet were in
old sandals stained by salt and time.

They had tried to follow the counsel of Odysseus at first and stay away from
each other, not touching, not brushing past each other on the narrow aisle of
the ship, barely speaking unless there were crewmen present. Their determination
had lasted until they had reached the Seven Hills.

Andromache had been astonished by the small thriving city built by Helikaon
and Odysseus so far from their homes. The stockaded fort was on a hill
overlooking the great river Thybris, and a busy community had developed around
it, flourishing in the soft, verdant land so different from Ithaka and Dardanos.
The people had started building a stone wall around the fort, for they had to
fend off attacks from local tribes that resented the presence of foreigners from
far across the seas. But the king of one of the tribes, Latinus, had welcomed
them and joined his forces to theirs, and the community of the Seven Hills grew.
They had purchased tin from pale-skinned traders traveling from far to the north
in the Land of Mists, and Helikaon had been able to fill the
Xanthos’
cargo hold with the precious metal.

One night a feast was held in honor of one of the country’s tribal gods, and
the crewmen of the
Xanthos
joined in with relish. In the firelight
Andromache, a little drunk, caught Helikaon’s eye and smiled. No further message
was needed. Unseen, they crept away and found a soft mossy hollow far from the
revels, where they made love for most of the night, first with frantic animal
passion and then, later, gently and tenderly until the first glimmer of dawn.
Little was said; they had no need of words.

Back on board the ship, returning to Troy with all haste, the lovers had
stayed away from each other again. Helikaon had steered the
Xanthos
up
the coast of Mykene, which was deserted of ships, then crossed the Great Green
high to the north. They had spent the last night before their return to Troy in
a deep cove on the isle of Samothraki. Andromache had remained on board the ship
in her small tent pitched on the foredeck, and Helikaon had come to her in the
darkness.

The night was pitch black, but she heard the small soft sound of the tent
flaps being parted, smelled the musky smell of him as he lay down beside her. He
said nothing but pulled down the sheepskin covering her body and kissed her
shoulder. She turned to him. He kissed her mouth deeply, and the swell of
suppressed longing in her rose so sharply that it was painful. She moaned. He
put his hand over her mouth. “No sounds,” he whispered in her ear. She nodded
her head, then gently bit the palm of his hand, tasting salt. He smiled against
her cheek. He slid under the warm sheepskin and moved on top of her, his body
cool against her fiery loins. Her legs rose up to meet him, and he entered her,
warm and wet in the animal-smelling darkness.

He paused for a few unbearable heartbeats, then moved against her slowly. Too
slowly. She squirmed under him, seeking a quick release from the painful longing
of her body. He stopped until she lay still, then moved again, teasing her. When
she finally climaxed, the need to cry out became almost unstoppable, and he put
his hand over her mouth again, then kissed her hard. He lay still for mere
moments, then started again.

At last, drained and exhausted, he rolled away from her, and they pushed off
the damp animal skin and let the sweat dry on their bodies.

She whispered in his ear, “Tomorrow we will be back in Troy.”

“Not now, my love,” he murmured. “We will have plenty of time to talk about
it tomorrow.” They spoke no more that night.

Now, standing on the foredeck of the ship, Andromache closed her eyes again
and let her body move dreamily with the rhythms of the waves, remembering that
wondrous night and its own rhythms.

When she opened her eyes, she could see a dark speck on the blue sea to her
left.

“Ship to port!” she cried, pointing, and within heartbeats she felt the great
ship move beneath her toward the new threat. She narrowed her eyes. She could
see it was a galley under sail, no mere fishing boat, but could not make out its
markings.

“It’s Dardanian, lord!” shouted Praxos, new to the crew the previous autumn
and with the sharp eyes of the young. “I can see the black horse!”

There was a lusty cheer from the oarsmen, most of whom were Dardanians and
were looking forward to returning to their families. As Andromache watched, the
other ship’s sail was furled and her rowers took up the beat. The two ships
glided toward each other. As they met, rowers on the approaching sides shipped
their oars, and ropes were thrown across, lashing the ships together.

Andromache made her way along the aisle of the
Xanthos
to the stern.
Helikaon glanced at her, his face expressionless. “It is the
Boreas,
” he
said.

They waited in silence as the Dardanian ship’s young fair-haired captain
shinnied up a rope, climbed to the deck, and fell to his knees before Helikaon.
“Golden One, thank the mercy of Poseidon we met you,” he said breathlessly. “We
were expecting the
Xanthos
to sail up the coast, and most of our ships
are off Lesbos, waiting for you.”

“Calm down, Asios. Why was the
Boreas
waiting?”

“Troy is under siege, lord,” the young man told him, “and the Mykene fleet of
Menados holds the entrance to the Hellespont. Agamemnon is camped in the Bay of
Herakles with a thousand ships. We hoped to warn you before you sailed unknowing
into them.”